Requiem

by David Hodges

  ‘Arrangement? You mean he’s been the leak?’

  ‘Guv’nor seems to think so. Heard him talking about it. Point is, did he just talk to the poor woman or do something more.’

  Kate’s eyes widened. ‘What are you saying?’

  Lewis avoided her gaze, looking embarrassed. ‘Well, maybe he pulled out a few wires or something.’

  She snorted heavily. ‘Oh come on, Hayden, Sharp may be a slimy little prat, but I don’t see him as a murderer.’

  Lewis started the engine. ‘No, neither do I,’ he admitted, ‘but he didn’t call in to give her some grapes, did he? Maybe we should pay him a quick visit.’

  Kate nodded. ‘Good idea – that’s if he’s still at home.’

  But he wasn’t and Kate’s brain was almost on fire as they headed back to the police station in thoughtful silence. First ex-DCI Roz Callow showing an interest in Naomi Betjeman and now Phil Sharp. What the hell was going on? Suddenly Kate felt things were getting far too complicated. But she had no idea just how complicated they were yet to become.

  chapter 29

  WHETHER KATE WAS more embarrassed by the fake bruising on her cheekbone and the plaster across her temple or by Lewis being wheeled into the number 2 cell in Highbridge police station after his staged interview with Roscoe, was a moot point. But in any event the deception had so far gone extremely well.

  Kate’s distressed call to the nick that evening had brought the troops to the cottage in record time and a raging Lewis had had to be held down by two officers before being handcuffed and put in the back of the police car. What an Oscar-winning performance, Kate thought. After all his blatant opposition to the sting, she was full of admiration for him. It had certainly convinced their colleagues too and they had been none to gentle with him when they had dumped him in his allotted cell.

  Sitting trembling in the incident-room, with a mug of coffee between clasped hands, Kate looked every bit the traumatized victim and she received bucket-loads of sympathy from her colleagues. The trembling was not manufactured either; the thought of returning to the cottage on her own to face heaven alone knew what was a daunting prospect. There was no going back now, though, and she just prayed that the armed surveillance team would be in place when she needed them.

  To give even more credence to the staged assault, she spent over an hour afterwards in the incident-room commander’s office with DI Roscoe, ostensibly writing up her statement of complaint and, after some convincing scribbling, which the rest of the incident-room team were able to witness through the internal window, they both adjourned to the DCI’s office in CID downstairs for a full meeting with Detective Superintendent Willoughby and DCI Ansell.

  Willoughby was plainly on tenterhooks as he sat down carefully on the very edge of one of three chairs lined up against the wall, while Ansell took centre stage, sitting, as he seemed to prefer, on a corner of the desk. Roscoe, chewing furiously as usual, selected the window sill and leaned against it, glowering at everyone in turn.

  ‘So, I gather Naomi Betjeman is now dead and Master Philip Sharp was found at her bedside at the very moment of extremis?’ Ansell almost purred.

  Kate nodded, but said nothing, so Ansell continued speaking. ‘And Sharp is now on his toes, I believe?’ he added.

  ‘Don’t know where the little toad has got to,’ Roscoe growled. ‘Sent the heavy mob round to his flat, but there was no sign of him inside and we’ve no idea where he’s gone.’

  ‘At least we can now safely assume he was our leak,’ Willoughby put in. ‘By visiting the reporter, he’s shot himself in the foot.’

  Roscoe chewed furiously for a moment. ‘Talking of shooting himself in the foot,’ he went on,’ that now seems like a real possibility too.’

  Ansell frowned heavily. Once again his DI was feeding him information in dribs and drabs instead of in the form of a concise report and it was getting to him. ‘Meaning?’ he said tightly.

  Roscoe shrugged. ‘Well, it’s not definite, but the search team found an oily rag spread out on his dining-room table and the skipper reckons the oil was gun oil. He said he could also pick out the impression of what looked like some kind of pistol in the stiffish material which the rag was made of, suggesting a weapon had been wrapped in it. Forensics are examining it as we speak.’

  Ansell ran the palm of his hand across his forehead, while Willoughby just stared at the far wall, as if frozen to his seat. ‘So you’re suggesting he’s tooled-up?’

  ‘Could be, though I can’t think why. Or where he would have got his piece from.’

  Ansell released his breath in an exasperated hiss. ‘I think I’ll emigrate when this damned case is over,’ he said. ‘Become a hermit somewhere.’

  ‘Has Sharp been circulated?’ Willoughby queried in a strangled voice.

  Roscoe shook his head. ‘Bit difficult, Guv. We could be wrong about the shooter and he might just be out shopping.’

  Ansell treated him to a withering stare. ‘And, in his present state of mind, he could also be out to kill someone – or himself,’ he said, ‘so just do it!’

  As a disgruntled muttering Roscoe left the office, the DCI sat back, studying Kate fixedly. ‘You’re very quiet, young lady,’ he observed. ‘All set for your big debut, are you?’

  Kate took a deep breath. ‘As ready as I’ll ever be, Guv,’ she replied.

  Ansell pursed his lips for a second. ‘Then I think it’s time we briefed the firearms team who will be staking out your place and sort out your wire,’ he said.

  ‘I just hope our man bites,’ Kate commented.

  A grimace from the DCI which served as a smile. ‘As long as it’s not too hard,’ he said, which did not exactly provide Kate with the reassurance she needed.

  Twister completed the finishing touches to the Transit van in the derelict barn at just after nine and packed his tools away. Everything was now ready for his elaborate ‘production’ and he could not have felt more pleased with himself. Easing the Mercedes out of the barn, he closed and locked the double doors behind him and drove slowly out of the field. He bedded down several times prior to reaching the gate, but finally pulled on to the road in the moonlight to head back towards Wedmore and a half-hour sit-down with a wee dram in his borrowed study before embarking on the first part of his two-stage, dramatic endgame.

  He had become quite used to living in the big house he had purloined from the unfortunate twitcher as his bolt-hole. There was still plenty of food in the freezer and he had enjoyed raiding his victim’s well-stocked drinks cabinet for a whisky or three before settling into the comfortable armchair he always favoured. Then there was this nice Mercedes car; he liked that a lot. In fact, he had been living the life of the man he had killed for so long, that when the game was finally over, he felt it would be quite difficult to be himself again.

  But the pretence would have to end soon and he smiled as he thought about the news flash he had picked up on his car radio earlier in the evening, which had reported with detectable relish the arrest and detention of Hayden Lewis. No doubt the papers would be full of the story in the morning and the whatnot would really hit the fan when the big boss at police headquarters got to read about it over his cornflakes. Things could not have worked out better – especially for yours truly. With Lewis now detained in custody and Kate deprived of her champion and protector, Twister could look forward to this being a real anniversary to remember. He could already feel his skin tingling again at the thought of what was to come. Pity about having to abandon the twitcher’s soft bed and the rest of his excellent whisky, but sacrifices always had to be made for the greater good, didn’t they?

  Phil Sharp had never been that lucky. There had been occasions in his life when things had happened that seemed like imminent good fortune, but they’d invariably turned sour in the end – and now it was happening all over again. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been given a gipsies warning either. Buying some cigarettes from a local store, he had been almost overwhelmed by a seriou
s touch of the seconds about his night’s escapade and had spent a couple of hours walking up and down Burnham’s near-deserted esplanade, smoking one cigarette after another in a state of nervous agitation – acutely conscious of the revolver’s unfamiliar bulge in his pocket and wondering if he would have the guts to use the thing if it came to it.

  Perhaps inevitably, he ended up in one of the little resort’s pubs and, after a sausage and chips meal, which he forced down with difficulty, he stayed until closing time, knocking back a lot more whiskies than was advisable and apparently conveniently forgetting the earlier debacle that had resulted from excessive alcohol. But if the alcohol did one thing for him, it was to raise his confidence levels and when the licensee finally kicked him out and he climbed back into his car, he was imbued with a new sense of optimism, convinced that the plan he had come up with this time just could not fail. But optimism can sometimes be cruelly premature.

  The old Peugeot had been running OK until shortly after he left the pub, but on the straight, regally named The Queen’s Drive, between Burnham and the Edith Mead roundabout, the oil starved engine lost the will to live and came to a shuddering stop with an enormous bang, as one of the pistons seemed to ram itself through the steaming head.

  The police traffic car just happened to be heading for Burnham when the crew spotted the broken down vehicle on the other side of the road – the awkward position of the car, stopped at an acute angle almost over the crown of the road, leaving them with no alternative but to pull in and offer assistance.

  Sharp’s first mistake had been to hire a car that was already on its last gasp, his second was to approach one of the traffic officers with his warrant card extended and say, ‘DS Sharp, CID Highbridge.’ Unfortunately for him, his details had been circulated just minutes before and the traffic man was most grateful for the unintentional cough.

  ‘You carrying a firearm?’ he queried, eyeing him warily as his colleague moved up closer to the detective from behind.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Sharp retorted in a strangled voice. ‘Why would I be doing that?’

  It was a futile denial and Sharp should have known that he would be searched, but he wasn’t thinking straight and when he was relieved of his revolver, while adopting what the American cops would have called ‘the position’ up against the side of the car – with his arms stretched out along the roof and his legs kicked wide apart – he knew that luck had deserted him yet again.

  Bundled into the back of the police car, handcuffed and humiliated, he was forced to sit there while the two uniformed policemen and a couple of passing motorists pushed the Peugeot into the kerb and switched on the four-way flashers before swinging their patrol car round and carting him back to Highbridge police station.

  His one consolation when he arrived was the royal welcome he received from DCI Ansell, but he could have done without that.

  chapter 30

  ‘SO,’ ANSELL SAID very quietly, ‘what have you got to tell us, Philip?’

  Sitting across the table from the DCI and Detective Superintendent Willoughby, Sharp moistened dry lips, his eyes darting around interview room number one like those of a cornered animal, lingering in particular on the tape machine in the corner.

  ‘I’m saying nothing without a solicitor present,’ Sharp muttered.

  ‘You might at least want to tell us where you got the revolver?’ Willoughby suggested.

  Sharp shrugged his shoulders. ‘Found it,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In a bus shelter in Bridgwater, after I was thrown out the nick.’

  ‘And what were you doing in a bus shelter.’

  There was a sneer on Sharp’s face when he replied. ‘Catching a bus.’

  ‘Very funny,’ Ansell cut in. ‘But, as you can see, we’re not laughing.’

  Sharp leaned forward and glared at him. ‘It wasn’t meant to be a joke,’ he said. ‘See, I was waiting for a bus. I found the thing wrapped in a rag under the seat when I went to sit down. I was on my way here tonight to hand it in when I was stopped.’

  ‘Took you long enough to do that, though, didn’t it?’ the DCI commented. ‘Why didn’t you just hand it in at Bridgwater nick the moment you found it?’

  There was a brief tell-tale flicker of uncertainty in Sharp’s eyes, then abruptly he recovered and sat back, shrugging again.

  ‘I was tired, grubby and hungry,’ he said, ‘so I went home to change, have a shower and a bite to eat first.’

  ‘Didn’t catch your bus, though, did you?’ Roscoe put in from across the room. ‘I’ve been speaking to Jimmy Noble. He says he picked you up from the roadside and dropped you off at home – so why didn’t you give him the revolver then to hand in?’

  ‘I was curious about it and wanted to do the job myself.’

  ‘That’s bollocks and you know it,’ Ansell went on. ‘Why don’t you spare us all this crap and tell the truth? Your job is already out the window and you are going to face criminal charges anyway. What have you got to lose?’

  Sharp’s mouth tightened. ‘No further comment without my solicitor.’

  Ansell nodded and, placing his hand palms downwards on the table top, started to lever himself to his feet. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll just charge you with unlawful possession of a prohibited firearm – maybe much more later when we finally trace where the weapon came from and what it’s been used for in the past.’ He snapped his fingers, pausing halfway to his feet. ‘Oh yes, and then there’s the possibility of a murder charge re Naomi Betjeman.’

  ‘Murder?’ The colour drained from Sharp’s face. ‘I never touched her,’ he gasped.

  Ansell straightened with a sigh. ‘You were seen bending over her when she died,’ he pointed out. ‘Maybe you didn’t mean to kill her, but funny how her oxygen mask had been pulled off.’

  ‘She did that herself.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Willoughby commented with heavy sarcasm. ‘Just the sort of thing you’d do when you’re on the critical list in the CCU.’

  Sharp’s gaze darted across the room to DI Roscoe sitting by the tape machine, but he saw no hint of sympathy or understanding in the DI’s bleak expression, just a brief bubble of gum erupting from between his lips before being licked back in.

  ‘This is all crap, and you know it,’ he blurted. ‘I had nothing to do with that bitch’s death. Why would I want to kill her anyway? It doesn’t make sense.’

  Satisfied that he had at least got him talking once more, Ansell sat back down with a faint humourless smile. ‘It makes perfect sense to me,’ he said. ‘She could have dropped you in it if she had survived, told us all about the confidential info you had been selling to her.’

  Immediately Sharp clammed up again. ‘I want a solicitor,’ he repeated. ‘It’s my right.’

  ‘Your right?’ Ansell emitted a hollow laugh. ‘Don’t make me laugh. You’re in so deep, your so-called rights won’t matter a jot when you go up the steps to Crown Court. Excess alcohol, unlawful possession of a firearm, bribery and maybe even manslaughter at the very least – a pretty formidable list.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Willoughby put in. ‘You could be looking at a lengthy stretch inside with the baggage you’re carrying.’

  ‘And it’s no fun for an ex-copper in stir,’ Roscoe added. ‘Especially when the nonces get hold of you—’

  Sharp turned like the cornered rat he was. ‘Listen,’ he snarled. ‘I know things – things that would fix this murder inquiry for good.’

  ‘What things?’ Ansell said softly.

  Sharp snorted. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ he threw back.

  ‘Just more bollocks, is it?’ the DCI suggested.

  Sharp shook his head vigorously. ‘I know where you can find Twister,’ he said. ‘That’s what the Betjeman bitch told me before she died.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Yet another shrug and Sharp, obviously feeling he had the upper hand now and starting to enjoy himself, studied his fingernails with
a cultivated disinterest. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said, then looked up quickly to meet Ansell’s gaze. ‘But if you want what I’ve got, you’re going to have to agree to a deal.’

  ‘What sort of deal?’ Willoughby joined in, his eagerness a little too apparent.

  Sharp pursed his lips reflectively. ‘You lose the charge of unlawful possession of a firearm and accept that I had nothing to do with Naomi Betjeman’s death.’

  ‘No dice,’ Ansell grated.

  Sharp smirked. ‘Then you can go whistle for the info,’ he said, ‘and when Kate Hamblin gets wasted, you can try and explain to everyone why you kicked a gift horse in the mouth.’

  ‘More like kicked an arsehole,’ Roscoe growled.

  Sharp giggled inanely. ‘Yeah,’ he sneered, ‘but this is one arsehole that’s got you lot over a barrel. Now, get me my solicitor.’

  Hayden Lewis felt that he was going stir-crazy. Banged up in the tiny cell, completely in the dark as to what was going on in the world outside and desperately worried about Kate, he had spent sleepless hours pacing the hard bare floor, with just the shouts of a drunk further down the passageway and the occasional burst of raucous laughter from the custody office itself for company.

  He had no means of knowing exactly what time it was when he heard the footsteps approaching, as his wrist-watch had been taken off him. He guessed it had to be pretty late, however, because it was ages since he had heard the familiar clamour of doors banging and cars leaving the rear yard outside the cell block, indicating the change of shift from late to night turn.

  There seemed to be two pairs of feet and, as they drew closer, he recognized the voice of the night turn’s Geordie custody officer, barking out an instruction, ‘Next, but one. Right beside your mate, Lewis.’

  Springing to the open hatch in the cell door, Lewis bent his head to peer through and met the arrogant stare of a dishevelled Philip Sharp.