Bayliss & Calladine Box Set

by Helen H. Durrant

  As the detective entered the small room a bulky, dark-suited figure with a shaven head and clenched fists by his sides, rose from the bedside chair.

  “It’s okay, Donald. Thomas is family,” Fallon told him.

  “Thomas, good to see you.” Fallon extended a hand, which Calladine ignored. “Go get some tea, Donald. I want to chat with my cousin.”

  “Bad do then.” Calladine pulled up a chair and sat down. All the machinery surrounding the sick man made him nervous. “Will you be okay?”

  “Now come on Thomas, I know you better than that. You don’t really give a toss whether I live or die, do you? But from a copper’s point of view, I suppose dead’s better.”

  “Don’t be so quick to judge, Ray. It’s like you say — family — and my mum will want to know how you are.”

  “How is Auntie Freda? Hope you’re doing a good job of looking after her. How old is she now? Must be in her mid-eighties I reckon.”

  “She’s in a home. She got too much to cope with — dementia.”

  “How very disappointing, Thomas; I expected more of you — Leesdon’s favourite son,” he sneered. “You who promised to do so much, as I recall.”

  “We were kids. Reality’s very different.”

  “Come off it. You’ve never had time for anything other than that job of yours. You had no time for your mother in the past, and I expect you’ve even less time for her now she’s old. As I remember it, you had no time for that pretty wife of yours either. You’re a first class loser, Thomas. Where family and women are concerned, you just can’t cut it.”

  Fallon started to cough and leaned forward clutching his ribs. He was struggling to get his breath.

  “You okay? Want the nurse?” asked Calladine.

  “No — I’m fine. Just say whatever it is that brought you here, then fuck off.”

  Some things never changed. Heart surgery evidently hadn’t softened Fallon any.

  “You haven’t come here for idle chitchat, Thomas. Come on, out with it. What is it you really want?”

  Fallon was the only person he knew who used his full name — another source of irritation.

  “The Hobfield Estate . . .”

  Ray Fallon screwed up his eyes and shook his head.

  “Don’t give me any rubbish about not knowing the place, Ray, because I know you do. I also know that you run most of the dealers there.”

  “All the dealers, Thomas; not most of them. I hope you haven’t come here because now I’m ill you think I’m a soft touch. A blabbermouth who’ll just roll over and tell you everything.” He laughed. It contained no humour, and made him cough again.

  “Ice is dead, and so is Gavin Hurst.” Calladine watched his cousin’s face, and he saw that this was news to him. So not Fallon then. The visit had been worth it, just to see that look. “They’ve both been murdered, and I want to know why.”

  Fallon laughed again, and this time it held genuine mirth. “Not me, cousin. Definitely not me. I mean, look at me. I have neither the strength nor the inclination. Do you think I’d be stupid enough to get rid of a couple of cash cows like them? Those two were born to the job. They sell everything they can get their grubby little mitts on. They keep order among the customers, and they do a bloody good job of seeing off potential takeovers. So no, not me, not this time.”

  “They used to do all that, Ray. They’re dead now, remember? So they can’t work for you anymore. So who hated them — or you — enough to chop them both into little pieces and spread them around Leesdon?”

  Fallon’s eyes narrowed. “Now I know you’re losing it, Inspector. Not my style. Never has been, as well you know. If I want rid of someone, they stay gone. They don’t turn up dead in bits. They don’t turn up at all.”

  That much was true. Fallon had made many enemies down the years, and used death as the ultimate punishment, but even he had never resorted to the barbarity Calladine had witnessed in the last few days.

  Fallon leaned back on the pillows and closed his eyes. He’d had enough. His breathing had become laboured again and he was obviously tired. Calladine reached over and replaced the mask over his nose and mouth.

  “Believe it or not, Ray, but talking to you today has helped with the case I’m working on. I hope you do pull through, despite everything.”

  Fallon raised an arm, a wave of sorts, but he didn’t have the breath left to speak. As Calladine left the room, the goon returned with tea. He scowled at the policeman and banged the door shut after him.

  * * *

  Ruth Bayliss didn’t know Leesworth Comprehensive from having attended it. She’d been lucky enough to win a place at a far more prestigious school in a neighbouring borough. But her brother had come here, so she knew it. The fabric of the place hadn’t improved. It was still run down, with dirt-encrusted flooring and peeling paint on the corridor walls. The supposedly temporary portakabin classrooms still lurked in the playground. The place looked depressing at any time, but today, in the rain, it was horrendous.

  She’d made an appointment to see the head, a Mr Deacon. He’d been here since the early nineties so, potentially, he should be helpful.

  “I do remember the two boys, Ian Edwards and Gavin Hurst.”

  He sat behind his desk and waited, his fingers steepled into an arch in front of him. He couldn’t be far off retirement, and looked worn down, a bit like the school itself. He was wearing shiny slacks and a shabby blazer. Not what Ruth expected of a headmaster.

  “Do you recall the incident with David Morpeth, the lad who died here?”

  Ruth didn’t really see how anyone could forget something like that — not unless they had something to hide.

  “Yes I do. It was only seven years ago.”

  “How does something like that happen? I mean — for one of your pupils to end up dead, something must be very wrong, surely.”

  “You have to understand, Sergeant Bayliss; this is a difficult school. It doesn’t do to stand out, to be in any way different.”

  “Was that it — was David different? Did he stand out?”

  “He had Asperger Syndrome, a form of autism.”

  “Yes I know what it is. But I still don’t understand how that meant he ended up dead.”

  “It made him very uncommunicative. He wouldn’t speak to the other pupils, and he wouldn’t make friends. But the real problem was, he wouldn’t react when he was made fun of, or bullied. Or his reaction would be way over the top. It made things worse.”

  “Didn’t you try to stop it, the bullying I mean? Don’t you have a duty to look after your pupils, and particularly those with special needs like David?”

  “There is only so much we can do, Sergeant.” His sigh hinted at years of trying — and failing. “David did have a defence mechanism. He had a spiteful streak. He could be very vindictive himself when it suited.”

  “Do you mean to say that the incident was partly his fault?”

  “I don’t know if it was or wasn’t. All I know for sure is that he was found at the bottom of the first floor staircase, with head injuries.”

  “So where do Edwards and Hurst figure in this?”

  “Because, when he was found, Hurst was bending over the body and Edwards was walking down the stairs. He was hooting and yelling — shouting how he’d done for the bastard at last. His words not mine, Sergeant,” he added quickly. “But there was no evidence. No fresh bruises to prove he’d been pushed, no witnesses, nothing to implicate either boy.”

  “They were both interviewed, though. I’ve seen the records.”

  “Yes they were, but with no evidence it never went to court. So that was that. There was nothing more to be done.”

  “What sort of a boy was David? Did he have friends or siblings here?”

  “No friends; the Aspergers saw to that. He swore a lot and spat if he didn’t like what was said to him. Siblings . . .” He sat thoughtfully for a few seconds. “You see, the problem was that David was in foster care. We were told that his mothe
r couldn’t cope.” He rolled his eyes in a derogatory fashion. “They don’t try hard enough if you ask me. We get no end of kids from one parent families coming out of that dreadful estate. Most seem to manage after a fashion, but not David’s mother apparently. I don’t think there was anyone else.”

  Ruth decided she’d check with Social Services anyway. This man was a prat. It was obvious to Ruth that he’d either been in the job too long, or he wasn’t cut out for it. He had no sympathy, no compassion for the kids in his care. With a man like him at the helm she could understand only too well why this place was the pits.

  Before she left, Ruth popped her head round the staffroom door. “Detective Sergeant Bayliss,” she announced to the two or three teachers taking a quick break from the fray. “I’ve been speaking to Mr Deacon about an incident that happened here a few years ago. Before I leave I wondered if any of you could help.”

  “Cold case, is that it?” A young man looked up from his marking.

  “No, I’m actually investigating a current case.” She smiled at him as she flashed her badge. “The old incident I’m on about is more in the nature of background.”

  “That would be the Morpeth boy, then?” A voice called from the back of the room. “I always knew that would rear its ugly head again. Those bastards might have got away with it at the time but they didn’t fool me.”

  She was in luck.

  “You were here then, sir?” Ruth took out her notebook.

  “Yep, I most certainly was, and more to the point I was one of the first on the scene. I did give a statement at the time — it’s all in there.”

  “I’ve still to look at the paperwork, but I’d like to speak to you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Okay, I’ve got a little while before my next class.”

  “Why don’t you think it was an accident?”

  “Accident my . . . eye. Guilty as sin, the pair of them; but they were clever, played the innocent. You do know who I’m talking about, don’t you. Bloody Edwards and Hurst — a pair of murdering tearaways who played the system and damn well got away with it. You’ve no idea what it was like seeing that poor boy lying there, dying. He was at the foot of the staircase and from the severity of the injury to his head, it was assumed he must have gone headlong down the entire flight.”

  “And you are?”

  “Jake Ireson, Head of English.” The man extended his hand.

  He was nice; pleasant-looking with dark hair that was worn a little long. His brown eyes crinkled at the sides when he smiled and he had a slight tan. Perhaps he’d been away during half term. He looked like the type of man born to the job; safe, not too trendy. He was even wearing a tweed jacket — which almost made Ruth giggle. Ruth could imagine him teaching English and loving it, poring over Shakespeare with his class. No doubt making them all fall in love with it too.

  “I’m making coffee. Want some?”

  “That would be nice, thanks.”

  “Take a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”

  “So you still think it was deliberate, even after all this time?”

  “I certainly do. Those two were evil then and things haven’t changed since. They’ve got worse in fact. These days they are responsible for all the drug dealing we have to cope with. You should see what goes on outside the school gates over the average lunchtime — packages and cash changing hands second by second. The pair of them are rotten to the core. You’ve no idea what they put the poor Morpeth boy through, no one has. He never told anybody; he couldn’t you see. He had problems speaking. And they were persistent little devils; every day they went at him with their taunts and bullying. And I mean real bullying. I saw the bruises.”

  “They’ve both been murdered, Mr Ireson. Edwards and Hurst have both been found dead in quite dreadful circumstances. That’s what I’m investigating. I’m not here to re-examine the circumstances of David Morpeth’s death. I’m trying to build a picture of them both, of how they operated. I’m trying to understand what would motivate someone to do what they did to them.”

  “Murdered! I don’t know what to say. Probably no more than they deserve. Part of me is sorry, of course — they were both pupils of mine. I was their year group tutor and got to know them both well. But murder . . . that’s a bit extreme.”

  “The way they were killed was certainly that, Mr Ireson. So you see I’m interested in any background information I can get. We are pursuing a number of enquiries but nothing concrete, not yet.”

  He grinned. “Is that a euphemism for you haven’t got a clue?”

  “No — it’s exactly what I said; nothing concrete.

  He handed her a mug of coffee and pointed to a battered old sofa. “Sit down, and I’ll have a think. You see, the problem is that it’s a while ago since the Morpeth boy, and I could do with mulling it over. As I said, I made a statement at the time so you can read that, but basically I got to the scene too late. Morpeth was already dead and no one had actually seen him fall. Edwards and Hurst were there, of course, ogling the scene and pretending to be shocked. But they weren’t. It didn’t touch them — hard bastards.”

  “Take your time, Mr Ireson. I’m interested in things around the incident, like family ties and friends we might not know about. A statement tends to contain only the bare facts, so I’d like a little more meat on the bone.”

  “I see. I’d like to help, to remember anything I can that might prove useful.” He sat down beside her. “You think there’s a link to what happened to them? Something that connects the two events?”

  “I can’t say yet. Not until I know more. But probably not. The incident with the Morpeth boy is just further proof of how wicked the two of them really were, and how adept they were at covering their tracks. But they certainly fell foul of someone recently who had the means to make them pay, and pay dear.”

  “It was her I felt sorry for — his mother. Poor cow, she stood no chance. She’d failed, you see. She couldn’t cope with David and had to put him into care. She disappeared after his death. As far as I know, she left the area.”

  He took the empty mug from her hands and put it in the small sink in the corner of the room. He was nice, Ruth thought. Easy to speak to and quite good-looking. His hair wasn’t only longish, but slightly spiky too. The more she looked at him, the more Ruth realised that he was a man she could fancy. He had his own little corner of the staff room full of his books. He obviously loved his work. Something they had in common.

  “Look, I don’t want this to sound too forward, but can we meet sometime, when I’ve had time to think about this some more?” he asked.

  Even better! Ruth couldn’t recall the last time a man had asked her out — if that’s what this was.

  “We could get together at the weekend perhaps — have something to eat and a drink. In the meantime I’ll rack my brain, go back over the school records, look at some faces, and then I can give you a better overview of what happened. What do you say?”

  Ruth raised her eyebrows. “Are you asking me out, Mr Ireson?”

  He shrugged and buried his face in his coffee mug. “Suppose I am . . . Is that okay with you, Sergeant?”

  Ruth nodded. Yes it certainly was . . . though against regulations, but she knew plenty of male officers who met women, while on the job.

  Chapter 10

  “DCI Jones is looking for you, and Doctor Hoyle’s rung.” Rocky said the moment Calladine entered the incident room.

  That was good — well, the doc part was. He wasn’t so keen on talking to Jones. He’d gone ahead and visited Fallon without his say-so. But that was only because Jones was too pedantic. If he’d waited for permission it would have been Christmas before he got clearance to speak to his cousin.

  The case couldn’t wait. They needed to make some headway, and fast. Hopefully there would something from the post-mortems. He could do with a break. He stared at the board. The faces, the images — they weren’t talking to him. He couldn’t get a handle on this at all. They were lookin
g at murder — more than one, possibly serial murder. But why? What was the motive? He could understand why Edwards and Hurst weren’t popular, but on the Hobfield they were vital. They were part of the very fabric of the place. Now they were gone a very real gap would have opened up. Who’d take over the business, who’d sell the dope? Perhaps he should have asked Ray Fallon.

  “I’ve got a date,” Ruth announced on her return. “Don’t look at me like that . . .” Calladine’s head had shot up and he gave her a questioning stare. “It does happen, you know. A sort of dishy teacher is taking me out to eat at the weekend.”

  “Only sort of dishy? Are you slipping?”

  “Okay then — a really dishy teacher is taking me out. This is the first date I’ve had in ages, so I think I would have accepted no matter what. With my track record I can hardly afford to be too choosey. I’m a lot like you — no damn time for relationships.”

  “Well, have a nice time. But don’t stay out too late, we’ve a lot on, remember?”

  “It’s a date but it’s work related. He could be helpful. He was at the comp. when David Morpeth was killed, and he taught those two.” She nodded at the board. “If nothing else, it’s a different slant on their lives.”

  “In that case don’t tell me anymore,” he advised. “If it does turn out that your teacher knows something then he could be called as a witness once this little lot comes to court,” he shook his head. “You can imagine what the defence would do with the knowledge that the pair of you were embroiled in some hot romance.”

  “It’s not a hot romance, as you put it. I hardly know the guy,” she frowned. “Wish I hadn’t said anything now,” she decided looking almost petulant.

  “The way the case is going Ruth, so do I. So don’t tell me anything else.”

  Calladine doubted anything from so far back would help and legal issues aside, he was glad Ruth was getting out. She tended to bury herself in her work, very much like he did, and this place could get claustrophobic if you didn’t dip into the normal world every now and then.