by Paul Gitsham
Warren placed his lunch bag on the roof of his car before dragging the wheelie bin to the kerbside.
Getting in, he started the engine, before stopping. Grabbing his phone, he opened up his email, clicking on the crime scene report from Andy Harrison. An attached document listed the contents of the bins found at the scene.
Warren scrolled through the itemised list twice before sitting back, all thoughts of his morning drive forgotten. Wiseman had bought the knife two days before the murder. Neither bin had been collected in that time. So where was the packaging for the knife?
‘I’ve been digging deeper into the alibi of Lenny Seacole, the dog walker that found Kyle Hicks’ body.’ Grimshaw had his notepad open.
‘What did you find,’ asked Warren.
‘I don’t trust him. Neighbours confirm that he always goes for a walk that time of the evening. The woman next door reckons that five minutes after she hears the drum beat from the EastEnders closing credits, she hears him going out. He followed exactly the same routine that night.’
‘Well, that matches what he said so far.’
‘We also have an even better alibi. It turns out his wife is more or less housebound with Huntington’s disease. Seacole’s sister comes over and sits with her when he goes out. She also looks after her when he does his youth work. She confirms that he’s pretty much followed the same routine for the past couple of years. It’s hard work being a full-time carer, and the family all do what they can to help out.’
‘OK, Shaun. So far everything you’ve told me matches his story. Now tell me why you distrust him.’
Five minutes later Grimshaw walked out of Warren’s office with a spring in his step.
‘Reckon there’s a chance I might win that tenner back,’ he said to Martinez. ‘Let’s go and pick Lenny Seacole up.’
It took less than twenty-four hours for a team of officers from SOC to track down a lock-up garage with a fluorescent green padlock. It took a lot less time to realise they were too late.
Kyle Hicks’ lock-up was one of a dozen, arranged in two rows of six separated by a concrete apron, a little under a mile from his flat. The two-storey flats they nominally served all had long rear gardens, allowing garage users to come and go largely unseen.
The registered keeper of the lock-up, one Geoffrey Owens, was defiant when asked about who he sub-let it to.
‘I’ve lived in this house for forty-eight years and paid the council thousands over the years. When my wife had her stroke, I wanted to give up the garage and get a drop kerb in front of the house so I could park on the drive. Bastards charged me nearly six thousand pounds, plus the cost of tarmacking the garden. The way I see it, at fifty quid a week, less what the council charge, I’ll have made enough profit in four years to pay off what I should have had for free in the first place.’
‘How did you find the tenant?’ asked Warren.
‘My son-in-law did it. He advertised it on the internet for me. Took less than a week. I handed over both the keys and the fellow sticks an envelope of cash through my letter box every Monday morning. Hadn’t missed a payment yet, until this week.’
Warren thought it best not to mention why.
‘And when did you start renting it out?’
‘About six weeks ago.’
Roughly the time it was believed that Kyle Hicks came into possession of his unexpected stash of drugs.
‘Can you describe the man?’
‘Like I said, my son-in-law arranged it, so I never met him, but last week I was up earlier than usual because we had a hospital appointment. I heard the letter box go and I looked out the window and saw a bloke walking down my garden path.’
‘Can you describe him at all?’
Owens thought for a moment. ‘Short, dark hair, wearing a leather jacket and blue jeans.’
‘White, black or Asian?’
‘White, I reckon. He was walking away from me so I couldn’t see his face.’
‘Did you see what he was driving?’
‘A white, sporty little number. BMW, I think.’
‘I don’t suppose you thought to ask why he needed the garage?’ asked Grimshaw.
Owens shifted uncomfortably, before shrugging. ‘He had a nice car. Parking’s a nightmare around here. I imagine he wanted to stop someone vandalising it.’
‘Did you look inside the lock-up at all, once he started renting it?’
‘None of my business what he keeps in there. Besides, I gave him both the keys and he stuck a bloody great fluorescent green padlock on it.’
Gaining entry to the lock-up clearly hadn’t posed much of a challenge to whoever had stolen Hicks’ stash. The original lock on the up-and-over metal garage door had been snapped easily. As for the padlock, there was little point having a heavy-duty, tempered steel lock, if the hasp connecting it to the door was made of thin aluminium.
‘The question we need to answer is when the garage was broken into,’ said Warren. ‘That might give us an idea whether Hicks’ death and the theft of his drugs are linked, or whether the drugs were stolen by some chancer after they heard of the murder.’
Andy Harrison cast an expert eye over the scene. Essentially an empty concrete box just big enough for a family-sized car and little else, it didn’t even have a window or back door, let alone electricity. Hicks had hung a battery-powered hurricane lamp from a metal hook on the back wall, but aside from a folding camping chair, all that remained were a few empty crisp packets and a coke can.
‘I’m not sure what I can do to help you on that score. There’s nothing in the way of trace evidence that would degrade over that time period. Even the food wrappers have use-by dates of more than six months from now.’
Warren pinched his lip. The nearest houses were too far away for him to be hopeful of any chance eyewitness testimony from somebody looking out of their window.
He thanked Harrison and headed back to his car. As he did so, he spotted a figure just outside the row of garages. A middle-aged man, dressed in white trousers and jacket, stood uncertainly, a walking cane by his side.
Warren headed towards him. The man shifted awkwardly but didn’t leave.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Warren by way of a greeting.
The man looked nervous.
‘Do you know anything about the lock-up we’re examining?’ Warren inclined his head towards the garage, still adorned with blue and white police tape.
‘No. Not really.’
Warren said nothing.
‘I…err… I rent the one opposite.’
‘I see. Do you know the user of the garage? Mr…’
‘Westwick. Eric Westwick. And no, I don’t. I’ve never met them.’
‘I see.’
Warren fell silent again. He didn’t have to wait long.
‘I think it was being sub-let. We all do it, you know, it’s so hard to get a garage around here…’ He broke off.
Warren waited.
‘The thing is, a few days ago, I noticed someone had broken into it.’
Eric Westwick was keen not to have Warren visit his home to discuss things further.
‘It’s the wife, you see.’ Westwick gestured at his white clothing. ‘She thinks I’m off playing bowls.’
‘But instead you’re in here?’
‘Yeah. She’ll go mad if she finds out what I’m really doing.’
He motioned towards the partially reassembled motorbike propped up in the centre of his garage.
‘I promised her I’d stop wasting money on bikes. And she’ll kill me if she thinks I’m going to get on one after the accident—’ he raised his walking stick ‘—but it gets to you, you know. It’s in my blood.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘The thing is, I reckon I’ll make a profit on this old girl when I’ve got her up and running. Most of the cost of restoring these beauties is labour and I’m doing it as a hobby. It’ll take another six months, tops, and then I can take her for a quick spin, just to prove she works, then sell her off. The missus r
arely looks at the joint account anyway, she’ll never know I borrowed anything from it.’
Warren wasn’t sure which of them he was trying to persuade.
‘And so you think the garage was broken into?’
‘Yeah, I could see that the hasp had been snapped, because the padlock was dangling at a funny angle.’
‘And you didn’t think to call the police?’
Westwick shuffled his feet awkwardly. ‘I didn’t think they’d thank me for doing that. Besides, what good would it do?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m not daft. I’m not the only person paying cash to sub-let a unit. I’ll bet half these garages are full of stolen property. Whoever broke in there is long gone. I figured that it’s up to whoever was renting the garage to decide if they wanted to make a fuss about it, or if they’d rather keep their gobs shut.’
‘But you decided to speak to me?’
‘I watch enough telly to know that you don’t send a full CSI unit down to investigate somebody’s lock-up being burgled. I figured whatever it was you’re investigating had to be pretty serious.’
‘Thank you, Mr Westwick,’ said Warren, ‘I appreciate your help. Now when do you think the garage was broken into?’
‘I can’t be a hundred per cent certain, but I didn’t notice anything unusual Thursday night when I came down here. Then I noticed the lock was broken about 11 a.m. Saturday morning.’
That was barely twelve hours after the death of Kyle Hicks. Whoever broke into the garage either found out about his murder very quickly and more or less went straight to the lock-up to help themselves, or Hicks was killed for his drugs. Either way, Warren wanted to know who had broken into the lock-up.
Cameron Bird was at home when he was taken in for questioning. The room he rented, in a shared house in an even less respectable area than Truman Street, made Kyle Hicks’ flat appear palatial by comparison. Kyle Hicks had been barely scraping by; from what they could tell, his recent good fortune was yet to translate into significant earnings. Birdman was even further down the food chain than Hicks.
They’d been given his address by SOC – unsurprisingly, Birdman’s name didn’t appear on the electoral register or any utility bills. The sickly-looking woman that opened the door, had track marks visible all the way up her scrawny arms, suggesting the method by which Birdman paid his rent. She hadn’t seemed too bothered by the presence of a forced entry team ready to smash the door off its hinges if no one answered, but she hadn’t been thrilled when she saw that the search warrant covered the whole house, not just Birdman’s room.
Birdman wasn’t a fool. He demanded legal representation the moment two burly constables wearing stab vests banged on his door, waking him up. That was fine by Warren, he wanted everything done by the book.
Warren told himself that he was sitting next to Martinez because he needed to see his newest sergeants in action. Warren did far more interviewing than was normal for those of his rank, but it was part of the job he loved, and he worked hard to keep his skills fresh. Over the years, Warren had spent time in interview suites alongside all of his team and he felt it gave them insight into his colleague’s character in a way that reviewing interview transcripts of footage from the suite’s tape recordings and CCTV couldn’t.
‘Where were you Friday night?’ started Martinez.
‘The cinema.’
‘Seeing what?’
‘Spy. The new Jason Statham movie.’
‘That’s a good film, I saw it with my missus Monday night. What did you think?’
Bird shrugged. ‘It was alright.’
‘Which cinema did you see it at?’
‘The Cineworld in town.’
‘Did you go with anyone?’
‘Nah. Nobody else was interested.’
‘I don’t suppose you kept your ticket?’
‘Did you?’
Martinez acknowledged the point with a dip of the head. ‘Isn’t it a bit unusual for you to go out on a Friday night? Aren’t you usually working?’
‘I’m unemployed.’
‘I meant with Kyle Hicks.’
Bird folded his arms. ‘No comment.’
Martinez continued regardless.
‘According to eyewitnesses, you and Kyle were good mates.’
‘No comment.’
Warren opened the folder in front of him. It was stuffed with a blank A4 pad to give the impression of a thick dossier of information; it was a ploy that often put interviewees on edge.
Bird glanced over, then away, his face unreadable.
‘Let’s not play games, Cameron, we’ve been watching you for months,’ said Warren. ‘We know that you and Kyle Hicks are pretty much responsible for most of the drugs being sold on that part of the estate. He supplied the gear and you did the selling.’
Bird’s solicitor opened her mouth to object, but he beat her to it.
‘No comment.’
‘As we speak, I have a team searching your flat, looking for drugs, stolen property and anything else that suggests that you weren’t at the cinema on Friday night when your mate Kyle Hicks was being murdered. Do you have anything else you’d like to tell us about?’
‘No comment.’
‘What can you tell us about somebody called “Madman”?’ said Warren.
This time, Bird paused before answering. ‘Nothing.’
It was a change from ‘No comment’ and Warren decided to build upon it.
‘Witnesses have seen somebody answering Madman’s description hanging around with Kyle Hicks. We’d really like to speak to them, Cameron. Where were they Friday night, for instance?’
Bird was silent, his eyes darting around. Warren and Martinez said nothing, letting him make his own mind up.
Finally, he replied. ‘He’s just some bloke that Kyle knows. He does jobs for him, sometimes.’
‘How long has he known him?’
Bird shrugged again. ‘A few weeks, maybe.’
‘Can you tell us how they met?’
‘No idea. He just turned up one night.’
‘And was he working with Kyle Friday night?’
There was a long pause, before Bird finally answered. ‘Yeah. That’s why I was at the cinema. He didn’t need both of us.’
‘Can you tell us Madman’s real name?’
Bird shook his head. ‘Kyle just called him Madman.’
‘What about a description?’
Bird pursed his lips out. ‘Short, slim, white. About twenty, I guess. He always used to wear a hoodie and tracksuit with a red headscarf, you know like they wear in LA.’
‘What about his accent? Was he local?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘Do you know where we can find him?’
Bird shook his head again. ‘He used to just turn up. I guess Kyle had his number.’
There had been no ‘Madman’ listed in Hicks’ handset. That would have been too easy, thought Warren.
‘Thank you, Cameron, you’ve been very helpful.’ Bird started to stand.
‘Just one more thing,’ said Martinez. ‘Do you know Bradley Wiseman?’
‘Never heard of him,’ Bird’s answer was immediate. Too immediate.
‘Are you sure about that? Everyone is talking about him.’
‘Oh yeah, ‘course. He’s the schizo bloke that killed Kicks.’ Bird licked his lips as he sat back down again.
‘And you’re sure you’ve never spoken to him?’
Warren slid a photograph of Wiseman across the table.
Bird barely glanced at it before shaking his head. ‘No, never met him.’
‘In that case, can you explain why your fingerprints appear alongside those of Bradley Wiseman and an unidentified third person, on several empty cans of super-strength lager retrieved from Mr Wiseman’s recycle bin?’
Bird’s eyes widened, before he finally stammered. ‘No comment.’
‘Cameron Bird, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Kyle Hicks�
�’
By the time Cameron Bird had been formally arrested, it was getting late. Warren decided to let him sweat overnight whilst they continued to search his flat. In the meantime, John Grayson was still taking a keen interest in the case. Warren declined the offer of a coffee, knowing he’d be struggling to sleep as it was.
‘According to the doc in the hospital, there were fragments of a strong prescription-only sedative in Bradley Wiseman’s stomach, alongside a large volume of alcohol, but no sign of his anti-psychotic medication,” said Warren, “there’s no record of him having been prescribed the sedative, which wouldn’t normally be given alongside his particular anti-psychotic. It also shouldn’t be taken with alcohol. Fortunately for him, the formulation was slow-release and so it hadn’t fully dissolved by the time we found him and they pumped his stomach. Another few minutes and he may well have killed himself.’
‘Are we still going with suicide? He kills Hicks then decides to top himself?’ Grayson looked sceptical.
‘Possible, but it could also be accidental. He could have been self-medicating; his caseworker said he was stressed, maybe he was struggling to sleep? This type of sedative is easily available on the street, and I doubt it comes supplied with a patient safety leaflet.’
‘What about his regular meds?’
‘It looks as though he may have been off them for some time. They could find no traces in his bloodstream, which indicates he hadn’t been on them for a week or more, however there were high levels of alcohol and cannabis. Abruptly stopping his anti-psychotic isn’t advised, it can lead to a sudden return of symptoms. I’m waiting for forensic toxicology to get back to us about the residue found in the sink trap.’
Grayson frowned slightly. ‘It all sounds very plausible, but something bothers me. If he was chucking his medication down the sink, then why did he keep the empty container on his bedside table? Why not throw it in the bin?’