by Steven Dunne
‘You bet I did,’ said Fry. ‘Turns out they’d taken the cash with them to Cornwall. They were embarrassed, so they paid me.’ He smiled. ‘Said their son was the landlord and they’d claim it back off him. Problem solved.’
‘And no hard feelings.’
‘None.’
‘Not even against Matthew Gibson.’
‘I’m not gonna shake his hand if I see him in the street, but I got my money, so …’
‘When did you last see the Gibsons alive?’
Fry shook his head. ‘A few weeks ago, maybe. In the street.’
‘And Matthew?’
‘Not seen him since. I got the impression he doesn’t get on too well with his parents. They said they only saw him on rent day.’ He laughed without humour. ‘I mean, rent from your parents. Tight-fisted cunt – with all his money.’
‘All his money?’ Brook repeated.
Fry continued without a beat. ‘You’ve seen his motor. And he owns his mum and dad’s house. Must be loaded.’
‘Must be,’ agreed Brook. ‘The odd thing is, when we mentioned your name to Mr Gibson, he denied knowing you.’
‘Probably embarrassed because he stiffed me.’
‘His parents were shot to death and he was embarrassed,’ said Brook. ‘Sound reasonable to you?’
‘You’ll have to ask him.’
‘Oh, we will,’ said Brook. He glanced at Noble.
‘Do you know someone called Stephen Frazer?’ asked Noble.
‘Should I?’
‘Just answer the question.’
Fry appeared to give it genuine thought. ‘No.’
‘He lived in Breadsall.’
‘That’s the other side of Derby and I don’t have a car,’ said Fry.
‘What about Iain Nolan? Same postcode.’
‘Same answer. I don’t know anyone in Breadsall. Why?’
Noble’s mobile began to croak and he nipped outside to answer it.
‘Matthew Gibson knew them,’ said Brook.
Fry narrowed his eyes. ‘Knew them? Are they dead?’
‘Do you own a gun?’ said Brook, ignoring the question.
Fry’s expression hardened. ‘I didn’t kill Matthew Gibson’s parents. They were a nice old couple. I liked them.’
‘I asked if you owned a gun.’
‘No,’ said Fry, thin-lipped. ‘I’m finished with guns.’
‘Not even a sneaky souvenir from your tour in Afghanistan?’
‘Why would I want a souvenir of that shithole?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Brook. ‘But if you have, tell us now and we won’t take any further action if the gun is clean. You’ll lose the weapon, obviously.’
‘I don’t have a gun,’ insisted Fry, resurrecting a little aggression.
‘But you used a handgun in the army.’
‘No, we controlled the camel-fuckers with sarcasm,’ sneered Fry. ‘Course I had a fucking gun, I was infantry.’
‘What type?’ said Brook. ‘Gun, I mean.’
‘A standard-issue Glock 19.’
Brook glanced at the beer can. ‘Ever drink champagne?’
‘Do I look like I do?’ Brook waited him out. ‘No, I don’t drink champagne.’
‘So none in the house.’
‘The wife likes a glass of Chardonnay, but I’m strictly a beer man. Maybe spirits if a horse comes in. Is that it?’
‘Notice any bottles of champagne at the Gibson house when you were working there?’
‘No, but then I’m not the type to go rooting around other people’s cupboards, am I?’
‘How much did the Gibsons pay you?’ asked Brook. Fry hesitated. ‘Out of interest.’
‘Three hundred quid.’
‘Cheap.’
‘Yeah, well I don’t exactly have a glowing CV, do I?’
‘No government help?’
Fry smiled pityingly. ‘You’re kidding, right? This is Britain, Inspector. You help yourself or you don’t eat.’
Noble returned. ‘That was Cooper.’ He glanced at Fry and gestured Brook outside.
‘Coop says they found a fingerprint match from the Gibson house,’ said Noble, once they were outside on the pavement. ‘It’s David Fry’s.’
Brook turned back to gaze at the house. Fry was staring malevolently at them from the window. ‘Where?’
‘On a light switch in the bedroom.’ Noble waited for a reaction.
Brook’s expression didn’t encourage. ‘He just told us he was decorating there, John. Besides, the killer wore gloves. That’s why we’ve got no prints where we know he had his hands. Champagne bottle, CD player, glasses. It’s not Fry.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ countered Noble. ‘Fry has a history of violence and a working knowledge of guns; he had access to the house and had had an argument with the owner.’ He waited. Brook sighed, not wanting to concede the point. ‘Charlton’s not going to be impressed if we don’t bring him in for a GSR test.’
‘You saw his short fuse,’ said Brook. ‘No way he killed the Gibsons. Any conceivable motive he might have would involve impulsive and messy violence. And don’t forget there was an envelope full of cash, untouched.’
‘We have enough for a warrant,’ insisted Noble. ‘We have to do the legwork. We’ve got his DNA and prints on record but we need to take him in for a GSR test to see if he’s fired a weapon.’
Brook sighed, turning reluctantly back to the house. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘I’ll call for backup,’ said Noble. ‘He could be a difficult takedown.’
‘He didn’t do it, John.’
‘Doesn’t mean he’ll come quietly. And he’s not an idiot. He’s going to know that his criminal record as well as the circumstantial evidence stacks up against him. He’ll hit the bricks if he thinks we can pin it on him.’
Fry turned from the window and sprinted upstairs to gather up a rucksack that sat ready packed in the spare room. He threw in his night-sight binoculars and hurtled down the stairs to the kitchen.
His wife saw the rucksack. ‘Where are you going?’
Fry ignored her and pulled open the fridge, hauling out a packet of cheese and a carton of ham before stuffing them into the empty top pocket of the rucksack. He picked out a loaf from the bread bin and flattened that into the same pocket.
‘Where are you going?’ she shouted.
‘Pub.’
‘Bollocks. You’re taking food and your go bag.’ Fry didn’t answer. ‘Shit, Davey, what have you done?’
He turned to her briefly but couldn’t maintain eye contact. ‘Nothing.’
‘You’re lying,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It’s another woman, isn’t it?’
Fry closed his eyes in despair. ‘How many times … ?’
‘Then what is it? You can tell me, I’ll understand.’
‘I have told you,’ he said, rounding on her angrily. ‘It’s nothing, I swear. Now leave me alone.’
Fear flitted across her eyes and she shrank away from him. ‘You’re scaring me, Davey. Something’s wrong. Something’s been eating you up ever since you got back from Bastion.’ He didn’t answer, instead pulling on his boots. ‘Why don’t you—’
‘Shut up,’ he seethed, fastening the rucksack and slinging on his army camouflage jacket before heading back to the lounge to peer out at the front of the house. The two detectives were sitting in their car and DS Noble was talking into a radio handset.
Fry raced back to the kitchen and opened the back door before turning to his wife, his face containing an apology of sorts. ‘I’m sorry, love, but you have to trust me. I’m fine. I just have a few things to take care of at the lock-up. I’ll be away for a couple of days, that’s all. When the cops come back in, don’t tell them anything and don’t mention the lock-up. You don’t know anything, okay?’
‘That wouldn’t be a lie, would it?’ she snapped back, tears filling her eyes. She stared back at him and he moved in to give her a kiss, but she shrank back and turned her head away, raising
a hand to push at him. ‘Just go.’
With barely a pause he marched smartly to the back fence, lifted his rucksack into next door’s garden and vaulted over to the other side.
His wife lit a cigarette with a shaking hand and slammed the back door.
Sixteen
Ninety minutes later, Brook was alone in the BMW, dividing his attention between his map book and looking for the turn-off. He spotted Canning Circus police station, his cue to swing off the main Nottingham road towards Park Terrace. As he drove, he admired the handsome houses, properties from another era, a time when the wealthy merchants of Nottingham lived on the heights to the west of the city, overlooking the sweep down to the famous castle and beyond to the River Trent, the artery around which the city had flourished for fifteen hundred years.
The houses were solid and imposing, some in traditional red brick but others updated with cream or grey stucco. All were large, and sadly only a few were still residential, but one such property was his destination.
Finding the address he sought, Brook manoeuvred the BMW on to the pavement on the opposite side of the street and placed his police logbook on the dashboard to avoid a ticket. Then he climbed out for a lingering examination of the house. It consisted of two floors, with a third elevation created by a partial extension on one side of the roof. The walls were grey stucco, which picked out the white trim of the rectangular Georgian windows. Two imposing wooden doors provided admittance to the building; one of them opened into a protruding flat-roofed lobby on the left and served offices on the ground floor. At the side of the property a patio wound around to the back of the house, bordered by wide public steps heading down the hill towards a small park.
Brook’s mobile vibrated in his pocket.
‘Fry’s well and truly in the wind.’
‘Did his wife say anything?’
‘She’s not speaking,’ replied Noble. ‘Should I take her in?’
‘No. Check their financials and his mobile records. Find out where he might go.’
‘He’s ex-army. He could go anywhere, maybe even live off the land.’
‘Maybe. But he didn’t kill the Gibsons. I don’t care how much circumstantial evidence there is.’
‘That doesn’t make him any less dangerous if the wrong person gets in his way.’
Brook sighed heavily. ‘Make sure his mugshot is out there.’
‘Charlton wants us to do a media appeal.’
‘That’s unnecessary. Just put someone on his house and wait until he tries to slip back home, take him there. If we escalate, he’s only going to feel more desperate and act accordingly.’
‘But Charlton …’
‘… doesn’t realise that we know best, John. I suggest you remind him. No media appeal.’ Brook ended the call before Noble could reply and examined the left-hand door, a brass plaque declaring it the entrance to a computer software company. The buzzer and microphone grille were supplemented by a large brass knocker. He peered through the ground-floor window, noticing the security shutters bunched up at either side of the bay. Several very young-looking people were working at computer terminals and the whole space was bright and airy.
The right-hand door was identical to the left, but there was no brass plaque beside the buzzer and intercom, though there was a functioning security camera. Brook pressed the buzzer. Several minutes passed, but no one answered, so he stepped away just in time to glimpse a heavy curtain twitch on the upper floor. He buzzed again and barked his name and rank at the grille of the intercom.
After waiting a further five minutes, he strolled around the house via the patio at the side of the property. At the rear, he had a magnificent view of treetops and a glimpse of the well-tended park below. As he turned the corner at the back of the property, his progress was halted by a forbidding wrought-iron gate complete with protruding spikes on one side. Behind the bars, a weathered wooden table and chairs sat on stone flags. Looking up at the first floor, Brook spotted an elaborate wrought-iron fire escape with retractable ladder for added security. The fire escape protruded from an incongruous door set high in the house and firmly shut.
Retracing his steps, he noticed that every window on the ground floor was fitted with security grilles, to be fastened at night to protect all the computer hardware, no doubt.
A young man on the patio blocked his return to the front of the house. ‘Help you?’ he demanded.
‘Perhaps,’ Brook replied, flashing his warrant card to take the wind out of his sails. The young man’s manner softened immediately. ‘I’m looking for Reardon Thorogood.’
‘I can’t help you.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’ replied Brook. ‘According to my information, this is her address.’
The man hesitated. ‘I’ve never heard of her.’
‘But there is somebody living in the upstairs apartments,’ said Brook, raising his eyes to the house. ‘And this is her address.’
‘Sorry,’ repeated the man, then he turned without another word and scuttled round the corner, the front door slamming a second later.
‘I must be slipping,’ muttered Brook, trudging back to the front of the house. He buzzed the right-hand door again, stepping back to crane his neck to the first floor. He saw the curtain fall again so pressed his mouth to the intercom and held his warrant card to the camera. ‘I know you’re in there, Miss Thorogood.’
Finally he was answered by a scratchy voice through the grille. ‘What do you want, Inspector?’
‘To talk to you about your parents’ murder. Shall we have the conversation through the intercom?’
There was silence and Brook tried to think of an alternative strategy, but the buzz of an electronic entry mechanism followed by the click of the latch invited him to push through into the entrance hall, where he was greeted by another locked door. Another electronic latch unfastened and he pulled open the door on to a staircase and jogged up to a spacious landing illuminated by a high skylight in the roof. Here he was faced by two solid-looking doors. A second later the left-hand one opened.
Assuming an invitation, he stepped into a spacious L-shaped room drenched in soft winter sunlight. At the far end, the room was bookended by two doors, one of which was the entrance to a bright modern kitchen, visible through a hatch – the other was presumably a bedroom. Another door was set into an exterior wall and was doubtless the one that opened on to the fire escape he’d seen from below.
Walking to the centre of the room, Brook’s feet were loud on the stripped wooden floor, painted in a washed-out industrial white similar to the new flooring at Black Oak Farm. Looking around, he saw plush suede furnishings, including an ample sofa angled towards a huge flat-screen TV hung on brackets across one corner of the room. A glass-topped coffee table serviced the needs of the sofa-dwellers, but that was it as far as furniture was concerned.
Moving across a large cream rug that extinguished his footfall for a few seconds, he was drawn to the stunning view over Nottingham Castle from the outsized window. He stared out across the park for a few seconds, then, remembering his purpose, turned to face Reardon Thorogood, who was peering at him from behind the door through straggly uncombed hair.
‘Inspector Brook, you said.’ She locked the door behind him and drew across two well-oiled, sturdy bolts. Her voice was squeaky, hesitant, almost breathless with anxiety. ‘What happened to DI Ford and Sergeant Caskey?’
‘DI Ford retired,’ said Brook, trying not to stare at the transformation from the young woman he’d seen on the security camera footage to this pale, shapeless imitation that stood before him, one socked foot perched nervously on the other, like a bird in a cage.
What he could see of her face was dull-skinned and sallow, her eyes red, her cheeks pinched and lacking colour. She fidgeted with reddened, sore-looking fingers and Brook observed her bare nails bitten to the quick. She wore baggy jogging bottoms and a shapeless woollen sweater that swallowed whatever figure she may have possessed.
Even though serio
us trauma rarely improved a victim’s appearance, Brook was shocked.
‘And DS Caskey?’
‘Busy on another case.’
‘Is he?’
Brook turned his head quizzically, puzzled for a second. She was testing him. ‘She.’
Reardon nodded, satisfied, and the tension in her frame seemed to ease a notch. She licked her lips each time she spoke. ‘What did they say downstairs?’
‘Not a thing,’ replied Brook. ‘You’ve got them well trained.’
She smiled nervously. ‘I own the building. They’re a software start-up and I gave them a favourable lease as long as they don’t answer questions about me.’
Brook glanced at the monitor by the door. It had a four-way split screen showing the ground-floor entrance, the roof, the fire escape he’d seen from the rear and the patio on the ground floor.
‘And you chose a software company because they’d be equally enthusiastic about their own security, thus enhancing your own.’
Reardon’s smile was lips only, which she licked again before speaking. ‘That’s perceptive of you.’
‘Well there’s no need to evict them after the way they stonewalled me,’ said Brook. ‘Pretty tight security just to keep out journalists.’
‘I’m not afraid of journalists,’ said Reardon. ‘I’m afraid of people pretending to be journalists. Or police.’
‘Do you need to see my warrant card again?’ She shook her head. ‘Anyone in particular you think might come round masquerading as a policeman?’
Reardon padded across to the fire escape door and pushed out on to the wrought-iron platform. She turned towards Brook and leaned back on the rail, producing a pack of cigarettes from beneath her baggy layers. There wasn’t room for two on the small metallic walkway – brightened, Brook noticed, by a couple of pot plants – so he stood in the doorway, facing the city below. Reardon lit up with an urgency he would once have recognised and offered him a cigarette, which he refused with more regret than he was comfortable with.
‘My loving brother Ray is still out there, isn’t he?’
Brook was surprised. ‘Wherever he is, your brother is a fugitive.’ She didn’t answer, inhaling deeply from her cigarette. ‘Ray can no longer benefit from your death. He has nothing to gain by trying to find you.’