Truth Will Out

by A. D. Garrett

  He folded his arms and leaned against the wall, listening to the sound of raised voices and running in the corridor outside. Sergeant Benton burst through the door first.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he demanded.

  Fennimore looked around him. ‘I appear to be waiting,’ he said.

  Two constables in uniform piled in after Benton.

  ‘All right, Sarge?’ one of them said. ‘You need to lean off the rail, sir.’ Benton stood three feet away from Fennimore, his bull-neck pulled tight into his collar and his big hands clenched into fists.

  Fennimore glanced down at the plastic rail. ‘This?’ He twisted to get a better look. ‘Oh, don’t tell me – it’s a panic alarm and I’ve just been and gone and set it off.’ He stared dolefully at the two constables. ‘Sorry about that.’

  The two men looked to their sergeant for instructions.

  ‘False alarm,’ he said briskly. ‘Shut it off.’

  ‘Now you’re here,’ Fennimore said, leaning off the rail, ‘I’m ready for that chat.’

  Benton’s jaw tightened, but he managed a tight smile and dragged out a chair from against the back wall. Fennimore knew the suspect was always seated furthest from the door, so he ignored the offer, taking a chair on the other side of the table, his back to the camera.

  ‘You got that wrong, Professor,’ Benton said.

  ‘Not if we’re just having a chat,’ Fennimore said, with a smile.

  Benton took the seat opposite Fennimore with bad grace and flushed darkly.

  A moment later one of the silent cops from the hotel came in and said, ‘Uh, Sarge?’

  ‘Just … stay by the door, okay?’ Benton said.

  The detective shrugged and moved to stand behind Fennimore.

  ‘Do you know Carl Lazko?’ Benton said.

  ‘Ye-es.’ That was not a question Fennimore had anticipated.

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘He’s a journalist – I’m—’

  ‘I asked how.’

  Fennimore said, ‘He’s famous in these parts, isn’t he?’

  Benton clearly didn’t find that a satisfactory answer. ‘When was the last time you were in contact with Mr Lazko?’

  ‘Yesterday. Why?’

  ‘You didn’t contact him this morning?’

  ‘I tried to – he’s not answering his phone.’

  ‘You left a message?’

  ‘Not this time.’

  ‘So there were other calls.’

  ‘Several,’ Fennimore said, irritated. ‘Look—’

  ‘In fact, Professor Fennimore, you’ve made more than twenty calls to Lazko’s mobile over the past week, eight of them today.’

  ‘You’re monitoring my calls?’

  ‘What were those calls about?’

  ‘You mean you don’t know?’

  ‘Answer the question,’ Benton said. ‘It’s none of your damn business,’ Fennimore said evenly. Benton watched him coldly for a few moments. ‘You and Lazko go way back,’ he said. ‘All that shit he stirred up about you and that cop from the Met after your wife disappeared.’

  ‘Go to hell.’

  Benton spread his hands. ‘Don’t get me wrong – if it was me, I’d want to rip his tongue out.’

  Fennimore leaned back in his chair and stared at the sergeant. Why was Benton dragging up Rachel’s murder? It made no sense.

  ‘What I don’t get is, why now?’ Benton said. ‘I mean, it’s been, what – five years? Of course, we know Lazko called you multiple times when you got yourself in the news after that MOJ lecture. I can understand you’d be pissed off – he’s been a thorn in your side for years, hasn’t he?’

  Fennimore continued to stare at the cop. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘You aren’t monitoring my calls, you’re monitoring Lazko’s.’ It had to be about the Mitchell case. But they couldn’t know that Fennimore was working on the review – Benton would have mentioned that, if he’d known. So what the hell was going on?

  Benton was still talking and Fennimore caught the last few words:

  ‘—decide to give a taste of his own medicine, did you?’

  ‘Wait – you think I was badgering Lazko?’

  Benton raised his eyebrows. ‘Twenty calls in the last week, Professor. Speaks for itself.’

  ‘I think you have it arse-about,’ Fennimore said, smiling. ‘You think this is funny?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Do you deny that you have made repeated calls to Mr Lazko?’

  ‘No. But I don’t confirm it either. Now get to the point or I’m leaving.’

  ‘All right. I put it to you, Professor Fennimore, that you’ve been stalking Mr Lazko.’

  Fennimore laughed.

  Benton didn’t. ‘You deny that you broke into Mr Lazko’s flat?’

  ‘What, from Aberdeen? The break-in happened, what, five – no, six days ago? In fact, I was talking to Lazko in my apartment when he got the call.’

  Benton looked over Fennimore’s shoulder towards the silent detective and Fennimore heard the door open and close softly behind him.

  ‘Mr Lazko’s flat was broken into this morning,’ Benton said.

  ‘Again? Poor bastard.’

  The sergeant’s expression did not change and Fennimore experienced a thud of disquiet.

  ‘Has something happened to him?’ he said. ‘Is he all right?’

  Benton smirked. ‘Your fake concern is very touching.’

  ‘Okay – that’s it.’ Fennimore stood.

  ‘Sit down,’ Benton said.

  Fennimore strode to the door.

  ‘Professor Fennimore—’

  Fennimore was through the door and into the corridor. People came running from both directions; Benton must have deployed the alarm. A uniform cop grabbed him by the arm as the sergeant emerged from the interview room.

  Fennimore shook himself free.

  ‘Behave yourself or I will arrest you.’

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‘On suspicion of the murder of Carl Lazko,’ Benton said.

  Fennimore stared at the cop. ‘Lazko’s dead?’

  ‘Nice,’ Benton said. ‘Did you rehearse that in the mirror?’ Fennimore allowed himself to be escorted back to the interview room. This time Benton seated him firmly in the interviewee’s chair, facing the camera. The sergeant’s silent colleague sat next to Benton, on the other side of the table.

  ‘Where were you between seven-thirty and eight-thirty this morning?’ Benton asked.

  ‘You’re making an idiot of yourself,’ Fennimore said. ‘I didn’t kill Lazko – I was working with him.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Benton said.

  ‘Language, Sergeant.’ Fennimore checked the recorder ostentatiously. ‘Or are we still not recording this?’

  ‘Come on, Prof – you must hate Lazko’s guts.’

  ‘Must have,’ Fennimore repeated, and Benton frowned.

  ‘Must have hated,’ Fennimore said. ‘Past tense.’

  The detective’s face darkened and Fennimore watched with impartial interest as he balled up his great hairy fists. But before Benton could act, the interview room door opened and an affable-looking gent poked his head around the door.

  ‘Ah, Professor,’ he said, beaming happily at Fennimore, completely ignoring Benton. He wore a pale grey suit over a shirt so white it seemed to shine, and a lemon pocket handkerchief that was a perfect match to his tie. He crossed the room swiftly, trailing the aroma of expensive cologne.

  ‘And you are?’ Benton said.

  He offered Fennimore his hand. ‘Andrew Haverford.’

  Fennimore recognized the name and so it seemed did Benton – Fennimore thought he saw a shiver of anxiety in the sergeant’s eyes.

  It seemed only polite to stand, so Fennimore pushed his seat back and shook Haverford’s hand; it was smooth and dry.

  ‘Such a pleasure to meet you, Professor,’ Haverford said. ‘I’ve admired your work from afar for many years.’

  Haverfor
d half-turned and raised a quizzical eyebrow at Benton, as though the detective had popped up from under the table. ‘And who have we here?’

  ‘Let me introduce you to Detective Sergeant Benton,’ Fennimore said, unable to resist an approximation of Haverford’s urbane good manners. ‘Sergeant Benton, Mr Haverford is the lead solicitor working on the Graham Mitchell appeal.’

  By now Benton’s high colouring had toned down a few shades.

  ‘And Professor Fennimore is our forensic consultant,’ Haverford said. ‘He’s here at Mr Lazko’s behest.’ He waited and Benton’s brow furrowed in perplexity. ‘It’s a terrible business,’ Haverford added, and for a fleeting moment he looked genuinely upset. ‘I understand you’re investigating Mr Lazko’s death?’

  Benton sucked his teeth. ‘Trying to,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Mr Haverford gazed at Fennimore and Benton as though mortified. ‘I’m so sorry – forgive the intrusion – I had no idea you were consulting on this, Professor.’

  ‘Mr Fennimore is assisting us with our enquiries.’

  Haverford frowned. ‘Surely you don’t suspect the professor of Mr Lazko’s murder?’ He studied Benton’s face as though peering in through a fogged window. ‘Oh.’ He looked shocked. ‘I see.’

  ‘So, if you wouldn’t mind, sir …’ Benton glanced towards the door.

  ‘Oh, no, no, no,’ Haverford said. ‘I think I shall stay – this should be fascinating – if you don’t mind my advising you, Professor?’

  Fennimore felt it would be rude to refuse.

  Haverford brightened. ‘Splendid.’ He swept the free chair out from the table and sat, folding his hands neatly in his lap and watching the detective sergeant with rapt attention.

  Benton glanced sideways at his colleague, cleared his throat and began: ‘A few minutes ago, I asked you where you were between seven-thirty and eight-thirty today.’

  Haverford raised a finger. ‘Forgive me. Has Professor Fennimore been cautioned?’

  ‘We’re just having a chat,’ Benton said, through gritted teeth.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So—’

  ‘Sergeant Benton may well have covered this already – if so, I apologize,’ Haverford interrupted again, turning to Fennimore. ‘You are free to leave at any time – and you are not obliged to answer any questions.’

  ‘He’s a forensic scientist,’ Benton said. ‘He knows the drill.’

  ‘Always best to be clear, I find. Adherence to protocols protects everyone concerned,’ Haverford added with a flinty edge to his voice. ‘Now where were we?’

  ‘My whereabouts between seven-thirty to eight-thirty this morning,’ Fennimore said.

  ‘Do you recall?’ Haverford said with an encouraging smile.

  ‘As it happens, I do.’

  ‘And?’ Benton said.

  ‘I was on the seven-oh-five flight from Aberdeen to London.’

  The detective sergeant looked sick.

  ‘I hired a car at the airport and drove out to see a potential witness for the Mitchell appeal. After that I visited a consultant oncologist at Basildon Hospital.’

  Mr Haverford looked from Fennimore to Benton, an amused expression on his face. ‘I hope you don’t think me officious, Sergeant, but you might check those details.’ He fluttered his hands. ‘They should be easily verifiable.’

  Benton stared hard at Fennimore for a few seconds, then he stood abruptly, sending his chair skittering across the floor. ‘Watch him,’ he told the silent detective.

  ‘I think we can spare five minutes,’ Haverford said, checking his own gold watch in preference to the ugly flip clock on the wall.

  The detective sergeant continued to the door. ‘If he tries to leave, arrest him,’ he said, without looking back. ‘If he tries to hit the panic rail, arrest him. If he starts poking about with the recorder – arrest him.’

  Benton returned a few minutes later and slid into the chair opposite Fennimore. ‘Tell me about Graham Mitchell,’ he said.

  Fennimore stared through him.

  Haverford leaned forward, placing both hands palm down on the table. ‘You have two choices, Sergeant Benton.’ This time there was no lightness in his tone. ‘You can charge Professor Fennimore or you can release him.’

  The pulse throbbing in the detective’s temple said he preferred the first option.

  ‘But if you do charge him, I will advise my client to sue for false imprisonment, malicious prosecution, misfeasance and …’ He gazed at the ceiling. ‘Oh, I’m sure something else will come to me.’

  Benton broke eye contact and shook his head.

  Haverford brightened and said, ‘Well, now that’s cleared up, we’ll leave you to your investigations, Mr Benton.’

  31

  A properly qualified, responsible journalist is a practising scientist.

  LAWRENCE CRANBERG IN JOURNALISM EDUCATOR

  Haverford didn’t speak a word until they were safely inside his car.

  ‘Your assistant, Josh Brown, contacted me,’ he said, his tone subdued, all trace of amusement gone from his face. ‘I knew immediately why they had taken you in – I’d already heard of Mr Lazko’s …’ He took a breath.

  ‘What happened?’ Fennimore said. ‘How did he …?’

  ‘I don’t know. He missed a morning meeting at my offices. I couldn’t raise him by phone, so I sent one of my paralegals to his home. She discovered the body.’ He checked over his shoulder, as though afraid they might be overheard. ‘Her description suggests that he was tortured.’

  ‘What? Why? Was he working on any leads he hadn’t shared with me?’

  ‘No – at least I don’t think so. We were in daily contact and – as far as I know – since his return to Chelmsford he’d been trying to get his flat in order.’ Haverford drove out of the car park. ‘Where do you want to go?’

  ‘Lazko’s flat,’ Fennimore said.

  But they couldn’t get within fifty feet of it. Uniform cops stood duty at the two stretches of police tape; a plain white crime scene unit van was parked inside the cordon. Onlookers and journalists crowded the tape and TV cameras pointed towards the house, filming the comings and goings of white-suited CSIs.

  ‘It’s more than they did after the break-in,’ Haverford said. ‘The police told Carl that no one was available to process the scene. He was advised to lock the place up and leave it untouched – they would “try and get someone to it”.’

  ‘So he cleaned up before the CSIs were sent in?’

  ‘He had no choice – the place wasn’t secure.’ The solicitor tapped the steering wheel. ‘Where to now?’

  ‘My hotel.’ Fennimore gave him the post code and Haverford turned the car southward, out of town.

  ‘Is this linked to the first break-in?’ Fennimore asked, still trying to make sense of what he’d just heard. ‘Did Lazko tell you what was stolen?’

  ‘Nothing. That was the most disturbing aspect of it. They broke in, turned every drawer and cupboard inside out, and then broke or tore up everything – every mirror, every piece of electrical equipment, the soft furnishings, ornaments – the lot.’

  ‘That sounds like a lot of rage.’

  ‘I suppose it might have been frustration at not finding the case files – Carl had taken those up to you in Aberdeen. He had quite a lot stored on his laptop, of course, but he had that with him.’

  ‘Are there any other copies of the files?’

  ‘In the strong room at my offices.’

  ‘How’s your security?’

  ‘Good,’ Haverford said, without elaboration.

  ‘The police will have the originals, too.’ Fennimore stared out of the window, watching flat green fields flash by. ‘So it wouldn’t do him any good, even if he had got Lazko’s case files. Unless the first break-in was a threat: “Back off or else.”’

  Haverford glanced at him. ‘Carl had received a number of threats.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since he started looking into the Mi
tchell case.’

  ‘He didn’t mention it.’

  ‘He didn’t want you to know,’ Haverford said dryly.

  ‘Did Lazko keep these threats?’

  ‘He gave them to me for safe-keeping,’ Haverford said. ‘Carl had an eye on a publishing contract if we succeeded in proving Mitchell’s innocence.’

  ‘Sounds like Lazko,’ Fennimore said with grudging admiration.

  ‘He recorded some of the calls, too.’

  ‘The police will need access. But I’d like to take copies before they get their hands on anything.’

  Haverford nodded. ‘I’ll make arrangements.’

  ‘Good. I’ll do the work myself, reduce any chances of damaging the evidence.’

  ‘Do you think whoever was threatening Carl came back for the letters – tortured him to find out where they were?’ Haverford asked.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Fennimore said. ‘Or maybe he just decided to carry out his threats.’

  They were silent for some minutes.

  ‘So,’ Haverford said at last, ‘your assistant tells me you spoke to the new suspect’s wife. Is that good news for Mr Mitchell?’

  Fennimore smiled. ‘Jury’s out on that.’ He talked Haverford through the visit to Hazle’s widow and the oncologist.

  Twenty-five miles down the road, they swept off the A13, driving along country lanes to the inn where Fennimore and Josh were staying.

  ‘Josh has the widow’s diaries and letters,’ Fennimore said. ‘I want you to keep hold of the originals.’

  Haverford glanced across at him. ‘So you intend to continue with the case review?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It could be dangerous. I would understand if you wanted to reconsider.’

  Fennimore turned to the solicitor. ‘I can’t drop it now – it just got interesting.’

  Haverford relaxed. ‘I was hoping you would say that.’ He paused. ‘You know, you and Carl are – were – rather alike.’