Crooked Street

by Priscilla Masters

  At the back of her mind she still had the troubled vision of Big Mill, of empty room after empty room. It would be so easy to hide a body there. If they got no further they would summon sniffer dogs to the mill and search again. What a human eye might miss a dog’s nose might find.

  The house-to-house format had been the same in every case, the roads and houses divided up into grid references, each person asked the same set of questions and their answers documented.

  Did Jadon Glover call on you last Wednesday? At what time? Did you give him money? Did you notice anything unusual in his manner? Do you know anything that might have a bearing on his disappearance? Do you know where he went next? Did he ever mention being followed? Threatened?

  Over and over the questions were asked, the responses documented so that by the afternoon they could be collated, at least those who had been at home to answer. The rest would be more evening calls and another briefing in the morning.

  The officers had worked through the weekend to collate the facts. They’d made a second cursory search of the mill and interviewed some of the people Jadon had been visiting. So far nothing really stuck out as she scanned the results, trying to divine the message beneath. She glanced across at Korpanski, who raised his eyebrows. She read their message. Nothing there either.

  There had been no other major developments. So what minor discoveries? She crossed the room and stood in front of the map for a recap.

  ‘If everyone’s account was correct, collating that with their indisputable CCTV evidence, he parked in the supermarket car park at a little after seven p.m. As was his habit, he visited his six clients in Mill Street, last of all Astrid Jenkins, leaving her at a little after seven twenty-five. That much was already known from Paul Ruthin and Bridget.’

  Bridget stepped forward to speak for both of them. ‘They all said he visited at the usual time and that he seemed as normal.’

  ‘OK,’ Joanna said, checking, ‘so up until seven twenty-five it was business as usual.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Then?’ She turned to Jason and Dawn, who had done a really good job. They’d always called Jason ‘Bright’ Spark and now he was proving himself worthy of the name. He stood at the front, explaining his approach, and Joanna was really impressed. It was methodical. Typically Dawn was standing back, allowing the young PC to take centre stage.

  ‘He crossed the road and started at Wellington Place.’

  Wellington Place was a little upmarket – between-the-wars semis rather than the Victorian terraces further up the bank. There was off-street parking for one – at a squash two – cars. Joanna was a little surprised that these people had needed to resort to payday loans from notorious doorstep money lenders. She would have thought their finances more secure. She was obviously wrong.

  Dawn took over, speaking out in her clear voice, interrupting Joanna’s thoughts. ‘We did ask what sort of a guy he was and the majority said he was businesslike, that he took “no shit from anyone”, but was basically polite.’

  ‘What if they were late with their payments?’

  ‘He would threaten them.’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘He’d just say they had one week to cough up. If they couldn’t manage it he’d take jewellery or goods to the value of.’ Dawn looked unhappy. ‘He didn’t mess around.’

  Jason Spark spoke up next. ‘I suppose,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘he couldn’t afford to go soft on them.’ He must have heard the murmurings around the room and felt his fellow officers did not agree or understand this opinion. ‘I mean,’ he continued, going red now, but sticking bravely to his guns, ‘if he let one of them off one week’s payments the whole business would go down the chute. They’d all plead poverty.’

  There was a ripple of resentment round the room. Policeman’s pay didn’t always stretch quite far enough. However foolhardy and unwise it might have been, many of them had been tempted to go down this road – just till they got paid. So there was a natural empathy towards the victims here rather than the missing man.

  The criminal here, in their eyes, was Jadon, the whole enterprise fuelled by pure greed. Not one of them was fooled by the claim of altruism put forward by Glover’s colleagues.

  Joanna frowned. ‘Let’s concentrate on the facts,’ she said, ‘rather than sympathise or not with the victims.’ Even as she spoke she wondered: who was the victim here? ‘Let’s start with the timeline. The families in sequence. The last person to see him before he crossed Mill Street and climbed the hill up to the other thirteen families was Astrid Jenkins, who saw him as normal at around seven twenty-five.’

  ‘So then he crosses Macclesfield Road, passing Big Mill, to the other thirteen families who lived on the north side of the road?’

  ‘He didn’t always visit in order,’ Jason said, ‘but that night it appears he went first to Wellington Place.’

  ‘Time?’

  ‘Round about seven forty-five. No one could be sure of the exact time. Then he went to Britannia Avenue and visited the families there. That’s all confirmed. Then he would have crossed the children’s play area into Barngate Street, which is where we think we picked him up on the CCTV but we can’t be sure it’s him even after enhancing the images. Then he would have proceeded to Nab Hill Avenue.’ He paused. ‘But that night it appears that he didn’t arrive at Barngate Street and never visited Nab Hill Avenue at all.’

  ‘So the last sighting of our man is a possibility on the CCTV and the last definite sighting was on Britannia Avenue.’

  ‘Yeah. It seems like it. We’ve put some signs up by the swings just in case he was spotted there but it seems unlikely considering the weather.’

  ‘Any more CCTV cameras round there?’

  ‘Only the one mounted on one of the houses on the corner of Britannia Avenue.’

  ‘So if he was abducted was the weather opportune or coincidence?’ She stopped musing. ‘Go on, Dawn.’

  ‘We worked on the assumption that he normally worked his way along Barngate Street then went through the passage into Nab Hill Avenue but he didn’t always stick to that. Sometimes he did it in reverse.’

  Joanna studied the map. Whichever path Jadon had taken, his route would have been a giant loop. He would have got soaked.

  ‘So let’s say it is him hurrying through the play area. That would mean he disappeared somewhere round here.’ Her hand spanned the two streets. Again, she thought: how? People, windows, eyes, cars. Had no one seen anything? How had that been achieved? As the night was so nasty he would have wanted to finish his round as quickly as possible. Get back to the car.

  ‘The clients along Wellington Place say they saw him as usual around eight-ish and gave him the money they owed. One family, the last to see him along that street, admitted that they didn’t have the money.’

  Joanna glanced at the board. ‘Time?’

  ‘They think about eight thirty.’

  ‘And their names?’

  ‘Carly Johnson and her partner, Stuart. They live in number eight.’

  ‘Why didn’t they have the money?’

  ‘Apparently Stuart had been ill. He’s a diabetic and things had gone wrong. He’d been fired from his job as a delivery driver because he went a bit funny.’

  Dawn Critchlow continued, speaking in a flat, unemotional voice, but when she looked up her eyes were gleaming. ‘He called it a hypo. Low blood sugar. It made him a bit dizzy. He had to inform the DVLA. They stopped him driving. Anyway, they didn’t have the money and it was the second week they’d missed. Apparently Jadon told them if he didn’t have the money this week there was to be no grovelling. They either lost the car or the telly. And like most people they had to have the car for Carly to get to work. She works in the Potteries’ Shopping Centre in Hanley,’ she added.

  ‘So what happened on the doorstep that night?’

  ‘Jadon wasn’t too pleased they didn’t have the money – again. Carly promised she’d have it by the following day and would drop it in to
his office in Hanley.’

  ‘How much did they owe?’

  ‘A thousand – originally. They’d been desperate – took an emergency holiday to Benidorm in September. They’d taken out the loan for six months paying a hundred a week. They managed until Stuart lost his job. They were living on the edge,’ she said. ‘And Stuart didn’t get another job.’

  ‘So where was she going to get the money from by the next day?’

  ‘She was going to ask her mum for it. Apparently she promised Jadon she’d get the money to his office by midday.’

  ‘How did he respond to that?’

  ‘She said he was none too pleased, that he chuntered a bit but in the end said OK. What they want is the money – in cash. Goods are more trouble, aren’t they? Have to be got rid of – and they never make as much as you think.’

  Joanna felt her skin prickle. ‘Did she actually go to her mother on the Thursday and ask for the money?’

  ‘I haven’t checked yet.’

  Joanna knew she didn’t need to say any more but it was possibly a crucial point.

  ‘Anything particular about the other three debtors in Wellington Place?’

  ‘Just one. A couple called Paul Ginster and Christine Maundy. She’s expecting. They seemed pretty desperate too.’ She frowned, finding it hard to say why she had picked this couple out. ‘Scared,’ she said.

  ‘Right, so …’ Joanna turned back to the map. ‘Britannia Avenue. How many clients there?’

  ‘Three. One family – the Murdochs – said they were out.’ Jason Spark made a face. ‘Hiding behind the curtains, more like.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘Josie and Vernon Murdoch.’ He hesitated. ‘Josie stank of cider when I interviewed her.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Just after ten.’

  ‘So even at that time in the morning she’d been drinking?’

  He nodded. ‘She was pretty drunk and abusive.’

  ‘And her partner, Vernon?’

  ‘No sign of him.’

  ‘I wonder what our debt collector made of that.’

  PC Spark blew his cheeks out. ‘A black mark,’ he said. ‘At the very least.’

  ‘And the next family?’

  ‘Said they gave him sixty quid a week including interest.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Karen Stanton.’

  ‘OK …’ Joanna turned back to the map. ‘She saw Glover at what time?’

  ‘Some time after eight thirty.’

  Dawn hesitated. ‘She was the last person to see him. Or at least,’ she added with characteristic literalism, ‘she was the last person to admit to seeing him. The other family – the other person,’ she corrected, ‘said she didn’t see him. She said he didn’t call that night.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Marty Widnes. She’s a widow.’

  ‘And she says he didn’t call?’

  ‘She said sometimes he let her off paying.’

  The ripple around the room was heavy with scepticism. Joanna made a mental note to follow this one up.

  Joanna turned back to the map. ‘So the last person to admit to seeing him was Karen Stanton. After that … nothing.’

  Dawn nodded.

  Joanna waited. Dawn was clearly uncomfortable about something. ‘The person he was supposed to be collecting money from, Marty Widnes … her husband, Frank, hanged himself a year ago. Rumour is it was connected with debt. There was a suicide note that came out at the inquest. Marty herself was in a terrible state after Frank’s death. There was an elaborate funeral apparently – plumed horses, a carriage.’ Dawn looked around the room. ‘It was quite a sensation.’

  A few officers were already using their smartphones and tablets to look up the newspaper articles covering the coroner’s report. There were pictures of a funeral which looked high Gothic Victorian: prancing horses sporting black plumes, a horse-drawn hearse, open carriages and undertakers walking in front, solemn and with top hats bordered with black crepe.

  Joanna was silent for a minute. If the newspaper reports were to be believed Marty Widnes had plenty of motive for wanting Jadon out of the way. But there was something which intrigued her: Jadon hardly struck her as a man with a big heart or someone who suffered with guilt or empathy for the fates he had a hand in. And yet this one woman claimed he sometimes ‘let her off paying’. So who paid her weekly share? Jadon himself?

  She addressed Dawn Critchlow. ‘Is it possible …?’ She didn’t need to finish the sentence.

  Dawn shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. She’s a small woman, not overly strong. Jadon was a member of the local gym. Not exactly a heavy, but … No, she couldn’t have assaulted him.’

  Joanna looked at Mike, almost holding her hands out in frustration. Same old story: motive but no opportunity.

  ‘So we have him tracked to Karen Stanton. Did she see in which direction Jadon was headed?’

  ‘No. She said the weather was so vile she just handed the money over and shut the door on him quickly.’

  ‘Did she notice anything else? Anyone hanging around, following him, cars nearby? Anything unusual?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK, talk us through Glover’s next movements.’

  Dawn looked at Jason Spark. ‘The play area,’ she said. ‘It’s just a small area, a triangle with two swings and a slide. There’s nowhere to hide there.’ She was thinking. Nowhere for a would-be murderer to hide or conceal a body.

  Spark nodded. They all knew the area, a tiny sop to the cramped streets, an alternative to dangerous trespass in Big Mill. Somewhere for the children to play safely, watched by the dumb eye of a CCTV camera.

  Joanna turned to DC Phil Scott. ‘Take me through that CCTV again?’

  ‘We see someone cross it,’ he said, ‘just before nine o’clock, who fits Glover’s description, but he’s hurrying and wrapped up against the weather. We can’t be certain it is him.’

  ‘Let’s assume it is,’ Joanna said. ‘Cutting through the child’s play area, he would have gone next to Barngate Street and then on to Nab Hill Avenue, which is blocked off to vehicles but not to pedestrians.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So how many families are on his books in Barngate Street?’

  ‘Three. But they say he never got there. Not one of them saw him.’

  ‘And Nab Hill Avenue?’

  Dawn shook her head again.

  ‘So he vanished somewhere between Britannia Avenue and Barngate Street. We’re not sure whether the person seen crossing the play area is Jadon or not.’ She paused. ‘And we don’t know whether he intended going next to Barngate Street or Nab Hill Avenue. How many clients does he have in Nab Hill Avenue?’

  ‘Again, three. All women.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Yeah.’ Jason grinned. ‘Bit of a coven if you ask me.’

  ‘But none of these women say they saw him last Wednesday.’

  ‘No. Not one of the six clients in those two streets admits to seeing him last Wednesday night.’

  ‘He never got there, Joanna,’ Mike repeated.

  She turned to face him. ‘So they say.’

  ‘OK,’ she said slowly, ‘so the last definite sighting is Karen Stanton. The Murdochs say they were out and Mrs Widnes claims he didn’t call. So,’ she said, ‘we’ll start with turning a searchlight on these people.’

  Again, she studied the map. Somewhere in these cramped streets, Jadon Glover had achieved the impossible. He’d vanished.

  Something in her toes tingled. ‘Tell me about the people who live in Barngate Street, the ones who deny seeing him.’

  ‘Petula Morgan, number twelve,’ Jason read from his notebook, ‘Roberta Slater, number five and a lady called Sarah Gough who lives with her son in number sixteen.’

  ‘The son?’

  ‘A strange lad.’ Dawn took up the story. ‘A bit funny in the head. He has learning difficulties.’

  ‘History of violence?’

  Dawn shook h
er head, her maternal instinct coming out now. ‘No,’ she said, laughing. ‘He’s a big softie. Nice chap actually.’

  Joanna moved her finger across to Nab Hill Avenue. ‘So what about the Nab Hill Coven?’

  A couple of officers managed a smile. It was a feeble joke but it lifted their mood and encouraged them in a case which seemed so difficult to grasp.

  Dawn took over. ‘There are three of them. All single, all live alone. I suppose the ringleader is a lady called Charlotte Parker. She’s about sixty – very outspoken.’ She smiled. ‘Quite a tough character. She was the one who led the campaign to have Nab Hill Avenue blocked off when that little boy was knocked off his bike and killed. Motorists were flying up the road as a shortcut between Macclesfield Road and Newcastle Road.’

  Joanna put a hand up to pause her. It was an aspect of the case they had so far not explored. She homed in on DS Hannah Beardmore. Reliable, patient, thorough Hannah. ‘Look into the circumstances of the accident, will you, Hannah? Just see if there’s any connection with any of our debtors or creditors.’

  Hannah simply nodded. A woman of few words, she had been brought up in the area, her parents moorland farmers. She was used to the ways of the people who lived in the area around Leek and was an invaluable source of information.

  Jason Spark took over. ‘Charlotte’s a tough cookie who’s had a few husbands. She’s fairly hard boiled,’ he said, smiling at the memory of the woman who had reduced him and his uniform to a first-former standing in front of the headmistress.

  ‘But no criminal record.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Family?’

  ‘One daughter and two grandchildren that she looks after for ninety per cent of the time.’

  ‘The three women seem to spend a lot of time round each other’s houses with a bottle or two of wine,’ Dawn put in.

  ‘Then there’s a Turkish lady who was all veiled up. She was very quiet, a bit subdued. She was wearing a headscarf round her face so I couldn’t really see her expression.’

  ‘Name?’