by Alan Fisher
“Ignoring DS Glover like that”.
“I wasn’t ignoring him. He didn’t ask me a question, so he didn’t need any answer. All he did was comment on my report and wish us luck in what we’re doing”.
“Right” said Debbie, trying to analyse his response. “But he said your report was good, you could have thanked him”.
“I know my report was good Debbie, I don’t need a new DS to tell me that. Can we focus here please. This label doesn’t give me much, do you know anything about what it says?”
Debbie shuffled across the floor to get a closer look at the label. It measured around six inches square and mostly had a list of materials used in the making of the rug. It also bore a bar code and a series of printed numbers and letters and a stamp saying “Made in India” across the bottom.
“Not much. The fact that it says it was made in India suggests it’s been imported, although you cannot trust everything on a label these days. And I would guess that some of these numbers and letters might have something to do with either where exactly it was made, or perhaps who imported it into this country. I think we need to talk to an expert who can interpret the information for us”.
“Sounds good to me, I don’t suppose you know anyone who might be an expert on this sort of thing and be able to help, do you?”
“Not really” said Debbie, getting to her feet. “But I imagine any manager of a carpet outlet or warehouse should be able to help”.
Oliver took out his phone and took close up photographs of the label and then the whole rug back and then turned it over to photograph the front.
“Ok then. After we’ve been out to Shields Road, we’ll find a carpet place and show these pictures to them. Maybe someone will be able to give us some answers, or at least point us in the right direction. Help me roll this back up will you, and we’ll make a move”.
“There used to be a carpet place on Shields Road, but I doubt it’s there anymore, it’s mostly charity shops now. But there are a couple of carpet shops not too far away, there’s one in Cramlington and one in Seaton Delaval we could visit” said Debbie as she moved to one side of the rug and started to roll it.
“How do you know so much about carpet outlets?” he asked.
“Been looking around a bit lately for the house Ian and I have bought”.
“Of course, I should’ve realised. You’re getting married soon I hear”.
“Next year, April 27th to be exact. Right, happy?” she asked, standing up.
“Happy” said Oliver, “we have a plan. Shall we take my car? See you in ten minutes?”
“Ok” said Debbie, “I’ll grab my things and meet you in the car park”.
The rest of the day was spent trawling up and down Shields Road in Byker, in and out of shops talking to members of staff and accessing what little CCTV evidence they could find.
It had been little more than a couple of months since Oliver had last walked along Shields Road, so he wasn’t surprised at what he found. Charity shops and fast food outlets dominated both the road and in many ways the clientele that seemed to wander aimlessly along it. The whole place looked seedy and desperate. It was certainly not a place where you would go to shop.
As they walked along the back of the road where the body of politician Andrew McMillan had been discovered, the remainder of the industrial bins sat silently giving off an aroma that matched the depressing nature of the whole area,
Oliver involuntarily put a hand over his mouth and nose as he looked at the back of the buildings for any sign of CCTV cameras. Debbie clearly noticed their absence too.
“Can’t see any sign of cameras can you?” she asked as the pair picked their way past a pile of discarded rubble.
“No, nothing at all”.
“Seems a bit strange don’t you think, that none of these places would have any CCTV at the back of their premises?”
“Not really. What would be the point? Who would break into any of these places? There’s nothing to nick” said Oliver ruefully.
“You’ve got a point, not that it helps us over much though does it?”
“Well, it does, and it doesn’t” said Oliver as they reached the turning back towards the front of the shops.
“What do you mean?”
“It doesn’t help us to find the vehicle that was used to dump the body. But it does suggest the possibility that the area was chosen because of that very fact”
“So you’re saying that this may have been a carefully planned murder and not just a random attack”.
“It’s another indicator, that’s all I’m saying. The fact he was a politician, the fact the body was hidden in a plastic sheet and rolled up rug and that the body was moved from its original place to a place where there are no cameras to witness the event”.
“Not to mention the card in his mouth”.
“Yeah, that too” smiled Oliver.
He looked up and down the road as he turned the corner.
“Doesn’t look like the front of these shops is any better either. Why don’t you take this side of the road and I’ll cross over and do the other side. I’ll meet you at the corner at the top of the road where the access road to the rear is, and we’ll see if either of us gets lucky”.
Fifteen minutes later the pair of them met up on the corner.
“Any luck? asked Debbie.
“Nope, only two shops had cameras on the front of the building. One of them doesn’t work and hasn’t for months. The other is a false camera used as a deterrent, although why they believe that a deterrent is necessary for a chip shop escapes me. You?”
“Not much better. Only the Bank on the next corner down has any cameras. One is over the entrance and essentially looks down at the pavement. The other is at the cash machine. It looks straight out so we may see any passing vehicles, but we wouldn’t be able to identify which one may have been carrying the body, and we definitely won’t see any registration plates”.
“Well, it’s better than nothing. Did you ask for copies of the tapes?”
“Of course. They’re preparing them now. Have you ever looked at these types of things before?”
“Yeah, I have. On my first case here with DCI Collier. They were tapes from the entrance to a hotel in Shiremoor. Hours and hours of looking at stuff without knowing what you’re looking for, it’s not exactly what you would call the cutting edge of the investigation. But it needs to be done, so how about you pick them up and meet me back at the car. We can drive to Cramlington and talk to someone in the carpet shop about the label. That’ll take up the rest of the day and we can start afresh tomorrow morning looking through the tapes. We’ll probably need plenty of coffee to get through them”.
“Right then, see you back at the car”.
Oliver took several more photographs of the general layout of Shields Road on his way back to the car. He knew it wouldn’t help at all, but he wanted to ensure that he had everything he would need if DS Glover asked for a full report. He also feared the Bank tapes wouldn’t help much either. But at least he was involved in the case, even if it was on the outside edge, and he was working with Debbie.
He was being a team player, that’s what he was doing. Or so he told himself.
Chapter 15
The weather changed in the short time it took Jack to drive from Ponteland Headquarters to the cathedral city of Durham. Even though it was a little over twenty five miles away, the temperature improved by several degrees as the autumn sun came out to greet them.
It had been some time since Jack had last visited Durham, not that he would have much time to look around this time either. But the view remained the same as he approached the outskirts of the city with the cathedral spires highlighted against the sunny skies immediately ahead, and the familiar outline of the train station high on the hill off to the left.
He followed the road signs to the multi-storey car park where the forensics team would be waiting beside McMillan’s car, even though he suspected that there was ve
ry little possibility that they would find anything of any significance. Clearly McMillan had left his car behind when travelling to wherever it was that he had met his killer so it was unlikely the car would have any connection with that event.
Parking up just a few yards away from the forensics team, Jack handed over the keys to McMillan’s car and within ten minutes he was crossing one of the many bridges across the river looking for the address that would lead him to Conservative Party headquarters.
Jason trailed along close behind Jack; his thoughts kept firmly to himself.
He’d said very little on the journey to Durham either, Jack had wondered if he’d brought on this unwelcome silence by giving away some of his concerns in the tone he’d used in their conversation earlier that morning.
It didn’t matter, everything would come out in the wash, as his grandpa used to tell him.
He’d never quite worked out what exactly his grandpa had meant by the saying, but he’d used it a few times himself when confusion had taken over the investigation and drained the enthusiasm out of his team. It seemed to give them some sort of re-assurance.
Eventually Jack found the address he was looking for and went through the open doorway between Greggs The Bakers and a small boutique ladies clothes outlet. He climbed the stairs to the first floor and rang the doorbell situated on the wall outside the glass door which bore the title “Conservative Party – Durham Branch”.
A few seconds later a tall, but rather elegant, grey-haired lady opened the door. She was dressed in black trousers and a crisp white blouse, and Jack recognised instantly that here was a woman who did not let age impact on her beauty.
“Can I help you” she asked, clearly surprised to be getting any visitors.
Jack swiftly removed his cloth cap and took out his warrant card to show to her.
“DCI Jack Collier and DS Jason Glover, Northumbria Police” he stated.
“You’re here about Mr McMillan’s murder?” she said meekly, her hand involuntarily going to her mouth.
“Indeed” said Jack, “We’ve been in touch with Mr Southern earlier this morning, I believe he’s expecting us?”
“That’s ok Mrs Bell, I spoke with the police this morning, I’ll take it from here” said a voice from along the corridor behind Mrs Bell.
Mrs Bell pulled to one side and the even taller figure of Tim Southern appeared in the doorway with his hand outstretched. Dressed in jeans and an open necked blue-striped shirt he looked less like a Personal Assistant than any other Jack had come across. The notion was confirmed when Jack spotted the presence of a gold stud ear-ring in his right ear lobe, and that his thinning blonde hair was tied in a short ponytail. He stood a few inches taller than Jack and even dwarfed Mrs Bell as he stood next to her.
“Tim Southern” he said reaching out and taking Jack’s hand. “Please follow me and we can talk. Some refreshments perhaps Mrs Bell?”
Mrs Bell turned and wandered off along the corridor without a word whilst Jack and Jason stepped through into the corridor. Tim Southern quickly closed the door and led the pair into a room with 3 desks, a couple of cupboards, and row upon row of shelves stacked high with books and files. The only window in the room looked like it hadn’t been cleaned for a few months but still allowed a reasonable amount of light through. A blackbird perched briefly on the window ledge outside before flapping its wings and heading off in search of lunch.
Quickly, Tim pulled out a couple of seats for the officers and sat himself down behind one of the desks.
“Please, sit gentlemen, and tell me how I can help”.
Jack placed his cloth cap on the desk in front of him and took the seat nearest to the window, Jason quietly slid into the other.
“Why Durham?” asked Jack.
“Excuse me?” said Tim, uncertain as to Jack’s meaning.
“Why would Andrew McMillan have his headquarters here in Durham when he was a candidate for Tynemouth?”
“Ah, I see” said Tim, “simple really. Costs, DCI Collier. We share this office with two other local candidates, it’s normal practice until we get elected. Only when elected do we need an office in the constituency because we then need to hold weekly surgeries. We avoid the unnecessary costs until we have to, that’s all”.
“I understand, and the others who share this office?”
“Are working from home today. It’s normal practice so everyone doesn’t trip over each other, I suppose Mrs Bell is the only permanent resident as it were. She’s been here since before my time, I think she came with Andrew from the local Council”.
“Did Mr McMillan get along with everyone here?”
“Absolutely, we’re all on the same team here. No competition, everyone has their own patches to deal with and sometimes ideas and information was exchanged but there was never any conflict. No, everyone gets along really well here”.
“And yourself, Mr Southern? What’s your history here, working as Mr McMillan’s personal assistant?”
“Not personal assistant DCI Collier, although it’s a very common mistake to make. In political circles, PA stands for political advisor, not personal assistant”.
“My apologies, no offence” said Jack.
“No problem, ah here’s the refreshments” said Tim as Mrs Bell brought in a large tray with cups, saucers, tea, coffee, and a plate of biscuits on it”.
“Please, help yourselves”.
Jack leaned forward and reached for the coffee pot whilst Tim continued.
“I first met Andrew when I was reading politics here at Durham University. I’d moved up here from my home in Kent and joined the local Conservative Party. That was just under ten years ago. By the time I’d finished my degree, we’d become good friends and he asked me if I’d stay on here and become his PA. I’d met my future wife here, so I was happy to agree, and we’ve been working together ever since to get him elected. It’s a tragedy that he’s been taken from us just as we were about to succeed”.
“You never held any ambitions yourself to get into front line politics then?”
“Good lord no” said Tim with a snort.
“Why not, may I ask?”
“Because it’s a septic tank full of egomaniacs willing to do anything and everything to climb the ladder”.
“Bit cynical for a political advisor isn’t it?” said Jack, raising his eyebrows.
“Not cynical DCI Collier. Realistic and honest is what it is. In general, people compete with each other. In sport, in love, in work, in just about everything. Every workplace is full of people competing with each other for recognition or promotion or positions of power or influence. In politics you can multiply that characteristic tenfold. Politicians want to have power, some might argue need that power; they want to get to the top of the ladder, the front of the queue, call it what you will. But as soon as they start to move up the ladder or forward in the queue, there’s always someone behind who will stab them in the back to get their position. They will say anything to get votes, answer any question you want to ask, except the question you’ve actually asked, and they will lie, cheat, and steal to get on. They say they enter politics to serve the people, particularly the people of their constituency. In reality, the people only matter when it’s election day. Every other day it’s all about them, their ego, and their personal ambitions”.
“Seems odd that you should be involved, even from a distance, in something that you clearly dislike so much” said Jack.
“I don’t like or dislike it DCI Collier. What I do, is understand it. That’s why Andrew thought I’d make a good political advisor and perhaps he was right. He was odds on to be elected next time round”.
“So if there were no internal enemies because each candidate had their own constituency to worry about, what about outside, perhaps political opponents? Any threats or incidents of note?”
“Plenty of enemies, but none that would resort to murder. As I said before, politicians will lie, cheat, steal and just about anything else you
can think of to get ahead. But murder? I just cannot see anyone resorting to that sort of thing, even his most fierce opponents. As for threats or incidents, no, nothing like that”.
“Ok, so you think it unlikely that his death was politically motivated? Before you answer would you mind if my Sergeant went and had a chat with Mrs Bell whilst we finish off here, just to tidy up a few loose ends?” asked Jack, picking up his cup of coffee.
“Of course” said Tim, slightly taken aback. “She’ll be at her desk in the room at the end of the corridor”.
“Political motivation?” Jack reminded Tim as Jason left the office.
“I doubt it. Character assassination, destruction of reputations, yes. But all verbal, nothing physical”.
“When was it that you last saw Mr McMillan or were in touch with him?”
“The day before yesterday. We spoke in the morning; he was in here catching up on some paperwork. After that he was going to a meeting of a group of local businessmen, members of the CBI I think, at Ramside Hall in Durham. Late afternoon he was heading back here to do some policy changes revision before heading home. We were due to meet up here yesterday, but I didn’t speak to him after our chat on Sunday. I spent all day in Tynemouth canvassing on the doorsteps with a volunteer group. We met at the Gibraltar Rock at 11am before hitting the streets, week-ends are a good time to catch people at home. It wasn’t until yesterday morning that I found out what had happened to him”.
“I’ll need a list of names and addresses of these volunteer helpers Mr Southern”.
“Of course, no problem”.
“Have you any idea where he might have gone on the evening of his death, or who he might have been meeting?”
“None at all, there was nothing in his diary to say he had an evening meeting”.
“Was it unusual for him to go somewhere after work, other than home, without the appointment being in his diary?”
Tin hesitated momentarily and Jack noticed it immediately.
“Is there something else I should know about Mr Southern?”