Fatal Catch

by Pauline Rowson

  ‘I take it that’s the knife you used on Graham Langham to cut off his hand. You then put that hand in a container and kept it hidden on Westerbrook’s boat until you could use it at Borland’s house on Tuesday after dark, just in case Borland’s death was discovered to be suspicious and you knew Langham had been there because that was when he approached you. Did Borland let you in?’

  Stringer didn’t reply.

  Horton continued. ‘You probably told him on Monday, when you saw him in court, that you’d come over on Tuesday and review the evidence he’d compiled. You were carrying a rucksack or sailing bag with the container inside it and once in that bedroom, when Borland turned away to gather together some information for you, you viciously struck him several times on the back of the head with a powerful torch, which had been inside the bag. You then took Langham’s severed hand out of the container and pressed the fingers on the metal under the electric fire, to complement the prints Langham had already left in the house when he broke into it on Saturday evening believing it to be empty, which was when he overheard Leonard Borland telling you what he’d discovered. You switched on the fire and dragged Borland’s body over it, making sure to open the window before you left in order to fan the flames. You also put the written evidence Borland had compiled on that fire.’

  ‘I see you have all the answers.’

  ‘Most of them.’

  Stringer frowned. The knife remained gripped tightly in his right hand.

  Horton continued, ‘Leonard Borland, watching through his binoculars, had seen at different times, individuals arriving at the marina, being met by Westerbrook or arriving with Westerbrook in his car. At first Borland probably thought nothing of it, they were just fishing trips. But something made him suspicious. He recognized someone who, from his keen interest in criminal investigations, he’d seen before, either in the newspaper, or on television or in court.’

  Into Horton’s mind came a picture of Borland, a bereaved husband, a man who had loved his wife and whose only child was far away. A lonely man, who, having retired, had time on his hands and probably wanted to feel he was doing something useful. And he had something to prove to himself and others; that he could have made a better life for himself and his family as a barrister or lawyer if given the chance.

  ‘He kept watch and saw more of this happening over a period of time. He should have come to us but perhaps he thought we’d dismiss him unless he approached us with evidence that was water-tight. So he asked you, who he’d met in court several times, to come and review it with him. It was bad luck for him. Until then you had no idea your scheme had been uncovered. You told him to keep the information to himself and that you would approach someone in the right quarters, someone in the National Crime Agency who would really appreciate the tremendous work he’d done. How long had he been watching?’

  ‘Six months.’

  ‘Jesse Stanhope,’ Horton said, recalling the article that Leanne Payne had run after Alfie Wright had absconded. Tried at the Royal Courts of Justice in London, he had evaded a bankruptcy charge but was wanted for fraud on a massive scale. His family in Portsmouth swore blind they hadn’t heard from him and had no idea where he was. And seeing this first individual was enough to make Borland curious. If only Borland had come forward. But perhaps he thought he was mistaken. He began to take a keener interest in the marina.

  ‘So who did Borland spot next?’ Horton asked.

  ‘Stuart Broadman.’

  ‘The holiday fraudster.’

  A flash of irritation crossed Stringer’s face. He was obviously peeved that they’d got so much information. Horton said, ‘And of course there was Gordon Penlee, the phoney art dealer, and probably Jason Gracewing, a millionaire property dealer in London, charged with murdering his wife. You must have made a lot of money, what have you done with it? Put it into property in London, bought for cash? Is that how you were able to approach Gracewing and offer to get him out?’

  ‘There are plenty of people willing to pay a handsome fee to escape conviction or apprehension.’

  And Leonard Borland had sat at that window in his upstairs bedroom day after day on or around the high tide, recording people arriving, waiting for them to return, particularly those who went out with Westerbrook. He probably discovered that Westerbrook had been convicted for fraud. With his keen interest in the law, Borland would have researched the criminal cases archive. Borland saw individuals going out with Westerbrook, ostensibly to fish, only they never returned. And that made him very curious indeed. So curious it cost him his life.

  ‘You paid Westerbrook to take people out of the country.’

  ‘He gambled heavily. He was desperate for money.’

  ‘You did your research well,’ Horton acknowledged.

  Stringer looked rather pleased at the compliment. ‘I was looking for someone who could handle a boat and who wouldn’t say “no” to being given one, no questions asked. I gave him the money to buy it in cash in return for doing some errands for me. Not drugs I assured him and not smuggling, just helping some individuals to make a new start in another country.’

  ‘Did you give them false papers?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Stringer said, shocked. ‘All I provided was a route out.’

  ‘And it was going well until Graham Langham showed up on one of his robbing sprees. So he had to be eliminated along with Borland who knew far too much and had photographs and details of the times of departure and return. And when Westerbrook discovered that you’d killed Langham and Borland he wanted out and got a beating for his troubles.’

  ‘Langham was an idiot and a thief. It was easy enough to string him along. I told him we had a trip arranged for Monday night and to meet the boat in Pelham Cove on the Isle of Wight and that we’d need his van. I said that not only were we taking people out but we were bringing them in, a lie, of course. I said we could use his van to bring those Westerbrook dropped off on the island over here to the mainland. There are no checks on the Wightlink ferries as you know. I told Langham that someone would meet him at a drop-off point, a lay-by on the A3M heading towards Petersfield, to take them off his hands. He had no qualms about it.’

  Stringer’s hand was steady, the knife only a foot away from Horton. He knew he would be able to react quickly and dodge from the main and first impact but there was little room to dive completely out of the way without it possibly causing some damage to him and not much room to disarm Stringer.

  Horton said, ‘Was Westerbrook with you when you met Langham on the Isle of Wight?’

  ‘No.’

  Horton eyed him steadily. He thought that was the truth.

  Stringer continued, ‘The cove was in darkness and deserted. Langham came down to meet me as arranged. I told him to climb on board and that the cargo was below in the cabin. As he bent to look I struck him on the back of the head—’

  Horton’s knuckles gripped the work surface in anger.

  ‘Langham fell on some tarpaulin sheeting I had already placed underneath him to catch the blood. I hacked off his hand, and popped it into a container to keep it as fresh as I could. I knew that there has to be some kind of moisture or wax on the fingerprints for them to take.’

  Horton stiffened with fury at Stringer’s callousness and his casual dismissal of Graham Langham but then he knew from what he’d done to Leonard Borland that here was a man who would think nothing of killing to suit his own purposes.

  ‘I didn’t know that Langham had already left his prints in the house.’ Stringer frowned as though annoyed with himself for not knowing that. ‘I should have noticed he wasn’t wearing gloves but I thought a crook like him would know how to cover his tracks.’

  ‘Why do you think he’s been in prison so much?’ Horton scoffed.

  ‘Yes, but it worked to my advantage. You, or rather I should say, the police think Langham killed Borland.’

  Not for long, thought Horton.

  Stringer resumed. ‘I wrapped the tarpaulin sheeting aroun
d the body and took the boat out. I hauled Langham into the cockpit and then dumped him overboard. It took some doing, but I managed. Handy things these knives, and sharp.’

  But Horton needed more from Stringer. The wind howled around the marina and through the masts, rocking his boat.

  ‘Why did you start helping villains get out of the country?’ he asked, hoping that Stringer was filled with the desire to show how clever he was and believing that he, Horton, wouldn’t be around to repeat it. But he knew why Stringer had chosen his route. He recalled what Tim Shearer had told him: he takes his work seriously … but he gets a pittance for what he does. Stringer had a master’s degree in criminology and he’d trained for the Bar but had diverted into forensic mental health in order to help others. And Horton knew that Stringer had trained with Hugh Maltby, it was the message Westerbrook had left them by mooring up on Maltby’s buoy at Thorney, but unlike Maltby, Stringer had failed to be called to the Bar. And when Hugh Maltby had chucked it all up to join the army that must really have stuck in Stringer’s craw.

  Horton continued, answering his own question. ‘It’s not about justice though or even money, is it, Ewan? It’s about you getting one over on a system that rejected you. What went wrong? Did you fail?’ He knew that word would goad Stringer and judging by the tightening of his mouth and the whitening of his knuckles as he gripped the knife Horton could see he was correct.

  ‘Is that what happened to you, Ewan? Hugh Maltby made it and you didn’t, why?’

  ‘Because he spoke with the right accent, he came from the right schools, he had money and contacts,’ hissed Stringer. ‘My dad worked on the railways and my mum was a waitress.’

  ‘And they worked hard to put you through college and university.’

  Stringer gave a hollow laugh. ‘Of course they didn’t. They thought education was a waste of time and that I should get a “proper” job like a plumber or builder, or work in the civil service for forty years like Borland. But I knew I was destined for more than that. My parents wouldn’t hear of it. So I had to apply for grants and take any work I could during the holidays and at weekends and evenings while my fellow students were pissing it up. Everything I achieved was through my own efforts. After my law degree I got a grant to support me through the Bar Professional Training Course. I was in pupillage to Maltby’s father’s Chambers in London with Hugh but they dispensed with my services. They said I wasn’t cut out to be a barrister because I didn’t have the right approach. I wasn’t clever enough to reason and I couldn’t think laterally. I was too attached to the clients, not detached enough,’ he scoffed.

  ‘That must have stuck in your gullet.’

  ‘It did for a while. Then I thought as they wouldn’t let me become a barrister to defend I’ll help in another way.’ He smiled. ‘I took a degree in criminology and then a master’s while working part-time and voluntarily in the courts in London.’

  ‘Which is where you met Tim Shearer?’

  ‘Yes. And I worked for victim support. I saw many offenders sent to prison when they shouldn’t have been because of their severe mental health issues. I applied for a positon as a forensic mental health practitioner and got it. I was very successful in putting across the offender’s mental health issues, and managed to refer many for medical help rather than sentencing.’

  ‘But that wasn’t enough.’

  Stringer’s expression clouded over.

  ‘What happened to make you change tack?’

  Stringer stiffened. ‘Gerald Maltby.’

  Horton eyed him curiously. ‘Hugh Maltby’s father?’

  Stringer nodded. ‘He was so bloody smug. Thought he could get his client, a rich and successful businessman who was equally cocky, off a charge of fraud. But he didn’t.’ Stringer smiled. ‘He was convicted, and released pending sentence. I approached him. I offered him a route out. He grabbed it and was very grateful.’

  ‘You had a boat before you bought one for Westerbrook?’

  ‘No, I borrowed Hugh’s.’ Stringer smiled. ‘That was two years ago. It was so easy. I took him out from right under everyone’s nose, no one, not the police, the army, knew what had happened and where he’d gone. He paid handsomely. Now if that’s not clever then tell me what is,’ he declared confidently.

  ‘It didn’t fool Leonard Borland.’

  The fist on the knife tightened.

  ‘When did you give Westerbrook that beating? Tuesday night? Was that when you told him Langham had been dispensed with and he said he wanted nothing more to do with your scheme?’

  ‘I met him on the beach here, or rather the other side of this marina on the shore, by the lifeboat station. It was dark and cold, there was no one about. Clive wanted out but I persuaded him he had no choice but to continue, otherwise he was looking at a very long prison stretch, and I knew he couldn’t face that again. I told him on Saturday after my little chat with Borland that he needed to start taking people out fishing to make it look less suspicious, in case the marina manager, Tierney, began to ask questions, although he probably hasn’t got the brains for that.’

  ‘Which was why Westerbrook went to the angling club on Sunday and asked Nugent to go fishing on Wednesday.’

  ‘Yes. I left the hand on board Clive’s boat on Tuesday. I had no more use for it. I have keys to the boat. He saw it, panicked, tried to get rid of it not thinking to throw the hand out of the container, he tossed it in the sea, Nugent’s line got caught on it and—’

  ‘Westerbrook had to go through the charade of reporting it.’ And realizing that things had gone too far he went to Maltby’s mooring to point the finger at Stringer.

  ‘Lucky he had a heart attack,’ Stringer said lightly. ‘I can get someone else to take his place.’

  ‘I doubt it. It’s over Ewan. There’s nowhere else for you to go and no one else for you to kill.’

  ‘There’s you.’

  ‘And if you kill me do you think that will be the end? Detective Chief Superintendent Adams might think that Lesley Nugent, or even one of Crowe’s men, killed Leonard Borland and Graham Langham, but I know different and so too does Detective Superintendent Uckfield.’ Horton looked beyond Stringer.

  ‘I won’t fall for that old trick,’ Stringer said smugly.

  ‘It’s not a trick, sunshine,’ came a gruff voice.

  Stringer spun round to face the cabin behind him. In a split second he swung back and lunged forward at Horton with the knife outstretched, his face contorted with fury. But the delay had allowed Horton to side step the impending attack. Swiftly he grabbed Stringer’s wrist and, with a cry of pain, Stringer dropped the knife and Horton twisted Stringer’s arm up his back. Behind Uckfield was a sour-faced DCS Adams.

  ‘Did you get all that?’ Horton said.

  Uckfield nodded. ‘All nicely recorded too.’

  But it was Stringer who answered. ‘You can’t use any of that. It’s not admissible. I haven’t been charged or cautioned.’

  ‘Then we’d better do it now.’ Uckfield nodded at Horton who formally charged Stringer while Uckfield spoke into his radio. The boat bucked as Cantelli climbed on board. The cabin now was very crowded. Horton handed Stringer over to Cantelli who looked sombre.

  ‘I have no idea why you’re doing this,’ Stringer declared airily. ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘Tell that to the jury,’ Uckfield quipped.

  Stringer smiled.

  ‘I think you’ve just made his day,’ Horton said, watching him being led away by Cantelli. On the pontoon there were two uniformed officers.

  Adams replied. ‘He’s right, though, none of this will stand up in court. And he’ll claim he didn’t put Leonard Borland’s body over that fire but insist that Langham did, and that he was nowhere near Westerbrook when he died—’

  ‘Which happens to be the truth.’

  Adams went on as though Horton hadn’t spoken. ‘Even if we can place Stringer in that house with Borland he can say he went there at Borland’s request beca
use he had suspicions but that he didn’t take them seriously. Or claim that he went there on a social visit having met Borland in the courts. He’s probably scrubbed down Westerbrook’s boat and even if evidence is found on it that shows Langham was on there and killed on it, Stringer can claim he knows nothing about it. Langham could have got on board and been trying to rob it, and Westerbrook or Nugent killed him.’

  Even Uckfield was beginning to look depressed. But Horton addressed Adams, ‘Then tell him he’s right and that we have got nothing on him. Say you’re going to release him and that he’s too clever for us. That no one will know about his scheme. If I’m right he’ll give you something to arrest him, perhaps he’ll even give you Jesse Stanhope or one of the others, because he’ll want a trial. It will be his chance to show the legal world what a brilliant advocate they’ve lost. Now that we know about his scheme Stringer will want to put all his legal training to use. It’s what he’s longed for. And he is very clever.’

  ‘Then we’d better show him we’re smarter,’ Adams snapped and climbed off.

  ‘He doesn’t like being wrong. Or being used,’ Uckfield said, beaming.

  ‘Do any of us?’ Horton replied thinking of someone who had used him. Or had she?

  He told Uckfield he’d join him at the station shortly. He descended into the cabin and felt the rise and fall of the pontoon as Uckfield headed for the marina car park. He heard the sound of car doors slamming and vehicles moving off then he reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew the black and white photograph taken in 1967 at the London School of Economics’ first sit-in protest.

  He ran through what he’d been told since deciding to investigate his mother’s disappearance a year ago; that she’d been involved with a diamond smuggler but hadn’t run away with him; she’d got involved with an international criminal code-named Zeus by the Intelligence Directorate and had run away with him. Horton discounted both.