Lies That Blind

by Tony Hutchinson

  Ranjit hit a couple of keys and shaky footage began to play.

  Sam watched, brow furrowed as she wheeled her chair closer to the desk until her nose was almost touching the screen. A pair of feet appeared at the top of the companionway.

  ‘Whoever’s shooting the video must have been onboard before Bill,’ Sam said. ‘Nobody was seen walking back to the boat with him. Does it have sound?’

  Ranjit nodded.

  The camera panned around to Jimmy Marshall who was sitting in the saloon, closer to the companionway than the person filming. The camera was aimed low, only occasionally tilting upwards to catch Marshall’s face.

  ‘This looks like it’s being shot covertly,’ Sam said. ‘Maybe nobody knows this film exists.’

  ‘Insurance policy.’ Ed said. ‘Or a message for us.’

  Sam, wanting to get the positioning clear in her mind, recalled the lay-out of the yacht.

  ‘The person recording must be sitting at the saloon table, starboard side.’

  In her peripheral vision Ed’s lips moved, but whatever he muttered was inaudible.

  Sam pressed pause.

  ‘The right-hand side as you look to the front of the boat.’

  ‘Cheers,’ Ed said.

  Sam carried on. ‘The recorder is nearest the front cabin, furthest away from the companionway.’

  She pressed play.

  Bill Redwood’s head came into view as he descended into the yacht. Clearly startled, he recovered his composure quickly, his speech scratchy over the recording.

  ‘Everything alright lads? You should have told me you were coming. Drink?’

  Ed spoke quietly, his eyes never leaving the screen.

  ‘He’s not arseholed is he? He’s had a drink, but he’s not out of it.’

  Sam shook her head.

  They watched as Marshall stood up and spoke. ‘We need to take a little voyage. This fucker…’

  His head indicated towards the camera.

  ‘…needs to take a long walk from a short plank.’

  Sam and Ed watched the screen where Bill had looked towards the camera. His face changed. He could see what the camera couldn’t, what was silent in the shadows.

  When he spoke, the recording was crisper, Bill still calm but now the edge in his voice unmissable.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ Bill said. ‘Picking people up, dropping them off’s one thing, but I’m not throwing anybody overboard, not for the money you give me.’

  The reply was blunt and came from off camera.

  ‘Trouble is Bill, you don’t call the shots and you’re getting greedy. Not a good combination.’

  Sam pressed pause again and moved even closer to the screen.

  ‘Is that the heads opening?’

  ‘The what?’ Ed asked her.

  ‘Heads. Toilet.’

  ‘Why can’t they bloody call it a toilet then? Yeah the door’s opening.’

  Sam hit ‘play’ and on the screen Bill walked past the port side heads’ door. It was now between him and the companionway, between him and his way out.

  The footage showed a figure duck, and come out of the heads, face not in camera shot.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Sam said.

  ‘Davy Swan probably,’ Ed answered.

  They heard Bill’s voice, still calm enough.

  ‘I’m not greedy. But I want more than you’re giving me.’

  On the screen, Davy Swan came into view and suddenly threw his right fist. The few seconds of jerking images looked like they’d been recorded whilst the yacht was sailing through gale-whipped waves, but the speed and power of the punch was clear. Bill did not react. Was that the drink? Or was he one of life’s non-fighters?

  The blow knocked him off his feet and he crashed into the companionway, his head smashing into one of the steps. He lay motionless on the sole of the yacht, his head lolled to one side.

  Sam hit pause. ‘He never saw that coming did he?’

  When she hit play again it was Marshall’s voice they heard.

  ‘Oh well done. Absolutely brilliant.’

  On screen, Davy Swan shrugged, climbed the companionway and went off camera before his head reappeared in the opening, obviously lying on his stomach on deck. He reached down and grabbed Bill’s collar.

  Marshall, back to the camera, took hold of Bill’s legs.

  Sam and Ed watched as Bill Redwood’s unconscious body was hoisted, dragged, pushed, and shoved out of sight. Would the cameraman go on deck?

  The camera moved. A voice, trembling and barely audible.

  Sam tried to increase the volume, but it was already set to maximum. She turned her ear to the screen.

  ‘What are you going to do now? He’s had enough. He’s just an old guy with a boat. He’s not going to the cops.’

  ‘Who’s that speaking?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Could be Taffy Green,’ Ed said. ‘Sounds like him and not many with that accent in Seaton.’

  Through the laptop’s thin, tinny speakers, Swan spoke next.

  ‘Gone too far. Can’t take the risk.’

  ‘Suicide my arse,’ Ed said. ‘They threw him in. He was dead the second he got back on his boat, he just didn’t know it. Poor bastard.’

  Sam had stopped the recording, the home screen suddenly bright after the muted footage.

  ‘Let’s check the marina CCTV,’ Sam said. ‘If that was Scott Green he must have escaped,’ she said. ‘We know he didn’t end up in the water.’

  Ed was about to make one of his trademark jokes, something about The Great Escape and Steve McQueen on his motorbike, when his mobile rang.

  A woman’s voice, without a hint of an accent, asked him to, ‘pop along’ to the Deputy Chief Constable’s office.

  Ed’s throat wouldn’t have been any drier if Dyson himself was in there with his vacuum. Summoned without warning by the Deputy Chief Constable would be squeaky bum time for anyone of his rank.

  Sam looked at him, raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Deputy wants to see me?’

  ‘Do you know why?’ Sam asked, standing up.

  ‘Not a clue. I didn’t even realise they worked Sundays.’

  ‘Probably nothing. Might be wanting to pat you on the back for last night. Might even tell you to go for that promotion.’

  Sam watched Ed push himself up, chin tucked into his chest, body listless, a man going to the gallows not an awards ceremony.

  ‘On a Sunday? And why’s his secretary here?’

  He grabbed the knot of his tie, ragged it from side to side.

  ‘Look it’ll be nothing,’ Sam said, hiding her own unease. ‘I’ll go to the mortuary. You come over when you’re done here.’

  Ranjit Singh left the office and told everybody that Ed had been called to see the Deputy. Nobody believed the promotion scenario.

  Ed walked, head down, to the Executive corridor, towards the big offices and the thick green carpets.

  The secretary was wearing her funeral face; no smile, no greeting, just a slight nod of acknowledgement. She picked up the phone, told whoever was at the other end that Detective Sergeant Whelan was here.

  ‘You can go straight in.’

  Ed gulped, wrestled with his tie again, and walked into the adjoining office, the door already open.

  Deputy Chief Constable John Winsor, immaculate in crisp white shirt and thin, gold-framed spectacles, was sitting behind his desk. Ed expected that. What he didn’t expect was Superintendent Chris Priest and his inspector side-kick Josh Appleton to be with him.

  Both stood, leaning against the windows.

  Priest, the Head of Professional Standards, was well named; never swore, never married and treated every police manual as a bible, no deviation tolerated.

  He wore a navy suit, pink silk tie and pale blue shirt, which covered broad shoulders, pumped arms and a stomach that had never processed a unit of alcohol.

  Overweight on day 1 at training school, his derogatory nickname stuck for a while, but he lost four ston
e in his first year as a police officer and still stuck to a regime of running and weights.

  Appleton’s ill-fitting jackets, saggy trousers and mismatched shirts were legendary. Today was no exception, an oversized banana yellow jacket, olive trousers and a black gingham shirt. The sky-blue tie had a small blob of egg yolk on it. He hadn’t had eggs today.

  Officers like Josh Appleton were better suited to uniform, removing the daily decision of what eye-watering fashion disaster to wear.

  But underneath the fashion faux-pas lived a ruthless individual who’d batter a pensioner to climb the greasy pole. Priest and Appleton were nothing if not an odd team, the definition of chalk and cheese in the flesh.

  DCC John Winsor did not offer any pleasantries or an invitation to sit.

  Ed already knew whatever was coming wasn’t a pat on the back or promotion.

  Winsor’s voice was cool and measured.

  ‘Sgt Whelan.’

  He eyes locked onto Ed’s.

  Thighs braced, shoulders back, Ed stood rigid. It was much easier for someone to notice you shaking when you were stood up, and whatever shit was about to fly his way, he wasn’t going to allow Twit and Twat – Eastern’s odd couple – the satisfaction of witnessing his discomfort.

  Ed and Chris Priest had worked together in the CID years ago, before Ed left the Job, but they were never friends. Rumour had it Priest, for all his sanctimony and self-righteousness, still adopted the maxim of his younger days as a detective; take women whenever and wherever the opportunity presented.

  Ed glanced at Priest. The tan was deep and undeniably impressive, but if you were a regular visitor to Thailand, as Priest apparently was, why wouldn’t you catch a bit of sun?

  ‘Inspector Appleton,’ the DCC continued without taking his eyes off Ed, ‘will soon serve you with the required Regulation 15 Notice informing you that you are being investigated for offences of corruption.’

  Winsor paused.

  ‘An assessment has been made and as the allegations are considered a matter of gross misconduct, insomuch as there is potentially a breach of the Standards of Professional Behaviour so serious as to warrant dismissal, or…’

  Another pause.

  Sweat rings were beginning to spread under Ed’s arms as his deodorant went AWOL.

  ‘…criminal proceedings. The matter will be investigated by the Professional Standards Department.’

  Ed’s tongue developed a mind of its own, jigging across his lips like a Riverdance out-take.

  ‘You will be suspended from duty forthwith,’ Winsor told him.

  Ed didn’t turn his head. He didn’t need to. He could sense the smug, supercilious smile plastered over Josh ‘Twat’ Appleton’s face.

  ‘You will hand your warrant card and desk key to Superintendent Priest,’ he heard Winsor saying. ‘You will also give him your police issue mobile phone.’

  John Winsor wasn’t reading from a script. He didn’t need to. He’d done this before.

  Like every Deputy Chief Constable, he was responsible for all disciplinary matters. Chris Priest, as the Head of Professional Standards, reported directly to him.

  Winsor spoke again. ‘You will make yourself available for interview at a time and place dictated by Superintendent Priest. You will not access any police building during your suspension. Inspector Appleton will escort you off the premises once all the admin is completed. Do I make myself clear?’

  Ed nodded.

  ‘Get out.’

  John Winsor picked up his fountain pen and began writing on the pad in front of him.

  Ed felt like some insect swatted away as he filed out of the office behind Priest and Appleton, past the secretary who didn’t look up from her desktop computer, no doubt already poised to make the ‘you’ll-never-guess-what,’ phone call.

  He followed T and T into one of the empty offices. At least he didn’t have to travel to their ‘secret squirrel’ headquarters.

  Priest sat. Ed and Appleton didn’t.

  Ed thrust his hand into his trouser pocket, pulled out the black wallet, removed the warrant card and threw his police ID onto the desk.

  Two minutes later, the Reg. 15 in his jacket pocket, he turned and took two steps towards the doorway.

  He hadn’t spoken since he got the call from the DCC’s secretary and would have stayed wordless if he hadn’t felt Appleton’s hand in the small of his back, ushering him out of the office.

  When he spoke, quiet enough to make sure Priest couldn’t hear, Ed’s words were venom.

  ‘Get your fucking hand off me unless you want to have to sew it back onto your wrist.’

  Ed quick-marched along the corridor, leaving Appleton behind.

  ‘I can find my own fuckin’ way out,’ he shouted.

  Chapter 29

  Sam answered her mobile as she pulled up outside the mortuary.

  ‘Boss, its Tucky.’

  ‘Hi Shane. What’s up?’

  ‘It’s Ed. Complaints have just been in the office.’

  The older detectives still referred to Professional Standards as Complaints, a throwback to the days when the department was called Complaints and Discipline; some of the younger detectives followed suit.

  ‘What did they want?’

  ‘Ed’s been suspended.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Sam got out of her car, balanced the phone between her shoulder and ear and lit a Marlboro Gold.

  ‘They’ve come into the HOLMES room,’ Tucky went on. ‘Priest and Appleton. Told everyone that Ed’s suspended and then went through his desk.’

  ‘Suspended? What for?’

  ‘They didn’t say. Appleton couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.’

  What a wanker.

  ‘What about Priest?’ she asked.

  ‘He came in, made the announcement then left Appleton to it.’

  Sam considered ordering Tucky to tell everyone to say nothing but it would get out anyway. Juicy stories like officer suspensions took on a life of their own.

  ‘Okay. Let them do what they have to do. Tell everyone in the room I want no sarcastic remarks towards Appleton. If he starts asking questions, I expect everybody to say nothing until we know exactly what’s going on. I’ll be back after these PMs.’

  Sam smoked the cigarette, called Ed’s personal number, and heard raw anger.

  ‘Did you know about this?’ he shouted.

  ‘I had no idea. How on earth could you think I knew about it and didn’t tell you? Where are you now?’

  ‘On the piss. What else is there to do? I can’t go home, can’t go to yours, being a suspended officer and all that.’

  ‘There’s no point shouting at me. I don’t even know what it’s about.’

  Sam lit another cigarette and waited for a response. She didn’t get one.

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘I’ll sort something and if those twats want to interview me, they’ll have to find me first. As for you, remember my phone is probably tapped now.’

  ‘And you remember what you learnt on that Internet Open Source course I sent you on.’

  Ed wasn’t in the pub. Not quite. He had pulled into the car park.

  Now he walked through the stained-glass internal door to the bar, rave club decibels pounding his ears.

  When he joined Eastern Police in 1978, The Ship, near the harbour, had been a biker’s pub; a Harley Davison on the wall, Heavy Metal music booming out of the juke box. Having resigned and left the force for ten years, Ed discovered the bikers had moved on. The new clientele weren’t unfriendly like the old days; they were openly hostile.

  Most of the seats were already taken. The black stained wooden floor, as old as the pub itself, was already glistening with small puddles of spilt drink. The jukebox was belting out a Bay City Rollers hit and a group of five middle-aged women, sat around a circular table, were screaming the vocals inbetween slurps from their pints of lager.

  Men of all ages stood drinking at the bar. Ed checked
his watch. 12.05pm.

  The music stopped and a few of the men, most sitting alone, made grunting noises. None had the bottle to look at him, all eyes fixed on their pint glasses.

  The skinny ginger gob at the end of the bar, washed-out short-sleeved white England shirt, self-drawn ink tattoos on his arms and neck, one foot on the brass footrest, had to be the exception.

  ‘Strong smell of pork in here,’ he shouted during the musical lull as the The Bee Gees readied to burst eardrums with ‘Tragedy.’ The irony wasn’t lost on Ed.

  The grunters laughed and Ginger looked pleased, at least until Ed delivered a fast and vicious martial arts kick to the knee of his standing leg. Charlie Sneddon had always been an arsehole and today his mouth was in the wrong place at the wrong time and Ed Whelan was in the wrong mood.

  The small, thin, wrinkled-faced granny behind the bar, drying a clean pint glass with a grubby tea towel, didn’t flinch.

  ‘You fuckin’ wanker Whelan,’ Sneddon winced through gritted teeth, holding his right knee with both hands as he rolled on the floor.

  ‘Get over it you skinny little shit,’ Ed said. ‘Pint of Guinness please Phyllis.’

  He turned around, back against the bar, daring anyone else to say anything.

  Sneddon dragged himself along the floor. No one went to help.

  Betty Rizzo, from ‘Grease’ replaced the brothers Gibb. The long-haired, peroxide blonde from the table of screamers locked her eyes onto Ed’s as she sauntered towards him, hips swaying, arms extended outwards, singing the opening line to ‘There Are Worse Things I Could Do’, with plenty of lung power but not too much by way of harmony or cadence.

  The tight skinny jeans and black thigh-high boots showed off her long legs, the white silk smock completing the impression, from a distance at least, that she was a woman in her early thirties. Up close, her craggy features betrayed the hard life of someone in her late fifties.

  Carol Pender was in her early forties, and life had indeed been short on light relief.

  ‘Mr Whelan as I live and breathe. What a pleasure,’ she said planting a kiss on his cheek. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘I was hoping to catch you Carol.’

  ‘Ooh, you always were a smooth-talking fucker. Go on then, mine’s a vodka and coke.’