Blood On the Wall

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘Shall we check them off against the list?’ asked Taggart. She had a clipboard containing the names Drake had given them, the cast and crew.

  ‘Yes, but I suggest we do it with the help of one of the people standing round doing nothing,’ said Seward. ‘Less confusion for us.’

  Taggart nodded and they selected one of the young women who was also holding a clipboard with papers attached to it.

  ‘Police,’ said Seward, holding out her ID.

  ‘Yes,’ said the girl. ‘Drake said you’d be here today. Exciting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Certainly busy,’ said Taggart noncommittally.

  She showed her clipboard with the list of names to the girl.

  ‘We just need to check and see who’s here and who isn’t,’ she said. ‘As you know them, if you could point them out to us as I give you their names …’

  ‘Of course,’ said the girl.

  One by one, as Taggart read out the names and ticked them off on her list, the girl pointed that person out. When they finished, Seward and Taggart did a quick count of the people milling around.

  ‘There are about half a dozen here whose names aren’t on the list,’ pointed out Taggart.

  ‘Yes, well, when you make a film you always get a few more people turning up,’ said the girl. ‘Most of them are friends of people on the film.’

  ‘Maybe we’d better go and find out who the others are,’ suggested Taggart. ‘Make sure we’ve got everybody’s names.’

  Seward nodded. To the girl, she said: ‘It’s important we have the names of everyone who’s involved with this film. Are you sure this is everyone?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the girl, nodding. Then she thought for a moment, and added: ‘Except for Jamie.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Taggart.

  ‘Jamie,’ she said. ‘He’s a helper.’

  ‘What? A gofer? A runner? Whatever they call it?’

  The girl shook her head. ‘He’s kind of a history nut. He helps Drake with the details. You know, getting them right.’

  ‘So why isn’t his name on the list of crew?’

  ‘Well, he’s not really crew. And I think he and Drake had a row over something.’

  ‘Over what?’

  ‘I think it was to do with the history or something.’

  Seward felt a tingle up the back of her spine, like an invisible antennae had just picked up a vibration.

  ‘What to do with the history?’ she asked.

  The girl shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It was just something between Drake and him. I don’t really know about history. Film’s my thing.’

  ‘What’s Jamie’s full name?’ pressed Seward.

  Again, the girl shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘He’s just … Jamie.’ She shrugged. ‘Drake might know.’

  But Seward was already hurrying to where Drake was standing in the middle of the stone circle, setting up a scene. A girl dressed in what looked like a flimsy nightdress was lying on the ground. A young man was kneeling next to her, checking her through a viewfinder.

  ‘OK,’ Drake was saying to the young man. ‘This shot is from the crow’s point of view, right …’

  ‘Mr Drake,’ said Seward. ‘We need to talk to you.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Drake. ‘After we’ve done this shot.’

  ‘Now,’ said Seward firmly.

  By now Taggart had caught up with Seward, her notebook open and her pen poised.

  ‘We’re on a very tight schedule,’ protested Drake. ‘The light is vital …’

  ‘So is our enquiry,’ said Seward. ‘What can you tell us about Jamie?’

  Drake frowned. ‘Who?’ he asked.

  ‘Jamie,’ repeated Seward. ‘Your history expert.’

  Drake laughed, scornfully. ‘Oh him! The nerd!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Seward. ‘Why isn’t he here today?’

  Drake shrugged. ‘We had an artistic disagreement,’ he said. ‘Not that there’s any “art” in that idiot! He is so bloody pedantic! Wants everything to be “authentic”, as he calls it. I told him, this film is art, not some boring documentary.’

  ‘What’s his full name?’ pressed Seward.

  Drake shrugged again. ‘I don’t know. Just … Jamie.’

  ‘You work with him and you don’t know his name?’

  ‘I didn’t work with him, as you call it. He just turned up one day when we were doing some shots up here and we got talking about history of the stones and stuff.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘We didn’t socialize. He wasn’t my kind of person.’ Then he added grudgingly, ‘Well, he was, until he started getting all precious about facts and stuff.’

  Seward looked around at the others, still busy preparing for shooting the film scene.

  ‘Is there anyone here who had more to do with this Jamie than anyone else? Anyone he was friendly with?’

  Drake shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Like I say, he wasn’t really our kind of person.’

  ‘We’re going to need to talk to everyone here, and we need to talk to them today,’ said Seward.

  ‘But the film …’ began Drake, angrily.

  ‘We won’t interfere with your filming,’ said Seward calmingly. ‘You just go ahead. We’ll talk to those people who are not involved at that time, or just hanging around. And then, when you break, we’ll talk to your main crew.’

  Drake nodded. ‘OK,’ he said. Curious, he asked: ‘You think Jamie could be the one? The killer?’

  ‘Who knows?’ answered Seward noncommittally. ‘At the moment we’re just gathering facts.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  ‘What have you got?’ asked Georgiou.

  He’d been sitting at his desk, going through the reports again, looking for a common connection to the murders, when the door of the office had opened and Tennyson had entered with a mournful look on his face and dropped into a chair with a heartfelt sigh.

  ‘It looks like Diane Moody’s not our murderer,’ groaned Tennyson.

  Georgiou did his best to hide his smile. Frankly, he’d never thought she was, but he’d been wrong before, and Tennyson had appeared very convinced that Diane Moody was a prime suspect.

  ‘Oh?’ said Georgiou.

  Tennyson nodded. ‘I did some checking. Her alibis for the times the murders occurred hold firm. She was in bed with a lady vicar.’

  Georgiou raised an eyebrow.

  ‘It turns out they’re an item. Have been for five years. Seems they’re even thinking of making it official with one of these civil ceremonies.’

  ‘And how did you find this out?’

  ‘I asked Diane Moody where she was, and then checked it out with the lady vicar. She said they’re like an old married couple. They go to bed at eleven o’clock every night, and don’t get up till about seven the next morning.’

  ‘No chance of Diane Moody sneaking out during the night?’

  Tennyson shook his head. ‘The vicar’s a kind of semi-insomniac. Gets up a lot during the night. Moody, on the other hand, sleeps like a log, and – according to the vicar – snores like one being sawn up.’

  ‘So, strike Moody.’

  Tennyson nodded.

  ‘Which leaves us with Richard Little,’ murmured Georgiou. ‘And a lot of very bad publicity.’

  His phone rang.

  ‘Georgiou,’ he said.

  It was Seward.

  ‘We think we’ve got something,’ she said. ‘The strongest suspect yet.’

  Georgiou felt his heart leap.

  ‘Who?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s the problem,’ said Seward. ‘So far we’ve only got a first name and a description. But we think he’s looking good.’

  ‘Where are you?’ asked Georgiou.

  ‘Castlerigg Stone Circle, Keswick,’ replied Seward. ‘Drake’s here making his film. We’ve been talking to him and his pals.’

  ‘How many of them are
there?’

  ‘About two dozen. Some are cast and crew, a few are just hangers-on. But we’ve picked up some info about a character called Jamie. He’s not here, but he fits the profile. History nut. Fastidious to the point of obsession. He knew Tamara. I think he might be our killer.’

  ‘Stay there,’ said Georgiou. ‘Tennyson and I will come over and join you. Four of us taking statements will speed things up. And we’ll bring an e-fit artist with us and get the descriptions put into visual form and get it out to the media. With a bit of luck we may make the TV bulletins tonight.’

  He hung up. Tennyson was looking at him quizzically.

  ‘A suspect?’ asked Tennyson.

  ‘According to Seward,’ replied Georgiou. ‘Let’s hope she’s right.’

  Seward was watching out for Georgiou and Tennyson and hurried towards them as they came through the field gate towards the stone circle.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Georgiou.

  ‘Jamie,’ said Seward. ‘Age, mid to late twenties. Drives a dark-coloured van, but no one seems to remember the number. Local Carlisle accent. Very neat. The inside of his van was always tidy. His clothes were casual but always spotlessly clean. Someone said they thought even his jeans look liked he’d pressed them.’

  ‘Fastidious,’ murmured Georgiou, nodding.

  ‘According to Drake, Jamie’s obsessed with the Ancient Britons: the way they lived, their rituals, and especially the fact that the Romans conquered them and almost wiped them out. Again, according to Drake, Jamie was a bore about both the Ancient Britons and the Romans. He reckoned Jamie could go on Mastermind with them as his special subject and win it easily.’

  ‘Better and better,’ said Georgiou.

  ‘The problem is, we don’t know what his second name is, where he lives, where he works, if he works. All we know is what we picked up from Drake and his crowd, and they only ever met him when they were out and about doing stuff for Drake’s film at places like Castlerigg and other ancient sites. It seems that Jamie knew where most of the ancient sites were.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean our killer is this Jamie,’ pointed out Tennyson. ‘It could still be Richard.’

  ‘I know,’ said Georgiou. ‘But I’m hoping it isn’t.’

  He gestured towards the field gate.

  ‘We’ve got an e-artist parked in his van out in the lane just outside the field. I want everyone here to talk to the artist so he can get their descriptions of this character. And do it one at a time so we get accurate memories. One may recall him having a mole on his cheek, or his hair being parted a certain way, or whatever, and if they start doing it as a group we could lose those identifying marks.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Seward.

  Tennyson looked towards the stone circle, where the girl on the ground was being terrorized by an obviously fake bird made out of papier-mâché.

  ‘How’s the film?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s crap,’ said Seward. ‘Worthy of Ed Wood at his worst.’

  With that she went to join Taggart, who was talking to some of the crowd of students watching the filming. Tennyson turned to Georgiou, puzzled.

  ‘Who’s Ed Wood?’ he asked.

  Georgiou shrugged. ‘No one I know,’ he said.

  THIRTY

  At six o’clock Georgiou was sitting in the office of Dan Murphy at the offices of the Cumberland News. On Murphy’s desk was a mock-up of a front page of its daily sister paper, the News and Star, for the next day, with the e-fit artist’s portrait impression of Jamie below a headline which read ‘Do You Know This Man?’ Tennyson had taken the e-fit to both BBC Television and Border TV to ensure their coverage on that evening’s news bulletins.

  ‘Technology, eh,’ said Murphy, grinning. ‘Do you remember the old days before all this digital stuff? A day to put together a photo-fit, then another day of your lot photocopying it and sending it out to the press, and then another day before it would go into print. Now, contact’s done within minutes. Your artist guy e-mails me this, and our reporter puts a piece together, all on the screen. Ten minutes. Fantastic.’

  Georgiou looked at the man in the picture. A young, narrow face that seemed old and hard at the same time. Short, dark hair, neatly trimmed. Clean shaven. Blue eyes. The caption read ‘The police would like to interview this man to help eliminate him from their enquiries. If you think you know this man, please telephone …’ and then followed the number, at which Georgiou had arranged for a large staff to handle the phone calls he hoped would flood in by way of response.

  ‘You think it’s him?’ asked Murphy.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Georgiou. ‘He’s the strongest lead we’ve got.’

  ‘What about your missing detective?’ asked Murphy.

  ‘That’s a different issue,’ said Georgiou. ‘He’s just gone missing and we need to find him for his own safety.’

  Murphy chuckled.

  ‘Yeah, and pigs might fly,’ he said. ‘That won’t look good for you if it does turn out to be one of your own.’

  Changing the subject, Georgiou asked: ‘Is Jenny McAndrew in the office at the moment?’

  ‘Your nemesis?’ queried Murphy. ‘Yes, she is, but I told her to stay out of the way while you were here, after what you’d said. Why?’

  ‘I’ve got a story for her she may be interested in,’ said Georgiou.

  ‘What story?’ asked Murphy.

  ‘I’ll tell you at the same time I tell her,’ replied Georgiou.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to see how surprised she is.’

  Murphy shrugged, then left the office and returned a few minutes later with a young woman behind him. Jenny McAndrew looked every bit as Georgiou had imagined her: small, thin, nervous, her clothes fashionably expensive, but subdued in colour. She looked like what she wanted to be: a media person on the fast track to success.

  ‘Jenny McAndrew, Inspector Georgiou,’ said Murphy, making the introductions.

  ‘Inspector,’ said McAndrew warily.

  ‘Ms McAndrew.’ Georgiou nodded.

  ‘The inspector says he’s got a story for you,’ said Murphy.

  ‘Oh?’ said McAndrew, guardedly.

  ‘Of course, you may already know it,’ said Georgiou. ‘We arrested Ian Parks and three of his pals for grievous bodily harm yesterday.’

  ‘Yesterday?’ echoed Murphy. ‘And you’re only telling us today?’

  ‘I thought with her contacts, Ms McAndrew might already know about it,’ said Georgiou. He had been watching her the whole time, and could see that the news had genuinely come as a surprise to her.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘I’m surprised, because it seems that the Parks family have a direct line to you,’ said Georgiou. ‘As does Councillor Maitland. But you say none of them have been in touch with you?’

  McAndrew nodded. ‘That’s right,’ she said, and Georgiou could feel the defensiveness rising up in her. She had been caught out in some way, but she didn’t know how, or why, and it was making her angry.

  ‘Perhaps because this time we have a confession, which makes it harder to deny the charge,’ suggested Georgiou. ‘We’re also looking into racism as a possible motive for the offences.’

  ‘Racism?’ said Murphy.

  Georgiou nodded.

  ‘I thought, as Ms McAndrew wants to earn her spurs as an investigative journalist, it might be a story she might want to look into. It’s the sort of theme that the big London papers love: racism mixed with violence.’

  McAndrew studied Georgiou.

  ‘Are you suggesting that there is some sort of collusion between the Parks family and Councillor Maitland, to do with racist politics?’

  Georgiou shrugged. ‘You’re the investigative reporter,’ he said. ‘I’m just a detective. I’m sure you can do your own digging on any links that might exist between the people involved—’

  ‘So you’re saying—’ cut in McAndrew, and now Georgiou could tell all her ambitions to be a top-l
ine national reporter were kicking in in a big way.

  ‘I’m saying nothing,’ Georgiou interrupted her, ‘except that four youths have been charged with grievous bodily harm. We believe there is a racist element to the attacks. And I’m surprised that you haven’t been kept informed of this latest development by your usual contacts.’

  With that Georgiou stood up and turned to Murphy.

  ‘Thanks, Dan,’ he said. ‘If we get any feedback on anything, you’ll be the first to know.’

  ‘I’ll walk you to the lift,’ said Murphy.

  As they left Murphy’s office, out of the corner of his eye Georgiou saw McAndrew rush off. He guessed she was heading for her desk to start this new hot story.

  ‘You’re putting her on to Maitland,’ said Murphy. ‘You want him shown up for a racist. Get him kicked off the Police Authority.’

  Georgiou shrugged.

  ‘I don’t even know if he is a racist,’ he said. ‘But let’s say that some digging into his politics won’t do any harm. He is, after all, a servant of the public. The public have a right to know.’

  ‘And if he’s clean?’ asked Murphy.

  Georgiou smiled. ‘A clean politician? Then I will be delighted to find that out.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  The evening broadcast on the television news brought in a wave of phone calls, and the picture of ‘Jamie’ in the News and Star the next morning added to it. By lunchtime Georgiou and his team had a list of callers who said they knew where Jamie lived, the make of van he drove, and from people he’d done work for. His name, they learnt, was James Oliver Willis. He was a general handyman in his late twenties who did all sorts of jobs, including electrical and plumbing work. But at the address they’d got for him in Carlisle’s Brook Street at the back of Warwick Road, they drew a blank.

  ‘He was here, but he left the day before yesterday,’ said his former landlady, Mrs Irene Dodge. ‘He was no trouble. Very polite. Very clean. Always cleared up after himself. Not like some tenants.’

  ‘How long was he with you?’ asked Georgiou.