The Murder House (6 page)

‘He's a gossip,' I said bitterly. I didn't care that I was being disloyal to my shift sergeant by condemning him so bluntly. At least some of the blame for the day's disaster was down to him – if he hadn't chattered about Butterworth's Blunder, I wouldn't have had anything to tell James on the train. ‘Is it true? Did Noble walk?'

‘Not yet,' replied Davis. ‘Professional Standards will take the stand tomorrow, to state that Mark is being officially investigated. But Ingram says that the case is lost anyway. No jury's going to convict when there's proof that the police played around with the evidence.'

‘But you put it right,' I objected. ‘It was only wrong for a few hours, and it was just a case of a tired man doing one stupid thing.'

‘Irrelevant,' said Davis brusquely. ‘Mark tampered with the evidence. That means all the forensic tests are out of the window, and there isn't enough left without those.'

‘The CCTV,' I said stubbornly. ‘We've got footage of Noble unloading drugs.'

‘Records show the disk was released to Mark several times,' explained Oakley. ‘Paxton will claim that was altered, too, and we can't prove it wasn't. You can do all sorts of interesting things these days, and it's no secret that Mark was a computer buff. Paxton will have it thrown out faster than the forensics.'

The past tense wasn't lost on me. ‘Was?' I demanded. ‘Mark
was
?'

‘He's dead,' said Oakley bluntly. ‘Hit by a lorry on his way home.' He must have seen my horror, because he put a hand on my shoulder in sympathy. ‘I'm sorry. I thought Wright had told you.'

‘He didn't get to that part,' I whispered, fighting the bile that threatened to make me throw up. ‘Someone more interesting came along.'

A
t first, there were whispers that Butterworth's death wasn't an accident – that Noble had taken out insurance lest proceedings hadn't gone according to plan. Then it was claimed that Butterworth had been so distressed by his court experience that he had killed himself intentionally. Oakley dealt with the rumours by making an announcement in the canteen. He deliberately chose a time when Wright's shift was on duty, sensing that both stories had originated with the gossiping sergeant. Anderson was there, standing slightly apart from her colleagues, as was her wont.

Oakley explained that Butterworth had been exhausted by long working hours and the strains of a teething baby. He blamed himself for not staying with him after the courtroom revelations, but Butterworth had wanted to be alone and Oakley had respected that. However, there wasn't a shred of evidence that the lorry driver had been in Noble's employ. The man wasn't local, and had been driving for thirty years without so much as a speeding ticket.

The second rumour was more difficult to dispel when it was known that Butterworth was on anti-depressants. How the gossips should have learned this was beyond Oakley, who had thought that he was the only one who had been taken into Mark's confidence. He skipped over that part, merely concluding that Butterworth had been angry and ashamed but not suicidal, and pointing out that such tales were hurtful to his widow.

As he walked away from the canteen, it occurred to him that they would never know what had really happened. It had been rush hour, and traffic was heavy. The lorry driver claimed that Butterworth had simply appeared in front of him, too late to avoid. They were hoping for a verdict of accidental death, which would allow his wife and child to benefit from insurance that they could not collect had it been suicide. It was a tragedy all round – for Butterworth, his family, the driver, and Oakley, who had lost a valued friend.

Oakley thought Anderson seemed more shaken than she should have been considering she barely knew Butterworth, and he wondered if she was the right kind of person to be a police officer. She was altogether too sensitive. Still, he thought, there was nothing wrong with an officer who was softly spoken, quiet and compassionate. If there was room for men like Wright, then there should be room for women like Anderson.

But he didn't think about Anderson for long. He had work to do – which included finding out how James Paxton had learned about Butterworth's Blunder.

Investigating the leak was frustrating. As far as he knew, only five people at New Bridewell were aware of what Butterworth had done: Mark himself, Oakley, Derek Jones the custody sergeant, Clare Davis and Superintendent Taylor, who had passed the matter to Professional Standards. Professional Standards could be eliminated as suspects, as it was their job to make sure the incidents they investigated remained secret, and they had no reason to tell anyone else, anyway. That left the New Bridewell people.

Oakley knew
he
had said nothing, while he had known Davis for years, and was certain she wasn't the culprit. So his suspects were Jones, the superintendent and Butterworth himself. The digital photo Paxton had presented of the tampered page had a date in the corner. Oakley checked the duty roster, and saw that Taylor had been at a conference in Leeds at the time, while Jones had been on annual leave.

He thought long and hard about whether Butterworth might have let something slip, but decided it was unlikely. The DS had been deeply ashamed of what he had done, and would not have wanted anyone else to know. Later, it emerged at the inquest that he had not even told his wife. All three were thus exonerated, and Oakley was left with a list of none.

He and Davis discussed the problem over a beer in the Mucky Duck. There was only one conclusion: someone had eavesdropped when the matter had been discussed. Once that possibility was mooted, Oakley knew he was unlikely to find a culprit, although a nagging voice at the back of his head kept reminding him that the biggest gossip in the station was Barry Wright. But there was no evidence to incriminate the sergeant, and Wright was not the sort of man to break down and confess in a fit of remorse.

Then Professional Standards arrived and took over. In the enquiry that followed, every officer in New Bridewell admitted to knowing about Butterworth's Blunder. Wright's name cropped up several times as the source, so Professional Standards grilled Wright relentlessly, but he vehemently denied passing information to outside sources, and as nothing could be proved, their enquiry eventually staggered to a standstill, leaving many questions unanswered and the station uneasy in its wake.

The week that Professional Standards invaded New Bridewell was one of the worst in my life. I was certain they'd know that James and I were at school together, and would conclude that I was the one who'd leaked the information. When they called me in I thought I was going to be sick. My stomach churned and my head pounded, so I could barely hear what they were saying. It took all of my self-control not to look guilty. It occurred to me that this was the time to confess, but I didn't. The whole business had gone too far, and the thought of my colleagues' reproach was more than I could bear.

They asked whether I'd heard about Butterworth's Blunder, and I replied that I had. Then they asked who'd told me, but life was bad enough without having Wright accusing me of disloyalty, so I said nothing. The Professional Standards men exchanged glances and said that one specific sergeant kept cropping up as a source – I wasn't the first, and probably would not be the last, to name Wright. So I did, and they nodded their thanks and let me go.

And that was it. I'd escaped confessing yet again.

In the following weeks, Oakley often asked for me when he needed a uniformed officer, although I think it was more to put two fingers up to Wright than because he thought I was special. He'd guessed it was Wright who'd spilled the beans about Butterworth, and hated him for it. Wright, meanwhile, embarked on a private mission against Oakley, using every opportunity to point out that he wasn't ‘one of us'. I suppose he was referring to Oakley's Indian blood. If I'd been Oakley, I'd have reported him for racism, but then I probably should've reported him for sexism, so I understood why Oakley thought it wasn't worth the trouble.

One day, Oakley asked if I'd known that Butterworth had been so dangerously close to the edge at Noble's trial.

‘He looked terrible,' I said. ‘Even more scared of the witness stand than me.'

‘You were scared?'

I hastened to cover up my near-blunder. ‘I'd been in court before, but never for such a major case. I knew how much time you'd invested, and I wanted to make sure I didn't mess up.'

‘I knew Mark was nervous,' Oakley said, a little distantly. ‘I just didn't realize how much. I let him down.'

‘
He
let
you
down, sir. You had a good case, and it was his dishonesty that let Noble back on the streets.'

Oakley stared at me, and I saw I should have kept my thoughts to myself. ‘He made a mistake,' he said shortly. ‘When he was tired, agitated and unwell. It could happen to any of us.'

He walked away, and I wondered whether he would be so generous about my mistake – the one that led to Butterworth's death.

But gradually, the enormity of what had happened began to fade, and I settled back into my normal life – although wiser, less trusting and more cynical. I went to work, spent my free evenings at home, and enjoyed weekend drinks and meals with Frances, Colin and Gary.

It was about four months after Mark's death when the next thing happened that was to change my life. It started with a series of burglaries in the Westbury area, and a man called Billy Yorke.

A damp, gloomy spring was followed by the green and yellow hues of summer. People sat outside on the long, warm evenings, and families looked forward to the school holidays. There was often a carnival-like atmosphere in Bristol's centre, as residents and tourists alike enjoyed its parks, harbour and shopping centres. The air was rich with the scent of takeaway vans, traffic and the tepid water in the docks.

Unfortunately, the fine weather did little to cheer the victims of what the press called the ‘Westbury Burglaries'. These were all aggravated, which meant that violence was used during their commission. The stocking-masked culprits were well organized and careful, striking at houses in one of the city's most affluent areas. So far there had been eight attacks, and the thieves didn't care if the occupants were at home – they merely herded their victims into a bedroom, where they were bound with duct tape. Usually the victims were so frightened they did as they were told and escaped relatively unscathed. Anyone who resisted could expect to be hit, however.

As far as New Bridewell's CID could see, the burglaries were random, with no common factor in timing or victims. The villains' team comprised six men who could break through the most sophisticated security devices. A driver stayed outside to make a quick getaway, three dealt with the victims, and the remaining two searched the houses with a ruthless efficiency that suggested they knew exactly what was where. Safes were raided first, followed by jewellery, gold and original artwork. Computers, televisions and other electronic equipment – unless they were very expensive – were ignored.

It was apparent from the beginning that the Westbury Burglaries were the work of experienced criminals, ones Oakley suspected had access to insurance documents that told them what was in each house. However, none of the victims shared the same insurer.

After a while, Oakley began to suspect a villain named Billy Yorke, mostly because they bore his hallmark: ruthless efficiency and care to leave nothing that might later be used to convict. Unfortunately, he couldn't prove it, and Taylor refused to let him search Yorke's various properties until he had something more solid than a hunch.

Yorke was a wealthy man. Once a security guard for a company of architects – most of whom had later gone to prison for fraud – he had financed his climb up the social ladder with serious crime. At the age of fifty-five he owned two mansions and a number of houses that he rented to other criminals, a fleet of cars, and he was a member of the city's most expensive golf club.

‘But why him?' asked Graham Evans, the DS who had replaced Butterworth. In many ways, Evans was easier to work with than Butterworth. He was slow and unimaginative, but he followed orders doggedly and with total dedication. He was heavily set, with a princely beer belly, and a shock of fair hair that looked odd with his lined, florid face. Oakley liked him, and the two were on their way to becoming friends as well as colleagues.

‘The burglaries have his stamp,' explained Oakley. They were in the CID office, reading witness statements from the most recent attack. The victim was an elderly woman named Emma Vinson, who had resisted the invasion, and had been brutally beaten in return. She was currently in intensive care and it was too early to say whether she would recover.

‘They've got Noble's stamp, too,' said Evans reasonably. ‘Theft, violence, fast and ruthless, don't care whether they are seen.'

‘Noble's men would have taken the computers and DVD players, too,' argued Oakley. ‘And they would have been more violent. The Westbury burglars don't want to injure; they just want the property. They'll only cause harm if they have to.'

‘You think three men
had
to hit Mrs Vinson?' demanded Evans. ‘They did it because they
wanted
to.'

‘She tried to set off the burglar alarm. Their sole aim was to stop her. I agree that they didn't have to hit her so hard, but I don't think cruelty was intended in the attack, just ruthlessness.'

‘I don't see the difference, and I'm not convinced it's Yorke. I'm not surprised Taylor won't give you a search warrant.'

‘Yorke will be the one who goes straight to the safe,' mused Oakley, ignoring his sergeant's reservations. ‘He won't have anything to do with the victims. That'll be left to the likes of Dave Randal.'