Driving into Darkness (DI Angus Henderson 2) Read online

  A tricky question as he would be damned with a ‘yes’ and damned with a ‘no’. ‘Let’s wait and see on that one but forensics are only one strand of our investigation as we are also looking at car dealers and CCTV cameras, liaising with other police forces, a whole range of things. If I may, I would like to ask your readers to report any unusual activity they see around a garage or a lock-up in their area or if they’re offered an expensive car at a knockdown price, to call it in on the usual numbers.’

  ‘I will. Where do you think the cars end up?’

  ‘Not in Sussex, I’m sure but re-badged, re-plated, and shipped abroad to the Middle East or Asia, is my best guess. It’s much easier to sell a stolen car in these places than it is here in the UK.’

  ‘Thank you Inspector.’ He made a play of switching the recording machine off. ‘So, if I can ask you, off the record. This is the fourth such high-value car robbery in our area, how many more will it take until you stop them?’

  ‘C’mon Rob, how would I know? These guys are in and out of the place in minutes, they don’t talk much, they don’t leave anything behind, and they disappear with the car. There’s not much left for us to work on.’

  ‘I know you don’t have a large squad on this one. Is the Chief Constable giving this case sufficient priority?’

  A few weeks ago, Tremain wrote a scathing article about inadequate resourcing levels in the county, leaving the Chief Constable and his ACC’s seething in anger, as it was not the usual jungle chant about wasting taxpayers money, but an attack on the spending priorities and judgement of the Sussex Police senior management team.

  Henderson gave him the standard line about the need to prioritise scarce resources but no way could he admit to him that this case was different from any other. On a typical murder investigation, there was always much more to do than was possible to achieve with the limited number of personnel and restricted budget at his disposal, but on this one, there was so little for them to get their teeth into, he was hard-pressed making best use of the small team he had. Now if Mr Tremain could put a positive spin on that one, he was a better man than him, because he couldn’t.

  THREE

  Davis was still talking. William Lawton tried to concentrate on the man’s gruff, Bradford inflection and weasel-like features, no doubt cultivated to frighten and bully his staff, but Lawton's mind was wandering, thinking about the blueberry muffin and the aroma of fresh coffee emanating from the tea trolley. None of this lot would make a move until he did, and even though he liked to keep them waiting, the temptation was too strong and he rose from his chair as Davis was hitting his stride.

  It had been a fraught morning at Chez Lawton. His 19-year-old daughter, Haley, would soon be going back to university in Manchester after the Easter break and the thought of it left her as tense as a high-voltage electricity cable. It didn’t help that her younger brother, Ben, who was doing his GCSE’s and thought ‘work’ was a four letter word like ‘fuck,’ and so it was impolite to mention in mixed company, was baiting her non-stop by telling her a Polish language student had been lined up to take over her room.

  His wife Stephanie started to chew his ear for burying his nose in the Daily Telegraph while World War Three raged all around, and then he was berated by his daughter for not defending her honour against the boy-devil but moments later, Ben blamed him for not taking his side against the two witches. In disgust, he dumped the remains of his toast in the bin and headed off to work. No wonder he often felt sharp pains in his stomach after eating, probably the start of an ulcer or something more serious.

  ‘And therefore I think this would be a fantastic project for my team to undertake,’ Davis said, ‘it will give them great experience of–’

  Lawton could take no more. ‘Yes, yes Graham I hear what you’re saying,’ he said, picking up his customary ‘Malaga Beach Bum’ mug and filling it with hot, fragrant coffee, ‘if we had limitless buckets of cash but we don’t. We need to see a payoff and after reading your report, I don’t see one in this instance.’

  It stopped him dead. Ah, if the Chairman could see him now, he was a chip off the old block. William Lawton was Managing Director of Markham Microprocessors, a company founded by Sir Mathew Markham thirty years ago. Sir Mathew was still de facto chairman but played little part in day-to-day operations and was reaching a point in his life when he was considering severing all remaining ties with the business.

  Sir Mathew started the company in the early eighties with twenty grand borrowed from a favourite uncle and filled his head with as much information as he could find about the embryonic science of semiconductors. With no more business sense than the average hobbyist, he blagged a contract to make the central processing unit for a new home computer and set to work.

  His genius, although he would say it was a consequence of his impoverished circumstances, was in hiring two clever programmers to develop the software. He was unable to offer them additional money, people, or development tools and in this sparse, monastic, atmosphere, they produced a brilliant piece of computer code, frugal in its use of computer memory and power but devastatingly effective in executing commands.

  This software was incorporated into the first Markham microprocessor called ‘Suki,’ after Sir Mathew’s beautiful, socialite daughter and seized upon by a rapidly growing personal computer industry. However, the company’s fortunes changed forever with the introduction of portable devices, particularly mobile phones and laptops as they depended on batteries and where power consumption was important, applications to which Markham’s products were ideally suited.

  Nowadays Suki, her siblings and children were incorporated into millions of phones, laptops, tablet computers, and other portable devices, turning the business into one of the most profitable companies in the UK, a fact well known to everyone sitting around this conference table. However, Mathew Markham’s parsimonious ethos still burned within these four walls and no one would be profligate with money while William Lawton occupied the Managing Director's chair.

  ‘Moving on,’ Lawton said. ‘There will be no Financial Update today as David isn’t here but I assume you’ve all got the Flash Report that his deputy, Jon, managed to put together this morning.’

  The assembled business heads emitted a communal sigh, as they were disappointed not to be told by their Financial Director what a great job they were doing, as he would have reported yet another sales increase with profit way ahead of target. This usually led to a noisy bout of mutual backslapping and to much drinking and merrymaking in the pub or restaurant afterwards.

  Like an actor picking up his cue, Lawton would always try and singe their cloaks with a warning that it could all go up in smoke if there was a cataclysmic shift in technology or the development of a revolutionary product. He encouraged every member of the senior management team to allocate part of their day to ‘blue-sky’ thinking and if necessary, make use of the two rooms specially designed for this purpose. The fear of failure kept him awake at night and he hoped it did the same for them, as he was not the fountain of truth, enlightenment, and happiness, which many of them believe he was.

  He looked at the paper in front of him. ‘There is one remaining item on the agenda, Any Other Business. Do we have any?’

  ‘What’s the latest on the takeover?’ Alan Thomson asked.

  Lawton sighed. ‘Can I remind you all that what the Chairman has put on the table isn't about a takeover, despite the term being used by reputable newspapers who really should know better, but an expression of interest. The Chairman is asking anyone who is interested in buying the company to come forward, and we will judge if their offer in terms of money, technology, and ambition is good enough. On the other hand, he may decide not to sell at all if no one can come up with the goods.’

  ‘So, how is the ‘expression of interest’ going?’

  ‘Another four companies have contacted us since the last time we spoke but so far, we don’t feel any of them have either the financial muscle or the i
ntellectual capacity to move us to the next level.’ He glanced around the room, making sure there were no interlopers. ‘You see, we are treading a fine line here. On the one hand, we can’t tell them about Kratos as we don’t want the information to leak out into the public domain but on the other, we need to assess if they’ve got the money and the technical know-how to make it the world-beating success we believe it will be.’

  ‘I think we are betting too much on one horse,’ Didier Beauchamp said in a deep, French-accented voice, ‘it is after all, untried technology.’

  Lawton had a choice to make. Such a comment could start a bun-fight between the believers and non-believers and with twelve in the room, it could be a noisy and at times, belligerent affair. Sure enough, a few moments later, voices were raised.

  ‘Hold it, hold it,’ he said putting up his hand to quieten them. ‘We’ve all been here before and quite frankly, I’ve got better things to do with my time than talk about what may or may not happen. Now, if there is nothing else...’ he looked at all their faces, daring anyone to speak. ‘Fine. I’m bringing this meeting to a close. Thank you all for coming.’

  He gathered his papers together and rose from his seat, as they were starting to bicker again. He left the room and let them get on with it. In the quiet sanctity of his office and without sitting, he scanned the post-it notes his PA had stuck to the computer screen and after moving the mouse to re-activate it, found another forty-odd emails had arrived in his inbox since leaving for the monthly meeting some three hours before. A quick glance told him there was nothing that couldn’t wait until morning and after picking up a file from his desk, he headed out.

  The desk of his PA, Jules Carrington, was located outside his office and the poor lad jumped when his boss made a sudden appearance and tilted the screen of his pc away from view. Facebook, Twitter, or the odd computer game were about tolerable, and even though the business was situated in Hove, next door to Brighton, regarded by many as the unofficial gay capital of Britain, he could not countenance any boy-boy stuff, no matter how many Minority Rights or Equality seminars he attended. If his wife was rat-arsed by the time he got home and itching to rekindle this morning’s disagreement, or tomorrow was turning into a crappy day, he might feel vindictive and invite IT Services to take a closer look.

  ‘Jules, I’m off to see Sir Mathew and knowing how the Chairman likes to talk, you can count me out for the rest of the day.’

  ‘Right oh Mr Lawton.’

  Today Jules wore a bright yellow V-neck and flowery, patterned shirt. The word ‘subtle’ did not exist in the boy’s vocabulary.

  ‘The usual rules about calls–’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Jules said holding up a small, dainty hand to silence him. ‘Only put them through to your mobile if they are from one of our main customers or suppliers. All others take a message.’

  ‘Very good Jules, you’re getting it,’ at last, he was about to say. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  It was often a relief to be heading down the deep, carpeted stairs. It had been an exciting challenge helping Sir Mathew run the company when they were growing rapidly all those years ago, the signing of each new contract was a triumph, and 12-hour days were the norm. These days, growth had slowed down to regular but unspectacular single digits and almost all of the major mobile and laptop manufacturers were their customers, and it was hard not to see his work colleagues as a bunch of over-paid, squabbling kids who needed the occasional boot up the arse to wake them up.

  On the ground floor and behind a smoked, glass-topped desk, sat the immaculately coiffured Mrs Carla Roberts. She represented the modern face of security, replacing the stoic, uniformed and tattooed, ex-army sergeant-major, and while her repertoire of skills did not stretch to a punch in the chops or a forearm lock, her faultless diction and impeccable sense of style would dissuade any feckless intruder from chancing their arm.

  ‘I’ll bid you farewell, Carla. I’m off to see Sir Mathew.’

  ‘You're not coming back to the office tonight, Mr Lawton?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Bye.’

  ‘Goodbye Mr Lawton.’

  He stepped out of the building and walked to the car park at the rear of Markham House and climbed into his car. It was a short, effortless drive to Holland Road but the same could not be said for the climb up to Melanie Shaw’s flat, as it was on the fourth floor of a restored Victorian building without a lift.

  When she opened the door, she greeted him as she always did, as if she had not seen him for weeks and gave him a long, sensuous kiss. If his hormones and everything else had been dulled during the last management meeting, with all the dreary descriptions of project milestones and coding problems, they were alive now and jigging with delight.

  ‘Hello William,’ she said, her hot breath wafting into his ear as her beautiful even and pearly-white teeth nibbled at it.

  ‘Hello Melanie, it’s good to see you.’

  ‘Did you have trouble getting away?’

  ‘Oh no, the old faithful, ‘I’m going to see the chairman’ never fails.’

  ‘Ha. How long have we got?’

  ‘I’ll have to head home at seven.’

  ‘We’ve no time to lose, then,’ she said as she walked into the bedroom.

  Lawton loosened his tie and followed her leisurely, swinging rear. It reminded him of his grandmother’s antique pendulum clock but there was nothing old-fashioned about the way Melanie performed between the sheets.

  FOUR

  He rushed out of his office clutching a slim folder, now late for his next appointment. DI Henderson was due to chair another meeting of the Operation Poseidon team, the inappropriate name allocated to the inquiry into high-value car thefts by the police computer, a moniker that should have reserved for a boat nicking scam or drug shipments being smuggled aboard cruise liners.

  While the car thieving case was an annoying thorn in the side of Sussex Police, it had not yet reached the level of a major investigation. It was unlikely to do so in the light of a number of more serious crimes on his plate and on those of senior colleagues, and so his small team of eight could easily fit into Meeting Room 4, a small pokey room without any windows.

  It had been a long day. He had been seated at his desk by seven, an hour earlier than usual as recurrent toothache kept him awake most of the night and he couldn’t see the point of spending any more time lying in bed or moping around his flat. On those rare occasions when he made it in before the rest of the team, he often got more done as there were fewer phone calls and even fewer interruptions, but what started out as a promising day work-wise had rapidly degenerated as his day had filled up with a succession of meetings.

  By nine-thirty the first of many visitors had trooped in and out his office, offering updates on their progress, or the lack of it in the case of the car-jacking investigation, and after lunch there had been a major get-together of senior officers and the Chief Constable when they listened to his latest thinking on Community Policing and improving relations with the local population. Few things in life were as insufferable as toothache but this had to be one of them.

  The meeting over-ran and he didn’t get a chance to go outside for a walk in the fresh air or enjoy a chat with the smokers hanging around the front door of the building, and he now he felt agitated and restless. All he wanted to do was go home, swallow a couple of paracetamol tablets and sit watching the TV with a large glass of Glenmorangie in his hand, providing those bastards the other night, some of whom didn’t leave his flat until gone three, hadn’t got there first and finished it.

  Whenever he walked into a team meeting, he harboured a fantasy that his presence would cause the cackle and burble to cease, or at least quieten to a murmur, much like it did when any of his former schoolmasters at Lochaber High School in Fort William came into the classroom. In fact, his appearance was barely acknowledged at all, except for the odd nod or wave but then he didn’t have a thick leather tawse nestling under his jacket or have a pro
pensity for throwing chalkboard dusters at the heads of unruly miscreants.

  ‘Ok,’ he said, scraping his chair towards the table, ‘let’s make a start.’ He looked around the room but instead of the expectant, animated faces that often greeted him in the middle of a murder enquiry or a briefing prior to a large drugs bust, all he could see now were tired and listless expressions. He knew it would change the instant a breakthrough was made but it wasn’t going to happen today.

  ‘By now you’ve all had a chance to digest the theft of the car from the house in Henfield on Monday and the attack on Mr Frankcombe, and hopefully you’ve made some progress on your enquiries. Let me start with you Phil, how is Mr Frankcombe?’

  DC Phil Bentley cleared his throat and removed a sheet of paper from the pile in front of him. The youngest member of the team, he had spent a year on the beat in Crawley, and another two at Worthing and it came as no surprise to his bosses when the bright 24-year-old, who unfailingly volunteered for extra overtime and carried out the crappiest duties without demur, requested a move to CID.

  As always, Henderson was willing to give opportunities to young talent but their value to the unit would be judged not only in the cases they helped solve, but also in their reaction to the inevitable setbacks. To date, the tall youngster, dressed in a light polo shirt and chinos, as if it was summer even though it was still early spring and the weather, far from being warm and sunny, was damp and grey, had yet to put a foot wrong.

  ‘Mr Alan Frankcombe was admitted to the Royal Sussex with a broken arm, broken nose, three broken ribs, and extensive bruising to the front and back of his torso and legs, consistent with a good kicking with heavy boots. None of his injuries are life threatening or will leave him disabled or scarred, but the doctors think it will be at least six weeks before he can return to work and a couple of months after that before he gets back to normal.’