Trespass (P.I. Johnson Carmichael Series - Book 2) (17 page)

One of Carmichael’s few pleasures in life was waking late on a Saturday morning, without the pressure of needing to be anywhere or do anything. Saturdays were his; something he rarely compromised. He awoke, after a restless night’s sleep, to the sound of keys jangling in the lock of his cell door was quite a shock to the system.

The nature of his work had meant occasional dealings with the local constabulary, more often than not, of benefit to both parties. There was the odd occasion, however, when the two conflicted, and he had spent an occasional night locked in a cell in the past, but no formal charge had ever been brought against him.

The first such occasion had been three years earlier. He had been hired by a local businessman who was being unfairly victimised by a local racketeer. The hood, an evil man by the name of Grimmy, had set up shop in the Woolston area of the city, near the Itchen Bridge. The client, a retired publisher had set up a small t-shirt printing company along the main stretch of high street, and, whilst profits weren’t high, he was able to balance his books at the end of every month. That was until Grimmy had sent a couple of heavies to each of the local businesses, demanding a cut of the profits in exchange for
protection
. It was made abundantly clear that said protection would be from Grimmy and his goons.

Unable to defend himself against such brutality, the client had been one of the first to fall into line and hand over his hard-earned cash. Not all the locals had caved so easily, however, and the client had witnessed Grimmy’s lack of protection for himself. After six months of the arrangement, the client was struggling to afford the payments. As local shops began to close under the pressure, fewer consumers flocked to the area and the client began to feel the pinch. When he tried to reason with Grimmy, he was told, in no uncertain terms, that there were no excuses for not paying and that his family would be in danger if he reneged on the contract.

The client approached the police but, after some minor enquiries, they said there was insufficient evidence of Grimmy’s wrongdoing. What they actually meant was they knew what the grubby little bastard was up to, but had no way of proving it. The rest of the local business managers were too afraid to corroborate the client’s story, and so he had eventually turned to Carmichael to achieve the evidence he required. It was an unusual case and when Carmichael had approached a contact, a Police Constable by the name of Alex Young, he had been warned not to meddle.

‘Bastards like that get caught eventually,’ Young had claimed.

Patience had never been one of Carmichael’s virtues and he had paid Grimmy a visit of his own. The villain had been enjoying a lunchtime buffet at a local tandoori when Carmichael approached him. He had been flanked by two of his heavies but Carmichael had incapacitated them with considerable ease, leaving the two men to talk privately. Grimmy had been impressed with Carmichael’s
chutzpah
and aggression and had proposed he join the organisation. Carmichael had been so appalled by the suggestion that he had grabbed Grimmy by the neck and forced his face down into a plate of Lamb Dhansak until he had practically choked.

It was a brave, if not reckless move, but it did the trick. Although publicly, Grimmy swore he would get revenge, secretly the whole experience had shaken him up and he had left the area, moving to neighbouring Dorset to start over. The police had been called and Carmichael had been hauled in to explain his actions. He had claimed they had merely had a disagreement and that there would be no repetition. Grimmy had decided not to press charges, keen to avoid having the police look into his operation. Young had later told him that, whilst his actions were not condoned, he had earned the respect of the local uniform and they wished they’d had the freedom to take such action.

A tray of soggy
Weetabix
and a cup of warm tea were brought in on a tray for him by a fearsome looking woman in uniform. She casually informed him that he should eat quickly as he was likely to be called to interview anytime in the next hour. Sure enough, the cell door was reopened twenty minutes later and he was escorted to an interview room where D.C.I. Mercure and D.S. Davies peppered him with questions about why he had been in Lauren Roper’s house the previous evening. He had decided not to share the full details about his relationship with Lauren and what he had been hired to do. He wasn’t sure if they would believe him, but when he suggested they phone Melissa to confirm his version of events they agreed to do so.

Melissa had been up in her flat when the police had phoned. She had been planning to go into Southampton to do some Christmas shopping but Davies’ call had scuppered those plans. She confirmed that Lauren had approached them to investigate her mother’s assault and said she could fax over copies of Carmichael’s notes on the case. They told her they already had them in evidence, having raided the office at six a.m. that morning.

‘We didn’t find a contract between you and the victim, but your secretary has confirmed that you had several meetings with her, so we are prepared to accept that you had a working relationship with her,’ Mercure offered. ‘But that still doesn’t explain what you were doing in her flat last night when we arrived. It doesn’t explain why you ran either.’

‘I told D.S. Davies last night what I was doing there. I had popped by to share the results of my findings with her.’

‘What were those findings?’ Mercure questioned.

‘That’s between me and my client.’

‘Your client is dead, Mr Carmichael,’ Mercure fired back sharply. ‘Besides, you aren’t a doctor or a solicitor, so there is no legally recognised client privilege. By not telling us what you were going to share with her, you are being deliberately evasive.’

‘I prefer the term guarded.’

‘Miss Roper hired you to find out who assaulted her mother, right?’ Davies interrupted. ‘Who do you think did it?’

‘I have a number of possible suspects,’ Carmichael replied. ‘As soon as I’ve narrowed it down, I’ll be sure to let you know.’

‘You’re not a policeman anymore, Johnson,’ Mercure said. ‘You need to stop interfering in matters that
we
should be handling.’

He laughed, ‘You’re not going to investigate a twenty-four year old assault that was never reported. Who are you trying to kid?’

‘Regardless, you have no right to be questioning people as if you still wear the uniform.’

‘Don’t worry, I have my ways.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ Mercure suggested. ‘I’ve heard the stories about you. I don’t think that’s the kind of behaviour I wish to see on my patch.’

‘Where were you between four and six yesterday?’ Davies asked.

‘I was in Winchester, doing some research.’

‘Research into what?’ Davies persisted.

‘That’s my business.’

‘Can anybody corroborate your presence there?’

‘I’m sure you could check the CCTV cameras of the local library, as that’s where I was most of the afternoon. You could also take a look at the two receipts in my wallet. The first will show me purchasing drinks with a potential contact just after four p.m., and the second will show me buying a sandwich and bottle of water just before five. I headed back to Southampton at that point and drove to Lauren’s house, but didn’t make it until just after six o’clock.’

‘Preliminary results from the forensics team suggest she was killed between four and six p.m. so your alibi doesn’t quite rule you out of the equation,’ Mercure stated.

‘Come on,’ Carmichael pleaded. ‘You don’t really think I killed my client, do you? If you test my clothes, you won’t find a single trace that I had anything to do with this. We both know I’m right, so what’s this all about?’

Davies and Mercure exchanged glances before she eventually answered, ‘Okay, Johnson, I’ll level with you. We don’t think you killed her. That doesn’t mean you don’t know who did. At the moment, you’re the only person we have in the frame; why don’t you throw us a name we can take a look at.’

‘Are you serious? You want me to do your job for you?’

‘Don’t be so naïve,’ Mercure chided. ‘You don’t think it’s a little bit coincidental that Lauren Roper hired you to trace who assaulted her mother, and then she winds up dead herself? The two cases are related, right?’

He couldn’t deny that the thought had crossed his mind.

‘Okay,’ he eventually conceded, ‘I’ll give you a name: Stan Pensa.’

‘And who is he?’

‘He was Nathan Green’s former cell mate. He approached and threatened me yesterday morning in a pub in Eastleigh. He said I should stop digging into Green’s background if I knew what was good for me.’

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘Yeah, he told me to warn Lauren to watch her back.’

‘And did you?’

Carmichael sighed, ‘No.’

Davies jotted the name down and added, ‘Any idea where we should begin looking?’

‘His probation officer is a good bet; I think he’s only recently been released.’

With that, the interview was terminated and Mercure advised him he was free to depart. She did add that they may yet call him to book over the method he had used to enter Lauren’s flat the night before. He wasn’t worried; at worst it would be a slap on the wrist.

It felt good to feel fresh air on his face as he left the station. He had been advised that his car had been towed from outside Lauren’s flat, pending further forensic analysis but he declined the offer of a ride home. Instead, he phoned Melissa and told her he was out and doing okay. She asked him if there was anything he wanted her to do, but all he told her was to avoid the office over the weekend and to just keep her eyes peeled for anyone following her or looking suspicious. He had a horrible feeling that there was something far greater going on that his mind had yet to process. The last thing he wanted was to put Melissa in any greater danger.

A free bus, train journey and then a paid bus ride meant Carmichael was back at the industrial estate in just over forty minutes. It wasn’t his preferred method of transport, as a taxi journey would have been far quicker, but until Frankie Benold’s cheque was paid in, his liquid assets were limited. It gave him the space and time he needed to think things through. There was something troubling at the back of his mind and he simply could not pinpoint what it was. One thing was sure: he needed a plan.

He had hoped to speak to Lauren about her biological father again last night. Although she had claimed that she had never met the guy, there was one photograph hanging in a frame on her wall that showed her as a baby with her mother and a man. He had no idea what this Darren Watkins looked like, but there was a possibility the man in the photograph was Watkins. It was a theory based on nothing but gut instinct, but what if it had been Watkins who had burst into Beth Roper’s flat that evening and carried out the act? It would explain why Beth refused to allow him to spend any time with Lauren in the years that followed. At the very least, Watkins deserved to know that his daughter had been killed last night. He decided he would leave a note for Melissa that she would see first thing on Monday: he would ask her to do some digging and try and find Darren Watkins. If he was lucky Watkins would still be in the area.

He was surprised by the state of the office when he entered it. The filing cabinets were wide open, there were papers scattered haphazardly across the floor and even the houseplant in the corner had been knocked over. Whoever had been in there had clearly performed a thorough search of the premises. It would take at least an hour to tidy the mess and probably the best part of a day to reorganise the filing system. He would have to get Melissa to work her magic, maybe even ask her to do some overtime on Sunday. He felt bad to delegate the laborious task to her but, put simply, she was far better at sorting the office than he was.

It wasn’t right. Even if the police had a warrant to search the property, they had no right to leave it in such a state. He decided to phone Davies and put in a complaint about the state of the office. Davies answered the phone on the second ring.

‘You owe me for a cleaner,’ he bellowed into the phone.

‘Excuse me?’ came Davies startled surprise. ‘Who is this?’

‘It’s Johnson Carmichael, the unfortunate victim of your search goons. My office is in a right state. It really is taking the piss!’

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa. We left your office in a pretty decent state actually. We entered it just after six this morning, found the paper folder with Lauren Roper’s case notes in it on your P.A.’s desk and left.’

‘Bull shit! There is paperwork all over the floor, my plant pot has been broken and the filing cabinet is wide open.’

‘We never opened your filing cabinet,’ Davies protested. ‘It was locked and we didn’t have anything we could use to crack the lock open. As I said, we grabbed the file and left. We were out in under a minute. If your place is in the state you describe, you must have…’

‘Been burgled,’ Carmichael finished, hanging up the phone.

Son of a bitch
!

He began scouring the place for clues. Why would anyone break into his office? There wasn’t anything of value. He started picking up case files and looked at the names to see if any were missing. It was impossible to tell without comparing the names to a list of clients. He was about to turn the computer on to do just that when he saw his ash tray sticking out of the monitor on his desk.

Son of a bitch
!

Not only had someone broken in and raided his filing, they had broken both his and Melissa’s computers. This would prove costly. He sat down in his chair and surveyed the damage to the room. It was as if someone had let a firework off in it. Who could be so…

Two names leapt to mind: Stan Pensa and James Benold.

Both men had threatened him in the past week; both had motive for trashing the office.

If it had been Pensa, he would have been looking for Lauren’s case file, which was thankfully in Davies’ possession. If it had been Benold, he would have been looking for…

Carmichael quickly flicked through the case files he had collected up. The Benold file was not there. He checked again and eventually got down on his hands and knees and searched all the paperwork on the floor for any reference to Benold. There was none. No file and no cheque.

He was angry and decided there was only one place he would get answers. He ran from the room and up the stairs to Melissa’s flat. He banged on the door and was pleased when she answered it.

‘I need to borrow your car,’ he said to her barging in. ‘Where are your keys?’

‘Morning to you too, boss,’ she said flippantly but then saw he was in no mood to be messed with. She fished the keys out of her trouser pocket and threw them towards him. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘No, not really,’ he said catching the keys. ‘We’ve been burgled and I think I know who did it.’

‘Oh God, really? Did they make a mess? What are you going to do?’

‘I’ll teach the bastard some manners!’

*

Carmichael was still fuming when he pulled up outside of the Benold bungalow. He was hoping he would find the man of the house inside and would release the rage onto his face. At the very least, he would ask Frankie Benold to cancel the previous cheque and rewrite him one for the final fee instalment.

He knew something wasn’t right as he walked up the gravel driveway. Frankie’s car was there but there was no sign of James’. The front door was ajar. It was possible that she had just forgotten to close it, but that seemed unlikely. He reached into his pocket for gloves and then recalled that they were still at the station and he hadn’t thought about buying any new ones in town earlier. He would just have to be careful with what he touched. He pulled the sleeve down on his jacket and nudged the door open gently; listening for any evidence that Frankie was home. There was silence.

He looked around for any sign of life outside on the street. A white haired man was walking a West Highland Terrier along the pavement. Carmichael stepped away from the door and walked after the man.

‘Excuse me?’ he said. ‘Do you live on this street?’

‘The white haired man eyed him suspiciously.

‘It’s alright, Carmichael offered, ‘I’m not trying to sell you anything. I was just wondering if you know the Benolds at number six.’

‘Oh, yes, they’re a lovely couple.’

‘Good, have you seen either of them about this morning?’

‘No, sorry,’ the man said and then continued his walk.

Carmichael jogged back to the property and took up his position on the door mat again. He still couldn’t hear anything so he entered. He moved from the kitchen to the dining room to the lounge but there was no sign of Frankie. A loud bang on the floor upstairs caught his attention and he moved quickly to the staircase and began to ascend. The stairs creaked against his weight. The sounds of movement above him grew louder and when he reached the top stair he was sure he had disturbed a burglary. Whoever the intruder was, they appeared to be banging about in the main bedroom where he had woken the previous morning.

He moved forward and opened the door. A man dressed head to toe in black was pulling drawers out of a chest and emptying jewellery into a pillow case. The man sensed Carmichael’s presence and turned to see who had interrupted him.

‘Hi,’ said Carmichael, pleased to have caught him off guard. ‘This is only going to end badly for you. You can try and run, but you won’t get away from me. You can try and attack me, but I am bigger and undoubtedly stronger than you. The best decision you could make right now would be to put the pillow case down, remove that balaclava and sit and wait for the police to arrive.’

‘You’re bluffing,’ the man replied, trying to disguise his voice.

‘Want to bet?’

‘You’re trespassing here just as much as me. You wouldn’t risk it.’

‘Listen, mate,’ Carmichael said calmly, ‘put
that
down and let’s be men about this.’

The man looked down at his bag of loot, considering whether to drop it or chance his luck. He chose the latter.

The pillowcase of metal was flung at Carmichael’s head, narrowly missing its target. The man in the mask leapt across the bed, separating the two of them, and crashed into Carmichael’s midriff. The velocity of the attack caught Carmichael by surprise and he stumbled backwards before the two men collapsed to the floor.

The man in the mask jumped up and moved towards the bedroom door, but Carmichael grabbed and twisted the burglar’s foot, causing him to fall again. He held onto the foot and dragged him back into the room. He picked the wiry man up by the back of his top and flung him over the bed and onto the strewn drawers, before proceeding round to where he had landed. The man, reached out for anything he could grab to defend himself and threw a drawer at Carmichael, catching him off guard again. He stumbled back towards the walk-in wardrobe and the burglar charged him, the two men crashing through the doors and into a room lined from floor to ceiling with shoes of varying heights and colours.

He pushed the man off him, and both attempted to punch out at the other with neither really connecting. Carmichael grabbed at the man again but he slipped out of his grasp and started to run. He ran after him, leaping and landing on the man’s back and they were down again. Carmichael made the most of his advantage and pulled the man’s balaclava from his head. He recognised the dark grey hair immediately.

Benold
.

Carmichael turned him over to confirm facial recognition.

‘Why are you burgling your own house?’

Benold didn’t answer and instead threw a punch that connected with Carmichael’s left cheek, toppling him off. Benold clambered up again and headed for the stairs. Carmichael chased after him but Benold made it down first and ran into the lounge. Carmichael leapt down the last three stairs and charged into the lounge after him. He didn’t see that Benold had stepped in behind the door but he felt the pain of a table lamp smashing down on the back of his head and then everything went black as he crashed to the floor yet again.