Greed: A DI Scott Baker Novel (2 page)

He stumbled out of bed trying to get his bearings, knocking over a half empty glass of Jack Daniels that sat on the floor. It served as a poignant reminder of the night before, and his fruitless attempts to escape into a subconscious slumber and stop a whirring mind.

He swayed as his sleepy semi-conscious eyes sought frantically to focus and locate the source of his annoyance. He felt like crap, his stomach burnt from the emptiness and punishment he’d given it last night. His back refused to straighten up, his knees creaked as he moved and his eyes were sticky with sleep gunk.

Scott reached for the phone on his dresser and looked at the screen for a moment desperate for it to come into focus. He moved the phone back and forth away until his eyes finally caught up. DC Wilson flashed up as the caller ID.

“Baker, this better be good, what’s up? he said with a hoarse and gravelly voice. A result of a very dry throat.

Slight hesitance on DC Wilson’s part of not knowing what mood Scott would be in led to an awkward pause. “Erm Guv, we’ve got a body, it seems like a pretty gruesome one. I know you’ve got the day off, but DCI Harvey said you need to head down because she’s away for the weekend. She’s coming home early but won’t be back until this evening.”

Scott groaned, knowing full well that the DCI was away on a boozy weekend with chums and nothing short of a natural disaster would bring her back to the office.
Jeepers that woman loved her drink.

“Ok Mike, give me thirty minutes and I’ll be there, where is it?”

“It’s in Preston Street, the Kings Road end Guv, SOCO are already onsite.”

“Blimey, they’re quick off the mark. Do I need to skip breakkie?”

“Probably wise Guv unless you want to see it again,” Mike fired back lightly heartedly.

“This is a right pain in my neck Mike.”

“That’s what the victim probably thought,” Mike quipped.

“You’re talking in fucking riddles as usual Mike”.

“You’ll see what I mean when you get here Guv.”

Joking or seeing the funny side of a crime might appear insensitive or heartless to those on the outside. Any death was a serious case no matter what the circumstances were. Scott had seen several colleagues face emotional turmoil, and extreme bouts of stress dealing with deceased victims, especially if they were children. As police officers they saw the tragic, disturbing and often brutal consequences of society that many of us never witness.

***

Within ten minutes Scott had hastily thrown on a pair of dark grey trousers, a white shirt and black brogues, before heading off in his black Audi A3. It was his pride and joy, and often preferred to use his own car over the choice of one of the CID pool cars when out on police business.

Scott lived in Hove about three miles from the city centre of Brighton on the South Coast. Hove was a much quieter residential area than its bigger more bustling neighbour. Brighton, a popular seaside resort was often referred to as London by the sea. With a short fifty minute train journey into London, many workers sought Brighton as a place to escape back to after a long hard day in London.

Consequently, house prices were comparable to London spawning a rich and vibrant mix of inhabitants between city professionals, locals and students.

Scott had always loved Brighton from the minute he arrived to start his university course. He’d love the buzz of the town both day and night.

Having graduated, he’d returned to his home town in Brentwood Essex soon joining Essex police at the age of twenty three. He’d steadily fast tracked through to join CID sometimes to the annoyance of time served officers. They felt that graduates never developed the depth and breadth of experience, as well as the knowledge that comes with the traditional and well-worn path of joining as an eighteen year old rookie.

The draw of Brighton was never far away for Scott, finally transferring to the Sussex force to join CID at the age of thirty two as a Detective Sergeant. A move that proved a resounding success as it’s where he met his future wife Tina.

They were both sporty types and a chance encounter on the London to Brighton cycle run cemented the start of a wonderful relationship. Sunny weekends were spent sitting on the beach relaxing and chatting, or playing air hockey in the arcades on Palace Pier, the competitive streak coming out in both of them.

Scott loved nothing more than wandering hand in hand around the Lanes enjoying the culture, discovering small bistros and boutique shops…all wonderful memories that gave him both happiness and sadness in equal measures.

He turned left onto Kingsway and headed along the coast road. He used every opportunity to drive along this stretch of road as often as he could. There was something very serene and relaxing about driving with the openness of the sea view, the smell of salt air and the constant chatter from the many seagulls that floated on the thermals whilst scavenging for discarded chips and other take away delicacies.

Today wasn’t any different. There was sharpness in the air, and winter still had its claws firmly dug in. The chill in the air, together with a low setting sun meant that mornings and evenings were crisp and occasionally frosty; however daytime temperatures often crept into low double digits. To others around the country, it would be enough to dampen spirits; Brightonians on the other hand seemed to be immune to the extremes and embraced it like a welcomed tonic.

It wasn’t long before he saw the blue flashing lights of stationary cars and the familiar blue and white police cordon tape. The traffic was at a snail’s pace as drivers slowed down to rubber neck and satisfy their perverse curiosity, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone’s misfortune. Upon arriving at the cordon, he parked up behind a patrol car and stepped out to be greeted by a crowd of nosey spectators with nothing better to do that watch the spectacle unfolding.

Chapter 2

Preston Street was an unusual street. It was narrow and hemmed in by four story regency style buildings, many in desperate need of renovation, which only led to the feeling of it being a dark claustrophobic environment. Paint was curling at the edges and flaking off the walls. Windows were grubby and gritty. It was fair to say that the street was a far cry from its neighbour, Regency Square that boasted magnificent grade two listed buildings. Impressive well maintained cream exteriors housed exquisite generous sized apartments and boutique hotels.

It was a street once described as a car crash of small multi-cultural restaurants and convenience stores, a few bars, casinos, and the odd nightclub. There certainly wasn’t a theme running to the street, with very little effort made to make establishments inviting.

Out towards the seafront and beyond, lay the ruins of the once magnificent West Pier, now nothing more than a few iron support structures eerily jutting out from the sea bed, resembling a decapitated, battered and twisted metal skeleton. Scott reflected on the damage caused to the pier during the great storm of 1987 that wreaked havoc across the city, levelling thousands of trees and bringing down power lines.

It was a ferocious storm misjudged by the weathermen. Scott recalled watching a particular forecaster dispel rumours that a storm was on its way with hurricane-force winds in excess of 100 mph.
Oh how wrong they were,
he thought with a disbelieving shake of his head.

Even to this day he could recall word for word what he witnessed on TV as the forecaster commented, “Earlier on today, apparently, a woman rang the BBC and said she heard there was a hurricane on the way; well, if you’re watching, don’t worry, there isn’t”
.

What a fuck up,
he mused.

The overnight storm cut off all road and rail transport for much of the south coast and beyond. A subsequent storm and fire fifteen years later had given the pier its death sentence, causing it to collapse and finally go to its watery grave.

The area had been cordoned off with police tape. It was essential to protect any crime scene, so a scene guard was always assigned to monitor the cordon. Their key tasks were to protect the scene from contamination by onlookers, preserve the integrity of exhibits, and account for the presence and movement of all personnel within the designated area.

The scene guard on this occasion was PC Willits, who lifted the blue tape to allow Scott to enter the edge of the crime scene with a courteous “morning, sir.”

Scott nodded an acknowledgment as he signed into her scene log, and replied “Is it, Constable?”

Willits instantly looked uncomfortable and looked down to avoid his cold stare. As he walked off; he berated himself for being so abrupt. He wasn’t ready to be courteous this morning; his body was still numb and fatigued. He craved his morning coffee; a fix which normally would jolt him awake and into something more closely resembling a human being.

He took a protective suit pack from a brown box beside the PC, and started to get kitted up.

SOCO were already there, kitted up in the same white, paper protective suits, masks and shower caps with blue shoe coverings that seemed to rob them of any identity; from a distance it was hard to tell who was male or female.

DC Mike Wilson was dressed in the same attire and stood close to the second of two white tents that had been erected about twenty feet apart to protect and preserve the crime scene.

Even though you couldn’t tell from looking at him, underneath the protective suit, Mike was an imposing figure. He was a stocky five feet eleven inches, with an expanding waistline that would indicate he was fast becoming best friends with Ginsters Cornish Pasties. He still bore the hallmarks of his ex-Army days with a flat top crew-cut, a multitude of tattoos that catalogued his time in the forces, and his no bullshit, often crude, northern accent, which meant that he was the most unlikely police officer you’d ever meet.

The Army took pride in instilling loyalty and fortitude in its soldiers, which Mike carried in abundance. He was methodical, precise and more importantly, if the shit hit the fan, he was by your side. Mike was a valuable asset to the team, whom Scott had relied on many times. He didn’t always play by the rules, sometimes resorting to unorthodox tactics and “gentle persuasion” as he put it.

Despite Scott being his superior, on the odd occasion Scott had turned a blind eye to Mike’s approach if he felt that the end justified the means, but he certainly didn’t openly advocate such behaviour.

Scott peered into the smaller of the two tents, before walking to the detective constable. Wilson looked up from his notes, “Morning, Guv, he’s inside this tent,” he said pointing with his head. “It’s not pretty.”

“A dead corpse never is— unless you’re into that type of stuff,” he sighed.

“Of course, Guv, can’t get enough of them myself,”
DC Wilson fired back, a reference to his days as an army sniper.

Scott took a long deep breath and peered in through the unzipped entrance. He was keen not to step in for many reasons; the first being he didn’t want to disturb the crime scene until SOCO were finished and secondly, the thought of getting up close and personal with a stiff at this moment wasn’t something he was looking forward to.

There were three crime scene officers inside the tent. One was taking photos of the body from various angles, another was inspecting the waste bin whilst standing on a small two- step ladder, and the third was doing a systematic sweep on a section of pavement. Scott was instantly greeted by the smell of death. It was a smell that got into your nostrils and lingered.

The body was laid on the floor. His white shirt was now a dark red bordering on black as the blood had dried. From the position of the body, evident to all, was the severe trauma to the neck region. It was hard to determine if the head had been partially severed from the angle it was resting. The mouth hung wide open, expressing the shock of the victim’s final moments.

What caught Scott’s attention was what appeared to be a paper-like substance stuffed into the victim’s mouth. He’d seen enough and would leave it to the forensics bods to catalogue the crime scene.

“The pathologist has just arrived, Guv. DS Trent and DC Singh are en route to help out and should be here in the next few minutes.”

“Good stuff, so what have we so far, Mike?”

“He was found in the silver industrial bin this morning Guv by some workmen who are renovating the West Beach Hotel on the corner. Scared them shitless, from what I can gather. After the preliminaries, SOCO removed his body so they could get a better analysis of the bin and the victim. Uniform are with the workmen inside the hotel now.

We found a wallet in his suit jacket; usual stuff in there like money, cards, pictures of the deceased with a female, and driver’s license all with the same name. The victim appears to be an Edward Stone. SOCO will do a prints match later to confirm against any prints on file.”

Scott nodded once while looking around the street.

“What do we know about him, any next of kin?”

“Well, I checked on the PNC and if it’s the same guy, he’s the owner of the Phoenix nightclub, just over there sir, and his address is a flat in Fourth Avenue, Hove. He lives there with his girlfriend, Vicky Bright. He’s known to the police, Guv; he’s got previous convictions for assault and fraud.”

The last piece of information led Scott to raise a brow in reflection.

As Scott was being updated on the situation, the crime scene manager and senior SOCO Matt Allan, walked over to interrupt Mike and Scott. Matt was in charge of the scientific services team and on complex and more serious cases, one SOCO was never enough, so Matt would be present to oversee the whole crime scene and the allocation of his team’s tasks.

Scott had worked with Matt on many occasions and they’d enjoyed a good working relationship. Matt was always impeccably dressed. There was never a shirt tail hanging out the back of his trousers, or a loose tie with top button undone or even the slightest trace of a stain on his shirts. That attention to detail seemed to distil down to his work ethic and professional demeanour. He was very precise and to the point in his conversations, his crime scene reports and approach to life.