by J. D. Weston
“Anything I need to know?” asked John. He was referring to the man Harvey had gone after. As usual, he was covering himself and wanted to be sure that nobody got away.
“Not anymore,” said Harvey, but kept his eyes on the man on the ground.
“He’s the gunman. But he’s not talking. I thought you might convince him to.”
Harvey looked at each of the four men. The sirens were closing in and would be arriving any second.
“Take him to the barn,” said Harvey, and walked ahead to avoid having to walk beside John and listen to him rant on about making somebody pay. It would be Harvey and Julios who would be set to work. That much was clear.
“Drop him there,” said Harvey to the four men when they reached the barn.
He swung one of the large doors open and stared at John.
“I’ll come and find you when he talks.”
“I thought we’d stay, Harvey. I’d like to see him suffer, given what he’s done today.”
“I’ll work alone,” said Harvey, and flicked his head at the men, a gesture for them to leave.
John watched the men leave. From where they stood, the house and the gates could not be seen. The barn was situated at the foot of John’s estate. Tall conifers and leylandii had been planted to shield the small outbuilding where John kept his prized possession: an original E-Type Jaguar in immaculate condition. The bright red classic was one of the first things John had bought when he’d found success and it was kept in the barn beneath layers of dust sheets to preserve it in all its glory.
It was the arriving ambulance and police cars that convinced John to leave. Though out of sight, the gravel drive beneath tyres was enough of a warning.
John nodded at Harvey.
“For Donny, Harvey.”
Harvey didn’t reply.
He watched the older man leave, circling around to the south side of the property so inquisitive policemen wouldn’t wonder where he was walking from.
The man on the ground looked up at Harvey with unease. He’d already taken a beating from the men. His lip was burst and his nose bloodied, plus whatever body damage the men had been able to inflict with the heels of their shoes.
“Get up,” said Harvey, and offered no assistance.
The man held his left arm close to his chest as he struggled to his feet and he breathed in short stabs. It was a sign that the man had broken a rib or two. Across his neck were two scars. The wounds would have been deep. The man saw Harvey looking and covered them with his hand, but the back of his hand and his forearm bore more scars than any Harvey had seen on one man.
They shared a moment, the man daring Harvey to ask how the scars occurred, and Harvey, in his silence, trying to understand who the man was.
“In,” said Harvey, and checked the crest of the hill above them to make sure nobody had seen.
He closed the door behind them and slid a heavy bar into place to lock the doors. In addition to the two huge barn doors, there was a single door at the far end of the building. But that would be locked.
Harvey enjoyed the barn. There was a peace to the building. It was a wooden structure with rooftiles to match the house, despite their distance apart. Above him was a huge vaulted ceiling with oak beams spanning the distance. The walls were timber-framed, and the floor was poured concrete topped with screed for an immaculate, polished finish. The building had once been used by John to store anything he didn’t want found. He’d had narrow rooms built into the walls accessible only by hidden panels in the timber.
It had always been a gamble for John to store anything on his own land, but he trusted very few people and very few people trusted him. The barn had been the best compromise he could find.
Over the years, the small, hidden rooms had stored bags of money from cash van robberies, bags of gold, diamonds and jewellery from safety deposit boxes, and people. People who had needed to disappear for one reason or another. Sometimes with their consent. Other times, John had been less gracious.
The building was Harvey’s workshop. To the untrained eye, the barn was like any other. There was a bench along one side and tools hung from hooks on the wall. There were bags of cement, lime and plaster, sheets of plastic, hose pipes, and shovels. It was a beautiful building, and it contained items that any other man may have stored in his garage.
But the cement had never once been used to build a wall. The plastic had never once been used in decorating. The hose pipes had never once been used to water flowers. The shovels and spades had been used to dig holes, but never for gardening purposes.
The light was dim. Just how Harvey liked it. Tiny gaps in the vaulted roof allowed narrow slivers of light to illuminate the ever-present dust that hung in the air.
And the silence was perfect.
“What now?” asked the man. His accent was strong. He was Asian. But his English was good, perhaps second generation British.
Harvey didn’t reply. He slipped into the darkness and moved with practised silence, allowing the weight of the atmosphere to start the process. And under that weight, amidst the dust and heavy timber beams, a battle began.
“I will never talk,” said the man, searching the shadows with nervous, twitch-like movements.
Harvey didn’t reply. He timed his movements with the man’s voice, working his way through the shadows, collecting his tools.
“You saw my skin,” the man continued, and spun at the sound of the aging, creaking timbers. “It is scarred with my strength. There is nothing you can do to me that I have not already endured.”
He wore a beard in the European style and was dressed in the Pakistani kurta. But above his clothes and style, he had the passion and pride that was so strong among the race.
Race, gender, nationality, and origin had little effect on Harvey’s judgement. He judged all men as equals. He’d seen the biggest, hardest, and toughest of men cry, and he’d seen them in all shapes, colours, and sizes release their bladders in fear.
“So, you see, my friend,” said the man, his bravado betrayed by his ragged breaths, “you have no power over me. You hide in the shadows like a coward. Come out and face me.”
Harvey didn’t reply.
“No one can break me,” called the man. “No man can hurt me.”
And Harvey was behind him.
“I can,” he whispered.
Chapter Nineteen
The huge wrought iron gates to the house were at the top of the hill outside the village of Theydon Bois. A gravel driveway led from the gates, where an old gatekeeper’s cottage stood, to a large house that was surrounded by manicured lawns, pruned hedges, and tall trees.
“Looks like we’re interrupting a party,” said Myers, as he manoeuvred the car to a stop beside a large man in a suit. He hit the button to lower the window.
The man said nothing.
“Detective Inspector Myers. This is Detective Sergeant Fox,” said Myers, and nodded at an ambulance parked on the grass. “I hear you’ve had some trouble.”
Still, the man said nothing. He seemed to be reading them both, judging, and making a decision. His nose had been flattened and his hair was shaved almost bald. His shoulders were as wide as both Myers and Fox together, and some more, and he stood so tall that even when he bent to see them, it wasn’t low enough.
Two men looked up from where the ambulance was parked. The big man caught their attention and nodded at Myers. They returned the nod and muttered something between them. It was enough of a gesture for Myers to assume permission to enter. He rolled and stopped on the gravel driveway.
The lawn was littered with chairs and tables, some of which had toppled and spilt drinks, crockery, and cutlery onto the grass.
And for the second time that day, Myers and Fox watched as two paramedics loaded a gurney into the rear of an ambulance. The body had been covered with a sheet and the men moved unhurried.
Two uniformed officers approached.
“Detective Inspector Myers,” said Myers, as he flas
hed his ID. “This is DS Fox. What happened here?”
“Hard to say for sure, sir,” said the first of the uniforms. He was tall with strong facial features and his voice was clear. He had confidence and a calmness about him that couldn’t be taught. He was the type of officer that might do well one day. He spoke without turning or pointing and held Myers’ stare. “It was a wedding party. The bride is in the ambulance. She was shot.”
“Small arms?” asked Fox, and her question took the officer by surprise.
He studied her for a moment.
“If I had to guess, I’d say it was a handgun. Nine millimetre, judging by the size of the entry and exit points. Forensics have been and gone, sir.”
“Been and gone? Already?”
“I don’t think anybody was comfortable hanging around. They got photos of the scene and, as you can see, they closed it off for you. There’s just a few of us left now.”
“Have you spoken to anybody?” asked Myers. “Any guests?” He glanced past the officer toward the two men he had seen before. They eyed him with unease. But something was niggling at Myers. There was a familiarity he couldn’t put his finger on.
“Nobody’s talking, sir,” said the officer.
“What do you mean nobody’s talking? It was a wedding. Look at all the chairs. There must have been hundreds of people here.”
“The guests have gone, sir,” said the officer. Then he seemed hesitant to continue, as if he might offend Myers’ intelligence. “They left before we even got here. You do know whose house this is, don’t you, sir?”
Myers looked at Fox, who seemed just as ignorant as himself.
“Enlighten me.”
“The house belongs to John Cartwright. This is the Cartwright family home. It was his son’s wedding.”
“John Cartwright?” said Myers, and in that moment, the case took a whole new turn, and he wished he was back on the Standing job.
Fox hadn’t reacted. She wouldn’t let on that she didn’t know who Cartwright was to the two officers, so Myers nodded and took control.
“Good work, boys. What’s your name, son?”
“Casey, sir,” said the officer.
“Well, Casey, you seem like you know what you’re doing. Get two men on the gate and get that big goon off. If he doesn’t move, arrest him. Then see if you can find me a guest list. If this is John Cartwright’s place, that guest list will be the who’s who of organised crime.”
“Yes, sir,” said Casey, and he took the other uniform with him.
“Do you think you’ll know who it was just from looking at the list, sir?” said Fox.
“No. But we’ll have an idea of who it might have been from who isn’t on the list. Come on. Let’s go and meet our man Cartwright.”
“Sir?” said Fox, and she waited for him to turn. “I feel like I should know who these people are.”
“How long have you been in Essex, Fox?”
“Three months, sir.”
“So how should you know them?” said Myers. “You need to learn fast. Do you get much organised crime in the sticks?”
It was the second time he’d used the phrase ‘in the sticks’. He was hoping for a rise from her. Maybe he could see some emotion.
“A little,” she said. “But it was mostly small-time in Bristol. The biggest problem we had was drugs coming in and out.”
“Well, we get that here too, plus a hell of a lot more. The public-facing John Cartwright is squeaky clean. He owns nightclubs, bars, betting shops, and even launderettes.”
“Cash businesses, sir?”
“That’s right. You don’t get many men like John Cartwright anymore. They’re all either locked up or dead. Most of them don’t survive or they make a mistake. Crime isn’t what it used to be, Fox. It’s not as easy. Technology catches them now. All the police have to do is rock up and nick them. Evidence is evidence.”
“But not John Cartwright?” She stared past Myers, watching the old man in the expensive tuxedo in hushed conversation with another man who was smaller and slighter.
Myers sighed. The questions disrupted his analytical mind. He didn’t need to be holding anybody’s hand. He needed somebody to think like him.
“No. He’s one of the old-school. Nobody knows how many men work for him. I bet he doesn’t even know. He has a security firm on the doors of every club in South East London, even the ones he doesn’t own, and underneath all that legitimacy is a web of crime and filth so murky, Fox, that once you’re in it, you’ll never get out.”
“Surely a murder on his property is a chance to get him, sir?” said Fox, hopeful that they might make a big hit.
Myers stared at John Cartwright, watching his every move. The man spoke only to the smaller man, who, from his looks, appeared to be Eastern European and, from his expression and demeanour, to have intelligence.
“He’ll be clean. There’s no way John Cartwright would allow this to happen on his land. The last thing he wants is for us to be snooping around.”
“Shall I contact Allenby, sir? To see if I can get a warrant?”
“Be my guest, Fox,” said Myers, as John Cartwright and his sidekick began to walk over to them. “But by the time you get it, Cartwright will have cleaned this place from top to bottom.”
“Have you got everything you need?” called John Cartwright, as he approached right on cue. It was an invitation to leave.
“Not yet, Mr Cartwright. I wonder if you’d mind answering a few questions for me?”
“We answered all your questions earlier,” said the thin man. “We’d like some time to grieve now, if you please.”
“You didn’t answer my questions, and I wasn’t talking to you,” said Myers.
“My name is Sergio. I represent Mr Cartwright in all legal matters. You can address me, and if Mr Cartwright feels he has anything further to offer, you’ll know.”
“What happened?” asked Myers. There would be no tripping them up with underhand questions. They were as experienced as he was at interview techniques and as well-versed in the legal system as any detective on the force.
“Someone shot my daughter-in-law,” said Cartwright. “Her body is in the ambulance.” He leaned in close so Myers could smell the alcohol and cigars on his breath. “With a big bleeding hole in her.”
“Any ideas who?”
“No,” said Sergio.
“Nobody saw anything?” said Myers. “There must have been two hundred people here, judging by the number of chairs. You’re telling me nobody saw a thing?”
“No comment,” said Sergio.
“Do you know of any reason why somebody might want her dead?” asked Myers.
“We all have enemies,” said Cartwright, staring Myers in the eyes. “Don’t we?”
“You’re saying she had an enemy? Somebody who had a grudge maybe?” asked Fox.
“I’m saying that we all have enemies, sweetheart. Even you.” Then he returned his stare to Myers. “But we don’t go announcing them, do we now?”
There was a silence. It was a power play and they were standing on Cartwright’s land. His legal adviser would know the law inside out and would know exactly what they could and couldn’t say and do. It was time to work with them, or at least appear to.
“Listen, Mr Cartwright, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m not here to investigate you.”
“Investigate me? What is there to investigate?”
“Like I said, I’m not here to investigate you. There’s been a murder. We have to investigate that. At the minute, there’s half a dozen uniforms here, plus us. That’s pretty light given the severity of the case. I can make a call and have this place swarming with uniforms. I’ll close the road off. I’ll have uniforms on the gates twenty-four-seven, and you won’t be able to take a crap without asking an officer to pass you the toilet roll. That kind of police presence attracts the media, Mr Cartwright. You know the worst thing about a case like this is when the media are fed the wrong information. They’ll pr
int anything, you know. That kind of publicity can destroy a man. Years and years of hard work all gone in the blink of an eye. It’s all about reputation, Mr Cartwright. You do understand, don’t you?”
Sergio leaned in and whispered in Cartwright’s ear, then straightened as Cartwright nodded his agreement to him, then turned to face Myers.
He said nothing.
“I’d like to have a look around, Mr Cartwright. If I may, of course. There may be some evidence. Do you think you can ask your men to leave the scene for us? Maybe they could wait in the house until we’re ready to talk to them?”
“We’ll co-operate where we can, Mr Myers,” said Sergio. “You may search the grounds, but not the houses. For that, you’ll need a warrant, I’m afraid. It’s a sensitive time. I’m sure you understand.”
“And the men?” asked Fox.
“I’ll make sure nobody else leaves.”
“Thank you, Sergio,” said Myers. “Do you happen to have a guest list?”
He knew that Casey would be searching for one, but it would be interesting to see the difference in the two lists if there was any.
“Of course,” said Sergio, with a smile. “I’ll get you a fresh copy.”
Chapter Twenty
A single rope hung from the high beams in John Cartwright’s barn. It emerged from the shadows and clung to the man’s neck like the iron grip of something not of this world.
The man had done well. His bravado had not entirely been hot air and ego. He had endured far more than many men, and Harvey considered his scars to have been well-earned.
But there were few men who could resist the charms of Harvey’s imagination. It was time to get serious.
“Who gave the order to kill Julia?” asked Harvey, his voice flat and emotionless, as if he was asking for the time.
The rope around the man’s neck gave his sneering laugh a hoarse rasp and he sucked in a shallow breath; it was all his broken ribs would allow.
Harvey stepped closer to him. The rope was taut and allowed only the man’s tiptoes to steady his body and take some of his weight. It was the perfect balance of life and death.