The Trophy Taker Page 13
‘Do you think Mickey knows about the affair?’
‘Now I wouldn’t have a clue about that. I know they were still quite close, a bit closer than she would have liked actually. She often complained that he still had a key to her house and she wanted it back. I think she suspected he might let himself in sometimes.’
‘Did she say anything else about him? Do you think he was the jealous sort?’
‘Well I know a few months back, before they split, we were all at a male colleague’s retirement party and Mickey got all upset because he thought Susan was talking to the man for too long. He went and put his arm around her shoulders and started interrupting them, as if to assert she was his property. She looked awfully embarrassed and they left shortly afterwards. I felt sorry for her.’
‘Could he have been violent towards her, do you think?’
He paused, stroking his beard and closed his eyes briefly. ‘Who knows what goes on behind closed doors, but I have to say, I never saw anything.’
*
Sophie Pasqual was next. She said almost the same as Daniel had. The affair between Vincent Atkins and Susan Barton was a badly kept secret that they all knew about. Vincent had been conducting the liaison without his wife of thirty-five years’ knowledge and she was likely to be devastated. He was trying to keep it quiet.
Both Vincent and Mickey appeared to be harbouring strong feelings for Susan Barton still.
By the time Charlie finished taking her statement, it was late and the school was almost empty. Vincent Atkins had not stayed to be interviewed and Daniel Roberts had gone. Only the caretaker was left to usher them out of the premises.
It had been a long day.
As she drove back towards Lambeth HQ she passed the front of West Norwood Cemetery. It was a huge area. What if the car turned out to be a red herring? What if their murderer had somehow got Susan into the cemetery on foot, either by coercion or persuasion? What if there were other entrances or exits he might have used to walk her to her death? They couldn’t rule it out.
She thought about the murder scene. She thought about Susan Barton’s body ripped apart, her missing finger and the wedding ring inserted in place of her heart. It was sick. It was twisted. It was personal.
She pulled over and dialled Hunter’s number. They now had two more credible suspects.
Chapter 19
Mickey Barton was still in bed when they knocked his door down the following morning. The flat was only about a mile from the family house and was small and cramped. Half his life seemed to be crammed into the tiny space with the only single wardrobe in his bedroom bulging with designer clothing. Several rows of polished, shiny shoes and new trainers were spaced out on racks taking up the whole of one wall. Boxes of belongings remained unpacked, their lids opened to allow for the removal and return of necessary items. He clearly had no intention of living there any longer than he had to.
Charlie read out the provisions of the warrant, obtained by the night duty CID, and explained that his flat was to be searched. Paul then told him he was to be arrested on suspicion of the murder of his wife Susan Barton. He said nothing in reply.
She watched as he slumped backwards on to his bed and lifted his hands up to his face. He’d obviously known it was coming. Most partners came under the finger of suspicion when their loved ones were killed; even more so when they were ex-partners. Domestic troubles were still the most common reason for murder in the country and with their recent split so clearly causing them both tensions, he must have been waiting for the bang on the door at any time.
Now it was here and she would soon be interviewing him. They needed to get his side of the story down, under caution so that it could be used evidentially at court if he were to be charged later; when he last saw his wife, his movements before and after her death, the history of his split with her and any ongoing feelings that might have led to violence. With more witnesses claiming that he continued to have access to the family house and could be jealous, added to the fact that Susan appeared to have been abducted by someone she knew, with no forced entry to the marital home, there were ample grounds to suspect his involvement. What they didn’t have as yet was the evidence to prove it.
Hunter indicated towards Barton and Paul stepped forward with a set of handcuffs.
‘I’ve only got my boxers on.’ He raised his eyebrows towards Charlie before directing his question to Hunter. ‘Can I at least get washed and dressed first in private please, before those things get put on me?’
Hunter grunted and waved Paul back again. ‘Go with him, Paul, and make sure he behaves.’
Charlie moved away to allow him some space. The boys dealt with the boys and she was happy to leave it that way. Still, the sooner he was in handcuffs the better. She never felt comfortable, especially in the home territory of suspects, until they were put in restraints. Anything could happen.
She watched as Barton strutted across the hallway into the bathroom, with his bare chest puffed out and his hands balled loosely into fists. He was such a poser, obviously quite happy to show off his physique without any inhibitions. Never mind wanting privacy. A second of unease flashed through her. She put it to one side; Paul was right behind him.
She would enjoy interviewing him later. Having to kowtow to a woman would rattle him and when people were rattled they said things they didn’t mean to say.
*
Mickey Barton held tight to his wife’s engagement ring. He’d managed to slide his hand under his pillow and take hold of it as he was making a show of getting off the bed. No one had seen the slip of his hand and now he held the ring within the palm of his fist.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw the police officer watching him. He needed him to look away. The officer had seemed a little camp when he’d cautioned him. Maybe he could play on this. He didn’t look like the macho type who would totally ignore what he said and take pleasure in his discomfiture.
‘Excuse me. Do you mind? I need to take a piss.’
The officer looked embarrassed. He was averting his gaze, glancing away. Mickey bent forward; making a big play of what he was doing, grunting with the effort, making as much noise as possible. He hoped he wouldn’t be noticed. The policeman was still looking away. He had to take the risk. He moved the ring in his hand so that he was gripping it with the end of his fingers and lifted the top of the toilet cistern, pushing the ring forward through the gap and listening as it hit the water with a tiny plop.
The policeman hadn’t reacted. The idiot hadn’t seen what he’d done.
When he got back out from the nick, he could retrieve it. He just hoped it wouldn’t be found. He loved that ring. He loved that he himself had chosen it; that he himself had placed it on Susan’s finger. He loved what it symbolised. He kept it under his pillow every night, safe in the knowledge that a little part of her was near him.
It was a little part that had also cost him a fortune.
*
Charlie and Hunter were on their way again.
The first warrant had gone well; one suspect arrested for murder and the flat sealed off ready to be searched. Now they were rolling on to their second. She was not expecting any violence at this one, but they were still going to perform a rapid entry. There was no way she was going to be criticised for allowing a suspect to hide any evidence before he deigned to answer the door. If you lied to police and were suspected of murder, you took whatever treatment you got.
The house was not far away and it took only ten minutes to arrive. As they pulled in, a few houses along from their target venue, she was surprised to see the difference between the two environments Vincent Atkins inhabited. They were total opposites. The rambling house she was now looking at was as far from the almost OCD overtones of his school office as was possible. An overgrown privet hedge sprouted leggy twigs across the footway and the small wooden gate at the entrance was broken; skewed over to one side and propped up between the branches of a magnolia. The front garden was running rio
t; at best it could be described as an ecological wonderland, at worst, an overgrown jungle through which not even the local tomcat dared to tread. A pebbled footpath led to the front door, the sound of the tiny stones masked by the carpet of fallen leaves.
It fitted Vincent Atkins’ appearance far better than his office environment. She wondered why. Perhaps he was just able to keep his work and home life totally compartmentalised. It was strange, but looking at the front garden she now expected the whole interior of the house to be the same; rambling, slightly disorganised but full of well-intentioned choices and designs of grandeur. Before getting stuck into executing this warrant she rang Paul and checked that everything was still running smoothly at the previous one. It was.
Mickey Barton was in the station van and about to be whisked off to a police station. Now they had two suspects for the same offence, he was to be taken to Charing Cross police station as they couldn’t risk any cross-contamination with Oscar Abrahams who was still in custody at Brixton. She acknowledged the information and raised her hand to beckon everybody forward.
Very soon they would have three suspects in custody.
*
It was a nice day and Vincent Atkins was browsing through a magazine in the conservatory with his wife, Molly. She was re-potting some houseplants before allowing them to lie dormant for the winter. They would be glad of the bigger pots when spring came. They could spread their roots and thrive. Several pots stood on the top of a large oak bookcase, leafy fronds hanging down over the top couple of shelves. His bookcase was his pride and joy, filled with books on his favourite subjects; history, theology, psychology, and education; with titles ranging from The Holy Bible, On the Origin of the Species and The Social Animal to lighter bite-size books containing educational analysis, historical articles, sermons, and a stack of magazines, well-thumbed and folded to pages of interest.
He slotted the magazine carefully back in its place before selecting a book on the risks to the psychological development of teenagers, if engaged in drug use. He liked to keep himself abreast of the latest theories, even though he left most of the working practices to his staff. It wouldn’t hurt though to show off his knowledge during a staff meeting and instruct them on the signs and symptoms to look out for. It elevated him to a higher educational and mental plane.
The October sun was bright and he and Molly had been up early. He rarely slept later than 6.30 anyway, and even though he hadn’t had to go into school, he had woken at his usual time. He was to attend a head teachers’ conference later and he was pleased. The arrival of the policewoman at the Academy yesterday afternoon had unsettled him. He hadn’t wanted to go in to school today in case she turned up, even though he knew he was just delaying the inevitable. If it gave him the weekend though, so be it.
His reverie was shattered by the sound of splintering wood and shouting, as four burly policemen crashed through the front door and ran along the hallway towards them. Molly looked petrified, dropping the plant pot she had been holding, in fright. It smashed on the tiled floor, spilling its contents across the conservatory. Two officers took hold of his arms, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the soil, spread still further in the treads of their boots. No doubt it would be distributed all over his beautiful house, trodden into carpets, sprinkled across the wooden floors, squashed into small gaps and crevices until his house was spoilt.
In that instant he realised that just as his house would be trashed, so too would his life; everything he’d tried to rebuild over the last few years would be as nothing. He would be the subject of gossip, starting at his Academy and spreading throughout the education system, his friends and family, his whole career ruined.
The policewoman, DC Stafford, was speaking to him now, telling him he was under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Susan Barton. He looked across at his wife of thirty-five years and knew that he and only he had destroyed her life. She was totally innocent. She was his rock. She had done nothing wrong. As he watched the tears of hurt and bewilderment roll down her face, he regretted, in an instant, everything he had done and said.
Chapter 20
Friday afternoon was almost upon them. Rather than finishing the week with the euphoria of a job well done, Charlie knew that they were instead finishing the week with a job in progress, several actually.
Cornell Miller was yet to be found. Moses was as prepared as he could be, but there was no guessing what was going through Miller’s crack-befuddled brain.
As for progress on Susan Barton’s murder case, although they hadn’t a charge, they did have three credible suspects - four if you included the yet unidentified friend of Abrahams who was allegedly in possession of his car. All three identified suspects had been arrested and interviewed. All three had made some admissions before pretty much giving no comment interviews, save for denying they had any involvement in Susan Barton’s murder.
Abrahams had given no more information, other than admitting to owning the Vauxhall Vectra seen coming and going from the murder scene. Crucially the car was still unaccounted for and they really needed it found.
Mickey Barton had objected to being interviewed by a woman but after being firmly put in his place, had admitted using his keys to enter the family home, but only with the express permission of his wife, who he still loved and wanted to win back. The keys had been removed from his key ring now and the investigation team were in possession of them.
Vincent Atkins had broken down in tears, admitting to his affair with Susan but denying any involvement in her murder. He was sorry he had omitted to tell police about the affair and confessed that he had wanted to keep it a secret from his wife who deserved better. He had then, rather mysteriously, refused to answer any more of their questions.
All three had now been released on bail and all had been refused access to their normal place of abode whilst full searches were progressing. Each had provided a suitable address in which to stay temporarily. While not desirable to have them back out in the public domain, she and Hunter had had no choice but to release them. The law allowed set time limits to question suspects in custody. Abrahams had almost reached his limit, while the other two had now provided some details of their movements and motivations, which could be given in evidence, if they were later linked to the crime by forensics, further CCTV or previously unknown witnesses. With a little longer left on their time clocks, there would be less pressure to charge or release, if they needed to be brought in for a further interview.
It was not ideal but it was the best they could do. Given the fact the murder appeared to be personal, they could only hope that if it was indeed a ‘crime of passion’, their suspect would have no need to commit further offences. None of them wanted another victim on their conscience.
*
Oscar Abrahams had no conscience. As he walked out from Brixton police station he yawned, stretched and headed towards the front line to buy some weed. It was only a matter of time before he would be NFA’d, as always. Coppers were useless, they couldn’t find a thing, thankfully.
He turned into Coldharbour Lane, glancing across at a bench of drunks in Windrush Square. A woman had fallen from the end of the bench and was flat out across the pavement, her dress caught on the edge of the seat, her underwear exposed. Everyone could see her and she was so pissed she made no attempt to cover herself. He was disgusted.
‘Cover yourself up, you dirty bitch,’ he barked towards her. She stuck two fingers up at him.
He laughed. He wasn’t going to concern himself with old drunks like her; he had other things on his mind. He was more worried about how he was going to get his kicks later when he would be holed up in a hostel with no computer for company. He would have to get talking. There would be others just like him there. There always was. He just had to find them.
*
Mickey Barton felt small as he looked across at the statues of the four majestic lions that guarded Lord Nelson’s column, reaching up into the sky above Trafalgar Square in the hear
t of London. Once he had been king of his domain, his house his castle, his family his possession; but now because of Susan’s betrayal everything was crumbling around him. He knew about her affair with the headteacher but he hadn’t told the police he knew. Why give them extra ammunition.
He was on his way to see his son, Mickey Junior. Emma and her brother had been staying with Susan’s parents, rather than squeeze into his small flat. Word had got round that he had been arrested for their mother’s murder and Emma didn’t want to speak to him, at least not for the time being. She was apparently too upset.
Mickey Junior was more open though. He had agreed to see him and hear his side of the story. His son had always been closer to him than Emma. Mickey Junior was a man’s man; just the way Mickey was. He was a good lad.
They would meet for a bite to eat and then go their separate ways; Mickey Junior to his grandparents, he to his sister’s house, though he was pissed off at being shunted on again. Hopefully, his boy would come to join him there soon. He didn’t want him poisoned by Susan’s parents. They’d never really liked him anyway.
He glanced back at the busy, chaotic London scene briefly, before diving into the relative calm of the underground station.
The ring thing wouldn’t be an issue now, even if the police found it. He’d been thinking about it in the cell. He’d just say Susan had given it to him. No one would ever know otherwise.
*
Vincent Atkins was losing his mind. He couldn’t go back to his house and he didn’t know where Molly was. She hadn’t answered her phone when he’d tried to contact her from the police station and now he was out, she still wasn’t answering it. It was switched off.
He didn’t know what he could do to get her back. He had been a fool to betray her. An old fool. He’d read about others who had done the same in the past and had always wondered about their sanity. He’d thought he would never do that to Molly. Not his Molly.