The Murder Map

by Danny Miller

  Banes managed to arch an impressed-looking eyebrow. ‘How do you know about all this?’

  ‘One of my degrees is in criminology. I did my thesis on the coded language of criminality. The amount of time that Conrad Wilde spent in prison, I’m sure he must have picked up the trick.’

  ‘And your mate Ralph can detect it?’

  Parker gave some enthusiastic nods at this.

  ‘Right, let’s go and see Ralph,’ said a grinning Banes, also rising to his feet.

  Parker aped Banes’ grin, as once again his moral compass swung wildly, and all the horror was gone, and he was once again caught up in the excitement and the fantasy.

  Monday (3)

  She ran and ran and ran until she had stitches in her tummy and her thumping little heart felt like it wanted to burst through her chest; like that space monster that Ranjit Patel showed her in the film magazine he hid in his desk. But most importantly, she ran until she was sure she was far away from the house. She didn’t know where she was, she didn’t recognize the woods. Mummy and Daddy, when Daddy wasn’t working, often took her for drives in the countryside, but none of this looked familiar to her. She could have been on the other side of the world for all she knew.

  The trees were tall and clustered closely together, the tops were waving, a moving canopy that made everything dark. The ground was thick with ferns and tangled skeins of dead roots. The undergrowth was deep enough to hide things, the things she was scared of. So she pressed forward, letting the woods lead her. The trees stretched on far beyond her field of vision, yet seemed to open up to her, maybe leading her to a path. She listened, above the sounds of nature, the birds, the whoosh of the wind in the tall trees. Then she heard it, a familiar sound: the steady thrum of a car engine drawing closer.

  She ran towards it. Faster and faster. The stitches returned, but she ran through them. But however fast she ran towards the sound of the car, it didn’t seem fast enough. A pain shot through her left heel, like she’d trodden barefoot on a piece of Lego at home. She saw that she’d lost one of her shoes. She didn’t even think of retrieving it, didn’t care that Mummy might be angry, she just pressed on.

  There was a bank of mud, mulch, bracken and shrubs that led to the lip of what she was sure was a road. Ruby scrambled up it, grabbing at the vegetation to climb up to what she now thought of as civilization. She ran into the centre of the gravelly track but saw nothing. Then she heard the harsh screech of tyres, the engine cutting out, a long skidding sound getting louder and louder. Ruby turned around to see the maroon car with its chrome bumper looming towards her, almost on top of her.

  She lay there, the cold gravel pressing into her back, her eyes closed, wondering if this was what getting run over and dying felt like. She was pretty sure it was.

  ‘Are you OK? … Are you …?’

  She heard the voice, it was soft, comforting. She felt hands gently cupping her cheeks.

  ‘Can you hear me … can you hear me?’

  The man’s voice was panicked this time, it had an urgency about it that made everything real. Ruby now knew she wasn’t dead. She opened her eyes and said, ‘I think so.’

  The man was crouched at her side. He was big, with a broad kind-looking face, and brown eyes that seemed close to tears. He muttered something like ‘Thank God for that.’ He carefully moved her head from side to side, as if inspecting it for cuts and blood, she thought.

  ‘You’re all right, sweetheart, nothing is broken. You weren’t hit, I stopped just in time. You must have fainted. Can you get up?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  Holding the man’s hand, Ruby got to her feet.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’

  ‘I’ve escaped.’

  ‘Escaped?’ The big man’s eyes narrowed and he looked confused. ‘Where are your parents?’

  ‘I was kidnapped, by some men. They put a pillowcase over my head and drove me to a house. I don’t know who they are … they wear Ronald Reagan masks.’

  ‘Jesus … You’re … you’re Ruby?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I recognize you, you’ve been in all the papers, on the TV.’

  He held her hand and guided her to the passenger seat of his car, and secured her with the seatbelt.

  ‘Can you take me home, please?’

  ‘Yes, of course, your poor parents must be worried sick. But before we do that, the first thing I have to do is call the police, let them know you’re safe, and they can tell your parents. OK?’

  Ruby nodded at the man, and whispered thank you. He smiled, his kind face letting her know she was safe. He started the engine.

  ‘Let’s get you home, Ruby.’

  ‘I think we’re wasting precious time discussing this, sir.’

  Mullett stood at his desk, with his hands clasped behind him. Seemingly solid and unmoving, yet Frost suspected he was sticking pins in an effigy he’d made of his recalcitrant DI. Frost almost felt sorry for him, but not quite. As soon as Mullett realized he was outgunned and outmanoeuvred during the briefing in the incident room, feeling the whole of CID turn against him, he decided to take the fight away from the nitty-gritty of investigative police work. And into his home ground, the realm of unquestioned authority, his oak-panelled office.

  ‘You lied to me, Frost, you lied to a superior officer when asked about your actions in an ongoing investigation.’

  ‘The clock is ticking, sir.’

  ‘You will tell me, Frost, or I will issue you with a disciplinary notice and remove you from duty.’

  ‘I didn’t lie to you, sir.’

  ‘You’re lying now.’

  ‘Bit strong. Do I need to call my union rep?’

  ‘Call bloody Arthur Scargill, for all I care – I have it on very good authority that you were seen with Captain Lionel Cavanagh at the Prince Albert Hotel yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘I won’t lie. Bang to rights. I was. But I wasn’t lying earlier. I wasn’t actively pursuing the case. When first investigating the death of Ivan Fielding and the signs of forced entry, you will recall, sir, we uncovered a hidden stash of stolen antiques. I took pictures of said hidden stash and showed them to DI Anthony Dorking, and—’

  ‘Frost, we’ve been over this before!’ Mullett interrupted angrily.

  ‘Yes, and you wouldn’t listen then either, sir. Just hear me out. Dorking told me Conrad Wilde’s and Ivan Fielding’s files have a D-Notice on them. Restricted access to only the most—’

  ‘I know what a D-Notice is, Frost. Get on with it.’

  ‘DI Dorking said he’d pass on my details to Captain Cavanagh, who headed up the Stolen Art and Antiques Squad in the ’60s, when Fielding and Wilde were criminally active. And because the captain was Ivan Fielding’s handler. I mentioned it to you before: Ivan was an informant. For Scotland Yard.’

  On hearing this, Mullett’s chest rose up like he was on parade. The mention of Scotland Yard always seemed to have that effect on him, like a man who had missed his true calling or position in life, and was destined for the provinces. Frost could see it had piqued his interest.

  ‘What did Cavanagh tell you yesterday?’

  ‘I thought you weren’t interested in 1967, and all that?’

  ‘Don’t be snide, Frost, I just have a penchant for solving cases in the correct manner.’

  Frost gave an internal groan at this, which must have escaped and made it out into the office.

  ‘You don’t understand my position, never have,’ said Mullett.

  Frost shrugged. ‘What do they say, you have to walk a mile in a man’s shoes to understand him? And your size elevens are far too big for me.’

  ‘I’m squeezed from the top and the bottom.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘ACC Winslow informed me there’s special interest in this case. The security services, Special Branch, who knows.’

  ‘I thought as much. Has he had me followed? Is that how you know I met with Cavanagh?’

&nbs
p; Mullett’s hornrimmed eyes, magnified as they were, gave nothing away, remaining impenetrable and steadfast. He ignored Frost and carried on with his own agenda.

  ‘And then I have to contend with you. You’re smug, Frost. You carry the smugness of a man who avoids responsibility. With your grossly inappropriate attire, and your sneering contempt for propriety and the ethics of your role, you just think the world revolves around you and only you can solve cases.’

  ‘My heart bleeds, and that clock is still ticking.’

  ‘If this really does relate to Ruby Hanson in some way – and I can’t imagine how – tell me what Captain Cavanagh said.’

  ‘In a nutshell: Jimmy McVale pulled off the ’67 Bond Street caper. Then had his haul stolen off him by Conrad Wilde. Who then buried it in Denton. Now Jimmy McVale is out of prison and wants to get his hands on the treasure. He’s gone the direct route: kidnap Ivan Fielding’s granddaughter, in the hope that Vanessa and Sally Fielding will give up whatever secrets they have. It’s McVale’s MO, he used to rob banks that way. Kidnapped the family of the manager to put pressure on him. Johnny Johnson, who read his book, told me all about it.’

  Stanley Mullett moved for the first time, and began to pace the dark parquet floor with a stiff and thoughtful gait. ‘And, as your photo showed, Sally Fielding looks remarkably like Gail Hanson, similar attractive features, same dark colouring. And this also applies to their two children, Ruby and …?’

  ‘Ella Fielding.’

  ‘Yes, they are also very similar, very similar.’

  ‘Right down to them having the same haircuts, both mothers and both daughters. Purdey cuts?’

  ‘What?’ Incomprehension blazed on Mullett’s face.

  ‘That’s the name of the haircut.’

  ‘I thought it was a Lady Di?’

  Frost shrugged.

  Mullett did the same, then said, ‘And you believe the killer of the Wheatons has a connection to Longthorn Secure Hospital, where Conrad Wilde was kept … and this business with the missing painting?’

  Frost gave a solid nod to this.

  Mullett shook his head and puffed out some breaths of exasperated air. He eventually stopped pacing and stood exactly where he’d set out from, a monolith encased in its inky-blue uniform with its shiny brass buttons. Unmovable and authoritative. Apart from sometimes, and this was one of those times.

  ‘OK, Inspector, you’ve convinced me. Do what you need to do, bring McVale in.’

  ‘Yes, sir, good call.’

  Of course, before joining Mullett in his office, the defiant detective had already given DS Waters the nod to bring Jimmy McVale in for questioning. He suspected that Mullett would see reason, and with all the facts laid out before him, the obdurate super indeed had little choice.

  And if he didn’t agree, well, Frost couldn’t give the proverbial monkey’s. Mullett was right, he wasn’t squeezed like him: the ambition, the politics, the raging upward mobility. Frost suffered none of this. Unburdened as he was, when he opened the door to leave he felt emboldened to ask, ‘With ACC Winslow content to suppress the case, have me followed, and no doubt come down on me like a ton of bricks, I would like to know where you stand. Not for my sake, you understand. I’ll be happily directing traffic in the next few months if all goes to plan. It’s just so that our terrific and hardworking team here at Eagle Lane aren’t wasting their bloody time.’

  ‘Bring in McVale and Ruby Hanson and I’ll handle the ACC.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  He hammered on the old front door, the coil of his clenched fist making the rustic old wooden planks dance and jostle and almost collapse. Inside he heard desperate sounds, like the stage whispers of some overcooked cockney Play for Today, about a pair of criminals holed up in an abandoned house in the woods.

  ‘Avon calling!’ Jimmy McVale laughed and quelled their fears. ‘Relax, it’s me.’

  ‘Jimmy?’

  ‘Course it is. I said I’d be down here today, didn’t I?’

  The door opened a crack, and a sliver of Tony Minton appeared. Seeing that it wasn’t a baritone Avon lady, he opened the door fully and let McVale in.

  The room looked like it was midway through some extensive building work. The walls had just been plastered. There was a pine kitchen table and some chairs gathered around it. A Calor gas heater in the hearth was waiting to be installed, and the floor was made up of some ancient-looking flagstones with some cheap old rugs thrown over them to warm the place up.

  On the pine table were the rubber Ronald Reagan masks. Eddie Tobin and Tony Minton sat down.

  ‘Not even so much as an offer of a cup of tea?’ said Jimmy McVale, peering into the adjacent kitchen that looked like it had just been fitted, or half of it anyway. There was a brushed-steel sink and a new fridge, a Baby Belling and a kettle. The cottage was obviously liveable in, with all essentials present.

  ‘You took your time,’ said Eddie.

  ‘I had some speaking engagements, some book signings. What would it look like if I dropped everything and rushed back down here? But seeing as you snatched the wrong bloody kid in the first place, it’s a bit of a moot point. How the hell did you manage it?’ he asked with a plangent sigh.

  ‘We’ve been through all this!’ barked Tony. ‘I knew it was a bad idea.’

  McVale didn’t raise his voice. It would seem that all the shouting that needed to be done had been done, down the phone. ‘Take it easy, Tone. I just want to point out that it’s worked before.’

  ‘We used to have more time before, we had better planning before,’ said Minton.

  McVale gave a humourless laugh. ‘We had a run-through, we followed the kid, Ella, Ella Fielding. You saw what she looked like. You said you’d got it.’

  Eddie was firm on the point: ‘It was rushed, we needed to find out her routine!’

  ‘Bullshit, you two just panicked, you saw a kid that might have looked like her, and you got sloppy and stupid and scared and just grabbed her like a couple of amateurs. If you had any doubts, you should have just driven past them, double-checked, or waited for the next day. You had a whole week to do it, and you fucked up royally.’

  Eddie Tobin balled his fist like he wanted to hit someone, but made do with thumping the table. Tony Minton, the more volatile of the two, shot up from his spindle-backed pine chair so fast he sent it crashing to the floor.

  Jimmy McVale stood his ground with the two men, his eyes full of challenge flitting from one to the other. But neither took him up on it, and McVale could see they were each as ineffectual as the other. Full of sound and fury, piss and vinegar, and pointless posturing. They were middle-aged, soft, had lost their edge, their ruthlessness. But McVale hadn’t. In prison he wasn’t afforded that luxury. You had to stay sharp, stay fit, stay strong, always on the alert because there was always someone ready to take you on. They might come at you with just their fists, but nine times out of ten they’d come tooled up with a shiv. Ready to cut your throat with a razor blade stuck to a toothbrush.

  Once McVale felt sure the two men had absorbed the clear fact that he, at least, was unchanged, he spoke, softly: ‘Remember, lads, it was you who came to me. I didn’t force you to do this. I just laid out a plan that you agreed to execute. Because it was a good plan.’

  Tony Minton picked up his chair and sat back down, hunched and beaten. Eddie Tobin took the half-smoked cigar that had been mouldering in the ashtray, stuck it in his mouth and breathed some life back into it. It had the same effect as a baby’s pacifier and calmed him down. Then both men eventually muttered, in unison, that it was a good plan and proceeded to offer explanations as to why it had gone wrong.

  Eddie said, ‘You’re right, we’ve been out of the game too long, not as sharp as we used to be. When you’re right, you’re right.’

  Tony said, ‘We saw the kid, what looked like the kid, and we wanted to get the job done. We was running on adrenalin, not brains. We’ll hold our hands up to that.’

  ‘So what
do we do now?’ asked Eddie.

  ‘Get her back home,’ said Tony, like it was the only viable option.

  McVale crossed his arms and paced around the room, mulling over their predicament. ‘Tell me, when exactly did she tell you her name was Ruby?’

  ‘We grabbed her,’ said Minton, ‘put some gaffer tape over her mouth to stop her screaming, a pillowcase over her head so she wouldn’t know where she was, then drove straight here. Then we calmed her down, said we wouldn’t hurt her.’

  ‘Promised we wouldn’t.’

  ‘Then … then she calmed down and said …’ Tony Minton turned to Eddie Tobin to finish off his thought, as he so often did.

  ‘“My name’s not Ella, it’s Ruby.” Thought she was being a smart-arse at first, they can be at that age … then we realized.’

  ‘We thought about trying to go after the real one,’ said Tony. ‘But it was too late by then. Police everywhere. The school was closed the next day. A patrol car parked outside the school gates, coppers going door to door.’

  Jimmy McVale’s face lightened out of its deep contemplative state. He then moseyed over to the table and picked up one of the Ronald Reagan masks. ‘And little Ruby, she’s not seen either of your faces?’

  ‘No, absolutely not,’ insisted Eddie Tobin. ‘We was very careful about that, very careful. When we snatched her we had stockings over our heads and baseball caps.’ He pointed at the masks on the table. ‘And we’ve been wearing these when we’ve been in her room.’

  Jimmy McVale nodded his approval. ‘So, that’s good, then. She’s not seen your faces, so we can just put the pillowcase back over her head, drive her into town and drop her back home. Right?’