One Last Lesson (27 page)

‘There is indeed someone else living with Mr Samuels. He tells me this other person was respo
nsible for the murders, not him and he took no part in his evil activities and will not take responsibility for something he hasn’t done.’

‘What would you like me to say now? Thanks very much
for your assistance, Mr Samuels? Because you came and told me it was the big boy from the school around the corner that broke the window and not you, you can go home now? No way, Jose.’ He pointed at Samuels. ‘You’re going back to jail my friend, but believe me, you’re never getting out.’

‘Your antipathy for my client is noted, but what I was going on to say was my client will give you the name of his lodger, who stays with him on a purely financial basis
and not for any other purpose, if you drop your threat to charge him with Joint Enterprise to murder.’

‘What do you take me for? An idiot? No way. I’m not agreeing to that.’

‘Detective Inspector Henderson, if Mister Samuels will not tell you this person’s name, I cannot compel him to do so.’

‘If you carry on like that,
Mr Campbell I will charge you and your client with obstructing a murder enquiry and withholding vital evidence and I’ll lock you both up until you tell me.’

‘You’re bluffing Henderson and I...’

‘You never know, I might even let it slip to that gaggle of reporters waiting outside, particularly Rob Tremain who’s got a wicked way with words when the mood takes him, that the great Jeffrey Campbell, arch defender of the criminal classes and patron of some of Brighton’s finest eating establishments, is doing porridge in jail rather than eating it at the Grand Hotel.’

Campbell’s face was
as dark as thunder as he leaned across the table and pointed a fat index finger in Henderson’s face. ‘You do that and I will make sure you spend the rest of your days issuing parking tickets in Hurstpierpoint. I know a great many people in this town, Detective Inspector Henderson and I can make life very uncomfortable for you.’

They faced each other across the table, and
it wasn’t until he felt Hobbs’s arm on his shoulder that he realised he had called for a lunch recess and the recording equipment was no longer operating.

He returned to his office and sat quietly for a few moments, going over in his mind the last ten minutes of that interview. It was not his intention to rile Jeffrey Campbell as he did indeed have
a great many friends in high places in Brighton including the Mayor, Chief Constable and the leader of East Sussex County Council, but his view of Samuels was hardening the more he saw of him.

He was clever, cunning and manipulative and there was no way he could be living with a murderer and have no idea what was going on in his bedroom, or when he went out in the car
at night, coming back at an ungodly hour with his clothes splattered with blood. After all, the room door was unlocked and Walters only discovered it after taking the wrong turn on her way to the bathroom.

They
had reached an impasse and he was not going to back down and seemingly, neither was Campbell or Samuels. He picked up the phone and called Pat Davidson.

‘
Hello Pat, I’m in the middle of interviewing David Samuels and even though he admits having a lodger, he won’t give me his name. Can you help?’

‘Just when I
thought we’d got the right guy. This case has more bloody twists and turns than Brands Hatch.’

‘I know. Root around in the drawers and cupboards and see if there is anything that can identify him, maybe a letter, court summons,
a gym ID card or something like that.’

‘I’m on it Angus. The lads have just brought in some sandwiches but I’ve no stomach for eating. I’ll call you back as soon as I find anything.’

He headed into the Murder Suite, ostensibly to find out how the tasks set at this morning’s lacklustre briefing meeting were progressing, but in reality to give him something to do as he was feeling at a loose end, like hanging around a theatre foyer waiting for the show to restart. For many, this was the boring part of the job after the excitement of the chase, when notes and reports were being typed up or at least tidied, and files examined to ensure they were correct and complete as soon they would be turned over to the CPS legal team to prepare the case for prosecution.

He called the stragglers together and told them
about the interview with Samuels and how it was going and there was a collective groan, tinged with excitement, when they realised the case was not yet closed. He thanked them for their efforts so far, but told them one more push was needed to finish the job. Many of them looked tired, partly from a weekend of boozing but over the last six weeks the work had been relentless, with regular late nights and constant weekend working.

He walked back into his office just as the phone rang.

‘Hello Angus, its Pat.’

‘That was quick.
I spoke to you, oh only half an hour ago.’

‘
Don’t get your hopes up, I’m calling about something else.’

‘Shit.’

‘Nah, I’m only kidding. Finding this guy was easier than I thought as I found a box of his personal stuff under the bed. His name is Martin Cope. Ring any bells?’

‘Well done
mate, you’re a genius but no, I’ve never heard of him.’

‘
That’s not all. I came across a leaflet and other stuff in there about an apartment complex in Portugal and an email receipt for a flight to Portugal that left last Thursday, coming back this Sunday. When I looked through his clothes, I couldn’t find any summer stuff like shorts and t-shirts and so it doesn’t take the skills of Poirot to deduce that he’s gone off to Portugal on a golfing holiday. There’s also a postcard from him in the kitchen.’

‘What makes you think it was a golfing holiday?’

‘He’s a golfer for sure as there are books and spare balls but no bag, clothes or shoes. He’s staying at a place called the Alto Golf Club Resort which gives you a clue and anyway, what else does anyone go to Portugal for?’

Henderson could think of a few reasons but this wasn’t the time. ‘Wh
at was the tone of the postcard, I mean was it boyfriend to boyfriend, tenant to landlord or friend to friend?’

‘I’m no psychologist but I detect a little bit of subservience, you know, such as a line that says, ‘I hope I left everything tidy,’ anyway, it’s all bagged up now and once
its back at Sussex House in about an hour, you can mull over it at your leisure.’

‘Cheers Pat.’

Before heading into the Murder Suite and tasking someone with researching Martin Cope, there were some decisions he needed to make. He had been so tied up with Samuels that no was given to release Mike Ferris. He was guilty of nothing more than being a friend to Sarah Robson but his reluctance to furnish details of his movements and revealing all he knew, seriously hampered his defence. He was certainly guilty of wasting police time but Henderson decided not to charge him.

Carol
Walters made the arrest and she was the one who was utterly convinced of Mike Ferris’s guilt and it was fitting that she should take the responsibility for securing his release, and after completing the necessary paperwork he called her in and gave her the job. Far from being contrite as a less robust character might have been, she was unruffled, as her fallen star had risen again like Lazarus when she uncovered Cope’s shrine, and she accepted the papers with grace.

N
ot that he was immune from criticism as he could have said ‘no’ to the Ferris arrest but in every investigation there was always at least one occasion when they had to go backwards before they went forward and he guessed for Operation Jaguar, this was it. If any flak was to be directed at Walters, he would make sure she wasn’t harmed by it.

His next problem was what to do with Samuels
. There were signs that the affable film buff was clever and manipulative and he wouldn’t be surprised if Samuels wasn’t pulling the strings, or at the very least, he was the one who had initiated Cope’s killing spree. No, he would not rise to the bullying of Campbell. Samuels would be charged with murder until Cope was taken into custody, then and only then, would he decide the little rich kid’s fate.

He followed the arrest of the latest police suspect on the national and local news bulletins as he had done earlier with Mike Ferris. The police were trying to keep a lid on the name of the suspect, but he knew from his own sources that it was David Samuels. There was no real evidence against Ferris and soon they would be forced to release him, and Dominic Green wondered how long it would be before that slime-ball rapist Samuels was out in the sunlight. If his faith in the British justice system was at a low point before this case, it was scraping the bottom of the barrel by now.

They were nothing but idiots if they thought that a fat, ugly
Neanderthal like Mike Ferris could have murdered his girls, as that man didn’t have two brain cells to rub together and this killer was smart. Samuels looked a better bet as Green could still recall the original court case and remembered the way he treated the women he raped. He thought at the time Samuels was an evil and heartless bastard and while Green could be cruel and merciless too, it was never against an innocent woman or anyone that didn’t deserve it or owed him something.

Samuels was on his list too as
he was another one that still bore a grudge. In fact, he deserved to be higher up the list as his gripe was more genuine than some, but he wasn’t there as nothing had been heard from him for years.

Back in the day, he came to him
driving a flash car, sporting a smart watch and wearing a nice suit. It was obvious he had money to burn and to a man with finely tuned business instincts and an antenna for money, how could he refuse? Together, they bought a shopping parade in Worthing with plans to turn it into a shopping centre, but to everyone’s surprise the council turned the scheme down and eventually redeveloped the site themselves, the greedy bastards. Losses were put at over six hundred thousand but following a bit of financial jiggery-pokery by his accountants, he made sure Samuels shouldered most of the bill.

He switched the television off.
The next candidate on his list certainly looked a better bet. His name was George Rudd, the brother of a caretaker who died when fire destroyed a derelict hotel. The hotel was his, recently bought with the intention of demolishing it and building a block of flats and he told the stubborn old scroat to get out, but when he refused, he instructed two of his close associates to hasten his departure.

The daft bastards were so engrossed in their work, beating him up and wrecking his stuff
that they failed to notice a paraffin heater had been upended, used by the man to keep warm after his new landlord had shut off all the utilities. By the time flames were spotted, the fire was an inferno and they had no choice but to get the hell out.

In the weeks that followed, he found himself in the position that Samuels was in now, defended by that fat balloon Campbell who did bugger-all to get him off, aside from telling him to plead guilty to a lesser charge that mean
t he would spend five years in jail, as if. He was finally freed when the sole witness, a young man that lived nearby and who spotted two men legging it from the burning building and subsequently identified them at an identity parade, wisely retracted his statement after he was dangled upside down from the roof of a car park in Worthing.

On the steps of Lewes Crown Court, Rudd’s brother George charmed the waiting media morass with a rousing speech in which he denounced Green as a vile and contemptible monster and vowed to get even. Ever since,
Greene had received a steady stream of anonymous and threatening letters, which he assumed could only have come from him. In addition, due to the time Rudd devoted to the trial; in discussions with lawyers in preparing the case, attending the trial, lobbying for an appeal and so on, he lost a good job selling medical equipment to hospitals. Ever since then, he worked in a variety of low-paid jobs and currently, was a lab assistant in the Chemistry Department at Lewes University.

A car rumbled over the drive. He shouted ‘goodbye’ to his wife and girls
who were all sitting in the lounge watching a rom-com movie, and headed outside. It was not unusual for him to go out in the evening as he owned many late-night businesses; a chain of pubs, two nightclubs and a casino, and a few off-radar enterprises engaged in drug dealing, prostitution and high-stakes gambling, and therefore his departure raised fewer domestic enquiries than it would in many other households.

John
was using his wife’s car again and as soon as he opened the door, he was assailed by a mixture of lime, lemon and mandarin from the hand, body and face lotions that were stored in the boot. This was overlaid with a hideous mix of sweat and garlic from Spike in the back, a man who possessed the appetite of an elephant and the taste buds of a rhino and couldn’t eat anything unless it was drenched in chilli or curry.

‘Evening Mr Green.’ Lester said, as he climbed inside and shut the door.

‘Evening John, evening Spike.’

‘Evening Mr Green,’ Spike said without looking up from his
smartphone, so called, as in Spike’s case, it was smarter than its owner.