‘My client has explained why he sometimes stores excess stock at home, rather than at the newsagent,’ said Manoj Patel’s solicitor.
Patel’s second interview of the day was going about as well as the first. After furnishing Hutchinson and Ruskin with an obviously prepared explanation for why there were six hundred cartons of cigarettes hidden in his shed, he’d folded his arms again and refused to say anything else. His solicitor was getting as exasperated as his client; he probably had better things to do with his evening than sit in an over-heated interview suite, going around in circles.
‘You say it’s for security,’ said Hutchinson, ‘but I fail to see how a rickety wooden shed with a cheap padlock is more secure than your shop, which has metal shutters, five-lever mortice locks, CCTV and an alarm monitored 24/7 by a private security firm. It’s also damp, which can’t be good for keeping tobacco dry.’
‘It is secure if no one knows they are there,’ said Patel, finally breaking his silence, ‘and the cartons are wrapped in plastic, aren’t they?’
The explanation was certainly logical, if nothing else.
‘Look, I fail to see how the way that the Patels choose to run their business has anything to do with your investigation,’ said the solicitor. ‘You are supposedly looking into the circumstances of Mr Patel’s brother’s death – an affair that he categorically denies any involvement in. I don’t see the relevance of this find.’ He pushed his glasses back onto his nose. ‘In the interests of disclosure, I would be interested in knowing about anything relevant that you have found during your intrusive search into Mr Patel’s house, business and vehicles.’
‘All in good time,’ said Hutchinson with more confidence than he felt.
The solicitor wasn’t fooled.
Manoj Patel’s scowl remained fixed as the two officers suspended the interview again.
‘We’ll get an extension to custody granted, no question, but we need more to justify holding him beyond tomorrow,’ said Grayson. ‘What have we got in the pipeline?’
Warren sighed and took a sip of his coffee. Grayson had taken pity on him and brewed him a cup of his private stash.
‘Manoj claims to have had no contact with Anish recently. We now know that both Manoj and Jaidev left their phones at home that night, perhaps to avoid being tracked. That raises the possibility that they may have access to another phone, which may account for one of the unregistered numbers on Anish’s phone records. We’re addressing that as a matter of priority.’
‘Supposition,’ said Grayson.
‘We know that Anish’s body was carried to the ditch in the hire car, but there may be secondary transfer in Manoj’s Range Rover if he got in it after killing Anish.’
‘Anything so far?’
Warren didn’t say anything.
‘I thought so,’ said Grayson. ‘And there are no tyre tracks matching a Range Rover at the site. What else have you got?’
‘Jaidev’s fingerprints match the partial on Anish’s door handle.’
‘Which he has explained away as a visit last year to check how he was,’ Grayson reminded him.
‘Forensic IT are looking at both brothers’ devices for evidence of contact, plus their wives’ phones.’
‘And how long will that take?’
‘Longer than we have,’ admitted Warren.
‘I take it we have no ANPR records that show any of the Patel family’s vehicles near the hotel on the night of the murder?’
‘No, although it is possible to get from Cambridge to the hotel, and from the hotel to the dumping site, without passing fixed cameras. If they drove below the limit, they wouldn’t have triggered the speed cameras either.’
‘Speculation,’ said Grayson.
Warren bit his tongue. Grayson wasn’t being obtuse, he was doing his job, and he wasn’t saying anything that Warren didn’t know himself. The case against the two brothers was flimsy at best. Releasing them on bail again whilst they investigated further was almost inevitable. Warren didn’t even ask about mounting surveillance on them to stop them destroying any evidence; the cost alone would be prohibitive and they’d need a lot more than they had to persuade a magistrate to sign a warrant.
‘What about Jaidev?’
‘Jaidev’s wife claimed that he came straight home and stayed in for the rest of the evening. In theory, Manoj could have dropped him off before he went and did whatever he did that night, but she’s now no commenting, so we don’t know if that’s what happened.
‘A rather big fly in the ointment is that Jaidev and Manoj appear to leave their phones at home every Thursday night. So, whatever they’re up to, it wasn’t just that night.’
Grayson grunted. ‘There could be an entirely innocent explanation for the brothers leaving their phones at home — maybe they’re going for a pint and don’t want their wives phoning them to nag them that the kids need bathing?’
‘So why not say that?’ asked Warren.
Grayson drummed his fingers on the table as he thought about it. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted eventually.
‘I think their wives might be the key to this,’ said Warren. ‘Manoj’s wife is clearly protecting him; I think she knows exactly what her husband was up to that night. I also think Jaidev Patel’s wife knows more than she is letting on. And she’s certainly pissed off with him after he racked up two speeding tickets in her car.’
‘Well, you know the law as well as I do, Warren. Neither wife can be compelled to give evidence against their husband. You’ll have to figure out how to get them to do so voluntarily.’
He sighed and picked up their mugs, crossing his office to his coffee machine. He didn’t need to ask.
‘So, if means and opportunity are still up in the air, that leaves motive.’ He slopped milk into both mugs. ‘Give me your best theories.’
‘Leading contender is the business with the will, but here is another idea that I’ve been kicking around, ever since we found those cigarettes in Manoj Patel’s shed,’ said Warren.
‘Go on.’
‘It turns out that the Patel family business has form for selling dodgy fags under the counter. Assuming that those cigarettes aren’t legit, then that raises a whole load of other issues.’
Grayson blew the steam off his coffee. ‘So, we’re back to the organised crime angle?’
‘Possibly, although I haven’t worked out the connections yet. It could just be a falling out between the brothers; no need to involve outside parties.’
Grayson’s eyes narrowed in concentration. ‘You think that Anish Patel got wind of their scam and threatened them?’
Warren shrugged. ‘Maybe, I’m just throwing it out there.’
‘That still doesn’t explain why he was in that hotel, or why he had been visiting it so regularly. And why would Anish have been meeting his brother – or brothers – there? There are plenty of other places they could have met up.’
‘Which leads us back to Leon Grime,’ said Warren. ‘His tools were used to mutilate Anish and his belongings turned up at Grime’s allotment. He has no alibi for that night, and it’s looking increasingly like he was dealing – the sniffer dogs have indicated that there were probably drugs stored in the shed recently. Forensics have ripped up the floor for more detailed analysis.’
‘These gangs aren’t too fussy about what they deal in,’ allowed Grayson. ‘Profit is profit, so he could also have been supplying the Patels with dodgy cigarettes, but it’s still looking pretty flimsy.’
‘I know,’ said Warren quietly.
‘Until Trading Standards get back to you and tell you whether those cigarettes are dodgy or legitimate, it’s all speculation,’ said Grayson decisively. ‘And even if they are suspect, it’s quite possible they have nothing to do with this case. You’ll get a pat on the back I’m sure for finding them, but our aim is to solve Anish Patel’s murder, not work out if his family have been diddling Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs.’
On the other side of town, Moray Ruskin stepped out of his car and pulled his coat tighter. An icy-cold drizzle had started an hour or so previously, and the constant stopping and starting as he’d traipsed around town hadn’t given the engine time to fully warm up. Nevertheless, after spending most of the day in a stuffy office, he’d relished the chance to head outside and visit some of the garages that may have changed the tyres on Anish Patel’s hire car.
JJ Car Repairs looked more like a wrecker’s yard than a garage. A badly mangled people carrier with no wheels rested on top of a rusted set of jacks, next to the shell of a small hatchback of indeterminate make and model. Loud rap music blared out from inside the workshop.
It was the fourth garage that Ruskin had visited in the past couple of hours; it would be his last stop before heading back to the station he decided.
With no obvious doorbell, he banged his fist on the steel double-doors.
Nothing.
He tried again, harder. Still nothing.
‘Hello, anyone in there?’ he called out.
He was about to give up and walk in, when one of the doors squeaked open. A shaved head atop a pale face, bisected by what could only be a knife scar.
‘Yeah? Oh fuck, what do you want?’
Ruskin was dressed in a suit, with a smart black coat. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but yet again he had been identified as a police officer before he’d said anything. Alex said it was something about the way he held himself. Ruskin figured it was just a skill possessed by those with a guilty conscience.
‘Mr Johnson?’ The advert on the local business directory listed the proprietor of the business as a Joe Johnson.
‘Yeah. Who’s asking?’
‘DC Moray Ruskin, I want to ask you some questions about a customer that you may have served.’
Johnson gave a sigh, but pulled the door fully open, and walked back inside. Ruskin took that as an invitation.
‘The sign outside says that you replace tyres?’
‘Yeah, so?’
It wasn’t the warmest welcome that Ruskin had ever received, but at least Johnson turned off the radio.
‘Were you open for business on Friday the 25th of November?’
‘Yeah, I work Monday to Friday and Saturday mornings.’ Johnson still had his back to Ruskin, as he opened a pack of cigarettes, ignoring the ‘No Smoking’ sign on the wall.
‘Do you remember if you replaced all four tyres on a white Ford Focus?’
‘Dunno, I do a lot of Fords.’
‘I have the licence number here, if that helps?’
‘Doubt it; I don’t usually make a note of registrations unless it’s an insurance job.’
‘The vehicle was a hire car. It had a green sticker from Middlesbury Vehicle Hire.’
Johnson paused in the lighting of his cigarette, a frown creasing his forehead. ‘Now that you mention it, yeah I did. Weird, I don’t usually see hire cars.’
Ruskin felt his pulse rise. ‘Can you remember anything about it?’
Johnson flicked his lighter and took a deep drag. He let out a steady stream of smoke.
‘Like I said, weird. Bloke phoned me at stupid o’clock, like just after six. Good job I’m an early riser. I told him to come round in an hour as I don’t open that early and I’d do it whilst he stayed. But he wouldn’t wait. In the end, he offered me another hundred to open up and do it then. All four tyres as well. I figured, what the hell? Got a bit of grief off the missus ’cause she had to get the kids ready on her own, but I wasn’t going to turn that down.’
‘Did he say why he wanted it done so quickly?’
‘Nope, none of my business.’
‘Did he give a name?’
‘Not that I recall.’
‘Can you describe him?’
Johnson shrugged. ‘To be honest, I just took his money and did the job as quick as I could.’
Ruskin wasn’t sure if he believed him but decided not to press him yet.
‘I don’t suppose you have CCTV?’
Johnson just looked at him.
‘How did he pay?’
‘Cash.’
‘Did he sign an invoice?’
‘No, I just logged it in the book.’
Ruskin suspected that whatever note Johnson had made for his accountant probably wouldn’t include the hundred-pound sweetener.
‘Can you tell me what tyres he bought?’
Johnson sighed again, before walking over to a cluttered folding table with a portable credit card reader and a locked cashbox. He opened a hard-backed ledger.
‘Full set of Runways. They’re not standard issue for that model, but they’re cheap and they do the job. Besides, that’s all we had in stock. If he wanted Goodyears like the ones he already had, he’d have needed to wait for the delivery on Monday.’
‘One last thing,’ said Ruskin, ‘I don’t suppose you kept the old ones?’
Johnson smirked. ‘You’re in luck, I’m not due to get them taken away until next week. Follow me.’ He set off towards the rear of the workshop, Ruskin scurrying to keep up with the much skinnier man. His coat was stained with rust by the time he reached the back door.
‘Knock yourself out, officer.’
Ruskin smiled tightly, as he thanked the man. Forensics were not going to be happy; JJ Car Repairs changed a lot of tyres.