Suspect (The Mark Pemberton Cases Book 2) Read online

  Sykes had admitted firing the gun, albeit not at the police — he said he’d deliberately discharged it over their heads as a final gesture of defiance. He’d insisted he’d only fired two shots and was unable to provide any information about the supposed fourth shot. The driver of the getaway car, Shaun Gill, had not been carrying a gun.

  Later, a ballistics examination confirmed that no shot had been fired on that occasion from the loaded twelve-bore gun although it was never disputed that it had been carried during the raid. But even now, two years after the event, the identity of the carrier of that shotgun still remained in contention. Some said it had been Newton, others were sure it had been Pollard.

  An examination of the weapon for fingerprints had been inconclusive. There had been prints on various parts of the gun, but they were too indistinct for positive identification. Thus it could not be scientifically established who had handled that weapon even though Pollard, questioned later during a searching police enquiry into the incident, persisted in his claim that it was him. He was emphatic that he had thrown it aside while it was still loaded, albeit broken to avoid accidental discharge.

  Sometime after the raid, the inability to account for all four spent cartridge shells also caused a little concern, particularly as there had never been a satisfactory explanation for the mysterious fourth shot, also from a twelve-bore weapon. The cartridge shell from Hadley’s own gun and the two from Sykes’s twelve-bore could be accounted for. Thus three were beyond dispute. It was the fourth empty cartridge shell which created the puzzle.

  None of the recovered weapons had fired it and it was therefore assumed it had nothing to do with the raid. Empty cartridge shells were not unusual in Fawneswick — they were sometimes discarded by young farmers when buying fresh supplies. They’d pocket them during a shoot rather than litter the moors, then forget their presence in their shooting jacket pockets until they came into town. Then they’d find them and throw them away like litter. Sometimes they were found in the gutters but mainly in waste bins outside sports shops. Children picked them up as play-things and then threw them away when their use was over. Slightly smaller than a tube of Smarties, they were, of course, quite harmless.

  Thus the presence of an unidentified cartridge shell near the supermarket was not particularly remarkable and the gun which might have fired it was never traced. Nonetheless, the fact that the cartridge shell had been recovered from the scene of a crime, plus the unresolved puzzle over the fourth shot, did render it of some importance and it had been recorded in the file of the incident.

  Throughout the inevitable enquiries which ensued, Inspector Hadley had been adamant that the villains’ account was not true. He did suggest their story had been concocted in prison as a means of discrediting the police, especially as Brian Newton had been the one to break the story of Pollard’s claims. Those villains had had plenty of time to concoct such a yarn, Hadley had suggested. Throughout the resultant aftermath, Hadley had insisted that Newton had been carrying a sawn-off gun when he had entered the forecourt of the supermarket.

  He never wavered in his claim; he had never wavered in his story that Joss Newton had aimed it at a detective and that he, Hadley, had had to shoot Newton to save the life of that detective. The detective in question — Detective Sergeant Philip Swanson — had been concentrating his attention upon events at or near the security vehicle and, in a written statement, said he had not noticed Newton’s approach. Under oath, he had therefore been unable to confirm Inspector Hadley’s interpretation of events.

  The problem was that no one else had noticed Newton’s arrival. All the police officers engaged at the scene, and the three security guards from the Cerberus security vehicle, were all quizzed in depth but in the midst of the ongoing drama, none had noticed Newton’s arrival from the opposite side of the forecourt. Everyone was concentrating upon their own aspect of the drama around the security vehicle, with Sykes’s gun being on open display and Pollard being momentarily out of sight at the rear of the vehicle. Faced with some confusion and a lack of coherence, Hadley’s version had been accepted by the coroner at the inquest on Joss Newton; it had also been accepted by the official enquiry into the shooting of Joss Newton. There appeared to be some nagging official doubts as to the veracity of the claims made by Newton and Pollard, particularly as they had not emerged until a private conversation had been made during a prison visit.

  Nonetheless, vociferous members of the family of the dead Newton, led by Brian, remained convinced there had been a cover-up.

  Fuelled by his intense activity to throw blame on the police and aided by lurid newspaper reports in the tabloid press, there had persisted a widespread belief that Hadley had killed an innocent bystander, that the British police had murdered the unarmed father of two infants and that there had been a cover-up.

  Ex-Councillor Newton’s fervent and ceaseless attempts to prove that his younger brother was not part of that armed raid resulted in further demands for the truth from a motley assortment of anti-authority and anti-police factions. They included left-wing protesters and others with political rather than humanitarian motives. Several hard-hitting television programmes and newspaper features had ensued, all critical of the police action and all publishing their own, often biased, version of the drama. The fact that no additional enquiries were instituted was, in their minds, further evidence of a cover-up.

  When someone is shot dead by the police in the course of their duty, the name of the officer who fires the fatal shot is not released until the inquest. Some interpret this well-established procedure as a cover-up of the truth. It is, on the other hand, a procedural method of establishing the truth by forensic and scientific means so that the public can be properly informed at the inquest and at subsequent hearings. It takes time and effort to establish such a truth — there have been instances of police marksmen themselves believing they have shot someone when in fact the victim had shot himself Thus what is sometimes regarded as the truth at the time may be later countered by scientific evidence. Newspaper stories published before the inquest can therefore be misleading.

  Prior to the inquest on Newton, therefore, Hadley’s role as the man who had actually pulled the trigger had never emerged. Nonetheless, as the officer in charge of the firearms unit, he’d had to carry the weight of those public accusations and the responsibility for the incident. The allegations of the murder of an innocent man by the police had affected him deeply, particularly when the Chief Constable had announced that a formal investigation into the killing would be implemented, with Hadley being suspended from duty pending its outcome.

  In claiming he had been taught as a child never to tell a lie, Hadley said he had already openly and truthfully given his version of events and could do no more, but he continued to be vilified by the public and the press for months after the shooting. Meanwhile, Pollard, Sykes and Gill had been dealt with at the Crown Court where all pleaded guilty to attempted armed robbery and each received three years’ imprisonment.

  Following the inquest and trial, an official investigation into the shooting of Newton had been conducted by Detective Chief Superintendent Chambers of Staplefordshire Constabulary and failed to establish that Newton had been one of the raiders. He found no evidence to link Newton with the raid or with the other participants. From that aspect, it began to look as if Hadley had shot an innocent man — but one important factor went in Hadley’s favour. He said that when his shot had hit Newton, Newton’s sawn-off gun had been dashed from his grasp and had fallen to the ground. He could not be sure whether the falling gun had discharged a shot — the sound of his own gun had drowned all other contemporaneous noises.

  The enquiry did support Hadley’s version, ie that Newton had been carrying a gun, that no shots had been fired from it, and that it had been dashed to the ground by the force of Hadley’s shots and later recovered complete with two cartridges up the spout. That finding implied that Pollard’s story had been concocted in prison, a suggestion that
was never forgiven by Brian Newton. The very detailed report by Chambers had been submitted to the Crown Prosecution Service who had ruled there was insufficient evidence to prosecute Hadley for murder or manslaughter. The official verdict was that Newton had been shot by Hadley in the course of his duty and that it had been justifiable homicide.

  It was during the inquest that Hadley’s personal role in the killing was made public, even though he was showing signs of great distress and mental suffering following his instinctive actions. He persisted in his claim that he was telling the truth, even though few seemed inclined to believe him. After his name had been publicised, he had been subjected to hate mail, faeces from dogs and humans being pushed through his letter box, graffiti on his house doors and walls, damage to his car, obscene and threatening correspondence and antagonism in the street.

  It was thought that Newton’s family were responsible, either directly or by organising others to carry out some of the acts of vengeance. Brian Newton, through his union links, had managed to recruit the help of several anti-police factions who had been delighted to capitalise on Hadley’s vulnerability. Hadley’s wife had suffered too, being subjected to harassment in the supermarkets and in the street.

  As a consequence, they had moved home from Fawneswick to Rainesford at police authority expense, and that had given them some welcome anonymity and a respite from attention. In spite of that, on each anniversary of Joss’s death, hate mail was pushed through their letter box. And whenever the police, anywhere in Britain, were compelled to use firearms, ex-Councillor Brian Newton managed to resurrect newspaper stories of Hadley’s shooting of young Joss. Inspector Hadley would never be allowed to forget his actions that day and the resultant stress caused him to be declared unfit for duty. He had been on sick leave for the past eighteen months. Following his ordeal by press, public and innuendo, the Police Federation’s welfare advisers had arranged the necessary counselling and therapeutic treatment, but Hadley’s life and career had been ruined. He had grown a heavy beard and moustache which had changed his appearance, and his hair was now thick, grey and untidy, not thick, brown and well cared for as it had once been. Lately, there had been a big improvement in his outlook and demeanour and, in spite of everything, Hadley remained determined that he would not let the protestors and critics hound him from the police service. Now that he was recovering, he had made a resolute effort to establish the truth, one of his persistent pleas being that no one believed his story. He felt that no one trusted him, and that upset him greatly.

  Indeed, during the following months and throughout his on-going treatment, he had maintained his innocence, repeatedly vowing to discover the truth about Newton’s presence and actions that day. Inspector Hadley maintained he had done his duty — no one could ask more of a policeman.

  Now, as Mark Pemberton recalled the trauma of that time and the debilitating effect of the case upon all police officers, he wondered how his officers would react to Vic Hadley. Pemberton hoped he would not use the opportunity to give everyone an ear-bashing over his alleged innocence and mistreatment. In preparing for Hadley’s arrival, though, Pemberton realised he must know more about the Millgate supermarket incident, so upon his return to the office, he rang force headquarters.

  ‘Pemberton here,’ he announced himself to Detective Chief Superintendent Ray Castle and after some preliminary chat, asked, ‘Can I have sight of the Millgate supermarket file?’

  ‘Can I ask why?’ asked the head of the force CID.

  Pemberton explained his reasons and Castle listened intently.

  ‘I can’t say I envy you, Mark, having to work alongside George Washington. But yes, of course you can see the file — but keep it out of the sight of everyone else, especially Hadley himself. It remains a very sensitive document. From my own experience, all I can say is that it’s a miracle he wasn’t charged with murder. There were a lot of loose ends in that enquiry — I wasn’t happy with it. Anyway, Mark, it’s all over now, so I’ll send the file through the internal mail. Look after it.’

  And so, with some trepidation, Detective Superintendent Mark Pemberton prepared to receive a new member of staff.

  Chapter Two

  It was ten minutes to nine on Monday morning and Detective Superintendent Mark Pemberton was in his office. He would have arrived earlier had that lorry not shed its load of timber at White Horse roundabout — that delay, followed by a diversion around the housing estates, had cost him at least forty-five minutes. In that time, his in-tray had been filled with mail from both internal and external sources. It was astonishing how much correspondence a weekend could generate — but crime wasn’t a nine-to-five Monday-to-Friday job, however, and much of the paperwork had arisen from the weekend activities of the local villains. He was wondering whether to tackle the pile or ring for a coffee when there was a knock on his door. And he hadn’t even read his first piece of paper.

  ‘Come in,’ he shouted, thinking it was his secretary, Barbara. Maybe she’d brought a coffee? If so, it was a good start to the week. But instead of her cheery tones, he was surprised to hear a soft Scots voice bid him, ‘Morning, sir.’

  Turning in his chair, he saw Inspector Hadley standing in the doorway. He was a tall, broad and very powerfully built man in a loose-fitting sweater which comprised various shades of dull brown. His outfit was enhanced with heavy brown corduroy trousers with no creases and a pair of unkempt white trainers upon his large feet. He looked like a heap of dead bracken from a Highland glen.

  His thick greying brown hair appeared to have been dressed by a force nine gale while his face of forty summers and more was adorned with a thick grey-brown beard and moustache.

  A pair of dark brown eyes peered at Pemberton through the mass of hair. The fellow looked as if he’d just arrived from a session of gardening in an October gale and his untidy appearance was in direct contrast to Pemberton’s elegance. Pemberton, considered the smartest man in the force, was always immaculate in his dark suits, white shirts with crisp clean cuffs and polished shoes. With no sign of greying in spite of having turned forty, Pemberton never had a blond hair out of place and in-force folklore said he could walk across a ploughed held and emerge at the other end without dirtying his shoes. One outcome of his appearance was that the officers in his department also took care over their mode of dress — they were all smart, clean and tidy. Except for the new arrival.

  ‘Morning, Vic.’ Pemberton rose and shook the other’s hand, deciding not to comment on his casual method of dress. He realised he must treat this man with gentleness and tact; he needed compassion and care, not criticism. ‘Come in, shut the door and sit down.’

  Hadley padded into the office and settled on the chair that Pemberton indicated. Pemberton returned to his own chair behind the desk and asked, ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Thanks, sir. White, no sugar.’

  The beautiful Scots burr was a joy to Pemberton. He loved the Highlands, the heather, the lochs and the nectar-like malt whiskies from the glens. He pressed the intercom and said, ‘Coffee, please, Barbara, for two. One black, one white, no sugar in either.’

  The coffee arranged, Mark found he had difficulty asking a sensible question.

  ‘How’s it going, Vic?’ he began.

  Pemberton was fully aware that a careless word might trigger some unwelcome response or reaction. Stress, and the individual’s reaction to it, was a terrible thing. One wrong word or one word out of place could compound the problem.

  ‘Can’t grumble,’ said Hadley.

  ‘Who suggested you return to work, Vic?’

  ‘Me. It was my idea. I was bored, sir. I wanted something useful to do, you know, so the medics said I might benefit from some unstressful police work. And the Chief agreed.’

  ‘Right, well, that pleases me. I can use your talents. You know the Muriel Brown case?’

  ‘Aye, I remember it.’

  ‘We’re busy programming it into HOLMES. A chore really, very undemanding, almost to the point of bei
ng boring if I’m honest with you, but it’s potentially very valuable. We think the killer’s still out there, Vic, waiting to be nicked, and we want to feel his collar while he’s young enough to do a stretch for the crime. To help us, I want all the data from the Muriel Brown file to be programmed into the computer. Once it’s there, we’ll let the computer do its work. I hope it’ll lead us to the villain. That’s my aim — to nail Muriel Brown’s killer.’

  ‘Aye, right, thanks. I can do that. I’d love to nail him too. I hate to think that any criminal can escape without punishment.’

  ‘I’m sure many would echo your thoughts. Now, once you get into our routine, you might find yourself helping with other enquiries, a sort of overseeing office manager. With regard to your hours, Vic, I’m not going to demand that you work a full eight-hour day. You decide when you want to work and for how long. Take every weekend off, come and go as you want, but keep in touch with me. Let me know what you’re doing. If you don’t wish to come in, just ring and say so. Ask if you want any help and don’t be frightened to come to me at any time about anything that might be bothering you. Right?’

  A faint smile showed beneath the heavy beard and Hadley nodded. ‘Aye, thanks, sir. You know, I was in CID for a while, sir, early in my service. A DC for two years. At Fawneswick, it was. I expect things have changed a wee bit since then, CID procedures and so on.’

  ‘Quite a lot hasn’t changed, Vic, and I’m sure the knowledge you gained will be useful. Now, we’ve set up the Muriel Brown enquiry in a separate office, so you’ll be working alone. If you’d rather work with people around you, you can move the stuff out and relocate yourself in the general office. I’m sure we could find a corner somewhere. Work as you feel best, Vic. There’s no pressure to get results, it’s a job you can do exactly how you please. You can take as long as you want — I’ll not be putting pressure on you and there’s no deadline for what you’ll be doing. All I ask from you is a competent job of work.’