Here The Truth Lies Page 4

  She turns away for a moment and then returns with a piercing stare. “Do you know what it’s like to go to prison, Miss Chamberlain?”

  I shake my head.

  “Didn’t think you did. Well, I can tell you, three months doesn’t sound like much but each day you lose a little more of your dignity, a little more of your personality and you’re reduced to being no better than the rest of the scum in there.”

  My mind turns to thoughts of Brian Cooper, eighteen years in prison, and the fact that this woman, for all her claims of suffering, could have no understanding of what he’s been through. But I need to concentrate. My subject is still speaking.

  “We got punished for doing no more than anyone would do to help a wife’s career.”

  I recall the details of the case. Margaret Hyslop made a false claim to Parliament for a laptop computer through her office expenses. When challenged, Margaret told the authorities that her husband Malcolm had been responsible. A breadcrumb sin. It meant that he would have the fine on his record rather than her. When they appeared in Magistrates Court, husband and wife both lied as they stuck to the story. The ruse worked until someone told the press the truth. The computer was for her benefit. The couple were hauled back to Court and charged with perverting the course of justice. The highest standards were required of public figures and they should set an example. And perverting the course of justice was a serious offence, however committed. They each received a three months sentence. Not that it seemed that Mrs Hyslop learned much from her time inside. She is as arrogant as ever.

  “Sharing the blame. That’s all it was. Everyone does it. The Court has no way of telling the difference. Unless someone informs them.” She pauses and sucks on the vape she was concealing in her bag. “It was Stanley who turned us in. It was him, I’m sure. No one else knew. So, yes, I can warm to the idea of revenge, Miss Chamberlain. After what they put me and Malcolm through, I really can.”

  “And why would he do that? Turn you in, as you say? He must have known you both well.”

  “My dear, we were all at university together. But that didn’t matter. Stanley could see I was his main rival for Cabinet. There are no rules against low blows in politics. Stanley took his chance and ruined my career. No one thinks too much about what happened now. As they say, it’s water under the bridge.”

  “But you still care?”

  “How could I ever forgive treachery like that? So, yes, I’ll help you, Miss Chamberlain. There’s a great deal that Adam Stanley has to answer for in this life. I hope you’ll be the one to make a start on that.”

  I wait. Margaret Hyslop is on the point of coming clean. As clean as a woman like her could ever be. This is not the time to interrupt.

  When the words come, they are clear and distinct. “This is strictly, off the record, non attributable, you agree?”

  I don’t hesitate. “Of course.”

  “Which means I can tell you I was the one who sent you the video footage. I want Stanley and whatever he’s involved with to be investigated.”

  “You sent the file from Westminster?”

  “I’ve lost my position as an MP but I still have Internet access from there. For the moment at least. They’re rather slow at changing these things.”

  “Where did you get the video?”

  “I made a promise I’d keep that secret.”

  “Was it the man who received the cash from Stanley?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You have a name?”

  She nods. “But he’s the one I made the promise to.”

  “You understand there’s going to be no way of making anything stick against Stanley without revealing who that man is, don’t you, Mrs. Hyslop?”

  “I don’t like breaking my word.”

  The way this rolls off her tongue tells me this is something that Margaret Hyslop said often and meant far less.

  She reaches into her bag and pulls out a business card, turns it over and writes something on the back of the card before handing it to me.

  Terry Grant, Fine Line Taxis

  “Talk to him. He may tell you what you need.”

  CHAPTER 11

  There’s no such thing as an easy hit, Evan Cargill is certain of that. It’s all about getting the planning right.

  Peter Booker needs to believe he will meet Will Murphy in the kind of place that a ten-year-old boy would know. At the same time, Cargill wants to make sure he can use the opportunity to follow his target home once the meeting is over.

  Cargill congratulates himself that he’s chosen well. The playing fields are deserted; the football pitches empty at this time of day. It’s the sort of place that a Will Murphy would know about. Somewhere he would have played. But, and this was the point of meeting here, there is a parking lot that backs right onto the playing fields. It’s certain Booker would arrive here by car.

  Even better, Cargill finds a spot close to the changing rooms to position his own vehicle where it won’t be seen from the parking lot. He can observe from here and follow when necessary.

  He now just has to wait.

  There’s a strong chance that Booker will back out. As Cargill had discovered on so many of these liaisons, the men on his list are cautious, with a heightened sense of self-preservation. Not too surprising, given what they are contemplating. This extended to the suspicion that they might be walking into a police trap. It all means he has to be careful how he plays them, drawing them in one small step at a time.

  Ah, here is an approaching car. And, yes, the signs are good. The vehicle, a Range Rover, has pulled to a halt outside the parking lot entrance. It’s on the brink of coming in but the driver is checking for any sign of a set up.

  Something must have spooked him. The Range Rover is pulling away. It doesn’t matter. Cargill will follow. That’s the whole point of being here.

  He starts his vehicle and waits until Booker passes by on the road outside. He pulls out and follows.

  Where will he go?

  Cargill tracks the Range Rover to a double-fronted Victorian mansion in Maida Vale. He watches as the target opens the security gates and drives inside.

  With the house number and street name, it’s simple to search his laptop for what he wants. Here it is. Peter Booker is none other than Alastair Cavendish.

  Cargill relaxes in the driver’s seat with a feeling of pride. He’s completed the list and has identified each and every one of them. Five men, all now with a real name and address. All with shocking secrets to hide.

  He could benefit by blackmailing them. That would be straightforward. The threat of giving details to the police would loosen their wallets fast enough. Or, perhaps, he should attempt to ruin them straight away by telling the police what he’s discovered. But both options are beside the point. The pain and brutality he’s suffered demands a more direct form of revenge.

  There’s no time better than the present.

  Cargill eases his way out of the vehicle and, without making a sound, climbs over the brick wall protecting Cavendish’s house. His military experience tells him where to look for the tell tale features that might trigger alarms and he avoids them where he can and disables them where necessary.

  For a big man, he prides himself on how nimble he is. He shins up onto the garage roof and, from there, enters through the bathroom window.

  The information retrieved on Cavendish is that he lives alone now he’s divorced his wife of twenty years. What are the chances he’s formed a new relationship? Not high, given his secret life as Peter Booker.

  If he’s alone, it will make this so much less complicated.

  Cargill finds his man in the kitchen, serving out a microwaved lunch.

  The spoon Cavendish is holding clatters to the floor as Cargill appears at the kitchen door.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Cargill comes closer and smiles. “Let’s just say I have a message from Will Murphy.”

  The target goes white and his hands shake. �
�Why would you mention that name?” He steadies himself and tries to take on the look of a man asserting himself. “I have no idea who you are but if you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave before I call the police.”

  Cargill sneers. “And let me tell them all about Peter Booker and how he’s just back from a meeting with a ten-year-old in a parks playing fields. I don’t think so.”

  “Then what do you want? If it’s money, I can get it for you.”

  “You’re not going to buy yourself out of this, Alastair.”

  He looks shocked that Cargill has his name. “Then what?”

  “I want satisfaction.”

  He manages a weak smile. “How could I ever give you that?”

  Cargill feels a rising wave of revulsion. This man, this thing, assumes he’s here for some kind of sexual satisfaction. How sick is that?

  “No, Alastair. Payback for the pain and suffering you, and men like you, have put me through all these years.”

  “But who are you? I’ve never been a part of what happened to you.” He pauses, his expression changing from one of frozen fear to one of concern, as if sensing he has discovered a point of weakness in his assailant.

  Cargill pulls the hunting knife he carries in his trousers pocket from its sheath and runs his fingers over the serrated edge of the blade. “They sell these to anglers for gutting fish.”

  Cavendish tries to run towards the kitchen doors leading out to the garden but Cargill catches him before he can escape.

  He plunges the knife deep into his quarry’s back in the region of the kidney and pulls the handle up with maximum force to let the serrated edge of the blade do its work. Cargill withdraws the knife and sighs at the sight of the mess now dripping from it.

  Cavendish screams as he lies on the floor, blood streaming from his wounds. He has time for one last plea. “I’m a wealthy man. I’ll give you anything you want. Just tell me what.”

  Cargill isn’t listening. His mind’s eye is filled with the faces of all those who, down the years, have abused him.

  He turns his man over and slits his throat. Blood spurts from the neck. The man’s eyes bulge and then cloud. His body descends into spasm. Cargill watches as the man dies. There is no feeling of guilt or remorse at the taking of this life. Those emotions have been driven from him long ago.

  There’s just one thing left to do.

  This is the first killing. The others will have to come soon since he’s certain the men on his list will react on hearing what’s happened to Cavendish and take measures to protect themselves.

  Yet he must leave a mark to make the world take heed of what is at stake here.

  He slices open the dead man’s shirt to expose the chest. With the knife he makes two deep and long incisions into the flesh in a line between the man’s nipples.

  He stands back to admire his handiwork for a moment.

  A suitable calling card.

  CHAPTER 12

  I meet Sophie again at lunchtime at Tate Modern.

  It’s a grey day with ominous, dark banks of cloud high above the Thames, giving the flowing river a silver black sheen.

  From the start, I’m aware that Sophie’s concern for me is as great as ever.

  “You don’t have to worry. I’m going to be all right.”

  Sophie doesn’t seem convinced. “Emma, you look terrible. Don’t tell me you’re still not sleeping.”

  There’s no way I can confide in my friend about Jenny and the visits made to me in the dead of night. It would be the final link in the chain that would lead to advice that I should seek treatment. “I had a few hours. It was enough.”

  “Well, I doubt it. You can tell me.”

  “There’s nothing more to tell.”

  Sophie waits. She looks back in total disbelief.

  I make a show of relenting. “OK. If you must know, I’ve had death threats at work.”

  “Why didn’t you say?”

  “I didn’t want to worry you. It’s what you should expect in the business I’m in. But, yes, it’s been adding to the pressure.”

  “What kind of threats?”

  I tell Sophie about the crayon message BACK OFF BEFORE ITS TOO LATE sent to me at the Herald offices. “Looks like it was written by a child but I think that was just to disguise the sender.”

  “Any idea who that was?”

  “No. McLeish has asked the police to enquire into it.”

  “And?”

  “We’re still waiting to hear from them.”

  “Which leaves you high and dry. Emma, you don’t need this kind of pressure. Maybe you should ask for leave. Take a few weeks. Regroup. Come back to work when this is sorted out.”

  “Then I’d have to give the Stanley story to someone else. I’m no quitter.”

  Sophie knows about my inquiries on Adam Stanley. We’ve discussed it many times. But I always keep the details as brief as possible. I don’t want to detract from the interest I want her to take in Brian Cooper’s case. As far as Sophie is concerned the story is little more than a routine journalistic matter.

  I’m content for it to stay that way.

  Sophie leans forward. “Well, take care of yourself. Let the police sort this out. And make sure you get a good night’s sleep.”

  I nod. “You always give the best advice.” I pause and move the conversation on to what I want to talk about with Sophie. “Do you have anything more on Cooper?”

  Sophie gives a knowing glance. “I wondered how long it would be before you asked.” She pulls out a paper file from her bag and places it on the table. “But first, how was your phone call with him?”

  Given Sophie’s concerns, there’s no need to cloud matters by saying the conversation with Brian Cooper has done little to quell the lingering doubts I have about the man. I don’t want to divert her attention from helping to dig out the facts. “It was all right. He didn’t have much more to add. Wouldn’t offer anything on why he has no alibi, but there’s nothing new in that.”

  “So, we carry on trying to find one for him?”

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  Sophie shrugs her shoulders as if to say: It’s your call. Then she returns to the contents of the file. “I’ve collected together all the paper based information we have. It’s not a great deal, considering the gravity of his case. I was able to download the transcripts of the trial using the company account, otherwise the cost of that on its own would have been prohibitive. That includes Alison’s witness statement and the depositions made by the investigating officers. Plus photographic evidence from the crime scene. The bodies of the schoolgirl, Marion and her father, Alan Jones. And that’s about all there is.”

  I’m undeterred. “OK, if that’s what we have to work with, so be it.”

  Sophie takes me through the documents, page by page, pointing out possible lines of enquiry. These don’t amount to much. “Without further co-operation from Cooper himself, there’s little here that we could even begin to build an appeal for parole on.”

  She hands me a photo of the house in Morden where the killings took place. I pause and stare at it. There is something about this image that demands my attention, but I can’t place it.

  Sophie gives me a concerned look. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course.” I hand back the photo.

  Sophie looks pleased to be able to continue. “I’ve been in contact with Alec Waring, the defense lawyer at Cooper’s trial. He’s agreed to see us later this afternoon.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The murder scene is secured by uniformed officers by the time Ives and Lesley arrive at the house in Maida Vale.

  Looking down at the victim, Ives is surprised by the amount of blood. “If you’d chosen to butcher someone by the most gory means, this is it.”

  Lesley agrees. “Some kind of frenzy attack?”

  Ives moves closer. “I don’t think so. The cut to the throat looks deliberate, as if the killer wanted the world to see all that blood. More like a
ritual slaying.”

  He gives an enquiring look at the young uniformed officer standing by the kitchen door, who takes this as a signal to identify himself.

  “Miller, sir. I was first at the scene. A routine call out from the firm that protects the property. Something had disabled the security cameras. They flagged that up as suspicious. I could see what had happened by looking in the kitchen window.

  “Looks like he was trying to escape that way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ives turns back towards the body. “We need to get Pathology over here as soon as. See if they can corroborate the time of death. That should tally with when the break-in was reported by the security firm.”

  “I’ll get onto it, Steve.”

  “Find out if they have anything recorded from those cameras before the signal went down. If we’re in luck, we may even have a visual of the attacker. He would have to be stupid to do that, but these things happen.”

  Lesley uses a gloved hand to pull back the blood soaked shirt from the victim’s chest. “What do you make of this?”

  Ives looks long and hard at the two deep incisions made in a line between the man’s nipples. “This didn’t kill him. Could be some sort of message?”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  Three members of the forensics team come forward and begin their painstaking search for evidence, photographing the scene, testing for fibers and any other debris that the attacker may have left behind.

  “Do we know his name?”

  Lesley consults her tablet. “The house owner is Alastair Cavendish, a company executive. He’s an upstanding citizen with no record.”

  Ives shakes his head. “Aren’t they all? I want to know everything about him.”

  Andrea Julienne, the duty forensic pathologist, arrives to confirm the time of death. “From his body temperature, he’s been dead no more than four hours.” She seeks help from Ives to turn the body over. He comes forward and heaves against the heavy weight of all that flesh.

  Julienne uses a green laser pointer to highlight the wounds to the man’s back. “This is what brought him down. A single incision delivered from behind to the kidneys. The sort of wound that tells you the attacker knew what he was doing.”