Hunting for Crows (26 page)

Henderson pressed the ‘send’ icon and pushed his chair back from the desk. Doing things with one hand was more tiring than it looked, including dialling a number on a mobile, buttoning a shirt and now added to the list, writing an email. He couldn’t touch-type, but he usually did a reasonable job using two or three fingers from each hand, but now with one arm in a sling, even this was beyond him.

He had walked out of the Royal Sussex Hospital on Sunday, two days after being stabbed aboard the
Baltic Star
. Street’s knife wound to his shoulder had been deep, but it missed slicing nearby arteries. Equally important, at least the doctors seemed to think so, the knife didn’t appear to be stained with any gunk or bacteria, as the wound hadn’t become infected.

He returned home to his flat in Seven Dials to convalesce. After a few days, the pain was about manageable and some feeling was returning to his hand, but the inactivity was driving him up the wall. In addition, his mind was buzzing, not from the antibiotics or painkillers, but from all the loose ends which needed tidying up.

It took a couple of calls to CI Edwards, from him and his doctor, before she relented and allowed him to return to the office. He was under strict instructions not to go out on any operations but to stay at his desk and let DS Hobbs or DS Walters take the strain. This suited him fine as he had hundreds of emails to read, reports to write and a murder team to manage.

Another reason for coming back was to escape the negative thoughts crowding his head in the middle of the night. Was he was getting too old for this? Were wounds like this taking longer to heal? Would a desk job or the inside of a motorway patrol car suit him better? Should he consider doing something else altogether?

With his good hand, he picked up a file from his desk and went in search of the murder team. It wasn’t the first time he had put together such a group after a series of murders, but it was the first time he’d done so after the perpetrators had been killed. It made sense, not only to keep the records straight, inform the media and notify the families, but also to determine if anyone else was involved.

The team were located in a corner of the Murder Suite, overlooking the car park. The whole group were there, not because they found his status meetings so riveting, but because the bulk of the investigation work could be done from their desks by phone and email.

‘Afternoon all,’ he said.

‘Afternoon sir,’ came the sullen reply. It was the sound of a team, leggy and tired at the end of a long investigation, when all they could look forward to was compiling reports and updating files for the CPS. He would excuse them this time.

‘First up,’ Henderson said, perching himself on the edge of a desk as pulling out a chair and sitting down was too much of a faff, ‘what’s the status on Don Levinson and Derek Crow?’

‘I called the hospital an hour ago,’ Sally Graham said. ‘Mr Levinson is now out of a coma but still in Intensive Care.’

‘Good to hear. Did they say what his chances are of making a full recovery?’

‘They were cagey on the subject, I’m afraid. So many things can still go wrong, but they think it’s unlikely he will return to his job as a personal protection specialist. In time, he should recover most of his faculties, but he’ll need to do something more sedentary in future.’

‘At least the news is on the positive side. Thanks Sally. What about Derek Crow?’

‘That’s me, sir,’ Seb Young said. ‘As we know, he didn’t suffer any stab wounds, but multiple broken bones, including ribs, cheek and skull. He could be in hospital for another few weeks and this will be followed by a long convalescence, possibly two or three months, before he’s back to any sense of normality.’

‘Is he conscious?’

‘He is.’

‘Who’s handling the interviews? It’s you, isn’t it, DS Walters?’

‘Yes sir, it is.’

‘Good. Get somebody down to the hospital over the next few days and take a statement from Derek. It shouldn’t be much different from all the stuff I overheard aboard the
Baltic Star
, but you never know.’

‘No problem.’

‘Phil, you’re covering the P-M’s, if my memory serves me right. How did they go?’

‘Much as we expected.’ He lifted some papers from the desk beside him. ‘Mathew Street’s body was recovered from the hold of the
Baltic Star
on Sunday.’

‘How did they get him out? Did they have to drain the hold?’

‘No, they didn’t. They used a tall crane belonging to a ship repairer on the other side of the canal.’

‘What happened to all the wheat?’ Walters asked. ‘Would they scrap it knowing a dead body had been found in there?’

‘Maybe not,’ Henderson said. ‘They gets rats in ships’ holds, dead and alive, and that doesn’t deter owners from selling the cargo.’

‘No wonder I don’t like bread,’ Seb Young said.

‘I thought you were gluten intolerant,’ Sally Graham said.

‘Phil, what was the P-M verdict on Street?’ Henderson asked.

‘Asphyxiation.’

‘What about Ace?’

‘Ace, or to give him his real name, Stephen Watson, drowning. Apparently he could swim, but when he fell overboard on the
Baltic Star,
he hit his head on something in the water, like a plank of wood, rendering him unconscious.’

‘Why was he called Ace? Was he good at cards?’ Seb Young asked.

‘According to a fellow prisoner,’ Walters said, ‘his favourite song was
How Long
by the band, Ace.’

‘Oh, I get it,’ Young said. ‘Prison, how long; very clever.’

‘Apparently not,’ she continued. ‘He sang it all the time, driving all the other cons spare as it reminded them of how long they had to go. The guy I spoke to said, if Ace hadn’t been such a nutter, they would have done him in ages ago.’

‘What do we know about him?’ Henderson asked.

‘He had been orphaned at the age of ten when his parents died in a house fire,’ Seb Young continued. ‘He lived with a succession of foster parents when, at the age of seventeen, he murdered the last couple he stayed with. Sentenced to life and released on licence around the same time as Street, the man he befriended in jail and who according to some, became a sort of father figure to Ace.’

‘Some role model,’ Walters said.

‘Does Ace have any living relatives?’

‘No.’

‘Where did we get with the ‘Blakey’ reference?’

‘His real name is John Blake,’ Phil Bentley said, ‘and he was identified as the ringleader of the AeroSwiss robbery gang when they appeared at the Old Bailey in 1990. We believe he was putting Street under pressure to locate the missing gold.’

‘Did you interview Blake?’

‘I did, sir. He’s a nasty bit of work, but he’s over seventy now and in poor health. I think his sons are running the criminal show now. Enquires are continuing.’

‘For those who don’t know or didn’t read my statement, a few weeks ago, Eric Hannah’s wife Suzy tried to sell a bar of gold stolen in the Gatwick Airport robbery. As Phil said, this robbery looks to be the motive behind the murder of the Crazy Crows, as Street was convinced the Crows stole their gold.’

He stopped to take a drink of water as his throat was parched. Coffee was off the menu for the moment as even the smell of it made him feel sick.

‘Going by what I heard, it was Eric Hannah who stole the gold, and the bars found at the houses of Barry Crow and Peter Grant by Ace, were given to them by Hannah to help kick-start a new career after the band split.’

‘So, by implication,’ Walters said, ‘Eric Hannah had possession of most of the gold, and providing he didn’t spend it in the intervening years, some of it may still be hidden at his house.’

‘You’re quite right. Before this meeting, I sent an email to the Met’s Serious Robbery Squad and told them the story. It’s their problem now.’

‘Knowing them,’ Walters said, ‘the next time we hear about it will be on the front pages of several national newspapers, telling everyone what a great job they did and what brilliant detectives they are.’

‘They didn’t turn you down again, Carol, did they?’ Phil Bentley said.

‘Bugger off.’

‘Phil, did you get a sense from this guy Blakey when you met him as to whether he knows any of this?’

‘It’s hard to tell, sir, as he denied having anything to do with the gold since the robbery, but I would take anything he said with a pinch of salt as I’m sure he would grab it all tomorrow if he could. However, I didn’t detect any urgency around the place and all three sons were there.’

‘Maybe he’s got it already. Keep your eye on this one, Phil.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ve got nothing more, does anyone have anything else they want to add?’

‘Just one more thing,’ Seb Young said. ‘A local promoter by the name of Ainslie Wicks is aiming to stage a tribute concert at the Brighton Dome in May. He says he’ll have two or three bands on the bill and they’ll play a selection of Crazy Crows songs. All proceeds will be donated to Barry Crow’s breast cancer charity.’

‘A fitting memorial,’ Henderson said. ‘I’ll certainly be buying a ticket.’ He rose stiffly and stretched. ‘Is there anything else?’ He looked around at their faces. ‘No? Same time tomorrow.’

He turned and walked back to his office. He had just slumped in the seat when his phone rang. It was tricky dialling a number on a mobile, but he’d perfected the technique for answering it, as long as the caller didn’t mind waiting while he transferred from one hand to another.

‘Henderson.’

‘Good afternoon, DI Henderson, DI Long of the Serious Robbery Squad.’

‘You got my email?’

‘I did and thank you for all the good work you and your team have done. This robbery has been on our books for over twenty years without a dicky bird and now I can see it being wrapped up in the space of a week.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

‘The thing is, we’re conducting a search of the Hannah household in the morning. Since you gave us the lead, I would like to ask you to come along as an observer.’

Henderson arrived at the Farnham house of Suzy Hannah five minutes before DI Long of the Serious Robbery Squad pulled up in a grubby Vectra, and following behind, a van with a six-man search team. While Henderson and DI Long went to the door to present the search warrant, the forensic team decamped from the van and donned over-suits, gloves and unpacked detectors.

It must have been a scary prospect for the diminutive Suzy Hannah to be confronted by the over-size figure of DI Ken Long and half-a-dozen eager blokes intent on rustling through her smalls, but she took it in good grace and after inspecting the paperwork, allowed them to get on with it.

Henderson was nothing but a spectator, there to admire the professional approach of the Serious Robbery guys, a reward for re-awakening the AeroSwiss case when without it, they would still be in the Dark Ages. With much stomping and rummaging going on upstairs, he approached Mrs Hannah and asked to see the place where she had found the two gold bars.

‘We need to get the steps.’

They walked out the back door and when he got over the untidy state of the garden, he could see two sheds. A large, well-maintained shed at the back, looking like a smart summer house, and a smaller tatty shed behind it.

‘What do you use the big place for?’

‘Did you know my husband was a musician?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Well, this was his rehearsal space.’

‘I’ll take a look in there later. Let’s get the steps.’

He carried the aluminium stepladder back to the bedroom and Mrs Hannah placed them close to a large, dark-varnished wardrobe and climbed up. It was rude to stare, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off her beautiful legs, the dress creeping up to mid-thigh as she reached for something at the top of the wardrobe.

She stepped down holding a small case and handed it to him. It looked old and tatty.

He placed it on the bed and undid the zip.

‘This is where you found two gold bars?’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t find any more?’

‘No,’ she said with a steely stare. He was a student of Neuro-Linguistic Programming, NLP for short, a methodology to help him understand not only what people said but how they said it based on facial expressions and body language. Her face didn’t exhibit one trace of a lie and in fact, her expression was saying to him, ‘Are you doubting me?’

‘Aside from the two gold bars, you found nothing else?’

‘No,’ she said, as emphatic as before.

Henderson climbed the ladder to made sure there weren’t any more bags with gold up there, but he didn’t see any.

Everyone was still busy upstairs and Henderson, looking for something to do, picked up the shed keys and walked out the back door, this time without the delectable Mrs Suzy Hannah in tow. He opened the door of the big shed but his glance through the window didn’t prepare him for the sight which confronted him; a grown man’s paradise and no mistake. Guitars tastefully strung along the wall, a fridge stocked with beers, a television hung from another wall, and a sofa, a comfortable place to sit down and enjoy it all.

Against one wall stood a tall cupboard which he opened, half-expecting it to be full of gold, disappointed to see it was crammed with music paraphernalia; pick-ups, cables, bits of old amps, music books, but alas nothing that glittered. A beautiful Oriental rug caught his eye. It covered a large section of the wooden floorboards, a red dragon surrounded by a variety of Chinese symbols, but the mystical image was sullied with numerous cigarette burns and what looked like beer stains.

He pushed the settee back and rolled up the carpet. To his disappointment, there was no hatch leading to a gold vault, and going by the booze fridge and his luck, if there was one, it would likely be a spiral wine cellar. He sat on the settee and slumped back, resigned to his position as the spare part in the search party for the rest of the morning.

The sun poked through a cloud and rays of bright light, filtered by tall trees, forked through the window. A ray touched his face, warming it. He closed his eyes and enjoyed its pleasant glow, the only source available inside the unheated rehearsal studio of a dead musician on a cold day.

He sat there for three or four minutes thinking about Eric Hannah playing in here, before easing himself up from a slouch and rubbing his eyes. He then noticed some of the floorboards weren’t the same shade as the surrounding floor. Keeping his eye on the spot in case he lost it, he bent down. He pulled out his key ring and eased the small screwdriver attachment between the boards. The board moved as if they weren’t stuck down and he found the same thing happened on three sides of the discoloured area.

Utilising a bit of logic, he reasoned that if Eric Hannah built it, he must have had an easy method of opening it. He rummaged through the cupboard again and found two flat pieces of metal that appeared to be likely candidates. At first glance, they looked the same as all the other guitar accessories, a sort of powder black, but even with his limited musical knowledge, he couldn’t think they would be of any use on a guitar or sound system.

He eased both pieces under the floorboards and pressing one with his good hand and the other with his knee, lifted a hatch. When there was enough space to fit in his hand, he let go of the metal plates and lifted the hatch. It was hinged on one side and he pushed it until it stood perpendicular with the floor.

It revealed a space three-foot-by-three-foot square and a couple of foot deep, lined in wood. His breath was coming in short gasps and his heart thumping a crazy beat, a better stimulant than standing close to the delectable Suzy Hannah. At the bottom of the space, a grey, musty blanket was spread out as if covering something. He reached down with a trembling hand and lifted the blanket.

Nothing. Zilch. Nada. Nought. His heart fell; he was convinced it would be here. He heard a noise behind him but it wasn’t DI Ken Long coming to gloat as he’d found the gold in the loft, but Mrs Hannah.

‘Where are they?’ he said. ‘The gold; the gold bars.’

‘I showed you where I got them. At the top of the wardrobe.’

‘I don’t mean two gold bars, your husband’s stash.’

‘The only stash he ever kept in here was his dope. He thought I didn’t know about it, but I did.’

He stood to face her. ‘Where have put them?’

She looked at him, steady as an oil tanker. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

He tried to look through her deception but his NLP training wasn’t helping; she was good.

‘I know there was gold in there,’ Henderson said. ‘Forensics will prove it.’

‘Well it’s not there now, is it?’

‘I can see that. So where is it?’

‘If there used to be gold in there as you say, my recently deceased husband must have spent it.’

‘I don’t believe that for an instant. I think you took it.’

She gave him a long, slow look and reached over to his injured arm and rubbed his discoloured hand gently. ‘You’re not sure, are you, Mr Detective?’ She said, looking up into his eyes. ‘If you want to find out, you’re just going to have to prove it, aren’t you?’