‘Team Springboard, you will be attending the property with a warrant to arrest Mr Newell for assisted intent to cause death or serious injury to Mrs Sinead Griffith.
‘While the arrest team escort Mr Newell to the custody suite for interviewing, the rest of you are going to be searching the property he lives alone within.
‘We need laptops, phones, wallets, paperwork. But sort through everything. Dirty washing and all. We especially need the keys to the lock-up and any hard evidence, such as an invoice, filed on computer or otherwise, that proves the vehicle was sold to Sinead from Mr Newell using Johnston Brothers Finance. We have confirmation from a customer service representative that the latter was used to credit the car. She had to hand her copy over to the GAP insurers after the collision.
‘You are also to search the business premises for records relating to any sold vehicles, as well as check all the cars, interiors and exteriors. You might find a hidden gem that will add a few years onto Mr Newell’s sentence, such as vehicle theft, tax fraud, possession of drugs etc.
‘So, does everyone know what they’re doing?’
I receive a few energetic nods from two DCs who Evans requested the support of.
‘Any questions?’
This results in several coffee-wired shakes of the head from a Cardiff based DS.
‘Right then, folks. Off you go.’
*
It’s almost eleven-thirty by the time I hear from the custody sergeant that Mr Newell, brought in for booking two and a half hours ago, has passed all the introductory checks, has left his shoes outside the cell door, and is waiting for Jones to interview him now that I’ve received and signed off the preliminary report assessing his physical and psychological health.
Mr Newell is not a drug user, heavy drinker, has no history of violence, is not deemed a threat according to his risk assessment, and no incriminating items were discovered at the car dealership. Something I had not expected. On the surface, it seems, he’s squeaky clean. But he appeared too shiny for my liking. Which is why I’m pleased to learn Josh Owen bought the BMW he registered under his sister Ashleigh’s name to his previous address in St Julian’s from Newell’s Autos. The vehicle that was stolen by two youths, involved in a burglary, and handled by Peters for the purpose of terrorising Sinead. Unfortunately, with Josh no longer earthbound, it’s unlikely I’ll get to hear from the man himself how he coincidentally came to purchase a vehicle from someone who associates with an ex-detective who affiliates with cocaine dealers. Especially when factoring in that he was a user of the substance and the batch found on his person at the time of his death was linked to the stuff being sold in Croydon by Marley. I suppose I could ask Logan’s mum to mediate the discussion with his spirit, but I doubt I’d get a sensible answer from the woman.
A DS I suspect has a caffeine addiction – and who can blame her if part of her job involves chasing suspects and meticulously reviewing collated evidence for hours on end? – approaches me looking flustered. ‘Sorry, Inspector but my daughter, she’s had an accident in class. Her dad’s not contactable and they’ve asked me to go home and fetch her some spare clothes to bring into the school. Could I—’
‘Shoot off. Family first. Your shift ends in two hours and I’ve got enough eyes and hands here to sift through the dash-cam footage and scene photographs.’ Some of the vehicles in the lock-up have motion-sensor dashboard cameras. One of the DCs snapping photographs during the search noticed some of them are facing the entrance to the dealership. The windy dockside air and the customers opening and closing the doors for a closer inspection regularly activates them. There is approximately sixteen hours of pointless footage that might show Peters visiting his criminal friend at work, so they must be reviewed.
‘The thing is, I haven’t finished going through the car parts inventory.’
‘Muggins here will do it. You go. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Thanks,’ she says, spinning round and scurrying off as fast as her short legs will allow.
A few of the vehicles were being prepped with a winter oil change and battery efficiency test to ensure they were saleable before Christmas. I assume the two employed salesmen themselves, whom one of the DCs is checking out the identities and backgrounds of, fit the parts and take the cars to their chosen garage for a once-over. Probably at a reduced cost. Maybe even to procure a bogus MOT certificate. We’ll know if the roadworthiness of the vehicles is legit soon enough.
I head over to the DS’s desk, swipe my finger across the mouse to avoid the laptop shutting down and having to log back in using my own password. The screen displays a list of items noted as potentially relevant because they’re considered either expensive or untypical.
I browse the list: a brand new Audi gearbox still in the cellophane packaging, a set of headlights for an AMG, a bubble-wrapped Christmas present that when opened revealed a bottle of liquor wearing a Spanish label, and a classic Cosworth worth approximately thirty thousand pounds, the car auction receipt – declaring it was bought three weeks ago for just seventeen – of which is kosher.
Nothing strikes me as untoward or interesting enough to pursue further investigation of until I’m flicking through the accompanying photographs of the shop floor.
Leaning against the far wall, partially hidden from view due to both the angle of the camera lens and the desk in front of them, shadowing their detail, are two unique-looking alloy wheels. I might have dismissed them entirely had I not already seen the image of a vehicle from the dealership wearing an identical but smaller pair. An oddity, I think, that a car dealer would replicate a purchase unless trying to make a statement. Of course, they could have come with the car. But it’s unlikely the auctioneers would allow expensive items to be sold with a vehicle and they couldn’t have been left inside the boot by accident because the vehicles are rigorously assessed before being put in to auction. I suspect Mr Newell bought them because he likes their quality and the value they add to his cars.
I lean back in my swivel chair and sort through the photographs. It takes me several minutes to find what I’m looking for and when I do, I sit bolt upright. The force of my foot colliding with the back of the desk causes a couple of heads to turn.
Stacked on top of a filing cabinet inside Mr Newell’s office are a third set of alloys. The flat cardboard box they’re in has an angular logo emblazoned on the front that says: Sterling Customised Wheels.
With a few taps on the keyboard I have a website and a map directing me to the Guildford based bespoke wheel specialist.
I’m not sure of the significance yet but after learning of the corruption within Maguire’s predecessor’s team, and the fact ex-Detective Superintendent Robert Callahan voluntarily retired to Farnham after the debacle that put Collins and Peters in prison, my interest in learning more about the Surrey-based customised alloy wheel manufacturer has somewhat peaked.
HONOUR
Croydon, London
Now when I close my eyes Steven’s face has been replaced with Marcus’s fearsome expression. Though what haunts me is the confused way he looked at me when he realised that he’d been blindsided, unsure how I was able to alert the police of his whereabouts without a phone, without screaming at my sister for help from the doorway as I wanted to do while the pointed blade of his knife was pressed against my spine.
I saw beneath his bravado a frightened boy. And though facing such violence first-hand is not something I’d experienced until then, I don’t doubt he had nothing to do with my son’s death.
I found the money hidden in the plate above the boiler, where whoever had stored it there knew the police wouldn’t look when conducting a basic search on the property.
The notes were crisp and warm, wrapped in ripstop and bagged up in oilcloth, making them both water resistant and repellent. The money was insulating the few inches of water used to stabilise the temperature inside the plate heat exchanger and was likely the cause of the boiler repeatedly overheating.
I can’t prove the engineer didn’t replace the fan as he was supposed to have done by providing the cash as evidence because I don’t yet know who put it there or why and until I do, I can’t tell anyone I know about its existence in case they learn of my knowledge and decide to come after me for it.
The money could be my bargaining tool.
Though it’s possible the money was inserted inside the boiler after it was serviced by the engineer. Which means whoever deposited it there had to have visited the property within a month before Steven was murdered.
I think of the open bathroom window. Marcus didn’t say how he’d got into my house and managed to leave quickly, quietly, and without arousing suspicion from a neighbour or a member of the public walking down the suburban street. Which means he was either acting professionally, had an individual with him acting as a lookout, or had already assessed the house and my behaviours for weak spots.
Whether I am right about that or not is irrelevant. Marcus had the opportunity to retrieve the money he came to get the day he admitted unlawfully entering my house. Only like today, he didn’t leave with it. He couldn’t find it. So it can’t have been him who put it there. He doesn’t know where the money had been stored by whoever hid it.
Jerome visited here the other day, but he didn’t go upstairs. Kanesha spent many nights here, sleeping downstairs, though I don’t recall her showering upstairs. Of all of them she had both the means and the opportunity to conceal the cash.
With the police long gone, and it being just shy of twenty-four hours before my panic alarms are fitted to various parts of the house at my insistence, I call the first person I can name who visited within those four weeks leading to Steven exiting his earthly body a lifetime before I was ready to let him go.
‘Jerome?’
‘Miss Bennet?’
‘Can you talk? I mean, is your mum… is Carmen there?’
‘She’s in bed. It is late. Her medication makes her drowsy.’
Carmen told me she takes a muscle relaxant at night.
I’ve spoken to Carmen twice since we found Jerome at his grandmother’s. Not always about Steven and Tyrell, though their names slip in and out of conversation just as easily as if the last time we’d seen them had been only yesterday. I told Carmen about the Facebook page I set up for the charity I’ve now registered in memory of Steven. She suggested finding a community sponsor, speaking to our local councillor, organising a weekly meet-up support group in the conference hall at the evangelical church, and printing off some professional looking flyers to leave on the noticeboard of Tesco to gain a small membership of parents whose children have died as a result of a weapon-related murder. I think she was a bit overexcited I’d asked for her input.
We don’t always talk about such morbid, difficult subjects; we do have other things in common. Our boyfriends both cheated on us. And once you get past her defensive demeanour, she has quite a dry humour. It’s a shame her son is involved with a gang. We’ve both seen there’s only three ways Jerome’s life will end: in a coffin, in prison, or on the run.
‘Miss B?’
‘Do you know where I could buy a gun?’ My voice falters at the last syllable.
I feel a tight knot of uncertainty building in my chest. A tingle of trepidation snaking its way up my spine and settling on the back of my neck. What if he doesn’t, can’t, or won’t?
‘Jerome?’
‘Why would you want… This is crazy. You’re being crazy.’ He lowers his voice. ‘Are you really asking me to sort you out with a gun?’
I think I’m being the most rational I’ve felt since Steven was killed. ‘Yes.’
‘What do you… want it for?’
‘Marcus came here looking for money. He had a knife. He threatened me. My sister called the police. They had a warrant out for his arrest because they have forensic evidence to prove he broke into my house. I believe they’re charging him with unlawful entry, false imprisonment, and assault. He said he was looking for “the money” but couldn’t find it. I don’t know whose it is or what makes Marcus suspect it might be here, but I don’t think I can trust anyone anymore. I don’t feel safe, Jerome.’
‘You want to be able to protect yourself?’ His breath hitches in his throat. I can’t tell if it’s nerves or excitement.
Have I gone too far? Said too much? Frightened him away?
‘It’s going to cost you,’ he says.
‘How much?’
‘Well, it’s usually five hundred pounds per uh, you know?’
‘I see. So it will have been used for…?’
‘Yeah, ya know, jobs and stuff.’
‘Like shooting someone?’
He doesn’t reply, but his silence says it all.
‘I could get into trouble if I was caught with it, couldn’t I? If my prints were on the gun and it had been used to commit a serious crime.’
‘Yeah. But, if you’d prefer to buy one it’s going to be in the thousands of pounds, so…’
‘I’ll borrow it, for seven days?’
‘That will cost you about three grand, Miss B.’
I hesitate, make a show of reconsidering, sigh. ‘Okay.’
His voice is barely a whisper but it’s unmistakably clear that he’s prepared to do anything for money. ‘Meet me on the east-side of the recreation park at sundown.’
I know the significance of his choice. It’s the park near Kim’s. Somewhere unmonitored by CCTV. Is that why he likes to frequent the place?
‘Park Hill.’
‘Behind the water tower.’
‘You can get hold of a gun that soon?’
‘Yeah?’ he says, a distrustful inflection having entered his voice.
‘I’ll see you there.’
My hand is trembling as I end the call.
I can hardly believe what I’m doing. The mother of a murdered son buying a gun from his friend. Possibly but hopefully not the one used to shoot dead Natalie.
DS MAGUIRE
Croydon, London
As per Locke’s request, from the perspective of a third eye, I reviewed the image from footage taken by the speed camera attached to the traffic lights at the junction from which it flashed less than two minutes after Steven was fatally stabbed. As well as the ANPR images of the black Golf – the only one near the vicinity at the time – we believe was driven by the same individual who shot Natalie Campbell to death.
Comparing the stills to the snap of a Volkswagen Golf I verified before taking it from Edith, the registered car owner’s, late husband’s photograph album this morning, containing snaps of every one of his previously owned cars, I ascertained the vehicle left to rot outside the Croydon tower block – which has now been removed by uniform, lifted on a recovery truck by the council, and deposited with a scrapyard for breaking – shares a minor but important detail.
I had to zoom in and out several times and de-pixelate the images, but there was no mistaking that both cars wore a distinctive signature swirl visible in the centre of their wheels which fit snugly over the lug nut. The bespoke alloys were stolen shortly after Edith’s husband passed away. But he was, thankfully, insistent on retaining receipts for large expenses.
Edith’s husband bought the alloy wheels in January 2016 when replacing his tyres. They were stolen from the car sometime after his death in November 2017 and probably refurbished then sold by whoever took the time to jack the vehicle to remove the wheels for their second-hand estimated worth of eight hundred pounds.
An invoice discovered among thousands saved in a folder marked ‘Self Assessment April 2017–April 2018’ for Mr Alun Newell’s annual tax return confirms he regularly purchases the custom designed alloys labelled: Ebony Matte Powdercoat, Serial number: SPR2 from Mr Robert Callahan’s business: Sterling Customised Wheels.
Benson had been working tirelessly to find out from where the knife used to take Steven’s life was bought. He eventually traced it to a camping shop on the High Street that was recently replaced with a
cheap clothing store when it went into administration. The blade is a popular choice for backpackers.
Unfortunately, it’s doubtful whoever bought it will still have the Hardy’s receipt.
Just thirteen hours after Mr Atkinson’s return from Spain he was awoken from sleep to the loud crack of a battering ram breaking the lock to the front door of his house. He jumped out of bed and had almost made it to the window when the dog caught the leg of his pyjama trousers, ripping them down to his ankles, giving the arrest team a spectacular view of his pockmarked arse.
That’s not what I’m looking at though. In one corner of the rear bedroom on-screen is a piece of mottled grey carpet dangling over a raised floorboard. When investigators tread across it one of them heard a slight creak. His colleague felt a faintly noticeable ridge below the heel of his leather brogue. And so, they pulled up the carpet and the unnailed floorboard to reveal twelve sets of identical number plates, bearing the cloned registration worn on the Golf that was used by the one caught speeding near to the chicken restaurant after Steven was stabbed. As well as the car witnesses described being driven by Natalie’s shooter. And the metallic-blue BMW used to hit into Sinead’s car.
The find, however, poses a major dilemma: it’s possible there are more in circulation and on any number of vehicles being driven on the roads throughout the country. Probably all for gang-related crime purposes. We know Mr Atkinson’s intention was to dupe us, but we may never find the actual black Golf used if the number plates are being recycled so regularly, even with the ANPR data. What concerns me even more is that I found no mention of the cloned number plates in anything I read before interviewing Mr Atkinson who vehemently denies their existence. Although the evidence is staring me straight in the eyes.
The drug squad categorised the seized items, their DCs tallied up the confiscated items, and their DS’s ensured the items were bagged up and stored in the evidence room which is securely locked and under twenty-four-seven surveillance.
I leave the incident room, march down the corridor, push the door to Rawlings’ office open, and slam it shut behind me. I’m stood in front of him before he can apologise on my behalf to the Super.
I Know You (DI Emma Locke) Page 23