by David Blake
‘And the answer is…?’
‘No.’
‘To which part?’
‘All of it, obviously.’
‘I see,’ Tanner mused, returning his attention back to his file. ‘What about Mr Toby Wallace?’
‘Who?’
‘He was the other man we discussed, when we were chatting at your club the other day.’
‘I’m sorry, you’re going to have to refresh my memory.’
‘He owned the property you were driving out of, just before you nearly drove straight into us.’
‘Ah yes, I remember, the discussion at least. But if you recall, I wasn’t in the car at the time.’
‘That’s right, my mistake. But you know him though, don’t you?’
‘Sorry, I thought I’d already told you that I didn’t.’
‘That’s correct. I was just wondering if you’d like to change your story, for the record.’
Once again, McMillan paused, this time turning to give his solicitor a questioning glance.
‘Is there some reason why you think my client should know the person being referred to?’ Crabtree asked, his eyes finding Tanner’s.
‘It’s a straightforward enough question. Either he does, or he doesn’t.’
The solicitor narrowed his eyes at Tanner before leaning over to whisper something in his client’s ear.
‘I may know the person you’re referring to,’ McMillan eventually replied, ‘but, unfortunately, I can’t be certain. As I’m sure you can appreciate, a successful entrepreneur such as myself does tend to meet a considerable number of people during their day-to-day business activities.’
‘OK, then let me ask you something else. Have you ever been inside Mr Wallace’s house?’
‘That would assume I knew who Mr Wallace was.’
Tanner drew in an impatient breath. ‘Let me put it another way. Given what you’ve told us, that you’ve only been in Norfolk for a few days, have you stepped inside anyone’s house since between the time you arrived and just before you were placed under arrest about three hours ago?’
‘I’m sorry, inspector, but again, I simply can’t recall.’
‘I don’t suppose you can remember what you had for breakfast this morning?’
‘You must forgive me,’ Crabtree interrupted, ‘but would you mind me asking how the subject of what my client eats for breakfast could possibly have to do with your investigation?’
‘Your client is clearly having problems with his memory. I was merely attempting to establish how bad it was.’
Crabtree closed his leather bound notebook to begin climbing to his feet. ‘Right, that’s it. We’ll be leaving now.’
‘Do you recognise this pen?’ Tanner asked rather suddenly, sliding a photograph out from the file to position in front of the suspect.
‘No, why, should I?’ McMillan replied, as Crabtree sank slowly back down into his chair.
‘It has the name of your club written down the side.’
‘So I can see, but that doesn’t mean it belongs to me though, does it.’
‘I didn’t ask if it was yours, Mr McMillan, I asked if you recognised it.’
‘My mistake. Yes, I do recognise it. It’s one of several hundred we’ve had printed over the years.’
‘We found it under the table inside Mr Wallace’s kitchen.’
With Tanner boring his eyes into the suspect’s, the man shrugged his shoulders with ambivalent indifference. ‘Sorry, I’m not sure what you want me to say. Well done?’
‘I don’t suppose you know what it was doing there?’
‘Attempting to write its first novel?’
Tanner smiled. ‘Any other ideas?’
‘The only other reason I can think of is that the kitchen’s owner must have dropped it.’
‘You’d have thought so, wouldn’t you.’
‘Er, yes, which is probably why I suggested it.’
‘At least, perhaps someone would have, had it not been for the fact that it didn’t have his fingerprints on it.’
‘Oh dear. Then it must have slipped out of his hands whilst he was giving it a bit of a clean.’
‘Do you know whose fingerprints we did find?’
‘Your mum’s?’
‘Er, no, Mr McMillan. We found your prints on the pen.’
The solicitor looked up from the photograph to catch Tanner’s eye. ‘Please don’t tell me that this is the extent of your so-called evidence?’
‘It places your client at the scene.’
‘Er, no inspector. It places the pen at the scene.’
‘With your client’s fingerprints on, but not those of the person who owned the house.’ Tanner knew it was a weak argument, but it was all he had.
‘Did you find anyone else’s prints on it, other than my client’s?’
‘I fail to see the relevance.’
‘I’m afraid I must disagree, inspector. If it only had my client’s fingerprints on it, then you may have yourself an actual piece of evidence, albeit circumstantial. However, if it had someone else’s prints on it as well, then it’s equally possible for that other person to have brought it into the victim’s house. And when you take into account that my client has an alibi, one that I’m confident will be supported by numerous other people…’
‘All of whom just happen to work for him,’ Tanner interjected.
‘…then I’d have thought it would have been far more likely to have been that other person who left it inside the victim’s house, instead of my client, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose that would depend on if that other person said he was with your client at the time he said he wasn’t there.’
‘From what you’re saying, is it safe for me to assume that you did find someone else’s prints on the pen?’
‘And if that person is employed by him as well,’ Tanner continued, focussing his attention squarely at McMillan.
‘Are you going to share the information you have with us, inspector, or are we going to have to continue with this rather childish game of charades?’
Tanner paused for a moment before sliding another piece of A4 paper out from his file, this one featuring a police mugshot of a dangerous looking man with a neck nearly twice as wide as his face. ‘We found two further sets of prints on the pen under discussion. The first belong to Mr Dixon, currently employed as a security guard for your client. The second are for this man,’ Tanner continued, leaving the first photograph in the middle of the table to slide out another, ‘Mr Finch, listed as being your client’s driver, both of whom have served time for GBH, amongst other things.’
Having given the images nothing more than a cursory glance, the solicitor once again re-engaged eye contact with Tanner. ‘This is all fascinating, inspector, really it is. But it’s still just a pen. The most it does is to prove that one of three people may have been inside the victim’s house at some point. It’s hardly justification for having my client arrested for murder.’
‘I assume your client is at least able to confirm that he knows the two men featured in the photographs?’
‘Of course I know them,’ McMillan replied, ‘but that’s probably not altogether surprising, given the fact that they accompanied me here, and that they’re both currently sitting out in your reception, patiently awaiting my imminent release.’
‘Ah, right. I was wondering who they were.’
‘Well, now that you know, can I go?’
‘Of course, but before you do, there are a couple more things we’d like to discuss.’
McMillan locked his hands together on the table to let out a frustrated sigh.
‘The first is something my colleague has been dealing with.’ Tanner continued, glancing around at Cooper.
As both McMillan and his solicitor turned to face the young DI, each wearing a similar expression of petulant curiosity, Cooper glanced briefly down to his own more slender file, before bringing his attention back up to the suspect.
‘We found something at the
scene of Sir Michael’s murder, at least what was left of it. I just wanted to ask if you knew anything about it?’
‘I suppose that depends on what it is?’ McMillan replied, his jaw visibly tightening.
‘It looks as if someone made an effort to destroy it, albeit rather half-heartedly, but from what we can make out, it would appear to be a blackmail letter.’
Cooper pulled out a photocopy of what was left of the item in question. ‘I don’t suppose it rings any bells?’
Tanner watched with curious interest as a smile flickered briefly over McMillan’s face.
‘Well?’ Cooper demanded.
‘I can honestly say, hand on heart, that I’ve never seen this before in my entire life.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ Cooper continued, returning to pull out another photocopied image. ‘It’s just that we found another one, that one being intact. As you can see, the amount being demanded is exactly the same. Our forensics department also tells us that the paper it’s been written on, as well as both the ink and the typeface used, are also identical. In fact, the only difference between the two, other than the fact that one’s intact and the other isn’t, is the location where it was found.’
‘And where was that?’
‘Inside the home of a person by the name of Toby Wallace.’
McMillan took a moment to examine the two photocopies. ‘Well, I’m no detective, or anything, but from what I can make out, I’d say that it looks like someone was trying to blackmail them.’
‘I assume you’re going to tell us that it wasn’t you?’
‘Me?’ McMillan queried, a broad grin spreading out over his face. ‘Why on earth would I want to do that? More to the point, don’t you have to at least know the people you’re endeavouring to coerce money out of.’
‘And you don’t?’
‘As I’ve said before, several times in fact, no, I don’t!’
‘Well, at least we’ve managed to clear that one up,’ Cooper replied, forcing a grin over at the suspect.
‘Anything to help our boys in blue,’ McMillan replied, smirking back. ‘You said there was something else?’
Taking over from Cooper, Tanner delved back into his file. ‘The last thing, for now at least, is what we found in the depths of Mr Wallace’s study.’
‘Don’t tell me it was another pen?’
Lifting out a fairly substantial document, Tanner placed it down in the middle of the table. ‘Any idea what this is?’
‘A policeman’s guide as to how not to interview a suspect?’
‘It’s a copy of an agreement for the sale of the Phantom Exchange, which – if you didn’t know – is the night club jointly owned by Mr Wallace and Sir Michael Blackwell, both of whom are now dead. As curious as I think that is, what is far more interesting is the name of the prospective buyer.’
The solicitor dragged the document towards him to begin rifling through its pages.
‘You’ll find what I believe is your client’s signature at the end,’ Tanner added, gesturing down at where one of the pages had been marked with a yellow Post-it note. ‘The only thing that seems to be missing are the signatures of the two legal owners.’
McMillan set his jaw to re-engage eye contact with Tanner. ‘OK, so I was trying to buy their crappy little night club. So what? That’s what people in my line of work do: buy and sell businesses.’
‘My client is right,’ added Crabtree, leafing his way back through the document. ‘All this proves is that they knew each other, but only in name. It doesn’t prove they’d ever met. This would have been drawn up by a conveyancing company.’
‘You’re right, of course, but what it does prove is that your client has been lying to us. He did know the two victims, even though he’s been adamant that he didn’t, since the very first time we spoke.’
‘As I seem to remember saying to you before, inspector,’ McMillan began, locking his fingers together on top of the table, ‘I deal with dozens of people every day. I rarely get to meet any of them, and to be honest, I’ve never been very good with names.’
‘It also provides us with a motive, which I must admit, until finding that document, we had been somewhat lacking.’
The solicitor looked up to stare over at Tanner. ‘I’m sorry, but I think that’s just about the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard come dribbling out of a policeman’s mouth. How can this possibly provide my client with a motive for murdering not just one, but three people?’
‘Well, first of all, just between you and me, I don’t believe he did kill them.’
The solicitor’s expression turned from one of angry frustration to that of bewildered incredulity. ‘OK, now I’m confused. If you don’t think my client killed them, then what the hell are we doing here?’
‘Sorry, my mistake, I meant to say all of them. I know he murdered Sir Michael, and in the most brutal and theatrical way imaginable. That’s why he sent his most seductive dancer over to his house, to make sure he was handcuffed to his bed, in preparation for his arrival. But I believe he only did so in order to make sure his next victim, Mr Toby Wallace, knew he was serious. I don’t think he had any intention of killing him as well. Why would he? His death would mean he’d be unable to sign the agreement for the sale of his nightclub. No. I’m sure his death was neither anticipated nor desired. The man simply had a heart attack, probably shortly after realising he was about to be tortured. But don’t worry, it will still be classed as manslaughter, given the fact that the collapse of his heart was induced by the threat being made to him. Then there’s the dancer, Claire Metcalf, known by your client as Amber Vale. I’m fairly certain he killed her as well. After all, he wouldn’t have been too happy leaving her running about the place, telling the police about how he’d instructed her to leave Sir Michael handcuffed to his bed in preparation for his arrival, certainly not after his housekeeper had blurted her name out to the press.’
‘This is all fascinating,’ the solicitor smirked. ‘Really, it is. However, apart from the fact that the entire thing is based on pure conjecture, and that the only piece of so-called evidence is a single pen, of which there are many hundreds just like it, there’s nothing here to provide my client with a motive for having done any of this, despite what you said a minute ago. And I’m sorry, but someone offering to buy someone else’s nightclub is hardly that.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Crabtree, but I’m going to have to disagree.’
‘I see. And why is that, may I ask?’
‘Because of the amount your client was looking to pay for the property in question.’
Tanner paused for a moment as he watched the solicitor’s eyes first narrow, then slowly fall to the document lying half-open in his hands.
‘I’m sure we’d all agree that nobody in their right mind would be willing to sell what Companies House show to be a highly profitable business, situated on over a thousand square feet of land, for a single solitary pound coin, unless of course that person had a gun being held to their head, or maybe a pair of pliers to their testicles, by way of persuasion.’
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT