***
John Melville woke on hearing his letterbox snap shut. He checked the bedside clock. It was just after five in the morning. Light crept through the thin curtains, casting the room in a light blue hue. He climbed out of bed, curled back the corner of the curtain and squinted through the smallest of gaps. He saw the man leaning on the concrete gatepost at the top of the driveway, a suitcase at his feet. His hand raised and waved instinctively at the twitching curtain demonstrating to the watcher that he knew he was there. John Melville smiled. “Cheeky bugger!” he whispered to himself.
A car pulled up and the man climbed into the rear seat. He turned and looked towards the bedroom window and saw the movement of the corner of a curtain. He had guessed correctly.
John dropped the curtain and slipped on his dressing gown. The envelope was still held by the letterbox, it had not fallen. He slipped a letter opener into the envelope and slit open the top. It contained five twenty-pound notes and a hand written letter.
‘Money’s to help with the dog. Please let us know if you need more. Really grateful that you can keep an eye on the place.’ The word eye was underlined twice. ‘Your continued support is gratefully appreciated. We couldn’t do this without you, John, but we feel sure you know that. Keep watching and keep listening. Your reward will come. xx’
He read it again and then tucked the money into his dressing-gown pocket before folding the note and sliding it into the kitchen drawer. A smile came to his lips. He leaned over, collected the kettle and filled it. He’d take the dog out later and check the house.
Chapter Sixteen
Annoyingly, Liz couldn’t get the image of Alan Titchmarsh out of her head as she turned left over the narrow bridge crossing the River Wharfe, the shortest route that would take her to Ilkley. She waited for a gap in the traffic to turn right. Titchmarsh, she had been informed, was one of Ilkley’s famous sons. Stuart Park had announced the fact to her the moment she had told him she was going to the town. He then pulled a lecherous face. Liz didn’t even have a garden and she could kill the small pots of herbs bought at the supermarket without any assistance from a gardening expert, so Titchmarsh held little attraction; besides he was twice her age. The combination of ideas brought the garden of the house belonging to Sonya James to mind and she shivered involuntarily as she remembered the sensation of her shoes sticking to the carpet. The blatant sound of the horn from the following car brought her to her senses. She had missed three opportunities to pull out from the bridge crossing into the stream of traffic and a frustrated motorist just wanted her to move. She put up her hand in apology and moved into the traffic.
Originally she had planned to cold call on Pamela Shepherd but then Cyril had suggested it would be more professional and less threatening to make an appointment. “Could be construed as victimisation of a minority gender”, were his exact words. As usual, he was correct. Much to her annoyance, it had taken three days to organise.
The A69 was busy and the traffic seemed to slow to a standstill as she approached the town’s centre. She waited for the mechanical, dashboard voice to tell her to turn next left down Little Lane. Her destination was her next right, Nelson Road. Stone terraced houses flanked the road and beyond she could see the railway station and beyond that, high on the horizon, the famous moor. She tried to put the tune into her head to blank Alan’s image.
Liz didn’t even get a chance to knock on the door; by the time she’d closed the gate and taken two steps along the path, the front door opened. Liz had seen a photograph of Pamela but she was taken aback by just how attractive the lady holding the door was. She hated to say it to herself, but her facial features were so delicate and feminine.
“DS Graydon? Good morning, Pamela Shepherd, how good of you to come all this way.” The smile seemed as genuine as the welcome.
Liz followed and was surprised by the cottage’s quaint room. It smelled of lavender.
“What shall I call you, I can’t keep saying DS Graydon?”
“Please, call me Liz for this interview.”
“Thank you. Liz, I’ve organised a neighbour to sit with my aunt for an hour. I thought we might go and get a coffee and have our chat away from the house. It would give me a break and Auntie just gets so confused when she hears a stranger’s voice. Is that alright?”
Liz felt as though she were losing control but then resigned herself to the fact that she had nothing on Pamela other than a hunch.
Betty’s Tea Room was busy but they managed to secure a table by the window looking out onto the car park.
“Now, how may I help?”
Liz went through the details of the case and explained how they were trying to find anything that might give a clue as to the identity of Tony Thompson’s murderer.
“I know one thing, Liz, we were very busy. There were two stalls selling the type of food we serve. Gary Barton had a fire, a fridge I think, and he didn’t open on the day the kidnap took place. When you spoke on the phone I checked the dates just to be accurate. Bruce runs a good ship, it’s immaculate, and he’s really fussy about following hygiene procedures to the letter. When you’re busy that can be difficult. Gary’s not bad on the hygiene front either, I know Bruce is not the most handsome male specimen but he’s got a heart of gold. That leaves Sonya! What does one say about her without sounding like a bitch or its appearing to be professional sour grapes? I wouldn’t eat food from her if I were starving. I guess that tells you everything.”
Liz knew that only too well. “So did you work every evening?”
“Look, Liz, I’ve been dealt a strange hand as I know you are aware and what with mum’s illness and death and then my aunt needing round the clock care, I work when I can. Those two people were all I had when I was growing up. They stuck by me, protected me when things were not easy. Growing up, kids can be cruel, especially when they find that you have an Achilles’ heel. My heel was in the open and couldn’t be hidden with a metaphorical sock… it was in your face. School for me became unbearable, as you can well imagine, so mum decided I should be educated at home. My father couldn’t cope with anything but inanimate objects. He loved finding broken things and making them perfect but ironically he couldn’t cope with his broken child, he didn’t have the patience nor the will to help make me whole, make me what I wanted to be. He couldn’t accept me for what I was. I know he blamed himself.”
Liz felt a lump in her throat and sipped some tea. There was, she noted, no sadness in Pam’s eyes, just determination.
“My aunt was really good. We’d come here at weekends and for holidays, to people who had never heard of Samuel Dixon. My peer group accepted me here and that was a cotton-thin lifeline that I clung to. Once I’d finished University and my PGCE, I started part time teaching. Being at Manchester gave me some time away from home, there was greater tolerance and I wasn’t alone with my ‘problem’.” She made her fingers sign inverted commas. “Even then in the primitive, naïve nineties, a transgender person was not seen by everyone to have climbed out of a UFO, probably due to the likes of Mark Bolan and David Bowie.” She laughed at the memory. “And besides, I was older and a lot tougher. I know we females should have soft, delicate skin but I have consciously developed the hide of a pachyderm.”
“Pam, I noted that you had applied for a Gender Recognition Certificate but to date you have failed to complete the necessary procedures.”
“Look Liz, for the last goodness knows how many years, my hands have been rather tied but I’ve promised myself it will be done one day. I enjoyed the teaching. My mother, who by then had moved to Hampsthwaite with a guy she had met on some dating agency, seemed fine but let’s quickly close that chapter. She rented the house, nothing special and they lived together. Strangely enough we all got on well until I found him trying to get into my bed as well as my mother’s when I stayed occasionally at the weekend. Funny the way life deals the cards. And before you ask I don’t do the lottery.” Both laughed and it lightened the mood.
&nb
sp; “So when your mother was ill you moved over to Yorkshire?”
“Yes, he soon buggered off when she started to grow worse…Goodness! Look at the time. I really must get back.” Pamela stood. “I’m sorry it’s all a little rushed but please, come over again it’s been so good to chat to someone who doesn’t make demands. Maybe we could pop out for some lunch?”
Liz smiled. “That would be lovely.” She lied.
***
Cyril was relieved to have a morning away from work, it meant that he could clear his head and try to fill it with the things that didn’t have a habit of causing angst and stress. After a short walk from home he turned down Albert Street. He had one destination, a destination that would give him the 'fix’ that had taken over a small part of his life, paintings. The entrance to the auction house was set within a row of shops, estate agent offices and eateries, and was a single, black door, almost hidden within the commercial simple façade that stretched the length of the street.
The corridor leading to the main auction rooms was hung with paintings of various sizes; cabinets along the right hand side held myriad illuminated small sculptures; one by the great Henry Moore drew Cyril’s attention. A cat can look at a king! he said to himself, knowing full well, after checking the catalogue, that it would sell for over half of his life’s savings. His reason for calling in on the first viewing day was to inspect two paintings. One, painted by Stuart Walton, depicted a gritty Bradford industrial street scene and the second, a Lawrence Isherwood oil was titled, ‘Tate Gallery, Blue Rain’. The Walton, although beautiful, was too big for his flat but the Isherwood, well? He looked at the estimate, checked the condition and placed a cross next to it in his catalogue with a figure of £1,400. This would be his limit. He stood back to admire it again when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.
“Bennett.”
It was Owen. “Sir, we’ve had another jar handed in. It’s gone to Forensics but should be back here this afternoon. I thought you’d like to know.”
“Where was it found?” Cyril had rolled up the catalogue and was tapping it against his thigh.
“You’ll not believe this but…it was on a garden wall on Robert Street.”
Cyril’s stomach churned. “I’m on my way in.”
***
John Melville opened the front door. The sun’s warmth was immediate and he breathed deeply. He took the dog lead from the hook just inside the door before closing up. He squeezed through the end of the hedge that separated the two driveways, a route he always took before putting the key in his neighbour’s door. The dog made one loud, deep bark.
“Come on fella, you know who it is.” There was no further sound.
Once the lead was attached man and dog crunched their way up the drive and on to Gower Lane. He would be away for about an hour.
***
Owen was leaning against the stone wall outside the police station trying to enjoy some mid-day sunshine, a mug of what looked like coffee in his hand. He saw Liz pull up in her car and waved. He waited for her to approach. “Had a good day?”
“I’m more bloody confused than ever. Christ, she’s a pleasant character, not at all what I was expecting and that fills me with all kinds of anxieties.”
“Want to chat it through? I’ll share my last drop of coffee.” Owen gripped her round the shoulder. “A problem shared…”
Liz looked at the mug and her mind flipped back to sticky carpets and dirty fingernails. “Thanks but I just need to let it all…“ she looked in the mug and found inspiration, “yes, that’s the word I was looking for, ferment, yes, I’ll let it ferment for a while. Something might bubble to the surface.”
Owen looked at Liz and then into his cup before raising his shoulders. “Speaking of bubbling, we have another jar. With Forensics at the moment but should be couriered back all neatly bagged and on Flash’s desk by sometime this afternoon.” Owen frowned and pulled a face that demonstrated fear.
Liz laughed and punched his arm. “Behave!”
***
Cyril dropped the auction house catalogue on his desk and stared at the bagged jar for what seemed like an age. Liz kept looking at Owen but neither spoke.
“What do we have this time?” Cyril sat and inhaled his electronic cigarette. The menthol hitting his mouth seemed to lift his mood.
“No tattooed flesh this time but…” Owen paused and looked at both colleagues. “It contained a plastic strip, one of those Dymo embossed labels. It simply reads, You are no closer, you’re as hoppless as the boy.”
“’Hoppless’ what on earth? Forensics, what do they say?”
Owen just shook his head. “Nothing apart from the finder’s prints. Not the same quality of honey, different sized jar; the label just read ‘HONEY’ in block capitals. The Scribblers at Forensics completed spectroscopy analysis on the ink and there’s no match with the ink used on previous labels. They also confirm that there’s evidence to suggest that it was written by a right handed person!”
“Tell me it’s rogue? Who brought it in?”
“A Mrs Kenyon, lives three doors up from you. Says she knocked on your door knowing you were a policeman but there was no answer. Thought it was important to get the jar to us straight away after all the news stories and so she handed it in to the office in town. She also said that she’d call on you to see if it had helped.”
“I know Mrs Kenyon! She suffers from dementia.” Cyril put his face into his hands and sighed. The gesture said everything. “Get someone round and make a thorough search. I’ll sort out a warrant. Get in touch with her son, he’ll be understanding and probably look around the house with you. Just trust me on this. The press release that mentioned that there were messages held within the found jars was a big mistake. I think I said so at the time. I wonder how many more are going to turn up?”
Liz watched Cyril’s expression as he talked about his neighbour and she could see the compassion within his frustration. She had been aware of Cyril’s kindness from the first day she had moved from Leeds. It was a nurturing that seemed to permeate the whole team. Ok, he wouldn’t tolerate inefficient policing at any level and he drove himself hard, but there was this compassion, this understanding that made him a little special. It was then that she realised that all eyes had turned to her, including Cyril’s who stared back at her and smiled.
“You wanted to mention Pamela Shepherd? Are you alright?” Owen asked.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Just thinking about Mrs Kenyon and her son. It must be so difficult at times.”
“I believe it is as I’m sure your Ms Shepherd would concur.”
Liz recovered her composure and went through the details of her meeting with Pamela Shepherd.
“So she can give no help I take it?”
Liz shook her head. “I’m going to see her again, though…let’s say a woman to woman chat! Should have been in social work. I just feel sure there’s something.”
“Computers, Owen, Carl’s computers. Anything?”
“There are a number of deleted files that involved Tony Thompson and three other boys, all of which are now added to our file for close observation. It appears that they were friendlier away from Cadets than the Air Cadet Commander or whatever his working title is, suggested. One area that seemed to take a large amount of their social time together was an online subscriber site. I believe Carl’s father was relieved when he left the screen alone and went to play on The Stray.”
“I think it’s the same for parents of all teenage kids,” Liz chipped in. “They’re never parted from their phones. Have you noticed whenever people go to concerts they hold up their phones and watch the performance through a small screen? The band is in front of them but they still watch the world through a bloody screen.”
Owen smiled and raised an eyebrow as if to agree. “ Here endeth the first lesson.”
Cyril smiled at her. “You’re preaching to one of the converted here, Liz, but I can’t speak for the big fella.”
O
wen just pulled a face as if to suggest he was innocent of all charges, and then continued. “Before I was rudely interrupted…. We’ve interviewed the other lads and it appears that the subscriber site was a flight simulator, conflict situation site. They’d each fly their own virtual planes, Second World War aircraft as a squadron or against each other in virtual air battles. Strangely, the only one still registered is Tony Thompson, the others unsubscribed after his disappearance. We’re seeking a list of subscribers who interacted with any or all of our boys but that’s not easy, these sites are available to subscribers worldwide. What with data protection there are rules that even the law enforcement agencies have limited power to overturn.”
“So they’re all sitting in the same room?” Cyril asked in all innocence, failing to comprehend fully the genre.
“No, Sir. You’re playing from your own computer and it works through the Internet in real time.”
“Are they Air Cadets, too?”
Flesh Evidence: a heart-stopping crime thriller Page 9