Flying Too High (DI Angus Henderson 12), page 1
Flying Too High
Iain Cameron
Copyright © 2024 Iain Cameron
The right of Iain Cameron to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing of the copyright owner.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
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For my proofreader, accountant, tax advisor, mother of my children and arbiter of good taste; this one is for you.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY- NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
SIXTY-SIX
SIXTY-SEVEN
SIXTY-EIGHT
SIXTY-NINE
SEVENTY
SEVENTY-ONE
SEVENTY-TWO
SEVENTY-THREE
SEVENTY-FOUR
SEVENTY-FIVE
About the Author
Also by Iain Cameron
A Small Request
ONE
He rolled his large fleshy body off the lithe figure of Claudette and lay on his back panting. A few minutes later, Roger Maitland reached over to the bedside table, picked up a pack of cigarettes and sparked one. Nothing could beat the first one in the morning, or the one straight after sex with a good-looking woman.
‘Aren’t you going to give me one?’
‘I thought I did that already.’
‘You’re so funny.’
‘Fill your boots.’
She leaned over to grab the pack, her large, pneumatic breasts pushing into his chest and chin, but he’d had enough of them for the moment. She lay back for a minute or two taking a couple of deep draws, while tapping something on her phone. Presumably ordering her transport home.
Shutting off the phone’s screen, she got out of bed and started to dress. If there was business to be had, Claudette didn’t want to miss it. He looked at his watch: one thirty in the morning. He didn’t imagine much would be doing in Brighton at this early hour, but he was a businessman and she was a tart; what did he know?
Claudette went to the dresser and scooped up the pile of twenties left for her in a deft, practiced movement.
‘See you next time, handsome,’ she said.
‘Count on it.’
She bent over the bed and kissed him.
‘I’ll let myself out.’
He listened to the clump-clump of heels as she went down the wooden staircase, a key feature of the house when first stepping into the hallway. The other day he’d spotted little indentations in the steps. Perhaps when they got together next time, he would give her arse a good hard spanking, or force her to play the sex game she hated. The door slammed shut, increasing his annoyance.
He lived in a house in North Chailey with a long driveway behind metal gates and set in five acres. When he first bought the house, it had been neglected for decades, so it had been gutted and modernised at great expense. The front door moved on well-oiled hinges, allowing it to close with the merest of touches. Hadn’t he told her about it before? He would have to spank her harder for that.
He doused the cigarette and stared at the ceiling, bathed only in the light from the moon through the open blinds. This was when he did his best thinking, after sex with Claudette, or Marcella, or Gabrielle, although he couldn’t say this to any of the directors at his company, Vixen Aviation. They were more strait-laced than he, and no doubt would think less of him if they found out where he got his inspiration.
The company was on the brink of greatness. Their latest drone, Avalon, had impressed the Ministry of Defence team the previous week at yet another demonstration. He didn’t believe in wasting taxpayers’ money, so why did they need to see the machine in action so many times before making a decision?
His man at the Ministry of Defence (MOD) had assured him not only was a verdict imminent, a large order would be on its way very soon. His heart had swelled at the news. A large order from the UK military was excellent in itself, but where it would lead was what really interested him. With MOD reassurance behind it, the European Union countries would soon follow suit, and before long Vixen would have the big one in their sights: a contract with the US military.
His main goal was to expand the company in the US. In time, he believed it would become bigger than the European operation, allowing him to relocate there. His daughter lived in Boston, and unlike her mother, a person he never wanted to see again, he missed her. He also hoped another important prize would be forthcoming. A CBE was all very well, but how he coveted the top one: a knighthood.
He must have dozed off, as the next time he looked at the clock it was 2:15. He was bursting for a pee. He’d been out on a date in Brighton with a girl he met on a dating site, and they had drunk way too much. At the end of the evening she went off in search of her bed, which was disappointing, but Claudette would always respond to his call.
He pulled on a pair of shorts. He never wore more than this to bed as the sophisticated heating system was designed to keep the house at a steady temperature no matter the weather outside.
He headed into the bathroom, but didn’t switch on the main light. He was a bad sleeper, had been since his teenage years, and read just about every book on the subject. A bright light would increase his serotonin levels and ruin any chance of sleeping tonight. In any case, his electric toothbrush was on charge, plugged into the socket behind him. It emitted a pulse of LED light every couple of seconds, enough for him to find the toilet bowl without making an unsightly mess on the floor or down his leg.
The pee was a long one and while standing and waiting to finish he realised how tired he felt; it almost had him sleeping on the job. At last, he was done. He pulled up his shorts and pressed the flush button. Then turned.
In the pulsing light, he saw a figure enter the bathroom. It wasn’t Claudette, she was smaller and thinner. The light pulsed again and he spotted something shiny in the black-clad figure’s hand. Before he could react, it shot towards his bare stomach.
He moved his hands to protect himself, but felt the knife go in once, twice, three times. He dropped to his knees. Seconds later, he fell face-first on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor.
TWO
The gentle sway of the yacht changed as it rocked from side to side. It woke a dozing Angus Henderson and it took some seconds before he realised what had caused it: a speedboat passing close by. He lay still for a few minutes, enjoying the soporific effect of the waves lapping against the hull, and thought nothing could touch it for giving him a good night’s sleep.
It helped having Kelly beside him, her eyes closed and her chest moving with monotonous regularity. They hadn’t gone far, only along the south coast to Selsey. He couldn’t go any further on account of being on-call. He got up and wandered into the ‘head’, one of the nautical terms he’d been teaching Kelly.
A half hour later, he served breakfast inside the cabin of Mingary, Henderson’s thirty-one-foot Moody yacht. With warmer weather, they would have moved to the rear deck with their plates on their knees and enjoyed the view. However, at this early hour on a May morning, the thermometer barely reached ten degrees.
‘I could get used to this, it looks delicious,’ Kelly said, admiring Henderson’s version of a full English.
‘If something can be made more or less in one pan, it can be cooked on a small boat like this.’
‘In the galley.’
‘Good, you’re getting it.’
‘There’s only another four hundred years of sailing terminology to catch up on. I might get the hang of it by the time I’m eighty or ninety.’
‘How would you rate your first sleepover on a boat?’
‘I didn’t notice. I only had eyes for you, my handsome captain.’
‘There’s a seafarer’s tale if ever I’ve heard one.’
‘Delightful, if you must know. I thought seasickness would be a problem, as it had been the last time I was on a boat, but no, it felt great. I mean, the weather yesterday was calm with a blue sky, what’s not to like?’
‘The forecast is for a little more breeze today, which is good as we need help getting back to Brighton.’
They finished breakfast and tidied up. It was an essential job, not only in case they hit bad weather, when loose plates and cups would become an injury hazard, but also because it was a small boat. It was easier moving around and doing jobs when everything was back in its proper place.
With the domestic duties out of the way, they set sail for home. Henderson needed to get back but not desperately; if anything kicked off, he could pull into a number of ports along the way and have one of his team pick him up. Kelly needed to return as well. She was a guest speaker at an Offender Symposium in Chicago in a couple of weeks, and she wanted to do some research away from her day job at Sussex University, where she taught Criminal Psychology.
When clear of the port and out on the open sea, he switched off the engine and unfurled the main sail. Soon, Mingary picked up speed as the big sail filled with wind, forcing the yacht over to one side. He called Kelly over and asked her to take over the helm as he wanted to make coffee.
‘Aim the bow at that large white building with all the balconies, do you see it?’
‘Yes. What is it?’
‘One of the big apartment blocks along Brighton seafront.’
‘Why are we heading towards it?’
He gave her a quizzical look. ‘Where did we depart from, and where my car is parked?’
‘Brighton Marina.’
‘So, where are we headed?’
‘Back to Brighton Marina, but–’
‘Aim for the apartment block for now. When we’re a bit closer, we’ll change and head towards the marina. Unlike a car, everything happens at a much slower pace on a boat.’
‘So I’m starting to appreciate.’
‘How does it feel to have the lives of two people in the palm of your hand?’
‘Am I the captain now?’
‘Why?’
‘I want to order you about, as you did to me on the way out.’
‘Whatever floats your boat, but no, you’re only the helmsman. A hired hand, no less.’
‘Trust you to spoil the illusion.’
They entered the inner sanctum of Brighton Marina around lunchtime. He and Kelly were discussing where they would eat lunch when his phone rang.
‘DI Angus Henderson.’
‘Good afternoon, Inspector. This is Lewes Control. We’ve received reports of a fatal stabbing at a house in North Chailey. Can you attend?’
‘I can. Let me have the details.’
Henderson repeated the instructions out loud for Kelly to jot down. He could steer the boat into the marina, akin to a city centre car park, and talk on the phone, but doing a third activity at the same time? No chance.
He finished the call and manoeuvred Mingary towards the berth he had vacated the day before. He imagined the cool weather had discouraged many owners from taking their boats out.
‘I guess it puts lunch on the back burner, Kelly. I’m sorry.’
‘Some other time. I do understand. The big question I’d like answered now is, as we both came down here in your car, how do I get home?’
THREE
Henderson drove through the open gates of Oakwood House and parked. The house looked large, not sprawling with many outhouses and extensions, but self-contained and imposing. The parking area was equally large, with not only an open area where a couple of pool cars, the pathologist’s car, and a SOCO van were parked, but also with a timber garage containing what he assumed was the victim’s car, a red Bentley convertible.
Climbing out of the car, he saw what looked like a large grassy expanse at the back of the house, bordered by trees on three sides, making the property more or less private. This meant whoever killed the house’s occupant could stake out the house without being disturbed and had a means of escape no one would see.
He checked in with the cop manning the clipboard in the hall. While donning an over-suit and boots, he flicked through the letters lying on the hall table. They were addressed to Roger Maitland CBE. He repeated the name in his head. It rang a small bell, but he couldn’t place him.
Following the copper’s directions, he headed upstairs. It looked like a conventional house from the outside: red tiled roof, leaded windows, and a beautiful oak door, but inside, as modern as anything displayed in the Sunday colour supplements. Even the wooden staircase made a statement. It didn’t just convey him to the upper floor, it swept him round and upwards, making him feel he was about to enter something elegant like an art gallery or a major fashion house. An art gallery wasn’t a bad metaphor as paintings lined the walls. Most of it was modern art, plenty of curly squiggles and distorted faces in various shades. They weren’t to the DI’s taste, but somehow they added to the house’s ambience.
‘Afternoon, gov,’ Detective Sergeant Carol Walters said, walking towards him. ‘How was your trip?’
‘Lucky we were almost berthed when the call came. Any earlier and it would’ve taken a while before I could get here. Who found the body?’
‘The vic’s personal trainer. She’s downstairs with the FLO. Came round to give him a workout.’
‘It’s some place this, don’t you think?’
‘From what I’ve seen, the words modernised and remodelled don’t cut it. He must have taken the house back to its shell and kitted it out with no expense spared.’
‘Where’s the body?’
‘Through here,’ she said, as they walked along the hallway.
‘Why does the name Roger Maitland ring a bell?’
‘Maybe because he’s chief exec of a major defence contractor in Uckfield called Vixen Aviation.’
Henderson shook his head. ‘Good to know, but no, I think it’s something else.’
He walked into the bedroom. The room and bed looked big enough to host a children’s party, and with the blinds open, huge sheets of glass gave panoramic views of the trees and fields at the back of the garden.
To Henderson’s surprise, the body that pathologist Grafton Rawlings was bending over was of a portly man, aged around mid- to late-fifties. Henderson imagined anyone with a personal trainer, and no doubt with a home gym to match, would have looked a bit fitter.
‘Afternoon Grafton.’
‘Ah,’ he said, looking up. ‘Hello Angus. Someone’s been sailing, even if Carol hadn’t told me.’
‘What’s the giveaway? Is it the healthy, ruddy complexion and salt-incrusted hair on which a wire brush couldn’t make much of an impression, or the time I took to get here?’
‘All of the above. It’s a look that takes me four or five whiskies to emulate.’
‘This is Mr Roger Maitland CBE, I take it?’
‘Yes, it is, and I’m afraid to say he’s been brutally stabbed.’
‘Define brutally.’
‘Well, he has three wounds to his stomach, which would have been sufficient to kill him, but when he fell on his knees, or perhaps turned around, he received two more wounds in the back.’
‘That’s brutal right enough.’
‘And all done with a large knife, so I suspect there will be extensive internal damage.’
‘I see what you mean.’
It didn’t look like the small, neat incisions of a stiletto or a paring knife taken from the kitchen, but the wide thrusts and ragged lacerations from something like a hunting knife, one with indentations on the back of the blade. His uniform colleagues were seeing the result of using knives like this more often. They were bought from a range of on-line stores and adventure outlets. They were formidable weapons and even looked threatening.
‘Do you know when he was killed?’
‘Rigor mortis is beginning to ease, so I would say around twelve hours ago, but I will be more precise when I get him back to the mortuary.’
