by Alan Fisher
“Fair enough. Right, where was I? McMillan heads off for this meeting with someone he knows and gets stabbed. Obviously this girlfriend of his, this Tanya Golding, has to be in the frame. It would certainly explain why he went to the hotel to meet her. Maybe they had a falling out, or she just wanted to end it and it got messy. But no, she planned it, she had arranged an accomplice to help her dispose of the body. So you see, as soon as some things seem to fit together, they start to unravel. Whatever the reason for killing him, if she booked the room in a false name and disguised herself for the cameras, why risk moving the body? And then why dump it in a bin? And why stick a playing card in his mouth. And why murder Justice Robertson and stick one in his mouth as well? It’s just one gigantic friggin mess at the moment. Have I missed anything out? Or have you some credible answers to any of these things?”
Oliver took out his notebook from his pocket and glanced down at the list’
McMillan
2 mobile phones, 1 for exclusive use of coded texts, the other missing
Jack of Diamonds in mouth of dead body
Moved from original place of stabbing
Wrapped in plastic AND rug
Dumped IN a bin
No financial issues
Ring on finger
Late clandestine meetings not unusual
Who invited him to meeting – lover?
Campbell sensitive info on him?
Media has sensitive info before team briefings
McMillan killed Sunday night, found Monday morning. Media report Wednesday morning.
Robertson killed Tuesday night, found Wednesday morning, media report Thursday morning everything except his identity?
Justice Robertson
Wrapped in plastic AND rug ***
Dumped IN a bin ***
Jack glanced briefly across at the notebook in Oliver’s hand. Automatically, he turned off the A1 and onto the A69 heading west towards the village of Corbridge.
“That’s a hell of a list. Are they all concerns or unanswered questions?”
“They were, but I think I can offer a working theory for a couple of them. But it’s a bit thin at the moment because we only have two pieces of information that match up in both cases. And like you sir, I believe whoever killed McMillan, also killed Robertson”.
“Ok then. Tell me what you think, start with how you seemed to know about McMillan’s hesitation at the room in the hotel”.
“Ah that. Well sir, I have an advantage over you there”.
“And what would that be?”
“I’ve actually met Tanya Golding”.
“Go on”.
“Tanya Golding is almost 6 feet tall in her bare feet sir. The person in the still photo at the hotel, supposedly this Donna Yates, looks about six inches shorter. I would have confirmed that by looking at the footage, but I’m fairly sure it’s not Tanya Golding”.
“And yet you let me send DS Glover off to bring her in?”
“I said I was fairly sure sir, not certain. Anyway, it wasn’t my place to question either you or DS Glover until you give me leave to do so”.
“All right, enough already, you’ve made your point”.
“Sorry sir, I didn’t mean to suggest….”
“Enough Oliver, let’s move on or we’ll be in Corbridge before I can get my head around this. If you feel sure it wasn’t Tanya Golding, who do you think it was?”
“I don’t know sir. But I have a theory about events which ties in with one of my concerns on my list”.
“All right, let’s hear what you’ve pieced together”.
“McMillan had two phones according to one of DS Glover’s briefings, one solely for arranging these clandestine meetings at hotels, and that’s the one that was left in his office. I think we can assume that the other one, his normal phone, was with him when he was murdered and, as you haven’t found it at the crime scene, it’s possible the killer took it”.
“Ok, why?”
“I’ll come to that in a minute sir. So let’s assume that you wanted to kill McMillan and to do so, you wanted to lure him to a hotel and be certain he would come”.
“You would want to pretend the message was coming from someone else” said Jack, thinking out loud as he started to follow Oliver’s train of thought. “Someone who you could be sure that McMillan would trust”.
“Who better than Tanya Golding, his known lover sir”.
“So you’re saying that this mugging, the one on the day McMillan was murdered; was staged simply to get hold of Tanya Golding’s phone. So the killer could send him a message from her phone inviting him to the hotel”.
“It would certainly guarantee his attendance. And it would explain the hesitation at the door to the hotel room, McMillan was expecting Tanya Golding to open the door”.
“Yes, I see that. But how did this mystery woman know about Tanya Golding?”
“Tom Campbell did, and I doubt he got the information himself. Tim Southern suspected it and could have followed McMillan on more than one occasion to see who he was meeting. The text on the phone wasn’t a singular invitation either, there clearly had been other meetings. Either of these could have passed on the information, so it’s a reasonable assumption that others could have known”.
“His wife, colleagues, enemies?”
“Could be anyone sir. I said I didn’t have many answers”.
“Ok. But having achieved her ends by using Tanya’s phone to lure him to the hotel. Why then nick his other phone? Did she think it was the phone with the message on and want to remove the trail of evidence? Smart move if that’s the case, but then we know a lot of planning went into this”.
“It was my first thought too sir”.
“But you don’t think that now, what then, and why?”
“I’m speculating again here sir, probably wildly”.
“I’m listening” said Jack, as he overtook a Tesco delivery van sliding awkwardly across the road beside him.
“It was the media reporting that gave me the idea this morning. I thought it was curious that Robertson’s identity wasn’t revealed”.
“Yeah, you said. Nice to know none of my team were leaking information”.
“Again, one of my first thoughts. But then I started to wonder about why Robertson wasn’t named; and if that might connect with other unanswered questions”.
“Such as?”
“The playing cards” said Oliver.
“I wondered when they’d come into the reckoning, don’t tell me you know what all that means Oliver, why the hell didn’t you say? And don’t say it’s because it wasn’t your place”.
“No, it’s because I don’t know. If I did, I would have said something. I was talking to Debbie and we were kicking around a few ideas when we were looking at the text messages. She asked if there was a message connected to the playing cards”.
“And is there?”
“I think so, but before you ask, I have no idea what it is sir. It struck me that the message of the playing cards were not meant for the police, they seem to me to be more symbolic than informative. I think they were meant for someone else”
“Anyone in particular?”
“I don’t know that either. I’m not explaining this very well. Suppose the playing cards are some sort of symbol, a symbol that only a restricted group of people would understand. The killer needs to make sure that the symbol, and therefore the message, reaches this group. And the best way to do that is to make sure the information is reported on the TV”.
“So the killer leaks the information about the playing cards so that this restricted audience knows who, and presumably why, these two have been murdered?”
“That’s my thinking sir, I told you it was a bit wild”.
“But your theory doesn’t add up Oliver. If you’re right, why wasn’t Robertson’s name mentioned?”
“The phone sir”.
“Come again”.
“Robertson’s phone is missing. What if
the killer used McMillan’s missing phone to lure Robertson somewhere. The same method had already worked on McMillan and might work on Robertson, assuming they knew each other of course. And what if the killer kept Robertson’s phone to lure the next victim. Time’s tight, if they released the name, the next victim might realise what’s happening and take steps to protect themselves”.
“The next victim?”
“Yes sir, I think there will be more unless we find them first”.
“Well Oliver. There are an awful lot of if’s but’s and maybe’s in your theory, not to mention a few stretched assumptions. But it’s good to know what’s been bothering you. Here we are” said Jack as he turned into a leafy tree-lined drive leading to a large Victorian detached house in the centre of Corbridge. “I’ll think on what you’ve come up with and we’ll talk some more later”.
“Yes sir, I did warn you it was all a bit thin”.
“Never mind that” said Jack as they both started to climb out of Jack’s car, “you probably don’t know that Justice Robertson didn’t have any family, despite the size of the house in front of you. We’re here to see his housekeeper, Mrs Wallace, Housekeeper, I ask you. It appears some of us never made it out of the 1950’s” he smiled as he instinctively locked the car door and crossed the drive to the main front door, slipping off his cloth cap as he walked.
Chapter 27
“Mrs Wallace?” asked Jack at the appearance of a short and stocky grey-haired lady behind the large oak door.
At a little over 5 feet tall, she was dwarfed by both Jack and Oliver as they stood in the doorway. Her hair was neatly tied in a bun and she wore an apron over her neat white blouse and dark navy floor length skirt. Jack wondered briefly why she might be wearing an apron, given that she had no-one to housekeep for, but he resisted the temptation to ask.
“You’ll be the police then, are you?” she asked in a somewhat commanding tone.
“DCI Collier and DC Cole” said Jack showing his warrant card.
Jack waited for a moment or two whilst Mrs Wallace actually took his warrant card in her hand and seemed to examine it in some detail. Perhaps the very nature of Justice Robertson’s life and the nature of his work had rubbed off on Mrs Wallace he thought, making her rather authoritative and yet, a little untrusting. After a few seconds she seemed to accept that his warrant card was genuine and gave it back to him.
“You best come in then gentlemen, we can talk in the library”.
“Thank you” said Jack, returning the scrutinised warrant card to his inside pocket.
“Will you have time for a cup of tea?” she said, opening the door wide and allowing the pair to step through the doorway into the large tiled lobby beyond.
“That would be very kind” said Jack as Mrs Wallace closed the door behind them.
She then led them through the lobby and along a short picture-adorned hallway off to the left and into a large corner room with two floor-to-ceiling windows letting in what little there was of the daylight.
“I’ll just be a few minutes” said Mrs Wallace, “please, make yourselves comfortable”. And she hurried back through the hallway.
Oliver took in the surroundings of a room he couldn’t have imagined would exist in the modern age, the like of which he’d only ever seen in period TV drama. The twelve feet high ceiling was decorated with artwork that would not have looked out of place in the Sistine Chapel and the walls were covered totally with dark-oak floor-to-ceiling bookcases, each one filled to bursting point. The deep blue patterned rug covered half the floor and a large Victorian desk and chair backed onto the window that looked out on where the sun might otherwise have been. On the other side of the room four Chesterfield armchairs and a marble-topped coffee table sat waiting for someone to pick up one of the many books and relax in the comfortable surroundings. Reading lamps were strategically placed by each armchair.
Oliver glanced along the rows and rows of books. He noticed, perhaps unsurprisingly, that the sections he was looking at were all books on Law, predominantly case-law. He wandered along the wall towards where a ten foot ladder was leaning idly against the wall, to find a section on British history.
“You ever seen so many books in one place other than City Library?” asked Jack from one of the chairs by the coffee table.
“Nope” said Oliver matter-of-factly. “And when did you become a tea drinker sir?”
“I didn’t, just being polite. Notice anything of interest?”
“Not here, but I think I should have a better look at some of the pictures on the wall of the hallway when we get a chance”.
“Originals? Why the interest?”
“No, not the paintings. There are some framed photographs in there as well. At first glance they looked like groups of people. Given we’re looking for some sort of connection between Robertson and McMillan, I thought they might be worth studying. Maybe there’ll be one of the two of them together”.
“Leave no stone eh” mused Jack as he relaxed into his chosen chair.
“Precisely” said Oliver as his attention to the books in front of him was disturbed by the re-appearance of Mrs Wallace.
She crossed the room and placed a large cylindrical silver tray on the coffee table and proceeded to pour tea into what Jack imagined was some of the finest china available. She handed him the first cup and placed a second in front of the chair next to him before pouring a cup for herself, and sitting down.
“It’ll get cold Mr Cole” she said without looking at him, “and I’m sure it’ll do you more good than looking through those dusty old things. Help yourself to milk and sugar please”.
Oliver felt as if he was back at home and being asked to follow one of his mother’s gentle but insistent instructions. Obediently he crossed the room to join Jack and Mrs Wallace, automatically taking out his notebook as he sat down.
“Now then gentlemen” said a relaxed Mrs Wallace, “how can I help you?”
Jack poured some milk into his tea and added two large sugar lumps before starting to stir as noiselessly as he could manage.
“My apologies for not coming to see you earlier Mrs Wallace but we are in the process of investigating another murder at the moment and resources are stretched rather thin. I know you will have been made fully aware of the circumstances of Justice Robertson’s death and we are just gathering background information as we begin our enquiries” said Jack as he finally finished stirring his tea.
“Do you believe the two murders are connected Chief Inspector?”
The question took both Jack and Oliver by surprise, and the look on Jack’s face gave away that very fact.
“Oh don’t look so surprised Chief Inspector. You may think that I’m just a little grey haired old housekeeper, but one wouldn’t spend the best part of thirty years working for a judge, and one as prominent as Justice Archibald Robertson at that, without learning something about the police and police procedure. If you are investigating another murder and yet still come to interview me, the conclusion I would draw would be that you believe the two murders are connected in some way. Am I correct?”
Jack picked up his cup of tea and looked Mrs Wallace firmly in the eye. This was no genteel housekeeper he thought, this was someone to be reckoned with and he would need to choose his words very carefully. He glanced briefly at Oliver and imagined the suppressed smile fighting to break out onto his face.
“There are similarities that mean we cannot assume at this moment that they aren’t connected” he said carefully.
“I thought so” she said, in a slightly triumphant tone, “and you’re looking to find what the connection between Justice Robertson and the other victim might be. Find the connection and find the killer”.
“It would certainly help to narrow the field of possible suspects” said Jack.
“Then if I’m to help you I will need to know the name of the other victim. Is it this politician for Tyneside, the one that’s been all over the news recently?”
Jack shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. This interview was going all wrong. He was the one who was supposed to ask the questions. He felt slightly harassed, under scrutiny, and it was not a warm feeling. But he also knew she was right, maybe the best way to get Mrs Wallace to answer questions was not to ask her any and just let her talk. If she missed anything out that he needed to know, he could ask when she was done. Tentatively, he moved on.
“I see no harm in revealing some details Mrs Wallace, although I must stress they are still confidential at present”.
“Of course, I understand” she said.
“The first victim was indeed a politician, Andrew McMillan. Is that name familiar to you at all?”
“Not in the sense of being known to Justice Robertson. I’ve seen his name on the news of course, but I cannot place the name as a known associate of the judge. That doesn’t mean they weren’t known to each other. I was the judge’s housekeeper, not his wife”.
“Some might argue that a wife would know less than anyone else”.
“Indeed. But if the judge was ever in contact with Mr McMillan, it wasn’t here. The judge had many associates of course. Some professional, some personal. Some I knew of, many I probably didn’t. How did Mr McMillan die?”
“We believe he was lured to a hotel on the pretext of meeting a personal friend. He was stabbed and the unconscious body removed and dumped in an industrial bin where he bled to death”.
“How ghastly. This personal friend be a lover perhaps?”
“Perhaps” smiled Jack.
“And the judge died the same way?” she asked.
“We don’t know that yet. I’m sorry if it’s distressing, but Justice Robertson’s body was left in the same manner.
“So it’s possible that he was lured to a hotel and murdered in the same way”.
“It’s possible”.
“Well I can tell you he wouldn’t have gone to a hotel to meet a lover, that’s certain. The judge was nearly 80 years old and had no interest in such things. In fact, I never knew him be with anyone, even in his younger days, although I suppose there must have been times. I wasn’t aware of it and it was none of my business. But there was never anything like that here, not when I was here anyway, and I’ve been his housekeeper for nearly thirty years. He did go out on Tuesday evening around 7pm. He said he was going to meet an old business colleague and would be out most of the evening. He told me not to wait up and he would see me at breakfast the following morning”.