by Vic Marelle
‘At our last meeting I stressed the need to keep some details out of the media. After we have finished here, Don, Frank and I will be meeting with the press so no doubt some of you will be targeted. So listen up now and take notice of where we are at. There have been some developments and we need to be as effective as possible if we are to crack these crimes quickly. Equally, our best efforts could well be scuppered if there are any leaks.
‘Since our last meeting there has been another death. All three deaths looked like heart attacks. But the cause of death in all three was asphyxiation. And because of the way it has been done, we are pretty sure that they are all the work of the same person. That information ladies and gentlemen, is not being released. When we meet the press we will deal only with the first two deaths. We will detail the Lydiate Hall death and the Pole in the car in the drainage ditch but we are not mentioning the third death yet. And while we are going to announce that the cause of death was not heart attack, we will not divulge the actual cause. As far as the media are concerned – in fact, as far as anybody outside of this room is concerned – we await confirmation of the cause of death.
‘Is that clear?’
Heads nodded.
‘Right then. Frank, bring us up to date on Lydiate Man please.’
Taking his place at a large white board, Davies went through developments so far. How it had been impossible to collect data from the crime scene due to the type of ground. How there had been no indications of fold play. How according to the pathologist, the type of asphyxiation required a heavy weight to be applied for some short time but not as with a blow or being hit. To have had the required effect without damaging the body the weight had to have been applied almost gently, remained for a short while to cause asphyxiation, then removed. None of that could have happened at the scene and Davies had his reservations. There were, he suggested, as many indications of a simple heart attack as for asphyxiation. It simply was not conclusive. So far they had no clues as to how it had been achieved or by whom. There was a well-known family feud so the first possibility had been the deceased’s brother-in-law. However, Johnson remained in hospital and had yet to be questioned.
Not a great deal of progress then.
‘What about the young couple who found the body Sir, are they out of the frame?’
Davies looked in the direction of the questioner, identifying a young DC.
‘Debbie will be interviewing them again but it looks as though all they did was find the poor sod.’
‘Not all they did from what we hear Guv’ an observation greeted by laughter around the room.
‘Since when was murder a laughing matter?’ cut in Handley. ‘I’ll remind you that this is a serious crime and merriment is completely out of order.’
Handing over to Radcliffe, Davies retook his seat next to Handy Andy. There had been little progress on the Lydiate murder, Handy had put a stop to any mirth and he was not aware of much on the other two murders either, so Don wouldn’t be able to gain any advantage.
Leaving Davies’ scrawling on the white board, Radcliffe added some of his own. His quick recap detailed the links between the Lydiate and drainage ditch deaths, reiterating the salient points made by Davies.
A hand shot up. ‘What about the third murder Sir? What details do we have? What connections are there?’
‘Officially, there are no connections between it and the first two deaths and it is not suspicious. It is a natural death following a night in the pub. The deceased was found in a heap at the back of the Bold in the early hours. It looked like a normal death after a skin full. But after the first two deaths the doc was on the lookout so it was picked up quickly. We’re not announcing that for the time being.’
‘The Bold in Churchtown Sir?’
‘No. Right here in Southport centre. The Bold on Lord Street. The body was found in a crumpled heap on the pavement of Stanley Street at the back of the pub.’
‘Ideal for no clues then,’ said a DC on the front row. It was a statement rather than a question.
’Exactly,’ responded Radcliffe. There are some inconsistencies but it does look as though we have a pro here. Not only does he know how to make his handiwork look like natural causes, he also knows how to plant his corpses without leaving clues. He does seem to be fornsically aware. The first death we couldn’t lift anything from the springy ground and the last was on solid pavement, again with no clues. Between those he got a bit sloppy with the Pole though, but that was more a hammy attempt at creating a car accident – he still disguised the cause of death pretty well.’
‘Are we sure that there’s just one culprit or could the deaths be unrelated.’
‘I’m pretty sure we are dealing with one perpetrator. I’m inclined to go with the pathologist’s findings rather than DI Davies’ view, which means that to have three incidents with the same very unusual cause of death one after the other is just too much for coincidence. The first one out at Lydiate fooled the doc and only some brilliant work on the slab picked it up, otherwise our culprit might have got away with the second and third as well.
‘What we need to find out is how these three bodies got to their discovery sites. I want door to door along Stanley Street. See if anyone saw somebody being dragged after closing time – like a drunk. There’s a chip shop a few yards away so someone needs to ask customers as well. Kyle, can you organise that? Try it around the same time in case any of the regulars saw anything.’
Addressing the whole group, Radcliffe put on his stern look.
‘I don’t need to remind you of the Chief’s warning,’ he said. ‘Or at least, I shouldn’t need to.’ Looking around at a sea of blank faces he continued, ‘None of this is being released. No leaks please.’
Handley added a blunt warning, ‘No leaks – period.’
As the three officers left the room, background noise increased markedly. Debbie Lescott looked nervously across at Kyle Fraser, who smiled and winked. There had been no mention of either her indiscretion or the cloned registrations, both being kept in the car thefts inquiry and out of the murder briefing.
For now.
……….
After just a short coffee break, the three officers moved down the corridor to a spare meeting room, hurriedly pressed into service for the press briefing. Radcliffe was relieved to see that only a handful of press personnel were present, hopefully down to the low profile at which the crimes had been held so far.
Scanning the faces in front of him he quickly assessed the success of their hush hush policy. So far so good. From what he could see representation was just the three local newspapers – two free sheets and one paid for title - plus a couple of agency stringers, a hack from the local internet forum and a reporter from Radio Merseyside. That was good. He could handle all of them and the spread would help with the local witness appeal they hoped to run. Significantly, the absence of nationals showed that there had been no leaks so far.
Of the locals, the Champion and the Visiter both tried to give their readers the impression of independent news gathering but actually put their weekly newspapers together using mainly young employees rehashing supplied press releases or supplied leads, most of their real reporting being Mothers Union meetings or the local line dancing club.
The third title was another matter altogether. To Radcliffe, Les Starr was an effeminate little toad who thought himself to be the ultimate authority on everything from local news to motoring. Usually he followed the same route as his contemporaries, often rewriting press releases in a way that completely changed their meaning and compromised their accuracy. But Les Starr enjoyed police briefings. Putting on his investigative journalist hat he could weave irrelevant facts into his exclusives that were not just inaccurate but often complete fabrication. His presence enabled him to bang the drum, which was apt, for the newspaper he represented was called the North Meols Drum, North Meols being the original name for Southport going back a couple of centuries.
Starr had served his
purpose on a number of occasions, running what he thought were exclusives from information quietly orchestrated by Radcliffe. But left to his own devices he could easily be a menace, banging his personal drum completely out of time.
As with the earlier team meeting, Handley brought the briefing to order. First he introduced Davies and Radcliffe, then set out the ground rules, much of which was wasted time since with all the assembled journalists being essentially local, everyone knew each other and Handley always ran his briefings in the same way. Still, if it kept him happy, the media would humour him.
Having discussed strategy with his two Inspectors during their coffee break, Handley then handed over to Radcliffe who would cover all bases so as to keep the briefing as short as possible.
Taking Handley’s place, Radcliffe told the journalists that there was no need to take notes, although they were free to do so if they wished. Directing his gaze at Starr he continued that for the sake of accuracy, a handout had been prepared that would be available to them all as they left. Using his own copy of the handout as a crib sheet, Radcliffe announced that the briefing had been called to advise of a change in circumstances of incidents that had happened recently. Two deaths in the area, one thought to be a heart attack and another a few days later seemingly the result of a tragic car accident had since both proved to have a different cause of death. Lab results were awaited before further details could be confirmed.
‘You’ve called a joint briefing. Does that mean that the two deaths are connected?’ asked a young woman from the Southport Visiter.
Radcliffe had anticipated just such a question. ‘We called one briefing because there isn’t enough information to fill two separate meetings – and we can’t afford the time for two briefings either. It was hard to put more than a couple of paragraphs together on the handouts but we preferred to get you together rather than just issue hard copy because I would like to ask you all to run an appeal for us. I would like you to run an appeal for anyone who might have seen an older man slumped in the old ruin of Lydiate Hall, or might have seen someone at the scene of the accident at the drainage ditch. That would help us a lot.
Looking around the room, Radcliffe saw no dissention, just nods and confirmation from everyone. That’s the way to do it. Job done.
‘OK then,’ he said. ‘Thank you all for coming. I am sorry that the briefing was so short. Remember to pick up a handout as you leave.’ Then, as an afterthought as Handley and Davies stood to leave, ‘And don’t forget to run that appeal for me please.’
‘Inspector Radcliffe,’ squeaked a voice from the second row. ‘Can I ask a question?’
The three officers turned back. Radcliffe sighed inwardly. Bloody Starr.
‘Yes Les. Of course. What is it?’ he diplomatically replied.
‘Thank you. Is it true that there has been a third death? Was a body found behind the Bold?’
Handley and Radcliffe exchanged glances. Davies appeared expressionless. Shit, thought Radcliffe, where did that come from?
‘Yes Les, you are quite right. The body of a middle aged male was found after the pubs had closed. But this briefing wasn’t called to discuss that.’
‘Quite Inspector. But can you confirm that the cause of death in all three cases was the same, and that the cause of death was actually a type of asphyxiation that indicates a sex game gone wrong?’
Momentarily, Radcliffe had been caught off-guard. From where had the little poofter got his information? The room was suddenly eerily silent. The radio recordist had stopped dismantling his cables and the attention of every journalist was fixed on Radcliffe – pens hovering over pads.
‘I don’t know where you get your information from Les,’ responded Radcliffe. ‘And no, I cannot confirm any of your speculation. As I said, all the information is on the handout and I must warn you against fabricating anything just to sell papers. We know nothing of any sex games and at the moment we are waiting for more information from the lab. That’s what I said before and what is printed on the sheets. I’m all for freedom of the press but we won’t stand for any contrived piffle or out and out fabrication. You got that?’
Muttering a barely audible ‘in my office, now,’ Handley turned on his heel and left the room, closely followed by Davies and Radcliffe as a WPC gave each journalist a printed handout. Few were all that interested, most thronging around the Drum reporter who wallowed in his sudden popularity but declined to give any information to his competitors.
Twenty
Turning off the country road, the Jaguar pulled onto a gravel car park, steering carefully between the ruts and potholes to avoid the puddles. It was all in vain. Unmaintained more than unkempt, the car park boasted more craters and valleys than the surface of the moon and the lodging water would have kept a small laundry operating. Gingerly the driver negotiated the best route he could, finally coming to a halt next to a wooden building with a worn sign identifying it as ‘reception.’
Looking back at the car, its driver took in the muddy spray from the wheel arches and along its sills, giving it the appearance of a rally car having just finished a tortuous event rather than an up-market luxury saloon, cosseted by its owner. Looking down, his highly polished shoes were also caked in filthy brown muddy water; no doubt he would leave muddy footprints wherever he went and his shoes would dry with an unsightly beige deposit. At the side of him, his assistant – his passenger just minutes before – was as clean and tidy as if she had just dressed for an important appointment. How did she do that? Why were her shoes not caked in mud also?
‘Come on,’ he said, let’s see if the rest of this place is as shitty as it is out here.’
Leading the way he reached for the door and entered the building.
Inside, ageing seats and old laminate-topped tables were arranged to one side, with a timber reception desk to the other. He guessed that when it had been built it was all supposed to be rustic in a log cabin sort of way. Now it was out of date, worn out and decidedly shabby.
A young man appeared behind the desk. ‘Can I help you?’ he enquired.
‘We are looking for Kevin Archer.’
‘That’s me,’ said the young man. ‘What can I do for you? Are you interested in bringing a caravan here?’
Absolutely not thought the man. Who in their right mind would want to bring a van here? From the state of the car park, a boat would be more appropriate.
‘I am Detective Inspector Davies and this is Detective Sergeant Lescott,’ he said as they displayed their warrant cards. ‘We would like to have a word with you about your Father’s death. Is there somewhere private we can go?’
‘I’ve already told two other policemen all I know. But I want to help. I want you to catch whoever did this to my Dad so if there is anything at all I can tell you, please feel free to ask. Why don’t you take a seat at one of the tables over by the window and I will bring a drink over? We don’t have proper coffee so it will have to be instant I am afraid, but we won’t be disturbed. It’s mid-week so only the residents are on site and none of them come in here.’
From their allocated seats they could see through to what appeared to be a rather primitive kitchen, where Kevin Archer was spooning supermarket own-brand value instant coffee into old mismatched mugs, pouring water out of the oldest electric kettle imaginable and topping the whole thing off with a spoonful of instant dried milk. No wonder they were unlikely to be disturbed. Davies suspected that the only purpose anyone would have to enter the building would be to complain when something wasn’t working. And given his impression of the site so far, that might be quite often.
Kevin brought two steaming mugs of coffee over, then returned with his own, plus teaspoons and a bowl of white sugar. The sugar was covered with clumps of brown crystals where previous users had dipped their wet spoons back into the bowl after stirring their drinks. Given the low throughput of customers, it could have taken quite some time to amass the amount of golden crystals now evident. Davies and Lescott both sudd
enly became drinkers of coffee without sugar.
‘Right Inspector . . . er . . um,’
‘Davies,’ prompted the policeman.
‘Yes. Well. I’m not very good with names. Anyway, what do you want to know?’
‘Mr Archer,’ replied the detective. ‘I am puzzled as to why you didn’t report your father as missing.’
‘Because I didn’t know he was missing. Surely, you know all this? I told the other policemen.’
‘Yes, of course. But it seems strange to me that your father goes off on a trip to London and then doesn’t keep in touch with you. You are running a business here Mr Archer. If I was running a business and needed to make a trip away, then as sure as hell I would keep in touch – either from the phone in my hotel room or using my mobile. Didn’t it seem strange that your father didn’t do that Mr Archer?’
‘Not really. My Dad isn’t – I mean wasn’t - like that. He was a bit old fashioned really. He used a normal phone and wrote letters but he didn’t have a mobile phone and we’ve never had a fax machine. I only managed to persuade him to get an Internet connection a couple of months ago, and even then, he never used it. He wouldn’t have known how to actually. It was for me. In any case, I do most of the day to day work here so he wouldn’t have much to check up on would he?’
‘That’s interesting Mr Archer,’ commented Davies. ‘Your dad must have been one of the only people I know without a mobile phone.’
‘Well you can take it from me Inspector, he didn’t.’
‘Do you have a mobile Mr Archer?’ asked Davies.
‘Yes, of course. I use it all the time. I have an iPhone. I wouldn’t like to be without it.’
‘So what did you do with your old phones then?’ asked Lescott.