Leave it! Leave Val alone; please give her time, no more pressure. This is neither a threat nor a polite request I’m just thinking about your wellbeing as well as hers!
JC
She looked again, confused by the contrasting emotions that were evident within the short statement; in some ways it clearly posed a number of questions, but in other ways it made no sense at all. However, to one person, it might have a clearer implication.
***
Liz sat outside Copper’s house; the Mini was on the drive. She scanned the building quickly. The bedroom window was ajar but the curtains were drawn as were the lounge blinds. It was 11:30. Cooper had been granted compassionate leave so he would not be in school. Ruth checked her watch.
“Shall I ring him or do you want to just knock?”
Liz opened the car door. “Christ, let’s just do it. I hate pussy footing about.”
Ruth knocked on the door as loudly as possible, ignoring the bell positioned to the left. She had tried it on the previous visit and had received no answer, it was probably broken. Liz stood back from the door watching for any movement of the curtains. She smiled when she saw it. At first there was just a flicker; there was definitely a twitch, then she first saw the fingers and then a gap appearing half way up.
“We have lift off!” she excitedly called to Ruth, emphasising each word. “Probably one too many last night!”
Liz watched a face appear within the gaping curtains and then a small glimmer of recognition followed as he focused on Ruth. He raised a hand as if to wave. The curtains fell closed again.
“He’s alive, just. I definitely saw him move a limb!” Liz smiled at Ruth. “Looks bloody rough though, poor chap. Let’s hope I don’t make his day any worse.” Liz’s smile was more cruel than kind.
Within minutes the door opened.
“Sorry, Christ!” He rubbed his face. “I was miles away. Took a couple of the tablets the doctor prescribed to help me sleep; feel as though I’ve been hit by a bloody tram! What’s the time?”
“After eleven. Any alcohol involved with the tablets, John?”
“Some…” He looked at Ruth’s face. “I know, I know, but…” He stood back from the door and swayed slightly as he walked down the corridor. “Hopefully, you’ll never have to know what it’s like. I need a brew. Anyone else?”
“Sit with the sergeant and I’ll do the honours. Liz?”
Liz shook her head and sat. John wrapped the dressing gown firmly around him as he took the chair opposite.
“I presume this visit isn’t to check on my welfare. Have you discovered something?”
“What was your relationship like with Frederick Grant?”
“Val’s agent?”
Liz simply nodded.
John pulled a face suggesting indifference. “He was her agent. We met a few times, seemed like a nice enough guy; always encouraged her, guided her career well if I were to be honest. Val wasn’t always the easiest person to work with. Why?”
“Encouraged? Did he ever put pressure on her to complete work or to take certain jobs or commissions? You’ll have to forgive me, the world in which your partner worked is alien to me and I’m on a steep learning curve.”
“Like all bosses, pressure is their bread and butter, you get pressured they get it from their superiors. Must happen in the police too? Val said not, he appeared to understand her. She stayed with him for a long time. He was aware of her fragility after some of the criticism she received from her one real success. Ironically, the documentary was both a blessing and then a curse.”
Ruth came in with his tea and sat down to the side as if totally neutral.
“Brought you a biscuit too. The sugar will give you a boost. Eat it and drink some tea, Liz has the time.”
Liz sat back. “If you can you should get yourself out for some fresh air, even with the weather being as it is, blow away the cobwebs, clear your mind.”
John ate the Tunnock’s wafer in two bites and then put down his tea. He began to fold the foil wrapper neatly as if completing some origami exercise.
Liz couldn’t help herself but filled the moment of pause by trying to recall how many million bars were allegedly sold every week according to the wrapper. She decided on six million before she noticed that John had regained a little more focus. Ruth had done well.
“John, did you ever contact him without Val’s knowledge?”
There was a pause as he drank more tea and then he nodded. “Yes, on more than one occasion.” He noticed she wanted more and so before she asked, he continued. “Menial tasks usually, dropping off scripts, letters, taking a bottle and card at Christmas and on his birthday, usually when I noted that she’d forgotten, that kind of visit. Sometimes I’d see him and other times I’d see Christina, his secretary and general dog’s body. She’s not been there that long, Grant called her his new personal assistant; pretentious in the extreme in my opinion but she was always dashing everywhere for him that’s why occasionally I worried for Val. The woman she replaced left after working for him for about nine months. I thought he might have roaming bloody hands!”
“Valerie was never affected by that, I take it otherwise, she wouldn’t have stayed as long as she did?”
John just shook his head whilst raising his shoulders.
“I have a copy of an email you sent. It’s dated three weeks ago.” She handed him a copy.
He studied it. “Not this soldier. I’ve never sent him an email. You’ve had my laptop so if it came from there you’d know, also the address, surely?”
Liz instinctively knew that he was telling the truth even though she knew it could have been sent from his phone.
“Besides it’s signed JC. Could be anyone.”
“Specifically about your partner. If you add two and two together, Mr Cooper.”
“To a mathematics’ dyslexic, two and two can make 569! I didn’t send an email to Frederick Grant. I’ve never sent an email to Frederick Grant and now I’ve no reason to send an email to Grant! How much clearer do I have to make myself before you believe me?”
Ruth threw Liz a glance of concern.
Sorry, I was…” She collected herself. “It’s another lead I must pursue. Thanks. Hope you feel a little brighter as the day goes on.”
“I’ll be a few minutes, Liz. I’ll see you by the car.”
Liz stood leaving Ruth with John. Her responsibility was split and Liz knew that her priority was his welfare. When she got to the car she took out her mobile and called Shakti. The rain had started again and she slipped into the driver’s seat.
“Shakti, Liz. Can you arrange an appointment with Frederick Grant as soon as, today if possible? Ta! Can you also get someone to look through anything from Coulson’s files or Internet traffic for anyone signing JC.” She turned and saw Ruth leave the house. “I know his system was as tight as the proverbial but just in case. I’ll await your call.”
Ruth opened the car door. “More tears I’m afraid. Only natural, I’ve warned him about the booze. Also told him to contact any nearest and dearest, try and get away for a couple of days. To be honest, I think it was like water off a duck’s back!”
Liz’s phone rang, she took it hands free.
“Friday at three?” Liz protested. “That’s two days away. What’s he doing, hibernating?”
“Grant’s in London until lunchtime Friday on business. His secretary says it’s Friday at three or Monday.”
“I was hoping for an early Friday finish, I have illicit plans, Shakti, dirty and definitely illicit. I suppose I’ll have to take Friday, worse luck.”
Shakti shrieked with excitement. “Your personal life’s your own boss but I’m slowly turning a darker shade of green.”
Ruth laughed too and stole a glance at Liz as she turned right onto the A61.
“Back in fifteen minutes. See if you can come up with anything on JC. And Shakti…”
“Boss?”
“Don’t tell more than six people about my week
end.” She hung up.
Ruth was still chuckling.“ It’ll be all over the station before we’re back, you know that? Well, spill!”
“Sorry, It’s been planned for weeks. See if you can wipe the grin off my face on Monday. Hopefully it’ll be there for a week!” She turned to Ruth, lifted her eyebrows and then winked.
Ruth giggled with over excitement and accidentally dribbled saliva down her chin.
Liz smiled and turned to Ruth, “How many Tunnock’s Wafers are sold every week? I thought six million.”
Ruth just dribbled even more.
***
Cyril sat in Café Nero and looked across at the Cenotaph. People huddled under umbrellas; the lunchtime dash had started later owing to the wet weather. There were few tourists brave enough to queue at the famous Betty’s tea room as the persistent rain seem to drive at right angles to the road and penetrate the glazed veranda. He focussed on the myriad concentric rings made by the droplets of rain. As the water collected at the gutter’s edge, each ripple died away as quickly as it was formed, to be followed by a further fusillade. His mobile vibrated in his jacket pocket stirring him from the mesmeric sight.
“Cyril, it’s Julie. You’ve not called.”
“Sorry, work.”
“I know, this call is too! The metal sample found on the tape that covered Valerie Atkins’s eyes is about a hundred years old so your pin idea sounds probable. Can you get hold of one, one that you mentioned, Charlie somebody?”
“Charles Horner. I can’t say when but probably. When for?”
“Today?” She heard his sharp intake of breath. “Joking, Cyril. Whenever’s possible.”
“I’ll do what I can. What are you doing tonight?” Cyril enquired hoping to add something positive to his schedule.
“Nothing, what’s on offer?”
“Dinner at mine? Hopefully I’ll have what you’re searching for.”
“What about the hat pin?” She giggled.
“Tonight at mine, beans and a couple of slices of toast!” Cyril hung up as a large smile spread across his lips.
Suddenly, the ambience in the café changed, it was as if someone had switched on a large light. The sun had broken cover from the grey banks of overcast cloud, rewarding the intrepid with a cracked scar of blue and a brilliant rainbow that contrasted sharply with the colours of the autumn day. He finished his coffee and left, walking swiftly to the rear of the War Memorial and onto James Street. Within two minutes he was on Albert Street.
The auctioneer’s premises were tucked away in a row of shops. They were simply a large pair of black doors, no windows, just simple, large double doors. However, once inside it resembled the Tardis; the vast internal space seemed to defy its feeble façade. The entrance hall was brightly lit paintings to be sold in the next auction adorned the walls. Cyril took a moment to inspect them.
“Cyril Bennett you can neither afford them nor do you need any more!”
A middle-aged lady smiled at him whilst leaning through an opening at the top left of the corridor that served as a Reception.
“Wouldn’t say no to that, Linda, nor the John Melville, but you’re right about one thing, I can’t afford them. Need more wall space too for that matter. Either that or sell some.”
“Yes, I fancy the Melville, too. What can we do for you?”
“I’m interested in getting hold of a Charles Horner hatpin, to borrow. Any ideas?”
“None in this sale but I’ll check the files to see if we have collectors on our books, maybe they’ll lend you one. Have a look around and I’ll find you.”
Cyril wandered into the room opposite. He studied a Bronze of a seated female, all large thighs and legs.
“Hannah Frank, lovely. Glaswegian artist. Lived until she was a hundred. If you’re lucky you might get it for a couple of grand,” Linda commented.
Cyril whistled. “Any luck with the pin, Linda?”
She slipped a piece of paper into his hand. “Had a word with Mrs MacNamara, Ann MacNamara, lovely lady, collects all sorts and has a fantastic assortment of pins. I told her you were such a nice man so she’s more than willing to loan one to you.” She smiled, placing the details in Cyril’s hand, holding on a little too long for comfort; it made him blush.
“I’m grateful. Good luck with the Melville.” Cyril made a swift exit.
Once on the street, he glanced at the address. St Wilfred’s Road. He would walk firstly crossing Stray Rein and then along the edge of The Stray. The sky had cleared considerably. It would also mean he could call at the supermarket on his return in preparation for his dinner date that evening.
St Wilfred’s Road seemed to stretch forever. He checked the house number and glanced at the first house, relieved that the address for which he was searching was closer than he had imagined.
Cyril crunched his way down the gravel driveway. He again checked the address on the piece of paper just to be sure. Before he was half way down, he saw a face at the window. He raised his hand and smiled. The door was opened before he’d walked the rest of the way.
“Mr Bennett?” a lady of about eighty called.
Cyril nodded. “Mrs MacNamara, thanks very much for your help. I suppose it’s not every day you get a request from someone to borrow a hat pin, especially from a male!”
“You’d be surprised these days. Please call me Ann.”
Once inside Cyril was shown into the lounge. There were three hatpins positioned on the coffee table. Mahogany cabinets followed the room’s periphery, each containing different collections of items. It more resembled a traditional museum than a lounge.
She noticed Cyril’s eyes travel to each cabinet and smiled. “I just can’t stop myself. Some folks are addicted to alcohol or drugs, with me its these things. I call them my tranklements. Can’t resist a good auction. These three are all Charles Horner designed pins. I’ve taken the liberty of bringing three in different condition, basic, better and best. A bit like on Antiques Roadshow. I’m sure you watch it?”
“I’m one of those sad people, Ann, who has decided not to own a television set.” Cyril did not give it his usual title of ‘Idiot’s Lantern’, but the tone of his voice left her in no doubt as to the degree of enthusiasm he felt for the technology.
“I don’t watch much to be honest, waste of time really, just the antique programmes and some soaps, the historical dramas are a favourite also…” She paused as if to take a breath. “University Challenge too, nearly forgot that one. Paxman is such a handsome man. Did I mention Top Gear? That’s a particular weakness I just love fast cars and then there’s…”
“May I?” Cyril needed to distract her to stop her non-stop chattering.
She nodded. “Please, help yourself.”
Cyril picked up what he considered to be the basic pin. It was about five and a half inches in length topped with a round glass bead; the pin showed clear signs of age.
“What age are these?”
“They’re all over a hundred years old. I think the one you’re holding was made about 1905.”
“Would it be possible to borrow all three? I’d need them for about two weeks. They’ll be sent to Forensics, we need to do some comparative studies. I assure you they’ll be well looked after and I’ll return them personally.”
“Please, happy to help our police.” She smiled and left the room for a moment returning with three pin boxes. “It will be safer for the pins and yourself if you carry them in these.”
Within half an hour Cyril had deposited the boxes at home and was at the supermarket. He had much to do.
***
Julie left the table holding a glass of red wine. “Not just a pretty face, Bennett. That cod loin was to die for.”
Cyril smiled and removed the blue striped apron. “It was nothing, glad you enjoyed it,” He put down his glass and collected the three boxes. “Here, another miracle. Who said men can’t multi-task?”
Julie lifted the lid on the first box and removed the pin. “They’r
e so fine. Certainly could be the weapon used. Can you leave them with me?”
“You’ve got a fortnight, no longer. Put them away… no shoptalk. Now what were you saying about my culinary skills?”
***
The small, black, plastic box lid was clearly marked:
Prometheus Hunting Pellets
100, cal. .22
Made in England
A gloved hand flicked the lid open and withdrew two of the pellets. Each pellet had a round, bullet-like metal nose behind which a plastic body wrapped a metal core. The plastic ensured a perfect calibre fit. Using a pair of long-nosed pliers, the first pellet was picked up by the bullet tip. The other hand held a pair of mole grips on the plastic. Carefully, one hand remained stationary whilst the grips were gently rotated. The metal element was easily removed leaving only the plastic sheath. This action was repeated four times. Two sheaths were needed but the grips could easily distort the integrity of the plastic. Each sheath was inspected and only two were chosen.
A bicycle spoke was clamped into a vice and sawn into two identical lengths. An end of one of the pieces was sharpened. Holding that piece of spoke in the vice, one of the plastic sheaths was slid five centimetres onto the shaft from the unsharpened end; the second was then threaded leaving a centimetre of metal showing. A small amount of fine superglue was applied; the final result resembled a tribal, hunting dart.
The remaining half of the spoke was put to one side; its rôle would be very different. The figure stretched, interlocking his fingers before bending them forcing the knuckles to crack. He admired the dart, running it through his fingers before collecting a break-barrel air rifle from the gun cabinet. He snapped the barrel open and inserted the dart. All was ready.
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