by Anne Penketh
He shook his head. This is a wild goose chase. There were so many alleyways and courtyards, Braithwaite could have ducked into any of them. And what if he had transport? Clayton had no idea what sort of car to look for.
He carried on running along the cobblestones, his footsteps echoing. After a few more minutes he reached the Lanes. Couples were standing around perusing restaurant menus and people were going into pubs. He didn’t have a hope in hell of finding Braithwaite now.
Panting from the effort, he decided to turn back.
Chapter Twenty-four
Clayton pulled off his sleep mask and looked at the clock, which glowed in the darkness. It was just after six a.m.
Maybe a run round Eaton Park would clear his head. The questions that had disturbed his sleep were still nagging him. He felt around the bottom of the bed for his running gear, tugged on the Lycra and went straight out. By the time he reached Unthank Road at a steady jog, he wasn’t the only one heading along the pavement towards the park.
He jogged through the park gates and kept to the road, which was lit with an orange glow. He passed the ornamental gardens with their exotic grasses before heading for the central dome of the bandstand. Then he ran down the tree-lined avenue, slightly slippery with fallen leaves, which bisected the park. He’d always found the park’s formal design satisfying — everything had its place, from the putting green to the model boat pond with its neat classical shapes. It was tidy, something to aspire to. A grey day was breaking by the time he returned home, less than an hour later.
He took a quick shower, but the questions wouldn’t go away. He needed to sort things out with Julie. Downstairs in the kitchen, he stood at the counter and downed a coffee, checked his watch again and was at the nick by eight. He began checking the NFO case notes on the computerised system.
After a while, his rumbling stomach told him that he needed a proper breakfast, and he went downstairs to the canteen, where servers were busy filling hot trays with food. He picked up a coffee with a bacon sandwich and took them back to his desk.
He wiped the grease from his hands, chucked the paper plate and napkin into the wastepaper basket, and swivelled his chair to look over his shoulder. Where was Julie?
By the time she arrived on the dot of nine, Clayton was a tight ball of impatience.
“Oh, there you are,” he couldn’t help announcing to the office in general. A couple of officers looked up from their desks.
She came over to his workstation. “What’s up, guv?”
“Only that the press is about to publish information about Lauren Garner that we could have had ourselves if only we’d been a bit more aggressive in our questioning.”
“When you say our questioning, I presume you mean mine,” she said, tossing her head. “What’s the story?”
“Do you remember speaking to Sarah Cooper? She said that Steve Carter, the violinist, was a womaniser.”
“Yes, of course. What of it?”
“And that he’d also tried it on with Lauren?”
“Yes . . .” she answered hesitantly.
“Well, it turns out that Carter raped Lauren after spiking her drink. That’s the story they’re about to put out.”
“Oh, dear,” said Julie, sitting down heavily. “Sorry. But you know, I only spoke to her on the phone that time. And she did volunteer the information.”
“It’s not you. I should have insisted on getting her in. She might have told us more face to face. Maybe she was overcome by remorse after talking to the paper and decided to call us. Anyway, someone — it could be her — has told the EDP about the rape. I’ve been kicking myself for not focusing enough on that guy, because we could have found out earlier why Lauren, in her drug-addled mind, wanted revenge.”
Julie frowned. “But she can’t have killed him though, can she? She’s dead.”
Clayton lashed out with a foot at the wastepaper basket, which emptied its contents under his desk. Julie ignored this.
“So, when’s it going to be published?” she asked. “Do the journalists know about her body being found in the freezer?”
“As far as I know they haven’t found out about the body, but I’ll have to check with Bligh about releasing that information now that Braithwaite knows we’re onto him. And luckily for us, they’re looking for a second source to corroborate the rape story. That gives us a bit of time to get ahead of the game here. Can you get Sarah in?”
Julie stood up. “Yes, boss.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I’m going to Cley with Dave.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Clayton opened the car door and an icy blast, straight off the North Sea, struck him in the face.
Bullard pointed along the lane to a black Toyota parked on the grass verge outside a flintstone cottage. “That’s Mercer’s car.”
“Isn’t that a Prius? I might have guessed,” Clayton commented. Bullard seemed puzzled.
Clayton got out and gazed, bracing himself against the bitter wind, at the reed beds that stretched towards the shingle banks and the sea. A flock of ducks rose from a pool on the marsh, dancing in the current. He took a deep breath of salty air. “Round here, it’s easy to believe that you’re the only person on earth, don’t you think?”
Bullard stood next to him, his face turned towards the sea. At that moment two military helicopters came into sight. Clayton could hear them clatter as they flew low over the shore.
They both laughed.
“Yeah, right, boss,” said Bullard. “Actually I’m more of a townie myself these days.” Hearing the sound of another car, he turned round. “Here are the others. We’re not alone after all.”
They fastened their jackets and trudged towards the house. Nobody answered the door. Bullard looked at Clayton. “Where is he?”
Clayton beckoned to an officer to force entry. The door put up little resistance and they found themselves in a low-ceilinged room dominated by a large painting leaning against the wall. Swirls of black on a white background. Was it a seascape? Pots of paint stood on a sheet spread out on the floor.
“I told you about Jackson Pollock, didn’t I?” said Bullard, gesturing towards the picture.
“They’ve not been gone long,” said Clayton, gesturing towards the fireplace, where embers still glowed.
They split up and began their search. Empty beer bottles had been left on a low table in front of a TV set. While Bullard went upstairs, Clayton began searching the tiled kitchen, which opened onto a small back yard with just enough room for a shed.
“Any sign of guests?” Clayton called up to Bullard.
“The spare bed isn’t made up,” Bullard replied. “No clothes or anything in that room. It seems like it’s being used as an office.”
“Just a sec,” he added. Clayton heard his footsteps tramp from room to room.
“Look at this, guv.”
“What is it?” Clayton found him in the bathroom. He recognised the packet immediately. The pills inside were tramadol.
“And look what else I found. In the bedroom.”
He picked up a black backpack. Inside was a plastic bag containing capsules filled with a white powder.
“What’s that then? Ecstasy?” asked Clayton.
“More like Molly, I’d say,” said Bullard, “MDMA. Ecstasy is usually pills, as far as I know. In any case, both are Class A drugs.”
They heard a low growl at the front door. A black Lab emerged and barked at an officer who was examining the contents of a drawer in the living room.
Bullard and Clayton made their way downstairs. A man stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light. He stepped into the room. “Down, Bandit,” he commanded. The dog sat on its haunches, its tongue hanging out.
“And what exactly are you gentlemen looking for? I see you’ve brought company this time,” he said, recognising Bullard. The voice was smooth and plummy.
Bullard merely said, “This is Detective Inspector Clayton.”
His eyes on the droo
ling dog, Clayton took out the search warrant and held it out to Mercer. “We’re looking for Mark Braithwaite, a friend of yours. We have reason to believe that he might be here.”
“Well, as you can see, he’s not here, and I’ve no idea where he is,” said Mercer.
“So where’ve you been then?” asked Clayton.
“Walking the dog.”
He had moved forward into the light. He wore a heavy jacket, jeans and hiking boots. He had a three-day beard flecked with ginger. But what Clayton couldn’t help staring at were the blond streaks in his hair.
Chapter Twenty-six
Clayton took a step forward, causing the Lab to growl.
“Mr Mercer, we’re investigating the deaths of Lauren Garner and two other players in the Norwich Festival Orchestra. We are also looking into an apparent murder attempt on the previous conductor of the NFO, who overdosed on tramadol. You have some of this drug upstairs.”
Mercer didn’t even blink. “Mike Proctor? I’m sorry to hear that. I take tramadol for back pain. On prescription.” He took another breath and was about to speak when Clayton interrupted.
“That’s not the only thing we found. You have Class A drugs in this backpack. If you’re sharing them with anyone else, that’s drug dealing. You’re coming back to the nick with us.”
“But . . .” Mercer began.
“No buts,” said Clayton.
“What about Bandit?”
“What about him? You’ll have to find someone to take care of him for a while. You can do that while we’re on our way back to Norwich.”
“OK. Just let me give him some water then, before we go.”
They stood back while he went through to the kitchen and poured some water into a dish on the floor.
“Are you guys done here?” Clayton asked the other officers. They nodded.
He turned back to Mercer. “Right. Come on then,” he said.
* * *
Clayton was typing frantically on his computer. He wanted to do more research on Mercer before he questioned him.
He went back to Mercer’s Facebook account. No clues there about the man who had just been signed in as Lloyd Christian Fiske-Mercer.
After a few minutes he found a link. Mercer was identified as being a son of Lord Fiske-Mercer. He was landed gentry! Clayton started a new search under that name and dug out more information. Not only had he gone to the Slade after Eton, but he’d also done a stint at Bristol University, studying English and drama. So, not only was the bloke a true blue posho but a thespian as well. He hadn’t mentioned that on his Facebook page.
Clayton sat and mused for a bit. This guy has a hinterland. We need to know more. He looked round to see whether Julie was at her workstation.
“What’s up, boss?” she said.
“Mercer’s downstairs. Actually, Lloyd Christian Fiske-Mercer. Did you know his dad is Lord Fiske-Mercer?”
“Really? Fiske-Mercer? Isn’t that the one with a country pile in Nottinghamshire?”
Yes, she was good.
“The very same,” he said. “So I’m just wondering if you could look into some background on the family. Maybe talk to Papa.”
She nodded enthusiastically.
“By the way, we did check the records on Mercer, didn’t we?”
“Of course,” she said. “Nothing showed up.”
“Can you make sure we check under Fiske-Mercer too,” he said.
* * *
Four of them assembled in the interview room. Bullard and Clayton sat opposite Mercer and his female solicitor. Clayton had established that her name was April Cox and that she was with the Norwich branch of one of the country’s leading law firms. Of course.
The tape was on. Clayton informed Mercer that he was being interviewed under caution for Class A drugs possession and on suspicion of assault. Mercer opened his mouth as though to say something, then thought better of it.
He scowled at Clayton, who began, “Mr Fiske-Mercer, you admit to having twenty capsules of MDMA in your possession?”
“I do, yes. For my personal use only,” Mercer said. He’d obviously been briefed on what to say.
“And where did you get the drugs from?” Clayton asked.
After a pause, Mercer said, “The internet.”
“Mr Fiske-Mercer, we’ve been looking into your background,” said Clayton. “It turns out that you left Bristol University after being cautioned for possession of drugs. Ecstasy. So this time you face a charge which carries a jail sentence.”
Mercer did not react.
“Are you a regular consumer of MDMA?” Clayton said.
“No. Only occasionally. At parties, for example.”
“And what about cocaine?”
“If it’s on offer, and then only very rarely. Again, at parties.”
Clayton smiled, thin-lipped. Keep digging your hole.
“And do you share your drugs with your friends?”
“No, never.”
Mercer was taking the questions in his stride, stealing the occasional sideways glance at his solicitor but never missing a beat. Clayton looked at Bullard, who took over the questions.
“When was the last time you took drugs, Mr Mercer?”
“What? Any drugs?”
“Yes,” said Bullard.
“Well, as I mentioned, I do take tramadol for my back pain. That’s on doctor’s orders.”
Clayton said, “We found tramadol in the bathroom in your cottage in Cley. The same drug Mike Proctor overdosed on when he was assaulted at his home.”
Mercer did not react.
Clayton shuffled through one of the files to check the date of the attack. “Mr Fiske-Mercer, where were you on the afternoon of October eighteenth? A Thursday.”
“Oh, if it was a Thursday, I’d have been out with Jake Easton. He has that afternoon off.”
“And he would corroborate that, would he?” Clayton asked.
“Of course.”
“And do you remember what you did on that particular Thursday?”
“I think we went for a drive to Sheringham. He came out to see me in Cley.”
Clayton glanced at Bullard, who continued, “We were talking about your drug usage. When was the last time you took recreational drugs?”
“Oh, it was a while ago,” Mercer said.
Bullard nodded. “Could you be more specific?”
“Oh, at least a couple of weeks ago, probably more.”
“Right. Now tell us which type of drug and who was present,” Bullard said firmly.
Mercer’s eyes darted sideways. Was he afraid of betraying his friends?
“I took Molly with a couple of friends.”
“And they were?” Bullard pressed on.
Mercer paused again, then said, “Mark. Mark Braithwaite and Jake Easton. At Jake’s place.”
Clayton intervened. “Did you ever take drugs with Lauren Garner?”
Almost imperceptibly, Mercer shifted in his seat. He seemed surprised by the question.
“Not recently,” he said.
“Presumably you’re friends with Ms Garner.”
“Yes. Of course. She’s Mark’s girlfriend.”
“And when was the last time you saw her?” Clayton asked.
Mercer leaned back, pursing his lips. “A month or two ago, I suppose.”
“That long?”
Mercer nodded, then added, “Yes.”
“And would the last time you took drugs with her be around that time too?”
“Probably,” said Mercer.
“Probably?” said Clayton, glowering across the table.
“Well, probably, yes. Mark would have been there as well,” Mercer said.
“And where might this get-together have taken place?” asked Clayton.
“At Mark’s.”
Clayton noticed that Mercer’s body had stiffened. He leaned forward. “And do you think that was the last time you saw her?”
Mercer cleared his throat. He sat up straight. “
Yes, I suppose it was.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to tell us about that evening? If it was an evening. Did something go wrong?”
A flicker of emotion spread across Mercer’s face. He leaned towards his solicitor and said something to her in a low voice. She said, “I need to consult my client. May we take a break?”
Clayton stopped the tape and he and Bullard left the room.
“What’s the betting he stops being so cooperative after this?” he said.
“Do you get the impression he’s trying to implicate Braithwaite? He didn’t need to say so, but he’s made sure that we know that Braithwaite was doing the drugs with him. Same with Easton.”
“The drugs charge is one thing,” said Clayton, “but we mustn’t forget that there was a corpse in the cellar. That puts a whole new complexion on things, doesn’t it? I’m going to see what Bligh thinks.”
Bullard nodded. “And we’ve not even got round to Kristina Manning yet either.”
“You mean the hair on the cello? You’re right,” Clayton said, and headed towards the lift.
* * *
“You want to charge him with what offence, Sam?” Bligh asked with a frown. She’d listened without comment to Clayton’s account of the interview.
“Well. We’ve got him on drugs possession of course. We’d get a conviction because he was cautioned four years ago. But I’d also say on suspicion of involvement in the death of Lauren Garner, ma’am.”
“Yes, but right now it’s an unexplained death, isn’t it?”
“He’s just told us that she died of an overdose. That’s more than we knew up to now,” he said.
Bligh looked at him. “Did he say that exactly?”
“Not in so many words, no.”
“Because she might have fallen down the stairs into the cellar and that’s what killed her. Or she took her own drugs and that killed her, without anyone else being involved. Frankly, Sam, it doesn’t stand up, does it?”
He knew she was right. He looked down at his notebook.