They’d been led inside, into a lounge where a brown wooden unit was at the far end with a large desktop PC and a very small monitor. It was, however, big enough.
“Would you both like to sit in front?”
“I will,” Grayling said, and she positioned herself.
“Right, so this is my driving, I hope it’s legal!” he laughed. Maruma tried to join in like a human. “As you can see, I’m coming down this main road, and I’ll let it run first, and…”
“You passed two cars pulled up in the layby,” Grayling gasped.
“Yes, and if I play that back slower you can see, well, not the number plate of the victim’s car, but you can see it’s that make and colour.”
“Yes, yes,” Grayling gasped, “that’s Jessica’s.”
“Which I assume means you’ll be very interested in the car parked behind it.”
Maruma leaned right forward. “Is it just me or can we see the number plate on that?”
“It’s not just you, I can read the number plate, of a car parked next to Jessica’s, minutes before she died.”
“That’s good right?” the witness asked.
“That is superb,” Maruma replied.
“What happens now?”
Grayling pulled her phone out. “This,” and she called into the station and asked for the address and owner of the car. It came fast enough for them to finish their coffees and hop back in their own vehicle. Soon they were speeding along with a car of PC’s meeting them at the destination.
They didn’t roar around the corner and come to a halt, or even have the sirens going. Instead the unmarked car with the detectives in parked in front of a terraced house and quietly got out, while the uniformed constables halted in front of a parking area.
“Hi, Grayling” said a man through the radio, “we’ve got the target car here, registration and model match.”
“Thanks, if you can secure it please.”
Grayling nodded at Maruma and rang the doorbell. After a short pause a man in shorts and a t-shirt opened the door. He’d shaved his head because of evident growing baldness and needed either a bigger shirt or a smaller stomach.
“No cold calls,” he barked.
“Hi, I’m Detective Grayling, and this is DC Maruma, and we’d like to ask you some questions.”
“Oh, right, well go on?”
“Do you own a blue Ford Mondeo with this registration number?”
“Err,” said a man evidently wondering what was going to catch him out. “Yeah that’s mine. But it’s all taxed and insured and shit.”
“Oh yes, we know all that, you’re street legal. What’s your name?”
“Dave Stimpson.”
“Yep, that’s who’s on the vehicle reg. Who drives it?”
“Oh, just me. I’m the only person insured on it.”
“Excellent. And, this house, how many people live in it?”
“Just me, since the divorce. Got me house and car, nowt else, right!”
“Yeah, so, I would like you to cast your mind back a few days and see if you could tell me where you were at a certain date and time. And if you were in your car?”
“I’d like a lawyer,” he instantly replied.
“That’s… quite a jump?”
“Only saying more with a lawyer.”
“Okay, we’ll take you to the station,” Grayling informed him “where you can be officially interviewed, in the presence of your lawyer. Do you have one in mind?”
“I need… to speak to…I don’t know what to even say! I’ll follow you in my car.”
“Oh, yeah, about your car…”
Rupert Hume laid back in his armchair. It had cost a great deal of money and as such could pose you in many different positions, some of which were supposed to be good for the body and some of which were better summarised as drunk collapse. Hume had it upright today, so his arse was in comfort, but he could still command the room like a boss. He watched as the audience filed in and took seats, a handful of people he’d deliberately chosen, the inner sanctum of the Patriot Party and Hume’s operation. The people who knew what this had all been about… or thought they did.
“Evening everyone,” Hume said as they passed round a bottle opener and prepared their drinks, which ranged from IPAs to lagers. The tables had snacks on them, including a full range of flavoured nuts. This was a comedown for Hume who preferred expense in all his private consumption, but he had tailored this to his audience. Then again sea salt and rosemary roasted peanuts weren’t cheap in any way and had been mail ordered in from a boutique vendor. They tasted damn good too.
“Nice to see you, boss,” a junior said.
“Thanks for the free beers,” another added, waving his bottle.
“This isn’t a party,” Hume began, “we are here for a specific reason.” He paused and took a handful of nuts. He must leave these things alone. And then order more. “I want to unveil to you a step forward in our financial strategy.”
“Yes boss?”
“As you know before I joined the mayoral election the Patriot Party derived substantial revenues from our online presence.”
“Yes.”
“Revenues, and presence, that was always positively affected by when I appeared on the news. As you are also aware, I took the decision to enter the election for Mayor of Morthern. This brought us vast new publicity, and the associated increase in revenue from our media now working overtime. Of course, to run a mayoral campaign you need to spend, and so our costs went up, and I am pleased to say that until this point, we have been running a campaign that posed no danger to our finances.”
Everyone in the room looked at each other before someone spoke. “When people say until this point, they normally mean they’re changing things…”
“Yes, yes we are. I have two pieces of news for you today. The first regards expenses. We know how media works, we are experts in it, and we know a final blitz is needed to secure us this election. We have been planning how we will create such a whirlwind of St. George coverage that I am all people think about. But we believe the other candidates will be planning the same, and we will have to outspend them to get people’s attention. To this end, we have worked out a plan to hide our activities from electoral oversight and we will be able to spend a war-chest of two million pounds on our mental nukes.”
Silence. Absolute fucking shock.
“Did… did… you say two million pounds?”
“Yes. Total coverage. They won’t know what hit them. Facebook adverts, bribes to get TV headline slots, and… sorry you’ve all gone white.”
“We have two million pounds?”
“We do now, because we have gone national. There are a good few people in this country pushing the cause of the right, our truth, and they have approached me to invest. I don’t like to be beholden to people, but I do believe in partnership and they have transferred me funds to do with as I please to get elected. So, we have a war-chest of…”
“For those stonks we could have Dobbs and Stremp assassinated,” someone gasped.
“Well yes we could, but need I point out the election would inevitably be suspended, and some fucking widow would probably win or some such shit. So, we now have national partners and a lot of, what did you say, stonks?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Don’t say that again. As you can see, I am serious about winning this election. Then our agenda will go nationwide. Then I will be the most successful right-wing leader for decades. Change is guaranteed.” Also, I will be buying a new sports car with the money I creamed off, but that can be my present after the election. Hume reached a hand down and scratched his groin through his trousers. That had been bothering him for the last few days. “Are there any questions?” Hume asked, in a manner which said, ‘there aren’t going to be, you should have worked it all out by now already’.
“You’re gonna be famous,” a flunky said.
I am, he thought. I literally am going to be famous. I’ll be one of
the leading politicians of my age by the time this is over. Maybe the Patriot Party will contest general elections. There was nothing he couldn’t do with a model based on hate, social media and money. No luxury he couldn’t afford in what he creamed off the top. It was all a glorious dream coming true.
Hume was broken out of his dream when someone exclaimed “we could hire a plane with a big banner behind it!”
“No. No not at all. That’s old media. That’s the past. That would make me look like a fucking imbecile. I need to be on people’s phones, their other screens. How many people look at the sky in the first place now?”
“Oh, right, yeah. I guess a big balloon with your face on it is out?”
“Need I remined you that balloons are the triflingly ineffective protest tools of the left. We are the right, and we have what is practically advanced brain-washing techniques.”
“That’s why you’re the boss!” the flunky said to try and back-peddle and avoid the fact the whole room thought he was a berk. It didn’t work.
“Anyway, everyone drink-up, eat snacks, and focus on this massive television, because I have some material to show you…”
The interview room had filled with four people. Dave Stimpson was sat on a chair bleeding. Not in a seventies police brutality way, but because he’d bitten his fingernails down to the quick and now resembled someone who’d been scratching on the inside of a buried coffin. Next to him was a lawyer that seemed several grades above Dave’s ability to afford, while Grayling and Maruma took up their normal spot’s opposite. They had pens, papers and a few surprises.
“Can you confirm your name please?” Grayling asked.
“Dave. Err, David Stimpson.”
“And you possess a Ford Mondeo of the registration number shown in this picture?”
“Yeah, yeah that’s right.”
“How many people drive that car?”
“Just me. Normally. Maybe some mates.”
“Are they insured?”
“Just me.”
Grayling nodded. “When we initially spoke to you, you refused to answer any questions without reference to a lawyer. Now you have a lawyer, has that situation changed?”
“I am ready,” Dave replied.
Grayling began “Good. So, on Thurs…”
“No comment.”
“Sorry, what?” she replied.
“I said no comment to your question.”
“I hadn’t managed to finish asking it!”
“Yes, but I’m going to say no comment to whatever you say.” Dave grinned. The lawyer looked a little smug.
“Right then,” Grayling said. “Where were you late afternoon on Thursday 14th?”
“No comment.”
“Were you anywhere near the Queen’s Road layby?”
“No comment.”
“Why was your car parked in the layby at this time?”
“No comment.”
“Did you see this other vehicle that we’re showing you in the photo here?”
“No comment.”
“This car belonged to Jessica Villiers, who was murdered around the time you were there.”
“No comment.” But Dave looked over at the lawyer.
“Did you see anyone who might have attacked Jessica?”
“No comment?” Was that a crack showing?
“Anything unusual? Someone in the bushes, someone running away, stuff you might have seen?”
“No comment?”
“Did you attack Jessica?”
“No comment!”
“Did you strike her until she appeared to be deceased to you?”
“No comment!”
“Right, and do you recognise this mobile phone?” As Grayling said it Maruma held up an evidence bag containing a cheap but nonetheless fully working device.
“No comment.”
“This phone was found in your home, disassembled so it didn’t appear on any networks. We have checked, and it is the phone which rang Jessica Villiers shortly before she was killed in the layby your car was in. So, let’s start with did you know Jessica? Why did you call her?”
Grayling and Maruma smiled and waited for a reply. They were to be surprised.
“I did it.”
“Did what?”
“I followed Jessica, I rang her to get her to pull over to answer, and then I killed her. Then I came home and cleaned up. There’s probably blood in the car. She screamed.”
“You are confessing?” Maruma checked.
“Yes. Of course, you got me, I did it. I’ll sign whatever.”
Grayling and Maruma exchanged open-mouthed stares.
“Why?”
“She was a bad journalist, wrote bad things. Made us all out to be crazy. You can’t tell fake news and stay safe.”
“Now,” the lawyer said, “I will take my client aside and prepare a statement for you, fully confessing his guilt.”
“Yes, yes, of course, interview suspended.”
Maruma and Grayling stood, took their notes and left the room. They made sure the door was closed behind them and walked away down the corridor.
“You’re thinking what I’m thinking?” Grayling asked.
“Yes, yes I am.”
“He’s covering. Taking the fall for someone else. Maybe he did commit the murder, but there’s something behind this. He switched too quickly. Deny, then if not take all blame.”
The pair had entered the Bunker.
“So, what are we missing?” Maruma said out loud, then turned, “hey Green, the lawyer that’s in with Stimpson, who is he?”
“He was in here with Rupert Hume.”
“F. F me. He was.”
As Grayling spoke Maruma returned to the bank accounts they’d been looking up. He brought the data up and went to the relevant date to discover… “Hume transferred five thousand pounds in a single go that evening to someone.”
“It couldn’t be…” But Grayling had her hand on her phone. “Hi, yeah, look, I need the accounts of Dave Stimpson and I need them urgently, the clock is ticking.”
The pair sat down, wondering whether the lawyer or the account would be back first. It turned out it was the former, and the constables sat in the interview room as Dave read out a document he clearly hadn’t written, outlining the motive and method of the murder, with the whole thing entirely down to him. It didn’t even sound far-fetched like some of these things, it was a completely believable account of a murder that ticked all the boxes except the one about why he’d immediately confessed at the first hint of him having been rumbled.
Dave was sent to the cells, and the detectives went back to their computers to discover the bank details had arrived. Neither breathed much as they brought up the date and discovered…
“Am I dreaming?” Grayling asked.
“No, no you’re really not,” Maruma replied with glee.
“Stimpson received five thousand pounds from Hume that evening. I mean we can’t prove this in court but the odds of him having paid Stimpson to assassinate Jessica is high, it must be,” and as Grayling finished Maruma nodded in agreement.
“At the very least we need to ask Dave why this money changed hands and why it wasn’t mentioned in the account of the day,” he said.
“Yep, luckily he’s not going anywhere.”
“Is this enough to get Hume?” Maruma wondered out loud.
“It’s enough to ask him some questions, and guess what, his lawyer is already here and raring to go!”
“Suddenly sending your lawyer along with your stooge to make sure he’s obedient and takes the fall backfires in a major way.”
Sharma opened her window and waited in the driver’s seat of the car. Lindleman was next to her, and as a security guard came out of the gate and over, he pulled down the sunglasses he was wearing just for effect.
“Hello there, I’m DI Sharma.”
“I know who you are,” the security replied.
“I’d like to speak to Mr Hume.”
&
nbsp; “I can relay any message.”
“Tell him we would like him to come down to the station to answer some questions.”
The security man rolled his eyes and pulled out a phone. Clearly, he knew what the reply would be, but he hadn’t been delegated enough responsibility to say it, because he couldn’t do much more than take the top off a stiff bottle.
“Yeah, hi boss, DI Sharma is here, wants… yeah to come to… yeah I’ll tell…”
A hand stuck out of the car. “Give me the phone,” Sharma ordered in exactly the same way she had once shouted at an insurgent to put the fucking gun down. It worked and the phone was handed over.
“DI Sharma,” she said.
“Well Ms, not Mrs I’m sure, Ms Sharma, I will not be attending your police station, so unless you want me to call my lawyer after you arrest me…three days before the election. All publicity is good you know.”
“Your lawyer is at the station.”
A satisfactory pause later, “what?”
“Oh, we’re ready. You want to be cuffed again? Your lawyer recommends you come along and see what we’ve got to say.”
“You’re… not actually allowed to lie about that are you?”
“Nope. Cos he’d nail us on it. He advised it, he’s there, we just need you. So… how close to obstruction in a murder case in which the accused has admitted it do you want to come?”
“I will come in my own car.”
Sharma got back to the station second. Not because Hume and his driver had sped, but because she had followed him all the way. There was nothing to suggest he would try and escape the country. In fact, it felt like he’d more likely get a camera crew to film him walking out and turn the whole thing into an election winner, but Sharma wanted to be sure. The MCU core team felt they were an afternoon of interviews away from busting things, as they say, wide open.
Hume climbed out and smoothed his suit, then he marched to the station and waved at a member of the paparazzi he’d tipped off before the journey began. He walked into reception and up to the desk.
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