Fault Lines (35 page)

‘When I read in the paper about her death. When I first heard she was dead, I was relieved.’ He looked at them with sickening regret. Catching Femur’s expression, his own changed. ‘I didn’t realise then how bad it had been. I just thought it was coincidence, and that it meant I was free. But then, once I read the account in the paper, I saw it had to have had something to do with Drakeshill. And I couldn’t bear it. You must believe me.’

‘And what were you going to do about it?’ Femur asked curiously.

Napton said nothing. The answer was written all over him. He hadn’t been going to do anything. He began to cry. Caroline silently handed him a box of Kleenex.

Femur thought that Spinel and Drakeshill had judged Napton fairly well as a vain man, a coward and utterly malleable. Their mistake had been in thinking that they were the only people who could hammer him. When Napton had threatened to confess his part in the costings disaster, they must have realised that questions would be asked, questions that would uncover their own activities. They must have decided then that if Kara were silenced, Napton would be scared enough to keep his mouth shut for good and carry on doing whatever they told him.

It was Drakeshill’s bad luck that he and Spinel had not judged Blair Collons so accurately. Collons had proved to be far braver than anyone, except perhaps Kara, would have expected. Without his information, they might never have worked out who had needed to destroy her. With it, they knew who and why and how: all that was left was to prove it.

‘What’ll happen to me?’ Napton asked, when he’d got control of his tears and mopped himself up.

‘That rather depends,’ Femur said. ‘First of all, I want you to go with Constable Lyalt to fetch all the documentary evidence you have of what you’ve told us. Any papers, computer disks, message tapes. Anything. She and another officer will escort you to your office and your home and then bring you back here.’

Napton nodded. ‘I’ll do anything, Chief Inspector. Anything. I don’t want … I owe that poor woman … I want those two behind bars, you know, as much as you must.’

‘Right,’ said Femur, hiding his surprise that Napton didn’t seem to realise that he, too, was going to be behind bars. If there wasn’t enough evidence that he’d colluded with the others to have Kara Huggate murdered, there was always corruption. From everything that he’d said, it sounded as though they wouldn’t have much difficulty finding something there. ‘Constable Lyalt, will you organise transport, please? And take Constable Jones with you.’

Alone in the interview room, with the damp, crumpled tissues as the only evidence of Napton’s remorse, Femur faced his own. It was here, at this same table, that he’d become convinced that Blair Collons had killed Kara and had treated him accordingly.

Even afterwards, when Collons had poured out his account of the questions he and Kara had been asking and their likely effect on the triumvirate of Napton, Drakeshill and Spinel, Femur hadn’t shown him much consideration, still less apologised. He’d listened and taken notes, then sent the pathetic little man away with a chilly promise to look into the story.

Now he was going to have to apologise, and that was something he always loathed doing. Still, better get it over with. It was pissing with rain again so he went upstairs to fetch his coat, his shoulders aching and his feet dragging.

The moment he pushed open the swing doors at the end of the corridor that led to the incident room, he could sense that something was happening. It wasn’t just the high-pitched buzz of talk: there was something in the air, excitement and hot, pulsing anger. He could feel it all from ten feet away, and when he opened the door into the room itself, he was greeted with a roar. He stood, a little puzzled, waiting for an explanation.

‘You’ve done it, Guv,’ Blacker called from his desk. ‘You were right all along. It is a copycat and it is Chaz Chompton who killed her.’

Femur let his shoulders settle. ‘What did you find in his flat?’

‘This,’ Blacker said, holding out a flat plastic evidence bag.

Femur walked across the room to look. He saw a familiar photograph – in colour – of the real Kingsford Rapist’s last victim. The print was creased down the middle as though it had been folded to fit into a pocket.

There was dust around several distinct-looking fingerprints. There was also a red-brown smudge in one corner.

‘You found this in Chaz’s flat?’ he said, hardly daring to believe it. He and Cally must have spent much longer with Napton than he’d realised.

‘We did. And the reference on the back of the print shows that it was made three weeks ago.’

Femur raised his eyebrows. ‘Does it indeed?

‘Sure, Guv. And the prints have been photographed. They’re being checked now, but they look right.’ He grinned. Femur realised he must mean that there were prints on the photograph that looked like Spinel’s. Blacker must be sticking to his orders to keep quiet about Spinel. Good.

‘And that’s blood, I take it?’

‘We think so. Owler’s about to take the print to the lab to get it tested against Huggate’s.’

‘Good.’ Femur let his shoulders settle a little. He could legitimately postpone his visit to Blair Collons until this was sorted. ‘But before he goes, make a note of the reference on the print and find out who requested it.’

‘Then we’ll be home and dry.’

‘With luck, Tony. I’ll be in my office. Tell me as soon as anything comes through.’

Four hours later, Blacker picked up Barry Spinel, brought him to the interview room where Femur was waiting. They cautioned him, charged him, and offered him legal representation. He declined that and sat, as cocky as ever, challenging them both.

‘It won’t help you to hold out on us now,’ Femur said, with a slight smile. Spinel was a fair target. He wouldn’t crumple or throw up. He could take whatever Femur chose to throw at him. And he deserved it all. ‘We’ve got plenty of evidence. We’ve got Michael Napton singing like a canary, and we’ll have Drakeshill before long. You could improve your chances by helping us.’

Spinel leaned back in his chair, his strong muscles bulging in the usual overtight jeans. His jaw was taut and his eyes were watchful, but he wasn’t afraid. There hadn’t been any leaks from the incident room, even when Spinel’s involvement was announced. Femur was proud of that. The local Kingsford officers had come good in the end, and stuck by the AMIP team as though they were part of it.

‘Things must’ve changed since I last questioned a suspect,’ Spinel said, in a casually mocking voice.

Femur raised his eyebrows. At his side, Tony Blacker shifted in his seat, restive as always when anyone challenged his boss. Femur nodded to give him permission to say whatever he wanted.

‘You should be lucky we don’t use your techniques, Spinel.’

‘And what do you know about my techniques?’ Spinel asked, suddenly dangerous. ‘If you think I’ve ever held out inducements to
my
suspects, you’ve another think coming. Lucky for me the tape’s running. You’ll never get away with it, you know.’

‘What I heard on the street is that you terrorise defendants, hit them, blackmail them, just like you blackmailed Michael Napton into working for Drakeshill.’

‘Do I have to listen to this shit?’ Spinel asked Femur, who shook his head slowly.

‘You don’t have to do anything, Spinel, but as you well know, if you do not mention when questioned evidence you later rely on in court, that may harm your defence.’ Femur laughed. For the first time in days he could remember what it felt like to enjoy himself. ‘But, like I say, we don’t really need anything from you since we’ve plenty of evidence already. Evidence no one could wriggle out of.’

‘Then why am I here?’

‘Because you could help yourself by helping us.’

‘Why should I? You’ve arrested me on suspicion of the murder of Kara Huggate but, as I’ve already said, I’ve an alibi supported by hundreds of witnesses. I was at a work dinner of my wife’s in the City the night the woman was killed.’

‘Yes,’ said Femur, as calmly as though he was asking for a cup of tea, ‘and I’m sure you can rely on everyone there to say what you want them to say.’

Spinel nodded, satisfaction all over his face.

‘But unfortunately you can’t always rely on everyone in the same way.’

‘And what does that mean?’

‘Charles Chompton.’

There was a definite movement in Spinel’s face, which he tried to disguise by smiling widely and saying, ‘One of Drakeshill’s mechanics? The one they call Chompie?’

‘As if you didn’t know,’ said Tony Blacker viciously.

Femur waved his right hand, palm down, as though he was trying to slow the traffic. ‘That’s right, Sergeant Spinel,’ he said. ‘The lad who kept the scene-of-crime photo of the Kingsford Rapist’s last victim that you’d given him.’

He waited for a reaction, but Spinel had himself well in hand and didn’t move. He didn’t seem to be breathing either so Femur wasn’t too worried.

‘The photo Chompie used to work out how to arrange Kara Huggate’s body on the floor of her cottage after he’d killed her so that it would look as much like the Kingsford Rapist’s victim as possible. You were taking a risk, you know, trusting a lad like that.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I expect you told him to get rid of it after he’d finished with her – or perhaps you just assumed he would – but he didn’t. I don’t know whether he kept it as insurance in case we ever did pick him up, or whether he was just too thick to realise how we’d use it.’

‘And how’s that, sir?’ Spinel was back in his favourite pose, legs spread, head thrown back, hands splayed on his meaty thighs. I dare you, his body language said. You’ll never beat me.

‘To tie him to Kara’s death, since there are traces of her blood on it, as well as his fingerprints.’ Femur smiled. ‘And yours, Spinel.’

Spinel’s hands tightened, the fingertips pressing into his legs and the joints whitening. But he didn’t speak.

‘Yes. I don’t know why you didn’t wear gloves,’ Femur said, sounding regretful, sympathetic, even. ‘Unless you thought that would make the woman from the photo lab suspicious when she gave it to you. Or perhaps you didn’t worry since you were certain you could rely on Chompie to destroy the photo. But we’ve two nice prints, you see, unmistakably yours. And there’s no legitimate reason for you to have handled that photo. We’ve even talked to that poor pathetic girl in Records.’

‘I don’t know who you mean,’ Spinel said automatically.

‘The one you went to only three weeks ago to say you thought you had some more evidence on the rapist and needed to check something on the photo.’

‘Bitch.’ The single syllable was almost spat. ‘She …’ Spinel recovered himself and shut his mouth. But his chest heaved as though he’d been running, and his face was reddening as they watched.

‘We know she owed you – and ultimately Drakeshill, no doubt – for her smack, but she’s been wise enough to come clean. She’ll lose her job, but that’s probably all. It’s all unravelling, you see, Spinel. You might as well join the angels and give us Drakeshill. We know he’s always been the boss and you’re only a gofer. Talk to us and we’ll see what we can do for you.’

For a moment Femur thought Spinel would respond to the insult, but he didn’t. He kept his mouth shut and went on smiling. He hadn’t asked for a lawyer or even a Federation rep. He must have known he was in far too deep to do any kind of deal with them. He was going down, and he had a better chance of surviving what he’d have to face in prison if he were known to have kept quiet about Drakeshill.

Femur couldn’t bear the possibility that Drakeshill might escape, but he had to face it. They were working their socks off to get evidence against him, but so far not much had come through. Informally Femur had been told that the CPS would bend over backwards to help – they’d been longing to go after him for years – but they needed something concrete. Napton’s evidence would help, but without support from either Spinel or Chompie, it might not be enough.

As Femur followed Steve Owler out of the station, the dank air clawed at his chapped lips and seemed to float up his trouser legs to make the skin chafe against the fabric of his suit. He’d never realised how rough it was. He hunched his shoulders down into the coat and told himself to stop whingeing. It only seemed as bad as this because he was on his way to apologise. Most officers wouldn’t have bothered, but he owed Blair Collons. He owed him for the information that had broken the case wide open, he owed him for the contempt, and for the bullying.

Owler drove straight to Holmside Court in helpful silence, as though he understood enough of Femur’s mood to know that the squad’s crowing triumph was getting to him. He was a good lad because it was probably his first successful murder case and he must have been fizzing with triumph.

There was no answer from Collons’s flat when they rang the bell. Femur stepped into the neat flower bed that ran along the front of the building and walked along to the furthest window, which he knew was Collons’s, so that he could look in. The curtains were drawn, but there was a narrow gap between them.

‘Oh, shit!’ he said then yelled: ‘Owler, get an ambulance.’

‘Who are you?’ came a nervous female voice to Femur’s right. He pulled away from the window and saw a young woman carrying a baby in a sling against her breasts. She looked terrified as she stood by the front door to the flats and was cupping both her hands around her baby’s head as Steve Owler jabbered into his mobile.

‘It’s all right, madam. I’m sorry I startled you. My name is Chief Inspector William Femur of the Metropolitan Police.’ He smiled and held out his warrant card. Seeing some of the terror leaving her face, he walked quickly back to the path and showed her the card again.

‘Sorry,’ she said, letting her hands fall to her sides. But she was still breathing faster than she should have been and the baby was wailing.

‘No, please. It’s me who should apologise. But I need to get into the ground-floor flat over there straight away. D’you know the owner?’

‘Mr Collons?’ Her nostrils flexed and her lips thinned. She shook her head. Her hands were once more protecting her baby’s head. ‘He never talks to any of us; just scuttles in and out. I don’t want … What’s he done?’