by James Nally
‘Anything unusual that I haven’t read in the paperwork?’
‘Well the Senior Investigating Officer, Detective Chief Inspector Frank Vaughan, turned up at about 11pm pissed out of his mind. It wasn’t unusual for him to be pissed, but not at a murder scene. First thing he does is order a bottle of whiskey and glasses for his team. You can imagine how that went down with the locals.
‘I suggested he should hand over to DI Lambert, who was too miserable to ever touch a drop. Vaughan went mental. He sent me and my partner back to the station.’
‘Do you think his drunkenness affected the investigation that night?’ I ask, wincing at such an obvious opening question.
‘Absolutely. Clearly things weren’t done properly because Nathan’s Rolex watch went missing.’
‘I didn’t know this.’
‘Oh yeah. His family confirmed he owned one and it hasn’t been seen since. Forensics officers say they saw it on his wrist in the car park. By the time they got him to the morgue, it was gone. I tried everything to track it down. Every Rolex watch has a unique serial number and a recorded service history, but it never showed up again. God knows what else vanished that night, or got contaminated. It sounded like chaos.’
‘What was your next involvement in the case, Neil?’ I ask.
‘I was back at the station later when DI Lambert brought John Delaney in. It must have been about one in the morning. Even at that stage, Lambert seemed convinced Delaney did it. He came up with the bright idea that I should bring Delaney to Nathan’s house to break the news to his wife, Emma. Lambert felt certain this would crack Delaney and told me to report back.
‘How did Delaney seem?’
‘Scared, nervous, how anyone would be in that situation.’
‘Did Emma say words to the effect of, “I thought they’d hurt him, I didn’t think they’d kill him”?’
‘No. Any cop would seize upon something like that and make it the first line of enquiry. Why?’
‘Delaney claims she said that.’
‘Delaney acted strangely during the entire investigation. I always got the sense he was undermining it, any chance he got, and that he knew a hell of a lot more than he was letting on.’
I’m beginning to wonder how much else Delaney has spun in his determination to create alternative suspects. First, I ask about Neil’s call to Crimewatch.
He takes a long draw of Guinness, blinking slowly like a wily old crocodile. ‘I’d planned to make it anonymous, but sure everyone on the team knew my voice. Besides, by giving my name, I knew they wouldn’t be able to dismiss me as some crank.’
‘You accused the senior officers of tunnel vision and rejecting other viable suspects.’
‘Lambert had a hard-on for Delaney, no two ways about it. I even put up a suspect myself, but I know it was never checked out.
‘My son Paul had a friend who worked for BD Investigations at the time. Three or four weeks after the murder, he came around to pick Paul up. They were going on a surveillance job and were both kitted out in combats and camo gear.
‘When this guy opened his van, I saw an axe in the back identical to the one used to kill Nathan. It even had the same coloured masking tape wrapped around the handle.
‘I told the incident room. When I heard nothing back, I did some checking myself. Turns out Nathan’s widow, Emma Barry, invested some of the life insurance money she’d received into this guy’s new business. A couple of days after the murder, they were seen together in a wine bar by someone who worked at BD Investigations, looking very cosy. I tracked down a builder who did some work at Nathan Barry’s home a few months before the murder, and he said this fellow was always round there and he’d once caught them in a romantic clinch.’
‘And the name of this man?’
‘Bremner. Daniel Bremner.’
‘He now owns a courier company?’
‘That’s him.’
I work hard not to react. Bremner had been so keen to point out potential suspects to me. Now it turns out he may have been the killer all along.
Rooney continues: ‘I had a couple of pals on the Nathan Barry murder squad who confided in me that DI Lambert wouldn’t consider any suspect other than Delaney.
‘One of them found out that Nathan had been in the process of selling a story to one of the newspapers for big money. I think sixty grand was mentioned and it was something to do with bent cops.
‘According to the information, Nathan had been peddling this story with a friend of his, a serving police officer called Duncan McCall. When my cops pals handed this information to DI Lambert, he ripped it up in front of them and told them to focus on Delaney.’
Fintan can’t contain himself: ‘Who was their source?’
‘Williams. Peter Williams. A bailiff at BD Investigations. He later got employed full-time by Delaney and refused to make another statement. I presume he’d been paid off. Delaney’s paid everyone off, even the ex-husband of his current wife. Anyway, Pete Williams is dead now. He had a very serious drink problem.’
‘And Duncan McCall?’
‘Dead too. A few months after Nathan’s murder he topped himself. Shotgun at home. There was an inquest and quite a lot of publicity. Bad drinking problem too, apparently.’
Fintan’s well ahead and takes control. ‘Will we be able to find Peter Williams’ statement anywhere?’
Rooney laughs: ‘No. And the officers who got this information out of him won’t speak. They’re too scared of crossing the scoundrels.’
‘The scoundrels?’
‘There’s a group of senior officers who, how can I put it, seem to do things their own way and enjoy a lot of protection from on high. They’re Freemasons, of course, and I’m pretty certain they’re all bent.’
I lean forward: ‘How on earth can we prove any of this?’
‘Well, the first thing you need to do is find the journalist who offered Nathan and Duncan McCall sixty grand for their story. He must know who and what they were about to expose. He may even have an idea about who killed Nathan.’
‘Why didn’t you do that, Neil?’
‘I already stuck my neck out, making that call to Crimewatch. I didn’t fancy winding up with an axe in the face too. I suggest you two should think very carefully before upsetting whoever Nathan Barry upset.’
Chapter 26
Croydon, South London
Saturday, June 25, 1994; 13.00
As soon as Fintan revives his phone, it buzzes and pings like he’s won a jackpot. ‘Oh God,’ he groans at the violent volley of thwarted correspondence.
He calls ‘the desk’, endures a maniacal tirade about his whereabouts, then soaks up the skeletal details of a breaking story.
‘I’m on it,’ he declares, and I chase him back to the car.
We roar off before I get my door closed. ‘What’s happened?’
‘A nineteen-year-old girl is in a coma. She took ecstasy at some rave club in Windsor.’
‘Hasn’t this happened quite a few times in the last few years?’
‘Yeah, but this one is a daughter of Middle England. Her mum’s a police officer stationed at Windsor Castle, so there’s a royal angle. And her dad’s a tutor at Eton College, so there’s a toff angle.’
‘Does your news desk tell you what to do now, or do you just know from experience?’
‘Bit of both really. The parents are holding a press conference at 2pm. The boss will want tears and an “if it can happen to our Molly, it can happen to any of your children” quote. They’ll want dirt on the club owner and the club itself, so I’ll have to get one of my specialists onto that.’
‘Specialists?’
‘A private investigator. Find out if the owner has form and what big juicy profits he makes from peddling death.’
‘Maybe he has no idea they deal drugs at his club. What if she bought the pill somewhere else?’
‘He’s hardly in a position to sue, is he?’
His phone rings. He puts it on sp
eaker.
‘His Royal Lowness, the Prince of Darkness. How are you?’
‘I’ve got the desk chewing my arse about this Molly girl. How are we going to manage the slaughter on this one then?’ says Alex Pavlovic.
‘You must have snouts in Windsor nick, Alex, for royal stuff?’
‘No. I get it all from a royal protection guy.’
‘Know anything about this Oasis nightclub?’
‘No, but I’m pulling all that. Leave it to me,’ rasps the Prince.
‘What about the hospital in Slough, Wexham Park? Any insiders there?’
‘No.’
‘Right, well you need to get your arse over there now. Send your usual bouquet of flowers to the mum and dad, with a note and phone tucked inside. Don’t make them an offer. These people are too classy for that. Just say that the proprietor of our newspaper has personally agreed to fund the best possible private medical care for Molly in return for their full co-operation okay? Then you need to blag your way into Molly’s room and get a photo.’
‘She’s in intensive care. I’ll only get so far carrying a bunch of flowers. Even if I turn up dressed as Nurse fucking Ratched, they won’t let me in there.’
‘Okay, well you’d better get the old invisibility cloak on then.’
‘I’ll give it a go.’
Fintan kills the call and I almost die of curiosity.
‘Okay, I have to ask, what do you mean by invisibility cloak?’
‘Hi-vis, ironically,’ he smiles.
I don’t get it.
‘Our old friend the Prince discovered it years ago. You put hi-vis working clothes on and no one even looks at you. You literally become part of the furniture. The city is full of these hi-vis ghosts. Take a look next time. You pass hundreds every day but you don’t even look at their faces. So, if we need to get in somewhere, that’s what we use. Everyone just assumes you’re either maintenance or contractors.’
‘I’d never have thought of that.’
‘All part of the Prince’s diabolical genius. Right,’ he says, skidding to a halt outside East Croydon station. ‘You’re on your own from here. I’ll try and check out that Duncan McCall suicide later, see what him and Nathan Barry were trying to flog. I’ve got to race over to Slough. Are you back to London?’
‘Yes,’ I lie, climbing out.
But I’m staying in Croydon and heading straight to the pub. Not to drink, but to find out, once and for all, who killed Nathan Barry.
Chapter 27
The Harp Bar, Croydon, South London
Saturday, June 25, 1994; 13.30
The first people to spot me as I walk into the Harp Bar are the Warner brothers, Gary and Chris – the psychotic ex in-laws of John Delaney. According to the police theory, one of these brothers swung the axe that killed Nathan Barry. Delaney paid for the hit and their pal Phil Ware – head of the local murder squad – derailed the police investigation.
Perched upon the same stools as five days ago, their glares follow me all the way to the bar. I lay down my Sun newspaper and pretend to read the back page. Seconds grind past as I stand there basking in terror, trying to stop the trembling. After what seems an age, they lose interest and turn back to the football highlights on TV – cue for the Irish barman to come over.
‘Fosters,’ I growl, thinking I’ve made it. Fintan’s tip about hi-vis had been inspired; they haven’t recognised me, though I’d never have risked it without this baseball cap.
‘What part are you from?’ smiles the barman and I almost gasp in disbelief. How could he tell from a single word?
‘Offaly. And you?’ I mumble, feeling guilty for being so hostile.
‘Cork,’ he says. ‘Didn’t I see you in here a few days back?’
I shake my head way too quickly and vigorously.
‘I never forget a face,’ he says. ‘You were dressed smart like.’
I cock my left ear; they’ve stopped talking. I’m dead. My eyes beg him to stop.
‘Not me,’ I say, my voice high and cracking, my chest closing in on itself.
‘It was you,’ he laughs, placing the pint down in front of me. ‘I can spot another Paddy from 300 yards.’
The glares of both brothers slice through me like cop-seeking lasers. I hand Cork’s most observant barman a fiver but avoid his eyes, staring instead at the pint’s internal geysers. Every fibre of my being is braced for explosive violence.
Gary Warner’s plaintive voice lifts me six inches off the carpet: ‘My old mum says it’s rude to wear a hat indoors.’
I pretend to be so enthralled by the Sun’s back-page exclusive that I don’t hear. I pick up my pint and paper and wheel away from them, feeling their stares all the way down to the furthest table.
‘Your change?’ shouts the barman.
Part of me wants to grab Dusko and make a run for it. But what if they chase after me? I’m on foot. This is their manor. One roar and the whole of West Croydon would be out, hunting me down.
I pull my cap down to my eyebrows, sit and stare at the newspaper. As I count to 100, the gobshite barman just won’t let it lie.
‘I’ve your change here,’ he says.
I glance up and, horror, he’s walking over. The brothers watch on, dangerously curious.
‘Here,’ he says, counting the change out on the table.
‘Thanks,’ I say quietly, sliding my warrant card across the table’s surface so only he can see. ‘Now shut the fuck up and leave me alone,’ I mutter.
He freezes for a second; then turns slowly around. I can’t believe my life is in the hands of this nosy gobshite.
My insides clench and grind. One word from the Corkman and I’m fucked. I’ve no mandate to be here. No one in the world knows I’m here. If this barman exposes me now, they’re bound to find Dusko. They’ll listen to the tape, make me tell them who I am and what I’m doing. Then, I’m in no doubt, the Warner brothers will kill me. That’s All Folks!
‘My mistake,’ the barman declares loudly, and I breathe for what feels like the first time in several minutes. I sink half the pint, grab Dusko, polish off the rest and slip out. As soon as I turn the first corner, I sprint.
Earlier, I’d splashed out on hi-vis clothing and a lo-fi Dictaphone. I see a Wetherspoons pub, lock myself in the disabled toilet, slip the tiny cassette in and press play.
Chapter 28
Mayfair, Central London
Saturday, June 25, 1994; 17.00
The only words I’d planned to utter for the rest of that Saturday were ‘beer’, ‘wine’ and ‘thank you’. Alas, the pathologist Dr Edwina Milne has other ideas. Her text apologises for the ‘hasty’ exit last Sunday and requests a chance to explain all this evening. How could I say no?
The bar of Dukes Hotel in Mayfair looks like a gentleman’s club redecorated by your nan; all swirling carpets, garish velvet seats and gold picture frames. Edwina had warned me to dress smartly, so I did, but staff at places like this can see right through you and duly treat me with an almost exquisite degree of contempt.
Eventually, a disapproving waiter leads me to a table out in the foyer.
‘Fine by me,’ I tell him. ‘The chintz was making me delirious.’
I survey the Martini bar menu and smirk at its rather desperate boast that Bond creator Ian Fleming had once been a regular here. Everything about this glorified Cumbrian tea room screams the Great British Bond Delusion: other nations might have all the money and power, but we still have the class and history. And we’ll charge you handsomely to envy us. So many upper-class British generations have internalised the Bond myth – we might be outnumbered and outgunned, but we still do it better – that their entire political outlook seems stuck in a post-war time warp.
You see it during Royal events. Or how excited they get when buccaneering sporting eccentrics like Ian Botham or Nigel Mansell ‘stick it to Johnny Foreigner’ in the most bombastic, cavalier fashion imaginable. I can’t help thinking that the Harp bar’s contingent of slumpe
d, overweight, apathetically violent petty criminals provides a more accurate snapshot of modern England.
‘What are you doing out here?’ laughs Edwina. ‘I thought daylight was your sworn enemy?’ I’m so relieved to see she’s back to her old ebullient, piss-taking self. She’s clearly decided I’m not a nutter after all.
‘I didn’t realise I’d need a cravat and a cane to get inside.’
‘It is a bit snooty, but the Martinis are worth it.’
‘That’s what I say about you, Edwina.’
Of course, the staff fall at Edwina’s feet. We’re fast-tracked directly to the front of the Martini bar queue and forced to marvel at the barman mixing our drinks. I’ve yet to encounter a cocktail barman who doesn’t consider himself a fruit-flinging, tumbler-juggling sex god. Quite why the filling, shaking and emptying of liquid vessels has been elevated into an art form is beyond me. Judging by the pompous head on this pot shaker, you’d think he was rustling up a cure for Multiple Sclerosis.
If they could carry Edwina to a table in a ceremonial litter, they surely would. The professional fawners finally disperse and Edwina gets straight down to business.
‘How’s the Julie Draper case going?’
I tell her about possible links to the murder of Nathan Barry and the suicide of Duncan McCall.
‘I can cast an eye over the Nathan Barry and Duncan McCall pathology reports, if that might help?’
‘That’d be priceless, Edwina. Thanks.’
‘Look, the real reason I asked you here is to apologise for the other night,’ she says.
I start to protest but she cuts me dead.
‘I’ve done a lot of soul-searching and I think you deserve an explanation for my somewhat brusque exit.’
She wants to lead this dance, so, Martini-numb, I fall in.
‘For a long, long time, the job didn’t feel real to me. Cops and crime scenes and court cases … I felt like I was in a film. I’ve always believed that people watch violent films to see their nightmares play out, so that they can then walk away from their worst fears unscathed. Seeing dead people made me feel immune to death. It was something that happened to other people. That was part of the bargain.