Chapter 66
The headline sums it up: MURDER COPS RAPPED AFTER CASE PROBE.
Reading between the lines, it seemed fairly clear that Webber had been doing absolutely everything he could to get a conviction, even if it meant trying to frame an innocent man.
But the judge had seen through it and halted the case, triggering Webber’s suspension and an internal investigation.
The resulting firestorm of blame had ended the careers of three senior officers, and seen four others disciplined, demoted, and kicked off the murder squad—including Webber.
His career had crashed to earth in public disgrace.
Webber, of Stapleford, Notts, was described as “falling far below the standards of professional behavior expected of a serving officer” by the chair of the misconduct hearing.
So my first instincts had been right about him, after all: he had lied to me. I hear my wife’s voice, almost as if she’s whispering in my ear. I don’t think you should trust him. I don’t think you should trust anyone.
How he had managed to return to a civilian investigator role years later was anyone’s guess.
Perhaps the police were so desperate for experienced staff that the bar had been lowered to allow it.
I google Janusz Makowski and find a small piece a year later about a compensation payout he had received after his wrongful arrest and detention on remand for almost a year before the trial that had collapsed.
And then—nothing. No hits on Google after 2009 that relate to the same man.
I guessed he might have changed his name.
I probably would have done the same, in his shoes.
As to who was trying to warn me off the ex-detective, I didn’t have a clue.
My phone buzzes with a FaceTime call from Maxine. She looks different on the little screen: older, more businesslike.
“Finally,” I say. “I’ve been leaving messages, trying to get hold of you.”
“Been busy,” she says breathlessly. “Following up leads. That’s why I need to talk to you.”
“Did you send me the note?”
She frowns. “What note? What are you talking about?”
“This.” I lay the pages flat on the kitchen table and point the phone at it, give her a brief description of the contents. “Someone hand-delivered it to my house this morning.”
“Not me.”
“Do you know Webber?”
Something passes across her face, then it’s gone.
“Forget about that for a minute. I’ve found something you need to see.”
“Can you show me?”
“The quality’s not good enough to look at on a small screen. You need to see the original—up close.”
We meet back at Stapley’s Tea Room, off Market Square, in the middle of the city. Maxine is already there at an upstairs table when I arrive, sitting with her back to the wall, coffees ordered for both of us.
She’s on her own today.
“Good to see you.” I give her a quick update on Webber’s theory. “What have you got?”
“Charlie’s been busy digging up what he can find on Peter Flack.
From what we’ve gathered so far he studied at Trent High School, started work at eighteen, bounced around a few different jobs before an apprenticeship as a joiner.
Ended up working for one of the biggest companies in the city, at their national head office. ”
“But stayed living at home with his grandma.”
“Yup.” She reaches into her bag for a green cardboard folder, sliding out a single sheet of paper from the top but keeping it facedown.
“So the place he worked had thousands of staff—still does—and before the turn of the millennium, some poor bastard there was tasked with a special project. A hardback yearbook, featuring pictures of every single UK employee. Every team, in every shop and warehouse.”
I take a sip of my coffee. “Sounds like a nightmare assignment.”
“I know, right?” She turns the sheet over, spins it around so it’s facing me.
It’s a color photo of a group of people, standing in front of a large industrial building.
It’s formal, posed, a few dozen people in four tiered ranks, each one higher than the one in front.
The building in the background has a large corporate logo over its entrance. “Take a look at the back row.”
I scan the faces. It doesn’t take long to find the handsome, square-jawed profile of a man in his early twenties with a passing resemblance to a young Zac Efron.
“That’s Flack, isn’t it?”
“It is.” She points down to a figure on the right, a slim man with thick glasses and an awkward smile. “And this guy here, do you recognize him?”
It takes a moment for the penny to drop, for a memory to slot into place. The picture that Webber had showed me yesterday, at the pub: a young man with wavy dark-blond hair and a shy smile.
“Shit.” I stare a bit closer at the image. “That’s Edward Stiles, isn’t it?”
She points her index finger at me as if she’s aiming a gun. “Gold star for Adam.”
“So… they worked together at this place? There’s a direct link between Flack and Edward Stiles, they maybe knew each other?”
“Or at least Flack knew enough about Stiles to know that he was a loner, struggling with his own issues, who might not be missed straightaway if he dropped out of sight. An easy target. An ideal target. That’s probably why the Rolex ended up in your house.”
A chill flows over my skin, like a cold draft. “You think… Flack killed him?”
“Flack plus his sidekick, if your disgraced ex-copper is to be believed.”
I don’t tell her I’ve already got a decent idea who the sidekick is.
“Exactly.” I nod. “The two of them.”
My phone buzzes with a message from Alissa@14BG, one of the admins in charge of the neighborhood WhatsApp group.
Hi Adam, sorry for delay getting back to you, have been at Pilates. Helena’s with me now if you want me to ask her about Sarah?
I stand up from the table.
“Sorry,” I say. “Got to go. Thanks for the picture. Can I keep it?”
She hands the sheet to me. “Stay in touch, Adam.”
I give her a thumbs-up as I hurry to the stairs.