by Edward Figg
‘Gotcher one in sir,’ said Lynch
He handed out the drinks.
‘Cheers everyone, thanks. Glad we could make the time.’ Baxter took a sip.
Richardson’s glass contained something yellow with a green thing floating on the top. She caught him staring at it.
‘It’s an Apple Pina Colada sir. Took a liking to them when I was on holiday in Puerto Rico a few years ago.’
He smiled, lifted up his drink and said, ‘Stella Artois. Got a liking to this because Lynch is paying.’
At that moment, the door opened. Before it could be shut, a blast of cold air sent empty crisp packets fluttering across the table and onto the floor. Heads turned as Kirby and Hollingsworth walked in. Hollingsworth went over to the bar, got drinks for both of them, then went to join the others at the table.
He sat down on the corner of the bench seat then downed half of his beer. He smacked his lips, belched then started to shovel smoky bacon flavoured crisps into his mouth like there was tomorrow. He lifted up his glass and downed the remainder. After consuming most of the crisps, he stopped chewing, brushed away bits of crisps from the front of his shirt and looked mournfully into his empty glass. He looked around hopefully. ‘OK, whose round is it next?’
It looked like it was going to be a long night.
Chapter 10
Saturday 2nd October
After stopping off at the canteen to pick up a bacon and egg roll and a large cup of coffee, Baxter walked in to the CID room. It was just after seven-thirty. Marcia Kirby was busy with a texture on the whiteboard full of photos, notes and drawings. She was talking to Reid. She was looking none the worse for wear after the night before. Hollingsworth, at his desk, looked rough. His eyes matched the colour of his tie: red. His hair and a comb desperately needed to come together and unite in a common cause. He looked as if his head had been out in a force ten gale.
Seeing Baxter, Kirby stopped writing. ’Sir, there was a call for you from Whitstable, a DCI Duncan?’
He bit into his roll, chewed a few times, then said, ‘What did he want? Did he say?’
‘No. Just asked that you phone him back. His number’s on your desk.’
He looked over to where Hollingsworth sat, and said, ‘For God’s sake Luke, smarten yourself up lad. You look bloody terrible.’
He sauntered off to his office, sat down and looked at the pad. He dialled the number, and asked to be put through to DCI Duncan. After a few clicks and buzzes it was picked up.
A broad Scottish accent came out of the ear piece. ‘DCI Duncan.’
‘DCI Duncan, it’s DI Ted Baxter, Kingsport, sir. You left a message to call you?’
‘That I did inspector, that I did. I have something for you and I’m afraid you’re not going to like it…’
Baxter sat in silence and listened to Duncan. He screwed up his eyes as if in pain. His face had taken on a new look. It was one of disbelief. He made a few notes, his hands trembling as he wrote down the words. The two men spoke for a while. He thanked DCI Duncan, then hung up. He sat digesting what he had just been told. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said aloud. He immediately dialled the number he’d been given by DCI Duncan and asked to speak to the police surgeon.
A woman’s voice answered. ‘Doctor Fuller.’
Baxter identified himself and then told her about the two cases they were investigating. They spoke for several minutes. He then spent some time reading to her from the two autopsy reports he had on his desk. He asked her a question.
She replied. ‘To that, I would say, yes. Your injuries are very much like the ones I have here. The injuries do seem very similar. I’d say, without having seen your victims, this one I have here, Emma Saxon, was definitely killed in the same manner and with the same weapon,’ she said.
‘Can you send me a copy of your report, please doctor?’
‘Certainly. What’s your email?’
After they’d finished talking, Baxter sat staring blankly at an old yellowing crime prevention poster on the far wall. It took him a few minutes for the turmoil in his brain to settle. He needed to come to terms with what he had just been told.
His thoughts were interrupted by his computer notifying him that he'd got mail. He quickly opened it, glanced at it, then sent it to his printer. He retrieved it and laid it next to the other two on his desk. His eyes darted from one to the others.
There was no doubt in his mind whatsoever. The injuries inflicted on Emma Saxon were the same as those on Newman and Ellis. He stood, looking down at the reports for a while, then sat down and put his head in his hands. After a few seconds, not wanting to admit it, he said softly. ‘It’s him. He’s done it again.’
******
Sunday October 3rd
At the briefing that morning, Carter stood looking out at the rain as it cascaded down the outside of the window. After a while, he turned and listened as Baxter read from the report that they’d received from Whitstable CID.
‘Husband, Andrew Saxon, software developer. Age 38; got home from a three-day sales trip to Paris at 6.30 p.m. and found his wife Emma, 33, dead in the hallway. Death occurred between the hours of 11 p.m. and 4 a.m. Thursday, September 30th. Door knock of the houses in the street drew a blank. According to DCI Duncan, it was a street where the people hardly know their next-door neighbours. One old biddy reckoned she didn't even know her next door neighbour’s name.
He said there were no signs of a break-in, nothing stolen, nothing disturbed. Apparently, they'd only just moved in three weeks ago, hadn’t finished the unpacking yet.’ He turned the page. ‘There is only one other family member, a brother in Australia. The Saxons had no children. They checked with the French police and they have confirmed the husband was at his hotel at the time of her death, so that rules him out.’
Baxter read some meaningless procedural bumph from the report then tossed it on the desk. He perched himself on the corner of the desk and let out a deep sigh, running his fingers through his hair.
‘Why Whitstable?’ He rubbed his chin.
Hollingsworth chimed in. 'Maybe he was on holiday, week at the seaside and couldn't resist the temptation to have a pop at someone. Maybe he just fancied some of their famous oysters?’ He looked at the assembled faces around him expecting a laugh. He was sadly mistaken. Just silence. ‘Come on guys, lighten up, it was only a joke.’
‘Luke, make yourself useful. Go over there,’ said Kirby, pointing towards the small kitchen area, ‘and make us all a nice cup of coffee. White and one for me.’
Hollingsworth shuffled off, head bowed, mumbling about being treated like a servant.
Carter turned to Kirby. ‘I heard it on the news Friday morning. They never gave out all the details. Just said a woman was murdered at Whitstable. OK, Marcia. You and Bill get down there and see the husband. Find out anything you can. Usual background stuff. You know the routine. I'll let DCI Duncan know you’re coming. Pop in first and have a word. He’s OK, we’re old friends.’
Five minutes later, Turner was following Kirby towards the door. As they passed PC Tanner’s desk, he looked up, grinned and said, 'Don't forget 'yer buckets and spades children.’
‘And I’ll have a stick of rock,’ added Lynch.
Without breaking his stride, Bill Turner looked back at Tanner, stuck two fingers up at him, and disappeared through the swing doors.
******
The setting sun was casting red shafts of light through the windows of the CID office when Turner and Kirby finally pushed their way back through the swing doors. It was nearly eight that evening when the pair returned to the parking area at the rear of Kent Street police station.
Carter was talking on the phone when they came in. The pair walked over. Kirby knocked on the door frame. Carter indicated for them to sit while he continued with his conversation. He wrote something on a pad, said his thanks, then hung up.
‘So, how did you two get on? Learn anything?’
Kirby leant forward in her chair.
&
nbsp; ‘Husband was really vague most of the time. Not really with it. I put that down to shock and the fact that he was doped up. His doctor had given him some medication. Anyway, from what we gathered, both of them led a quiet life. The pair didn't have many friends and hardly left the house. According to him they didn't have much of a social life. She was a volunteer worker at the local library for a while; but here comes the interesting bit.’ She paused for a few moments, then said, ‘That library was right here in town. They lived over on Marsh Lane before moving to Whitstable.’ She sat back, folded her arms and waited for Carter’s reaction.
'Well, well. So why her, a Kingsport woman? What makes her so unique?’ He looked from one to the other. ‘The question is: what links them all together? This needs to be our number one priority. Small as it is, it’s another piece of a bloody big puzzle. It's interesting. Well done. OK, now go home, get some rest and I'll see you both tomorrow. Right now,’ he said, looking at his watch, ‘Four dead women, all from Kingsport. There’s something here we’re missing. I need to do some thinking and that's best done over a pint.’
As the trio walked out through the door, Carter reached over and switched off the lights, plunging the room into darkness. ‘What am I missing?’ he thought, ‘what am I missing?’
******
Monday October 4th
Carter had already decided, the night before, that the first thing he would do would be to pay a visit to the library to see if he could discover more about Emma Saxon.
He felt the morning sun warm on his back as he strode purposefully along the busy High Street towards the library. It was only a three block walk from the police station. The old building, in George Street, once the home of the council chambers and administration, was just past the main shopping centre. It was a beautiful old, early Victorian building. The town’s administration was moved from there a few years earlier to a new glass and chrome three-storey site on the edge of town. Carter was not a lover of that new style of architecture. In his opinion, it just didn't fit in with the town’s older architecture. There had been a public outcry when council had first mooted the idea They’d planned to build it in the town centre. After much lobbying and partitioning, it was moved to its new location.
‘Hello, Bob.’
He was so deep in thought that he hadn't noticed he was walking past the Corner Cafe. He turned to see Christine Wilcox, standing in the open doorway.
He didn’t know why, but he felt like a shy schoolboy that had been caught doing something he shouldn't have.
‘Ah! Christine, sorry, I was miles away. Nice to see you. How are you?’
She smiled. ‘I'm fine thanks. Have you got time for coffee? You haven't been in lately?’
What he wanted to say came out all wrong. 'Oh, err, no. I haven't and, no, I haven't given up coffee. It's just that… well…err.’ He had trouble with the words. Nothing seemed to come out right. ‘It’s the investigation. Hardly had time to get out of the office. Have to do with the instant stuff. You know how it is?’ ‘Bugger! I should have phoned her,’ he thought. He felt awkward, lost for words and suddenly blurted out, ‘Sorry, but I have to go. I'll drop in the first chance I get.’
He turned away and walked quickly off. ‘You coward, Carter. So much for initiative. You had the perfect opportunity to ask her out and you blew it,’ he thought.
Christine Wilcox stood on the pavement and watched him walk away. She shook her head, smiled, then walked back inside the cafe.
As Carter walked past the bus stop he was thinking about her. ‘You need to stop being a total plonker,’ he told himself. ‘You're a big strong policeman. You've fought with hardened criminals. Get a grip, go on and just do it. She's a good-looking woman. Bob Carter,’ he said, out loud. ‘Stop playing silly buggers and ask her out. You know you want to. She won't bite.’
A woman, standing at the bus stop raised her eyebrows and gave him a quizzical look. He gave her a small, embarrassed smile, then quickened his pace.
A few minutes later he turned the corner into George Street only to be confronted by a group of chattering school children blocking his path. A lollipop lady in a long white coat and a cap far too large for her head walked out into the middle of the road.
Slamming his brakes on just in time, a lone cyclist came to a screeching halt. Like a flock of sheep, she shepherded the chattering hoard across the road. They all disappeared through the school gates.
She walked back to the pavement, allowing the grumbling cyclist to continue on his way.
Carter continued briskly up the street, across the library car park then, climbing the steps two at a time, he entered the building. He looked around for the main desk, saw a woman putting books on a shelf and walked over to her.
The name tag pinned to her ample bosom read, Millicent Evans. And under that it read, Head Librarian. Carter, as a boy, had always carried a mental picture of a female librarian in his head and what she should look like. Glasses, Tweed skirt, heavy brown brogue shoes with hair tied in a bun and a pencil protruding from it. Now here she was. Large as life and standing right there in front of him. The only thing he didn't bargain for was the Welsh accent.
‘As I said before, inspector. I'm sorry, but I just can't help you. I've only been here a week. I’m just replacing the poor departed Agatha Walters. God rest her soul.’
Carter vaguely remembered reading about her death in the local paper. Died of a heart attack or something like that.
‘Maybe one of the volunteers might be able to assist you with your inquiry. They would know more about her than I would. As you can see, it's just me here at the moment. We rely a lot on volunteers. The town council in all its wisdom has decided not to pay out for another full-time employee, so we have to rely on these helpers to come in on roster. Mind you, it's just as well I'm not rushed off my feet, because I haven't seen any of them yet. Maybe one of those might be able to assist you.’
‘Worth checking,’ thought Carter.
‘Can you give me a list of the names and addresses of those people please?’
‘Err. Now, that might take a bit of time,’ she said, looking over to the computer and pulling the pencil from her hair. ‘They must be in there somewhere.’
Reaching into his pocket he pulled out one of his cards and handed it to her. ‘I would appreciate it if, when you find it, you could let me have a list.’ He thanked her, then turned and went back to the exit and out into the foyer.
Walking back down the steps, he saw a van in the car park. It was parked by the notice that said, ‘Parking for Library Patrons Only.’ He noticed the driver's side window was down. The driver was nowhere to be seen.
As he drew level with the van, he looked inside and noticed the keys were still in the ignition. Shaking his head, he said. ‘How stupid can people be? God, it’s no wonder people get their bloody cars nicked.’
He took the keys from the ignition then, thinking the driver was inside the library, he turned and walked back towards the steps. He'd only gone a few paces when he suddenly turned and looked back at the van It was a green VW Caddy. He remembered what Janice Watkins had said at the briefing the other morning.
He walked from the car park and casually stood under a tree and looked towards the school just up the road. And there he was. A man stood next to the school gate looking through the railings. ‘He matches the description,’ thought Carter. Keeping the man in view, and not wanting to alert him, he went and sat on a bench inside the car park entrance, close to the van. He took out his mobile and called the control room. As Carter watched the man, he gave instructions to the controller. The man continually shifted his gaze from side to side, looking up and down the street as if expecting someone.
Carter checked his watch. He sat, waited and watched.
It took only a few minutes to get things in place then, simultaneously, two patrol cars entered the street from opposite ends. The man was so distracted talking to a little girl that didn't notice the first car until it was halfw
ay down the street. He turned and started to walk nonchalantly across the road, back towards his parked car. It was then that he spotted the other patrol car with PCs Hobson and Miller, coming from the other direction. The crew of Kilo Zulu Four were cruising slowly towards him along the street. The man realised what was happening and started to move a bit faster, then suddenly broke in to a run, across the tarmac, to his van. He opened the door and dived into the car just as PCs Cotton and Best pulled onto the kerb. They both got out of their car and started towards the van.
Carter was close enough to the van to see the look of sheer horror spread across the man's face as he realised his keys were missing. He was frantically rummaging in his pockets for them when Carter walked up to the driver’s window, keys held between his thumb and forefinger.
‘These what 'yer looking for, Tony?’ He paused, looking at the man. ‘You are Tony Grant, I take it? My name is Detective Chief Inspector Carter, Kingsport CID. And I must say how lucky you are that I came along and saw them in the ignition. There are some very untrustworthy people around here these days. Someone could easily 'ave nicked off with yer van. Isn't that right?’ he said, directing his question to PC Cotton, who had just joined him.
‘You’re dead right sir. There's villains around here that would nick yer granny's false teeth if they had half a chance,’ he said, as he dragged the protesting man from the van.
‘You got no right harassing innocent members of the public. I wasn't doing anything. I was just checking on my kid, making sure she wasn’t being bullied, that's all.’
‘Don't worry old son. We know all about you. Don’t we, PC Cotton?’ said Carter. You don't have kids. You're not even bloody married. Just be quiet and keep yer mouth shut. You’ll have your chance to speak back at the nick.’
‘Phew,’ said Cotton. He stepped away from the man. 'You stink.’
‘Looks like he's been kipping in the back,’ Tony Best said, opening the rear doors of the van and peering in.