by Paul Gitsham
‘Maybe he just wanted a quiet night in after all the excitement and didn’t fancy going around to his girlfriend’s.’
‘Nah, not likely. These guys really get off on the violence. If anything he’d have been straight round here to get his end away. I think you’re right. There’s somebody else.’
‘Apparently Annabelle Creasy never goes on the trips, he’s told her it’s no place for women. I’m not convinced she believes him.’
Garfield was already shaking his head. ‘That’s bollocks. She’s right that she never goes on the trips, but there are about half a dozen wives and girlfriends who do go with them regularly. We call them the WAGs on account of all the tattoos and England shirts.’
‘So he liked a bit of time away from his significant other. I think it would be prudent to work out who he’s visiting, don’t you?’
‘I’ll have a look at the files.’ A sly grin spread across Garfield’s face. ‘You know a love square is even better than a far-right-angled triangle? A square has four right angles.’
‘We’re here,’ announced Warren with relief.
Chapter 18
Garfield and Warren wore protective overshoes and gloves as they opened the door to Tommy Meegan’s flat, using a master key from the letting agent.
The flat was a modest affair, typical for this part of East London or Essex. A converted terraced house, it had its own front door leading immediately to a flight of stairs that took visitors up to the main living area, a lounge cum dining room cum kitchenette. A single open doorway led to a small vestibule with doors leading to a hot water boiler and airing cupboard, bathroom and double bedroom.
‘I’ll check the bedroom, whilst you do the lounge,’ suggested Garfield heading towards the back room. Strictly speaking, as Senior Investigating Officer it was Warren’s case and he should be giving the orders, but all the way over, Garfield had been itching to get into the flat. Warren knew that quite aside from what they might find about the murder, Garfield was looking forward to the general intelligence he might glean.
‘Tell me if you find his laptop,’ Warren called through.
‘Got it. Turned off under a pile of rather smelly T-shirts.’
‘Bag it and log it, I’ll get Forensic IT to look at it.’
As Garfield continued rooting through the bedroom, Warren worked his way around the kitchen, soon finding that Meegan was unlikely to find himself the recipient of any Good Housekeeping awards. The smell from the open bin suggested it hadn’t been emptied for some time. The sink was filled with several days’ worth of dirty dishes. The microwave door was ajar and Warren could see that it was coated with grime. The countertop was pulling double-duty as a desk and a table – it looked as though Meegan preferred to eat standing up, ideally frozen microwave meals. A quick look in the freezer suggested that either Meegan possessed a fine sense of irony or was a culinary ignoramus; amongst the dozen or so ready meals Warren identified delicacies from at least eight different countries.
Next to the dishes was a pile of opened mail. Leafing through it, Warren found a bill from O2 for a mobile phone plan. Just as he’d suspected, the pay-as-you-go brick found at the scene was not his main phone. So where was his regular phone?
‘Theo, keep an eye out for another mobile phone, I’ve got his bill here.’
‘Got it,’ came the mumbled reply from the bedroom. ‘He left it on charge on his bedside table. I guess he didn’t want us to get hold of it.’
‘Is it switched on?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then bag it and bring it in here quickly.’
Garfield appeared, looking slightly flustered.
‘Have you tried to do anything with it?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’ Warren took the plastic evidence bag containing the smartphone and placed it in the microwave. ‘It’s unlikely, but just in case, we don’t want somebody remotely wiping data from it.’
‘I never even thought.’ Garfield looked chastened.
‘What else did you find in there?’
‘Well, he could have started his own museum of England and Chelsea football shirts and I sincerely hope he’d planned on washing his bedsheets before he brought anyone around to stay the night.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Nothing I didn’t expect. His choice of bedside reading is a biography of José Mourinho and a couple of dirty magazines. Nothing too exotic.’
‘None of these fine tomes then?’
Warren inclined his head towards the bookshelf, with its collection of paperbacks, which aside from a handful of sports memoirs, were mostly far-right polemics. A couple even bore swastikas on the spine. Pride of place was a hardback edition of Mein Kampf.
Garfield was dismissive. ‘Don’t be fooled. Look at the spines, they’ve never been cracked. These idiots get all of their propaganda from websites and grubby little underground magazines. These are just for show. There’s no way Tommy Meegan read himself to sleep at night with Albert Speer’s memoirs. Especially in the original German.’
* * *
DSI Grayson had pulled a few strings and by the time Warren and Garfield had finished in Tommy Meegan’s flat, four Detective Constables and an experienced DS from the Metropolitan Police were waiting at the local police station to help with door-to-door inquiries with his neighbours.
After a quick briefing from Warren, the five officers piled into a people carrier and headed out, with orders to report back to Middlesbury.
Warren looked at his watch. Two o’clock. Less than forty-eight hours had elapsed since the discovery of Tommy Meegan’s body and the pace was starting to increase. On balance, Warren felt that they had started pretty well. He stifled a yawn, immediately triggering a similar response in Garfield.
‘I’d forgotten how punishing the first couple of days could be,’ admitted Garfield as he got his phone out. Warren smiled politely; it had barely started. He’d once thought of a murder investigation as a marathon, not a sprint and tried to pace himself accordingly. But experience had shown that to be somewhat facile. The first forty-eight to seventy-two hours were the ‘golden hours’. To that end, Warren would work himself and his team hard during that magic window, maximising the returns from their efforts, before easing into a more sustainable routine. To return to the running analogy, they’d start the race with a sprint, trying to build a commanding lead over their opponents, before dropping the pace to a steady rhythm, with quick bursts of speed when they needed it.
‘I’m going to deposit the laptop and mobile phone at Welwyn, do you want me to drop you off there, and save you a train journey?’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ agreed Garfield, stifling yet another yawn.
‘Good, you can keep me awake with amusing stories about our far-right friends.’
‘Take the scenic route, there’s plenty.’
Chapter 19
By the time Warren arrived back at Middlesbury, the DS in charge of canvassing Tommy Meegan’s neighbours had phoned in that nobody had reported any disturbances or suspicious characters hanging around. In fact, most had been surprised to find out the man’s identity.
This wasn’t unexpected according to Theo Garfield on speakerphone from Welwyn.
‘For all his bluster, he isn’t going to tell the world where he lives. These guys have to take their security seriously. For the most part, it’s all part of the mythos, “look how important we are, we need protection”, but we have spent taxpayers’ money on consultants to advise them.’
‘What about regular visitors?’ asked Garfield.
‘A woman resembling Annabelle Creasy had been seen occasionally, but not recently, and there was no evidence of her kid.’
‘Fits with the state of his bedroom, I can’t imagine there’s been a woman in there lately,’ observed Garfield.
‘Other visitors match the description of his brother, Goldie Davenport and Bellies Brandon. They used to come around quite regularly, Brandon in particular, which fits with hi
m staying there for a time, but they haven’t been seen for a few weeks.’
‘Hard to mistake Bellies,’ noted Garfield.
‘Anything from your files that hints that he may have been having an affair?’
‘Nothing yet. I doubt it’s important though, I think the murder weapon tells us most of what we need to know.’
‘You’re probably right, but keep me posted, Theo,’ Warren ordered.
Despite Warren’s words, he didn’t like leaving loose ends and he wanted to know what Meegan had been doing on the evenings he was unaccounted for.
His stomach rumbled. He’d skipped lunch and his last dose of caffeine was wearing off; he decided to go grab a coffee, stretch his legs and then have something to eat.
A couple of years ago, he’d managed to sweet-talk the canteen staff into making him plain cheese sandwiches on brown bread without margarine or mayonnaise. But twelve months ago they’d sold the franchise and now the sandwiches were all delivered pre-made in a chiller van with a picture of a bread-basket on the side. Every day he had to dismantle the sandwich to remove the endless layers of tomato or lettuce it was stuffed with. Not only did the salad make the bread soggy, Warren really resented paying extra money for ingredients that ended up in the bin. The nutritional quality of Warren’s lunch had become a bone of contention between him and Susan in recent months.
The kitchen area where the sandwiches used to be prepared had been given over to a chain coffee stall. Warren had yet to buy a drink there – his own small protest against the creeping privatisation of public services. Why was it, he asked himself as he threw a fifty-pence piece into the near-empty honesty jar, his colleagues were so reluctant to pay a few pence to keep the communal coffee area running, yet quite happy to pay several pounds for a single cup?
Warren was ruminating on this as he re-entered the office.
‘We’ve got a positive match for the fingermarks on the Kirpan found at the scene.’
Gary Hastings held the printout like a trophy. Immediately all thoughts of the coffee in his hand, or the content of his sandwich, evaporated.
‘Who have we got?’
‘One Binay Singh Mahal. Twenty-seven years old. Historic convictions for vandalism and taking without consent. Last known address is the other side of the Chequers estate from Mary Meegan.’
Warren felt a thrill run through him; this was what he loved about his job.
‘Get a team together in the main briefing room in one hour. I’ll get the warrants processed.’
* * *
The forced entry team leader was Sergeant Roger Gibson who Warren had worked with previously. The suspect was presumed to be dangerous so the safety of the arresting officers was paramount. He might have forensically significant material that he could be trying to destroy even as they spoke, so they needed to plan and execute the operation as quickly as possible. Warren was happy to hand over the planning of such a complex operation to an expert.
‘According to council tax records, he lives on the ground floor of Bevan Tower which will make entry easier. We’ve done a walk past and a red Ford Focus registered to him is parked outside and the TV is on, so we expect him to be in.’
He pulled over a sheet of paper with a crude floor plan printed on it.
‘According to the letting agent, entry is via a communal hallway and opens into the lounge. The living area is to the left with an open-plan kitchen immediately to the right. Next door along that wall is a small bedroom. Keep going directly through the lounge to a passageway and the large bedroom is to the left and the bathroom to the right.
‘We don’t know if he’s alone and he may try to destroy evidence, so we shan’t be ringing the doorbell, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll go in hard with the ram, full body armour, two to a room. Arrest anyone present and make sure the scene is secure, including any computer equipment.’ He turned to the officer on his left, a young lad who barely looked out of his teens. ‘Callum is our computer expert. Don’t let his youthful appearance fool you, DCI Jones – he has a GCSE. He’ll be in charge of waggling the mouse to stop the screensaver coming on and locking us out. I don’t know what we’d do without him’
A number of good-natured chuckles rippled around the room as the young lad blushed.
‘They run computing courses at the library for the old folks, I’ll book you a place, Sarge.’
Gibson gave the young man’s shoulder a fatherly squeeze. ‘Cheeky sod.’
Turning serious again he continued with the briefing. Despite the speed with which the plan had been conceived, it was thorough, with only a couple of technical questions asked before Gibson pronounced them ready.
Although Warren had delegated the responsibility for the operation to Gibson, he was still the officer in charge and so it was to him that the sergeant turned for final approval. Warren ignored the familiar butterflies that seemed to have taken up residence in his gut again.
‘OK, let’s do it.’
* * *
Murderers tend to be rather paranoid and prone to overreaction, so the forced entry team converged on Bevan Tower in two unmarked vans. A fully staffed ambulance was less than one minute away and back-up patrol cars were around the corner where they were unlikely to raise suspicion. A scenes of crime unit sat waiting for the all-clear to secure any evidence.
Warren and Hastings stood behind one of the vans. Both men wore stab vests and a full equipment belt with retractable baton, handcuffs and incapacitant spray.
The radio in Warren’s hand crackled. Gibson.
‘Confirm all units are in position and ready.’
A rapid sequence of confirmations filled the airwaves.
Warren licked his lips.
‘Execute.’
* * *
A single blow with the steel ram had been enough to smash the cheap plywood door off its hinges.
‘Police, drop all weapons,’ screamed Gibson, his shout echoed by his officers as they piled through the open doorway, followed seconds later by Warren and Hastings, batons drawn, Warren brandishing a warrant.
‘Binay Singh Mahal, you are under arrest on suspicion of murder.’
The man sitting in the armchair was wearing a T-shirt and shorts; the choc ice he’d been eating as his door flew into his living room sat melting in his lap as he stared in disbelief at the intruders. In the sudden silence, Warren heard the distinctive sound of the Countdown quiz show clock coming from the TV in the corner.
* * *
‘Well, that was an anticlimax.’
‘Would you have preferred he put up a fight and stabbed someone?’
Hastings flushed slightly. ‘Point taken.’
Despite his rebuke, Warren sympathised with his younger colleague.
Within seconds the forced entry team had confirmed Binay Singh Mahal was alone and less than a minute after their entry he was in cuffs, his hands covered in plastic bags to stop any trace evidence being lost from his fingernails.
By now the shock had worn off and he was alternating between insisting there had been a mistake, demanding to speak to a lawyer and calling any police officer in earshot a variety of four-letter words. Neither Warren nor Gibson were impressed; when it came to foul-mouthed tirades Mahal was a strict amateur compared to some of the people they’d arrested over the years.
Their job done, the forced entry team had vacated the flat and been replaced by a team of white-suited scenes of crime officers. One of them was already placing the contents of a laundry basket into a paper evidence sack. Was that a smear of blood on the leg of a tracksuit?
‘Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to remove your clothing and put on this protective suit. My colleague will assist you since your hands are restrained.’
This time even Warren was impressed with the suspect’s choice of language.
Chapter 20
‘My client would like it placed on record that he intends to sue Hertfordshire Constabulary for wrongful arrest and damage to property, specifically naming you
, DCI Jones, as Senior Investigating Officer.’
Warren could see that it took all of the young solicitor’s self-control not to roll his eyes. Daniel Stock had matured somewhat since the first time he and Warren had first crossed paths – when his client had vomited over his lap. However, he still looked too young to be shaving on a daily basis, let alone representing someone on a serious criminal charge.
Warren decided not to antagonise the man sitting opposite him any further by explaining that he had legally executed a properly authorised warrant. He assumed his legal counsel had already tried to do so without success.
‘Everything in this room is on the record, Mr Mahal.’ Warren pointed towards the PACE cassette recorder, which he’d already explained when formally starting the interview and reading him his rights.
‘I prefer Singh.’ It was the first words the man had uttered since they’d started the interview. It was also the first sentence he’d said since his arrest that hadn’t been either shouted or loaded with profanity.
‘OK, Mr Singh. First question, would you mind telling me what you were doing on the afternoon of Saturday the nineteenth of July?’
‘No comment.’
Warren studied the man opposite him, who stared back at him unblinking.
On the scrawny side of skinny, he stood a shade under six feet tall. The skin on his arms was a dark brown, except for a paler band on each wrist. The man’s beard was black and thick, with no hint of grey hairs. The hair on his head was neatly tucked under a dark blue patka. The black cloth turban he’d been wearing at the time of his arrest was in forensics, along with the rest of his clothing.
Most striking were the two black eyes and swollen cuts across the top of his nose. The injuries looked to be a few days old, about the same age as the bruises that covered his ribcage. One of the first things the custody sergeant had done was arrange for the police surgeon to take a look at them and photograph them. The last thing they wanted was any exaggeration of the level of force required to arrest him.