by Keith Nixon
As soon as Smits let him go, Gray left the station and headed down the cliff road past the Winter Gardens to stand beside the sea. News of his suspension would be all over the station now. Gray wondered if Carslake would call. He suspected not.
Tom’s disappearance was down to his friend. Ex-friend. If he was honest with himself, Gray had suspected Carslake was dirty for a while. Hamson had often told him about her lack of trust in the DCI. Perhaps that’s what had made him shut his ears to the accusations even more?
Smits had handed Gray a plan. For now, he just needed to go home and wait for Wyatt to contact him.
Thirty
Then
The full complement of CID and many of the beat cops were crammed into the Incident Room. All the seats were taken; it was standing room only. Gray sat towards the back, between Carslake and Fowler.
“What’s going on?” asked Fowler.
“Just wait, you’ll find out,” said Gray.
Copeland was front and centre, waiting for silence to fall. Behind him, the murder board.
“Thank you, girls and boys,” he said, raising his hands in the air. The chatter quickly dropped away. “The reason you’re all here is because we’re going to make an arrest with respect to Valerie Usher’s murder. We’ll be taking down Duncan Usher himself.” The officers were hanging on Copeland’s every word.
“We’ve been waiting a long time for this, and now we’ve got the chance to make something stick and put him away for a long, long time. If we get this right, everyone present will be retired by the time Usher is up for parole. It’ll be a major feather in our caps.”
Your cap, thought Gray. The rest of us are just bystanders.
“We’ve got a golden opportunity to bring in many, if not all, of Usher’s men. I have information that some of his lieutenants are in the Wellington pub, just around the corner. We’ll be going in hot and heavy, which is why you’re all here. He’s not going to go down without a fight. Simultaneously there’ll be raids undertaken at a number of properties owned by individuals in the gang. Besides Usher, there are two men in particular I want to sweep up.”
Copeland turned to the board and pointed at two photographs. “Dean Telfer, ostensibly Usher’s driver but also his minder and confidante, and Frank McGavin, a rising star in the Usher ranks. These, my friends, are the snakes. If we cut the heads off these people tonight, then the troops will be compliant. Any questions?”
Gray cleared his throat to speak. “What are the charges against Telfer and McGavin, sir?”
“Anything and everything, Constable Gray. We have no evidence they were involved in the attacks on Valerie Usher or Craig Mundby, but I do expect something to turn up from the parallel raids. Any other questions?”
Before Gray could continue, Carslake touched his arm and whispered, “Sol, leave it.”
Nobody spoke. “Right, you’ll be split into teams, each of which will have a specific task. We move in forty-five minutes. Good luck everyone.”
The meeting broke up and suddenly they were all talking; considering the implications of Copeland’s orders.
“Are you trying to get yourself into trouble?” asked Carslake.
“I don’t believe he’s considered the potential fallout, Jeff. If Usher doesn’t want to come quietly, this could kick off trouble.”
“He’s the boss, remember?”
“How could I forget?”
“Make sure you don’t. We’re with Copeland. He wants his moment in the sun, and we’re giving it to him.”
“Yes, sir.”
***
The Wellington pub was down on a narrow, quiet backstreet, less than half a mile from the station. The silence was broken by the arrival of a line of police cars and vans, their blues off.
Uniform piled out the moment the vehicles drew to a halt, filling the road in front of the pub. Copeland had decided to forego the use of any riot gear, he reckoned it would make them look weak. Without waiting to see who was following, Copeland strode inside. Gray was only a few paces behind.
It appeared as if the clientele had frozen in their tracks, like a Western movie when a stranger enters the saloon, and everyone turns to glare. Gray scanned the room. Usher was at the bar; standing between Dean Telfer and another of his men called Larry Lost. There were about fifteen people inside, and at least twice as many cops. McGavin was nowhere to be found.
Copeland stood in the middle of the room, hands on hips, smile on his face. “Having fun are we, gentlemen?”
The temperature in the room plummeted. Although the cops outnumbered the pub’s regulars, Gray picked out the shifting of nervous feet from his colleagues.
“What can I get you, Inspector?” said Usher, pushing his way through to stand a few feet away from Copeland; Telfer at his back. “There’s a decent guest beer all the way down from Manchester.”
“I’m not here to crack jokes.”
“Shame, I’ve always found you rather amusing.
“Where’s Frank?” asked Carslake making an obvious effort to look around the bar.
“He left earlier,” piped up Larry.
“Shut up!”
Larry’s face dropped.
Usher turned back to Copeland. “So, if this isn’t a social visit, what is it?”
“I’m here to arrest you, Mr Usher.”
“On what charge?”
“For the murder of your wife.”
Usher blinked, taken aback.
“You see all these officers behind me?” Copeland hiked a thumb over his shoulder. “They’re here in case of trouble. I’ve more outside.”
“I hope you’ve brought the riot gear.”
“Yes, and a water cannon.” Copeland took a pace forward. “I’m really hoping you’ll be a problem, because then I can add resisting arrest to your charge sheet.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Right now, gentlemen, some of your houses are being raided. I’m sure we’ll find something of use. So, are you lot coming quietly or loudly?”
Usher raised his hand as his men began to protest. “Everybody, this is a simple case of harassment. Go quietly.”
“Pity,” said Copeland, looking genuinely disappointed. He turned to Gray. “Cuff him.”
Thirty One
Now
Gray was pushing his peas around the plate, struggling to work up an appetite. Rain dappled the windows, and low clouds hung over the horizon. The intercom buzzed. He dropped his fork and went to see who was calling. On the black and white monitor, Fowler was staring up at him, his features magnified and distorted by the fisheye lens. Nose large, chin tiny. Gray let him in, opened the front door, and awaited his arrival.
Fowler fell through, landing hard on the floor. He curled himself up and began giggling. Gray bent over him and managed to help him stand, reeling at the stench of alcohol and sweat coming off him. Fowler wasn’t just drunk, he was hammered. And he was wet. His suit was soaked through, his hair plastered across his scalp. His tie was askew, his shirt open halfway down his chest, a couple of buttons missing.
“I’ve left her,” he slurred. “Bitch.” As if Gray needed an explanation.
“Come and sit down.” Gray led him to the sofa. His motion was an erratic weave, more sideways than forwards.
Gray went back and closed the front door. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you leave her?”
“Had enough.” Fowler slumped sideways onto the sofa. “Didn’t know where else to go, mate. Got any booze?”
“I’ll find you something.”
Gray went into his kitchen and made a coffee. He stuck a couple of sugars in before taking it out to Fowler who sat up and eyed it suspiciously. “What’s that?”
“Coffee. It’s got brandy in it,” Gray lied.
“Good man.” Fowler took the drink. “I thought for a minute you were trying to sober me up.” He hiccupped.
“Never.” Gray waited while Fowler sniffed the coffee and took a cautious slurp
. Gray hoped the sugary taste would mask the fact there was no alcohol present. Fowler didn’t complain. “What’s going on, Mike?”
“I’ve left Yvonne, the bitch,” repeated Fowler. He lay back on the sofa, legs spread, arms along the back, his eyes towards the ceiling. “She started shouting at me last night after I got home, so I walked out. Went to the pub until they threw me out. Went to a club until that shut.”
“Where did you sleep?”
“On a bench. Then I headed to the Flag as soon as it opened.” The English Flag was a notoriously down-at-heel pub near the station in the Old Town of Margate. “You said I could come round if anything happened. Well, I’ve run out of money and lost my wallet, wanted to borrow some cash. Share a drink with my old mate first.” He raised his mug.
“I’ve got a spare bed, you can crash here.”
“Cheers.”
“Did you pack a bag before you left?”
Fowler tried to focus on Gray. “Nope.”
“I’ve got some clothes you can borrow.”
“Cheers, you’re a mate,” said Fowler again.
“I’ll make the bed.”
Gray went to put some sheets on the bed. When he returned the sofa was empty. Fowler was in the kitchen going through Gray’s cupboards. “Looking for the brandy,” he said.
“You had the last of it.”
“Crap.” Fowler rubbed a hand across his face. He slumped down onto the floor, leaning back against a cupboard for support. “I’ve fucked up, Sol.”
Gray sat down beside him. The floor was cold. “I’m sure when you wake tomorrow everything’ll be all right.”
Fowler burst into tears, heavy sobs wracking his chest. Gray didn’t know what to do. He put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, whatever good that would achieve.
“It’s all too much. Destroying my marriage for Yvonne, moving in with her, then that collapsing. It’s been for nothing. God, what have I done?”
Gray couldn’t answer. He sat beside his friend until Fowler wiped his face with a sleeve, pushed himself up, and staggered to the front door. “I shouldn’t have come round.”
“Where else do you have to go, Mike?”
He thought for a long moment. “Nowhere.”
Gray led him to the spare bedroom. “I’ll get you something to sleep in.”
“Okay.” Fowler collapsed onto the bed.
Gray fetched an old t-shirt for him, but when he came back Fowler was comatose on top of the bed, fully clothed. Gray folded the duvet over him before going out onto the balcony and standing under the overhang, out of the worst of the rain. He found Hamson’s number on his mobile then dragged the French window closed.
The call went through to voicemail. He tried again, same result. He sent a text. “Mike is with me.”
Hamson rang him straight back. “How is he?”
“Snoring on my spare bed.”
“Thank God for that. Drunk?”
“Maybe a little.”
“What a surprise.” Hamson sighed heavily. Gray wasn’t sure whether it was in frustration or sadness. “I thought you were trying to call me after your suspension, to justify yourself.”
“In the past I would have, Von, but we’re hardly on strong footing these days.”
“I guess not. What are you going to do?”
“Best you don’t know.”
“Thanks, by the way.”
“What for?
“Looking after him.”
“He’s a friend, Von, it goes without saying. Like I would for you, too.”
There was a long pause down the line. “I’ve got to go, Sol.”
Thirty Two
Then
Copeland rocked back in his chair, hands in his trouser pockets, regarding his quarry on the other side of the table. A folder, closed for now, lay on the surface within Copeland’s reach. Gray took the traditional stance, all four chair legs on the floor as did Carslake beside him. Before Gray was a pad of paper and a pen.
The room was too warm. The central heating system had been turned on in late September at autumn’s apparent onset. But the decision had been too hasty. The unseasonable snap had caught them out. The radiator itself was off, but the large pipes feeding it were filled with hot water which gurgled and knocked as it flowed. And five bodies in the room each contributed a few degrees.
Usher appeared cool and collected; a half smile on his lips, seemingly unaffected by the temperature. A bead of sweat rolled down Copeland’s forehead. He raised a hand and wiped it away. To Gray this seemed to be a bigger deal for his inspector than the man with a murder allegation hanging over his head.
Rufus Dowling, Usher’s lawyer, was more sensibly dressed in casual chinos and a white shirt, open at the neck, loafers and no socks. He appeared as if he’d just walked off a yacht, his shock of ginger hair fashioned into a seemingly windswept style, though Gray would bet the mound wouldn’t shift in a breeze. Like Gray, Dowling was prepared to take notes. A pen lay next to his rimless glasses on the pad.
“Let’s get this done,” said Copeland. He leaned over, started the recorder. Copeland stated the date, time, and the names of the five people in the room. Dowling put on his glasses, perching them on the end of his nose, ready now.
“Here we are, Duncan,” said Copeland.
“Please refer to my client as, Mr Usher or sir, Inspector Copeland,” said Dowling.
“Of course. My apologies.” Copeland didn’t sound sorry in the slightest. “When we spoke on Saturday night, Mr Usher, you told me and my colleagues you were getting back together with Valerie.”
Usher leaned forward “It’s Mrs Usher to you. My wife’s dead and you feel it’s okay to be on first-name terms with her? Tosser.”
Copeland’s mouth flapped like a landed fish.
Carslake took over, saving his boss from further embarrassment. “We’re asking, Mr Usher, because we subsequently heard your wife had no interest in resurrecting the marriage.”
“Whoever told you that didn’t know us very well.”
“So Mrs Usher’s mother, who lives nearby and regularly sees her daughter isn’t aware of her own daughter’s feelings?”
“What Eva sees and what she says are often two different things, Jeff.” Usher had adopted a bored tone. Gray wouldn’t be surprised if Usher started inspecting his fingernails soon.
Copeland stepped back in, his composure regained. “You’re saying she’s lying?”
“In her own mind, no. She doesn’t like me and never has. Therefore, her perception is biased.”
Copeland paused, seemingly thinking. Gray noted Usher’s response. Dowling scratched away at his pad, too. Here was a difference between two witness accounts – something for the legal teams to pick at, should Usher ever go to court. Copeland let the seconds stretch until eventually he said, “Did you have sex with your wife yesterday?”
“What’s the relevance of this highly personal question, Inspector?” asked Dowling, peering at Copeland over his glasses, pinching the skin above his nose into a frown. Outwardly, Usher seemed not to react, but Gray caught a brief tightening of his mouth.
“We have physical evidence that Mrs Usher had sexual intercourse shortly before her death. If it wasn’t with you, Mr Usher, she clearly had someone else on the side.”
Usher didn’t answer.
“Did the pair of you have sex previously?” repeated Copeland.
“Of course, we had two children.”
Dowling laughed.
“I meant,” said Copeland, “since you separated.”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
Usher crossed his arms. “Whenever Val felt like it.”
“And on the day you visited her last?”
“No, the children were there, it was the afternoon, it would have been inappropriate.”
“Someone did. Any idea who?”
Dowling put a hand on Usher’s forearm. “Inspector, I protest at your current line of questioning, it’s improper.”
Copeland, taking his time again, flipped open the folder revealing a small pile of glossy photos. He spread them out on the table between himself and Usher, images of Valerie’s body – long shots of the bed and close ups on her neck, revealing the bruising in brutal clarity. Copeland closed the folder then nudged several of the prints closer to Usher.
“Take a good look, Duncan.” Usher glanced down at one before turning away, directing his eyeline towards a wall.
“Strangled. A very personal process. It means getting up close. Why’d you kill her?”
“I didn’t.”
“I have evidence which says otherwise.”
“What evidence?” said Dowling.
“We’ll come to that momentarily.” Copeland made no move to clear away the photos. “Craig Mundby. You said when we last spoke you thought he was a good kid.”
“That’s right, his heart’s in the right place, and he’s funny.”
“You know he was found next to your wife?”
“There’s no way Craig was involved, Inspector. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. I’ve watched him play with my girls on many occasions. He’s gentle with them.”
“Craig’s own mother has described him as not respecting others’ boundaries. Very trusting of you to let him play with your girls.”
“I never found him to be a problem.”
Copeland opened the folder and withdrew another couple of photos from the folder. He swept Valerie’s photos to one side. “This is the aftermath of Craig’s apparent suicide attempt.” Copeland placed the first image down onto the table. It was a shot of the floor beside Valerie’s bed.
“The large stain is his blood. He used a knife from Valerie’s kitchen to cut himself.” The next photo was of the weapon itself in-situ.”
“What’s this got to do with my client?” asked Dowling.
“I’m coming to that, Mr Dowling. When my colleagues entered the house, they found Craig bleeding out. Thankfully his life was saved. However, the post mortem produced a disparity. Mrs Usher had been dead for approximately an hour, and it appears Craig was with her for most if not all of this time. Why? Was it a case of him gradually filling with remorse before deciding the best way out was to cut himself?”