by Edward Figg
About the author
I was born in the coastal town of Dover. After leaving school, I worked in the motor trade for many years. I spent seven years as a Special Constable in Kent and Cornwall, before moving with my wife and children to Australia in 1969. I spent three years writing for a farming newspaper in Western Australia. After retiring in 2007, we set off to live in France. A year later we returned and re-settled in Victoria. In 2015, we moved up to the Sunshine Coast in Queensland where my wife now spends her time painting while I play bowls.
Edward Figg
The Anniversary Man
Vanguard Press
VANGUARD PRESS
© Copyright 2017
Edward Figg
The right of Edward Figg to be identified as author of
this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All Rights Reserved
No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication
may be made without written permission.
No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,
copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions
of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to
this publication may be liable to criminal
prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is
available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 1 784653 21 7 (Paperback)
Vanguard Press is an imprint of
Pegasus Elliot MacKenzie Publishers Ltd.
www.pegasuspublishers.com
First Published in 2017
Vanguard Press
Sheraton House Castle Park
Cambridge England
Dedicated to my wife, Sylvia, who spent many hours reading and correcting and to Pegasus Elliot Mackenzie for bringing all to life.
Prologue
He'd been swaying on the edge of his bed, blanket over his shoulders, head held in his hands, for almost an hour. The pain was there. The plaguing voices had returned, loud and persistent. Even the howling wind and the constant hammering of rain on the window would not drown them out.
They never left him alone for long. Sometimes, they would stay away for a while, leaving his mind clear, clean and alert but they always returned. Like a dark sinister cloud passing through his brain, images of the women floated through his dreams at night. Their searching fingers sought him out in daylight, tormenting him, filling his head with tortured visions. His suffering was increasing and the pain seemed never to go away. The pills were his only escape.
He looked down at the open book lying across his knees and gazed at the five photos. Through his blurred vision, he could still make out the torment in their eyes. He smiled as he looked into their faces and tried to imagine the pain they’d suffered as they went through their last agonising minutes of on earth, cold and alone and with no one to help them. He knew their ages. He knew their history. He knew where they lived. Holding the images firmly in his mind, he raised his head and stared, mesmerized, at the raindrops trickling down the outside of the windowpane. The room lit up momentarily with a flash of lightning, and then came a clap of thunder. It pulled him back from his trance.
‘I must do this,’ he said, staring down at the pages. He frowned, looked down at the book and, putting his head on one side, spoke to it, saying, ‘When shall I start?’ The lifeless faces in the photos stared mutely back at him, but despite their silence it was clear to him what he had to do.
He smiled as an idea slowly came to him. Again, he looked at the faces. ‘The anniversary of your deaths would be perfect!’ he said aloud. He puffed out his cheeks, then drew the blanket slowly over his head trying to hide from the world. In his own dark world, he felt safe and secure. No one could harm him. ‘Tomorrow,’ he thought, ‘I will start to plan.’ Removing the blanket, he reached over to the bedside cabinet and shook two pills from the bottle, popped them in his mouth and washed them down with water from his bottle. After a while, the demons went quiet. He lay down, closed his eyes, and let the darkness flood over him.
Chapter 1
August 31st 2010
He sat across the road in the small recreation park. He had been there for just under an hour. From his vantage point in the gazebo, where he’d taken shelter from the rain, he could clearly see her moving around, inside the café. He knew she’d be leaving for home soon. He looked at his watch. Not long now.
A single-decker bus, heading for the Market Square Shopping Centre, splashed through the puddles and stopped at the traffic lights, momentarily blocking his view. When it moved off, he saw her standing outside on the pavement. She waited until the road was clear, then hurried across to the parking area, close to where he sat. He felt a surge of excitement pulsate through his body. He watched her open the door of her blue Mini Minor, get in, and drive off. He was in no hurry to go after her. He knew where she lived. He also knew she’d be alone. A tremendous thrill of achievement ran through him when he thought of how long it had taken him to plan this anniversary.
Maureen Newman lay on the couch, her eyes covered with a black mask to block out any light. The curtains were drawn, shutting out the wet afternoon. Her migraine had started just before leaving work. As she lay there, her medication began to kick in and the ache eased slightly.
The man, standing in the rain, also felt pain. His was a different kind. Out of the wind came more whispered voices. Coming out from his hiding place in the alley, he looked around to see if the street was clear, then, without any hesitation, walked across the road. The old lady he had spoken to a few minutes earlier had retreated into her house. He’d seen her before. All those he worked with knew she showed early signs of dementia. He’d just watched her prove it. What kind of idiot would go out in the rain to water pot plants? She had accepted the excuse he gave for being out in the street, without question. He wasn’t worried about her, because, soon, she would forget he was ever there.
At the gate of number twelve, he looked around, then walked up the garden path. Before knocking, he took one last look up and down the street. It was still deserted. He turned and knocked.
The knocking brought her out of her fragmented dream. Moaning about unwanted callers, she slowly sat up then swung her legs over the side of the couch. The knocking continued. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she walked unsteadily down the hall. Seeing her reflection in the hall mirror, she patted her hair in place and adjusted the collar of her dress, then went to un-latch the door. She opened it wide. She stood looking up into his wet, smiling face. It took her a few moments to register who it was.
‘Oh! It's you!’ she said in a surprised voice.
‘Yes, it is. I wonder, could you spare me a few minutes, please?’
Hesitating, she looked at him strangely for a moment, then stood to one side. ’You’d best come on in then.’
He stepped in and wiped his feet on the door mat. As she led him down the hall, he smiled and thought about man that had started him on this journey. Every part of his body tingled with excitement. Happy anniversary!
September 1st 2010
Detective Chief Inspector Bob Carter had arrived in his Kingsport office early that Wednesday morning. Normally, he was not a morning person but today he was in a good mood. The rain that had persisted on and off for the last three days had gone. The sun shining through his office window warmed his back as he sat reading through the previous night's report. Two break-ins with only small items taken and an assault. All in all, it was a quiet night on the streets of Kingsport. He tossed the repo
rt into the out tray and made a mental note to get one of the DCs to look into this latest break-in. The third of its type, this month.
Bob Carter was a big built man in his early forties. He was a well-seasoned, experienced and respected police officer. Although appearing a bit shy and retiring, Carter had a good sense of humour. It was one of the things people liked about him. Everyone looked up to him. He was a good boss, firm, but fair.
Carter was trying to catch up on the paperwork that he’d been putting off, when his Sergeant, Ted Baxter, came hurriedly in through the swing doors at the end of the room. He crossed the CID room to Carter's office, tapped on the frame of the open office door and walked in.
Carter looked up from the report he was working on, leaned back in his chair and stretched. ‘Morning Ted!’ Baxter was a good organizer; a good office manager. Carter tended to leave much of the mundane, day-to-day running of the CID to him.
‘Morning sir.’ He briefly hesitated, then said, 'This just come in.’ He waved a notepad in the air. ‘Dead female over on the Morton Estate.’ He looked down at the notepad. ‘Twelve, Devon Court. Area car has secured the scene. From what they say, we have a murder on our hands.’
Carter stood up, took his jacket from the back of his chair and put it on. His good mood was short-lived. The idea of clearing away the backlog of paperwork flew out of the window. ‘What else have you got? Any other details?’
‘No Guv, that's it.’
With Baxter close on his heels, Carter walked out into the main CID area. He called over to where DC Dave Lynch, coffee cup in hand, sat staring intently at his computer screen.
'Dave!’ he said, ‘Ted and I are away over to the Morton Estate.’ He looked over to where DC Bill Turner was perched on the corner of his desk, talking on the phone. Carter decided Dave Lynch should do it.
‘Dave, call Tim Bryant and tell him that we’ve got some work for him. Morton Estate. Twelve Devon Court.’
Detective Sergeant Mike Reid, who was reading a witness statement on his computer, looked up in anticipation. He knew there’d be no chance of him going. He was due in court that morning as a prosecution witness in a case that involved a serious assault on a sixty-year-old Indian woman. She had been attacked, beaten and robbed of her purse. She was left lying on the pavement in shock with cuts and bruises to her face. She gave a good description of her attacker. It was a local tearaway, drug addict and no-hoper called Timothy O'Hare. O’Hare was arrested shortly after with the purse still in his possession. He had tried to withdraw cash with the stolen credit card from a post office just around the corner from where the incident took place. The staff became suspicious of the man and called police after O'Hare told them the card belonged to his mother. They managed to stall him until Reid and Turner arrived. They promptly arrested the protesting man. As he was bundled into the back of their car, he was still insisting that the card was his mothers. Reid, who knew the man, brought his protest to a halt when shown the card with the name on it. Reid asked, 'How come your surname is O'Hare and your mums is Chandrasekhar? You’ll be telling me next that you wear a bleeding turban and eat curry three times a day.’
O'Hare stopped his protesting. He realised it was pointless to argue a lost cause. The drive back to Kent Street was done in silence.
‘Ok boss, will do,’ said Lynch. At twenty-six, Lynch was the youngest member of squad. He had joined the police force as a cadet. He was a good, dedicated copper, a no-nonsense type, and was admired by the others in CID but not so much by those in the criminal fraternity. He liked to go to the gym to work out. He was big, well-built and played rugby for Maidstone Police Eleven. His appearance alone would make anyone have second thoughts before they tangled with him.
‘Right, Ted, said Carter, ‘Let's be away.’ Carter and Baxter headed off down the stairs and out into the car park.
*******
Out in the car park, the pair walked over to where Carter had parked his car. It was a nine-year-old, green Vauxhall Astra. Carter had somehow managed to park it at an angle between the white lines of two parking bays. The car had seen better days. It needed a bloody good clean. Any casual passer-by could have easily mistaken it for a stolen car that had been abandoned and brought into the police yard. It would sure as hell not give the public any confidence to see two police officers arriving at a crime scene in something like that. Baxter doubted if it was even roadworthy. Baxter looked across at the car that was parked in the next bay.
‘Shall we take a CID car boss?’ He jangled the keys. There was just a hint of command in his voice rather than a suggestion. ‘It's closer and I did bring the keys,’ he added.
The look didn’t go unnoticed by Carter and as they got into the pool car, he smiled and said, ‘I know mine's not the best and not an automatic like this one and I must admit, it does need a bit of a clean-up but,' he sniffed the air and looked at the empty snack boxes strewn across the back seat, 'mine doesn't smell like a bloody fish and chip shop. Next time you put anyone on surveillance, tell them to clean up their bloody rubbish after them!’
Baxter slowly shook his head, started the engine and headed out onto Kent Street and into the morning traffic. Carter was still struggling to adjust his seatbelt as Baxter steered the car through the roundabout and turned up the High Street.
The Kentish town of Kingsport with a population of just under forty thousand nestled between two chalk hills. Its red brick Magistrates Court stood on the corner of the town's main market square. Around the corner, in Kent Street, stood the Victorian-built police station, constructed from blocks of grey granite.
At the base of the hills, cherry orchards and hop gardens had sprung up over the years. The major highway, the M2, was close by. The M2 snaked its way through Kent running around the outskirts of Kingsport, linking it into the junction of the A2 and the Thanet Way near Faversham. It was one of the two main arteries that linked the sea port of Dover to the city of London (and all points north).
The town had been slow to adopt the new ways and it was only in the last ten years that the newer council estates of Morton and Green Hills had been built. These were on the outskirts and close to the rail link. It made commuting to the city fast and easy.
*******
They were just turning in to Devon Court, a cul-de-sac, when Carter's mobile beeped. He rummaged in his inside jacket pocket. He took it out and answered it.
‘Forensic are on their way boss. Should be there in twenty. Apparently, they’d already got wind of it.’
‘Ok Dave.’ He slipped the phone back into his pocket.
They drove slowly past the detached red brick houses and stopped outside number twelve and got out of the car. He stood surveying the street for a moment. Two other cars were already there. One was the area patrol car. The other he recognized as belonging to the police surgeon, Doctor James Broadbent. It was far too posh for this street. Baxter followed Carter to the garden gate where PC Mike Cotton stood guard. He nodded to the two detectives as they walked up the path to the house. Over in the corner of the garden, by the hedge that separated them from the next house, was a man. He was sitting on a garden bench. His head was bowed; his hands on his knees. PC Ambrose, standing outside the front door straightened when he saw Carter and Baxter approaching.
Carter recognised the PC. His mates had aptly nicknamed him 'Ambrosia' after a well-known brand of tinned rice. The man carried a bit of a belly.
‘Ok, what 'ave yer got Ambrose?’
Turning and nodding his head to where Cotton stood, Ambrose said, ‘PC Cotton and I arrived forty-five minutes ago, sir, after the report of a body being found.’ Looking a bit green around the gills, he pointed over his shoulder at the door. 'It was open when we got here. We checked inside. She was lying on the living room floor in a pool of blood. We could see she was dead sir. We both came straight out as soon as we saw all that blood. There is no way that poor woman could still be alive.’ He indicated towards the open door. ‘It's a real mess in there. We called for t
he doctor and informed CID. The doctor is in there now sir. He's not long arrived.’ He looked down, thumbing through his note book. ‘Victim's name is a Miss Maureen Newman sir.’
‘And who’s that over there?’ asked Carter, indicating the figure sitting on the garden bench.
PC Ambrose looked across the garden ‘Oh, that’s Robo sir, he was here when we arrived. He reported it. He knew her, said she worked as a waitress at the Corner Café in the High Street’.
With a confused expression on his face, Carter raised his eyebrows, looked at PC Ambrose, then said, ‘Robo, Robo who? Do you know him? Is there any possibility he might have a last name?’
‘Oh, yes sir, sorry sir.’ said Ambrose, looking embarrassed. ‘I thought you knew him?’
‘No, I don’t know him. Any reason why I should? It would be helpful if I had all the facts Constable. And I mean all,’ he put a heavy emphasis on the last word.
‘He's a Special sir, Special Constable Robert Robinson.’ He shrugged his shoulders and handed both men white paper SOCO suits. ‘We all just call him Robo sir,’ he said, watching as the pair struggled into their suits.
‘Well, I’m glad someone knows him,’ said Carter, looking at Ambrose. Then leaving the constable with a bewildered look on his face, he walked into the house.
Baxter took a few steps towards the door and said to Ambrose, ‘We’ll need to have a word with him, so just make sure he doesn’t wander off.’
Doctor James Broadbent, the police surgeon, also wearing a white paper suit, was bending over the body as the pair entered the living room. Broadbent was a grey-haired veteran of some sixty years. He was a good police surgeon and a first-rate forensic pathologist. He was also a bit of a joker.