The Missing Man: An Inspector Walter Darriteau Novella (Inspector Walter Darriteau cases Book 9)

by David Carter

  Karen said, ‘There are always accidents here.’

  ‘There always will be when drivers don’t keep to their lanes or signal,’ said Walter, as the three of them came to a standstill.

  Karen and Walter stared down at Mrs Woodhams. The handbag was still in situ in front of her, as she peered across the roundabout, trying hard not to squint.

  ‘Well?’ said Walter. ‘Where to now?’

  She nodded ahead and said, ‘It’s there, he’s buried there.’

  Walter and Karen gawped across the roundabout, hoping to see something interesting. Nothing obvious, and though they didn’t expect to see a smart gravestone in the centre, something would have been nice.

  ‘He’s buried where?’ said Walter, becoming impatient.

  Woodhams right hand came off the handbag, and pointed beyond the roundabout to the main highway.

  ‘He’s buried there, under the flyover.’

  ‘Geez!’ said Karen.

  Walter said, ‘You are telling me Jack Woodhams is buried beneath that flyover?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Right in the centre, under the main concrete piling.’

  ‘How do you know?’ said a doubting Karen.

  ‘Because I came here with Ted and Trev. I decided I did want to see where Jack ended his days. I told the two T’s I wasn’t paying the balance until I’d seen the burial site. By the time we came back the new flyover was almost finished. The previous one had developed serious cracks and was deemed unsafe. The whole site was closed for five months. Don’t you remember? Caused untold chaos and loads of complaints.’

  Karen didn’t remember because she was still in primary school, and Walter didn’t remember because he was working elsewhere.

  ‘That it?’ said Walter, ‘nothing else to see?’

  ‘What did you expect?’ said Mrs Woodhams, turning back towards the car, grinning, ‘a bloody great mausoleum to the cheating goon?’

  Karen and Walter shared another look, turned away. and followed Susan back to the car. All aboard, they sat for a moment and reflected on events.

  Walter said, ‘Tell us more about Ted and Trev.’

  ‘Not much more to tell. I asked to see his final resting place, they brought me here, showed me the site, said no one would ever find him, and the job was complete.’

  ‘And you believed them?’

  ‘Course I believed them. Why would they lie? And anyway, if they hadn’t done the business, Jack would have come back on the scene. But he never has, not in more than twenty years.’

  That was the one fact that added weight to her claims, but there was no proof the man was dead.

  Walter scratched his neck and said, ‘It would not be easy to bury a man in there unless they had connections. The Highways Department are strict on that kind of thing. It’s not open to all-comers. Did the two T’s ever mention anything about that?’

  Susan sighed and stared out at the hawthorn hedge coming into leaf.

  ‘Now you come to mention it, they said something about having a man on the inside. I’d forgotten about that. They said they slipped the guy a few quid and that fixed it, and they’d paid it out of the initial fee.’

  Walter jumped on that. ‘Did they give you his name?’

  ‘No, they didn’t. I am certain I never knew it. But it must have been someone in a position of authority. It wouldn’t have been an ordinary labourer.’

  There was a short silence as they thought about that, before Karen said, ‘And you never considered you could have been the victim of a con?’

  ‘No, not once, never.’

  Walter said, ‘Where did Ted and Trev live?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Local men?’

  ‘Yes, for sure.’

  ‘Can you describe them?’

  ‘It was a long time ago, Inspector.’

  ‘I’m not asking for their address or car number. I’m asking you to describe them. I can remember what people looked like I knew twenty years ago, even if I can’t remember anything else about them. You must remember something.’

  ‘If they existed,’ chipped in Karen.

  ‘Course they existed! Do you think I’m doing this for the good of my health?’

  ‘Descriptions?’ persisted Walter.

  Susan pursed her lips and said, ‘One was ginger, freckly, fair skinned, that kind of bloke, straight red hair, he was the Trevor, I’m sure of that. He did most of the talking. The other one, Ted, was swarthy, dark brown hair; I don’t remember him so well.’

  ‘Swarthy?’ said Karen. ‘Do you mean ethnic?’

  ‘No, just his skin was an olive shade, that’s all. A bit greasy. I didn’t like him. He didn’t say much. I think Trevor was the brains.’

  ‘Tall, short, fat, thin, what?’ said Walter.

  ‘Both medium build, and tall, though everyone seems tall to me,’ and she let go a silly laugh as if she often made that comment. ‘So in reality, maybe they were both medium height.’

  ‘And their names were not Ted and Trev?’ said Karen.

  ‘How do I know? That’s what they said. When you meet someone do you ever stop and think and say, “That’s not your real name, is it?” Mind you, in your line of work, maybe you do. But the average Joe in the street would never ask that. People have a habit of believing people’s names when they are introduced. They could be Ted and Trev, but equally they could be Mikki and Griff.’

  ‘Is there anything else that might confirm what you have said?’

  ‘Short of digging up his bones and doing a DNA test, no, there isn’t.’

  Walter had thought of that, the digging business, though he didn’t fancy asking Mrs West to seek permission to demolish a flyover carrying thousands of cars every day in and out of Chester. Not forgetting the bustling tourist trade into North Wales, for most of the traffic would pass over that spot. The tourist trade could not afford to lose any business.

  ‘Okay,’ said Walter, ‘that’s all we can do here today,’ and Karen started the car, taking great care over a u-turn, before cruising to the big roundabout, under the flyover and up and onto the main expressway, heading east back towards the city.

  After a few minutes Susan said, ‘Where does that leave us? What happens now?’

  Walter sniffed and said, ‘We’ll investigate further. There are things I want to check. Once we’ve done that, we’ll call you in for a formal interview. Bring your solicitor, if you feel inclined.’

  ‘I don’t need a brief! I’m guilty. I told you that from the start. I just want to get it off my chest and done with. How long will you need?’

  ‘Hard to say, maybe two weeks.’

  ‘Fair enough. I can’t say as I’m looking forward to hearing from you again, but I am, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘In the intervening time,’ said Walter, ‘don’t leave the city, and if you think of anything else that might prove useful, please let me know.’

  ‘I will, but there’s nothing.’

  ‘See if you can find your bank statements showing the cash withdrawal.’

  ‘Threw those away long since. I mean really, who keeps their bank statements for twenty years? Come on.’

  ‘I do,’ said Walter, grinning, because he did.

  ‘You would! But you’re a one-off.’

  Chapter Seven

  The sun was poking its nose through the fluffy clouds by the time they arrived back at Carrington Lodge. It was turning into a decent day.

  ‘We’ll be in touch,’ said Walter, as Mrs Woodhams nodded and mumbled something unintelligible, and stood out of the car.

  They watched her little legs working hard to take her past the garages and out of sight, as Walter said, ‘Well? What do you make of that?’

  Karen sighed and said, ‘Surely the only reason she would instigate an inquiry if she wasn’t guilty would be because she’s desperate for attention. If it’s not that, maybe there’s something in what she says.’
/>
  ‘Yes, but which is it?’

  ‘I hate to say it, Guv, but my gut feeling tells me she’s telling the truth.’

  ‘I’m leaning that way too, though I don’t fancy telling Mrs West that.’

  Karen grinned and said, ‘Back to the Station, Guv?’

  Walter nodded and sat back and closed his eyes. At least she hadn’t stabbed Jack, dismembered and eaten him, all crazy scenarios that had infiltrated his mind over the previous twenty-four hours.

  THE STATION WAS BUSY. Mrs West had been round chivvying everyone up, demanding progress and results in all quarters. Most people thought that urgency emanated from a rocket booster she’d received from above. Walter didn’t go straight to see her, stopping off at Darren Gibbons’ workstation.

  Walter bent down and grabbed a spare pen. Wrote a car registration number on a notepad and asked Darren to check out the owner.

  ‘Sure, Guv, anything I should know?’

  ‘Let’s see what comes back and we’ll talk again.’

  Darren nodded as Mrs West reappeared. One look at her told everyone she was super-charged with energy that day. Multi-tasking was one of her greatest skills. She knew what each of her charges were concentrating on, or what they should be working on, and was capable of turning to each officer in turn, to issue challenging targets and difficult-to-answer questions without much thought.

  She spotted Walter crouching down over Darren’s desk, whispering.

  ‘Ah, Walter,’ she shrilled, ‘I’ve been looking for you, come and talk to me,’ and she turned about and hurried back to her office.

  ‘Summoned by the Queen,’ mumbled Walter, as he made his way after her.

  ‘Come in. Sit down. Close the door, and talk!’

  ‘You mean about Mrs Woodhams?’

  ‘What else have you been looking at?’

  ‘There was one other thing.’

  ‘What?’

  Walter told her about the two cars in the lay-by and the shifty characters who scooted away the moment he approached.

  ‘You mean you think it might be a County Lines Op?’

  ‘Could be something like that. I’ve asked Darren to check the car reg.’

  ‘Mmm...’ she said, ‘that would need stamping on. Maybe we should mention it to the NCA.’

  The National Crime Agency was running a huge ongoing inquiry countering County Lines operations. The business centred on illegal drugs being shifted from one area of the country to another, across police force and local authority boundaries, where vulnerable people were coerced into moving gear by ruthless gangs.

  The County Line was not the border between counties as many people thought, but the burner mobile phone number used to take orders and make sales. Practically all territories where drugs were taken into, reported rising levels of violence and weapons-related bother, and that was a worry and a big red light.

  ‘I’ll speak to the NCA,’ she said, ‘as soon as Darren has done his digging. In the meantime, tell me about Woodhams.’

  Walter sat back, took a breath, and told her everything he knew.

  ‘Let me get this straight, you’re not asking me to knock down or dig up the busiest flyover bringing traffic in and out of the city, are you?’

  ‘I’d like to,’ said Walter, grinning. ‘But even I realise that’s unlikely to happen.’

  ‘It’s not unlikely, it’s impossible!’

  ‘Karen’s checking on whether we have anything on record about Ted and Trev, though I’m not hopeful. There’s also a possible lead if we could trace who was in charge of the flyover construction. Woodhams said that Ted and Trev had a connection inside the work gang but we don’t have a name.’

  ‘When was the flyover rebuilt?’

  ‘Twenty-two years ago, ma’am.’

  ‘Before my time.’

  ‘And mine; and Karen was still in primary school.’

  ‘Geez, that makes you feel old, doesn’t it?’ She sat back and rubbed her chin and said, ‘I’m trying to remember who was in charge here back then.’

  Walter said, ‘I’ve heard the name Chief Superintendent David Robertson bandied about, but I don’t know if it was him.’

  Mrs West pursed her lips and nodded.

  ‘He may have been in charge but he’s long dead. I went to his funeral, surprisingly few people there. But there was another chap I remember. He wasn’t in charge, but people always talked about him with great respect as if he was the go-to guy for many. What was his name now...’ and she scrunched her face and a grin appeared as intel fed into her livewire brain. ‘Harry Cameron, that’s it, and last I heard, he’s still alive... though he must be getting close.’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘No, but I can find out. Leave it with me,’ and Walter was dismissed with a wafting hand.

  Karen watched him dawdle back to his desk, sit down and untie his big black shoes. She gave him a minute and said, ‘I have a name for the guy who was in overall charge of the flyover rebuild.’

  Walter bobbed his head and said, ‘Well done, fire away.’

  ‘Gregory Smith.’

  ‘Alive or dead?’

  ‘Very dead. Four years ago.’

  ‘That’s a lot of use. While we are on names, I have a name for someone who worked here who people looked up to, and we think he’s still alive. A chap named Harry Cameron. See if you can find out where he lives.’

  ‘On it, Guv.’

  Darren arrived at Walter’s desk, looking happy about something.

  ‘Car number,’ he said, clasping Walter’s written note.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Was it a Ford hatchback?’

  ‘It was.’

  Darren grinned and said, ‘Owned by one Derek Frampton. Form as long as your arm, but nothing too serious.’

  ‘What was he done for?’

  ‘Loads of motoring offences of every conceivable kind, speeding and parking where he shouldn’t, having no insurance or M.O.T., driving without due care and attention, you name it. Also done once for burglary; and on another occasion he received a caution for threatening behaviour.’

  ‘Paragon of virtue by the sound of that. No wonder my personal preying mantis alarm went off the moment I saw him.’

  ‘What’s he done this time, Guv?’

  ‘Not sure. Maybe something to do with drugs. Mrs West could have an interest in him, all to do with the NCA County Lines investigation. Do me a favour, print off his charge sheet and pass it to her.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Darren, ‘not a prob.’

  Chapter Eight

  It wasn’t difficult for Karen to find Harry Cameron’s address and telephone number. Unlike many officers he’d made no attempt to conceal personal information. He lived in the pretty village of Marbury, south of the city off the busy A41. On Walter’s instruction, Karen gave him a bell.

  His wife Barbara answered. Karen apologised for disturbing them without warning. Barbara said she was delighted to hear from them because they had few visitors and even less phone calls. Karen asked if it would be convenient to visit that afternoon. Barbara said yes in a rush and followed that with, ‘I’ll make sandwiches, give you a nice late lunch. Harry will be so pleased to talk to someone about the old days,’ and before Karen could say anything else, Barbara said, ‘See you later, looking forward to it,’ and put the phone down.

  Walter returned from the Gents and said, ‘Do you fancy doing something for lunch?’ glancing at the apple and pineapple crush on her desk, suspecting the worst.

  ‘Already fixed,’ she said, ‘Barbara Cameron, wife of our former esteemed colleague, is making sandwiches as we speak.’

  ‘Sounds interesting, how did you manage that?’

  ‘All her idea. Expecting us in an hour.’

  ‘Well done, you.’

  Mrs West arrived on the scene, brandishing a note.

  ‘Success,’ she said. ‘I’ve found Harry Cameron’s number.’

  ‘Ah...’ said Walter.

/>   ‘What do you mean, “ah”?’

  ‘Karen found it earlier, fixed up a meeting in an hour; Mrs Cameron is making us sandwiches.’

  ‘Lucky you, you could have told me.’

  ‘Sorry, but we have something for you in exchange. See Darren, he’s ID’d the suspicious driver from this morning. One Derek Frampton, charge sheet like a roll of wallpaper.’

  Mrs West grunted and muttered, ‘Enjoy your afternoon,’ and headed off to quiz Darren.

  Karen and Walter shared a look. He bent down, tied his shoes, and said, ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to go.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said, grabbing the fruit crush but abandoning the apple. It would be vulnerable if Darren grew hungry.

  They left the Station ten minutes later in the same Hyundai that Karen was warming to. It was a reasonable afternoon, some wispy cloud about, but the road was dry and the traffic flowing. They followed the A41 all the way south to the outskirts of Whitchurch, before turning left onto the A49, back north-east for two miles, till they came to the Marbury turn-off.

  A quaint English village, but quiet and off the beaten track. The Cameron’s house was a small red brick semi-detached property overlooking the village green. Cheerful looking, a pleasant place to spend one’s retirement, thought Walter. A minute later, Karen opened the low wooden gate, took three steps to the gleaming black front door and glanced back at Walter, as she rang the bell.

  She had no need to, for an excited Barbara was hovering in the small front room, glancing through the window, her husband teasing her about it, as she looked and hoped to see their visitors. Karen and Walter both heard her yell, ‘They’re here, best behaviour, and do up your tie,’ and in the next second she opened the front door and smiled at their guests.

  Walter and Karen grinned back, as Karen did the intros. She was a petite woman, short grey hair in pageboy style, as many older women prefer, sporting greyish eyes with a hint of blue coming through, neat-fitted trousers, and a fine mauve jumper.