by Paul Gitsham
Warren chose his next words carefully. ‘What do you know about his more recent activities?’
‘You mean the drug dealing and the stolen goods?’ Her tone was frank. ‘I’m not an idiot. Where else is he going to get the sort of money that buys him a new watch and a new car? They might have been fakes, but they were more than he could afford, especially after I kicked him out last year and he had to rent his own place.’
‘Why did you kick him out, Carol?’ asked Warren gently.
‘Why do you think? He used this place like a hotel – no, not a hotel, a doss house. He’d have his dodgy mate over here at all hours, drunk or stoned or worse. It was when he stuck a bloody great fluorescent green padlock on the garden shed, that I said enough was enough. I wasn’t having a shed full of dodgy gear and who knows what else in my back garden. I told him to clean up his act or sling his hook.’
Despite the fierce words, it was clear to see how much issuing the ultimatum to her son had cost her emotionally and she had to take another break. Janine hugged her until her shoulders stopped shaking.
‘Can you tell me anything about the people he was hanging around with?’
Composed again, Carol blew her nose.
‘I only really met the one. A big lout that Kyle called “Birdman”. They’d known each other for years. He was so foul-mouthed that I had words with Kyle; I wasn’t having that sort of language in my house.’
‘What about anybody else?’
‘I met his girlfriend, a couple of times. She seemed nice, although a bit posh if I’m honest. I hoped she’d be a good influence on him, but instead he seemed to drag her down to his level.’
‘And he didn’t mention anyone else by name?’
She shrugged. ‘Not that I recall. I know he liked to pay the big man, especially around the girls, but he wasn’t really.’ Her eyes started to fill up again. ‘I think Birdman was his only real friend.’
It had been a long day, and despite having two suspects in custody – and a third in hospital – Warren felt even more confused than when he’d started that morning.
He just couldn’t decide who was the most likely accomplice to Bradley Wiseman. Everybody seemed to have a good reason to want Kyle Hicks dead. It sounded as though rumours about Hicks’ recent good fortune had been rife in the local community; it was impossible to believe that his friend and right-hand-man knew nothing of this. Could he have teamed up with Bradley Wiseman to kill Hicks and take his stash? Which raised questions about just how complicit Wiseman was in the affair? Had Bird – perhaps aided and abetted by the as-yet-unidentified Madman – incited a vulnerable adult to kill Hicks then take the fall? Warren was more desperate than ever to talk to Wiseman, but he was still in a serious condition in hospital.
Then there was a completely different motive. Both Wiseman and Lenny Seacole had reason to hate Hicks, who must have seemed invulnerable. Had they decided to take matters into their own hands, and enact their own form of justice? And what about the missing drugs? If Eric Westwick, the motorcycle enthusiast renting the garage opposite Hicks’ lock-up, was correct, then the drugs had been stolen within hours of the murder. Given everything that Warren knew about Lenny Seacole, that seemed out of character; besides which, a search of Seacole’s house, garage and car had revealed no trace of the missing narcotics.
Again, how complicit was Wiseman in the killing? Had Lenny Seacole been cold enough to help Wiseman kill Hicks and then left him to take the fall?
What troubled Warren most about both scenarios, was that they each relied on Wiseman not being around to tell anyone about his accomplice’s involvement. How could they know that Wiseman would take an overdose afterwards that could well have ended his life?
Were they even on the right track? From what DCI Mallucci had shared with him, it looked as though Hicks had been promoted very fast from foot soldier to trusted lieutenant. Had that upset others who decided to kill him and take his drugs? Or where they just taking advantage of his sudden absence to move in and claim his stash for themselves?
And if they were responsible for his death, then where did Bradley Wiseman fit in? It seemed a bit of an elaborate and far-fetched plan for a typical organised crime gang. Ordinarily, they’d have simply appeared out of nowhere, killed him as quickly and brutally as possible, then disappeared into the night.
Warren looked at the clock on the wall facing his desk. He was confident that he had enough evidence to get authorisation to extend the custody of both Bird and Seacole beyond the initial twenty-four hours, but would they would have enough to get a magistrate to agree to an extension beyond thirty-six hours? At the moment, unless they found more it would be touch and go.
The phone rang, disturbing Warren’s train of thought.
‘It’s Andy Harrison, sir.’ The man’s booming Yorkshire tones made the identification unnecessary. ‘I managed to get a mate of mine to do a rush job on that pill container and the pill fragments found down the sink trap.’
Warren felt a thrill run through him.
‘The mass spec showed that the pills we found down the sink matched Wiseman’s prescription anti-psychotic – chlorpromazine – as you suspected,’ said Harrison.
‘That’s great work, Andy,’ said Warren.
‘It gets better. We found that the pot on the bedside table also contained traces of chlorpromazine, but there were even higher concentrations of residue from ibuprofen inside it.’
‘Ibuprofen? As in the headache pill?’
‘Yes, bog standard, over the counter painkiller.’
‘So, was he reusing the pot that his chlorpromazine came in to store ibuprofen tablets?’
‘Maybe. But it might interest you to know that my friend was able to identify the additives and fillers used in the ibuprofen tablets and trace the exact brand. It’s widely available in chemists and the pills look almost identical to the chlorpromazine tablets Wiseman was prescribed.’
The next time that Warren and Grimshaw sat down opposite Seacole, the atmosphere was far less congenial. The duty solicitor for that shift had smiled politely at Warren but had not looked at all happy when she saw Grimshaw; he’d smirked as he introduced himself formally for the record. Warren wondered what their history was.
‘Upon reflection, my client believes that he may have inadvertently misled the police as to his whereabouts on the evening of June the 5th and would therefore like to set the record straight.’
‘Very well, Mr Seacole. Why don’t you tell us where you really were that evening?’ said Warren, deliberately no longer calling him by his first name.
Seacole cleared his throat. ‘I usually take Sinbad down to the park to throw the ball around, but my shoulder has been playing up a bit and I decided to give it a bit of a rest.’
‘But you still took the ball with you,’ said Grimshaw.
‘Force of habit. I just grabbed my keys and my coat like I always do. The ball is next to the poo bags.’
‘If you weren’t in the park, then where were you?’
Seacole licked his lips. ‘I just went for a bit of a walk. Elsie hadn’t had a good day, so I needed to clear my mind. I couldn’t tell you where I went.’
‘Did you take your phone with you?’ asked Warren.
‘Yes, I always carry it, just in case Elsie needs me.’
‘Then we can use the GPS to tell us where you went.’
Seacole shook his head. ‘It doesn’t have GPS. It’s not a smartphone.’
‘No matter, we can still pinpoint it using cell towers,’ said Warren.
Seacole glanced at his solicitor.
‘Are you sure you can’t tell us where you went?’ asked Warren.
‘No. I’m really sorry, I misspoke. I was a bit flustered after finding the body and I guess I assumed that I followed my usual routine.’
That description didn’t match the Seacole that Warren had spoken to that evening. The man had been impressively sanguine about the whole affair.
Seacole’s solicito
r spoke up again. ‘I appreciate that my client’s initial incorrect statement was unfortunate, but I hope that this misunderstanding can be cleared up. Mr Seacole has been a man of impeccable character for the last three decades and he is well-respected within the community. It is unthinkable that he would commit such a violent act. He works hard to improve his community and help those affected by illegal drugs. This would be entirely out of character.
‘In fact, he was the one that called the police to report the murder. Unless you have other evidence, such as forensics, then I would request that you release Mr Seacole without charge.’
‘All in good time,’ said Warren.
He shuffled his papers slightly, arranging them neatly in front of him. ‘Lenny, eyewitnesses confirmed that you left your house at your usual time wearing your leather jacket, and carrying the poo bags, the ball and your house keys.’
Seacole nodded.
‘So where was your jacket when I spoke to you at the crime scene?’
Day 7
Thursday
The first job on Thursday morning was the release of Cameron Bird from custody, despite Warren’s misgivings. So far, his alibi, that he was at the cinema on the night of the murder, was holding up, and the search of his house had revealed nothing linking him to the killing. With nothing more concrete to hold him on, the duty magistrate was reluctant to authorise a further extension to his custody.
Warren bailed him, pending further investigation. If nothing else, they were likely to charge him with handling stolen goods and might even chance their arm at possession with intent to supply. Nevertheless, Bird swaggered, rather than walked out of the station.
It was a visibly chastened Leonard Seacole that returned to the interview suite after a night in the cells. With the release of Bird from custody, Warren was hopeful that they would find enough to continue Seacole’s detention. The initial extension to thirty-six hours was due to expire that evening; judging by what the magistrate had said when declining the request to keep Bird for longer, Warren knew the team would have to find more than a lack of alibi to continue questioning him beyond that time.
‘My client wishes to make a statement about his whereabouts on the night of Friday the 5th.’
‘I didn’t go down to the park, nor did I take Sinbad for a walk,’ said Seacole, his voice quiet. ‘Instead, I visited a friend’s house over on Highlands Way. I was there for a little over an hour. I must have left my jacket at their apartment.’
Warren said nothing.
Grimshaw folded his arms, a look of satisfaction on his face. It had been his observation about Seacole’s missing jacket that had led to the man’s arrest and the later unravelling of his story. ‘We’re going to need more than that. What’s the name of this friend?’
Seacole cleared his throat. ‘Natalie. Natalie Peasbody.’
‘And Ms Peasbody can vouch for you?’ asked Warren.
‘I’d rather leave her out of this, if at all possible.’
‘No, it’s not bloody possible,’ snapped Grimshaw. ‘As far as we’re concerned, you have a previous history with Kyle Hicks with a plausible motive to kill him. You’ve lied about your whereabouts at the time of the killing, and you’ve conveniently misplaced your jacket, which I imagine would have been covered in Mr Hicks’ blood if you were involved in his murder. So, we will want to speak to Ms Peasbody and anyone else who can confirm where you were at that time.’
Seacole shrank into himself, as if he was only just starting to realise the enormity of the situation that he found himself in.
‘Tell us who this Ms Peasbody is, and why you were so keen not to tell us about her,’ said Warren.
‘Natalie is a friend, from the youth centre.’ Seacole’s face twisted and the tips of his ears flushed red. ‘I drop by and see her a couple of times a week.’
‘To do what?’ asked Grimshaw.
‘To talk, mostly.’
‘Is there anyone else who can corroborate your story? Perhaps a neighbour who might have seen you coming and going? What about other people, for example your wife or your sister?’ asked Warren.
Seacole looked horrified. ‘No, and they mustn’t find out, please. I beg you.’
‘Look, Lenny, you are potentially in a lot of trouble here. You need to help us out.’
Seacole slumped back in his chair, his face a picture of abject misery. ‘You don’t understand. My wife is terminally ill. Natalie was one of her closest colleagues. We met at the youth centre.’
‘You’re right, I don’t understand,’ said Grimshaw.
Seacole buried his face in his hands, his voice a mumble. ‘For the past two years, my friends and family have helped look after Elsie, allowing me some time to myself. They dropped everything and rallied around to help us. And what was I doing whilst they were caring for my wife? I was having sex with one of her closest friends.’
Shaun Grimshaw returned to the station late that evening. The news wasn’t good.
‘Lenny Seacole’s alibi checks out. I spoke to Natalie Peasbody, who confirmed everything he told us about their affair, and vouched for his whereabouts Friday night. She even had his leather jacket. It’s been sent off for testing, obviously, but we’re clearly on a hiding to nothing.’
‘What about independent witnesses?’ asked Warren.
‘I sent a few uniforms with mugshots to the other flats in her block. About half recognised him as a regular visitor to the complex,’ he leered. ‘The old biddy next door says he was definitely there, because apparently there’s nothing wrong with her hearing and the walls are too thin. She looked like the sort who could make a bit of a racket, if you catch my drift. Peasbody, I mean, not the old biddy.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Warren pointedly. Since being taken to task over his choice of language regarding Bradley Wiseman’s mental health problems, Grimshaw had been less crude, at least within Warren’s earshot. Nevertheless, he was still coarser than Warren would expect for a prospective inspector. He’d do well to take lessons from his fellow Brownnose Brother, Martinez. There was more to the rank than a willingness to put the hours in.
‘Tell the custody sergeant that we’ll be releasing him without charge and arrange for the paperwork to be sent up.’
Warren leaned back in his chair as the door closed and shut his eyes wearily.
What a difference twenty-four hours made. At the same time the previous night, they’d had two suspects in custody in the cells and a third in hospital. Now both suspects had been released and it was far from a foregone conclusion that Wiseman was responsible for his actions that night.
They might not be back where they started, but it certainly felt as though the finishing line had been moved a lot further away.
Day 8
Friday
After a poor night’s sleep, Warren was hopeful of better news Friday morning.
Rachel Pymm was the one to deliver it.
‘Sir, I’ve found something that I think you should see.’
Warren crossed the office to Pymm’s desk.
‘I’ve been running through the credit card data that Jorge found for the purchase of the knife. I can’t believe neither of us spotted it before.’
She pointed to the list of card payments open on her screen. Sure enough, Wiseman’s Visa debit card was listed, along with the date and time of purchase, the retailer and the amount paid. He’d bought the knife at Wilko on June 3rd and paid £3.99.
‘Look at the payment type,’ said Pymm.
‘Contactless purchase. Shit.’
‘Exactly. For purchases up to £30, you can just tap the card on the reader, with no need to know the owner’s PIN code. Even if the sales assistant bothered to look at the front of the card, unless they knew Wiseman personally then they’d never be any the wiser if someone else was using it, especially if they appeared old enough not to be asked for ID.’
‘Get Mags to contact Wilko and retrieve their CCTV from the time of the purchase as a priority. If it isn
’t Wiseman using his card, we might just have a new suspect.’
Pymm smiled. ‘I’ll also be sure to let Shaun know that Jorge needs to give him his tenner back.’
‘I’ve finished processing the CCTV footage from the cinema the night that Hicks was killed,’ said Mags Richardson, after calling Warren over to her workstation.
‘You said that you’d found footage of Cameron Bird at the time of Hicks’ death?’
‘Almost, I found footage of Cameron Bird arriving at the cinema about twenty minutes before his film started. We’ve since found Bird buying his ticket, with cash, at the concessions counter. It’s a Friday night and they’re under-staffed as usual, so he waits in line for a solid ten minutes. Once he’s got his ticket, he goes straight into screen one.’
‘OK, that would be what? Quarter to nine?’
‘About that.’
‘The film, plus trailers, lasts about two and a half hours, so he should be inside until well after Hicks was killed.’
She called up the footage in question, fast forwarding through Bird’s slow shuffle to the front of the line. As usual, he was dressed in a white hoodie, this time with a New York Yankees decal in black lettering on the back, matching the logo on his black baseball cap. White polyester tracksuit bottoms completed the ensemble.
‘He picked a good night to go to the cinema. There were a couple of big releases that week, plus some popular older films, so it was pretty crowded.’
She continued to fast forward the video and Warren could see she was right; although the number of customers heading into the screens started to drop off, as the final few showings of the evening started, there were large surges of customers leaving as earlier screenings finished.
Eventually, Richardson hit pause.