‘Look, ma’am, I’m really sorry for my actions. The relationship was entirely inappropriate and the fallout has been deeply damaging. Worse, I’ve now dragged you into this, when I know you’ve got enough on your plate—’
‘No, it was the right thing to do,’ Simmons responded.
‘Anyway, I felt it was important that I apologized to you personally, whilst making it clear what’s happened.’
‘I think I understand the situation and I’m fairly sure we can handle it.’
‘I don’t expect you to fight my battles.’
But her superior held up her hand to silence her. ‘It’s not a question of that, Helen. It’s about doing what’s right, but being smart about it. You need to concentrate on your investigative work, on the things that really matter—’ she paused briefly, before adding – ‘I’ll deal with Joseph Hudson.’
Chapter 56
‘Are you absolutely certain?’
DC Reid squirmed in his seat, uncomfortable under DS Hudson’s unforgiving glare.
‘Yes. I’ve checked and double-checked, but it seems clear that Moffat was in a pub when Martin Hill was attacked.’
‘Which one?’
‘The Horse and Groom, on George Street, by the docks.’
‘How many witnesses?’ Hudson demanded, frowning.
‘Two.’
‘Who?’
‘Mates of his.’
‘Criminal mates?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Which means we should hardly take their word as gospel.’
‘Of course not, but the CCTV grab kind of proves it.’ DC Reid offered Hudson a grainy printout. ‘The clothes are right, the cap too, and look, there on his arm, the snake tattoo …’
Hudson stared at the image angrily, prompting DC Reid to continue quickly: ‘It’s not all bad news, though.’
Hudson turned to him once more. ‘Go on.’
‘So, the racist attack on Lilah Hill at the Marquee bar a month back. The thugs who abused her were all cautioned and released, then a few weeks later, Martin Hill was a victim of racially motivated abuse – the phone calls, the graffiti—’
‘What’s this got to do with Moffat?’ Hudson interrupted, impatiently.
‘Well, the instigator of the fight at the bar was Darren Moorfield, Moffat’s best mate from school. He still runs with Moffat, is part of his crew.’
‘So even if Moffat didn’t physically attack Hill himself,’ Hudson added, picking up the thread, ‘that doesn’t mean he wasn’t the instigator of the attack.’
‘Moorfield is small fry,’ Reid agreed. ‘He wouldn’t have the balls or imagination to commit a serious crime. But what if he was put up to it? Challenged to prove himself? Moorfield must have told Moffat about the incident in the bar, how Hill got him and his pals arrested. Lee wouldn’t have liked that, for a number of reasons, so—’
‘This is good, DC Reid,’ Hudson purred. ‘And where’s Moorfield now?’
‘No idea, though we think he’s living in Freemantle.’
‘Find him. Make that your top priority.’
Reid nodded obediently.
‘And as soon as you’ve got eyes on him, let me know.’ He looked directly at Reid, as he concluded, ‘Because if we can get him to cough for the Hill murder, then we’ll have Moffat exactly where we want him.’
Chapter 57
Helen strode past, barely acknowledging Hudson’s presence. As soon as she’d re-entered the incident room, she’d spotted Hudson in a huddle with DC Reid, but she was determined not to react. She had no interest in what they were cooking up and certainly didn’t want to create a scene. No, as far as the rest of the team were concerned, it had to be business as usual. Helen could betray no agitation, no weakness, no uncertainty. She had to project confidence, leadership and, crucially, industry, so she continued to march towards her office, even as she punched redial on her phone. As before, however, her call went straight to voicemail.
‘Hi, this is Robert Downing, leave a message.’
Helen waited patiently for the beep, then responded to the prompt. ‘Robert, it’s Helen Grace again. Call me back.’
Ending the call, she slid the phone into her pocket, thoughts of Downing preoccupying her. He’d seemed determined to get hold of her yesterday, but now wasn’t taking any calls. It was an intriguing development, but one that would have to wait, for as Helen reached her office, she spotted DC McAndrew gesturing to her. If the long-serving officer felt any awkwardness at being lumped in with Hudson’s rebels yesterday, she didn’t show it, seeming focused, even a little excited.
‘What have you got for me?’ Helen asked, crossing to her work station.
‘I think we might have a lead on the knife.’
DC McAndrew said this firmly, but quietly, as if not quite believing that she’d stumbled on a possible breakthrough.
‘Go on.’
‘Well, you know you asked us to look at eight-inch own-brand B&Q kitchen knives, bought or stolen in the last seven days …’
Helen nodded.
‘Well, we’ve been calling all the stores this morning. And one in Hedge End turned up this …’
Helen squinted at the fuzzy grey image. It was a CCTV shot of an aisle in B&Q, taken from on high, showing a tiny figure, in baseball cap and jacket, loitering in the kitchenware section.
‘They realized that an eight-inch knife had been lifted whilst they were doing their stock check last night. They looked back through their security footage and …’
She hit play and the quiet drama played out, the capped figure approaching the knife section and checking the coast was clear, before slipping something into her bag whilst pretending to be examining a spatula.
‘Can we go in any closer?’
‘Not without losing all resolution. She’s concealed her identity pretty well, but we can say that it’s a woman, probably thirties, forties, with shoulder-length blonde hair. And, of course, we’ve got a good look at the clothes …’
‘Did anyone in the store get a look at her?’
‘Well, after this, she heads to the cashier, purchases some white spirit, but as you can see, the girl on the till barely looks at her, more interested in her phone.’
‘You’ve spoken to the cashier?’
‘Briefly. “Blonde, middle-aged, posh,” was the best she could do.’
Helen considered this, intrigued, then replied: ‘Anything in the store car park?’
‘No, she leaves on foot, which is interesting because she had her car with her.’
McAndrew hit some more keys, bringing up a different image.
‘This is in Beaumont Road, about a five-minute walk from B&Q.’
‘It’s definitely her, isn’t it?’ Helen said, excited.
‘No question. Same trainers, jacket, cap. Same-length hair …’
‘Where’s this feed from?’
‘Traffic camera, they’ve had accidents on this road before, as it’s a bit of a cut-through. Anyway, we see her get into the parked car and drive off and as she does so—’
‘We see the car registration,’ Helen interrupted, leaning over to freeze the image.
‘Exactly.’
‘So who is she?’
‘Well, the car belongs to a Belinda Raeburn.’
As she spoke, McAndrew maximized another tab. A glossy head shot of an attractive, forty-something blonde with shoulder-length hair filled the screen. Helen scrutinized the image carefully – this glamorous, self-possessed woman didn’t seem the dictionary definition of a racist thug.
‘And where can we find this Belinda Raeburn?’
‘Well, that’s the fun bit,’ McAndrew replied, clearly having saved the best until last. ‘She’s the principal music teacher at Milton Downs Ladies’ Academy.’
Chapter 58
Helen swept through the open gateway, gliding up the wide tarmac drive. The speed limit was twenty miles per hour, affording Helen a chance to take in her surroundings. What she saw beggar
ed belief; the school campus was more like a luxury hotel than a place of education. It was certainly unlike anything she’d experienced during her early years in South London and even in Southampton it stood out as a beacon of excellence, affluence and inspiration. From the moment you entered the gates, it was as if you’d entered another world.
Established over three hundred years ago for the sons of the Admiralty and rich merchant seamen, it was now a prestigious co-educational secondary school, where places were in high demand – if you could afford the fees. In addition to a first-class academic education, pupils enjoyed top-notch sporting, media and art facilities and pinpoint career advice and assistance – the school’s contacts in London, Paris, Washington and beyond second to none. If you lived in Hampshire and had money and ambition, this was where you sent your children.
Helen rode past the open-air swimming pool, the lacrosse and hockey pitches, then, lowering her speed still further, slid past the croquet lawn that stood just in front of the main entrance. Parking beside the magnificent Palladian portico, Helen slipped inside, entering a world that was as intriguing to her as it was alien.
‘May I ask what it’s regarding?’
The school secretary was polite but cautious, her nose wrinkling slightly as she looked Helen up and down.
‘It’s a police matter.’
Helen’s reply was firm and, before long, they were on the move, the secretary hurrying her along the perfectly polished corridors, as if keen to keep her out of sight.
‘She’s very busy running our music summer school,’ the secretary protested, as if expecting Helen to back down. ‘In fact, right now she’s in the middle of a solo tutorial.’
‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ Helen lied, as they reached the door to the well-resourced music department.
They pushed inside, the heavy doors closing gently behind them. It was as if they had stepped into a cocoon, perfectly shut off from the outside world. How cossetted, how protected the pupils were, Helen thought, and what a strange world to inhabit – the practice rooms were so well insulated that the occupants seemed to be playing instruments that made no sound.
‘She’s just along here, room fourteen …’
Helen said nothing, her mind now focused on the task in hand. Grasping the handle, the school secretary knocked on the door and stepped inside, forcing Helen to follow.
‘So sorry to interrupt, Ms Raeburn. But I have a – visitor for you.’
Helen rounded her chaperone to find a pretty, blonde woman of forty-plus years, locked in conference with a student, who cradled a clarinet in his hands.
Surprised, Belinda Raeburn turned to face them, a smile lighting up her attractive features. She seemed surprised, but not unhappy about the intrusion, taking in Helen with unbridled curiosity. Tall, striking and clad in biking leathers, Helen often had this effect on people, yet, as she held up her warrant card for inspection, the teacher’s smile faded.
‘DI Helen Grace. Could I have a word?’
Chapter 59
‘This isn’t me.’ Raeburn tapped aggressively at the CCTV image, looking perplexed and angry.
‘It certainly looks like you,’ Helen countered gently. ‘Right height, right build and from this angle the shape of the face is spot on …’
‘Yes, well, “like” isn’t the same as “is”,’ Raeburn fired back, taking refuge in semantics.
‘So you’re saying you didn’t visit B&Q in Hedge End two days ago?’
‘Do I look like a DIY nut? I never visit those kinds of stores—’
‘This isn’t you stealing a kitchen knife?’
‘Categorically no. Why would I do such a thing? If I needed a new kitchen knife, I’d buy one.’
Her gaze locked onto Helen’s, defiant, challenging.
‘Anyway, I hope that’s cleared things up. Now if you’ll excuse me—’
‘I should add,’ Helen countered, ‘that the woman who stole that knife was seen driving off in a car registered in your name. Has your vehicle been stolen?’
‘Of course not. I drove to school in it this morning. There must be some kind of mistake.’
‘There’s no mistake.’
‘And I must say,’ Raeburn continued, her tone sharpening, ‘I’m surprised that such a trivial crime warrants this kind of intrusion. I’m supposed to be teaching now. I’ve got back-to-back tutorials …’
Raeburn’s sunny disposition was long gone. She obviously wanted to be out of Helen’s presence, the latter intrigued by how keen Raeburn was to shut their conversation down.
‘We believe the knife in question was subsequently used in a serious crime.’
‘Right …’ Raeburn responded reluctantly, clearly disappointed the conversation wasn’t over.
‘A man called Martin Hill was murdered, around lunchtime yesterday.’
Raeburn didn’t react.
‘He was stabbed to death in an alleyway in Portswood.’
‘I heard about that on the radio, but I don’t see what it’s got to do with me.’
‘Did you know Mr Hill?’
‘No, not at all. Besides, according to the radio, it was a racially motivated attack, some mindless thug preying on an innocent guy.’
Helen maintained eye contact, but said nothing, letting the silence do the work for her.
‘You can’t seriously think I had anything to do with this,’ Raeburn protested. ‘I don’t have a racist bone in my body. Talk to my friends, my family, if you need to, look at my posts online. I’m a card-carrying Labour Party member, who’s actively campaigned against anti-Semitism, racism – in fact, bigotry of any kind.’
Helen didn’t doubt that this was true, but noted how the words poured from her, a torrent of self-justification and denial.
‘We’re still investigating possible motives for the attack,’ Helen responded. ‘But you’re saying you had no animus against him, no reason to wish him harm?’
‘I didn’t even know him, for God’s sake. Why would I attack him?’
Nodding, Helen pulled her notepad from her jacket. ‘Can you tell me where you were, then, between the hours of noon and 2 p.m. yesterday?’
‘Well, I … I popped into town during at lunch time. I had some things to pick up.’
‘Precisely, please.’
‘OK, so I dropped a violin into a repair shop in St Denys around 12.30 p.m., then I dropped into the university on the way back to pick up some sheet music – some arrangements a friend had done for me. I can give you their details …’
‘Were you in Portswood at all during those hours?’
‘No. I mean, I drove through it on my way out of town …’
‘But you didn’t stop?’
‘No, I had lessons to get back for.’
‘It’s just that your car was ticketed in Lena Gardens at 1.14 p.m. yesterday.’
Now there was a slight reaction from Raeburn. Had she been hoping the police wouldn’t make the connection? That the link between the various agencies was that fragmented?
‘A traffic warden spotted a minor infringement and issued a Penalty Charge Notice to a car registered in your name. I’m assuming it can’t have been your partner Carol Shepherd driving because she was in Portsmouth at that time, at a seminar.’
Raeburn looked stunned, shocked that the police had obviously checked out her partner’s movements.
‘And besides, you’ve just said you drove into town, so …’
‘Actually, you’re right, I did stop briefly in Portswood on my way back.’
‘I see.’
‘Totally slipped my mind. Yes, I needed to pick up some yoghurt, so I parked and went to the supermarket.’
‘Obviously the parking ticket didn’t register …’
‘I get them all the time, I’m afraid.’
‘And which supermarket did you visit?’
‘I didn’t really look, to be honest. Tesco Metro, I think.’
‘Did you use a card to make your purchase?’
‘No, cash.’
‘And would anyone have seen you there?’
‘I don’t know. I used the automated check-out, but maybe the security guard will remember me, though it was pretty busy …’
‘Well, we can check out the CCTV from Tesco Metros in that area. That should help us clear this up.’
‘Of course. Great.’
Raeburn was smiling fiercely, trying to appear confident, relaxed. Helen wondered how she’d react when she discovered there were no Tesco Metros in Portswood.
‘And did you go anywhere after that? Stop off anywhere else?’
‘No, that was it, sorry. I came straight back here. I’m sure the school can confirm what time I returned.’
Helen nodded and made a note, confident that this part of Raeburn’s alleged alibi would stack up at least. Looking up, she saw that the teacher was tense, alert, as if expecting more questions. Her urgency, her desire to bring proceedings to a close, seemed to have evaporated now, sensing perhaps that she was in a serious fight, one she needed to see out, so as not to provoke further suspicion. Deciding to spare her any more discomfort, Helen snapped her notepad shut and rose once more.
‘Well, that’s plenty for me to be getting on with. Thanks very much for your time.’
‘No problem at all,’ the teacher gushed. ‘Happy to help.’
The relief in her voice was clear, the sense that perhaps she had seen off Helen, unscathed. Smiling her thanks, Helen headed to the door, but as she opened it, she paused.
‘Actually, there was one other thing …’ she said, turning to face the teacher once more.
The smile was still fixed on Raeburn’s face.
‘Am I right in thinking you knew Eve Sutcliffe?’
Raeburn looked utterly stupefied, as if Helen had just punched her, then she recovered herself.
‘Yes, of course. Such a terrible loss …’
‘And you knew her because …?’
‘Because I taught her. She was the finest musician in her year. In fact …’ Raeburn’s voice seemed to tremble now, as she raised her gaze to Helen’s one final time. ‘She was the best musician in the school, full stop.’
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