by Ryan Casey
Brian stared back at the screen as DC Peters rewound the footage. The handshake. The look over the shoulder. The walk towards the door.
“I think it’s about time you paid another little visit to BetterLives, don’t you?”
Chapter Sixteen
Brian pulled up outside BetterLives. The office building overlooked the murky water of the docklands. Clouds had formed over Preston; clouds always formed over bloody Preston. It was like living in a cloud sometimes, but it gave the community something new to moan about, to take their frustrations out on.
Brian looked over at the empty seat beside him. Cassy’s finished McDonald’s milkshake carton rested on its side, a speck of strawberry dribble staining the fabric below. He smiled and turned to face BetterLives offices. He had to play it cooler this time, Price had told him. “No more major fuck ups.” The last thing they wanted was the media getting on their backs again. The Lancashire News had just about got over the fact that they’d arrested Robert Luther last time. They couldn’t give them another excuse to start sniffing around.
Preston didn’t need it.
He zipped up his jacket and stepped out into the rain. He walked towards the fancy office blocks, back into the unknown.
A smiling woman sat behind the desk in reception area, a white shirt buttoned up to her neck and blonde hair dangling onto her shoulders. Brian tried to force a grin back at her, but remembered the sight of his coffee-stained teeth in the mirror every morning. Age–what a bastard.
“Are you here to speak to BetterLives again, Officer?”
Brian nodded.
“It’s not serious, is it?”
Brian saw the woman’s false smile beginning to droop. She was employed to smile nicely. Make people feel good about themselves. Legal prostitution, with stricter limits. She didn’t need the police causing any potential job jeopardy for herself or her colleagues. This affected everybody.
Brian smiled at her. “Just a few questions about our discussion the other day. It shouldn’t take long.” He walked over to the elevator; the car was at floor 28. Damn. “Is Mr. Luther free now?”
The woman moved around the desk and rustled a few papers. “Well, he could be, but…I’ll give him a call. That’d be better, wouldn’t it? If I just let him–”
“Thanks,” Brian said, before walking to the stairs. “I’ll find my way up.”
By the time he reached the fifth floor, his knees ached. It’d be good for him. Vanessa always told him to start exercising. “It’ll keep the flab away,” she’d said. And the therapist–“Exercise will burn the depression away.”
If only he’d listened to them earlier.
Robert Luther’s door was already open. The fifth floor had a different feel to typical offices. There was a warmth in the traditional wood and cream of the walls. Classic paintings hung from them, and archaic oak doors stood tall.
Luther slouched against his desk, legs crossed, as Brian approached. His assistant, Michael Walters, was vulturing around him. Brian entered without knocking.
“Officer,” Robert Luther said. “How can I help?”
“New evidence has come up.” Brian rubbed his muddy shoes against the cream carpet. “I want to get straight to the point, so if you’ll allow me…”
Luther, edging towards Brian, held up a newspaper. It was a picture of Luther getting out of the black car, and the blurry picture of the car that the CCTV had shown. The headline read, “Preston Charity at Centre of Scandal”.
His lip quivered. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Officer, but we don’t deserve it. We’re trying to do the right thing. I’ve told you, time and time again, we’ll disclose everything. I’ll let you speak to every single one of my staff ten times over; I’ll let you search my home inside-out; I’ll let you check every last log. You just can’t keep creeping up on us like this. It’s not right.”
Brian weighed up what Luther was saying. The adrenaline was still building inside him from the video clip he’d seen on DC Peters’ computer screen. “I respect that, Mr. Luther, I really do. BetterLives–great cause and all that. Big hope of a dying city. I get that. And I get you’ve lost a member of staff; it hurts, all that, yeah, I know. But the part about ‘disclosing everything’? I’ve got to take you up on that, I’m afraid.”
Luther’s eyes twitched. Walters, fumbling through papers and continuing his day’s work, frowned in the background.
Brian waited for his moment. He wanted to milk this for all it was worth.
“What do you mean? Has…What’s going on?”
Brian stared beyond Luther and right at Walters, a triumphant smile on his face. Walters looked up and slowed down leafing through his papers.
“Officer, what’s happened?” Luther asked, glancing between Michael Walters and Brian.
Brian reached into his pocket and stepped over to Luther’s wooden desk. He dropped the photographic still from the video onto the table.
“New footage from one week before the death of Nicola Watson, at the place of death.”
He placed the other photograph from the second clip of footage on the table. “And more new footage from the same place, a couple of weeks prior, similar time of night.”
The room was silent. Luther picked up one of the photographs, his hand shaking.
Brian rested his hands against the desk. Wet soil dripped from his shoes. “So, take a look at those pictures and tell me, is that not you, Mr. Walters?”
Walters stood rigidly. He dropped the documents in his hands onto the desk. His mouth struggled for words. “I…I…”
“Well?”
Luther shook his head. “This has to be a mistake. It has…Michael?”
Walters’ glance back at his boss said it all. He could hide things from some people, or try to, but there was no hiding it from the man he had been best friends with for years. He turned back to Brian, in slow motion. “I–”
“You can save your talk for down at the station. We’re arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Nicola Watson. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you say may be given in evidence.”
Brian slipped the handcuffs around Michael Walters’ wrists. Two more police officers appeared at the door.
“I’ll be in touch, Mr. Luther,” Brian said. “If you want to keep this on the low, you might want to make a few excuses. It might be a while before you see your man again.”
Luther stared on as Brian took Michael Walters through the door. Michael Walters didn’t look back at Luther, nor did he say another word. He just walked, mouth closed and head high, as Brian and the other officers led him towards the police car.
Chapter Seventeen
Michael Walters’ eyes hazed over as he watched recorded clip after recorded clip, the starring role in every one of them. The routine was the same. The times were the same.
Arrive, shake the pimp’s hand, disappear inside, repeat. All the same, except for the night of the murder. All the CCTV evidence, removed by this man.
“We found it strange from the off.” Brian circled Walters. “Y’see, at first, we thought that we’d found ourselves a little CCTV blind spot. But we did a little digging and it turns out the local council–God bless them–have outsourced CCTV in certain parts of the city. It just so happens that the company they outsourced to shares a building with…Come on, let’s have a drum roll here…BetterLives!”
Walters clenched his fists. DI Lawrence had scanned his fingers for a potential match inside the crime scene. He’d refused legal advice, adamant that he could fight his own battles. They almost had him.
Brian stepped around Walters as Price watched, clicking his pen. He liked it when Price believed in him and let him do his thing. It was very redeeming, to say the least.
“So when my good friend and colleague found this information out, he took a trip to t
he archives with a nice search warrant, only to find that the CCTV from the night of Nicola Watson’s murder was missing.”
Michael Walters slowly shook his head. He clasped his hands together in front of his face.
“But it gets better. When my friend asked to see the CCTV covering the main door leading to CityWatch offices, he only found a shot of you walking in there the morning after the murder, then leaving with a DVD moments later. Coincidence?”
“I don’t believe it,” Michael said quietly. “I don’t believe it.”
“Why did you remove that DVD, Michael? Why that one and no others? If you’ve got a filthy habit of seeing prostitutes, why remove a DVD from the night of the murder and not the other weeks? A bit sloppy, no?”
“I didn’t remove that DVD,” Michael said.
“Oh really? So, what–you just paid a casual morning visit to CityWatch offices? Catch up for a gossip with some of the guys? What was it?”
Walters took a deep breath and sipped his water. He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t removing a DVD from that night. I work part-time with CityWatch and there was a problem, so I had to go down there.”
Brian smirked. He’d have to remember to contact CityWatch for any records of Michael Walters. “Right. A problem. Convenient. So if we searched your home, which we are in the process of getting a warrant for, and if our officers searched the BetterLives offices, which they will be doing very soon, they wouldn’t find that missing CCTV DVD, would they?”
Walters looked Brian directly in the eyes. “No.”
“You see, this is how it looks. I think you lurked around Nicola Watson at work. Hell, maybe you had a relationship with her. Or maybe she had a relationship with someone else at your workplace. I think she was waiting to go home that night, and I think for whatever reason, you couldn’t get your kicks from a whore, so you took her for a ride, and you raped her, and you killed her.”
“I’m not in a relationship with Nicola Watson,” Michael said. “I barely remember her. There’s a lot of people at–”
“And then I think you washed her, scrubbed her down, removed all traces of yourself, and dumped her in that brothel when you’d finished with her, where you knew some lowlife could take the blame in your place. Then you removed the DVDs, forgetting you’d visited in the past, and hoped for the best.”
Michael glanced at Price, who sat tall and silent but ever so present. Brian leaned back in the chair opposite Walters. His circling performance had run its course. Walters was speechless.
“Are you sure you don’t want to pursue any legal advice now, Mr. Walters?”
Michael Walters removed his glasses and rubbed his eye. A sigh respired from his chest, and he collapsed onto the table. “I visited prostitutes lots of times. Maybe ten, maybe twenty, over the last few months.” The way the words suddenly cut through his self-imposed silence was as if he was possessed, a demon speaking from within. “I was in a bad place. I–I know it’s bad, but I…Okay. I tried to remove a DVD recording of me visiting Foster Road from some weeks ago, because I heard news of journalists buzzing around. I panicked, and I guess I got the wrong DVD. I didn’t visit any prostitutes that night. It’s a coincidence.”
“You’re forgetting something, Michael. We have eyewitnesses who claim they saw a black car matching the one in the CCTV footage. We have stills from further down the road of a similar vehicle arriving at the same time as it always does on a Monday. Good theory, but it’s taken you a while to come up with that one, so excuse our skepticism.”
Michael, still in a trance, was shaking. “I couldn’t risk it coming out. The hooker storyline. So I tried to get rid of it. I thought it’d worked–I thought I’d done it–but clearly not now. I just wanted to do the best for BetterLives. I thought that was the right thing to do for the city.”
“I’m sure you did, Mr. Walters. I’m sure you had the interests of the city in mind through every second of strangling her.”
“I didn’t see any prostitutes that night. It was New Year, for God’s sakes. I had better things to do at New Year weekend.”
“Like?”
“I was at a BetterLives get-together. Some fundraiser thing. Just a few members of staff. Mainly big public figures. Maybe a few smaller people, too.”
Brian sighed. “And can anybody confirm your attendance at that party?”
“Sure.” Walters licked his lips. “About five or ten people.”
Walters listed seven names, and Brian jotted them down. “Get on the phone to them,” Brian said to DC Peters, who shot out of the room obediently. “You say you were at a party until what time?”
“Probably around twelve, one-ish. Late enough.”
Brian slapped the photograph of Walters getting out of a car and walking towards a petrol station onto the table. “Then explain to me why you’re getting petrol at eleven-thirty.” His very own “ah” moment. Jeeves would be proud.
Walters stared at the picture, his eyes growing ever more restless. “I suppose I left earlier than I thought,” he said. “Ah, that’s right. I went to fill up and then I went back.”
“McDone,” DC Peters shouted. “A Mr. Stanton has confirmed that Walters was at the BetterLives function that night.”
Brian scratched his head. He wasn’t letting Walters go just yet. “Did he say when he left?”
“Around one, he says. But he’s not sure.”
Price shifted in his chair and looked at his watch, his face growing ever more purple. “Get us a meeting with the alibis arranged. I want to know more about Walters and his actual whereabouts that night.”
Peters walked back out of the room. Walters sat upright, his controlled manner restored. “Why did you go for petrol?” Brian asked.
Walters’ eyebrow twitched. “Because I needed to fill my car up.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Price said. It was the first time he’d spoken throughout the entire interview. “We’re done here.”
Walters threw his rucksack over his shoulder. “If there’s anything else I can help you with, officers, I’d be delighted to, but I really need to get back to work right now.”
Brian stared on, speechless, as he watched Price allow Walters out of the room. What the fuck was he doing?
“He’s got no concrete alibi, Price.”
Price slapped his hands together. “I know you want it to be him, and I did, too, but people saw him at that party. And I just now got the prints back from the flat on Foster Road. There’s no trace of Michael Walters, Brian. Sounds concrete enough to me.”
“DI Price, DS McDone.” DC Peters held a paper in his hand. “I’ve contacted CityWatch. They do have Michael Walters on record for doing various technical assistance jobs.”
Price shrugged his shoulders at Brian.
“Don’t you think it’d have been better if we’d at least kept him in here for a while? He could go back and do anything now. Hide evidence. Anything.”
“We could’ve kept him in here, but that’d be a bad idea for…” Price wiped his mouth. “He’s got an alibi, McDone. His prints didn’t come up at the flat. Let it go.”
Brian’s hands tingled, tension mounting in his chest. “I cannot believe this. Go on–a bad idea for who? You might as well say it, Price.”
DI Price was frowning at Brian. “It’s a bad idea for us. To fuck up again. And it’s a bad idea for your reputation, if you want to keep any more of it.”
Brian laughed. “Don’t bullshit me. I know exactly what you meant to say. You’re worried about BetterLives. Worried about the great fucking hope of Preston being tarnished. Worried about what the press would say about us if we damaged them. Whose payroll are you on, anyway?”
Brian regretted the last words almost instantly, but it didn’t matter anymore. He knew what was coming. He might as well cross the line. He’d pretty much crossed it already.
Price’s face was completely inflamed, his head dripping with sweat. “Excuse me, Detective, but was
that a formal accusation against me or just a snide remark?”
Brian tossed his papers to one side. “I just don’t know where your interests lie.”
Price stood in Brian’s way as he tried to get out of the door. “If you leave this room, Brian, understand that you don’t walk back in again. You walk out of this room, you walk away from the case, and you take another big fucking step towards anonymity.”
Cassy, approaching the door of the interview rooms, stopped herself when she saw Price and Brian standing off. She backed away slightly.
“What’s my alternative?”
Price’s eyes twitched. “You re-assess. I’m doing this for all of us, Brian. I’m doing it for the police, for the parents, for all of us. Get the boyfriend back in if you want to. Just stay away from BetterLives for the time being. There’s no evidence that anything happened there, not yet. Sure–question their staff like you did, give them a few questions–that’s fine. But no more of this charging in bullshit. It’s reckless.”
Brian’s body totally deflated. “Then I’m going to walk out of this door, because clearly you don’t know what’s best for the case.” He shoved past Price and towards Cassy, who watched the pair, wide-eyed.
“Remember what I said,” Price shouted. “You walk away from this room, you walk away from the case.”
Brian let the words buzz around his head as he stormed out of the office’s heat and towards the front door. He needed to get out. He just needed to get out.
“No fucking fingerprints,” Brian muttered, to himself more than anybody. “Anyone ever heard of a pair of gloves in the middle of winter ‘round here?”
Stephen Molfer trundled through the office with his narrow mouth grinning away as it always did. Today was not a day for his jokes. One word, and…
“Been kicked off the case yet, Brian?”
Brian stopped and squared up to Stephen, who struggled to keep the grin on his face. “Stephen, fuck off,” he said, before disappearing out of the offices to a chorus of “Oohs!”