Authors: Iain Cameron
‘Inspector Henderson?’
‘Sorry Doctor Singh, what did you say?’
‘I was saying, come
over here and take a look at this. You won’t be able to see it from where you are standing.’
Christ, this woman was in the wrong profession. She should be teaching seven year-olds how to behave in the lunch queue, as that was the age she made him feel. He dutifully walked
over as she lifted an arm of the body to show him a wide ring of deep bruising, almost replicating the grip of a hand.
‘This is indicative of her being grabbed forcibly.’
Henderson put his hand over the bruising and spread his fingers. The hand that made this was much larger than his.
‘Pre-death?’
he asked.
‘Certainly, yes.’
‘Could you get prints, the bruising is quite extensive?’
‘I
shouldn’t think so. As I indicated to you earlier, I think the person who did this was wearing rubber gloves, but I should be able to make up a hand cast which will give us an indication of the assailant’s height.’
‘Good. That would be helpful.’
The rest of the P-M passed by in a blur, his mind analysing and processing what information he had learned, only to stop when the pathologist was saying something, although he made an exception when it involved recording the weight and size of internal organs as that was something he didn’t want to know. What the p-m did, was to establish beyond all doubt that the killer of Sarah Robson killed this girl as well. He suspected as much ever since he saw the body at West Hove but to have it ratified in such a cold, clinical way was gut wrenching.
The date of d
eath was put at Monday, 25
th
March, only eighteen days after Sarah, give or take a day. Would he stop at two or go on murdering a new girl every fortnight? His head felt heavy at the very thought of it and his heart went out to any parent who was forced to experience the agony and torment of losing a child in such a callous manner. Especially in Sarah’s case, when they believed their daughter had only come down to Brighton to receive an education and broaden her horizons.
In the changing room, he de-robed from his green coverall suit and said little
to Walters as they made their way back to the car. The traffic on Lewes Road was even more intense than it had been earlier, if such a thing was possible, but this time there was no cathartic banging on the steering wheel or involuntary arm gestures aimed at an ignorant motorist as both detectives were silent and lost in their own thoughts.
A blue Rolls Royce Phantom Coupe was Dominic Green’s daily transport but not today
, as it would have brought unwanted attention and looked out of place in this bleak backdrop of dull terraced houses and pock-marked roads in this anonymous part of South London. Instead, he was travelling with Lester and Spike in Lester’s wife car, the one she used for her home make-up business. He did wonder about the proprietary of some of the goods she was touting because far from smelling flagrant and enticing, it reeked like the inside of a hooker’s knickers.
While Lester drove and ‘Spike’ Donovan made guttural noises from the back seat as he laughed at jokey texts on his stupid smart phone, he was looking over plans drawn up by an architect to redevelop the swimming pool at Langley Manor. His aim was to transform it from a bland rectangular pool
, which essentially could only be used for swimming up and down, into a leisure complex with tub, spa and a wide range of exercise equipment for all the family to use.
He looked up as the car turned right into yet another anonymous street with row upon row of terraced houses. ‘Can you believe these people?’ he said. ‘Most of them don’t have two pennies to rub together
and their arses are hanging out of their trousers but the street is chokkers with cars and you can’t see the windows for satellite dishes.’
‘Yeah,’ Lester said, ‘and you know who
’s paying for that, you and me.’
‘Come off it Les,’ Spike
said without looking up, ‘we all need the fucking telly. Can’t sit looking at the missus all night long, can you? Man, that would give me bloody nightmares.’
‘I agree with you there mate,’ Green said, ‘her face could strip wallpaper and
has a voice that could grate cheese but there’s plenty I would.’
‘Name ‘em,’ Lester said.
‘Well, there’s the bird that reads the news on the BBC with the big titties and the other one who does the footie programme on Sky Sports, the one with the big, wide hips and who always wears tight dresses, for starters.’
‘Oh yeah her,’ Spike said
, ‘I would too. According to the Sun, so it must be true, she doesn’t wear any knickers when she’s on camera and I know...’
‘Hold the front page fellas,’ Lester said, ‘this is the place.’
Due to the number of old bangers and the odd skip, they couldn’t park directly outside the house but that suited Green, as it didn’t do to advertise their presence and have their man skedaddling over the back fence. For him, this street was a microcosm of the failure of Council-led town planning as the tightly packed streets and dank alleyways fostered urban decay and inner city rot, exemplified by gardens with no grass, doorways that were littered with bits of car engines and broken toys, windows that looked as if they were never cleaned and loads of stray dogs and cats.
To any local resident
that happened to be awake at this early hour, which was practically none as they would still be enjoying their drug and booze-addled sleep or couldn’t tear their eyes away from Good Morning Britain or another Bargain Hunt repeat on some obscure digital television channel, watched by half a dozen people, their smart clothes and brisk manner would keep them behind the curtains. They could easily be mistaken for a team of debt collectors, a drug gang intent on settling scores with rivals, and if they didn’t look too closely at Spike’s long facial scar, Mormons, and he was confident no one in this street fancied a visit from any member of that incongruous trinity.
Lester knocked on the door
gently but firmly as a postman or delivery driver might do if they were holding a package that was too big to slide through the letterbox. Through force of habit, Green moved to the side while Spike hung back on the path, so the man inside would only see one visitor if he peered out of the window or through the little glass panel at the top of the door.
Lester knocked again, louder this time and a few seconds later they could hear movement inside
and the sound of two people arguing. The front door swung open and a man with grey hair and glasses and wearing a brown cardigan that was at least twenty years old, took one look before saying, ‘what the hell do you want?’ Green moved forward.
‘Henry, it’s so good to see you again.’
In an instant, the arrogant look melted, replaced by instant panic as he reached for the door and tried to push it closed but the immovable bulk of Lester’s foot prevented it. Green stepped over the threshold, shoved Henry Neville aside and walked into the house but before he could entertain any thoughts of scarpering, Lester grabbed his arm and pushed him forward. Spike stepped inside and after taking a quick look up and down the street to ensure no one was clocking them or making a move to help poor Mr Neville, he slammed the door behind him.
On entering the lounge, Green immediately reached for the TV handset to turn the bloody racket off. He liked Marilyn Monroe as much as the next man, maybe more but he liked to watch Some Like It Hot, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes and his personal favourite, Let’s Make Love in the comfort of his home cinema in front of a large plasma
screen, wall-to-wall sound and with a nice glass of Chablis in his hand, and not sitting in some poxy two-up-and-two-down, looking at an old Sony LCD and listening to Marilyn’s heavenly voice through a dodgy loudspeaker.
The room was spar
sely furnished with a cheap-looking settee, a dusty bookcase, one easy chair and the telly. A small table and four chairs at the back of the room was set up as a dining area cum writing area, but it looked untidy and little used. The air smelled of stale beer, old socks and last night’s takeaway and by the look of the tin trays lying on the kitchen counter, it was chicken Tikka Masala, which was about as Indian as fish and chips. Despite the pervading hum, the windows stayed closed. This conversation was private.
‘
What do you lot want, barging into my house like this?’ Neville said.
‘Now, is that a nice way to greet an old friend,’ Green said before taking a seat on the settee. It felt thin and lumpy and about as comfortable as
a park bench. Lester sat beside him and Neville took the chair opposite. Restless as a dog with fleas, Spike wandered the room poking his less than discerning fingers at Neville’s stuff.
‘You’re no friend of mine Dominic Green
, you swindled me out of all my money.’
‘There are two sides to every story, Henry. I paid you a fair price for that
place. It wasn’t my fault you squandered all your new-found wealth on a dodgy Spanish apartment block.’
He uttered a fake laugh. ‘If my memory serves me right, it was you that
was advising me. Invest in Spain, you said, everybody’s doing it, you said but the apartment block was never built, it was nothing but a stitch up. It was you that ran off with my money, not Jose Hernandez.’
‘These are scurrilous accusations, Henry. I wasn’t aware that
he was a crook. He was my partner. ’
‘It was your fault that I invested in it.’
‘What can I say? You asked for my advice and I gave it. I lost money too.’
‘You can afford
it better than I can.’
‘Well, I can assure you, losing money hurts me
, just as much as it hurts you.’
‘Pah, I doubt that.
’
‘As far as I’m concerned that’s all water under the bridge now...’
‘The hell it is and if you think you can come around here and intimidate me into dropping my claim for compensation, you’ve got another think coming.’
Spike replaced the ornament he was looking at down on the table and looked at Green with a knowing smile. He liked a challenge did Spike.
‘That’s not why I’m here, although I have to admit I hadn’t forgotten about our forthcoming day in court and while I’m confident of winning, otherwise I wouldn’t have let it go this far, lets just say its come round at an inconvenient time.’
‘You won’t win,’ he growled, but Green could see his trademark arrogance and confidence was getting to the little man. Neville went on to list all the points of law that his brief
must have drilled into his head and the more he spoke, the more Green could feel the hate and spite, and it was clear he held a serious grudge against him.
In truth, his fall from grace was spectacular. Brighton is a brash, fun-filled holiday resort but if it dances, drinks and parties with its head
, it embraces art, in all its forms with its heart. From art exhibitions to avant-garde dance troupes, from music concerts to art-graffiti on the sides of old buildings, Brighton has the lot and for some, its epicentre was the Victoria Cinema in the North Laines.
The Old Vic as the locals called it, showcased cinema from around the world, often months before they
hit the mainstream and in addition was home to theatre, comedy and poetry recitals. It was a central plank of the annual Brighton Festival, which ran for three weeks in early May and attracted the weird and wonderful from all over the arts world, and basking in its radiant glow was one Henry Neville.
The Old Vic was all that was left of an entrepreneurial father’s eclectic business portfolio and any money the young Neville received from his inher
itance was pumped into that fine Victoria fun palace. By the time Green was looking for a large property to redevelop in the centre of Brighton, it was leaking cash faster than the water that dripped from the ancient cisterns that still inhabited the gentlemen’s toilets.
Neville couldn’t see it, but the source of his
troubles was his profligacy. His friends were all invited to the shows for free and he frequently put on ‘arty’ exhibitions and madcap productions by painters, sculptors and actors, most of whom couldn’t attract more visitors than were found at a bus stop. They were bleeding him to death and it was only the intervention of Green that saved him from imminent bankruptcy and a very public humiliation.
Green held
a hand up, a sign for Neville to stop his barrage of invective as he was getting tired of the abuse and he had better things to do today than sit in this dump in Clapham or wherever the hell they were, breathing in the delights of the local Indian fakeaway.
‘I’ve heard enough now Henry,
you’ve vented your spleen. So now, shut the fuck up. The reason I’m here today is not to talk about this case but to try and find out who killed one of my girls.’
He went on to explain about the web site and the death of Sarah Robson, all the
while scanning Neville’s face for some scrap of recognition, a twitch or a nudge of the eyebrows, but he was either a very good poker player or knew bugger-all about it as he didn’t respond at all.