by Ray Clark
“Stewart?”
Jacqueline smiled. “Oh, he’s just someone I know.”
“Sounds to me like you know him well. He’s the right man for the job, is he? And you know him well? Are you hiding something from me?”
“God forbid I should even try,” replied Jacqueline, a little flustered.
“You are my little girl. You came to live with me when your mother died, God bless her. There’s nothing I don’t know about you. You look different this morning. Brighter. There is a spring in your step. I heard you singing in the kitchen. Beautiful voice. You don’t need to tell me anymore.” Anei waved her hand in dismissal. “Come with me while I attend to my family. Tell me about this man, Stewart. If you want to.”
Jacqueline joined her aunt in the conservatory, which was connected to the kitchen. The only furniture in the glass-enforced room was a cane two-seater settee and a small heater. The furniture shared the space with a variety of plants and flowers. Anei Bâlcescu had a passion for nature. Jacqueline figured her aunt knew more about plants than anyone living. It was not uncommon for Anei to while away her evenings in the conservatory, surrounded, as she put it, by her ‘family’.
As she watered, the old lady continued their conversation. “You like him, no?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“It is to me. And why shouldn’t you? You’re a beautiful young woman. You’ve had a terrible life. Now you should take your pleasure. And if this policeman can provide it, then you have my blessing.”
“I’m afraid he doesn’t know how I feel. More to the point, I don’t know how he feels.”
“Tell him.” Anei’s reply was matter-of-fact.
“What about the church?”
“The church will not deny you your happiness. We all go through life missing out because we lose the nerve to simply ask. Or say what we mean.” Anei turned to face Jacqueline. “Don’t become one of those people.”
The minister knew there was a lot of truth in what her aunt said. It still wasn’t easy to tell someone your true feelings.
A sad expression crossed Anei’s face. “I myself must now practice what I preach. There is something I would like to do for Christmas. I know we are planning to spend the festive season together, but I would like us to go home, to Romania. Only for Christmas. To see my homeland. I have not seen it since I was a baby. I want you to see your heritage, too. My sister would have wanted this for us.”
Anei reached up towards the shelves circling the perimeter of the conservatory. To her pride and joy, her Venus flytraps. There were a dozen in total. As far as Jacqueline knew, Anei was the only person other than her late grandmother who knew the secret to cultivating the carnivorous plant all year round. In Anei’s eyes, no other plant compared.
Jacqueline hesitated before answering her aunt’s proposal. “If that’s what you want.”
Chapter Twenty
“Mrs Janet Soames?”
“Yes.”
Gardener could see very little of the woman save for a pair of accusing eyes staring through the small gap left by the safety chain between the door and its frame.
“Detective Inspector Stewart Gardener and Detective Sergeant Sean Reilly, Major Crime Team.” Gardener held out his warrant card for her inspection.
“Yes.”
He couldn’t quite determine whether her reply was an answer, a question, or confirmation that she’d accepted who he said they were. “You called the station this morning. You have some information about David Vickers?”
Behind him, Reilly rubbed his hands together and exhaled a long breath, mumbling to himself.
Gardener didn’t hear his partner’s comment, but he could guess what it was. Janet Soames closed her front door and slid back the chain. Gardener turned and surveyed the area. The Soames’ residence was a large, two-storey house with a white facade, leaded dark oak windows, and a front door to match. The grass was trimmed, with an assortment of colourful gnomes, a fishpond, and a bench. He imagined it was peaceful in summer, despite being opposite a school.
The door finally opened. “That’s better,” she said. “Could I trouble you for identification again, please?”
Both men held out their warrant cards.
“Please, come in,” she said, satisfied. She led them through a long hall into a highly polished, tiled kitchen, offering a seat at the small round table and chairs. Reilly sat down. He produced a notebook and pen.
“I’m sorry about keeping you at the door, but you can’t be too careful, can you?”
Janet Soames sat opposite Reilly.
Gardener smiled, removed his hat, placed it on the table. From his inside jacket pocket, he produced a photograph of David Vickers and passed it over. He’d obtained it from Lesley and Jim when he’d interviewed them.
“Can you confirm from the photo, Mrs Soames, that we’re talking about the same boy?”
She adjusted her glasses. “Yes, that’s the boy. I’m not sure what I can tell you, though.”
Janet Soames had a soft voice with a clipped accent. Gardener estimated her age around mid-fifties. She had bleached blonde hair, the roots of which were dark brown. Her face was long and drawn, and she wore too much makeup. She was dangerously thin.
“You’d be surprised,” replied Gardener, concerned by her constant fidgeting. She was clearly uncomfortable.
“I used to see him every day,” she continued. “Leaving school. He was a beautiful child. Blond hair, lovely complexion, well-mannered. He once asked my husband if he needed any help to carry his equipment from the car.” She paused.
Reilly took up the conversation. “What do you and your husband do for a living, Mrs Soames?”
“Photography. We take pictures of old castles and stately homes in England and Europe. Then we go across to America and sell them. In frames, of course.”
“Well now, that sounds a grand way to earn a living. I wouldn’t mind having a pop at that myself.” Reilly gave her a reassuring smile. Gardener recognized the tactic for what it was. A pleasant diversion, a clever way to encourage her to open up.
“Have you ever been to Ireland?” he asked her.
“My husband has. We’re both hoping to go next year.”
“Well, you be sure to give me a call. I’ll point you in the right direction for some lovely places. You’ll not go far wrong.”
Janet Soames smiled.
Gardener resumed. “You were saying, Mrs Soames. You saw David Vickers every day. What was unusual about the day he went missing?”
“He was with someone.”
“Adult?” inquired Gardener.
“More a youth. Nineteen, maybe. To be honest, I took him for his brother.”
“They looked alike?”
“I couldn’t say whether they looked alike. The youth wore a baseball cap. But they chatted away quite happily, which is why I thought they were related.”
“Can you remember anything else about him?” asked Reilly.
“Only what he was wearing. He had jeans and a pair of boots. What do they call them? Tan colour, builders wear them...”
“Rigger boots,” answered the Irishman.
“Yes, that’s it. He also wore a black leather jacket. There was something on the back. It looked like a golden bird. There was some writing as well, but I wasn’t close enough to see what it said.”
“Had you ever seen him before the day in question?” asked Gardener.
“Not that I can remember.”
A rattling sound in the direction of the back door drew Gardener’s attention. He watched an overweight black cat squeeze its way through the cat flap.
“Any distinguishing features? Did he have a limp? Was there anything odd in his manner?” asked Gardener.
Janet Soames thought for a moment before replying. “It all happened so quickly. And it seemed so natural. The younger boy didn’t seem troubled. In fact, the youth held a carrier bag in one hand. He was trying to eat fish and chips with the other, which is why I thought th
ey might be brothers.”
“But you hadn’t seen the teenager before?” pressed Gardener. “Had you ever noticed anyone else collecting David Vickers. An adult?”
“No. Sometimes he was with friends, sometimes he was on his own.”
Gardener frowned. A twelve-year-old boy leaving school without supervision, particularly after two teenage girls had gone missing, was asking for trouble.
“Where were you when you saw them?”
“The living room. I’ll show you.”
The room was big and bright and smelled of pine. Aside from a blue Dralon Chesterfield suite, the only furniture it contained was a bookcase and a coffee table. There were no net curtains at the windows, which let in the full light of daytime.
“I was here, by the chair.”
“What happened?”
“I was using the vacuum cleaner, when I noticed the two of them walking past the gate, together.”
Gardener noted a hesitation, a quiver in her voice. She was holding something back.
“And?”
“Past the school bus.”
“Did he normally catch the school bus?”
Janet Soames paused again. “I think so.”
“But not this time?” persisted Reilly.
“I don’t think so, no.” Gardener saw the tears forming in her eyes.
“Is there anything else you can add to what you’ve told us?”
She wiped her eyes with a tissue, and brightened a little. “Yes. The youth had a carrier with the name of the fish-shop on it. Barker’s.” She pointed to her left. “It’s about half a mile from the school in a block of small shops on the right. If they went in there, maybe Mr Barker can tell you something.”
Gardener passed her his card. “Thank you, Mrs Soames. You’ve probably been more helpful than you realize. If you think of anything else, please ring me.”
The two detectives crossed the room. Before leaving, Gardener turned. “One more question. Can I ask why you haven’t told us before now?”
“My husband and I have just come back from America. Well, Sunday actually. It’s taken till now to catch up on the newspapers.”
“Would you recognize the youth again?”
“The jacket, yes. I didn’t see his face.”
“Maybe we should talk to the neighbours. Do you know them well?”
“The old couple next door, the Watsons, might be worth visiting.” Once again, she pointed to her left. “They’re retired now so they’re home most days. I feel sure they might be able to help.
The couple on the right I’m not so sure about. The Mallards. They’re both teachers, but the school is in Halifax.”
“You never know, Mrs Soames. One of them might have been at home. Thank you once again for your time. Like I said, if you think of anything else, just call the station.”
Outside, the Irishman turned to Gardener. “A teenager luring kids away. I wonder if he had anything to do with the missing girls. We might strike lucky with the jacket.”
“That’s what I was thinking. But why did he change sex with his victim this time? And if he did take the girls, what’s happened to them? I’ve read all the interviews. As usual, no one’s seen anything. He must be bloody sure of himself if he has taken all three!”
Janet Soames mentioned how well-mannered David was, which fit in with what he’d discovered from the parents. He had never missed school, was liked by his teachers and peers, as well as the neighbours. He earned pocket money by tending to odd jobs for them. He wasn’t sports orientated, more a bookworm. He had a computer in his room, his games being challenging adventures as opposed to shoot-em-ups. He used to help his father, Jim, on weekends, in the small DIY shop they owned in Churchaven. The boy was definitely not the outgoing type, so how had the youth lured him away? It must have been more than a promise of fish and chips.
Gardener sighed. “Two cases with no leads to suggest a connection. Two children are missing, a third is dead, and no one can help. We find a decomposed corpse that looks as if it’s been dead three months, but really only dead for three hours. We can’t find out anything about him, what he’s been killed with, or who killed him…” – He turned to his partner and scowled – “…and now I’ve a gut feeling that something is seriously amiss. I really don’t like where this is heading, Sean.”
Chapter Twenty-one
“I’ll have a pint of the black stuff, thank you very much.”
The landlord reached up and removed a clean glass from the shelf. As he poured the Guinness, he stated, “Not seen you in here before.”
“No. I’m meeting someone. Place comes highly recommended.”
“Pleased to hear it.”
Reilly pulled up a barstool. From his vantage point, he had an unobstructed view of the whole pub. The bar was long and straight, running almost the full length of the room. Opposite the bar in the far corner, leading to the toilets – and the so-called beer garden – was a pool table. Of the twenty or so people in The Black Bull, only half were seated. The rest lined up at the bar, except for four playing pool. The jukebox cranked out a Sixties number by The Monkees.
“Got any sandwiches?”
“One or two, nowt special, mind. Beef, ham, cheese and pickle, corned beef...” He left the sentence unfinished as if he’d lost interest.
Reilly sipped his pint, sizing up the publican. He was small and bald, aside from a few wisps of grey hair, which snaked along his pate. His eyes were black and soulless, much like his attitude. His teeth were false. A Band-Aid held his glasses together in one corner. He was dressed in an old grey woollen cardigan with tweed trousers. Reilly wondered if he’d left his slippers on.
Further down the bar, a pot-bellied pensioner cackled in delight, squeezing the backside of a woman half his age.
“Made your mind up, yet?” questioned the landlord.
“Not yet, no.”
“Suit yourself. What brings you round here, then?”
“I’m looking for someone. I’m told he drinks in here.”
“Who might that be?”
“Herbert Plum.”
The Irishman noticed the landlord stiffen. Although slight, it was enough to arouse Reilly’s curiosity.
“Never heard of him. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got other customers to attend to. If you want that sandwich, give us a shout.”
The landlord shuffled down to the other end of the bar. Reilly wasn’t so naive as to think he could have walked straight in and obtained the information with ease. He hadn’t expected such an abrupt change of attitude, however. The publican conversed with a couple of customers, but still threw occasional glances in his direction.
The detective checked his watch, wondering where his partner was. He left his stool. On his way to the toilets, he glanced at a few black and white pre-war frames hanging on the wall, of what he surmised to be Rawston and the surrounding area. On his way out, he was greeted by a reception committee. The four pool players.
The man Reilly assumed to be the ringleader stood with his arms folded, his cue neatly tucked across his chest. Although he was big, he was out of shape, with a beer belly that somehow managed to defy gravity. His visible skin was heavily tattooed. Of his three colleagues, Reilly considered only one of them a possible problem: a barn door of a man, cracking his knuckles, probably more at home on the rugby field.
“Gentlemen,” said Reilly, nodding his head.
“We don’t want your sort round here.”
The ringleader had spoken. Reilly made some quick observations. No one else seemed willing to back up the four. The people sitting at the nearby tables made a hasty exit, expecting trouble. The landlord conveniently turned his back. The music stopped.
“What sort?”
“Perverts!”
Gardener walked through the front door, dressed in a black sweatshirt, jeans, and trainers. He chose to sit at the bar. He gave Reilly a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
“If I was you, I’d be a little more car
eful when you’re addressing people you don’t know,” Reilly said, his tone even.
“What?” the tattooed man asked. He glanced around at his colleagues, pointing towards Reilly, and laughed. His grin revealed uneven, tobacco-stained teeth.
“Some people are easily offended.” Reilly paused. “Now me, I’ve been around a bit. I’ve developed what you might call a ‘thick skin’. But I draw the line at being called a pervert.”
The atmosphere grew heavy. From the expressions in their eyes, Reilly could see that two were reluctant to become involved. Gardener was still ignoring the publican, who seemed content to disregard the brewing trouble.
“Shouldn’t hang around with other perverts then, should you?”
“I don’t,” replied Reilly. “I said I was looking for him.”
“Come on, Craig, let’s leave it.”
“Now that sounds like good advice to me, Craig. So, I’m going to go over there and finish my wee drink. I suggest you go back to playing pool. We’ll let this little matter drop, and no one will come to any harm.” Maintaining eye contact, Reilly pushed his way past the man.
“Sean!” Gardener shouted suddenly. As Reilly turned, the ringleader was raising his cue, ready to bring it down across the detective’s head. All hell broke loose.
Reilly brought his right arm up, wrapping the cue up and yanking it toward him, out of the way. He slammed his left fist into the tattooed man’s face, then followed through with a knee to the man’s testicles and a right uppercut to his jaw. He then snapped the cue across his knee and hurled it the length of the bar, narrowly missing the landlord as he frantically made a phone call.
Gardener rushed past Reilly, shouting, ‘Police!’ It made no difference. One of the remaining two pool players took a swing at the senior officer. Gardener avoided the blow by raising the barstool he’d brought with him, smashing it into the man’s face.
The pub might as well have been in the middle of the football ground for all the noise that erupted. Two women at the bar screamed, encouraging the pool players. Glasses were smashed. Tables were overturned.
A pair of hands grabbed Reilly, one on his shoulder, the other hooked into his belt buckle. The next thing he knew, he was airborne. He crash-landed on the pool table, immediately rolling off and taking a pool ball with him.