Driving into Darkness (DI Angus Henderson 2) (16 page)

‘Well, if it isn’t your good self, Rab McGovern and what familiar surroundings you find yourself in.’

‘After all this time to think about it, is this the best line you can come up wi’ Henderson?’

‘It’s Inspector Henderson to you, sonny.’

‘Fuck me, haven’t we moved up in the world? When I first met you, it was Sergeant Henderson but hey, everybody called you Haggis.’

‘I recall our first meeting as well. At this point in the match, Celtic were losing 2-0 I think it was, but you didn’t get to see the rest of it did you? You were in the back of a panda wagon, charged with drunk and disorderly and threatening behaviour.’

‘Aye, those were the good old days. Parkhead was a fortress.’ He leaned across the table and tapped his chest, ‘oor fortress.’

‘How’s the hand?’

‘You fucked up my chances of becoming a concert pianist for sure, but I’ll cope.’

McGovern spent yesterday afternoon in the Royal Sussex Hospital having three broken fingers re-set and by the look of the splint holding everything in place, the staff there had done a neat job. Henderson’s shoulder didn’t require hospital treatment but it throbbed, and the giant bruise it left could pass for a badly drawn map of Africa.

McGovern had changed little since Henderson last clapped eyes on the ugly sod all those years ago, as he led him through the crowds in handcuffs at an international match at Hampden, past lines of mounted police standing easy, but ready to wade in if needed, and out to long columns of police cars and vans parked one behind the other in nearby streets.

Dressed in a denim jacket over a clean Megadeth t-shirt, the clothes were different but the lean, scarred face under short, brown hair still sneered and snarled as if the world owed him a living.

Despite a never-ending carousel of arrests and court appearances, it amazed him why criminals like McGovern refused to spend the riches they pillaged and plundered from ones less fortunate and streetwise than themselves, on decent legal representation. There were people in the legal profession who excelled at court petitioning and would search for a good angle to ameliorate their client’s position, but somehow people like McGovern couldn’t see it.

It put him in mind of legendary Glasgow solicitor John Millani, a criminal barrister who would have made a brilliant prosecutor but instead chose to defend gangsters, robbers and murderers, and the waiting room of his office was often a better place to look for some of the city’s criminals than any of the pubs in the East End.

He employed a gang of clerks to pore over ancient cases, legal directives, and law books looking for something to help their clients. He was at the centre of many high profile cases when the defendant walked free even before the trial opened, such as the man who had spent too much time on remand, another when there wasn’t a judge to take his trial, and yet another when an eagle-eyed clerk spotted a typographical error in the arrest warrant.

Instead, people like McGovern plumped for the lottery of the duty solicitor, in this case a studious-looking man called Jeffrey Watson, a fellow who said little and spent most of his time taking notes. Some of Henderson’s colleagues preferred a weak or ineffective individual to be sitting across the table from them but he didn’t, as a skilful and combatant lawyer could spot holes and inconsistencies in their evidence, things he could make sure were fixed before the case came to trial.

‘So, why when we came round to your place, Rab did you start running? We only wanted a wee chat.’

‘Well, why didn’t ye not knock on the door first instead of smashing the fucking thing to pieces? You bastards are always trying to fit me up.’

‘You’re laying it on a bit thick for a man who smashes doors down for a living, don’t you think?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I’m talking about a car nicking team that are operating in my patch, Some say, you’re in this team and some say you’re not only in it, but you’re their leader.’

‘Car nicking? You’re joking, it’s no’ me pal.’

‘Are you denying it?’

‘Of course I bloody am, you’ve got nothing on me.’

‘DS Walters can you please inform Mr McGovern about the email we received yesterday afternoon from our friends in the Met Police, while Mr McGovern was enjoying high tea in our fine Custody Suite.’

Walters picked up the paper in front of her.

‘DI Speers of the Metropolitan Police is currently investigating the murder of a man called Stephen Halliday. At the moment, they have not yet named a suspect but they believe the motive for the murder might be drug related.’

Henderson was watching McGovern. His lip twitched at the mention of Halliday’s name but if it didn’t bother him, the next bit might.

‘They were in the process of following up some promising leads when a man walked into Hackney Police Station and told them who the killer was. He said it was you, Rab McGovern.’

What happened next even Henderson couldn’t have predicted. McGovern exploded in a volcanic outpouring of rage, causing Walters to slink back in her chair in alarm

‘The fuck you think you’re playing at, you shower of bastards? I didn’t kill the skag bastard.’

‘Sit down McGovern.’

‘I bet that fucker Ehuru did it, trying to set me up. I should have done him in years ago.’ On and on the ranting went. Henderson decided to leave the tape running, as despite only understanding about half, as even he was having trouble with the strong Glasgow accent, it might pay to analyse the diatribe in more detail later, but at the moment it was doing his head in.

A minute or two more, and there was still no sign of an abatement and little chance they would get much out of McGovern the state he was in, so he called for a recess and for once McGovern's brief looked grateful.

Rather than head for the coffee machine at the end of the corridor and drink tepid river water, they walked back to Murder Suite to make a better class of beverage in the little kitchen used by the murder team.

‘Did you speak to DS Speers after he sent you the email?’ Walters asked.

‘I did, just before we went in to see McGovern.’

‘Did he tell you anything about his informant as McGovern seems to know him. Someone called Ehuru.’

‘Speers didn’t get his name. But he said he was a large guy who looked as if he did weights or worked in a heavy manual job, black and seemed to know what he was talking about. Check him out and see if he’s got any form. I don't imagine there's many people on the system with the name, and I’ll talk to Speers again and find out how they’re getting on searching McGovern’s flat.’

Henderson headed back to his office but rather than waking up his computer, only to find another flood of emails asking for money for the Police Benevolent Fund or announcing another booze-up to celebrate a retirement/new baby/promotion, he left it alone and picked up the phone to call DS Speers of the Met Police.

‘Hello Trevor, it’s Angus Henderson, Sussex Police again.’

‘Hello Angus. How’s the interview with McGovern going?’

‘Not well at all. He denied any involvement in the car thefts and blew a fuse when I told him you wanted to speak to him about Halliday’s murder. He also denied killing Halliday, as you’d expect.’

‘Well, I’ve got something to help loosen his tongue. We searched his flat, first thing this morning and found what we think might be the murder weapon; a wooden club that might be an old police truncheon. You know, the old wooden type with the leather handle. Before my time, of course.’

‘Mine too.’

‘It looks clean but we’ve sent it off for analysis and what makes me think we’re on the right track is we also found a roll of money with Halliday’s fingerprints on it and a black leather jacket with visible bloodspots. We managed to trace the girl McGovern was with on the night Halliday was killed, a girl by the name of Jasmine David, and she confirms McGovern was wearing a black leather jacket when they met.’

‘I imagine this makes him your number one suspect.’

‘Too right. If it’s at all possible, I’d like you to keep him in custody until we're ready to collect him.’

‘Shouldn’t be too difficult. If I can’t get anything else out of him about the cars or Halliday’s murder, I can still keep him in custody for resisting arrest and attempting to murder a police officer, that should keep him banged up for the foreseeable.’

‘Good. I'll use the time to finish forensics and re-analyse CCTV, now we know who we’re looking for. It’ll make my discussion with McGovern much more interesting.’

Henderson walked back into the Murder Suite and after finding Walters and brief her on his conversation with Speers.

‘Well I got a result too about the guy McGovern mentioned, Ehuru. I think he is one, Jason Ehuru.’

‘What makes you think you’ve got the right guy?’

‘This guy lives in Clapham, a few streets away from McGovern, he’s about the same age and they were both in Wandsworth at the same time.’

‘What was he in for?’

‘Stealing cars.’

The interview with Rab McGovern continued on Saturday morning. The room contained the same four players around the table as before, with the same nervous-looking cop standing guard at the door.

‘While you’ve been enjoying our hospitality, Rab, we’ve been making a few enquiries. If you cast your mind back to our last meeting, I mentioned the killing of Stephen Halliday and that DI Speers of the Metropolitan Police wanted to speak to you.’

He left it hanging, waiting for another outburst but it didn’t come, so he continued.

‘DI Speers has been to your flat in Clapham, giving it the once over and he’s found evidence linking the murder to you.’

‘I hope they didn’t leave a fucking mess, the bastards.’

‘I’m sure you’ll have no complaints.’

‘That’ll be the day. But see, I’ve got nothing to worry about,’ he said confident as a cock-sparrow, ‘Jasmine will sort me out.’

‘Who’s Jasmine?’ Walters asked.

‘The bird I was with on the night Halliday was totalled. She’ll tell you and that fucker Speers, I was with her all night,’ he said, laying strong emphasis on the word ‘all.’

‘DI Speers has been trying to locate Jasmine,’ Walters said, ‘but so far they have been unable to find her. He thinks she’s scarpered.’

Henderson remembered Speers telling him about McGovern’s leather jacket and how his girlfriend for the night, Jasmine David confirmed he had been wearing it. So she wasn’t missing, but he decided to say nothing and see where Walters was taking this.

‘Christ,’ McGovern said, becoming agitated and bobbing up and down and wringing his hands as if he was a smack head in need of a fix. Maybe he was. ‘You’ve gorra get me out of here, Henderson. I need to see Jasmine. She can sort this. I was with her all the time the Halliday bloke bought it, I’m telling you straight up.’

Walters leaned over the table. ‘We might be able to find Jasmine for you.’

His eyes lit up. ‘Would you? It would be pure dead brilliant, so it would. She’ll get me oot, you’ll see.’

‘Now, if we do something for you, it’s only right you do something for us.’

‘No way, babe, I’m not doing it.’

She folded her arms. ‘No car-thieving gang, no Jasmine.’

For once, his brief stepped in and whispered something into his ear. There followed a short exchange of inaudible whispers and animated facial expressions between lawyer and client, although from McGovern’s mouth it sounded more like the hiss of a cornered alley cat. On an A4 pad Henderson wrote, ‘nice one’ and passed it to Walters.

The huddle ceased and a grumpy looking McGovern stared back at them. ‘I’ll do it but if Jasmine isnae here in the next two days, when I get out,’ he said pointing at Walters, ‘I’m coming to get you.’

‘We’ll have less of the threats McGovern,’ Henderson said, ‘you’re not in a pub now.’

‘It’s no’ a threat pal, it’s a promise.’

‘We’ll see about that. Tell us about your team.’

Slowly, slowly as he doodled on a piece of paper, he started to talk. ‘There’s four of us, me, Stu Cahill, Jason Ehuru and Tremain Rooney.’

At the mention of Ehuru’s name, Walters gave Henderson a nudge but he’d noticed it too.

‘Cahill does the telephone wires and alarms, Ehuru’s the getaway driver and a bit of muscle, Rooney’s great wi’ cars, alarms, electronics and acts as lookout.’

‘How do you target the cars?’

He huffed. The confession was hurting.

‘Cahill’s a bit of a smooth bastard and one night in a club, he picks up this bird who works for this big outfit called Juniper Enterprises.’

‘Never heard of them. What do they do?’ Henderson asked.

‘Ach, they’re into everything from shops tae docks and entertainment venues. But,’ he said holding up a finger, ‘and I knew this cause I like cars, they also own loads of car dealerships selling up-market motors.’

‘I’ve still never heard of them.’

‘It’s cause there’s no’ a car dealer called Juniper. When they buy a dealer, the dealer keeps their original name, see? So when Stu stays over at this bird’s place, he sneaks a peek at her work computer and bingo, we can get into their system anytime we like and with just a few clicks, we can find oot who have just treated themselves to a nice new motor.’

‘Ingenious,’ Henderson said. ‘So how does this tie up with the buyer?’

He snorted. ‘Piece of cake. Every now and again, the buyer gives me a list of all the cars he wants. He doesn’t give a monkey’s aboot the spec as long as it’s the same colour and model. We look on the Juniper system and see who’s bought one in this area and then we nick it. Mind, there's no’ only us, there’s other teams out there as well.’

Tony Haslam had told him this too but Henderson thought he was talking about a bunch of disparate, unconnected gangs and not a coordinated attempt by a ‘Mr Big’ to steal cars all over the country.

‘Who’s the buyer?’

‘Hold on Henderson. Ah said I’d give you all the info about the gang and how we nick the motors, ah never said anything about the buyer. He’s a bad bastard, cut up yer granny for a fiver so he would, so you're getting nothing out of me aboot him. You nicked his team up in Hackney, is it no’ enough?’

Henderson shrugged. He would have the conversation later, as today’s had a different purpose. ‘Fair enough, but we’ll find out eventually. Tell me about the robberies.’

‘What can I say? We get a grand a motor and we’ve nicked, oh…aboot a hundred motors.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Walters said.

Bloody hell indeed, as he had no idea of the scale of this thing and it put the thieving in their patch of the South East into some kind of perspective. Not only would McGovern’s admission clear up cases in East and West Sussex, but in about every police region within the Home Counties, with the bulk of cases being in London.

The telephone call he and DI Speers would make to their respective chief constables to clear up a large number of unsolved crimes would form the highlight of their day and give the two detectives brownie points, used to offset the inevitable slip-ups that would inevitably take place some time in the future. It was all good stuff and Henderson felt a great weight being lifted from his shoulders but McGovern had said not a peep about the Markham murder.

He wanted to ask, but guys like McGovern shot from the hip and would react emotionally to such an accusation. He would most likely blow another fuse, ending this interview with little prospect of a re-match.

‘I suppose your activities were curtailed by the garage bust in Hackney?’ he said.

McGovern’s eyes narrowed as he placed down on the table the large mug of milky-brown tea he was slurping. ‘Put us out o’ fucking business more like. Who put you lot on to it?’

‘Nobody. We’re capable of solving crimes without using narks. There must be other people you could work with?’

He leant forward and eyeballed Henderson, his sharp, grey eyes like those of a ferret, tiny and unflinching. ‘You know shag-all Henderson. Do you know how hard it is to set up a bloody smart operation like this? I’ll tell ye matey, it takes months, not days or weeks, bloody months.’

He was right and Henderson knew it and his face flushed at such an obvious display of naivety. It involved a car recovery centre in Nijmegen, trained mechanics to clone a car’s intimate details, and developing contacts at the DVLA. It was a big operation, which would take time to put together and even then, a large slice of luck would be required to make it all work.

‘You couldn’t just nick cars and sell them?’ Walters said. ‘I mean, couldn’t you use the web or Autotrader?’

‘Nah, been there lady, got the t-shirt. You’ve got them overhead gantry cameras and they can pick out a car’s reg, cop cars can check the car in front of them to make sure it’s insured, taxed and MOT'd, and garages have computers to tell them everything about a motor and it disnae take them two minutes to find out it’s being nicked. It’s a fucking mug’s game, so it is and I would only do it again if I could have the same set-up as I’ve got now.’

Henderson was taken back by the implications of this. The murder of Sir Mathew happened on the last Sunday of April, fours days after the raid on the garage in Hackney. McGovern had to be lying or the Markham car snatch was done before they found out they didn’t have a buyer. Henderson sat back sulking. It was now or never.

‘Where were you last Sunday night?’

‘You taking a keen interest in my social life now, Henderson. Are you a poof by any chance?’ He laughed at his own joke, as if standing on Glasgow Green, watching a comedian going through his routine rather than sitting in a CID interview room and facing two possible murder charges.

‘So, where were you?’

‘Let me consult with my assistant here and take a gander at my busy appointments schedule,’ he said, clearly enjoying himself. ‘About nine, I went to The Right Place, a pub in Clapham wi’ Stu Cahill. We had a few bevvies, well more like a skinful if the truth be told.’

He stopped to drink some tea. ‘There was a band on, who were shite by the way, as they seemed more pissed than we were but we stayed ‘cause the crack was good and there were loads of fantastic birds around. We left the pub about one as I fancied a wee puff and Stu said he had some good gear back at his place. We went there with two birds we met, called,’ he paused, snapping his fingers at the same time, ‘yeah, Betsy Naylor and Debbie Thomas.’

‘We got there and had a good smoke and a few more bevvies.’ He leaned across the table conspiratorially, his stale breath wafting towards Henderson like a bad omen. ‘I would like to say I shagged young Betsy ragged and afterwards gave her a good spankin’ and left her lovely arse red-raw, but I didn't. See, ah drank too much bevvy and conked out about half two. Fell asleep on the floor, we all did.’

‘Maybe the gang were out nicking cars without you.’ Walters said.

It was a good question as Suki Markham only reported seeing three intruders, but then he said he was with Stu Cahill, which would in fact take two of them out of the equation.

His darkened. ‘Don’t be fucking daft missus, they wouldn’t dare. I tell them what tae nick and they do it. No fucking way would they do anything else or their lives wouldn't be worth living.’

‘Have you recently stolen a Bentley?’ Henderson asked.

‘Let me think aboot it for a sec. Nope. Can’t say we did.’

‘What, is it not the sort of motor your buyer asks you to nick?’

‘I wouldn't say that because we nicked one, oh it must have been three or four months back.’

‘You see, I was convinced you and your mates were at Sir Mathew Markham’s house in Ditching last Sunday and nicked his Bentley. Tell me I’m wrong.’

‘Oh ah get it. You’re trying to stich me up for his murder as well? I read the papers see? Two in one day, are you going for a record? It was done by some other crew, no’ us. We’ve never done a house in Ditchling, never been there and I don’t know where the fuck it is.’

They carried on talking for another ten minutes but Henderson had lost heart. Even though he could see inconsistencies in the way the gang attacked Markham’s house, he came to this interview confident they would be clearing up the car thieving caper and Sir Mathew’s murder all in one stroke, but now his belief had all but evaporated.

He looked at Walters and she seemed to be going through the same emotional roller coaster as he was and after a few more minutes, he terminated the interview and the two detectives collected their papers. When they reached the door McGovern, who was chewing his lip and seemed to be away in a world of his own, called him back.

‘Don’t forget, you find Jasmine and get her in here, she’s my ticket oot o’ this pigsty.’

‘We’ll find her, don’t you worry,’ Henderson said.

‘Aye, fair do’s but this is no’ the end of it, though. See, if she doesn't come up wi’ the goods, I’ve got something up my sleeve, a kinda fall-back position.’

A devious smile crept across his face, making him look less human and more like a cartoon rat.

‘Oh, what’s that then?’

He looked over at Watson but he was impassive to McGovern’s little pantomime. ‘I’ll get him,’ he said jerking a thumb at his solicitor, ‘tae put up the Warrior Gene defence.’

Henderson smiled. A graduate of Glasgow University with a degree in Sociology and Psychology, he still maintained an interest in both subjects despite the passage of twenty-odd years. However, it would shame him to admit, he often didn’t have the time to read the thick copy of Psychology Today that came thumping through his letterbox every second month.

He knew what McGovern was talking about as there had been a television programme about the Warrior Gene a few months back and at the time, it piqued his interest and so he dug out the relevant issue of the magazine to read and checked it out on the web.

The article and the television programme focused on a court case in America in which the prosecution in a murder case were convinced that the perpetrator would receive the death penalty for a murder, as there was overwhelming evidence against him. However, the sentence was commuted to life imprisonment after a psychologist successfully argued the killer carried the monoamine oxidase A gene, or MAO-A gene.