Night of Fire: (DI Angus Henderson Book 6) Page 8

‘True, but nobody said they couldn’t be two-faced about it either.’

  **

  Lily Barton arrived home at eight-thirty, the two glasses of champagne she had at the book launch soothing the daily commute. She loaded the dishwasher and switched it on, did the same with the washing machine and turned on the oven for tonight’s meal. She went upstairs to change out of her work clothes and had just come downstairs into the hall when the doorbell rang.

  ‘Good evening Mrs Barton,’ a tall good-looking guy at the door said, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Angus Henderson, Surrey and Sussex Police.’

  ‘And I thought my job title was a mouthful. Is this about Marc?’

  ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘Come on in.’

  She walked into the lounge and turned to face the DI. ‘Is there any news?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I would just like to ask you some questions.’

  He spoke with a soft Scottish accent she couldn’t quite place. A number of Scots worked in her company and she believed she could tell their accents apart, although on tonight’s showing, it suggested her skill didn’t work as well as she thought.

  ‘Did you want to speak to me or Guy? He’s out tonight; he goes out most nights if I’m honest. I don’t know when he’s coming in.’

  ‘No, it’s you I wanted to talk to.’

  ‘Fine. Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee?’

  ‘Coffee would great, thanks. White, no sugar.’

  She walked into the kitchen and switched on the coffee machine and noticed her hands were trembling. He wanted to see her, not Guy. What did it mean; he thought her a suspect? She felt cross with herself for being so stupid. She knew she had nothing to fear and if something she couldn’t explain turned up, she would hire a good lawyer.

  She carried two mugs into the lounge and put them on the table as quick as she could before the detective could detect her tremulous shake.

  ‘Thank you,’ Henderson said.

  Ah, now she could trace the accent. It sounded soft, with the occasional hardness of a city. He came from somewhere north like Inverness, or one of the rural communities out west.

  ‘When Sergeant Wallop and Constable Sunderam talked to you and your husband on Tuesday, you left the room at one point. Your husband then told my officers that you and Marc were involved in an affair.’

  ‘You don’t beat about the bush do you? Straight for the jugular.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Barton, but I don’t want any ambiguity in our discussion. I’m sure you can appreciate how something like this might cause me to think it could have a material impact on this case.’

  ‘Why? I didn’t kill him.’ She tried to sound calm and measured but it sounded strangled and pleading.

  ‘I’m not suggesting you did. This is nice coffee by the way.’

  Despite the circumstances and her own anxiety, she found herself warming to this guy, the composed and gentle way he spoke and his cool, unhurried manner.

  ‘Thank you. Call me Lily. No one but delivery drivers call me Mrs Barton.’

  ‘Lily it is. As I said, I’m not here to accuse you of anything. My main aim is to find out more about Marc. Can you tell me something about the affair?’

  ‘Marc and Guy have known one another since schooldays. When I arrived on the scene, Marc always seemed to be around: meeting up with Guy to go off to football training, drinks down the pub, and latterly when Marc married, meals out with him and his wife. When they divorced, Marc had a succession of girlfriends and once or twice, they came on holiday with us.’

  ‘When did you make the change from being Marc’s friend to becoming his lover?’

  She removed her glasses and polished the lenses, her way of introducing calm into a conversation and giving her time to think. She replaced them.

  ‘It didn’t happen in a drunken stupor, if that’s what you’re thinking, more of a gradual thing. One time skiing in Austria, I twisted my ankle. Guy didn’t mince his words, he didn’t want to miss any time in the snow and I’d find plenty to do mooching around the shops.’

  ‘You make him sound harsh.’

  ‘Do I? I don’t mean to. I was angry with him at the time, being so selfish, but with us only being out there for a week, perhaps I would have done the same.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘Marc decided to ski in the morning and spend the afternoons with me, helping me hobble around shops and sit with me in cafés drinking coffee. He took me swimming as he thought it would be good for my ankle. I can honestly say I was thoroughly enjoying myself for the first time on that holiday, and it seemed a natural progression when we kissed in the pool.’

  This was the sanitised version for the police, but in the one told to Donna, she’d fancied him for ages and couldn’t take her eyes off his great body. When he put his arms under her tummy to offer more support, she completely melted.

  ‘The relationship carried on until the day he died?’

  She nodded, not daring to speak in case the detective would see her tears welling up behind her eyes.

  ‘Did you meet regularly?’

  ‘Twice, sometimes three times a week.’

  ‘When was the last time?’

  ‘The Friday before.’

  ‘In private, or when he came here to your house ostensibly to see Guy?’

  ‘I would go over to his place, or we’d go out in the car. He never came here to see Guy. Marc and Guy don’t talk anymore.’

  ‘Is this because Guy found out about the affair?’

  ‘Is this what Guy told your detectives?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘He did find out, but in a way he understood. Things between us haven’t been great. If anyone asks, it’s what he tells them.’

  ‘Surely he didn’t feel happy with an affair going on under his nose? I know I wouldn’t.’

  ‘That’s just it. He didn’t know it was still going on, he thought it had finished a few months back.’ She bit her lip, not pleased with the deceitful words coming out of her mouth.

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  She looked down at her mug, the coffee slowly turning cold, but she didn’t pick it up.

  ‘So if they didn’t fall out about the affair, what did they fall out about?’

  ‘Guy works for the Council, in the Planning Department.’

  She looked at Henderson who nodded.

  ‘He hates being there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Three words: money, money, money, or rather the lack of it. He enjoys the work but being a civil servant means low pay, low status and meagre pay rises.’

  ‘Not a problem, I imagine for both of you. You’re obviously in a good job.’

  She sighed. ‘My ‘good’ job causes more arguments than anything else. He feels impotent because I earn much more than he does. You see, his father used to be a market trader, everything in cash and giving nothing to the taxman. He can’t understand why Guy still works for the Council; he regards any form of government as the enemy.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The great escape arrived when a friend offered him the chance of a half share in a sports shop franchise. Guy loves sport and all he needed was thirty grand. He wouldn’t take any money from me, as he’s too proud or stubborn to take money from his wife, so he asked Marc.’

  ‘Did Marc have that kind of money?’ Henderson asked, mindful of the large deposits he’d spotted in the victim’s bank account.

  ‘Probably not, especially after the expense of buying a new house, but Guy asked him anyway.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Marc took a close look at the proposal, but told him no. He didn’t like how the financials stacked up and couldn’t see Guy being nice to customers and standing behind a till all day. The two of them had a big argument that ended in fisticuffs. Guy broke Marc’s nose and Marc broke Guy’s arm. In the end, it also broke up a fifteen-year friendship.’

  TWELVE

  In a corner of the Weald Bonfire Society wareho
use, DC Sally Graham tried to get comfortable on the solid wooden chair. It wasn’t the chair’s fault that she felt edgy, but the witness sitting in front of them, Sam Healey, had just told her about all the explosives and combustible materials stockpiled inside the building behind them.

  This was, of course, the place where Marc Emerson died over a week before. The police tape had been removed as the incident had been fully investigated, their analysis made easier as it happened in an open area with no place for a stray hair or cigarette butt to hide out. Just as well, with it being so close to bonfire night members of the Weald Society doubted they could find another place as big as this at such short notice.

  All the same, the members didn’t all come back to their ‘home’ without some reservations. Some of the younger ones, particularly those friendly with Marc, decided to stay away for a spell, but the majority came back and carried on with their work, confident that Marc would want them to do so. The main reason being Marc’s stalwart belief in the Weald cause and his unstinting support for the ancient traditions of Lewes.

  Nevertheless, Sam said the atmosphere in the room was subdued, and the area near the door had become a shrine with dozens of bunches of flowers. Every night while society members worked, the door would open and someone would come in and place a bouquet or a toy on the growing pile. Some would stop and say a prayer, or simply bow their heads for a few seconds before departing.

  ‘What do you do when you’re not working here, Sam?’ Graham asked.

  ‘At this time of year, sometimes it feels that all I do is come here. No, I work for a credit card company in Brighton. I’m in the Marketing department and before you say it sounds glamorous going to all those sun-kissed beaches or sightseeing in a taxi around New York, just like the television ads, that stuff is all done by our American ad agency. Even so, I still get to work on some creative stuff. At the moment, I’m involved in designing posters for a campaign that’s running on the London underground, and flyers which will be sent out to cardholders with their monthly bill.’

  ‘Do you get to use your creative skills here at Weald?’ DC Phil Bentley, sitting beside Sally Graham asked.

  ‘I can draw, but at work we use systems like Photoshop.’

  Bentley gave him a blank look.

  ‘You know, photo manipulation software. We use it to take people out of photos, add items and people into scenes, enhance colour, remove blemishes; that sort of stuff. Make sense?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now, do you see the guy over there?’

  The detectives followed his finger to a long table covered in papers and fabrics.

  ‘Which one?’ Graham asked.

  ‘The guy with the loud shirt.’

  A dapper looking gent with wispy grey hair, wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt and gold-framed specs was smiling and talking to the girls sitting beside him.

  ‘Yep, I see him.’

  ‘His name is John Greaves. He’s a local artist with his paintings in a gallery in the Lanes in Brighton. Have you heard of him?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Bentley said.

  ‘Believe me when I tell you, that man can draw. In about ten minutes, he drew a caricature of the prime minister and we used it to build the effigy which you can see being worked on behind the table.’

  Graham could see it. It stood about three metres tall with the PM’s face complete and recognisable, but the body, out of proportion with the head to emphasise the PM’s small stature. The body was incomplete, a mass of curved wire and padding to which people were currently adding papier mâché.

  ‘If you ask him nicely, he’ll do one of you guys.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer, but no thanks. I had one of them done a while back,’ Bentley said, ‘and my girlfriend at the time couldn’t stop laughing. I swore I would never do it again.’

  ‘If you don’t do much drawing, Sam,’ Graham asked, ‘what else do you do?’

  ‘I do everything, really. I help make torches, construct the float, help Marc out when he’s setting up the fireworks.’

  ‘I thought he worked for a food company?’ Bentley asked. ‘Don’t you need to be trained to handle a big fireworks display?’

  ‘I don’t think you do, but I’m sure it helps. Marc took a couple of training courses to understand the chemistry and make sure he could deal with everything safely, like putting on a display during bad weather, or while being hassled by a bunch of drunks.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘No, it goes with the territory. A lot people see Bonfire Night as an excuse for a piss-up, and why not? By the time we light the bonfire around ten, I guarantee they’ll be loads of drunken bums in the crowd. It makes for better banter when Jamie stands up to give his speech.’

  Aged thirty-five, Sam Healey sported a thick crop of black hair, gelled and sticking up at random angles. Some would call it trendy, but to Graham it looked messy, although it was the only thing about Healy that could be called untidy. Even though he only came in this evening to ‘muck in’ as he put it, the jeans and jumper looked better than many people would wear for a night out.

  With it being so close to the big day, many Weald members were in attendance and the detectives had their choice of interview subjects. Sam was their third of the night but it would be the last. It wasn’t because of fatigue, but after two and a half hours of talking, they’d heard nothing new. No tales of dark pasts, drug, alcohol or gambling abuse, violent tendencies or hinting at something they would prefer to keep quiet. Perhaps they weren’t hiding anything at all, maybe they had nothing to tell.

  Graham now had a list of every Weald Bonfire Society member. It would be passed to one of the analysts on the team and checked against the Police National Computer for criminal records, banning orders, unpaid bills or delinquent Child Support Agency payments. If any name raised a flag, it would give them grounds for further investigation but based on tonight’s showing, she doubted if any would.

  ‘There are quite a few people in the Society with useful skills,’ Sam said, ‘like sewing to patch up rips in banners, make-up to make us look like pirates, fundraising to pay for all this or sourcing wood for us to burn on the bonfire. We all do whatever it takes to put on a great show.’

  ‘Do tensions exist between members?’

  ‘Of course they do. Look around here. There’s thirty, thirty-five people and no way do they all get on with one another. That would be unrealistic. When we get nearer the fifth, everyone’s more tense so the volume gets louder and some ding-dong arguments go on, but they’re soon forgotten when the procession starts.’

  ‘Did Marc get involved in any these disagreements?’

  He paused. ‘I would need to go back to last year to think of a big one. It’s so long ago, I guess it’s not relevant anymore.’ He leaned forward as if breaking confidences. ‘I suppose you know Guy Barton and Marc didn’t get along?’

  ‘Yes, we do.’

  ‘Guy helps out if we’re short and socialises with a few of the guys so we often see him around, but I’d be mightily pissed off if I knew someone had been porking my wife.’

  ‘Did it ever get violent?’

  ‘Only once when they had a stand-up fight.’ He looked at Graham who nodded.

  ‘I don’t think they’ve spoken to one another since. If we all go out for a drink and Guy turns up, Marc leaves.’

  ‘What about the rivalry between bonfire societies?’ Bentley asked. ‘Is there much?’

  Graham felt a bout of irritation at the sudden change of subject as she wanted to hear more about the altercation between former friends. The feeling disappeared in seconds when she realised the fight didn’t interest her much, but the affair triggering it did, although she doubted if Sam could add anything new.

  ‘Yeah, there’s some. You see, there are six bonfire societies, all with their own dress codes, bonfires and history, and everyone wants their society to be the best on the night. So if one of the other societies hap
pens to have a mishap on the big day or something doesn’t go well with their preparations, we don’t lose any sleep over it. In fact, we’d all give a mighty big cheer if something went wrong at Trafalgar.’

  ‘The Trafalgar Bonfire Society?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why do you view them differently?’

  ‘I suppose it’s like football teams. Most fans probably don’t remember why Brighton and Pompey are such great rivals; they just are and everyone goes along with it. Well, Trafalgar and us have been at each other’s throats for years. We drink in different pubs, we don’t cooperate with them over anything and I don’t think anyone has ever shifted their allegiance from one society to the other.’

  ‘Does the rivalry ever spill over into violence?’ Bentley asked.

  ‘Violence? No, that’s putting it a bit strong, but one time, about a month ago, we caught one of the scum, that’s what we call them, sneaking in here trying to take some pictures. Luckily one of our lads came in and confronted him. He gave him a pasting and ‘accidentally’ stood on his phone before sending him packing.’

  Graham couldn’t help but smile. Back at Malling House, she would be regarded by many as a stickler for procedure, someone who liked to do things ‘by the book’, but she’d been in the force long enough to realise some situations demanded summary justice. By calling the police, it would involve the combatants in a long list of questions, create a pile of paperwork for the officers involved and the perpetrator would most likely leave court with no more than a caution.

  ‘Lucky for us he was spotted by someone who could look after himself and not little Lucy over there, or me who wouldn’t say ‘boo’ to a goose. You see, the guy from Trafalgar had the reputation of being a bit of a tough nut.’

  ‘Who beat him up? The big bloke over there carrying those boxes?’ Graham asked.

  ‘No, Kevin McLaren.’

  THIRTEEN

  ‘It’s hardly worth getting the car out of the car park for such a short journey,’ Walters said from the passenger seat of Henderson’s Audi.