by Coles, Linda
“Excuse me.”
The young man turned. “Hello?”
“Hi, I wonder if you’d like to earn a little cash?”
The man paused then said, “Doing what?” Cagey.
“I just have a small job, a message to be delivered, that’s all. Nothing more.” She watched his eyes as he considered what to do. It wasn’t someone she knew this time, so they didn’t know her either.
“What does it entail?” Still suspicious.
“I just need you to make a phone call at ten past nine on the dot. I’ll tell you what to say. I need to make sure somebody gets a message is all. Can you do that? I’ll pay you ten pounds.”
“Ten pounds? And all you want me to do is make a phone call?”
“Yes, I have a phone with me.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I’ve got it written down here for you. Here,” she said, pulling a piece of paper out of her bag. She handed it over and waited until he’d read what it was. She noted his raised eyebrows – did he think she was the killer? “The number to call is on the page at the top. Just make sure you get to speak to the right person – Stuart is his name.”
“What if they don’t answer, or are not in?”
“Then you’ll need to try again, because I’m not handing over the cash until I know the message has been delivered, right?”
“I suppose,” he said almost sullenly, shrugging.
“I’ll stay with you, to make sure it’s done. This is important.”
She edged him towards a doorway. As the young man dialled the number, she marvelled again at how easy it was to use someone that wouldn’t dream of going to the police unless their life depended on it, and that would soon fade, once again, into the background. Finding them again would be virtually impossible.
Perfect.
Seventy-Seven
Stuart was studying the documents when Bruce entered the conference room. “I’ve just had a weird phone call,” he said. “Actually, you have.”
“Oh?’” said Stuart, only half-listening.
“Yes, and it’s to do with these documents.”
That caught his attention. “What do you mean?”
“I just took a call and I’d say the person was almost certainly reading from a script, because it didn’t sound very natural at all.”
“What did they say?”
“They insisted on speaking to you actually, but as you’re busy, I pretended to be you.”
“Thanks… I think.”
“They said they wanted to make sure that the package had been received and that someone was taking the contents seriously, that the two things are in fact linked.”
“Well, we kind of figured they are linked. What else did they say? Do you think you were talking to the killer?”
“Now, here’s the interesting part, the caller said that they had been blackmailing the mayor and threatening to go to the press with what they knew about his corruption and involvement in the elderly facility and the fake invoices. They had killed three people because the mayor had selfishly refused to give into their ransom demands, and he’d let them die.”
“You’re kidding me,” said Stuart, incredulous.
“I’m afraid I’m not, my friend. It would seem that the mayor has ignored the ransom requests and had not paid up the half million pounds demanded of him and they were now seeking help from the press, read us, to get the word out that not only is the mayor corrupt, but heartless and soulless to boot, with three deaths on his conscience. Obviously, the killer couldn’t go to the police, but wanted the world to know what was going on, and why.”
“What is so important for somebody to kill over local government corruption?” asked Stuart.
“I can only guess there’s a good deal more behind it that we don’t know about at this stage,” said Bruce. “I wish I could have asked a couple of questions, but once they’d delivered their message, they hung up. We have no way of finding out who it was.”
“A male voice?”
“Male, yes, but like I said, it was stilted, not real, so I suspect it could be somebody else reading, maybe even someone the killer had coerced.”
“You think there might be another murder?”
“I don’t know what to think, but I know this: the police need to be involved now.”
“I agree, this is getting too dangerous,” said Stuart. “It’s a wicked story, though, deaths apart. Just the corruption aspect on its own and now we’ve got proof that it’s jobs for the boys and the mayor is involved. He must be making a packet on the development, he’s one of the main contractors, or his side company and wife as a director is. There is no reason why we can’t carry on with that part of the story. Plenty of evidence here,” he said, waving at the documents laid out in front of him. “And public interest too. Imagine the revenue this will bring the paper! The follow-up stories could go on for weeks, go national even.”
“What if what they said is correct and the mayor knew about the kidnappings and refused to do anything?” Bruce let the thought dangle in the air. “I wonder if the police are aware of any of this going on in the background?”
“Well, I think we should speak to Gillian first, let her decide.” Stuart looked at his watch. “She’ll be in shortly, so we can see what she wants to do then, and in the meantime, we write up as much of this as we possibly can. What a hell of a mess that’s about to unfold. He doesn’t stand a chance of being re-elected now. Then again, that could be the reason for the timing. There’ll be more than the mayor and his wife that falls out from this lot.” Realisation of what it meant filled his head. “I can see the headlines now,” he said dramatically. “Mayor ignored ransom demands – three dead.”
“Maybe we can work on the headline a bit,” said Bruce with a smile.
“Yes, you’re right there. But I tell you what, this is going to sell some papers, this is going to put the town on the map. This is going to get us the coverage we need.”
“You mean you the coverage you need, Stuart,” said Bruce.
“Well, that of course. It won’t do my career any harm, as long as I do a good job, get the angle right, but I can’t do that in twenty minutes.”
“I guess you’ll be pulling a late one today then,” he said to his friend.
“How can we get a trace on that call now, how can we find out where that call was made from?”
“The phone company, perhaps, but I daresay the police will be able to find out about our incoming calls a lot quicker. That it went straight to your landline, and didn’t go through the switchboard, will hopefully makes things easier.”
“Fingers crossed,” said Stuart. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do. Oh, and Bruce?”
“Yes?”
“While it’s fresh in your mind, write down every word that you can remember the caller telling you, so we’ve got it. If nothing else, to give to the police.”
“Will do.”
Seventy-Eight
While Stuart was trying to figure out his next move and tackle the story of a lifetime, Will was having a second cup of coffee in his kitchen before setting out for the day. He didn’t feel like he’d had much of a weekend. It had been such an emotional time with everything going on, particularly seeing Jonesy laid out on a trolley in the mortuary. Having then spent most of Sunday with Stanley and Birdie at the church, he felt like he’d missed a chunk of time to recharge his batteries, both mentally and physically. He was tired of death.
There was always something going on in his life and, like everyone, he had varying degrees of problems that rose and invariably sunk away again. Will and his family were very lucky that nothing major had impacted on their lives together, though if Will paid it some thought, his own past had certainly dished that aspect out in spades – but it was now ancient history. Jonesy, Clyde and Bowie had been enough death to last Will till the end of his days, and he hoped it would be some time before any of his girls had to bear witness to it themselves,
or before it crossed his path again. He scanned through the paper in front of him, glancing at the images, not really paying any attention to the mayor’s re-election campaign, before loading his breakfast things into the dishwasher. It was time to leave, though he hadn’t any firm commitments until he was due to take Sanjeev to his weekly eleven o’clock appointment at the hospital. He wondered how the young man fared after his own weekend, how different it would have been than what Will himself had done. Will also remembered he’d made a mental note to try harder with the guy, that he could well be lonely and in need of a friend. He wasn’t strange, he had a condition, something that he had to deal with, and that’s why he took him to his counselling sessions. It wouldn’t be easy for him to build relationships, not on a friendship level and probably not on a more intense level, husband or wife, say, whichever he chose. He filled a flask with more coffee for later and grabbed a protein bar from the cupboard then headed out to his car, on his way to the town centre to wait for someone needing a ride.
His phone buzzed with an incoming text and he asked Siri to read it for him while he drove. It was from the Towcester Road Cemetery sexton – a grave needed digging. He instructed Siri to reply that he was available to do it later on that afternoon, and he hoped he had everything he needed in his boot, so he didn’t have to drive back home beforehand. The mention of a grave made him wonder again about burying Jonesy, Clyde and Bowie. With no relatives and no one able to contribute to the cost of a funeral for the three of them, it would be down to the council – a public health funeral. While a public health funeral sounded like something for the diseased, it sounded marginally better than a pauper’s funeral. He should make enquiries to see when the police planned to release their bodies and find a spot for them to be buried. He would offer to do the honours himself. It made sense that the three of them went into the same grave together. He doubted any of them would mind; they might even smile about if they were watching the proceedings from above. He’d have a word with DI Mason later, it would be a good excuse to call her.
“Sod it, I’ll do it now,” he said to the empty car. “No point in waiting.”
He instructed Siri to call her and waited for Rochelle to come on the line. When she answered, he noted she sounded drained, just as he had felt yesterday afternoon, and assumed that the case was getting to her too. Being of ill health, she needed a break.
“You sound tired,” he said, stating the obvious. “It’s Will Peters here.”
“Thanks for that compliment,” she said flatly. “What can I do for you, Will?”
“I was just wondering when the three might be released? I guess we should make enquiries on getting them buried soon, since I dig graves and all.”
“I suppose you do,” she said. “I’ll double-check if it’s possible to release them.”
“It is not up to me,” started Will, “but since nobody’s come forward to claim them, family-wise, I mean, it sounds like it will be up to the council to do the honours. They were still people – homeless or not, they were human beings – and they deserve to be sent off properly instead of being stored in a cold fridge, not that they can stay there.”
“I don’t doubt that,” she said, altering her tone and adding more compassion.
“I’ll wait for your call, then.” Changing the subject, he said, “How are you feeling? How is the treatment going?”
“That’s two questions, Will, neither of which are your business.”
“Don’t be like that,” he said. “I’m genuinely interested how you are doing.”
Rochelle must have caught herself because she paused for a moment before answering. There was no point being grumpy about it, though she certainly wasn’t over the moon about her illness. “Fine, thank you, and to answer the other question, apart from the tiredness, also fine, just one more week of radiotherapy to go. It was caught good and early so my future is as bright as yours. I’ll be back to normal soon enough.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said, adding a smile to his voice to try and lighten her mood. “I’ll wait to hear from you, then I can liaise with the council about their arrangements.”
“I’ll be back when I know more,” she said before hanging up, leaving Will feeling a little sorry for the woman. He wished he could make her feel better somehow, lighten her load. He suspected she was carrying the burden all on her own.
Stuart pored over the documents in his editor’s office. The paper’s legal representative perched on the corner of her desk, his sharp navy suit adding formality to the occasion. Gillian Roper, with all her years of experience at a newspaper, would hopefully throw light on what to do next. Had it been up to Stuart alone, he would have written and printed the story and then gone to the police, but it wasn’t his call with something so important. He also didn’t want any more lives to be lost – three deaths in a week was already three too many, and if there were a fourth, it would have been on his conscience. Still, it was the scoop of the century and he knew it could make his career if he handled it well.
“While these documents explain obvious corruption on the mayor’s part,” said Gillian, “they are certainly no reason why somebody might kill. I find it hard to believe that just because he’s on the take, that he’s behind the company building the elderly development, that that’s reason enough for someone to kill three people.”
“I don’t get it either,” said Stuart, “but that’s all we have to go on. It’s a shame we can’t ask the person that dropped the package off some more questions.”
“That would be too easy, I suppose,” she said. “But at least we had the anonymous tip-off and confirmation that the two events are linked. So, here’s what we know,” she said, sitting back in her chair and crossing her legs. She counted out on each finger as she went: “One, the mayor is up to his eyeballs in the doo-doo. Two, somebody has found out; I’m assuming it’s someone close to the paperwork rather than a family member, so maybe a council employee. Three, the kidnapper gave ransom demands that were never met and three people lost their lives. Four, this person is serious, so will they kill again? And five, there has to be another reason, other than the mayor getting even fatter on the side project he’s running. We’ve certainly got a story,” Gillian finished. “I think we should get it written up, see how it looks, then I’ll give the mayor a call so he can seek advice and give us his side, though I rather doubt he’ll talk to us. Right now, I’m calling the police.”
The man in the navy suit nodded his confirmation.
“I think that’s the best course,” Stuart said, relieved.
“Right, then you’ve got until 10 pm to get this finished.”
Since Stuart had had the rug pulled out from under his feet before, he jumped from his chair and almost ran back to his own to add some flesh to the bones of what he’d already started.
Seventy-Nine
Editor Gillian Roper picked up her phone and searched for the detective’s details before making the call.
“I think it’s best you come into the office as soon as you can, you’ll want to hear this,” she said.
DI Rochelle Mason didn’t know whether to be angry or ecstatic at the editor’s news. As she sat opposite her more-acquaintance-than-friend, the pieces started to fall into place. The mayor, she knew, was involved up to his weak neck, since he’d finally told them about the texts he’d received. If only he’d said something earlier… He had been released on police bail and hadn’t said much more, despite her heated questioning methods – too feeble and likely too ashamed of not saying something sooner about the ransom demands. Three people had died needlessly because of him and she wasn’t going to let that go.
When Gillian Roper had delivered what she knew, it was over to DI Mason to make the most of the extra evidence.
“What I need to do now,” she said to Gillian, “is find out who called that number and where from. I’m taking these documents with me, though I suspect you’ll already have copies and I doubt very much there’ll be any usable f
orensic evidence on the ones that were sent to you.”
“Stuart was very careful, he handled everything with tweezers. Nobody’s touched them except Amanda on reception, but like you say, chances of there being anything useful on them are virtually nil.”
“I guess I should thank you for sharing these with us anyway, it does place some pieces of the puzzle together.”
“We should work together more, we need each other. I hope that CCTV footage I’ve given you helps too. You might make something of the figure delivering it, but it’s not very clear. It’s over to you now, the story will be printed just as soon as we’ve spoken to the mayor and asked for his side of events.”
“I get you’ve got a job to do, but I really do wish you’d phoned us as soon as you’d got this. We might have been able to do something sooner. Now, the caller will be long gone.”
Gillian shrugged. “We’ll agree to disagree on that, we’ve held nothing back from you. We work in different industries, private and public; our wages rely on us selling newspapers, your wages rely on taxpayers. It’s as simple as that.”
It was back to money.
“Right then,” said Rochelle, standing. “I’ve got to go, but let me know when you run this, won’t you?”
“I can do that. Like I say, we should work more together, have a mutually beneficial working relationship.”
Rochelle nodded her agreement.
As she left the Chronicle building, heading towards her bike, she glanced around at the cameras outside that covered the area where the package was dropped off. She didn’t often drive her motorbike so soon after her treatment, but when Gillian called, it had been easier to slip into her leathers and drive across instead of waiting for a taxi, it was only a short journey. It was important that she worked with the editor, often a mine of information and one of her sources when it suited the woman. The police needed the press on their side and vice versa – editors were always looking for a scoop. Still, it had been worth a visit. She mulled the documents and their implications over as she flew back through traffic towards the satellite office and the rest of the EMSOU team.