Night of Fire: (DI Angus Henderson Book 6)

by Iain Cameron

  ‘You’re here about Marc’s death, I assume?’ Barton asked.

  ‘Yes we are, sir,’ Wallop said. ‘Did you know him well?’

  ‘Of course I bloody did. We were best mates.’

  ‘How did you both meet?’

  ‘We grew up together. Went to the same primary school and then the same secondary. I left at sixteen but Marc went on to sixth-form college and then university. Even though he moved away from home, we still kept in touch.’

  Mrs Barton brought in a tray of cups and a teapot and set it down on the coffee table in the middle of the room. She poured and the detectives helped themselves to milk and sugar. Wallop took a drink, placed the cup on a coaster and lifted his notebook.

  ‘What do you do, Mr Barton?’

  ‘I’m a planning officer at Lewes District Council.’

  ‘So you do what? Approve planning applications?’

  ‘Yeah, among other things. I make site visits, study plans, talk to builders and do all the bloody paperwork the council asks me for.’

  ‘And what about you, Mrs Barton?’

  ‘I’m Managing Director of Merlin books, the romance division of Russell-Taylor publishers.’

  ‘Do you have many books in the best seller lists?’

  ‘We have two in the Sunday Times top twenty at the moment.’

  ‘Yeah, but they’re bloody pap,’ her husband said, his mouth turned down in a sneer.

  ‘Can you tell, detectives, that my husband doesn’t like romance stories? In fact, as he rarely reads at all, it hardly makes him a good judge of any book, does it?’

  ‘You don’t like those kinds of books either,’ Guy said. ‘You only do it for the money.’

  Not wishing to become involved in a domestic situation, God knows he’d seen enough of them in his first marriage, Wallop said quickly, ‘Mr Barton, where were you on the night Marc Emerson died?’

  ‘Which was when, exactly?’

  ‘A week ago yesterday: Monday, the 24th October,’ his wife said.

  ‘A few mates of mine were working at the Weald Bonfire Society warehouse and after they finished their stint, about ten, we met up and went to the pub.’

  ‘Can anyone verify this?’

  ‘Talk to Tony Stevens or Tom Davidson at Weald, they’ll tell you. When I say I went to the pub and drank only a couple of beers, I mean it. I had two pints and came straight home. Right love?’ He looked over at his wife who nodded.

  ‘Did you see Marc that night?’

  ‘No, but someone said he was going along to the warehouse later.’

  Lily turned to her husband. ‘Why were you so interested in him, all of a sudden? You haven’t spoken to him in months.’

  ‘I thought you said earlier, sir,’ Wallop said, ‘that you and Marc were the best of friends? I don’t think your wife agrees.’

  ‘We had a fall out some time back.’

  ‘A fall out?’ she said, her expression aghast. ‘The last time you both met he told you to go to hell and he never wanted to see or talk to you again.’

  ‘He sure did, and his wish has been granted.’

  Lily rose from her chair beside the window and left the room, but not before Wallop noticed tears streaming down her cheeks.

  ‘Don’t mind her. She gets like this at this time of the month.’

  Wallop nodded as if he agreed, but knew if his wife heard him say something like that he would be eating Pot Noodles in the garage for a fortnight.

  ‘Was your wife close to Marc?’

  ‘Basically, everyone who works in the Bonfire Society socialises together. Lily’s in it but I’m not, I sort of tag along. They go out for meals, go down the pub, a few go to the Amex to see the Albion, others to the rugby.’

  ‘Sounds like a big happy family.’

  ‘Yeah, something like that.’

  ‘Did you ever think of joining Weald?’ Sunderam asked.

  ‘Nah, not me. I don’t want to join a club that would have me as a member, to paraphrase Groucho Marx. I’m not interested in doing crappy jobs that other people don’t want to do. I get enough of that at work.’

  ‘Why did you and Marc fall out?’ Wallop asked.

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘We are trying to find out as much as we can about Marc and the circumstances leading to his death. We will be the judge of what is relevant or not.’

  Wallop had learned about the power of silence from DI Henderson. Too often in an interview, he would be tempted to say something to fill the awkward void, but the DI taught him to sit tight. As long as the interviewee knew they were expected to make the next statement, he would tough it out and wait for them to speak.

  ‘I turned down his planning application.’

  Wallop was watching his face as he spoke and noticed the faint trace of a smile; he didn’t regret doing it one bit.

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘He owns a semi in Spences Lane, yeah?’

  Wallop nodded.

  ‘He wanted to build up into the roof. His sister has a young kid and he wanted to put in a bedroom and bathroom for them to use when they visited.’

  ‘Sounds straight-forward enough, to a layman like me.’

  ‘Oh, you’re not a layman, mate. You’re a bloody expert. Everybody who sends in one of those fucking applications to me is a bloody expert. They know the subject better than me, they tell me often enough. I’m only the lowly council official whose only function is to give the bloody thing a rubber stamp.’

  His face was red and his eyes intense; the question had clearly touched a raw nerve.

  ‘Did Marc try to take advantage of his friendship with you and flout the rules?’

  ‘Marc?’ he said, a look of surprise on his face as if Wallop’s words had brought him back to earth. ‘Nah nothing like that. I turned down his application because I found out he was fucking my wife.’

  NINE

  DI Henderson pulled out his ID card and opened the double doors leading to the interview suite. He headed straight into Interview Room 3 and took a seat opposite Jeff Pickering.

  ‘Thank you for coming to see me, Mr Pickering,’ Henderson said.

  Pickering nodded.

  In reality, an interview room was the one neutral place left. Henderson did not want to see him at home with his wife there, and Pickering’s suggestion of the Dorset bar did not merit consideration. The man in the ‘person of interest’ seat was not what Henderson would call handsome, not helped by the bruising on his face and tape over his nose, but no doubt acceptable to an overweight lady who didn’t go out much and probably didn’t ask what her spouse got up to.

  He had a thick mop of untidy blonde hair, small piggy eyes, a weather-beaten face and a resting expression resembling a sneer. In Glasgow, where the DI worked before coming to Sussex, it would be enough for someone to confront him and demand to know who this insulting scowl was aimed at. Pickering had obviously come straight from work as he wore a boiler suit and badly stained boots.

  Henderson explained it wasn’t a formal interview under caution, but a simple fact-finding discussion and he could leave at any time. For the same reason, he did not utilise the recording equipment or have another officer with him.

  ‘What happened to your face? Did you have a work-related accident?’

  Pickering smiled then grimaced, the effort seemingly causing him pain.

  ‘Nah, some disagreement down the pub.’

  ‘Your role would’ve been what? As perpetrator or the victim?’

  ‘Forget it; it’s nothing.’

  ‘Fair enough. I can see from your clothes you’re some kind of tradesman,’ the DI said.

  ‘Yeah.’ Pickering twisted his hefty bulk on the plastic chair, trying to get comfortable. ‘I’m a self-employed plumber.’

  ‘Have you always been self-employed?’

  He shook his head. ‘Started my apprenticeship with Booth & Son in Brighton and stayed there fifteen years. Ten, eleven years ago the pa
pers were full of stories about plumbers making fortunes doing emergency work and such, so I jumped ship and set up on my own.’

  ‘Any regrets?’

  ‘Not doing it sooner. I mean, most trades go through feast and famine at various times of the year, but not me. I’m often so busy I have to turn work away.’

  ‘How did you meet Gillian?’

  ‘She was a friend of my first wife, Joanna. When Gillian’s husband left, she started coming on to me, you know? Some might say I should have been stronger, but she’s a persuasive woman when she wants to be. In the end, my wife found out and she kicked me out. Soon after, me and Gillian got together.’

  Henderson nodded but suspected Pickering had initiated the affair and not her.

  ‘How did you get on with Gillian’s children, Marc and Anita?’

  ‘He didn’t take to me right from the off. She was ok, I suppose. She lives in Colchester and doesn’t come home often, but Marc lived under the same roof and the bugger gave me dog’s abuse.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Ach, you know what it’s like when you don’t get on with someone? Every little thing you do or say blows up in your face? Well, with him it was because I like drinking beer from a can and not using a glass, I leave milk out of the fridge and sniff too much at mealtimes, and me with a bloody sinus problem. It got to the stage we couldn’t be in the same house together and I told Gillian straight: either he goes or I fuck off back where I came from.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘I thought it might cause, you know, a crisis, but I didn’t know he’d already been planning to move out. Like the good mother’s boy he was, he’d only stayed put after the wedding to make sure his mother was all right with this new, strange man; the fucking tosspot.’

  ‘Did you get on better with Marc after he moved out?’

  He snorted. ‘We got along fine then, as I didn’t need to see him anymore. He’d only come to the house when I was out, and if I saw him in the street I would blank him and he would do the same to me. So I suppose you could say we got on a lot better after that, ha ha.’

  ‘Do you regret it, now he’s dead?’

  ‘Regret what?’

  ‘Not forging a more amicable relationship with your new step-son?’

  He shook his head. ‘Look, I don’t know if you’re divorced but when you meet another bird, it’s like the first time all over again. You don’t want to be lumbered with all the baggage that comes with her, like kids, you just want to go out and have a good time. You get me?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ he said, a small smile creasing his lips, ‘it soon wears off and now all she wants to do is watch fucking Eastenders and The Great British Bake-Off. Whereas me,’ he said pointing at his chest, ‘I do hard, physical graft and after some grub all I want to do is go down the pub and get the smells and frustrations from work out of my system; you know what I mean?’

  ‘Where were you the night Marc Emerson died, a week last Monday?’

  ‘Listen mate, I don’t want you to get the impression that just because I’m open about my dislike of the Emerson boy, means I would do something like what happened to him. Oh yeah, we had a few fights and he thumped me and I gave him as good as I got, but nothing more. I didn’t fucking kill him; no way. Why would I bother when he’d already moved away? He was no longer in my face and as far as I was concerned, no longer in my life.’

  ‘I understand, but I’d still like know where you were.’

  He sighed. ‘I was in the Dorset bar. I’m there most nights of the week and last Monday without doubt as I did two emergency call-out jobs in one day and I was in the money. Somebody must remember me buying a round, ha, ha.’

  ‘Can anyone corroborate your story?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Dave the barman, Lou my best mate, and old Joe and Harry, a couple of regulars.’

  Henderson watched Jeff Pickering walk out the front door of the building before climbing the stairs to his office. It was late in the evening and most of the detectives had gone home, so he made a note to speak to them in the morning as he wanted Jeff Pickering’s alibi to be thoroughly checked out. Henderson was aware that Pickering wouldn’t be so open in his hostility to Marc if he did kill him, but he was such an angry and objectionable sod it was hard for the DI to see past it.

  **

  Henderson parked his car in the Churchill Square Car Park, but he had no intention of doing any late-night shopping. Instead, he made his way down Ship Street and into the Lanes, a pedestrianised area of narrow streets lined either side with jewellery and antique shops.

  With most businesses in the town closed at this time of the evening, the groups of people he encountered were heading to or coming away from the numerous restaurants and bars tucked away in alleyways and side streets, some known only to locals or stumbled upon accidentally by tourists.

  A few minutes later, he walked into the Bath Arms. With leather chesterfield sofas, a good selection of ales and an airy feel, on account of the door being left open in all weathers due the shelter it received from buildings in close proximity, he liked coming here.

  He ordered a pint of Spitfire before taking a seat behind a small table to await his guest. He didn’t have long to wait before he spotted Rob Tremain walking in. If he didn’t know what he looked like and the only description he possessed was of a well-groomed individual, this guy fitted the bill.

  Henderson got up and shook his hand, and walked over to the bar to buy him a drink.

  ‘Cheers,’ Tremain said lifting his pint of ice-cold lager. ‘Here’s to many more tête-à-têtes with the forces of law and order.’

  Henderson said nothing but lifted his glass nevertheless.

  ‘How’s Rachel?’

  Henderson laughed. ‘You should know better than me, you probably see more of her than I do.’

  ‘Yeah, but my job’s like yours. You can be in the office for two days in a row and not again for the next three weeks. I haven’t seen her for ages.’

  ‘She’s doing fine. Moving into her winter programme now with the country shows finished and the national gardens winding down.’

  ‘I must admit, I like winter. You know where you are with cold weather, what to wear, what to expect. Most summers you don’t know if it’ll rain and be freezing cold or if the sun will come out and people in trousers will look overdressed. Of course,’ he said, looking the DI in the eye, ‘it’s a bad time for policemen as dark nights mean more dark deeds.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right there, but more crime is also good for crime journalists.’

  ‘Touché. How are you getting on with our Lewes burning man?’

  Henderson had met Rob Tremain many times before, at major incidents, press conferences, or one of a crowd of reporters outside court or a police station after a high profile arrest. Unlike the scruffy individuals he often encountered, with unbrushed hair, three-days’ stubble and crumpled coats, Tremain always appeared immaculately turned out, perhaps hoping to secure a spot on television news. His get-up tonight didn’t include a suit, but jeans and a jumper, bought not from the high street but from expensive boutiques, giving him the appearance of an off-duty footballer.

  ‘It’s a difficult case as I’m sure you know. A fire destroys forensic evidence and with no support from CCTV or witnesses, we’re forced to trawl through the victim’s life.’

  ‘As we’ve been doing. Are you targeting anyone in particular?’

  ‘Not yet, but you could be the first to know.’

  ‘Oh? What have I done to deserve this unusually favourable treatment from Sussex Police?’

  ‘I could let you have the inside track on the burning man case, if you tone down your reporting of the housewife assaults.’

  ‘The police trying to nobble the press? I’m not sure I like the sound of this.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to stop writing the story. All I’m asking is you dampen down the sensationalist aspects of these attacks and s
ay, move it to the inside pages. After all, we are talking about robberies here, violent and traumatic for the people involved, I know, but I’m investigating a murder.’

  ‘Look at it from my point of view,’ the reporter said. ‘The housewife assaults are happening on at least a weekly basis and it seems to me you’re no nearer catching them than when they started out.’

  ‘I would dispute that.’

  ‘Convince me.’

  Henderson outlined the steps being taken, including: increasing the number of mobile patrols, shaking down known house thieves, reacting quicker to incidents and stepping-up the forensic analysis done at crime scenes.

  ‘You’re telling me nothing new, Inspector. I’ve heard it all before.’

  ‘Listen Rob, there isn’t much else we can do, short of throwing every officer at the problem, which would be a stupid thing to do. I’m confident there’ll be a breakthrough soon.’

  Tremain looked pensive for a moment. ‘I take your point, maybe I’ve been, let’s say, too exuberant in my censure of Sussex’s finest.’

  ‘I’m glad you see sense.’

  ‘If I did decide to do something, like shift the story to the inside of the paper and reduce the amount of police criticism, what can I expect from you in return?’

  Henderson took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. ‘You will be the first to know about a breakthrough in the Lewes murder case, and I’m willing to meet you again like this to talk about progress.’

  ‘Sounds good. Looking ahead to the future, what about other cases that turn up?’

  ‘We’ll talk about other cases when the time comes; this agreement applies only to the Lewes murder.’

  ‘Fair enough, I had to ask.’

  ‘Do we have a deal?’

  They shook hands and drank to it.

  Tremain put his glass down on the table. ‘You know Inspector, my editor will be pleased to hear this. He’s been telling me for days that the robbery story has run its course and coverage should be scaled back. I’ve resisted the pressure so far but now with your generous offer on the table, I think that time has come. A good result all round, yeah?’