by Edward Figg
‘Ah, yes. Sergeant Reid.’ He came with you when you interviewed me. He seemed a nice fellow. Good looking too.’
‘For God’s sake, don’t let him hear you say that,’ he smiled, ‘there’d be no living with him.’
She lifted a hand and smoothed her hair down and said. 'Speaking of which, and if you don't mind me asking, have you made any progress with the investigation?’
Carter didn't want to admit that things weren’t going too well.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I shouldn't have asked.’
There was a brief hesitation before he answered. ‘No, that's OK. We do have some good lines of enquiry. We’re still following up on them,’ he said.
‘We closed the café the day of her funeral. All the staff went.’
‘Yes. I saw you.’
She looked surprised, frowned, and said, ‘I never saw you.’
‘No, we kept a low profile. Stayed back, well out of sight.’
‘Ah, I see. You hoped that whoever killed her might turn up.’
‘It has been known. Some murderers do that. There was a recent case of it happening in America.’
She looked at her watch. ‘I think it’s time I was off. I do have to be up at five.’
Carter stood up and helped her on with her coat and then went over to pay the bill.
It was a clear night and every star in the heavens shone down on them when they left the restaurant. The street lights reflected back from the wet pavement as they walked along. It was only a short distance from Kent Street to her flat and to the restaurant so he had left is car at the station and walked to the flat to pick her up. The town clock was striking ten as they made their way back to her flat on the High Street. The town was quiet. It looked as if Kingsport had decided to have an early night. There was very little traffic.
At the side door that led to her flat she stopped. Standing on tiptoe she kissed him lightly on his cheek.
‘Thank you for a lovely evening Bob. I enjoyed every minute of it. Next time it's my treat. How about a home cooked dinner here?’ she asked.
‘Can't wait,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘I'll bring the wine.’
She turned, opened the door and went in.
Carter stood looking at the closed door for what seemed an age then turned and walked down the street whistling.
*******
Wednesday October 6th
Jill Richardson noticed it the moment Carter walked into the CID area that morning. He had a spring in his step. He looked strangely younger. When he walked past her she caught a few bars of the song he was humming. John Paul Young's Love is in the air. He stopped humming long enough to say good morning to them all then continued humming his way to his office. He went in and closed the door.
She leaned over and spoke to Marcia Kirby.
‘The boss seems happy this morning.’
Kirby made no comment, just shrugged her shoulders and carried on writing up her activity report from the day before.
Carter came back a few minutes later. ‘Jill, please take this over to Mark Wilson. It was Maureen Newman's.' He handed her the phone book he'd taken while searching her house. ‘I've already spoken to Wilson. He'll be home this morning. Take Luke with you. The fresh air will do him good.’
‘Yes sir.’ She looked around for DC Luke Hollingsworth. ‘Anyone seen Luke?’
Bill Turner looked up from his desk. ‘Yeah, said he was going down to the canteen.’
‘I might have guessed.’ She shook her head. ‘That man never stops eating. Ok, I'll grab 'im on the way out.’
Carter went back to his office. The phone rang the moment he stepped in. He picked it up.
‘DCI Carter.’
‘Inspector? It's Tim Bryant. Sorry about this, but there was a bit of a cock-up with the Connor forensics.’ Carter immediately heard the embarrassed tone in his voice. ‘One of my lads lifted some blood from the downstairs toilet. I’m afraid it got misdirected. Sent off to the wrong department.’
‘Bloody hell! How did that happen?’
‘As I said before, I’m sorry, it was an admin error.’ Trying to make light of it he said, ‘If you’ll excuse the pun, it got sent to the wrong bloody department. You know, as in blood, bloody?’ He paused hoping for a laugh but Carter was not the mood. Bryant continued. ‘To cut a long story short, we got it back yesterday. We’ve just finished running tests on it. It’s not hers. It's not the dead girl's. The DNA does not match anything on our database.’
His voiced annoyed, Carter replied. ’OK, right.’ A brief silence. ‘Just as well we weren’t bloody waiting on it. That kind of cock-up could make or break a case. We can’t afford to have that kind of thing happening. I hope someone got their arse kicked. OK, thanks Tim.’ He put the phone down and sighed.
******
Jill Richardson caught Hollingsworth as he was attempting to push his way through the swing doors of the canteen. He came through, a Mars Bar protruding from the top pocket of his jacket. He waved a half-eaten bacon butty at her.
‘Hi Jill. Running late. Missed breakfast. You after something too?’ He took a bite from his butty and in the process, managed to dribble brown sauce all down his chin.
‘No, I haven’t come here in search of food. Just you. We have to run a little errand for the boss.’ She patted her handbag which contained the phone book. He wants us to take Newman’s phone book back.’ She looked at the sauce on his chin. ‘Geez Luke. You’re such a slob. Come on, clean yourself up and let's get moving.’
He brought his hand to his chin and wiped away the sauce with a finger. He momentarily stared at the brown blob on his finger then licked it clean.
‘There's no harm in enjoying food. Let's go,' he said, chewing the last of his butty. As he followed her across the car park he started unwrapping the Mars Bar.
‘You're the closest thing to a human garbage disposal I've ever seen,’ she said, opening the car door. You don't even put on weight… geez how do you manage it?’
He smiled and slid behind the wheel.
They cleared the High Street and headed out to the Morton Estate. The traffic was light and it wasn't long before they were driving past rows of houses all the same. The designer of these little boxes had little imagination when it came to looks and presentation. As Hollingsworth watched them go by, it brought to mind the words of a song he’d once heard on the radio when he was younger. He started to sing. ‘Little boxes on a hillside, little boxes made of ticky tacky, little boxes all the same’.
Richardson gave him a sideways glance, shook her head, then went back to staring out of the windscreen.
‘This sums up this whole estate,’ he thought as he braked and turned into the cul-de-sac. He was surprised to see a different style of housing. Someone had broken the mould. These detached red-bricked houses in Devon Court looked quite upmarket. He brought the car to a halt outside number twenty-two.
There was a man leaning against the garden gate talking to an old lady leaning on a wheelie walker on the footpath.
They got out of the car and walked over. ‘Mr Mark Wilson?’ said Richardson.
‘Yes,’ he replied.
She held out her warrant card. ‘I'm Detective Constable Jill Richardson and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Luke Hollingsworth. I believe Chief Inspector Carter has already been in touch with you about returning this to you?’ She dug in her handbag and produced the phone book. She handed it to him.
He looked at it. ‘Yes, he did, thank you.’ He smiled at her, looked at Luke Hollingsworth and asked. ‘Is there any news? Are you any closer to catching the bastard?’ Suddenly remembering the old lady standing next to him, he turned to her and said, ‘Sorry, Mrs Prior, didn't mean to swear.’ He gave her an embarrassed smile.
‘We are making progress Mr Wilson,’ said Richardson.
‘You have every right to curse and swear. It's tragic. You have suffered a terrible loss,’ said the old lady. She turned back and addressed Richardson. ‘I remember
the day you lot came around asking me questions. I wish I could have been more helpful. Not that I saw anything. My eyesight isn't up to much these days, you understand? All I saw was the postman the milkman and that fellow from the library. Told me he was doing some sort of a survey for them. Bit late in the day for that if you ask me. Anyway, maybe I'm wrong but I thought the library was shut on Tuesdays.’
‘Maybe he was on overtime,’ suggested Hollingsworth.
‘Never asked me if I wanted to do his survey and me a bleedin' member,’ she said, indignantly.
‘A bit late in the day, you say? And you told all this to one of our officers at the time, did you Mrs Prior?’
‘Yes dearie. I think I did. I can’t be sure. Sometimes I’m a bit forgetful.’
‘What time did you see this man?’
‘Early evening.’
Richardson sensed something. ‘How early?’
‘My memory’s not what it used to be.’ She screwed up her face in concentration. ‘But I think, maybe, it could have been about six o'clock. I think I was out in my front garden watering me pot plants.’
‘Are you sure about the time?’
‘Umm, yes, I’m sure it was. I think?’
‘Strange.’ said Richardson, looking directly at Hollingsworth. ‘Why didn't anyone pick that up in her statement?’ Had they missed it? ‘OK. Thank you, err… sorry, what was your first name?’
‘Alice, Alice Prior duckie.’ She pointed. ‘I live over there.’ She smiled. Clicked her fingers and said triumphantly. ‘Harris! Mr Harris. Yes, that's the feller's name. It was 'im that was doing the survey. Harris. I knew it would come to me in the end.’ So pleased was she at remembering that she repeated his name a few more times then said goodbye. With one of the wheels squeaking noisily, she pushed her walker across the road.
Standing by the car a few minutes later, Jill Richardson looked up and down the street thinking.
‘Listen, Luke, I’ve got an idea. There's only ten houses. This won't take too long.’ She set about explaining what she had in mind.
He nodded his head, pondered it for a second or two, then, looking at his watch, suggested hopefully, ‘Can't we do this after lunch Jill? I door knock much better on a full stomach.’
‘We do it now. Your stomach can wait. You take this side. I'll do that side,’ she said, ‘The sooner it's done the sooner you can feed, and if my theory turns out to be right, I'll even buy you lunch at KFC.’
‘Large chips?’
‘Yes.’
‘And a coke?’ he said hopefully.
She moved forward until her toes almost touched his. Only inches from his face, she slowly shook her head, poked her finger into his chest and said, ‘Luke, don't push yer luck.’
He gave a naughty smile, shrugged his shoulders and stepped backwards. ‘No harm in trying.’
He knocked on the door of the first house and turned to see if Jill Richardson was doing the same. He raised his hand and gave her a casual wave and thought, ‘maybe I’d ‘ave stood a better chance of a coke if I’d ‘ave gone for small chips instead?
*******
Jill Richardson drove into one of the four parking bays marked 'CID Only.’ She switched off the engine and unclipped her seat belt. She adjusted the rear-view mirror, checked her face and patted the side of her hair.
'Make sure you get rid of that empty KFC box Luke. Don't leave it under the seat. It smells bad enough in here already. You men are such messy pigs?'
Hollingsworth didn't reply. He let out a sigh, bent forward and came to an abrupt halt. He realised he'd forgotten to release his seat belt. After setting himself free, and a few choice words, he rummaged under the seat. He came out with the empty box plus three old crisp packets, a two-day old copy of the Kent Messenger and a half-eaten hamburger covered in green hairy stuff.
Richardson shuddered at the thought of what could be lurking under her seat. She thought about looking but immediately gave up the idea, got out and slammed the door. No hairy surprises for her. No sirree. ‘What lays there, stays there,’ she decided.
‘This was the one that went missing from my desk the other day,’ he said, opening up the newspaper. ‘See?’ He stabbed his finger at the page. ‘I ringed this ad for a flat for rent. Just you wait 'till I find out who used this car last. They'll get a bleeding earful. If things aren't safe in the nick where are they bloody safe?’ he chortled.
‘Luke, get over it, it's only a blasted newspaper.’
‘It's the principle of the thing. They got no right to nick another person’s property. Some people have no blasted respect.’ As he passed by the rubbish bin, he threw the whole lot in. It just added to an already overflowing heap of fly infested, empty takeaway cartons. Most bore the name of the nearby Indian restaurant. It was the staple diet of the station when on night shift, whereas the day shift tended to go more for bacon butties.
They went straight in and sorted through the original statements from the door-to-door enquiries in Devon Court. After finding what they wanted and armed with the evidence, they sought out Carter. Tapping on his door, they went in. He looked up as they entered.
‘Jill, Luke. What is it?’ he leant back in his chair.
‘The thing is, sir,’ she said, ‘we’ve been talking to one of the residents from Devon Court. A Mrs Prior and she told us something that we’ve just checked on. We went through the statement made by Mrs Prior during the door-to-door after Newman’s death. In it, she made no mention of the time she saw this man doing the survey. She told us that he didn't include her in the survey even though she was a member. She thought it strange. Anyway, I checked with the PC who took her statement and he remembered her, and was adamant that she did not state what time she saw this man. She told us her memory was not up to scratch so maybe she just forgot to mention what time she saw him.
Luke and I then went and talked to some of her neighbours and lo and behold nobody remembered being surveyed by the library that day or any other day, if it comes to that. Well, she suddenly remembered his name. It was Harris, and she said she saw him out in the street at six that evening.’
‘That’s exactly what she said to us sir. There’s nothing in her original statement about the name or the time she saw him,’ confirmed Hollingsworth.
‘Well that puts a different light on things.’ It was then that Carter suddenly remembered the library survey form he'd seen on Newman's coffee table. ‘I want this Harris fellow brought in.’ He looked at the pair of them then glanced at his watch. He got up, walked around the desk and over to the door. He called to Baxter and Reid.
When they came in, he said, ‘Jill and Luke here have just come up with a potential lead in the Newman case.’ He got Jill Richardson to tell them what she’d discovered.
After she’d finished explaining, Carter said, 'So, Ted and Mike, take uniform with you and bring our friend Harris in for a chat. If he's not at home, try the library. He could well be there.’
******
‘Right,’ said Baxter, as PC Mike Cotton drove them out of the yard. ‘Let's start with the library first. It's closer.’
Cotton turned left and drove a few hundred yards along the road then took another left and headed down the High Street. There was very little traffic at that time of day. He sped across the Market Square intersection narrowly missing a well-known local character who suddenly stepped off the pavement. She was pushing a pram filled with her worldly possessions. Cotton gave a blast of his horn, ‘Bloody 'ell Maggie, for Christ’s sake watch where 'yer going.’ Cotton glanced briefly into the rear-view mirror just in time to see the old bag lady shake her fist at him then stick up her middle finger. He turned to Baxter. ‘Bout time the council put that silly old bat in a home for good. She lives in cardboard box under the bridge. She hates the welfare people, won't have a bar of them. Thinks they all want to nick her stuff. They take her in sometimes, feed her, clean her up, but the very then next day she’s back in Bridge Cottage.’
Baxter turned in h
is seat and, frowning, said to Cotton, ‘Bridge Cottage? Can’t say I’m familiar with it.’
‘It’s what a few of the homeless call it, sir. It’s the arches of the viaduct up by Green Hills Estate. It’s where they doss down some nights. This time of the year, it’s sheltered and out of the weather.’
‘Right.’ Baxter nodded, turned and continued staring out through the windscreen.
They continued the rest of the journey in silence.
At the library, Reid, got out and went in to talk to the librarian, Millicent Evans.
She shook her head. ‘No, sorry, Sergeant, but George Harris is not here today. He did come in about two days ago, not to work, mind you, but to pick up some books he'd reserved. He left without saying a word.’ She again shook her head, but this time in wonderment. ‘Strange fellow that. Very strange.’
Reid thanked her, then went back out to the car.
As they drove out of the library car park, Reid leaned forward from the back seat, and spoke to Baxter. ‘London Road is only a five-minute drive to where Harris lives. Do you think we should go back to the nick and get a warrant, Guv? Yer know… just in case?’
‘No. We're not going in mob-handed. We just want to invite him back for a talk. Plain and simple.’
A few minutes later, PC Cotton pulled into the parking area of the flats and all three got out. Baxter looked up at the three-storey building and, remembering their last visit, said to PC Cotton. ‘You stay here with the car. We don't want any more repaints.’ The pair walked off leaving Cotton guarding the car.
The last time Baxter came here looking for Harris, he remembered that the lift was out of action. This time he noticed that the lift doors were open but somebody - no doubt the council - had replaced the push button controller box with a blank piece of metal. The lift was permanently out of action. The only thing that had not changed was the smell of boiled cabbages. Its presence permeated the air. It seeped out from the very pores of the building.