Trespass (P.I. Johnson Carmichael Series - Book 2) (24 page)

‘Fourteen years?’

‘It’s better than a life sentence.’

*

‘How the hell did you convince him to confess?’ Mercure asked him when they were in her office.

‘Nothing to do with me,’ he said shrugging his shoulders. ‘I guess he had a change of heart.’

She eyed him cautiously and then smiled, ‘Well, whatever you said, thank you. It saves us a bit of time. The gym are due to give us all their CCTV footage in the morning so hopefully we will get images of him leaving in case he decides to change his statement during the trial.’

‘Have you had any luck identifying Lauren’s killer yet?’

Mercure shook her head, ‘Whoever did it knew what they were doing. There were no fingerprints on her body, as if the killer cleaned her before sticking the knife in. The forensics team are still studying the sheets, looking for other traces but they are not holding their breath.’

‘She didn’t deserve to die like that.’

‘Nobody does, Johnson. That’s why we do what we do: to bring killers like this one to justice. My team are shaking down known sexual offenders but so far nothing of use has been discovered.’

‘Well, I’m not giving up. I’m still convinced that her murder has something to do with the attack on her mother all those years ago.’

‘Have you got a name for me yet?’

He thought for a moment, not sure whether to reveal his hand.

‘Matthew Green,’ he eventually said.

‘And he is?’

‘The brother of the man Lauren believed attacked her mother.’

‘Good luck proving it.’

‘I have my ways.’

‘Listen, Johnson, I know about your
ways
. Don’t do anything that is going to get you into trouble! You’ve done a good thing today, and I will admit that you’ve impressed me. Would you ever think of coming back?’

‘Re-joining the police? I don’t think so.’

‘It wouldn’t have to be the Met. I’d welcome an application from you to join us here in Hampshire. The recruitment process would be a lot swifter this time around.’

‘Thank you, but no. There is still too much red tape for my liking. I like to work outside of the rules.’

There had been a telecommunications presence in Southampton for several decades, although this presence had been significantly diminished by the migration of certain processes overseas and the centralisation of others. That said, there was only one place Carmichael could think of to look for Matthew Green at two p.m. on a Monday afternoon and that was why he pulled into the public car park at the rear of the
Friary House
building in the city centre and marched in. The security guard behind the reception desk had a full head of silver hair and a paunch delicately grown with years of local ale. Carmichael explained that he was looking for one of the company’s engineers and wanted some guidance on how to find him. The guard eyed him suspiciously and said he could not give out that kind of information. Unlike most people he met, the guard did not suspect that he was a police officer so it wasn’t like he could even bluff the information out of the old codger. Frustrated, he left the building and walked into the city and bought a coffee.

Matthew Green was out there somewhere but he had no idea how to find him, short of pestering the man’s father, but that would just be fruitless. He whipped out his phone and dialled Melissa at the office. She sounded breathless when she answered the phone.

‘What have you been doing?’ he asked.

‘I was just coming in from lunch when I heard the phone so I ran up the stairs,’ she apologised.

‘I need you to find Matthew Green for me.’

‘He wasn’t at
Friary House
then?’

‘He could be, but I couldn’t get any information out of the old boy on security there. Have you managed to find his address yet?’

‘He wasn’t listed on the electoral register, but I’ve asked my friend at the council to sift through recent records to see if he is listed for paying council tax. I’m expecting her phone call in the next half an hour or so. I can call you back then.’

‘Good,’ he said before hanging up.

He was still drinking his coffee when the phone rang again. He answered it without checking who it was, assuming it would be Melissa.

‘Talk to me,’ he said.

‘Is that Johnson Carmichael?’ said an unfamiliar voice.

‘Yes. Who is this?’

‘My name is Detective Constable Rashid Patel. I’m calling from the Metropolitan Police’s
Sapphire
Cold Case Squad.’

Carmichael’s pulse quickened.

‘I see. And how can I help you?’

‘We have reopened the Janus Stratovsky murder case. I understand you were serving on the task force investigating the Stratovsky family six years ago. I wondered if we could meet later today to discuss what you remember of the case.’

‘Um…today is a bit difficult to be honest. Can we meet later in the week when my diary is a bit clearer?’

‘I’d rather it be today Mr Carmichael. You see, I’m already on my way down to Southampton to see you. I don’t mind waiting until later this afternoon but it really is vital that I speak to you today.’

Carmichael tried to think of any reason he could offer why today was too inconvenient.

‘The thing is, I’m in the middle of a case right now and I have several meetings booked in as well that I cannot simply cancel.’

‘I appreciate your dilemma, but if it is easier for you I can arrest you and bring you in. I don’t mind.’

Carmichael couldn’t tell if he was joking but decided not to push it.

‘Where and when?’ he eventually demanded.

‘How about in an hour at your office? I have the address.’

‘Fine,’ he conceded reluctantly.

The phone line went dead. He had been dreading this call since Benold’s journalist friend had first confronted him about the story. A lot of time had passed since that fateful night when he had run into Stratovsky at one of the Russian’s Soho clubs. He could still remember every detail.

It had been a Thursday night and he had been on duty. One of his snitches had hinted that a large shipment of weapons had been due to arrive in the capital over the weekend. Carmichael had shared the intelligence with his D.C.I., Martin Saunders, but Saunders had said the source wasn’t strong enough. Carmichael knew in his gut that his snitch was telling the truth but, unless he could find a way to corroborate the testimony, his bosses would not sanction them to make a move.

He had been on duty with a recently demoted Detective Constable by the name of Hoffman. Hoffman was a seasoned detective but his excessive drinking had led to a number of key procedural errors and eventually disciplinary action. Saunders had offered him a second chance by inviting him to join the task force, but it had done little to quell his appetite. Carmichael had left Hoffman at the station, already half way into a bottle of scotch that was hidden in his suit jacket. It was as if he had thought that Carmichael hadn’t noticed the number of times he had sloped off to the toilets or the smell of his breath.

He had driven to the club knowing that Stratovsky was likely to show up at some point and collect the takings. The club was open to members-only but an open invitation was extended to local police officers, who might enjoy watching the nude dancers. He had never been in during opening hours and it had looked starkly different with neon lights shining and seedy music playing. He had wanted to feel sorry for the dancers, being made to strip off in front of drooling old men, but he knew they were well paid for what they did and that most made double the minimum wage.

He had remained at the bar for two hours when he had eventually spotted Stratovsky arrive. The Russian had made his way around the room, shaking hands with some of the more recognised punters: politicians, civil servant officials and bankers. He had oozed charm as he had had a quiet word in each of their ears, smiling like a Cheshire cat.

The bouncer must have had a quiet word in his ear on the way in as he had eventually made his way over to Carmichael and extended a hand of greeting. Carmichael had shaken the hand, even as it had made his skin crawl. Stratovsky had ordered a double whisky for him and had added that he could have his pick of the girls on stage: for a ‘private session’, he had called it. Carmichael had known exactly what the Russian was proposing: a mutually beneficial partnership where he would slip Carmichael occasional tip-offs if the kindness was reciprocated. Saunders had warned each of the team that members of the Stratovsky organisation would attempt to bribe them and that they should be on their guard. Carmichael had had no interest in accepting Stratovsky’s offer but had suggested they go somewhere more private to discuss it. Stratovsky had agreed and led them through to a back room at the rear of the club.

The room had been sound-proofed so none of the pounding music from the club could be heard. The room had been larger than he had expected, with several canvasses hanging around the room. Clearly this was the office of a man who had enjoyed the finer things in life. Carmichael had spotted two crystal decanters on a trolley at the edge of a large oak desk at the far end of the room. Stratovsky had carried the glass of whisky through and placed it on the desk across from where he was sitting.

‘Please sit,’ the Russian had said. His voice had been softer than Carmichael had expected, and his grasp of the language had been exceptional. ‘What can I do for you, Detective…?’

‘It’s Carmichael,’ he had replied confidently.

‘And you are a sergeant?’

‘No. Detective Constable.’

‘Oh, I see,’ he had replied, doubt in his tone. ‘It is rare that I am visited by a junior grade. What is it I can do for you? You want to be sergeant? I can arrange it.’

He had suddenly wondered what he had expected to gain by going straight to the horse’s mouth. There was no reason why Stratovsky would have been overcome with fear at his presence and confess all. What had he been thinking?

‘I know you have a shipment of weapons due in this weekend, and I thought I would provide you with the opportunity to tell me where and when they will be arriving.’

Stratovsky had burst out laughing and had only stopped when he had seen that Carmichael was serious.

‘I thought you were joking. I know nothing about any shipment of weapons. I think you must have me mistaken for someone else. I am just a club owner.’

‘We both know that’s a lie, Janus. I know all about the little empire you and your brother are building here in my city. They say confession is good for the soul. Why not relieve yourself?’

Stratovsky had laughed again, ‘You are a very funny policeman.’

‘Don’t underestimate me, Janus; that would be dangerous.’

The Russian’s mood had seemed to change, ‘I think it’s time you leave.’

‘I don’t think so,’ he had said, staying seated. His heart had been racing as he had tried to think of a way he could extract a confession.

‘This is my club: leave now or I will have you thrown out.’

An idea had struck him and he had stood up and moved to one of the canvasses, a picture of a Russian revolutionary on horseback. He had quickly yanked it from the wall and slammed it down on the corner of the desk, tearing the canvas. Stratovsky had leapt to his painting’s defence, snatching it out of Carmichael’s hands, but he had been too late to save it.

‘You will pay for
that
!’ the Russian had declared.

‘You can tell me what I want to hear or you can watch me destroy your property. The choice is yours.’

Stratovsky had leapt at him and the two had begun to throw punches at one another. The Russian had certainly been stronger than his slight frame had suggested but he was in no way a match for Carmichael and his pent up frustration. It had seemed like Stratovsky had had an axe to grind too. The little Russian had punched Carmichael’s cheeks, chest and arms and when that had failed to cause him too much distress, he had started to kick out at him, inflicting cuts and bruises up and down both of his legs. Carmichael had responded in kind, sending the Russian tumbling with every punch to the face and solar plexus.

The Russian had seemed to realise his error of judgement, and had crawled across the floor towards the emergency-call button beneath his desk, which would have sent an alert to the bodyguard waiting just outside the door. Carmichael had stopped him reaching it, slamming a foot down on the Russian’s outstretched hand, crushing multiple bones at the same time. Stratovsky had let out an anguished cry but only Carmichael had heard it. He should have just left at that point, but his blood had been up and he had been out of control, lifting the Russian and throwing him into a nearby wall. He had repeated the action, throwing him into the side of the desk. It was this move that had been the catalyst for what would follow. The crash had sent two of the desk drawers flying out of their pedestal, the contents spreading in front of the winded Russian.

They had both seen the gun at the exact same moment, but the Russian had been closer to it and had soon had it in his hand, the hammer already cocked. The first bullet had narrowly missed Carmichael’s left ear, instead embedding itself in the wall behind him. He had dived for cover, his mind-set suddenly altered. It was no longer rage, but survival.

The Russian had clambered to his feet to get a better sight of his combatant. Carmichael had been cowering by a small chest. Stratovsky had fired, but missed by inches. Carmichael had glanced up to see him re-cocking the hammer and had decided it was a do-or-die moment. He had raced from his hiding spot and had dived at Stratovsky’s ankles, causing him to fall before he could fire. Carmichael had clambered on top of him and the two had wrestled for control of the weapon. They both had a hand on it when there was a loud bang. At the same moment, Janus had released his grip on the weapon, causing Carmichael to roll off him. He had quickly checked himself for any sign of injury or pain, but finding nothing he had looked back at the Russian who had not moved.

A crimson stain was spreading across the Russian’s shirt. His eyes and mouth were wide open in a permanent state of shock, but his chest had neither risen nor fallen. Carmichael had known he was dead immediately, but that had not stopped him rushing over to the body to check for signs of life. A wave of panic had swept over him as he had realised the implications of what had happened. The decision to come to the club and meet Janus had been his alone and had not been sanctioned by Saunders. He had known it would have appeared that he had gone to the club with the sole intention of killing the Russian, even though he wasn’t even certain which of them had in fact fired the fatal shot.

He had always been praised for his pragmatism and his ability to make effective decisions in the most difficult of circumstances. He made the only choice he could have done. He had known that most of the clubs in the district had escape routes in place for emergencies, such as a police raid. It had not taken him long to figure out that the route out of this club lay in a small trap door beneath Stratovsky’s chair; it had revealed itself during the scuffle. He had dragged the body to the hole, opened it, climbed in, and pulled the body with him. The hole led to a small ladder down into an abandoned sewer pipe. It had still smelt disgusting, but had served its purpose in allowing him to resurface down by the River Thames. It had been dark enough that nobody had seemed to notice him carrying the body to a nearby parked taxi cab. The cab had been empty and, to this day, he had no idea where the driver had wandered off to. There were several casinos in the vicinity so the chances were that was where he had been.