DCI Ryan 06 Cragside

by L. J. Ross

  It was an enormous, gleaming affair with yards of marble countertop and waxed oak. Six stools were arranged around a central island where Henderson’s business partner was perched, chatting to a couple of his minders while he nibbled on a selection of olives. A well-known soap opera played out on the flat screen television mounted to the wall.

  “Look what the wind has blown in, lads,” he scoffed when he spotted Henderson lurking in the doorway.

  “Good to see you, Bob.”

  Bob Singh was in his early thirties, with the glossy looks of a premier league football player and a broad Teesside accent. He might have looked like the boy next door but his mind was a sharply honed tool that had enabled him to become a multi-millionaire by the time he’d reached his thirtieth birthday. Unfortunately, much of his money had been gained through a series of underhand property and drug deals and therefore required expert laundering. The scale of his ventures made it necessary for him to delegate that important task to a handful of carefully screened and selected individuals who shared his love of money and were pleasingly short on morals.

  For the time being, Martin Henderson was one of them.

  “D’ you want a drink, mate?”

  Singh made a big show of making his visitors welcome, even ones he planned to axe the following day.

  “No, no, I’m fine,” Henderson lied.

  “How about an olive?”

  Singh held out the tray of olives and waited until Henderson took one, recognising that the offer had been an exercise in power rather than a desire to be hospitable. He watched while Henderson chewed and forced a Kalamata olive down his gullet. Singh gave him a false, shark-like smile.

  “I’ve been a little bit concerned about the state of our venture, Martin, what with the police crawling all over the place. I was very worried when I heard Ryan was the one leading the investigation. Wasn’t I, lads?”

  The other men gathered around the island made sounds of agreement, staring at Henderson with vacant eyes.

  “Very worried,” Singh emphasized, all pretence of geniality now long gone. “Reassure me, Martin, because I’m thinking seriously about cancelling the terms of our agreement.”

  Henderson tasted olive-flavoured bile on his tongue.

  “The police don’t have anything,” he said, in the firmest tone he could muster. “I’ve destroyed all the company paperwork and they won’t find anything else.”

  “Really? A little birdy tells me that the FIU have been called in. Now, why would the financial investigation unit be involved in a case of accidental death, Martin? And what’s this I hear on the news about it being a murder investigation now?”

  “I—I don’t know,” Henderson stammered. “You know what they’re like, always looking for a headline…”

  “Shall I tell you what I think, mate? I think somebody did murder those poor buggers up at Cragside and that somebody didn’t really think it through. If they had, they would have considered the fact that a famous detective is living on their fucking doorstep, one who isn’t known for letting things lie.”

  “I didn’t—” Henderson started to deny any involvement but was interrupted again.

  “Don’t bullshit me, Martin. What about the old couple? They might change their mind about selling the land, if someone should happen to tell them you’re nothing but a little con artist who isn’t above a bit of grubby murder.”

  “I gave them references, certificates, everything when I applied for the job.”

  “And all of it forged,” Singh gave a short laugh and popped another olive in his mouth. “You know, Martin, I’ve always liked you. The thing is, mate, the art of cleaning dirty money relies on the middle man remaining inconspicuous. You need to be the bloke everybody trusts to manage the estate, so that when you tell them a bit of land needs selling off, they believe you. You need to spend within your legitimate salary, so people don’t start asking questions or generating suspicious activity reports. Are you following me, so far?”

  “Yes.”

  “I heard you were a pro, somebody who’d been in the game a while and knew how to operate. That’s why I let you in, Martin. That’s why I trusted you with my fucking money.”

  Singh’s voice remained at the same maddeningly reasonable tone.

  “You think you can make a mug of me, Martin, is that it? Do you think that I wouldn’t notice you rocking up to my house driving a top-spec car and shoving a ten-grand watch in my face, like you’re the fucking Godfather?”

  The room fell ominously silent and Henderson watched Singh chew the last olive in suspended slow motion.

  “That’s the reason the FIU are looking at you. Because you put yourself on the telly and put yourself in the frame. Because you, with your piss-poor upbringing, just couldn’t resist swanning around like King Dick for a day.”

  Singh wiped his hands on a napkin and then pushed his face so far into Henderson’s they were almost touching.

  “Is that who you think you are, Martin? King Dick?”

  “N-no. I mean, I’m not. No.”

  “Listen carefully, you little twat. As far as I’m concerned, our relationship ends here. I want every scrap of paper you’ve ever touched to be ash by the end of the day. I want everything cleared out of that house as if it never existed. I want the companies completely shut down. Do you understand?”

  It took a special kind of criminal to command men older than himself but Singh had proved himself more than capable. White collar crime might have been his most lucrative venture but it was not where he had started out.

  His reputation preceded him.

  “Now fuck off.”

  Henderson scrambled off the stool and backed toward the door.

  “One last thing, mate,” Singh called out. “You blab one word to the pigs and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

  After he’d gone, Singh turned back to the men around the table.

  “He’s a liability.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Henderson drove until he reached the border of Scotland, another forty miles north of Cragside. From there, he could drive to Stranraer and catch the first ferry over to Northern Ireland, then drive down to Cork where he had friends who could help him.

  That was another lie.

  He didn’t have friends, he had paid associates.

  He needed time to think and, when he saw a sign for a cheap roadside hotel, he pulled in, driving his car around to the back of the car park where it couldn’t be seen from the road.

  It turned out to be more of a guest house than a hotel, run by a sour-faced woman who barely asked his name, let alone queried why he was paying for a room in cash. She pocketed the money and then retreated into one of the back rooms where a television blared while Henderson locked himself into a squalid little room which held the faint odour of smoke and sex.

  He splashed cold water on his face and looked at himself in the cracked mirror above the sink in the corner of the room. There was no en suite bathroom, only a shared toilet and bathtub further down the hall bearing an assortment of stains.

  What the hell was he going to do?

  The reflection staring back at him was of a man past his prime, desperately trying to cling on to the life he had built on a foundation of sand. Everything from his haircut to his handmade shoes had been the best that money could buy. He didn’t care too much about what passed for good taste, so long as he could tell himself it was the best.

  It was important that he had the best.

  It was even more important for people to know it was the best.

  He wanted respect, damn it, from all the people who’d been born with a silver spoon in their mouths, never having to worry about where the next meal was coming from. He wanted them to stand and admire his shiny car and to ask about its leather seats and gadgets. He wanted them to wonder what he did for a living and to imagine it was something important, and then he wanted to tell them to mind their own business when they asked. He’d golfed with almost every rich ma
n in the county and attended the best parties, so he could see his picture in the society column of the local paper alongside every has-been celebrity in the neighbourhood.

  He hated them all.

  The way he saw it, he was performing a public service by redistributing their wealth. It might have been going into his own coffers but at least it was better than seeing the fat cats get fatter.

  Not that he ever felt inclined to stick his hand in his pocket and help his fellow man, mind you. Those scroungers could get off their arses and find a job, like he had.

  He wasn’t Robin Hood.

  Henderson remembered the old days when he’d been a boy growing up on the docks in Newcastle, when there hadn’t been two pennies to rub together. He’d worn hand-me-downs and shoes that were too big for his feet, he’d eaten cheap food and dreamed of having lots of money one day. That dream had sustained him through the hard years, when he’d toed the line alongside all the other lads from school and gone to work with his hands. He’d clawed his way up the ladder until…well, until it all changed and he’d been out in the cold again, back to square one. After that, it had been every man for himself.

  Years had passed and he’d lived some real highs, especially back in the eighties and nineties. He’d splashed money about and bought himself companionship from young men who wouldn’t look twice at him otherwise. Without a steady income stream, there would be nobody to keep him company at night.

  He started to cry big, self-pitying tears that rocked his body.

  He needed to get to Ireland. If he stayed, he’d either be arrested or killed. But his passport, his documents, his things were all back at the estate manager’s cottage and he couldn’t leave without them. Besides, Singh was right; he needed to destroy the paper trail—and not just the stack he’d hidden in his car boot.

  Now that the first waves of panic had receded, he forced himself to think clearly.

  What did the police really have?

  Circumstantial evidence, maybe. He imagined they’d found out he’d lied on his CV to get the job at Cragside. Well, that was nothing to do with a murder investigation. He’d talk his way around that with the Gilberts soon enough, especially Cassandra, who would listen to any old sob story. As for his bank accounts, if the FIU had anything serious they’d have arrested him already. As for Victor…he hadn’t told Singh about the money he’d paid the blackmailing old bastard. That was private business. If the police matched up any cash withdrawals, he’d tell them it was pure coincidence or play the ‘no comment’ card.

  Then, there was the girl.

  He closed his eyes briefly and saw hers, wide and filled with terror as she’d fallen from the bridge. It had given him a sleepless night but, in the end, there’d been no other choice. It was nothing personal. If anything, it was her own damn fault for being such a nosy bitch. If she’d gone home rather than hanging around to wheedle into other people’s affairs, she would never have got herself killed.

  It had been a hell of a job finding Victor’s mobile phone down by the burn and he wasn’t sure what information would be logged by the telephone company. That was a worry but he’d always used a throwaway, pay-as-you-go mobile phone when arranging an exchange. Good luck to Ryan and his band of merry men making that connection in a hurry. He ran his hands over his head, smoothing down the hair he had left, then straightened his tie. In another minute, he’d put a call through to his solicitor.

  It was time to brazen it out.

  * * *

  Lowerson and Yates were parked conspicuously on the tarmacked driveway leading up to the main entrance of the house and were ideally placed to see anybody entering or leaving the estate. Another police car was parked beside the farm entrance on the off-chance Henderson would return via that route. The idea was for him to know he was being watched. In fact, Ryan had given explicit instructions that he wanted Martin Henderson to be sweating by the time they pulled him in for questioning the following morning. “Hard to believe nobody else was available to do the surveillance,” Yates grumbled. “What if we get an update from the FIU?”

  “They’ll call you,” Lowerson said. “Or they’ll call Ryan.”

  They fell silent again, watching the empty driveway for signs of approaching vehicles.

  Lowerson let out a long sigh.

  “So, why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?”

  Yates continued to look ahead, already feeling nervous about what he might ask, or what she might say.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  Lowerson made an irritable sound.

  “Some people call it making friendly conversation,” he said, not bothering to keep the sarcasm from his voice. Over three hours had passed since they’d begun their surveillance duty and, since she’d barely spoken a civil word the entire time, it was beginning to feel like a hostage situation—where he was the hostage.

  “What, ah, what do you want to know? I’m not a very interesting person.”

  “Gee, I don’t know; the usual stuff. How old are you? Where are you from? Why did you join the police force? How long have you had a crush on Ryan?”

  Her hands clenched on the wheel.

  “What? What makes you say that?”

  “Oh, come on”—he flapped a hand in the air—“it’s written all over your face.”

  Melanie almost buried her head in her hands.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Lowerson shrugged and looked out of the side window but all he saw was the reflection of her pale, anxious face.

  “Look, it doesn’t matter,” he told her. “I’m sure nobody’s noticed.”

  “You did,” she muttered.

  Lowerson opened his mouth to tell her that it was only because he had a personal interest, then snapped it shut again. There was only so much rejection a man could take in one week.

  “Well, I’m not going to sky-write it, am I? We’ve all had crushes at work. They pass quickly enough,” he added, hoping fervently that his would pass sooner rather than later.

  “It’s embarrassing,” she surprised him by saying. “I feel like an idiot.”

  He could relate.

  “You’re being too hard on yourself,” he said, turning around in his chair to face her. “You’ll snap out of it, once you get used to working with him. He’s human, like the rest of us.”

  Yates nodded but didn’t seem convinced.

  “He’s also getting married,” he felt bound to point out, and Yates looked down at her hands.

  “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?” she said quickly, desperate to change the subject.

  Lowerson gave her an understanding smile and was happy to play along if it helped her to relax. He could almost hear the nerves buzzing inside her head and it was starting to make him edgy.

  “I was born and bred in Gateshead. I have an older brother, Mike, who lives in Edinburgh and works as a software engineer. He’s married with a couple of kids, which makes me ‘Uncle Jack’. Cool Uncle Jack,” he corrected himself. “I’ve just bought my first home and I have a cat called Marbles.”

  “You do?”

  Lowerson lifted a self-conscious shoulder.

  “I’d introduce you to her but Marbles gets very jealous of other women.”

  Yates chuckled.

  “I’m saving up a deposit for my own place,” she confided. “It seems a long way off, though.”

  “Stick to your goal and you’ll get there in the end,” he said, casually inspiring her to carry on.

  There was a short, comfortable silence before Yates spoke again.

  “Do you think Henderson has done a bunk?”

  Lowerson shook his head and pointed toward the driveway. Sure enough, the headlights of a car could be seen motoring along the empty road. It slowed as it approached and the driver caught a glimpse of them sitting at the top of the road, then accelerated past them with an angry jerk of gears.

  Yates started the engine and they moved slowly after him, reposi
tioning themselves near to the estate manager’s cottage so they could keep a closer eye on Henderson for the next hour or so, when a patrol car was due to relieve them.

  “Henderson had to come back,” Lowerson remarked eventually. “He’s got nowhere else to go.”

  * * *

  Henderson hurried inside the estate manager’s cottage and slammed the door shut behind him, breathing hard. He hadn’t expected to find a surveillance car waiting for him and he began to wonder if the police knew more than he thought. He needed to take care of business.

  Galvanised, Henderson went from room to room shutting the curtains and bolting the doors. He needed to check every corner of the house and divest it of incriminating evidence, a task that required utmost privacy.

  When he entered the kitchen, his eyes fell on a pair of his shoes sitting on the drying rack next to the sink, their soles sparkling clean from lashings of bleach the previous day. It wasn’t enough to clean them, he realised. He needed to get rid of them altogether, like he had done with the clothes he’d worn. They were now a pile of ash along with the papers he’d shoved in his boot earlier, now burnt to cinders on a bonfire near the Scottish border.

  But if the police got a search warrant, they’d find those shoes and ask him why they were covered in bleach.

  Stupid!

  Why would anyone clean their leather shoes with bleach? He might as well stamp ‘GUILTY’ on his forehead and be done with it.

  Henderson was so consumed by his own ineptitude that it was a while before he noticed the simple white envelope lying on the kitchen floor, where someone had slipped it beneath the door. He reached for it with trembling fingers and removed a sheet of paper bearing a typed message:

  I KNOW ABOUT THE VALIANT.

  MEET ME IN THE ARMSTRONG ROOM

  AT 9 P.M. TOMORROW.

  DON’T BE LATE.

  Henderson felt his stomach heave and thought, at first, that it was a message from the grave. Victor Swann had been the only person to know about The Valiant and the role he’d played in its devastation so many years ago. He must have told someone, Henderson thought frantically, or somebody had worked it out the same way Victor had.