Where There’s A Will

by Coles, Linda

  Things had quietened down considerably, and Birdie and Stanley were now chatting like old buddies. Considering the way they had first met one another a few short minutes ago, they’d simmered down pretty quickly. He’d had it all on to concentrate on his journey to Sanjeev’s place and try to listen to the conversation going on in the back at the same time and so had missed a good deal of what had been said.

  He slid back in behind the wheel and turned to catch the eye of Stanley, who was sitting directly behind the passenger seat. “Well, I suggest we take Stanley home first because he’s soaking wet. Is that okay with you, Birdie?” he asked, straining his neck to face her.

  “Change of plan,” she said matter-of-factly. Will looked to Stanley, who confirmed it with a slight nod.

  “Oh? What’s the plan now?”

  “Stanley’s just been talking about the tunnels, and I think while we’ve still got him in the car, he could show us where the entrance is that he knows about, and if we call into a pharmacy on the way through, we can get some specimen pots and a nail file. Perhaps we can go down into the tunnel and take those samples that you wanted and then later on you can go and get a sample of the Bridge Street one. You know how to get in there, that’s easy.”

  Will looked doubtful, purely because he didn’t want Stanley to catch cold. “This is what I suggest,” he said. “Stanley is considerably wetter than either of us and I’m sure you won’t mind me saying it, Stanley, but you’re old. Let’s run back to your place so you can get changed, and if you still intend on coming and fancy bit of excitement for the afternoon, then you can show us where the entrances are that you know about. Deal?”

  “You’re on,” said Stanley, sounding like a kid that was going to the circus for the afternoon. “I’ve not had such an exciting afternoon in a long time,” he said. That, Will could believe.

  “That’s settled, then.” Will started the engine and pointed the car in the direction of the Crescent and Stanley’s address. He wondered if the man would be able to manage on his own to get his soggy clothes off and some decent footwear on without taking all day, but he needn’t have worried. As they arrived outside his house, Birdie got out of her side of the car and was preparing to help him up the path.

  “I’ll help him,” she said. “It will be quicker.” Stanley never uttered a peep – maybe he was looking forward to a woman undressing him – and it tickled Will, but he too said nothing. He watched with amusement as the two ambled through the overgrown front garden and back up to Stanley’s front door. He wondered how long he would have to wait for the pair to return.

  Whatever Birdie had done, she’d somehow worked a miracle, because five minutes later a dry Stanley, complete with trainers, of all things, on his feet, emerged from the house and they made their way back to the car. Will waited until they’d both got in before asking, “Everything okay?”

  “The inside of that house is like something off Britain’s Biggest Hoarders,” Birdie exclaimed as she fastened her seat belt.

  “If you’d spent as much time with newspapers and picket lines as I have over the years, you might be as protective of them as I am!” Stanley offered by way of explanation.

  “I very much doubt that,” she said under her breath. Will caught it.

  “Are we ready?” Will asked hopefully, changing the subject.

  “Certainly are,” said Birdie. “Let’s get off before it gets much later. We don’t want to be down there too late.”

  “So, where are we headed then, Stanley? I’m sure there’ll be a chemist somewhere nearby.”

  “St Sep’s on Sheep Street if you don’t mind, driver,” Stanley said like a Royal sitting in the back of a horse-drawn vehicle. “And don’t mind the horses.”

  Fifty-Five

  The old Norman round church in Sheep Street looked uninviting and foreboding. It was a Grade II listed building, like so many of the older buildings in the town, and dated back to around 1100 AD. At that age, it was quite probably one of the oldest in the town, as well as only one of four medieval round churches still in use in England. It was Stanley that spoke first.

  “Never bloody liked churches,” he said. “Always give me the creeps.”

  “Then how did you know about these tunnels?” Birdie asked.

  “Because it’s pretty much the only way in now,” said Stanley. “I used to get in from the Gold Street entrance, where the old Conservative club used to be, but it’s not so easy now.”

  Birdie was intrigued. “When did you last try and get down there, then?”

  “Not that long actually,” said Stanley. “Probably only about ten years ago. Before my legs started jerking me around.”

  Ten years ago wasn’t exactly what Will would call recent.

  “Why then?” asked Will. “I hope you weren’t drinking down there at that age?”

  “No, though I can’t remember the reason why. Somebody asked me, we got talking about it, but I can’t for the life of me think who it was.” Stanley’s brow creased in concentration; it was going to take him the rest of the afternoon if he ever figured out whom he’d spoken to.

  “So how do we get in?” said Will.

  “Around the back,” said Stanley, pointing to a pedestrian door. “You can get in the front, but probably safer the back way, less people to notice you. There’s bound to be somebody in there praying.”

  Will detected a hint of disdain in his comment of somebody praying, but he let it go. Each to their own. Those that want to worship should be allowed to do so, and if Stanley didn’t believe in such activities that was his prerogative. One shouldn’t preach to the other, so to speak. Will gathered his bag of plastic specimen pots and nail file, which he’d purchased on the way in, ready to take scrapings from the wall and floor of the area.

  “We’ll follow you then,” said Will, knowing full well that Stanley wouldn’t exactly be flying across the grass to the entranceway. He just hoped that they could get down there and be back out again before too much longer.

  It took a good five minutes to reach the door and Will wondered if they were doing the right thing. Perhaps he should go down alone and not take the two old folks with him. It would be quicker and quite probably safer. Birdie must have read his mind because she said, “Oh no you don’t, Will. We’re coming too, or at least I am.”

  “I wouldn’t have it it any other way,” he said to Birdie, smirking. “Are you going to be all right on your feet though, Stanley? I suspect there will be steps.”

  “There are, but I’ll get you in. I’ll be lookout at the top, shall I? I can be of use there.”

  “What will you do to alert us of impending danger?” asked Birdie theatrically.

  Stanley tapped his pocket with satisfaction. “I might be ancient, but I’m no T-Rex, I’ve got a mobile.”

  “Then we should swap numbers now,” said Will. “Hand your phones over, it will be quicker if I add each of you for the other.” They already had Will’s.

  Stanley and Birdie dutifully did so, and one by one Will exchanged numbers into their phones and then handed them back.

  “There, we’re all set,” he said. “Now let’s get going.”

  When everyone was ready, Will led the way, followed by Birdie and with Stanley bringing up the rear. Will had an idea that it wasn’t going to be in the main part of the church, there was no point going in there, and thought it had to be out the back with the other rooms, including the offices. Somewhere in the back there would likely be a boiler room, as per his research, that had a hidden entranceway which led down and on from there. Hopefully Stanley’s memory was still intact to locate it.

  Like three church mice, they made their way forward. Stanley directed them silently so as not to be heard by the vicar or a church worker – it wouldn’t do to let anyone know they were there. As they moved further and further into the old building, Will could feel the temperature drop slightly and the air change, a much cooler breeze emanating from somewhere. They were going in the right direction and
eventually came to a doorway at the end of the corridor. It had to be the entranceway. Will turned to Stanley and said, “I think you’d better stay here now. Let us know if anyone comes, okay?”

  “I doubt your phone will work down there,” said Stanley.

  “Not a lot of point in swapping numbers then really, was there?” said Birdie sarcastically.

  “Either way, I’ll think of something. I can always say I was lost. Who wouldn’t believe me?” Stanley said with a sly grin.

  “I don’t doubt that,” said Will in a hushed voice. Surprisingly, the door was unlocked, and he and Birdie slipped through then turned on the torches on their phones. All the pair could see was darkness onwards from about five feet in front of them. They made their way down a handful of stone steps and paused at the bottom. The tunnel felt like something from an Indiana Jones movie. All they needed now was for a huge stone boulder to roll towards them and it would be complete.

  “Are you okay, Birdie?” he said in a loud whisper. He could feel her at his side, but wanted to make sure nonetheless.

  “Of course I am,” she said somewhat indignantly. “I went to prison, remember? This is nothing as bad as that. I’d rather be down here than locked up in a concrete box for hours on end.”

  “Then let’s get this over with, we don’t have to go far.”

  “Like hell we don’t,” said Birdie. “We’re here now, let’s get the scrapings and see how far this baby goes.”

  Fifty-Six

  Colin had mulled it over all day while sitting at his ugly modern desk at Angel Square. He’d hardly done anything more than gaze out of his window at the street below or pace up and down in his office, wondering what to do next. Acid churned in his stomach, the little bit of toast he’d eaten at breakfast had been nowhere near enough to soak it up, and he was producing more and more with the stress he was under. He could almost taste it. At 2 pm he could take it no more and marched out of his office, speaking to no one as he left the building. Normally for a journey in the day, he’d take the mayoral vehicle, but he didn’t want to go to the police station in such a grand affair; plus, he was in no mood for the formality of it all. What he was about to do didn’t warrant fanfare, he just wanted it done with. It would be better all-round if he drove himself there. He just hoped he could summon the strength when he needed it and not chicken out of telling the police what he knew.

  Once in the safety of his own car, he pulled out into the traffic and made his way to Campbell Square police station to report the incident. He thought about alerting his solicitor to his intentions; after all he would need one later on in the day, because no doubt they would arrest him and charge him with something. Withholding information concerning a murder investigation was going to warrant more punishment than a slap across the knuckles. He didn’t care at that moment, all he wanted was to feel normal again, get rid of the stress and stop the blackmailing, let someone else take over, because he couldn’t cope any longer. Whatever might have happened in terms of his retirement, his future, was probably lost now, though he hoped he’d still have Babs alongside him. The election, he really couldn’t care about. He wondered how Babs would react when it all came out? Still, the money that he had squirrelled away over the years, which now sat offshore, would help, and he hoped and prayed that his life wouldn’t be in tatters after the revelation he was about to make. He needed to be strong and right now he felt like a wimp, but as he made his way to the station, he began to feel a little more in control – it was the right thing to do.

  Soon enough he pulled up outside the building and sat for a moment considering the consequences. Anyone looking in would say, ‘absolutely, do the right thing’, but he had so much to lose. Was he really prepared? It was several minutes later that he finally made a move.

  “Come on, Colin,” he said to himself sternly. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Once inside the building, he stated that he needed to speak to someone, preferably the investigating officer in charge, about the recent deaths, the bodies found at Hunsbury Hill Country Park. He had information and he needed to get it off his chest. The uniformed man looked at him suspiciously. Was he another crackpot or the real thing?

  “Please take a seat,” the desk sergeant said. It was the last thing Colin wanted to do, and he hoped the wait wouldn’t be too long. He ignored the officer’s suggestion and instead paced up and down, much like he had in his own office not long ago. He’d been there only a couple of minutes when a voice called him from behind.

  “Colin Hayhurst?” He turned to see a woman much taller than him with hair the shade of residue blue. He wondered about that for a second or two, but now was not the time to ask, he had more important things on his mind. “I’m DI Rochelle Mason, I’m on the team investigating the case. I believe you have some information to share with me?”

  “Yes, I do. Quite a lot, actually,” he said.

  “Then follow me, if you don’t mind, so I can take it down properly.”

  Colin followed the woman through an internal door and into an interview room where she offered him a seat and this time he took it.

  “So, what is it you know?” she enquired.

  “I guess the best place to start is at the beginning,” he said.

  She must have sensed his nerves because she smiled, which did help to relax him just a little.

  “I find it the best place, but take your time.” As a detective, she recognised that the man sitting in front of her had something of consequence on his mind and needed some persuasion to jerk it loose.

  “It started at the beginning of the week…” Colin began to fill her in with the story of the first two text messages and then the bombshell from earlier today – he had received a third one. With the added message of ‘checkmate’, he hoped it was the last, the game over. Colin had lost and the blackmailers were now going to do their worst, as they’d promised. DI Rochelle Mason looked at Colin as if he was something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. By the vein that pulsed in her neck, he could tell she was struggling to contain her anger. If he had come forward earlier on, he could have saved a life, if not three. People had died because of his selfish actions, but as a professional, the detective didn’t say a word.

  Instead, she asked, “Is your phone with you?”

  “Of course,” he said, “But I’m afraid I’ve deleted the first two texts.”

  He could see her visibly groan, and wondered if there was any way to get those images back like they did on TV. Surely somebody could resurrect them, see what had been there?

  “Have you still got the latest image?”

  By the tone of her voice, he could tell there was an urgency in it.

  “I do, yes.” He pulled it up and handed his phone to her and watched while the detective looked at the image then tapped the screen several times. He had no idea what she was doing. She looked across at him. “Lucky for you that whoever’s done this is a complete amateur.” What did that mean exactly?

  She jumped up from her chair and ran out the room, shouting as she went. A moment later, another police officer entered and positioned himself by the door, as if to guard him.

  “What will happen now?” he asked the man.

  “I am to watch over you until DI Mason gets back is all I know.”

  Colin hoped it wouldn’t be long, he felt sick again.

  Fifty-Seven

  It had been a stroke of luck for the investigation that DI Mason had been in the Campbell Square police station on another matter. So, when Colin Hayhurst had announced that he had information on the case, she was able to spring into action and meet with him instantly. What she hadn’t been prepared for, however, was the fact that he was involved by being the recipient of certain images, he wasn’t just another crackpot that thought he knew where the next body was – they thought they were doing the right thing, meant well, but ended up wasting police time. But Colin Hayhurst was the real McCoy, he had an image on his phone to prove it. Now it looked like there was a th
ird body that they had yet to find.

  There was no way to tell from the photo whether the person was alive or dead; it was a naked torso with yet another message, ‘checkmate’. Rochelle had run from the room and hastily made a call to the SIO, DCI Karen Miller, back at Newport Pagnell Road for further instructions. Right now, Colin Hayhurst was being guarded by a constable and she knew she hadn’t got much time. He wasn’t under arrest, not yet, so she needed to make it snappy. Outside, Rochelle jumped on her motorbike and raced around the ring road as fast as she could safely drive. It didn’t take long to get to the satellite office where the team were operating from, and she immediately handed the phone over to DCI Miller. Rochelle Mason was a smart woman and had promptly looked at the image information to see if it gave the time and date of where and when it had been taken. It was all there in front of her, at 8.06 that morning and the GPS coordinates were displayed at the bottom. It had been taken on an iPhone X. She recognised the latitude and longitude numbers for the town, so she knew it had been taken locally. What she didn’t know was the exact spot until she looked them up online. It was now their call what to do next. Whatever the location turned out to be, they had to tread carefully, the victim could still be alive.

  DCI Karen Miller wasted no time in organising the team and their roles. As men and women piled into vans to head out, nobody quite knew what to expect when they arrived at the coordinates given. DI Mason was among them. As adrenalin pumped through her veins, she hoped, like her colleagues, that the third victim was still alive, whoever they were. With no sirens and only flashing lights to clear the traffic, they headed north towards the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which was frighteningly close to Campbell Square police station itself. In fact, it was just across the road. Who would think of committing such a crime right under the nose of the police?