Night of Fire: (DI Angus Henderson Book 6)

by Iain Cameron

  She could only agree. If she did decide to kill herself and made another attempt, she would make sure it would succeed with no heroic detective within fifty miles. Such thoughts were now heresy, she didn’t have any intention of trying again. She had been in a bad place and a long dip in icy cold water seemed to have knocked that notion right out of her head. The hospital psychologist seemed to agree as they no longer needed someone to accompany her everywhere and nurses stopped looking at her as if she was some kind of exotic species.

  To avoid the sniping of the ‘more deserving cases’ lobby, she could have opted for a private room as her employer provided health insurance. Without close examination of the policy, she doubted it would cover cases of self-harm and even if it did, she would only do so if needing to recover from an operation or requiring peace to sleep, neither of which applied to her.

  She took a seat at the side of her bed to await the arrival of a doctor. She’d collared the consultant during his morning rounds and he agreed there was nothing more the hospital could do. Before releasing her, he had to obtain the agreement of the psychologist treating her and arrange for someone from Social Services to call in regularly at her home to check on her progress. She didn’t expect such a decision to be taken quickly but she didn’t feel like going back to bed. Maybe if she got bored reading her magazine she would take a wander into the day room.

  Time passed as she became engrossed in a short story in Writing magazine, her mind becoming absorbed in the plot while her business brain whirred into action, wondering why she hadn’t heard of this author before. She didn’t hear or see his approach but when the sound of shuffling feet made her look up, he was standing there.

  She tossed the magazine to one side, leapt up and threw her arms around her visitor, Detective Inspector Henderson. She nuzzled into his neck, kissing him in a bow-wave of emotion and only when they separated did she feel the tears that were tumbling down her face.

  ‘I’m so grateful for what you did,’ she said. ‘It was stupid of me, devoid of all reason.’

  ‘No need to apologise, Lily. You were under a lot of strain.’

  ‘I know but I’m eternally indebted to your timely intervention.’

  ‘Any time I’m passing.’

  She turned and removed a handful of paper hankies from the box beside her bed and dabbed her eyes.

  ‘I brought you these,’ he said handing her a couple of magazines and a pack of various pieces of cut fruit.

  ‘Thank you, you’re very thoughtful, but I feel such a fraud for taking them. I’m not ill.’

  ‘Well, I’m not taking them back, so please enjoy.’

  Henderson reached for a chair and sat facing her.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Apart from tearful interludes like this,’ she said pointing at her red, streaked face, ‘I feel good; better than could be expected.’

  ‘I’m not going to ask you why you did it, but I’d like to hear some reassurance you won’t do it again.’

  She clasped her hands in her lap. ‘What my friends don’t know because I’ve never told them, is my father committed suicide. He worked as a successful banker in the City of London and gave us a nice lifestyle with a fancy house, smart cars and good schools. One Friday evening, my sister and I were earwigging an argument my parents were having in the kitchen and that’s when we found out that he’d made an illegal trade that had cost his bank one hundred and thirty million dollars. He’d been sacked and the bank had called in the police as they suspected wrongdoing. Not long after, me, my sister and mum went out for a walk. When we came back, I found him in the garage, a hose from the exhaust pipe stuck through the car window.’

  ‘How old were you then?’

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘It must have been awful for you.’

  ‘It was, I assure you, but worse was to come. The big house, the cars, our fee-paying school, the big Christmas presents were all an illusion that collapsed under the weight of my father’s casino debts and the legal case the bank instigated to recover its missing money. My mother took to booze with an enthusiasm she once reserved for us and if not for my elder sister, Rebecca, I would never have made it beyond the teenager stage.’

  ‘It’s a terrible story.’

  ‘It is,’ she sighed. ‘On the surface of it, I’m a successful book publisher with cash in the bank and a nice house in Lewes but underneath…I don’t know, bad luck seems to follow me around.’

  ‘I always believe in making your own luck and although the events of your childhood can’t be changed, I would suggest the more recent events were a result of bad choices not bad luck.’

  ‘I can’t argue with you there. If I hadn’t procrastinated about leaving Guy and moved in with Marc, things might have turned out better. In answer to your question, would I do it again? All I can tell you is the demons that were dogging my every step since childhood drowned in Ardingly Reservoir in place of me. My sessions with the psychologist here in the hospital made me realise I needed to talk to someone like her now and again. When I get out, I’ll do that stereotypical American thing and get myself a therapist.’

  ‘Why did you choose Ardingly?’

  ‘When my father had money, he sent my sister and me to Ardingly College. I loved it there and often sailed in the reservoir. I was heartbroken when the money disappeared and we were forced to leave.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘We were sent to a state school in Haywards Heath. Much different from the place we were in before and we were bullied because of it and our posh accents.’

  ‘You didn’t do too badly, though.’

  ‘No, but you know what the Jesuits say, ‘give me a child until he is seven and I’ll give you the man.’ We both had a good grounding. My sister Rebecca got herself a good job when she left school and not only encouraged me to go to university but helped me financially.’

  ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘My sister lives with her husband and two kids in Hertfordshire and she’s invited me to stay with them until I decide what I want to do. I’ll need to take a decision on the Lewes house. I might sell it and move somewhere else or go back there; I don’t know.’

  ‘What about your job?’

  ‘Rebecca lives near a train station with good connections to London. I’ll commute from there in the meantime. I’ll go back into the office and behave as if nothing happened; the boss took ten days off; so what? They’re a stoic but supportive lot, my staff. In any case, what I do in my day job is jolly. I deal with romance and fantasy books where despite the trials and tribulations of the plot, there’s often a happy ending and a fairy-tale wedding.’

  ‘I’m glad you enjoy it. Books like that would get me down.’

  ‘I suppose in your work you see what people are really like. Not suntanned and handsome as they are in books but nasty and money grabbing, if not downright evil.’

  ‘That just about sums it up but even in crime novels–’

  ‘Hello, Lily how are you?’

  She looked up. Kevin McLaren stood there, his bulky frame blocking her view of the patients across the room. In his hand he held a large card and a punnet of grapes. Her heart rate increased, but not as a sign of affection.

  ‘What are you doing here? I told you when I saw you last time that I never wanted to see you again.’

  ‘I come in peace. I brought you this,’ he said holding up the items in his hand.

  ‘I don’t care, I don’t want them. Now get the hell out.’

  ‘Lily, I’m sorry for what happened between us. I was out of order. It was a mistake. I want to make it up to you.’

  She shook her head in frustration. How many times did she need to tell him? Women’s magazines were full of ‘when a woman says no she means no.’ Which part of this did he not get? ‘Kevin, get out, I don’t want anything to do with you.’

  ‘But Lily–’

  Henderson stood. He was six foot something but still a few inches smalle
r than McLaren and not as broad.

  ‘You heard the lady, Kevin, take your gifts and go.’

  ‘No, I won’t. Get out of my way.’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you again, leave the hospital now or I’ll throw you out.’

  ‘Yeah, you and–’

  Henderson moved quickly and grabbed McLaren’s arm and twisted it up his back.

  ‘Ah, you bastard that’s sore. This is police brutality.’

  ‘It’ll be more painful if you don’t get the hell out of here now.’

  McLaren leaned round to look at her. ‘You’ll regret this Lily.’

  ‘What, like Marc did?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t think I don’t know you were jealous of him. You looked at him with loathing every time you saw us together.’

  ‘I don’t deny it, but it was all for you Lily. I’d do anything for you.’

  From the corner of her eye she saw two hospital security guards run in. When they came closer, Henderson released his hold and handed him over to the security guards.

  ‘Did you have anything to do with killing Marc?’ Lily asked him.

  He was in the grip of the two security guards, but the sneer that crept across his face looked intentional.

  ‘Would you love me if I did?’

  THIRTY-THREE

  He shifted his feet off the footrest and sat up, the little visitor’s chair beside Walters’s desk emitting a high-pitched squeak as if Henderson had trodden on a dog’s paw. At least it wasn’t one of the chairs brought over from Sussex House as they were so rickety, a move like that and an arm or a castor would fall off.

  ‘Did McLaren look angry when he said it?’ Walters asked.

  ‘Nope. Cool as you like. I don’t think that guy ever gets flustered.’

  ‘Not even when you shoved his arm up his back?’

  ‘He looked pained but didn’t lose his rag as many in that position are prone to do.’

  ‘He’s a cool character, right enough. Shall we bring him in?’

  ‘I’m not convinced he killed Marc but he might know more than he’s telling. Bring him in, but I’ll ask Harry to do it because with me, I’d just wind him up and with you and Sally, he’d switch on the charmer.’

  ‘Are you suggesting–’

  ‘Excuse me boss,’ Phil Bentley said, standing in front of Henderson. ‘There’s a bloke called Francis Quinlan on the phone. He wants to speak to you.’

  ‘Ok, Phil. Put him through on Carol’s extension.’ He looked at Walters. ‘I wonder what he’s calling about?’

  ‘Maybe it’s about that consignment of sausages and steaks he promised to send you.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be nice?’ he said reaching for the ringing phone.

  ‘Detective Inspector Henderson here.’

  ‘Good morning Detective Henderson, it’s Francis Quinlan from Quinlan Foods. How are you this cold December morning?’

  ‘Not bad. Looking forward to a break at Christmas, if I’m truthful.’

  ‘Ah, me too. It’s been bedlam here. I don’t care if I never see another turkey stuffing.’

  ‘I’ll bet. Now, what can I do for you?’

  ‘One of my staff members, Cindy Summer, is missing.’

  ‘Define missing. For how long; what have you done to try and locate her?’

  ‘Four days but what you must understand, Inspector, Cindy has never, I repeat, never missed a day’s work in the six years she’s worked for me. She’s a diamond, she really is.’

  ‘Cindy Summer, you say?’ Henderson said repeating the name for Walters’s benefit. She nodded. Good, because the name meant nothing to him.

  ‘Yes, she works in Accounts. I sent someone around to her flat in Hove but her car’s not there and her neighbours haven’t seen her for days. Even a girl in the office who’s her best friend can’t raise her on her phone and she’s not replying to texts. I’m really worried in light of what happened to Marc.’

  Henderson was tempted to say, ‘call uniform, they deal with missing persons,’ but he stopped. ‘We’ll be right over. Gather up as much information about Cindy as you can before we arrive.’

  ‘Thank you Inspector, I really appreciate it.’

  Henderson put down the phone and turned to Walters. ‘Cindy Summer from Quinlan’s has gone missing. I said someone would go over and take a look. You and I can go, everyone else is working on the Barton and Fenton files for the CPS.’

  ‘Ok.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘I remember now, I thought her name rang a bell,’ Walters said as they headed downstairs. ‘Cindy stopped me and Seb when we went to Quinlan’s in early November to talk to Josh Gardner and Christine Sutherland.’

  ‘What did she want?’ Henderson asked, opening the door of the building and walking outside.

  ‘She said we should be looking at either Josh or Christine for Marc’s killer. Josh worked beside Marc in sales and was jealous of him, she said, and Christine used to go out with Marc and was besotted by him. My notes are all in the file.’

  Henderson opened the car door and climbed in. ‘Did you follow it up?’

  ‘Yeah, we talked about both of them in the team briefings. She didn’t have anything to add but at that stage of the investigation it made me look closer at Sutherland and Gardner.’

  He sighed. ‘With the conclusion we all know about.’

  ‘Yes indeed. She looks odd too.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Small, elfish, pale complexion with straight black hair and wide eyes.’

  He smiled as he drove out of the Malling House car park and headed for Brighton. ‘I hope Francis Quinlan can come up with a better description than you, or every sighting will identify a cast member of the children’s play running at the Theatre Royal this week.’

  ‘I did say she looks odd. There’s more.’

  ‘Hit me with it.’

  ‘Remember the day you rescued Lily Barton from Ardingly Reservoir, last Wednesday?’

  ‘How could I forget? I’ve still got the cough to prove it.’

  ‘That evening, I took a call from Cindy.’

  He looked over. ‘Really?’

  ‘Keep your eyes on the road, please. Hang on and I’ll find my notes.’ She opened her notebook and flicked through the pages until she located the page. ‘Cindy said she found evidence–’

  ‘She called you last Wednesday?’

  ‘Yep, that’s what I said.’

  ‘That’s four days ago. Quinlan said Cindy’s been missing for four days.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Good point, which makes me one of the last, or maybe the last person to speak to her before she disappeared.’

  ‘Might be. Go on with your story.’

  ‘She said she’d found evidence that her boss, Christine Sutherland, is using false names. She discovered two CVs, one in Christine’s name and another in some other woman’s name, Amanda Sherman.’

  ‘It’s odd but not illegal behaviour, in my opinion.’

  ‘I said the same to her, but she said it marked Christine Sutherland out as strange and because she was besotted by Marc Emerson, it follows that she killed him.’

  ‘It’s too big a leap for me. We’ll take what Quinlan gives us, add it to your phone call with Cindy and see where it takes us. Ok?’

  **

  Walters fast forwarded the DVD on her computer. At last, she located the time the card reader at Quinlan Fine Foods recorded Cindy Summer leaving the building at the Fairway Business Park. She watched as Cindy walked into the car park and climbed into her Ford Fiesta and drove away.

  ‘We can conclude from this,’ Henderson said, sitting in the seat beside her, ‘that Cindy didn’t get attacked on her way to the car park. Also, nobody followed her out of the building and her car disappeared from view without anyone tailing her.’

  ‘True, but remember what the chairman told us, she rarely works beyond five-thirty. The time-stamp on the camera says six-forty-five. What�
��s she been doing all this time?’

  ‘She called you at six-thirty so I assume between her usual departure time and talking to you, she was rooting through Christine Sutherland’s things trying to find evidence of her wrongdoing.’

  ‘I assumed after my conversation with her, she would realise Sutherland’s crimes didn’t amount to much, and leave it at that.’

  ‘What if she didn’t and continued to look but couldn’t find what she was looking for. What would she do then?’

  ‘Go home and take stock?’

  ‘We know she didn’t do that because Quinlan’s people talked to neighbours and they didn’t see her return to her house and her car isn’t there.’

  ‘Talk it over with friends?’

  ‘She doesn’t have many of those and her close friend says she hasn’t seen her since Wednesday afternoon.’

  ‘Maybe she found a pub and drowned her sorrows.’

  ‘For four days? I don’t think so. Maybe, if she knew that Sutherland was out that evening, she went over to her house to have a nose around.’

  ‘Could be. What do we do now?’

  ‘First, let’s get Cindy’s Ford Fiesta flagged up on ANPR. Second, let’s go take a look at Sutherland’s place. We know she’s at work and won’t be spooked by our presence.’

  The traffic was heavier than earlier when they went to Quinlan’s, most likely due to parents heading home after picking up their children from playschool or nursery. He suspected the bitter easterly wind would keep most people indoors today and anyone venturing out restricted to those on an essential errand.

  ‘She lives here?’ Walters said as they drove into Steyning. ‘It’s gold-plated suburbia. Having met her twice, I imagined a woman like that would own a big flat along Brighton seafront or a smart apartment like Rachel’s old place in Hove.’

  ‘It takes all sorts.’

  He parked at the side of the road, close to Sutherland’s house in the unoriginally named The Street. He got out of the car and waited for Walters before heading towards the front door. ‘May as well ring the doorbell and see if she’s got a housemate or an elderly relative staying,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be walking around the garden and find ten minutes later we’re surrounded by an armed response unit shouting for us to lie down.’