The Murder Map

by Danny Miller

  ‘He always said, go for the prize only. Grab what you came in for and get out quick. Most burglars get distracted, stay too long, leave too many clues and get caught. Ivan’s house was stuffed full of quality gear … And I came away with that piece of shit.’ Kevin stabbed a fat finger towards the painting. ‘I can’t even bear to look at it.’

  ‘You’d always listened to Conrad before, and he always steered you right.’

  ‘But not this time. He was off his head on morphine, he was dying.’

  ‘You’re not losing faith, are you?’

  Kevin shook his sad-looking head, pulled the ring off his Hofmeister and tossed it over his shoulder with weary disdain. He then took some big glugs and followed these by a big burp. ‘I don’t know if I’m cut out for all this. Send me in to rob something, and I’ll rob it. I’ll get the job done. But all this bleeding treasure-hunt nonsense? It’s not my game. Don’t have the patience for it, to be honest. Wasting my time going after something that might not even exist? I’m thinking of going home, get on with some real robberies and earn some real fuckin’ money.’

  ‘Back to Mum?’

  Kevin Wheaton glanced around at him. He obviously didn’t like the tone, sort of snide. ‘You taking the piss?’

  ‘No, mate, no. Not at all. You’re lucky to have a mum, a mum that loves and looks after you. I never had that. Don’t know who my mum and dad were. I never had a home. I still don’t, not really. So I’ve got nowhere to go. This is it for me, Kevin.’

  Wheaton greeted this admission with blank indifference. Or maybe it was just all the booze he’d drunk that was keeping his eyelids at half-mast. Dulling his senses, blunting his responses. There were a dozen or so empties stacked up in the corner. Banes certainly hoped this was the case.

  Still, Wheaton tried, and eventually managed to squeeze out a barely audible ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  Banes was undeterred by his less than enthusiastic audience. He liked talking about his past, his truth. Especially when he knew his secret wouldn’t be revealed.

  ‘I was what they call a “foundling”. I grew up in lots of homes. But like I say, never a “home”. Care homes, orphanages, mainly. I was fostered out a couple of times … But it never worked out. I never really fitted in. I realized that fitting in was something you had to work at. A skill you had to learn.’

  Kevin gave some slow, bored nods to this, then concentrated on chewing his damp and blunt thumbnails down to the quick.

  ‘I worked on a building site in Stratford once,’ said Banes, smiling at the memory. ‘Got talking to this fella, fellow labourer. Found out all about him. He was about my age. Single. No family to speak of. Seemed a bit lonely. So I became his friend, his fast friend. And I found out everything about him. Detail by detail, bit by bit. Every day I learned something new. It wasn’t hard, no one had taken much interest in him, so he liked me asking questions about him, taking an interest in his life … Until I had it all. His whole life mapped out: all the important dates and what-not. He was a good lad, no criminal record, no record at all. His name was Clive. Clive Banes.’

  Kevin stopped admiring the raw mess of his now over-chewed thumbnail and grimaced in confusion. ‘That’s your name?’

  ‘It is now. But in the words of the immortal bard, “What’s in a name?” You’ve not read the papers today?’

  ‘Nah, not been out.’

  Banes glanced over at the open copy of Razzle. He knew there was a stack of similar publications under the very bed he was sitting on: Asian Babes, Jouncers International, Fiesta … He handed Kevin the Daily Express he’d brought.

  ‘Ta. So … what’s your real name?’ he asked, turning his attention to the paper and flicking through it.

  ‘It’s all bad news, though, these days, Kev. You’re from Norwood, right?’

  Kevin didn’t remember telling him that, but nodded along to it anyway.

  ‘Page ten. Terrible thing. Terrible, terrible …’

  Kevin turned the pages, in no great hurry, nothing much fazed him once he’d had a few lagers. Then, once he’d happened upon page ten, the paper in Wheaton’s tattooed fingers began to rustle, then visibly shake. He buried his face in the newsprint, eyes bulging, his cheeks reddening at the pictures. A posed photo of Mum in her Sunday best with her boy … then Mum with the cat … then … partially blacked out due to the graphic nature … Mum … on her bed … lying in blood, the headline …

  He turned to face Clive Banes … or whatever the hell his name was. But he wasn’t sat on the bed now. Kevin had not kept his eye on him. That was a mistake. In prison you always had to stay alert. You needed eyes in the back of your head. And if that had been true, he’d have seen that Banes, or whoever he was, was now poised behind him. Like an executioner.

  Friday (1)

  Superintendent Stanley Mullett stood with his back to CID, in front of the main board in the incident room. He had the dusty old blackboard eraser in his hand. With assured sweeping movements he rubbed out all the information pertaining to the Ivan Fielding investigation, and wrote ‘RUBY HANSON’ in large capitals. He then performed a sharp Prussian-officer turn and addressed his troops.

  ‘Inspector Frost will be leading the investigation to secure the safe return of little Ruby Hanson. It’s our top priority, nothing else matters until I personally say it does. Right, Jack?’

  All eyes were on Frost. It was the ‘9 a.m. briefing’, a three-line whip, everyone was expected to attend. And everyone was there. Sipping coffee, indulging in the first cigarette of the day, but all silently studying the photocopies of the facts of the case thus far. It was standing room only. And it was only 7.30 a.m. Whenever there was a missing, or in this case, even worse, an abducted child, the incident room at Eagle Lane was an adrenalin-fuelled engine room of efficiency and determination. Coppers pulling double shifts, treble shifts. Only knocking off when they got too knackered to have a quick kip in the locker rooms, where there were foldaway cots.

  The first forty-eight hours of any investigation were always the most important, but in a missing-child case even more so. Every passing minute was precious. In most murder investigations the worst that could possibly happen already had. With missing kids, the very worst that could happen was still feasible, still ahead of you, waiting in the dark recesses of the imagination.

  Everyone knew that Mullett had had his size-eleven boot on the DI’s throat of late. All eyes were on Frost.

  ‘That’s right, Superintendent Mullett.’ It was loud and clear. ‘Our full attention. Give it everything. What Eagle Lane always gives in these cases, right?’

  They matched Frost, loud and clear, and responded with a thunderous ‘Right!’

  Mullett smiled, and left the team to it, assured that he would be kept informed of the progress every step of the way. All existing office politics and animosities were out of the window. Mullett’s job was to focus the media on the case, get maximum exposure and publicity – TV, newspapers, radio, Saturday-morning pictures if need be – to jog memories, prick consciences, alert the world to the plight of Ruby Hanson.

  ‘Arthur was in charge of the door-to-door after the incident, so …’

  Frost gave Hanlon the nod and the DC got to his feet, and with his notes in hand went over to the area map pinned up on the incident board. All roads around the crime scene were marked in red.

  ‘Initial house-to-house enquiries brought up three vehicles seen at the time of the abduction that warrant investigation. On Preston Road, Ardale Road, and Chesterfield Avenue, which as we all know leads to Penfield Road. These cars were all reported as speeding. Only two vehicle models identified: a light-blue VW Beetle, and a dark-green Triumph Dolomite. No number plates identified. So, three cars going in different directions, take your pick. No other verified sightings of young Ruby with either a man or a woman. Ruby’s school, Mountview Juniors, is on Mountview Road.’ Hanlon pointed unnecessarily to the school on the map, everyone knew it. ‘It means parents walking kids home is such a
common occurrence, no one takes much notice. Kids shout and scream and no one comes out to complain or is even curious. It’s just what happens between 3.30 and 4.30 on weekdays. That this happened a little later in the day may have some significance …’

  DC Clarke followed this up. ‘Gail Hanson picked Ruby up a bit later that day, 5 p.m., because Ruby attends after-school dance classes.’

  ‘The green van parked on Penfield Road?’ called out DS Waters. ‘That bothers me, who does that belong to?’

  Hanlon checked his notes. ‘Yes, a removal van, arrived yesterday for a Mr James Golding, lives at 38 Penfield Road, he’s moving today; the movers started packing up yesterday early afternoon. They’d gone home by five. It checks out and so do they.’

  Frost took Hanlon’s place at the board. ‘As stated in your notes, Ruby’s father, Richard Hanson, is an architect. He’s a senior partner in a practice, very successful, or certainly on the way up. What makes his profession of interest is that he is currently under commission from Jarrett & Sons, the developers about to dig up Denton Woods.’ Murmurs of discord went up from the gathered officers. ‘Richard’s firm has had a part in designing some of the new homes. So, we could have a motive for Ruby’s abduction. It’s extreme, very extreme. But as we know with the protest thus far, passions are riding high. So it’s an area we need to investigate.’

  Universal nods and mutterings again. There was almost a palpable sense of relief that that might be the case. Because every officer knew that the alternative was a lot worse. DI Jack Frost designated everyone their duties. His biggest job was to stress at all times the logic and solvability of the crime; to treat it like a robbery or a fraud case. To look for clues, motives, links and chains that would lead you to the answer. A child being taken off the street in a random crime wasn’t worth contemplating at this point, it served no purpose other than to drain the energy and confidence of the team. You didn’t want it to be bad luck, the wrong place at the wrong time, some lone wolf sticking a pin in a map to decide where to snatch a kid off the street.

  Ruby’s young life would be gone through like she was a criminal. It sounded harsh, but it often worked. Who she was friends with, who she was enemies with, what was her routine, and had anyone been taking a special interest in her. No one was above scrutiny. Trusted public servants like teachers, doctors, lollypop ladies, anyone in her orbit. Her family. Her parents. Sometimes, especially the parents.

  ‘Sally?’

  Sally Fielding halted her full shopping trolley with some effort, and turned to see Stephen Parker ambling up the aisle with a basket. There was a single item in it, a tin of Heinz spaghetti hoops. She greeted him with a half-smile, still obviously grieving for her father. And he gave her an understanding look, and then smiled broadly at Ella, her almost-nine-year-old daughter, who was gripping the bar of the trolley.

  ‘Hi, Ella, and how are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you very much.’

  ‘No school today?’

  The smile fell from Ella Fielding’s face, and she shook her head. The strands of her black hair fell on to her face as she began to examine her shoes. Her mother ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair, and gave her a gentle smile, then spoke in a hushed tone.

  ‘School’s closed today, Stephen. You must know why, it’s been on the news?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Does Ella know the …?’

  ‘Yes, she does, they do ballet and modern jazz together. They were rehearsing yesterday after school.’ Sally Fielding took a deep breath, and mouthed to Parker, ‘It could have been Ella.’

  ‘Terrible. Do you know the parents?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve met. Lovely couple. I can’t imagine how they must be feeling. Just awful, awful.’ She turned to Ella. ‘Darling, why don’t you go and get yourself a Bunty?’

  Ella ran over to the magazine rack, knelt down on the floor and picked out some comics, Bunty being one of them.

  Keeping one eye on her daughter, she carried on talking to Parker. ‘And of course, it has upset Ella, and she’d already taken the loss of Dad quite badly.’

  ‘I see. Were they very close? I don’t recall …’

  ‘Well, before he got really bad with the drink, they spent a lot of time together. Dad was good with her.’ Sally pulled a Kleenex from out of her sleeve. ‘I was looking through some old photos of them together – when Ella was younger, they used to play pirates. He actually had outfits for them, God knows where he got them from. You know what he was like … everything had to be just so with him … He was so lovely with her then, Dad … then the drink just wiped all that away …’

  ‘And how are you holding up?’

  ‘Like I said, it was sudden yet not unexpected, but you know …’

  Ella returned with Bunty, The Beano and Smash Hits. ‘Can I, Mummy?’

  ‘As long as there are no rude lyrics in Smash Hits. You’re too young for Run DMC.’

  ‘Mummy? Are you OK?’

  Sally tilted her head back and took in a big breath, in an effort to pull back all her emotions and stem the tears that were building up behind her eyes. Then she forced a big smile on her face and squeezed Ella’s hand.

  ‘Yes, darling, I’m fine. I hope you’re not surprising Mum with dinner tonight, Stephen?’

  He followed her withering gaze down to the lone occupant of his shopping basket, the tin of spaghetti hoops.

  ‘Oh no, heaven forbid I should offer this up to your mother. They’re for me. Delicious on top of cheese on toast.’

  ‘I like them,’ said Ella.

  ‘Then I shall invite you to lunch, Ella.’ He smiled, but didn’t indulge the little girl any further. Instead he got to the point, and the real reason he was there. Because it certainly wasn’t the spaghetti hoops, they were merely a ruse; he’d picked them up when he’d followed them into the supermarket. ‘Sally, I was wondering, those paintings of Ivan’s – Ivan gave one to you, and one to your mother?’

  ‘Yes, those ugly things, what about them?’

  ‘Well, I’d be happy to take it off your hands.’

  ‘Really, why?’ But before Parker could say anything, Sally Fielding added, ‘Funnily enough, I sold it.’

  ‘Sold it?’

  ‘Yes. A couple of weeks ago. They had a jumble sale at Ella’s school to raise money to pay for the goats’ vet bills.’

  Stephen Parker was staring down at the tin of spaghetti hoops in his basket. ‘Who to?’

  She shrugged and ignored this. ‘Ella’s school keeps five goats, don’t they, Ella?’

  Ella smiled and nodded effusively. ‘Mopsy, Rocky, Bowie, Lola and Cliff.’

  Sally laughed. ‘Cliff’s my favourite, as in cliff edge. The kids love them. They are sweet, cheap to feed, but the vet’s bills do add up. One had an impacted tooth and almost bankrupted the school—’

  ‘Please! Sally, if you can remember …’

  She looked startled, then offended. ‘Stephen, please don’t shout. We’ve got a lot on our plate at the moment. I don’t care about that painting. I’m much more worried about the real ones that belonged to Dad. They’re worth a lot of money, but the police are saying they may be stolen so we can’t take them, and without anyone in the house they could be—’

  ‘Was it a man, a woman?’

  ‘Was what a man or a woman?’

  ‘Who you sold the painting to.’

  ‘Why do you need to know?’

  ‘Why do … Why do I …?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  Now he thought about it, knowing if it was a man or a woman who had bought the painting at the jumble sale would hardly make a jot of difference. Under Sally’s unrelenting and questioning gaze, he bit down on his bottom lip. A nervous tic in his reddening cheek was like Morse code spelling out his deception. Why, oh why, he wondered to himself, can’t it be easier than this?

  Friday (2)

  RUBY HANSON WILL DIE! HER YOUNG LIFE CUT DOWN NEEDLESSLY LIKE A YOUNG TREE, UNLESS JARRETT & SONS AND THOSE WHO WOULD SEEK TO
DESTROY OUR PRECIOUS LAND STOP AND WITHDRAW FROM DENTON WOODS IMMEDIATELY!

  The message was written in green felt-tip pen, in shaky block capitals. At the bottom, it was signed ‘RUBY’, in red. The red looked like dried blood.

  The letter was addressed to Superintendent Stanley Mullett. It was the only piece of paperwork on his polished mahogany desk. Gathered around the desk were Frost, Clarke and the new fella from Forensics whose name Frost could never remember.

  ‘So what do you think …? Sorry, it’s …?’

  ‘Thales, Martin Thales.’

  Frost nodded, knowing he would always forget his name; it just seemed so instantly forgettable.

  ‘Matching envelope and paper, bought as a set. Cheap paper, won’t give us a watermark. We’ll get it under the ultraviolet, might be able to get a trace on the paper and felt-tip used. As for the blood, we’ll be able to match it against Ruby Hanson’s blood type, to hopefully eliminate that possibility.’

  ‘Could it be animal blood?’ asked Clarke.

  Thales shrugged. ‘At this point, I wouldn’t like to speculate – blood is blood, dried like this it’s hard to tell. We’ll know more once we’re in the lab.’ Thales turned to Mullett. ‘Are you the only one who touched the letter, sir?’

  ‘Ms Smith handed it to me, but I’m the only one who’s handled the letter properly, yes.’

  ‘Good, we might be able to get fingerprints, even if they’re just trace ones.’

  ‘Well, Frost, you suspected it was coming. Either this is for real, or it’s an opportunist who’s heard about the case on the news and is appropriating it for their cause. Though what they hope to achieve – apart from the antipathy of even those people who support their cause – is beyond me.’

  Frost agreed. ‘We’ll visit every protestor in town; we can start using the information on the database that we’ve been collecting the last few days.’

  Frost gave Hale, Twail, whatever his name was, permission to remove the letter, and the new Forensics man bagged it up and took it away for examination.