‘Raymond Spinney . . .’ she said. The words came out of her mouth like cut crystal.
‘Oh. Him.’ His smile broadened.
‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘Nothing I haven’t already said. Go back and read the statements I gave when I was nicked.’
‘I’m investigating the murder of two men. One was burnt alive at his wedding. The other was also burnt, in his car.’ Fuller was unreadable as he took the information in. ‘Is that the sort of thing Spinney might have asked you to do once?’
‘Jesus Christ, love, I don’t know. He’s the kind of man that likes to make a statement, certainly. He wants people to know that he has a reach – because he does. Is fire now his thing?’ Fuller shrugged non-committedly. ‘I haven’t seen him for a good many years – how would I know?’
Again he was inscrutable, and held her gaze for a bit too long. She referred down to her notebook instinctively, irritated with herself as she did so. She didn’t like being intimidated. Especially by men.
‘I told you not to do that,’ he said.
‘Do you think it’s likely he was involved in the Stansted robbery?’
Fuller laughed.
‘Ah . . . the Handyman. You want to know if Ray Spinney’s the Handyman? Bloody hell, love, you really are writing a paper, aren’t you? Do you want me to tell you if the Loch Ness monster’s real while I’m at it? Don’t you think I’ve been asked this about a million times? I can’t be arsed, love – sorry. “Interview terminated”, as you people like to say.’ He turned to look at the prison officer in the corner as if ready to leave.
‘Alright,’ said Paulsen quickly. ‘What about Erik Whitlock?’ At this Fuller slowly turned back to face her.
‘What about him?’
‘We know he was an associate of Spinney’s. We know you used to work for Spinney. Did you ever meet Whitlock?’
‘Half the criminal fraternity of London probably dealt with Erik Whitlock at some point. He was a middleman. Or at least that’s where he always positioned himself. A money launderer, a link man – a go-between, whatever you want to call it. He was the buffer between a buyer and seller. And a good one, but I could also tell you about a dozen people who lost everything because of him. Including people I know, by the way. He was a flash bastard too. I hope he felt every fucking minute of it when Pacific Square burnt.’
‘Do you think the proceeds of the Stansted robbery passed through his hands?’
‘Don’t be stupid, love – you don’t come across as stupid. Every newspaper in the country claimed he was involved with that when he died.’
‘But do you think that?’
There was a pause. Fuller was choosing his words carefully now.
‘Do you know how difficult it is to deal with that quantity of money? You need someone who knows what they’re doing. Back then Whitlock was the only bloke you’d go to for that.’ Fuller stopped. He seemed to be thinking very hard. Paulsen waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.
‘Go on . . .’
‘I’m pretty sure he’d dealt with about seventy-five per cent of the Stansted proceeds before he died. I don’t think you’ll ever find it. Most of it, if not all of it, will be abroad now. Disseminated. As they say.’
‘And what about the remaining twenty-five per cent?’
‘Well, now, there’s a question . . .’
Now it was Paulsen’s turn to think – all this was almost confirmation of Finn’s theory.
‘Do you think . . . whoever was behind the Stansted robbery would ever forget about that twenty-five per cent? Be happy with what they did get? I mean seventy-five per cent of what they stole was still a huge amount.’
Fuller grinned, but there was no humour to it.
‘Not in a million years.’
‘Even after all this time?’
Fuller looked at the prison officer again.
‘I’m done.’
The officer looked over at Paulsen. Fuller’s expression was intense, the earlier good humour well and truly gone. There was a glint of something menacing there now. Paulsen decided she’d gleaned as much as she judged useful and nodded at the officer. Fuller stood and turned, and Paulsen saw the back of his head for the first time. About a third of the way down there was a dent, a long cavity that resembled a grotesque grin which curved horribly inwards. For a moment Paulsen felt her stomach turn. Prentice’s words came back to her: ‘He calls it his other smile.’
The officer led Fuller to the door and then he suddenly stopped and turned back to Paulsen, well aware of what she’d been staring at.
‘I should tread carefully, love. When people in your profession start asking questions, Ray Spinney always knows. Always.’
What scared her most was that he sounded like he was doing her a favour.
Chapter 23
‘For fuck’s sake!’
DI Andy Warrender was puce, thought Godden. He was a man with a natural pinkness at the best of times, but this was the first time he’d seen him actually go the full beetroot. The fleshy jowls around his face were literally shaking. He looked like an angry holidaymaker furiously complaining about a delayed flight at the departure gate.
‘What’s the matter?’ Godden asked patiently.
‘Another member of that fire crew’s been murdered. Same as before – someone torched him.’
‘Jesus. The crew that attended Pacific Square?’
‘Yeah. I just spoke to Cedar House. They ever so politely told me to keep my nose out of it. Arrogant tossers.’
‘You’re thinking it’s something we should be looking at? I thought you weren’t interested?’
‘I am now. If there really is a link to Whitlock, then there’s a link to Stansted, and that makes it ours.’
‘Was it on their patch again?’
Warrender nodded.
‘Well, I can understand why they’re circling their wagons then. They’ll pool what they have. It’s like you said earlier, let them do the legwork then it’s a win-win for us. If they find something that’s relevant we can send someone to join their investigation. If not, we’ve saved ourselves some bother.’
Warrender grabbed a chair next to Godden’s desk and slumped into it.
‘You know what’s really pissing me off, Mike? People don’t take us seriously. They think they’re better off keeping us out of the loop. But they don’t understand the big picture and it’s lazy. More than that, it’s fucking unprofessional.’
‘So what can I do to help?’
Warrender was calming down and drummed his fingers on Godden’s desk for a few seconds while he thought about it.
‘Dig out the interviews that were done with the fire crews after Whitlock’s remains were found and go through them. I’m sure Cedar House are doing exactly the same thing, but I’m not being caught with my pants down. See if there’s anything that strikes you as odd.’
‘Sure.’ Godden’s face creased into a frown. ‘But this particular crew may have served together for years. We’re all focusing on Pacific Square, but it could be something else they dealt with. Some private bollocks they were dabbling in.’
‘Exactly. Have a look and see what you can find out. That DI I just spoke with – Finn – was so far up his own arse, I’m surprised he’s able to walk in a straight line. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to tell him he’s wrong.’
Pleased with the insult and with some modicum of good humour restored, Warrender left. The man was an imbecile, thought Godden. A well-meaning imbecile, but an imbecile nonetheless. Not that he was complaining, because right now, more than ever, he needed Warrender to be predictable.
It seemed obvious to Godden what was happening. Both Cedar House and Raymond Spinney clearly believed the fire crew stumbled on to something five years ago. Money probably. Spinney must have received proof from somewhere and was now ensuring some loose ends were being tied up. The greedy sods should have just let it burn. Spinney’s summons earlier must be connected
to this. At a guess, he was needed to mop up behind the murders and ensure any potential threat was nipped in the bud. Godden sighed – there were still three more members of that fire crew to go. Dead men walking. This was nowhere near over yet. It was going to be a ball-ache.
He’d long ago come to terms with the reality of what he was: a dirty cop. For the most part, anything he’d done was small fry balanced against the weight of his career as a whole. His career still mattered to him too. He’d done a lot of good work over the years. He’d been a good thief-taker who’d achieved some notable results in his time. It was there in black and white. Not that anyone would see it that way if he was ever discovered. He’d be disgraced – his name known and vilified. It’s just how it was and he’d worked too long and too hard to allow it to happen.
When he’d first graduated from Hendon he’d never have countenanced taking a bribe, let alone being on the payroll of a criminal. His father came from a generation that grew up respecting the police, and he’d been passionately proud of his son’s career choice. His old man would turn in his urn if he could see him now. He wouldn’t understand – this was about pragmatism. A failed marriage, maintenance payments and a stupidly high mortgage on a flat he’d bought when love prevailed over common sense. It all meant he’d been left with little choice.
The first contact came six years ago – Godden had since worked out that Spinney must have been planning the Stansted heist at the time. They’d been watching him for a while. He’d taken to treating himself to a regular Friday night balti at his local curry house, and that’s where the approach was made. A bespectacled man in a black waistcoat came and sat opposite him and said just one word:
‘Franny.’
Francesca was his daughter. She was eleven at the time, and the man proceeded to describe in fine detail the sequence of her day; from leaving home in the morning to go to school, to the moment she returned to the small terraced house she shared with Godden’s estranged wife. The man in the waistcoat then outlined in equally meticulous detail Godden’s outgoings and expenses. He balanced them against his monthly pay cheque and the likely cost of Franny’s future education. Godden would have been pushed to find an accountant who could have produced a better audit of his finances. The man he’d come to know as Raymond Spinney offered him a cash supplement, regular, for as long as his assistance was needed. All that was required in return was information. He need hurt no one and no one need get hurt.
It did not stay like that; the terms of the deal subtly changed as his demands grew over the years. If any of Spinney’s associates came under scrutiny, then Godden would nudge the investigation down another path. On some occasions he was asked to ensure minor bits of evidence were contaminated so they couldn’t be used in court. Sometimes he was asked to talk to potential witnesses. He never threatened anyone, it was more about cajoling. Using his easy charm to suggest giving evidence in court wasn’t in anyone’s interests: ‘You don’t need that kind of aggravation. It’s you I’m thinking of . . .’
The trouble was, one of the men Godden helped protect was Erik Whitlock. Someone smart could potentially make the connection if they knew what to look for. He’d hidden his tracks well over the years, but it was always a tricky line to walk. Make it too obvious and an absence of information could be just as incriminating. Some pieces of the puzzle therefore needed to be left in play. It was about risk management, and Godden fancied himself as rather good at that.
After the Stansted heist it hadn’t been hard to get on to the investigating team. The robbery was on his patch which was why Spinney targeted him in the first place. Even then, Godden felt he was no more than an insurance policy, a backup if the post-heist plans unravelled. He did just enough. Small nudges and swerves which allowed Spinney to slip under the radar and eventually go off grid altogether. He might forever be in the frame, but proving it was now almost impossible – thanks to Godden. When Warrender took over as the team’s senior investigating officer, the two men quickly formed a friendship. The man was an idiot, yes – but there was an earnestness to him that Godden rather liked. The fact he too was emerging from a messy divorce helped cement the bond. Their friendship made steering him away from Spinney that bit easier too.
Now two former firefighters were dead and Erik Whitlock’s name was once again on people’s lips. It meant those little pieces of the puzzle Godden deliberately left in the system could form a potential path to his desk – if the right person came looking. He needed to clean up and it needed to be done fast.
Chapter 24
Finn, Paulsen and Ojo were holding an impromptu summit in YoYo’s. Momentum was starting to build now, even if it was all rather unfocused. There was forensic evidence, witness statements from two crime scenes and new information flying in from all angles. In these situations, Finn liked to take things out of the incident room and bounce it off a few trusted heads. To his own surprise he now seemed to be including Paulsen in that.
‘The fire investigation team have now confirmed both blazes were arson. The same accelerant was used at each crime scene,’ said Ojo, passing Finn a piece of paper from the pile gathered on the table in front of them. The news was hardly a surprise, but Finn was pleased to see it in black and white. He scanned through the report and then took a sip from one of Yolande’s industrial-strength filter coffees.
‘Let’s start with Adesh Kaul first. Are all the interviews complete now?’
Ojo nodded. ‘We’ve taken statements from everyone who was at the wedding, including the hotel staff and guests who weren’t part of the wedding party. There’s conflicting descriptions of a man a few people say they didn’t recognise – but none of them tally. We’re in the process of trying to go through the photos, that were taken on the day. Just in case someone caught him accidentally. We’ve also been through Kaul’s phone records and digital forensics haven’t found anything on his laptop. We’ve also looked into Stephanie quite intensively. There’s nothing out of the ordinary there either. No recent ex-boyfriends or dodgy workmates to speak of.’
‘What about his finances? Did you dig any deeper?’ said Finn, looking at Paulsen.
‘I still can’t account for how he paid for the wedding,’ she replied. ‘The gold Stephanie wore on the day cost nearly thirty grand alone. You’d expect to pay a sum like that for the entire event. His business was doing well – but not that well. There was nothing in his savings which would have covered it either.’
‘What about those cash sums of money he’d been paying in to his account?’
‘They go back about four years. To begin with, they were quite large – as much as a thousand pounds each sometimes. By the time he died it was roughly a couple of hundred every month.’
‘It’s possible some of his clients paid him in cash?’ suggested Ojo.
‘Enough to pay for thirty grand’s worth of bling, and a wedding on top? I’m not convinced,’ said Finn. ‘What about Elder – was he doing anything like that too?’
‘No, but he owned his house outright and the same goes for the Maserati. All paid for up front,’ replied Ojo.
‘If these guys did get their hands on some of the Stansted money, they haven’t exactly been discreet, have they?’ said Paulsen.
Finn took his glasses off for a moment, revealing uncharacteristically bag-lined eyes. He held the frames absently for a moment, gesturing with them as he spoke.
‘They aren’t career criminals though. Most people wouldn’t know what to do with cash sums like that. You’d probably put it somewhere safe, wait until you think you’ve got away with it – then start enjoying yourself.’
‘I did discreetly ask some of Kaul’s family if they’d seen anything unusual regarding his money. They all said he was never short of a few notes, but that he kept the business close to his chest. I saw no reason to disbelieve any of them,’ said Paulsen.
Finn blew through his teeth as he considered it. ‘I know it was my theory – but let’s just all be careful of unconscious bi
as with this, eh?’
It wouldn’t be the first time an investigation team fell into the trap of bending the facts to fit an attractive explanation. Part of him was also desperately hoping these men really hadn’t been so fucking stupid.
‘It does hang together though – especially if there’s still twenty-five per cent of the Stansted cash unaccounted for, as Kenny Fuller claims,’ said Paulsen.
‘What did Chapel Row say when you told them about that?’ said Finn.
‘DI Warrender was sceptical. Reckoned you had to take anything Fuller said with a pinch of salt.’
‘He’s right, but you can’t just dismiss it outright.’ Finn looked deeply unimpressed.
‘So what direction do you want to go in now then, guv?’ asked Ojo.
Finn stirred his coffee, then carefully laid the spoon down next to the cup.
‘If we think these guys took money from Pacific Square then let’s try and stand that up and see if there’s any actual substance to it.’
‘That won’t be easy. We’ll never be able to prove there was ever cash in that building. The firefighters are the only people who’d know. Whitlock’s the only other potential witness and he’s dead. It’s almost the perfect crime,’ said Paulsen.
‘They’d still have to account for any cash we find. Do you want me to apply for search warrants?’ said Ojo to Finn.
‘Not yet, I want to talk to these men first. Besides, I doubt they’re keeping it in shoeboxes under the bed. And after five years who knows how much of it they’ve still got? Do we know what their precise movements were on the night itself?’
Ojo nodded and reached for a folder in her bag. She added it to the pile of papers on the table.
‘They were part of Red Watch at Earlsfield Fire Station. From the official report, Walker led a breathing apparatus team in just after they arrived on the scene. They’d seen someone – presumably Erik Whitlock – waving at the window.’
The Burning Men Page 12