Fiona

by D Attrill

  She took the headphones off and wondered. If that was Fiona, what had happened to upset her that drastically? Even more to the point, what was Becky up to, if not trying to make her cock-and-bull stories sound believable? Had she stirred up her employer deliberately then run to Mr Roundtree’s seeking refuge? The five minutes and forty-three seconds, between Fiona’s final audible rant and Mr Roundtree cutting off to confront his apparent intruder, aided such a suspicion.

  “What do you want us doing, ma’am?” asked Stannings.

  “I’d better slip up to the address in question, and have a word.” Leyton quietened the fact that a friend of hers was involved.

  “Do you want back up?” Raymond offered.

  “I’m not too sure I should just yet.” Leyton halted. She despised the thought of having to go in, all guns blazing. As guilty as she felt at having to arrest her oldest friend she had to weigh things up: what might happen if there was a misunderstanding from either party’s perspective?

  This job was baring the side she so hated, once again

  “Dawn, could you please just put it on hold for now? If anything, or anybody turns ugly while I'm up there, I’ll immediately give you or Will the all-clear.”

  “What if Leroy and Greg turn up here?”

  “Keep it hush until I say otherwise. I’m sure I should be back in the office before they arrive.”

  With that, she made out to her trusty VW.

  Everything appeared absolutely normal as she pulled up Primula Drive... apart from the fact she was actually driving this time. The Monday morning quietness served up little, if anything, that was actually sinister. Wheelie bins were waiting out on the street, including both 28 and 30’s so it was unlikely anything too bad had happened either side of the fence.

  She felt ashamed at parking across a pavement, especially as a police officer would, but little alternative remained.

  Just as she was about to give in to the unlawful, a white Rover 400 flashed its rear indicators.

  She let it turn out, and right away took up the space it had left.

  As she climbed out Leyton considered the options. She should, by procedure, ring Mr Roundtree’s bell to begin; find out if anything was wrong. There was no sign of anyone in the window, although she could hear a television on, inside No 30’s.

  Leyton started to wonder if she should aim straight for Fiona’s and ask her instead. Her neighbour had sounded quite elderly on the line, so visiting without arrangement was possibly likely to intimate him.

  Her mind was soon made up for her as she saw a small, dark haired face waving from 28’s window. It was too late to avoid eye contact.

  “Coming!” Fiona shouted as she waved. “Just hold on a wee seccy.”

  Leyton headed round to her door. She waited about twenty seconds before she heard the Yale fall away.

  “Hiya!” Fiona welcomed her visitor. “What brings you round here again?”

  “First, do please excuse me for bothering you so early...”

  Leyton played it innocent, whilst preparing the best possible excuse. She didn’t feel keen on raising the subject of her neighbour’s well-being straight away.

  “I believe I may have left something in the kitchen yesterday.”

  “I widnae be surprised. It was amazing you didn’t forget everything, the state you was in.”

  “I still honestly don’t know what came over me.” Leyton had to just laugh about it.

  “At least it didn’t seem to be anything serio... oh, yes,” She made sure to remember . “...about whatever I left behind yesterday. It was probably something I pulled out of my jacket by accident.”

  “If it’s gone on the floor, I might have picked it up when I tidied this morning. Why no’ come in for a bit. My Tommy and I are drivin’ out to town but no for half an hour yet.”

  She obviously noticed Leyton was hesitating to decide.

  “You know we got a rule back where I come from? If ever you come knocking unexpectedly on a friends door, you gottae stop for a cuppa, fore we let you on your way.”

  “Oh Fiona McGrogan, you shouldn’t.” Leyton eventually accepted.

  “Come, sit yourself anywhere you like. Dog’s out of the way at the mo’. Off with the jacket.

  “Thanks…”

  Leyton stepped right in, closing the door behind.

  “Is Becky well this morning?”

  “Aye, far as I know she is,” Fiona replied right away

  “Not asleep is she?”

  “No, I think she’s in the bathroom at the moment.”

  Fiona had opened the wall cupboard for a couple of mugs.

  Leyton froze noticing how badly the crockery was stacked. Teetering plates appeared held from falling by about four or five egg cups wedged beneath.

  “I’m afraid my tidy- up hasnae quite finished in time for you, he he.”

  “My God Please let me give you a hand..” Leyton sprang up from her chair, “My own kitchen’s hardly the Grosvenor. I’ll just put my bag down.”

  Seeing there was no space on the table, Leyton hurried across to stick it on the end of the worktop.

  Just as she reached the other side, her feet went from underneath.

  She crashed sideways to the floor, hard.

  “Crivvens almighty!” yelped Fiona. She shut the cupboard and knelt to help Leyton up.

  “You ok? Here…”

  Layton felt sheer agony as she lifted her up and brushed her down.

  “Naughty me.” Fiona apologised “I forgot to tell you I was in the middle of mopping.”

  “Aw, it’s fine. No bones broken, I’m sure,” Layton pardoned Fiona “My right hand feels a bit tender though.” She lifted it up to see. It had gone noticeably purple round the palm.

  “Why not go up an’ see Becky? She’ll sort you. There’s a wee first aid box in the little bedroom.”

  “Er, yes....you’re right, I’d better.” She acknowledged Fiona’s offer. “I’m never too sure until I’ve seen the blood.”

  Leyton made her way carefully up the stairs. She was grateful her ankle wasn’t affected - she still felt the aches from a tumble she’d had in Totley, two weeks before.

  Opening the door, she realised there was a key in the lock, although obviously it was currently not in use.

  Becky looked understandably discomforted, as Leyton opened the door and leant her face through.

  Her friend was kneeling, on what floor there appeared to be, sorting out stashes of clean nappies.

  Seeing Joanne Leyton standing there was probably no longer a welcome sight to her.

  “Hello.” Leyton sought a serious though modest tone to talk to her with.

  “Oh, hi...” Becky had put aside her work.

  “Carry on if you like.” continued Leyton “that’s if you can do, at the same time as explaining to me what the fuck’s been going on?”

  “Nothing...” Becky replied quietly, and calmly “Everything’s been OK, so far today.”

  “Is that why we ended up taking a call from a rather concerned Mr Roundtree last night?”

  “Eh?”

  Her friend didn’t appear to have a clue about what Leyton meant.

  “Making hoax calls is a serious enough number itself, let alone hiring an innocent, elderly man to do your dirty work. Did you just wind Fiona up deliberately: was that how you got it to work?”

  “Christ’s sake Jo, what’s happened to you?”

  It honestly showed with the way Becky looked back. Crying looked like following.

  “I’ve just enough reason to give you benefit of the doubt one last time Becks; it depends on how truthful you are, in exchange. Also, whilst at it...how good you still are with bandages.”

  “Shit. What happened? Are you alright?”

  “I’ll live,” Leyton told her “I’ve just gone arse-over-tit on a very slippery kitchen floor. Old Fiona does love her mopping up, doesn’t she?”

  “You’ve not bruised yourself have you?” Becky risked another quest
ion.

  “Possible.” Leyton wondered, rolling up her right sleeve, “Yep… it’s gone a bit fancy-coloured above the elbow.”

  Becky wasn’t looking at it. She was looking instead, at the door, squinty-eyed.

  Her stare drew Leyton round to see Fiona standing there.

  She wore a strangely artificial smile.

  Leyton recognised her own police ID as their host held it out between her finger and thumb.

  “Becoming good at dropping things, aren’t you ... Acting Detective Superintendent?”

  Fiona flung the ID at her and slammed the door shut, locking it.

  (ii)

  If there was one person that could not get into his kitchen fast enough at breakfast time, Leroy Armitage was his name. Work or no work, any day, the smell of a British fry up acted as his other alarm clock.

  Having poured his coffee, Armitage placed it merrily on the breakfast bar then grabbed a plate from the sink rack. He smiled ear to ear as he loaded the sizeable heap of sausage, bacon and egg onto his pan, although the look more-or-less disappeared again on discovering that he hadn’t any bread left, that was fit for using: he often fried it on top of the rashers, so as to soak up the greasy flavouring.

  He finally threw himself on the stool and got stuck. Armitage always remembered how his father Des would tell him off for this eating sort of stuff: that had all changed with their divorce sixteen years ago. These days, his dad would be round at half past seven begging for a share, with a board game for later tucked under his arm.

  He’d seen through two huge mouthfuls, when a loud rap on the door forced him to drop load number three.

  “Ey up, he never said out about getting Monday off.” Armitage assumed the caller, like clockwork. “Couple of seconds, dad!”

  He downed cutlery and checked he was decent before answering.

  “Think I’m a bit young for that, like?” came a voice that more closely matched DC Garstone’s.

  Opening his door he discovered it was his colleague, and not his father standing there.

  “Caught me in the act, eh?” Armitage allowed him in.

  “Fuck that.” said Garstone, obviously admiring the smell “Sometimes, I think I’m wasting my time with the diet.”

  “I’ve plenty spare mate. Them rashers want eating today, any road.”

  “You’ll have to enjoy it for me, Ainsley Harriot. We need to be heading out right away. Someone’s body turned up at Tankersley.”

  “Hang about, I’ve only put this on me plate, a couple of minutes since.”

  Garstone had already gone again, obviously not listening.

  Armitage grabbed a large white breadcake and decanted his plate into it. He just managed to grab his coat, and then close and lock the door all with one hand, before tearing out to join the waiting Vectra outside.

  Garstone was starting to wish he’d let Armitage stay and finish his food instead. His sole saving grace was the makeshift napkin of newspaper he’d lent him - even this struggled to stop the egg yolk from straying.

  Climbing the road out of Chapeltown, Garstone knew the main Sheffield to Barnsley corridors quite well by now. Tankersley was a suburb sprawled amidst the two, although only a mile away from Armitage’s door.

  He was just chasing contacts on the radio as PC Thompson’s unit tore out suddenly in front.

  Garstone could tell he was also onto it - Thompson was waving his hand.

  “Morning, William.” Garstone grabbed him on the waves. “Same place we should be heading?”

  “Wentworth Retail World, Tankersley.” Thompson was filled them in. “Body discovered behind takeaway premises. Some officers already on scene.”

  “Hey up...” Armitage asked amidst stuffed shovel loads of bread and bacon. “Has there been owt of Leyton this morning?”

  “If there was you’d have known about it.” Thompson had obviously eavesdropped “I was surprised you guys might bother at all, after that Abdullah chap gave you the heave ho.”

  “You don’t reckon she’s already up there?” Armitage was asking “Could just be she’s not said owt to us.”

  “Won’t be surprising, given the way she’s been acting.”

  Garstone thrust his mobile at him “Make yourself useful now you’ve finished - we’ll catch her off-guard”

  Armitage steadily entered the number, although his precision was made difficult by Garstone’s constant effort to keep up with Thompson.

  “Ma’am...you about?” Armitage, just finishing his last lot of bread, began talking “Greg and I are just off attending a scene in Tankersl... OOOFFF!!!”

  Garstone made him almost drop the phone as he braked for a huge roundabout ahead.

  Thompson had already done the same.

  Two other units swooped across, towards the furthermost exit. Garstone’s attention was drawn to a gaudy display of blue lights. Straight away, he spotted a McDonalds drive-thru he recognised.

  Both he and Thompson turned onto the grass verge or the little bit of it that they’d been grudged by the cordon. Another eight units, had already formed a crescent around the area right behind. Two layers of tape sealed the junction off, while five burly officers, none of whom looked familiar stood lining the way, with their arms folded. They did not seem to be welcoming this department.

  Garstone soon discovered why. A medium built officer, in his mid-forties, came bounding over to meet them.

  Sgt John Billington, a cocky C.S.O. from the Don St branch in Attercliffe was the last person Garstone wanted to see right now. He had suffered enough recent run-ins with this guy already.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Garstone asked, somehow confused that this other station had got onto the scene already.

  “I was thinking about asking you lot that.” the Sergeant answered, smirking. “I always knew you Midelson types couldn’t resist shoving your noses about.” Billington prided himself in calling any crime scene his baby, and showed an instant, clear resentment to any rival station or officer’s involvement.

  It wasn’t probably set to improve today.

  “If it’s your crime scene, how come it’s us lot picked up the call?” asked Armitage.

  “Best ask your mate there.” Billington was showing them to a small van at the end of the grass. “He was the one who came across it.”

  Garstone goose-stepped ahead, dodging the waterlogged sludge that was ravaging the grass, while Armitage went stomping across it in his usual childlike way. Both still fumed at Billington’s hostility.

  Seeing the van door was wide open, Garstone stepped slowly round to look.

  “Mike...what’s been going on?”

  A battered and pale, PC Raylesthorpe was sitting there with a towel round him, holding a cup of tea in both hands. He had one trouser leg lifted up, his left shin bandaged. He didn’t look like talking, until Garstone squatted straight opposite.

  “How did Don St know about this instead of us?”

  “Me radio packed up didn’t it.” Raylesthorpe responded with a shrug “Tried me backup line after a bit; just got diverted to some central board. Said they’d be sending up the first lot they could get hold of.”

  “Where the hell’s this body then?”

  “Down behind the wall, boys.” Billington pointed out a stone parapet, over the verge. “Suggest you get your wellies.”

  Garstone looked for the least wettest patch so he could get across and see. Leaning over the side, he found he was looking at a murky brown-leaved railway trackbed, seventeen feet below.

  “You’d have a better view round the side, son.” said Billington “That’s once we establish a safe way down. Don’t want ol’ ‘humpty-dumpty’ there having a great fall as well, eh?”

  “You had us dragged out to a scene you’ve already hijacked, and now you’re having us wait for the leaf brigade to lend a hand? You bastard!”

  “Chuffing Nora’s knitting!” Armitage’s voice came from inside the trees.

  Garstone got along to a gap
in the wall and edged through to where his friend was waiting. Armitage was holding on to a branch for support, whilst waving a finger down at the trackbed.

  Garstone got alongside him and concentrated his stare as best as he could, in the shadow.

  There, amongst rocks and rubble below, a silver-ish grey object shone in the passing sun. Part of it was looked like a large plastic ring.

  “Christ.”

  He recognised a hospital crutch handle anywhere.

  “If that’s who I think it is.”

  Garstone stood off as the plastic sheet went over Gary Payden’s body. A tingle of guilt stung his senses, seeing the teenager’s twisted body lying before them.

  That said, the journey to the bottom had been a test of faith. The two DCs had had to traipse about two hundred and fifty feet along the side before they could find a way down without accident. Even then, they had to take the slope spread-legged and backwards. The ground beneath was little improvement - a chequering of skeletal branches and half-buried rocks. Only themselves, plus Pathologist Jim Appleton had made the cruel descent for starters, as Sergeant Billington refused to muddy his best shoes.

  Garstone already regretted bringing his. Spat on by trickling water running off the brick work, the floor beneath the bridge had become coated in a clammy green slime from the colour of fungus mixed in. He lifted the sheet again, to find Gary Payden’s face turning an unappealing colour itself, from white to slightly purple.

  “How long has he been out for do you think?” Armitage asked.

  “I’d put it at around 15 hours.” Appleton answered the question for them.

  “That means approximate time of death were about 17 while 1800 yesterday.” Armitage seemed to spring to focus. “You know something, Greg? It’s got to be his brother’s missus who did this. Scottish lass, about the same age as Tom… apparently knows Gary right well, picks him up from outside the station; he leaps in, not hesitating...”

  “If it turns out she also drives, aye.” Garstone said.

  He could not help but hear himself think the same.

  Tom Payden would have been in police custody at the time Gary was murdered – it didn’t rule out Payden having arranged it through his mythical partner. He had been allowed to ring for a lift home for Gary. He used the phone right in front of an officer so he would hardly have dared directly command his own brother’s murder. Yet again, any coupling of words Tom had used in that call yesterday could have been a coded signal. Either way, the motive was there for Tom Payden to do such a thing.