Night of Fire: (DI Angus Henderson Book 6)

by Iain Cameron

‘I can see you walking down the hill in this drizzle,’ the DI said, ‘you’d be bitching all the way there. I’d never hear the end of it.’

  ‘It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind, but I didn’t mean walking, I meant taking the bus.’

  He stifled a laugh. ‘Is this the new you? More eco-friendly? Or a desire to walk everywhere to improve your… your fitness?’

  ‘I’m pleading the fifth. Turn right here.’

  Henderson turned into Sun Street, a tightly packed street of brick-fronted terraced houses, although parking was allowed only on one side of the road, just like the Barton’s house in St John’s Terrace, a couple of streets away. At this time of the morning, commuters had left for work and stay-at-home mums and dads must have been out shopping, as the detectives had no trouble finding a place to park.

  When Henderson got out of the car he realised what at first sight looked like a continuous row of similar terraced houses was deceptive. Close up they were all different: some were large with rooms in the roof, others slim town houses. They walked to a house near the end of the road and knocked on the door. He waited a minute and reached for the door knocker again when it swung open. It was no surprise to find Kevin McLaren home at this time of the day as Henderson knew he worked from home as a self-employed computer programmer. A call ahead made sure he didn’t have any plans to go out.

  ‘Good morning, Mr McLaren,’ Henderson said showing his ID card. ‘DI Henderson and Sergeant Walters, Surrey and Sussex Police.’

  ‘Ah, yes I remember you both from the warehouse. It’s a good job you told me you were coming as I often work wearing headphones.’

  ‘How do you manage with home deliveries?’

  ‘If they’re persistent and decide they don’t want to leave a card, they bang on the door or rap on the window until I hear them. It often gives me a real fright, I can tell you. Come in.’

  The hallway was tight, only allowing one body to pass at any one time, but tastefully decorated with pastel painted walls and light coloured wood flooring. He led them into the living room, more wood flooring and as to be expected from a young guy in a well-paid job, plenty of expensive hi-fi equipment and a large television. He offered coffee which they accepted, and both detectives sat down on the squishy settee.

  ‘No computer gear,’ Henderson said quietly, an unnecessary precaution due to the music playing in the kitchen and the rattle and grind of a fancy coffee machine.

  ‘He must have an office somewhere else in the house if he’s a self-employed computer programmer. Goes with the territory.’

  ‘Probably in the basement. It’s a nice place.’

  ‘I think so too and it’s giving me some ideas for redecorating my flat.’

  ‘You are joking? It’s only been a couple of months since you did it last time.’

  ‘Nine, to be exact, but I’m getting tired of it.’

  McLaren came back into the room bearing mugs and biscuits.

  ‘How’s the investigation going?’ he asked as he passed the mugs to the detectives.

  ‘It was always going to be a slow process,’ Henderson said. ‘Fire destroys so much evidence, and being in a warehouse on an industrial estate, no witnesses. We’re building our knowledge of Marc’s life piece by piece.’

  ‘You didn’t find any forensic information you could use?’ McLaren said, taking a seat opposite.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. We still don’t know for certain if his assailant incapacitated him in some way with a drug or a spray, but we suspect this to be the case.’

  ‘You’re assuming they did, I suppose, because it wouldn’t be easy to come up behind someone and cover them with petrol. Can I ask–’

  ‘Hold on sir. This isn’t a Q&A session or an update for interested parties. We’re here to talk to you and it’s for you to give us information, not the other way round.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m so used to asking questions in my work, and I do find the investigation you’re involved in interesting. Ask away.’

  ‘Take us through the morning when you discovered Marc’s body. I don’t want you to start at the point you walked into the Weald warehouse but twenty minutes or so before.’

  ‘Twenty minutes before? That would take me back here as I live only ten, fifteen minutes from the there. I got up at the normal time, around seven, and about half-past, I drove over to the warehouse.’

  ‘Try to visualise the industrial estate and the Weald warehouse as you approached. Did you notice any strange cars, people hanging about who didn’t look like they should be there; anything unusual?’

  ‘Ok. The first thing I noticed was Marc’s car.’

  ‘Why did you think he left it there?’

  ‘I assumed he went out drinking with some of the team the night before. He did it now and again and would get a lift back to the estate in the morning from a neighbour who works there.’

  ‘Were you working in the warehouse the previous night?’

  ‘I was, but I left early knowing I’d be there for most of the next day.’

  ‘Ok. Did you notice anything else?’

  ‘The door of the warehouse was closed and locked, just as I expected. I opened the door and saw him lying there. I couldn’t miss him as he was right in front of me. I can still see it when I close my eyes. It took me a minute or so to understand what I was looking at and when I did, I puked in the corner and then I called you.’

  ‘Did Marc have any enemies?’

  ‘I’ve thought about this and I’ve made a list. There’s Guy Barton, Marc’s step-father, Jeff Pickering, and the bloke Marc worked beside, Josh Gardner. Who’s on yours?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say. Why have you included Guy Barton?’

  ‘Well, it’s obvious, don’t you think? He and Marc had a big fall out and ended up in a fight, and if he tells you that he doesn’t want to join Weald, he’s a liar. He’s desperate to get his feet in there but never would with Marc being a member.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting,’ Walters said, ‘that Guy killed Marc so he could join Weald?’

  ‘I suppose it sounds like it,’ he said looking less confident for the first time that day, ‘but I didn’t mean to. What I’m trying to say is, it’s an accumulation of issues between the two of them.’ He held up three fingers and counted them off: ‘One, there’s the fight. Two, Marc having an affair with Guy’s wife, Lily. Three, Guy not being able to join Weald. I think it’s enough to arrest him at least. What do you think?’

  ‘Why did you put Josh Gardner on your list?’

  ‘I suppose I’ve always found him creepy. Marc got on with him fine at work, he had to, but he didn’t like him. He told me Gardner was secretly trying to steal his job and his girlfriend.’

  ‘Which girlfriend are you referring to?’

  ‘Christine Sutherland. Gardner might have fancied her, but the poor sap had no chance. She was besotted with Marc and would never leave him for a rat like Gardner.’

  **

  Henderson returned to his office after talking to Kevin McLaren. He dumped his folder of notes on the desk and walked over to the staff restaurant, a good opportunity to mull over some of the things discussed in the interview and buy a snack. He met DS Edwards coming the other way.

  ‘Hi Angus, I was about to call you.’

  ‘About anything in particular?’

  ‘To tell you the ACC is cock-a-hoop about you guys bagging the house robbers. He even dug out a bottle of 15-year-old scotch to celebrate. I don’t make a habit of drinking at four o’clock in the afternoon, but as the man has been causing me so much grief lately, it would be churlish to refuse.’

  ‘Aye, I would do the same, but I’d probably ask for a refill.’

  ‘How are the interviews with house robbers going?’

  ‘Slow at first, but once the SOCOs had a chance to go over the house where the two scroats live in Hove, they both caved in. They found jewellery, handbags and electrical equipment, much of which we can tie back to specific robb
eries. They’re now at the deal stage. If they tell us about a dozen robberies they did in Surrey, will we go easy on the charges?’

  ‘My advice is don’t. I would rather sacrifice a few points on clean-up rates to see those two locked up for a long time. Their antics have increased my grey hair count no end.’

  ‘I’ll pass on your comments to Gerry, but I’m leaving the final decision to him.’

  ‘Is that wise? It’s such a high profile case.’

  ‘I think it is. Gerry’s more than capable. He’s got his DI board coming up in a month, the more experience and responsibility he gets under his belt, the more he’s likely to impress them.’

  ‘Now I think about it, I can see how this could solve another problem.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Danny Urquhart.’

  ‘What’s the latest? I haven’t spoken to him in ages. He’s been off work for months.’

  ‘Four and a half to be precise. He’s now developed some respiratory illness which is expected to keep him off for another three months. In my opinion, he’s now forty-eight and I don’t think he’ll be coming back. I’m in the market for another DI.’

  ‘So, you’re thinking you might have an opening for a newly minted DI Hobbs?’

  ‘Could be. Watch this space. How are you getting on with the Lewes Murder? Any good news to report?’

  He summarised progress so far. It didn’t amount to much after ten days of investigation, but he knew from the outset it wouldn’t be a case that could be solved easily. Edwards departed a few minutes later, less jolly than before, but nevertheless still buoyed at having the house robbers in custody.

  Henderson arrived back at his office, coffee in one hand, doughnut wrapped in a serviette in the other, and under his arm, The Argus. With no free hand, he didn’t have a chance to glance at the paper on his walk back. Now, seated behind his desk with the coffee cup uncapped and the doughnut unwrapped, he eagerly laid the newspaper out in front of him.

  In the last twenty-four hours, he’d passed on to Rob Tremain two stories. One, the capture of the housewife robbers, and the second, their progress or otherwise on the Lewes murder. Predictably, the robberies dominated pages one to three, page one with the sensational news, two and three with a timeline of the robber’s crimes and an analysis of the police effort. Henderson felt annoyed that the house robberies appeared yet again on page one, but tempered by the belief it would be for the last time.

  To his great relief, the comments supplied to Tremain were credited to, ‘a spokesperson from Sussex Police,’ as he did not want to alert the Assistant Chief Constable or Professional Standards as to his involvement with The Argus’s quick release of the story. In the main, the articles were well-written and balanced, and when the police received a mention, it focussed on what had been achieved, not on how long it took.

  On page five, he found the Lewes murder. He couldn’t feed Tremain much as he didn’t have much to give, but the journalist had done as Henderson suggested, and produced a profile of the murder victim and interviewed his mother and step-father. Despite the best efforts of the staff photographer, Jeff Pickering’s picture had all the qualities of a police mug shot, or someone recently released from prison.

  The tone of the article was good, praising the work of the police and including some quotes from the Senior Investigating Officer, Detective Inspector Angus Henderson. He couldn’t detect any of the harpy cackling of previous reports about the housewife robberies, but was fearful that if he didn’t get a result soon, it would start all over again.

  FOURTEEN

  She pressed the ‘print’ key and immediately, the machine in the corner began to pump out her report. Christine Sutherland smiled to herself, the satisfaction of another difficult job done well.

  She walked over to the printer in slow, deliberate steps, causing Rashid, the twenty-two-year-old accounting trainee to look up from his work and take a long look. She liked men looking at her; and why wouldn’t she? It took a lot of money to look like this: the smart clothes, nice make-up and styled hair, and it would be a shame if it was only appreciated by herself and the two lesbians who inhabited the Orders Office.

  She collated the report, stapled it together and placed it into the in-tray of the company’s Commercial Director, Brendan Flaherty. Christine did the work and Flaherty, the smoothly-dressed and cologne-doused assistant to the MD, got all the credit. Flaherty and the company’s MD, Francis Quinlan, were cousins from the same village in County Mayo where they played football together, wandered in and out of each other’s houses and often ate jam sandwiches together on the back step, like two characters from a turn of the century misery novel. Sutherland knew, no matter how well she performed, she could never get close to Quinlan all the while Flaherty still lived and breathed. Now where did such a wicked thought spring from?

  ‘Christine!’

  She looked up to see Flaherty waving her into his office. Many girls in the building were wary of the man. As far as she knew, he hadn’t done anything physical to alarm them, he valued his exalted position too much to make such a fundamental error. This included a fancy set of wheels, trips abroad and the money to dress like an investment banker with heavy pinstripes, white shirt and a handkerchief in his top pocket.

  If not physical, it would be the hungry way he looked at them, in the queue for the canteen, as they bent over the photocopier or when he leaned in closer to look at the report they were writing. Sutherland didn’t mind, as she could handle herself and didn’t feel shy about using her not insubstantial assets for personal gain.

  She walked into his large office and stood behind a pair of visitors’ chairs, not giving him the satisfaction of sitting down and allowing him to ogle her legs.

  ‘Yes, Brendan?’

  ‘With Marc gone, Francis has asked me to take over some of his duties. One of the big things coming up is the opportunity to present a bid to Yate’s Supermarkets next month. They’re a big outfit in Northern Ireland and Francis has set his heart on getting in there. It’s run by a family of prods, Orangemen by all accounts, but he’s willing to overlook their misguided beliefs in the interest of commerce,’ he said with a sneer.

  ‘Why isn’t Josh Gardner doing it? Aren’t new accounts his responsibility?’

  ‘He’s too busy, he’s got a lot on his plate at the moment. Can you please sit down, you’re making me nervous.’

  Reluctantly she did as he asked. ‘Maybe Francis is frightened that Josh might cock it up.’

  Flaherty smiled but without humour. ‘As I say, he’s got plenty to do right now. Bottom line, Francis wants me to do it.’

  ‘Ok.’

  ‘I want you to be there with me.’

  ‘I see.’ Of course she could see, the man avoided doing presentations like a cat avoiding bath night. On the basis of past experience, she would not only be required to prepare the presentation, he would feign lack of knowledge or a sore throat and she would have to present the thing as well. Not to mention coming to her hotel room door to thank her for her efforts while holding a bottle of Bushmills or whatever they drank over there.

  ‘It won’t be an overnight stay, in case you’re wondering. We’ll catch a flight in the morning from Gatwick to Belfast and I’ll have you back here by tea-time.’

  He gave a quick synopsis of what he wanted her to do before saying, ‘Speak to Vicky, she’s got all the details.’

  This was her signal to return to her rabbit hole. Flaherty was a man of few words, not for fear of revealing company secrets to gossip-hungry employees, but the idiot had nothing to say. He was an empty vessel, dependent on the skill of people like her to make him shine.

  She walked away, annoyed that he didn’t acknowledge Marc’s passing in some way. The man was an Irish Catholic, for God’s sake, honouring the dead went with all the sacraments he uttered in cold chapels under the stare of a pink-faced priests. It cost nothing to say: ‘God rest his soul,’ or ‘May he rest in peace,’ or some other fitting epit
aph to tack on to the end of his bland, ‘with Marc gone’ comment. Instead, he behaved as if Marc’s death had become nothing more than a minor inconvenience, something to be overcome with a slice of foresight and planning. Perhaps Flaherty’s demise in a rather unfortunate accident would not be such a bad idea after all.

  She ate lunch at her desk, a prepared salad of chicken and coleslaw, washed down with a bottle of mineral water. She was considered mad by many of the porky ladies who inhabited this building, for bringing in her own food when a range of Quinlan lasagne, quiche, chicken and all manner of savouries were available free of charge in the canteen.

  These same ladies might feel able to let themselves go, enjoying as they did the security of a faithful husband and the love of dutiful children, but she couldn’t. Her curvy figure was but one weapon in her armoury, and in her bid to become a millionaire before the age of thirty-five, she needed all the weapons she could muster.

  At three, she walked over to the drinks machine and returned to her desk with a cup of coffee. On cue, Margaret Dee, the Accounts Payable Assistant who sat closest to Sutherland’s desk, began packing up her things, her part-time day now at an end.

  ‘Goodbye Margaret,’ Sutherland said. ‘I do hope your cat is feeling better by the time you get home.’ If not, Sutherland would lose the assistance of the feline-besotted woman for weeks, as she tried to come to terms with her grief.

  ‘Oh, I do hope so too. He’s been so poorly lately, but the vet assures me these new pills will work.’

  Margaret had the same organised and methodical approach to work as Sutherland, not surprising as she’d been the one who hired her. Margaret not only left her workspace tidy, but made out a list of all the jobs she intended doing the following day, and thanks to her meticulous attitude never came back unexpectedly to retrieve something forgotten.

  Sutherland walked over to Margaret’s desk and rummaged through her stacked in-tray, giving anyone who saw her the impression she was looking for an invoice. A minute or two later, she headed back to her desk holding a small pile of invoices and underneath, Margaret’s little black diary.