The Murder Map

by Danny Miller

  Frost weighed this up with a little wobble of his head. ‘Sounds like a fairly common name.’

  ‘Yeah. But one is now registered as living in Germany, he’s in the army. The other one died twelve years ago. Murdered in a pub car park. Had his throat cut. Suspected weapon, a Stanley knife. He was a carpenter. The culprit was never found.’

  Frost stopped trying to free his finger from the hole of the address book as he leaned heavily against the wall. He could feel a sudden rush of cold sweat eddying down his back, like someone had just turned on the tap.

  ‘Guv? You there?’

  ‘I’m still here.’

  ‘Also, the lab boys came back with the blood samples found where Wilkes walks Plato, and from the shop. O-Negative. Same blood group as Wilkes.’

  Frost wanted to say, ‘It’s a fairly common blood group,’ just like he had with the name Thomas Phelps, but knew he couldn’t. He knew Charles Wilkes was dead.

  ‘The bloke in the white van, do you remember the face? Could you pull it out of some photos?’

  ‘Don’t know, maybe, I think so.’

  Frost was getting annoyed. ‘What do you mean, maybe, you think so? Was he ginger with a big hooked nose and one eye in the middle of his forehead?’

  ‘That’s the problem, guv, now I think of it, he had no real distinguishing features. He was sort of mousy … brown eyes … not blue … hard to describe … very … forgettable?’

  ‘You’ve just remembered that he’s forgettable, I guess that counts as something. Check him against the photo IDs we have of employees or patients of Longthorn. Anything comes up, call me here or on the radio.’

  Frost dropped the phone down in its cradle, pulled the now-broken address book off his finger, and went back into the living room. Relations between mother and daughter had settled after the emotional Geiger-counter reading had gone off the scale. They were holding hands, more of an effort on Vanessa’s part than Sally’s.

  ‘What do you know about Charles Wilkes?’ asked Frost, to no one in particular, waiting to see who picked it up first.

  ‘He’s an artist. He bought the painting Dad gave me, my third of it, anyway.’

  The detective frowned. ‘Why did he buy the painting if he’s an artist? I think we’re all agreed it was rubbish.’

  ‘He bought it at our school jumble sale for ten pence or something. He wanted it because it was a stretched canvas. He was going to paint over it. Lots of artists do that.’ Sally turned to her mother. ‘Stephen asked me about it the other day. He said that you wanted the painting, or something.’

  Vanessa shook her head. ‘No, that’s not true, I didn’t want it at all. In fact, I threw the one I had out.’

  Sally turned back to Frost. ‘I remember he got quite tetchy about it.’

  ‘Parker?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t think anything of it, what with what’s been happening lately.’

  ‘Charles Wilkes was reported missing today. I think he may be in danger because he had Sally’s third of the painting. And I think Stephen Parker and Ella are in danger because Parker has your third of the painting, Vanessa. I found Stephen’s business card in Wilkes’ wastepaper basket.’

  Frost watched intently as Vanessa Fielding’s eyes flicked up from the carpet she’d been staring at. ‘You think … you think Stephen is involved in this?’ she asked.

  He ignored her question. ‘Did you actually throw it out, or did Stephen do it?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Stephen did.’

  ‘You saw him do it, or you just assumed he had?’

  She shrugged. ‘Assumed. Only because he always takes the rubbish out … You think Stephen is after the—’

  ‘The treasure!’ Sally cut her mother off and went over to the dining table which looked like it served as her workspace. Frost had never seen a graphic designer’s desk before, but imagined it would look something like the table that Sally was searching now. There were lots of loose leaves of artist’s paper with perfectly executed drawings and logo designs on them, artist’s sketchpads, stacks of magazines for inspiration, and scissors and scalpels for cutting out patterns. Frost felt a camaraderie with Sally and her cluttered desk, it was just like his. He also felt the same sense of triumph when she eventually found what she was looking for under the pile of papers and clippings.

  ‘I didn’t think it was important. It’s Treasure Island. Ella drew pictures of it. She’s like me, not very verbal, couldn’t express how she felt about losing her granddad, so her teacher told her to draw her memories of Dad.’

  Sally handed Frost and her mother Ella’s drawings. Frost had three of them, Vanessa had two. But they were almost identical. It was Ivan and Ella, dressed as pirates, on the mounds in the woods, which through the magical mind of a child were easily transformed into Treasure Island.

  ‘Ella said she and Dad played there. I remember when she told me, I felt a twinge of jealousy, because he never had with me. But then I remembered – Dad did take me there once. It was where he used to play as a kid …’ Her voice quaked, a tear escaped. ‘… I didn’t show any interest then. I was already a teenager when I moved to the area, or certainly felt like one. I was eleven or twelve. And I hated Denton, resented being taken away from London and my friends. Hated the house. But Dad used to play with Ella there. They used to dress up like pirates. This was before he got really ill with the drinking, about two, three years ago. Dad swore her to secrecy. Said it was a special place for him and his best friend. She did these a couple of days ago. I usually pin her work up in the kitchen or somewhere, but I’d forgotten all about them, what with everything—’

  Vanessa stood up sharply and said, ‘Ella’s drawings are the same as Conrad’s. It’s a place in the woods.’

  ‘Do you know where this is?’

  ‘I’ll show you,’ she said, going to put on her coat.

  ‘He’s hurting me.’

  Parker attempted a stern look at Banes. It didn’t work. Banes, whose hand was firmly clasped around Ella Fielding’s shoulder, just stared back blankly at Parker and issued the first of what would be his many instructions.

  ‘She’s fine, don’t want her running off and getting lost, do we?’ With his free hand Banes tossed Parker the van keys. ‘Get the shovel out of the back. There are two torches in there as well.’

  ‘You’re well prepared, aren’t you?’

  Banes smirked. ‘That’s not the half of it. Rolled up in the grey blanket by the wheel mount is a C Scope CS2M.’

  ‘What the hell’s that?’

  ‘It’s a metal detector. Don’t drop it, it’s brand new.’

  They were on the other side of Denton Woods, the part that abutted Ivan Fielding’s property, well away from where the tree-clearing work was to take place. They had parked the white Bedford van on a dirt track as far into the woods as possible. It was dark now, the moon was a slim crescent providing little light. The twinkle, twinkle of little stars was muted by misty clouds that hung over the woods. The ground felt damp, slippery, the air smelt of mulch and pine.

  It had been little Ella who had led the way, taking them up this track, away from the road and the houses. She insisted that she knew where she was going. She would never forget her and Granddad’s Treasure Island, because to do so would be to forget him. And she would never do that.

  As she led the way, she obviously grew dissatisfied with the two grown-ups’ explanation of why they wanted to see the place where she’d played pirates with her grandfather.

  ‘Why do you want to see it now, why not in the morning?’

  ‘That’s a good question,’ said Parker. ‘Why not wait until the morning?’

  Banes, his voice raspy now, said, ‘Because I don’t have the time. It’s now or never.’

  Ella said, ‘But why? Why do you have to go now? What’s so important—’

  Banes groaned. ‘Because, kid, there really is bloody treasure buried on that island of yours, and when we find it, Uncle Stephen over there will buy yo
u Barbie dolls—’

  ‘I don’t like Barbie dolls,’ she said, suddenly stopping in her tracks.

  ‘Cabbage Patch dolls? I hear that’s what all the kids like today.’

  ‘Ruby Hanson had a Cabbage Patch doll. Did you take her away in your van?’

  Exasperated, Banes turned to Parker. ‘What the hell is she talking about?’

  Ella, full of anger for her missing classmate, shouted and punched Banes in the stomach. ‘You did! I know you did! I know you did …’

  Banes, doubled up, hunched over, his breathing laboured, uttered curses, caught out by the strength of the little girl’s anger and her powerful little punch.

  Parker grabbed Ella’s hand. ‘OK, that’s enough … this is over with. I’m taking Ella home.’

  Banes straightened up suddenly and as he did so, he grabbed Ella by the hair and snatched her out of Parker’s weak grip. She screamed, then stopped, as she felt the blade of the Stanley knife press into her throat.

  ‘Maybe you should wait here?’

  ‘No way,’ said Sally to her mother.

  They were just about to leave Sally Fielding’s flat. Frost stepped in. ‘That might not be such a bad idea, Sally, just in case Ella does comes home. She’ll need someone here.’

  Sally gestured to the WPC standing behind her. ‘I thought she was staying here?’

  ‘But Ella doesn’t know WPC Begbie.’

  Sally Fielding obviously saw the logic of this, but still looked set to protest, when she was cut short by an urgent knock on the door. It was Simms. The PC was brandishing an A4 Manila envelope like a sixteen-year-old with some good O-Level results. Frost was expecting him. But he wasn’t expecting what was stood by his side looking up at him.

  ‘Plato?’

  Plato the dog dutifully barked back at Frost. It was an officious bark, almost like a salute, like it was reporting for duty.

  ‘He was in the incident room, we were waiting for the RSPCA to pick him up, then I thought …’

  ‘He’s clever, he can sniff things out, like a bloodhound … Good thinking, Simmo!’ He gestured to the envelope. ‘What else you got?’

  ‘I’ve got a name and a picture. Clive Banes. He worked at Longthorn as an orderly and then he quit. Nothing unusual there, you’re right, guv, they quit all the time. But this one …’ Simms handed over the envelope and Frost reached in to look at the picture. Brownish thinning hair, glasses and a goatee beard, mid-thirties. ‘… He left a couple of days after Conrad Wilde died, and he worked in the infirmary, had full access to—’

  Frost raised his nicotine-stained finger for Simms to shut up. ‘Excuse us for just a second,’ he said to Sally and Vanessa as he hustled Simms and Plato out of the flat into the hallway by the lifts for some privacy. But he still spoke in a hushed voice. ‘Sally Fielding doesn’t know about the Wheaton murders and the potential connection.’

  ‘You think their killer has Ella?’

  Frost didn’t want to say it, but gave a strained look that suggested he did. Simms pointed at the picture in Frost’s hand. ‘That’s a close enough likeness to the man we spoke to, Thomas Phelps. Phelps didn’t have the beard and wasn’t wearing glasses, but he had the same hair. Sort of combed forward because it looked like it was thinning.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ mumbled Frost, examining the photo and running a hand over his receding hairline.

  ‘I’ve got Rita going through the database, seeing if we can get an address.’

  ‘I bet pound notes for peanuts she won’t turn up anything. Because there’s a really good chance that this Clive Banes doesn’t exist. Just like Thomas Phelps.’ Frost again considered the photo in his hands of Clive Banes … Thomas Phelps … or whoever the hell he was, and even though Simms had recognized the man in it, the image still seemed out of focus, indistinct, and anonymous.

  ‘Where to now, guv?’

  ‘Take Plato for a walk in the woods.’

  Ten minutes later, Simms was at the steering wheel of the Metro with Frost in the front telling him to put his foot down, and Vanessa Fielding sat in the back gently petting Plato. Reason had prevailed and Sally was waiting at home for Ella’s return, which Frost had promised her.

  They drove in silence to Ivan Fielding’s house. Vanessa knew the spot they were headed to, of course she did. She didn’t need Conrad’s terrible depictions of the three little mounds that had been ‘treasure islands’ in the childhood imaginations of three generations, and, now, were possibly so in reality.

  As they reached the village, the car radio crackled into life. It was John Waters for Frost.

  ‘… Me and Clarke have just arrived at an RTA … Harry Baskin’s Rolls-Royce has been driven into a ditch. Over.’

  ‘How is he – alive? Over.’

  ‘Harry’s not in the car. A really big bald bloke is. One of his men. Over.’

  ‘Bad Manners Bob, probably. So where’s Harry? Over.’

  ‘No sign of him. But Bob’s in a bad way, paramedics are tending him now. Unconscious, and looks like he’s been shot. Over.’

  ‘Gordon bleedin’ Bennett. Over.’

  ‘I thought you’d say that. He’s still breathing, got an oxygen mask on. But they can’t get him to the hospital yet, they’re going to have to cut him out of the car. Over.’

  Frost winced. ‘So how bad was the accident? Over.’

  ‘Not bad at all. The car wasn’t going at speed, it just sort of rolled into a tree, by the looks of it. Barely dented the bumper. Over.’

  ‘So why are they cutting him out of the car? Over.’

  ‘Because he’s so fat. Over.’

  Frost couldn’t argue with that. ‘Get looking for Harry Baskin. The Coconut Grove, his home, his car lot, that pub he’s got in town. Let me know the minute you hear anything. Over and out.’

  ‘Drive slowly, Harry, we don’t want to attract any attention, do we?’

  McVale said this as his BMW, which Baskin was driving, passed a string of coppers surrounding the floodlit site of Jarrett & Sons. The number of protestors had trebled. A busload of uniforms had been pulled in from all over the county to counter them. Truncheons weren’t drawn yet, but with the anger and chanting from the angry mob raising the temperature, this part of Denton Woods was dry tinder about to ignite at any minute.

  Harry Baskin dropped his speed. He knew that even though he was at the wheel, it was Jimmy McVale who had control of the car. His gun was concealed in his leather jacket, but again, Harry knew that if he made one wrong move it would be quickly out of McVale’s pocket and aimed at his head.

  ‘You still mad at me, Harry?’

  ‘You shouldn’t have shot him.’

  ‘He shouldn’t have sneaked up on me like that. We kept him outside for his own good. Doesn’t he know how to knock?’

  ‘Bad Manners Bob is a good man, I wouldn’t have him with me if I couldn’t trust him.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to, it was just a reflex reaction.’

  Baskin gave a mounful shake of his head. ‘Shouldn’t have left him there. Could have taken him to the hospital, seen what they could do.’

  ‘When someone comes in with a bullet wound, the doctors are duty-bound to call the law. Who knows what he’d have said, if he was alive? And anyway, I can’t have him bleeding all over the motor. And let’s face it, he’s not exactly inconspicuous. Scratching and sneezing all over the place. He was getting on my fuckin’ nerves, better off where he is.’

  Harry Baskin considered this. That was more like the truth. Jimmy McVale didn’t like Bob, so he shot him. But Harry knew there was also another motive behind his actions, and wondered when it would be his turn to start ‘getting on Jimmy’s fuckin’ nerves’. When McVale had the bearer bonds in his hands, he suspected.

  ‘Oh, well. One of them things. Bob knew what he was getting into when he came to work for me. Don’t know what I’m gonna say when they find him, though.’

  Jimmy McVale smiled – a smile of recognition, perhaps. Harry was just lik
e him, a fully paid-up member of the self-preservation society. ‘Say you heard there was activity down at your cottage. Burglars. You sent Bob down to take a look. They must have shot him. You know what the countryside is like, more dangerous than the city, everyone’s got a gun and is out shooting things.’

  Harry Baskin made some satisfied humming noises as he weighed this up. He liked it. And he made sure that Jimmy McVale saw that he liked it, and that they were squared off and on good terms again.

  ‘One thing about all this I don’t understand is … the books. I mean, you wrote one, you’re writing another, I thought you were set to earn a lot of money with the books. I heard they were going to make a film. You could go to Hollywood, might get the opportunity to rump Raquel Welch!’

  McVale laughed. ‘No money in writing, it’s a mug’s game.’

  ‘The missus loves Harold Robbins, I’m sure he earns a few quid.’

  ‘You want the truth? I’ve never written a book in my life.’

  Harry Baskin scrunched up his face in confusion.

  ‘It was all a ruse to get parole.’

  Harry Baskin banged his fist on the steering wheel. ‘I knew it! I fucking knew it! But you were so convincing … even I thought …’

  ‘I convinced a parole board too.’

  ‘How did you …?’

  ‘I used a ghost writer. I’ve never even read the book I was supposed to have written. Well, bits, at book signings. Writing books, fuck that, it’s boring, sat on your arse all day. No, mate, mug’s game.’

  ‘But didn’t you get some degrees?’

  ‘I cheated. I got College Charlie to write all my papers. He was at Cambridge before he got into the forgery game. He was doing a five stretch, so I had to work fast. Or rather he did. Or I’d break his fuckin’ hands.’

  Harry Baskin shook his head, finding it hard to fathom the depths of McVale’s dishonesty, or of his own gullibility. The momentary self-loathing was cut short when he heard a thump, like he’d hit something, or maybe just a bump in the road.

  ‘What was that?’

  It happened again, but it was clear it was no bump, it was coming from the rear of the car. The two gangsters looked around them, then at each other, mouths agape.