by E C Deacon
“You don’t need to keep apologising. I’m not ashamed of being single, if that’s what you’re thinking?”
“Christ, no. My marriage could hardly be described as a thing of beauty, I can tell you.”
She brushed off his attempt at levity and said baldly, “I take it you’re divorced?”
“In the process of getting one… The end of fifteen years of hard labour for the both of us, and our son. Fortunately, she had the courage to do something about it.”
Laura turned aside and began fishing around in her handbag. She took out a small tortoiseshell comb and dragged it through her damp hair. Avoiding his eyes, she said, “It’s the one thing I regret. Not having a family… children.”
“So do I now,” he said, and continued in response to her quizzical look, “My son won’t speak to me. But I’ve got no one to blame for that but myself.”
They sat in silence, sipping their tepid coffee, surprised and a little embarrassed by the sudden intimacy of their conversation.
“Oh,” said Everton, clearing his throat and trying to move their discussion on to more comfortable ground. “Some good news. They’ve cancelled your ticket.”
“I know. I phoned to complain and they told me that it had already been paid?”
Everton flushed in embarrassment. “Yeah,” he lied. “The way it works is you have to pay it in full and then get it cancelled… Petty bureaucracy… I used my card, it was easier. They’ll reimburse me.”
Laura gave the briefest of smiles, and shook her head; she’d met a lot of men and a lot of them, to their regret, thought they could lie to her. “Is this some sort of weird guilt trip or something?”
“What? No–”
“Because if you’re trying to come on to me…?”
Everton could sense the frailty behind her attack. He’d felt it himself the days after his brother had been found dead in a crashed stolen car with a syringe full of ketamine in his pocket. “Look, you’re upset. Who wouldn’t be? And… I don’t know, I just thought it might help if I explained where we were with everything. As you can see, I was in the area.”
“That was rude of me… I’m sorry,” she said, fighting to regain her composure.
“Hey, I’m a cop. I’ve heard a lot worse, believe me. Look, how about we start again and you tell me what’s been upsetting you?”
“You mean apart from the obvious?” she said, with a crooked smile, and began to cry.
Everton handed her his clean handkerchief and listened in silence as she poured out her heart. It reminded him of watching his mother sob over his brother in the morgue, blaming herself for his wasted life, rather than the true culprit – him. Sympathy welled like a tide inside him. He reached out, gently took her hand and said, “Listen to me. None of this is your fault. You couldn’t have done anything to save your friend. She was already dead by the time you arrived at her house. The autopsy confirmed it.”
“What?”
“We’ve had the initial coroner’s report. She died at approximately nine forty-five, almost an hour before you got there, Laura. So, you see, you have nothing to reproach yourself for.”
A light went on in her tear-filled eyes. “If it wasn’t Gina, who did I see?”
“No one. A shadow. You were panicking. The mind can play tricks–”
“No! There was someone there–”
“Trust me, there wasn’t–”
“There was!” She pulled her hand from Everton’s and began twisting his handkerchief around her finger in an ever-tightening knot. “Did you find her mobile?”
“No. But she may have lost it or had it stolen, or left it at work or something.”
“I heard it ringing! He must have taken it.”
“Laura. There was no ‘he’. There was no one there. No sign of a break-in. No disturbance. Nothing missing. I checked with the neighbours. No one saw anything–”
“I did!”
“You think you did. We have forensic proof that Gina hung herself. She took her own life, Laura. It’s a tragedy, and it’s awful, but even her family have accepted it.”
“But not that she changed her will.”
“What?” Everton hadn’t got a clue what she was talking about. “I’m sorry. I don’t see the significance–”
“On the day she committed suicide, she changed her will and left everything to me. She left nothing to her family, not a penny. She left it all to me.”
He stopped in his tracks. It was the missing piece of the jigsaw she’d left out of her story and made sense of her despair. Everton could see it clearly now. She felt guilty.
“And now her parents hate me.”
“Okay… Okay. That’s a shame. But you’ve done nothing illegal. Nothing underhand. You didn’t persuade her to change her will.”
“My ex-friends think that I did.” She placed Everton’s handkerchief on the table and stood, saying politely, “I’ve sent a cheque to you, care of the Wimbledon Police Station. Thank you for the coffee and for listening.”
She picked up her umbrella and coat and walked quickly out. Everton watched her through the window, disappearing into the sepia rain, thinking how similar they were. Both scarred by guilt – she for something she hadn’t done and he for something he had, when he saw the needle marks on his younger brother’s arm and said nothing to their mother. And now he was dead.
Traps
Romford Stadium was extremely good value for money. The food may be basic – fish and chips and mushy peas, burgers and chips and mushy peas, saveloy and chips and mushy peas – but the drinks were cheap and the greyhound racing exciting. Especially if you were winning.
Iris Costa and Don Hart were in the Laurie Panthers Bar, watching through the trackside windows as the dogs were paraded for race five. Iris had a feeling about Greek God, but Don persuaded her against it and since he was the expert she’d gone along with his suggestion, as she’d done all night.
The traps sprung open and the six dogs surged out. For a few moments, they seemed to be running in symmetry, but as they rounded the second bend dog number three lengthened his stride and eased away from the chasing pack.
“Oh my God! I’m winning!” Iris screamed. “Come on, number three!”
Don smiled in satisfaction as his chosen dog powered down the home straight and won by a length. Iris was ecstatic. It was her first time at a greyhound meeting and they’d won on almost every race. Don congratulated her but warned her against over-confidence, suggesting she collect the winnings whilst they were still ahead and head off home. Iris was disappointed but he already had her by the arm, leading her towards the Tote.
“Romford’s a long way from Twickenham,” he said, as if in explanation.
“I know, but aren’t we going to celebrate?”
“Yeah. In bed.”
Iris smiled compliantly and let him lead her away.
The Fraud Squad raided Don’s Tooting home at 10.30pm after a tip-off from the track. It took three swings of the tubular steel battering ram to shatter the multiple locks and allow the bellicose police to pile in.
His son, Ritchie, heard them, leapt naked out of bed, grabbed his stash from beneath it, hauled open the window and hurled the bag of dope into the next-door neighbour’s garden. A futile exercise, since there were three coppers guarding his back door, watching him.
“Police! On the floor! Now!”
Ritchie wheeled to face a wall of riot shields. Behind it, a phalanx of men in black riot gear bellowed orders.
“We have a dog! Move and you will be bitten!”
A whippet-thin, brown-haired guy sporting a wispy beard and battered leather jacket pushed his way between the shields to confront Richie.
“DS Tann, Fraud Squad. Where’s your father? Speak, you little shit, or I’m going let this dog go.”
Having nothing in his hands but his genitalia, and with a German Shepherd snarling six feet from him, Richie hesitated. It was his second mistake. Tann nodded to the handler. He released the dog
. It sprang forward and sank its teeth deep into Ritchie’s hairless thigh.
Don was otherwise engaged, so ignored his son’s panicky call. Iris Costa lay beneath him, groaning as he pushed deeper inside her. She reached her mouth up towards his, but he turned aside and pushed her probing hands from beneath his shirt. It was as if he couldn’t bear her touching him. He could touch her, do what he wanted with her, but she had to be compliant. She wondered if he’d been like that with Laura. If he refused to take his clothes off with her too.
Ten minutes later, he opened his voice message from Richie and, muttering an apology, raced back home, leaving a hundred pounds, Iris’s share of the winnings, on her kitchen table. She was appalled. She wasn’t some whore he could just screw and pay off! But in Don’s mind that was exactly what she was. Besides, he had more pressing problems.
Arriving home, he discovered that not only had the police smashed his front door in, they’d boarded it up, padlocked it and left with the key! And they’d done exactly the same with the back door! He was forced to break into his own house through the kitchen window.
The place was a mess. The shattered front door was propped against the hall stairs and had an invoice for boarding and securing the house taped to it – another sick joke from the boys in blue. He ignored it. Pulled some latex gloves and a Swiss Army Knife from his pocket and started up the stairs.
He already knew they’d found Ritchie’s stash but was praying they’d not found his. Six steps up he stopped, knelt and unscrewed the carpet runner. He teased out the grey carpet, which had been neatly sliced across – the cut hidden behind the runner – to reveal the wooden riser. Two cross-thread screws held it in place. He unscrewed them and placed them on the carpeted tread above, then levered out the wooden plank. Inside the stair void, his magic box of instruments was still there, thank God, including his Safeway bag of prescription drugs: Propranolol, Bisoprolol, Viagra, Stanozolol and Rohypnol. He removed them all, placed them on the step and replaced the riser.
Early next morning, he sat opposite DS Philip Tann in interview room two – a battleship-grey windowless room in the bowels of Catford Police Station. His solicitor, William Shelby, a man in two-tone wingtips which seemed out of sync with the rest of his solidly middle-class persona, sat slightly back from the table. On it, amongst the detritus of empty paper cups and ashtrays, was a red plastic folder and beside it a voice-activated recording machine.
“Your son was observed throwing a bag containing 106 grams of skunk from his bedroom window and you want me to believe you know nothing about it?”
“Mr Hart has already said he has no knowledge of any drugs in his house, Sergeant. I suggest you ask his son these questions if you have evidence of his wrongdoing.”
“When I want advice, Mr Shelby, I’ll ask for it,” interrupted Tann, who knew and distrusted the solicitor of old. “Anyway, I’m not interested in a bit of puff his son may have been dealing.”
“Then why assault him?”
“He wasn’t assaulted. He was resisting arrest.”
“With what, his dick?” retorted Don. “He was stark bollock naked. He didn’t have a weapon, nothing.”
“He refused to surrender.” Tann shrugged. “Appropriate force was used to subdue him.”
“Is this your idea of appropriate force?” Shelby produced a micro video recorder and held it up for Tann to view the gory close-up of Ritchie’s thigh, where pools of black blood seeped from puncture wounds. “Two thousand seven hundred and twenty-five, Sergeant. That’s the number of claims currently being pursued against the Met directly related to police dog attacks.”
“People make malicious claims. It goes with the territory.”
“One hundred and ninety-five of those came from your own colleagues.”
Tann fixed Shelby with his baleful, unblinking eyes and said quietly, “Are you threatening me?”
“Informing you that my client’s intention is to sue you and the Met.”
“Good luck with that,” sneered Tann, irritated by Shelby’s holier-than-thou attitude.
“And I strongly object to your dismissive tone. Ritchie Hart has suffered serious injuries that may well require further surgery.”
Tann saw the RECORD light flashing on the device and was stunned. “Turn that off! Now!”
Shelby feigned a look of apology and switched it off. Tann, realising that he’d been set up, bit down hard on his anger and turned his attention back to Don. “Do the figures: 7/2, 4/1, 5/2, mean anything to you?”
Don knew where the interrogation was heading but resisted the urge to turn to Shelby for advice, knowing it would be read as suspicious. “I’m assuming they’re betting odds.”
“Give the man a bone.”
Tann produced a ten-by-eight print from the red folder in front of him and handed it to Don, saying clearly, “For the recording. Mr Hart is being shown a photograph of himself and an unknown blonde woman taken at Catford dog track on the twelfth of October 2015, at 7.45pm.”
Don examined the photograph carefully, buying himself time to think, reasoning that the cops must have had him under surveillance, and wary about what else they knew. Seated beside him, Shelby was thinking the same thing.
“I trust you obtained a court order permitting this surveillance, Sergeant. Otherwise it could be construed–”
“I did. It won’t. This must have been taken on one of those rare visits, Mr Hart? Can you tell me the name of the blonde woman you are handing cash to?”
“Laura something. I only met her once. It was one of them online dating things.”
“Then can I ask you who this is? For the record, I am now showing Mr Hart a photograph of himself and the same blonde woman taken at eight fifteen on the night of the twenty-fourth of October at Wimbledon Stadium dog track.”
Don knew he’d stumbled into a trap but didn’t hesitate. “Okay. Her name is Laura Fell. We dated a few times and broke up.”
“So you lied?”
“I was trying to keep her out of this. She’s been having a rough time. Her best friend just committed suicide.”
“Yeah, and what was her name?”
“Gina Lewis. You can check it out. It’s the truth.”
“Laura Fell’s address?”
“Okay. Alright. It’s 17 Brentwood Avenue, Kew. I don’t know the postcode.”
Tann began scribbling some tiny, illegible notes in his book, and said without looking up, “Why were you giving Miss Fell what appears to be a considerable amount of money?”
“She didn’t have enough cash and she wanted to bet.”
“And she won on every race she bet on?”
“Beginner’s luck.”
“Who chose the dogs she bet on?”
“She did. I’m not allowed to, as you well know.”
“Exactly. You have an injunction against being involved in any form of dog racing after a previous doping conviction. And now, hey presto, you’re suddenly on the scene again with this grieving blonde, who a cynic might construe as an accomplice.”
“My client’s injunction does not bar him from attending greyhound racing, only betting on the outcome. He’s committed no offence, and you have no evidence to the contrary apart from some photographs, which he has explained. Now, if you have no further questions, Sergeant, he would like to check on the medical condition of his son.”
Tann scratched at his wispy beard, quietly seething as he pondered his limited options. Don’s story was bullshit, but if the blonde substantiated it, which she’d undoubtedly do if she was working with him, Shelby was right, he had nothing.
“Interview terminated at 9.54 am, November 16,” he said, leaning in and whispering as he turned off the voice-activated recorder, “You’re filth, Hart, you and your skanky son, and I’m going to have you.”
Shelby switched on his camera and aimed it directly at Tann. “Are you threatening my client, Sergeant Tann?”
Tann leapt out of his chair and snatched it, snarling, “You point tha
t camera at me again and I’m gonna ram it so far up your arse even Jimmy Savile couldn’t find it.”
The Met divided the thirty-two boroughs of London into four links, each covering eight boroughs: the north-east, north-west, south-east and south-west. Each borough’s forensic manager had a team of Crime Scene Examiners working under them. These examiners provided a 24/7 service and on average investigated over eleven thousand crimes a month, including murder.
Teddy Baldwin, the Forensic Manager of the south-west, had therefore seen a lot of homicides in his thirty-year career. Some committed in the marital home by so-called loving couples, others on the streets by complete strangers. A glut of shootings, stabbings and bludgeoning’s, carried out by terrorists, racists, homophobes, psychopaths and, more recently, fourteen-year-old kids stealing mountain bikes. It gave him a somewhat jaundiced view of humanity which he expressed through his epic comic book, Murderopolis. He worked on it every night. Sitting alone at his kitchen table with his bleed-proof paper and Forest Choice pencils neatly laid out in front of him, and a bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon at his right hand. Since the death of his wife he found he didn’t need much sleep and now his real work consumed and sustained him, though it was a pity that no one would ever see it but him.
He was seated between Everton and Helen in a large open-plan office that looked more like a call centre – all computers, bleached wood and neutral colours – than a forensic lab specialising in video image enhancement.
Helen thought they’d struck gold when she spotted Tessa Hayes on the footage that Everton sequestered from The Botanist. But her male companion had his back to the camera, either by chance or planning, and was seated in a dark alcove. From what they could tell, he appeared to be wearing a dark coat and glasses and had thick brown hair. But when they tried to blow up the image on a laptop, it pixelated and became unreadable. So, they brought the hard drive to Teddy, an old acquaintance of Everton’s, to see if he could help.
“Some digital recorder hard drives, like the one you have here, aren’t designed to be portable. They work with a different codec system, which makes copying the files onto another computer system to allow enhancement difficult. I’ve improved it marginally but blowing it up any further will only cause you to lose image definition.”