by Damien Boyd
‘Did you ever come into contact with the police at that time?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Ellis was on his feet now, pacing up and down in front of the fire.
‘Were you arrested, perhaps?’
‘No, look—’
‘Did you know any police officers? Friends, perhaps?’
‘No.’ Ellis looked at his wife. ‘Did you?’
‘One of the mums at the school was a police officer,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘But that’s it.’
‘What was her name?’ asked Jane.
Mrs Ellis grimaced. ‘God, I can’t . . . Debbie, possibly? Something like that.’
‘Did you know her well?’
‘Not really. Just to say “hello” to at the gate.’
‘What about you, Mr Ellis, did you meet Debbie?’
‘Not that I remember. It was rare for me to drop the kids off, to be honest.’
‘And you never had any dealings with the police at any other time?’
‘No.’
Dixon stood up and walked over to the built-in shelves. He picked up a framed ticket and handed it to Jane. She looked at it, then handed it to Ellis.
‘Ah, the FA Cup final,’ he said. ‘The only one I went to and we bloody well lost one–nil.’
‘Manchester United?’ asked Jane.
‘I was a season ticket holder. Never missed a home game and managed the occasional away match too. Even went to Milan once. Have to make do with the telly these days.’
‘Who did you go with?’
‘I used to go with my brother. Then when my son was old enough, he started coming too.’
Jane looked at Dixon and raised her eyebrows.
‘Did you sit in the same seats?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Every game. In the South Stand we were. It’s not the same these days, I don’t think, but back then you had a designated seat, even if it was an unwritten rule.’ Ellis smiled.
‘And who did you sit next to?’
‘Hugh, my brother, and then George sat in between us when he started coming. On my left it was . . .’ He frowned. ‘He was a copper, come to think of it. I’m sure he was.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Ray. I never knew his surname.’
‘Who’s Ray then?’ asked Jane, putting her key in the ignition.
‘Detective Chief Superintendent Raymond Hargreaves. Retired now, but likes his football.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘Cufflinks.’ Dixon smiled.
‘Where to now?’
‘Head out to the motorway, then follow the signs for London. I need to ring Lewis.’
Dixon was dialling the number when a text message arrived, his phone buzzing in his hand.
‘Who is it?’ Jane was watching the traffic lights.
‘Louise – Fire out, structural engineers inspecting this afternoon – looks like they may go in tomorrow.’
‘Is that enough time?’
‘Depends what we find this afternoon.’
‘Is this it?’ asked Jane as she parked across the drive of a three storey townhouse in Selsdon Close, Surbiton. She had spent the last hour trying to stick to 50 mph through the roadworks on the M3 whilst listening to Dixon on the phone to DCI Lewis. She left the engine running and waited.
‘So, that’s it then,’ she said, when he rang off. ‘We’re going straight up to Manchester?’
‘Janice and the team will meet us there.’
‘It’s a sod of a long drive.’
‘We can leave your car and go on the train if you’d rather.’
‘How do we get it back?’
‘Well, we’d have to—’
‘Sod it,’ said Jane. ‘It’s easier to drive.’
‘Better ring your folks and ask them to hang on to Monty.’
‘I’ll ring them later. I left them with a bag of his food in case we got back late, so it’ll be fine.’
‘Good,’ said Dixon, looking up at the house from the passenger window, a small car parked in the drive. ‘Leave it here. She’s not going out, is she?’
‘What about your night insulin?’
‘Just in case.’ Dixon smiled, tapping his breast pocket.
‘Crafty sod,’ muttered Jane. ‘You knew.’
‘Hoped.’
Jane rang the doorbell and turned to Dixon. ‘Posh hotel?’ she asked, smiling.
‘Premier Inn.’
Jane sighed and turned back to the front door at the sound of a key turning in the lock.
‘Angela Maxwell?’
‘Yes.’
‘Detective Sergeant Winter. And this is my colleague. You spoke on the phone?’
‘We did. Come in,’ she said, stepping back. ‘The sitting room’s upstairs.’
At the top of the stairs, Jane turned right into the living room and looked along the mantelpiece at the various framed photographs. ‘It’s why you never interview a witness on the phone,’ she had heard Dixon say often enough. He was behind her, his eyes darting around the room.
‘You’re after the copycat?’ asked Angela, appearing in the doorway behind them.
‘Yes,’ replied Jane.
‘Sick bastard. I nearly threw up when I saw it on the news.’ She gestured to the two armchairs opposite the fire as she sat down on the edge of the sofa. ‘You’d better sit down.’
‘We’re now looking at events in Manchester, Mrs Maxwell, back in the nineties.’ Jane took her phone out of her handbag.
‘Oh.’
‘What can you tell me about this man?’ She leaned forwards and handed her the phone with the photograph on the screen.
‘That’s me and Rick outside the snooker club.’
Dixon was making notes, holding the pen between the tip of his index finger and thumb. Reading them later would be a challenge, he thought, but then it was really just for show.
‘Tell us about Rick.’
‘My husband, that’s Derek, hired him in 1995. It was around about then anyway. He’d been there a while when Derek . . .’ She took a deep breath. ‘When Derek disappeared.’
‘Take your time.’
‘It was a lifetime ago. Feels it anyway,’ said Angela, forcing a smile. ‘And I’ve been married and divorced since then.’
‘We understand.’
‘Anyway, Rick was just the barman. He looked after the club when Derek wasn’t there. Tried to keep order, not that there was ever that much trouble. The Carters saw to that. They’d sort of moved in by then.’
‘We’ve read your statements about what happened in the run up to Derek’s murder,’ said Jane, ‘but what we’re interested in now is what happened afterwards.’
Angela nodded.
‘With Rick,’ continued Jane. ‘You’re holding hands in the photo.’
‘He said he’d look after me. That he’d protect me. And he did. When Derek disappeared, I sold the club to the Carters.’
‘Whose idea was that?’
‘Rick’s. I couldn’t keep it anyway, not without Derek, and I got a good price.’
‘And you were having a relationship with him?’
‘Yes.’
‘How about before Derek died?’
‘That’s a bit near the knuckle.’
‘Humour me.’
‘It started afterwards. We’d kissed before, I suppose, if I’m being honest. And flirted, but nothing had happened.’
‘What about Derek, was he ever seeing anyone else, to your knowledge?’
‘There was someone else, a couple of years before he died. The Carters said she was an undercover copper and that was the last I saw of her.’
‘When was that?’
‘Maybe 1994?’
‘Going back to afterwards then, did Rick move in with you after Derek died?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘And how was it?’
‘Fine.’
‘What did he say he’d done before he worked at the club?’
‘He’d
been in the police, but got thrown out for stealing.’
‘Did the Carters know that?’
‘I think so. Everyone did. He didn’t exactly make a secret of it.’
‘What about your children?’
‘Oh God, he wasn’t a—’
‘No, that’s not what this is about, Angela,’ interrupted Jane, raising her hand.
‘They liked him,’ she said, blowing out her cheeks. ‘They were only young, though, and don’t really remember any of it. Not even their father.’
‘And Rick stayed at the club when the Carters bought it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was that part of the deal?’
‘Not specifically. It just happened that way. They needed a barman, I suppose.’ Angela shrugged her shoulders.
‘How did it end?’
‘He just disappeared one day. They all did. The Carters and everyone.’
‘Did he ever get in touch again after that?’
‘Never.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘I moved down here and met Jamie. I wanted to move anyway and had discussed it with Rick. He said he would come, but then . . .’ Her voice tailed off.
‘Did anything else happen?’
‘Not really. I had a burglary about a year after moving here, but that’s hardly relevant, is it?’
‘It could be. What was taken?’
‘Nothing. I had the back window fixed and that was that.’
Jane looked at Dixon. He nodded.
‘Would it surprise you to learn that Rick was working for the Carters all along?’ she asked.
Angela sighed. ‘Not really. I knew they wanted the club and once Derek had gone they were welcome to it.’ She stood up and walked over to the mantelpiece. ‘Look, I was young, alone, my husband murdered, two young children, and Rick was offering to look after us. I did what I had to do, felt I had to do anyway. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.’
‘What would you do differently?’
‘Oh, I dunno. Maybe not believe all Rick’s crap, I suppose. We were going to be together forever, and then one day he was gone without so much as a bloody note.’
‘Do you have any photographs of him?’
‘There’s one.’ She opened the door of the sideboard, reached in and pulled out a red photograph album. ‘I only kept it because it was such a good picture of the girls.’ Then she began leafing through the pages. ‘Here it is,’ she said, folding back the tissue paper.
Jane walked over and looked at it. ‘May I?’ she asked, taking the album from Angela.
‘Of course.’
Jane placed the photograph album on Dixon’s knee and pointed to the photograph; Rick Wheaton kneeling down with an arm around each of Angela’s daughters, grinning at the camera.
The bottom inch or so of the picture was plain white, and it had been secured using self-adhesive corners, the two at the bottom stretching as if there was something behind it. Dixon smiled.
‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ he asked, winking at Jane.
He waited until they were both in the kitchen, put his little finger nail behind the photograph and flicked it out of the adhesive corners. Then he turned it over.
The paper was thicker than usual and on the back at the bottom was a small pouch, now empty, but it would once have contained fixer or some other chemical used in the printing of Polaroid instant photographs.
Dixon quickly took photographs of the front and back of the picture with his iPhone and was holding it up when Angela walked back into the sitting room.
‘You’ve taken it out,’ said Angela. ‘You could’ve asked.’
‘It’s a Polaroid,’ said Dixon.
‘So what?’
‘Whose camera was it?’
‘Rick’s. I’ve still got it somewhere.’
‘What?’
‘When he buggered off he left loads of stuff behind. I tipped most of it, took some to the charity shop, but there’s a box in the loft. No idea why I kept it, really.’
‘And the camera’s in the box?’
‘Yes.’
Dixon stood up. ‘Can we see it, please?’
‘You’ll have to go up in the loft and get it. How are you with heights?’
Dixon was able to stand up in the loft, which had been only partially boarded out for storage, and used the light on his iPhone as a torch.
‘It’s a small box, an old shoebox, I think, against the far wall. Red, possibly?’ Angela was standing at the bottom of the ladder with Jane. ‘It might be in another box, with some wallpaper.’
He squeezed past several picture frames leaning against a suitcase and headed towards an open box with several rolls of wallpaper sticking out of it. And there it was. A red shoebox sitting in the bottom of the larger box, holding the wallpaper upright. He lifted the lid.
‘Is this it?’ Dixon was holding the shoebox above the loft hatch.
‘That’s it.’ Both Angela and Jane were looking up at him.
‘How long has it been up here?’
‘I moved in here late ninety-six. So, since then.’
‘Can we take it with us?’
‘Er, yes, I don’t see why not. I certainly don’t want it.’
Dixon tucked the box under his arm and climbed down the ladder. He passed the box to Jane and closed the loft hatch behind him.
‘So, let’s be quite clear,’ he said, turning to Angela. ‘Everything in this box belonged to Rick Wheaton and hasn’t been touched since.’
‘Not since I put it in the loft, no.’
‘And no one’s used the electric shaver?’
Jane’s eyes widened.
‘No.’ Angela was shaking her head.
‘One last thing, Mrs Maxwell,’ said Dixon, sliding a photograph out of his pocket. ‘Do you recognise this man?’
‘She’s watching from the window,’ muttered Dixon. ‘Just drive around the corner and park.’
Seconds later, Jane pulled over and wrenched on the handbrake. ‘Well?’
‘The Polaroid camera, an electric shaver, an old Sony Walkman, several cassettes, an empty wallet, sunglasses and . . . wait for it . . . a hairbrush.’ Dixon grinned. ‘All of it safely in an evidence bag. And we’ve got a witness statement from Angela confirming it all belonged to Rick Wheaton.’
‘D’you think that’s what the burglar was looking for?’
‘I’m guessing Rick Wheaton was her burglar. And I wonder how she’s going to feel when she finds out he killed her husband and used the camera to take a snapshot of him dying.’
Chapter Thirty
The bar at the Premier Inn was small and crowded, although Dixon recognised the faces sitting at a table in the far corner: Janice Courtenay, Mark Pearce, Dave Harding and Louise Willmott.
‘No Jane?’ asked Louise.
‘She’s parking the car.’
‘Have you eaten?’ Janice was looking at her watch. ‘Only they stop serving food at nine.’
‘We stopped on the way, thanks.’ Dixon spun round when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
‘Detective Inspector Dixon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Simon Baxter, DCS, and this is DI Caroline Porritt. Manchester CCU. Lewis told me to look for a man with a sore head and burnt hands. He wasn’t joking was he?’
‘No, Sir. You’ll forgive me if I don’t . . .’ Dixon glanced down at Baxter’s outstretched hand.
‘Er, no, of course not. Sorry.’
‘Could I see your ID too, please, Sir.’
Baxter looked at Porritt and raised his eyebrows. Then they both took out their warrant cards and held them up.
‘Thank you,’ said Dixon.
‘You were lucky to get out.’ Caroline Porritt smiled. ‘I saw it on the telly.’
‘My partner wasn’t quite so lucky, although he was dead before the fire started, mercifully.’
‘We heard,’ said Baxter. ‘He was Bristol CCU?’
‘He was.’
Baxter shook h
is head. ‘I’ve lined up a firearms unit for tomorrow. How have you got on?’
‘Good.’ Dixon looked around the crowded bar. ‘Let’s take this upstairs, shall we? Jane’ll know where to find us.’
‘But I haven’t finished my beer.’
‘Bring it with you, Mark.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Dixon passed the keycard to Louise who opened the door. Room 239 was on the second floor and was identical to every other room in the hotel no doubt: a large double bed, two chairs and a stool in front of the long dressing table. Clean and comfortable certainly, but hardly an ideal venue for a briefing.
Dixon sat down on the bed, by the pillows. Baxter and Porritt took the chairs and Janice the stool. Mark and Dave perched on the edge of the dressing table and Louise took the window ledge, leaving the other side of the bed for Jane.
‘Well, what have you got for me?’ asked Dixon.
‘Nothing on CCTV or the traffic cameras,’ said Harding. ‘Although I’ve not seen all of it yet. Chard wouldn’t release it.’
Mark Pearce dropped a file on to the bed. ‘That’s the file on Michael Carter’s murder conviction. The guts of it, anyway. Witness statements and interviews.’
‘What about you, Janice?’
‘Hit a brick wall at the age of twelve,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘After that it was fine. Schools, university, police. No problem, I’ve got everything. But before that, nothing.’
‘Did you try adoption agencies, Social Services, stuff like that?’
‘I did.’ She was smiling now. ‘His father died when he was twelve years old. He had no one else, so he went into a foster home and they adopted him, so his name changed.’
‘How did the father die?’
‘He was murdered,’ replied Janice, matter of fact. ‘By Michael Carter.’
‘What?’
‘Wait a minute, you haven’t heard the best bit yet.’ She smiled. ‘His father was a veterinary surgeon.’
‘Who are we talking about?’ asked Pearce.
‘All in good time, Mark.’ Dixon frowned, making time to process the information. ‘His father was a vet?’
‘Yep.’
‘And he was murdered by a fifteen year old Michael Carter?’
‘He saw it too. It’s on the file. He was standing in the hall and it happened right in front of him. Bang, and down he went right at his feet. You need to read Michael’s interviews too.’