by Damien Boyd
‘I thought civil claims took years,’ said Harding.
‘They usually do, but there’s a special practice direction in mesothelioma claims. The court injects the urgency to try to get a resolution before the claimant dies. Anyway, in this case Alison Crowther-Smith turns up and satisfies the court there is a defence to the claims based on the Crown Proceedings Act and Fripp’s report, defeating the interim payment application at the same time. And that’s when the killings start.’
Lewis nodded.
‘We’ve been looking at the claimants, their families and buddies in the marines, but it’s not them,’ said Dixon. ‘It’s the lawyers. Our killer is either a lawyer or connected to a lawyer.’
‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Lewis.
‘First, Alison Crowther-Smith is drowned in the cave. So ask yourself: how did the killer know she’d be down there?’
Dixon waited.
Silence.
‘Because he met her at the case management conference and they chatted,’ he continued. ‘Perhaps she was dreading it and mentioned it in passing. Perhaps she knew him. There’d have been plenty of time for a coffee and a chat once the formalities were out of the way, either before or after the hearing.’
‘Do we know who else was there?’ asked Lewis.
‘The order made by the judge on the day is in the pleadings. It says “on hearing counsel for the claimants and counsel for the defendant”. That means barristers were instructed by all parties. I’ve got the attendance note from the agent acting for the GLD, and it names the barristers who were there, but it doesn’t mention anyone else there with them.’
‘How do we find out?’
‘That’s your job, Mark. Get on to Bristol County Court. Ask for the usher’s records. They make notes on their copy of the daily list. Get the judge’s notes too. He may have written it down.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘We know who the barristers were though, so let’s start with them. Dominic Thorpe was instructed by Holt Burton, and Lings sent Ian Bullock. They’re both from the same chambers in Bristol. Dave, you take them.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Next comes Robert Fryer. The killer knows where he works, follows him home one day, pushes him under a train. He knows Fryer waits at the end of the platform, knows where the CCTV is. Easy.’
‘Why though?’ asked Lewis.
‘To force the Crown to settle the case. There are tens of thousands of pounds in legal costs at stake don’t forget.’
‘What about Fletcher?’
‘His murder was our starting point. And it was the wrong end of the case,’ replied Dixon. ‘His is the only killing that doesn’t fit.’
‘Why not?’
‘His evidence had been agreed by the claimants. It wasn’t controversial, so why kill him?’
‘What d’you mean not controversial?’ asked Louise.
‘His witness statement is purely factual, and the facts are agreed. That he ordered the marines to dismantle the radar cabins. That it took them three days. OK?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘There’s no financial motive for his killing. It makes no difference to the outcome of the case, does it?’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘If the other murders really are about the money, this one is about revenge pure and simple,’ replied Dixon. ‘Adrian Kandes’s girlfriend, Mark. How far have you got?’
‘Nowhere yet.’
‘She was pregnant when she left, carrying Kandes’s child. Find them.’
‘Fuck me,’ muttered Harding.
‘What about Fripp then?’ asked Lewis. ‘How would the killer have known he was in Birmingham?’
‘The order made at the case management conference listed the case for trial on the preliminary issue only within sixteen weeks on a date to be fixed. And then it said, “the parties to file dates to avoid within twenty-eight days”.’
‘Just like when we give our available dates for a trial,’ said Harding.
‘That’s right. Within twenty-eight days of the case management conference, all parties had to provide the court with their complete calendars for the next sixteen weeks. That would have included Fripp, given that he was the key defence witness.’
‘A complete list of where he would be and when,’ said Lewis.
‘Precisely.’
‘Why now though? Why not kill Fripp first? If he was the key to the defence case.’
‘Kill him too soon and the defence have plenty of time to find another expert witness. Kill him the night before the trial and the defence get an adjournment, but four days leaves them just enough time to find a replacement and makes an adjournment less likely. And that uncertainty might just be enough to make them settle the case.’
‘What’re you going to do?’ asked Lewis.
‘Louise and I will be dropping in on Lings and Holt Burton tomorrow. Meet back here fiveish. All right?’
‘Why not interview them at home? Tonight?’
‘I want to catch them off guard in the office in front of their colleagues.’
‘The Met’ll be here mid-afternoon,’ said Lewis.
‘Show ’em where the canteen is if I’m not back,’ said Dixon, standing up. ‘And be careful. We now know he’s got a gun.’
‘You’re home early.’
‘It’s the calm before the storm,’ replied Dixon, dropping his keys on the kitchen table.
He had asked Louise to meet him at his cottage at 8 a.m. the following morning, which gave him the night off, given that not much could be done on a Sunday anyway.
‘How was Birmingham?’ asked Jane, appearing in the kitchen doorway.
‘Bullet hole in the forehead.’
‘Nice.’
‘What’ve you been up to?’
‘Not a lot really. I watched one of your old films.’
‘Which one?’
‘A Shot in the Dark,’ replied Jane, grinning. ‘You’re very like—’
‘Don’t you dare,’ interrupted Dixon. He put his arms around her waist, pulled her towards him and kissed her.
‘Wait a minute. That means he’s got a gun.’
‘I know, I know: be careful.’
‘You eaten?’ asked Jane.
‘Not yet.’
‘How about we get a takeaway from the Zalshah? Maybe a bottle of wine and an early night?’
‘You read my mind.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘Brett Greenwood, please.’
‘Is Mr Greenwood expecting you?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll see if he’s free. Who may I say is here to see him?’
‘Detective Inspector Dixon and Detective Constable Willmott, Avon and Somerset CID.’
‘Oh, er, take a seat, please.’
Dixon walked over to the window and looked out into the small cobbled courtyard outside the office, the view obscured by the name ‘Lings Solicitors’ stencilled on the inside of the glass. It was a large building, tucked away behind the Bristol Hippodrome and accessed via a small alleyway between the pub next door and a newsagent.
Louise sat down and began flicking through a loose leaf folder of newspaper clippings.
‘Here,’ she said, passing the open folder to Dixon. ‘Top left.’
Dixon read the headline out loud.
‘Lings Solicitors raise five hundred pounds during Movember.’
The photograph was grainy. A photocopy of a newspaper article, but the names under the line-up of bearded suits were legible. Left to right, Daniel Sharp, Peter Walmlsey, Brett Greenwood. Dixon looked no further.
The article was dated 2 December, but the photograph was almost certainly taken several days before that. Most had gone for the moustache, but Greenwood had opted for the full goatee, just like the figure on Wimbledon railway station.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Brett Greenwood?’ asked Dixon.
‘Yes.’
An accent, American or Canadian perhaps. M
id-thirties, clean shaven with short brown hair and regulation suit and tie. He looked nothing like the e-fit, but then no one did.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’
‘Gina, are any of the interview rooms free?’
‘I’d prefer to talk in your office, please,’ said Dixon.
‘Oh right. Yes, of course. I’m on the fourth floor though.’
‘Is there a lift?’
‘Yes.’
‘There we are then,’ said Dixon, smiling.
‘Er, right. Follow me.’
The silence in the lift was punctuated by only one question from Greenwood, which Dixon ignored.
‘What’s this about then?’
He smiled and watched Greenwood watching himself in the mirror. And fidgeting.
Dixon sighed. The fourth floor of Lings Solicitors looked much like the fourth floor of most law firms in this modern age of open plan offices. The firm he had trained at had been open plan, and he thought he had escaped that nightmare, until he moved to Express Park.
There were glass partitioned cubicles around the outside for the lawyers, the area in the middle for the secretaries, each sitting at a workstation just large enough for a computer and separated from the next by red partitioning. Most of the desks were occupied by secretaries wearing headphones, their eyes fixed on the screens in front of them.
‘This is my office,’ said Greenwood, gesturing to an open door on the right as they stepped out of the lift.
He shut the door behind them. Louise sat down on a chair in front of the desk. Dixon busied himself looking at the various certificates on the wall.
‘How can I help?’ asked Greenwood, sitting down behind his desk.
He enjoyed a good certificate, did Greenwood, each of them mounted and framed. He was a member of the Association of Personal Injury Lawyers and even a registered first-aider. Dixon looked for his swimming certificates, but couldn’t see them.
‘You’re acting for three marines and the estate of a fourth suing the MoD for asbestos related injury.’
‘Yes. I took it over when court proceedings started. It’s an unusual case that one. The government is hiding behind the Crown Proceedings Act, so it’ll probably end up at the European Court. There’s a hearing on Thursday.’
‘And you’re doing it on a no-win, no-fee.’
‘We are. It’s a bit of a flyer, but there’s a massive injustice here, and it’s a test case too. There are sixty service personnel suffering from mesothelioma, all of them exposed to asbestos before 1987. At the moment they get nothing except the war pension.’
‘What will happen on Thursday?’
‘The Crown will argue that we haven’t got a claim and anyway it’s barred by the Crown Proceedings Act. We’ll argue that we have got a claim and we’re being denied our rights under Article 6 of the European Convention on Human Rights.’
‘And the outcome?’
‘We’ll lose. The only question is whether we get leave to appeal or not. If we do, we appeal, and if we don’t it’s straight off to the European Court.’
‘Well, it’s two marines and two estates now, sadly, Mr Greenwood,’ said Dixon. ‘Richard Hagley died just after 8 a.m. this morning.’
‘Oh God, what a shame. I knew it was imminent. I think everyone was just hoping he’d live to see the hearing.’
Dixon spun round when the door opened behind him.
‘Inspector, this is Fiona Hull, my head of department,’ said Greenwood.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked, allowing the door to slam behind her.
Fiona Hull was dressed for a court appearance: black trouser suit and white blouse. Mid-forties, with dark hair tied back in a ponytail and clamped to the side of her head with hairpins.
‘I was just telling the detective inspector about the marines,’ said Greenwood.
‘What about them?’
‘That it’s a test case,’ said Dixon.
‘It’s a bloody travesty, that’s what it is,’ said Mrs Hull. ‘The Crown Proceedings Act was designed to stop a soldier injured in battle suing the government. Not in this situation. And there are sixty others being denied compensation too.’
Dixon sat down in the vacant chair in front of Greenwood’s desk.
‘And you’ll take the case all the way to Europe?’ he asked.
‘If we have to,’ replied Mrs Hull. ‘No one’s taken it that far before. So we’ll see.’
‘Hagley’s dead,’ said Greenwood.
‘Oh no,’ said Mrs Hull. She bowed her head and sighed.
‘When I spoke to him, he said the case was about justice.’
‘It’s always about justice, Inspector. We deal with asbestos related injury, mesothelioma, and what good is money to them? Unless it’s for the families they leave behind.’
‘Quite.’
‘The diagnosis is invariably terminal, and no amount of money can compensate for that.’
Dixon nodded.
‘Is this why you’re here?’ asked Greenwood. ‘To tell us Hagley’s dead?’
‘No.’
‘Why are you here then, if I may ask?’ Mrs Hull was standing behind Greenwood’s desk, leaning against a filing cabinet.
‘You may, Mrs Hull. Four people involved in the case are dead and—’
‘Are they?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘Does the name Alison Crowther-Smith mean anything to you?’
‘She was a barrister,’ replied Greenwood. ‘We met at the case management conference last October. But she died in an accident, surely?’
Dixon raised his eyebrows.
‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Greenwood.
‘How did you know she was dead?’
‘Ian Bullock told me at a conference, but I thought it was an accident. That’s what he told me anyway. We don’t use her chambers, so our paths rarely cross.’
‘What about Robert Fryer?’
‘Who’s he?’ asked Mrs Hull.
‘The solicitor at the Government Legal Department who was handling the case.’
‘You never speak to the same person twice there,’ said Greenwood, shaking his head. ‘I’m afraid his name means nothing to me. I couldn’t tell you who’s dealing with it now either. Whoever it is, they’re just a reference on a letter.’
‘What about Alan Fletcher?’
‘He’s one of the witnesses, isn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ replied Dixon. ‘He ordered the marines to dismantle the cabins.’
‘We agreed his evidence,’ said Mrs Hull, ‘so he’s not required for the hearing.’
‘And what about Dr Anthony Fripp?’ asked Dixon.
‘Is he dead?’ asked Greenwood.
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘That means the defendants will be after an adjournment,’ said Greenwood, looking up at Fiona Hull. ‘Bugger it.’
‘Will you agree?’ asked Dixon.
‘No. Our clients are dying and don’t have the luxury of time, Inspector,’ replied Mrs Hull. ‘It’s going to be a long haul as it is, and we’ll keep the pressure on. Sounds unhelpful I know, but that’s the way it is. They’ve got time to find another expert.’
‘Let’s talk about Alison Crowther-Smith then. You met at the case management conference, Mr Greenwood?’
‘Yes. I was there with Ian Bullock.’
‘How long was the hearing?’
‘An hour or so. Mesothelioma claims are classed as living or fatal, and the court treats them differently. I don’t expect you to understand.’
‘I am a solicitor as well as a police officer, Mr Greenwood.’
‘Oh really? Sorry. That sounded awful, didn’t it?’
Dixon smiled.
‘Have you done mesothelioma work?’
‘No.’
‘Well, at the CMC in a living claim the defence have to show they’ve got a defence, and Alison Crowther-Smith did that. Anyway, that’s why th
e hearing was a bit longer.’
‘And how long were you kept waiting?’
‘I don’t recall. Half an hour or so.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘I was with Mr Bullock, and Richard Hagley’s son was there too.’
‘What about after the hearing?’
‘Look . . .’ Greenwood was staring out of the window, shifting in his seat. ‘We went for a coffee. She was a pretty lady. All right?’
Fiona Hull sighed.
‘What did you talk about?’ asked Dixon.
‘Caving,’ replied Greenwood. ‘She said she was going caving that weekend. I’d hardly forget that, would I? After what happened.’
‘What else?’
‘Small talk really.’
‘And how did you leave it with her?’
‘She gave me her phone number, but when I tried it the following week it was unobtainable. I just thought she’d just given me the wrong number deliberately and left it at that.’
‘Where did you write it down?’
‘On my attendance note I think. Why?’
‘Can I see it?’
‘That’s part of a confidential file,’ said Mrs Hull. ‘Solicitor–client confidentiality applies.’
‘I would like to see the note, please,’ said Dixon.
‘It’s privileged.’
‘This is a murder investigation, Mrs Hull,’ replied Dixon. ‘And you can either show it to me, or I’ll be back with a warrant and take the whole file. Take your pick.’
Hull turned to Greenwood. ‘Can you print one off?’
‘I need to see his handwritten note, not the dictated attendance note, please.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s likely to contain additional information not relevant to the case.’
‘Really?’ Hull looked down her nose and frowned at Greenwood. He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Zoe’s got the file.’
‘Get it,’ said Mrs Hull.
Dixon watched Greenwood through the glass panel, walking over to his secretary’s workstation. She was sitting at the first desk, with her back to him, several piles of files on the floor next to her chair.
She glanced in Dixon’s direction, rolled her eyes and muttered ‘For fuck’s sake.’ He’d never been the best of lip readers, but that much was obvious. Then they wrestled a thick green file from the bottom of the larger pile and Greenwood brought it back to his office.