The Waxwork Corpse: A legal thriller with a chilling twist (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 5)

by Simon Michael

  ‘Well, pet — Miss Sullivan? What’s it to be?’

  ‘I know he didn’t murder her,’ she replies, her voice firm.

  Carr nods, his face earnest, conveying that he’s ready, waiting, eager even, to believe anything she says.

  ‘I know, because he told me,’ says Jenny.

  She pauses, selecting and testing her words, seeking exactly the right ones to convey her account. More than once Carr opens his mouth to prompt her and each time he decides against it. Eventually she continues.

  ‘OK. He came to me. The day after she got back from her last trip with Roddy. I had never seen him in such a state. He’s always calm, controlled. He came to my room, late, and broke down. He said she’d come at him with a knife. He’d been forced to defend himself, and in doing so had killed her. Accidentally. You must believe me, inspector, because I know him!’ She stares Carr straight in the eye, beseeching, seeking confirmation that he believes her. ‘He would’ve been utterly incapable of killing her deliberately. He’d sat in the room with her for a whole day, trying to decide what to do.’

  She pauses again. Hook desperately wants to start taking notes — his open pocket book is on the table before him and he has a pencil in his hand — but his instinct tells him that if he moves or says anything he might break the spell and she could stop talking. A memory of something said during his training at Hendon comes back to him. An inspector was talking about interview technique.

  ‘Most often you have to prise the story out of them with a jemmy, and it comes out fractured and in pieces. Then it’s up to you to put it together. But sometimes the story comes out so fast and with such force that all you can do is get out of its way.’

  Inspector Carr puts his pencil down and sits back to listen.

  ‘Over the next six hours, until the next morning, we talked it back and forth. He picked up the telephone a dozen times to call you — the police — and each time he put the phone down again. It was the children! He’s a lawyer, through and through, he believes in it, his life is dedicated to it. He knew he should report the whole thing immediately, and the longer he left it, the worse it looked. But he’d seen mistakes made in the courts the whole time, and he was terrified you wouldn’t believe him. He kept coming back to the fact that she was an absolute bitch to him, and everyone knew it. He kept saying “I’ve prosecuted weaker cases, and won them”. Then what would happen to the children? They were so young. Stephen was about eleven, Charlotte six, and the baby only a few months. The thought of them going into an institution was just too much for him. He was so scared. I’ve never seen a man so distressed — it made me think of the Bible, you know? Renting his clothes and tearing his hair, it was like that — at his wits’ end. After hours, just as it was getting light, he decided. He shaved and bathed, put on a suit. He was going to drive to the police station.’

  Jenny lowers her head and seems unsure how to continue. The pause lengthens to a minute, then two. Carr takes a chance.

  ‘Why didn’t he?’ he asks, almost so softly that she doesn’t hear him.

  Her reply is almost whispered. ‘Because I persuaded him not to.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes. You see, I was frightened. I thought I was going to lose everything, him, the children, my home, everything I loved.’

  He nods, understanding.

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘That decided it for him. He told me to take the children away for three or four days, and everything would be fine when I got back.’

  ‘Did you go?’

  ‘Yes. To friends on the coast. We’d been there several times before for long weekends. They were fine about it.’

  ‘And that’s all. You did nothing else, just went away?’

  ‘He asked me to buy him some do-it-yourself things before I left, paint, wallpaper and so on, and I did that.’

  ‘What was it for?’

  ‘To redecorate, I suppose.’

  Silence descends on them once more.

  Now it is the inspector’s face that reveals a difficult internal debate. He shakes his head to himself, trying to reject the conclusion that forces itself on him. He wants to ignore it, to pretend he hasn’t heard the last answers, but he’s been a copper too long. Contrary to all his expectations, she’s crossed the line separating a witness from a suspect and he has no alternative. He stands and she gazes up at him. He sees relief in her eyes, relief that the truth is finally out. He also sees trust. Jenny Sullivan has trusted him with her most preciously guarded secret in the belief that doing so will help the man she loves.

  When Carr speaks he can’t meet her eyes. ‘Jennifer Sullivan: I have no alternative but to arrest you on suspicion of being an accessory after the fact contrary to common law. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t wish to do so, but anything you do say will be recorded and may be used against you in evidence. Do you understand?’

  CHAPTER 13

  Mikey McArthur opens the front door of the tiny cottage in Borrowdale, Cumberland. The usual aromas of stale cooking and faeces hit him between the eyes.

  ‘Hello?’ comes a tremulous voice from the front room. ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me,’ replies McArthur.

  ‘Hello?’ repeats the voice.

  ‘It’s me, you deaf old scarecrow,’ says McArthur, raising his voice impatiently.

  He bends to pick up the post delivered in his absence and flicks through the envelopes. All are addressed to “William McArthur”. Mikey drops most of them back to the floor, but one looks interesting, an official-looking window envelope. He slides a grubby forefinger under the gummed flap. It’s his father’s seaman’s pension, and McArthur smiles and pockets it.

  He walks to the door of the front room and looks in.

  ‘What did you say?’ asks the old man.

  William McArthur sits in his accustomed armchair next to the wireless. The stained seat, capable of taking its occupant’s bulk when he still weighed eighteen stone, now dwarfs him; he looks lost in it. Mikey reckons that his father must have shed over half his body weight in the last year alone. Can’t be long now, he thinks; the old geezer looks like a skeleton. On the small table next to the armchair is an empty plate bearing the crumbs of a long-eaten snack and a thermos flask, the lid off, apparently empty.

  William peers up at his son, a puzzled expectant expression on his face.

  ‘Remember me?’ asks Mikey.

  The sick old man’s brow wrinkles with effort, but whether he’s having trouble remembering his son’s name or just passing wind Mikey can’t tell.

  ‘Yeh, course I do. Where you been?’ Despite twenty years of living in the Lake District, William McArthur still speaks with a thick Cockney accent.

  Mikey ignores his father’s question. ‘Shat yourself again, I see,’ he says. The old man looks away, shamed but helpless. ‘Well I ain’t cleaning you up.’

  ‘Please, boy,’ pleads William. ‘I’ve been like this since last night.’

  Even with assistance William McArthur can no longer climb the steep and narrow stairs to his bedroom, so he now lives in the front room, being helped to the lavatory in the backyard and being washed down every day or so in the kitchen by the district nurse.

  ‘It’ll wait a couple of hours more, then. The nurse’ll be along before lunch.’

  Mikey turns to leave.

  ‘At least make us a cuppa,’ William asks. ‘I’m really parched.’

  ‘If I’ve got time before I go. But I’m busy; things to do, people to see.’

  ‘What? You’re off again? You ain’t been here for days! What you come back for at all, then?’

  ‘Mind your own fucking business,’ says Mikey, turning away.

  ‘You wouldn’t treat a dog the way you do me!’ quavers William, his voice rising.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ says Mikey over his shoulder. ‘Don’t much like dogs; can’t stand the whining,’ and he points at his father, laughing loudly at his own joke.

  ‘S
omeone’s gotta to teach you a bit of respect,’ says William, a long-ingrained reflex prompting him to reach for the leather belt that holds up his stinking trousers.

  Mikey turns back to his father with a sneer. ‘Yeah, well it ain’t gonna be you, is it? You can’t even raise that belt anymore can you, you old cripple?’

  He leaves the old man weeping with frustration and climbs the staircase to his father’s bedroom. There he opens all the drawers to the dressing table one after another, searching for something. Unsuccessful, he stands with his hands on his hips, scanning the other furniture in the room. He goes to the wardrobe, pulling back musty clothes and opening shoeboxes. Finally, he looks under the bed.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ he mutters to himself.

  He drags out a bound leather suitcase. It’s covered with ancient labels from all around the world, evidence of his father’s former life in the merchant marine: Rotterdam, Aden, Hong Kong — William McArthur has been everywhere. Mikey sits on the bed with the suitcase beside him. He blows off a thick covering of dust and loosens the frayed leather straps. Inside, alongside bundles of handwritten letters tied with string, his father’s war medals and other personal memorabilia, he finds what he’s looking for. He opens the old blue passport in his hands to check: yes! Staring up at him is his father’s photograph, taken when he was fit and healthy and still looked strikingly like Mikey does now. There’s a bonus, too: inside the back cover, folded for so long that the creases have browned, is William McArthur’s birth certificate. Mikey pockets both documents; you never know. One thing’s sure: William McArthur won’t be taking any more foreign holidays.

  Mikey throws everything else back into the suitcase, chucks it under the bed and thumps down the stairs, shutting the front door behind him and leaving the house without another word to his father.

  Three hours later, having cashed the pension cheque, Mikey steps, blinking, into bright afternoon sunshine outside Ladbrokes. He’d been counting on Lucky Strike, a supposed 10 – 1 dead cert at Southwell, the tip for which had itself cost five pounds, but the fucking nag came in fourth. So he’s back to square one.

  He sets off in search of a boozer to work out his next move. He walks through the Co-op car park, paying little attention to his surroundings, and is about to cross the road when a heavy hand lands on his left shoulder, a split second before another lands on the right. Before Mikey can react, a punch comes thundering into his left kidney which doubles him up.

  ‘Boss wants to see you, Mikey,’ says a man behind him and to his left.

  Mikey is now in his mid-fifties and a lot of his former muscle is now fat, but he’s still a big man with a bulldog neck and hands the size of plates. He also spent a lot of time keeping fit at HM Prison Durham on his last stretch, and he reckons he’s still quite handy. It was a decent punch but Mikey’s adrenaline is running fast, and he’s only momentarily aware of the pain. He takes his time to turn and straighten up, slightly more time than he actually needs, and by the time he’s upright he’s tensed, ready for flight or fight.

  Two men face him. The man who spoke, the one who presumably hit him, is six inches taller and probably twenty years younger than Mikey himself, and has the build of a weightlifter. His companion is about the same height, although Mikey notes that he is slimmer and a bit older. For a moment Mikey identifies him as the weaker link, but then he sees the flattened nose and the tangle of scar tissue over both eyebrows. This bloke was a boxer; maybe still is. Mikey relaxes, deciding that bullshit, rather than fists, are required to extricate himself this time.

  ‘But ’e gave us a week,’ protests Mikey. ‘And it’s only Friday.’

  ‘Yes,’ says the taller man with a grin, ‘but I’m taking tomorrow off, so it might as well be now. Anyway, where you going to get it before the morning?’

  After twenty years living up here, Mikey still finds the local accent almost impenetrable.

  ‘I’ve already got it, ain’t I?’ replies Mikey, smiling and doing his best to sound confident.

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘Every penny.’

  ‘Hand it over then,’ says the tall man, his hand outstretched.

  ‘It’s at me dad’s,’ explains Mikey. ‘You don’t think I’d bring that sort of money into a speiler, do you?’

  ‘A what?’

  Mikey jabs a thumb behind him. ‘Betting shop,’ he explains.

  ‘Right, then, let’s go.’

  Each of the men grabs one of Mikey’s jacket elbows and he’s spun round. They start marching him back across the car park.

  ‘No, no! That ain’t gonna work. It’d kill me dad.’

  Mikey drags the men to a halt.

  ‘Why’s that, then?’

  ‘’E’s got terminal cancer. Honest, ’e’s really sick; probably ain’t got more than another coupla days.’

  The two enforcers look at one another over Mikey’s head. The one who hasn’t spoken nods affirmation.

  ‘Fine,’ says the taller one, releasing his hold. ‘Bring it round the shop tomorrow morning. No later than ten.’

  ‘Easy.’

  The other man speaks for the first time. His accent is different, Yorkshire, guesses Mikey. ‘We know where you live, Mikey. If you aren’t there by ten tomorrow morning, I’ll be round straight away. And I’ll take the money out of you. And your dad.’

  ‘Got it.’

  The two men turn and leave Mikey in the car park being watched by an elderly couple loading shopping into the boot of their Austin 1100. Mikey waits for the thugs to disappear before retracing his steps.

  ‘Amateurs,’ chuckles Mikey under his breath.

  The district nurse is just walking back down the garden path as Mikey brushes past her. She smiles and starts saying something to him, presumably about his father, but he ignores her, opens the front door and slams it behind him. He runs up the stairs to the small box room, and throws everything worth taking into a holdall. Within ten minutes he is striding up the road towards the bus stop. He takes the first bus that arrives without worrying about its destination.

  CHAPTER 14

  Charles looks up and down the windswept platform of Seascale Station, Cumberland. It’s barely a station: two deserted platforms and a wind shelter surrounded by rusting chain-link fences, with an empty car park beyond. The sky is an uninterrupted blue, but the breeze off the beach is surprisingly cold for July. It whistles over a small terrace of houses, across the railway tracks and eastwards towards the lakes, threatening to take Charles’s trilby with it.

  Charles spins on the spot looking for assistance. Only a handful of others descended from the train, campers or hillwalkers to judge from their equipment, but all have disappeared, collected by friends or family or disappearing into the few waiting taxis. There’s no one else to be seen and no taxis now remain outside.

  ‘Where the fuck is he?’ he mutters under his breath.

  It’s been nine hours since he left Euston, with three changes, one delayed train and nothing but a cardboard sandwich courtesy of British Rail since breakfast. Dusk approaches, and Charles is not in the best of tempers. Jones insisted that he visit the locus in quo before the trial began. Charles sees no point; he has minutely studied roadmaps of every potential route that Steele might have taken from Kent via Somerset to Wasdale; ordnance survey maps of the area around the lake; dozens of photographs, even some of the underwater shots, for what they’re worth; and all the witness statements, with which he is now so familiar, he can almost recite them backwards.

  Furthermore, Wastwater was not actually the locus in quo. Charles has already been to the house in Kent where Lise Steele met her death, so there’s even less reason for him to travel to the far end of the country to see where her body ended up. However, when one’s instructing solicitor insists, on such a high-profile case as this — and one which will almost certainly lead to Charles’s name appearing in the list of new silks the following April as long as he doesn’t muck it up — discretion usually prevails.


  So, with as much graciousness as he could muster, he agreed to waste the best part of two days on trains, separated by a night in a local B&B, to satisfy the diminutive solicitor that every possible “I” had been dotted and “T” had been crossed before the trial.

  Charles hears a faint voice carried by the wind from the far end of the platform.

  ‘Charles!’ it repeats.

  Charles turns again and sees Jones, waving energetically. He lifts a hand in reply, hefts his overnight bag over one shoulder and, other hand clamped on his flighty hat, sets off down the platform.

  By the time they reach Wasdale Head in Jones’s rented car, night has fallen and Charles’s stomach is grumbling loudly. Jones changes his original plan of exploring the lake that evening and agrees to do it the following morning, even though rain is forecast.

  They check into the Wasdale Head Inn where Jones has booked rooms and just manage to order a meal from a surly local with a dislike of Londoners and Americans before the kitchen closes.

  Despite the fact that the hotel is seedy, run down and in need of renovation, the bar is packed with climbers, walkers and locals. The food is indifferent but Charles is so hungry that he clears his plate. He is relieved when Jones, who is not a natural conversationalist and with whom he has little in common, proposes retiring to his room. He leaves Charles in a corner of the bar enjoying the end of his pint of Hartley’s Ale, which provides the only pleasant surprise of the day. After a few minutes of eavesdropping drunken competitive accounts of near-death experiences from the fell-walkers around him, Charles also decides to turn in. He is unaware of being studied by a thickset man nursing a half pint of beer on the other side of the bar.