by Paul Gitsham
Chapter 45
Warren had again decided to leave his office and get his hands dirty. Grayson hadn’t said anything about Warren’s lengthy absence from the office, which he took as tacit approval for his actions.
However, he was getting thoroughly sick of the A10. For that reason he had pulled rank and tuned the car radio to Heart, much to the disgust of Gary Hastings, who’d spent the whole journey staring at his smartphone with headphones in. It reminded Warren of seemingly endless car journeys to the South of France as a child, staring out of the window, trying to ignore the crackling of Radio 4 longwave as his father kept abreast of the cricket scores. Happy days. At least they had air conditioning now.
The dilapidated council house on the opposite side of Romford to where the late Tommy Meegan had lived showed little evidence that it had once been occupied by a trained painter and decorator. A snarling Rottweiler had greeted Warren and Hastings at the front door; the aptly named Cerberus. The beast certainly looked as though it would be more than capable of guarding the gates of Hades, even with only one head. Warren wasn’t a big dog lover at the best of times and he was relieved when the dog’s owner, Paige Brandon, had dragged the huge animal into the kitchen and locked the door, all the while reassuring Warren and Hastings that ‘he wouldn’t hurt a fly’.
That done, the woman turned to them and appraised them.
‘Guess you’re here about Tommy?’
Warren estimated she was in her late thirties. A pretty, slim – verging on skinny – brunette, she was surely evidence that opposites attract; she couldn’t be any more different from her estranged husband, Harry ‘Bellies’ Brandon. Only the glimpse of a tattooed England flag on the top of her shoulder hinted at her allegiances.
‘Yes, we’re just looking at his background, trying to work out who might have had a reason to harm him and trying to retrace his movements on the days leading up to his death,’ said Hastings.
She shrugged, heading back into the lounge. Warren and Hastings followed.
A packet of cigarettes was on the mantelpiece and she took one out, her back to the two officers.
‘I didn’t know him that well. I’m not sure how much help I can be.’ Her hand shook slightly, and it took three clicks of the lighter for her to ignite the cigarette, the flame pitifully small. When she finally turned around, it was to sit down in a threadbare armchair and pull over an already overloaded ashtray.
Warren took that as an invite and he and Hastings sat down on the mismatched couch opposite. He noticed with some dismay that the house clearly didn’t operate a ‘no furniture’ rule for its canine occupant. He’d have to get the lint roller out when he got back to the station.
‘Any information you can give us would be helpful, Ms Brandon,’ encouraged Hastings.
‘Whatever.’ She stared at the scratched coffee table.
‘I assume that you knew Mr Meegan?’
‘Yeah, I suppose. He worked with Harry, my husband.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Harry runs a painting and decorating business. He hired Tommy and a couple of others to help him out.’
‘How well did you know him?’
The coffee table still seemed to hold a fascination for her.
‘We met a couple of times, obviously.’
Warren made an ‘mm-hmm’ noise and scribbled a few lines in his notebook.
‘How well would you say your husband knew Mr Meegan?’ Hastings continued.
The cigarette was barely half gone, its acrid smoke filling the air between them. Nevertheless, she stubbed it out and removed another from the packet. Again, it took several attempts for her to light it.
‘Well, they worked together for the last few years and they’d go to rallies and that.’
‘So they were friends?’
‘Yeah, I guess so.’
‘How involved are you with the BAP, Ms Brandon?’
She must have been expecting the question, nevertheless she fidgeted awkwardly.
‘Not much, that was mostly Harry’s thing.’
‘But you support their goals and ideals?’
Now the awkwardness turned to defiance. ‘It’s a free country.’
‘Of course.’ Hastings’ tone was placating. Warren remained silent.
‘Not everyone feels that way though, do they?’
She said nothing.
‘Were you aware of any threats against your husband and his friends, in particular Mr Meegan?’
‘’Course. There were always people online, stirring up shit.’
‘Did Tommy ever talk to you or give you any names?’
‘Not really, he usually told me not to worry about it.’
The look in her eyes told them that she knew she’d misspoken as soon as she closed her mouth.
‘So you did know Mr Meegan?’
She sucked hard on the cigarette.
‘Like I said, he was a friend of my husband’s. We met occasionally.’
‘When did you and your husband split up, Ms Brandon?’ It was the first thing Warren had said since introducing themselves.
She started slightly, before recovering. ‘Who says we’ve split up?’
He pointed towards the mantelpiece. ‘I noticed there are no pictures of the two of you. Not even a wedding photo.’
She said nothing, but the rate at which she was sucking on her second cigarette meant she’d be finished with that pretty soon also.
‘Harry doesn’t like having his photograph taken.’
‘Were your husband and Mr Meegan close?’ asked Hastings.
‘I suppose. They worked together every day, so I guess so.’
‘What time did your husband leave for the rally on Saturday?’ Warren again.
She looked away. Warren wondered if she knew how much time she let pass when she dissembled.
‘I don’t know.’
Warren raised an eyebrow in surprise.
‘You don’t know? Can you give us a ballpark figure?’
She bit her lip.
‘About eight-ish, I guess.’
Warren made a show of looking at his notebook.
‘Are you sure?’
Another long pause.
‘Maybe…’ A sudden look of relief crossed her face. ‘I’m a heavy sleeper. He was gone when I woke up. He could have left sooner.’
‘You woke up about eight then?’
‘Yeah, it was the weekend. I had a bit of a lie-in.’
They’d given her enough rope to hang herself, Warren decided. He closed his notebook with a snap.
‘According to the coach driver, the coach left for Middlesbury at ten o’clock sharp. Your husband is a pretty distinctive man and the coach driver clearly remembers him arriving just before they left. I’ve looked at the map and it is less than thirty minutes from your house to the pub car park. I can’t believe your husband left the house before 9 a.m.’
‘He probably met up with some of the lads before they got on the coach, you know to have breakfast in a caff or something.’ A note of desperation had crept into her voice.
‘Nope. The coach driver says he arrived alone.’
Hastings now took over, his voice more gentle.
‘Why are you lying, Paige? We know that the two of you have been separated for some time. Why are you protecting him?’
She fumbled for another cigarette; this time her hand was shaking so badly, she dropped the lighter down the side of her seat. She scrabbled to retrieve it from between the cushion and the arm of the chair but it refused to light, the dry snick of the flint filling the silence between them. After a few moments, Hastings stood up and handed her another lighter he’d spotted on the mantelpiece.
She inhaled so deeply she coughed, before immediately taking another hit.
‘You don’t know what time he left because he wasn’t here, was he?’
A slight shake of her head.
‘DCI Jones was correct when he said you were no longer together, wasn’t he?’
/>
Her eyes were moist; it could have been from the smoke or the coughing, but Warren doubted it.
‘How long?’
She sniffed. ‘About six months.’
‘And have you spoken to him since?’
She shook her head. ‘Not really, not for a while.’
‘Has he spoken to you about Saturday? Asked you to say anything to us about him?’
This time the shake was emphatic. ‘No.’
‘So why did you lie about him being here on Saturday morning? Why did you lie about not knowing Tommy Meegan? We know that he lived with you and your husband when he first moved down here,’ said Hastings.
She said nothing again.
‘Did you start your affair with Mr Meegan before or after you split up with your husband?’
The blood disappeared so quickly from her face Warren wondered if she was going to pass out.
‘Oh, God…’ was all she managed.
Warren reopened his notebook. ‘According to mobile phone records, the two of you had been calling and texting each other twice a day for months. Did your husband know?’
Her latest cigarette had burnt almost to the end, a long tube of ash half the length of a man’s thumb was starting to bend under its own weight. She flicked it into the ashtray, the motion automatic.
‘No.’ It was a whisper.
‘Are you sure?’
She ignored the question. ‘You mustn’t tell him.’ Suddenly the tears were flowing.
‘He mustn’t know,’ she repeated.
Warren opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off.
‘Promise me you won’t tell him? He can’t find out.’ There was panic in her voice.
‘Why, Paige?’
‘He’d kill me.’
Chapter 46
Hastings and Warren had retired to a café a few miles away to have lunch and compare notes. They’d driven there with the windows open in an attempt to dispel the smell of cigarette smoke that lingered on their clothes after the visit.
‘She’s clearly terrified of Brandon. I guess that’s why she tried to cover for him at first.’
Warren agreed. ‘It sounds as though he has a nasty temper on him. Add to that the fact that he must weigh more than three times what she does and it’s no wonder she didn’t want us to tell him about her affair with Tommy Meegan.’
‘Do you think he knew? It would be a hell of a motive. From what he said in interview, he and Meegan were really good friends. He even said that he’d kipped on his couch when he and his wife split up.’ A thought suddenly occurred to him. ‘Bloody hell, you don’t think Tommy was sleeping with her whilst Brandon was living with him do you? Can you imagine how furious he’d be if he found out?’ Hastings looked excited. ‘It’d be hard to keep that sort of thing a secret from your house guest.’
Warren raised a cautionary hand. ‘We don’t know if he knew, or if the affair overlapped with Brandon staying with him, but you’re right about it being a powerful motive.’
Hastings acknowledged the gentle rebuke, tackling his half-baguette for a couple of moments, before starting again.
‘The thing is, he may be big and strong, but he’s so unfit; do you think he’d be able to kill Tommy Meegan?’
‘I don’t see why not. Assuming he didn’t tip him off that he knew about the affair he’d probably have the element of surprise. But I think there are bigger questions that need to be answered.’
Hastings thought for a moment. ‘Where did he get the Kirpan from? Surely Binay Singh Mahal would have said if Bellies Brandon was the person that mugged him?’
‘Exactly. And why was Tommy Meegan in that alleyway anyway? We’re pretty confident he was lured down there. Did Brandon set it up?’
Hastings snapped his fingers. ‘Could he have been working with Singh Mahal? Singh Mahal lures Tommy to the alleyway and supplies the Kirpan…’ His voice tailed off. ‘No, wait. That doesn’t make any sense. Why would Singh Mahal incriminate himself in that way?’
‘I don’t know, the whole affair is getting increasingly complicated. Let’s see if we can exclude Brandon first by checking his alibi. Depending on what time he was lurking in that pub garden, we may be able to rule out his involvement entirely. I sent Hutchinson to check that out, I’m expecting a call any moment.’
Hastings looked troubled. ‘You realise that if Hutch doesn’t give us enough to clear him we’re going to have to interview Brandon again?’
Warren knew exactly what the young officer was concerned about and he couldn’t help feeling the same way.
‘We’ll deal with it sensitively of course, but I don’t see how we can avoid bringing up Paige Brandon’s affair with Tommy Meegan. We need to see his reaction.’
‘It’s not his reaction in the interview suite I’m worried about. If he is innocent, we’ll be releasing him back out there having just told him that his dead best mate was shagging his wife. Estranged or not, that’s going to piss anybody off.’
The two men lapsed back into their own thoughts. Eventually Hastings broke the silence.
‘Speaking of complicated, the BAP are an incestuous lot. You’ve got Tommy Meegan shagging Bellies Brandon’s missus, whilst at the same time Goldie Davenport is busy with Tommy Meegan’s girlfriend.’
Warren agreed. ‘It’s not surprising, I suppose. I imagine they’re all fishing in a pretty small pond. Their views don’t make them the most attractive catch for most folks, I shouldn’t think.’
‘Good point. They can’t even use online dating; what would they put in their profile? Hobbies and Interests: extreme racism, xenophobia and bad tattoos?’
‘They could use the lonely hearts column in the local newspaper I suppose, “Right wing fascist, GSOH seeks similar. Must like dogs and hate foreigners.”’
* * *
David Hutchinson called Warren just as the two men finished lunch.
‘None of the bar staff at the Middlesbury Tavern can recall seeing Bellies Brandon at the time of the murder. When the trouble kicked off they got their customers inside and locked the doors.’
‘Seems sensible. Would any of the locals remember if Bellies was hanging around outside?’
‘Unlikely. The landlord reckons that most of the regulars were absent, probably because they didn’t fancy coming into town that day. It was also pretty rowdy as there was a bunch of lads on a stag do watching the Formula One qualifiers on the big screen.’
‘Traceable?’
‘Doubtful, the landlord reckons they all sounded Welsh. God knows why they were in Middlesbury; they must have got lost on the way to Cambridge.’
‘What about CCTV?’
‘She was adamant that nobody matching Bellies’ description came inside. We’ve taken the footage in the bar in case image analysis can do something with it, maybe they can catch his reflection in a window or something, but I think we’re grasping at straws.’
‘He claimed he asked for directions from drinkers in the beer garden. Were there any cameras outside?’
‘There were, but they were over the back entrance, pointing downwards. They only cover an area three or so metres from the door. I’ve seen the video and nobody walks into shot between them closing the doors and reopening them when it calmed down. She reckons that a few of the stag party immediately went outside to smoke. I had a look at the footage and one of them does wander out of the range of the camera as if going over to speak to someone. I suppose he could have been going over to talk to Brandon.’
‘Brandon said he was asking for directions. If the guy he called over wasn’t local, how could he have helped him?’
‘The lad had a smartphone. I suppose he could have used Google Maps on his phone to give directions. He was out of shot for a couple of minutes, long enough to look something up for him.’ The sergeant was apologetic. ‘Sorry, boss. That’s all I’ve got.’
Warren thanked him and hung up.
The patchy information didn’t confirm or contradict Brandon’s alibi. It
looked as though the man’s name was staying on the whiteboard for the time being.
Chapter 47
Bellies Brandon was back in Romford. Given his antipathy towards the police, getting him to voluntarily travel back up to Middlesbury was pretty much a non-starter. So Warren got DSI Grayson to call the Met and ask for some favours, seeing as he and Hastings were already down there.
Although Warren had hinted that he was prepared to arrest Brandon if he didn’t attend his local station, it had been a reluctant threat. No matter how discreetly he tried to detain him, there was always the risk that the word would get out. The custody clock would start its ticking and people might start panicking. Incriminating pieces of evidence might find themselves at the bottom of the River Rom. Far better to keep everyone guessing as long as possible.
At least his colleagues at Romford Police Station shared his love of good coffee.
‘A bit hands-on for a DCI, aren’t you? Is Hertfordshire short of detective constables?’
Warren returned the woman’s friendly grin and swallowed his coffee.
‘No, ma’am, we just don’t follow the Met’s policy of promoting anyone who’s past it to chief inspector or above and locking them in an office where they can’t do any more harm.’
Chief Superintendent Sawjani, who had been so generous with the use of her interview suites and the loan of warm bodies, let out a short bark of laughter.
‘I don’t know whether I should be jealous that you’re getting so much fresh air or commiserating that you’ve been handed this nest of vipers to deal with. I suspect that time will tell.’
Warren drained his coffee and said nothing.
Sawjani lowered her mug slightly and eyed him through the steam. ‘Tread carefully on this one,’ she said quietly. ‘Dot the i’s and cross the t’s.’
Warren silently acknowledged her use of his favourite phrase.
‘The Met’s had its fingers burned too many times when it comes to race, I’m sure Hertfordshire has been watching and learning. I don’t usually recommend officers spend too much time second-guessing themselves, but in this case you need to assume that any decisions you make will potentially be questioned in an inquiry.’