The Burning Men

by Will Shindler

  ‘Where are you planning on going?’

  ‘Romania – so I’ll need some contacts in Bucharest too, people who can help me.’ He paused. ‘I think you owe me this.’

  ‘I owe you nothing. You were well paid for your services.’

  ‘I’ve just tipped you off the police are on their way. That’s got to count for something.’ He said the words dispassionately, but desperately hoped the ‘traditional English gentleman’ persona Spinney liked to project bore some relationship to the man within.

  ‘Very well, largely because I think it’s in both our interests if you disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared?’ said Godden.

  ‘If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead,’ said the voice on the end of the phone.

  ‘Well, that’s certainly true. Not a big fan of loose ends, are you? Those three dead firefighters are proof of that.’

  ‘Three?’ Spinney sounded surprised.

  ‘Yeah, one more got toasted last night – don’t tell me you didn’t know?’

  ‘Last night?’

  There was a puzzlement to his voice, the earlier insouciance replaced with uncertainty. It didn’t make sense to Godden; surely Spinney knew all this? Come to that, surely he’d want to get off the phone and get moving. Something wasn’t right.

  ‘I don’t care if you’re going after these men, that’s your business. Right now I’m more interested in my own situation. Can you help or can’t you?’ There was a pause. It felt like an eternity to Godden.

  ‘Go to the Cobham service station between junctions nine and ten on the M25 motorway and be there at one p.m. Wait in the car park and someone will call you on this number.’

  The line went dead and Godden slumped back into his seat. He wasn’t sure if he could trust Spinney, but what else could he do? He couldn’t stay in the country now. It could take a day, a week, or a month but sooner or later they’d find him and then things would swiftly get unpleasant. This was the only way out. The price would be high; he’d be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life and he’d never be able to contact Franny again. That thought was killing him. He couldn’t accept it – he’d find her again somehow, some way. The belief gave him renewed hope. He started the engine and moved off.

  Raymond Spinney carefully poured the small jug of milk into his cup and stirred his tea. Going on the run was hardly a new experience, but being on the back foot was. Since his meeting with Walker in Whitstable he’d been trying to work out why those retired firefighters were being picked off. The advantage he possessed over the police was he knew for sure there was money in Pacific Square five years ago. He also knew why Erik Whitlock was there, and the identity of the Romanian contacts he was supposed to meet. Either the money burnt, or the fire crew stole it. When he’d read about Adesh Kaul’s death in the newspaper, instinct told him it was important. When Godden told him about the line of inquiry Cedar House were following, only then did he really consider the possibility his money survived the blaze. Contrary to people’s assumptions he didn’t actually care about the missing cash, nor that he was the prime suspect for the murders. Instead it was the manner of the deaths – graphic and well executed – that disturbed him.

  As he looked out of the window and gazed at the lake in front of him rippling in the dappled sunlight, he felt something unfamiliar. He was not a man used to being in the dark; his inability to understand all of this troubled him. The only people who knew about the money were his people. Therefore, these deaths suggested someone within his own circle was getting greedy. What he couldn’t understand was why the deaths were so lurid. If it was about the money, you wouldn’t over-egg it. He knew that better than anyone. You didn’t need the extra theatrics of torching people alive. He’d spent much of his time since talking to Walker trying to deduce who it could be. At first he thought it might be the Romanians, but his contacts on the ground were certain it wasn’t them. It also didn’t make any sense – they stood to benefit far more from maintaining their relationship than by burning bridges. He’d deployed every method of information-gathering at his disposal, but nothing was coming back. The threat of violence or the inducement of money usually produced something.

  A simple process of elimination therefore told him it could only be someone with a detailed knowledge of his business. Someone who knew about the fire crew too. The killer was exceedingly well informed – so where were they getting their information? Godden was the logical suspect, but why? Too many things were happening at once; the murders of the fire crew, the tip-off the police received about his location, the possibility Godden’s cover might have been blown. Experience taught him the best tactic was to go on the front foot; apply pressure and see what happened next. People under pressure tended to make mistakes, and mistakes tended to yield information. Placing a call to two members of the late Erik Whitlock’s money laundering network was a quite deliberate move. He’d wanted to see how Godden would react. Now he knew – the man was rattled, begging for help. It didn’t strike him as the response of a man with a clear plan.

  The conversation was instructive nonetheless. It took Spinney mere moments to tap his contacts and establish the detective sergeant was lying about some aspects of his story. He’d also learnt about the overnight discovery of a dead police officer from the Stansted unit. That at least was easier to understand – as he appeared to be the individual who’d been digging into Godden. It was too early to judge if that was a rash and hasty action, or a necessary act of house cleaning. Either way it accounted for Godden’s sudden desire for a new identity and a one-way ticket to Bucharest. He’d receive neither, but Detective Sergeant Mike Godden could still serve one last helpful duty. A fall guy in these circumstances was just what was required. It’d keep the police occupied for the short term and the problem could then be terminated at Spinney’s leisure. It didn’t remove the greater problem though – who was killing these firefighters? He was quite certain of one thing; somebody, somewhere, would pay for this. The money was a side issue – a marker needed to be laid down. He drained his tea. It really was a beautiful day, and a walk by the water would be the perfect salve to his worries.

  Godden arrived at the motorway service station around half an hour early. He’d bought a baseball cap and some cheap sunglasses on the way, which did the job as he drove past the security cameras mounted by the entrance. He chose his parking space carefully. He was far enough away from any CCTV cameras in the main restaurant area, but central enough to be close to the families meandering through. If this was a set-up, then it would be a very public scene, with no quick and easy way out of the congested car park for either party.

  He was absolutely starving and reached down to a white carrier bag on the passenger seat, pulling out a cheese baguette he’d bought with the cap and glasses. He bit a chunk out of it, simultaneously keeping his attention on the people around him. A white van was doing a slow cruise of the forecourt looking for a space. When it turned to do a second circuit, Godden slowly put the baguette down and began to watch it more closely. There were plenty of parking options available, but it didn’t seem to be in a hurry to take one. He’d sat in too many vans like that over the years and recognised that crawl. He looked over at the car park exit just in time to see a grey Honda turning to block it. It was a standard manoeuvre. A second after it was too late, he realised what the van was doing. The first sweep picked him up, the second confirmed his identity. Before he could react, the van accelerated and skidded to a halt in front of him. Four armed police officers jumped out of the back and swarmed around his car, screaming at him to get out with his hands up.

  Very carefully he did exactly as he was told, only too aware of how these situations could go. The nearest of the armed men ran over, roughly spinning him round and pushing him down on to his front. He felt the cold metal of handcuffs tighten around his wrists as the officer continued to bark at him. He smiled. It was the only response that was logical. He’d been outmanoeuvred. Spinney could have just killed him
, but no – he knew what going to prison would mean for a bent police officer. For a moment he wondered whether to charge at one of the armed men and let them put a bullet between his eyes. In light of what was going to come his way, they’d be doing him a favour.

  ‘Hello, Mike,’ said a familiar voice. He looked round and saw Andy Warrender walking towards him.

  ‘I think we need a catch-up, mate, don’t you?’

  Chapter 50

  Sandbury was a picture-book village. It was also very small, a community built for centuries around a village green. Its size made it a difficult place to enter unnoticed, so the six police vans didn’t even try. They came through separately; three of them from the main approach road, the other three via the network of back streets behind the green. The first team stopped by Raymond Spinney’s shop, the second outside his house. Both were quite deserted. A notice hung in the door of the shop, which simply said Gone fishing.

  ‘Got the bastard,’ Warrender claimed ebulliently, when he’d called to break the news about Godden’s arrest. It was a form of muscle memory, thought Finn. That’s what you do after catching a big one; fist pumps, high fives and the promise of beers later. But there was a hollowness to this, an emptiness behind the words. A police officer was dead as a result of Warrender’s incompetence. Celebrating the capture of the man who’d probably done it – the same man who’d been working under his nose for years – wasn’t just a pyrrhic victory, it was laughable.

  Godden was brought to south London to be questioned at Cedar House. Not only was he the prime suspect in the suspicious death of a police officer, he also possessed potentially critical information regarding Finn’s triple murder investigation. Geographically it made sense, but Finn didn’t trust the clearly porous walls at Chapel Row either. Warrender agreed only too happily. It would have been a further humiliation to have brought his own detective sergeant back in handcuffs.

  They hadn’t wasted much time. A duty solicitor was in situ, and Finn and Warrender were sat in the interview room awaiting Godden’s arrival from the custody cells. It was an awkward wait and Finn could hazard a guess at what was going through both Warrender and Godden’s minds. There was no police officer alive who hadn’t played out this scenario at some time; just how would you handle being questioned by one of your own? Finn was interested to see what approach Godden would take. He’d read through his service record and it was impressive. He’d have sat in rooms just like this one and thought about the best approach to break a suspect down. He’d know exactly the kind of strategising Finn and Warrender were doing as he waited in his cell. He was probably down there doing precisely the same thing. The balance was fascinating to Finn in some ways, like those sporting contests he so enjoyed studying late at night.

  Warrender was sat next to him breathing heavily, and his slow drags were the only noise punctuating the silence. Finn glanced over at him. The man was staring into space focusing on God knows what. Conversations past, or the one about to happen maybe.

  ‘Are you going to be okay?’ Finn asked. Warrender gave him a hollow smile back.

  ‘I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about me.’

  A few minutes later the custody sergeant escorted Godden into the room. He flashed a smile straight at Warrender as he entered, and his former DI visibly flinched. Finn was reminded of a smooth estate agent greeting a would-be buyer. He waited for Godden to sit, then looked over at the solicitor who nodded discreetly and pressed the button on the digital recorder.

  ‘This interview is being recorded,’ said Finn. ‘We’ll provide you with a copy or a transcript if you require one.’

  ‘Think I’ll pass,’ said Godden, winking at Warrender.

  ‘That’s noted for the record,’ replied Finn. ‘You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand that?’

  ‘Yes. I’m familiar with the concept,’ said Godden. ‘Where to begin then, chaps?’

  Finn saw Warrender’s jaw tighten out of the corner of his eye, and tried to remind himself these two came to work that morning on the same side. It was already clear Godden was trying to get under Warrender’s skin. He could only trust the other man was smart enough to understand why, and resist the provocation.

  ‘Save us a lot of bother, Mike. How long have you been working for Ray Spinney?’ said Warrender.

  ‘About six years,’ came Godden’s instant response. ‘He approached me shortly before the Stansted heist and offered me a retainer. At the time all he wanted was information. He promised no one would get hurt, but as time went by his demands got bigger, and the deception required from me increased as well.’ Godden’s solicitor leant in to say something in his ear, but he waved her away. The answers were loud, direct and blunt. There was no attempt to obfuscate or lie. He was talking with the freedom of a man who didn’t need to deceive any more, Finn realised.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ said Warrender.

  ‘I needed it,’ said Godden simply. ‘For my daughter. I’d gone through a messy divorce from her mother and I couldn’t keep up with the maintenance payments. Not on our salary, you know how it is.’

  ‘What sort of information were you passing on?’ asked Warrender, ignoring the attempts to personalise the conversation. Watching the other detective was like watching someone self-harm, thought Finn. Each question provoking an answer which must have felt like a stab to the guts.

  ‘Not as much as you might think. For a lie to succeed, you have to bed it in truth. An awful lot of the investigative work I did was genuine. It was only when things got a bit too close that I steered them away.’

  Warrender’s face was a volcanic red now, and Finn hoped the man wasn’t going to compound an already awful day with another mistake.

  ‘What happened with DC Farmer after you left the station together yesterday?’ rasped Warrender.

  Again Godden’s solicitor tried to say something to him. Again he wasn’t having it.

  ‘Jimmy was a good cop. Better than I gave him credit for, as it goes. He’d begun to piece a few things together.’ He flashed that irritating smile again at Warrender. ‘Which is more than you ever managed, I might add.’

  Warrender shuffled in his seat, and Finn shot him a warning look. Godden was grinning now, enjoying the moment. It wasn’t hard to see how he’d gotten away with it. A linear, pig-headed senior officer, blindsided by a cunning subordinate only too aware of how to press his buttons.

  ‘Let’s keep this on point, shall we?’ said Finn.

  ‘Oh, there’s nothing funny about any of it, trust me. I took Farmer out to that landfill site because I needed to shut him down. My first choice would have been to strike some sort of a deal—’

  ‘But he wasn’t a weak streak of piss, like you?’ snapped Warrender.

  ‘No. He wasn’t. I tried to reason with him but couldn’t, so I killed him and left him there. It wasn’t personal, but I didn’t have a choice. I’d hoped it would look like an accident, but then you told me about the CCTV this morning.’

  He said it all in the same matter-of-fact way and it was only by a miracle Warrender hadn’t leapt across the table yet. Finn was watching Godden carefully as he spoke. The man was neither a sociopath nor a psychopath. He’d seen both over the years and this was different. A cold-hearted man, boxed and coxed by his own choices.

  ‘Why are you telling us all this?’ said Finn. He was giving it all up far too easily and for the first time, there was a flicker of uncertainty on Godden’s face. He paused before answering.

  ‘Because I’m going to die. Spinney’s playing with me, by selling me out to you. It might be next week, or in ten years – but he’s coming for me.’

  ‘But surely it would bother him, what you might be able to tell us about his operation?’

  Godden laughed.

  ‘Yeah, he’s having sleepless nights about that. You don’t know him bey
ond his reputation. I know the man, how he works. He wouldn’t have given me up if he feared I could hurt him. How did the raid go this afternoon by the way? I assume it must have happened by now?’

  ‘Was it you who sent me the tip-off?’ asked Warrender.

  ‘Indirectly, via a snout, yes. Don’t suppose you caught him?’

  Finn kept his face inscrutable, Warrender didn’t.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no,’ said Godden answering his own question, and despite his bravado there was some fear in his eyes now.

  ‘Was it Spinney who reactivated Erik Whitlock’s money laundering network?’ asked Finn.

  ‘I honestly don’t know, but that would be my guess. He makes sure he knows everything about every part of his business, so he’d know the names. The timing was quite deliberate, you can be sure of that.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I think he was trying to smoke me out.’

  ‘Why? I don’t understand,’ said Finn.

  ‘Even he couldn’t bloody trust you, could he?’ said Warrender.

  ‘He said something interesting to me earlier . . . he genuinely didn’t seem to know there’d been another murder.’

  Finn leant in. It was entirely possible Godden was playing them. There was still every chance he was carrying out Spinney’s instructions even now, but this felt important.

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘Listen, I’ve been dealing with this man for six years. He’s got ice for blood. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t show emotion, he’s Mr fucking Spock. But when we spoke . . . he sounded scared and I’ve never heard that before. I think he’s as much in the dark about who’s killing those firefighters as you are.’ He let the words sink in. ‘Don’t you get it? Spinney isn’t your killer – it’s someone else.’

  Chapter 51

  ‘So to clarify: there’s one dead police officer, one bent one who says he murdered him, and Ray Spinney’s disappeared. Again. On top of that, you’re now telling me he’s more likely to be the next victim than our prime suspect? If I didn’t know you better, Alex, I’d say you were taking the piss.’