‘But you’ve got nothing so far which puts him at either scene. Have SOCO wrapped up at the hotel yet?’
‘Yes, we’ve spoken to everyone who was at the wedding now. There are several vague descriptions of a man in the main banqueting hall shortly before Kaul’s murder who nobody was able to identify. But they all contradict each other. One says he’s tall, one says he’s short, one says he had brown hair, another says he was blond – that kind of thing. No one seems to have caught him on camera either. As far as Elder’s concerned, we’ve got nothing from the nightclub that’s useful. We’ve interviewed the people he was with and they’ve all confirmed he left on his own. CCTV shows him walking back to his car – but there’s no coverage in the side street we know he parked in. We’ve checked his phone records and he didn’t use it after leaving the club so it doesn’t look like he was lured.’
‘So how did he and his car end up at the murder scene? Come on, Alex, the bloke was driving a Maserati around Purley, for God’s sake. How visible do you have to be? Someone must have seen something?’
‘Either Elder knew the killer and drove them both there, or the killer overpowered him and drove them both there.’
‘What about the link with Ray Spinney?’
‘I think we have to keep it on the table.’ He shrugged. ‘I still can’t rule it out.’
‘That’s unfortunate,’ said Skegman tightly, and Finn knew why he looked concerned. It meant there was still a threat to the surviving firefighters – that this wasn’t over. ‘Do you want to put surveillance on the other three?’ Skegman continued. Finn blew through his teeth.
‘At this point, I think the likelihood is we’re looking at two separate crimes. Pender still looks a good fit for the murders. As much as we haven’t got proof he did it, we haven’t found anything that clears him either. He doesn’t have an alibi for either day.’
‘And the theory about the stolen money?’
‘The station manager at Earlsfield told me Gary Elder was mouthing off about being wealthy enough to never have to work again. Pender claims Elder tried to buy him off. But here’s the thing – it might be that the money didn’t come from Pacific Square, but that the press conference has flagged up the idea they stole that money from some dangerous people.’
Skegman nodded, remembering their earlier conversation.
‘And if we’re not careful we might end up putting the other three in the line of fire ourselves. What do you want to do?’
Finn pursed his lips. ‘Let’s hold off for now. I’ll take responsibility if it goes tits up.’
He suddenly stifled an unexpected yawn, his sleepless night catching up with him. Skegman arched an eyebrow.
‘Keeping you up, are we?’
Finn looked sheepish.
‘Nothing a week on a beach wouldn’t . . .’ He checked himself. The words came automatically, without thought. Finn wouldn’t be going on any beach holidays any time soon. Without Karin he wasn’t sure if he’d ever go away again. He held up a hand to acknowledge the slip.
‘You know what I mean.’
Finn turned on his heels and left, feeling Skegman’s gaze burning into the back of his head. He knew what the man was thinking; that he really should be on a beach somewhere, resting and healing. Anywhere but here leading a murder inquiry. The constant scrutiny was becoming tiring though. From Skegman, from Ojo, from his whole team.
‘Fuck ’em,’ said Karin.
Chapter 38
Phil Maddox
The cops have released the guy they arrested
without charge. 16:07
Stuart Portbury
Where did you hear that? 16:10
Phil Maddox
I rang the police to find out what was happening.
It’s been 24 hours since they nicked him. 16:12
Stuart Portbury
Doesn’t mean he didn’t do it – just that they
didn’t have the evidence to charge him. 16:15
Phil Maddox
Are you taking the piss? If it isn’t him, then
it’s the fucking Handyman isn’t it? 16:17
Stuart Portbury
U r being paranoid. 16:18
Phil Maddox
Fuck off Stu – how blind do you have to be?
Martin – I know you’re reading these
messages, what do you reckon? 16:21
Chapter 39
The only thing Martin Walker hadn’t understood was why he was still alive. Then he’d worked it out and felt even more scared. He was driving down the M2 motorway nervously eyeing the time. The address on the piece of paper he’d been given simply stated:
Tankerton Beach, Red Beach Hut, 8pm tonight.
It was now nudging four and he felt sick. It wasn’t hard to deduce the man at the gym worked for Kaul and Elder’s killer. He might very well have been the man who’d murdered them. His throat still felt sore from the grip of those giant hands. What he was also now sure about was that Kaul and Elder’s deaths were warnings. Their graphic murders, together with the incident at the gym was a message: we can hurt you at any time. So why was he still alive? There could only be one answer. Money. He’d spent the drive doing the sums. Working out how much he could get through selling the house. He’d have to strike some sort of a deal with whoever he was about to meet. Make them understand about Christine. He felt his nausea rise again as he remembered the threat made by the man at the gym. It hadn’t been an idle one – those giant hands could snap her back like a twig. He’d done some Googling before he’d set off, reading everything he could find out about the Handyman. There was certainly plenty of speculation about his identity. The best bet seemed to be this Raymond Spinney. Everything he’d read didn’t suggest a man blessed with the milk of human kindness.
Walker recognised the address immediately. His parents used to take him to Whitstable when he was a child, a regular pilgrimage on a sunny bank holiday. He didn’t have warm memories of the place though. He couldn’t stand seafood, for a start, and preferred his beaches golden and sandy. The thought this was a lure to simply isolate him couldn’t be ignored either. It was precisely the sort of situation those two police officers warned him about. If it was a trap, then he was walking into it eyes wide open, but what else could he do? Would they find his remains in a burnt-out beach hut tomorrow? Then why not kill him in London – why hadn’t that man simply choked him to death at the gym? Round and round the questions went.
An hour later he arrived at the seaside town. At just after five in the afternoon, it was still basking in the hot summer sunshine. He parked in one of the small side streets and walked towards the seafront. It was an ordinary weekday afternoon, so despite the fine weather there weren’t the mass of day trippers milling around like he remembered from his youth. He could see hardy-looking fishing boats and an ugly metal-clad asphalt plant across the harbour. He’d forgotten how industrial the place felt. He carried on, and found himself facing the three rows of black clapboard huts which comprised Whitstable Harbour Market. It all felt eerily surreal to him, the cheery blackboards offering whelks and oysters, the marine art, ironwork and driftwood curiosities. It was the last place on Earth he’d expected to be when he’d got out of bed that morning, and now it might just be the last place on Earth he’d ever see.
He went over to one of the huts and bought a pint of beer, sitting down at one of the trestle tables. He sipped his drink, ice cold and welcome, and looked out at the green-blue sea. He put aside his childhood prejudice – if this was it, there were worse places to die. He’d run into enough burning buildings back in the day, so whatever awaited him here he’d go head-first into without fear. He turned his phone off. Christine would be worried about him, but he couldn’t let that distract him. For the next three hours he basked in the peace of the place, allowing the sun and the sea to calm his nerves. Then just before eight o’clock he stood, ready.
Tankerton Beach was exactly as he remembered it. As he made his way over he could see i
n his mind’s eye his mother sat on a deckchair wearing a sun hat and oversized sunglasses, engrossed in a book. His father would be laid out on his front next to her, soaking up the sun’s rays in an era when no one thought anything of it. The shingle beach and wooden groynes which neatly segregated it looked like an England from an old-fashioned picture postcard. Walker surveyed the beach from the top of the steep grassy bank on the promenade that overlooked it. He quickly identified the red hut he was looking for, and made his way down. Reaching the door, he stopped. Behind him he could hear the laughter of people enjoying themselves in the late evening sun. He lifted a hand as if to knock, then lowered it again and grabbed the door handle and walked inside. A rush of warm, sour air hit him and he gagged for a moment. The tiny, shed-like space was empty except for a small wooden table. A man in a waistcoat with old-fashioned spectacles was sat on his own, and Walker’s first reaction was one of relief. He’d been expecting someone similar to the thug from the gym. This little guy didn’t look dangerous, more like a bored lawyer waiting for his next client. He recognised him though. The same man from the familiar mug shot used by the tabloids when they wrote about him. This was Raymond Spinney.
‘Please, have a seat, Mr Walker,’ he said, motioning at a small chair. ‘Before we talk, I need you to understand something very clearly. The gentleman you met this morning at your gymnasium is currently parked outside your house in south London. There are also associates of mine waiting on the beach outside. I’ve no desire to make graphic threats, but understand what could easily happen if you make some unwise choices.’ He spoke as if explaining a small caveat at the bottom of an insurance document.
‘You’re the Handyman, aren’t you?’ said Walker. ‘Why do they call you that anyway?’
Spinney ignored him, but turned his head very precisely and looked him in the eye. Walker felt his early confidence draining away. The eyes scrutinising him were devoid of emotion. This wasn’t a man you could negotiate or bargain with.
‘I want to know – in your own words – what happened at One Pacific Square.’
Walker was ready for him. He’d spent the previous three hours anticipating this, so didn’t hesitate with his answer. He described in comprehensive detail the chain of events. What he’d been doing when they’d got the call, the sighting of the man he now knew was Erik Whitlock, and the decision to lead a BA team in on a search and rescue mission. He told him of the discovery he and Elder made inside; the stacks of money on the pallets next to Whitlock. And he told him what they did next.
When he finished, he sat back. It felt good to have finally said it all out loud. It struck him he’d never done that before, and the irony of who he was saying it to wasn’t lost on him. Spinney absorbed it all with the same unmoving expression.
‘Aside from your former colleagues, have you ever told anyone else what happened? Your wife, for example?’
‘No one.’
‘You understand that I will require you to return what you took?’
Again Walker was ready for him, the answer rehearsed on the seafront earlier.
‘I don’t wish to see my wife get hurt, so I’ll do that willingly and without argument. But I have a question . . . how did you know?’
‘If you do as I’ve instructed, then neither you nor your wife will be hurt. If you tell the police about this conversation, on the other hand—’
‘You haven’t answered my question. How did you find out? There were only five people who knew.’
‘Do we have an agreement?’
A growing suspicion which was forming in Walker’s mind coalesced, and he laughed out loud.
‘You didn’t know, did you? Right up until this moment you didn’t know for certain we took your bloody money?’ Spinney was silent, unreadable. ‘If you didn’t know, then why kill Kaul and Elder? Why wait until now to have this conversation?’ Walker could see he wasn’t used to being on the back foot. He certainly didn’t like being laughed at.
‘You literally brought me to Whitstable for a fishing trip!’
Raymond Spinney roared with fury and brought his hand smashing down on the table. Immediately the door to the hut opened, and a heavy set man dressed in a T-shirt and jeans stepped inside. It was enough to refocus Walker’s mind on the jeopardy he remained in – Spinney hadn’t been bluffing about his associates outside, which almost certainly meant he hadn’t been bluffing about the man watching his house in London either. ‘Get out,’ said Spinney simply and the heavy in the T-shirt did as he was told. Walker used the interruption to think. All the things which hadn’t made sense to him on the drive down from London were now becoming clearer.
‘This isn’t about us, is it? If you didn’t kill Kaul and Elder, someone else did, and you don’t know who it is, do you?’
Chapter 40
Finn was in the car park outside Cedar House hoping no one was watching him. Across the road, YoYo’s Cafe was relatively quiet, with just a couple of DCs on a tea break. Notwithstanding the riddle she’d set him about a blind canine wandering a forest, there was still one outstanding obligation to Karin he hadn’t fulfilled. He’d been putting it off for long enough. He opened his car boot and looked at the object inside. It was wrapped in several plastic bags and he picked it up, feeling its heft in his hands. He removed the plastic wrappings to reveal a small, dark blue urn.
Finn didn’t know how he felt about Karin’s remains. Try as he might, he couldn’t draw a line between the object in his hand and the woman he’d shared his life with. It wasn’t as if there weren’t some suitable places to scatter the ashes either. There were plenty of locations which Karin herself suggested before she died. She’d been fairly ambivalent on the subject though, very much of the view that once she was gone, she really didn’t care. ‘You’ll find somewhere. I trust you.’ But it was a misplaced trust. He found he couldn’t actually bear to have the urn in the flat. It upset him wherever it sat, just another jagged reminder of her absence. The idea of scattering all that remained of her into the wind was just as difficult though. The thought of there being nothing left of her at all was too much to bear. He’d wrapped it in plastic, in part so he wouldn’t have to think about it. Out of sight, out of mind. Except that it wasn’t. He’d brought it in to work, because he thought earlier he might just have the willpower to finally do something about it.
Morden Hall Park was somewhere in the early days of their relationship they’d spent a lot of time together. Sunday afternoons where she’d skilfully pushed past his defences and got to know the real Alex Finn. ‘Scatter me there, if you must,’ she’d said. It was, ironically, only a short distance from the hotel where Adesh Kaul was murdered. As he felt the object in his hand, Finn realised he still couldn’t do it, his earlier impetus gone again. He carefully wrapped the urn back up and returned it to the boot of the car.
Feeling unsettled, he walked back towards the station pondering his other problem: DC Mattie Paulsen. She’d barely said a word all day, glaring at her screen as if daring anyone to approach her. Even by the standards she’d set in her brief time at Cedar House it was off, if not downright hostile. It was safe to say plenty was being said about her and none of it very flattering. She’d been angry the previous day at Finn and Skegman’s reaction to the incident involving her partner. He understood the emotion – her point about Karin not entirely misplaced. But was there something else, deeper and more troubling, bubbling beneath the surface? If so, then what? Was it connected to the reason she’d transferred to Cedar House? He needed to lance the boil, and although he could make some discreet calls to Dunlevy Road, instinct told him it should come from her own lips. They were overdue a conversation.
At her desk, Paulsen was struggling to focus. She’d been preoccupied all day by her conversation with Jonas earlier. As a family they’d never dealt with serious illness before. The spectre of it was terrifying. She may have distanced herself from her parents over the past year, but it didn’t diminish her feelings for them. She’d been trying prote
ct them, but now she realised she’d done quite the opposite. As ever when she was struck by guilt, it morphed into anger. She’d slowly deteriorated into a filthy mood.
Then there was Nancy. She’d texted her several times, to check everything was okay after the events of the previous day. The replies were terse and infrequent, a familiar sign she wasn’t happy with Mattie. It was just adding to her growing sense of isolation. To compound things, the shadow cast by the man in her nightmare didn’t seem to want to leave her either. As usual when she fell down the rabbit hole of that particular memory, it produced a combination of emotions – none of them good. She could feel her eyes pricking and hated herself for it. She wasn’t going to cry – not here, not in this office, not in front of some of these people. They’d never, ever let her forget it. Her head was starting to gently pulse; give it another hour it was going to be a skullsplitter.
‘Mattie, have you got a moment?’
It was Finn, and the use of her first name jarred. She hoped this was to do with the investigation and not those side glances he’d been giving her all day. She could tell he’d picked up on her mood. A patronising lecture would just about be the cherry on the icing on the top of the cake. He led her out of the incident room and into one of the general meeting rooms. It all felt needlessly furtive. She gave him a look like a patient mother expecting an errant toddler to explain themselves.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said simply.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You don’t seem right. What is it?’
Paulsen struggled to control her irritation. It was a demand, not a question – what business was it of his?
‘With respect, sir – it’s nothing for you to worry about.’
‘I need everyone with their heads focused on the job, so I’m entitled to ask. You haven’t said a word to anyone all day. What is it?’
The Burning Men Page 18