Trespass (P.I. Johnson Carmichael Series - Book 2) (12 page)

Johnson Carmichael strolled into his office a little after ten a.m. The sunglasses and grimace on his face told Melissa exactly what kind of mood he was in.

‘Shall I put the kettle on, boss?’ she asked sympathetically.

He grunted his response as he sat in his trusty chair.

‘There’s a bag of doughnuts on the side if you fancy one,’ she added as she filled the kettle with water.

He removed the sunglasses and dropped them to the desk as he allowed his eyes to adjust to the light in the room. It was pouring down with rain outside and the thud of raindrops splashing against the window made him want to return home and curl up in bed. Melissa brought over a mug of coffee and then returned to her desk.

‘How is…’ he began, pointing at her back.

‘It’s fine…a little sore, but nothing I can’t handle.’

She was determined not to kick up too much of a fuss about the injuries she had sustained the day before. She had grown accustomed to the additional bonuses she had been receiving for being more than just a P.A., and didn’t want to jeopardise the new enterprise. She was worried that if he thought she wasn’t up to the job, he might exclude her from future cases.

‘What did the hospital say?’

‘Nothing really; they told me I wasn’t the first woman they had seen with such injuries this year. They referred to it as the ‘
Fifty Shades
effect’. Evidently lots of young women and men are starting to explore that side of their personality. I acted dumb and played along, saying my boyfriend and I had decided to try and spark some new life into our relationship. They gave me knowing nods and encouraged me to have a safety word for any rough sex play. It was all pretty embarrassing to be honest; like being told off at school by the head teacher. They gave me dozens of leaflets on safe sex, relationship counselling and abusive relationships. You’d have thought I had turned up half dead the way they reacted.’

‘But you’re okay, now, right?’

‘Tip top, boss. Don’t worry!’

He tried to smile, but the throb in his head made it look pained.

‘Heavy night last night?’ she asked. Their relationship had reached a point where no subject was deemed off limits.

‘You could say that.’

‘Was it because of that late appointment?’

‘Late appointment?’

‘Yeah…well I presumed you had a late appointment as I found some scribbled notes you had made. They were on the floor but I typed them up anyway, just in case. They’re on your desk, under your glasses. Sorry, I couldn’t help but read what happened. The poor woman. Imagine what it would have been like to witness your mum being raped at such a young age? Are you taking the case then? Do you think you can prove it was the bloke she reckoned?’

‘Urmm…what…no…I don’t think so.’

‘How come?’

‘She can’t pay up front. She originally booked the appointment promising a fifty-k retainer, but it was all just bullshit.’

‘Oh I see. Pity.’

‘Pity?’

‘Well, yeah. I mean, it would have been an interesting puzzle to solve, don’t you think? Certainly beats the usual tedium of what you have to do.’

Carmichael considered the last statement and couldn’t disagree with it.

‘Have you finished writing up your case notes for Mrs Benold yet?’ she asked, changing the subject.

‘No, not yet. I tried last night but I didn’t have it clear in my head.’

‘Well, you’re due to see her later today. She’s due in at four. Do you think it’ll be done by then?’

He nodded, although the thought of concentrating on a case and typing up a formal report filled him with dread.

‘You look like shit, boss,’ said Melissa, eyeing him carefully. ‘What you need is a heart-attack-special.’

‘A what?’

‘A full English breakfast: sausage, bacon, egg, beans, fried bread, mushrooms. The works. That’ll sort you out.’

The thought of all that greasy food made him queasy.

‘It’ll soak up the rest of the booze in your system and give your body the jumpstart it clearly needs. Sid’s café down the street does a mega breakfast for four ninety-nine. It comes highly recommended. I’ll give him a call now and tell him you’re on the way so he can start cooking.’

It was a command, more than a suggestion and, for now, he was content to do as he was told. He picked up his sunglasses and headed out the door.

*

Carmichael hit the ‘save’ icon and waited for the confirmation message to indicate that it was done. It was nearly half past twelve and he was relieved that the Benold report was finally finished. The reports that he produced for his clients nearly always ended up as part of the divorce proceedings so it had to be of a high standard. The report he had written for the first case he had ever worked on had been torn to shreds by the solicitors, but he had learned valuable lessons from it. The quality of his report-writing had improved tenfold since and it was rare that the reports were even read in court, such was the strength of what he had written. It was all about stating facts and providing explanations about why certain decisions had been made.

The report included any photographic evidence obtained and any witness statements taken. Melissa was never allowed to be used as a witness to the accused’s philandering. Although they followed a strict protocol that she was not allowed to initiate sexual intercourse, so that they could not be accused of entrapment, it was still deemed suspect testimony. Melissa was not allowed to make the initial approach either, but once conversation had commenced and proposals made, she could encourage such suggestions. She had never had sex with a target, and never would. She had principles and there was a line she refused to cross. Carmichael knew where that line was and would never expect her to breach it. She was happy to kiss, cuddle and fondle, but that was it: no more.

The fried breakfast had helped focus his tired mind. It was rare that he ate breakfast at all these days and figured that the plateful that he had managed to shovel down would have to act as lunch as well. He was not used to eating such muck, preferring a diet of coffee and cold sandwiches, such was the nature of his usual work, but he had to credit Melissa; it had been delicious! He had even ordered an extra helping of toast at the end of the meal. Two hours on, he didn’t feel hungry but he still felt tired, and nothing appealed more at that moment than curling back up in bed and sleeping off the rest of his hangover.

He pressed the ‘print’ icon and waited for the printer to the right of his desk to start spewing out pages. He always printed three copies of a report. One for the client, one for his files and one for contingency. The back-up copy was held in a safety-deposit box at a local bank. Melissa would take the copies when she went to the bank with the firm’s takings at the end of each week. Carmichael did not broadcast the fact that he had back-up copies: it was their secret. His experience in the Met had taught him it was always wise to have an escape plan for contingency.

‘Is that copy for me?’ Melissa asked as he stapled a third set of pages.

‘That’s right. When are you going to the bank this week?’

‘Well, I assumed Mrs Benold would pay the final instalment of her fee when you see her later so I’ll probably go first thing in the morning.’

Carmichael nodded his acknowledgement.

‘Are you still okay with me knocking off early tonight, boss?’ she asked. ‘It’s my mum’s birthday today, so I said I would pop round for some cake.’

‘Is that today, really? That’s come around quick! It’s fine, you can finish whenever you need to. I’m sure I can handle Mrs Benold myself.’

He put Frankie Benold’s copy of the file in his out-tray and turned back to the computer.

‘Have we had any new cases in today?’ he asked.

‘Not so far. You’ve got a new client you are due to meet on Monday but otherwise, you’re free till then.’

He could not fight off his curiosity anymore and typed the name Nathan Green into a search engine on the computer. The screen filled with links to various news agencies reporting his death, the prison riot and his original court case. He figured there was no harm in doing some gentle digging, just to get an understanding of what this supposed scumbag was like.

He loaded up the first link, which confirmed Green’s passing. It was being reported that his body had simply given up the fight: his organs had shut down, possibly because of a virus, or so the coroner suggested. It struck Carmichael as odd that a man in reasonable health and in his mid-forties could just die of natural causes. A toxicity report confirmed no poison was discovered in his body, but given the delay in finding the body this was hardly surprising. It seemed suspicious to him, but then he always had a tendency to err on the side of caution in strange matters. It was what made him so good at what he did.

He decided to read a little more, and loaded up a website that provided extracts of court transcripts. He found the papers from the trial against Green and read in detail how Green had attacked his three victims. As Lauren had described, Green wore dark clothing and a balaclava and beat his victims first, before subjecting them to his sexual fantasies. He was beginning to understand why she believed that this was the man who had assaulted her mother: the similarities in the cases were striking. He began scribbling a new set of notes about each of the attacks. Hanridge and Jurdentaag had both provided detailed descriptions of their attacks and it didn’t make for pleasant reading. One thing that stood out, however, was the way both described their attacker’s perfectly manicured hands.

Carmichael consulted Melissa’s typed notes from the meeting with Lauren. She had said she vividly remembered the attacker wearing gloves during the attack. It was possible that Green had once worn gloves to carry out attacks and had then chosen not to later on, as his
modus operandi
had developed, but it was still something that differentiated the Roper attack from the others. He drew a big circle around the word ‘gloves’ on the typed notes.

He continued reading for the next hour and eventually decided to see if Green had any living relatives. He found that there was a brother and a father still alive. Matthew Green was nearly four years older than his brother and was married with two children, though they lived in Edinburgh. According to his
Facebook
page he was a telephone engineer. Tony Green, Nathan’s father, was a retired builder, still living in Southampton.

‘What time did you say Frankie Benold would be here?’ he asked Melissa.

‘Not till four, boss. How come?’

‘I need to take care of an errand. You can lock up when you go as I’m not sure what time I’ll make it back.’

He quickly located Tony Green’s address and printed directions. It wouldn’t hurt to pay the man, now in his sixties, a friendly visit to ask him some questions about Nathan. At worst, it would confirm his theory that Lauren Roper was barking up the wrong tree, and at best it might just help him find some of the evidence she needed to confirm her suspicions. Even though she was broke, there was something about the woman that compelled him to want to help. It wasn’t like he was busy, he figured.

Carmichael turned into the notorious
Flowers Estate
and pulled the car up on the kerb. The estate was so-called as each of the roads in the vicinity was named after a flower such as this one, Honeysuckle Road, which ran parallel to Burgess Road, the main high street frequented by students at the nearby University. The
Flowers Estate
was made up primarily of council-owned properties, and, judging by what he could see, most of the tenants appeared to have little care for the state of their front gardens, judging by what he could see. The estate was notorious for housing ‘difficult’ families, and as he removed the key from the ignition, he wondered just how many of his wheels would still be attached to the car when he returned.

Swaythling bordered Highfield and Bassett so was, in reality, walking distance from where Sarah Hanridge was attacked all those years ago. It wasn’t too long a jaunt into Portswood either, a couple of miles at most between this property and where Beth Roper had resided. It didn’t mean Nathan Green was guilty, but it certainly gave him the opportunity. Carmichael wandered along the road until he found number six, interestingly the only home with a healthy lawn outside the property.

The front door opened as he was about to press the doorbell, and he wondered whether Tony Green had been watching for him from the window. He soon realised his mistake when a younger man exited the property, looking over his shoulder, saying, ‘I’ll call you later, dad. Don’t worry everything will be alright.’

The two men bumped into each other, and when the man turned, for a moment, Carmichael thought he was staring at the face of the recently deceased rapist. He shook the thought from his mind when he realised that the face looked older around the eyes and the man’s frame was heavier.

‘Can I help you?’ the man asked, curious as to the presence of the black stranger on the doorstep.

‘Tony Green?’ Carmichael asked, acting ignorant, well aware that this was not the man he had come to visit.

‘No. He is. And you are?’

‘Trevor Saint,’ Carmichael replied handing over a card that showed his credentials as a local journalist. It was a persona he had adopted many times over the years. ‘I work for the
Daily Echo
. You must be one of Tony’s sons, right?’

The man nodded and shot a puzzled look at Green, who was in the doorway, looking equally puzzled.

‘I’m Tony Green,’ the older man said. ‘What do you want?’

Carmichael smiled, hoping to break the ice. ‘Apologies. I was hoping I might be able to speak to you about your son Nathan. I am sorry for your loss, Mr Green.

‘Are you a policeman?’ Tony asked, eyeing Carmichael suspiciously.

‘No, Sir,’ he replied passing a second business card over. ‘You can phone the paper if you wish to confirm my credentials,’ he offered, bluffing through his teeth.

‘I need to go,’ the younger man interrupted. ‘I’ll call you tonight, okay?’

With that he excused himself and walked down to an estate car parked outside the property, before driving off.

‘May I come inside?’ Carmichael pressed; knowing that once he was in, things would likely go much smoother.

‘What do you want?’ Green grimaced, standing firm, keeping a hand on the door so that it could be slammed in a hurry.

‘The paper is looking to write an article about your son and some of the crimes he was accused of.’

‘And you think I would help you with such a story? You must be fucking mad!’

Green had on a well-worn black polo shirt and denim jeans. Carmichael noticed callouses on the man’s hands and yellow finger tips, suggesting he had performed a manual trade for a living and was also a heavy smoker. Carmichael reached into his pocket and pulled out a recently opened packet of cigarettes and placed one between his lips. He offered one to Green, adding, ‘The article I am looking to write will paint a true picture of your son, and question the jury’s original verdict. Having read what happened, there was some controversy about your son’s trial and the methods the police used to connect a random thumb print to the three crimes. I was hoping to ask some pertinent questions.’

Green took a cigarette and allowed Carmichael to light it for him.

‘My son deserves to rest in peace,’ Green said, coughing as he exhaled. ‘I don’t want all that business dragged up again.’

Carmichael noticed the strain in the man’s voice and was surprised that despite all that Nathan had done, his father’s love remained. He choked back the urge to cough as he inhaled his own cigarette. He was not a smoker, but found it helped to establish a rapport with some people he encountered. It seemed to be working now.

‘Just let me come in, Mr Green, and I’ll tell you what I’m planning. Hear me out for five minutes and if you don’t like what I’m proposing I’ll leave and not disturb you again. What do you say?’

Green considered the proposition, and sensing no harm, he invited Carmichael in. The hallway led through to a musty-smelling sitting room and, for a moment, Carmichael was grateful that the smell of the cigarette would disguise the room’s odour. There was a two piece suite acting as a barrier to separate the lounge diner into two rooms. Green took a seat at the small dining table in the opposite corner of the room and Carmichael followed suit.

Green tapped his ash on a nearby saucer and then moved it into the middle of the table for Carmichael to use.

‘Have you lived here long?’ he asked, pulling a small notebook from his pocket and starting to jot notes.

‘About forty years, I suppose.’

‘So this would have been the house where Nathan grew up then?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Did he have a happy childhood?’

‘What are you suggesting?’ Green questioned menacingly.

‘I meant, did he have lots of friends at school, that kind of thing,’ he pacified.

‘Oh I see. He was happy enough I s’pose. He was pretty smart: always did well in his exams at school. Must have got his mother’s brains, if you ask me.’

‘When did your late wife pass, Mr Green?’

‘Nineteen seventy-seven, year after the Saints won the F.A. Cup.’

‘Are you a season ticket holder?’

‘Used to be. Can’t afford it these days; not on my pension. You want a cup of coffee, Mr…’

‘Call me Trevor, please. A coffee would be great, thanks.’

Green nodded as he moved towards the kitchen at the rear of the property. Carmichael wasted no time in quickly examining the room. There were a number of photo frames, some with black and white photographs, presumably of Tony and his late wife. There was a small coffee table with some magazines and bank statements on, but nothing of any interest. He did note that Green appeared to be living off his weekly state pension with little sign of any other income. He pitied the old man: the cost of legal fees had obviously taken its toll. There was an open laptop on a small desk that contained an email to someone by the name of ‘Madam Sissocho’; probably a seedy escort service for old men. This just made him pity the man more. He returned to the table just before Green appeared with two mugs of coffee.

‘I haven’t got any biscuits I can offer you,’ said Green placing the mug on the table.

‘That’s fine, Tony. Is it alright if I call you Tony?’

Green shrugged his shoulders.

‘Did you have much contact with the police after the trial?’

Green shook his head. Carmichael sensed the man wanted to say something but was biting his tongue.

‘Was there any reason Nathan decided not to appeal the Jury’s verdict? I mean, given the questionable methods used by detectives at the time, I thought it would have been worth a punt.’

‘We couldn’t afford to appeal it,’ Green said. ‘It cost me all my savings just getting the shit barrister that we did. The state refused to sanction payment of an appeal as the jury’s verdict had been unanimous. That was that.’

‘That must have been a frustrating time for you.’

‘It was, this whole thing has been frustrating. Even now.’

‘What do you mean by
now
?’

‘Nath told the officers in that prison that his life was in danger but they did nothing ’bout it. He told me months ago that he thought somebody had taken out a contract on his life so it didn’t come as much of a surprise when the phone call eventually came.’

‘But the coroner concluded he died of natural causes. You think somebody killed him?’

Green eyed him suspiciously, not sure whether to trust him.

‘Please Tony, speak candidly, I will allow you to preview the article before it goes to print.’

‘It just seems convenient that’s all: my son’s life is in danger, there is a mystery prison riot, seemingly about nothing at all, and then he ends up dead.’

‘But the coroner’s report…’

‘Probably doctored,’ Green interrupted. ‘Think about it: the governor of the prison lost control of the place and my son died. If it was deemed a suspicious death, her head would roll. She’s already in enough trouble because of that dead spic; two deaths would ruin her career. So, maybe, the prison doctor was encouraged not to find anything…that’s all I’m saying.’

‘Did your son ever admit to you that he had attacked those women?’

‘He never admitted to any of it. He said he was innocent from the day he was first questioned by the police.’

‘And you never doubted his story?’

‘He was my son! If he said he was innocent, then he was.’ Green shouted.

‘Okay, okay, sorry Tony. I just want to understand events from your point of view. The police did seem pretty certain they had found the right man and they were able to link him to all three victims, so you can understand why he was in the spotlight. There’s no smoke without fire, is there?’

Green glared at him.

‘In fact, the police openly claimed that there had been more women that he had attacked who had chosen not to come forward. Did he ever suggest to you that he had hurt women before?’

‘I don’t like the tone of your questions, Mr Saint.’

‘The thing is, Tony, I was approached by the daughter of a woman whom your son may have attacked. She is adamant that she saw your son beat and rape her mother. I wondered whether you wanted to comment on such a claim.’

‘Get out of my house!’ Green shouted, pointing towards the door.

‘Does the name Lauren Roper mean anything to you? Her mother was called Beth Roper, worked in Portswood for many years. Perhaps Nathan mentioned her?’

‘Out!’ bellowed Green, waving a fist in his direction.

Carmichael decided not to argue and started to walk towards the front door. The last thing he wanted was to piss Green off enough for him to phone the police and claim harassment.

‘One more thing, Tony, did you ever discipline Nathan?’

‘Get out!’ he bellowed again. ‘Leave my son in peace. He didn’t attack that other woman. Just you dare write that in your article and I’ll have you sued for libel!’

Green pushed Carmichael out of the door and slammed it in his face.

Temper, temper
, Carmichael thought.

Nathan Green may have got his brains from his mother, but his violent streak was clearly inherited from his father.