by Ted Tayler
There was one more thing to do tonight. Gus called Terry Davis.
“Good evening, Terry,” he said, “Gus Freeman here. Are you free to chat?”
“I’m not working tonight, Freeman, so you’re in luck. Although. I did tell you I wasn’t keen on these chats becoming a regular occurrence. Who have you upset this time?”
“Nobody that I can recall. We’re taking a closer look into the murder of Laura Mallinder in 2011. She worked as a masseuse in a Swindon parlour. Someone stabbed her to death. Does it ring any bells?”
Terry Davis had retired to Marbella in 2013. Gus knew from the murder file he wasn’t on the team that carried out the initial investigation.
“I heard a few rumours,”
“That’s what I hoped, Terry. That network of informants and colleagues you established over the years gave you a comprehensive appreciation of what was going on around you.”
“You have a way with words, Freeman. I was looking after Number One.”
“Exactly, if you hadn’t kept your ear to the ground, you may not have made it to Marbella before Internal Affairs paid you a visit.”
“I think you’ll find they’re called the Independent Office for Police Conduct, Freeman. They never had enough to make a case because I did nothing wrong. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.”
“What rumours did you hear?” asked Gus.
“It pleased Hickerton to be dragged away from that case to concentrate on the knife crimes business. Jake Latimer is a good copper. Maybe he takes after me too much for his superior’s liking. Jake’s fond of a shortcut. If he can solve a case by taking the odd risk, he will do. If they’d left him to get on with this murder you’re on about, Jake would have found the killer. Hickerton’s a plodder who didn’t want to investigate crimes involving the sex trade. He considered Laura’s death as self-inflicted wounds. Theo’s no different to most of the top brass on the county force. They sweep the trade under the carpet. Pretend it isn’t there. They’ll dash out for a blitz on kerb-crawlers or streetwalkers to appease the locals, but anything more than that isn’t part of the overall plan.”
“We’ve identified glaring omissions from that initial investigation,” said Gus. “Hickerton’s covered his backside by running an annual token check on the fingerprints collected from the murder scene. Other than that, this is one of the coldest cold cases I’ve ever encountered.”
“Where did this girl work?” asked Terry.
“Gentle Touch, in Broadgreen,” said Gus, “it opened in early 2008.”
“If you can use the term to describe places such as that then Gentle Touch was one of the clean ones,” said Terry. “I never heard a whisper of anything illegal occurring there.”
“Maggie Monk, the owner, prides herself on providing a service that means they never risk a raid. She would be horrified if her premises got thrown into the same basket as those catering for the grubbier end of the sex trade.”
“The public might take a different view. Many want every parlour closed for good. The force’s policy can be ambivalent. They allow brothels to operate, providing they create a safe environment for the women. I could show you a dozen properties in towns surrounding Devizes that couldn’t be further from what you might expect of a brothel. It’s just as likely to be operating in a smart, two-bedroomed flat, or a semi-detached three-bedroomed townhouse. They will be modern, pleasant and warm places, not the dirty hovels you associate with the sex trade.”
“That’s all very well,” said Gus, “but many girls trafficked across the UK are drug-addicted and controlled by vicious pimps. Look at the Albanian gangs, such as the Rexha brothers. The brothers were in that line of business before they moved into marijuana.”
“Look,” Terry said, “say nothing to Neil, but call around to chat with a friend of mine, Donna. I’ll text you her address later after I’ve warned her you’re coming. She won’t charge you full whack for her time. She knows I can make things difficult for her. You’ll see the bigger picture. Who knows, she may have crossed paths with this girl, Laura?”
“Donna, you say?” said Gus, “I suppose she’s the ubiquitous tart with a heart?”
“We bumped into one another in bars several times over the decade,” said Terry. “Donna’s getting too old for the game now but she won’t retire while a few of her elderly gentlemen are still breathing.”
“There was nothing else relating to the murder?” asked Gus.
“Nothing specific. I needn’t tell you, Freeman. It’s nearly always personal.”
“We’ve found a discrepancy in one of the brother’s statement. The other family members are out of the frame. We have yet to interview Laura’s regulars.”
“I’d give you long odds against it being one of them, Freeman. They don’t go to Gentle Touch looking for love. How old was she?”
“Twenty-seven,” said Gus.
“There you go. That girl’s regulars will be my age, or five years either side. Am I right?”
“We’ve only got names and phone numbers so far. Walter Shadwell doesn’t sound a youngster.”
“Walter? Bloody hell, he’s pushing eighty. He was the landlord of an Arkell’s pub in Old Town that I frequented. It was the end of civilisation as he knew it when he had to let women into his public bar. Walter was the last person I dreamt would visit a massage parlour. He reckoned a woman couldn’t pull a good pint. Now he’s trusting them with something else entirely. The world has gone mad, Freeman.”
“One thing we’ve already learned since we began reviewing this case, Terry,” said Gus, “it takes all sorts. Do you recognise any other names on the list? Don Green, Ryan Black, Jeff Naylor.”
“None of them ring any bells, Freeman, sorry.”
“If you think of anything else, give me a ring. Oh, or you could pass a message through Neil. He said to say he might call at the weekend.”
“I wondered how long it would be before I heard from him. I suppose Melody’s expecting, is that it? Her family are prolific. There’s hardly one of them that hasn’t got five kids. I don’t suppose any little Davis’s will fly over to see their Grampy in the future. Money will be tighter than ever.”
“You could always pop back to Devizes to see your grandchild,” Gus suggested.
“Not a chance,” said Terry, “my friends will keep me informed of what’s happening. I can catch the baby pictures on Facebook. Melody hasn’t blocked me yet and no doubt she’ll plaster them everywhere. I’ll be able to see more of the little beggar’s progress day by day than I did of Neil’s. Being a copper, I missed all his ‘firsts’ because I was never home.”
“I can well understand, even if I never had that problem. Kids weren’t on our wish list.”
“Are you still seeing Monty’s missus?” asked Terry.
“We’ve been out together twice,” said Gus. “Hardly news for your eyes and ears to think was worth calling you for.”
“I was only pulling your leg, Freeman. Good luck to you. Vera was always too good for Bernard Jennings, anyway. What did you make of your new Chief Constable?”
“Sandra Plunkett seems to have the right credentials,”
It came as no surprise to Gus to learn Terry Davis knew about Sandra Plunkett.
“You really should listen to me when I give you a word to the wise, Freeman. You almost got yourself killed by those Albanians when you ignored my advice. In case you hadn’t realised yet, that Plunkett woman is gunning for you.”
“I met her for the first time earlier this week. Frosty, summed up the way I thought she felt about me coming back into the fold. Why would she be targeting me in particular?”
“Sandra Plunkett and Dominic Culverhouse worked together in the past. I’m not doing the donkey work for you, Freeman. You’ll have to discover where and what they did. Culverhouse knows about your first two successes. He doesn’t enjoy looking foolish. Any chance he has of taking the next step up the chain of command will get scuppered if you solve another case from
his back catalogue. So, you have to stop. Plunkett is looking for the slightest excuse to close you down. She has to be clever with it. Don’t step out of line this time, Freeman. Keep your wits about you.”
“Thanks for the heads up, Terry. I remember you saying the first time we spoke that I was a mug to come out of retirement. What’s done is done. I’m enjoying it far too much to walk away now. In my innocence, I hoped that if we kept solving cold cases, there was no way any Chief Constable could object to my continued presence. It’s clear now that it’s the Culverhouse threat we have to handle ahead of anything else.”
“I get the sense you and Geoff Mercer have thought of something along those lines. Am I right?”
“What, your informer hadn’t given you a ring?”
Terry Davis gave a dry laugh.
“Nice try,” he said. “Even if I have people at London Road who keep tabs on things for me, they don’t overhear every conversation. Especially if those conversations should be top secret, Culverhouse has friends in that building, so tread carefully.”
Gus wondered who that might be. Was it someone he and Geoff trusted? He wasn’t ready to entrust Terry Davis with the knowledge that they were looking for evidence to bring down Culverhouse. There was too much at stake.
“I can see I’ll need to start digging this weekend, Terry,” said Gus.
“None of it should involve that allotment of yours, Freeman,”
Gus was thinking of a witty response, but Terry Davis had ended the call.
Friday, 4th May 2018
Birdsong awakened Gus. It was a little after seven. He made his way to the en suite bathroom and started his shower. The gardening he’d done last night had offered two benefits. He had no niggles in his shoulders that need a massage. The local birds had returned to feast on what goodies his freshly dug soil and mowed lawns had yielded.
As the hot water cascaded over his head, he thought he should ask Bert Penman a question. Do birds only sing in a well-kept garden? There were always plenty of visitors to the allotment.
Once dressed, Gus ate a light breakfast. One poached egg on toast washed down by a cup of coffee, black no sugar. He was ready for the security camera installers. A black van with garish advertisements for the products they were famous for edged through the gateway a few minutes after nine. Two men in their early thirties sat inside the cab staring at the front of the bungalow. Gus watched their antics from the lounge window.
Once you’ve seen one bungalow… it was clear that these British workmen expected him to believe this particular building would take a lot of effort to find four positions to fix his cameras.
Odd, considering the sales representative had assured him it would be a doddle. Gus waited for the fitters to risk stepping from the safety of their black chariot. What dangers did they see lurking behind his red bricks? Had they forgotten to bring a ladder that would enable them to reach what he could manage standing on a kitchen chair? At last, there was movement. The front doorbell gave a reluctant ring.
“Good morning,” said Gus, trying to sound cheerful and confident.
“We’re here to fit your security cameras,” said the driver. His mate was removing items from the back of the van.
“What a relief,” said Gus, “where do you want to start, front or back? Your rep assured me my kitchen was the best place for the receiver.”
“We’ll need to check. I’m Adam, and that’s Daryl. Will you be here all day?”
“I hope not. I’m working on a murder case and have places to go, people to see,”
Adam looked at his watch. He pursed his lips. Gus waited for the bad news.
“I can’t promise anything. If we don’t hit any snags, we should be out of your hair by three o’clock.”
Typical, thought Gus. A leisurely trip back to the Bristol depot, unload the van and clock-off by four-thirty. Another gruelling week completed. He would have to drive through heavy traffic to the office to get those interviews sorted and his schedule organised for next week.
He hoped Alex had remembered it was a Bank Holiday on Monday. The parlours would be busy. Maggie’s girls might not want to give up thirty minutes without financial compensation. It was one problem after another.
Daryl appeared beside Adam. He held a schematic diagram of the bungalow.
“Are you sure you want your cameras there, Sir?” he asked.
“That’s where your sales rep told me they gave the optimum coverage,” replied Gus. He realised as soon as he spoke that he was a little brusque.
Adam and Daryl shared a glance. Adam smiled.
“We’ll do our best,” he said.
Gus decided it was time to withdraw. If he made it to the lounge without tripping over one of those snags, perhaps Adam and Daryl would realise he wasn’t falling for their tactics and get on with it. There was no point antagonising them.
He tried to read for a while, but Daryl had found a radio in the van tuned to a station Gus would pay good money to have banned. Despite the loud music that spewed forth, Adam and Daryl tried to carry on a conversation. That involved shouting to one another at the top of their voices, no matter where they were working around the bungalow.
Enough was enough. Gus changed into his gardening clothes and went outside.
“I’ve got an allotment next to the cemetery in the village,” he shouted to Adam, as he passed his ladder. “If you hit a snag, pop along, and I’ll return to help sort it.”
“OK,” said Adam. “we’re taking a tea break soon. Can we use your toilet if the need arises?”
“Of course,” said Gus, “I’ll be back for my lunch at around one o’clock. If I don’t hear from you.”
Adam gave him the thumbs up; which probably meant he hadn’t heard him over the noise. Gus walked smartly up the lane.
Bert Penman saw Gus arrive, stopped working and leaned on his fork.
“Are you having work done, Mr Freeman? I saw a van in your driveway earlier.”
“Security cameras, Bert. I believed that I needed them after that break-in last month. The fuss those two fitters are making I’m wondering whether I’ve overreacted.”
Bert shook his head.
“We can’t afford to lose you, Mr Freeman. Better safe than sorry.”
“You’re right, Bert, but it seems like too much hard work for the fitters they’ve sent,”
“They can’t get the wood, can they, Mr Freeman?”
“Where did that saying come from, Bert, do you remember?”
“I reckon it was the Goon Show on the radio when the wife and I were just married. Everything was simpler in those days, somehow. Perhaps, it was because it was in black and white.”
Gus couldn’t imagine the changes Bert had seen in his lifetime. Yet, the pace of change these days was rapid, and technology was out of date before it got fitted. He groaned. Why had he thought that? Would his cameras be superseded by a newer model before Adam and Daryl got everything connected? At least the snags hadn’t materialised yet.
Bert Penman had resumed his gardening. Gus worked alongside the older man until the church clock struck noon; Bert started to pack up his tools.
“Off for lunch, Bert?” asked Gus.
“A liquid one, today,” said Bert, “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment this afternoon.”
“Nothing serious, I hope,” said Gus.
“Just the annual service,” said Bert, “he’ll tell me to drink less, and eat healthier. Then I’ll drop a few spring vegetables and early potatoes round to his house later. That’s usually good enough to convince him to leave me alone until next year.”
Gus watched his old friend wander up the road towards the Lamb. He returned to his digging and forking. He was listening for the church clock’s chime to send him on his way home when he spotted Daryl ambling through the gateway. They must have hit a snag.
“Problem?” asked Gus, not wanting to know the answer.
“Adam wants to run through the system with you. To make sure you have
what you need on your phone. You do have a smartphone, don’t you?”
“Of course, Daryl. What do you take me for, a dinosaur?” said Gus. “You made better progress than you thought then?”
“The music helps keep our spirits up,” said Daryl.
Daryl watched as Gus cleaned his tools and stored them in the shed.
“Do you save much money by growing your own vegetables?” he asked.
“Not much,” said Gus, “but the exercise is useful, and it’s a place where I can hear myself think.”
Daryl didn’t look that impressed. They walked up the lane side by side in silence. Adam was in the kitchen, testing the wireless receiver when they walked indoors.
Thirty minutes later, the two fitters were ready to leave. Everything was in its optimum position. Gus could access the view from the four cameras on his phone. If he spotted someone loitering in the garden, he could ask them what they thought they were doing. Or words to that effect.
“We thought we’d stop at the Lamb up the road,” said Adam, “do they do a decent pub lunch?”
“They do,” said Gus, “if you sit and let your meal go down, you’ll reach the depot just on finishing time.”
Adam and Daryl loaded the van and disappeared through the gateway with a beep of their horn. Gus inspected their handiwork. You could see the two cameras at the front of the bungalow from the lane if you were looking for them. He was pleased.
He prayed they would never be more than an expensive deterrent.
The drive through Devizes and on to the CRT office didn’t vary much no matter what time of day Gus attempted it. The traffic was always manic. Thank goodness, those fitters had finished two hours earlier than their initial estimate. He could conduct the interviews they had arranged.
Gus parked his car and entered the Old Police Station lift. Their first interview of the afternoon was due at two o’clock. He had a few minutes to spare.