by Edward Figg
Reid turned to Best. 'Constable, show Mrs Harper out please.’
Reid was not too happy about the reference to the chief constable. It was a bit over the top, even for Tony Best, who was always known to be a bit of a comedian. Reid walked passed PC Best and slowly shook his head. Best just raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘It's not my fault. You did say come up with a good excuse.’
Taking the stairs two at a time and with a slight grin on his face, Reid headed back up to the CID office. As he pushed through the swing doors he thought that it was well worth the double whisky that Best had insisted on for participating in the little charade. He said that if it got out they would both be for the high jump. Reid felt guilty for doing it and involving PC Best. Mind you, it was Moaning Minnie. ‘I did have a lawful excuse,’ he told himself. ‘I'm sure everyone would understand, even a jury.’
He paused as he went through the door, thinking what Moaning Minnie Harper had said about the neighbour not having been seen for several days. That, plus the smell, meant it he had better check it out. He called across the room to where Dave Lynch was sorting through a pile of files.
‘Drop whatever you’re doing Dave, we're off out.’
‘Right Sarge. Where are we off to? Somewhere nice?’
‘Moaning Minnie's neighbour hasn't been seen for over a week. She said there was a bad smell coming from the place. We can't ignore that now, can we, Dave?’
As if already sensing the smell, Lynch had screwed up his nose. The was a touch of hesitation in his voice. ‘Oh OK. Look, can’t someone else go with you, Sarge?’ He indicated a heap of folders, ‘I got all this month’s crime reports to sort out for the DCI.’
‘You were all keen on going a second ago?’
‘Well, you know…?’
‘No, I don’t. Grab yer coat, you’re coming.’
Chapter 11
The three-storey block of flats, just off London Road, was showing its age. It was due for demolition next year and what tenants that were left, were to be rehoused in a newer part of the Morton Estate. The old redbrick building's façade had seen better days and had deteriorated badly over the years. Dark stains ran down the side of the wall from leaking gutters. On a window sill on the second storey, a pot with some white geraniums stood out against the red brick.
A group of six youths that were hanging about the parking area had clocked them straightaway. One spotty faced yob with long greasy, unkempt hair, was Sean Dawson, know to all as 'Shaggy’. He recognised Turner and started to make loud comments about the smell of bacon while the other five of his hoodie mates tried to make pig noises. 'Shaggy' Sean Dawson and his mate were no strangers to the inside of a police cell. All of them, at one time or another, had been charged with drug-related offences; mostly possession with intent to sell.
Baxter and Turner ignored their comments and walked past them, through the swing doors and into the building.
A notice attached to the crumbling plaster wall by the lift read, ‘Out of Order until further Notice,’ which meant, in council terms, that it was basically and totally stuffed and that they had no intention of repairing it.
Turner and Baxter had to slog their way up three flights of stairs to reach the floor where Harris lived.
The smell of boiled cabbage and stale urine drifted down to them. Sometimes the faint smell of disinfectant forced its way through. The higher they went, the stronger the smells.
They stopped on the second floor to catch their breath before attempting their upward climb.
‘There’s something to be said for living in a house,’ said Baxter, breathing heavily. ‘Amanda and I had a top floor flat when we first got married. It was too much for her, especially when she was expecting our first. The bloody lift was always packing up. It was out of order for weeks sometimes.’
They finally reached the level on which Harris lived. There were six flats on every floor. Every one of the doors was painted a drab olive green. Onto each door was screwed a little holder which held the name of its occupant. Four of the doors had no tags. Baxter guessed that those tenants had already been re-housed. They found Harris’s at the far end. Baxter knocked once. He knocked again and waited. No-one answered. He then banged on the door and rang the bell.
In answer to the banging, a head covered in curlers peered from around the door of the flat opposite. The head full of curlers was puffing on a cigarette that was hanging from the corner of her mouth. The mouth asked what all the commotion was about. Baxter walked over to the woman and read the name on the door.
Baxter said, ‘Sorry to have disturbed you, Mrs Greenstreet, but we’re looking for Mr Harris.’
‘Well by the sound of it he’s not there is ' e?’ she said, ‘otherwise he would have answered. So, stop your infernal banging and go away. My ‘ole man is on nights and he’s in bed, and he won’t take too kindly to you two waking ' im up’. She eyed them suspiciously. ’You the Old Bill?
Baxter just replied, ‘Do you know what time he’ll be home?’ Then as an afterthought, said, ‘does he have a job?’
‘I don’t know anything about him. 'E doesn’t speak to me and I don’t speak to ' im.’ She went into a coughing fit and dropped cigarette ash all down the front of her cardigan. She made it quite clear Harris was no concern of hers.
Huffing, puffing and coughing, the head full of curlers retreated back inside slamming the door in Baxter’s face.
He was left standing a cloud of swirling cigarette smoke.
Turner chuckled. ‘And that folks, was Puff, the magic-old-dragon. I don’t blame Harris for not wanting to talk to her,’ he said.
He turned, shrugged his shoulders at Baxter and popped his calling card through Harris's letter box.
They walked off down the hallway and headed back down the stairs to the ground floor, and out to their car. It was quite easy to find. It stood out quite well now because, in red paint, the words ‘Pigs’ had been sprayed across the back window and over the bonnet. Their car was the only one in the park. Technically there were two. The other sat on a bit of waste ground that doubled as a children’s play area but as that was just a burnt-out shell, stolen, dumped and set on fire some months ago, it really didn't count.
Turner’s eyes slowly scanned the car park. The whole place was deserted. There was no sign of Dawson or his cronies. There wasn't a soul to been seen but both of them knew there were eyes watching from behind some of the curtained windows.
‘Just fucking wait 'til I get my hands on that sodding little scrote,’ said Turner, still looking around the parking area.
‘Wankers,’ said Baxter, looking down at the bonnet.
They got into the car. Turner started the engine and drove out the car park, turned left onto London Road and headed back to Kent Street. Rather than display their work of art through the main shopping area, Turner decided to drive back through the side streets.
*******
Carter watched as Marcia Kirby stood sipping from her coffee mug. Kirby and Jill Richardson had not long returned.
‘So,’ said Carter, ‘Margaret Keane and Alice Wainwright. You get anything worthwhile from them?’
He looked at Jill Richardson then back to Kirby.
‘Nothing that would help? Nothing at all?’
Richardson looked up at him from her chair. Slowly shaking her head, she said, ‘Nope. Bugger all sir. All Keane kept banging on about was her trip to France. Her and the husband have just brought a house over there. She even told me the date they were going.’
Earlier, Baxter had told him about not finding Harris at home. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair. Baxter walked back over to where the three were talking.
‘OK,’ said Carter, let's go back and re-interview the parents, husband and boyfriend and see if any of our victims had spoken to them about any of the other helpers. This library has to be the link. I'm bloody sure of it. See if you can find this Harris fellow, check him out. This guy sounds weird.’
‘Both Keane
and Wainwright basically said the same thing. Keane called him spooky, Wainwright said he was just downright bloody creepy,’ Richardson said.
‘‘Moody’ was how Streeter described him. Copped a head wound in Afghanistan and was put out to pasture. Still plays him up apparently. Gets agitated easily. Mumbles to 'imself a lot as well. I get the impression he's a bit unstable,’ commented Baxter.
*******
The rain was drumming hard on the roof as Lynch pulled onto the kerb and parked the CID car in front of the detached bungalow on Broadstairs Avenue. The wipers were losing the battle to keep the screen clear of water. Anndrasdan's house, next door to moaning Minnie Minerva’s, was like all the rest on the avenue. They were the same style with a garage on one side. It was as though the developer had liked the first house so much he decided to clone the rest as a living monument to himself.
‘Anndrasdan is a Scots name. Its Anderson in our lingo,’ sighed Lynch, as he stared forlornly out at the torrential downpour.
‘I really needed to know that,’ said Reid, sarcastically.
‘Let’s give it a few minutes shall we Sarge? No point it getting soaked?’
After about ten minutes, the rain let up enough for the two of them to leave the car. Reid pushed opened the garden gate with Lynch trailing behind. They walked down the path and stood beneath the sheltered overhang of the front porch. The deluge that had greeted the pair on their arrival had now transformed itself into a heavy drizzle. Reid knocked hard on the door, waited, then bent down and peered through the letter box. He sniffed then straightened up.
‘She was right about the stench.’
He turned the doorknob. It was firmly locked.
‘Stay here and keep knocking,’ he told Lynch. ‘I'll have a shufti around the back.’
Lynch pulled up the collar of his raincoat and moved further under the shelter of the porch. ‘No sense in both of us getting wet,’ he thought.
The back of the house contained a well-kept lawn with a border on both sides of rose bushes and some other shrubs that Reid didn't recognise. He remembered seeing them in one of the many House and Garden magazines that Janice, his girlfriend, had on her coffee table. He wiped away the rain from the kitchen window and peered in. On the table, he saw a solitary cup and some dishes piled up on the draining board. He moved a little way along the path to the kitchen door and was about to turn the handle when he heard a noise from the inside. The door then suddenly flew open and to Reid's amazement, there stood Lynch.
‘Best come in Sarge before you get soaked,’ he said.
‘How the fuck did you get in?’ exclaimed Reid, bringing his hand up and brushing away a large rain drop from the end of his nose.
‘My old man was a locksmith. Best in Kent 'e was. In the trade, all his life. I learnt it all from him when I was growing up. I used to go out on jobs with him.’ He quickly defended his actions. ‘In a case like this I was quite justified in using these.’ He opened his hand to reveal a set of lock picks.
‘You should 'ave bloody well told me in the first place. Would 'ave saved me from pissing about out here in this bleedin' rain.’
‘Sorry Sarge.’ He paused, looked over his shoulder and said, ‘anyway, as you would have noticed by the delicate aroma, we do have a body. It's at the bottom of the stairs, and by the colour, it's been there some days.’
Reid pulled out two SOCO face masks from inside his coat and handed one to Lynch. ‘Lucky, I brought these. Had a feeling we’d need ' em.’ They put them on and went out of the kitchen, into the hall and over to the stairs. Reid pulled out a pair of nitrite gloves and put them on.
‘So,’ said Reid, casting an eye over the scene. The mask made his voice sound hollow. He pointed to a half empty whisky bottle that was lying a few feet from the body. ‘Going by that, I'd say he was pissed, tripped over that top step, fell arse over tip down the stairs and broke his bleedin' neck.’ He pointed up the stairs. ‘You can see that the stair rod has come loose. He's been lying here quite a while, poor sod.’
Lynch started to look pale. He moved towards the open door of the living room. ‘I'll see if there's anything in here about a next of kin.’
A few minutes later Reid walked in and joined Lynch in the living room. Reid was on his mobile speaking to Baxter.
‘Yes guv, most definitely an accident. I’ll need the doc to confirm death, not that it’s going to need much confirming.’ He listened, nodded a few times. ‘OK, thanks.’ He closed his phone and looked around the room. ‘Found anything?’
‘Yes, Sarge. Some letters here from his son. His name’s Andrew. The last one dated last week. Seems he works on the oil rigs. And here’s a phone book with the son’s address in it, Glasgow.’ He waved it in the air.
‘OK. When we get back,’ said Reid, ‘contact the local force up there. Get them to inform the son.’
‘I’ll set it in motion,’ he said.
Lynch could sense the smell seeping into his clothes. He felt its crawling fingers. He hated the smell of death. It had haunted him ever since he discovered his mother, dead in her room. He’d sat outside her open bedroom door, on his own, for three days after she had died. He was too young to understand what had happened. There was no father or siblings; he was an only child. His aunt was the one that found him, dirty and hungry. Lynch, at the time, was just six years old. He was brought up by his aunt and uncle.
Reid could see that much of the colour had left the Lynch’s face. His eyes were dull. He looked pale. Despite the mask, the smell had got to him.
‘You ok Dave? You look like crap.’
‘Nothing. I’m fine. I’ll get on to Glasgow.’
He pulled his phone from his pocket and walking swiftly, he went out of the living room, down the passage and out through the front door. He could, after all this time, still see his dead mother’s eyes staring back at him. He needed to get out of that house. He needed to escape from the memory. Standing out in the rain, he vomited.
It took just over an hour to finish up and for the deceased’s body to be taken away. Reid cleared up the mystery of the skirt and the large bag that moaning Minnie talked about. The man had belonged to Kingsport Scottish Highland Pipe Band. His kilt, still in the dry cleaner’s bag, was found upstairs with two sets of bagpipes, in the spare bedroom. There were also numerous pictures of him, in a photo album, dressed in his full regalia.
As Reid made his way back down the stairs he thought, ‘At least Moaning Minnie won't be bothering us with complaints about poor old Anndrasdan anymore. No doubt she'll find some other poor sod to moan about. Being full of whisky, at least the poor sod would ' ave died happy.’
He walked out pulling the front door shut behind him. He stood for a few moments in the porch and looked out at the still falling drizzle, turned up the collar of his raincoat and looked around for Lynch. He saw him, his face, now a better colour, was grinning back at him from inside the car.
‘What the hell have you got to smile about?’ He muttered.
His question was soon answered. It came in the form of a familiar voice. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
‘Ah. Sergeant Reid, there you are,’ she said, walking out from behind Anndrasdan’s garage. ‘Your colleague said, being the senior officer, you’d be the best one to deal with this. He explained he had to go to the car to make an urgent phone call. Told me I'd find you at the back of the house. I knocked on the back door. There was no answer. Anyway, here you are. I've found you now. I'd like to have a word with you. It's about the family in number eight…’
Reid looked towards the car and under his breath, said, ‘You bastard Lynch. You lousy, rotten bastard. Just you wait.’
*******
Christine Wilcox took a sip of wine and smiled at him from across the table.
‘Well, I must admit, Bob, your call did come out of the blue. It was unexpected but a very nice surprise,’ she smiled again.
'Yes, sorry Chris, but I did try to call you sometime back. Hon
est I did, but I got side-tracked and then one thing led to another… you know how these things are,’ he said. He raised his eyebrows, smiled and held his hand out, palms up, hoping she would understand.
Before coming to the restaurant he’d been nervous and apprehensive, but being with her had a calming effect on him. He felt happy and contented. It was something he had not felt for a very long time.
He then remembered leaving her café after breakfast that time a few weeks earlier. He felt the same relaxed feeling then, as he did now.
‘I started dialling, got to the very last digit and got interrupted by the job. Glad I got to use all the numbers this time.’ He felt that the evening was going well considering. This was the first time, since his wife’s death six years ago, that he had been out with a woman. He picked up his glass of wine. ‘Cheers.’
The Chinese restaurant had not long opened and according to the Reid, it was ten out of ten for food and service. The place was lively and full of chatter. Chinese music played softly in the background. Over the first course she told him all about her business and how it had been left to her in her aunt’s will.
Carter told her all about the cottage he lived in and explained how he had lost his wife to cancer. She listened quietly and then spoke with a sympathetic voice.
‘You must miss her. She sounds like she was loving, caring, type of person.’
‘It's been six years. Yes, I do miss her, but now, as they say, I have moved on.’ He paused and looked into his wine glass. Memories from the past came flooding back.
She smiled and seeing the hurt in his eyes, changed the subject.
‘How did you hear about this place?’ she said, looking around at all the lanterns hanging from the ceiling and the two large ornate dragons standing guard by the front door.
‘The recommendation came from my sergeant, Mike Reid. He has a nose for good food. He often brings Emma here. That’s his intended. I think he said he’d like to hold his reception here when they get married next year. He fancies himself as a bit of a food critic,’ he laughed. ‘Must admit though, he was right. It's a nice place.’