Bound, page 11
I watched as another unmarked car pulled up, and was relieved when a familiar face hopped out from behind the wheel. I’d half expected The Boss to turn up, but hey, it was Saturday, he could get away with ordering people around while he stayed at home in his PJs, dressing gown and fluffy slippers.
‘Anything happening?’
‘Waiting, waiting, waiting,’ I said.
Paul sauntered over, then, after having a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, gave me a quick kiss. He followed it up with a surreptitious grope.
‘You know, if someone looked over here right now and saw your hand where it is, they’d have you up on charges.’
‘Are you complaining?’
He tickled somewhere rather private and I gasped.
‘No.’ I slapped his hand away all the same. ‘You can save that thought for later.’
‘Promise?’ he said, then leaned in and gave me another kiss. He’d been on the job till late last night, chasing ghosts, so hadn’t come over for a spot of entertainment. I’d spent the evening down at the station going over security-camera footage for Gold Strike, one of the other dollar shops, which turned out to be a complete and utter waste of time. No men had brought the butt-ugly and creepy clown masks. I would have thought women would have more sense. Then I’d had my visit to the hospice. The upside to that was a chance to see big bro Mike for the first time in years. Damn shitty reason for a catch-up but still, somehow his presence made me feel a little more calm about it all.
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Maybe not. You’ll have to take your chances.’ To be perfectly honest, I felt like crap, so his chances weren’t that great. ‘Perhaps, seeing as we’re on the job, we could talk about work stuff.’
‘That would be a novel idea. Fire away. So what’s new?’
He stood there looking expectant, and when I didn’t immediately come up with something he became rather smug. ‘See, I told you my idea for entertainment was better.’ Even with a dead body lying a hundred metres away, all he could think about was sex. What was it with guys?
I rolled my eyes at him. ‘Well no one’s come back with any info on our victim yet,’ I said, indicating over my shoulder, beyond the crime-scene tape, to the white-suited people and glimpse of a police tent that was being erected over the position of the body.
‘You must know something. What about the Henderson case?’
I was so tempted to wipe the smug look off his face, but that was something else best saved for privacy.
‘Actually, I do know something,’ I said. ‘You caught up with Declan Henderson’s statement? That Powell and Sandhurst had been out to their house at Seacliff?’
Paul’s demeanour changed immediately, the jokiness brushed aside and replaced with serious mode. ‘Yeah, I heard that. And he’s absolutely certain?’
‘Wouldn’t have made a statement if he wasn’t. He was certain they had been there, but uncertain of the exact date.’
‘Lying bastards. They both swore they’d never been to the Hendersons’ home.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Has Jill Henderson corroborated that?’
‘No, she hasn’t. Declan couldn’t remember if she was there at the time. Jill didn’t think they had been out to the house; she said John very rarely brought business acquaintances home. She thought she might have met them out socially somewhere, but wasn’t sure. She’s extremely emotional and a little confused on some matters at the moment. I couldn’t very well go and question her yesterday, what with the funeral and all.’
‘That would have been a little insensitive, even for you.’ I obliged that comment with a thump to his shoulder. He continued without even flinching. ‘She could have been out when they were at the house. In fact that makes sense, because if Powell and Sandhurst had been to the house when she was there, I’m sure they wouldn’t risk lying about it. It would look particularly bad for them, calling the widow a liar. It would be a he-said, she-said scenario, and we all know who everyone would believe. But if she was absent, and they only met the kid, then chances are they’d think a boy would never remember them.’
‘Declan said he was playing on the X-Box at the time. They might have thought he was too tuned out and distracted to take any notice of them.’
‘It’s still a bit of a gamble on their part, but then, who’d believe some flaky video-game-obsessed teenager?’ He must have caught the look I threw him. ‘Making generalisations here, not talking about Declan specifically. What sort of timeframe did he give?’
‘Sometime within the last month.’
‘Excellent. That’s one more thing to put to them when we finally get them apprehended and in here. Whenever that might be.’
‘It’s not going to be anytime soon for Gideon Powell,’ Smithy said as he approached us, pulling down his suit hood and removing his gloves. He looked visibly shaken. The scene must have been pretty bad for Smithy to look pale on it. He could usually stomach anything.
‘What’s happened?’ I asked.
He turned and looked back towards the tent, just visible among the array of trailered yachts. ‘Gideon Powell is otherwise occupied.’
‘What?’
‘He is out of commission.’ He pointed his thumb in the general direction.
‘The body? You’re certain?’
‘Saw it with my own eyes. Shot in the head and neck, by the looks of it.’
It was hard to read Smithy’s expression right then: was it relief? If I was him, in a way I’d be feeling a mite pleased. The piece of shit that got him shot and Reihana murdered had met a similar fate, and there was one more crim off the streets, a pretty major crim at that. In many ways it was a good day for Dunedin, although it did mean Gideon Powell would miss out on facing proper justice. It looked like street justice had been meted out instead. I shuddered, and it wasn’t just because of the bite in the wind.
‘You’re off the case then?’ Paul asked.
Smithy’s face immediately folded into a sulk. ‘How’d you guess?’ He limped over towards the car. ‘Usual line about conflict of interest, rah, rah.’
Great. Smithy would be in an even worse mood. Just what we needed. And so would The Boss. It wasn’t a good look to have the chief suspect in a high-profile murder case offed under your nose. The media would have a field day. He’d be in full-on damage control. The pressure he’d be under would be immense. Actually, that thought made me kind of pleased.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘if that’s why they haven’t been able to find Powell, you’ve got to wonder if that means his mate Sandhurst is lying around somewhere, otherwise occupied as well – or if he shot his boss and did a runner.’
35
‘Sam?’ The voice on the end of the phone belonged to Laurie, the CIB receptionist, another poor person dragged away from their weekend.
‘Sure is.’
‘I need your help down here at the counter. There’s a bit of a problem.’
Reception was only twenty metres or so down the hallway. I took the phone away from my ear for a few moments and listened. I became aware of a raised and insistent voice.
‘On my way, Laurie.’
Angela Powell was a vision of grief, anger and thwarted purpose. She had already donned the black uniform of the grieving widow, although hers was probably a little more flashy than most. The miniskirt was worn with barely there hose and six-inch black heels. She wore a black fascinator, complete with net veil, that artfully followed the contours of her jaw. The low-cut neckline on her designer black top was accented with a large, black crystal crucifix that hung between the ample mounds of her very visible cleavage. I’m sure she thought she looked good, but in my conservative and biased opinion she was a little lacking in taste, considering her recent bereavement. Call me old-fashioned, but I didn’t think mourning was the best time for dressing in an alluring way. Unless, of course, you planned to replace your dearly departed as soon as possible.
‘I want to speak to your boss right now. I’m not leaving until I do.’
Seeing her in full-on rant mode, I understood that she had more in common with her husband than perhaps I had given her credit for. She was quite formidable. Laurie spotted my approach and looked relieved.
‘Mrs Powell.’ She turned and I took her outstretched, previously pointing hand and shook it. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’
The offer of sympathy quite disarmed her and she lost track of her argument for the moment.
‘Was there something I could help you with?’
‘Well, yes,’ she said, in a far more civil voice. ‘I want to know what you people are doing to find whoever murdered my husband. I want to talk to whoever is in charge.’
‘Actually most of us are out working on the case. Why don’t you come along to one of the rooms and I can fill you in on where we’re at and what we are doing.’ I guided her along towards one of the interview rooms. As we moved past Laurie, she mouthed the words ‘thank you’. I grimaced.
Interview rooms aren’t comfortable at the best of times, but it was the only private space I had to offer. She sat on the bog-standard office chair, like it was the best Chippendale, legs crossed at the ankles, hands in her lap, like she’d been taught at some posh ladies’ finishing school in Europe. She was trying to do classy, but somehow it just didn’t sit right on her. She was trying to do grief too, with about as much success as she did class.
‘I know you police had it in for Gideon, you always have. I know you all hate him and you were just looking for a way to bring him down. Always picking away at him, watching him, persecuting him. Then you tried to frame him for that cop getting killed last year, when he had nothing to do with it – nothing. I know he didn’t.’ Yeah right, I thought. ‘And then there was this whole business with that man being murdered out at Seacliff. Another opportunity to set him up, make it look like he did it.’ Her finger was out again, poking holes in the air in front of me like I was personally responsible for the alleged slurs against her husband. Angela Powell came from the school of ‘attack is the best defence’, and she was doing a good job of it. ‘You people owe him; you owe him big time. So you better bloody well make sure you give him the same respect you give any other victim when it comes to finding out who killed him, or, so help me God, I’ll take you all up to the highest authority I can go to, to the prime minister if I have to, the media and whoever will listen. I’ll tell them how you framed him and how none of you gave a stuff about my Gideon.’
I sat, startled for a moment.
Now she’d said her piece, she visibly deflated, like some blow-up doll, head hanging forward, shoulders hunching over. I watched as her body began to shake and she uttered low, gasping howls of misery. These weren’t the put-on tears of someone garnering sympathy, or the lady-like tears of someone trying to maintain her dignity. These were full-on, gut-wrenching, heartfelt sobs. The kind of sobs that ripped at your soul and made you want to gather the poor person up in your arms and hug them, to soothe away their pain. My eyes couldn’t help but mist up, and I felt an almost physical ache on her behalf. I felt a pang of guilt at my previous uncharitable thoughts. She was, after all, a woman who had just lost her husband in horrific circumstances, and was still dealing with the shock of it all. And she was right. Gideon Powell had just as much right to justice as John Henderson. Justice wasn’t a popularity contest.
‘Angela,’ I said, gently. She didn’t respond. ‘Angela.’ This time she looked up, her veil failing to mask her shattered face. I handed over a box of tissues. ‘We will be working our damnedest to find out who killed Gideon, you can count on that.’
‘Can I really?’ The way she said it, low, laced with sarcasm and looking directly into my eyes, was like a challenge – to my profession and to me.
‘Yes, of course you can.’ I actually meant it. Despite the fact Gideon Powell had been what I considered one of the basest creatures on the planet, rating down there with rats and cockroaches, I couldn’t escape the fact he had been a man, and a man with a family who cared for him. Angela Powell must have accepted my sincerity because she nodded.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘You may be able to help us.’
‘How?’ She’d blown her nose, but now that she’d started crying, she didn’t seem to be able to stop.
‘Jacob Sandhurst has disappeared. We wonder if he and Gideon had a falling out and if Sandhurst might be responsible for killing your husband.’
She shook her head vehemently. ‘No. There’s no way.’
‘Then why would he have run?’
‘Why do you think?’ she said. ‘You guys stitched him up for the Seacliff murder too. Of course he ran. Wouldn’t you?’ Valid point – well, the running away bit, anyway.
‘Did Gideon plan on running?’
She shook her head. ‘He was not the kind of man to run away. Gideon would have made a stand.’ That wasn’t so hard to imagine. It would have been a loud and belligerent stand, too.
‘Why don’t you think Sandhurst could have killed him?’
‘They were mates. They started out together when they were only twenty or so. They’d been through everything together and had a great respect for each other. They were more like brothers. Jacob would never have killed Gideon. Not for anything.’
I couldn’t help but think there were plenty of mates and brothers who had killed each other, especially when it came to money, or women, but I didn’t think the women thing applied in this case. I didn’t think Angela Powell would have gone near anything as reprehensible as Jacob Sandhurst. And I didn’t think Sandhurst’s wife was Powell’s style: not young enough and certainly not enough teeth, glam and cleavage.
‘Do you have any thoughts on who might have wanted him dead?’
She laughed, which seemed to help stem the crying. ‘Sorry, that’s the funniest question. Don’t you know who my husband was? There are quite probably hundreds of people who would have wanted to see the back of him.’
‘Any in particular?’
‘Well, you could start with the heads of all of the gangs. Those left after the police had that big clear-out. He mentioned there were a few new players in town who he had chosen to visit and have a business discussion with.’ I could well imagine how that would have gone. ‘Then you could move on to a few disgruntled people who were under him. Chuck in his kids’ schoolteachers, who didn’t like him asking questions about their progress. Oh, and you can’t forget the police. So, yeah, there are a few people who could have done it.’
I ignored the last little throwaway dig. ‘Do you know the names of some of these people?’
‘No, you’d have to ask Jacob about that. But that’s right, you can’t, he’s run away from you guys.’
She seemed to be quite open with her answers, if sarcastic, although I hadn’t asked directly about Powell’s drug empire business activities, and she hadn’t directly mentioned it. We’d skirted the specifics nicely. I decided to risk another line of questioning.
‘When did you last see Gideon?’
‘Wednesday night. He was pretty livid after having been questioned by your lot all day, and especially pissed off you’d been to visit me. His lawyer did a good job though, and you couldn’t keep him in custody.’
‘So he went out that night, and you hadn’t seen him since?’
‘That’s right. And no, before you ask, he didn’t say where he was going. I told as much to your goons the other day.’
The goon in question was Paul, and I couldn’t help a slight smile. So he leaves Wednesday night, turns up dead on Saturday morning. Time of death would be interesting. Was his Wednesday-night appointment a fatal one, or did he live for another day or two? Either way, if I was the missus, I’d have been wondering where the hell he was.
‘It didn’t concern you that he was gone for a few days?’
‘Well of course it concerned me, but I was hardly going to go to the police and report him missing, was I? I’m not that stupid.’
‘Was it unusual for him to be gone that long?’
‘Yes, it was, and I was getting worried. He’d usually always be home for bed – he liked his comforts, you know. So when he didn’t come home for a few nights I rang around a bit, and no one had seen him. And I couldn’t get hold of Jacob.’
‘You didn’t think he might have run?’
‘No, not once. Like I said, he was the type of man to make a stand. He was no coward.’ She picked away at the enamel at the corner of her thumbnail. ‘And he wouldn’t have just left me without properly saying goodbye. It was so unlike him. I was worried sick.’
‘And on the Wednesday night, did he receive any phone calls at home?’
‘Yes, a couple, I think. And his cellphone was always going too. He was a very busy man.’
‘Did he mention any of them to you?’
‘No, I was watching TV, so I didn’t take much notice.’
‘How would you feel if we looked at all your phone calls and his cellphone calls for that night, to see if we can find out where he was going?’ It was worth a try, but I expected the standard, well-rehearsed, ‘not without a warrant’ response.
She looked up, tiredness framing the edges of her eyes. ‘Just do what you have to do,’ she said.
I had to push a little further.
‘I know I’ve asked you before, but I do need to ask this again. What were you doing on the eleventh of April, the night John Henderson was murdered?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she said. ‘I’ve already answered that question. I was at home, with Gideon. I know you don’t want to believe that, but it’s the truth. Gideon did not murder that man. He was at home with me.’
‘All night?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’d swear to that in court.’
‘Yes.’
I sighed. Either she was a very devoted wife, or she was telling the truth. My thoughts tended towards devotion.
‘I need you to promise me something,’ Angela said, her voice sober.
I looked at her, wondering what was coming next. ‘What?’ Even I could hear the suspicion in my voice.
