The Scandal, page 38
part #3 of Stone and Oliver Series
Frankie did. She’d viewed the post-mortem report before resuming her questioning. As expected, Beth Collingwood had ruled out accidental death. Nancy had received a blunt force trauma to the side of her head, a serious but not fatal injury. The bastard had buried her alive.
‘Did she tell you which journalist she’d been speaking to?’
‘She didn’t have to. I had her phone, didn’t I?’
‘You called Chris Adams?’
Chinova shrugged. ‘I convinced him that I’d fallen out with Bradbury and was going to help expose him. The idiot actually believed me. We met, but he soon realised that I hadn’t come to chat. He can run like a bastard. He wasn’t hard to find. His name is listed in the Herald.’ As he continued to fill in the blanks, Stone and Oliver were content to listen. In the end, he said: ‘I bided my time and stuck him as soon as he left the cashpoint.’
Frankie stood up. She couldn’t listen to another word.
83
Last night, after they’d finished the debrief, David had asked her to go for a drink before they called time. Frankie had declined. She was done in. Despite the late hour, she’d reminded him that Ben had been discharged and was waiting at home with his tail between his legs, begging David to go easy on him. The lad was sleeping when David entered the house, but awake before he left for work. They breakfasted together.
This morning, congratulations seemed inappropriate. Frankie had worked hard to get Chinova to cough, but his testimony alone wasn’t enough to arrest Sir Giles, let alone convict him, though the suspect insisted that he was telling the truth, that if he was going down, he was taking Bradbury with him.
David glanced across the room.
Frankie was at her desk, preoccupied, with one eye on the door. She perked up as Dick sauntered into the incident room with a bit of a swagger and a broad smile, a dozen pairs of eyes trained on him. The weapon wasn’t all he’d found. A cheer went up when he told them what it was.
Armed with a photograph of the knife, David took Frankie to his office, arranging a conference call with Sarah Hainsworth, the engineering professor who’d so helpfully identified the kind of knife they were looking for. It took her no time to confirm that their find was a Bulgarian Karakulak, a traditional shepherds’ knife. Beth Collingwood would now be able to take precise measurements and match it to the wounds inflicted on Chris Adams. That was all the detectives needed to hear.
Sir Giles Bradbury’s housekeeper opened the door to a property he’d purchased before turning Bastle View into a residential home for the elderly. They were shown into his study and told to wait. It was a wonderful room with a view over rolling countryside. The owner arrived moments later, extending his hand to the DCI, a warm smile on his face. David shook hands with him, though Frankie could see that it pained him to do so. The detectives looked on as Bradbury walked around his desk, hitched up his trousers and sat down, offering tea, inviting Stone and Oliver to make themselves comfortable.
Both remained standing.
David glanced around the room. Like the library at Bastle View it was grandiose; a facade designed to impress its visitors, decorated and furnished to a very high standard.
‘I take it you have news, Detective Chief Inspector.’
‘Yes, sir. Thanks to you, the Murder Investigation Team have made excellent progress. We have a lot to thank you for. We’ve now recovered the weapon and charged your employee with not one, but two murders: that of your former care manager and the young man I referred to when we first spoke in the company of your solicitor, Trevor Mansfield.’
‘Former employee,’ Bradbury corrected him. He stood up. ‘Well, thank you for letting me know, DCI Stone. I’m pleased to have been of service. Perhaps now we can all get back to normal.’
David eyed him with contempt. Bradbury was a snake. There was no expression of sympathy for the family of a woman who’d worked for him for years. ‘Sit down, please, sir. I’m not quite finished.’ He threw Frankie a nod, her cue to proceed.
The landowner was shocked as she began to administer the caution. ‘Mr Bradbury, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Nancy Carver and Christopher Adams . . .’
In the interview room at Middle Earth, Bradbury and Trevor Mansfield were waiting when Stone and Oliver arrived to conduct the interview, this time in the chaos of the cell block. The detectives felt like they had lived in that grim room for days, but both were ready for the final push, David taking the lead this time – or at least, that was the plan, if only he could get a word in edgeways.
‘Stone, you are making a big mistake,’ Bradbury said. ‘Whatever that toerag has told you, I can assure you it’s slanderous. These deaths have nothing to do with me. The idea is preposterous. You must see that.’ He glanced at his solicitor. ‘Trevor, do your job.’
‘Calm down, Giles. Let’s see what the SIO has to say.’
‘Mr Bradbury, I’m going to show you a number of photographs.’ David spread them out on the table. ‘You may recognise this building as one that is situated on your land.’
‘Yes, of course I do. I own it.’
David pointed to one of the photographs. ‘Do you see the knife here, sir?’
‘Yes, of course I do. I’m not blind. Get on with it.’
Frankie eyeballed the suspect. ‘Mr Bradbury, these images were all taken from the same angle, with the same camera, at the same location. As you can see, they are time-and-date-stamped.’
‘What is your point?’
‘Will you now look at this image?’ She handed him a photograph that hadn’t been on the table. ‘The knife wasn’t there two days ago when crime scene investigators first entered the property. It is now. Which tells us that in the intervening period you went to those premises with that knife and placed it in that location for us to find, a deliberate attempt to incriminate your former estate manager.’
‘I did no such thing!’
David took over. ‘Mr Bradbury, outside of this police station, only two people knew that we were looking for a knife in connection with this offence. The information was never made public. As you can see, it’s a very specific knife that I was careful not to describe when we spoke the day before yesterday. The two people who knew about it were you and the man masquerading as Jan Petersen, who we now know to be Julian Chinova, a Bulgarian national. You knew that already, didn’t you?’
‘I did not.’ Bradbury’s head dropped.
He knew he was done for and so did Mansfield.
84
On Christmas morning, Frankie stood in David’s tiny cottage, staring out of the window, the fire crackling in the grate behind her. The radio was on and she could hear Ben singing along in the kitchen, cobbling together something decent to eat. There would be no turkey and trimmings, no crackers to pull or presents to open, but there would be joy. Ben was alive and that was all that mattered. Falling into that ravine had saved him from certain death.
The thought of it made Frankie shiver.
The previous evening, she’d waited with David on the corner of Northumberland Street for someone else who’d survived a close encounter with Chinova. He should’ve silenced Eva Sokolov when he had the chance. He’d underestimated her, written her off as a down-and-out who wouldn’t want to go near the police, let alone help them. The fleece jacket may never be found but her eyewitness testimony had provided a vital piece of evidence that identified him as the person responsible for the stabbing of Chris Adams, allowing detectives to chip away at his lies.
Frankie’s mobile rang out as they stood there.
‘Leave it,’ David told her. ‘You’ll regret it if you don’t.’
She hesitated, a disappointed expression on her face. ‘Maybe they’re not coming.’
He smiled. ‘They’re coming.’
As the snow began to fall on the streets of Newcastle, Frankie had fallen silent, reflecting on the coming weeks and months, gratified by the fact that Chinova and Bradbury would get what was coming to them, the latter especially. A son of the landed gentry, he should have known better. She wondered how a man who had so much would risk everything to get more. His actions had ruined more lives than his own.
Nancy Carver’s family and Susan Adams would never again see their loved ones and it would be some time before they could bury their dead, but thanks to the hard work and commitment of a depleted Murder Investigation Team they would get ‘justice’ in the eyes of the law – a word that was meaningless to Frankie. There was nothing fair or reasonable about murder. Her sister’s killer was out there somewhere. If they found him tomorrow, Joanna wouldn’t suddenly reappear. She was gone. No key turning in a lock, no cell door slamming, would ever make up for that.
Amanda Williams had been charged with receiving stolen goods. Frankie had been right about her. Once she realised that she’d been driving the car of a murder victim, she was quick to distance herself from Chinova; a man she’d picked out in an ID parade as the one she’d met in a Manchester hotel car park where the dodgy transactions had taken place. She’d since been escorted to London to face further questioning from the Serious Organised Crime Agency who now believed they had enough evidence to convict a syndicate of offenders who were ripping off the elderly.
The investigation into the suspicious death of retired surgeon Alfie Jenkins would continue into the New Year, as would forensic examination of Bradbury’s financial accounts. No doubt they would make interesting reading. David had vowed that vulnerable elderly residents who’d been fleeced would be reimbursed. A team of experienced detectives were being lined up to question them. It would be a slow process. Litigation might take several years. Some residents didn’t have that long. They might die before the truth was revealed, but it gave Frankie peace of mind to know that while the man driven by greed began a lengthy sentence, in time the families of his victims would receive recompense through the courts.
There was no evidence to support the view that Fiona Fitzgerald had anything to do with Bradbury’s master plan. Chinova had admitted to the Internet search from her office, lasting less than forty-five seconds – another mistake by the Bulgarian who’d evaded the police for years and who’d probably spend the rest of his life in jail.
So far, detectives had found nothing to implicate editor Mark Fox in any of this. If he’d concealed any wrongdoing by Sir Giles, he’d been careful to cover his tracks. The technical support team would continue digging, but Frankie didn’t expect it would lead anywhere. David had taken the view that the editor’s dislike of Chris Adams was born of jealousy, a downward slide, a fading career. In Chris, Fox had recognised his younger self, an enthusiast with the skills and potential to rise to the top of his profession. Such a waste.
Before Frankie left Middle Earth, Trish Dolan, the former Herald features editor, had been in touch to congratulate her on the successful resolution of an investigation that began with that same young journalist. Trish looked forward to the day that Bradbury, a man she considered unworthy of the honour bestowed on him, would be stripped of his knighthood. Before she hung up, she shared some good news of her own. She was now officially in remission and in the market for a new job. Wishing her luck, Frankie had passed on Wells’ details, promising to put in a good word for her over the holidays.
Frankie was the first to spot Eva and Ryman as they turned the corner. They were dressed up, a sight to see, thanks to a last-minute whip-round by the MIT, a small thank you for assisting the police. As the two men shook hands, David caught Frankie’s eye over Ryman’s shoulder. His smile made her heart sing. The investigation had taken its toll on their relationship, but they too had survived. A pre-Christmas drink in a warm pub was what they all needed.
There would be no celebrating for Susan Adams. She’d wept when she heard the news that Chinova and Bradbury had been charged with her son’s murder. Now able to begin the grieving process, she’d spend a sober Christmas with Frankie’s parents. As far as Frankie was concerned, there was no better place to be. If anyone could make her believe that life was worth living, they could.
Ousted from her bed in the Oliver household, Frankie had accepted an invitation to spend Christmas Day with Ben and David Stone. Her eyes scanned the quiet street, wondering what was keeping her boss. She turned from the window as Ben hobbled into the room with a glass of mulled wine in one hand and a crutch in the other.
‘For you,’ he said. ‘Merry Christmas.’
‘Merry Christmas.’ She pulled the glass to her nose. ‘Mm . . . smells delicious.’
‘It’s homemade, not that shite you get readymade in the supermarket.’
‘Is it a bribe?’
‘Do I need one?’
‘Hmm . . .’ Frankie raised her right forefinger to her lips, eyes on the ceiling as if considering a response. ‘You’re undoubtedly the hero of our investigation, mister, but you’ve yet to serve a penance. Deception cannot go unpunished. Tell you what, keep my glass topped up . . . all day, and it might, just might, let you off the hook . . . maybe.’ She smiled at him over the top of her glass. ‘Consider yourself my slave for the day.’
‘Gimme a break, it’s Christmas! And I’m a casualty. What are you doing here, anyhow? I thought you’d want to be with family.’
‘I’m in the way?’
‘No! Why do you always twist my words?’
‘That’s harsh—’
‘But true . . . Dave does it all the time and it’s bloody annoying.’
‘Does he?’ She lifted her glass. ‘Are you not joining me?’
‘I only had one hand. Wait there.’ He retreated into the kitchen.
A car pulled up outside. Seconds later, the door flew opened. David walked in dressed in a Santa suit. Frankie burst out laughing. He looked ridiculous. She called out to his nephew. ‘Ben, you have a special visitor.’
The lad poked his head out of the kitchen.
‘I’ve never been a dad before,’ David said. ‘Will I do?’
Ben caught the double meaning. He grinned. ‘You’ll do.’
David smiled back at him. ‘Drum roll, if you please.’
Ben pointed at him. ‘For that?’
Gemma Radcliffe peeped out from behind his uncle.
Ben’s eyes lit up. Christmas was shaping up nicely.
Frankie had so much to say to David. It would wait.
‘Come with me,’ David led them all to the door.
Parked at the kerb was a brand-new motor.
‘For me?’ Ben’s eyes were like saucers. The smile slid off his face as he looked down at his leg in plaster. ‘Oh bollocks!’ He rounded on Frankie. ‘My penance, right?’
Everyone laughed.
It had been three long months since Bradbury and Chinova had been charged and remanded in custody. In the meantime, David had moved on to another investigation and was discussing strategy with Frankie over a beer. Sitting together on the sofa, they were paying Ben no attention, though both were aware of what he had to do, just as he was aware that they’d talked Wells into allowing him to write an article that would put an end to a tragic case. Her editor-in-chief agreed – not that he had much choice in the matter. Ben smiled to himself. Who’d argue with Belinda?
He sat down at his computer and began to type . . .
Justice for murdered whistle-blower and the journalist silenced trying to help her
Two men found guilty of murder last week appeared at Newcastle Crown Court for sentencing this morning, both receiving a term of life imprisonment. Throughtout a lengthy trial, Sir Giles Bradbury and Julian Chinova blamed each other for the deaths of Nancy Carver and Christopher Adams, offences occurring a year apart. The jury deliberated for less than three hours, returning unanimous guilty verdicts on both defendants, convinced that Bradbury was the driving force behind both murders. In a statement afterwards, the Senior Investigating Officer, Detective Chief Inspector David Stone of Northumbria Police, said that his team were still investigating Bastle View and expected further charges to be brought against these men.
Ben spent two hours writing and another editing, tightening up the text, feeling under pressure to produce his very best work; not because it was a big deal to cover a case as important at this, but because of those affected by these tragic deaths: the victims’ family and friends, the detectives who’d worked tirelessly to protect the vulnerable and speak up for the dead. Ben had witnessed firsthand the effect this had on David and Frankie but, most of all, he was determined to honour Chris Adams’ efforts to bring the case to light. Pausing to reflect on what he’d written, he looked up. Frankie eyed him from across the room, an encouraging you-can-do-it nod that sent his fingers flying once more across the keys . . .
Her Ladyship Ms Justice Underwood described Nancy Carver as a brave woman whose selfless actions had triggered an independent enquiry into the way that care homes were run. Paying tribute to Chris Adams, who’d lost his life trying to help her, Her Ladyship told the court that if Julian Chinova was ever again a free man, he would face immediate deportation. Of Sir Giles Bradbury she said, ‘You have abandoned all decency. There are no mitigating factors in this case. This was a despicable abuse of power against the most vulnerable in our society. A long period of incarceration is not only justified, it’s mandatory.’
Aware that Bradbury’s defence team had lodged an immediate appeal. Ben read through his article one final time. Sensing movement behind him, he was suddenly aware that he had company. With Stone and Oliver looking proudly over his shoulder, he paid tribute to a young man he’d never met, the journalist without whose evidence the MIT might never have been able to secure a conviction or put away his killer and without whose contribution this story would never have been told. Typing the byline, Ben ensured that Chris Adams would finally get his name above the fold:
