The Murder Map

by Danny Miller

‘No,’ said Waters, still shaking his head, ‘I can’t believe that grown women still do the “Oops Up Side Your Head” rowing dance!’

  ‘You’re not taking this seriously, are you?’

  They were at the Jarrett & Sons site in Denton Woods, in an unmarked maroon Datsun Cherry, the worst car in the Eagle Lane carpool, but good enough for this type of work. They were on ‘obs’ duty at a safe distance from the demonstration. They were to take notes, use the telephoto lens, observe, collect info, and generally liaise with the uniforms who were on the front line. Although, from what they could see, it all seemed pretty peaceful. The Jarrett workmen charged with clearing the forest weren’t due to go in for another four days, when it was thought the final appeal against the planning decision would be rejected in a hearing on Monday, and the diggers and chainsaws could swing into action.

  Waters shrugged. ‘The path report was pretty conclusive, and Dr Death hasn’t let us down in the past. As for this Conrad and his paintings? I don’t know that it amounts to much, if I’m honest, Jack. So they had a past, who doesn’t? And it’s not as if they were criminally active recently.’

  There was a tap on the window – it was WPC Hayley Jefferies. Frost opened the door and she handed in two Styrofoam cups of piping-hot tea.

  ‘Thanks, Hayley, where d’you get these?’

  ‘The protestors, they’ve got a tea urn in one of the tents. I know we’re probably not supposed to fraternize with the enemy, but they seem nice enough. I think some of them are a bit embarrassed about what happened, the older ones, anyway.’

  ‘I used to play in these woods as a kid,’ said Frost. ‘Who knows, if I wasn’t doing this I might join them, manning the barricades, power to the people, and all that.’

  Waters and Jefferies were united in throwing him sceptical looks.

  ‘That for us too?’ asked Frost. Jefferies handed him the Denton Echo that was tucked under her arm, and he opened it up.

  ‘How you feeling?’ Waters asked the young WPC. ‘Happy to be off the front page, I bet.’

  ‘Not exactly one for the scrapbook. My mum said I should sue them for dragging my reputation through the mud. I had to point out to her, I was literally dragged through the mud. The only person to come out of that looking good was Mr McVale.’

  Frost didn’t glance up from the paper, but gave a gravelly murmur of disapproval at the mention of the name. ‘An opportunist with an eye for publicity,’ he said sourly.

  Jefferies smiled at Waters. ‘Nothing like what you went through, Sarge. You saved two women, I had to be saved. Bit embarrassing, really.’

  The DS never liked being reminded of his bravery in the line of duty. It came wrapped up in too much personal grief and pain, which he’d not really shared with anyone else. Waters knew that Kim had told some of her colleagues in Rimmington CID, so maybe it wasn’t such a secret.

  Jefferies said, ‘Still, looking forward to Sunday when they give you the award, sir, no one deserves it more than you.’

  Frost saved Waters any further discomfort by giving the paper a thoroughly good rustle, like he couldn’t believe what was printed on it. ‘I stand corrected, Hayley, even chip paper comes up trumps every now and then!’

  ‘Guv?’

  Waters and Jefferies both looked at Frost, whose mouth was distinctly ajar, his gob looking well and truly smacked. She said she’d leave them to it, and ambled back to join the thin blue line.

  Frost showed Waters a half-page ad featuring a photo of the Conrad Wilde painting still in the possession of Vanessa Fielding. Frost read out the accompanying text:

  ‘“A substantial and negotiable reward is offered for the return of a painting, very similar to the one shown. The painting is of no value other than sentimental to the family. All information will be treated in the strictest confidence. Contact Dr Stephen Parker at the University of—”’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘Well, for a start, “all information will be treated in the strictest confidence” is a load of old bollocks! ’Scuse my bloody French, but despite Mullett and Winslow’s protestations, this is still an open case, there’s still questions need answering.’

  John Waters gave a guarded nod of agreement.

  ‘A substantial reward? For what? Why does he want an ugly worthless painting?’

  ‘Like he said, sentimental value, maybe the estranged wife wants it, the daughter. People think differently once things are gone.’

  ‘No, they wanted shot of the one they’ve already got, never mind paying for a new one. So what’s changed their minds? That’s what I want to know.’

  Frost twirled the key in the ignition.

  Waters grabbed the steering wheel. ‘Whoa, whoa, where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘To the university, talk to Stephen Parker.’

  ‘You’re under orders to stay off the case, under pain of death. That’s why we’re here.’

  ‘Acting like the Stasi, taking pictures, names and addresses? It’s 1985, John, 1984 has been and gone and Big Brother didn’t show up. This is England: if people want to protest, then good luck to them, there’s a long tradition of it. We’re wasting our time sitting here; I’d rather be directing traffic than doing this. Do you want a proper case, to get back to work, or do you just want to let them pin that medal on you on Sunday and sit you in front of a computer screen for life?’

  Waters thought about it for approximately three seconds before releasing his grip on the steering wheel. ‘Lead the way.’

  Thursday (2)

  The university was a plate-glass affair, brutalist in its architecture, with grey concrete blocks clustered together, and space-age walkways connecting various buildings and floors. The grassy quad was busy with students on their way to classes; others sat around the focal point of the campus, the fountain, smoking, eating crisps and making plans for a big night out, or the overthrow of the capitalist system.

  Frost found Stephen Parker’s office on the fourth floor of the social sciences department. He was between lectures and was marking a stack of papers. When Frost knocked on his door, he greeted the detective with a surprised diffidence. As if he couldn’t possibly be the one the inspector wanted to see, looking around his office to check that his girlfriend, Vanessa, wasn’t there.

  Parker offered him a seat, one of six that had been set out for an imminent seminar. Without explaining why he was there, Frost placed the Denton Echo on the desk, and fixed the academic with a questioning look. The lecturer didn’t open the paper.

  ‘Ah, yes, I have a copy, obviously. No calls as of yet, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It’s not against the law to offer a reward for stolen items, in fact it’s sometimes encouraged. But in this case we still haven’t completely ruled out that Ivan suffered a heart attack because of an intruder, which makes it a potential aggravated robbery leading to manslaughter.’

  ‘Yes, I did think of that. But who knows, it might shake things up, smoke them out.’

  Frost pulled a puzzled expression. It was confirmation of what he’d heard about academics: a string of letters after their name, like someone had thrown a Scrabble board at them, but none to spell out common sense. So he attacked the issue from another angle.

  ‘It does seem strange that you would offer a reward after everything we discussed. Mrs Fielding seemed to have no interest in the painting at all. In fact, she found it abhorrent. And her daughter thought it a blight on her father’s memory, what with him having such impeccable taste.’

  ‘Let me give you a clue, Inspector.’ With a sweep of his hand Parker directed Frost towards his bookcase.

  Frost got up and read some of the spines on offer. It began to make sense.

  ‘Your specialist interest is in … criminology?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Frost picked out one book that caught his eye like a rusty hook: Jimmy McVale’s memoir. ‘I take it you know he’s in Denton? Or at least, he was staying at the Prince Albert.’

  ‘Yes
, I was going to seek him out, get him to sign a copy, maybe even do a talk for the students. I hear he’s on the lecture circuit now. But I read the book, and I’m afraid it added little to the field of research; it’s all rather self-absorbed, lacking the objectivity of truly good biographical studies.’

  ‘I could have spared you the three hundred pages, Doctor.’

  ‘Oh, please, Inspector, call me anything but doctor. I leave that title to the medical profession. I’m just a humble PhD.’

  ‘Maybe you should leave the catching of criminals to us. If the painting was indeed stolen from Ivan’s house, should whoever took it come to collect the reward, you might get a nasty surprise. Trust me, Mister Parker, some criminals are best viewed through the pages of a book, rather than up close and personal.’

  ‘I fully understand, Inspector. My interest is purely academic, and I appreciate your concerns, and I certainly don’t mistake the work I do for the real investigative work of real policemen. Work I can only applaud you for, but never hope to emulate.’

  Frost couldn’t help but smile at the fawning explanation. ‘Criminology is a pretty broad subject, so what exactly is your field of interest?’

  ‘The post-war period, with a focus on the increase in organized crime in the ’50s and the ’60s, the economic and cultural implications, and the growing cultural iconography of criminality at that time, and how it has fed into the present day.’

  Frost’s smile slipped, as he couldn’t stop himself looking perplexed at the convoluted statement.

  ‘It was a period, Inspector, when Conrad Wilde would have been very active.’

  ‘So Mrs Fielding told you about Conrad?’

  Parker looked momentarily offended. ‘Of course, Inspector, Vanessa and I share everything.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘With my research into the underworld of the period, I’d heard of Conrad Wilde, but only as a fringe figure, certainly not as part of any larger criminal conspiracy. But I had more or less forgotten about him, until Vanessa mentioned your belief that Ivan did business with him.’

  ‘You sound doubtful.’

  ‘Vanessa says she’d never heard of him, and I believe her. But as we know, Inspector, that isn’t proof that their paths didn’t cross, just proof that Ivan didn’t want her to know about his criminal activity. However, once Vanessa told me what you had said about him, it got the cogs turning, mobilized the grey matter. And I discovered that due to his dashing looks, he was a bit-part actor in some British films and television shows of the time. Which again piqued my interest, as far as cultural iconography goes – in many ways, there couldn’t have been a more swinging ’60s figure.’

  ‘I heard he was in The Saint.’

  Parker pulled an excited grin. ‘Yes. I’m trying to source a copy, maybe we can …’

  ‘We can what?’

  ‘I was going to suggest, watch it together?’

  ‘It’s a date. I’ll bring the popcorn.’ Frost’s delivery was so dry that it mopped up the smile on Parker’s face. ‘You’re obviously a man who enjoys his research, so did you know anything about Ivan and Conrad before the former’s death and our investigation?’

  Parker gave a vigorous shake of his head. ‘I didn’t have a clue about Ivan’s criminality or the extent of it, no. I was as surprised as Vanessa when she told me.’

  Frost considered this. He really wasn’t sure if he believed him. He let the moment hang in the air, like he wanted Parker to register his disbelief, then asked, ‘And why does she want the painting now?’

  ‘Sorry, I thought I made myself clear, she doesn’t. I do. If what you say is correct, Inspector, who better to write a book about the topic than me? This Conrad Wilde sounds like a fascinating subject, don’t you think? I’ve already made some phone calls.’ Parker grabbed a pen and opened an A4 notebook, as if ready to scribble more. ‘He died in Longthorn, the high-security psychiatric hospital, I believe. I’m only at the early stages of my research but I’d love to ask you some things, pick your brains.’

  Frost didn’t expect this, to find himself being questioned. ‘Like I said, there’s nothing illegal about what you’re doing, Mr Parker, but maybe you should be careful. The idea that Ivan was killed for the painting is still a possibility, for reasons we haven’t fully discovered yet. But I have ideas, theories of my own—’

  The door swung open with a clatter.

  ‘Jack, we have to go!’

  Waters had ‘emergency’ written all over his face, his voice a veritable siren of urgency. Frost shot to his feet, didn’t quibble – he’d heard enough from Parker anyway.

  ‘Maybe I could set up an interview, Inspector, I’d love to hear more of your thoughts on the case, your theories. I could buy you lunch …’

  He thanked Parker as he darted out of the office after Waters.

  The lecturer watched the two detectives bolt down the corridor and turn the corner. He closed his office door and sat back down at his desk with a satisfied sigh. He then took his pipe out of a drawer and unhooked the little leather tobacco pouch he kept hanging from the wooden frame of his cork noticeboard. He filled the bowl, tamped it down with a little tamping tool he’d picked up in Paris, and fired it up with his copper petrol lighter purchased in Lisbon. He was five billowy clouds of smoke into his pipe when he heard the timid knock on the door. Invigorated by the rich aroma of the shag, and emboldened by his exchange with the policeman, he barked out, ‘Entrez à vos risques et périls.’

  The door eased open and a man in a dark-blue duffel coat and grey beanie hat entered. Parker prided himself on knowing his students and the entire faculty – but not this one. In fact, he didn’t really look like anyone from around there, not really. Once the hat had been removed, Stephen saw the man was far too old to be a student, and a little too diffident in these surroundings to be a member of the faculty. He had thinning mousy hair and a narrow face with indistinct features. To Parker, he sort of looked like someone you might know but couldn’t quite place … or he sort of looked like no one at all.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Professor Parker?’

  ‘Doctor.’

  ‘Ah. I used to be a school prefect. I wanted to shout out to those two fellas coming out of your office, no running in the hallway!’

  Parker didn’t join the man in his chuckling. He just repeated his question: ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I’ve come about the painting,’ said Clive Banes.

  Stephen Parker had cancelled his next lecture and seminar. He was now sitting opposite Clive Banes in a greasy spoon not far from the campus, but far enough away that it never seemed to be populated with students, or anyone really. It was one of those businesses that seemed to have gone out of business, and was now just a pastime for the elderly couple who barely ran it. This was reflected in half the menu being off the menu. Just the greasy-spoon basics. They sat drinking tea from chipped mugs and eating slices of white toast that had simultaneously the texture of coarse sandpaper and the viscosity of chewing gum.

  ‘Of course, if you do have the painting, I suppose I need to ask you where you got it.’

  ‘Yes. I can see why you would need to ask that question.’

  Parker and Banes had been playing cat and mouse around each other, neither wanting to commit. Banes had said he hadn’t taken the painting, but knew who had; Parker had said he wasn’t interested in calling the police, he just wanted it back. But in the brief game that played out between the two men, it had become clear to both that it wasn’t just a case of returning a painting and getting a reward. There was more to it. A lot more.

  ‘But I don’t have the painting, not really. As I say, I just know who has it, but I don’t really know how they got it. I’m sorry to say, Mr Parker—’

  ‘Doctor.’

  ‘Yes, sorry. Doctor. My mistake. But I can get hold of it, easily. How about you, Dr Parker?’

  ‘How about me …?’

  ‘Do you have … the other painting?
’

  ‘What other painting?’

  Banes, who was about to bite into another triangle of toast, let out a weary sigh, then placed his slice of Nimble back on the plate. ‘I’m sorry, I thought I was dealing with a man of intelligence. The other painting in the advert in the paper.’

  ‘Yes, of course I do. It belongs to Mrs Fielding, it was a gift from—’

  ‘Her husband, Ivan. Who was given it by …?’

  ‘By …?’

  ‘Yes, by …?’

  Now it was Parker’s turn to drop his toast on the plate. ‘You have the advantage over me, as I know next to nothing about you, just your name, Mr Banes. But I confess, me putting the advert in the paper was something of a fishing expedition.’

  ‘And you’ve reeled me in.’

  ‘Indeed. So, we’re both sort of at an advantage and a disadvantage. But I’m sure we can both agree that the man who gave Ivan Fielding the painting is key to this situation?’

  ‘We can agree.’

  ‘Good. So how about if I say his Christian name. Then if you can say his surname, I will know we are on the same page, as it were.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Banes.

  There was a pause. Then realizing he had to go first, Parker apologized and said, ‘Conrad.’

  ‘Wilde. With an “e” on the end. He was very insistent on that, was Conrad. Didn’t want it to be mistaken for the adjective, wild. Because it’s the last thing he was. He was caged. He saw his name as a cruel irony.’

  ‘You met him?’

  ‘That’s what brought me here, to Denton.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘By the time I met him he was a changed man, years of prison will of course do that. I found him to be a thoughtful, softly spoken man.’

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  Banes remained silent. More than that, he completely ignored the question and got on with eating his toast and drinking his tea.

  ‘I’m … I’m considering a book on him,’ said Parker, feeling he must fill the awkward silence. ‘So … so anything you could tell me would be of the—’

  ‘First things first,’ said Banes. ‘What do you actually know?’