The Murder Map

by Danny Miller

  ‘Is anyone in there?’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Police.’

  Of course it is, he thought, who else would bang on the side of your van like that? The sheer persistence of it was authoritative, demanding, and somehow spelt out the fact they had plenty of back-up if things turned nasty and they didn’t get the response they were after.

  ‘Hold up, mate, just getting dressed.’

  His eyes did a quick sweep of the back of the van: everything that might have looked suspicious, or raised questions, was covered. He lifted the lid off the tool box. There was a hacksaw with a selection of varying blades, a red-handled Stanley knife, three chisels and two hammers. He then removed the top section of the three-layered box to retrieve the right tool for the job. It was a blue nylon fold-out wallet with a Velcro fastener. Wallet number five he called it, five out of a possible seventeen. But he’d taken only six with him for this trip. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, concentrated, and ran the legend through his head until it was locked in there. There could be some creative improvising along the way, but his history was solid. He climbed into the cab of the Bedford and rolled down the window. The first thing he saw was their badges.

  ‘What you doing parked here?’

  There were two coppers: a WPC and a plain clothes one. Spotty young fella, certainly looks too young to be out of uniform, thought Banes. But it’s comments like that that age you. The copper was wearing what looked like a dinner jacket and bow-tie under his navy-blue mac.

  Which seems a bit over the top for this time of the morning, thought Banes. Then he said, ‘I had a couple of pints in the pub up the road, then I started to feel ill, so I pulled over, ended up staying the night. Better safe than sorry.’

  The plain clothes, or rather very flash clothes, copper considered Banes with some suspicious little nods. This didn’t unduly bother him, that’s what coppers did. It was their job to unsettle you, catch you off guard.

  ‘Can I see your driving licence, please?’

  Banes smiled his acquiescence, reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out the grubby blue nylon wallet. He took out his driving licence, in its own little clear plastic wallet, and handed it to the policeman.

  ‘Reading? What you doing around here, Mr Phelps?’

  The spotty young copper handed the driving licence to the WPC, who detached herself from the conversation and went back to the patrol car. She retrieved from the dashboard what looked like a scroll of fax paper, and began checking through it.

  ‘I said, what you doing around here?’

  Annoyed with himself that he’d been caught out being distracted by the actions of the WPC, Banes tried to smooth it over with some run-of-the-mill paranoia. ‘I’ve got the MOT in the back of the van if you want to see?’

  ‘It’s OK, we’re just running a check on some names.’

  ‘My name won’t come up, never does. I’ve played the Pools and Spot the Ball for yonks, not so much as a tickle.’ This elicited a whiff of amusement from the copper. ‘I was going to go to the protest, Denton Woods.’

  The copper gave a weary look of disapproval. ‘I think they’ve got enough protestors down there now, Mr Phelps. But it’s a free country.’

  Banes fished out a card from his wallet, a union card. ‘I’m not a protestor, I’m a chippy, a carpenter by trade. Mate of mine said they needed blokes who can handle a chainsaw. I’m between jobs, so I thought I’d give it a go. Like Norman Tebbit said, get on your bike and go look for work.’

  The plain clothes guy’s face seemed to lighten at this. There were now some nods of approval. The WPC came back and handed Thomas Phelps his driving licence. ‘Thank you, Mr Phelps.’

  Banes put it back in the nylon wallet. ‘Pleasure. I take it I haven’t won the Pools, then?’

  The WPC threw her colleague a questioning look.

  ‘Mr Phelps says his name never comes up for the Pools prize.’

  ‘To be honest, sir,’ said the WPC, ‘you wouldn’t want your name coming up on this list.’

  ‘I’m intrigued. If I see anything … suspicious, as you say, I could give you a call.’

  The tuxedo copper looked appreciative. ‘We’re looking for someone from Longthorn mental hospital.’

  ‘Blimey, an escaped patient? Do you have a name?’

  ‘Someone who worked there, actually, and we’ve got a whole list of names.’

  ‘Blimey, I heard about something in the pub last night. There was a murder, some bloke in a caravan in the woods. Gruesome, I heard. Is it this bloke from the nuthouse – must be, right?’

  The WPC, more circumspect than her colleague, said, ‘We don’t know yet, it’s an ongoing enquiry.’

  ‘What’s his name, the bloke you’re after?’

  ‘Like I say, sir, we’re working from a list. I’m not at liberty to say.’

  ‘Nutters on the loose, people getting smashed over the head in the woods, and there’s a kid missing too, right?’ Banes didn’t wait for an answer, he was too busy looking mildly terrified. ‘I think I’ll turn back. It’s a lot safer in Reading.’

  ‘You OK to drive?’ asked the WPC.

  ‘Look that rough, do I?’

  ‘My dad’s got the flu, lot of it about.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll be OK. Safer than hanging on around here.’

  ‘Someone’s got a spring in their step.’

  Frost turned his head, faster than he’d turned it in a while, certainly since being pushed down the stairs, and saw John Waters getting out of a red Ford Fiesta. His wife, Kim, was driving. She gave Frost a beaming smile and a fluttery little wave. It was certainly the biggest smile he’d seen her give since her husband came out of hospital. Frost returned both the smile and the wave, just not so fluttery. She drove off and Waters jogged over; he too had a spring in his step as they headed towards the station.

  ‘Good morning, Detective Inspector Waters.’

  ‘Easy, easy, not yet, I’m not.’

  ‘Area copper of the year, looks like you could win the nationals too – you’re a shoo-in.’

  ‘That’s not why I’m smiling.’

  Frost grinned and winked. ‘And I assume that’s not why Kim is smiling too.’

  John Waters stopped and grabbed Frost firmly by the shoulders, forcing the DI to stop too. Once the animated and about-to-be-DI had loosened his grip on the actual DI, Frost dipped into his bomber jacket and pulled out a fag from the pack of ten he’d nicked off the three girls and lit it up.

  ‘Go on, you’ve got until the end of this,’ he said, gripping the B&H betwixt thumb and forefinger and sucking down a huge tube of smoke that made the paper and noxious weed crackle and fizz. ‘Then I’ll just lose interest.’

  ‘I think I’ve sorted it out with Kim.’

  ‘Good to hear. I knew me giving absolutely no advice whatsoever was the right thing to do.’

  ‘When I got in last night, I was getting ready to kip on the sofa. And then I hear her call my name. I go into the bedroom—’

  ‘I might have to light up another smoke.’

  ‘It was great, the best ever, but that’s not the point!’

  ‘When you’re in my shoes, that’s the only point.’

  ‘She was smiling … she was smiling! It was like all the pain and hurt had left her. The ghost was gone, and Kim was back. That’s what really did it for me. She was happy to see me. The first time I’d seen that in a long time. And I was happy to see her, the old Kim, the girl I married …’

  It had been a while for him, but Frost got what his friend and colleague was talking about. That smile; sometimes that’s all that mattered. Frost looked down at his cigarette. There was probably another minute left on the clock, but Waters was right, Frost did have a spring in his step, so he gestured for his colleague to follow him.

  ‘You look … different, sort of taller,’ said Waters.

  ‘Yeah, my back’s cleared up.’

  ‘Sleeping on the floor must have done the trick.�
�

  Frost winked, beamed a smile and bounded off like a cheetah to take the steps to Eagle Lane two at a time.

  Five minutes later, Frost was standing in the incident room before the blackboard and the flip chart, which were now completely covered in names, dates, locations, arrows, hot tips, wrong turns and dead ends and positive sightings. It was the morning briefing, and the room was packed. Everyone in CID was in attendance. And there was a fair scattering of uniforms, too.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen – and Arthur – so far we have two prime suspects for Ruby Hanson’s abduction. One of whom, Gordon Alistair Dellinpile, known as “Degsy” to everyone who doesn’t really know him, is currently in custody, but will be released later today, without charge, due to lack of evidence. And then there’s Louisa Hamilton, who is in custody in Bristol.’ Frost checked his watch. ‘And will be joining us shortly, and will certainly be charged with perverting the course of justice and wasting police time. Kidnapping? No. So where does that leave us? A random snatch off the streets of Denton? Every parent’s nightmare, every policeman’s too.’

  Superintendent Stanley Mullett, who may well have been lurking at the back as was sometimes his wont during the morning briefing, now made his presence felt. He advanced towards the front, with reassuring utterances of ‘Morning’ and ‘As you were, as you were.’ He was now standing between DC Susan Clarke and Arthur Hanlon. Hanlon pocketed the oily sausage roll he’d been feasting on behind the broad-shouldered cover of John Waters’ back.

  Frost continued: ‘Can we link Ruby’s abduction to the murder of Kevin Wheaton in Denton Woods, and indeed of Wheaton’s mother in West Norwood? I believe we can.’

  Groans and gasps went up from those gathered in the incident room, as they considered the brutal nature of the murders. The idea that this killer was in the orbit of the little girl was unfathomable.

  But amongst all the collective anxiety, Stanley Mullett didn’t move, flinch, utter a sound or even seem to modulate his breathing. He just stared ahead of him, and ahead of him stood Jack Frost. Catching Mullett’s glacial gaze didn’t freeze the detective. Frost quietened everyone down and continued.

  ‘OK, listen up. First of all, and thanks to the stellar work performed by the team in questioning the protestors in Denton Woods, I believe we can eliminate those actually involved in the demo. As far as we’ve been able to establish, Kevin Wheaton had no interest, and was not involved in the protest. No one knew him, interacted with him, or was even really aware of him. Wheaton was just camped up there. The Wheaton murders, with our assistance, are, as you all know, being investigated by the south-east London murder squad. Working with DI David Garside, who’s heading the investigation, we’ve established that Kevin Wheaton spent time at Longthorn Secure Hospital – not as a patient, I stress, but as a visitor. Visiting one Conrad Wilde.’

  Now Frost heard a sound out of Mullett, not speech, but he could actually hear him bristle. He pushed on regardless.

  ‘This brings us back to the case of Ivan Fielding, who I believe died in suspicious circumstances—’

  ‘Jack, can I have a word, please,’ said Mullett, already on the half-turn towards the exit.

  ‘Sorry, sir, but I need to make this point to my team, now. It’s a matter of life and death.’

  ‘And I need to talk to you in private, now.’

  ‘I’ll repeat that, Superintendent Mullett, a matter of life and death. Time is of the essence, and above and beyond anything, my career included, my officers will be made aware of all the facts that we have uncovered to help bring Ruby Hanson home.’

  There wasn’t a pin to hand to test the theory, but you could certainly hear the rustle of the greaseproof paper that contained Arthur Hanlon’s jumbo sausage roll. Frost didn’t budge, stayed stock-still with a determination that emboldened his team. The mutterings of agreement and solidarity with Frost from the assembled officers made it damned clear to Mullett that if he wanted to stifle the information Frost had, he’d be writing out D11 reprimand notices to the whole incident room. Even the new civilian part-timer Rita, with the colourful hair, was craning her neck over the desk partition to see what was happening.

  Mullett was shrewd enough to know that if he didn’t want a mutiny on his hands, he’d have to let Frost speak. And Frost was astute enough to throw Mullett a bone so he wouldn’t be publicly humiliated, so he pretended to ask for permission.

  ‘May I carry on, sir?’

  ‘Very good, Jack, we can talk after.’

  ‘Indeed we can, sir, indeed we can.’

  Mullett exited the incident room nodding his approval, but obviously bruised by the episode. Once he was gone, Frost breathed easy, unravelled his red scarf from around his neck and unzipped his bomber jacket, to reveal he was wearing the same duds as last night. They smelt of whisky, cigarette smoke, and Hai Karate. But most of all they smelt of Chanel N°5.

  From the floor came groans and titters and, ‘I was hoping I’d never see that tie ever again, guv.’

  ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full, Arthur!’

  Frost then straightened the offending keyboard tie, and reached into his inside jacket pocket to pull out a photograph. He pinned it up on the incident board.

  ‘Here’s something else we need to consider very, very seriously. Ruby’s abduction might well be a case of mistaken identity.’

  Monday (2)

  She was going to go last night. But as brave as she was, she was still scared of the dark. And on a practical level, she knew that it was colder at night, and in the countryside it was even colder still. For she was sure she wasn’t in a town or a city. All she heard was the occasional caw of crows, and what she thought was the hoot of an owl. There was no whoosh of passing traffic, no chatter of human voices. I could be anywhere, she thought, miles from other houses, and certainly miles from home.

  At night, out there, in the woods, the forest, wherever they had taken her, she would stumble and fall and get eaten by wolves, her blood would be sucked by vampire bats, and her bones picked over by zombies. That was bound to happen. It’s bleedin’ well bound to, she thought. She then laughed to herself, she’d picked up some swear words from listening to the two Ronnie Reagans. Worse ones than bleedin’, but she wasn’t sure what they meant, so she wouldn’t use them. She’d ask Darren Blake, the boy whose dad ran the garage (Mum said they weren’t their sort), he was bound to know. Then she’d use them, she was sure.

  So morning was the best time for her to make her escape. After they’d given her some breakfast. It was usually Rice Krispies; or toast with lots of jam, more than Mummy gave her. She always said it was bad for her teeth. It was toast this time. Elevenses was in two hours’ time. She had a ‘gap in the diary’, as her daddy always said when he had some spare time. Then he’d write it down in his expensive Filofax. She hid the Filofax once when she heard him shout at Mummy. He almost cried, said he was lost without his Filofax. Ruby ‘found it’ for him, and he hugged her, said she’d saved his life. Shame he’s not here to save my life now, she thought. But she’d given up on that happening, it was up to her now. She knew you couldn’t rely on the grown-ups.

  She carefully pulled back the little chest of drawers and saw the light showing through the loose floorboards. They came away easily, because she had removed them once already. But this time it was for real. She lowered her head into the hole and saw the grate where the light flooded in. It looked like a bright day. Cold, but bright. She pulled her head out of the hole, glanced around the room and located her Cockleshell Bay rucksack, with her Little Miss Lucy doll inside. She realized that she hadn’t even taken it out of her bag the whole time she’d been here. And she knew that she wouldn’t be taking it with her now.

  Then down the hole in the floor she went, head first. She’d dithered about this, but decided this way she would see where she was going and so wouldn’t get stuck. The gap under the floorboards looked big enough to crawl along, but she suspected there was only a small amount of space between t
he top and the bottom. And if she got stuck, she couldn’t exactly call out for help. Wiggling herself through the oblong hole, she was soon down on the floor, which seemed to be made up of hard earth. She then saw that the space was much bigger than she expected. It looked like it stretched under half the house. But height-wise, it was fairly restricted, so she gave herself a gold star for going down head first, it had been the right thing to do.

  Even with the light from outside, it was still spooky down there. There were cobwebs like flavourless candy floss spread between the joists above her head, and lots of dead daddy-long-legs. It smelt earthy and damp, of rotting wood, with the curled-up corpses of dead woodlice like little cannonballs dotted around the dirt. The ground was cold and hard. Her knees were soon raw and bleeding as she crawled along, and she knew she’d end up with some big scabs. But she quite liked scabs on her knees, they tingled, and when you peeled them off, you could eat them, they tasted like salt and were chewy. She thought about the scabs because it stopped her thinking about the cobwebs that were brushing against her face and the dead insects caught in her hair. And she really didn’t want to see any live spiders.

  She had reached the grate. It was almost big enough to crawl through as most of the terracotta slats were broken and crumbling. With the heel of her hand, and pure determination, she punched away at the remaining ones until spots of blood bubbled up on her hand and trickled down her wrist. But she couldn’t feel the pain because the adrenalin that was pumping through her little frame was numbing everything. She was powered on by fear, determination and a newly found rage which she couldn’t quite account for. The hole was widening as the terracotta slats crumbled under her blows.

  She’d done it! She crawled through the vent, pulling herself along the ground with blunt little fingers digging in the grassy earth – until her feet shook free of the ventilation hole, and the house, and her captives. She stood up and looked around her. The house was a mixture of grey stone and timber – a cottage, she supposed, but without a picturesque thatched roof, just dark slates. Actually, she thought, it’s more of a chalet than a cottage. But whatever it was, it was in a state of disrepair, with most of the windows boarded up. What looked like a lot of builder’s materials was stacked up against one wall, planks of wood and sheets of plasterboard in plastic covers. They reminded her of Daddy. He drew houses and buildings and sometimes at the weekends she’d go with him when he had to visit a building site.