Robert Young - Gatecrasher

*

Campbell sat in the back of the big Vauxhall and told the story to DC Samuel, feeling all the time like he was accused of something that nobody had yet decided to mention and very self-conscious that the two men would be looking for holes in his story. Then he realised that he was so uptight in trying to tell the story exactly the way he had to Constable Scott that it might be considered too similar, as if he had rehearsed it and could now repeat it like a script. That just made him more uptight.

He finished talking, DC Samuel having nodded his way through it with minimal interruption, and settled back into the seat trying to still his racing mind. Had he seemed suspicious? Had he missed something that the two policeman would later discuss when he wasn’t there? Had he said more to DC Samuel than he had told when giving his statement? Did they suspect him?

The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous it sounded. And how much did he really know about what had gone on in that kitchen? Could someone at the party have been responsible after all and was Campbell about to take a fall for them because he was too naive and too stupid and too eager to drink and drink to be able to get out of this mess?

Unlocking the door to the flat he noticed how dry his mouth was now and how much his head hurt. He began to mentally inventory his bathroom cabinet, trying to remember what painkillers he had there and to think about how much he needed a cold glass of water. He thought about offering tea to the policemen but then wondered if that would look as if he was trying to suck up to them. But how would it look if he didn’t? As if he’d rather they weren’t there at all and that they’d hurry up and go. Which was true of course but-

Campbell froze.

Across his hallway lay a navy blue fleece sweater and a jacket, the lining torn.

His three foot tall yukka plant lay lengthways on the carpet beyond that, soil scattered around the broken pot it had once stood in, almost as if the fired clay had simply burst. The long thin leaves splayed out on the carpet, pointing like fingers to the living room at the far end of the hall.

It was there that most of his possessions were tossed and scattered about the floor.

A cold, cold breeze nipped at Campbell through the broken window at the far end of his home. He stepped slowly inside.

Monday. 10.30am.

Keith Slater was a heftily built man who stood six foot two in his socks and had a neck like a normal man’s thigh. He was quiet and thoughtful a lot of the time, an extremely cold and efficient professional others and was exceptionally gentle with his own children of which there were four.

Aside from his imposing physique he had a soft face, pale blue eyes and sandy hair which was kept short, but not so short that it didn’t need the attention of a comb each morning. He had a small tidy beard, was well groomed and never, ever wore anything other than jeans, except to funerals or court.

He had been married for nearly twenty years to a loving wife who made every effort to steer their children away from the same path their father had taken. Something that he himself actively approved of.

He was solid, dependable, loyal and occasionally very considerate. Which was why George Gresham liked him so much and why he was Gresham’s number two. He was also a vicious, merciless individual when called upon and was responsible for a number of unsolved murders in parts of east London.

Another reason Gresham liked him.

The two of them strolled together through a small park near Gresham’s home sipping take-away coffee from a local cafe. Neither man was smiling.

‘Nothing. Fuck all. We never had too much time of course. That time of the morning, we had to get in and out quick,’ Slater told his boss.

Gresham nodded. ‘Fair enough. Not the ideal time to go kicking someone’s door in really. Long as none of the neighbours clocked anything.’

‘Nah. Its all fucking bankers and their secretary girlfriends in Fulham boss and all wedged safely onto a tube or an office by that time. Anyway, we found sod all. There was blood on the wall where Keano says he did him, Jools saw some blood on the steps by the back door, he thinks. But frankly it could have been anything if you ask me. Nothing inside.’

‘It wasn’t an empty flat was it though Keith? I mean someone lived there?’

‘Oh yeah. Jools had the DVD player away — make it look kosher. But no sign of what we were looking for.’

‘And you were thorough?’

‘Like I said, much as we could be.’

‘Fuck. Which means ‘Not really George.’ Was there an alley onto the street? A way past the house?’

Slater shook his head. ‘No. Terraced houses. Just the back of the house and the neighbours gardens either side.’

Gresham looked his subordinate in the eye. ‘He went in that house Slater. He knocked on the door and went right in that house. Whoever lives there knows something that we don’t. And right now I’m not very comfortable with other people knowing more than me about my business.’ Slater was nodding as his boss spoke. ‘Keith, I think I’d like to have a few words with whoever it is lives there. I wonder if you’d arrange something?’

Slater’s smile almost scared Gresham.

Monday 11am

After the initial shock and the effort to keep his composure in front of the policemen Campbell had walked through the flat, stepping over the mess, checking each room carefully before pointing dumbly to the large dust-free patch on the TV unit where his DVD player used to be.

‘Mmn. Well sometimes they just grab what’s easiest to carry off. No cash taken? Jewellery?’ said DC Samuel.

Campbell shook his head. The policeman was not being condescending at all but he still felt like a child who’d lost a favourite toy getting a sympathetic word from an adult. ‘Don’t keep cash about the place,’ he said and tapped his trouser pocket. ‘Wallet.’

Making their way to the kitchen Campbell filled the kettle and pulled three mugs from the drainage board and dropped teabags into them. Scott asked Campbell if the man had been seen anywhere else that night. He shrugged as he struggled to remember.

‘Like I said, just in here. I mean, someone said they saw him in here when they came to get a drink but not everybody knew each other. They paid him no attention. Then we heard the noise. You know…’ He winced involuntarily as he heard it again, all too clear in his mind.

‘Mm-hm. And no-one remembers letting him in then?’ Scott asked.

Campbell shook his head silently.

‘So I guess he might have come in this way?’ the policeman went on, pointing at the door at the end of the kitchen that led to the garden.

‘I guess.’ he replied but he was distracted. ‘Look, you don’t think this has anything to do with…’ he said and gestured with a slight nod at the mess of the break in.

Scott deferred to the senior man who paused for a moment and then shook his head. ‘Bad coincidence I’d say on the face of it. They took the DVD, made a big bloody mess looking for cash, or just for a laugh. It happens. But a gatecrasher on Saturday night at your party has an accident and then you get burgled Monday morning during work hours? I think it’s a long shot Mr Campbell. I wouldn’t go looking for any conspiracy theories. I’d say you’d had enough worries to be going on with without creating all new ones. Now, mind if we have a peek at the garden?’

Soon afterward they had found a wallet; thirty pounds in tens, a Blockbuster card, various receipts, a ticket stub from the Chelsea match the Saturday just gone. And a driving licence. It had been in the bushes at the rear of the garden, up against the wall, hidden until a policeman’s toecap had nudged the foliage aside in an almost token gesture at searching.