by Edward Figg
‘It's a book?’ said Turner, looking at what Lynch held.
‘Well done, Detective Constable Turner,’ said, Marcia Kirby, sarcastically. ‘At least your detective training was not a total waste of ratepayers’ money.’ She gave him a smile.
Turner let the comment go.
‘OK, Dave. So, it's a book?’ He took it and read the title. ‘Florence Nightingale a Crimea Women. What's significant about that?’ asked Carter.
‘It turns out the book belonged to Connor. She lent it to this nurse we were interviewing. I happened to open it while we were talking to her. This was inside.’ He took it back from Carter and opened it. ‘Here, it shows the place where the book was purchased.’ Carter looked at the page. Stamped on the inside cover was the address of Robinsons Book Shop.
‘What are you suggesting?’ asked Carter.
‘This is the second time he's cropped up in our investigation. He’s the only one with connections to both our victims. I, that is, we, Bill and myself, reckon he's worth bringing in.’
‘OK. Let's hear your theory,’ Carter said.
Dave Reid cleared his throat and said, ‘He could have killed Newman. We know he left a message on her answering machine just after eight. So, he could well have gone around to her place earlier, killed her, then gone home and then made the call. Yes?’
Carter rubbed his chin and looked out of the window, thinking about what Dave Reid had suggested. He turned it over in his mind. ‘Maybe he does have something? Could that really be that easy? Was it Robinson?’ He turned back to Reid.
‘No. In that case, why go around to her place next morning? It doesn't make sense. Why draw attention to himself? The most sensible thing to do, would be to stay well clear of the place. No, Mike, that don’t work for me.’
‘Who knows the workings of a killer's mind? It could have been just sheer bloody bravado,’ Reid said.
‘When I spoke to him at Newman's place he was clearly upset by what he’d seen. He was shaking like a leaf’ He thought for a moment. ‘Well, there's only one way to find out,’ he said. ‘I'll go around and show him a photo of Connor. See what he has to say.’
The phone on Baxter's desk started ringing. Baxter leant over and picked it up. After a brief conversation, he said, ‘It's for you sir. It's the CPS.’ He handed Carter the phone.
Carter listened, nodded his head a few times, said goodbye, then hung up.
‘The Crown Prosecution Service says Brendan Hall is to be sentenced Monday at eleven.
‘Christ, the judge certainly took his time considering that one. Blasted trial was back in February. Jeez. Eight, bloody months gone past already,’ said Reid from his desk. ‘Surely, it doesn't take that long to do a psychological and a psychiatric report.’
‘Hope he gets a long one,’ barked Baxter. ‘I take it we are going boss? We need to see that bastard get banged up for a nice long stretch.’
Marcia Kirby glanced at Carter and gave him a quizzical look. ‘Brendan Hall, sir? What did he do?’ she said.
‘It was before you joined us,’ he said.
He took a chair from the desk opposite, and sat down. ‘Brendan Hall. He broke into an electrical warehouse near Selling just before Christmas. He got away with three thousand quid. It was the wages, left there overnight. Alf Timms was a 56-year-old security guard. The warehouse was on his patrol route. He drove up, got out, and went to check on the main gates as he usually does. He noticed a light moving around in one of the offices. He called his control and said he was going to investigate. They told him there were no other patrols in area to assist and that they’d contact the police. He was told to wait for them. Anyway, Timms didn’t wait for backup. He had the pass keys, so he went in through the side gate. Hall, by that time had cleaned out the safe and was on his way out. He saw Timms coming and attacked him. The poor sod didn’t stand a chance. Hall bashed Timms and left him for dead. Two PCs got there ten minutes after and found Timms, unconscious with severe head wounds. Timms is still a sick man. He won’t work again. They put him on a pension.
We caught Hall because the stupid sod used the toilet. He flushed it and left behind a perfect set of prints. He also had a record for aggravated burglary. Sergeant Baxter, two PCs and myself hit his house early the next morning and pulled him from his bed. All the money was recovered. He’d stashed it under the floor boards. It was quite funny really, because one of the PCs found it by accident. He stepped on a nail that was left sticking up from one of the boards. He went to trial, was found guilty and was remanded to be sentenced at a later date. As Mike has just said, he's been on remand for about eight months pending a psychiatric and a psychological report. Ted and I will go over Monday. It won't take too long. Everything being well, we'll be back by lunch time,’ said Carter.
Carter’s office phone started ringing. He walked into his office and picked it up.
‘DCI Carter?’
It was Broadbent.
‘Good afternoon, Doc. How goes it?’ he said, plonking himself down in his chair.
‘It goes well. Forensic pathology is the best. Our patients are the coolest.’ He waited for a comment. Not getting one he said, ‘Cool. You know, as in fridge, coolest, cool patients? It was a pathologist joke.’
‘Doc, don't go on the stage. Stick with the scalpel,’ said Carter, slowly shaking his head in disbelief.
‘Talking of scalpels, I have the preliminary autopsy report for you.’
Carter grabbed his notebook that was lying open on his desk and picked up a pen.
‘OK. Go for it, Doc.’
‘Well, Connor was in excellent health. No disease of the internal organs. Her last meal was pizza, pepperoni, and chips. There were no defensive wounds. It’s exactly like your previous victim. This one, the neck was broken first. The attacker, again, came from behind. She was on her front when the throat was cut. There were broken and loose hairs. That indicates that he grabbed her hair to pull her head back. The cut was administered left to right indicating our killer was right-handed. He would ‘ave had to kneel over her to do the cut. There was no sexual assault. I’ll send the full report over as soon as it’s ready.’
‘OK. Thanks, Doc. Enjoy the rest of your day.’
Before he could hang up Broadbent said. ‘Did I tell you what my doctor told me?’
Carter, sensing a joke was on the way, playing along said,. ‘No, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me.’
He said, that because of my bad back, I was not to lift anything heavy.’ There was a slight pause, before he said, ‘Now I’m too scared to take a piss.’
Carter started laughing. ‘You need to get a bloody life Doc. As I said before, don't give up your day job.’ Still laughing, Carter hung up. Chuckling, he rose from his desk and walked back out, into the CID room.
He walked over to Kirby's desk. ‘Marcia, let's go and pay a visit to our Mr Robinson. See what he has to say. How about we walk? It’s a fine day and it’s not too far to the bookshop.’
They took the shortcut and headed out across the park. Some mothers were sitting on the grass chatting and enjoying the late afternoon sun. Some of the small children were playing with a ball.
‘Look at them,’ said Carter, ‘not a care in the world.’ He turned to Kirby. ‘If it's not too personal, have you ever thought of taking the plunge Marcia, you know? Get married, settle down, have kids?’
She moved her shoulder bag to her other arm and said, ‘I don't know if it’s really my thing. Don't get me wrong. I've always been an advocate of good and happy marriages, but what I find hard to understand is the fact that people say marriage means settling down. Settling down in what sense?’
They were through the park and standing on the pavement in the Market Square before Carter could put together an answer. He remembered his own marriage and June's long illness.
‘Well. As I see it, the words ‘settle down’ mean you have established an exclusive relationship, committing yourself to that one person, maybe starting a family.
This also means all your energies should be directed to making that relationship mutually beneficial to both of you. It’s no longer a case of ‘me, mine and I’ but ‘we, us’ and ours.’ Marriage has its highs and lows, but you learn a lot about yourself and the other person along the way. That's my interpretation of it. Does that make sense?’
Crossing the road, she said, ‘It makes too much sense.’ She smiled. ‘I think I’ll stay single. I like my job and I like my independence.’
When they entered the shop, Robinson was nowhere to be seen. Carter stood and looked around. He smiled to himself. The shop, like many of Kingsport's older buildings, stood in the narrow, winding streets, just behind the Market Square. Although seeming modern, it felt very Dickensian and had an olde-worlde feel about it. There were sections for books, old and modern. There was even a slight musty smell in the air. ‘This is the sort of proper old shop where you’d expect to find magical, never-ending stories that take you off to faraway lands,’ he thought.
He left Marcia Kirby standing by the counter and went wandering down one of the aisles. It was a haven of second-hand science-fiction and fantasy novels. Further on, was true crime and war history. He saw many shelves full of fine, rare books. Some bound in leather, others bound in what looked like crocodile skin. As he turned up the next aisle, he saw Robinson. He was standing on a small ladder stacking books on a top shelf. On hearing footsteps, Robinson turned, recognition spreading across his face
‘Well. Chief Inspector Carter? Good day to you sir. I would have thought you’d have been too busy for reading,’ he said, descending the ladder and smiling. Carter studied him. He hadn’t really taken much notice of the man when they’d spoken together at Newman's. He was a strikingly handsome chap with piercing blue eyes and dark wavy hair. He was well over six foot.
‘No. It's not books I'm after lad. It's you I want to talk to.’
As they walked back up the aisle to the counter, Robinson spotted Marcia Kirby.
‘Be with you in a tick, madam,’ he said.
‘That’s my sergeant, not a madam,’ said Carter, instantly realizing he could have phrased it better.
Robinson smiled, giving her a puzzled look. ‘OK. Sorry. I've never seen you around the station.
‘Just transferred,’ she said, ‘Marcia Kirby.’ She held out her hand.
Robinson, looked her up and down.
‘Nice to meet you sergeant.’
Kirby glared at Carter. Madam indeed! She shook Robinson’s hand, looked into his eyes and smiled. Carter noticed she held her gaze for just a little too long.
He took the book from his pocket and handed it to Robinson. ‘What can you tell me about this?’ he said.
Robinson looked at the title, then opened it.
‘It's definitely one of mine. It's got my stamp inside it,’ he said, looking enquiringly at Carter.
Showing him a photo of Allison Connors, Marcia Kirby said, ‘Did you sell it to this girl?’
He looked at it carefully. ‘Yes. I did.’ There was a pause while he rubbed his chin thinking. ‘She came in some weeks ago, if I remember rightly.’ He then looked at Carter and with a shocked look, said, ‘I remember now. She was a nurse.’ It appeared to suddenly dawn on him. ‘That nurse that was killed! Christ, is that her? She looks different in the photo. Her hair is long. When she came in here, it was short.’
Carter was quick to jump in. ‘How did you know she was a nurse,’ he said. ‘Nothing has been released to the press about what her job was.’ Robinson handed back the book and photo.
He stuck both hands in his pockets. ‘How did I know it? Simple. Inspector McPhee called me yesterday just after six; said they were shorthanded. Two PC’s off sick. He asked if I would come in for a few hours. A few hours my foot. I was on duty from seven to nearly two this morning. I was in the station all the shift helping on the custody desk. That's how I knew.’
Marcia Kirby took a moment to compose herself, then looking at Robinson, and said, ‘Well, that clears up that little mystery.’
‘OK. Good. That's all I wanted to know. Thanks,’ said Carter. They turned and walked towards the door.
Robinson followed them and as they opened it, said, ‘I hope you catch this bastard.’
Standing out on the pavement, Carter remembered the look she gave Robbie Robinson. 'Not a bad looking lad that one. You could do worse?'
‘After our little talk before it sounds like you’re trying to marry me off?’ she said, smiling.
He turned and started to walk away.
She looked at the display of books in the shop window. ‘There were a couple of books I wouldn't mind reading, though,’ she said.
He looked up at the sky. ‘Come on, let's get back. It looks like rain.’
******
That night the local news carried the story of Allison Connor’s murder. The BBC Radio Kent newscaster appealed for any witnesses to come forward. He said that police were looking for anyone who was in the vicinity of Tower Street, Hay Street and Willow Street between the hours of seven and nine p.m. on Wednesday night.
Twenty minutes after the appeal went to air, the first phone call came through to the Kent Street switchboard. One of the officers manning the phones was PC Alan Hobson. He started to type in the caller's details on the computer, then stopped when the caller started to describe what he had seen. When the caller finished, Hobson thanked him, then hung up.
He picked up his mug of coffee and took a sip. Cold, yuck. He gazed mournfully into the brown liquid, then, remembering what the caller had witnessed, said, 'Those poor sods always get the blame. Them Martians have got a bleeding lot to answer for.'
Chapter 7
Friday 10th September
Carter and Kirby spent most of that morning going over Allison Connor's flat, searching through her possessions in the hope of finding a lead. At midday, finding nothing, they left.
‘Lunch time,’ Carter said, getting into the car. ‘How about a pie and a pint at the Black Bear?’ The Black Bear was Carter's favourite watering hole. It was the best one in town. He loved its warmth and its olde-worlde ambience.
‘Sounds good to me,’ she said, closing the door.
It was Market Day in Kingsport and Carter had difficulty finding a parking spot. As usual, the park across from the Market Square was packed with stalls of every description. Eventually, he found one, a street away, and parked the car. They walked around the corner to the Bear. Carter nearly hit his head on the low- slung oak beam above the door as he went in. The Black Bear was the oldest pub in Kingsport. It was an old coaching Inn dating back to the early sixteenth century. It still had the original stable block and cobbled yard at the rear. Here were placed tables with sun umbrellas where patrons could drink in fine weather. Carter liked its old-style interior with its white plastered walls and black oak beams.
Hearing the door open, the barman looked up from wiping down one of the tables and said, ‘Chief Inspector, nice to see you again, how are things? Not working you too hard I hope?’
Smiling, Carter said, ‘I can always make time for a pint of good ale George.’
He looked around at the other drinkers. Some he recognised. He nodded to them.
Carter gave the barman their orders. He introduced Kirby, telling her that George was in the job and retired a sergeant.
’If there's anything you need to know about this town or its villains you just ask old George here. He's a walking encyclopaedia. Knows it all. Ain't that right, George?’
‘Your flattery will not get you a free beer here, Bob Carter,’ said the ex-sergeant, pulling a pint of Stella and putting it on the bar. He then poured the orange juice Kirby had ordered.
‘No harm in trying,’ he chuckled.
As the day was now warm and sunny, they took their drinks and sat outside in the courtyard. Two men sitting close together at one of the tables, heads bowed in deep conversation, got up and quickly left. Carter knew them of old. Archie Boyle and… Carter dug into his memo
ry file… Ah, yes, Harry Fisher. They’d both got form, and done time for dealing. ‘Why are they together? What are they up to?’ he thought. Leaving their drinks unfinished, the pair hurriedly left. That set Carter's alarm bell ringing. They were up to no good. He made a mental note to check them out.
A young woman, who Carter recognized as George's daughter, brought the food. She placed it on the table, smiled at Kirby, said ‘Bon Appetit’, and left. They sat in silence while they ate. Carter chomped his way through a pork pie while Kirby sipped orange juice and nibbled on a cheese and tomato sandwich.
Carter swallowed the last of his pie and washed it down with the remains of his beer. His drink finished, he smacked his lips and pushed his empty glass away saying, ‘Can't beat it.’
After they'd finished, they walked back, through into the bar to pay their bill. A few minutes later, with that done, they were standing out on the pavement. Suddenly, Carter said, ‘I don't believe my eyes,’ as he looked across the street.
‘What is it?’ Kirby said.
‘See that tall gangly-looking turd, the one with long hair, coming out from the department store over there?’
‘Yes, what about him?’
‘He's a petty thief and house breaker. Name of Reginald Denis Hunter. Can never hold down a job, always thieving, stupid sod hasn't any brains. He's got the IQ of a pedal bin. Spends more time in prison than he does at home. Funny thing is, his missus thinks the sun shines out of his backside. Every time we go to nick him, she comes up with an alibi for him. According to her, he’s was either in bed or watching telly. Mind you, she's just as bad. She was a right tearaway in her day. She wasn't bad looking back in them days either. Done her heaps of times for soliciting. Gone to seed now though. God know how she ended up with the likes of ' ' im. He got out of Canterbury Prison recently and by the look of the uniform he’s wearing, he's got himself a job in the store,’ said Carter. ‘I don't believe it. Hunter going straight? Never.’ His eyes followed the man as he walked down the street. Turning to Kirby, Carter said, ‘Bet that job won't last long. I'll give him one month before he's back in our cells. I wonder if the store knows he's got a record? That place would be a virtual Aladdin's cave for someone with his sticky fingers.’ Carter was thinking of making some discreet enquiries at the store, when he noticed a traffic warden further up the road stop, and then stride purposely towards him. She was known around town as Big Bertha, the motorists' nightmare. It was then that he looked up and saw the no parking sign. ‘Shit,’ he said, under his breath. Then aloud, ‘Time we were off Marcia,’ he quickly unlocked the car. ‘There's a dragon coming’. He got in and turned the key. For one horrible moment, he thought the car wouldn’t start. Eventually the engine burst into life. He put the car in gear and accelerated away from the kerb.