by Vic Marelle
Twenty-Five
Being called to the office of Detective Chief Inspector Arthur Handley – Handy Andy – wasn’t something to be undertaken lightly. It could, of course, be a light-hearted experience, a pat on the back for something well done. Usually, an increase in salary would have been more appreciated. Or, equally possible, it could be a daunting visit with probing questions, a nerve-wracking search for plausible answers, and the proverbial kick up the arse before you left.
Davies hadn’t had many of those, but the possibility always remained. He was Handy Andy’s favourite and a summons to his hallowed sanctuary usually went hand in hand with a show of approval or the allocation of a plum case. Walking along the corridor today however he wasn’t so sure. The car thefts and multiple killings had been the first time that he had shared command of an investigation and doing that with his old friend Don Radcliffe hadn’t made it any easier. He liked to be in control - to call the shots and direct an investigation. But Radcliffe had stolen his thunder, nicking the high ground from under him right at the start. Keeping the enquiry going in the direction he wanted it to go while not being on overall command wasn’t easy. He wasn’t comfortable with that either.
‘Come in. Ah, Frank. Thanks for coming. I’m sorry I had to drag you back but I wanted to chat a few things through with you. Do take a seat Frank. Close the door will you?’
It didn’t sound promising. Handy tended to be quite predictable. If he was giving a pat on the back then the door invariably remained open so that lower ranks could overhear the Chief congratulating their boss on a job well done. The congratulations then filtered down quickly. It helped teamwork. But if a ticking off were due he would commence with his friendly uncle act to establish him as the ‘good copper’ before making a quick but painful thrust. And the door always stayed closed.
‘How’s married life treating you Frank?’
‘Same as normal thanks,’ he replied. ‘I’m not new to it you know.’
‘No Frank, I suppose that you are not.’ Then, with a wry smile, ‘but you didn’t get it right first time around did you?’
‘Don’t I know it! It’s like paying two mortgages – one for my house and one for the wife and kids I don’t have anymore.’
‘But that’s the price we pay isn’t it? It’s the same in any partnership. Either you work together or you drift apart. And if that happens it affects both of you.’
Where was all this going? Handley wasn’t known for his marriage guidance. Perhaps it was just an icebreaker. So what would come next?
‘So how’s the partnership with Don Radcliffe going then?’
‘I wondered what this was all about. I’ve known Don longer than I’ve known Linda so sharing an office isn’t a problem. We both know each other’s peculiar ways and allow for them.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ replied the senior officer. ‘I have watched you bounce things off each other and that sort of thing seemed to work for you. That’s why I put you together on the deaths.’ Handley had dropped into one of his more serious expressions, leaning back a little lop sided in his chair with one arm resting on his desk. The casual friendliness was still there but beefed up with a sterner underscore. ‘But you like to lead from the front Frank and it’s pretty obvious that Don’s taken the lead on this.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ replied Davies. ‘It’s a strange case and there’s enough for both of us without standing on each other’s toes. It’s not a problem.’
Handley rocked a little in his chair and just looked at Davies. Clearly sizing up the inspector, Handley raised his eyebrows questioningly - but neither spoke. Davies was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to this sort of treatment. Visits to this inner sanctum were usually open door experiences. This was new. He had done his best to make sure that everything was running smoothly – even to the point of subtle pressure on Radcliffe to keep him going in the right direction. What he could not pinpoint was his superior officer’s objective. What had Handy Andy picked up that might have tarnished his special favoured status? Or was he overreacting? Was this just a case of his boss looking out for him; trying to make sure that a major enquiry did not affect his newly remarried relationship?
‘Truly Sir,’ said Davies breaking the silence. ‘It isn’t a problem.’ Perhaps formality and a little boot licking might help.
‘Perhaps not,’ said Handley, ‘but you have got to admit that the two of you don’t seem to be going anywhere. Be honest, do you really think that the car thefts are linked to the murders?’
‘Don seems pretty certain sir. If we could get a handle on the cars or the deaths then perhaps the one would give us a lead on the other. Like I said, Don’s pretty convinced.’
‘But you are not and you have had to settle for second place,’ responded Handley. ‘Look Frank, this isn’t working,’ he said. ‘The investigation is going round in circles and you are getting nowhere.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Davies getting more ruffled and wondering why he should be taking the can for Radcliffe’s actions.
‘Christ Frank,’ returned Handley. ‘Twenty-three officers were on the college raid you’ve just come back from. Twenty-three officers and twelve vehicles leave a big hole in our normal policing operation. And what do we have to show for it? Well I’ll tell you shall I? All we have is a handful of cars legally owned by an upstanding pillar of the Southport business community we are holding downstairs in a cell, and a dead man who got himself crushed under a car he was working on. I tell you, it’s not impressive Frank.’
Davies just looked Handley directly, eye to eye. Perhaps the silence trick he used when interviewing suspects might work when being interviewed himself.
Or perhaps not. Definitely not. Handley was the past master of the technique and Davies broke first. ‘That’s something of a simplification Arthur,’ he said in a somewhat subdued response.
‘Of course it is,’ replied Handley. ‘But whatever Don does you will get tarred with the same brush son. If the case had been wrapped up quickly then you would both be smelling of roses.’ A short pause then, ‘But it hasn’t been has it? And as number two you are not controlling the enquiry but you are going to get covered in shit when it goes wrong anyway.’
Leaning forward in his chair and once again taking on his friendly mate attitude, Handley looked at Davies and gave a wry smile. ‘I’m not holding you responsible for the lack of progress Frank,’ he said warmly. ‘But I am going to make sure that you don’t have to suffer any fallout should Don not deliver.’
Thank God for that! Whatever came next wouldn’t be such a bitter pill to swallow.
‘I don’t think that it will go down so well if Don get’s different treatment.’
‘Give me credit for something Frank. We have a high profile political conference coming up at the Floral Hall complex where the world’s media will be focussing on us and we need a comprehensive policing plan. We can’t have the Prime Minister and half the opposition wandering around the Promenade like sitting ducks with no protection in place can we? These deaths should have been wrapped up quickly and the car thefts too, but they haven’t been, so much as it might be cosy for you two to work together, I’ve not got the manpower to let you. One of you will have to come off the case now,’ then, pausing he continued, ‘but it’s my guess that the Major Incident Team in Liverpool will come and take the deaths if not the car thefts anyway, so in a couple of days you’ll both be off.’
‘So who comes off first then?’
‘You do Frank. As of now you are making a start on the conference policing. And that also means that if MIT take the deaths from us they will be taking them off Don, not you.’ Closing the folder in front of him as a sign that the meeting had finished, he added, ‘Sergeant Lescott is needed where she is I am afraid, so for the time being I’m detailing DC Crompton to help you,’ adding with a sly grin, ‘I did think of giving you DC Green, but then keeping both Louise Green and Debbie Lescott away fro
m you might help you keep your new wife a little longer Frank.’ It wasn’t the sort of humour that Davies appreciated
……….
Huddled over a laptop computer, her thoughts were entirely focussed on planning lessons for the following week. A task that needed to be carried out every weekend, the hours she spent planning intruded into her private life, her not-at-work life, her personal space, although since braking up with Brian, her time had admittedly been a little less complicated. Nevertheless, her time spent planning was always an intensive period where she immersed herself in what she was doing to the complete exclusion of all else. Today it was the Tudors. Or to be more precise, how she would present Britain’s Tudor heritage to a class of nine year olds. At that age they were old enough to be curious and ask probing questions to which she needed to have answers already prepared, yet young enough to appreciate fantasy. Sugar coated history went down well.
Completely absorbed in her task, her two slices of piping hot toast with great knobs of melting butter had metamorphosed into cold and soggy stodge more akin to wet cardboard and her coffee remained untouched, freshly brewed half an hour before. If everything went as it normally did, the toast would end up in the kitchen bin and her coffee reheated in the microwave. So far, everything had indeed been normal. Engrossed in her work, she had not heard letters dropping onto the parquet floor when the postman had called, nor was she aware that the newspaper boy had pushed the daily newspaper through either, even though having extra pages for the weekend review and the TV magazine tucked inside, it had been quite heavy and had landed with a resounding thud. Nothing disturbed her when she was engrossed in planning.
Bang bang bang. The canons of King Henry’s men pounded his enemies. No, that wasn’t right she thought, canons and swords had no place in a lesson devoted to the heritage of Tudor architecture that was still visible on some of Britain’s streets.
Bang bang bang.
King Henry’s canons banged away again. Except they were twenty-first century cannons masquerading as heavy knocking on the door.
Actually, a polite press of the doorbell that had resulted in a rather melodic chime had gone completely unnoticed, as had a gentle tap and a louder knock. They knew that she was in the house because her car was parked out on the drive and, looking through the window, they could see her sat on a sofa, tapping away on her laptop with papers strewn all around her, so they had resorted to a hefty knock on the door and gentle tap on the window.
‘Open up please, it’s the police.’
Dragged rudely from her private little world of timber frontages, overhanging upper floors and narrow streets, she swivelled around to see two faces peering in at her through the window. One of them was holding something up – it looked like a business card – and gesturing for her to open the door. Oh dear, what in heavens name was going on? Had Steve been involved in an accident?
Opening the door, she saw that the business card was actually a police warrant card.
‘Mrs Wilson?’ the one holding the card asked. ‘Mrs Alison Wilson?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘What’s the problem? What has happened? Is it Steve? Has he had an accident?’
‘Can we come in please?’ asked the other officer. ‘This would be better inside I think.’
Standing back while they entered her prim and tidy home, she closed the door and led them into the sitting room. Quickly sweeping the papers she had been working with off the sofa so that they could sit down and picking up some that had fallen on the floor, she sat in an armchair opposite them. She didn’t really sit. Not in the conventional definition of sitting anyway. The suite was big and bulky, its seats far too deep to sit normally and the overall shape a strange collection of curves. She sort of sank into her chair like a sack of potatoes dropped from a height, with her legs curled up under her on the seat as she leaned over to one side, an elbow on the overstuffed arm and her hand supporting her chin.
Opposite her, not feeling inclined to follow her example, which didn’t look at all comfortable anyway, the two officers sharing the sofa were clearly not at ease, the back of the sofa too far away to give any support and the multitude of cascading cushions filling the void, extremely lumpy. If this is modern design thought the young constable, give me traditional furniture any day.
‘Mrs Wilson,’ started the woman officer. ‘Do you own a Mercedes E Class?’ continuing to add a registration number.
‘Yes, I do,’ she replied cautiously. ‘It is on the drive. You passed it coming in.’ Then, her manner becoming even more confused she continued, ‘what have I done wrong? I haven’t been speeding, or I don’t think so. And I’ve not overstayed my time in a car park. What is this all about officer?’
‘How long have you had the car Mrs Wilson?’
‘Just over six months. My husband bought it for me for my birthday. Actually that was seven months ago almost exactly.’
‘Yes Mrs Wilson, time flies doesn’t it? So where did he buy it from then? The car is last year’s model so it must have been about six months old when you got it, which means it probably didn’t come from the main dealer. Your husband deals in cars doesn’t he?
Oh dear. These two know too much about us she thought, a situation she was not comfortable with.
‘Actually, Steve didn’t get it,’ she replied. ‘He just paid for it.’ Then, looking a little sheepish she added, ‘ A friend told me about it and Steve bought it.’
‘Is that so?’ replied DS Debbie Lescott, ‘and who would that be then?’
‘Oh, just a friend at work.’
Lescott couldn’t miss the flush of colour that had suddenly brightened Alison Wilson’s cheeks. Was there something more? It certainly looked like it.
‘Who’s your friend then Mrs Wilson?’ added the constable in support.
‘Just a friend at work. I am a teacher at St Barnaby’s school in Ormskirk. Another teacher told me about it and Steve bought it for me.’ Looking from one to the other, searching for some sort of clue as to why they were sitting on her sofa asking personal questions, she continued, ‘Look. What’s the problem? You are getting me worried officer.’
‘So how did your friend know about it Mrs Wilson? Did it belong to somebody that had died, or was it that the previous owner just did not like it? I mean, you wouldn’t normally be thinking of changing a car that’s only six months old now would you?’ asked the young constable.
‘And I wouldn’t spend the sort of money that your car is worth on a private sale,’ cut in Lescott, ‘With a six month old car costing so much money I would want a decent warranty, and that means buying from a dealer. So who is your friend Mrs Wilson – and why was the car for sale?’
Alison Wilson eyed them both up. This was surreal. How could she tell them that her boyfriend, or former boyfriend, had told her about the car and her husband had bought it? That sounded a bit far fetched. Love triangles usually ended in arguments not a happy threesome. But hers hadn’t been a happy threesome. Steve did not know that Brian existed. OK, so he did know that Brian existed, but only as a fellow teacher, not that there had been anything between them. So how could she now tell two strangers? That might let the cat out of the bag and ruin everything. And just when she had taken steps to stop the affair and put her marriage back on an even keel too.
‘Like I just told you’ she said, ‘just a friend at school. He said that he knew of a couple that were splitting up and there was a car for sale. He said that the bloke had gone off with another woman and told his wife to sell things off for whatever she could get for them. Being a bit pissed off at being left in the lurch she was selling things at silly prices – a bit vindictive like – so the car was available for less than half price. It had been a steal.’
‘Yes, I bet it was at that,’ commented Lescott. ‘So Mrs Wilson, this bloke at school, friendly with him are you? Very friendly perhaps?’
‘Really!’ she exclaimed.’ What are you suggesting? I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Do
n’t you Mrs Wilson?’ With almost as much detail as she needed, Lescott was getting close to the point where she would make her move. ‘Either we can have a word with your husband and with your colleagues at St Barnaby’s or you can tell us here and now. It doesn’t make much difference to us so I don’t particularly care. But I’ve got a suspicion that you wouldn’t want that Mrs Wilson. Spell it out love. Who’s your boyfriend?’
Oh bloody hell. She felt herself going crimson. Was it so bloody obvious? If two complete strangers could deduce her guilty secret in just five minutes then there was a pretty good chance that Steve could work it out too. He probably already had for that matter.
She swung her legs down of her chair and sat up. Lescott could see that the reference to a boyfriend had hit the mark. Although Wilson was trying to create a nonchalant image, the woman was clearly running on her nerves. Sitting bolt upright with her hands clasped in her lap, she constantly twirled her thumbs, then when she became conscious of the action, reached up to twist a lock of hair around her finger. Whether twirling her thumbs or twisting her hair, she was constantly on the move.
‘It’s over,’ she said.
‘Sorry Mrs Wilson,’ replied the DC, we didn’t quite catch that.’
‘I said that it’s over,’ repeated Alison Wilson looking at them directly. ‘I had this. Well, you know.’ Gulping for air she took a breath and launched into full flow. ‘He’s called Brian. I was seeing him for about a year, though why I don’t know; he’s nothing to look at. We used to spend weekends together and go for meals. But I put a stop on it all last week. He wanted to buy a bloody caravan.’
‘So who owned the Merc Mrs Wilson? And how did your friend – Brian isn’t it? How did he come to know about it then? And how did you get your husband to buy a car from your lover? That all sounds a bit cosy to me’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea. How Brian knew about it I mean. He just said that he knew of a car going cheap when we were, well, you know.’