Much to McGuigan’s intense frustration, he didn’t get the search warrant until that morning. He had spent over two hours the previous afternoon discussing things with the Crown lawyers. Minutiae. Details. But understandable. Details formed the building blocks, and cases were either won or lost based on the strength of those building blocks. A judge needed compelling evidence before signing off. All they had was a statement from a witness, lacking corroboration. But she was credible. And the significance was massive. A possible photograph of The Surgeon. Sheer gold dust. A real and tangible chance of a breakthrough.
It came at 10am that morning. A warrant faxed from the Crown office. The original wet copy was couriered, granting the requisite power to enter the office of Bronson Chapel, and also his flat. Plus, the authority to seize any papers relevant to Bronson held by the firm of SJPS.
He organised a team of four men and women to attend the flat. He headed a further team of six officers to attend Bronson’s place of work. They got there at 11am. The receptionist listened, Kenny Dawson explaining in his slow methodical way what was happening, their faces a mixture of shock and bewilderment. Those people in the waiting room – clients, he assumed – sat and stared, wide-eyed, blank-faced, doubtless bemused at the turn of events.
The receptionist said she would need to contact a partner. A natural reaction, he thought, and one which he had no particular problem with. They waited in the foyer. She spoke into the phone, waited ten seconds, nodded, turned her attention back to Dawson.
“Someone will be down right away,” she said.
“Thank you.”
They waited. Dawson gave McGuigan a meaningful look, the significance of which, McGuigan understood. Somewhere in the building, much worry and consternation.
Ten minutes later, three people came down the stairs behind the reception desk. Two men, a woman.
They noticed the police straight off. They approached them. McGuigan stepped forward, introduced himself.
The woman did likewise. “I’m Winnifred Marshall.” She glanced at the two men beside her. “This is Walter Hill, and Paul Hutchison. We’re the managing partners.”
The lawyer called Walter Hill gave a small courteous nod. The other – Paul Hutchison – gave no acknowledgement.
“Is Bronson Chapel in the building?” McGuigan asked. A long shot, but still.
Winnifred Marshall responded with the slightest shake of her head. “He isn’t in.” She licked her lips. She looked uncomfortable. A reasonable reaction, thought McGuigan.
She kept her voice low. “Can we go somewhere a little more private, Chief Inspector? Please? This is very… public.”
“Of course. If that’s what you want.”
He indicated to the others to remain where they were. Then he and Dawson followed the three lawyers through the waiting room, to a door at the far end, built to blend in with the surrounding décor. She opened it. They filed through to a corridor far less lavish, with offices on either side, busy with people hunched over computer screens. A young man, maybe in his late twenties, appeared from a room, carrying a file. McGuigan remembered him. The same young man he had seen during his last visit, walking up the stairs behind the reception desk. They exchanged brief looks. McGuigan experienced a tingle of something he could only describe as déjà vu. A flicker of lost memory; a trick, perhaps, of the mind.
He nodded. The young man nodded back, continuing on his way.
They were taken to a somewhat austere meeting room, furnished with some chairs, a table and a side table containing silver canisters of tea and coffee. There were only four chairs. Dawson stood at the door. McGuigan and the three sat. Neither coffee nor tea was offered.
“I have a warrant to search Bronson Chapel’s office…” he began.
“We know this,” snapped the man called Paul Hutchison. He held his hand out. “Let me see it.” His voice was indignant, verging on aggressive.
McGuigan assumed a professional neutrality, handed him the warrant.
“You have to understand,” said Winnifred, “as a firm of solicitors, the last thing we want is any trouble.”
“I can imagine.”
“Our reputation is… well, it’s all we have.” It was the other man who spoke – Walter Hill.
“It’s important, for sure.”
“Having a half-dozen police officers arrive at our front door,” continued Winnifred, “it’s not an ideal situation. It gets tongues wagging. Before you know it, all sorts of rumours are flying about.”
Hutchison tossed the warrant on the table. “It’s all bullshit.” He glared at McGuigan. “I know what this is about. You cops. Gloating at the prospect of pulling down a fancy law firm. We won’t be intimidated. Not by the likes of you.”
McGuigan placed the warrant in his inside jacket pocket. He appraised Hutchison. The man looked uncomfortable. He was sweating. He fidgeted. His eyes darted. Nerves? Perhaps.
“We’re not here to intimidate,” he replied. “We’re here to implement a warrant.”
“Of course,” said Winnifred, smiling. She cast Hutchison a venomous glance. “Paul doesn’t mean any offence.”
“Don’t condescend to me,” said Hutchison. “I meant every goddamned word.”
McGuigan inspected the man closer. Something was off. Hutchison was sweating, but it wasn’t warm. In fact, the room they were occupying was cold. There was a chill in the air. Hutchison was perturbed. Unreasonably so.
“You can’t believe a word she says,” said Hutchison.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Patricia Shawbridge,” he said, voice thick and harsh. “She’s the one who started this. My opinion? She’s got nothing better to do with her time. She’s rich and thinks she can just coast in and make foul accusations about one of our partners, and expect everyone…” and here he jabbed a finger at McGuigan, “…including you, to jump up and dance to every jig she plays. Let me tell you, Chief Inspector McGuigan, I’m not fucking dancing!”
McGuigan said nothing. A silence fell. The other two lawyers kept their focus on McGuigan, ashen-faced. Clearly, the outburst had shocked them.
Hutchison wasn’t finished. “To think, a lawyer from this firm would blackmail someone over a fucking photo on a mobile phone.”
McGuigan raised an eyebrow. “A photo?”
Hutchison blinked. Hesitation crept into his voice. “Yes.”
“Tell me about this photo.”
Hutchison began to bluster. “I assume you knew. After all, that’s why you’re here.”
“Please,” said McGuigan softly. “Tell me.”
“The photo.” Hutchison took a breath. “She told us Bronson had shown her a photo of the killer. The Surgeon.”
McGuigan assumed an expression of sudden interest. Hutchison had started it, and McGuigan would make damned well sure he would finish it. Nothing like a bit of sport, he thought, especially with an individual as obnoxious as Paul Hutchison. He appraised all three.
“You’re telling me Patricia Shawbridge told you that she’d been shown a photograph of one of the most prolific serial killers in British history?” He focused on Hutchison. “That’s what you’re telling me?”
Hutchison licked his lips. He was about to speak, then thought better of it.
“She told all three of you?”
They gave him blank stares.
“When was this?”
Walter Hill spoke up, a tremor in his voice. “Yesterday.”
McGuigan leaned forward. “Someone gave you this information yesterday.” He looked specifically at Hutchison, and he said, his voice still soft – “And you didn’t think to report this to the police?”
Hutchison’s face reddened. He stood up. “This is bullshit,” he muttered.
He left the room, raking the others with a look of withering scorn.
Winnifred gave a small hopeless grimace. “What can I say?” she said. “I’m sorry for Paul’s outburst. He’s clearly not himself. And as for us not reporting the matter to the police, you must understand, we weren’t in full possession of the facts. We still aren’t. We thought it prudent to hear Bronson’s side of the story. I can only apologise…”
“I assume you haven’t seen or heard from Bronson since his meeting with Mrs Shawbridge.”
“Correct,” said Hill. “He’s gone off radar. No contact. We have a small army of angry clients to manage. I accept it doesn’t look good.”
McGuigan gestured with a conciliatory hand. He had no desire to fight these people. He needed them on his side. Paul Hutchison was simply an arrogant man with a temper. An irrelevance. He’d encountered far worse.
“You need us to be discreet,” he said. “I understand completely. But we’ll need your help. We need to find Bronson. And we certainly need to establish if what Mrs Shawbridge said is true. If so, we’d like to know if he still has the photograph, which could be vital information. The truth is, if Bronson really has taken a picture of this particular killer, then his life might be in danger. Hence, we have to find him. Hence, the warrant.”
“I understand,” replied Winnifred, her voice tight and brittle.
“We’ll commence our search.” He searched her face. “Bronson isn’t at his house.” Again, he spoke gently. “Do you know where he might have gone?”
“He sometimes talked about a small holiday home. His retreat.”
“Yes?”
“I think our admin department might have the details.”
McGuigan waited.
“He called it the ‘boat house’.”