Murder of a Silent Man

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Make, model?’ Larry asked.

  ‘We believe it to be a Toyota, but that’s supposition. We found a trace of paint on the Peugeot. Forensics ran it through a spectrometer, conducted solvent tests, came up with a Toyota green. Unless someone had resprayed the vehicle, we believe it to be a Toyota Land Cruiser, 1985 to 1992. There are a few around here and the borders are open.’

  ‘The photos?’

  ‘We’ve one witness to someone buying food in a supermarket not far from here. The man was English, no French, and not very pleasant. He became agitated that the person behind the counter didn’t understand what he was saying.’

  ‘Sounds like the English they get down in Spain,’ Emily said, having been embarrassed by her fellow English on holiday there, getting drunk, making fools of themselves. In her teens she had been there with a few friends, but they hadn’t enjoyed themselves, what with the local lotharios fancying their chances, and the English louts assuming that every English woman was there for their benefit.

  ‘Not the person we’ve got here. Big, muscled, not the sort of man to sit on a beach.’

  ‘We’ve got two people of interest. Any chance of meeting this person who was abused?’

  ‘Next stop.’

  In the town square of Herzele, an attractive village not far from the murder scene, the three police officers entered the shop. Jules Hougardy spoke French most days of the week, but the shop owner, a woman in her sixties, small and neat, shook the hands of the two English police officers, especially Emily’s, and spoke in a language that neither Larry nor Emily could understand.

  ‘It’s Flemish,’ Hougardy said. ‘Most people speak both. In Brussels you’ll find the majority of conversations are in French, but outside of the big city, some prefer French, others Dutch, and some converse in Flemish. It pays to be trilingual if you want to be a police officer in Belgium.’

  ‘And you are?’ Emily said, noticing that Hougardy had no trouble talking to the woman.

  ‘I was brought up in a Flemish-speaking family, but regardless, at the station, we can speak in all the languages of our country. Not like the British, am I correct?’ Hougardy smiled.

  ‘Only English, and not even the Queen’s,’ Larry said, responding to the gibe.

  Emily held two photos for the woman to look at. She studied them for a few minutes, putting on her glasses, before pointing at one of them, pulling a face to indicate non-verbally what she thought of him. She even gripped the tip of her nose and pulled at it. The definition of a stinker translated across countries and languages.

  ‘You know this man?’ Hougardy said.

  ‘We do. Please thank the lady for us,’ Larry said. ‘Would she be willing to testify that he came into her shop?’

  ‘She would. I’ve already asked her. We have another witness. Our people found him this morning. He nearly had an accident with the Toyota.’

  ‘Let’s go and see him,’ Emily said, as she shook the hand of the old lady, who in typical Belgian fashion grabbed hold of her and kissed her on both cheeks.

  ‘She likes you,’ Hougardy said. ‘She thinks you’re attractive and that you should find yourself a good Belgian man to settle down with, her son, for instance.’

  ‘Thank her for the offer, but I’m taken.’

  Outside the small shop, where Emily was still feeling a little embarrassed by the woman’s exuberance, a man stood. He was a robust individual, ruddy complexion, extended belly. Larry liked the look of him. He was farming stock, his clothing indicative of that, as well as the tractor that stood not far away.

  ‘This is Monsieur Mathy. He is quite happy to converse in French.’

  Emily tried out her French. Surprisingly, it wasn’t as bad as she had imagined, and Mathy grabbed both of Emily’s hands in his and shook them vigorously.

  ‘You’re a hit here,’ Larry said. ‘Maybe you should come back and marry the son.’

  ‘Maybe I will if there’s any more cheek.’

  Emily showed Mathy the photo. He responded in French, Emily understanding what he said.

  ‘It’s confirmed. What else do we have today?’ Larry said to Hougardy.

  ‘A meal tonight with my team, a copy of our case files, in French originally, but we’ve translated most of them for you. And tomorrow I’ll drop you off at the station.’

  Larry took the opportunity to phone Isaac on the way back into Brussels. No action would be taken until he and Emily were back in London. Two witnesses of the one person was not sufficient proof in itself. They still needed to find additional evidence, and they didn’t want the man to disappear.

  Jules Hougardy drove past the police holding area where the Peugeot was stored on the way back. As he had said, the Peugeot did not reveal much in itself. It was severely dented at the front, the bodywork was peppered with holes where the bullets had pierced the metal, the windows were all broken apart from one side window, and inside there were still bloodstains.

  ‘The women?’ Emily said.

  ‘Locals, off the street. Both were addicts, neither was attractive. Sorry about the lack of detail, but there’s not much more to say about them. They had been picked up an hour earlier, heading out for the night to a house in the country. Samuels, now we know his name, made the booking in the name of Smith, Airbnb. It was just their bad luck, the same as the driver.’

  ***

  Giles Helmsley had control of the grandson of Gilbert Lawrence, a useless lump of a drug-addicted attempt at manhood, whose only delight was to screw the bitch who had just left, no doubt intending to come back as soon as he had gone. Helmsley wasn’t sure what to do. He wanted to stamp out of the flat, find another willing recruit and to bleed him and his family for what he could, but no one else had the wealth of the Lawrence family. He plied Michael with coffee, put him into a warm bath, only to see him almost collapse, his head slowly sinking below the surface of the water. It was a hopeless situation, he knew that.

  All that money at the rehabilitation centre, and one woman, one syringe, and the man was as bad as he had ever been. He needed him clean, he needed help. He made a phone call. Forty minutes later, the two men that had dossed with Michael were at the door. Fully dressed – Helmsley had had to dress him – the grandson of the wealthy man was soon downstairs and in the back of Helmsley’s vehicle, a late-model Jaguar. No use in driving around in an old bomb, Helmsley thought as he pulled away from the kerb, hoping that Michael Lawrence wouldn’t throw up or urinate in the back seat, hoping the other two wouldn’t either.

  ‘I want my girl back,’ Michael mumbled, the others in the car attempting to get him to shut up. Back at the dosshouse, the man was roughly thrown back on the mattress where he had come from. Helmsley administered the heroin into his vein, not sure what he was doing, only knowing that he needed Michael quiet for now while he planned his next move. He knew that heroin was the last thing that Michael needed, but he needed him to stay and to sleep. Tomorrow, the man would detox the hard way: cold turkey.

  At the back of the dosshouse was an old washroom, a solid lock on the door. When he entered the austere room, Michael Lawrence would have gone from the five-star luxury of the Waverley House Rehabilitation Centre for the rich and feeble to a flat in Bayswater, then back to his old doss house mattress, and then to a washroom with concrete walls and a concrete floor. Five days in there, maybe six, and then he would be let out, cleaned up, and sent off to get more money, to the same place he had obtained money before.

  And to hell with the revolution, Helmsley thought, not that he didn’t believe in it, but what was the point. Those he collected to his side were only the disenfranchised, the lunatic fringe, the people that he despised.

  If only the London School of Economics hadn’t been so rigid, he could still be there, formulating the manifesto to take the next step forward in his quest for justice for the people of England: equality and prosperity in equal measure. Not once did he consider that he, Giles Helmsley, could be mad; that was the arrogance of the man.
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br />   Chapter 27

  Emily Matson did the rounds at Challis Street, Larry doing the introductions. She liked the freshness of the police station, the camaraderie that existed. She had confided to Larry on the Eurostar coming back to London that the environment at Greenwich Police Station was toxic, the after-effects of her previous inspector who had been found guilty of taking bribes.

  And now everyone in the station was careful to be on their best behaviour, excessively documenting everything, looking for flaws in others. Even she had been reported for not informing the Admin Department that she would be out of the country for a few days, although the station superintendent had been notified in a phone call from Isaac. Regardless, there’d be some on her return to the station who would make disparaging remarks about her getting ahead of herself, becoming involved in Homicide when she should be focussed on theft and the cat burglar who had been making his way around the area.

  ‘There’s one DCI who was hostile that I became involved with Challis Street. He thought that his seniority should have ensured that I handed the investigation into Frost over to him.’

  ‘And?’ Larry said.

  ‘He complained to our superintendent when the Belgium trip came up, said it was his right to go, not a junior.’

  ‘Which meant?’

  ‘Not a woman. He’s a chauvinistic misogynist. The super told him to button his lip, and to get back to work. The superintendent’s a good man.’

  ‘This DCI, what did he hope to gain in Belgium? And besides, we would have scuttled him.’

  ‘Nothing to do with the case. For him, it would have been Belgian chocolates, Belgian beer, a sampling of the local talent.’

  ‘Fancies himself?’

  ‘He’s the only one that does. The superintendent’s been trying to get him out, but the man sticks like glue. He gave evidence against the other DCI, gained a few more brownie points, a friend of the commissioner.’

  ‘Alwyn Davies?’

  ‘You’ve met him?’

  ‘We’ve had our problems. He had DCI Cook and Chief Superintendent Goddard out of their seats for a while. The man’s odious, but he plays it smart.’

  Isaac’s office was too small with Emily in the department. Down the hall, a conference room was secured.

  ‘Emily, Larry, an update,’ Isaac said.

  ‘There’s no doubt that Hector O’Grady was seen in the village of Herzele. We’ve two independent corroborations, one the owner of a small shop, the other a farmer who states that O’Grady’s vehicle nearly caused an accident.’

  ‘O’Grady driving?’

  ‘Nobody recognised a photo of Ainsley Caxton,’ Larry said, ‘although the murder of Samuels would have required some time. It’s logical to assume that one person did the shooting, another the driving.’

  ‘Is there any way to find out if Caxton and O’Grady were in Belgium at the time?’ Wendy said. She was anxious to be out of the office and following the two heavies would have suited her fine.

  ‘It was nineteen months ago,’ Emily said.

  ‘Still, there must be CCTV here and in Belgium. Two men travelling in a green Toyota Land Cruiser must have been seen.’

  ‘Without a doubt, but that’s a lot of work, going through all the videos, and would they still be available?’ Bridget said. She had previously been the CCTV viewing officer, a skill she had been trained for. She would find proof if anybody could, she knew that.

  ‘Two people identifying O’Grady won’t hold up in court. It’s supposition, not proof. Emily, Larry, good work, but we need to follow it up,’ Isaac said. ‘What’s the current status of the two thugs?’

  ‘They’re still in Greenwich. O’Grady’s been out and about, Caxton was seen three days ago, but nothing since then. We believe he’s in the area, though,’ Emily said.

  ‘You’re maintaining surveillance?’

  ‘Low-key. We don’t want to let on that we’re closing in.’

  ‘We need something we can pressure them with. And then we can go after Frost, make the man sweat. His arrest may lead us to whoever killed Gilbert Lawrence. Wendy, work with Emily and her people. Find out the movements of Caxton and O’Grady, see if they’re predictable, see if they’re committing any crimes. Emily and her people are obviously doing a good job, so liaise, no need for you to be pounding the pavement any more than necessary.’

  Wendy could see her DCI aiming to protect her, to keep her increasing immobility concealed for as long as possible. She had to thank him for his consideration, regretted that it was necessary. Regular exercise, massaging, and medication were helping, but the decline was continuing. And besides, Greenwich suited her fine for a few days. She had wanted to get up to the Greenwich Observatory for some time, a chance to see the Prime Meridian, zero degrees longitude, and the Cutty Sark, an old clipper ship, its restoration complete after a devastating fire. She had been there with her husband in their courting days. It would be good to go back, nostalgia for her, a remembrance of what a good man he had been, even if he had been difficult sometimes. She had to admit that she still missed him.

  ‘I’ve been checking names with Eurostar, the ferries, the airlines,’ Bridget said. ‘So far, no Caxton or O’Grady, although the checks are not that rigorous. Easy enough to forge documents, and no one is keeping a record of the photos on them,’ Bridget said.

  The team were excited. For once, some decisive action. Emily was pleased to be in an office where negativity did not abound. She thought she could enjoy being in Challis Street on a more permanent basis, but her boyfriend was over the other side of the River Thames, and she did not see him that often as it was. Homicide involved much longer hours than she had worked before. It was the conflict between being a professional police officer and a person in a relationship. She knew she was not willing to make the ultimate decision of one at the expense of the other. She had seen too many relationships fall apart, she was not about to allow hers to become one of those as well.

  ‘The vehicle seen in Belgium, left- or right-hand drive?’ Isaac said.

  ‘No one’s sure,’ Larry said. ‘The lady in the shop did not see the vehicle, the farmer swerved to avoid it. It’s important to know, but there’s no way we can tell.’

  ‘Bridget, any luck?’

  ‘Nothing registered to Frost and his associates. I’ve been checking with records, stolen vehicles. There are two possibilities for UK registered vehicles. A Toyota Land Cruiser, 1990, stolen to the south of London, found abandoned in Brighton. Another vehicle, 1991, reported missing in Earls Court. The dates tally, and of the two, only one has been recovered.’

  ‘Is anyone checking?’

  ‘Forensics have the vehicle. Inconclusive at this time. The vehicle had been returned to the owner, and he subsequently tidied it up and sold it on.’

  ‘Dented, condition indicative of an accident?’

  ‘The owner was a keen member of an off-roaders club. The vehicle was not in good condition when it was stolen, no better or worse when it was returned. According to him, it was a good workhorse, had given him lots of fun, and he had been sorry to see it go.’

  ‘Why did he sell it?’

  ‘Child on the way. No doubt his wife had something to do with the decision.’ Larry understood. Before he had married, and before his wife had become pregnant with their first, he had been driving around in a two-seater, an MGB. A lot of fun, but not very practical. He had been sad when he sold it, even sadder when he drove out of the dealer’s with a four-door Ford Mondeo. He had mourned the change, a sign of passing from youth to adulthood and married responsibility.

  Isaac phoned Forensics, received an update on the Land Cruiser. After two minutes, he put his phone down and spoke to the team. ‘It’s probably the vehicle in Belgium. Damage at the front is consistent with hitting another car, and they found paint from what looks to be the Peugeot. They’ve been in contact with Belgium, received a detailed analysis of the Peugeot’s paint. Bridget, you’ve a registration number, run it through
the system, see what you can find.’

  ‘Will do, also I’ll access the databases in Belgium, talk to Inspecteur Hougardy.’

  ‘Get yourself on Eurostar and sit with their CCTV viewing officer. If we have a vehicle, we have a driver and a passenger. No problems over there, and they’ve probably kept records. It’s the most lit up area on the planet, lights on all the motorways, so no trouble with visibility.’

  ‘I can access our records from over there. I suggest that I continue here for the next two hours, and then take the train. We need to know if Caxton and O’Grady are in the vehicle in the UK, but we need to place them near to the scene of the crime.’

  ‘Sorry, Wendy,’ Isaac said. ‘You’ll need to stay in London, no souvenirs for you, no late-night drinking with Bridget.’

  ‘That’s understood,’ Wendy said.

  Bridget leant over, touched her on the arm. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll bring you back a big box of chocolates, as well as a bottle of beer.’

  ‘I’d rather the farmer that took a fancy to Emily,’ Wendy said, Larry having recounted the story earlier.

  ‘If he fits in my bag, I may just do that,’ Bridget said.

  ***

  Giles Helmsley may have been credited with a high intellect, a PhD from Oxford University, but he was not the man to administer drugs, especially the narcotic kind. It was five in the morning when one of the two men who had helped Helmsley with Lawrence knocked on the door of his flat.

  ‘It’s Michael,’ the man said. His visit was not appreciated in the building where the radical academic lived, a door opening on the floor below, a curious person looking out, telling whoever it was to keep the noise down.

  ‘Mind your own business,’ Coyote said, with a few expletives. It was not the addict’s name but the moniker taken from a cartoon that he answered to. He thought it made him sound cool; it did not. It only made him appear to be more stupid than he actually was. A typical anarchist follower, Helmsley would have admitted if pressed.