by Bill Kitson
‘If what you say is right, why do you think you were fitted-up for the Leeds assault?’ Nash asked.
‘I can’t be sure, but I believe Georgina was behind it all. I’d made the mistake of telling her I’d had enough and wanted out, both to be free from her and her Nazi ideas. I’ve no proof, but I think she might have known the copper who was in charge of the investigation. For all I know, he might have been sleeping with her. God knows there were plenty who were. I really don’t care anymore. I’d like to say I’m sorry she’s dead, but I can’t even bring myself to do that.’
‘I need to be sure, though,’ Nash persisted. ‘Can you tell us where you were last Saturday and Sunday?’
‘That’s easy,’ Kane told them. ‘We were in North Wales. We’d taken a few days off to go visit Anita’s parents. They haven’t seen the grandchildren for six months. It isn’t easy, with our work. We travelled down on Thursday and came back on Tuesday.’
‘Can you prove that?’
‘I can, easily. We booked the train tickets online. Or rather, Anita did. I . . .’ Kane stopped speaking suddenly.
Nash looked at him. ‘What have you thought of?’
‘Have you looked on Georgina’s laptop? That might give you a clue as to who killed her. If you check the visitors to her website, you might have some luck.’ Kane grinned. ‘And if you have to interview every man she’s slept with, you’ll probably be able to retire on the overtime.’
As he walked out of the station, Lisa remarked, ‘The last thing Kane said, about Georgina Drake’s laptop might be worth following up, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Nash agreed. ‘Go and ring Viv, will you? Tell him that Georgina Drake had a website. He didn’t say he’d found one. It’s worth checking that out.’ He thought for a moment. ‘But there’s one slight problem. When Clara and I searched her flat, there was no trace of a laptop. Admittedly, we only had a quick look round, but there was no mention of one on the CSI report, either. I think it might be worth going back to her flat and taking a closer look. If the laptop isn’t there, it means the killer removed it. Which, in turn, adds weight to Kane’s theory that Georgina knew her killer, possibly intimately.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘Yes,’ he told her, ‘I think that would be a good idea. A word of warning, though, if the woman in the downstairs flat is at home and she asks you, refuse the offer of coffee. Hers is almost as bad as Clara’s.’
* * *
Lisa Andrews had been involved in searching the home of a murder victim several times before, but always found it something of an eerie experience. She had read the reports and knew what to expect in Georgina Drake’s bedroom, but the description didn’t prepare her fully for the obscene spectacle. Lisa stood in the doorway, her expression of distaste speaking louder than words. The only benefit was that the sight banished all sympathy for the victim, and she was easily able to overcome her reluctance at rummaging through the deceased’s belongings. They had almost completed their inspection, and still hadn’t located the missing hardware, when Lisa returned to the bedroom. ‘Mike, come and have a look here.’
Nash walked into the room. Lisa had removed the clothing from the shelves alongside the hanging rail in the wardrobe.
‘What am I looking at?’ he asked.
‘These shelves don’t reach to the back of the wardrobe. The hanging space is deeper. Look.’ Lisa demonstrated with the aid of a coat hanger.
She reached a hand in and grasped the back panel of the shelves, which slid to one side, revealing a laptop. ‘Bingo,’ she breathed.
‘Well done, Lisa. I’d never have spotted that.’
‘Why conceal it, though? What did she have to hide?’ Lisa gestured to the fascist decor. ‘More of this stuff, do you think?’
‘Let’s get it back to the office and see. If there’s anything dodgy on here, and I’ll bet your pension there will be, I’d imagine it will be password-protected, which means it’ll be up to Viv to unlock it.’
As they were leaving the building, Nash pointed towards the drawn curtains on the ground floor. ‘Looks as if Ms Morgan’s on nights still,’ he told Lisa. ‘Lucky for us, or we might have faced ordeal by coffee.’
As they reached the car, Nash heard his name being called. He glanced back. Katy Morgan was standing on the steps. Although she had jeans and a sweatshirt on, Nash guessed she had got dressed hurriedly, for her dark hair was still tousled by sleep and she was just putting her glasses on.
They retraced their steps across the road. ‘I heard you upstairs,’ the nurse explained.
‘I’m sorry if we woke you. We tried to be as quiet as possible.’
‘I wasn’t asleep. I’m finding it difficult, in view of what happened to that poor woman. You said I’d to contact you if I remembered anything else, so you being here has saved me a phone call.’
‘What have you remembered?’
‘It was about the van, the one with the delivery on the Saturday night. I forgot to say when I told you about it that there was someone else in the van. I can’t be sure, because the way it was parked, facing that way.’ She pointed down the street, ‘the passenger side was away from me,’ she paused, ‘but I think it might have been a woman. But don’t ask me to swear to it, and I certainly couldn’t give you a description. It was just an impression I got.’
‘Thank you,’ Nash replied, ‘that tallies with something another eyewitness told us.’ As they turned to leave, Nash added, ‘By the way, when you get chance, would you call in at either Netherdale or Helmsdale station to give a formal statement?’
Chapter Seven
Ever since his voice changed at puberty to the loudest in his school form, Henry Maitland had been nicknamed ‘Whisper’. His naturally booming tones had been enhanced by his spell working in Leeds market, where part of his job as a trainee greengrocer was to advertise the stall’s wares against the shouts of competitors.
On his return to his home town of Helmsdale, Whisper had taken a stand on the local market. More recently, he had abandoned this, when a shop premises became available. Many a customer, part deafened by Whisper’s clarion call ringing through the confines of the shop, wished he had remained outdoors.
Since the opening of the Good Buys supermarket branch nearby, Maitland’s trade had slackened off. As he always charged top price for his goods, many customers saw little point in remaining loyal. Although the shop still returned a profit, this was by no means as healthy as it had been in the past, and Whisper was keen to ensure that any chance of a sale, no matter how small, should not be ignored.
It had been a quiet afternoon. In order to keep unnecessary overheads down, Whisper had switched the lights off in the rear of the shop an hour earlier. This section was only used for storage and paperwork. As closing time approached, he pondered whether to empty the till. Despite the fact that there was little in it apart from the float, he decided not to risk leaving it until next day. He was about to start piling the change into the bags he kept under the counter when the doorbell tinkled to announce the arrival of a customer. Having looked up in surprise, Whisper Maitland fixed a welcoming smile on his face as he hurried forward to greet the buyer. ‘What can I get for you today?’ he boomed.
As last words go, the phrase was hardly a classic.
* * *
The woman was late. Late, that is, according to her itinerary. She had to be in position at the till of the local charity shop when the doors opened at 9 a.m. The work was rewarding but demanding. She had an appointment over in Netherdale that afternoon, and knew she would have to get her shopping done before reporting for duty. She could have gone to Good Buys supermarket, but she was a staunch supporter of local businesses, even though that often meant paying more.
She reached the centre of the market place with about ten minutes to spare. Just enough time to get what she needed. The greengrocer had been closed last week and she hoped he would be open. While she waited for the lights at the pelican cro
ssing to change in her favour, she silently recited the shopping list. Carrots, broccoli, potatoes, garlic, onions. And something else, but what?
The bleeping sound roused her from her daydream. She hurried across the road, startling the manager of the local dry cleaners, who was passing her. To be greeted by a stranger with the words, ‘Savoy Cabbage’, is disconcerting at any time of day, let alone so early in the morning.
She passed the town clock and was a little surprised to see the pavement in front of Maitland’s shop was clear of obstruction. Whisper normally stacked crates of produce there. The morning was fine and clear, no reason not to put anything outside: nor were the shop lights on. He never closed for more than a week, so she tried the door, and was relieved when it opened easily to her touch. She stepped inside and peered into the gloom, to where Maitland usually sat behind the till. And sure enough, Whisper was in his seat.
‘Good morning, Mr Maitland. It’s a grand morning. I’m running a bit late, I’m afraid. Glad to see you’re back. Are you well?’
Maitland didn’t reply. Not even a whisper. Seconds later, the silence was broken in no uncertain manner. Even Whisper Maitland at his loudest would have struggled to match the power of her screams.
* * *
Nash was walking through reception when Jack Binns stopped him. ‘Mike, message from control. You’d better get turned round and go to the market place. There’s been another murder, and according to my lads on scene, it sounds like the same one who did the librarian.’
‘Who is it this time?’
‘Whisper Maitland, the greengrocer. By what they told me, the killer posed him by the scales with ribbon over his eyes. Even put one thumb on the balance, as if he was fiddling the weight — not the first time, but definitely the last.’
‘Jack, you’ve a very cruel sense of humour.’
‘Who said I was joking?’
‘Clara’s giving evidence this morning, and Viv’s liaising with Jackie, so you’d better contact Lisa and ask her to meet me there. If Viv gets back tell him to start enquiries here, will you?’
When he reached the market place, Nash made himself known for the log, donned a pair of plastic overshoes, and surveyed the crime scene. The body was posed, not as Binns had suggested with his joke, but with one hand resting on the counter alongside the till. This time the killer had used Maitland’s belt to strap his victim to the chair and maintain his upright posture. The ribbon the killer had used to cover the dead man’s eyes was bright red, about an inch and a half wide, of the sort used to secure bouquets. Once again, it seemed the killer had used whatever was at hand. Which would prevent them getting any clues from it, Nash guessed. On closer inspection, Nash noticed something else — something that made him recoil with horror. He stared at the corpse for a long time, concentrating on the gap where the index fingers from either hand had been removed.
Once the CSI team and Mexican Pete arrived, he would be able to leave Lisa in attendance. For the minute, all he could do was let his eyes, ears, and nose, absorb what they could, and try to ascribe some meaning to this fresh act of seemingly senseless barbarity.
Although Nash knew nothing of Maitland’s character and past history, apart from the mildly slanderous aspersion cast by Sergeant Binns, he could at this stage see no link between the greengrocer and the librarian. Having relinquished control of the scene, he returned to the station, and found Viv already working. Nash brewed coffee while Viv made a series of phone calls.
Having placed a mug in front of him, Nash told Viv, ‘It gets worse.’
‘Why, what was it this time?’
‘There was a scar on the body, so it looks as though his heart was removed, like the woman at the library. But this time the killer cut off his index fingers.’
‘No! That’s . . .’
‘Yes, it is.’ Nash shook his head in disgust then asked, ‘What have you discovered?’
Viv glanced down at his notes. ‘He’s married, but his wife is terminally ill. She’s currently in a hospice in Netherdale, and from what they told me, it seems she has only a few weeks left to live, at best. There are no children, so Maitland lives alone, as did Georgina Drake. He has a cottage on The Green.’
‘What you’re saying is that effectively, he’s as vulnerable as the other victim?’
‘I guess so. However, Lisa rang, and told me there was money in the till, which seems strange. It suggests that Maitland didn’t cash up the night before. But he was closed last week, so where did the takings come from? His reputation is such that he wouldn’t risk leaving money in the shop overnight.’
‘Good thinking. There should be a date printed on the till roll. Get someone to take a look, will you? Anything else?’
‘He not only owns the shop, but the two alongside it, plus those at the back and the flats above. All that little block of buildings, in fact. He bought them outright when they came up for sale.’
‘That must have cost him a bit. There must be more cash in carrots than I thought. Is his cottage mortgaged?’
‘No, he owns that outright too.’
‘Maybe it’s all down to Jack Binns’ snide remark about keeping his thumb on the corner of the scales when he was weighing produce.’
‘Someone told me that his reputation locally is for being a sharp customer. I don’t think it’s intended as a compliment.’
‘No, round here it’s usually meant to be derogatory. What about the uniforms you sent to his house? Did they get anything of interest from his neighbours?’
‘Not really. Nobody had seen him for a week, thought he might be away. Maitland was quiet, kept himself to himself, seemed devoted to his wife, especially since she took ill. She’s been sick for a long time, by all accounts. Apart from that, his only interest was his garden. And before you ask, no, he didn’t grow vegetables. I asked.’
‘Probably sick of the sight of them after a week staring at them in the shop. How are you doing with Georgina Drake?’
‘I found her website online, and other than an invitation to like-minded people — discreetly worded, of course — I can’t find anything of use to us. But I’m still waiting for our IT man to come and unlock the password on her laptop,’ Viv told him. ‘Keeps citing pressure of work; he’d promised he’d be here last Friday.’ Viv shook his head and rolled his eyes. ‘Once he’s done that, we should be able to see what she was so anxious to conceal. Unless she’s encrypted it,’ he added.
‘Thanks for cheering me up,’ Nash smiled wryly. ‘Come on, we’d better go and take a look around Maitland’s house. Then, I ought to tell Jackie the good news. She’ll be taking over when I go away, but if we don’t get this resolved, I’ll just take Daniel, leave him, and come straight back. Then it will only be for three days.’
‘Is Daniel looking forward to his holiday?’
‘Oh, yes. He always looks forward to spending the summer in France. I think it reminds him of his mother, and it gives him opportunity to practice his French. We check out the house, and he tells me things he remembers from when he was little. And this time he’s got plans for me. It’s as well I’m leaving him with his great-aunt and not staying for the duration.’
Viv looked puzzled. What could a ten-year-old be planning?
* * *
The IT specialist had phoned, apologising for his non-arrival, and promising to be there later that day. He’d qualified that promise with the words ‘all being well,’ which didn’t exactly fill them with confidence that the man would actually turn up.
As Nash drove home, his mind only half concentrating on the familiar road, he felt depressed by their lack of progress. Admittedly, their IT specialist had arrived, as promised, but despite having spent a couple of hours examining Georgina Drake’s laptop, still hadn’t cracked the password. ‘I have a special program on a disk at my office that will do it. I didn’t think to bring it with me.’ After receiving a withering look and scathing comments from Nash, he added, ‘I should have the contents revealed tomorrow.’
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Next morning, the laptop was available for their inspection. ‘The password protection was quite a sophisticated one,’ the IT man told Nash and the rest of the team. ‘To access a secondary password I first had to circumvent a primary one, which was binary encoded. I took the precaution of checking the hard drive to ensure there were no hidden partitions or subsidiary encrypted data files, which luckily there weren’t.’
‘Oh . . . er . . . good, I think.’ Nash responded.
Mironova avoided direct eye contact with Pearce, who she could tell was struggling not to laugh.
When the specialist had gone, Nash instructed Pearce to trawl through Georgina Drake’s files. ‘Concentrate on her email traffic to begin with, then check her document and picture folders. Get Lisa to work with you.’
‘My word, Mike,’ Clara said as the others were leaving his office, ‘you’re certainly getting more proficient at computer speak, even if the geek lost you.’
‘That comes of having a ten-year-old in the house,’ Nash told her. ‘Daniel gets very impatient with me when I have to ask him how to work the TV remote, or how to access the various apps on my mobile. More so than with my French lessons.’
‘Who’s teaching you?’
‘Daniel.’
Clara laughed. ‘Naturally. How’s it going?’
‘I’ll never be as good as him, that’s for sure. I wasn’t born there.’
Viv and Lisa reported back an hour or so later. ‘The email folder contained lots of messages about people meeting up, but it all looks fairly innocuous,’ Viv told them, ‘at least as far as our investigation is concerned. When I say “innocuous,” it’s mostly some very nasty racist invective, so that tallies with what you found at her flat. But that dried up a few weeks back, and there’s nothing more recent.’
‘The document folder also contains a load of fascist garbage, but very little else,’ Lisa added. ‘It was only when we opened the picture files that we hit dirt. Literally,’ she grimaced. ‘It seems that Georgina Drake liked to take pictures and videos of her hyperactive social life, if you follow me. It is about as hardcore porn as any you could access on the internet.’