by Len Maynard
28 - TUESDAY
“Is Mr. Callum in his office, Sergeant?”
Andy Brewer looked up at Myra bleakly. “He’s out.”
“Sergeant Fuller?”
“He’s out too.”
“Well, when they return, I’ll be in the canteen.”
“Don’t expect them to come looking for you, girl. They have enough on their plates.”
“I didn’t mean they should…” Myra shook her head. “I’ll find them when they get back.”
“Yeah, you do that.”
“Sergeant Brewer, have you got a problem with me?” She knew she couldn’t let this situation continue. After a mostly sleepless night, tossing around the ideas about Jack Callum and their supposed flirtation, she had reached the conclusion that she could not let the rumours fester for much longer. She had to act.
“A problem? Whatever gave you that idea?”
“You’re not exactly being very helpful.”Brewer just looked blankly at her.
“Oh, never mind.” She turned and started to walk towards the canteen.
“You’re being paranoid, girl,” Brewer said as she walked away from him. “My wife gets like it, once a month without fail.”
She hesitated for a second, biting her tongue, before continuing her journey and not looking back at him.
She reached the canteen and the aromas of the meals being prepared whet her appetite. Her stomach growled. A reminder of the paltry dinner she’d had the night before. You can’t live on crisps and chocolate, Myra, she chided herself.
“Shepherds pie, love?” Yvonne Morrison, the cook said to her as Myra came up to the serving hatch.
“Yes. Great.”
A few seconds later she was carrying a plate piled high with mashed potato, minced lamb and onions. Garden peas and sliced carrots made up the rest of the meal, all drenched in Yvonne’s famous, and delicious, gravy.
Myra was salivating as she reached her seat at a table in the corner. As she laid her plate down on the blue Formica-topped table it struck her that she usually ate alone these days. How different to when she had first come to the station, when the camaraderie was strong and she was often invited to eat with her fellow officers. She was sure she wasn’t imagining that the casual ostracization had started during her secondment to CID last year. Suddenly she was excluded from the mealtime banter of the others, and the feeling began to grow that she was being deliberately shunned. At first it was easy to shrug off, but she had encountered the odd barbed comment that she chose to ignore, but now the specific cause of the others resentment was becoming clear.
She ate her meal without really tasting it, aware of the occasional furtive glance and whispered aside. Finally she put down her knife and fork, picked up her plate and took it back to the hatch.
“Steamed syrup sponge with custard for afters,” Yvonne said brightly. “Can I tempt you?”
Myra looked back at the canteen. There were only a few of her colleagues eating now. One of them was DC Trevor Walsh, Frank Lesser’s number two.
“Just a small portion, Yvonne. That dinner filled me up.”
Yvonne handed her a bowl of steaming dessert. “Enjoy it. It will put meat on your bones.”
Myra smiled at her. “As if I need that.”
She carried the bowl across to Walsh who was sitting alone at another table.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
Walsh shrugged and nodded to an empty seat across from him.
He was twenty-eight, a year older than her and had come through Hendon at more or less the same time. She had always enjoyed a kind of brother/sister relationship with him, though on one memorable occasion, at a drunken leaving do for a retiring officer, it had slipped from the comfortable platonic plateau into a alcoholic fumble and a few kisses, but they had quickly recovered themselves, apologised and the incident was never mentioned by either of them again. Now, Trevor Walsh was looking more than a little uncomfortable by her close proximity. He had a newspaper propped up against a tomato ketchup bottle and seemed totally engrossed in the racing results as he ate his meal.
“There’s nothing going on you know? Between Jack Callum and me. Nothing at all.”
Walsh looked over the top of the newspaper at her.
“Okay.” There was an edge of scepticism in his voice that he tried but failed to mask.
“Honestly, Trev. I wouldn’t lie to you. We’ve known each other too long.”
“Okay.” The scepticism was still there.
Myra slapped her forehead and stood up, knocking her chair over. “Christ! What do I have to do to convince you all?”
Her outburst and the clatter of the upended chair drew the attention of the other diners in the room. Even Yvonne was staring at her from the serving hatch.
“It might help if the chief inspector stopped giving you all the plum jobs and shared them out among the rest of us,” Chris Tate said. He was a uniformed PC like herself, and was taking his plate back to the hatch. “It’s bloody obvious you’re his favourite. We can’t help it if we draw the obvious conclusion.”
Myra looked across at Walsh, beseeching him to say something, to lay this nonsense to rest once and for all.
“He’s got a point, Myra.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You too, Trev?”
Walsh shrugged and Myra glared at him and the others. “I state categorically, here and now, that there is nothing like that going on between DCI Callum and myself. Has it ever occurred to any of you that I get given the plum jobs because I just happen to be a good police officer, or can’t you accept that a woman can do this job just as well as the rest of you?” She stared around at room and got nothing but cynicism in return. “Well, Jack Callum believes in me, and I don’t need to open my legs to convince him.” With tears of anger and frustration stinging her eyes she dropped the spoon she’d been holding like a weapon and stormed from the canteen.
She reached the Ladies toilet and locked herself into a stall, taking deep, disinfectant-tinged gulps of air as she fought to get herself under control. After a minute or so of fighting, she gave up. The tears burst from her eyes and shoulder-heaving sobs wracked her body. “It’s not fair,” she said to herself. “It’s not bloody fair.”
The doors to The Purple Flamingo were being held open by mop and bucket. Jack negotiated his way around them and entered the dimly lit foyer.
“Is there anyone around?” Fuller said as he stepped over the bucket.
“Sorry, we’re not open yet.” His question was answered by an elderly man dressed in shirtsleeves and stained dungarees who emerged from a toilet to the left of a smart reception desk. The man was almost completely bald apart from a semi-circle of fuzzy white hair that sat on his head like a fallen halo.
“It’s all right, George. I’ll handle this,” another voice sounded, and from the gloom behind the counter a younger man emerged. Younger, fitter, with a thick neck and pugilistic features, he regarded Jack and his sergeant with hostile eyes. “We’re closed. Anyway, it’s members only. Are you two members? Do you have your cards?”
Jack took out his warrant card and waved it under the thuggish man’s nose. “This is the only card I need.”
The man glanced at the card and gave a derisive snort. “Plods. I might have known. I didn’t think you looked like our regular punters.”
“What gave us away?” Fuller smiled at the man.
“Your feet are too fucking big for one thing,” he said. “Fucking flatfoots.”
“And what charm school did you attend?” Jack peered at the brass name badge on the man’s lapel. “Irving?”
“Didn’t go to no fucking charm school.”
Jack smiled. “No, I thought not.”
Irving leaned back on his heels and gave them an appraising look. “What do you want?”
“We’d like to have a look around your club.”
“Got a warrant?”
“We don’t need a warrant. We don’t want to search the place, just a genera
l look around.”
“Well I say you can’t, so you can just sling your hook.”
“Irving! Irving, that’s no way to treat our guests.” Another man appeared out of the gloom. He was prissy, slightly built, wore a purple silk suit and too much cologne.
“Are you the Purple Flamingo?” Fuller said.
“Miles Clarke. I’m the manager here.” He stuck out a hand.
“They’re old bill.” Irving said morosely, miffed at being denied the chance to crack heads together.
Clarke smiled benignly but dropped his hand. “Ah, gentlemen from London’s finest. What can I do for you?”
“We’d like to take a look around your club,” Jack said.
The smile widened but the eyes were watchful. “And why would that be?”
“We’re looking for a venue for the next policeman’s ball.”
“Really?” Clarke gave the impression that he might expire from excitement. “I must say it would be an honour for us to host such an event. Whatever made you think of us?”
“Word has it that you can organize a good ‘do’. I’d just like to check the place out first.”
“Of course, of course. Why don’t you come through to the club itself?” Clarke walked across to a pair of half-glazed door and pushed them open. “Please come through.”
They found themselves in a very large room with a small stage at one end and tables and chairs surrounding a rectangular, highly polished dance floor. There was a balcony on one wall and opposite the stage was a raised area with three booths each containing luxurious looking sofas and more tables. Purple was the dominant colour scheme, from the silk drapes that hung at regular intervals on the walls to the flamingo motif picked out in fluorescent tubes above the stage. Even the grand piano that occupied one side of the stage had been painted purple and doused with a quantity of glitter. Subtley is a complete stranger here, Jack thought as his gaze drank in the amethyst excess.
“And where does Mr. Usher sit when he comes in?” Jack said.
“That’s his private booth in the centre,” Clarke said pointing up at the raised area.
“I suppose since his illness he doesn’t get in much these days.”
“On the contrary, he was in only last wee…” His voice drained away as he suddenly remembered to whom he was talking. He gave a brisk shake of his head as if to dismiss the words that had just poured like diarrhea from his lips. “Oh, Mr. Usher, who used to own the club. Him. No. He hasn’t been in here since his stroke.”
Jack smiled at him. “Yes, that’s what I thought.” He walked out to the centre of the dance floor, stared up at Usher’s booth and called Fuller over. “Pretty gloomy,” he said quietly, pointing at the subdued lighting. “Anyone could be sitting up there but, unless you were told who it was, you wouldn’t have a clue.” He beckoned for Clarke to come and join them. The man dutifully obliged. “There might be a small presentation on the night of our do, and we’d like to make it somewhere where everyone can see. Can anything be done with the lighting up there?”
Clarke considered the question for a moment before shaking his head. “No’ All the bulbs are low wattage I’m afraid. We like to keep the lighting in that area discreet to ensure privacy for our patrons, should they need it.”
“Well, I think we’ve seen enough. We still have a couple of venues we need to check out while we’re in the area. Thank you for your time.”
“My pleasure,” Clarke said unctuously. “And you promise you’ll keep us in mind?”
Jack shook Clarke’s rather clammy hand. “I assure you, I’m moving you up to the top of the list.”
Clarke beamed. “As I said, it would be such an honour to host your event.”
Jack inclined his head and moved to the door. Seconds later they were out on the Tottenham Court Road and walking back to where they’d left the car.
“Do you still think my theory was off kilter, Eddie?”
Fuller shook his head. “I don’t know, Jack.”
“But you heard him yourself. Usher was in the night club last week…last week, Eddie.”
They reached the car. “I suppose you could be right,” Fuller said as he climbed into the passenger seat. “Let’s get back to the station. I hate London. It gives me the itch.”
“I thought you were considering the Met as your next possible port of call.”
“Just an idea, and not a particularly good one.”
“As I said, London has its drawbacks.”
29 - TUESDAY
“Please give this to DCI Callum when he gets in,” Myra said, handing Brewer a sealed brown envelope.
Brewer took it from her and turned it over and over in his hands, as if he could tell what was in the envelope by touch alone. “What’s this? Your resignation?”
Myra regarded him coolly. She had washed her face to get rid of the signs of her tears. “Please just see that he gets it as soon as he gets in.” She turned on her heel and walked to the doors, pushing through them and letting them swing shut behind her.
“Hey, where are you off to?” Brewer called, but Myra was already crossing the car park towards her Morris Minor. She climbed inside, slammed the door behind her and drove quickly out onto the street.
Andy Brewer slipped the envelope into one of the pigeonholes on the wall behind the desk and went back to tidying the forms in the wall racks.
Leaving her car parked in the road, Myra slipped in through the gates of Elsinore and approached the front of the house. She noticed immediately that the door was ajar but pressed the doorbell anyway and waited for someone to answer it. As seconds turned into minutes she nudged the door open with the toe of her shoe and looked inside.
When she saw the body of Hester Gough sprawled on her back in the centre of the hall carpet, she took a step to one side and pressed her spine against the wall as her heart thudded in her chest. It took her a few moments to gather her thoughts and, when she felt she had regained her self-control, she turned back to the door and pushed it wide open.
Had she been driving a pool car with a radio she would have called in to the station to ask for back up and advice on how to proceed, but she wasn’t. She was driving her stupid, battered Morris Minor, with no way of contacting the station and help. She was on her own. Angry at her stupidity and lack of foresight she entered the house cautiously.
Jack and Fuller walked into the station and went straight to the canteen for a cup of tea. They took their drinks to a table in the corner.
“All right,” Fuller resumed the conversation they’d been having in the car on the drive back from London. “Supposing your theory is right. It’s like I said before, it still doesn’t explain why Turner was killed. Even if the rest of it makes some kind of sense, that part doesn’t. If you’re using Tony Turner as some kind of puppet in order to put one over on the O’Briens or whomever, why then kill him? It’s like cutting your nose off to spite your face. I can’t see that Docherty or Klein would have anything to gain from it.”
“Excuse me, sir, I thought I saw you come in.” Andy Brewer came into the canteen and stood at their table.
“What can I do for you, Sergeant?”
“WPC Banks asked me to give you this, sir.”
Jack took the letter from Brewer, picked up a knife from the table and slid it under the flap and slit it open, taking out the single sheet of notepaper from inside. He started to read.
Sir,
This is the information attained from the Zoom Modelling Agency.
1) Lois Turner does not have agoraphobia. She uses it as a ruse so she can carry on an affair with her doctor, Mark Francombe. Whether or not her husband was complicit in this charade is not clear, though I suspect not. Why should he be as it was him she was cheating on?
2) Lois is not her birth name, which was Bláthnaid. Her surname is Docherty. Thomas Usher’s solicitor, Simon Docherty, is her brother
In the light of this information I think another interview is in order. You are out at the moment a
nd Sergeant Brewer can’t give me any idea when you might return. As time is of the essence I am going along to Elsinore to confront her with these newly acquired facts. I will report to you on my return.
WPC Banks.
Jack folded the letter in half and slipped it into his pocket.
“Has she come up with anything useful?” Fuller said.
“You could say that. She’s gone out to Elsinore to have another chat with Lois Turner.” He turned back to Brewer. “How long ago did she leave this for me?”
Brewer shrugged. “An hour ago? Ninety minutes?”
Jack glared at him. “Well, what is it?”
Brewer looked up at the clock on the wall. “Ninety minutes, sir. Ninety minutes.”
“I should be there,” Jack said to Fuller. “Coming?”
They walked towards the door.
“Sergeant Fuller.” Henry Lane appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Yes, sir.”
“If I could see you in my office?”
Fuller exchanged looks with Jack.
“When you’re ready, Sergeant,” Lane said, sensing Fuller’s hesitation.
“You’d better not keep the chief super waiting. Eddie,” Jack said quietly.
“Looks like I’ll have to catch you up.”
“Okay. You know where it is.” Jack went out to the car park and signed out a pool car. Moments later he was heading towards Letchworth.
Hester Gough was very dead. Her eyes were open wide. The look of mild shock in her eyes made her expression look almost comical. In the centre of her forehead was a neat, almost blood-free bullet hole. What blood there was had pooled at the back of her head and was slowly soaking into the carpet. Instinctively Myra reached out and closed the staring eyes with her fingertips and then she looked about her, listening hard for any noise in the house. All she could hear was the sound of her own breathing and the rhythmic thud of her heartbeat. She pushed herself to her feet, still looking about her.