by Iain Cameron
‘I’ve been to New Brighton but never Brighton in your neck of the woods.’ He smiled, a gold tooth sparkling among the coffee, curry and cigarette stains.
‘So you know nothing about the murder of Ricky Wood?’
He shook his head. ‘Nope. Sorry mate, you’ve got the wrong fella.’
‘Sergeant Hobbs, please show Mr Roberts the photographs.’
Hobbs opened a file, removed several photographs and put the first one in front of Roberts.
‘This is you boarding a Virgin Train service at Manchester Piccadilly,’ Hobbs said. He put down another photograph. ‘This is you exiting the railway station at Brighton some six hours later. To be clear, this is Brighton in East Sussex. The date, you’ll notice, is Monday 12th September, the day before Ricky Wood was killed.’
His brief, Phil Slade leaned over and whispered something in his client’s ear. Strangely for a con, he said nothing and listened. Had to be a first.
‘Yeah,’ he said, after a minute or two. ‘Slip of the memory, I forgot.’
‘How could you forget being in Brighton?’ Henderson said, his face mock incredulous, a politician facing his opposite number across the floor of the House of Commons.
‘I’d...I’d been drinking and taking medication for a back problem. I shouldn’t, as it always fucks with my head.’
‘You’re damn right I does,’ Henderson said, ‘it must have been a helleva shock to the system to wake up in Kemptown or wherever the hell you were, looking for your local boozer and your mates, and finding out the pub wasn’t where you left it and everybody’s speaking in funny accents.’
‘Yeah, too true, mate. Fucking weird it was. Did my head in. I came back to Manchester right away, on Wednesday morning.’
‘We know, we’ve seen the pictures. What did you do in Brighton in Sussex?’
‘I told you.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘My client is cooperating with this investigation Inspector,’ Slade said.
‘If you believe that, you went to a different law college than any lawyer I’ve ever met. Let me try again. Did you go anywhere, Mr Roberts? Did you meet anyone?’
‘I didn’t do much. Stayed at a boarding house–’
‘Which one?’
‘Can’t remember. I went out to a local pub a couple of times then I came back here.’
‘Which pub?’
‘I never forget a pub, a place called the Temple Bar.’
Henderson knew a pub on Western Road called the Temple Bar, but with so many inns and pubs to choose from in Brighton, there was a fair chance another would have the same name. If they could narrow it down to two or three, they could maybe identify his guesthouse, providing it was as close to the pub as he said it was.
‘While you were there, did you go to football on Tuesday night and see Brighton and Hove Albion beat the league leaders Sheffield United? If you did, you saw a great game.’
‘I don’t like football.’
‘You say that, but aren’t they football tattoos on your arms? What’s this one,’ Henderson said, pointing to the Manchester United logo on his forearm, ‘City?’
Whoa, he’d touched a nerve as Roberts’s face went bright red; how appropriate.
‘Go fuck yourself, mate. I’ve been a Reds season ticket holder for over twenty years. I’ll kill any fucker who says different.’
Henderson paused a few moments, to let the suspect’s temper calm.
‘Mr Roberts, we’ve established you do like football. Now, after the match did you and three other men go to Brighton Racecourse?’
‘Don’t like horse racing.’
‘Oh, but I think you do.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Mr Roberts, your blatant obstruction and lying is serving no purpose and I must say, it’s becoming tedious.’
‘I object to your tone, Inspector,’ the brief said, looking indignant, as if his client was guilty of nothing more than a traffic violation or shoplifting.
‘Sergeant Hobbs, show him the rest of our photograph collection.’
Hobbs placed four photographs in front of him: the Audi Q7, a close-up of the car’s off-side door panel, and two pictures of fingerprints, clear as a bell.
They took a few minutes to explain the source of the photographs to the satisfaction of the brief, but not to his client’s satisfaction as his thunderous expression could wilt fresh flowers. There were other fingerprints on the last photograph and the colour drained from Roberts’s face when he heard they belonged to his brother and two of his mates. After a hurried and frantic huddle, the brief called for a recess.
They resumed the interview ten minutes later and for once, Henderson didn’t feel confident of a satisfactory conclusion. He knew there was enough to convict Roberts of conspiracy to murder Ricky Wood, although he would prefer the full murder charge. If Roberts wouldn’t admit it, his fall-back position was to put pressure on his mates when they finally caught up with them, but he wasn’t hopeful of getting to the bottom of the, ‘this is for Kelly’ comment.
‘My client,’ the brief said opening the second stage of the interview, ‘realises he is in a bit of a fix. He hasn’t been entirely honest with you Detective Inspector Henderson, but he says he did what he did to protect his friends.’
‘Very noble, I’m sure.’
‘He will admit being present at the attack on Mr Wood but he didn’t hit him or kill him and he will not tell you who did or who else was there, as he fears for his safety.’
‘You’re trying to make my job harder but we’ll find out soon enough when we conduct further analysis of CCTV, now we know who we’re looking for. But listen to me Roberts, I don’t care if you were the one who used the knife or not, you and your brother and your other two mates, when I get hold of them, were all present at the murder of Ricky Wood and as such, you all, repeat all, will be charged with his murder.’
They went into a huddle again and this time he knew what was coming.
‘My client wishes to help the police in any way he can.’ Blah, blah, blah. He’d heard it so often he found it hard to concentrate on the actual words.
In summary, they would tell the trial judge what a good and helpful man Jason Roberts had been, and ask them to go easy on the lying toad. If he received a murder conviction, it would be difficult for any judge to go easy on a mandatory sentence of life imprisonment, but he said, ‘fine’ and let the charade continue.
‘First question, what’s Ricky Wood to you?’
‘He’s a fucking journo isn’t he? They’re all scum, the lot of them. Nobody gives a shit about them.’
‘Why him?’
‘He wrote something about a friend of mine.’
‘Did he?’ Henderson said, mentally sitting up straight. This was getting interesting. ‘What did he write?’
‘He’s an investigative journo, right?’
Henderson nodded.
‘He spent months looking into Manc drugs gangs but he came too close to one for his own good, didn’t he? I’m not saying I killed him like, but that’s the reason I think someone else topped him.’
‘Which one? Which gang or gang leader did he get too close to?’
Roberts shrugged.
‘C’mon Jason this could be a big help. In any case, this sort of stuff is all public domain. Ten minutes on the web and we’ll read the article and find out the name for ourselves.’
‘Ah fuck, I suppose so. John Kelly.’
Henderson’s mouth opened as if he was about to ask him to repeat it but there was no need, the penny dropped in an instant.
SIXTEEN
Three former footballers who didn’t make enough money playing the beautiful game or maybe they did, but didn’t know what to do with themselves at the weekend, were pontificating on the Sunday afternoon football roundup programme. They rubbished Brighton’s mid-week victory over Derby County saying it was drab, but Brian Langton had watched the match on television and the ‘experts’ were talking crap, a
s it had been a good contest with plenty of goalmouth action. It must have been, it had prevented him falling asleep despite the anaesthetising effect of a bottle of wine.
He stopped listening and concentrated on preparing lunch. He never thought of himself as being any good in the kitchen, as Kelly was such a good cook and he didn’t often come in here often except to eat, but ever since taking over the domestic duties he realised he could do more than he thought. He might have left Varndean School with not enough ‘O’ Levels to start a fire, but he could read and everything he needed to know was on the side of a packet or inside one of Kelly’s vast library of cookery books.
With today’s culinary treat ready, he called the boys down from upstairs and laid their fish fingers, potato waffles and baked beans on their plates and placed them on the table.
‘Oh great fish fingers,’ Ben said with feeling, as the little trooper possessed the appetite of a Victorian slum dweller and ate everything put in front of him, while the initial silence emanating from his older brother Josh signified disapproval.
He sat down at the table five minutes after the boys started, but neither was close to finishing, as they were too busy yakking. ‘What were you guys doing upstairs?’ he said, trying to spark a conversation.
‘I was playing MOH on the PlayStation,’ Josh said.
‘What’s MOH?’
‘Medal of Honour.’
‘And I played Mario Kart on the Wii.’
‘Did you both win?’
‘You don’t win on MOH Dad, well not for months and not until all the Japs are zapped.’
‘You can win on Mario Kart dad, but I came fourth in my last race and I didn’t qualify for the next one.’
‘You must drive like your mother.’
The doorbell sounded, causing one of the dogs to bark but neither moved from comfortable positions in their baskets, the lazy hounds.
‘Who’s there?’ Josh asked.
Langton rose to answer the door shaking his head in puzzlement. Both boys received a high quality education, something denied to him and yet they still came out with this crap; but he managed to refrain from his usual riposte which went something along the lines of, ‘how the fuck do I know until I open it?’
He opened the door, expecting it to be another reporter who would be sent away with a flea in his ear, or a concerned neighbour/friend/council official, who would get less aggro but still be sent away. It wasn’t Mormons or double glazing salesmen, as he could tell by the way they stood, their poor standard of dress, and the gaggle of blue uniforms and white coats behind them, busy unloading equipment from a large, grey van parked at the front of the house. This unexpected flurry of activity encouraged movement from the throng of photographers and reporters camped at the bottom of the drive and they shuffled closer to the house and started snapping away at this new and interesting development.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Langton. I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Detective Inspector Angus Henderson and this is Detective Constable Khalid Agha of Sussex CID. I have in my hand a warrant to search your house and garden.’
‘What? What the fuck’s this?’ He snatched the proffered document from the copper’s hand and like opening a novelty birthday card, a chorus of little voices rose out from the kitchen behind him and chimed together, ‘Dad swore, Dad swore, we’re telling Mu-um.’
‘Can we come in, sir?’
‘Do I have any choice? Am I under arrest?’
‘No, you’re not under arrest. The purpose of this detailed search is to try and locate any information, which will give us some idea about your wife’s whereabouts. So if you’ll please stand out of the way.’ He turned and with a wave of the arm, ushered his white-suited and booted colleagues inside.
Langton walked back into the kitchen in a daze. ‘What’s going on Dad?’ Josh said. ‘Who are those people in the hall?’
The boy looked frightened and no bloody wonder with half a dozen people piling into the house, all dressed up as if there had been an outbreak of bird flu or Ebola and making them feel they were about to be quarantined in Porton Down. Thank God there were no near neighbours as after this, they would be pariahs, everybody convinced he’d brought shame on their tranquil piece of Sussex or added something sinister to their water supply.
‘They’re...they’re conducting a search,’ he said, his head in a spin.
‘What for?’ Ben asked.
He shrugged. What could he say, as he didn’t know?
‘For Mum,’ Josh said. ‘They think dad killed her.’
‘You didn’t dad, did you?’ Ben wore his heart on his sleeve and now his face was a mass of puzzlement lines.
‘Don’t be daft son, of course I didn’t. They’re not going to find anything. It’s a complete waste of time and money.’
After stacking the dishwater and leaving the kitchen tidy enough to start cooking another meal in three hours time, he closed the front door that had been left open by the white coats as they didn’t pay the cost of filling up the oil tank, nor did he want a scribe or a snapper sneaking into the house, before heading upstairs to see what his taxes were paying for.
Most of the activity appeared to be taking place in the master bedroom, and he stood at the door his anger rising as they rifled through Kelly’s drawers with rubber-gloved hands, searching inside the wardrobes and peering under the bed. He was about to open his mouth and ask them what the fuck they thought they were looking for, when a hand was placed on his chest.
‘I think it would be better if we went downstairs,’ Henderson said, ‘and had a little talk.’
Henderson was taller than him by a good half head but he was bulkier and not all of it fat, compared to some of the fat bastards in the media business, his partner Emilio included, who dined like pigs in a trough. He still managed to get to the gym a couple of times a week with Mel and ignored the aerobic machines, except to warm up, to focus on lifting weights.
The copper guided him downstairs and Langton directed him and his young colleague into his study, a place where the boys didn’t barge in if they didn’t want a thick ear, unlike the lounge and the master bedroom, which at times resembled a public thoroughfare.
He’d hired an architect to design and re-model what used to be a 16th century farmhouse into a modern country house and this room, once a laundry room, had been converted at huge expense into a study, with a big oak desk, bookcase, leather settee, large LCD television and variable lighting to suit his mood.
It was comfortable enough for a workaholic businessman to use while toiling at home, or a mature student studying for an Open University degree, but it wasn’t designed for either of these purposes as all the studying he did was on Albion’s league form and watching the programmes his competitors were broadcasting on television.
He closed the door and sat down, turning his chair to face his two interrogators, seated together on the two-seat settee. It was all the home comforts they would get, as he wasn’t feeling charitable today, so no cup of tea and biscuits. On the other hand, if he could remember where Kelly kept her laxatives, he might change his mind.
‘I’m sorry to be barging in like this, Mr Langton,’ Henderson said, ‘as I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.’
The cop spoke with a Scottish accent, but softer than Graham at work who came from the south side of Glasgow, and at times sounded more like a docker than a graphic designer, but Langton used them a lot in casting, as they made excellent newsreaders and sinister villains. The lad with him was Asian and even though his skin was brown, he was green through and through like Brighton Rock, and seemed overawed to find himself on a job like this so soon after joining the police.
‘The process we are going through here,’ Henderson continued, ‘is something unavoidable in cases like this and shouldn’t take long.’
‘Yeah, cases which have been splashed all over every bloody newspaper in the land, putting oh so much pressure on your Chief Constable to do something about it.’
/> ‘It can’t be helped, sir. The activities of yourself and Mrs Langton are of interest to all sections of the media.’
He grunted. He didn’t need a lecture from a cop about the rights and wrongs of media coverage. In fact he didn’t need lectures from anybody.
‘What we are doing is looking for anything to give us some indication of what happened to Mrs Langton.’
‘Don’t you think I haven’t looked and know this house better than you lot? Don’t make me laugh, you’re not here to find anything to tell you what happened to my wife, you’re here to find evidence to incriminate me, so you can get me into court and say to the jury, he fucking murdered her and buried her in the back garden. But for your information matey, you’ll find nothing, because I didn’t do it.’
‘Calm down sir, there is no need to take this attitude.’
‘What attitude? Bloody Nora, it’s not your fucking house you and your spacemen pals are pulling to bits.’
‘We’ll be as tidy as we can sir, but consider this. If we do find evidence of a struggle, a hidden letter, a scrap of paper with a telephone number written on it, or God-forbid, a body, our automatic conclusion won’t be in assuming you are responsible. Who knows, it might be a delivery driver, a friend from school or a man she was seeing, and if so, he will be the person we’ll be out looking for.’
He was about to say the chances of her shagging another man were about as likely as being hit by an asteroid, but sense prevailed and he was struck dumb. The copper was right. It was not as cut and dried as it first appeared. He needed to listen more.
‘Now Mr Langton, can you tell me when you last saw your wife and describe what her mood was like.’
‘I’ve told this to your people so many times. On the day before she disappeared, Monday 5th September I came home about eight–’
‘Is this your usual home coming time?’
‘No, a bit later than normal as I needed to finish off some stuff in the office.’
He couldn’t tell him could he? The ‘stuff’ included banging young Melanie on the sofa in his office as they were both gagging for it and she’d stayed late on purpose: paid overtime and sex with the boss, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.