For months, Oakley’s informants had been telling him that something was brewing at Noble’s dilapidated row of sheds near the marina. These were ostensibly used for storing engine parts, as Noble’s legal business was repairing outboard motors. But Oakley believed his sources, and was convinced something significant was about to happen there.
That ‘something’ was related to the kids hanging out near one of Noble’s all-night pizza joints. Oakley and his team watched money and small packets exchanging hands there on a regular basis and, although he could not prove it, Oakley was sure Noble was a key figure behind the flow of drugs to Bristol’s bored and sullen youth.
But Noble wasn’t Oakley’s only case, and it was a struggle to watch the sheds and investigate Bristol’s other crimes at the same time. Superintendent Taylor had been keen when Oakley had first gone to him with the rumour that ‘something big’ was brewing, but his enthusiasm had waned as days became weeks and nothing happened. Oakley refused to give up, though, and his patience paid off: word came that Noble was expecting a shipment of goods ‘one morning soon’. He detailed a young DC to watch the sheds each day, but Oakley was a meticulous, cautious man, and he wanted the place watched 24/7. As no one from CID was available at night, he was obliged to beg uniform’s help.
He approached Inspector Blake, whose shift was working nights that week. Blake was a genial but foolish man close to retirement, who was more interested in honing his computer skills than in actual police work. He approved Oakley’s request with a casual nod, and said Sergeant Wright would allocate an officer.
Oakley disliked Wright, mostly for the deplorable way he treated his female officers, particularly Helen Anderson. Oakley suspected that Wright was frightened of her, afraid she might use her sharper wits to expose him as a stupid, vain man without two brain cells to rub together. However, Oakley doubted Anderson would do any such thing: she was shy, and so desperate to be accepted by her colleagues that she ignored his brazen favouritism towards the men in his command.
When Oakley made his request, Wright leaned back in his chair and fixed him with rodent-like eyes. Oakley stared back, noting that Wright had plastered strands of hair across his greasy, balding pate and that his moustache was stained yellow with nicotine.
‘You can have Anderson,’ Wright said eventually. ‘She’s no good for anything anyway. Head too full of theories to get down to any real policing.’
‘Oh?’ asked Oakley mildly. ‘And what theories would those be?’
‘She’d rather ask a villain about his mother than knee him in the bollocks,’ sneered Wright. ‘Bloody women! They should stick to raising babies and having the tea on the table when we get home.’
‘Anderson will do nicely,’ said Oakley. Then he couldn’t resist adding: ‘I don’t want a truncheon-happy yob who assaults suspects and provides them with an excuse for charges to be dropped.’
He turned on his heel and stalked out, feeling Wright’s hostile gaze on his back as he went. He collected Anderson from the briefing room and told her what he wanted. She nodded agreeably, although he sensed she felt she had drawn the short straw. He sympathized, but he needed a body. She collected a radio, and he drove her to the derelict house CID was using for observations.
‘What made you join the force?’ he asked conversationally as they turned down a cobbled street from which SS Great Britain could be seen in the distance, its masts and spars a spiky mass against the orange sky. ‘The fabulous salary? The excellent working hours? The chance to meet charming people?’
‘Do you mean the villains or our colleagues?’ she asked, laughing.
‘Both. Look, I’m sorry about this. I know you’d rather be out with the lads, but I really need someone here tonight.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Why? Word is that if anything does happen, it will be during the day. We both know watching the place now is a waste of time.’
‘I disagree. A lot’s at stake here. Three teenagers have died from bad drugs this year, and more will follow unless Noble’s operation is stopped. It might not feel like it, but being here is probably the most important thing anyone on your shift will do tonight.’
‘Really?’ she asked coolly. ‘Then why aren’t you doing it yourself?’
He grimaced. ‘Point taken. But I’ll tell you what: if anything does go down, you’re the arresting officer. It’ll look good on your record, and it’ll annoy Wright.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said grudgingly. ‘It’s not as bad as traffic duty. At least here some kind soul might bring me a flask of coffee later.’
‘Sugar?’ asked Oakley genially.
I’d been at New Bridewell about a year and a half when Wright assigned me to watch the sheds. It was a pain, and Wright said that if anyone other than DI Oakley was in charge, no one would have bothered to stake out the place at night. Oakley had a reputation for being thorough.
But at least Oakley was nice about it. He seemed genuinely sorry that I’d drawn the short straw, and spent a full thirty minutes pointing out various buildings in Noble’s domain, and explaining why it was important that Noble was caught. He was clearly determined to nail the man.
It was just a shame it wasn’t likely to happen while I was there.
Oakley took Anderson some coffee and a bag of chips just after midnight. The sheds were still and silent, and the derelict house bitterly cold. Oakley experienced a pang of guilt, but he wasn’t about to let her go early. He gave her his peace offerings, made sure her radio was working, and headed home. It was a little after two o’clock when he was woken by the crackle of the radio he had placed next to his bed.
‘Noble,’ Anderson whispered with barely suppressed excitement. ‘He’s just opened one of his sheds, and his two heavies are down by the waterfront. I think they’re waiting for someone.’
‘Don’t do anything, Helen,’ said Oakley, reaching for his clothes in the darkness. ‘Sit tight and wait.’
He called the station and, within minutes, a carefully formulated plan was swinging into action. Oakley ran down the stairs, pulling on his coat as he went. Remembering not to slam the car door or gun the engine – the neighbours had recently complained about his nocturnal habits – he drove quickly towards the docks.
Butterworth was already there, almost dancing with glee. ‘A boat’s making a delivery. Tony Johns can see it from the roof, and he’s getting it all on camera.’
‘Good,’ said Oakley. ‘Is everyone here?’
Butterworth nodded. ‘DI Davis is up with Anderson, and Wright’s got two traffic lads nearby, in case things go pear-shaped. Dogs are on standby, and Bristol East CID are listening in.’
Oakley slipped into the derelict building and went up the stairs to where two dark shapes were outlined at the window: Anderson and DI Clare Davis.
‘You were right, Neel.’ Davis sounded pleased. ‘The rumours about a daytime delivery were a blind, to make sure we knocked off at dusk. How did you know?’
‘I didn’t,’ admitted Oakley. He grinned at Anderson. ‘Looks like you’ll arrest one of the most dangerous villains in the West Country tonight.’
The operation went smoothly, and before dawn Noble and six accomplices were locked in New Bridewell’s cells and ten kilograms of heroin had been seized. The drug squad was delighted – especially when one suspect offered to give up even bigger fish in exchange for a lighter sentence.
True to his word, Oakley made sure the honour of arresting Noble went to Anderson, and he found himself doubly rewarded – by her pleasure and Wright’s fury that she should be the hero of the hour. A preliminary interview was arranged for the morning, so that Noble’s lawyer could not claim his client had been questioned late at night when he was tired.
Oakley reminded his team that everything needed to be done by the book, then told them to go home and snatch some sleep before the interviews and reports the following day. Mark Butterworth lingered, however, too wired by the night’s happenings to go home. After writing up his pock
et book, he went to look at Noble through the grille on the cell door, enjoying the look of indignant rage on the man’s face.
Noble was wearing white overalls, as his clothes had been taken to see whether the white powder on them could be matched to the heroin that had been found on the smugglers’ boat.
‘You won’t get me,’ warned Noble, masking his temper when he saw he was being watched. ‘Not for smuggling. I might enjoy a bit of crack now and again, but I don’t get involved in dealing.’
‘The forensic boys will prove you do,’ taunted Butterworth. ‘They’ll find it on your clothes.’
‘Yeah, my personal stash,’ said Noble with a shrug. ‘It don’t prove I had anything to do with the boat. All I did was watch it arrive. I’m an innocent bystander.’
Butterworth closed the grille and went to the property book – a thick tome in which the contents of a prisoner’s pockets were recorded before being placed in a canvas bag and stored until the arrested person left the cells. The custody sergeant, Derek Jones, had gone to fetch someone a cup of water, so Butterworth unlocked the cupboard, found Noble’s bag, and emptied it on the counter. Sure enough, there was a packet containing white powder. He glanced at the property book and saw its presence was duly noted. The following day, when Noble’s lawyer was present, the packet would be sent to the Forensic Science Service, or FSS, for analysis.
Butterworth, tired and edgy, could see the case going up in smoke when the courts decided that any traces of heroin on Noble’s clothes originated from his personal supply, not the boat. Noble was right: he might walk free.
Butterworth looked quickly through the other entries and saw that Noble was not the only one with drugs: Mike Gray had had five tablets in a pouch – ecstasy or some similar party pill. Quickly, Butterworth changed the record so that Gray had three of the tablets and Noble had two. He deleted all references to the powder – which went in his own pocket. There, he thought with satisfaction: Noble could not claim any powder traces on his clothes came from his personal stash if he did not have one.
By the time Derek Jones returned the cupboard was locked, the property book was back on its shelf and Butterworth was innocently studying the arrest file. Jones told him he should get off home if he wanted to be any good in the morning, and Butterworth left without a word, feeling as though he had scored a victory for justice.
Butterworth’s attempt to thwart Noble was discovered the following morning, when Jones went to collect the pills and powder for forensic analysis. He distinctly recalled that there had been five tablets among Gray’s possessions, and it was obvious that the number had been changed in the book. As only one person had been in a position to tamper, it did not take long for Jones to guess the truth. He told Oakley, then his superintendent. Oakley was furious. He cornered Butterworth in the canteen – empty at that hour – where the DS was using the coffee machine.
‘You might just have lost us the whole case,’ he fumed. ‘Tampering with the evidence! Jesus! What were you thinking?’
‘That I had to stop Noble from walking,’ objected Butterworth, not bothering to deny the accusation. ‘He’ll say the powder on his clothes was stuff he used himself.’
Oakley was almost beside himself with frustration. ‘Blood tests will show otherwise, so his claim won’t see him free, but your tampering might! I can’t believe you did this.’
‘I was trying to help.’ Butterworth looked wretched. His face was grey with fatigue, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Having the kind of job that entailed long hours didn’t sit well with having a teething baby at home.
Oakley wanted to rail more, but he could see it would do no good. He ran a hand through his hair and stalked out, wondering what they could do to salvage the situation. Butterworth rubbed his temples with shaking hands. He was aware of a faint movement by the door, and saw Barry Wright lurking there. The sergeant was reading the notice board, and Butterworth had no way of knowing whether he had overheard the exchange. He closed his eyes. One thing was certain though: if Wright had, it would be all over the station by lunchtime.
Oakley sat with Clare Davis, discussing Butterworth’s actions. He was still angry, but she questioned whether Noble had told Butterworth about his defence strategy specifically to ensure that the evidence was tampered with. Oakley cursed himself for not guessing that Butterworth’s nervous excitement might lead him to do something stupid.
They met with Superintendent Taylor later that day, and it was agreed that the pills and packet should be put back as they had been before Butterworth had interfered, and an internal report submitted to the Professional Standards Department. Oakley asked to append a note outlining the stress his sergeant had been under, and the fact that Butterworth’s daughter had been sleeping badly for months.
Chastened, Butterworth handed over the small packet he had taken, thanking his lucky stars that he hadn’t flushed it down the toilet. Jones initialled the amended entries, and closed the book with an air of finality.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Now bugger off, the lot of you.’
Jones was a quiet, reliable man who didn’t gossip, and Oakley was sure the affair would lie dormant until the internal investigation began. Butterworth had been granted a temporary reprieve.
‘Thanks, Guv,’ muttered Butterworth as he followed Oakley along the corridor.
‘You might lose your job over this,’ cautioned Oakley, in no mood to be conciliatory. ‘Take the day off, and get a note from your doctor saying you’ve been under a lot of pressure. It might help. I’m just grateful no one else knows about this.’
Butterworth decided it wasn’t a good time to mention that Wright might have overheard their discussion in the canteen.
THREE
I should mention the mistake I made, which eventually led me to kill. It was only that – an error of judgement. It wasn’t a crime or anything dishonest. It was a mistake, and we all make those. Of course, most don’t spiral out of control and lead you to do things you could never imagine doing, even in your darkest nightmares.
The incident that started the chain of events leading to murder happened about a year and a half after my horrid one-night stand with James. I’d been at New Bridewell for about two years, and it was about six months after Noble’s arrest. Oakley had let me sit in on Noble’s interviews, which was nice of him, and it got Wright off my back for a few days. Then the case passed to higher authorities, and I was back to petty crime and traffic duties. Success had been sweet while it had lasted.
I was seeing Gary, Frances, and Colin Fairhurst fairly often by then, although James had long since moved to loftier acquaintances. Colin ran across James sometimes, and told us that he’d been made a partner in Urvine and Brotherton. James was young for such a post, and it showed that he was set for a glittering career.
I heard a different side of things at work, of course, where his name cropped up regularly. Only a couple of months after getting acquitted, Brown was arrested for holding up a post office with a gun. God knows how, but James managed to convince a jury that Brown was innocent on that as well.
As time passed, more stories about James circulated. Police officers often feel a grudging respect for clever lawyers – but not with James. His ability to put violent criminals back on the streets made him someone to hate. Needless to say, I kept my acquaintance with him quiet, and my school days and single night of unsatisfactory lust were tucked away as distant memories.
But none of this has anything to do with my mistake. That happened one pretty spring day in March about a year ago.
March
Paxton was becoming known as one of the best defence lawyers in the city. All the criminals wanted him, and with fame came the opportunity to pick and choose. He preferred the high-profile cases, for which his clients paid heavy fees. Noble’s trial for drug smuggling fit the bill perfectly. He had successfully represented Noble before, of course, and Noble had been suitably grateful, not only doubling James’ fee, but putting out the word th
at he was the best.
Paxton had spent the morning in chambers, and was walking past the Crown Court to have lunch in a popular harbourside restaurant when he passed Oakley and Butterworth. Oakley was relaxed and stoical as usual, but Butterworth looked like a cat on hot tiles. He refused to meet the lawyer’s eyes, leaving Paxton frowning after him thoughtfully.
‘There’s no need to tell him you’ve got something to hide,’ muttered Oakley, unimpressed by Butterworth’s loss of composure.
‘What if he brings it up?’ whispered Butterworth wretchedly. ‘What am I going to do?’
‘He won’t,’ said Oakley. ‘He doesn’t know anything about it. But you’ve got to get a grip. He’ll have you for breakfast if you don’t.’
‘That’s what my wife said. She sent me to the doctor this morning.’ Butterworth reached into his pocket and pulled out a prescription for tablets. ‘He said I was depressed and should take some pills for a month. What do you think?’
‘Listen to him,’ said Oakley shortly. ‘Take them.’
‘I don’t know.’ Butterworth studied the form doubtfully. ‘These are anti-depressants. Like what they give neurotic housewives.’
‘It’s what they give perfectly normal people who need a helping hand.’
Ever since ‘Butterworth’s Blunder’, as the incident had become nicknamed to those who knew about it, the DS had been nervous, short-tempered and unreliable. Oakley had tentatively suggested a visit to the force psychiatrist, but Butterworth had responded furiously and the subject had not been broached again.
The Murder House Page 2