Authors: Angela Dracup
‘I’m assuming that the man on our video is Julian Roseborough?’ Cat said.
‘It’s the same man who you spotted in the photographs we took from Ruth Hartwell’s house. Also I’ve checked it out on our data base and run a check through his background. We are able to confirm Roseborough was the man on the video pushing a drunk into the Regents Canal, and afterwards lingering at the scene for a while before simply walking away. And, interestingly enough, we don’t seem to be getting any cooperation from any of the usual channels regarding his current whereabouts.’
Cat muttered under her breath, before saying, ‘Was it Craig who had Hartwell’s phone?’
‘Yes. he turned himself in at the station in Thirsk. Voluntarily gave up the phone and some cash he’d taken from Ruth Hartwell.’
‘Do you think he’s seen the video?’
‘I doubt it. The phone’s battery was flat for a start, and it’s unlikely he would have been able to get it charged in the time available to him.’
‘Right.’ She was thinking things through, her teeth biting at her lower lip. ‘You’re probably wondering if I know anything of interest about Roseborough through his connection with Jeremy. But I don’t. I’ve only met the guy a couple of times. For me, he was just a satellite in Jeremy’s entrepreneurial orbit.’
‘I appreciate that. This isn’t another stick to beat yourself with, Cat. Just an unpleasant coincidence.’
‘You’ve said it! So, who knows about the video?’ Cat asked, pulling herself back to the here and now and speaking with a hint of sharpness.
‘I do for one and also Les, our IT guy. Harriet and Charles Brunswick know there is new evidence, but not the specifics. Otherwise, I really can’t say. We have no knowledge of whether Christian tried to sell it on to the press, or to anyone else. Nor do we know what happened to it in the interval between its being shot and lodged with Christian’s solicitor.’
‘So the phone’s in our secure room?’
‘Yes.’
‘And who has got copies of the video?’
‘Me.’
‘Just you? Not Ravi Stratton, or our press officer?’
‘So far, just me.’
She was quiet for some time. ‘So Roseborough’s target has been narrowed down to one?’
‘Not necessarily. We don’t know what Roseborough knows at this moment. He may not be aware of what has gone on this afternoon.’
‘No one has been following me,’ Cat said. ‘I was very careful after we spoke.’
‘No one has been following me, either,’ said Swift. ‘I’m pretty sure of that.’
‘No sign of Mac the Knife?’
‘No.’ In the past few hours Swift had been thinking that Mac the Knife had been rather quiet for a time, and wondering if his days of paying menacing visits to innocent folks were a thing of the past.
‘Let’s hope it stays that way.’ she said. ‘But how long can you keep the vital incriminating evidence secret? If we’re going to collar Roseborough, we’ll have to share it with Stratton, at the very least. And, of course, she will flag it up with the big boys – and if, God forbid, there’s any high-level corruption going on we’ll find our case quietly swept under the carpet.’
‘That’s already happened according to Wilton,’ Swift said. ‘He’s pretty sure the order to hand on the case of the “Tipper” to a specialist team means it’s going to be buried. But then Wilton does come across as a somewhat paranoid and defensive character.’
‘So,’ Cat said. ‘If we keep our mouths shut, Roseborough walks free. And if we go public, you get a visit from his band of un-merry men.’
‘That’s probably the size of it.’ Swift said. He reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘We’ll think of something,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow’s another day.’
He didn’t tell Cat that he had already set a hare running. When he had phoned Georgie Tyson at the
Echo
earlier she had been only too pleased to put together a report to go out in the early edition the next day – and alert the news desks at the local London press.
Roseborough wouldn’t be able to ignore it. He was bound to come for him.
Some hours earlier, when Craig had been informed that DCI Swift had asked for him to be kept at the station for the rest of the day and the ensuing night, he had not been at all pleased. He couldn’t complain about how they had treated him. They hadn’t bullied him or beaten him up, but the police were the police, that was all there was too it. You didn’t want to spend your spare time with them, especially when they were on their home turf.
‘I’m a free man, ain’t I?’ he demanded. ‘You can’t keep me.’
‘It’s for your own safety.’ The burly officer who had searched him earlier schooled himself to be firm but kind with the troubled young ex-con.
‘You told me Mrs Hartwell had said she trusted me to give the money back. That she didn’t want me to get into any bother on her account.’
‘Yes,’ the burly officer agreed. ‘DCI Swift is simply wanting to protect you.’
‘I can look after myself,’ Craig said. ‘There are things I need to do.’
The officer drew himself up, considering the issue.
‘I want to see my probation person,’ Craig demanded. ‘I want to ask him if it’s right for me to be kept here if I want to leave.’ His eyes were burning with determination.
The officer had hesitated but within the hour the probation liaison officer had turned up to confirm that Craig was free to go, but that he must be sure to fulfil the terms of his licence and report regularly to the probation service. He went on about the details: duh, duh, duh. Craig had nodded agreement until he felt like a toy dog on the parcel shelf of a car.
At the front desk, he was told that the mobile phone had been taken by the Thirsk police to DCI Swift’s station for analysis and safekeeping. The money he had ‘borrowed’ from Mrs Hartwell had been kept in the police safe, pending Mrs Hartwell’s wishes regarding its return to her. Mrs Hartwell had told the local police in West Yorkshire that she trusted Craig to return it to her himself.
The desk officer was a middle-aged woman Craig had not seen before. She had cool silvery eyes and a no-nonsense, faintly disapproving manner. She made a meal of unlocking a drawer in a secure cabinet at the back of her reinforced plastic cubicle, then slapped a chubby brown envelope down on the desk. She looked at Craig over the top of her glasses. ‘Who’s a lucky boy then? To have friends as trusting as that?’
Craig’s hackles rose. He pulled himself up short, remembering the anger management courses in the prison. He deepened his breathing. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I must have done summat right, at last.’
She raised her eyebrows, and pushed a paper in front of him. ‘Sign there, please.’
He did so with something of a flourish. ‘I’ll be on my way then.’
‘Yes,’ she said, carefully enunciating that short word. ‘Good luck.’
He guessed she would have forgotten about him before he even got through the door. Which was OK. He wouldn’t waste time thinking about her, either.
Ten minutes after that he was helping Josie out in the bar of her pub, clearing up the used glasses and plates, taking them to the kitchen and washing them up whilst an engineer was peering into the insides of the dishwasher.
When Josie came through to the kitchen from time to time, she’d smile at him, and ask him how he was getting on. And he would grin and give her the thumbs up. He hadn’t felt this happy ever, except for the times he and his mum used to be together on their own. And Josie had said they might be able to find her….
The only thing worrying him was Mrs Hartwell. He needed to see her. To explain, to say thank you.
Swift was up just after 7 a.m., brewing fresh coffee and making toast. Cat appeared ten minutes later, dressed in silky dove-grey trousers and a frilled white shirt. Her hair was still rumpled from sleep, her face free of make-up. Her bruises were beginning to turn a brownish grey, fanning out to a rather fetching shade of lime green around her nose and mouth. ‘Hi, there!’ she said, stepping up to him and giving him a friendly hug.
‘Your face is looking rather colourful,’ Swift remarked, thinking that she looked heartbreakingly lovely. He watched her as she walked to the window to look out into the July morning. Today there was a white gossamer mist lying over the fields. And above, a faint silver glow behind the clouds. Once the sun broke through, it would most likely be the sunniest day they had had for some time.
There was the rattle of the letter box as Swift’s landlord Richard pushed the morning newspapers through. Having been a sheep farmer for many years, he got up with the lark, whatever the weather, and was at the local newsagents at seven every morning, often before the deliveries had arrived.
Swift went to pick them up. He saw that Georgie’s article had made the front page. He scanned it quickly. Under a headline proclaiming, a startling breakthrough in the Hartwell case, he saw that the salient points he had fed to Georgie Tyson were all there.
‘DCI Ed Swift has uncovered vital new evidence which is likely to be crucial in identifying the killer of Christian Hartwell who was found dead on Fellbeck Crag ten days ago. Revealing video shots from a mobile phone, believed to have belonged to the dead man, were handed in to the police yesterday. Data available from the phone are under analysis, but DCI Swift said they would be almost certain to provide the vital evidence needed in enabling them to find and arrest Hartwell’s killer. Further searches of the house belonging to Mrs Ruth Hartwell, the dead man’s mother, will be concluded by this morning, and could well provide further back-up evidence regarding the killer’s motives.’
Swift gave a grim smile. Well done, Georgie. He folded the newspaper and laid it on the table by the side of Cat’s plate. She glanced at it, instantly noting the headline. Putting her cup down, she picked up the paper and read through the article.
Swift saw that when she replaced the newspaper on the table her hand was shaking.
‘He
is
going to come for you, Ed. You’ve invited him. You’ve given him the time and venue.’
‘Yeah.’
‘He’s toxic.’
‘True.’
‘And you’re going solo?’
‘If he sees any sign of back-up he’ll be off.’
‘Are you going armed?’
‘No.’
‘Have you got a plan?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re not telling me?’
‘No.’
‘Because you don’t want me involved?’
He smiled at her, his eyes full of affection. ‘Of course I don’t – and you know why. But I do want you to look after Ruth Hartwell for the day.’
‘Consider it done. Do I have carte blanche?’
‘Naturally, you’re an experienced DI. Just take her and her minders somewhere nice. As soon as you’ve finished your breakfast.’
‘What do we tell Ravi Stratton?’
‘Luckily, we don’t have to worry about Ravi, just at this moment. I looked in her schedule yesterday and found that she’s on a weekend course in Manchester, starting today.’
‘And what about Naomi?’ Cat asked softly.
‘She’s grown up now. She’ll survive.’
‘Dear God! You can be hard when you want to, Ed.’
‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘So can we all if we survive in the police.’
He looked at her face for a few moments, memorizing its lines and curves. He could think about her when the time came. Not Naomi, because then he might break down and lose it, but if it came to the worst and one of the thugs on Roseborough’s pay roll got him, then he could think of Cat and the friendship they had had over the years, the lively banter and the shared anxiety about work. He thought about her wide smile, her strength and optimism. He thought of her personal charm, and the pleasure of being in her presence. And it came to him that they should have been dating long ago, going on holiday as a threesome with Naomi, forming a new family.
When Cat had left he packed his document case with overdue paperwork and then turned on the TV, needing to pass the time, allowing Cat to get ahead and make the appropriate explanations and arrangements with Ruth and her two minders.
The national news was still dominated with Westminster politics. On the Northern news there was a heartbreaking item about two young children having perished in a fire, whilst their mum was sleeping off a binge-drinking session. He sighed, and then came suddenly on the alert when the newsreader started to give details of a man who had been found dead in a Leeds hotel bedroom. He had died from a shot to the head. Forensic teams and the pathology team were still working at the scene and examining the body. The man had been named as Laurence McBride, who lived in North London. His next of kin had been informed. Police had not yet made any statement regarding the possibility of foul play.
Swift aimed the remote and killed the picture. He had the idea Mac the Knife was one enemy he could cross off his list. But liaising with Leeds police would have to wait a while.
In the car, he focused hard on his driving, taking extreme care regarding his vigilance and technique like a teenager taking their first test. Outside the window the sculpted slopes of the gentle Dales rolled softly by, partly veiled in the thinning mist, providing a panorama of majestic beauty. Observing the white glow of the sky, it struck him that the light would have undergone a complete change when he came back. But I may not come back this way, he thought – I may never come back.
He let himself into the
Old School House
with the key which was still lodged underneath the watering can, and went through each room, checking to see if anyone was already there waiting for him. Having ascertained that he was on his own, he settled down at the kitchen table, got out his papers and took up his pen.
Two hours passed. He tried hard to concentrate on the paperwork, looking through the crime detection statistics Ravi Stratton had given him seeking his comments. He tried not to think of Naomi or Cat, just quietly fill in the time whilst he waited for the inevitable.
And then, as though coming seamlessly out of nowhere, there was the sound of wheels on the drive outside the front door, the muffled crunch of the gravel. As the wheels slowed, the engine gave a sudden monster-like roar before being killed.
He closed his statistics file and laid his hands on the table. There was a long, long silence and then a shadow fell over the path leading to the back of the house. A figure walked up to the back door and looked in.
It was Julian Roseborough himself. The organ grinder had ditched the monkeys and come in person.
Swift got up and opened the door. ‘I was expecting you,’ he said.
‘It’s good to see you again, Chief Inspector,’ Roseborough said, his low drawl amiable, kind even. But his eyes were empty and cold. ‘I take it there aren’t any other folk here to greet me?’
Swift shook his head. ‘Just me.’
‘Good. May I sit down?’
‘Go ahead.’
Roseborough was dressed in close-fitting jeans, an expensive looking navy jacket with a crisp white shirt beneath. No tie, polished tan brogues. Swift rated him as a handsome guy whom women would fall for, even without the money and position. Tall, good body, blond hair, high cheekbones. Even his daughter Naomi would approve on first sight, give his style a big tick. Cool, knows how to dress, she would say. Yes, thought Swift, and then so much more than that. A fascination with the control of others, for danger, for heartless cruelty and a disregard for the preciousness of life.
Roseborough took out a small gun and placed it on the table top just to the side of his right hand. ‘I like to lay my cards on the table, so to speak,’ he said. He then took out a silver case, selected a cigarette and lit up. He glanced at Swift. ‘Do you mind?’
Swift shrugged.
‘So what cards have you got to play?’ Roseborough asked.
‘No firearms, no knives.’
‘That could hardly be said to work to your gain. Have you brought the copies of the video?’
‘Yes.’ Swift reached into his document case, brought out stills of the video and laid them on the table, arranging them in order for Roseborough to inspect.
‘They are a touch damaging,’ Roseborough commented. ‘But then, no doubt my lawyer could get around the difficulty. Not admissible in court and so forth.’
‘No doubt,’ Swift said. ‘We have to bear in mind that you’re untouchable, don’t we, Julian?’
‘Yes, you do, Chief Inspector.’ His features sharpened, wary, wolf-like. ‘Have you brought the mobile with you?’
‘Of course I haven’t.’
‘So how much do you want for it? And who else needs a little remuneration?’
‘Money’s not in the equation,’ Swift said.
Roseborough sneered. ‘Money’s always in the equation.’
‘Why are you so worried, Julian?’ Swift said softly. ‘If your lawyer can get you off, why bother with me?’
Roseborough held his breath, and then exhaled a long plume of smoke. ‘Just fucking give me the phone.’
‘It was a real blow for you when Mac the Knife didn’t find it, wasn’t it?’ Swift suggested. ‘You hired him to kill an innocent man who had been your friend, and then he messed it up. He broke with the clean single shot to the head method, the option your minions are instructed to favour and took a leaf out of your “tipping” method. And after that it all went downhill.’
Roseborough took another drag at his cigarette and stubbed it out in Ruth’s pot of pansies which stood at the centre of the table. He bunched the photocopies into a ball, then took out his lighter and held it to the edge of one of the sheets.
The two men watched the sheet of flame climb along the long edge of the sheet, giving birth to more flames which began to crawl and swell across the mass of paper, licking at it, devouring it, until it turned into a grey, charred mass. Roseborough was superbly deft in managing the licking flames, turning and twisting the paper so as not to get his fingers burned. Even the table top suffered little damage, just a pile of dull grey ashes.
‘Well, I for one feel better for that,’ Roseborough said. He leaned forward, eyes blazing. ‘Just give me the phone,’ he hissed. ‘Shall I come over there and get it? Obviously you won’t have sent it on an upward route through the ranks. You’d have worked out they’d most probably destroy it. I have a lot of influence.’
‘You won’t get anywhere by threatening me,’ Swift said steadily. ‘You’re quite threatening enough already. And you’re welcome to search me. It’s not here. I told you.’
‘Fuck.’ Roseborough muttered.
‘You never married,’ Swift remarked.
Roseborough narrowed his eyes, suspicious but interested in this new tack. ‘Have you never heard the one about the simplest way to turn a fox into a cow?’ he asked.
‘You marry her,’ said Swift. ‘I’ve come across that one before. It doesn’t convince me.’
Roseborough closed his eyes in a show of boredom which could hardly be endured.
‘Are you afraid of commitment? Or maybe simply of not being able to love anyone? Gay perhaps?’ Swift went on relentlessly. ‘Or impotent?’
Roseborough’s features twisted with scorn, but Swift noticed a flicker in his eyes in response to the last question. ‘When did not being able to love stop any guy marrying a beautiful girl?’ he snapped. ‘Cut the psychology crap, Mr Plod. I like to walk alone, always have, always will.’
‘I’m wondering why you made the effort and took the risk to come here today,’ Swift said. ‘You could have sent one of your serfs, but you came yourself. You needed to see things were done properly. Because this time you’re not sure you’re going to get away with it. Hartwell’s assassination, of course, was not done by your hand. But pushing a harmless drunk into a canal was most definitely you. A hands-on job, caught on camera. You’re not scared of a ruined reputation, or of shame and humiliation – they mean little to you. And remorse doesn’t come into it. And even though you’ve access to the smartest barrister on the block and have a few high-ups in the palm of your hand, you’re aware that times are changing. Fairness and transparency are the new buzz words in a culture which is uncovering corruption that has dominated the last century. Young people don’t revere titles as the previous generation did. They’re not hostile, simply not interested. They go for icons like Barrack Obama, David Beckham, Jordan. You could well end up in prison for a long time.’
Roseborough listened carefully, sighed and lit another cigarette.
‘You came here because you thought I could be bought off,’ Swift continued. ‘But I can’t. And you would be shooting yourself in the foot if you were to kill me.’
Roseborough’s eyelashes flickered.
‘I’ve left documentation at the station,’ Swift said. ‘I’m a high-profile, long-serving officer. Quite a lot of people who have influence and are not corrupt will be after you. And you could well be tried, convicted and sent down. That’s what scares you, isn’t it Julian? Being deprived of your freedom. That is not a good prospect at all.’
Roseborough assumed a pained expression. ‘And you came along here with the thought you would persuade me to confess. You came to tell me that a free confession, together with my connections, would get me a light sentence.’ He shook his head. ‘Were you born yesterday?’
Swift could see that self-interest was cutting in with a vengeance. Roseborough was cornered – and at his most dangerous.
As he had been speaking Swift had become aware of a shadow moving towards the door. A figure appeared outside, peering in through the glass. Swift was temporarily thrown, desperately trying not to show the surprise and anxiety he felt.
The figure turned and moved away, only to come back seconds later, holding a huge roof slate. He burst in, panting and raising his arms up above Roseborough’s head.
‘Craig! NO!’ Swift yelled.
As Craig froze, Roseborough swivelled around, levelling the gun at the vistor. ‘Steady on,’ he said to Craig. ‘Drop the weapon.’