“I’ll go back to the Station and start an investigation. It will be a lot simpler if I took a role in it as I have more idea of what is happening.”
“I cannot emphasise enough that you take no part in this matter. Your father is adamant. John will be devastated if he knows you are getting involved. He told you something may happen. It has. Should any Police investigator speak to you about it: you know nothing. You have been having an after work drink. Am I making myself clear?”
“But why?”
“Matters are being dealt with that you are not yet aware of. Allow the normal Police procedure to be instigated. Take it from me, you will not be asked to take part in any investigation.”
A pause before a sullen reply, “OK.”
Changing tack, she whispered loudly down the phone with her spare hand cupped over the mouth piece.
“Well, it now looks definite that John is the target. So, tell me, why was my phone bugged? Probably my car and flat as well!”
“I cannot tell you.”
Now confident enough to butt in, “Or you won’t tell me?”
“Your father will keep you informed as needs be.”
“I’ll be waiting till kingdom come in that case.”
“Don’t get upset. Things seem to be speeding up. You will probably be the first to know as it is,” and then the phone went dead.
She took it from her ear and slowly placed it back on the table watching it all the time.
‘What did he mean by that?’
The man standing by her seat said, “Can I join you?”
Caustically, without looking at him, she replied. “No.”
“You should look after your phone, anyone could pick it up. How’s John?”
Her head whipped up to stare at him as her left hand grabbed for her phone knocking the empty chardonnay bottle off the table. It bounced on its base and rolled back under the table without breaking.
“You were lucky. If it had been full, you could guarantee it would break. Sod’s law.”
He slid a small sports bag under the seat as he sat down assuming John’s vacated chair with its commanding view of the entrance and front of the wine bar. Placing the half full glass of Spitfire beer that he was nursing onto the table he looked at her.
“Well. How is he?”
She couldn’t stop herself from answering grumpily, “Apparently, all right.” Alison hated the fact that often in her life when people asked her questions, she answered instinctively without thinking: invariably truthfully. Over the years, it had cost her some friends. It was a trait she was desperately trying to stop, and failing each time especially with well over two thirds of a bottle of wine on board.
“I’m Simon.”
“I’m Alison.”
“I know.”
“Smart arse.”
She liked him. He had a permanent smile etched across his face as he spoke. Laughter lines suited him. Even the small lines engraved across his forehead enhanced his looks, although she wasn’t sure about the designer stubble. His features were soft under his short, neatly groomed fair hair which she thought had slight copper tints giving it a little gingerish hue in places. The miniscule indentation of a dimple on his chin just had to be there in the same way that any ear lobes on such small ears would have been wrong. It was a face that exuded strength and confidence and even the very gentle lump half way down his nose where it had been broken while he was in Sierra Leone looked as though it was a feature from birth. Alison saw the warm brown eyes, bright and clear which complemented his face. She reckoned about thirty years old and was only one year out. No taller than five feet ten inches wearing what could only have been a designer suit made by hand to fit over a body that was honed to practical perfection. No tie and suede shoes were the only things that upset the whole appearance in her eyes.
“What do you think?”
“Pardon?”
“You have checked me over, what do you think?”
For the second time in one day, Alison went a bright red with embarrassment but this time had no computer to hide behind. He laughed freely without malice and then apologised for being so insensitive and rude. She liked him even more but was not going to show it. His cologne wafted towards her and she remembered precisely where she had first caught its fragrance.
Leaning towards her, he lowered his voice, “There is only the one person watching your flat.”
Alison was taken aback by this, and regained her natural colour a lot faster than previously.
“I went straight there when I arrived and could just make out the person who is watching wrapped up in a very large parka practically asleep in the back of a van and not paying much attention. The van has ‘BT Telecoms’ written on the side. It looks natural enough and doesn’t stand out much. It’s parked in a bay directly opposite your road at the junction and has a clear line of sight on the front door of your flat. Have you noticed it at all?”
Shocked by this new revelation, and again slurring her words slightly, “I can’t remember seeing it today but I think I saw it there yesterday. I thought they were working on something.”
“That’s the reason it has BT on the side. To put you off remembering it. You’re going to have to start noticing this sort of thing.”
Alison was creeping sluggishly towards a sulk. She was fighting it and still winning. Within the hour, she’d been rebuked and chastised by Ian and now criticised by Simon. She was just able to hold it together because in her heart she knew they were both right. The alcohol was stifling her combative streak. As she listened, her thoughts wandered as he seemed to prattle on how it was so easy for the ‘watcher’ sitting in the back of the van to monitor any listening or video devices within her flat. It was something at the moment that she did not want, or care to know. Simon concluded by telling her how simple it was for the ‘watcher’ to see any movement towards her flat as it was the last in a block and the only one with outside stairs in the small cul-de-sac.
“Thanks for the information.”
He did not hesitate in his narrative, and informed her that when they were inside her flat, she was to give him a guided tour, so he could check where any bugs or cameras were and decide how they were going to continue. Reminding her to be judicious in what she said once inside her flat, he told her if she had anything contentious to say she was to write it down.
As if by way of a culmination, he picked up his beer glass, downed it in one, and said, “This is a good brew. I’ll have another before we go. I’ll get you a J20. You need to sober up a little” and got up and went to the bar.
Alison watched his back as he navigated through the crowd and only then realised she still had her mobile phone clenched in her left hand. She stuffed the phone into her bag and thought, ‘Why do they all tell me what’s happening and what I’ve got to do and I don’t get a damn word in edgeways.’
He returned with his beer and her apple and raspberry J20 still in its bottle with an empty tall glass upended on it which he set down before her. She poured the juice from the bottle into the glass and took a sip. Wincing from its sweet taste she forced a full mouthful. Not that bad really.
Resuming his seat and swallowing a third of the dark liquid from his pint in one movement he queried, “You didn’t answer the question.”
“Truthfully?”
“Of course.”
“Smart arse. Wants a shave. Needs proper shoes. Wear a tie with a suit. A really aggravating sod.”
Simon burst out laughing not offended in any way and said the only one he didn’t agree with was proper shoes. He liked his suede shoes because they made no noise.
They chatted amicably for a while as they finished their drinks and he finally said, “Let’s go and play!”
58
Friday 10th June 2011
Graham had been busy. He had spent a great deal of time on the phone to Ian who was on his way back to Kent.
“I want to be ready.”
“I’ll bring as much as I
can with me. The rest will have to come in during the night. You are certain no one has ears or eyes on you?”
“The technical boys from the City do occasional sweeps so I have had them do them every three days. Nothing. The surveillance team are running practice sessions by following me. They would spot anyone else watching the house. Nothing.”
“I presume GCHQ (Government Communications Headquarters) are monitoring your phone.”
“Yes. That’s why I am using a ‘burner’ now.”
“When do you think it will happen?”
“I don’t know, but I want to be ready.”
“I’ll have to be there all the time.”
“You can use the spare room.”
“Where’s your wife?”
“Having a holiday.”
“Who does your cooking?”
“Me.”
“I’ll bring someone with me. I don’t want to be poisoned.”
59
Friday 10th June 2011
Doreen strolled into the church hall at 7.15pm and straight up to the little canteen counter where they only sold tea and coffee with a biscuit on the side, and asked for a tea. It took the two ladies, who were volunteers, five minutes to make it and present it with a custard cream. They lived for rumours about people they knew or had heard of. It didn’t matter who told them or what it was, providing it was salacious. So, gossiping was the main motivation for them to be there and the sale of tea and coffee was secondary but a good means of introduction to lots of people who could impart tittle-tattle.
There were always small groups using the facilities of the church hall which were second to none in the surrounding area. With her tea slopped into the saucer, Doreen went to the small side room that was the setting for her book club meetings and sat on one of the eight chairs that another volunteer had previously placed in a circle. Being the first in, she had her pick. As usual, she lowered her bag onto the floor next to her chair and teased a book from it whilst balancing her tea in her other hand. There had never been more than a dozen people and normally only seven or eight which the caretaker knew. His attitude was why leave more seating out than was likely to be required. It would only mean he had to spend more time putting it away later. Therefore, he only ever left eight chairs out.
Elderly women shuffled into the room in dribs and drabs carrying cups full to the brim trying valiantly not to spill any as they took their seats. Each carried a handbag that was so large the book to be disseminated and discussed that evening could be borne quite safely in them with all their other treasures. Placing their bags on the floor whilst balancing their cups however was beyond each of them. To a fault, they all managed to slop their cups’ contents to some degree into their saucers. Tissues were extracted from some of the bags and placed under cups to mop up the worst spillages. Ten people had entered the room, and the last two leaving their bags and drinks on the floor, scuttled out in search of additional chairs. The meeting was scheduled to start at 7.30pm but didn’t get under way until ten minutes later. Drips from the cups and saucers that had landed on clothing had to be mopped up immediately with generous ‘tutting’ from the victims.
All those present had known each other for several years of attending the book club meetings and roughly knew what each did and where they lived from long forgotten conversations. The majority were retired, and just a few were still young enough to need to work. Paid members ran to only thirty-four souls, but most only ever appeared on special occasions. Doreen, who was the youngest was the most regular attendee and was often asked to take the meeting when the organiser was unavailable. Gladys kept everybody on her database informed of what books were being read and reviewed and when. She tried to run the meetings in a chronological way, but was often unable to control the direction of them due to the forceful personalities of some of the members; one of whom was present tonight.
Sally hadn’t been to a meeting for some months, and was not really there to discuss some book she hadn’t heard of until Gladys e-mailed her with the title. She’d got her husband to buy it for her in order to appear knowledgeable although she hadn’t bothered to read anything other than the fly leaf. Then as the meeting was half way through, she declared to no one in particular how she had been following the local mystery regarding George Armstrong’s death and wouldn’t it make a spectacular novel?
“I’ve followed this since it was first reported in the papers. How do they get their information? They seem to be leading people to believe that Olivia Munroe is a really devious murderer. One thing that I do not understand is why would she want to murder an old man of ninety-one years who was a cripple and nearly at the point of natural death? I reckon she had to be after his money.”
Gladys knew straightaway that Sally’s intervention was not going to be helpful. It was clear that a different discussion was now to be had. Everyone present had followed the papers as the story of the murder had unfolded and all had an opinion which they wanted to share. It was obvious that the meeting was now lost and hurtling off at a tangent. She knew she could not bring it back on track and decided to let it run its course.
Sally had sown the seed. All those present seemed to agree that it did not seem a logical murder in accordance with any of the murder mysteries that they had read or discussed. The papers had implied that there were financial implications and possible irregularities without actually saying so. Doreen may have been the youngest but was by far the shrewdest person present. She attended the meetings every week and was mindful that Sally, who was only five years her senior rarely appeared unless she had an ulterior motive. As soon as she had mentioned George, Doreen could see she was going to be asked if she knew anything because they were all aware she worked for the Police as a typist on major enquiries. Sure enough, someone asked her and she was ready and fielded the question by ‘confidentially’ letting them know that the case was going to Lewes crown court within the week where Munroe was to be asked how she would plead. Then if she denied it, the case would be set for trial and all the evidence, of which she was not party to, would be heard.
They still engaged each other with possible scenarios as to why Munroe would have done the deed. Sally had gone remarkably quiet after her initial remarks and was listening intently to all the banter and submissions. No matter how they tried, they could come up with no other possible suspects, and all enjoyed, bar Doreen, the conversation and hypothesising regarding Armstrong’s death. She had noted how Sally had ‘stoked the fire’ as it were, and then sat back and revelled in the others’ deliberations.
On her way home, she cogitated as to what had been said. It was, she concluded, a reasonable question to put to Paul the following day. She was aware there were no real financial implications as yet disclosed so why kill someone who is nearly dead anyway?
Sally was also thinking of the murder as she made her way to meet her husband for a drink and to discuss why on earth anyone would want the old man dead. ‘It’s got to be for money. It just has to be. He had a few bob. How was Munroe going to get it? Why kill him before you’ve got it? Stupid bitch.’
Normally the meeting concluded at 9pm in order that the caretaker could check that everything was back in its rightful place, lock up and go home for 9.30pm. The women from the book club were the last group out of the church hall and when he checked their room, he found a pristine copy of a novel about the fall of Troy. He took it, and gave it to his wife who said it was the author’s last book before she died: then opened it, and started reading her first book in years.
60
Friday 10th June 2011
John left the hospital in company with a young uniform officer who offered to drive him back to the station to collect his car. It was only about a mile, and when they arrived without having been involved in an accident, John was extremely thankful. He was sure that the only reason they hadn’t crashed was because they were in a marked Police car and everyone around them became very cautious and got out of their way.
Now h
e walked slowly, because it was too painful to walk quickly, to his car. Getting in caused a sharp pain to his ribs on his left side, but sitting in the Vauxhall’s worn seat was so relaxing and pain free it was a joy. Manoeuvring through the Police car parking area to the exit at the back of the station he turned right into Kingsham Road. Accelerating rapidly to the end of the road he looked for signs of anyone following. Then driving through back streets and into Oving Road he was held momentarily at the red traffic lights at the junction with the A27 before following the road towards Tangmere.
No one pursued him and he didn’t understand why. His only conclusion was that his assailants were confident they had put him out of action and away from Alison. Most people would have checked just to make sure and the simplest way would have been to follow him. He checked the rocker switch on his dash. It showed clear. Pulling up sharply into a side road, he forced himself out of the car and to the boot. He removed the small silver scanner from its wooden holder, turned it on and watched the red and amber lights go off leaving the green one glowing. Moving it about the car and checking his wax coat on the back seat it still shone green. Putting it back into its foam resting place, he eased himself back into the driving seat and checked his dashboard light once again as an additional precaution. Still clear.
He was satisfied. No tail. No bugs. He made his way leisurely but directly to his temporary bedroom in the barn. On passing the Murrell, he looked longingly towards it but could not bring himself to stop. As soon as he was in position, he pulled his fleece on and his big wax coat over it: turned the Sat Nav on, checked there was no movement shown at the ‘trembler’ and fell quickly into a light sleep having first set his little alarm.
*
Gary was in the Oyster Catcher pub at Clymping where he had gone after work and met a couple of friends for a drink. They were sagacious people who after a couple of pints knew any more could be a driving problem, so had gone home leaving Gary to sup alone. He did not want any trouble with the law either so had gone onto diet coke while he read one of the pubs free daily papers to kill time.
An Urgent Murder Page 18