Isolation

by Jay Nadal

  Abby buried her head in her hands. “Why is life so fucking hard? I still think I want out, Guv. I…”

  Scott’s mobile rang. He held a finger in the air to pause Abby mid-sentence.

  “Baker.”

  “Inspector. It’s Andrea Edwards. I’ve been having a real internal conflict on a particular matter. I didn’t bring it to your attention when you came to see me, because I was a little embarrassed. Can I talk to you?”

  “I appreciate you taking the time to call me, Mrs Edwards. Whatever you tell us will be dealt with the strictest of confidence. Even the smallest of details could have a significant bearing on our investigations.”

  “Well, I guess if on the off-chance you are thorough, then this may come up. If you recall, I mentioned that romance between Janet and Samuel cooled off after he said he didn’t want children. Janet went off the rails for a bit.”

  “When you say she went off the rails, what do you mean?”

  “She fell into that classic trap of feeling unloved. And she went elsewhere looking for it.”

  “So, are you suggesting that Janet Ashman had extramarital affairs?”

  “Not affairs. She enjoyed several flirtatious evenings in the company of different men. Nothing heavy. Drinks here, dinner there. She had a few one-night stands. But that was it. Then she met someone. A lawyer at the same firm where my husband works. Matthew Ainscough.”

  Scott scribbled notes in his book. “What happened there?”

  “Her and Matthew hit it off straight away. I’d invited Janet to one of our work functions and Matthew made a beeline for her. He was charming, and she was captivated. He showered her with the attention she missed. That she craved.”

  “How long did the relationship last?”

  “I think about four years. They went through a rocky patch, when he wanted more, but she couldn’t give it.”

  “He wanted more?”

  “He’d asked her on more than one occasion to leave Samuel.”

  “Was she serious about him?”

  “I’m not sure. The way she used to talk about him made it more an infatuation or fling than anything serious. She fell in love with the physical relationship they had. I lost count of the amount of times she’d go into graphic detail of the sex they had. It was like he’d come along and unlocked her buried sexuality. He was kinky, and she loved that.”

  “Can you elaborate on that point?” Scott asked.

  “He bought her loads of kinky stuff to wear off the Harmony website. Underwear to wear in the bedroom, nipple clamps, vibrators, handcuffs and…a mouth gag.”

  Scott could sense the embarrassment in her tone, and imagined Andrea on the other end of the line, her face flushed red.

  “Thank you, Mrs Edwards, that’s very helpful. We’ll be in touch.”

  Scott turned to Abby. “We’ll carry on our chat later. We’ve got an update on Janet Ashman. I’ll fill you in on the way to The Argus.”

  9

  The yellow stone façade offered little by way of clues. The Argus newspaper office was nestled in a side street just off the main seafront. A grey blanket of cloud, did little to lift the mood as Scott and Abby made their way through a contemporary glass entranceway towards the reception.

  Revelations about Janet Ashman’s personal life had temporarily diverted attention away from Abby’s confession, as both officers signed in and took the lift in silence to the third floor.

  The doors pinged open with an automated female voice announcing they’d arrived at their destination. A wall of silence enveloped them as they stepped out. Scott’s eyes swept the room, a mixture of clean and modern offices with terminals and laptops scattered across the desks. Journalists were consumed in creating content, researching leads and gathering background information. The odd person glanced up before returning to something more engrossing than two strangers walking past. A row of glass-fronted meeting rooms skirted the far wall.

  “Jack Manning?” Scott asked a thin lady, sitting at the closest desk to them. She waved them off to the corner office.

  A short, middle-aged gentleman opened the door. He offered the officers a quick smile before extending his hand. “Inspector Baker?”

  Scott nodded and introduced Abby. They were shown in and offered seats opposite a tatty, messy table, a far cry from the clean, contemporary office furniture on the main floor. Boxes and files rose up from the floor, and several jackets lay in an untidy pile over the back of a spare chair in the corner.

  Manning picked up on Scott’s silent observation. “I like organised chaos,” the man pointed out as he stroked the grey bristles in his goatee beard.

  “I’m still used to a press room where you couldn’t hear yourself speak, desk phones rang incessantly, and a low grey, choking cloud of cigarette smoke clung to your clothes. My dad was a crime editor for the Manchester Evening Newspaper, before seeking his fortune with Fleet Street, in London back in the seventies. Growing up, I used to spend my weekends following him around the London offices.”

  Manning settled into his worn office chair as Scott and Abby took up seats opposite. “How can I help? I understand you want to talk to me about Samuel Ashman?”

  “Yes, thank you for sparing the time. We’re in the middle of an investigation, and I’d ask you to keep this conversation to yourself for the time being.”

  Manning raised a brow. “Off the record?”

  “Off the record. We’re investigating the suspicious death of Mr Ashman’s wife.”

  Manning remained poker-faced. If he’d been surprised by the news, he hid it well.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he offered as he leant back in his chair, strumming his fingers on the armrests. “I’m surprised we’ve not heard about it. You’re doing well to keep it under wraps, Inspector. Are you thinking Samuel’s work had something to do with her death?”

  “We’re looking at all avenues. We don’t want it to go public. So I do insist that this conversation stays off the record before we continue.”

  “The death of a journalist’s wife and you want us to keep our traps shut? That’s not how it works, Inspector. You should know.”

  Abby fired Scott an exasperated look.

  “I’m not suggesting that. When we know more, we can reveal more.”

  “And we get first dibs?”

  Scott offered the smallest of smiles. “I guess we can come to some form of arrangement. I just need you to hold off from running the story for a few days.”

  “Tell me more. But I won’t hold off for too long. After all, it involves one of our own.”

  Scott nodded in agreement. He’d tell Manning as much as he needed to know, but it wouldn’t be everything. All police forces had a love-hate relationship with the press. It was a parasitic relationship where they didn’t want each other, but nevertheless, needed each other.

  Manning, formed a steeple with his fingers as he listened. Scott disclosed selected details of Janet Ashman’s death. How the killer had tied them both up, the chairs, the sustained attack, and how Samuel watched. Manning glared, and Scott could sense the cog’s working overtime, forming the framework for the story, and the headline.

  “Where’s Samuel now? Is he okay?”

  “He’s in hospital under police guard, recovering from superficial injuries from the restraints and physical attack.”

  “You’d only assign a police guard if you believed there was a threat to life. Or if under suspicion, Inspector?”

  “It’s neither. It’s precautionary more than anything else.” Scott couldn’t decipher whether or not Manning believed him.

  Manning pursed his lips in reflection.

  “At the moment, outside of the investigation team, you’re the only one who knows.” No sooner had the words left his lips, than he realised that Andrea Edwards also knew, and the chances of her keeping it to herself were non-existent.

  Manning rose from his chair and paced the room. “You’re asking me to do the impossible, Inspector. You’ve got a ki
ller on the loose, and the public needs to be told for their safety. They must remain vigilant.”

  Scott agreed with the sentiment, but doubted the sincerity and concern. Manning saw this as a major news story, an exclusive that could propel his paper ahead of the competitors and build a bigger readership.

  “I’m not asking for the impossible. I’m asking for you to hold off until I give you the green light. We need to follow up on some promising leads first,” Scott said, hoping his tone conveyed his intention and bought him some time.

  Manning stiffened, riled by Scott’s directness. Shaking his head, he continued to pace around the cluttered office.

  Abby broke the silence. “We owe it to Samuel to keep this under wraps, for the sake of his wife’s memory, if nothing else.”

  The comment appeared to shake Manning from his deep thoughts. “I need to see Samuel.”

  Abby stepped in before Scott replied. “It’s not possible at the moment. He’s under sedation and the care of a clinical psychologist. It’s why we haven’t been able to interview him. We’ll let you know the moment he’s allowed visitors. Deal?”

  The offer appeared to avert further confrontation. Manning dropped back into his chair. A sense of frustrated resignation etched deep lines on his face. His jaw muscles tensed as he ground his teeth. “Fire away. How can I help?”

  Scott let out a sigh of relief as he glanced at Abby, giving her an appreciative smile. And she wants to quit? No chance.

  “How long had Samuel been working for you? And what has he been working on?”

  “About two years I reckon. I can’t be certain without looking at our records. He’s a freelancer, so dips in and out. Comes to us with his articles and investigative pieces, and I decide if they are newsworthy.”

  “Have any pieces stuck out? Anything that could have got him into hot water?”

  Manning shook his head. “To be honest, he hasn’t delivered much. He said he was working on one or two significant pieces but refused to divulge anything that would prove it when I pressed him. I think he wanted to exploit the local connection and the UK drug trade. He knew a lot of the gear destined for London came through the south coast. Much of it controlled by Eastern European crime syndicates.”

  “Did he uncover much?”

  “That I don’t know. He didn’t say much. But from what I understand, criminal organisations are ruthless in protecting their businesses. I can’t imagine them liking any unwanted attention. I’m sure you know this already, Inspector?”

  If Manning sought validation for his theories, Scott wasn’t about to offer it.

  “Who was the local connection?”

  Manning hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting between Scott and Abby. “I’m not sure to be honest.”

  Scott noticed how the man’s eyes kept shifting to Scott’s left. Manning was either lying or making things up. Scott wasn’t about to let him off the hook, so remained silent. A deliberate ploy as people often had to fill that void of silence.

  A silent battle of wills raged between the two men. Scott had all the time in the world, Manning on the other hand was a busy editor with deadlines. He sighed after what felt like minutes.

  “He was investigating Ryan McCormick. Irish Mick to his associates. But that’s all I know. We’ve covered his affairs and activities many times here at the paper.”

  “Did Samuel spend any time with others here at the office? Did he work with anyone?”

  Manning shook his head. “Everyone knows him here, and he’s liked and respected. But he’d breeze in, deliver an article, and breeze out again. A maverick and a loner.”

  “Old-school?”

  Manning agreed.

  “Did he mention home life to you?”

  “No. He rarely mentioned his wife. If I didn’t know otherwise, I would have taken him as being single. He loved his work. He loved all the digging around, hanging around in pubs, and going places that most people didn’t dare to go. He loved gauging local vibes and feelings and asking questions that could get him into trouble. It was his identity.”

  Manning reflected on past conversations with Ashman. “I’d say on occasion, ‘You off home now?’ and he’d reply, ‘Something like that.’ Or I’d say, ‘Are you having a quiet night in with your good lady,’ and he’d just grumble and mutter to himself.”

  “Thanks for your help. We’ll be in touch. Here’s my card if you think of anything else.”

  Manning fiddled with the card, not interested in what it said. He watched them leave, knowing that he needed to get to Samuel as soon as possible.

  Scott and Abby headed back to the station to grab a car, choosing to walk along the seafront to get some clean air.

  “He was scant with the details,” Abby said, as she stopped to grab a bottle of juice from a shop.

  “They always are. It’s always about what’s in it for them. They’re great at drawing you in and getting what they want before you know it. I’ll tell you now, you put Manning in a room full of the SAS, and he’d get a lot more out of them than they would get from him.”

  “We’ve given the paper a juicy story. I doubt they’ll hold off from running with it. I bet Manning is going bananas and barking orders at his team. He’ll want it out, before the others do.”

  Scott had no doubt that Abby was right. That’s what worried him.

  The meeting had proved helpful from Scott’s point of view. They’d come away with a name. Ryan McCormick. Known to police, a local crime lord who claimed to have gone legit.

  Whilst in their meeting, Raj had uncovered further details on the name given to them by Andrea Edwards. Their next stop, to visit Matthew Ainscough.

  10

  Winstanley and Partners held pride of place in a converted Victorian residence in the splendour of Lewes Crescent. The whitewashed crescent of tall houses held an elevated position overlooking the seafront.

  The Regency Grade I listed period properties, caught the eye of everyone who passed. They offered elegance, character, charm and history.

  Winstanley and Partners offered the same opulence inside as its frontage did outside. Glorious high ceilings with original cornices, wooden flooring and a large feature fireplace with a marble surround, created a luxurious and opulent reception. Large sash windows with working shutters allowed light to flood in to the property.

  Scott and Abby waited in reception.

  “Bit posh here. What do we know about him?” The soft white leather sofas wrapped around Abby. They were the type that swallowed you up, and made you look like a constipated duck as you rolled from side to side to extract yourself, losing all dignity in the process.

  “Not much. They’re compiling a background profile on him at the office. All I know is that he’s a licensing and criminal lawyer.”

  Abby pulled a face and rolled her eyebrows. “Nothing about his interests outside of work?”

  A set of double doors swung open, and a smartly dressed man in a grey pinstripe suit strode towards them, his hand extended. A crisp white shirt and striking red silk tie lent an air of authority. His combed back grey hair gave him a distinguished appearance. Scott put him to be in his late forties to early fifties.

  Scott rose first, leaving Abby to, in a rather comical fashion, unceremoniously struggle to get upright.

  “Matthew Ainscough. I understand you wish to see me. I have a few minutes to spare.”

  Ainscough was sharp in appearance and in tone. He chose his words and delivered them with taut precision.

  Scott introduced himself and Abby as they followed the man to a small but pristine meeting room just off the main reception. They both declined the offer of refreshments, which appeared to please him. Time is money, Scott thought.

  “How can I help?”

  Scott adjusted himself in the chair and watched Ainscough. “I’m afraid we have some bad news.”

  Ainscough nodded, unfazed.

  “We discovered the body of Janet Ashman at her house. We’re treating her death
as suspicious.”

  Ainscough’s firm and professional demeanour faded as if someone had drained the life out of him. His eye’s blinked as the news hit him. He shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “I’m…I’m sorry to hear that. Janet? What happened to her?” His voice became soft and pained.

  Scott saw the first signs of emotion, as the man’s eyes misted. He averted his gaze down towards the table, fighting to regain composure. One hand rubbed his forehead and shielded his face.

  Abby pulled out her notepad ready to jot down any relevant points.

  “I’m sorry to have to give you that news. We understand that you knew each other?”

  Ainscough nodded, as he fought to form a coherent sentence.

  “Mr Ainscough?”

  Ainscough jolted. “Sorry. I’m just in shock. Erm, em, I knew her well. She was a friend of one of the partners’ wives here. I met her a few times at social funct…” His voice trailed off.

  “We understand, that there may have been more than just friendship between you?”

  Ainscough flushed red as he licked his dry lips. He glanced around the room as if checking to make sure no one could see him or hear him. “I guess you are leading to the fact that Janet and I were in a relationship once?”

  “Why don’t you tell us, Mr Ainscough?”

  Ainscough interlocked his fingers. “We were together for about four years.” He felt a wave of panic surging up from within. “I love her…loved her. It was a strong physical relationship. Something we both enjoyed and explored.”

  “Was it a regular thing?”

  “Not really. We met when it both suited us. I’m single, so was more flexible and could fit in around her life. I couldn’t call her because of her husband, so I left it to her to call whenever she wanted it.”

  “It?” Abby interjected.

  Ainscough sighed and stared towards the ceiling, embarrassed and frustrated at having to reveal his most intimate secrets. “When she wanted sex and wanted me. When she needed to escape from her life at home. But I wanted her as much. We had great chemistry.”