“That’s why DI Goodman’s nose is out of joint,” he says as we drive past the impressive Amex Stadium, home to Brighton and Hove Albion Football Club. “I have a corporate box here if you ever fancy watching a game.”
I like football almost as much as I like TV soap operas.
“Ashley knows you’re my father,” I say as we peel off left toward Brighton city centre. “Either someone told her or she worked it out.”
“Gina wouldn’t say anything. She seems quite fond of you, even though you used to disrupt the fox hunts. I imagine DI Goodman spoke to Tommy Logan, looked at the money I donated and made an informed guess. Did you deny it?”
I shake my head.
“Good lad. Never forget, today’s news is tomorrow’s fish and chip paper.”
I wonder if Niamh will see it that way.
“I imagine you haven’t told DI Goodman what we’re doing this afternoon,” he says, easing into the outside lane as the traffic begins to bunch.
“I’m no longer part of her investigation. I’m free to follow my instincts.”
“What do they tell you?”
“Someone wants you to go down for murder.”
“Yeah, whoever hacked into my account and deleted records, making it look like I have something to hide.”
“The hacker isn’t automatically the person who committed the murder.”
Anger creeps into his voice. “We’re looking for two people with a reason to fit me up.”
“Only one of them had to work for you.”
“The hacker.”
I nod. “When we find that person, we’re close to the killer.”
“And if we don’t?”
***
Apart from occasional countywide meetings of the Food Liaison and Health and Safety Groups, I rarely venture into Brighton, even though I like the buzz. It’s the energy created by crowds of people milling around to shop, eat and drink. It’s the queues of traffic stopping and starting, weaving between buses and dodging cyclists. It’s the variety of big and small shops, doors open, tempting consumers and browsers.
I’d be pining for the countryside within a day.
We head down the seafront from the Palace Pier and exit near the i360 Tower. Its circular platform reaches the top of its climb, offering panoramic views over Brighton, Hove and the English Channel. We drive uphill between tall Victorian buildings and take a couple of turns into narrower side streets before he swings his Mercedes into a private car park, protected by a card-operated barrier.
I’ve no idea where we are, but the building in front of me rises majestically towards the sky, its fire escapes silver against the brickwork and render. He pulls into the large space in the corner, marked MGB.
“Graeme,” he says, reading my mind. “My dad thought it would be fun to give me the initials of his favourite sports car. I helped him restore an original in the barn at Downland Manor.”
“Good job he wasn’t fond of the Audi TT.”
He rarely talks about his family or his time as a groom in the manor’s stables. They weren’t the happiest of times. He never mentions his mother, who may have died or left while he was young.
Maybe one day, he’ll tell me.
On the swipe of his card the security door opens into a small, dimly lit area in the basement. Beyond the second security door, a corridor runs towards the front of the building. To our right, a staircase winds around the lift shaft. Somewhere nearby, I hear a low frequency sound like a boiler.
“Air conditioning,” he says, climbing the stairs. On the first floor landing he stops. “Would you like to see the casino?”
Without waiting for an answer, he leads me along a short corridor and out through a security door onto the main casino floor. The noise from people talking, shouting, laughing, and cheering, strikes me first. People huddle around tables to play cards and roulette, their hopes pinned on the turn of a card or number on a wheel. They’re young, old, smart and casual, but predominantly male, all watched over by security staff, who don’t seem to be enjoying themselves.
“It’s busier than I expected for a weekday afternoon,” I remark.
It’s also darker, courtesy of subdued background lighting and shaded windows. The lighting focuses on the tables, manned by male and female croupiers, dressed in white shirts or blouses, red trousers and matching ties or scarfs. A stylised heart outline is picked out in red on the blouses and shirts. This outline is on every table, as far as I can tell, and part of the Ace of Hearts signage. If I’m not mistaken, there’s even a heart etched into the beer and wine glasses.
“You wait until the evening,” my father says, looking proudly around his empire. “Friday and Saturday are best. We get a lot of stag and hen parties on those evenings, so it gets quite boisterous.”
I notice a bar in the far corner of the huge room, which looks about the size of a concert hall. It has a large seating area, where people can relax between credit card withdrawals. The thick red carpet, festooned with white heart motifs, cushions my footsteps as we walk past the tables. The cards and coloured chips mean nothing to me, but the players have an intensity that turns their faces rigid with concentration.
A few collective gasps and groans carry across the room as someone comes close to winning on the roulette wheel. A man staggers backwards, colliding with my father. A security officer in a red uniform steps forward, but my father shakes his head. He points the man back at the table and continues walking towards the bar, which is elevated above the main floor and reached by three steps, bulging with carpet.
He attracts the barman’s attention. “Two decaffeinated lattes, Scottie. Have them sent to the Conference Suite, will you?”
Scottie nods and picks up a phone to relay the instructions.
“We have a five star kitchen that provides everything from snacks to breakfast to a dinner menu in our restaurant upstairs,” my father says, pointing. “We have a café and fast food area through the doors over there. That’s where we keep the slot machines. They’re similar to the ones you used to find on the pier, only electronic and computer controlled.”
“To regulate the pay outs?”
“To monitor behaviour and gambling patterns,” he replies, leading back down to the floor. “It helps us detect the early signs and patterns of addiction. We can then regulate betting, offer guidance.”
“Or work out which machines and tables are the most popular?”
“The computers give us data that helps us to provide the best experience possible for our members.”
“It didn’t stop Jonathan Wright racking up debts.”
“People have to take responsibility for their behaviour,” he says, leading me away from the bar. “Would you like to see the kitchens or the restaurant? Or shall we find Linda and see what she’s unearthed?”
“Let’s get to work,” I reply, noticing a young-looking croupier with ash blonde hair and the bluest eyes. There are no empty seats at her card table, and no women playing. With her coy smile, I imagine every one of the middle-aged men at the table hopes he can impress her with a big win.
“We have an online presence too,” my father explains as we leave the casino.
The noise and temperature drop immediately. We head down the bare corridor, following the pipework that runs beneath the ceiling. At regular intervals, and on landings, CCTV cameras keep a discreet watch.
On the third floor, the offices are no different from any others I’ve visited – filled with partitions, industrial carpets and desks with computers. My father’s spacious office has a conference room, studio flat and an en-suite shower room. We go into the conference room, where a tray with lattes and biscuits waits for us on the large, oval table that dominates the room. A smart whiteboard also acts as a monitor for the computer.
“We had one of these at Downland,” I say, checking out the whiteboard. “But only our IT technicians knew how to use them, which meant we never did.”
A tall woman with short black hair, huge p
urple glasses and long legs strides into the room. Aged somewhere in her forties or fifties and dressed in an immaculate suit that gives her an air of purpose and efficiency. She’s the kind of person you leave in control when you’re not there. She gives my father a warm smile as she places a bottle of mineral water and a bundle of files and papers on the table.
“Do you mind if I activate the air conditioning?” she asks, already halfway to the control panel. She also switches on the computer and whiteboard.
“Linda,” he says, beckoning her over, “this is Kent. He has some ideas about the hacker.”
“You have an IT background?” she asks in a soft Scottish accent.
She knows what I do. She’s telling me not to interfere.
“I’m interested in the person who hacked into the system, not your IT.”
She turns to the computer, which is taking its time to boot. “As we know, someone hacked into the system and deleted files, using your username and password, Miles. I’ve now discovered they were only active while you were here and logged in.”
“You mean they were here, in the building, watching me?”
“They waited for you to log onto the system. There’s no activity after you log out.”
“Making it look like you deleted those files,” I say.
“But I can log in remotely,” he says, looking worried.
“All the actions involving data about Jonathan Wright were taken while you were in the building and logged in to your terminal, Miles.”
“Meaning it looks like I carried out the actions.”
He takes his latte and walks over to the window. He stares down at the streets below, his fingers tapping on the windowsill. “Are you saying we can’t prove I didn’t delete those files?”
“We could bring in experts, but the logs are ten years old. The computers and systems that produced them were replaced years ago.”
“Someone’s stitched me up good and proper,” he says, returning to the table.
“They monitored your movements, knew when you logged in and out, and took control of your account.”
“You think more than one person did this?”
“Jonathan Wright and the person who helped him,” I say. “Any ideas who that might be, Linda?”
“Sorry. We’ve deleted a lot of the personal data to comply with new laws. We have a couple of people with IT qualifications, but they can’t access our main database.”
“That leaves Gill Kaine,” he says. “Jonathan Wright took a shine to her.”
Linda sighs, not sounding so confident. “We have no records for her. We’re relying on the recollections of a couple of employees.”
“Would a photo help?” I pull out my phone and bring up the photos of Leila King. Linda and my father take a close look, but it’s clear from their expressions they don’t recognise her.
It looks like Gill Kaine and Leila King are different people, sharing the same letters in their names.
“Email me copies,” Linda says. “I’ll show the guys.”
“Do you know where we can find her?” he asks, his voice rising. “I want to talk to her.”
I shake my head. “You can’t do that.”
“Don’t tell me what I can’t do,” he says, almost knocking over the latte glasses. “Someone’s framing me for murder and I want to know why.”
“You need to keep a clear head,” Linda says, as if she’s used to his outbursts. She turns to me. “Who is she? Why did you show us her photo?”
“I thought she might be Gill Kaine. It looks like I was wrong. Can we check out the real Gill Kaine? It would help if we had a bit more information about your systems. Could the person who hacked into the account do it remotely?”
“Sure,” she replies. “We can all work from home, but I think this person was in the building. He or she may even have accessed the security system to track your movements, Miles.”
He lets out a frustrated sigh. “How come no one spotted this?”
“Miles, it happened ten years ago. If you hadn’t kept the log files on your computer we’d never have known.”
“I didn’t keep them.”
“You keep everything, Miles. You have more drives and memory sticks than Microsoft. I’ve never known anyone back up records like you.”
“I don’t create log files. The system does that, doesn’t it? And it wouldn’t store them on my computer.”
“That’s true,” she says, looking hopeful.
“Meaning someone put them there,” I say. “Someone who wanted them to be found so it looks like you had something to hide.”
The colour drains from his face. “What’s going on? The body was found five years ago, for Christ’s sake. Why wait till now?”
Linda glances at me and shrugs. “Do you want me to delete the log files?”
“If we delete them,” he says, striding towards the door, “I can’t prove someone put them there.”
“If you don’t delete them the police will think you’re a murderer.”
He pulls open the door and stops, backtracking to reveal DI Ashley Goodman.
“Interesting dilemma,” she says with a smile.
Forty-Seven
My father looks ready to combust. “How the hell did you get in here?”
“One of your security officers kindly escorted us here.” Ashley hands him a document. “This is a warrant to enter and search your premises, Mr Birchill. That includes your IT systems and CCTV. A team of officers downstairs will begin as soon you’re escorted off the premises.”
“You’re arresting me?”
“Only if you refuse to accompany me to the station at Hammonds Drive, Eastbourne, for interview. To avoid any misunderstandings, I must caution you that you do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand the caution, Mr Birchill?”
“This is outrageous,” he says, but there’s little defiance in his voice. “I’m going to ring my solicitor and make a formal complaint.”
“You can ring him from the station. You clearly understand your right to legal representation, so my colleague, DS Castle, will escort you from the premises.”
A tall, black shaven-headed officer steps into the conference room. Built like a boxer, but without the broken nose and gnarled ears, he fills his shiny blue suit to bursting. “This way, Mr Birchill,” he says in a firm but neutral tone.
“Can we use the rear exit?” he asks.
“The car is waiting at the front,” DS Castle replies.
My father resists. “You intend to parade me in front of everyone?”
“I’m only doing my job. Let’s keep things civil.”
“This is intolerable. Linda, ring William.”
My father casts me a forlorn look as he leaves, his shoulders bowed.
Linda glares at Ashley. “You could have taken the back stairs.”
Ashley strolls across to the window and looks out. “It’s funny, isn’t it? Most people go out of their way to avoid talking to us. Park two patrol cars outside a casino and half the population of Brighton wants to watch. Intriguing, don’t you think?”
She turns back and points at Linda. “Go and organise his solicitor, Miss Bates. No, leave the folder on the table.”
Linda straightens her jacket and gives Ashley a look that would floor an elephant. But Ashley’s a cat, strolling around the room with a calm confidence that worries me. She closes the door after Linda leaves. “You chose the wrong bed to lie in, Kent.”
“I wasn’t planning on sleeping.”
“You’re certainly in bed with Miles Birchill.” She flicks through the papers on the table. “Give me a reason why I shouldn’t detain you for questioning.”
“Hang on,” I say. “You didn’t pop in on your way past. You’ve identified the body, right?”
She sighs as if I’m the most annoying child in the class. “It’s J
onathan Wright, as you suspected. Do you have any further information that may be helpful to my enquiries?”
“As you never told me anything, I don’t know anything about your enquiries.”
“It didn’t stop you rummaging around,” she says, flicking through the papers. “Who’s Gill Kaine?”
“No idea.”
“Your father’s a suspect for the murder of Jonathan Wright. You were found with him when we called to execute a warrant. How do you think a court will view that? Or the newspapers when they find out?”
“Who told you he was my father?”
“You told me, Kent. With your principles and history, you’d never take money from a lowlife like Birchill. But you did. Then you’re having lunch with him and his fiancée. You don’t need to be Einstein to work it out. But to be on the safe side, I did some digging around and uncovered your DNA paternity tests.”
“Those are confidential.”
“Not when your father’s a suspect in a murder enquiry.” She gathers the papers together and raps them on the table to straighten them out. “You sold your soul to the devil, Kent.”
“But I’m not pursuing the wrong person while the killer roams free.”
“I asked you for your evidence.”
“How would it look if you arrested the wrong person?”
“If you have information, Kent, let me have it. I could arrest you for obstruction, if you prefer.”
“You can’t arrest me for a hunch, Ashley. If you want evidence, I’ll have to find it first.”
She looks at me the way a cat looks at a mouse. “What if I find all I need here?”
“You’ll find what you’re supposed to find. That won’t tell you who put it there.”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know who she is.”
“But it’s a woman. You’re suggesting a woman murdered Jonathan Wright?”
“I’m saying a woman hacked into the computer system to set up my father. I intend to find her, with or without your help.”
She runs her tongue along her lips, studying me with unblinking eyes. “I’ll be busy interviewing Birchill tonight and tomorrow, so we’ll talk Friday morning, first thing.”
No More Lies Page 20