The Murder Map

by Danny Miller

  ‘I’ve started walking into town to get my bus now’ – he patted his tummy – ‘trying to get rid of some of the old Christmas excess.’

  That explains it, and perfectly innocent, thought Banes, as he looked at Pete’s expanding waistline.

  ‘I thought I recognized you, Clive, from the van mainly. You’ve changed. Shaved off the beard, I see.’

  ‘Yeah. People say I look younger without it.’

  ‘And you’re not wearing your glasses?’

  ‘No. Contact lenses. People say I look less like a four-eyed git without them.’

  They both laughed. Banes got off the wall he was sat on. Of course it wasn’t the main perimeter wall of the hospital; that was much higher and festooned with razor wire. But you did get a good view of the hospital from here. Although only if you were armed with expensive high-powered binoculars. And only if you knew the right spot because you’d searched it out earlier.

  ‘What you doing with yourself these days?’

  ‘Oh, between appointments, as they say.’

  ‘We all miss you, Clive.’

  Banes gave an appreciative nod at this, but doubted its veracity. He was one of the many who failed to see out their three-month probationary period. Still, nice of him to say so, thought Banes, somewhat snidely.

  ‘Well, I must be getting along. I’ll see you around maybe.’

  ‘What are you doing, Clive?’

  ‘Like I said, in between appointments, but—’

  ‘No, no. Now. What were you doing sitting on a wall looking through binoculars?’

  Banes stopped looking chirpy. ‘Nothing. Just taking a look at the old place.’

  ‘You haven’t been gone long, if you miss it that much I’m sure they’ll have you back.’

  ‘No thanks. Anyway, Pete, must be getting along—’

  ‘Seems weird, though. You sat there’ – he gestured to the binoculars in Banes’ hand – ‘looking through those.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘How weird?’

  Maybe Pete sensed the edge in Banes’ voice, because he was keen to explain: ‘It’s just that the top management have told us to keep an eye out. There’s been some drugs going missing, you know the type.’

  Banes did know the type. Opiates to relieve the pain. He’d heard some of the nurses had been sacked a couple of weeks ago for smuggling them out. He looked offended as he asked, ‘What are you accusing me of?’

  ‘Oh no, Clive, I didn’t mean it like that … It’s just we’ve been told to keep an eye out. Still, good to see you. I’ll tell all the gang I saw you.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘They all remember you. The ones who are left, anyway. I’ll tell them I saw you.’

  Banes considered his simple-minded friendliness, and viewed it like a threat. And one he knew that Pete would carry out, because he knew the idiot was chatty and friendly with everyone. Who knows, he might even tell the ‘top management’ about seeing him in relation to the missing medication. Totally untrue of course, Banes had no interest in that type of thing. He had a bigger prize than that to go after. But it could draw unnecessary attention to him. He reckoned Pete had so little happening in his life that bumping into him was tantamount to going to a Bruce Springsteen concert and being dragged up on stage for a dance and singalong with him. He knew what he had to do now. He matched Pete’s gormless grin and said, ‘Where you off to, Pete?’

  ‘Like I said, going to walk into town to get my bus.’

  ‘Tell you what, why don’t we go for a pint in town, then I’ll drop you home. You live local, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, I do.’ Pete made a play of checking the time on his wristwatch and then pulled an impossibly big grin, like Bruce Springsteen had actually plucked him out of the crowd. ‘Why not, Clive, why not indeed?’

  They got into Banes’ white Bedford panel van and drove off. Pete did most of the talking. Banes knew the type. Like most lonely people, he talked a lot when the opportunity presented itself. When Banes reached the spot he’d been heading for, he pulled the van over. It was a deserted stretch of road deep in the Suffolk countryside. Perfect.

  ‘Sorry, mate, just got to take a leak.’

  Banes got out of the van and disappeared behind the hedgerow.

  Pete must have sat there for a good ten minutes, listening to Simon Bates on the radio, before he ventured out to check on Banes.

  ‘Clive? Clive, you there?’

  Pete heard a noise. A low groan of pain, perhaps. It came from behind a tree.

  ‘Clive … You OK? Haven’t got it caught in your zip, have you?’ He laughed nervously, then stopped. ‘Clive, you’re worrying me, you OK? Clive … Clive, is that you? … What are you doing? What are you …? No, please—’

  The hammer smashed down on his forehead. It needed another three blows before Pete eventually fell. The first had stunned him, but barely dented his cranium. That part of the skull was very dense. His eyes were rounded in surprise and fear. He probably didn’t feel much. Numbness brought on by the shock, a natural anaesthetic that no doubt nullified the pain. After the other whacks he stood swaying for a moment or two, blood oozing from his glistening wet-look perm, streaking down his face. Then he tumbled backwards, perfectly stiff, like a freshly felled tree.

  Banes put the ball-peen hammer back in the pocket of his duffel coat, and went to get the shovel out of the van.

  Sunday (4)

  ‘Sign here, please, Mr McVale.’

  ‘My pleasure. How are you today, officer?’

  Jimmy McVale took the pen proffered by Desk Sergeant Johnny Johnson and signed the ledger. He knew the score – name, date of birth, time of signing in, and most importantly, his current address. So if anything dodgy happened locally he would be the first person they would visit. He’d been out of prison just over a month, and such was Jimmy McVale’s case and reputation that he was to remain on licence for a full year. Forced to sign in at a police station twice a week – and not allowed to travel abroad, or more to the point, travel anywhere where he could not sign into a British police station twice a week.

  Johnson spun the book around and checked the details – ‘James McVale BA, MSc. DOB: 26/05/38. Residing at the Prince Albert Hotel, Denton.’

  With his free hand, the desk sergeant clawed at his thick beard, as was his habit when confused, surprised, or indeed impressed, as was the case this time. This was due to the fact that McVale was staying at the Prince Albert, Denton’s premier hotel, and that must have been costing him a pretty penny; and also because:

  ‘Strewth, you’ve got some letters after your name, I see.’

  ‘And hopefully there’ll be more when I complete my doctoral thesis on the sociological study of crime and the urban environment. You have to spend your time wisely, you see, they offer all sorts of courses in the nick: ships in a bottle, needlework, origami. All a complete waste of time. I wanted a proper education, to help me understand the error of my ways.’

  The ex-con winked, and Johnson laughed, uncomfortably. McVale handed back the pen and beamed a smile that lit up his broad handsome face. Beneath his pink shirt and lilac silk tie, worn under a well-cut double-breasted blazer, his six-foot-three frame looked bulked out with muscle. Not many men can wear a pink shirt and that colour of tie and get away with it, thought Johnson, much less manage to make it look as formidable as chainmail armour.

  It was clear that Jimmy McVale’s seventeen years in prison had been spent on self-improvement, not just of his mind through education, but of his physique, too. Prison hadn’t dulled him; he looked in rude health, fizzing with energy and purpose. Ever alert to what was happening around him, his head turned fast to see who had just entered Eagle Lane police station when the swing doors opened. There were no soft edges to Jimmy McVale, he looked as lethal as his reputation, and yet he was a changed man – allegedly. But for all McVale’s big smiles and bonhomie, Johnny Johnson was glad there was a desk between them.


  ‘So if anyone calls out, is there a doctor in the house?’

  ‘I’m not one yet, but even when I am I’d be about as useless as a pair of tits on a bull, I’m afraid.’ Johnson laughed, and Jimmy McVale joined in. ‘I’m afraid, Sergeant Johnson, my doctorate is not a medical one. And anyway, I hate the sight of blood.’

  Johnson stopped laughing just as quickly as he’d started. There was something chilling in that statement, a statement so at odds with McVale’s reputation, and the crimes he’d committed that had got him his life sentence.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes … Doctor, you’re free to go.’

  ‘Not yet I’m not.’ McVale smiled once more. ‘A doctor, that is. But I am free. Or as any man can be.’

  ‘Very philosophical. Oh, one last thing …’

  Johnson looked surreptitiously around him, then reached under the desk and pulled out a hardback book. Its front cover had a sepia snapshot of a young boy wearing a cowboy hat and holding a pair of toy six-shooters like a quick-draw artist. On the back was a posed picture of the adult author, dressed as he was now in a smart suit. The book title read, A Product of My Environment: The Early Years of the Notorious Jimmy McVale.

  ‘… You couldn’t sign this for us, could you, Mr McVale?’

  The ready smile lit up yet again. ‘Of course I can, Sergeant. And seeing as I’ll be in Denton for a couple of weeks, call me Jimmy.’ Johnson nodded gratefully. ‘Who to?’

  ‘Oh, “Johnny Johnson” will do nicely. I’ve got to say, I think it’s a great read. Very good. I especially liked hearing about what happened to Hacksaw Harry on the Heathrow job.’

  ‘It’s all behind me now, Johnny, I’m happy to say. But if people can learn from my experiences and mistakes then the book will have been worth it. And remember, I’m writing a follow-up to it, my prison years, attempted escapes, and, finally, my enlightenment.’

  ‘Can’t wait, Jimmy.’

  Jimmy McVale signed the book with a practised flourish. Then turned sharply as the swing doors once more opened and the flash of a camera went off.

  ‘Jimmy McVale, public enemy number one, as I live and breathe, in the flesh!’

  Sandy Lane, crime reporter of the Denton Echo, swept into reception accompanied by a photographer. Lane was physically the antithesis of the man he’d come to splash across his front page. His florid face had a tremble about it that suggested if he didn’t get a drink down him in the next few minutes it might fall to pieces altogether; its strongest feature was his bulbous booze nose that positively glowed. His 24-carat Golden Virginia-tobacco-stained fingers gripped a reporter’s pad and a well-chewed stub of a pencil. With his grubby mac, trilby, and shoes worn down at the heel, it hardly seemed necessary for him to introduce his profession, but he did:

  ‘Sandy Lane, crime reporter for the Denton Echo,’ announced the hack, flashing his credentials. ‘We’d love to hear what you’re up to, make a great front-page story. Ex-bank robber, reformed public enemy number one, suspect in the heist of the century, the world-famous Bond Street job?’

  ‘I hope you put “allegedly” in front of all that. I’m very litigious these days.’

  Undeterred, the hack pressed on. ‘Is the Denton Echo going to get a world exclusive, Jimmy? Were you one of the infamous ’67 Bond Street “Burrowers”, and if so, what was in the vault, and where is it now?’

  McVale offered a well-rehearsed mischievous smile to this question. ‘You’ll have to read my next book.’

  ‘I know the story, Jimmy, everyone does, the stuff of legend.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said the young photographer at Sandy Lane’s side.

  ‘You should read the bloody papers, son!’ Sandy looked apologetically to McVale and explained. ‘My sister’s kid, he’s on work experience.’ Then he turned back to his nephew. ‘In July ’67, five robbers armed with high-powered drilling equipment burrowed their way under Bond Street to gain access to a private bank and raided the vault to get away with … Nobody knows. I heard everything from five million quid, enough diamonds to fill a bath tub, twenty-five Nazi-gold bars, to the real Crown Jewels. How about you, Jimmy, what did you hear?’

  ‘I heard there were six robbers involved, not five. But don’t quote me on that, I read that in the papers so it’s probably wrong.’

  Sandy Lane, knowing he wasn’t going to get the exclusive he was after, licked the tip of his stubby pencil and prepared to scribble down some more banal titbits. ‘So what are you doing in Denton?’

  ‘I’m here to take in the beautiful countryside and work on my new book. I have an old friend who lives here, and I’ve taken them up on their offer to visit.’

  ‘You like the town? You thinking of moving here?’

  ‘Like I said, I love the surrounding countryside, and I’d also like to offer my support for the Denton Woods development protest. When you’ve been behind grey walls for as long as I have, you appreciate nature maybe more than most. Plus, the peace and quiet, away from the hubbub of London, will give me the chance to finish off the second volume of my memoirs. And I’d also like the opportunity to visit some local schools, young offenders’ homes, and warn youngsters against a life of crime. Bring some positivity.’

  ‘I hear they’re planning on making a film of your life story – is it true that your part is being considered by a pop star? One of Duran Duran has been mooted for the role?’

  ‘As long as it’s not Boy George, I’ll be happy.’

  Five minutes later, and Jack Frost entered Eagle Lane to find Jimmy McVale posing with his new book in hand. The camera flash popped and Sandy Lane scribbled in his notebook as the smiling McVale smartly delivered some choice quotes from his book.

  Frost beckoned Johnny Johnson to him. ‘What the bloody hell is all this?’

  ‘It’s Jimmy McVale. He’s just got into town, he’s signing in.’

  ‘I know who it is, I read the papers.’

  ‘Funny though, he won’t say anything about the Bond Street job of ’67.’

  ‘He’s hardly going to deny it, and he’s obviously not going to admit to it. It keeps the mystery going, so he can sell more of his tawdry little real-life-crime books.’

  ‘You don’t like a good crime book, Jack?’

  ‘No, Johnny, I don’t. I don’t like true-life ones, and I don’t like made-up ones either, because to me they’re one and the same thing. You can tell who done it on page one. As for the ones he writes, pure self-aggrandizement, playing off some misguided romanticism around the great ’60s capers. Making out like he’s in The Italian Job. Try telling that to the bank manager’s wife held hostage in her home by McVale to get the manager to open the safe. He poured petrol over her and held a match inches from her face. Or the security guard whose finger he cut off with bolt cutters to get the keys. Get him out of here.’

  Johnson cringed. ‘Yes, guv, I get the picture.’

  Frost left the rebuked desk sergeant to it and went through to the incident room. But not before he caught Jimmy McVale’s eye. It was cold and calculating as it quickly tried to work out who Frost was. Like the professional criminal he was, casing the joint. Once he realized that Frost might be someone to take seriously, his demeanour lifted and his trademark smile tore across his face. But Frost ignored the expensive dental work and concentrated on the eyes. They looked like they belonged to a creature scavenging the ocean bed.

  Sunday was still Sunday, even in Eagle Lane, and if you didn’t have to be there, you weren’t. Just those on a scheduled shift, and those who had swapped with them because they were trying to pull in some overtime. So in the incident room it was just the skeleton crew of PC Simms, DC Clarke and Rita, a part-time civilian who answered the phones and input data on the computer. DC Arthur Hanlon was rumoured to be down in the canteen, but then again, the rotund DC was always rumoured to be down there.

  Clarke glanced up from her paperwork. ‘I left Forensics to it. I’ve checked and there’s no record of Ivan Fielding reporting any burglarie
s or attempted burglaries from that address. And he’s been there over fifteen years. But I’ll be seeing Sally and Vanessa Fielding later, tell them what we’ve found out, see if they think anything is missing.’

  ‘And he has no criminal record, not even traffic offences,’ added PC Simms.

  Frost looked impressed – even he had traffic offences. He kept his eye on Simms. Something was bothering him about the young PC. It was the same thing that had bothered him earlier at the Fielding house, but in the station, it seemed even more incongruous.

  ‘Why are you in your Sunday best, Simms?’

  The young PC turned towards his accuser, who was clearly running a disapproving eye over the copper’s shimmering-silver boxy double-breasted suit with its big lapels and even bigger shoulder pads.

  ‘I’m up for promotion, being reviewed for DC.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but why the civvies? Horse before the cart, son.’

  Clarke looked up from her paperwork again. ‘He asked me if he could wear plain clothes for the duration, and I said he could wear a tutu and some sling-backs if he got the job done. Which I think he has, plus he’s got somewhere to stick his magnifying glass.’

  Frost pulled out a pack of Player’s from his bomber jacket, and looked at them like they had been planted there. He never smoked Player’s, never even nicked other people’s Player’s, and he was always nicking other people’s fags. Maybe they were Shirley’s, maybe they were Ivan Fielding’s? He frisked himself for a light and came up with a green Bic, sparked up and propped himself on Clarke’s desk.

  ‘That’s the trouble with the new generation, you can’t wait to get out of uniform, tarting around in your flash suits and Filofaxes like you’re some kind of City spiv. Me? I loved being in uniform. You know why, Simmo?’

  Simms, who had been busy looking at the green names and numbers flashing up on the black screen of his computer as he checked the database, shook his head and asked, ‘Why?’