The Murder House (3 page)

Oakley reminded his team that everything needed to be done by the book, then told them to go home and snatch some sleep before the interviews and reports the following day. Mark Butterworth lingered, however, too wired by the night's happenings to go home. After writing up his pocket book, he went to look at Noble through the grille on the cell door, enjoying the look of indignant rage on the man's face.

Noble was wearing white overalls, as his clothes had been taken to see whether the white powder on them could be matched to the heroin that had been found on the smugglers' boat.

‘You won't get me,' warned Noble, masking his temper when he saw he was being watched. ‘Not for smuggling. I might enjoy a bit of crack now and again, but I don't get involved in dealing.'

‘The forensic boys will prove you do,' taunted Butterworth. ‘They'll find it on your clothes.'

‘Yeah, my personal stash,' said Noble with a shrug. ‘It don't prove I had anything to do with the boat. All I did was watch it arrive. I'm an innocent bystander.'

Butterworth closed the grille and went to the property book – a thick tome in which the contents of a prisoner's pockets were recorded before being placed in a canvas bag and stored until the arrested person left the cells. The custody sergeant, Derek Jones, had gone to fetch someone a cup of water, so Butterworth unlocked the cupboard, found Noble's bag, and emptied it on the counter. Sure enough, there was a packet containing white powder. He glanced at the property book and saw its presence was duly noted. The following day, when Noble's lawyer was present, the packet would be sent to the Forensic Science Service, or FSS, for analysis.

Butterworth, tired and edgy, could see the case going up in smoke when the courts decided that any traces of heroin on Noble's clothes originated from his personal supply, not the boat. Noble was right: he might walk free.

Butterworth looked quickly through the other entries and saw that Noble was not the only one with drugs: Mike Gray had had five tablets in a pouch – ecstasy or some similar party pill. Quickly, Butterworth changed the record so that Gray had three of the tablets and Noble had two. He deleted all references to the powder – which went in his own pocket. There, he thought with satisfaction: Noble could not claim any powder traces on his clothes came from his personal stash if he did not have one.

By the time Derek Jones returned the cupboard was locked, the property book was back on its shelf and Butterworth was innocently studying the arrest file. Jones told him he should get off home if he wanted to be any good in the morning, and Butterworth left without a word, feeling as though he had scored a victory for justice.

Butterworth's attempt to thwart Noble was discovered the following morning, when Jones went to collect the pills and powder for forensic analysis. He distinctly recalled that there had been
five
tablets among Gray's possessions, and it was obvious that the number had been changed in the book. As only one person had been in a position to tamper, it did not take long for Jones to guess the truth. He told Oakley, then his superintendent. Oakley was furious. He cornered Butterworth in the canteen – empty at that hour – where the DS was using the coffee machine.

‘You might just have lost us the whole case,' he fumed. ‘Tampering with the evidence! Jesus! What were you thinking?'

‘That I had to stop Noble from walking,' objected Butterworth, not bothering to deny the accusation. ‘He'll say the powder on his clothes was stuff he used himself.'

Oakley was almost beside himself with frustration. ‘Blood tests will show otherwise, so his claim won't see him free, but your tampering might! I can't believe you did this.'

‘I was trying to help.' Butterworth looked wretched. His face was grey with fatigue, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Having the kind of job that entailed long hours didn't sit well with having a teething baby at home.

Oakley wanted to rail more, but he could see it would do no good. He ran a hand through his hair and stalked out, wondering what they could do to salvage the situation. Butterworth rubbed his temples with shaking hands. He was aware of a faint movement by the door, and saw Barry Wright lurking there. The sergeant was reading the notice board, and Butterworth had no way of knowing whether he had overheard the exchange. He closed his eyes. One thing was certain though: if Wright had, it would be all over the station by lunchtime.

Oakley sat with Clare Davis, discussing Butterworth's actions. He was still angry, but she questioned whether Noble had told Butterworth about his defence strategy specifically to ensure that the evidence
was
tampered with. Oakley cursed himself for not guessing that Butterworth's nervous excitement might lead him to do something stupid.

They met with Superintendent Taylor later that day, and it was agreed that the pills and packet should be put back as they had been before Butterworth had interfered, and an internal report submitted to the Professional Standards Department. Oakley asked to append a note outlining the stress his sergeant had been under, and the fact that Butterworth's daughter had been sleeping badly for months.

Chastened, Butterworth handed over the small packet he had taken, thanking his lucky stars that he hadn't flushed it down the toilet. Jones initialled the amended entries, and closed the book with an air of finality.

‘There,' he said. ‘Now bugger off, the lot of you.'

Jones was a quiet, reliable man who didn't gossip, and Oakley was sure the affair would lie dormant until the internal investigation began. Butterworth had been granted a temporary reprieve.

‘Thanks, Guv,' muttered Butterworth as he followed Oakley along the corridor.

‘You might lose your job over this,' cautioned Oakley, in no mood to be conciliatory. ‘Take the day off, and get a note from your doctor saying you've been under a lot of pressure. It might help. I'm just grateful no one else knows about this.'

Butterworth decided it wasn't a good time to mention that Wright might have overheard their discussion in the canteen.

I
should mention the mistake I made, which eventually led me to kill. It was only that – an error of judgement. It wasn't a crime or anything dishonest. It was a mistake, and we all make those. Of course, most don't spiral out of control and lead you to do things you could never imagine doing, even in your darkest nightmares.

The incident that started the chain of events leading to murder happened about a year and a half after my horrid one-night stand with James. I'd been at New Bridewell for about two years, and it was about six months after Noble's arrest. Oakley had let me sit in on Noble's interviews, which was nice of him, and it got Wright off my back for a few days. Then the case passed to higher authorities, and I was back to petty crime and traffic duties. Success had been sweet while it had lasted.

I was seeing Gary, Frances, and Colin Fairhurst fairly often by then, although James had long since moved to loftier acquaintances. Colin ran across James sometimes, and told us that he'd been made a partner in Urvine and Brotherton. James was young for such a post, and it showed that he was set for a glittering career.

I heard a different side of things at work, of course, where his name cropped up regularly. Only a couple of months after getting acquitted, Brown was arrested for holding up a post office with a gun. God knows how, but James managed to convince a jury that Brown was innocent on that as well.

As time passed, more stories about James circulated. Police officers often feel a grudging respect for clever lawyers – but not with James. His ability to put violent criminals back on the streets made him someone to hate. Needless to say, I kept my acquaintance with him quiet, and my school days and single night of unsatisfactory lust were tucked away as distant memories.

But none of this has anything to do with my mistake. That happened one pretty spring day in March about a year ago.

Paxton was becoming known as one of the best defence lawyers in the city. All the criminals wanted him, and with fame came the opportunity to pick and choose. He preferred the high-profile cases, for which his clients paid heavy fees. Noble's trial for drug smuggling fit the bill perfectly. He had successfully represented Noble before, of course, and Noble had been suitably grateful, not only doubling James' fee, but putting out the word that he was the best.

Paxton had spent the morning in chambers, and was walking past the Crown Court to have lunch in a popular harbourside restaurant when he passed Oakley and Butterworth. Oakley was relaxed and stoical as usual, but Butterworth looked like a cat on hot tiles. He refused to meet the lawyer's eyes, leaving Paxton frowning after him thoughtfully.

‘There's no need to
tell
him you've got something to hide,' muttered Oakley, unimpressed by Butterworth's loss of composure.

‘What if he brings it up?' whispered Butterworth wretchedly. ‘What am I going to do?'

‘He won't,' said Oakley. ‘He doesn't know anything about it. But you've got to get a grip. He'll have you for breakfast if you don't.'

‘That's what my wife said. She sent me to the doctor this morning.' Butterworth reached into his pocket and pulled out a prescription for tablets. ‘He said I was depressed and should take some pills for a month. What do you think?'

‘Listen to him,' said Oakley shortly. ‘Take them.'

‘I don't know.' Butterworth studied the form doubtfully. ‘These are anti-depressants. Like what they give neurotic housewives.'

‘It's what they give perfectly normal people who need a helping hand.'

Ever since ‘Butterworth's Blunder', as the incident had become nicknamed to those who knew about it, the DS had been nervous, short-tempered and unreliable. Oakley had tentatively suggested a visit to the force psychiatrist, but Butterworth had responded furiously and the subject had not been broached again.

‘So, you think I should take them?' pressed Butterworth. ‘But what if they make me weird, and I start saying all sorts of shit I shouldn't in the witness box?'

Personally, Oakley thought it more likely that Butterworth would start saying ‘all sorts of shit' without the tablets.

‘If you're worried, go back to the doctor and ask him about it.'

‘You won't tell anyone, will you?' Butterworth waved the prescription in such a way that Oakley could see his hands were shaking. ‘I don't want anyone to know.'

‘Of course not,' said Oakley. ‘But you've got to sort yourself out.'

He hoped Butterworth would pull himself together by the following Monday, or Paxton would be after him like a fox with a rabbit.

It was half past one on a Friday afternoon, thirty minutes before I was due to finish my shift and be off duty until I began a week of nights the following Monday. I'd worked a lot of overtime that month, which, unlike most of my colleagues, I disliked, as I'd rather have time off than a bigger paycheque. I was tired, and looking forward to having three days away. I was going to Newcastle, to meet some old university friends, and had my seat booked on the three o'clock train.

It was then, just as the weekend was about to blossom, that Sergeant Wright struck.

I could tell that he'd deliberately waited until the very last minute before mentioning that I was due at court on Monday, and that I'd better make myself familiar with the Noble case before I went home. Monday! The day I'd planned to travel back to Bristol on a train that arrived an hour before my shift was due to begin – cutting it fine, I know, but I wanted to squeeze every last moment out of the trip. Wright's piggy eyes gleamed with gratified spite when he saw my dismay.

‘It's not going to interfere with your plans, is it?' he asked, casually nasty as he handed me a thick folder. Even with computer technology, the police like their court paperwork in
printed
form. ‘Yes? You'd better get on with it, then. It won't take more than a couple of hours. Then you can get yourself off. But be back by ten a.m. on Monday.'

‘Why Monday?' I demanded. ‘Noble isn't supposed to be up until after the fifteenth of April.'

‘Someone cancelled, so he was moved ahead,' replied Wright. ‘The court clerk called to make sure it was OK. You hadn't crossed off Monday on the holiday charts, so I said yes.'

‘But I
told
you I was going away this weekend,' I protested. ‘You knew!'

‘Did I?' Wright shrugged. ‘I don't recall. But you've got a couple of hours to do here before you knock off. You don't want to be unprepared.'

‘I don't need to go through it,' I objected. ‘I can remember.'

Wright's expression was unpleasant. ‘Even
graduates
should refresh their memories before going to the Crown Court. But it's down to you. I'll tell Oakley that you've got more important things to do. Then if he loses the case because you fuck up, at least he'll know his hard work didn't interfere with your travel plans.'

‘That's not—'

‘You muscle in on a big case, and this is the payback,' Wright forged on, his resentment that I'd been the one to make the arrest bubbling to the surface. ‘You should've stuck to traffic duties if you didn't want to make sacrifices.'

I felt like slapping him as he sauntered away, but when I looked at the holiday records I saw that I hadn't marked Monday as a date when I was unavailable for court. It was my fault, but it felt like his. He gave me a jaunty wave as he headed for the White Swan, a local pub normally called the Mucky Duck, where he intended to spend the afternoon in beery camaraderie with his cronies.

He was right, of course. I
did
need to look over my notes and read my statement so I was up to speed for the witness stand. A clever lawyer could tie an unprepared officer in knots, and cases had been lost for a lot less. Noble was the biggest arrest I'd made, so I had to be ready.