by Iain Cameron
‘I didn’t mean to insinuate anything, merely trying to establish if something like this has happened before.’
‘Not to my knowledge and I’ve worked here longer than Christine. I think it’s very peculiar if you ask me.’
‘Thank you for your time. One last thing. Which car did they go in; his or hers?’
‘To tell you the truth, I don’t know.’
‘Would you like to take a look?’ Henderson said, indicating the windows on the other side of the room, overlooking the car park.
‘Give me a moment.’
She came out from behind the desk and weaved her way between desks, heading for the long bank of glass on the far side of the office. Seconds later she walked back, her face resolute.
‘I might have guessed, Christine’s car is still there but Mr Quinlan’s BMW isn’t. He hates anyone driving him.’
‘Can you give me the car’s registration number?’
Out of earshot of anyone in the surrounding office, Henderson pulled out his phone and called Lewes Control. He repeated the registration number of Quinlan’s BMW 7 Series and instructed it to be flagged on ANPR but if found, the vehicle was not to be approached.
‘I think she’s done a runner and took Francis Quinlan as insurance,’ Walters said as they walked outside and climbed into Henderson’s car.
‘Too early to say. I’m thinking it might be something innocent like a meeting his secretary knows nothing about.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know, maybe he’s thinking of selling up or buying a rival company and wants to keep it hush-hush.’
‘God, you make it sound so plausible, it makes my theory of a hostage situation seem really melodramatic.’
‘When have I ever called you melodramatic?’
‘This week, last week, the week before that, I could go on.’
‘Whichever theory is the right one,’ he said, ‘I’ve only asked Lewes Control to locate the car. When they do, it should avoid us becoming involved in a high-speed car chase or bursting in on a top-secret meeting. I’d like to arrest Melanie Lewis with no fuss and no stupid stories in The Argus.’
‘Let’s hope they find it.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
On the way back to Lewes, Henderson received a call. A patrol car driving through the village of Steyning had spotted Quinlan’s BMW 7 Series. Henderson instructed the patrol car to wait there in case he needed back-up, and redirected his own car to Steyning.
‘Now, Detective Inspector,’ Walters said with a smug smile, ‘you’re good at thinking up legitimate reasons for why things happen the way they do. Why would Francis Quinlan and Melanie Lewis be anywhere near her house in Steyning?’
‘The thought of a tryst did cross my mind but Quinlan’s loaded and could book into any hotel in Brighton that he wanted. However, his secretary, and I believe many secretaries know their bosses better than they know themselves, did say they weren’t having an affair.’
‘Ditto a business meeting to discuss something secret, as those same hotels have seminar rooms. I think my hostage theory is back on.’
‘You could be right. I’ve been thinking about what made her run. Do you think someone at Gresham’s gave her the nod after you and Bentley went up there?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it too and it’s the most likely scenario,’ Walters said. ‘I got the impression they were a tight bunch up there. Many of them had been working for the company for years and knew each other well. Either that or after the interview with us, she felt the net tightening.’
‘In which case, our suspect nipped back to Steyning to grab her things and took Francis as a hostage for what? In the event we turned up? Hold him for ransom, he’s a rich guy?’
‘I don’t know but I think we’re about to find out.’
‘I’m loathe to call it in without further information but I will. I can’t see any other reason for Lewis’s behaviour. Call Control and get a few more cars down here in case the situation goes pear-shaped.’
‘No problem.’
They arrived in Steyning and parked the car fifty metres from Lewis’s house. Henderson spotted the patrol car and approached it.
‘Thanks for sticking around fellas,’ Henderson said to the officer in the passenger seat.
‘No problem, sir. We don’t see much action around these parts.’
‘You might see some today. I think we could have a hostage situation in Bramble Bank, the dark stone house over there with the red-tiled roof,’ he said pointing.
‘I see it, sir,’ the officer replied.
‘Listen up, here’s what I want you two to do.’
Henderson approached the house as if he knew someone inside had a sub-machine gun trained on the window; ducking down low and holding his body tight against the walls. He leaned round and peered into the lounge window. Unmoving in a chair sat the bulky frame of Francis Quinlan, a large cut on his head and blood streaking down one side of his face.
As instructed, one officer made his way to the back of the house, while the other waited in the garden and watched the front door in case Melanie Lewis tried to leg-it while the detectives were inside the house. If Lewis saw them and tried to run, all means of escape were blocked.
He turned the handle of the door and walked in. The house felt cold as if the windows had been open perhaps to air the rooms, although in winter only the hardy would think to do so. Henderson entered a short hall with Walters behind him, stairs to the immediate left, straight ahead the kitchen where he could see out to the garden through the window, and to his right, the door leading to the lounge.
He pushed open the lounge door slowly, not wishing to alarm those inside, his mind filled with all the possibilities he might encounter. His caution was unwarranted. The long lounge, with one window overlooking the road and the other the garden, was devoid of anyone, save for the unconscious figure of Francis Quinlan.
Henderson moved to his side and lifted his wrist. He could feel a pulse but the head wound looked severe, fresh blood still dribbling over the dried. Walters checked hiding places behind the settee and bookcase and when Henderson looked at her face, she shook her head. Henderson dropped Quinlan’s arm and pointed upstairs.
They moved slowly up the stairs trying to be as quiet as possible, but being an old house, the stairs creaked at every second step. He told Walters to wait on the half-landing and guard the stairs while he pushed open the doors to all the rooms. He didn’t find Lewis in the main bedroom, the bathroom, the spare bedroom or a sparsely furnished box room.
‘She isn’t here,’ he said to Walters. ‘Tell the officer at the back to check the garden and shed and the officer out front to see if Quinlan’s BMW is still there and get him to ask a neighbour if they’ve seen a taxi call here in the last half hour. I’ll deal with the injured man.’
Walking downstairs, Henderson pulled out his phone and called an ambulance. After he made Francis comfortable and did all he could to make sure his airways weren’t blocked, he took out his phone again and called the Crime Scene Manager, Pat Davidson. As he waited for Pat to come to the phone, Walters appeared at the patio doors.
‘She’s not in the garden, the BMW is still outside and nobody saw a taxi. Her car was in the company car park when we went to Quinlan’s offices earlier today so if she didn’t call a taxi, she must have hightailed it on foot.’
He shook his head. ‘She didn’t go on foot. Did you see the dust marks in the small bedroom? Boxes were on the shelves of the wall unit and now they’re gone, there’s no clothes in the wardrobes; she can’t be running and carrying all those. No, this is planned. She must have another car.’
‘One we can’t trace.’
He nodded. The voice of the Crime Scene Manager came on the line. Henderson explained where he was and about the woman they were searching for.
‘Pat, what I need you and your team to do is search this place from top to bottom and find out if someone called Cindy Summer has been here. I’ll
send someone around to her flat and get samples of her prints for comparison.’
‘Ok. Sounds straightforward.’
‘Next thing, see if you can find something that will tell us something about the car our fleeing suspect drives. I’m thinking about a car registration document or a vehicle tax reminder sent out by the DVLA.’
‘You’ll want a thorough search of bookcases and any filing?’
‘Yes, but also look in places where drug dealers hide their loot, like the inside of the cistern or under floorboards. We’re dealing with a devious woman here, Pat, who only had ten or fifteen minutes to take everything she needed and to make sure nothing was left behind for us trace her.’
‘Got it. Anything else?’
‘Yes. I need some people to dig up a vegetable patch.’
‘I know you’ve lived in a flat for years, Angus, but even you must realise the ground is hard at this time of year. You might be better off getting radar in first.’
‘Forget radar. It’s after midday now, and from where I’m standing I can see the sun creeping into the back garden. If you don’t start the job until late morning or early afternoon, you should find the digging much easier.’
‘I can see you’re not going to be persuaded out of this one. Leave it with me and I’ll rustle up some diggers, but no radar. Anything else?’
‘No, and before you ask, I want it all yesterday.’
‘No chance. Bye Angus.’
The ambulance drew up outside and moments later, two medics came running in with a stretcher. While they attended to the unconscious man, Henderson pulled Walters aside.
‘It seems we were both right,’ he said. ‘You, because she probably brought Quinlan here to act as a hostage in case we turned up, and me, because she scarpered at the first sign of trouble.’
‘How do we track her down? We don’t have a clue what she’s driving.’
‘When we get back to the office, I’ll take some of the detectives off the jewellery robbery and Guy Barton’s murder and assign them to this. Phone Quinlan Foods and ask Francis’s secretary if she knows anything about Sutherland owning another car. You never know, the company might have sold one to her or maybe she brought it with her when she came to Sussex from Norfolk. Also, put a team together to hawk her picture around local garages, see if we can find out where she bought it. I’ll get her face into every police station and see if newspapers will run it. If she’s out there we’ll find her.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
Henderson pushed through double doors and walked past the Friends of The Royal Sussex Hospital newspaper stand. Another day, another hospital. This time he hadn’t come to see Lily Barton, she was out and living with her sister in Hertfordshire and doing well, if his last phone call to her was anything to go by.
Francis Quinlan sat up as he approached, on his head a big bandage and on his face a beaming smile. When Henderson reached the bed, Quinlan grasped his hand and held it tight.
‘Thank you, thank you Detective Inspector, you saved my life.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘I do. According to the doctors if you hadn’t turned up for another couple of hours I could have gone into shock and might have bled to death.’
Henderson retrieved his hand and sat down.
‘So how are you feeling? You have a mighty big bandage around your head. I can’t decide if you’re trying to look like a brave central defender or an extra from The Walking Dead.’
He laughed. ‘It’s been a few years since you would catch me on a football field and to tell you the truth, in my time I was more a nifty winger than a central defender.’
‘You made the right choice, going into the food business.’
‘I suppose you’re right. Football’s such a competitive sport; it’s hard breaking into the big-time.’
‘Do the doctors expect you’ll make a full recovery?’
He nodded. ‘They think I might lose the plot now and again, but as I did that before nobody will notice any difference.’
Henderson smiled. ‘Are you able to tell me what happened?’
‘I’m not that far gone, I hope. That bitch Sutherland came into my office and told me we had a problem at Steels Supermarkets. They wanted to see me and her pronto. Normally I wouldn’t do calls like this but Brendan Flaherty, my Commercial Director, wasn’t around and with no replacement yet for Marc...’
He looked vacant for a moment.
‘Where was I? Yes, Steels are based in Worthing, but she said we needed to make a small detour back to her house to pick up something for the meeting. I was standing in the living room in her house in Steyning reading a text on my phone when she spoke to me and I turned. Bam! She hit me on the head with something and I fell to the floor.’
‘You were unconscious from this point on?’
‘Yes, until I woke up in the ambulance.’
‘Do you know why she did it?’
‘I don’t have a bloody clue. I wish I did. Do you know?’
‘Christine Sutherland is not her real name.’
‘What? Who is she then?’
‘We think her name is Melanie Lewis and she’s impersonating a woman called Christine Sutherland.’
‘God, you’re doing a better job of spinning my head than the sedatives.’
‘We’d like to question her about the murder of Christine Sutherland, her former boss at a food company in Norfolk, the death of Marc Emerson and the disappearance of Cindy Summer.’
‘Good God!’
‘As I said Francis, the only thing we know for sure is she isn’t Christine Sutherland, the rest is only supposition until we gather more evidence.’
‘Fair enough. Hang on, there’s something at the back of my mind but I can’t quite reach it.’ He paused a moment, thinking. ‘Ah yes, I remember now. I called Sutherland into my office a few weeks back. I’m not a skilled finance man, you understand. I’ve built my company up by cultivating good relationships with buyers and producing the best products I can, so I didn’t feel so sure of my ground, if you know what I mean.’
Henderson nodded.
‘I was looking through the figures she gave me a few days before and did some plonking on the calculator. To cut a long story short, I said to her the sales and profitability of many of our products are up, so why is the cash position so lousy?’
‘What did she say?’
‘She said it had something to do with the levels of joint advertising we’re doing with a big supermarket and the lawyers we’ve retained to fight an Industrial Tribunal claim. It sounded good at the time and of course, she’s the accountant, but now with a chance to think about it, I’m not so sure.’
‘You think maybe there’s been some fiddling going on?’
‘I wouldn’t go as far as to say that, but you see, I watch the cash position like a hawk. In the last company I worked for, before I set up my own, there was a big fiddle going on and this was how they discovered it; the cash flow declined out of line with forecasts. Let’s just say my nose was twitching and her answers didn’t satisfy me. Now she’s shown us her true colours and smacked the boss over the head, I’ll get someone in to take a closer look.’
‘Good idea.’
‘I need to do something. I’ve lost the best salesman I ever had, my diamond of a financial analyst has disappeared and now my Financial Director turns out to be someone else. What did I do to warrant this? Did I pray to the wrong God?’
**
Henderson drove back from the hospital in pensive mood. Francis Quinlan couldn’t have put it better; to lose a top salesman was bad enough but to lose another two employees in quick succession was enough to make anyone feel persecuted.
Instead of driving back to the office, he changed his mind and headed towards Steyning. Pat Davidson told him there had been moans from the digging crew as the temperature was only two above freezing and the ground in the Bramble Bank vegetable garden was as hard as iron. He wasn’t going there to hear more of their grum
bles, but to prove he wasn’t a desk-jockey and could turn up on a cold morning just as well as they could.
The previous day, he went to see DS Edwards to bring her up to date with developments and tell her that Melanie Lewis had moved to the top of their wanted list. He didn’t get to say more than a few sentences before she exploded.
‘I told you I wanted this case closed down,’ she said, before getting out of her chair and pacing around the room. ‘The ACC thinks it’s being closed down, the Chief Constable does too. I thought we’d agreed after Guy Barton’s murder, we are not looking for anyone else. Now you tell me you’re back chasing phantoms.’
‘It’s not phantoms, it’s–’
‘You interviewed Christine Sutherland, you didn’t suspect her then, so why now?’
‘If you would just let me get a word in, I’ll explain.’
He went on tell her about the identity theft and the murder of Christine Sutherland. She listened but it didn’t calm her temper.
‘I’ve heard enough. It seems to me you and your team are trying to do the work of Norfolk Constabulary and chasing some lass from Quinlan’s who, I don’t know, ran off to Tenerife with some lad she’s just met. Then, you’ve pulled out all the stops to try and track down Quinlan’s Finance Director, a woman guilty of nothing more than changing her name.’
‘Yes, but don’t forget the kidnap and assault of Francis Quinlan.’
‘An assault on him which in all likelihood will turn out to be self-defence after he tried to touch her up.’
Henderson was about to say who’s talking about fantasy and phantoms now, but he kept quiet.
‘Angus, you haven’t offered me a shred of evidence that Christine Sutherland, or whatever bloody name she uses, is someone we should be going after.’
‘But–’
‘No buts. I told you I wanted the Marc Emerson case wrapped up by the end of the week and I meant it. This is Friday, and in my view, the end of the week. At close of business today, I don’t want to hear of any sort of activity taking place to find Christine Sutherland or anyone else connected to the Marc Emerson murder enquiry. Do I make myself clear?’