by M. G. Cole
They headed back down the M20 towards headquarters, but Garrick was desperate to avoid going back. He felt there was more to achieve out here. He considered paying Derek Fraser a visit just to see the look on his face when he revealed Hoy’s identity. But, other than personal gratification, there was nothing to be gained from that, and if he knew that Rebecca and Terri had struck up some sort of friendship, he would have revealed it earlier.
Try as he might, Garrick still struggled to find what bound the women together, other than loathing the same man. If Fraser was doing well selling the art, then it made little sense for Terri to ditch him as an agent. It was Fraser’s own fame that was helping drive up the price. Instinct told him they were looking at the evidence the wrong way. Maybe he was being unduly influenced by Fanta’s whimsical take on viewing artwork, but it was sticking with him. Then something else she had said… her date with Sean. The magician. Sean’s smoke and mirrors comment.
“We’re looking at the wrong hand,” he said suddenly.
“Sir, you have well and truly lost me.”
Garrick now wanted to get to the incident room to access the case files. It was just as well because Chib told him she’d have to charge up again soon. Inside, he took care to avoid Drury’s office, and stood in front of the evidence wall, soaking it all in.
The second gunman at the security van incident had to be the same man Garrick chased in the hotel. The gun, and now the Mark Kline-Watson connection, put him by Oscar Benjamin’s side. He knew he should tell the team investigating the robbery, but until he had something other than speculation, it was probably best to keep quiet.
It was likely that Oscar Benjamin had fled the country, leaving his partner in crime behind. Why? Had Benjamin stolen all the money from his partner? Left him high and dry? Had he done it to escape from Rebecca to start a new life? It was possible.
“Do you have a moment, sir?” It was Fanta, who was leaning back in her seat, dark circles under her eyes betraying her fatigue.
Garrick crossed over. “When did you last go home?”
“What year is it?” she quipped, then pointed to her screen. “What do you make of this?”
She scrolled down a series of bank statements showing thousands of pounds regularly coming in and out.
“My dad was an accountant in Shanghai before he came over,” she said.
“Ah, the man who named you after a fizzy drink.”
“I used to tell people it was short for Fantasia.” The truth was that Fanta had been one of the few English words he’d remembered at short notice. “He used to teach me and my brother bookkeeping when we were kids.”
“Wow. Your family nights in must have been wild.”
Ignoring him, she circled the mouse cursor over the figures. “So even I can tell this look dodgy. They’re K-W’s business accounts prior to his business collapsing.”
“He was making some quite substantial sales.”
“Yeah. All very regular for somebody who, by all accounts, wasn’t shifting much out of the store.” She switched to a browser and called up the shop’s old website on the Wayback Machine. “I trawled through this. For a year he had pretty much the same items on there. He’d tweak the prices to get rid of them, but look, month after month, it’s mostly the same stuff. He might not have put everything on there, but this is the world’s shop window. Surely he’d put up the big-ticket items. Look at this. A pink elephant!”
She was indignant at a ceramic pink elephant, standing three feet high, with its truck reared back.
“He was charging seven grand for that! Who would want it?”
“Isn’t that what you consider art?”
“No. That’s kitsch. And according to the website, nobody wanted it as it was still there until he closed. So where was he making the money?”
Garrick had seen similar set-ups before. “Money laundering.”
Fanta leaned back in her chair and put her arms behind her head. “That’s what I was thinking.”
Garrick used the mouse to flick back to the bank statements. “He wasn’t making a profit unless he was keeping it in cash as a backhander. The business was unsustainable, even as a front.” He scrolled through the records. “These early figures seem normal. So maybe he was really trying to make an honest go of things, then found the path for easy money.”
“Then he had to close.”
“But couldn’t risk applying for bankruptcy. That would affect what type of bank account he could have. It would be too risky to have any bank closely monitor his activities. It would be better for him to be in debt rather than write it off.”
“The financials for the Cinq Arts Gallery follow a similar pattern, except this time with some profits sunk back into the business.” Fanta’s nose wrinkled as she thought. “It was that another money laundering front.”
“It certainly smells like it, doesn’t it?”
“And it feels right that he’d try to squeeze more money from our man Fraser. If he could pay off his debts quick, it would open the doors for his business to legitimately shift larger amounts of money.”
“The only problem is, we’re now building a case against a dead man. How does Rebecca Ellis tie into this?”
He outlined his thoughts on Oscar Benjamin’s accomplice. Harry Lord had been listening from his own desk. He rolled his chair over to join them.
“When me and Sean were asking about Benjamin, remember they said he was recruiting for a job? If this was the heist, then would he really use strangers? People he didn’t trust?”
Garrick shook his head but remained silent as he walked back to the evidence wall and took in each face in turn. He peered at the CCTV picture of Rebecca Ellis and her phantom friend loading her car up. He tapped the figure in black.
“This is Terri Cordy,” he declared with confidence. “Rebecca spun a cock-and-bull story about some friend because she didn’t want us to make any connection between them. Sean backtracked her movements to the station.” He looked around. “Where is he?”
“Late lunch…”
“If she’s coming from Camden, where would she get the train from?”
“London Bridge is the overground line,” said Harry. “She could get the Northern Line from her flat to the station.”
“Check with TFL. She must have bought a ticket, used her Oyster card, something.” Garrick’s mind was suddenly firing on all cylinders. He hadn’t felt this alert for months. “She comes to Tonbridge to meet Rebecca Ellis. Why?”
He looked expectantly between Harry and Fanta. They gave sheepish shrugs.
“To move the money!” He tapped the photograph. “That’s what’s in the bags! She didn’t bring them with her.”
He was expecting a triumphant whoop from the others, but there was only doubt.
“Why…?” Fanta squinted at the board. “Aren’t we saying Oscar Benjamin made off with the loot?”
“Maybe not all of it. And she just bought herself an expensive laptop.” Garrick now doubted his own idea. What had started off sounding promising had just hit the rocks labelled lack-of-evidence. Yet, he was sure there were flecks of truth in there somewhere. Or was he just tangling himself up in false leads?
“Mmm, maybe your idea is not as stupid as it sounds,” said Fanta thoughtfully. With her hands still behind her head, she slowly revolved three-hundred and sixty degrees on her chair. As ever, she was oblivious to her lack of workplace etiquette.
“You flatter me,” Garrick said sardonically, but he saw she was chasing the same thread that was tantalising him. Then he got it. It was obvious. “The only reason for Terri Cordy to be there is if she was in on the whole thing. Like Rebecca.”
Fanta suddenly bolted upright in her chair as he latched on to his reasoning. “Because she’s the one connected to the second gunman!” It came out in one fast squeal.
Garrick nodded encouragingly, then looked to Harry for confirmation.
“Does that sound completely mad?”
Harry nodded. �
�Yeah. But we’ve gone out to bat off madder ideas than that.”
PC Sean Wilkes entered, clutching a sandwich bag from Subway. He glanced around the room, picking up on the mood.
“Have I missed anything?”
Harry ignored him. “The only problem is, we don’t know who he is.”
Garrick smiled as Fanta dropped back in her chair, suddenly deflated.
“No. But we know where he is.”
Garrick left with PC Harry Lord. He thought having a uniformed officer, and a marked car, would be useful. Plus, if things were going to get physical, Harry was more than capable of fighting for them both. He left Chib to extract another interview from Rebecca Ellis, while PC’s Fanta Liu and Wilkes put together as much background information as they could.
Terri Cordy had let slip she was dating a medical student in Canterbury, and that meant he had to be studying at the Kent and Medway Medical School. Having no description or name left a lot of potential students to sift through. Although Garrick was convinced that he’d recognise those wide, frightened eyes again. And since they’d been up-close and personal, he had a good measure of the man’s physical build. That ruled out the short, tall, and fat and thin students.
Fanta trawled through social media accounts, while Wilkes took the more formal avenue of calling the Dean and arranging a meeting.
The University of Kent campus was on the northwest edge of Canterbury, bordering the countryside, as if a conscious decision was made by the founders to keep the students as far from the townsfolk as possible.
The campus was packed with students moving in between lectures. The marked police car and PC Harry Lord in his full uniform, and cutting a handsome figure, drew more than a few curious looks. A receptionist was waiting and hastily guided them into the Dean’s office.
Professor Julian Anderson, BM BS, had an impressive CV, which Wilkes had recited over the phone. He was a well-regarded academic figure, and an active champion for diversity. Garrick had been expecting a stern, lanky man, not the pleasant round welcoming face and demeanour that greeted them. The professor sat behind his desk, anxiously circling his thumbs as he went through the niceties of offering drinks. Garrick got straight to the point. Although he couldn’t specify the exact nature of the offense, Professor Anderson guessed at least part of it.
“I thought I recognised you from the telly. Well, needless to say that I don’t think any of our students would be involved in such a crass thing. We are talking about some of the brightest minds in the country.”
“Of course not. But we need to eliminate suspects from our enquiries.”
Garrick was constantly amazed how people thought intelligence somehow lessened a person’s penchant for crime. In his experience it was cut down the middle, regardless of creed, colour, or sex. The only discrepancy he had discovered was that the thicker ones were more easily caught. He was equally surprised by how many people assumed ‘eliminate for our enquiries’ meant just that. Most of the time when Garrick mentioned it, it was to dig up as much dirt on the suspect as possible.
Eager to cooperate, Professor Anderson fetched his secretary and told him to allow the police access to the student records. Garrick sat at the desk outside with the receptionist, with Lord peering between their shoulders.
They cycled through the profile pictures of the male medical students. The chubbier ones were instantly dismissible, as were any non-Caucasians. But with no information regarding their height, Garrick worried it might resort to an ID parade.
“Do students require a parking pass?”
“Yes.”
They searched for any registered black Hyundai. There were two. Only one was a Hyundai i40, registered to Huw Crawford, a 32-year-old mature student. Checking the timetables, his lecture was ending at this very moment.
It was easier to find the Hyundai in the car park than it was to filter everybody coming out of the lecture halls. Garrick and Lord were halfway across the parking bay when they spotted Huw Crawford. He was the right build. His black curly hair and dark stubble hinted at an Italian heritage rather than Welsh. He was too far for Garrick to confirm his identity – but Crawford had seen him first and bolted for his car.
“Wait!” Garrick shouted as he started forward - and ran straight into the side of a reversing Mini pulling out of the bay next to him. It was no worse than walking into a wall, but the young girl driving was already out and in tears as she repeatedly apologised. It winded Garrick, stopping him in his tracks.
“I didn’t see you! Are you okay?”
Crawford was already in his car. PC Lord bolted towards him.
“Police!” He shouted unnecessarily.
Tyres shrieked on the wet asphalt as the Hyundai accelerated. Crawford had reversed into the bay, so now had a clear run out. He drove straight at Harry. There was a loud crump, and Harry tumbled across the bonnet. He slammed into the windscreen, the safety glass transforming into a spiderweb of white cracks.
The impact rolled Harry onto the roof and pitched him off at an angle. Students screamed and hollered as he crumpled onto the bonnet of another parked car, setting off its alarm.
The young woman was still fawning over Garrick, oblivious to the chaos behind her. Garrick pulled her aside just as the Hyundai roared past, so close that the wing mirror cracked across his already bruised buttocks. Plastic and glass shattered as the mirror snapped away and tumbled across the floor.
Garrick watched helplessly as it sped from the campus. Then he turned and limped as quickly as he could to PC Harry Lord who was sprawled, bleeding and unmoving, across the bonnet of the car.
24
There was no doubt in DCI David Garrick’s mind that Huw Crawford was the key to unlocking the case and now a huge manhunt was now underway for the student.
Harry had recovered conciseness as the Paramedics arrived. Blood poured from a gash on his forehead where he had struck the windscreen, and his right eye was swollen shut. Garrick had lost his temper when none of the students had volunteered any first aid.
“What sort of medics are you supposed to be?” he yelled at them, wondering if the first thing students were taught was the legal ramifications of helping patients. One woman eventually stepped forward and stemmed the bleeding, warning Harry not to move in case he had any spinal injuries.
Three uniformed officers had arrived and kept the students away from the collision site. One approached Garrick with the latest news on the radio – the Hyundai had been found five miles to the north, abandoned on the edge of Whitstable.
That told Garrick they were dealing with somebody prone to panic. Clumsily disposing of the Colt had been his first mistake. Running over his arresting officer was the nail in his coffin. Now abandoning his car in a rural area, with the sea to the north, meant he was hemmed in. Unless he stole a vehicle, but that required a skill set that Garrick was sure Huw Crawford didn’t possess. The police helicopter had been deployed from Essex and would join the search in the next half-hour.
He called Chib and instructed her to bring Terri Cordy in for questioning immediately. Thirty minutes later, the caretaker of Crawford’s student accommodation on Parham Road was opening it for Garrick and a uniformed policewoman. It was a well-maintained modern complex, and the room itself was a far cry from the squalid conditions Garrick had endured as a student. With a double bed, integrated sleek white furnishings, and a small integrated kitchen that was better appointed that Garrick’s own.
Crawford appeared to be a tidy lad. Medical textbooks were stacked on his desk, with pictures of the Grand Canyon, Yosemite Park, and the Mayan Pyramid in Yucatan on his wall as inspirational post-graduation rewards.
With blue latex gloves on, Garrick opened the desk drawers. Amongst pens, a book of stamps, and several food delivery menus, he found a small cardboard carton of 9mm bullets. The crimped blue casings tips indicated they were blanks. There was no computer or phone, both of which he guessed Crawford had on him.
He emptied a small wastepaper basket
on the kitchen’s white worktop. Amongst the plastic wrappers, an empty packet of Monster Munch, and some fliers for various student nights, was a return train ticket to London including an all zones travel card for tube and bus. Garrick took a photo of it and told the policewoman to wait until SOCO arrived.
Rebecca Ellis was the next obvious candidate to grill, but he preferred to do that once they had Huw Crawford in custody, so he decided to pay Derek Fraser a visit. Instead of calling Fraser directly, he contacted the officer camped at the bottom of his drive to confirm Fraser was home.
During the fifty-minute drive to Tenterden, he answered a call from Molly Meyers, who had discovered Garrick was at the scene of the hit and run. Naturally, she had assumed it was part of the investigation and wanted the details. He didn’t see the harm in her making more noise about the manhunt. The sooner they found Crawford, the better. He supplied little information regarding the student’s involvement, but he provided details about PC Lord’s assault with as much graphic detail as he could muster.
As he had hoped, he caught Fraser on the hop. His initial surprise gave way to a welcoming gesture into the living room.
“I feel safer now you’re here,” he joked as he disappeared into the kitchen. “Coffee? Tea?”
“No thanks.” Garrick was still pumped with adrenaline and feared that a tea would throw him over the edge. As Fraser busied himself with a Nespresso machine, swearing when the capsule became stuck in the slot, Garrick stopped in front of the television. A huge square of the bloodied carpet had been cut out with some precision. “That will be quite the conversation piece.”
Fraser joined him and nodded. “I plan to have something very nice in its place soon. Tell me, Detective. Just how safe am I?”
“I’m hoping, with a fair wind and a stroke of luck, you might be able to go out and socialise this evening without being assassinated. Although don’t quote me on that.”