by Iain Cameron
‘Routine enquiries. As someone who knew your parents well, he was helpful in building a picture of what they were like.’
‘I see.’
‘If I can backtrack. Did your parents leave a key with Mr Lee only when they went on holiday, or does he have one all the time?’
‘I don’t think so. In fact, I don’t know. You don’t think…?’
‘It’s possible. Ah, here’s Detective Walters.’
Walters entered the room, shut the door and sat down. ‘I’ve flicked through this,’ she said, handing a sheaf of papers to Henderson, ‘on the way down here. I spotted the jewellery and the laptop.’
‘I’m shocked to hear you say that. In the past, my mother never took her laptop on holiday.’
‘Ms Beech,’ Henderson said, putting the papers down on the table. ‘I think you should have explored all the possibilities for locating those missing items before coming in here and accusing my officers. Putting this aside for the moment, we’ll talk again to Mr Lee. If we find he is the culprit behind this, I will expect you to make a full apology and for us not to find one word of this discussion in any newspaper. I’m confident of being right, as the two detectives who visited your parents’ house both live in upper-floor apartments and as far as I know, don’t have any need for gardening tools.’
NINETEEN
Henderson walked into the wine bar and sat down at an empty table. He picked up the menu, but it might as well have been in Ancient Greek for all he understood. Whisky he knew something about, but wine was a bit of a mystery.
A waitress approached and he told her he would wait for the arrival of his companion before ordering wine, but ordered a beer in the meantime. It sounded to him like the polite thing to do; it wouldn’t be good form on a first date to sink a couple of large glasses of the house red and be half-pissed before his date arrived. In truth, he also put off ordering because he hoped she knew more about the wine list than he did.
He was sitting in Midi, a wine bar in Bartholomews in Brighton. It was opposite a beautiful Georgian-styled building, cream in colour, with Greek-style pillars, home of Brighton Council Customer Services, and in the basement, the Old Police Cells Museum.
It was the first time Henderson had been out since the start of the Beech investigation, not to mention meeting a woman, and if he was being honest, he felt a little out of practice.
It was only halfway through the week and so far it had thrown up both a mighty high and a depressing low. The high had been achieved by developing a new line of enquiry, one that seemed to fit all the evidence collected to date. It made the suspicions they’d had earlier about Simon Radcliffe, Brian Faulkner, and the work done by John Beech at Galen, seem nothing but sideshows. The only problem now was, how to find Robert Saunders.
The low had been provided, yet again, by Kayleigh Beech, accusing his officers of theft. Henderson believed she was hurting like anyone else who’d lost loving parents in a shooting would, but rather than grieve in private, she had to hit out in public and blame someone else, and he and his officers were in the firing line. Kayleigh’s behaviour was strange and more a question for someone in the medical profession. As luck would have it, such a person had just walked into the wine bar.
‘I’m so sorry for being late, Angus. An emergency, I’m afraid.’
Henderson stood, hugged Doctor Claire Fox, and they kissed. ‘It makes a change,’ he said, ‘more often it’s me making the excuses.’
‘Your time will come, I’m sure.’
She removed her jacket, hung it on the back of the seat, and sat down.
‘Have you ordered anything?’ she said nodding at his empty beer bottle, a Belgian brew with a long Flemish name he couldn’t pronounce.
‘I was waiting for you. I wasn’t sure if you preferred red or white.’
‘Of course you weren’t, and I’d hate you to make a mistake and waste your money. For reference, I drink only white, I can’t handle red. How was your day, Angus?’
He outlined the Beech investigation, but not in too much detail. The seats in the wine bar were close to one another, so he didn’t know who was listening and wasn’t sure as yet what relationship Claire had with the press. Most people didn’t set out to reveal anything to the press, but things like this could slip out under the exhaustive questioning of an experienced journalist.
He’d known Claire for some time, making a point of speaking to her any time he was in the Royal Sussex, where she worked as a cardiac surgeon. They’d first met when he visited Tom Duffy, an indexer who often found himself seconded to Henderson’s murder team.
Tom had arrived at the Royal Sussex expecting to be fitted with a stent, but when the cardiac team led by Claire took a look inside his chest, his arteries were blocked, like Spaghetti Junction on a Saturday afternoon. It was a triple bypass for Tom and, after a long period of recovery, he decided he didn’t want to come back to the job and opted to take early retirement.
The waitress returned and Claire ordered a large glass of Chardonnay. Despite Claire’s superior knowledge of the noble grape, he wasn’t persuaded. She was forty-one, he wasn’t guessing as she’d told him previously, with thick blond hair that looked natural to his eyes. She had a slim frame and an elegance about her she never lost, even dressed in scrubs on her way out from a four-hour operation.
‘You’ve heard all about me,’ he said, ‘how are things at the Royal Sussex?’
She exhaled. ‘Only one word for it: manic. I had three ops scheduled, two in the morning and one in the afternoon. They’d been booked for weeks, but all were postponed after a succession of emergencies, the main one a bad crash on the A23.’
‘What’s an emergency in a cardiac surgeon’s line of work, apart from the obvious, someone having a heart attack?’
‘The ones we were involved with today were unrelated to what I do, but they took up all the available operating theatre time. A few days ago, a man was cutting his hedge with an electric strimmer. He accidentally cut into the cable without slicing it, and received a serious electrical shock. His partner managed to get his heart restarted, but the poor man looked like death warmed up when the ambulance crew wheeled him in.’
He laughed. ‘It makes my work look dull.’
‘It’s not always so dramatic. Some days, there’s nothing in the diary, and no emergencies which gives me time to do some reading. Before you say anything about wasting taxpayer’s money by burying my nose in a novel, don’t worry, I hear it all the time. I’m talking about keeping up with advances in surgical techniques.’
‘Do they happen a lot?’ Henderson said, intrigued. ‘Advances, I mean.’
‘You’d be surprised. Over the years we’ve had the improvements in keyhole surgery, saving both recovery time and reducing the risk of infection, and the introduction of lasers to cauterise cut veins and arteries, a less tricky solution than stitches. Less tricky means lowering the probability of us making a mistake.’
‘I make a mistake and I might get a rap on the knuckles. You do it and somebody ends up injured or dead, and then it’s all over the newspapers.’
‘You can talk about being in the newspapers.’
‘I sort of walked into that one, didn’t I?’
‘Only teasing. One of the developments I’m interested in is the introduction of robots.’
‘What, in surgery?’
‘Yep. They’re trialling it in some London hospitals and patients seem to like it. With the forthcoming development of 5G networks, a surgeon could be in one country and the patient in another. Think how this could revolutionise something like battlefield operations.’
‘My brother used to be in the Army, so I tend to keep up with any military stories I come across.’
‘He’s not now?’
‘No. Archie’s his name, left a few years back.’
‘Younger or older?’
‘Younger by five years. He’s an estate agent now.’
‘It’s good to hear he’s settled. So many p
eople leave the services, in particular those who have seen action, and can’t fit back into civilian life. I do a bit of voluntary work at a homeless shelter in Brighton and some of the people I meet there are ex-services.’
They talked about Claire’s voluntary work, and when they’d finished their drinks, decided to go for something to eat. The centre of Brighton, with its myriad of eating places could satisfy the most discerning palate, but the problem often became one of selection. An Italian place in Duke Street was settled upon and, it being the time when many people headed off to the cinema or theatre, they had their choice of where to sit. They selected a three-person table close to the window.
The restaurant was slap-bang in the middle of the city, a pedestrianised area attracting buskers, magicians, and allowing the many eateries in the vicinity to set out tables and chairs. As a result, the street was packed. Considering it was the middle of the week, he imagined it was busier than many town centres became on a Saturday night.
Henderson chose the spicy meatballs and pasta baked in the oven, and soon a sizzling plateful was placed in front of him, couched with a warning not to touch the searing hot plate.
‘As a cardiac specialist, would you tell your patients to avoid places like this?’
‘That’s a good question, and if all my patients were scheduled for surgery as a result of obesity, I would probably say, yes. Too much pasta, in fact too much eating out, is bad for your long-term health. Chefs in the main add way too much sugar, butter, and cream, trying to give their dishes a distinctive flavour, and in some cases, trying to spice up a so-so recipe. However, not all my patients are overweight. Some have led exemplary lives but due to age, a misspent youth, or bad luck in the gene-pool, they end up on a surgical trolley waiting for a stent or a by-pass.’
‘I better watch out. On the negative side, I can tick a misspent youth, and eating too much junk food when working late.’
‘Right, that’s enough about work, tell me more about the real Angus Henderson. What are you like when you’re not being a detective?’
Henderson talked about his childhood in Fort William, his first police posting on the streets of Glasgow, and the shooting of a drug dealer which caused the death of his marriage and compelled him to transfer to Sussex.
‘How long were you married?’ she asked.
‘Nineteen years.’
‘Kids?’
‘Two. Lewis, who has just sat his Scottish National Qualification, equivalent to GCSEs in England, and Hannah, who is at university in Aberdeen studying Psychology. How about you?’
‘I was married to Eric for ten years, but our divorce wasn’t the result of anything so dramatic as the shooting of a drug dealer. It was his philandering that did it.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, serial philandering if my girlfriends are to be believed. The nights when I thought he was out with his work mates, or at the golf club, he was screwing a succession of other women.’
Henderson reached over and held her hand.
‘What a prat,’ he said.
‘I felt devastated when I found out, and the divorce didn’t give me any sort of closure. His behaviour had hurt me too deeply. It took two years for me to say with any conviction I was over him.’
‘You’ve got one daughter?’
‘Yes, Daisy. She’s a lovely girl, but going through the tough teenager stage. It’s the terrible twos with a big mouth and surly attitude attached.’
Henderson laughed as he lifted his beer, a small bottle of Nastro Azzurro this time. It wasn’t smart or career-enhancing for a senior detective to be charged with driving over the limit. ‘I’m glad all that’s behind me. No way could I handle the aggro.’
‘When she was two, I expected it and could deal with it. Now I’m older and, I guess, a little less tolerant, she seems to wind me up so much more.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘I would have hit the bottle more,’ she said picking up her wine glass, ‘if I wasn’t a cardiologist and aware what damage it does, and, of course, I’m expected to set an example.’
They talked until they were almost the last people in the restaurant. They left, and walked along the road to Henderson’s car, since Claire had taken a bus from the Royal Sussex to the wine bar. She owned a car, but often took public transport as several buses ran close to her house and they would drop her right outside the hospital. The wind from the sea was chilly and strong, and she cuddled in close for shelter. When they reached the car, Henderson headed towards Hove.
When people said they lived beside a park, it often meant an apartment a few roads back, with oblique views of green out of one of the bathroom windows while standing on the toilet. Claire’s house, by way of contrast, was overlooking Hove Park.
It was a substantial-looking detached building, all brick, in symmetrical proportions. The house was equipped with a garage and hard standing, as were neighbouring houses, but still numerous cars were parked on the road. When the houses were built, which Claire believed to be in the 1950s or 1960s, no way could the developers have imagined the households of today requiring space for three or four cars.
‘It’s a substantial house.’
‘What, for only two people?’
‘No, I was only referring to its size, but I guess it’s a comment you’ve heard before.’
‘Too many times, if I’m being honest, but I love living here. It comes into its own in the summer, when the park is buzzing every day with people and all sorts of activities.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘In the winter, I close the blinds as soon as I come home. If there’s bad weather outside, I don’t want to see it.’
‘Is this the former family house?’
‘God, no. Eric wouldn’t know what to do with a garden if his life depended on it. He prefers apartments, the newer the better. Would you like to come in and take a look?’
‘I better not. My sudden appearance might be too much of a shock for Daisy.’
‘You could be right.’ She leaned over and gave him a long, lingering kiss. ‘I’ve really enjoyed this evening, Angus. We must do it again soon.’
‘I’ll hold you to that.’
A few moments later, she was out of the car and walking towards her house, security lights illuminating her passage. With a wave of her hand, she disappeared inside. Henderson pulled out of the parking space and drove in the direction of Brighton, the smell of her perfume and the sensuous touch of her lips still playing havoc with his senses.
TWENTY
Robert Saunders finished his beer, put the empty glass on the bar and, after giving the barman a cursory wave, walked out of the pub. It was the first time he’d ventured out of the house since moving to Leatherhead, but he was going stir-crazy being indoors all day. It wasn’t the house, which offered everything he wanted, but he needed to get out; to hear the sound of people and stand close to them without flinching every time they reached into their jeans to retrieve their phones.
He headed home with purpose, this time a large detached place on yet another anonymous housing estate. He looked down, hands in his pockets, not wanting to exchange pleasantries with the smokers sitting on a wall, enjoying the balmy evening, or a couple of taxi drivers waiting outside.
He walked along Epsom Road thinking about how to bring his situation to a close; he couldn’t go on moving from house to house, frightened to go outside or look over his shoulder. It wasn’t the money, he could afford to live this peripatetic lifestyle to the end of his days if he had a mind to, but the strain and anxiety of his heightened state was starting to affect his health.
He had considered moving away from London, up north where he could be really anonymous: Derbyshire, Cumbria, Scotland; or perhaps Spain or the Caribbean, to take advantage of the better weather. Problem was, he was a London boy, and felt uncomfortable travelling anywhere outside the M25, or even the far reaches of the Tube. It didn’t matter how far he travelled, the people seeking him had the reach of an octopus.
If the Shah brothers weren’t on the case, some foreign outfit would be, and if they couldn’t find him, every prick with a gun and access to the dark web would be after the money. A one hundred-thousand-Euro bounty for his head on a pole had already been posted there.
He needed to stay in London to execute the plan now forming in his head. First, he would alter his appearance, and if hair dye and scissors didn’t do the trick, plastic surgery was an option. Next, he would change his identity: a new name and passport. All this would be expensive and painful, both physically and psychologically, but it would be a small price to pay to free him from the prison which he had constructed around himself.
He noticed a car cruising past. He had registered its presence a few minutes before, travelling the opposite way, the two male occupants inside looking around as though searching for a house. If it was a couple of bounty hunters looking for him, a quick glance at his face from a moving car under the dull illumination of a streetlight would look nothing like his photograph. His hair was shorter and his facial hair more pronounced; he looked like any other middle-aged man returning home with a belly full of beer.
Nevertheless, he quickened his step. When he reached his gate, he walked past and, in the shadow of a neighbour’s hedge, scanned up and down the road looking for the car. He waited several minutes until the road was empty of traffic before marching back to his gate and up the path towards the house. Key in hand, he stood in the porch, unlocked both locks, opened the door and stepped inside. Before snapping the door shut, he stood in its shadow watching as an approaching car cruised past, but it wasn’t the one he’d noticed earlier.
He shut the door, switched on the hall light and stood for a moment to allow his racing heart to calm. He walked into the kitchen and filled the kettle before switching it on. He took a seat at the kitchen table and lifted the lid of his laptop. Ten minutes later, tea mug in hand, he sat back and read through the testimonials on the website of a prominent Harley Street plastic surgeon. For a price, he could have his big nose trimmed to a dainty button, his weak chin made to resemble that of an American college quarterback, and the hideous black bags under his eyes banished for good.