‘So it was you,’ he said with a smile. My blood ran cold, but he went on: ‘I was in at eight to read through the file, but you were here before me, working away.’
I nodded stupidly while my stomach churned. ‘I wanted to go over my statement,’ I mumbled, hoping that no one who’d seen me arrive at nine was listening.
‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘James Paxton’s the defence barrister, so we’ll have to make sure we’re up to speed. I don’t want Noble walking on a technicality. But you look nervous. Don’t be. Just tell them exactly what happened. Take your time and don’t let Paxton get you riled. You’ll do fine.’
I nodded, and felt tears prick my eyes because he was being nice and I didn’t deserve it. I’d betrayed him almost as badly as Butterworth had done with his evidence fixing. I turned away and busied myself with my notebook, hoping he’d leave me alone. If he’d been a PC, I’d have walked away, but he was an inspector, so I couldn’t.
‘It’ll be fine,’ he insisted gently. ‘Really. We’ve got a watertight case, and the trial’s just a formality. Noble knows he’s going down, and hiring Paxton is the act of a desperate man.’
‘Paxton’s not that good,’ I said. I hated the way everyone put him on a pedestal, just as they had at school. He was fallible, like everyone else. Worse, he was corrupt and deceitful, and I now suspected that his success had been based on something other than professional skill.
‘That’s the spirit!’ He smiled – a sweet, friendly smile, not one of James’ dazzling charmers that was all teeth and no sincerity – and turned his attention back to the file.
I took a deep breath and made a decision. I couldn’t go through the rest of my police career – however long that might be – with this hanging over me. It was best to tell him now, and get it over with. It was only fair. Perhaps I wouldn’t lose my job. After all, I’d only mislaid a file and allowed myself to be blackmailed. Butterworth had tampered with evidence, which was far more serious, and he was still working. I could claim I was tired and desperate, and Oakley seemed like the sort of man who would stand up for his officers. Except I wasn’t his officer – I was Wright’s.
The thought of Wright’s delight in my disgrace made me hesitate. But, no. I wouldn’t allow the loathsome sergeant to influence me. I would tell Oakley right now, so he could be ready for whatever it was James planned to do.
‘I’ve got something to tell you.’ There. I’d started and there was no going back. There was some satisfaction in knowing James wouldn’t get anything out of my stupidity.
But suddenly Butterworth clattered in. His hands were shaking, and he’d cut himself shaving, so red grazes stood out vividly against his white skin. He looked patently petrified. Oakley was obviously exasperated.
‘Relax, both of you! We’ve got a good, solid case. You’ve nothing to worry about. And I’ll buy you both dinner when we win.’
Butterworth slumped in a chair, his eyes haunted. ‘But what if—’ he began.
‘It won’t,’ interrupted Oakley in the kind of voice that warned him to say no more. I realized then that he had no idea that Butterworth’s Blunder was common knowledge around the station.
‘It could finish me,’ muttered Butterworth. He looked sick, and I knew how he felt. Like me, he’d made a mistake, although at least he was able to say that he’d acted in the public interest. I’d done it because I’d wanted a weekend in Newcastle.
‘It’ll be fine,’ said Oakley soothingly. ‘You’re part of a team – a strong team – and we’re all here for each other. That’s the good thing about this job – sometimes the only good thing. You’ve got colleagues who’ll back you up.’
Butterworth seemed to cheer up. ‘Thanks, Guv,’ he muttered.
Oakley turned to me. ‘What were you about to tell me?’
‘Nothing.’ What else could I say after that speech? I wished Wright had heard it – if he’d had the merest morsel of decency and loyalty, he wouldn’t have gone around blabbing to everyone about Butterworth’s Blunder, and I wouldn’t have been obliged to tell James about it. ‘I just hope we nail the bastard.’
I wasn’t sure which bastard I was talking about.
The courtroom was full that morning, mostly with friends of Noble, Castle and Gray – thuggish, oily men in suits and dark glasses, with mobile phones stuck to their ears, as though business couldn’t stop for anything as minor as a trial. There were reporters, too, because Noble was a local celebrity. He donated generously to a children’s hospice, and was well known for throwing extravagant events for underprivileged kids.
Outside the courtroom the corridors teemed with waiting witnesses. Besides Anderson, Oakley and Butterworth, there were several officers from the drug squad, and an inspector from Regional Crime, who had charged Noble with a separate list of offences. The policemen had gravitated towards each other, but Anderson stood by a window, staring into a street made wet by a sudden downpour.
The building was Victorian, built to deal with a trickle of malefactors. The trickle had since become a flood, and the old stone staircases, high-ceilinged hallways and wood-panelled rooms heaved with activity five days a week. There was talk of extending it to six so that some of the backlog could be cleared. Ancient radiators belted out heat, and most people had removed coats and loosened ties. The atmosphere was close, sticky and stank of fear and unease.
Noble was neither uneasy nor fearful, however. Oakley watched him stride confidently into the courtroom, giving every indication that he expected to be released. The inspector was bemused – the case was as sound as any he’d ever worked on – there was CCTV coverage of Noble supervising the unloading of the drugs, while FSS had matched the heroin on his clothes to the heroin from the boat.
At Noble’s side was James Paxton, resplendent in a dark grey suit and red tie. He, too, appeared confident and relaxed, almost happy. Oakley could only surmise he was looking forward to the intellectual challenge of fighting against poor odds.
Anderson, as arresting officer, was the first to be called. Her face was pale, and Oakley felt a pang of unease. This was the only case he’d ever worked on with her, and he didn’t know her well enough to say if she was someone who’d crack under pressure. But he was more worried about Butterworth. The DC had gnawed a fingernail to the point where it had bled, and everything about him indicated that he had something to hide. Paxton was sure to home in on it, and Oakley just hoped Butterworth would keep his head.
Oakley smiled encouragingly at Anderson as she passed, reminding her to relax, and say what she knew and no more. She nodded, gave a tight smile, and entered the courtroom.
I had given evidence in the Crown Court three times previously, and had acquitted myself reasonably well in each. I should not have been worried – all I’d done was call DI Oakley when the drug-boat had arrived, then made the formal arrest when CID had raced in to nab the culprits. But I was so scared that my legs threatened to dump me in a heap in the witness box. My discomfort was even obvious to the judge, who asked if I wanted a glass of water. I said no, and turned to James, wondering when he would ask about the tampered-with evidence at the station. What would I say? Should I acknowledge that Wright had been spreading tales? That would give me a certain satisfaction, as it would dump Wright well and truly in the mire, but it would be nothing compared to the mire Butterworth would be in.
So should I lie? But what if James told everyone about the train? Would that alone be enough to see him victorious? I’d be out of a job, and my downfall would be public and spectacular. I hated to imagine what Oakley would think. He’d been good to me: true to his word in letting me share the glory when Noble was caught, and encouraging and helpful ever since. He was a nice man, a good man. How different might things have been if I’d been working with him, not Wright.
I braced myself, and waited for James to start.
I couldn’t believe it was over! It wasn’t even James who questioned me – it was one of his juniors, and he asked nothing awkward. Within fif
teen minutes I’d been dismissed and told that I was free to go. I was so relieved that I thought I might be sick. I tore out of the building and leaned on the wall outside, my stomach heaving in painful, dry spasms. I took deep breaths of traffic-perfumed air, and gradually the fluttering in my stomach subsided.
Had James decided that the information he had forced from me was too dangerous to use? Perhaps he was ashamed of what he had done, or perhaps he’d realized that exposing me would say nothing good about himself. Regardless, I was just relieved it was over.
I sat for a while near the Watershed, letting the tension subside as I watched pigeons totter and scramble over a discarded bag of chips. Children played some rough and tumble game on the other side of the quay, and there was a contented rumble of voices from a nearby cafe. I told myself that I would learn from this nasty experience. From now on, I would do everything by the book.
It was lunch by the time I arrived back at New Bridewell, and only three hours before my shift ended. I was back on nights at ten o’clock the following evening, which meant I now had thirty hours to myself. A number of officers asked about court, and I was able to say I’d given my evidence without any problems. The duty sergeant must have seen how relief had turned to exhaustion, because he suggested I spend the afternoon on paperwork, and said that he wouldn’t tell anyone if I wanted to slip away an hour early.
I took him at his word, and by five o’clock my in-tray was empty and I was feeling good. I asked whether there was any news from court, and was informed that Oakley had given his evidence, and that Butterworth was in the middle of his. I went home and treated myself to an Indian takeaway, then had a long, hot bath and an early night, during which I slept like a log.
The following day, I went shopping and met Frances for lunch in The Galleries. Then I shopped some more before going home and reading until it was time to go to work.
When I arrived, I immediately sensed an atmosphere – an odd combination of excitement, unease and fear. It had been the same a few months earlier, when poor Sergeant Dowell had died of a heart attack. Clearly, something nasty had happened.
Oakley was on duty, and there was a haunted look in his dark eyes. I felt tendrils of unease uncoil in my stomach. James must have used the tampered-with evidence after all – I had celebrated too soon. I started to walk towards Oakley, but he was talking to Davis, and their faces were so serious that I didn’t dare interrupt. Suddenly, Wright was at my side.
‘I suppose you won’t have heard,’ he said, effecting a sombre expression, although I could see he was delighted to be able to impart bad news. It wasn’t that he wanted to upset me – he was just one of those people who loves telling others horrible things. ‘Did you see the news tonight?’
‘News?’ I asked stupidly. ‘About Noble?’
Wright nodded. ‘His defence got hold of the story about the switched drugs. You were lucky they didn’t call you back.’
I gazed at him. ‘What do you mean? I didn’t have anything to do with that. I was at home when Butterworth did it.’
‘I know, I know,’ he said, offended by the hostility in my voice. ‘I wasn’t accusing you. I’m just saying that they recalled Oakley after he was dismissed, and I thought they might have done the same to you. You were the arresting officer, after all.’
‘Well, they didn’t,’ I said curtly. ‘What happened?’
Wright hadn’t been in court, and could only have heard the facts second hand, but that didn’t stop him telling me the whole gruesome tale. It was much as I’d feared. Right at the end of Butterworth’s testimony, just when the DS probably thought he’d got away with it, James had produced a photograph of a page from the property book – the one with the changed entry. I felt my knees go weak. Had it been in the folder James had taken on the train? But it couldn’t have been – Oakley wouldn’t have put something like that in a file that would go to court. James must have got it some other way.
Butterworth had crumbled and confessed the whole thing. Then Oakley was recalled, and forced to admit that an internal investigation was underway. It couldn’t have been easy for him, cornered into agreeing that one of his officers was corrupt, and I could only begin to imagine Noble’s delight as he watched the police case fall to pieces. James would have enjoyed it too, of course. So had the press, and the news was full of indignant editorials about corrupt police officers picking on a local man respected for his charitable acts.
I was able to escape from Wright when Paul Franklin arrived. Paul was a stocky man, a bit younger than me and a good officer, but one who Wright was trying to transform into someone in his own image. Paul had resisted so far, although I suspected he would yield before long. Wright was on him like a leech, telling the story a second time in his sly, sanctimonious manner.
Oakley was still with Davis, but I didn’t want to talk to him any more. I knew I should confess, because waiting would only make it worse. But he would want to know why I hadn’t told him sooner so he could have been prepared, and I had no answer to that. I’d simply been a coward.
I started to walk out, but Oakley saw me and called me over. I went reluctantly. He was grey – the colour people often go when they hear bad or shocking news.
‘Did Barry Wright tell you what happened?’ he asked.
‘Of course he did,’ said DI Davis scathingly. ‘Why d’you think he’s lurking by the door? He’s catching people as they walk in, making sure he doesn’t miss anyone.’
‘He’s a gossip,’ I said bitterly. I didn’t care that I was being disloyal to my shift sergeant by condemning him so bluntly. At least some of the blame for the day’s disaster was down to him – if he hadn’t chattered about Butterworth’s Blunder, I wouldn’t have had anything to tell James on the train. ‘Is it true? Did Noble walk?’
‘Not yet,’ replied Davis. ‘Professional Standards will take the stand tomorrow, to state that Mark is being officially investigated. But Ingram says that the case is lost anyway. No jury’s going to convict when there’s proof that the police played around with the evidence.’
‘But you put it right,’ I objected. ‘It was only wrong for a few hours, and it was just a case of a tired man doing one stupid thing.’
‘Irrelevant,’ said Davis brusquely. ‘Mark tampered with the evidence. That means all the forensic tests are out of the window, and there isn’t enough left without those.’
‘The CCTV,’ I said stubbornly. ‘We’ve got footage of Noble unloading drugs.’
‘Records show the disk was released to Mark several times,’ explained Oakley. ‘Paxton will claim that was altered, too, and we can’t prove it wasn’t. You can do all sorts of interesting things these days, and it’s no secret that Mark was a computer buff. Paxton will have it thrown out faster than the forensics.’
The past tense wasn’t lost on me. ‘Was?’ I demanded. ‘Mark was?’
‘He’s dead,’ said Oakley bluntly. ‘Hit by a lorry on his way home.’ He must have seen my horror, because he put a hand on my shoulder in sympathy. ‘I’m sorry. I thought Wright had told you.’
‘He didn’t get to that part,’ I whispered, fighting the bile that threatened to make me throw up. ‘Someone more interesting came along.’
FIVE
Late March
At first, there were whispers that Butterworth’s death wasn’t an accident – that Noble had taken out insurance lest proceedings hadn’t gone according to plan. Then it was claimed that Butterworth had been so distressed by his court experience that he had killed himself intentionally. Oakley dealt with the rumours by making an announcement in the canteen. He deliberately chose a time when Wright’s shift was on duty, sensing that both stories had originated with the gossiping sergeant. Anderson was there, standing slightly apart from her colleagues, as was her wont.
Oakley explained that Butterworth had been exhausted by long working hours and the strains of a teething baby. He blamed himself for not staying with him after the courtroom revelations, but Butterworth had
wanted to be alone and Oakley had respected that. However, there wasn’t a shred of evidence that the lorry driver had been in Noble’s employ. The man wasn’t local, and had been driving for thirty years without so much as a speeding ticket.
The second rumour was more difficult to dispel when it was known that Butterworth was on anti-depressants. How the gossips should have learned this was beyond Oakley, who had thought that he was the only one who had been taken into Mark’s confidence. He skipped over that part, merely concluding that Butterworth had been angry and ashamed but not suicidal, and pointing out that such tales were hurtful to his widow.
As he walked away from the canteen, it occurred to him that they would never know what had really happened. It had been rush hour, and traffic was heavy. The lorry driver claimed that Butterworth had simply appeared in front of him, too late to avoid. They were hoping for a verdict of accidental death, which would allow his wife and child to benefit from insurance that they could not collect had it been suicide. It was a tragedy all round – for Butterworth, his family, the driver, and Oakley, who had lost a valued friend.
Oakley thought Anderson seemed more shaken than she should have been considering she barely knew Butterworth, and he wondered if she was the right kind of person to be a police officer. She was altogether too sensitive. Still, he thought, there was nothing wrong with an officer who was softly spoken, quiet and compassionate. If there was room for men like Wright, then there should be room for women like Anderson.
But he didn’t think about Anderson for long. He had work to do – which included finding out how James Paxton had learned about Butterworth’s Blunder.
Investigating the leak was frustrating. As far as he knew, only five people at New Bridewell were aware of what Butterworth had done: Mark himself, Oakley, Derek Jones the custody sergeant, Clare Davis and Superintendent Taylor, who had passed the matter to Professional Standards. Professional Standards could be eliminated as suspects, as it was their job to make sure the incidents they investigated remained secret, and they had no reason to tell anyone else, anyway. That left the New Bridewell people.
The Murder House Page 4