Back-Slash

by Bill Kitson

  Lisa shuddered. ‘Please, too much information.’

  ‘The pathologist’s report showed her throat had been cut with such violence that a vertebra at the back of her neck was notched. She’d almost been decapitated. The pathologist gave his opinion that the wound was either inflicted with a razor-sharp knife, or in great passion. I was charged with murder.

  ‘The trial only lasted three days, during which the prosecution drew the jurors’ attention to the damning evidence. They were told about blazing rows reported by a neighbour. Then her boss told them he and the dead woman were lovers. They heard the solicitor say that my wife believed I knew about the affair. They were told of the suspicious lapse in time before I reported her missing, making it sound as if I used that time to cover my tracks. They listened; then convicted me of murder. They only took forty minutes to reach the verdict. Not to be outdone the judge got in on the act. The sentence was life, with a little additional clause recommending a minimum term of twenty-five years.’

  Myers was watching Lisa as he related the story. If she was repelled or frightened she didn’t show it.

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Durham gaol maximum security wing. Category: extremely violent and dangerous. That means they locked me up for twenty-three hours a day. Unless you’ve experienced prison life you’d think someone was making it up. Even now the mention of the place is enough. I can almost taste the foul stink of it. I wasn’t a model prisoner. My parents had disowned me. I have a brother living in New Zealand. He wrote twice telling me I was a disgrace, and that he was arranging for my parents to go and live with him.

  ‘It was years before I had a visitor; then, out of the blue, a solicitor came to see me. He’d been instructed to commence appeal proceedings. The only stipulation was I was not to be told who funded the appeal. When I got in front of the Appeal Court judges the barrister retained on my behalf started taunting me. In the end he riled me into saying I adored my wife, had no idea she was having an affair, wouldn’t have harmed a hair on her head. He asked why I hadn’t reported her missing, making out I was guilty. I told him I drank a full bottle of whisky and got absolutely pissed.’ Myers stopped and laughed.

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘Those judges live in a different world. One of them stopped proceedings and asked me, “Would that be a litre or seventy-five centilitres?” Then my counsel went into his closing statement. He said there was no proof I’d killed my wife. No DNA, no witnesses, nothing to show I’d ever been to Scarborough. The judges agreed, said there was sufficient doubt; that the original conviction was unsafe.’

  ‘So you were acquitted?’

  ‘Not really. I mean I was never acknowledged as innocent.’

  ‘What do you think happened to your wife?’

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea. God knows I’d enough time to think about it. I’m nowhere nearer the truth than I was when it happened. Someone knows though. Somebody apart from the killer, I mean.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘When the solicitor came to visit me, it wasn’t at my request. Somebody went to a great deal of trouble and enormous expense to bring about my appeal and pay for it.’

  ‘Have you ever been tempted to try to find out the truth?’

  ‘Occasionally, but whatever I do won’t bring her back.’

  ‘Do you still love her?’

  ‘I thought I’d fallen out of love with her when I heard she’d been having an affair. Now I’m not so sure. Above all, I regret that she died so horribly. She was a lively, happy person, who should have been given a better chance.’

  ‘Her death put you through hell,’ Lisa pointed out.

  ‘Yes, but that wasn’t her doing. Anyway it’s all over now. A sorry tale, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, Mr Myers, or whoever you are, you’ve done what you promised. I can see why you live the hermit existence out here. Does all that bitterness not have an end, though? Why did you seem so angry last night? What were you doing on that third floor of the hotel?’

  ‘First, tell me something. Did you believe me, when I said I didn’t kill my wife?’

  ‘Without examining the evidence it’s not easy to say, but you certainly don’t seem the type.’

  ‘What I’m about to say might shake your belief. I said you’d saved me from doing something rash. When I was at that party, I spotted the man who’d been my wife’s lover. The one who told all those lies about me in court, the man who got me convicted. If you hadn’t come chasing after me there’s every chance I might have killed him last night.’

  chapter five

  On New Year’s Eve the dining room at The Golden Bear, transformed into a ballroom for the night, certainly looked festive. Large Christmas trees were spaced at intervals down one wall of the room, each ablaze with a mass of lights. There were also twinkling light displays around the temporary stage, where a jazz band was entertaining the diners. The tables were decorated gaily with centre displays, Christmas napkins and crackers on each setting, whilst those reserved for the ladies had a small gift parcel in addition. The whole effect was enough to lift the spirits of even the most reluctant reveller, and the partygoers were far from reluctant. The evening was a great success.

  On New Year’s Day the staff faced a daunting task. First, they had to clear the debris from the previous night’s function; then set up the dining room for breakfast. They did this knowing that the few residents who would partake of food had opted to eat it in their rooms. That set them their next task, preparing and delivering the trays.

  The knock on the door of room 37 came earlier than expected. Stuart Moran had vacated the shower in favour of Lesley and was about to start dressing. He opened the door to find a liveried waiter standing outside. ‘Breakfast, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. Put it over there please.’ Moran turned to take a pair of slacks from the wardrobe. The waiter placed the tray on the table, took a large knife from it, stepped up behind Moran and slit his throat.

  As he watched the solicitor slump to the floor, he was distracted by a sudden noise. He looked up to see Lesley standing in the shower room doorway surveying the bloodbath in front of her. She opened her mouth to scream but the sound was never uttered, for by then her windpipe had been severed.

  New Year’s Eve saw Nash and Andrews stretched to the limit, whilst at Netherdale. Ruth Edwards and Binns struggled to cope with the usual round of drink and drug-fuelled offences. It was 4 a.m. when they eventually got some respite. Nash sent Andrews home. They’d agreed beforehand that he and Ruth would take the brunt of the night’s work.

  Lisa reached her flat and opened the communal front door. She climbed the stairs slowly, too tired to relish the prospect of a few hours off duty. She could hear a stray reveller rolling home, and thought briefly of Myers, alone in his remote hermitage. She’d pitied him his lonely existence, his isolation from society. Had he been telling the truth, or was he a clever, cunning murderer who’d got away with it? Lisa didn’t think so. The way the Labrador looked at him was the only basis for her opinion. It wasn’t very scientific but Lisa had read somewhere that animals usually have a much better instinct in such matters, and it was obvious that Nell adored her master. Obvious too that the Labrador was the only thing Myers cared for. Lisa had found it easy to pity his loneliness but after a night such as she’d just experienced she began to think he was more to be envied. She couldn’t think of anything worse than a shift such as she had just worked. She trudged off to bed, to get what little rest she could.

  ‘Morning, Mike.’

  ‘What is it, Jack?’

  ‘Sorry, Mike. Control rang five minutes ago. Didn’t know you were in the office. There’s been a murder. Well, two murders to be exact.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘It’s a New Year’s Day special offer. A bog-off, buy one get one free. If Sainsbury’s can do it why can’t we?’

  ‘Just what we need. Got any details?’

  ‘A few. The victims are a cou
ple from Leeds. They were found in their suite at The Golden Bear about twenty minutes ago. Throats slit from ear to ear, apparently. The waiter taking their breakfast discovered them. The room’s a bloodbath by all accounts.’

  ‘Better phone Andrews. Then get hold of Mexican Pete and the forensic lot. Superintendent Edwards and I will meet you there.’

  Nash and Edwards hurried through hotel reception and headed for the lift. When they reached the murder scene, men in white forensic overalls were everywhere. Andrews and Binns were standing outside the suite. ‘What have you got?’ Ruth asked.

  Binns glanced at his notebook. ‘The victims are Stuart Moran and Lesley Robertson, both from Leeds.’

  ‘Is that all you know about them?’

  ‘At this point, yes. The room looks to have been ransacked. SOCO say there’s no cash, jewellery or credit cards around. Mexican Pete won’t be here. He’s still in some unpronounceable place in Spain. His flight back’s not until Sunday. Netherdale General are sending a doctor to certify death, but with it being New Year’s Day, it might not be until later. They seemed to think the living have priority.’

  ‘Curious notion, that,’ Nash retorted. ‘Well, it can’t be helped. Let’s get suited up and we’ll join you inside.’

  The room was as big a mess as they’d imagined. Both victims had bled copiously. The gaping wounds at their necks were still wet. ‘How do you think the killer got in?’ Nash directed the question at Andrews.

  ‘There are two breakfast trays. My guess is the killer posed as a waiter and brought them breakfast. When the real waiter found the bodies he dropped the breakfast he’d brought on the floor.’

  ‘Good; now, I want you to liaise with SOCO. Let me know if they discover anything significant. Have a word with reception and the porters as well. Find out what luggage the couple brought with them. I want to know what’s missing from this room. Speak to the other members of the staff, and any guests you can find. I need a picture of the couple, what they were doing here, what they said or did, and particularly who they talked to. Find out if they had any visitors, or asked for directions to any particular place.’

  Nash turned to Binns. ‘Call Yorkshire Central Task Force. Ask if they know the victims.’

  ‘I’ll do that if you want, Jack,’ Ruth volunteered. ‘You’ll be needed here for a while, I reckon.’

  Sean Parker, on the Layton Estate, wasn’t as good a gamekeeper as Barry Dickinson. If he had been, the row would never have happened. If he’d been more confident he’d have organized the guns in time, insisted they get into position.

  It was the Layton estate’s shoot on New Year’s Day. The first drive was due to commence at 8.30. Myers had agreed to help. He rose early and sent Nell outside whilst he made a cup of coffee. He listened to the radio, using the time signal to set his watch.

  The first drive would begin from the strip of forest adjacent to Woodbine Cottage. The plan was for Myers to walk through the wood with Nell, pushing any pheasants to the far end where the guns would be waiting. If they took flight early they would alert others, and there would be a steady flow of birds over the guns. The result would be an impressive show for the start to the visitors’ day.

  Myers got into position and checked his watch. At exactly 8.30 he set off, thrashing to the left and right with his stick, and making strange noises he hoped would prove startling to pheasants. ‘Hey, hey, hey, whoosh, whoosh,’ he cried as he slashed at the thick briar and tapped at tree trunks. Nell knew her part in this game and dashed to and fro seeking out and scenting any pheasants still cowering in the undergrowth.

  They moved slowly through the collar of woodland, pushing the birds steadily before them. A couple of cock pheasants took off followed a few seconds later by four more. Each time the pursuers halted, unwilling to flush too many at once. After the first two rises, Myers was puzzled by the lack of response from the far end of the wood. Had the birds gained too much height, or had they slipped out sideways, flying out of range of the waiting guns?

  He knew he could do nothing about that, but as rise followed rise without response from the guns he grew more perplexed. By the time he reached the end of the strip he was convinced something had gone wrong. As he came out of the wood he saw what the problem was. The visiting guns, that should have been in position fifteen minutes earlier, were just arriving in a string of 4 x 4 vehicles. Parker was already there, as was his boss, Piers Layton. Parker’s face darkened with annoyance as he saw Myers appear. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he bawled angrily. ‘You shouldn’t have set off yet.’

  ‘I set off at 8.30 as agreed.’

  Layton, an irascible man in his middle years, glowered. ‘I don’t care how it happened but this drive is ruined. The guns will demand a share of their money back. Between the two of you this has probably cost me the thick end of ten thousand pounds.’

  ‘It’s ruined because Myers is incapable of listening to instructions,’ Parker shouted in a tone that was not as convincing as he hoped. ‘I told him 8.45, not 8.30.’

  Myers knew this to be a lie. Also knew that Parker was terrified of losing his job. Contradicting him would only make matters worse. ‘I’m sorry the guns will be disappointed, and I’m sorry if it costs you money, Mr Layton,’ he said quietly. ‘As I’m incapable of listening to instructions the best thing I can do is leave.’

  He whistled Nell to heel and strode off in the direction of Woodbine Cottage, leaving the two men staring after him. Something in Layton’s expression boded ill for the hapless Parker.

  Myers was now restless. His injuries were healing well but he knew anything too strenuous would jeopardize the recovery. The rest of the day was spent doing very little. He tidied the cottage. That took five minutes. He prepared his evening meal, which accounted for half an hour. After that he decided to exercise the dog. Even the couple of hours’ walking failed to quell the discontent he’d begun to experience. He sat down with a mug of coffee and tried to analyze his dissatisfaction. For two years he’d lived alone; the solitary life had become second nature. The spell in prison had prepared him well.

  He should be grateful; at least he was free. He had the cottage, a job he enjoyed where he was his own master, and he had Nell. So why was he restless? Telling his story to Lisa Andrews had invoked painful memories. His quandary was what to do about the past. He’d attempted to let it lie, but it didn’t seem to want to stay buried. Should he abandon the attempt, rejoin what he’d heard called ‘the rat race’? He looked down as he felt a paw on his knee. The Labrador stared at him, her eyes mournful and her distress apparent. Something was troubling her deeply. Myers glanced at the kitchen clock and laughed. ‘OK, I’ll get your tea.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Brown. Jones here, Harry Jones.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Jones.’

  ‘I’ve been listening to local radio. I see an unlabelled package was dispatched. I assume it was mine, as required, together with a bonus, I understand. I take it there were no snags connected with the delivery?’

  ‘None whatsoever. Although there has been an unexpected development. One I feel sure will interest you deeply. Not in connection with the dispatched article itself, more to do with the information I gathered at the time.’

  ‘Really? What might that be?’

  ‘When I was looking through the papers and documents I’d collected, I came across a very significant name. One we both know from a long time ago.’

  ‘Would this name by any chance be connected with a much earlier dispatch?’

  ‘That’s right. If I remember correctly, it was a name you were most anxious about at the time.’

  ‘The fact that this name should come to light is interesting, though hardly surprising.’

  ‘I think you should take it seriously.’

  ‘I’d be concerned if I thought the two parties had got together and exchanged information. That would be highly dangerous. The problem is we have no way of knowing whether they did or not. Maybe it would be better not
to take any chances.’

  ‘There’s something else that might be relevant to your concern.’

  ‘What might that be?’

  ‘You remember the location chosen by the party concerned with this commission?’

  ‘Yes, it seemed an odd choice.’

  ‘Perhaps it would seem less odd, if I tell you that according to the paperwork, the other party lives in a small village no more than eight miles from there.’

  ‘Now I’m more than concerned. This demands urgent attention. How swiftly can you rectify matters? We’re talking extreme damage limitation here.’

  ‘I would need to do some research before I can deal with it. Given the location, it will be a couple of days at the very soonest before I could deliver.’

  ‘Then do so, as early as possible. Lay the ancient history to rest. If you can make it appear to be voluntary retirement, so much the better. Will you trust me in the matter of payment?’

  ‘No, Mr Jones, I never trust anyone in the matter of payment. However, should the money not be forthcoming, I would be more than a little unhappy. I’m sure you wouldn’t wish me to be unhappy, Mr Jones. Unhappy enough to arrange a meeting with you?’

  chapter six

  When businesses resumed work after the holidays, Ruth’s enquiry about Stuart Moran yielded a result. ‘Moran’s a solicitor,’ she told Nash and Lisa. ‘He’s a partner with Hobbs and Hirst, a nationwide practice. I’ve spoken to one of the other partners. It took a while for the news to sink in. Once he got over the shock he told me Lesley Robertson also worked there. In fact, she was Moran’s secretary. He’d no clue as to a possible motive for the murders. It gets to look more and more like a chance robbery, which will make it harder to solve. I’ve to go through to Netherdale. I’ll bring the chief up to date whilst I’m there. Save you a job. And I’ll release the details to the press.’