Hunting for Crows (13 page)

‘You think me or one of my followers did this?’

‘Did you?’

‘We would never stoop so low to fulfil an animalistic desire and kill another human being.’

‘I take it you mean ‘no’ or–’

‘Of course I mean no. We didn’t do it, we didn’t kill those men.’

‘Tell me where you were on two dates and I’ll leave you in peace.’ He didn’t need to consult his dog-eared notebook as he knew them fine.

Rother rummaged through the junkyard that was the bookcase and produced a diary.

‘On the first date which is a Tuesday, I met my…my probation officer mid-morning and in the afternoon worked at B&Q.’

‘Who’s your probation officer?’

He gave him her name and Paterson would call her first thing. Barry Crow was killed in the morning so if it checked out, he was in the clear for one of them.

‘The second date, the last Sunday in February, I spend every second Sunday at the care home where my mother now lives. It’s in Bournemouth so I drive there in the morning and come back here at tea-time.’

Time enough to get down to Brighton and kill Grant?

‘That Sunday, I stayed over at a friend’s house in Portsmouth.’

He blushed, suggesting the friend was a man, oh tut, tut. Paterson’s son often called him an old fart, a dinosaur who couldn’t tell an iPad from an eye patch, but he’d seen more than his share of trannies, homos, lesbos, cross-dressers and all the rest and nothing on that front could shock him any more.

Paterson eased himself out of the lumpy chair. ‘Thanks for your time Mr Rother. I’ll see myself out.’

A picture on the table caught his eye. He picked it up. A younger Rother was dressed in white robes and standing in front of a large building, redolent of a university campus.

‘Where was this taken?’

Rother pulled the photograph out of his hand. He obviously didn’t like other people touching his stuff. Paterson didn’t like touching his stuff either and would wash his hands at the earliest opportunity.

‘In St Louis, Missouri. In the early eighties I joined a monastery.’

‘Is that right? I worked a case a few years back involving a monk who liked banging under-age prostitutes. How long did you stay there?’

‘I lived with the brothers for twenty-two years. I only returned to the UK eighteen months ago because my father was dying.’

DI Henderson was seated at the desk in his office, reading the post-mortem reports of Barry Crow and Peter Grant, when DS Walters walked in.

‘Find anything new in there?’ she said, nodding at the reports.

‘Nope, they’re much as we expected. Barry died from drowning and there were no unexplained marks on his body or noxious substances inside him. Peter died from asphyxiation, and in his body there was plenty of booze and a little cannabis.’

She sat down in the visitor’s chair. ‘It’s not much to go on, is it?’

‘What?’

‘This whole case. All we’ve got are two accidental deaths; in the context of a small group like a rock band, it looks improbable, but nothing else. I wonder how long it will be before bookies start offering odds on the two survivors.’

‘Your levity is amusing but not helpful. You’re forgetting two things. One is Sarah Corbett’s assessment of Peter and the other is Peter’s weightlifting record book.’

‘I didn’t meet Sarah, which is a shame as a woman might have seen her in a different light. She was in mourning for the loss of her boyfriend and as you know, grief can affect people in loads of strange ways, including not being able to accept if the person is dead, or in this case, not accepting how he died.’

‘All good points, Ms Walters and I can even shoot down my own argument about Peter Grant’s weights record book. He could have been tired and over-judged his capabilities due to alcohol and cannabis consumption as the doc,’ he said stabbing the P-M report with his finger, ‘in here says.’

‘But?’

‘There is still a nagging suspicion that won’t go away, and you heard Derek Crow expressing surprise about Barry even going into the water. Peter Grant was killed by something he had been doing for years without mishap.’

‘I went to the gym.’

‘You did?’

‘I joined last year but I let it lapse. Two weeks ago I went back and signed up for two classes a week.’

‘Well done, I hope–’

‘What I’m was about to say was, I talked to a couple of weightlifters there, for research purposes only you understand and nothing to do with their jaw-dropping physiques. They tell me they always weightlift in pairs as you never know when muscle tiredness will kick in. In fact–’

‘Hang on a sec, Carol. I’ve just thought of something. Is there still a police presence at Peter Grant’s house?’

‘Nope. They’re long gone.’

‘Not a problem as I don’t think it will make a difference to what I want to do, but I need to see it for myself. Grab your coat.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Hove.’

*

Henderson eased the car onto the drive outside Peter Grant’s house in Woodland Drive, Hove, carefully avoiding the other car parked there. He supposed it belonged to one of the forensic techs, returning to retrieve something left behind. He knocked on the door and to his surprise, an attractive woman opened the door. The Forensic Service didn’t have techs as good looking as this, did they?

‘Good afternoon, I am Detective Inspector Henderson of Surrey and Sussex Police, and this is Detective Sergeant Walters.’

‘Hello,’ she said sounding a touch flustered, as if they were interrupting something. ‘I’m Emily Grant, Peter’s ex wife. Why don’t you come in?’

It was Henderson who should feel flustered as he wasn’t expecting to find anyone here and didn’t have a clue what to say to her. What he came to see could be examined with the house closed.

They followed Mrs Grant into the kitchen, where a copy of
The Daily Telegraph
was spread out over the kitchen table in the middle of the room.

‘I was having a cup of coffee and a read of the paper. Would you like one? Tea perhaps?’

‘Coffee for me,’ Henderson said.

‘Same for me,’ Walters said.

The coffee pot must have been hot as it didn’t take long until Mrs Grant placed a couple of mugs in front of them.

Henderson sat down on a seat beside the table. ‘It was tragic what happened to Peter, Mrs Grant. I would like to offer you my deepest sympathies.’

‘Thank you. You’re right, it was tragic, but call me Emily. I’ve been trying to drop the ‘Mrs Grant’ tag for some time now.’

She was dressed in a tight-fitting blue dress, and despite her age, which he would put at about fifty, not difficult to estimate as it was Peter’s age, exhibiting a figure many younger women would pay good money to have. Her hair was light brown, shoulder-length with big, luxurious curls, a fine compliment to a tanned, rounded face.

‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here,’ she said, ‘because as you probably know, I don’t live here anymore. I moved with the children to a house in Henfield to be with my new partner.’

It hadn’t crossed Henderson’s mind, as even though he knew Peter Grant lived alone, he didn’t know if his ex-wife was a frequent and welcome visitor or wasn’t allowed to darken the door.

‘I came over for one last look before I hand the keys over to the estate agents, and to see if there was anything else I could take, as Pete doesn’t need it now, does he? What about you people? Everyone says he died in an accident so why does it require the presence of two detectives?’

‘You’re right to ask. Peter’s death was an accident, same as Barry Crow earlier…’ He examined her face to determine if he was telling her something she didn’t know, but instead she nodded.

‘All we’re doing is making sure there is no connection between them, as the deaths of two members of a small tight-knit group like a four-piece rock band within weeks of one another, raises a whole range of questions and leaves many people concerned.’

‘You’re trying to cover yourselves in case you’re proved wrong.’

‘It’s not only us, Peter’s HR Director at Grant’s Fitness Emporium, Sarah Corbett, has also asked us to review it.’

‘I’ve met Sarah, she’s a lovely lady.’

‘Why did you say, in case we might be proved wrong? Do you think we’re wrong?’

‘I don’t know why I said it. I don’t know any more than you do.’

‘All we’re trying to do is determine
if
there is a connection. We don’t believe there is one but we would not be doing our duty if we did nothing and something happened to Derek or Eric.’

‘I understand. Do you want to take a look in the gym?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Help yourself, there are a couple of things I need to get on with. It’s down to the right–’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said standing, ‘I know the way.’ He led Walters into the gym and for the next few minutes explained to her the pathologist’s findings.

‘This is amazing,’ she said. ‘He’s got a great range of kit and his own tuck shop full of health foods and drinks. I’d love to have a place like this.’

Henderson was listening to his sergeant but also keeping an ear on the movements of Emily Grant. He heard her walk upstairs and lock what he assumed to be the bathroom door. He motioned Walters to follow him.

He walked into the kitchen, towards the back door, and began examining the frame.

‘What are you looking for?’

‘Signs of forced entry.’

‘Why?’

‘If Peter didn’t die as a result of an accident, the only other conclusion we can come to, is someone broke in and dropped the barbell on his neck.’

‘I get you. I’ll take a look outside.’

Henderson opened the door and let Walters past. He inspected the door’s outer edge, running his hand up and down the wood, feeling for imperfections or hasty repairs.

‘Sir, come and see this.’

He stepped outside, and following Walters’ arm, examined the frame of the kitchen window. He could see a small gap in the wood where a piece had been removed.

‘This is fresh,’ he said, ‘maybe in the last few days as the wood is still white and hasn’t gone brown.’

‘It looks deliberate to me and not the result of, I don’t know, weather or insects.’

‘I think so too.’

He moved back into the kitchen and reaching up to the window he could see the cut was opposite the window latch.

‘So,’ Henderson said, ‘he cuts away this bit of window frame with a Stanley knife, sticks a flat blade like a screwdriver into the gap, gives it a push and out will pop the window locking arm.’ He donned a set of protective gloves and opened the window.

‘Is it possible for you to climb in here, because there’s nothing to impede an intruder’s progress once he’s inside?’

‘I can’t, as I’m too small to reach the window ledge.’ She scanned the area around her. ‘I could do it if I stood on that,’ she said.

Henderson stepped outside. Standing close to the wall at the back of the house was a small, solid wooden table, probably used when cooking food on the barbecue, which he assumed was the large item under cover alongside it.

‘We need to–’

‘What are you doing out there?’

Emily Grant was in the kitchen watching them. He had no idea for how long or how much she’d seen or heard, but he decided to bluff it.

‘I needed to make a phone call and couldn’t get any reception inside.’

‘You must be on EE, our friends can never get reception here.’ It must have been a convincing excuse as she picked something up from the table and walked into the hall.

A few minutes later, Henderson and Walters drove back to Sussex House, not the result of being thrown out of the house by Emily Grant for his poor attempt at trying to fool her, but he’d seen what he came to see.

‘Should we add this one to our list of inconsistencies?’ Henderson asked as he turned off Woodland Drive and on to Dyke Road.

‘Most definitely, although it could be the work of a burglar.’

‘Could be, as Peter lived alone and the house is unoccupied most days, but it’s too much of a coincidence and the cut made in the wood, to my eyes at least, looks new. Forensics should be able to tell us one way or another.’

‘If he’s been so clever in the way he’s killed those guys to make it look like accidents, he’ll be smart enough not to leave anything behind when he does it.’

‘Yeah, that crossed my mind too, but we’ll take a look anyway, you never know, we might get lucky.’

His phone rang. He pressed the button on the steering wheel to answer.

‘Henderson.’

‘Angus, it’s Lisa Edwards. I’m glad I caught you. Where are you?’

‘DS Walters and I are coming back from Peter Grant’s house in Hove.’

‘The former rock band musician who died working out in his home gym?’

‘Yes, him. There’s been a new development and I need to talk to you about it.’

‘I want you to drop the case.’

‘What?’

‘There’s been a jewel robbery in the Lanes, a shotgun fired and one person injured. Get down there now and take it over. The press are going to have a field day as the shop belongs to the Crime Commissioner’s brother.’

‘This new development I mentioned suggests this case has changed from two accidents to two murders and if so, it constitutes a significant risk to the remaining members of the Crazy Crows, and with all due respect ma’am, I think this is more important than the theft of some rings and watches.’

‘Angus, I haven’t been working with the Sussex force for long, but I do know your antenna for spotting crime is as good as anyone I’ve ever met. While I think there is merit in what you’re doing, it is out of my hands. When the ACC heard about the story he practically blew a gasket. Investigate the crimes we’ve got, not Henderson’s pet projects or ones we invent for ourselves, was one of his milder comments.’

‘I’m amazed he’s taken this attitude.’

‘You know what he’s like. Vague suppositions don’t work with the ACC, he likes his evidence in concrete. I knew he wouldn’t support it.’

Henderson couldn’t see a way out. ‘What do I do about the Crows while I’m investigating the jewel robbery?’

‘Let’s see if there are any more developments in the case, then we might be able to use it to persuade the ACC to authorise further investigation.’

‘What, like another death?’

‘Don’t be a cynic, Angus. You know what I mean.’