Fear the Silence (DI Angus Henderson 3)

by Iain Cameron

  ‘It’s everyone’s responsibility, Carol. The public and our paymasters the Government need to be reassured we are doing a good job.’

  ‘You’re sounding more like a CI every day. Are the exams coming up any time soon?’

  ‘Might be. What’s running now, Phil?’ he asked, his eyes on a flickering, changing screen, as it picked its way through thousands of fingerprints, looking for a match.

  ‘Two handprints lifted from the car. You can see from the photograph, they’re clear.’

  Henderson picked it up with Walters looking over his shoulder. It was enhanced by fingerprint powder and ultraviolet light and stood out clear and clean, highlighting the shape of spread-out fingers, someone pushing against the car to regain their balance. If someone fell against the car in the airport, she would expect to see the fingers slightly closer together or even to create a palm smudge.

  ‘Looks like you were right about the criminals leaving their mark,’ Walters said.

  ‘Yes, or we’ll find it was made by a holidaymaker when he tripped over his suitcase.’

  She averted her eyes as the flickering screen was playing tricks with her vision and focussed instead on the untidy desks, cluttered whiteboards and deep piles of paper lying around the Murder Suite.

  A few minutes later, the flickering stopped. ‘Right, here’s the first,’ Bentley said, staring at the screen. ‘It belongs to Jason Roberts, 58, sentenced to five years for armed robbery in ’79, three for affray in ’88, eight for culpable homicide in 2001.’

  ‘He sounds just like the sort of person we’re looking for,’ Henderson said.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘Dragons Bar’ in Ship Street is a cavernous sort of a place, wide and long with a beer garden out the back, its size unusual for a city centre pub. This and places like it, catered for the hundreds of tourists who flocked to Brighton in the summertime, looking for a good time and an opportunity to meet members of the opposite sex, but as blue skies and warm nights were but a fleeting memory on this cold Saturday in September, DI Angus Henderson could order drinks from the bar without resorting to sign language or being in danger of having his ribs bruised.

  In Brighton there is a pub for every day of the year and so plenty of choice if he wanted to avoid a large commercial operation like this one, but as he didn’t drink any of their huge range of ‘throwing lagers,’ the ale wasn’t bad and the pub was located close to the restaurants around the Lanes and Duke Street and where he and Rachel had decided to eat tonight.

  She looked sexy as she walked back to her seat after powdering her nose, or whatever the reason modern women gave for taking so long in the toilet. She wore a tight, pale red dress accentuating her pert breasts and slim physique but he sensed the eyes of many men in the pub ogling her generous bottom as she bent over the low table to give him a kiss, his reward for spending the best part of ten quid on two drinks, while they got their show for free.

  When they started going out together, he was wary of talking to her about criminal cases, as she was a journalist and they liked nothing better than some titbit of information they couldn’t find anywhere else, and even if she didn’t walk the crime beat, she could let something slip to those who did and land him in a whole heap of trouble. So as they said in poker, he played his cards close to his chest.

  He took a sip of his beer, it tasted bright and fizzy with a tang of something metallic but not unduly unpleasant. ‘I haven’t seen you these last few days as I’ve been so busy with press conferences and fending off your colleagues who waylay me every time I step out of the building. I never realised a late-thirties, ex-model could still have this amount of pull.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation to you dear detective, it’s a mystery to us scribblers as well. It might be due to the large number of magazines that seem to be growing like fungus in WH Smith and gossiping web sites, as they all need something interesting to talk about every day and Kelly’s prettier and easier to write about than most.’

  ‘You could be right.’

  ‘Would you like to know what I’ve been doing?’

  ‘It would be very ungallant and let’s face it, stupid of me to say ‘no’, so instead I will say, tell me my darling, what have you been up to?’

  She gave him a quizzical look. ‘Is this what it sounds like when a Scotsman’s being romantic? You’ll need to try a little harder next time. Now, let me tell you my tale. Speaking of former models who are still famous, take a look at this.’

  She handed him a copy of The Argus. The headline screamed ‘Foul’ in large black letters, a story about angry householders dumping rubbish in the street as the refuse collectors were out on strike again, over what he didn’t know; pay, pensions, working conditions or the length of their tea break? Pick one, every week it seemed to be something else.

  ‘Which page am I supposed to be looking at, or have I died and gone to heaven as you’re about to tell me you’ve joined the Sports Team and penned your first article about the Albion?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, you know I can’t stand football. Turn to page two.’

  He opened the paper and came face-to-face with a full page article headed, ‘Former Brighton Model’s Mystery Disappearance.’

  ‘Oh no, not another story about Kelly Langton. Do you know–’

  ‘Angus, read the name, the name of the reporter.’

  He looked down at the newspaper again and read aloud, ‘by Rachel Jones. You did this?’

  She nodded. ‘There’s only one Rachel Jones in our office.’

  ‘Well done you.’ He leaned over and gave her a kiss.

  ‘Good isn’t it?’

  ‘Excellent. Mind you, if my memory serves me well this isn’t your first venture away from the safe and secure world of Rural Affairs and the Environment, is it?’

  ‘Don’t remind me but this time it’s different.’

  ‘For your sake, I hope so as the Brighton councillor you wrote about who raised all the money for charity, only for the story to fall flat the week when we arrested him for fraud, is still in jail.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  ‘However, I do believe this is your first time at anything so topical. I should think every paper in the land will want a piece.’

  ‘I know and my editor’s thrilled. Brian wouldn’t do interviews with any of the nationals but chose The Argus as he’s a Brighton boy and over the years, we’ve always reported what Kelly was up to, so I think he likes us.’

  ‘How did you get it? I mean there must be–’

  ‘What? Better qualified reporters than me?’

  ‘Something along those lines.’

  ‘Thanks for your vote of confidence, Mr H but I suppose you’re right. Sarah Pendleton, who normally does this stuff, is off on maternity leave and Barry said he liked my writing style and sympathetic approach so much he chose me to do the interview in her place.’

  ‘So what does–’

  ‘No more questions, Angus, read.’

  Former Brighton Model’s Mystery Disappearance - Husband Speaks to The Argus

  A week ago, former Brighton model Kelly Langton drove her two boys, Josh 13 and Ben 8, to school at Williamson College, an independent day and boarding school near Cowfold in West Sussex; but on the way home to work on the book she was writing, she mysteriously disappeared. Despite an extensive search by the police and her family, she has not been seen since. Kelly, who used to be on the books of Brighton glamour agency Models Inc and frequently appeared in the pages of Vogue and Elle magazines, was a devoted mother who left without saying goodbye to the two children she adored, and significantly, without her passport and any more clothes than those she was wearing.

  Argus reporter Rachel Jones met Kelly’s husband Brian at the offices of his television production company in London, Camino House Productions, and he is as perplexed as everyone else.

  ‘She had no reason to run off,’ he said. ‘We have a nice home and she was a major part of it. We had no problems to speak of and she positi
vely adored our two boys.’

  Kelly’s two sons_________’

  ‘Great work Rachel,’ he said, after he finished reading the article, ‘it’s really good.’

  ‘What, for a woman or a stand-in?’

  ‘Very funny. I mean as a piece of journalism. It’ll make a name for you, I’m sure.’

  ‘Thank you, kind sir.’

  ‘It has to be more interesting than the Cranleigh flower show or the South of England Show or any of these agricultural events you drag me to. Before you know it, you’ll be working for one of the nationals and running up to Hove Station in the morning with some of your heavily mortgaged neighbours.’

  ‘No chance, and I can’t run in these shoes.’

  ‘How are the other papers treating the story? I presume most of their lines of enquiry are exhausted by now, because if we don’t have much to go on, they must have even less.’

  ‘Dead right, and you can see from the current editions, they’re repeating stuff from earlier in the week, hence my editor thinks they’ll bite off our hands to get this interview with her husband.’

  He looked at the article again. It was a mystery, even to long-serving police officers, how a particular murder, rape or kidnap made it on to the front page of national newspapers and mainstream TV news broadcasts when other, more deserving cases, did not. He believed newspaper editors were attracted by victims who were young, female, and good looking and shied away from the ugly, male, or the plain uninteresting.

  The victim’s family could keep the story alive if they were active and vocal, by passing to newspapers and TV fresh information and different photographs, especially when the one displayed on every newsstand and news report was beginning to tire. In Kelly’s case, this wasn’t a problem as there seemed to be a limitless number of images and most of them seemed to be in the hands of newspapers and magazines already.

  Looking at the photograph, he could see what the newspaper editor’s attraction might be. She was thirty-eight and he had seen pictures of her in demure business suits with her hair tied back and wearing sensible shoes, but the scantily clad picture here of a cracking, sexy young woman with a flawless body and gleaming white teeth was taken in her mid-twenties. In addition, smaller pictures of the big house, smart cars, and a husband who was a millionaire, contained all the ingredients of a perfect story, as there was nothing the British public wanted more than to see a rich bod hauled off their high pedestal and given a big dose of crap being handed out to everyone else; or was he just being cynical?

  ‘How was Brian Langton when you met him?’

  ‘He didn’t break down in tears and start crying on my shoulder, if this is what you’re thinking, but he’s worried as she’s never done this sort of thing before.’

  ‘So what do you think has happened to her? You don’t speculate in your article.’

  ‘It wasn’t part of the brief but if you would like me to do your job for you, I’ll give it a go.’

  She held up her left hand and counted on her fingers. ‘One, she might run away to be with a lover or into the wild blue yonder to get away from him, if he abused her or something. Two, she might be abducted by a kidnapper or a serial killer and taken to who knows where. Three, she might be buried at the bottom of the garden or a field behind the house, as she’s been murdered by Brian or someone else who came to the house. Four? I can’t think of any more. How did I do?’

  ‘Not bad for a civilian.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘We use three classifications for missing persons: lost, voluntary missing, and under the influence of a third party. For example, she may be ‘lost’ in the sense of being involved in a car accident and ending up in hospital with no ID and no memory.’

  ‘I suppose so, but it’s a bit of a long shot. It sounds more applicable to hill walkers and sailors like you.’

  He drew a reproachful face. ‘With GPS and basic navigational skills, only fools get lost. So, what do you make of the passport and clothes she left behind? A woman who decides to scarper would always take them with her, wouldn’t you agree? I mean you can’t hire a car, book into a hotel or buy an airline ticket without a passport nowadays.’

  ‘True. If I decided to run away, I would take some clothes and my passport, although I would leave the car behind as I know how easily it can be traced and it wouldn’t be a loss with the thing I’m driving at the moment.’ She thought for a moment, a puzzled expression on her face. ‘Maybe number four is, she did it to implicate her husband, you know, to make you guys think he’s done her in, so you’ll put him away.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know but Brian’s a big guy and maybe he beats her up or she wants to get her hands on his business. What do Sussex’s finest think?’

  ‘This is off the record, nothing quotable or attributable, ok?’

  She nodded. ‘Ok.’

  ‘She’ll have been missing for two weeks this Tuesday and with no contact and no definite sightings, sometime soon we will have to assume foul play, either by the husband, one of her friends, or an acquaintance.’

  ‘It isn’t Brian, I’m sure,’ she said. ‘He is a bit rough and brusque for sure, but he’s grieving. I think he misses her and wants her back.’

  ‘The truth is, I don’t know what’s happened to her and I suspect few other people do either, but we’ll find her if she’s there to be found.’

  ‘We’ve talked enough about work for one night,’ she said, rubbing his arm. ‘What’s the plan for this evening?’

  ‘I haven’t given it much thought beyond a nice candlelight meal at Luigi’s, good food, great company and a fine bottle of vino rosso.’

  ‘Sounds excellent for starters. To celebrate the publication of my big story, I’ve got a little something planned. At home, there is a chilled bottle of champagne and lucky you, I bought some of your favourite whisky for later. After we’ve been to the restaurant we can go back to my place and celebrate in style.’

  He reached over and kissed her. ‘I’m up for it.’

  ‘Mmm’ she said, pulling away. ‘Carry on like this, and we’ll skip the Italian and head straight back to my place for dessert.’

  FOURTEEN

  He sat back in the chair as the waiter served his starter and picked up the wine bottle. ‘There’s not many in tonight, Antonio,’ he said.

  ‘No, it’s been a quiet week Mr Green,’ the waiter replied as he re-filled the giant wine glass with an inch of Valpolicello Amarone. ‘I can’t really complain as the last few weeks have been bellisimo.’ If he hadn’t been holding the bottle, Dominic Green was convinced Antonio’s exclamation would have been two-handed, but instead he made do with one.

  Antonio returned to the kitchen leaving him to savour the wine, his favourite. He didn’t go in for all the highfalutin crap spun out on the airwaves and magazines by over-paid wine presenters who liked to compare the aroma of a wine with the air on a mountain top in Austria, their grandpa’s tobacco pouch or the smell from the stall or arse of a sweaty horse, because to him, it was more simple.

  If it reeked of too much of alcohol or nothing much at all, it was too young or plain rubbish, churned out by the vat-load by unscrupulous suppliers, intent on making a quick buck. If the aroma was floral and pleasant on the nose, he would drink it. In fact, the Amarone had floral in abundance with the odd hint of wood, a taste he loved as it slipped down his throat with the greatest of ease and deposited little taste memories on his tongue.

  He spread the napkin over his clean, hand-stitched shirt and set to work attacking the carbonara. It was supposed to be a starter but like all the food served in this place there was enough in three courses to feed half a dozen homeless people, who were often to be found camping in doorways nearby. He wasn’t a ‘fill your boots’ merchant, never had been, and skipped lunch to make sure he made a decent job of each dish, but he loved Italian food and this place served some of the best. It also helped that it was located in Ship Street, in the middle of Brighton
and close to two of his busiest bars.

  The bars were a side-line as at heart Dominic Green was a property developer and this had turned him into a millionaire many times over. His expertise was in buying run-down properties and eyesores only environmental nutcases ever cared about and turning them into swanky apartments for young executives to live in or up-market shopping centres for them to spend lots of their hard-earned cash.

  He didn’t spend much time visiting his bars as his managers had their heads screwed on and if they didn’t, his minder John Lester would knock them off. He sometimes popped in for a minute or two on the way to somewhere else, as he could tell a lot about a bar by a quick visit, the noise, the age and styles of the clientele, and how well the staff were coping.

  He also owned a number of cash-based businesses, casinos and bookmakers, handy at generating the readies and with everything electronic nowadays, who didn’t want a pile of the folding stuff in their back pocket? They were also good for laundering money, the money he made in the drugs business and gambling dens, because the banks were in cahoots with cops, and people like him needed to be one step ahead to outfox them.

  The remains of the carbonara were taken away and replaced by a steak, seared on both sides, pink in the centre and coated in a lovely tomato, oregano, and garlic sauce chef Luigi made especially for him. He was half way through when he spotted John Lester entering the restaurant. There was no need for Lester to crane his neck or pace up and down the tables to find him, as it was quiet with few other diners and Green sat at the same table at the back as he usually did. With a curt nod to the waiter who opened the door, Lester walked towards him.

  Green watched him approach, cupping the bulbous wine glass with both hands to warm it and bring out the heady aroma. It cheered him to see John had changed out of the suit he wore earlier and into something more casual, indicating he was set for a night of action.

  ‘Good evening, John.’