‘A reasonable enough explanation, surely?’ Peters replied.
‘Sure and maybe it’s true, but DC Malik spoke to a number of the clerks and partners at Downing’s chambers this morning. They’ve never been approached by McManus, nor did Downing raise the matter with them. Moreover, why would McManus choose now – when he’s actually tailing Downing – to make a bid for work from him?’
‘Leverage?’
‘Possibly, but I’m sure evidence of Downing’s criminality and drug use could have been put to far better use,’ Helen countered. ‘He could have extorted thousands of pounds from him if he’d wanted to. Now I don’t know what Alexia’s lawyers were paying, but standard retainers aren’t great.’
‘Presumably McManus could have extorted large sums from Downing and then still handed the evidence to her lawyers, making it a double pay-out.’
‘I certainly wouldn’t have put it past him.’
Peters said nothing in response, lost in a sea of troubling thoughts.
‘I’m requesting surveillance, sir. A twenty-four seven watch on Robert Downing and Lilah Hill. If my theory’s correct, then it’s very likely that they are even now planning criminal acts, possibly including murder—’
‘This is the bit I don’t get,’ Peters cut in. ‘Downing stood to lose everything, but then a total stranger comes to his rescue, murdering McManus despite having no connection to the case or indeed to Downing himself. Why would Amar Goj do that?’
‘To pay it forward. Someone dispensed with Alison Burris for him, conveniently making it look like a carjacking. So now the onus was on him.’
‘And how do they organize this scheme? Are they all on some kind of WhatsApp group? Murders R Us? How is it plotted, executed?’
Helen didn’t care for his tone – suspicious, disbelieving – but replied evenly, ‘I don’t know. Not yet. But it’s the only thing that makes sense, given what these individuals stood to lose, their total lack of motive and the concerted attempts to conceal the true nature of the murders. I think if we keep eyes on Downing and Hill, if we intervene before they can follow through on their half of the bargain, then we stand a good chance of discovering how this enterprise works.’ Helen stopped, out of breath, out of arguments. In Simmons’s absence, she needed Peters’ backing, but she could see that he was sceptical.
‘And you’re absolutely certain,’ he queried, ‘that Robert Downing, a respected local QC, is actively involved in this, in a plot to kill?’
Helen took a moment, before looking up to meet his gaze.
‘Yes, I am.’
Chapter 78
He picked his way down the gloomy corridor, taking care not to make a noise. Bare light bulbs hung from the ceiling, emitting a weak glow, meaning progress was painstaking and slow. Discarded clothing, drugs paraphernalia, even used condoms, littered the floor, meaning extreme caution was necessary.
Step by step, Robert Downing’s anxiety grew. He didn’t want to be here, could never have imagined himself doing this a few months back, but he had no choice. Gripping the gun in his hand, he tried to summon his courage. In a few minutes it’d all be over, then he would be free. What he was planning was ruinous in every sense, but if he could pull it off, if he could win this high-stakes gamble, then he could still be happy, could still make a success of his life.
If he did manage it, he had already vowed to lead a decent, upstanding existence, spending as much time with the kids as possible, taking on pro bono work whenever he could, giving generously to charity. Who knows, perhaps he would even try and find love again. There had been many happy moments with Alexia, before it all went so disastrously wrong.
Had the break-up been his fault? He had blamed her, for her disloyalty, her infidelity, but perhaps it was he who’d been to blame. He was obsessional, single-minded, whether it was with work, drug-taking or any other arena of his life. Once he was in, he was in, often to the exclusion of all others, even those he loved the most.
This single-mindedness, his total focus, had cost him dear in the past, but perhaps it would serve him well now, allowing him to see this thing through. He could only be a few hundred feet from his quarry now. Stepping over a discarded sleeping bag, he kept going, on and on down the dimly lit corridor, as if being sucked ever deeper into a vortex. To Robert, this seemed about right. Today might be a new beginning, but it was also an end. There would be no way back from this.
Reaching the end of the corridor, he turned left, walking carefully down an identical walkway. Shivering, he gripped the gun a little tighter. This place gave him the shivers, so empty, lifeless and shadowy. It seemed to possess a brooding menace, yet in reality it was just another casualty of the downturn. Construction of this new, out-of-town storage facility had almost been completed when the finance suddenly ran out, leaving the vast, cavernous collection of corridors and lock-ups to fester and rot. Since then it had been used by junkies, hookers, runaways and, lately, by Gary Bleecher.
The moneylender – or loan shark, to give him his real title – lived in the centre of town, in a comfortable mews house. But he conducted his business out here, away from prying eyes. The very remoteness of it was a bonus to Bleecher, but so was the feeling of unease and discomfort it fostered in its visitors. Anyone turning up here to borrow or repay money would realize how easy it would be to come to grief, even to disappear, without anyone being the wiser. What must the poor, desperate folk have felt, Robert wondered, as they trudged these lonely corridors, knowing they were about to hook themselves to a brutal, pitiless man.
Yes, this was good. This was how he had to think. What he was about to do went against everything he believed in – as a lawyer, a father, as a human being. But if he could convince himself that he was doing the world a favour, ridding it of a festering parasite, perhaps liberating scores of debtors in the process, then it might be easier. Yes, he had to think that dispatching Bleecher was like crushing a cockroach: nothing more, nothing less.
Reaching the end of the corridor, he paused. Light slipped from underneath the door, alerting Robert to the fact that he had reached his final destination. Behind this battered door was his victim. Easing the safety catch off the gun, Robert reached out a gloved hand, teasing the door gently open.
This was it, then. There was no going back now.
Chapter 79
‘You can’t just barge in here – this is a place of business.’
DC Bentham didn’t break stride, powering forward.
‘I apologise for the intrusion, but like I said, this is a murder enquiry.’
‘Even so, if you don’t have a warrant …’
‘I’m not conducting a search and this is a shared office, not a private residence, so I have every right to be here.’
This wasn’t strictly true, but it gave the office secretary pause for thought. She kept pace with Bentham, anxious and alarmed, but said nothing, instead looking around her desperately, as if seeking support. Bentham was glad of the silence, keen to focus on the task in hand. There was no question now that Helen Grace was onto something, so it was vital that the team made contact with their new suspect as soon as possible, regardless of the discomfort or embarrassment it might cause.
Amanda Davis worked as Finance Director at a firm specializing in luxury yacht production, occupying an expansive office in their HQ in Ocean Village, but Bentham had no interest in her professional standing. He was more intrigued by the murder of her husband, Alastair, and whether she might have had a motive for wishing him dead. At the time, his murder had been written off as a burglary gone wrong, but now it seemed clear that he was the real object of his assailant’s presence in the family home, not the handful of watches and jewels that had been taken on the night. Had he been unfaithful? Was he abusive? Did he have some kind of hold on her? Or was it just a financial thing, Davis standing to inherit a very tidy sum as his widow?
The names flicked by as he marched down the corridor, past a series of closed doors. He dismissed them all as irr
elevant, before suddenly grinding to a halt. Here it was, the name ‘Amanda Davis’ etched in large gold letters.
‘DC Bentham, please, if you could just—’
Ignoring the secretary’s protests, Bentham grasped the handle, pushing inside. Sliding his warrant card from his pocket, he held it up, even as he stepped inside to confront the suspect. He had a speech planned, knew what his tactics would be, but it was immediately apparent that none of these would be required. The office was empty. Worse still, the desk was immaculately clear.
‘Where is she?’ he asked urgently, turning once more to his pursuer.
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. She’s on leave.’
‘Is she ill?’
‘No, nothing like that. She’s on holiday. At least, I think it’s holiday, it could be compassionate leave. Anyway, the point is that she left the office about a week ago, to visit her parents in Sydney.’
‘Sydney, Australia?’ Bentham countered, incredulous.
‘Is there another one?’
Bentham stared at her, lost for words. Davis was an important suspect, potentially the key to unlocking this strange case, but apparently she was on the other side of the world.
‘When did she go? Exactly?’
‘Well, as I said, it was a week ago, so it would have been the tenth …’ the young woman replied.
‘Are you sure of that?’
‘Absolutely, I booked her tickets myself. It struck me as a bit odd at the time, but it wasn’t my job to question her arrangements.’
‘Odd how?’
‘Just that it was so soon, that’s all.’
‘Meaning?’
Now the secretary paused, as if wary of speaking ill of anyone at the firm, before continuing quietly: ‘Well, it was just that – that she flew to Sydney the morning after her husband’s funeral.’
Chapter 80
He crept forward, his shoes caressing the concrete floor. Gary Bleecher was only twenty feet away from him and utterly oblivious to the danger.
The loan shark was deeply involved in his work, furiously bashing away on an aged laptop, altering figures in a spreadsheet. He seemed consumed by what he was doing, as if a moment’s lack of attention might cost him money, something which, presumably, would have been abhorrent to him.
Still Robert moved forward, inching slowly closer, until Bleecher was only ten feet from him. The slovenly middle-aged man was a big target, it would be harder to miss than hit from his range, so now he slowed, his finger quietly releasing the safety catch, before sliding onto the trigger. Taking a silent breath, Robert gathered himself, taking in his victim. Bleecher was unshaven and unkempt, sporting greasy, uncombed hair and a tired Adidas tracksuit. If he really was a successful loan shark, as Robert’s research suggested he was, then it was hard to imagine where the money went. Clearly personal appearance, bling and the ostentatious display of wealth was not his thing. Or was this just a ruse? An attempt to stay below the radar of police interest whilst he quietly salted away thousands? Whatever, his scams, his manipulations, his bare-faced thuggery were about to come to an end. It wasn’t a nice way to go, it wasn’t a nice place to die, but there was no other way.
Gathering himself, Robert raised the gun to eye level. As he did so, the gun brushed again his jacket, glancing off one of the metal poppers. Instantly, Bleecher tensed, then slowly rotated his neck, craning around to see who – or what – was behind him.
Confusion gripped his features – who the hell was this guy? – then concern, as his eyes came to rest on the gun.
‘I’m sorry,’ Downing breathed, as he squeezed the trigger.
Nothing. Shock registered on Bleecher’s face, even as a spike of terror pulsed through his assailant’s body.
Robert squeezed again, but the gun clicked awkwardly. He pulled harder on the trigger, the barrel waving wildly now, but he couldn’t get it to move. The bloody gun was jammed.
And now Bleecher sensed his opportunity. Charging forward, he threw himself at his would-be assassin, the pair of them crashing onto the dusty ground. Now he was climbing on top of the floored lawyer, scrabbling to get his fat hands round his neck. Robert tried to fend him off as best he could, striking him with the butt of the gun, but it seemed to have no effect. Bleecher’s blood was up, his desperation to survive writ large on his sweaty, contorted face.
This was a bare-knuckle struggle now. A fight to the death.
Chapter 81
‘She wants me gone. Out of the team, out of this station, out of the Force.’
DS Hudson modulated his accusation carefully, trying to imbue it with the perfect balance of personal hurt and professional disappointment. So far, Chief Superintendent Alan Peters had been polite and receptive, but this was the moment of maximum danger, when he might unravel Hudson’s testimony.
‘She actually said that to you, explicitly?’ Peters asked, right on cue.
‘Absolutely. She collared me at the bike park two nights ago. I’d challenged her during the evening briefing, called into question the direction of the investigation, and she didn’t like that. She completely lost it, told me there and then that she would not rest until I was gone, no, until I was finished.’
‘DS Hudson, Helen Grace may be many things, but she’s not vindictive or insecure. Why on earth would she target you like that?’
‘Because we used to be lovers.’
Peters, who’d looked dismayed for the majority of this conversation, now turned deathly pale.
‘Lovers?’
‘Yes, sir. For about nine months or so.’
‘Did anyone else know about this?’ Peters demanded.
‘No, sir. We kept it to ourselves.’
‘I bet you bloody did.’
‘Sir, I want to go on record to say that I know it was wrong, both the relationship and the secrecy. I hold my hand up to that. But as to what followed—’
‘What did follow?’ Peters asked sharply.
Looking as sombre as he could, Hudson took a breath, then replied, ‘Well, I ended it, sir. It was fun to begin with, but in truth, Helen’s not who I thought she was. So, I brought things to a close. And she wasn’t happy about that, not happy at all. I don’t know if she felt slighted or rejected or what, but ever since then she’s conducted a campaign of harassment against me, with the express purpose of driving me out.’
‘And she’ll confirm this, will she?’ Peters asked sceptically.
‘I’ve no idea what she’ll say, but you must have picked up on it, sir. The general sense of disquiet, the problems of morale, the lack of progress. An MIT unit only prospers if the DI and her deputy work hand in glove, yet for the past few weeks, months even, she’s ignored, frustrated and belittled me at every possible opportunity. Ask a member of the team – DC Reid, DC Edwards – they’ll tell you. We have leads – concrete leads that could have led to an arrest already, that could have put the press pack right back in their place, yet DI Grace deliberately sidelined my lines of enquiry in an attempt to suffocate me.’
‘What leads?’ Peters demanded bluntly.
‘Lee Moffat.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘But you should have, that’s my point. And would’ve, if DI Grace had taken it seriously as an avenue of investigation.’
‘Who is he?’
‘He’s the prime suspect in the Declan McManus case, who can also be directly linked to the murder of Alison Burris and Martin Hill.’
Hudson could see that this had landed. Peters clearly had no idea that there had ever been another suspect – a really good suspect – in play.
‘And DI Grace’s theory that the murders are committed by a group of connected individuals?’
‘It’s fantasy-land. Crazy stuff. We’ve all had our doubts about DI Grace’s wellbeing for a while now, wondering whether she’s been doing this too long or been overwhelmed by the current situation, but honestly, this is something else. She’s clutching at straws with this bizarre theory. Moffa
t, by contrast, is a career criminal with strong links to three of the victims, who’d be a sizeable scalp if we can bring him to book. And we will, I’m sure of that, but only if I’m given licence to pursue legitimate lines of investigation, and if the obstacles to me doing so are removed.’ He dared put it no more strongly than that.
‘Believe me, sir, I don’t want to be the one telling tales and I certainly didn’t envisage landing this on you. But we’ve hit a crisis point and I don’t believe any progress can be made unless radical action is taken. But, obviously, that has to be your call. All I can do is alert you to the problem.’
Sitting back in his chair, Hudson’s expression spoke of fatigue, contrition and sadness. But inside, he was hopeful, excited even. Peters look troubled, which was good, but determined, which was even better. Their conversation had played out as well as Hudson could have hoped and, for the first time since this whole campaign had started, Hudson suddenly felt optimistic, no, more than that, he felt convinced that he would win out, that the demise of Helen Grace’s career was now all but inevitable.
Chapter 82
It was all over. There would no escape now.
Robert Downing had fought for all he was worth, but it was no use. He wasn’t a fighter, wasn’t used to this kind of confrontation, nor did he possess the physical strength to counter his weighty assailant.
Bleecher was on top of him, his hands locked around Robert’s neck, squeezing as hard as he could. He looked possessed, bug-eyed, his features twisted into an awful expression of rage and violence. He didn’t want to kill Robert, he wanted to crush him, to destroy him. Robert could smell his acrid sweat, could feel the spittle landing on his face, could sense Bleecher’s desire to kill. This was a man steeped in violence, a man who would do whatever was necessary to survive.
Still Robert struggled, but his arms were pinned down by Bleecher’s knees and he could gain no purchase. The gun was in his hand, but was jammed. Even if he could have raised it, it would have gained him nothing and, as Bleecher’s hands tightened on his throat, he felt all hope desert him. This was how it would end for him – Bleecher’s awful, glistening face would be the last thing he’d see.
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