by Ernesto Lee
Robertson thanks him and then turns to his colleague.
“Chris, when you are ready.”
DS Marshall removes two case files from his briefcase and lays out the contents of both on DCI Morgan’s desk. Next, he pushes the mugshots of Senior Officer Phillip Cartwright and Prison Officer Brendan Taylor towards me and asks if I recognize them.
“Yes, of course I do,” I reply. “They were running a smuggling racket into Meerholt Prison. They were on DS Douglas’ payroll and it was these two that handed me over to Bellmarsh and Huntley.”
Both Robertson and Marshall nod their agreement and then Marshall puts away the mugshots and replaces them with two handwritten statements.
“Yes, that was a nasty business, DS McMillan. You opened a real can of worms when you took that case on. It’s great to see that you are on the mend though and back at work. I’m almost a bit embarrassed to be asking you this, but an allegation has been made, and we need to follow up on it.”
DCI Morgan is looking impatient and nods to DS Marshall to continue.
“We’re all adults here, DS Marshall. No need to be shy.”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
He clears his throat and then turns the two statements towards me.
“Both Senior Officer Cartwright and Officer Taylor have alleged that whilst you were being held in Meerholt Prison you smuggled in and supplied four ounces of marijuana to the prisoner Frank Butler.”
He has barely finished speaking when Morgan leaps to my defense.
“Are you seriously wasting our time with something so preposterous, gentlemen? Sean was only in Meerholt for around a week. When was he supposed to have had the time or the opportunity to do such a thing? And more to the point, why on earth would he want to? Frank Butler is the cousin of Paul Donovan. What utter crap!”
Out of respect for his rank, DI Robertson allows Morgan to finish venting and then he apologizes.
“Sir, we couldn’t agree more. But please, if you could allow us to finish and refrain from interrupting. We need to hear from DS McMillan so that we can close this.”
Morgan looks annoyed at the rebuke from Robertson, but he keeps quiet and allows him to continue.
“DS McMillan, I need to ask you if there is any truth in this allegation. Did you smuggle marijuana into Meerholt Prison and give it to Frank Butler in return for his protection?”
The allegation is of course one hundred percent true, but it’s interesting to see that they only have statements from Cartwright and Taylor and not one from Frank Butler. To implicate me in the supply of drugs would be to implicate himself, so it would make sense that he wouldn’t say anything against me. Add to that the fact that I gave him the evidence to prove that DS Douglas murdered his cousin, I’m confident that the word of the two crooked screws is all they have.
“No, I did not smuggle marijuana into Meerholt Prison. May I ask when I was meant to have supplied these drugs to Frank Butler?”
DS Marshall double checks his notes and then tells me it was on Friday, February 16th, 2018.
Morgan laughs to himself and unable to keep quiet, he goes on another rant.
“This is ridiculous. Sean was remanded into Meerholt on 15th February. Prior to that he was strip searched at least three times and I assume again when he was processed on arrival at the prison. Are these jokers seriously expecting anyone to believe that less than twenty-four hours after his arrival into prison he was able to arrange for four ounces of marijuana to be smuggled into him? What complete and utter rubbish!”
Robertson wisely chooses not to rebuke DCI Morgan again and turns to me.
“Listen, Sean. We know that it’s far-fetched, but both statements were taken separately, and they do seem to corroborate each other. Why do you think that they would both try to implicate you in the supply of drugs?”
“To save their own skins,” I reply. “They are both looking at significant sentences for the Meerholt racketeering operation and for the collusion with Clive Douglas. If I were to guess, I would say that they are clutching at straws in the hope of a reduced sentence. Did Frank Butler corroborate their story?”
Robertson shakes his head. “No, he didn’t. He denies any knowledge of any involvement in drugs or of any agreement to protect you.”
“Well, there you have it,” Morgan exclaims. “This is nothing more than a last-ditch attempt by a couple of bent screws to deflect attention from themselves and to dent DS McMillan’s credibility. Are we done here, gentlemen?”
DI Robertson closes the two case files and stands up.
“Yes, I think that’s enough. I apologize for wasting your time, sir. And for dragging you off your current case, DS McMillan.”
Both officers shake my hand again and then Morgan escorts them out. I can hear them talking with Morgan for another thirty seconds before he comes back in and sits down.
“Is there something more to that, Sean?”
DCI Morgan is no fool and he knows as well as the AC boys did that the allegation from Cartwright and Taylor is so far-fetched as to almost be true. I have no intention of giving anything away though.
During my stay in hospital and after my discharge we spent many hours discussing the Network Case and there was nothing ever mentioned about my involvement in the supply of drugs. I have no intention of revealing anything now.
“Nothing, sir. It’s all complete rubbish. Like I said to DI Robertson, they are both just clutching at straws. Thanks for your support. May I get back to work now, sir?”
Morgan stands up and shakes my hand.
“Think nothing of it, Sean. It’s nothing I wouldn’t do for any of my officers. Check in with me tomorrow and give me an update on the Partington-Brown case.”
I thank him and walk towards the door, but Morgan calls me to hold on. As I turn, he is looking at his computer screen. He is typing something, but he stops and looks in my direction.
“One of these days, I’m going to get the full story from you, DS McMillan. I don’t know when, but I will get it.”
“Sorry, sir. I’m not following you?” I reply.
“The full story of how you managed to get in and out of Meerholt Prison on the night that the CCTV picked you up at Assistant Chief Constable Butterfield’s house. You never did fully explain that and a few other things to me. Carry on, Sean.”
As soon as I am in the lift, I breathe a sigh of relief. I know full well that Morgan is not entirely convinced with my explanation for the drugs allegation, but whether he believes it or not, there is no evidence to support the claims of Cartwright and Taylor and I am confident that neither Morgan nor Anti-corruption will have the appetite to pursue the claims further. To do so could seriously damage my credibility, which might put at risk the chance to successfully convict some of the big fish scooped up in the aftermath of the Network case. There is no way that they would allow that to happen.
The time is approaching 10:45 am and I’m keen to get back up to Tyevale. I message Cath to let her know that I am done with AC and then head to the canteen for a late breakfast while I wait for her. Twenty minutes later she replies to say that she is back, and I head down to the carpark to meet her.
On the passenger seat there is a beige A4-sized envelope bearing the coat of arms of the Coroner’s Society of England and Wales. The envelope is still sealed, and I ask Cath if she was able to discuss the reports with anyone.
“Hang on a second,” she says. “How did your meeting go with DCI Morgan and AC?”
“It was fine, Cath,” I reply. “AC wanted to ask me about some bullshit allegation that the two bent screws had made against me.”
Cath raises her eyebrows. “And?”
“And nothing. Statements were made alleging that I had brought drugs into Meerholt with me and that I had used those drugs to buy the protection of Frank Butler. It was nothing more than a feeble attempt to discredit me and to possibly wangle a reduction in sentence. I explained to AC that it was bullshit and the meeting finished. But for
the fact that it took me away from this case, it would have been laughable.”
“Wow! Did they really think that anyone would believe such utter nonsense?” Cath says. “Even Anti-corruption are not that gullible. I bet Morgan was fuming that they were even entertaining the idea.”
“Morgan was great, Cath, and at the end of the day, AC was just doing its job.”
I’m keen to end this conversation and so I ask her again about the sealed envelope on the seat.
“It’s just the inquest report, boss, and, no, there was nobody around to discuss it with.
The report was ready to collect, but the coroner’s not based in the same office. I haven’t read it yet. I figured you would be keen to get back on the road.”
“Yes, I am,” I reply. “Come on, let’s get going. I can read it on the way up. What about the autopsy report? Did they say when that would be ready?”
“I think the answer to that is, never. There was no autopsy done,” Cath replies.
“Seriously!” I exclaim. “A woman in her mid-forties with no significant prior history of illness is bedridden for twelve months, then dies suddenly in her sleep and there is no autopsy? That doesn’t add up, Cath. I’m starting to think that we might be investigating more than just the disappearance of Lucy. Surely this mystery illness would have been reason enough for the coroner to call for an autopsy?”
Cath nods and then starts the car. “Yep, you’re right. It doesn’t make any sense. Open the envelope and take a look at the report. I’m intrigued now to see what the coroner’s verdict was.”
Cath pulls out of the station and sets course back towards the motorway. I break the seal on the envelope and take out the contents, skimming the main headings in the coroner’s report. If I had been expecting to find a detailed report on the death of Beatrice Partington-Brown, then I would have been sorely disappointed. The report is made up of just two typed A4 pages, comprising mainly of the deceased’s personal details, date of death, and the inquest verdict, which states the cause of death as ‘heart failure following a prolonged bout of unexplained illness.’
Accompanying the coroner’s report there is also a copy of Beatrice’s medical records, a copy of her death certificate, and a statement from the Partington-Brown’s family doctor. Interestingly, the death certificate and the statement from Dr. Clarke both use the same wording as the inquest report when describing the cause of death. This could mean nothing, of course, but it does make me wonder if the coroner could have been unduly influenced in reaching his verdict.
I slide the other items back into the envelope and focus my attention back on the inquest report. This time I read it word for word. As before there is nothing startling in the main body of the report, but there is a small handwritten note at the bottom of the second page that I hadn’t noticed during my first review. It’s only two words and the handwriting is difficult to decipher, but when I finally get it, it’s unmistakable.
“Autopsy required. It says autopsy required.”
My comment is to myself, but it gets Cath’s attention.
“Sorry, what was that you said, boss?”
“Autopsy required, Cath. The coroner wanted an autopsy. He’s made a note at the bottom of the report. So why was there no autopsy? Jesus Christ, Cath! She was killed, and someone stopped the autopsy going ahead.”
My outburst causes Cath to take her eyes off the road for a second before she quickly turns back.
“What do you mean, she was killed? Killed by whom and why? You think she might have known something about Lucy’s disappearance?”
“I really don’t know, Cath, but the only person with the kind of influence and connections to stop an autopsy would have been ...”
Cath interrupts and finishes my sentence, “Sir David Partington-Brown.”
“Exactly, Cath. I think we need to pay the PBs another visit. But this time, let’s not tell them we are coming. Put the blue light on, Cath. We have work to do.”
We arrive back at the Winchester Hotel at just past one in the afternoon. Before heading upstairs to freshen up, I ask Catherine to do some more research into Beatrice Partington-Brown.
“See if you can find out the date of her burial. If you have no luck on the phone, St. Benedict’s Church is at the end of the high street. Have a walk down and check the births, deaths, and marriages register. I’ll bet my next month’s salary that the PBs will have a family plot in there. I’m going to head up and get my thoughts together. Back here for two-fifteen, yeh?”
“Sounds good, boss.”
Cath checks the time on her watch and then sits down in reception to make some calls while I head up to my room. The door is locked but the TV is on again and when I get inside, Ben has his feet up on the coffee table watching daytime TV and is tucking into a huge slice of pizza.
“Feel free to make yourself comfortable and to abuse my room service account, Ben. Why don’t you order yourself a bottle of champagne while you’re at it? I assume the cleaner let you in again?”
Ben takes his feet off the table and puts down the remains of the pizza slice.
“I’m good, Sean. Thanks for asking. And I think buying me a pizza is the least you could do after leaving me to rot in jail.”
With everything that has happened so far today, Ben had completely slipped my mind and I’m now feeling slightly guilty. Bizarre as the situation might sound, at the end of the day he is still my son.
“Yep, sorry. I guess I deserved that. How are you after last night’s shenanigans? How did you get away?”
“Well, all things considered, I’m fine, thank you. That copper was determined to keep me in, and he arranged for some detectives to come from Spalding to speak to me.”
“For stealing fish and chips and a few groceries?”
“No, of course not,” Ben replies. “I didn’t have any ID on me, and he wasn’t able to verify the name and address I gave him. Then he started asking me what I knew about the IRA and if I had ever been to Aldershot.”
At the mention of the IRA my face drops and I sit down on the sofa next to him.
“Ben, what name did you give to Sergeant Cuttler?”
The accusing tone in my voice gives away my concern and Ben hesitates to answer.
“Ben, this is serious, I need to know what name you gave him?”
“What does it matter? I’m back now, no harm done.”
“Ben! Tell me the name,” I snap at him.
“Paddy, I told him my name was Paddy.”
“Just Paddy?” I ask him.
Ben starts to snigger slightly, “No of course not, he wanted my full name, so I told him it was Paddy O’Doors. You know, as in patio doors, like in the joke, ‘What do you call an Irishman with a pane of glass either side of his head?’”
“I know the bloody joke, Ben, but do you see me laughing? You absolute bloody tit – this could completely screw everything up for us.”
Ben has stopped laughing and is now looking completely bewildered.
“It was just a joke, Sean. What’s the big deal?”
I have to hold myself back from throttling him and after taking a few seconds to calm myself down, I explain to him what the big deal is.
“The big deal, Benjamin, is that less than a month after one of the most audacious bombings by the Irish Republican Army on the British mainland since the start of the troubles, you get yourself banged up in jail and pretend to be an Irishman. That’s what the big deal is. Please tell me that you managed to get away before the detectives from London arrived?”
My question puts the smile back on his face and he is clearly pleased with himself.
“Yes, of course I did. Cuttler was finished with me within an hour. After that, he locked me up in one of the interview rooms and I put that bloody turtleneck to good use.”
I have a bad feeling about this, but I ask anyway.
“Good use? What did you do, Ben?”
“I looped one end over the ceiling fan and put the other end around
my neck. The label said it was a hundred percent wool, but the friction burns on my neck told a different story. If strangulation hadn’t got me first, the burns from the polyester would have got me eventually.”
I put my right hand to Ben’s mouth and lift my left index finger to my own.
“Stop talking right now, before I strangle you myself. You do realize that this could change the course of this case and investigation entirely? It was probably special branch that were on the way up from London to speak to you. Don’t be surprised if the army and special branch are crawling all over Tyevale 1972 in their hunt for the Aldershot Barracks bombers. I need to sort this out and fast.”
“So, we’re going back tonight?” Ben asks.
“Not you, Ben. I want you on the next train back down to London. I should never have let you get involved in this. I knew that it was a mistake.”
“But I can still help you,” Ben protests. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”
“I want you on that train, Ben, and if I have to, I will put you on it myself. Do I make myself clear?”
Reluctantly, Ben nods. He knows that he won’t be able to change my mind and he stands up to leave.
“I’m sorry, Sean. I really didn’t mean to screw things up. I’ll message you when I get home. If there is anything I can do from there, just let me know.”
In reality, I am more annoyed with myself than I am with Ben. I should have been more insistent in sending him home when he first showed up yesterday, or I should have ended our travel when he found me in 1972. Now, I have no idea what might be waiting for me when I go back there. My only consolation, if there is one, is that with Ben out of the way, at least he won’t be able to do anymore damage and I already know where the girls and Eddie are going to be. I just need to get to a car without running into Sergeant Cuttler.
I quickly shower and shave and then head downstairs to meet Catherine. Coincidentally, as I step out of the lift, she has just got back, and we bump into each other near the reception.