Written To Death (Alex Warren Murder Mysteries Book 3) Page 20

  Kitson's face paled and she clasped her hands tightly together to stop them from trembling. “I told you before we didn't do it.”

  Alex led the questioning, following the same route he had with Armstrong. Not unexpectedly, he made little progress on what he'd already learned, with the lawyer parrying any time he considered his client in danger of incriminating herself.

  “Graeme claims he was unaware that you were in the school on Monday,” he stated, hoping the implication of him turning against her may be enough to drive a wedge splitting their mutual support.”

  “I hadn't told him in advance I was going. I didn't make up my mind to do it until Monday morning. I told you before that I'd called in sick to the Academy because of the audition. It was only as an afterthought that I decided to go to Eastfarm.”

  Alex brow wrinkled assessing her answer. She corroborated Armstrong's statement and potentially implicated herself in the process. Was she being honest, naïve, or was it some sort of smart double bluff?

  “And you didn't see him once you'd arrived?” he pursued.

  “I looked about for him but didn't see him anywhere. I'm guessing he was working backstage at the time. I spoke to Sheila and a few of the others, but I couldn't ask for him as Graeme didn't want anyone to know about our relationship, not yet.”

  Alex nodded in acknowledgement. “Now, I understand you are heavily involved with South Caledonian Players?”

  “I've told you all about that already.” Kitson's voice was testy. “It's how Graeme and I first came together.”

  “Is this really necessary?” her lawyer interceded.

  “Yes, it certainly is,” Alex asserted. “I'm not asking about you and Graeme. I'm enquiring about your level of responsibility.”

  “I was one of the regulars, still am actually, but I'm not on the committee or anything.”

  “No, but I understand you have access to the costumes and the props store,” Alex continued.

  “I don't have the keys or anything, but I am allowed in to look for anything I need for a performance or to check what's available.”

  “Yes, so we've been led to believe. Are you aware there had been a set of knives kept in the store which matched the set used to kill Sheila?”

  Kitson's jaw dropped and her lawyer grasped her wrist as a warning to stay silent.

  “I can also inform you that these knives are no longer in the store and they can't be accounted for in the Club's records.”

  “I didn't know,” Kitson responded.

  “The box containing them had gone missing. However, I can tell you it's now been found. I learned about this only this morning, in fact. The fascinating thing is where it was found. It was hidden in a bin in Graeme's workroom; furthermore, there were no knives in the box.”

  “It can't be,” Kitson replied. “Either you're lying or someone is trying to set him up.”

  “Not just him,” Alex continued. “You too had access to his workroom, didn't you?”

  “What are you talking about? I've never been there; Graeme's not taken me back to his house.”

  “So you're telling me it must have been Graeme?” Alex tried.

  “No, no, I didn't say that,” Kitson cried.

  “Come now, Chief Inspector, don't put words into her mouth,” the lawyer admonished.

  Alex eyes stayed fixed on Kitson, completely ignoring the solicitor.

  “If you're telling me you've never been to the house, then how can you explain us finding this?” Alex held up an evidence bag containing the bracelet.

  Kitson gasped, her hand automatically reaching forward. “Where did you find that? I lost it ages ago.”

  “We'll ask the questions,” Alex stated, withdrawing the bag quickly.

  “I haven't seen the bracelet for months. I'd no idea what had happened to it. It's not worth a lot of money, but it has great sentimental value. My parents gave me it for my sixteenth birthday.”

  “Why should we trust anything you tell us? A moment ago, you stated you'd never been to the Armstrong house but that's where we found your bracelet.”

  “I didn't lie,” Kitson protested. “I told you Graeme never took me to the house and he didn't. It was Sheila who invited me over for coffee and to discuss a play. I've already told you that I knew her before I got together with Graeme. It must have been near enough a year ago.”

  “Just for coffee?” Alex quizzed.

  “What do you mean? I said it was to discuss a play.”

  “We found your bracelet in the bedroom,” Alex asserted.

  Kitson looked puzzled. “I don't know what you're suggesting but you're wrong. I've only been to the house once and it was to see Sheila. I'd remarked that it looked a beautiful home because I appreciated the artwork she had and she showed me round. She gave me a tour.”

  “And this included the bedroom?”

  “She walked me through each of the bedrooms. Maybe it fell off when I was there,” Kitson replied tartly, not rising to the bait.

  “And Graeme's workroom?” Alex continued.

  “We didn't go in, but Sheila pointed it out to me. She opened the door to show me it but said Graeme didn't like his stuff being disturbed, so we never went inside.”

  “And you maintain the bracelet must have fallen off. You didn't remove it. There was no struggle, no impassioned embrace. You were there in the bedroom and it just fell off.”

  “I've no idea how it got there,” Kitson pleaded.

  “Very convenient,” Alex commented.

  “My client has given you a full and credible explanation, Inspector. Besides, don't you think it a bit odd if her bracelet fell off in the bedroom for it not to have been found and still be there a year later? Someone has obviously set her up,” the solicitor stated.

  “Precisely my thinking. Not the setting up, but the whole story she's given us – very odd and hardly credible. We only have her word for any of it and it doesn't ring true.”

  Before Alex had a chance to continue with his interrogation, there was a loud knock on the door, which then opened a fraction and Phil poked his head through.

  “What is it? Can't you see I'm in the middle of an interview? This better be important.”

  “It is important, Sir. I'm sorry to interrupt. Could I have a word?” Phil meekly asked.

  “Interview suspended,” Alex announced to the recording device. “Deal with the formalities, I'll be back in a minute,” he directed Sanjay. “Now, what's the emergency?” he asked Phil while hastily rising and leaving the room.

  “It's Sandra, Sir, she needs you.”

  Chapter 21

  Sandra had left the flat at the same time as Alex, meeting with Peter at their office. She had a clear idea in her mind what she hoped to achieve. Her first priority was going to be Kevin Speirs and she arranged for him to be lifted. From what she already knew, his father was likely to be a problem. Consequently, she wanted to ensure everything would be done by the book and he had the opportunity of representation before she spoke to him. Realising this could take some time, she decided she and Peter would fill this hiatus by visiting Campbell.

  She first had Peter confirm Campbell's mobile was still active and in the Greenock area and then they set off along the M8 to find him. The route took them past the Erskine Bridge. Although it was the other side of the river, Sandra was aware they were passing only a short distance from where Patrick Carson's body was discovered the previous morning. She rarely travelled this way and found the coincidence unsettling, doing it twice on successive days for different reasons but potentially related to the same case.

  They found his address, it looked dilapidated, and was a flat with a main door entrance in a traditional red sandstone tenement located within throwing distance from the river.

  Tam Campbell opened the door after the first knock. He was small and wiry with pinched, rat-like features. He'd obviously been expecting someone but was surprised to find Sandra and Peter at his door, becoming rather nervous after they showed their
warrant cards. He looked past them, cautiously checking for onlookers up and down the street, then, apparently satisfied, he showed them through to his front room. It was a smoke-filled, cluttered, combined kitchen and sitting area, which nevertheless boasted a fifty-inch widescreen television currently tuned to a twenty-four hour poker channel.

  “We need you to tell us everything you know about a Mr Devosky,” Sandra started.

  “Devosky? I don't think I've ever heard that name before,” Campbell answered, but he was clearly lying. His brow shone from perspiration and his hand shook.

  “We understand you are the owner of a mobile with phone number…” Peter recited the number.

  “So?” Campbell challenged.

  “This number was used to call and receive calls from a Mr Gilchrist within the last couple of weeks.”

  “The only Gilchrist I can think of is my optician and I haven't seen him for months. I don't know anyone else called Gilchrist,” he stated. “Whoever it is must have been mistaken if he's told you I spoke to him. Maybe he got the number wrong.”

  “There is no mistake, Mr Campbell. We have his telephone records from Vodaphone, and just to be certain, we've also checked yours from Tesco Mobile.”

  “How can you do that?”

  “It's not important. What is important is that we are one hundred percent certain calls were made from your phone to him.”

  Campbell looked deflated but continued his denial. “It wasn't me. I've no idea who he is.”

  “Who else has been using your phone?”

  “I can't tell you,” Campbell replied.

  “That's not good enough,” Sandra demanded. “We're investigating some very serious crimes, and unless you can tell us who's been using your phone, then you're the one in the frame.”

  “And if I do tell you, then you'll have some even more serious crimes to investigate and I'll be the victim,” Campbell answered.

  “You shouldn't be more afraid of him than you are of us,” Peter added, attempting his most threatening tone.

  Campbell only raised his eyebrows in response.

  “Listen, we have enough to put this man away. But we need your help to confirm we have the right man,” Sandra tried.

  “If you already have enough, then you don't need me.”

  “We need your information too,” Sandra admitted. “What does he have on you?”

  “He owns me, that's all. I was really stupid and built up a gambling debt. I'm sure I was cheated but it doesn't matter now. He bought over my debt and now he owns me.”

  “Who was the debt to, to start with?” Sandra asked.

  “I'm not saying.”

  “Okay, how about you say nothing and we'll tell you who we think it is. All you have to do is nod if we're right.” Sandra thought she'd try the same technique which she'd been successful with the day before.

  Campbell nodded cautiously.

  “A man used your phone and made you take calls for him.”

  Campbell nodded.

  “The man's name's Devosky.”

  Campbell's gesture indicated the name wasn't familiar.

  “You're not familiar with his name?” Sandra asked.

  Campbell shook his head.

  “But he's East European, Ukrainian or Russian most like?” Sandra tried.

  An affirmative nod.

  “Six feet in height, broad shoulders, brown eyes, dark hair and clean shaven with a scar above his lip on the left running across to his ear.” Sandra asked.

  Campbell nodded firmly but increasing terror showed in his face as Sandra ran through the description.

  “And he lives around here?”

  Campbell firmly shook his head.

  “But he runs this area?”

  Nod.

  “Have you seen him in the last few days?” she continued.

  Another negative.

  “We heard he might have moved away,” she prompted.

  Campbell's face brightened but neither agreed nor disagreed.

  “And have you heard where he might have gone?” Sandra asked.

  Campbell's shrug wouldn't have looked out of place on a Frenchman. One simple gesture indicated - don't know, don't care and most importantly, don't want to know. Sandra suppressed a smile, Campbell's action reminding her she'd only been home from France for a few days and causing her to muse for a moment why she hadn't stayed there.

  “Fine, that will be all for now, but don't go too far. We might need to talk to you again,” Sandra stated while moving towards the door and stepping back outside.

  “I've said nothing and I'll say nothing so don't waste your time,” Campbell announced loudly, presumably for the benefit of any eavesdroppers outside.

  “It was the best we could hope for under the circumstances,” Peter said to Sandra once back in their car.

  A short while later, they arrived back at their office. Sandra was stopped by a young constable she hadn't met before. “Excuse me, Mam, we've picked up Speirs as instructed. He's in interview room two and his lawyer's with him, a first-class pain in the ass he is too.”

  “Speirs or the lawyer?” Sandra asked.

  “Both,” the constable replied. “The whole way in, Speirs was complaining and making threats. Wait for this; he was claiming his father paid our wages so we'd better do what he wanted. At first I thought he was talking about bribes and asked him to explain. What he meant was his dad was so rich and paid so much in taxes that he was paying for us. When I didn't show what he thought was appropriate respect, or maybe it was fear he was looking for, he said he wanted our badge numbers and would be making an official complaint. I gave him our numbers and told him to go for it. He's not really that influential, is he?” A tinge of worry appearing in his voice.

  “Don't lose sleep over it, Constable,” Sandra reassured. “What's the problem with the lawyer?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. A bit marbles in the mouth and seems to know what he's on about so best to treat him with care.”

  “Okay, thanks for the warning.”

  When Sandra and Peter entered the interview room, Speirs and his lawyer were standing chatting near a window against the far wall.

  Having taken on board what she'd been informed on her way in, Sandra decide to start in an aggressive fashion. “So nice to meet you at last, Mr Speirs. We haven't met before, but I've heard so much about you in the last few days, I feel I've known you for years. Now, before you start with any threats, your daddy's money isn't going to do you any good here. He can't buy your way out of this one.”

  Sandra's intention had been to rile Speirs and put him off his guard. His reaction was far more extreme than she's anticipated. He ran and threw himself at her at the same time shouting, “Fucking bitch!” Sandra didn't see it coming. Peter reacted quickly but not fast enough to stop Speirs catching her in something close to a rugby tackle, thudding her sideways against a table and ricocheting onwards into a wall. Within moments, Peter had grabbed him and pulled him back, restraining Speirs flaying arms before they reached their intended target. The lawyer hadn't moved; he was still standing against the far wall, shocked, with his hand covering his mouth. Sandra lay whimpering on the floor.

  Peter yelled for assistance and hit a panic button. Within seconds, two burly officers charged in and cuffed Speirs before dragging him screaming from the room.

  Peter turned his attention back to Sandra. She remained lying on the floor having hardly moved. Her complexion was a ghastly grey colour, other than a large, blue bruise on her cheek where she'd collided with the wall, she was holding her side, in obvious pain.

  He cautiously raised her blouse free of her skirt to examine the wound and could see some surface skin was torn and bloody, but more concerning there was a growing black patch below.

  “We need to get you to the hospital straight away to check for internal bleeding and get you an X-ray. I'm worried that you may have broken a rib or two.”

  “No, no X-ray, absolutely not,” her voice rasp
ed.

  “Why, what's wrong?” Peter asked.

  “I'm pregnant. Get me to hospital quick. I've got pains. I don't want to lose my baby.”

  * * *

  By the time Alex arrived at A&E, Sandra was being attended by a doctor. He reluctantly obeyed the instruction to remain in the waiting area, but unable to settle, he anxiously paced the floor, his face grave and his eyes watery. Peter too was in the hospital reception, sitting with his elbows on his knees his head clasped in both hands.

  Spotting him, Alex marched across and placed his hand firmly on Peter's shoulder.

  Peter looked up surprised. “I'm sorry, Sir. I was too slow to stop it happening. I tried to help, but…”

  “It wasn't your fault,” Alex reassured. “From what I heard, you did everything you could. I just hope it's been enough.”

  Nothing further was said; both stared glumly at the floor awaiting news.

  After what felt like an eternity, but was in truth less than fifteen minutes, Alex was permitted through to see Sandra.

  Pausing outside her cubicle, he could see she was half-lying, half-sitting on a hospital bed with its upper section raised to a forty-five-degree angle. A cotton sheet draped over her legs up to her waist, she was wearing a loose, apron-like, disposable nightshirt on top. Her bruised face and side were evident.

  The tears Alex had until then supressed flowed freely down his cheeks. He pawed at them for a second and then ran forward and grabbed her hand, holding it in both of his. “What have they said?” he asked nervously.

  Sandra smiled weakly and whispered, “The doctor said I've been very stupid and I should take better care of myself.”

  “Do you mean…?” Alex couldn't finish the sentence.

  “We'll need to wait and see,” Sandra replied. “The bruise to my face is superficial, but being thrown into the corner of the table's broken two of my ribs and the bone's nicked the edge of my lung. Bloody painful but not too serious. I'll live,” she smiled again. “But I've had a slight bleed. I'm still carrying our baby, but I'll need to take it very easy. They want to keep me in for a few days to keep a close eye on me.”