Imperfect Killing

by Luke Delaney

  ***

  Sean watched Benton approach the entrance to the independent television studio. He’d phoned the detective constable the night before and arranged to meet him first thing. He’d told Benton nothing other than the name of the man he wanted to speak to.

  Benton took the last mouthful of a bread roll filled with a variety of meats associated with breakfast. ‘You really shouldn’t eat that shit,’ Sean advised him, looking at it in disgust.

  ‘I’m starving,’ Benton protested. ‘Never get time to sit and eat a decent meal on this investigation. It’s something on the move or nothing.’

  ‘Better get used to it,’ Sean warned him.

  ‘Looks that way,’ Benton agreed before changing the subject. ‘How do you even know this … Stokes bloke’s even here this time in the morning?’ he enquired.

  ‘I made a friend of the security guard,’ Sean answered. ‘He told me Stokes would be here.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Benton shrugged and tossed the wrapper from his roll into a bin. ‘Maybe now you can tell me why we need to speak with him. It’s the first time I’ve heard his name mentioned.’

  ‘Never seen him on TV?’ Sean asked as they entered the building.

  ‘All those property programmes and rogue trader type bollocks? Nah, not for me,’ he answered.

  ‘No,’ Sean agreed. ‘I don’t suppose they are. But if you can keep your critical opinions to yourself while we’re talking to him it would be appreciated.’

  Benton shrugged again. ‘Fair enough.’

  They reached the reception and flashed their warrant cards. ‘DS Corrigan and DC Benton here to see Oscar Stokes,’ he told the young woman behind the desk curtly.

  ‘Is he expecting you?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ Sean told her. ‘It’s about the murder of Sue Evans. I’m sure he’ll see us.’

  ‘Of course,’ she stuttered slightly. ‘His office is on the third floor – room 347. I’ll let him know you’re on your way up.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Sean replied and headed towards the lifts.

  ‘You still haven’t told me why we need to speak to him,’ Benton reminded him.

  ‘Because they used to co-present together,’ Sean explained.

  ‘So?’ Benton asked. ‘If he knew anything wouldn’t he have already come forward and told us?’

  ‘You’re assuming he wants us to know what he might know,’ Sean reprimanded him.

  ‘And you’re assuming he knows anything at all,’ Benton sulked.

  ‘I know we’ll never find out if we don’t talk to him,’ Sean countered.

  ‘Yeah, but why the rush?’ Benton persisted. ‘We would have got round to him eventually. We’ll speak to everyone she knew … eventually.’

  ‘This one’s too important to wait for,’ he explained. ‘I need to speak to him now.’

  ‘Hold on a second,’ Benton shook his head. ‘You don’t think he’s a witness, do you? You reckon he’s a suspect.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sean shrugged.

  ‘So why didn’t you just tell me?’ Benton asked as they stepped into the lift that had just arrived.

  ‘Because it would have been better if you didn’t know.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Most of us approach people differently if we think someone is a suspect and not a witness,’ he told him. ‘I don’t want him too spooked, just rattled a bit.’

  ‘I won’t give it away,’ Benton objected.

  ‘It’s more difficult than you think,’ Sean insisted. ‘He’ll probably read the signals you give out on a subconscious level.’

  ‘But he won’t be able to read you?’ Benton challenged.

  ‘Trust me,’ Sean told him as the lift came to a smooth halt. ‘I’m difficult to read.’

  ‘So why bring me at all,’ Benton wanted to know, ‘if I can’t be trusted to play along with your little charade?’

  ‘Because I wanted him to read you,’ Sean replied without emotion. ‘I wanted you to make him feel like a witness.’

  ‘Well that’s fucked now,’ Benton smiled as they stalked the corridor looking for room 347. ‘Still want me to see him with you?’

  Sean shrugged his shoulders. ‘Everyone has to learn sometime.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Benton answered sarcastically, ‘but there’s one thing you haven’t told me yet.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Benton stopped walking, making Sean do the same. ‘Why you think he could be a suspect?’

  ‘I watched the shows they did together.’

  ‘And?’ Benton asked impatiently.

  ‘The way he looked at her,’ he explained. ‘It wasn’t right.’

  ‘You what?’ Benton demanded. ‘All you’ve got is the way he looked at her – on the telly?’

  ‘It’s enough,’ Sean insisted. ‘It’s a starting point.’

  ‘Look,’ Benton told him. ‘Maybe we should just leave this – concentrate on Thurlby. He’s a solid suspect.’

  ‘You can if you want,’ Sean replied and started walking. ‘I’m gonna speak to Stokes.’ Benton shook his head, but followed him along the corridor until they found room 347, the door of which was already open, revealing a reasonably sized office – modern and light with oak floors and desk, behind which Sean recognized Oscar Stokes typing away at his computer. If he had killed Sue Evans he was certainly a cool customer – back working at the place she’d been killed outside, looking perfectly calm and relaxed. Sean knocked on the frame and made him glance up.

  ‘You must be the detectives I’ve been warned to expect,’ he smiled, standing. ‘Please. Come in. Take a seat.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Sean told him as they entered the room, showing his warrant card as he sat on the opposite side of the desk from Stokes. ‘I’m DS Sean Corrigan by the way and this is DC Zack Benton.’ Benton flashed a quick smile.

  ‘I’m assuming this is about what happened to Sue,’ he told them, sitting back down, looking suddenly very serious. ‘Terrible thing. Unbelievable. I still can’t quite comprehend what happened – that anyone would want to kill such a … special person.’

  ‘But the show must go on, eh?’ Sean said, looking around the office. The first tiny chip at Stokes’ armour, barely even noticeable.

  ‘Quite,’ Stokes replied instantly, giving no indication he’d even registered the implication in Sean’s comment. ‘The world of television never stops. The shows wait for nothing. Sue knew that better than anyone. Ironically her death has caused the need for even more shows – tributes to her, appeals for help catching her killer – although I understand you already have.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sean kept to his plan. ‘We have a man in custody who looks good for it.’

  ‘Looks good for it?’ Stokes questioned. ‘I thought he’d already been charged with her murder.’

  ‘He has,’ Sean assured him, ‘but that’s not necessarily an end to the investigation.’

  ‘Really?’ Stokes looked slightly confused. ‘I thought you police only charged someone when you were convinced they’re guilty.’

  ‘We’re pretty convinced he’s guilty,’ Sean lied.

  ‘Good,’ Stokes replied looking stern. ‘And I hear it was that madman who was stalking her.’

  ‘You knew him?’ Sean quickly asked.

  ‘No,’ Stokes replied without hesitation, but not too quickly, giving Sean nothing. ‘I knew of him, but I didn’t know him – obviously.’

  ‘How did you know about him?’ Sean casually queried.

  ‘Sue told me about him. She told a lot of people about him.’

  ‘And what did she tell you about him?’

  ‘That he was beginning to bother her.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘In every way.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Following her home. Hanging around outside the studio. Turning up at every function she attended.’

  ‘I’m sure he wasn’t her only avid fan,’ Sean said lightly.

  ‘Indeed,’ Stokes agreed. ‘Only
this avid fan was beginning to threaten her – act aggressively towards her.’

  ‘She told you this?’

  ‘Of course,’ Stokes shrugged.

  ‘And you encouraged her to report him to the police?’ Sean dropped in.

  For the first time there was a tiny moment of hesitation from Stokes. ‘No,’ he answered. ‘That was entirely Sue’s idea.’

  ‘I see,’ Sean smiled slightly before continuing. ‘You must have known her very well.’

  ‘We worked closely together for a long time,’ Stokes told him.

  ‘On Retail Rescue – right?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ Stokes nodded.

  ‘You must have been more than work colleagues,’ Sean kept it sounding friendly – casual, ‘for her to have told you that the fan was getting out of control?’

  ‘Like I said,’ Stokes replied, ‘she told a lot of people about him.’

  ‘She did indeed,’ Sean agreed, ‘but she didn’t tell any of them that he was beginning to bother her. That he was being threatening and aggressive. She didn’t even tell her sister about that.’

  ‘Maybe she wasn’t very close to her sister then,’ Stokes smiled.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Sean worked hard to sound casual, ‘but like I said, you must have been very close to her if you are the only person she told. More than just work colleagues?’

  ‘I suppose we were friends,’ he reluctantly admitted.

  ‘More than friends?’ Sean pressed him.

  ‘No,’ Stokes insisted. ‘Absolutely not. I don’t know what could have given you that impression.’

  ‘She was a beautiful woman,’ Sean reminded him, ‘and you worked closely together for some time. It happens.’

  ‘Not with Sue and I it didn’t,’ Stokes replied without sounding flustered or bothered. ‘And if someone told you it did then they’re not telling you the truth. I’m a married man, Sergeant. I have two young children. And anyway, Sue wasn’t the type to have a relationship with anyone. She had flings, but she really was wed to her work.’

  ‘So everyone tells me,’ Sean smiled politely. ‘I’m sorry, but I had to ask. You and Miss Evans seemed so close when you were on Retail Rescue together.’

  ‘She was a joy to work with,’ Stokes answered.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Sean agreed, ‘and you made a good team.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Stokes nodded once as if taking a bow. ‘Then I take it you’ve seen the show.’

  ‘I have,’ Sean kept up the smile. ‘I particularly enjoyed the shows from a few months ago.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Stokes bowed again.

  ‘When you seemed especially close to each other,’ he added, the smile fading on Stokes’ face. ‘Before your on-screen time seemed to be reduced. The shows weren’t so good after that, I thought.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ Stokes squirmed a little in his chair, ‘I had tired of the show by then – felt it was time to move on, concentrate on writing and producing. A life behind the camera suits me better than one in front of it, I believe.’

  ‘Each to his own,’ Sean remarked.

  ‘Quite,’ Stokes replied, the two men locking eyes for what seemed an age.

  ‘Well, thanks for your time,’ Sean finally said, pushing himself out of the seat, Benton following suit. ‘And thanks for your patience and understanding.’

  ‘You have your questions to ask,’ Stokes answered understandingly. ‘Sue was a special person,’ he repeated. ‘Any updates you can give on the investigation’s progress would be much appreciated by everyone here at the studio.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sean lied. ‘You’ll be the first to know. We’ll see ourselves out.’ He walked casually from the office and into the corridor. Benton went to ask him a question, but Sean silenced him by placing an index finger over his own lips. Only once they were safely inside the lift did Sean speak. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well?’ Benton asked impatiently. ‘What d’you reckon?’

  ‘I reckon we need some evidence,’ was all Sean said.

  ‘Is that it?’ Benton questioned.

  ‘For now,’ Sean explained. ‘But if you weren’t a criminal who could get your hands on a gun and you didn’t have the knowledge or equipment to reactivate a replica firearm – where would be the perfect place to find a blank-firing gun?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Benton replied, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Then you’d better follow me,’ Sean told him with a grin.

  ‘Where to now?’ Benton pleaded.

  ‘You’ll see soon enough,’ Sean answered. ‘You’ll see.’

  ***

  Only a few minutes later they walked into the cavernous Props Department hidden in the basement of the studios. To their surprise they were able to move deep into the room amongst the tens of thousands of props used for shows of all descriptions. Eventually a man in his sixties with wild grey hair, wearing old-fashioned brown overalls stepped out from behind a rack of costumes and challenged them.

  ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’ he asked with a smile.

  ‘Police,’ Sean told him.

  ‘Real or actors getting into role?’ he asked in all seriousness.

  ‘Real,’ Sean assured him and pulled out his warrant card. ‘DS Sean Corrigan.’

  Benton also flashed his card. ‘DC Zack Benton.’

  The old man pulled a pair of spectacles from his pocket and perched them on his face, leaning closer to examine their identification. ‘So that’s what they look like now,’ he said. ‘You lot are always changing those damn things. I’ll have to update our police props sub-department now. Never mind.’

  ‘And you are?’ Benton asked.

  ‘Charles Mendham, at your service.’

  ‘Are you in charge here?’ Benton continued.

  ‘If anyone’s in charge, I suppose it’s me.’

  ‘Worked here long?’ Sean asked, keeping it friendly.

  ‘As long as I can remember,’ Mendham answered with a chuckle, ‘and at the old studio before that.’

  ‘Quite a responsibility,’ Sean told him looking around the huge basement, ‘keeping track of all … this.’

  ‘Oh I know my way round pretty well,’ Mendham assured him. Can put my hands on most things pretty quickly. But I’m sure two of the Met’s finest didn’t come down here just for a chat.’

  ‘No,’ Sean confessed with a wry smile.

  ‘So why don’t you tell me what it is I can do for you?’

  ‘Firearms,’ Sean told him. ‘More specifically blank-firing firearms – blank-firing revolvers.’

  ‘Firearms it is then,’ Mendham replied and headed off. ‘Feel free to follow on,’ he encouraged them. Sean and Benton glanced at each other before doing as they’d been told, following Mendham to a partitioned-off area of the basement where they discovered hundreds of firearms of all kinds: rifles, pistols, revolvers, submachine guns, historical weapons and even several small cannons. ‘Here they are,’ Mendham told them proudly. ‘Firearms.’

  ‘Christ,’ Benton declared. ‘You could arm every bloody criminal in London with this little lot.’

  ‘Wouldn’t do them any good,’ Mendham explained. ‘None of them work.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Sean told him. ‘Why aren’t they locked away?’

  ‘Because they don’t have to be,’ Mendham shrugged. ‘They’re not real. We have a booking in and out system, but that’s just so people are accountable if any go missing. Some of our actors like to keep them as souvenirs of their successful shows.’

  ‘Don’t you need some sort of licence for these?’ Benton asked.

  ‘Not at all,’ Mendham told him, ‘but we do have a theatrical exemption licence that means we can take them into public areas – so long as they’re being used for filming.’

  ‘But you keep a close check on them,’ Sean asked, ‘to make sure none of them are missing.’

  ‘I do,’ Mendham assured him.

  ‘And when was the last time you checked?’ Sean continued.

  ‘I check
ed the register yesterday. Everything that had been booked out has been booked back in.’

  ‘I appreciate the register may be in order,’ Sean agreed, ‘but when was the last time you physically checked all the weapons are here?’

  ‘I … I,’ Mendham stuttered, ‘I’m not sure. Maybe a few weeks ago I did a stock check.’

  ‘But nothing since then?’ Sean squeezed him.

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘There’s no real need for me to check more often than that. The booking in and out system enables me to track everything … eventually.’

  ‘So long as everybody actually books them out,’ Sean pointed out.

  ‘Why wouldn’t they?’ Mendham asked naively.

  Sean let it go for now, casting his hand over the handgun section. ‘These,’ he asked, ‘the modern handguns, particularly the revolvers – there aren’t too many here. Perhaps you can tell me if any are missing?’

  Mendham puffed out his cheeks and began to examine the collection of revolvers, his eyes darting from one to the next. Only seconds later he straightened and smiled with relief. ‘No,’ he declared. ‘As I suspected they’re all there.’

  ‘You sure?’ Sean checked.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Mendham assured him. ‘I know these weapons well and they’re all here. Many are quite new additions.’

  Sean’s eyes squinted with concentration as he massaged his temples and began to examine the revolvers for himself – discounting most on the grounds of being the wrong potential calibre, too small or too big. Others he dismissed because they were chrome or even gold plated, until he reduced his own collection to a handful of weapons that resembled the revolver he’d seen on the grainy CCTV footage of the shooting.

  ‘You alright?’ Benton asked as they watched Sean scanning the tables. Sean held his hand up to let them know he wanted silence. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and slipped them over his hands, lowering one to pick up a .38 Smith and Wesson with an old-style four-inch barrel. He lifted it to his face, inhaling deeply. It smelled of little other than metal and oil, and he placed it back on the table, swapping it for a .357 Colt Python with a six-inch barrel. Again he raised it to his face and inhaled, but again all he could detect was oil and metal.

  ‘Who cleans and maintains these weapons?’ he asked Mendham.