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

by David Carter

  ‘Can you describe them?’ said Walter.

  ‘I can, both just under six feet. Trevor boasted straight ginger hair; it stood out a mile; like Alan Ball, the footballer, if you remember him. And the other one, he was quieter, I didn’t like him much. Dark hair, greasy kind of guy, and mark my words, it’s always the quiet ones you have to watch. Whenever there was a rumble in the street and you were faced with two hoodlums, there’d usually be a mouthy one and a quiet steady-eyed one, and I always knew the quiet one would take the more putting down. The mouthy one would more than likely run at the first sign of a real fight. Funny that.’

  ‘We’re talking about the same guys,’ said Walter. ‘The descriptions match the ones Susan Woodhams gave us, spot on.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ said Harry, ‘no brain frying going on up here yet,’ as he tapped the side of his head.

  ‘That’s another horrid phrase!’ reprimanded Barbara.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d remember any surnames?’ said Karen.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that, but I’ve let you down there.’

  Walter sighed and said, ‘Never mind, Harry, now we know they are real people we might be able to trace them.’

  Harry grinned and continued, ‘I’ve let you down because I can only remember one surname. It was Trevor Tapscott, an unusual name too. Maybe that’s why I remembered it.’

  ‘Well done, Harry!’ said Karen.

  The man was talking again as if he wanted to spit something out before he lost the thread.

  ‘Put that name into your infernal machines and mucho intel should pop out. No doubt a list of all his known associates, too. With an ounce of luck that could lead you to his oppo, let’s call him Greasy Grahame, aka Ted. I sure hope so, and hope for your sake they are both alive and kicking. To tell you the truth, it wouldn’t surprise me if one or both were in clink. You know how it is with minor criminals. Through their careers they are inclined to move up the seriousness charts. The sentences they receive gradually increase until they are lifers. Don’t be surprised to find them holidaying in jug until the day they die.’

  Walter said, ‘How old were they back in the day?’

  Harry grimaced and thought a moment, and said, ‘I guess they were about thirty-five.’

  Karen said, ‘That would make them around fifty-seven today. Not so old.’

  Harry nodded and said, ‘Old enough, if you’ve spent your whole life fighting and stealing, and running from the law.’

  There was a momentary silence as they thought about that, before Barbara said, ‘Cake!’ noticing the sandwiches had almost disappeared.

  ‘Not for me,’ said Karen, ‘I’ve eaten my fill.’

  ‘That’s a pity, maybe a tiny sliver,’ said Barbara, rippling her eyebrows at Karen.

  She pulled a face, bobbed her head, and indicated with finger and thumb the tiniest piece.

  ‘You’ll have some, Walter?’

  ‘If you insist,’ he said, ‘looks too good to miss,’ and she cut him a triangular slab that would have kept hunger at bay for a week in most folks.

  ‘Me too,’ said Harry, ‘if I’m allowed.’

  ‘You are, but a small piece, you know what the doctor says,’ as silence descended on the room, as moist chocolate cake munching and masticating ensued.

  ‘Wow!’ said Walter. ‘You make a mean cake, Mrs Cameron.’

  ‘It’s Barbara, you know that, Walter. Would you like a piece for later; or maybe for tomorrow?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to deprive you.’

  ‘Nonsense. We’ll never eat all that.’

  ‘He’ll take a piece,’ said Karen, grinning.

  ‘Go on, Walter,’ said Harry. ‘If you don’t it’ll only go to the badgers, and they could do with losing a bit of weight. We must have the fattest badgers in all England, like mini killer whales, they are,’ and everyone laughed.

  Barbara hustled into the kitchen to collect some foil, returned and sliced off another monstrous piece, wrapped it up, and set it on the coffee table before Walter.

  He nodded his thanks and said, ‘Trevor Tapscott,’ bringing the conversation back on track. ‘Ever charge him with anything?’

  ‘Probably, but it would have been some minor misdemeanour that wasn’t worthy of retaining in the memory banks. It must be thirty years since I first met the guy, and who remembers minor cases from so long ago?’

  ‘Quite,’ said Walter. ‘Capable of murder, you think?’

  Harry sniffed and bobbed his head from side to side, a kind of maybe, maybe not, gesture.

  ‘I’ll be honest with you; I’d be surprised if he was. It’s a huge step from nicking fax rolls to murdering someone. But as you know, if someone is desperate enough, or pushed into a corner, anything’s possible. But he wouldn’t have been my go-to man if there was a local murder.’

  Karen said, ‘Maybe Jack Woodhams was murdered and it went totally unreported.’

  ‘From what you say that looks possible. We couldn’t have investigated if we didn’t know about it. You find a body and I’ll agree there was a suspicious death. Until that happens, I’m not convinced.’

  Walter said, ‘Pity there wasn’t good CCTV back then.’

  ‘It was around but not great. People in powerful positions were forever disappointed with it. The pictures were poor and it rarely led to a conviction. It was a defence barrister’s dream, and for a while it was ignored.’

  WALTER KNEW THERE WERE 183 CCTV cameras monitoring most of what went on in modern day Chester, and no sign of that number decreasing. Some people didn’t like it, particularly shoplifters, muggers, and criminals. But in recent years, countless offenders had been apprehended via the technology, and the Service wouldn’t be without their biggest ally.

  Britain was becoming the most monitored country on earth outside the People’s Republic of China, and that wasn’t about to change. The voices shouting for civil liberties being stolen by technology might increase, but opinion was split.

  If an aging relative suffering from dementia went missing, wouldn’t you want their whereabouts tracked from street to street to find and help them? Or if your car was broken into, vandalised, the CD player ripped out, your bag stolen; wouldn’t you want that person caught and convicted by television? Most would.

  Or if you had a small shop and a gang of five masked men flooded into your store and grabbed armfuls of your most expensive stock before dashing away, wouldn’t you want those people caught and convicted? Or if your teenage son or daughter was mugged, left with a bloodied and broken nose, their new mobile phone ripped away, wouldn’t you want those hoodlums caught on camera, and in court within days?

  Like many things in modern day Britain, there were no easy answers that would satisfy everyone. One thing was certain, those cameras and recordings would not go away. Walter thought of the main man in charge of the tech, and that brought a smirk to his face.

  Joseph Brinkley resembled a hippopotamus, long face, small twitchy ears set high on his fat head, piggy eyes, short tufted hair, and a tendency to yawn big and often. Maybe it was the sitting and slouching before countless screens that provoked the yawning, but either way, Joseph was in overall charge of Chester’s CCTV systems, where he would lounge in his eyrie, collating and studying pictures that streamed in from the 183.

  Twenty-two years ago, a few cameras were spread across the city, primarily to monitor traffic flow, producing grainy black and white pictures, something of a gimmick that rarely convicted anyone due to the indistinct images, which was a pity, because that video might have explained what happened to Jack Woodhams.

  As a crime fighting tool, they were the right idea in the wrong time, just as DNA might have convicted Jack the Ripper, if it had been available in 1888. Time moved on and you can’t work backwards, you can only utilise what’s available.

  Barbara Cameron brought Walter back to the present when she said, ‘Anyone like another coffee?’

  Walter scratched his chin and said, �
�I’d love one, but we are running out of time and must be heading home.’

  ‘We’ve loved having you here,’ said Harry. ‘Will you ring and let me know what happens about Trevor Tapscott and his greasy mate?’

  ‘For sure! I might need to tap into your brain reservoir again a few times yet.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ murmured Barbara, sharing a womanly look with Karen.

  Harry ignored the comment and continued, ‘Don’t forget to go behind the church for the view.’

  Walter said, ‘First thing we do when we leave.’

  ‘And remember the cake,’ said Barbara.

  ‘That’s one thing he won’t forget,’ said Karen, and in the next moment they were on their feet, even Harry, the first time he had stood up, propped up with his white stick, shaking hands, hugging and mwah-mwahing as if they were old friends, and two minutes later, Barbara showed them out with a single parting comment, ‘You will come again, won’t you?’

  Walter and Karen swore they would, Walter adding, ‘Wild badgers wouldn’t keep us away!’

  AFTER THEY’D AMBLED across the village green, Barbara said, ‘I hope we see them again.’

  ‘Don’t count on it. They have busy lives, hunting thieves and murderers. They won’t be bothered with a couple of old fogies like us.’

  ‘Speak for yourself, Mr Cameron, and I think they will return, a lovely pair, don’t you think?’

  ‘I wish I could have seen her more clearly. Good looker, was she?’

  ‘Stunning, I’ll bet there’s a queue round the block for her hand.’

  ‘Thought so, I can always tell, smelt nice too, and such a lovely voice,’ and Harry sat back in his chair and closed his eyelids, not that there was much point in doing that, and fell asleep, lost in thoughts of Trevor Tapscott and his greasy sidekick. Why couldn’t he remember Ted’s surname? It had to be in there somewhere. Did they really commit murder on his watch, without him picking it up?

  It was an unsettling thought, murderers being active while he was on duty. It might have been better if it had remained buried. Snoring began. Barbara turned away and went into the silent kitchen; poured herself a small glass of white wine from her secret store, sliced off a sliver of cake, eased it to her mouth, gazed through the window, lost in thought, and consumed the cake and wine in silence.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was a splendid afternoon to admire the view. Past the red stone square-towered church, the sun gleaming on the flat dark water below. The vista always surprised people because it was so unexpected.

  A squadron of Barnacle geese came in to land, flying into the wind; heads high, landing gear down like airliners, touching down with a steady trailing splash, reminiscent of flying boats. A moment later they were all down, twitching and staring at their comrades as if to say: Decent landing for a change.

  ‘Great view,’ said Karen, leaning on the fence.

  ‘Yes, but we must head back soon. I want to see if Trevor Tapscott is in the records.’

  ‘Twenty-two years ago, you might be lucky.’

  ‘If he’s known to us he’ll be in there somewhere. Think I’ll put Jenny Thompson on that. She’s brilliant at ferreting out old gems.’

  ‘I’d go with that. Where did you go to in your quiet spell?’

  Walter smiled and said, ‘I was thinking of Hippo-Joe and his beloved 183, and how much easier it would be to discover what happened to Jack Woodhams if those cameras had been switched on twenty-two years ago.’

  ‘But they weren’t. No point in pining over something that didn’t exist.’

  ‘I wasn’t pining, just rueing the fact that introducing modern technology always takes longer to arrive than we’d like.’

  ‘I wonder what technological wonders will be at our disposal in another twenty-two years.’

  ‘Heaven knows, but that’s something I need not worry about. If I had to guess, I’d imagine it would depend on what the handheld device was capable of. Not just recording where the user was travelling, but videoing it; and maybe it would be compulsory. Imagine that, every criminal filming everything they did in perfect high definition colour, and all available at the touch of a button to the sons of Hippo-Joe. Officers arriving at the crime scene in minutes, as deskbound warriors cut and pasted incriminating evidence, and the job’s done for you.’

  ‘Geez, Guv, that’s an Orwellian Big Brother image even I don’t like.’

  ‘It’s coming, Karen, or something similar. Embrace it when it does, and use it to boost your arrest stats.’

  She glanced at him and the enthusiastic look on his face. He had a strange way of thinking about things. Different to anyone else she had ever encountered.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘back to work. I have a good feeling about this.’

  IT TOOK LESS THAN AN hour to return to Chester. Walter went straight to Jenny and gave her the gen about Trevor Tapscott and his mate, Ted somebody, surname unknown, and asked her to grab any info from twenty-five years ago to the present day.

  He ended by saying: ‘A current address for either or both would be cool.’

  ‘On it,’ she said. ‘If it’s in the PNC I’ll drag it out.’

  Walter nodded and made his way to Mrs West’s office. The door was wide open. She was in too, tapping away on her keyboard. Maybe she was writing a police thriller whodunit novel, and she wouldn’t be the first copper to do that, and in work hours.

  She paused and said, ‘Ah, Walter,’ spotting him hovering at her door. ‘Come in. What’s new?’

  He went in, sat down, and told her everything about Harry and Barbara Cameron, and Trevor Tapscott, and his yet to be identified mate, Ted the Greaser.

  ‘And Harry knew this Tapscott?’

  ‘He did, though not well.’

  ‘Ever nick him?’

  ‘Probably, but he can’t remember for what.’

  ‘Did he give any indication he thought these two were capable of murder?’

  ‘He was noncommittal. If I had to guess, maybe he thought not, but if they were, he thought Tapscott less likely than his pal.’

  ‘What have we got on Tapscott?’

  ‘Jenny’s digging in the PNC now. Shouldn’t take long.’

  Mrs West nodded and said, ‘It’s a long time ago. Records get compromised. Keep me informed, and by the way, just because this possible murder occurred more than twenty years ago, it doesn’t make it any the less serious.’

  ‘Of course not, ma’am. Worse in some ways.’

  ‘How so?’

  Walter sat back and pulled a thoughtful face.

  ‘Because the killers have enjoyed more than twenty years freedom they were not entitled to.’

  ‘Indeed. But we’ll need to decide soon if this is a murder inquiry or a run of the mill misper, and another thing to consider, is finance. Chasing round tying up funds over a possible killing that might have happened a quarter of a century ago, is not going to go down well upstairs, if we can’t be certain of a result.’

  Walter nodded for he’d guessed that was coming, the restricted finance thing, which was sad, but inevitable. Not for the first time he was relieved he wasn’t the one deciding where resources were concentrated, as he found himself saying, ‘I think Jack Woodhams is dead, and I hope to prove it.’

  She appeared convinced and said, ‘I hope you do. You enjoyed your jaunt in the Cheshire countryside, I take it?’

  ‘We did, and by God, she makes a mean sandwich, that Barbara Cameron. They’re a lovely couple. We must try and keep in touch. I think they are a bit lonely. Feeling cut off out in the sticks, my guess is not many people knock on their door.’

  ‘You could be right. Maybe they should move back here. Perhaps you should ring Harry and tell him how you are getting on, assuming you make progress.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, I’ll certainly be doing that.’

  ‘Good man, carry on,’ and Walter heaved himself away from the guest chair and returned to his desk, waiting for Jenny to do her stuff.


  THE POLICE NATIONAL Computer was set up in 1974. It contained 13 million personal records, 60 million driver records, and almost 65 million vehicle records. 25,000 terminals spread across the nation in police stations and government agencies, all giving direct access to the PNC.

  Darren Gibbons called it “Perky”, and one or two others took up the nickname, though Mrs West didn’t approve, and he never used the name in her presence. All that vital information, the vast majority of police intel, was stored on a massive Fujitsu mainframe computer.

  In 2005, there was a disaster. The back-up server was ticking over at a computer outsourcing company close to the Hertfordshire Oil Storage Terminal in Buncefield. A massive fire broke out on the morning of December 11th. At the time, the facility was storing 273 million litres of fuel.

  The first explosion occurred at the oil site at one minute past six, triggering further explosions. It was so loud it was heard in Europe. At eight minutes past six the emergency services declared a major incident, and the fire-fighting task began.

  The event measured 2.4 on the Richter scale and was the biggest fire of its kind in peacetime Europe. It was the worst explosion in the UK since the 1974 Flixborough conflagration in North Lincolnshire. That disaster killed 28 people and seriously injured another 36.

  By some miracle no one was killed at Buncefield, though 43 people were injured, and hundreds were evacuated from their homes. 180 fire-fighters were involved, as the fire burned for almost a week.

  The computer services company suffered severe damage, but through good management, it had backed up all records to another facility away from the area. If they hadn’t, the PNC (or Perky), might have been wiped away in a single morning, and that would have set crime fighting back years.

  Vital lessons were learned. But they didn’t stop rumours circulating that some records had been compromised. When specific information could not be found, wise guys hinted it was because it had gone up in smoke.