by M. G. Cole
Garrick raised an eyebrow at him. “She can pick any name she wants. Who do you think killed him?”
The solicitor, whose name he had blanked the moment they were introduced, was taken aback. “My opinion has nothing to do with anything.”
“Noted.” He looked at Rebecca. “And your opinion is?”
“Derek. As I said already, he has everything to gain.”
“And who has to gain if Derek Fraser ends up dead? You are aware somebody shot at him last night?” He decided she didn’t need to know about the blanks.
“So I discovered this morning, watching TV. Just before you kicked my door down. And again, I thought we had covered this when I willingly cooperated with you. He lied about leaving the house to me. What else has he lied about? And what do I stand to gain except a costly legal probate?”
“Who could he have passed the house onto?”
She gave a bewildered look. “He has no family, no friends. Half the people he knows hate him; he hates the other half.”
Garrick was worried. Her reactions perfectly mirrored his own doubts and thoughts. She had an answer for everything – except the most pressing one.
“Did you know Oscar Benjamin is wanted in connection to an armed robbery in Tonbridge the week he arrived?”
She looked shocked. “No. That’s rubbish. He wouldn’t…”
Garrick chuckled. “Come on. He is no saint, and I don’t believe for a second you are so naïve not to know about his reputation.”
“His brother’s reputation. Not his. He took all that crap from Noel and from Derek. Show me his criminal record.” She smirked and stabbed a finger at Garrick. “Exactly! You can’t because he is a good man.”
Garrick propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward, softening his voice. “I can see you’re concerned. And you understand that he’s wanted for questioning in connection to the murder at Fraser’s house and an armed robbery. That’s some achievement for an innocent man who has been in the country for three weeks, and it’s an even greater achievement for his brother who is still behind bars. And I can’t believe that he may have fled with the money, with no intention of ever returning to you.” She reacted to that; it hadn’t occurred to her. Garrick tried not to smile. “Yet, no matter how much you try to convince me he was a caring, lovely bloke who liked puppies and rainbows, I will not believe a single word of it until I speak with him. Where is he?”
She leaned forward, mimicking Garrick’s pose. She lowered her voice. “I don’t know. And if you want to play the dickhead game, he’s allergic to puppies.”
“What a bloody infuriating woman!” he bellowed across the incident room.
Wilkes and Chib had arrived back from Rebecca’s Airbnb, leaving Fanta and Harry to finish things up. So far, the frustrating news was they had found nothing incriminating. Forensics were still doing a sweep, but they could tell it hadn’t been used much over the rental period.
Raiding the house was now looking like a bad idea after all. He could already envisage the flak he was going to get from Drury.
“There is some bad news,” Wilkes said jocularly.
“That was the good news?” exclaimed Garrick.
“The press arrived quickly.” He jerked a thumb towards the door. “They’re also laying siege outside, so I wouldn’t show your face if you can help it. Unless you can do a little smoke and mirrors and throw them off the scent.” He caught Chib’s frown. “I saw a magic show on Friday…” he hesitated, unaware if she knew who his date had been. “And we, I, bumped into the DCI. It was a good show…” he trailed off.
“Smoke and mirrors,” Garrick echoed. “That’s what this feels like. Look over here while something else happens over there.” He waved both hands to make his point. He walked to the evidence board. “We are missing somebody. If, for the sake of argument, Oscar Benjamin was robber number one. Even if he was doing it as a sideline while trying to help Rebecca Ellis find Hoy, so she could screw over Fraser. Who was robber number two?”
Chib beamed at him. “Tonbridge have no leads. And with no car used in the escape, they have no prints either. But you beat me to my surprise.” She couldn’t stop smiling at Garrick’s baffled look. “Forensics came back with a match on the gun used last night. The blanks and the live shells fired during the robbery, came from the same weapon.”
21
Hard evidence linking the cases had buoyed Garrick’s jaded spirits and banished the fatigue that had been clawing at him all day. Even when Harry and Fanta had returned with no more news from the Airbnb, he remained optimistic.
Towards the end of the day, he received an unexpected call from Derek Fraser thanking him for being allowed to return home, and for placing a uniformed officer in a car at the end of his driveway. The sceptic in Garrick thought that his heartfelt outpouring was more to do with the fact he had yet again been a media darling as he recounted his near-death experience. He had used the opportunity to announce that it had happened with two more new pieces of artwork falling into his possession and, like the showman he was, he added further petrol to the story by suggesting that Hoy may be cursed. Rather than put buyers off, it seemed to have the perverse effect of attracting them to the works. Why spend money on an ordinary painting, when you could have one with links to the supernatural?
Forensic evidence showed the gunman had fled in a car parked in a country lane behind the hotel. It was probably the way he had gained entry too. Garrick had asked for security footage of everybody entering the orthodox way prior to the video cameras being sabotaged. If the gunman hadn’t cut them himself, then he must have had an accomplice on the inside. Garrick looked at everybody coming and going until the two key cameras went dead, but nobody leapt out as a possible suspect. As he’d only seen the man’s eyes and had a sense of his general height and build, he had little to go on, but everybody caught on camera seemed too old, tall, small, or fat.
He also noticed that the cameras had been cut before the black Hyundai arrived.
By the time it reached five o’clock the team drifted home, all of them were exhausted. Except Garrick. He called Wendy – noticing that he had three missed calls from Molly Meyers, who had also made capital by appearing as a guest on various news channels. He suspected it wouldn’t be long before the job offers followed; she was photogenic, articulate and savvy. It felt like the only people not yet benefiting from the case were Rebecca Ellis and himself.
The Pizza Hut in Gillingham was not exactly a glamorous location, but Wendy had been excited when he suggested they meet there. She greeted him with a big hug and a short, but passionate, kiss. She gently rubbed the scratches on his cheek. Then the red welt which had almost vanished save a red blotch.
“You’ve been in the wars.”
When he told her if they had sat at the Pizza Hut in Maidstone they would have been assaulted by the press, Wendy had almost bounced in her chair with delight. She demanded he tell her everything about the encounter, and she listened with wide adoring eyes, barely even noticing when their twelve-inch Hawaiian Pizza and the garlic bread side arrived.
“I have to admit, I sort of told everybody in school that we were dating.”
“Oh… poor you.”
“They were impressed. I never really thought about your job as being dangerous. I mean, it’s not like the police on the streets.”
Garrick stopped himself from wolfing down the pizza. He had eaten little all day, and he was finding the combination of Wendy’s company and her adoration to be an addictive cocktail.
“Normally it’s not. Not really. I turn up when the danger has already passed. To be honest, most killers give up at the end and don’t put up a struggle.” He decided she didn’t need to know about fighting his old friend as his shop burned down around them. He’d also edited out the fact the bullets had been blanks; the team wanted to keep that quiet for now. He felt guilty that it was making him appear far braver than he had been.
She reached across the table and took his hand. She didn’t let go
.
“It still made me realise what we have and…” she seemed lost for words.
Garrick suddenly had the unprovoked thought that she was about to dump him. As a younger man, pounding the streets as a PC, he’d had a series of short relationships with women who loved a man in uniform, but drew the line about getting involved with somebody who flirted with danger. Poor Wendy didn’t even have the benefit of the uniform.
She continued. “And it suddenly felt precious.” She flashed a lopsided grin, then let go of his hand and covered her face in embarrassment. “Wow. I sound like one of those cheesy Hallmark movies.”
Garrick didn’t know what she meant but played along anyway. “No, you don’t.”
“I just mean that I joined Heartfelt because I needed a change in my life. My job is dull and mostly repetitive. Although I love the kids.”
“You keep saying.” And she did. As a teaching assistant she was increasingly frustrated at work but stopped short of suggesting that she could do better than half the teachers in the school. Garrick suspected she was more than capable.
“But now I’m dating an actual action hero, it puts my boring life in perspective.”
His relationship muscles were so badly tuned that he wasn’t sure how to respond. “Sorry?” He was relieved when she smiled.
“Don’t be. You’re that welcome relief I needed in my life.”
Garrick beamed with pleasure. He was starting he feel the same about her, although he hoped it wasn’t just because she had spent the entire time over pizza and a chocolate sundae, which they diligently shared, telling him how wonderful he was.
The moment was spoilt when Garrick caught movement out of the corner of his eye. A gaggle of Millennials seated at a table opposite were hunched conspiratorially together and casting looks his way. The furtive movement that caught his attention was one of them angling their phone for a photograph. A spotty, thin-faced man broke ranks and approached their table.
“Excuse me, mate. Are you that copper from the telly?”
Garrick treated him to a lazy smile. “Poirot? I get that a lot.”
The gag passed in orbit over the young man’s head. “From the news?”
“Not me. Sorry.”
The man retreated to his table, but obviously wasn’t buying it. Some of his friends were already Googling the story and nodding.
“Time to go,” Garrick said, burning with embarrassment.
Wendy was quiet as they strolled across the car park. Something was on her mind. They reached her car when she finally spoke up.
“It’s a bit of a disappointment to call it a night so soon. Want to maybe get a coffee?” Then after an awkward pause, “Back at mine?”
Garrick screamed at himself for hesitating, but the offer coincided with a sudden crashing wall of fatigue as the last two days caught up with him.
She playfully toyed with the collar of his Barbour, straightening it. “I just remembered that you don’t drink coffee. I’m sure I have something much more to your tastes.”
“I’d love to, Wend. But I haven’t slept at all…” His bumbling apology sounded like the death knell to his manhood. And he did not know where Wend had suddenly sprung from.
“Oh. That’s okay. I’m sure it’s been a mad few days.” She awkwardly thumbed her key fob and unlocked the car.
“I mean between last night and this morning, I only had a few hours–”
She silenced him with a crushing hug, wrapping both arms tightly around him. Every bruise on his body screamed, but he got away with a strained gasp.
“Next time,” she said and planted a lingering kiss on his lips. Her tongue gently sliding against his. She smiled and slipped into her car without another word.
Garrick ran his hands across his stubbled cheek as he watched the red tail lights recede into the distance. She had left him with a promise of so much more… if only he could stay awake.
He cut the engine to his car, but left the headlights on, illuminating his front door. He had driven home on autopilot, having no recollection of the trip. He recalled watching Wendy leave, then getting into his own car, but precious little else.
Just how tired was he?
He ran a tentative hand over his head, half expecting to feel the growth pressing from within. Of course, he felt nothing, nor did he feel the persistent nagging migraine. His doctor had warned him to avoid banging his head – whether it be on a football or his bed’s headboard. Tumbling off rooftops was probably higher up the list than either of those. His eyes were dry and sore, and when he closed them, he could feel the welcoming embrace of sleep beckoning him. He turned the headlights off, locked the car and walked to the house.
He raised his key to the lock and stopped. The front door was ajar.
Was it an illusion in the shadows? No. Only fractionally, by half-an-inch, but it was undoubtedly open. He swapped the keys for his phone and activated its LED torch. His heart felt as if it had leapt into his throat as he studied the lock. There was no sign of tampering. He gently applied pressure… and heard a click as the Yale catch slid off the strike plate. It hadn’t been fully pulled closed to allow the lock to snap in position. Had he done that in his haste to leave in the morning?
As quietly as he could, Garrick entered the house and swept the light around. Nothing looked disturbed. He suddenly realised how pointless it was using the phone. He reached for the light switch. Everything looked normal. His front door led directly to a staircase, with the living room beyond. His television was still there. The kitchen was undisturbed, with his laptop next to his fossil project.
A quick check upstairs assured him that nothing had been taken. The partially open door was because of his own carelessness, but the adrenaline rush he had experienced had now woken him up once more.
“Pull yourself together, David,” he said to the house at large. Despite the frustrations of the case, he detected an undercurrent that the universe was pulling at various strands of his life to make things go right for once. For the first time, he felt he was the one impeding his own success.
Wired and alert, he retired to bed and submitted to the sleeping pills.
22
The gun had been found by National Rail workers performing essential maintenance on the line in the dead of the night. DS Okon had arrived at the scene, parking on a bridge on Bowley Lane that crossed over the track. It was an obvious assumption to make that the gunman had driven at speed over a bridge two-hundred feet earlier, passing over the M20, which would have been lit up at night. The rest of the lane ahead would have been smothered in darkness, so a person in panic would think they were tossing the weapon into a ditch. Not off another bridge and onto a dark railway line.
Forensics came back with a quick match: it was a silver Colt M1911A1 semi-automatic pistol. Forty years old and in a shoddy state, but it was still lethal. And it was the weapon used in both the security van robbery and the hotel incident.
It never ceased to amaze Garrick how villains could spend months or years concocting elaborate plans, then panic and make foolish errors. Such as discarding a weapon in panic. He recalled the fear in the gunman’s eyes. On reflection, it was as if the man hadn’t expected his plan to go so awry. There was also the issue of why use live rounds attacking the security van, but blanks in the hotel.
Forensics revealed skid marks as the driver had slowed down to toss the gun, indicating he was alone. The same skid marks were found at the end of the lane, turning right at speed onto Lenham Heath Road. That gave them a direction of flight. It also provided a distinctive tyre tread pattern: they were Bridgestone Turanza T005s. Garrick launched an immediate search for any matching tyres fitted to a black Hyundai. The car that had followed him from Rebecca’s Airbnb, probably the same one that was parked outside the hotel on the night of the shooting. Checks had revealed that it didn’t belong to any of the hotel diners, guests, or staff.
Further research revealed that the black Hyundai that had followed them from the Airbnb ha
d been parked in the owner’s driveway in Guildford all week. The licence plate had been cloned. Was it the gunman’s, or a persistent reporter? Garrick’s suspicious mind thought immediately of Molly Meyers, but he’d been with her when she was sat in her Beetle.
The gaggle of reporters lurking outside the station had dwindled as the news cycle moved on. The video of Garrick sliding off a roof could only keep people amused for so long, but he was left in no doubt that the press was eager to leap on the slightest scent of blood in the story. Drury had taken him aside to confirm this.
“We’re coming out looking good on this case,” she had said without a smile. “For a change. Mainly because of your little stunt and Mr Fraser’s constant addiction to a camera lens. And how you’ve turned little Miss Molly Meyers onto our side, I can’t imagine. She has been a pain in the arse since I first met her. She’s the sort of person who would flip a turd over to see if it’s dirtier on the other side.”
Garrick was impressed with the goodwill they had been receiving from all quarters, despite their slow progress on the case. Drury’s lofty tone tightened as she focused on just that.
“However, if we have nothing to charge Rebecca Ellis with, then smashing into her house at the crack of dawn will not look so diligent. And she is exactly the type of person who will make a noise to discredit the investigation. And you, especially.”
Garrick had been relishing the sense of momentum in the air, but her warnings pulled him back to earth. By lunchtime, Fanta had unearthed some details that warranted another interview with Rebecca Ellis.
Rebecca had slept well in her cell and now had changed her clothes and tied her hair back. She was composed compared to the previous day. A ghostly mocking smile lingered, powered by the certainty they had nothing to charge her with.
“How many visitors have you entertained at your rental?”
“I haven’t been in an entertaining frame of mind.”