Barry Clements was an ugly brute.
Pock-marked skin covered his jaw, and his nose looked as if all the cartilage had given up years ago.
Kay glanced down at his fleshy hands as he twisted a gold ring around his little finger, and reckoned he had a history of boxing – or at least fighting of some sort, if his criminal record was any indication.
He still wore the grease-stained pale-grey sweatshirt and black jogging pants he’d been arrested in, and she wrinkled her nose at the stench of old chip fryer fat and body odour that filled the room.
According to the background information Gavin provided her with prior to them entering the interview room, Clements had a charge sheet that started when he was nineteen – something that had ground to a halt three years ago.
While her colleague recited the formal caution and introduced those present for the purposes of the recording machine, she ran her eyes down the list of fines, the community service orders and stints in various prisons around the south coast when the legal system’s patience ran out with the man, then wondered what had changed – and why.
‘How long have you worked for Alan Trentithe?’ She draped her suit jacket over the back of the plastic chair before crossing her arms over her chest as she glared at the man. ‘Well?’
He shrugged, a gesture that was accompanied by a surly downturn of his mouth.
‘Answer the question, Barry,’ said Kay.
She eyed the solicitor next to him, recognising him as one of the regular duty solicitors on call for clients who didn’t have their own legal representation.
Henry Franks wore a bored expression and fiddled with the cap of his fountain pen, the lines streaking across his cheeks and around his eyes showing all of his sixty-four years.
A weariness emanated from him as if his client’s situation was all too familiar, and she wondered whether his bloodshot eyes were an indication of the hours he was working, or an underlying health issue caused by the stress.
Franks turned to his client and waved an impatient hand towards him. ‘Mr Clements helps Alan Trentithe from time to time, as and when needed. It isn’t a permanent arrangement.’
Clements scowled at the words, then lifted his chin. ‘I just do as I’m told, that’s all.’
‘Oh, he speaks.’ Kay dropped her arms to the table and took the folder Gavin held out to her. She extracted copies of the photographs captured by the CCTV camera outside the antiques shop and turned each to face the two men. ‘Why did you slash Carl Taylor’s truck tyres ten days ago, Mr Clements?’
The man sniffed, then wiped his nose with the dirty sleeve of his pale grey sweatshirt. ‘Alan told me to.’
‘When?’
‘Thursday night.’
‘Did he tell you why?’
‘No.’
‘Did you know Carl Taylor?’
‘Seen him around once or twice.’
‘Where?’
‘Here and there.’
‘Did you ever see Carl at Sandling, near the shipping containers?’
A stony silence met her question, and she took back the photographs while watching the man’s eyes flick towards the open folder in Gavin’s hands.
‘Answer the question, Mr Clements. Did you ever see Carl Taylor near the shipping containers?’
‘Once, maybe.’
‘When was that?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Well, try harder.’
‘Could’ve been three weeks ago. Maybe a bit before that.’
‘What was he doing there?’
‘Delivering food.’
‘How often does he do that?’
‘He don’t, not usually. That was the first time I’ve seen him. He ain’t been back since.’
‘Well, I’m not surprised, Mr Clements. He was found frozen to death in the back of a car last Monday morning.’
Gavin leaned across and placed a different photograph on the table in front of the man and his solicitor. ‘More to the point, he was found in this car – which used to belong to you.’
‘I don’t recognise it.’
‘Where were you last Sunday night between the hours of six o’clock and four the next morning?’ said Kay.
‘Can’t remember.’
‘Perhaps I can remind you.’ She tapped the photograph. ‘You were stealing this vehicle from the woman you sold it to last year. You still had a key, didn’t you? An extra copy, which meant you could use it to transport Carl’s body from the refrigeration truck and leave it at Mike O’Connor’s business. Why?’
Kay heard the distinct sound of Clements grinding his teeth before he ran a hand over his jaw and a silence descended on the room.
‘Mr Clements, we can currently hold you here for questioning for another twenty-one hours,’ she said, and gestured to the photographs. ‘Given the evidence to hand, my DCI will be quite willing to extend that by another twelve if necessary. In the meantime, my team are continuing to tear apart those shipping containers and Alan Trentithe’s offices. All of the cocaine found in the freezers at your place of employment has been seized. I’m sure we’ll find your fingerprints on it too.’
Gavin lifted the flap of the manila folder, peered at his notes and gave a derisive snort. ‘So far, they reckon they’ve got in excess of four hundred thousand pounds’ worth of the stuff. I can’t imagine your buyers are going to be too happy when it doesn’t turn up.’
‘Nothing to do with me,’ Clements said, a snarl turning his lip. ‘It’s Alan’s business. Like I said before – I just do as I’m told.’
‘Including murdering two innocent delivery drivers?’ said Gavin.
‘I didn’t kill either of them.’
‘But you did move Carl’s body and place him in this old car of yours before dumping him outside Mike O’Connor’s place,’ said Kay.
Clements shot a sideways glance at his solicitor, then turned back to her. ‘Only because Alan told me to.’
‘Oh, and you just went along with it, did you? What’s he got on you, Barry? Must be something pretty bad if he’s got you running around disposing of bodies.’
‘It wasn’t meant to happen like that. We were unlucky that day, that’s all.’
Kay’s heart lurched. ‘Which day? The Friday you killed Carl and Will?’
‘I didn’t kill them,’ he snapped. ‘No – the day he turned up instead of the usual woman who makes the deliveries.’
Gavin slid a photograph of Bonnie Hopkins across to the man. ‘Do you mean her?’
‘Yeah.’ Barry choked out a bitter laugh. ‘If it’d been her that day doing the delivery, it wouldn’t have been a problem.’