by Paul Gitsham
‘Well, we have more than twenty hours remaining on the clock and we’ll definitely get an extension if we ask for it. Let’s see what forensics find. Meegan bled out, there must be at least some trace.’
Warren chewed his nail. ‘But is it enough to charge? You know what the CPS are like. They practically want it gift wrapped.’
Before Sutton could reply, the custody sergeant poked his head around the door.
‘His solicitor is now requesting a meal break. He hasn’t eaten since he’s been here, I can’t really deny it.’
Warren glanced at Sutton. The solicitor was clearly stalling for time. But why?
Sutton thanked the sergeant then turned back to Warren. ‘Well, I don’t know about you, boss, but I could do with lunch myself. They have some tasty-looking tuna melts in the canteen.’
Warren wrinkled his nose. ‘Eat it down there, I’m not having it stinking out my office like last time.’
Sutton grinned and headed for the door.
‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’
Sutton looked blank.
Warren inclined his head towards the coffee urn.
Sutton shrugged his shoulders. ‘Give us a clue.’
Warren waggled his coffee cup.
Sutton shook his head. ‘You’ll have to spell it out, boss, I’m obviously a bit thick today.’
Warren sighed. Three years he’d been fighting this particular battle; today obviously wasn’t the day he’d win it.
Sutton didn’t even try to conceal his grin as Warren’s pound coin rattled into the empty honesty jar.
* * *
Goldie Davenport was a surprisingly fastidious man. Mags Richardson had searched plenty of houses over her career and it was obvious whether a person was naturally tidy or had simply blitzed their flat to give a good impression. The CSIs had done their thing, bagging any suspicious items of clothing, including the contents of the laundry basket and the trap from the back of the washing machine. Now it was up to her and Garfield to retrieve anything else of interest.
‘And my husband accuses me of having expensive tastes,’ opined Richardson as she gazed at the inside of Marcus Davenport’s wardrobe.
‘I know, these jeans aren’t from Primarni,’ agreed the young DC on loan from the Met.
‘I was thinking more of these football shirts.’ Richardson fingered the team tops. ‘They’re the real deal, you can tell by the stitching on the label that they aren’t counterfeit – no spelling mistakes for a start. I bought my daughter the England one for Christmas, it cost me fifty quid and she’ll be wanting the latest Stevenage FC for the start of the season. He’s got Chelsea home and away, plus England replica shirts for the past eight years.’ She pulled open a drawer. ‘Plus tracksuits and hoodies. He’s nothing if not dedicated.’
The young DC wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s one word for his kind.’
Richardson looked around the room; it was a curious blend of grown man and teenage boy, with glossy posters of the current England and Chelsea line-ups jostling for space with rather more amateur flyers for death metal bands unlikely to bother the music charts any time soon. If he ever brought anyone back, they knew exactly what they were getting.
‘Where the hell do you even buy a pillow case with a swastika on it?’
‘You’d be amazed what you can get on the internet if you look hard enough,’ said Garfield from the doorway.
‘Anything interesting, sir?’ asked Richardson.
‘Not much, I found an ancient Nokia brick that I imagine we’ll be able to link to the march on Saturday. I found his phone bill and it matches his smartphone. All the utility bills are in his name, on the surface he seems to be living here alone.’
‘On the surface?’
‘He doesn’t strike me as the sort of man who needs two toothbrushes; nor does he smell strongly of Sure for Women deodorant.’
‘So who is staying over regularly enough to leave her own toiletries?’
‘I think we can guess.’
* * *
The hoped-for confession wasn’t forthcoming.
‘So far it would seem that you have pulled my client in here based on a discrepancy in his time-keeping. As I am sure you can appreciate, Saturday was a very emotional day for Mr Davenport and he, and his friends, were rather the worse for drink. They may have become a little confused.’
Warren waited.
‘My client recognises that you have a job to do and that you are simply trying to solve the brutal killing of his good friend. He will of course assist your inquiry in any way he can, including allowing you to search his apartment.’
A pointless gesture; they had a search warrant.
‘Thank you. Now, Mr Davenport, why don’t you tell us about your relationship with Annabelle Creasy?’
Davenport blanched. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean just that. I presume you know her?’
‘Uh yeah, sure. She was Tommy’s girlfriend.’
‘I see. And how often did you sleep with her?’
‘DCI Jones!’
Warren ignored the solicitor’s yelp.
‘Did you take the opportunity to spend the night every time Tommy visited his mistress? Or did she stay with you sometimes?’
‘No comment.’
‘Well, there’s no point denying it. Unless you are in the habit of stocking your bathroom with women’s toiletries.’
‘Those toiletries could be anybody’s’
‘I imagine you didn’t leave your own things around Ms Creasy’s flat when you stayed over, for example on Friday night before Saturday’s excursion. I imagine Tommy thought he was being really clever as well, didn’t he? Telling Ms Creasy that women didn’t usually come to BAP meetings, or claiming that he was going to stay at his brother’s or his mum’s place so he could spend time with his own mistress.
‘Did you know about it?’ Warren answered his own question. ‘Of course you did, I’ll bet you laughed like hell when he asked if he could use you as an alibi, I reckon you were around her flat like a rat up a drainpipe, knowing he was busy elsewhere.’
‘No comment.’
Warren leaned forward slightly. ‘But that wasn’t enough, was it? What happened? Did you decide to get rid of him so you could live happily ever after? Was she in on it?’
‘No comment.’ It was more of a croak.
Warren looked at him contemptuously. ‘You were scared of him, weren’t you? It didn’t matter that he was being unfaithful himself, you knew he’d never tolerate you screwing his girl. And what about Jimmy? He’s a bloody psycho, he’d have been more than happy to join in teaching you a lesson.’
‘No, that’s not what happened.’
‘Really, then tell me. Because from where I’m sitting it looks like the oldest story in the book. A classic love triangle, if you can forgive me being romantic.’
Chapter 69
Davenport and his solicitor had been doing more than enjoying overpriced coffee and a tuna melt during yet another comfort break. Unfortunately, the handwriting on the sheets of paper in front of the suspect was far too spidery for Warren to have a hope of reading it upside down.
‘My client wishes to make a statement and cooperate fully with the investigation,’ his solicitor started.
Warren fought to conceal his surprise, resisting the urge to glance towards Sutton.
Davenport cleared his throat. ‘I did not kill Tommy Meegan, nor was I involved in his killing.’
Warren said nothing.
‘I believe that Tommy was killed by his brother Jimmy.’ He licked his lips. ‘When we left the square Jimmy and me ran past BHS and through the alleyway next to the key-cutter’s and onto the street behind. Then we split up. I got lost trying to find The Feathers pub and Jimmy was already there when I arrived. When I asked him what he’d been doing, he told me to keep my mouth shut. When the police arrived later in the day, I realised that he must have killed Tommy.’
Davenport sat back in his cha
ir. The fear remained in his eyes, but Warren could see that a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
* * *
After a ten-minute consultation in the corridor outside, the two detectives returned, ready to hear Goldie Davenport’s full statement. In the meantime, Warren’s opposite number in Romford was arranging for the arrest of Jimmy Meegan and a full forensic search of his flat and anywhere else he could conceivably hide evidence.
‘Start at the beginning,’ suggested Warren.
‘It was like I said before, we left Romford at about ten and got to Middlesbury about twelve. Jimmy was all wired, ready for action and Tommy was trying to calm him down. He’s got a problem you know.’ He touched his nose.
‘Cocaine?’
‘Yeah, Tommy’s been on at him for ages to lay off it, says he’s doing too much. Jimmy reckons he’s got it under control, but he blatantly hasn’t. We stopped at a service station for a piss and a fag and when Jimmy came back he was well jittery and annoying the fuck out of everyone, I thought Tommy was going to hit him.’
‘What happened when you got to Middlesbury?’
‘We had to stay on the coach for an hour whilst you sorted out the protestors and the muzzers and searched us, then we got off and lined up to walk to the rally point.’
‘Were you all together at this point?’
‘Yeah, Tommy and Jimmy were at the front with the banner and the loudhailer. Me and Bellies were with the rest of the troops with flags and signs.’ He leered at the memory. ‘Some raghead tried to drown Tommy out, but ours was louder.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘Well, it were all going well, we was having our say but the number of protestors was getting too big and there were hardly any coppers. Eventually some wankers started throwing stuff at us. Tommy got hit in the head.’ He scowled. ‘Perhaps you should have been searching the protestors instead of us.’
‘Carry on, Marcus, what happened next?’
‘Well, eventually you gave in to the protestors and we had to leg it.’
‘OK. So far you haven’t given me anything I didn’t already know and nothing that tells me you weren’t responsible for Tommy Meegan’s murder.’
Davenport shrugged. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘How did Jimmy know his brother was going to be alone in that alleyway?’
Davenport looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m not one hundred per cent sure, but I heard Tommy talking to Bellies on the coach after he’d tried to collect everyone’s money for the coach. Some of the lads reckoned they hadn’t got any on them – although they all seemed to be able to find enough to buy beer later – and Bellies said something about how we needed to raise some cash if we wanted to do this sort of thing more often. From the way Tommy was talking it sounded like somebody was going to help fund the party. I got the impression that he was planning on meeting this person after the march. I reckon it was Jimmy playing him.’
Sutton laughed. ‘Oh come on. You expect us to believe that Tommy Meegan was daft enough to meet a stranger in an alleyway in the hope of getting some money?’
Davenport shrugged. ‘I dunno, but Tommy always liked a bit of drama. Brown paper bags stuffed with cash are just his thing.’
So far Davenport’s story matched the evidence. However, until they found out who had sent the emails, it remained speculation.
Warren took over again.
‘So you went through the alleyway, then what?’
‘We stopped for a breather, then Jimmy told me to carry on to the pub, because he had something to do.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Well, I asked him what was so bloody important he was going to leave me in the middle of fucking nowhere and he told me it was none of my business.’
‘And that was it?’
Davenport looked down at the table. ‘Yeah, he pointed me towards The Feathers and left me to it.’
Warren looked at the man hard. Despite his bluster, it was clear that Goldie Davenport was scared of Jimmy Meegan. But why?
‘Which way did he go?’
‘Up the street.’
Towards the alleyway that Tommy Meegan had been killed in.
* * *
Not only was Davenport a fool, it seemed he was also directionally challenged and too proud to admit it. Most of BAP’s supporters had, by a combination of basic map skills, intimidation of local residents and blind luck, eventually stumbled across The Feathers and were supping pints and trading war stories within half an hour of the march breaking up. Goldie Davenport it seemed had wandered the streets getting progressively more and more lost until finally hailing a taxi who’d happily taken a fiver off him for a three-minute journey around the corner. Only Bellies Brandon, who’d shuffled there under his own steam, had arrived later.
‘Where did Jimmy get the knife?’
Again, Davenport looked worried. ‘You need to know that I didn’t have any idea what Jimmy was up to. I was just helping a mate out. I had no idea that he was going to, you know…’
‘Go on.’
‘Jimmy said he needed help to sort out some Paki who’d been hassling his mum.’
‘Did he give a name?’
Davenport frowned in concentration. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘So when he said “sort out”, what did you think that meant?’
Davenport shifted in his chair. ‘You know, have a word.’
‘And it took two of you to do that?’
Davenport squirmed.
‘So what happened?’
‘We drove up after work and arrived about eight. It was still light, so Jimmy told me to go to the chippy whilst he went and saw his mum.’
“What day was this?”
Davenport frowned in concentration. ‘A couple of weeks ago …’ He paused. ‘It must have been a Wednesday, ’cos I was pissed we missed the karaoke down the Swan.’
The night Binay Singh Mahal claimed he was mugged.
‘How long was he gone for?’
‘About half an hour or so. I’d finished my food by the time he came back.’
‘Whose car did you take?’
‘We took the work van. I drove there.’ He paused. ‘I don’t trust him not to snort something before he gets behind the wheel. He drives like an arsehole at the best of times.’
‘When he returned what happened?’
‘He said that his mum had given him the name of the bastard and that he knew where he lived. We got our hoodies out of the car, put some gloves on and walked to the estate.’
‘Go on.’
Davenport peeked over at his solicitor who was visibly uncomfortable with him incriminating himself in such a way.
‘There’s a telephone box at the edge of the estate, near the shops. It’s vandalised and covered in piss, but it still works. We hung around and eventually the bloke Jimmy was waiting for turned up.’
Davenport took a sip of his water and avoided his solicitor’s gaze.
‘We waited until he walked past, then Jimmy jumped out and punched him in the head.’
‘Then what? Tell me exactly what happened.’ Warren’s tone was stern. He wanted to see if Davenport was prepared to incriminate himself in a serious racial assault. If he did, Warren might believe what so far seemed to be a rather fantastical tale.
‘He fell on his face.’
Davenport was silent and Warren found himself holding his breath. If Davenport’s story contradicted that told by Binay Singh Mahal, the lawyers would paint Davenport as an unreliable witness.
‘And?’
‘He rolled onto his back, so I kicked him in the ribs until Jimmy pulled me off and told me he’d had enough.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I walked away. I was buzzing and I needed to calm down.’
‘And Jimmy?’
‘He knelt down and said something to him. I don’t know what. Then he opened his jacket, took his phone and wallet and threw them over a wall.’
‘
Did you actually see the knife?’
‘No, I just figured it out later.’
‘So what happened next?’
‘I wanted to leave right away, in case he called the police, but Jimmy reckoned he wasn’t going to say anything. In the end we drove to the pub.’
‘Which pub?’
‘Dunno. The Rose or something.’
‘Not The Feathers?’
‘No, everyone recognises him in there and he wanted to keep our visit quiet.’
‘What time would you say this was?’
‘About half-nine, I guess.’
The cell-tower log placed his phone close to a small pub called the Rose and Crown from twenty past nine until shortly after ten-thirty.
Sutton interjected. ‘If Jimmy was so worried about being seen in Middlesbury, why didn’t you drive somewhere else?’
‘Jimmy said he wanted to go and see his mum and tell her everything was sorted.’
‘So he left you in the pub?’
‘Yeah.’
Warren glanced at Sutton who took his cue. ‘So basically you drove to Middlesbury on a Wednesday night to help your mate beat somebody up for his mum. You spent half an hour on your own in the chippy, then after you’d helped him assault a total stranger, Jimmy patted you on the head and told you to go and sit in the pub. Did he also give you some money for a packet of crisps and tell you not to talk to strangers?’
Davenport’s mouth twisted and he glared at Sutton, before finally looking away.
‘Why didn’t you go and meet his mum?’ Warren’s tone was deliberately more conciliatory.
‘He said she was getting on a bit and wouldn’t want any fuss.’
That didn’t sound like the Mary Meegan Warren had met and he could see from Davenport’s expression that he realised that now also.
One thing was certain. Jimmy Meegan’s whereabouts in Middlesbury were unaccounted for twice that evening. Assuming that he hadn’t been visiting his mother as he’d claimed, that had given him plenty of opportunity to smash the CCTV camera overlooking the alleyway his brother had been killed in. Had he also stashed the murder weapon in the alleyway ready to use on Saturday? He’d been on enough marches to know that he would be searched.
‘What you’ve said is all very interesting but you haven’t answered the most important question; why would Jimmy Meegan kill his own brother?’