by Tim Ellis
‘Making a telephone call?’
‘Why?’
‘She needs to talk to somebody?’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Stop being dense, Lake. Why has she stopped here and made a call when she could have made it from her office, her mobile phone, or her home phone?’
Lake scratched her head.
‘I hope you haven’t got head lice?’
‘If I have, they’ve come from you.’
‘Well?’
‘So it can’t be traced?’
‘Exactly. As an ex-detective, she knows that any call made on a phone registered to her can be traced, so she finds a public telephone box.’
‘How did you know she . . .’
‘Because unlike you, I can read people. Once I realised she was lying, and saw her reaction to the note Mrs Flagg had received, I knew she’d have to contact the people responsible for Albert Flagg’s murder.’
Vickers came out of the box, climbed into her car and switched the engine on.
‘Should I follow her?’
‘No. We have what we came for. Go and find out the location of the phone box.’
‘The location?’
‘There’ll be a small printed sign inside that identifies its location.’
‘Okay.’ She climbed out.
He watched her scrabbling about inside the unlit phone box trying to find the sign. Eventually, she grabbed a passer-by who was smoking and asked him to hold his cigarette lighter up, so that she could find the sign.
‘Can I have an easier task next time?’ she said, when she climbed back into the car.
‘You got there in the end.’
‘Bridge Street.’
He called forensics.
‘Ryan Gulliver – duty technician.’
‘It’s DI Dark. Is Burrows there?’
‘No.’
‘Tyree?’
‘No.’
‘Wong?’
‘No. There’s only me. Everyone else has gone home. You do know it’s eight-thirty on a Friday night, don’t you?’
‘Criminals don’t limit themselves to office hours Monday to Friday, Gulliver.’
‘I’ve heard that before. Is there anything I can do?’
‘I need the last number called from a telephone box on Bridge Street in Buxton.’
‘I take it that a Search Warrant will be forthcoming?’
‘You take it right.’
‘Would you like me to call you back in a couple of minutes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will do.’
The line went dead.
‘Don’t you need a Search Warrant to do that?’ Lake said.
‘I doubt that very much.’
‘The Chief Superintendent won’t like it.’
‘Do you think I care what his likes and dislikes are?’
‘I expect not.’
‘Results are what matter. Breaking a few stupid rules that are designed to protect the guilty is not something I worry too much about.’
His phone vibrated.
‘Dark.’
‘I have the number, Sir.’
‘And?’ He nudged Lake to get her notebook and pencil out.
‘It was the main number for the Whitchurch Architectural Partnership on St Ann Street in Manchester – 0161 879 7065.’
He repeated what Gulliver said, so that Lake could write it down. ‘And you don’t know who the caller spoke to inside the building?’
‘No. That would require hacking into the communications server at Whitchurch, and I’m not authorised to do that.’
‘But you could do it if you were authorised?’
‘Yes, but I’m not going to without that authorisation coming from a senior officer – no offence, Sir.’
‘None taken. Thanks for your help, Gulliver.’
‘Glad to be of service.’
He ended the call.
‘Whitchurch Architectural Partnership!’ Lake said. ‘Why would ACC Vickers call someone there?’
‘That’s the second good question you’ve asked today, Lake. Right, I think it’s time to go home. Wake me up when we reach Bootle Street.’
‘I’m tired as well. You could drive.’
He let out a laugh. ‘I wouldn’t even know where to start with this contraption. And drive properly on the way back.’
‘I drove properly on the way here.’
‘If I thought that was true, I’d make you take your test again.’
***
A pain shot through his arm.
‘I’m not asleep, Lake. You could simply utter “Sir”, and I’d open my eyes.’
‘We’re here.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Twenty past ten.’
‘Did you pull into a layby and have forty winks yourself?’
‘I should have done.’
‘Okay. Don’t forget about the hundred and seventy-five pounds you owe me.’
‘I won’t.’
‘And my best advice would be for you to get something to eat, so that you’re not begging your boss for meals all day tomorrow. Also, instead of going out clubbing tonight, try and grab some sleep. That way, you’ll be able to stay awake should the need arise.’
‘You’re the one who’s slept all day.’
‘That’s because I was the one who was working past midnight.’
‘Anyway, tomorrow’s Saturday.’
‘I wish you were as observant when we’re interviewing suspects. Nice and early in the morning – eight o’clock. We have a lot of work to get through.’
‘Maybe I should see Henn about that transfer to the SCD.’
‘He’s not back until Monday, but if you do want that transfer I’ll give you a mediocre reference.’
‘Thanks.’
‘The least I can do.’ He shut the door, but it wouldn’t stay shut, so he slammed it. ‘We’ll be travelling in my car from now on.’
‘You’ve hurt Monty’s feelings.’
He heard the car clatter away.
Instead of going to his Rav-4, he walked into the station. Before going anywhere, he needed half an hour of thinking time to fit the pieces into place without Lake jabbering in his ear and snapping at his heels.
After making himself a coffee, he stood in front of the whiteboard and added the pieces that they’d collected during the day. They’d visited Rose Hill Primary School and discovered that Toby Flagg was an intelligent boy who’d had a promising future taken away from him by the death of his father. Then, they’d driven to the Inland Waterways Association in Congleton, which held enough information about the comings and goings on the canal to enable forensics to construct a map that would identify where each narrowboat had been located, and who was in each boat, at the time of Flagg’s death.
Lake had cancelled the forensic analysis of the CCTV footage from Marple train station, and he wondered whether he should re-initiate that analysis. If he didn’t, he knew it would be a loose end flapping about in the wind. It would haunt him until he nailed it down. Dixie wasn’t the only one with OCD. He’d email Burrows and tell her to complete the analysis. Even if they found nothing, it meant he could sleep at night without recurring nightmares . . . Well, he would be able to, if there weren’t a thousand other nightmares preventing him from sleeping.
There’d been no CCTV footage at Rose Hill train station, but they had three eyewitnesses who had seen Toby Flagg there with two men, and Burrows was organising E-FITs of those two men, which they’d receive in the morning and distribute to the press. However, there was still a gaping hole between Flagg meeting those two men on Monday evening and his death in the early hours of Tuesday morning, which they couldn’t seem to fill.
The professor had confirmed Toby Flagg’s identity, and the toxicological analysis had recorded a significant amount of Rohypnol in his system, which meant that although he’d still been alive, he’d been rendered unconscious before the wooden stake was hammered into
his heart. It also meant that they could be looking for one or more killers. He still had no idea what the 794 engraved into the wood meant, but maybe it meant nothing. Even as the thought entered his mind he dismissed it – he knew the number had been put there for a reason, but what reason? Maybe he should ask Burrows to look at it rather than hoping something might turn up.
They’d travelled to New Mills and searched Toby Flagg’s apartment, which had provided them with three key pieces of information – a photograph of Miranda and Albert Flagg in Rhyl, North Wales dated October 13, 1990; a short unsigned note addressed to Mrs Miranda Flagg, which was dated June 18, 2002 – four days after Albert Flagg had been mown down by a stolen black BMW. He stuck the evidence bag with the note in it onto the whiteboard. He’d give it to Burrows in the morning. Maybe they’d be able to lift DNA or fingerprints off the paper. It was doubtful after all this time, but he had to try.
He read the note again:
You know why he was killed.
Leave now.
If you stay, your boy will be next.
What did that mean: “You know why he was killed”? It implied that Miranda Flagg knew why her husband was killed. Her husband must have confided in her. If she did know, it looked as though she took the information to the grave with her. She didn’t tell Toby, but maybe she told her second husband. They’d have to drive over to Chester and talk to him.
And then there was the key with the alphanumeric code on it. At least they’d identified where and what it belonged to. Would they find anything in the box? If they did, would it help them? They’d go there first thing tomorrow morning with the Search Warrant and open the box.
Burrows had found someone else’s DNA on Flagg’s black jacket, which reminded him – Joseph Corbyn should be taking things easy in a cell if they’d been able to find him. He’d interview him before going home, but he’d let him stay overnight. Homeless people were always grateful for a bed and some hot food, especially with the weather as it was. He could imagine that a few of the homeless would die on the streets of Manchester in the freezing January weather.
Then, they’d travelled to Buxton. His lip curled up. He could imagine Henn’s face when he told him that ACC Angela Vickers was a corrupt copper. Proving it, of course, would be another matter. The illegal trace of a call from a public telephone box couldn’t be used as evidence, but maybe there were other threads that linked her to Whitchurch Architectural Partnership. First though, he had to find out exactly who she’d called, and he was sure Hendrik could do that for him.
They’d also have to visit the solicitors – Alexander, Flagg & Druitt on Strines Road in Marple – if they were still called that and still in business. With Flagg’s demise, they might have recruited a new partner, or folded. If they were still a going concern, would they recall the cases Flagg had been working on? Would one of those cases include a link to the Whitchurch Architectural Partnership?
And although he’d had to sacrifice control, comfort and safety by travelling in Lake’s death-trap of a car, he’d managed to catch up with some of his paperwork and come out of it alive, which he would be eternally thankful for.
It appeared as though Whitchurch were behind Albert Flagg’s death, but he still had no idea why. Nor, who at the company was involved. The other dilemma he had was whether they killed Toby Flagg? Although everything was pointing in that direction, the murder seemed too elaborate in comparison to the father’s murder. Why inject him with Rohypnol? Why use a wooden stake? Why carve the number 794 into the wood? No, he wasn’t convinced that father and son had both been killed by Whitchurch.
But if Whitchurch didn’t kill Toby, who did?
He picked up the final post-mortem report from the fax machine and skimmed through it. The professor was right, there was nothing new in the final version except the toxicology results.
Next, he logged onto the network and sent Burrows an email with a list of things for her to do. And he also printed it off and stuck it to the whiteboard:
Ignore what Lake told you, finish the CCTV analysis from Marple train station;
Collect the evidence bag with the note inside on the whiteboard in my office and test for DNA and fingerprints;
Get one of your people to figure out what the 794 means on the wooden stake (blow up photograph attached);
Bring the E-FIT pictures of the two men from Rose Hill train station;
Bring the map showing the location of all narrowboats on the Peak Forest Canal at the time of Flagg’s death.
He then scanned his inbox. As usual, most of the emails could wait, but he did find the one sent by Burrows with Toby Flagg’s bank, credit card and mobile phone records attached. He printed them off, sat down at his desk and skimmed through the sheaf of papers looking for any recorded activity between Monday afternoon and Tuesday morning, but there was nothing – no phone calls to and from Toby’s phone, no activity in his bank and no purchases on his card.
What did catch his eye on the mobile phone records, however, was the Whitchurch main telephone number – 0161 879 7065. Toby had called them on Monday morning at eleven-fifteen and the call lasted three minutes.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the elaborate murder was to throw the police off the scent. He didn’t believe it, but the phone call was damning evidence, especially as Whitchurch were involved up to their necks with Albert Flagg’s murder. He needed proof though – proof that could be used in a court of law.
He made a list in his notebook of the tasks that they had to complete tomorrow, photocopied it and stuck that on the whiteboard as well:
Visit Montague’s Safe Deposit Storage on Ducie Street in Piccadilly and open box EB54;
Visit Whitchurch Architectural Partnership on St Ann Street;
Visit Alexander, Flagg & Druitt on Strines Road, Marple and ask about Albert Flagg’s cases;
Visit 27 Conway Close in Saltney, Chester to find out what Victor Green – Mrs Flagg’s common-law second husband and Toby’s stepfather knew;
Check up on Joseph Corbyn.
He called the Custody Sergeant.
‘Sergeant Wyndam.’
‘Have you got someone called Joseph Corbyn in one of your five star cells?’
‘Is that Inspector Dark?’
‘It is.’
‘I’ve been told to tell you, if you asked, which you have, that they haven’t found him yet, Sir. They’ll keep looking, as instructed, but no sightings so far.’
‘Thanks, Sergeant.’
‘Always a pleasure.’
He thought about driving up to Dixie’s place in Macclesfield, but then he remembered that he had to go through his PNBs and list all the dates that Ellie had been away with Riverbank Catering between 2002, and when she got pregnant with Cleo in 2007 and stopped working for them. He didn’t think there were that many times the company had asked her to work, but it was a good few years ago, so his memory wasn’t to be relied upon.
He logged off the computer, washed his mug and switched the lights off on his way out.
The wind had picked up and it was bitterly cold outside. Too cold to snow, if that was possible.
It was quarter to midnight when he climbed into his SUV and discovered that it wouldn’t start. His immediate thought was that Lake had sabotaged it, but he realised how ridiculous that was as soon as it entered his head.
What now?
He knew that he couldn’t leave it until morning. Lake would have a field day. He’d never hear the last of it. At least he had breakdown cover. He called the emergency number.
‘AA,’ a happy female voice said. ‘Can I take your membership number?’
He gave it.
‘How may we help you on this chilly evening?’
‘My car won’t start.’
‘You’re not on the motorway are you, Sir?’
‘No.’
‘Are you on a road?’
‘No. I’m parked up in Bootle Street Police Station in Manchester.’
‘I see.’
>
‘I’m a Detective Inspector and I’d like to go home.’
‘Oh! In that case, we should be able to assist you.’
‘I am glad.’
‘Have you put your hazard lights on?’
‘Not necessary. I’m in the police station car park.’
‘Can you stay with the car, Sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wear a reflective jacket if you have one.’
‘I’m staying in the car.’
‘That’s fine. Someone will be with you in twenty minutes.’
‘Thank you.’
The line went dead.
Within twenty minutes an AA van arrived. A man climbed out. ‘Car won’t start, I believe?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Release the bonnet and then try starting the engine.’
He did as instructed.
The engine made a series of clicking noises.
‘Okay,’ the mechanic shouted. ‘Try it now.’
He turned the key in the ignition. The engine started first time.
The mechanic closed the bonnet. ‘All sorted, mate.’
‘What was wrong with it?’
‘One of your spark plug leads had worked itself loose.’
‘Could it have been sabotaged?’
‘Of course, but it could just as easily have worked itself loose. Why, do you suspect sabotage?’
‘No.’
‘Have a good evening, Sir.’
‘And you.’
The mechanic drove away.
The lead must have worked itself loose. He couldn’t believe that Lake had the balls, or the technical know-how to sabotage his car. He’d keep quiet about it. The Chinese called it saving face – that’s exactly what he planned to do.
***
Saturday, January 18
He reached home at five to one. He’d be lucky if he got four hours sleep after he’d been through his PNBs.
After making a coffee, he retrieved the cardboard box containing his old notebooks from the garage and began rifling through them, making a list as he went: