Authors: Simon Leigh
Out of Promises (27 page)
Baker hadn’t been home. He’d been in his cubicle at the station all night, leaving only to get some food or go to the toilet. Occasionally he’d stand at the window and watch the snow fall over the parking lot, battling with the rock salt before the next flake descended. Patrol cars came and went, officers came on shift and went off shift, but he stayed inside. On shift. All night.
This case is dragging like a snake’s dick.
So far he had nothing to go on, just three dead bodies and two missing suspects. How were they connected? Where are they? What to do now? He had no idea and no clues to follow. The lab results hadn’t come back with anything yet either and the shift log for the night Wong was murdered showed that William Yates was on vacation. But what did that prove? He couldn’t act on it.
The basis of any police investigation starts with a clue, and they’d all but fizzled out. He let out an exhausted breath and leaned back in his chair.
Fraser had mentioned someone called Preston. Without anything else, it was a dead loss. He’d also mentioned Bill and the lock pick, which led to another dead body.
Words of wisdom from his mentor back when he started the job sprang into his mind:
If in doubt, start at the beginning.
He figured the beginning for this case was seventeen years ago. His undercover had said that Matherson owned Northbrook, allegedly. But that was basically dead and buried as far as evidence was concerned, and it was buried deep. So he started six years ago with the Wong murder, which he didn’t work. It was after the precinct was cleaned out, so he may be in luck and find something in this very station before the low-life scum had their hands on it. Failing that, the next step would be four years ago, with Michael’s murder. It was time to get up to speed with what happened back then.
He stood up from behind his desk and walked out into the main office area towards the police records room. The place was starting to come alive again after a short lull while the clubs were closed. He hadn’t seen much from his cubicle, just listening to the noises of the evening as he had many times before.
The records room door sat five feet behind a desk with a guard and a logging in and out board. Baker signed his name, his badge number, and the date and time then strolled inside.
The room was full to the ceiling of shelves, each one holding boxes arranged in alphabetical order. Inside each box were files from oldest to newest. This precinct was the largest in the city and records from other precincts were sent here for storage making his search the more daunting.
Most of the files were thick full of officer’s reports, pathology reports, evidence, chain of evidence documents, and photographs.
After thirty minutes of flicking through folder after folder in the ‘W’ section, he found the Wong file sandwiched between two others and opened it.
It was completely empty. All it said on the front was name, age and the date. He figured this had to be the correct one as it was the only Wong file there.
Shit.
He looked under ‘M’ for Michael Mason’s file, and then for Julius Matherson.
There must be something of his murder here somewhere.
But after looking through the boxes and finding the correct one, he found the files were non-existent, not even a sleeve.
He knew it was a long shot, but tried ‘N’ for Northbrook. His mentor had told him not to ignore a lead, however small it may be. These files were also missing.
He left the room with the empty Wong file, signed out with the guard and asked, ‘Where do you keep the logging in sheets for that room?’
‘In a box inside the room,’ the guard replied.
‘I need you to look for anyone looking for these.’ He showed him a list of files that were missing.
The guard nodded and Baker headed for the main office.
He found McGowan, who looked in need of a coffee, his hair dishevelled and his shirt collar open.
Walking up to him, he dropped the file on his desk and said, ‘What can you tell me about these?’
McGowan looked annoyed, sweeping the file up into his hands. ‘What about it?’
‘Where are the case reports? Evidence reports? Test results? Michael’s murder file isn’t in there at all. Neither is Northbrook, or Matherson.’
‘No idea where they are. I told you when I found you at Northbrook I couldn’t build a case on it.’
‘Who was in charge of the Wong case?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you know?’
‘All I know is what I told you at Northbrook, that some guy outside Amber Heights jumped the barrier and gave me this scar.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Someone looking for his brother or something, I don’t know. It was dark and I can’t remember his face.’
‘Not very helpful is it?’
McGowan motioned for him to come closer and whispered, ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if the records were taken. Nobody followed the case up. It just stopped dead, same as Michael’s and Northbrook seventeen years ago.’
‘Are they connected you think?’
‘If they are, it’s been buried well.’
‘Dammit!’ he shouted. ‘Is everybody bent in this place?’
Most of the room stopped and stared.
McGowan wasn’t pleased either. ‘Will you keep it down? We’re in enough shit for questioning Fraser without a lawyer. Look, why don’t we do our own investigation? Come on, we can go and speak to Wong’s father.’
‘Fine,’ Baker replied and walked out.
Valerie and Bill were at the breakfast bar sitting opposite each other. She watched him stuff a fork full of scrambled eggs into his mouth and wash it down with a mouthful of coffee. Valerie didn’t eat. She just had coffee, black and unsweetened. She’d dressed in yesterday’s clothes as it was all she had and refused his offer of some clean ones that might work on her. Bill wore a cleaned and ironed shirt un-tucked from blue jeans.
She said, ‘I think we need to drop by my place and pick up some clean clothes.’
‘I think we should go to Matherson’s office.’
She put her cup down fiercely, almost slamming it, and glared at him like he had just slapped her mother. ‘Are you crazy? We can’t go there. He has Jackson.’
Bill grabbed a towel and started mopping up the spilled coffee. ‘How can you be so sure?’
She grabbed his arm and looking into his eyes. ‘Are you serious? Or just stupid?’
‘I just think that it couldn’t make things any worse.’
‘And they say men aren’t dumb.’
‘Valerie.’
‘What?’
He had to tell her, she needed to know. Sharp and fast, he said, ‘Jackson is dead. I’m sorry.’
She moved away from the breakfast bar, away from Bill. ‘No he isn’t. Why would you say that?’
‘I found a photo of him on Sharpe’s cell.’
‘Bullshit.’
He said nothing.
Her lip quivered. ‘Show me.’
‘Val.’
‘I said show me.’
He pulled the cell from his pocked, placing it on the bar between them. She grabbed it and fumbled through it quietly until she found the gallery.
She wiped her tears. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t want to hurt you.’
‘He was my friend,’ she cried. ‘What? Did you think telling me would stop you getting laid? You used me.’
‘Val.’
‘You don’t think I can handle this? You need a reality check, Bill. I work, or worked for, a ruthless asshole. I’ve done things that would make you piss your pants. Matherson will pay for this. And so will you.’ She slapped him across the face and yelled, ‘He was my friend!’ before marching to the bedroom and slamming the door.
She wiped her eyes and scanned the room. The bed sheets were a mess and the curtains were still closed. She cringed. How things change. She’d let him have her, multiple times. It felt good, but it was all a lie to her now. All along he’d known and she felt used.
That lying sack of shit.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Valerie?’
Ignoring him, she looked through Sharpe’s phone. There were numbers and names of people she didn’t even know. There were texts from women, men, any number of people. She deleted them all and wiped any trace of Jackson and Matherson from it. She was angry. She was betrayed. In a fit of rage, she threw the phone across the room, hitting a cupboard door, which swung open.
Knock, knock.
Fuck off, Bill.
Knock, knock.
‘Val, let me in. Please? We can go and see Matherson together and get to the end of all this.’
‘Leave me alone.’
She picked the phone up from the carpet and noticed something in the cupboard which had come loose from everything else in there.
‘Oh my God.’
On the other side of the door, Bill was resting head against it, trying the handle. He figured it was either locked, or she was pushed against it. Knocking once more, he gave up for a while in case she came out, choosing to sit down. A minute later he got up again. He was restless. He was impatient. He had messed up. He watched from his apartment at the people down below. The snow had stopped, but it was still freezing out there.
How could I be so stupid?
He tried the door again. It still didn’t move.
‘Val?’
Nothing.
‘Val, come on.’
Nothing.
‘Val, I’m sorry.’
Nothing. Not even the sound of her moving around.
He wriggled the handle impatiently. ‘Open this door.’
Nothing.
Fuck this.
‘Valerie, if you’re behind the door, you’ve got three seconds to move.
‘One. Two. Three.’
Nothing.
Stepping back, he slammed his shoulder against it, breaking it clean from its hinges. Cold air hit him like a fridge. He expected two things: she would hit him and run, or she would just run. None of that happened. She wasn’t there. The room was just as he left it. Almost. The window was open showing the snow covered fire escape and the city beyond.
Shit.
The he saw the cupboard in the corner wide open and it soon came to him, his gun was missing.
So was the tape from the Wong murder six years ago.
Wong’s restaurant was aptly named ‘Wong’s’. It wasn’t clever, but it drew in the customers like ants to sugar. He wanted to bring the authentic Chinese feel to the place by serving the type of food the Chinese eat and not the Chinese food catered to western tastes. He wanted to use genuine ingredients and sauces made from the ground up and it worked well. The place was prospering.
Baker and McGowan were waiting at the entrance. The last few breakfast eaters were finishing up and the early lunch eaters were gently filtering through. Most of the staff were Chinese and they smiled a lot, like their face had frozen, though pleasant nonetheless.
A waitress in a red cheongsam – a long sleeveless classic Chinese dress – greeted them both with a smile and said in an almost flawless American accent, ‘Hello, welcome to Wong’s. Table for two?’
Baker showed her his badge. ‘We’re here to speak with Mr. Wong.’
‘Certainly sir. I will go and find him. Please wait,’ she said and disappeared to the rear of the restaurant.
Two minutes later a small and obese Chinese man emerged from behind the rear doors, feeding through the restaurant towards them.
‘I’m Mr Wong. Is there a problem?’
‘No problem, sir. Just a few questions about your son’s murder.’
‘My son’s murder? Get out of here.’
‘Can we talk in private?’ asked McGowan.
‘No. The business with my son is over. I don’t want to dig up the past again.’
Baker said, ‘Just five minutes of your time, please?’
He sighed and took them to a rectangular table in the corner of the restaurant. There were four seats, each designed to become uncomfortable after a while so people would be less inclined to stay and talk after their food, therefore maintaining a steady flow of hungry Americans.
They took the seats against the wall opposite him to make him feel less intimidated, but he was uncomfortable anyway.
‘Why are you here?’ he asked. ‘My son is dead and the police did nothing. His murderer is still out there. That was six years ago so you’ll forgive me if I don’t have much patience for you.’
Baker started, ‘We’re here to put right what was wrong.’
‘What exactly do you want from me?’
‘We’d like to know everything that happened those six years ago. Who came to visit you, what you were told, and anything else you can think of.’
‘Will you leave if I tell you what happened?’
‘Yes.’
Slouching back in his chair, he began: ‘All right. Six years ago my son was a playboy. It was no secret. I knew he was into drugs and women, but he was always loyal to his family. We tried to get him off of those things. Not so much the women, but the drugs. We even threatened to cut him out the family. Anyway, after I identified the body an officer came to see me. I can still picture my son on that slab now with a hole in his head.’
‘What was the officer’s name?’ asked Baker.
‘Officer Gomez he was called.’
McGowan leaned forward. ‘Was he British?’
‘Yes.’
‘I know who that is. He died on duty not long after this incident happened. Coincidence?’
‘He asked me if I knew anybody that could have done this. I said no, of course. But I lied.’
‘Why did you lie?’ asked Baker.
‘Because I was afraid.’
‘Afraid of what?’
‘Not long after I came to the country, I was approached by a man who claimed he could protect me. All I had to do was pay him a percentage of my earnings and I would be protected. You must understand, it was my first time in this country and I just wanted to protect my family.’
Baker asked, ‘Do you know this man’s name?’
‘Julius Matherson.’
‘What else did Gomez ask you?’
‘Not a lot. He didn’t seem to care that my son had died. It was like he was after something else. He just kept giving me some bullshit about you have it under control. You know, the usual crap you people tell us. Then there was the media who has no respect for privacy. Some news reports even suggested I did it myself. In China, this would not have happened, we looked after our own where I come from, but my wife died and I believed the hype. Land of the free and the American dream. Well the American dream murdered my son. It left me by myself in a foreign country.’
‘What happened with Matherson?’
‘After what happened, he left me alone and it freed up a lot of money, but it wouldn’t replace my son. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.’
‘Is this the same Matherson from Hellman’s Business Centre?’ asked McGowan.
‘It was. I don’t know or care if he’s still there.
‘Yeah, I know it. It has a reputation.’
‘All right, Mr Wong,’ said Baker. ‘Thank you for your time.’
Wong stood up and shook their hands. ‘Find out who did it, that’s all I ask you.’
They said their goodbyes and stepped out into the cold and headed back to the car.