Roadrage

by M J Johnson

  Rowe opened his door and stepped out.

  Gil took in a deep draught of the freezing night air; its icy sharpness drove a note of clarity back to his mind. "I need you to see something," he gasped.

  38

  Mullings and Jackson came out of Gil's house and crossed the driveway. They didn't speak until they were seated in an unmarked car that was parked along the street. It was 9.50 am on Monday.

  Mullings took the passenger seat. He had a reputation amongst colleagues for being a dogged and thorough investigator. Many believed he might have gone far higher in the force but for a refusal to get involved with internal politics and the fact that he lacked the honeyed tongue of a self-promoter. In a crowd he was more likely to be mistaken for a bank manager than a policeman with long experience in the world of violent crime. Beyond work, he was father to three children, painted watercolour landscapes as a hobby, shared an interest in gardening with his wife Joy, and attended church on Sundays.

  DI Jackson had little in common with his senior officer. The younger man was very keen to get on, was unmarried and had so far ruthlessly extricated himself from any relationship that competed with career. He worked out regularly, was at the peak of physical fitness, and enjoyed a spectacularly hectic sex life with girls who always looked like models. Despite a tendency to personal vanity, he was no fool; he recognised Mullings as an excellent policeman and was glad of the opportunity to learn from him. Jackson had a degree in criminal psychology. Despite having been partnered together for almost three years, Jackson didn't have a clue what Mullings really thought of him.

  The two detectives sat with their thoughts for a few moments before Jackson broke the silence, "The first thing that struck me was how awkward it was, uncoordinated … like it was written with the hand they don't normally use."

  "I wondered that too," replied Mullings.

  "It's feasible of course that it was Harper himself."

  "To make us think someone else is behind it?"

  "It's possible."

  "Harper didn't kill Chilvers," said Mullings.

  "Yes, but he and his girlfriend may have arranged for someone else to do the killing. It's been done before."

  Mullings nodded, "Find a handwriting expert, get samples from Harper and Miss Curtis."

  Jackson made a note.

  "I want Harper watched round the clock," said Mullings.

  Jackson exhaled audibly, "We'll be popular. We're short-staffed as it is!"

  "I don't care. It's essential Harper is watched at all times."

  "You think he may not be as innocent as he claims?"

  "Oh," replied Mullings with a note of surprise in his voice, "I don't know what to make of him yet, David." Mullings was the only person who ever referred to Jackson as David, the rest of the world called him Dave. "Harper is either an ice-cold manipulator, capable of organising a murder, or else a man badly in need of our protection."

  "What about his late wife? Could there be any link to her?" suggested Jackson.

  "We know she died in an accident … certainly worth looking into. Whoever defaced her portrait certainly wanted us to believe it was personal."

  "The choice of word was significant … Jules … they were letting us know they'd accessed Harper's diary."

  "Which Harper would undoubtedly want us to believe if he was behind it!"

  "What about CCTV footage?"

  Mullings nodded at his young colleague, "You mean the people-carrier last night? Good idea. Get any footage from Sevenoaks town centre round the times Harper mentioned."

  Jackson quickly made a note; he didn't look up as he said, "I was thinking about Christmas Day, the stuff Harper told us about ... being baited by another car … might be worth looking into?"

  "Definitely."

  39

  While DI Jackson went off to set these lines of inquiry in motion, Mullings remained on site. His first job was to discuss their findings with forensics.

  "Anything more about the paint-pot?" he asked.

  The head of the forensic team was sitting opposite him in the MIR.

  "Dozens of prints all over it, unfortunately nothing we've been able to match up. The majority probably belong to stock handlers in the delivery chain."

  "No help there then," said Mullings, "What about the car?"

  The forensic man shook his head, "Still nothing," he replied.

  "Nothing?" echoed Mullings, giving the word nothing extra emphasis.

  "Whoever was behind the wheel took no chances. I reckon whoever did it must have been kitted out like one of my team when they enter a crime scene. They left no trace of themselves … had to be wearing some kind of suit and a mask."

  "Has Harper's office revealed anything?" Mullings' tone contained a note of despondency. He was getting used to there being no leads in this case.

  "So far, same as the car."

  "Predictable," said Mullings. "Have the IT people looked at the computer yet?"

  The forensic man flipped over a page on the clip-board before him, "Everything on the hard disk was copied over two consecutive days, Monday the twelfth of January at 1.12 pm and Tuesday the thirteenth at 1.37 pm."

  "They broke in twice?" asked Mullings in disbelief.

  "On the first occasion everything was copied except for one personal file that required a password."

  "The diary," nodded Mullings.

  40

  The forensic people were still at work in Gil's office and had started on the attic.

  Sally rang around ten.

  Inevitably, their conversation led on to the hit and run. "When I think how Michael died it makes me go cold," she admitted.

  "It's bound to be a shock," replied Gil.

  "But at least I can immerse myself in work," she admitted, "I feel guilty that I'm not there with you … you're the one suffering most, getting interviewed by the police … your car stolen, and then used …" she broke off.

  Gil had decided not to tell her about Jules' portrait; it seemed unfair, she was already concerned about him and stressed out because of her enormous workload. It was also the final week of preparations in London before the whole company moved to Manchester for the production week.

  "I told Megan not to come in today," said Gil, "but we're going to take the dogs for a walk together. Afterwards I'll drop by to see the Paddicks. They've left several messages on my answerphone.'"

  "If you can't work, why don't you come up here for a few days?" she suggested.

  "I'd only be in the way. You've got plenty on without having me moping about! I mean, what would I do?"

  "You could go sight-seeing?" she retorted.

  Gil imagined her making this remark with the kind of throw-away, deadpan delivery he'd grown to love about her. He laughed.

  "P'rhaps not then," she said.

  41

  After they had walked the dogs, Megan suggested a pub lunch. Gil jumped at the opportunity to avoid going home. Again he decided not to mention the portrait; he felt Megan, living alone, might be unsettled by it. After lunch he visited Sue Paddick; it was her half day, Nigel and the Valkyrie were still at school. He filled her in on what had happened after he'd left the party; again, omitting Jules' picture; no good excuse this time, just a reluctance to talk about it.

  He got back to his house around six and was pleased to discover the MIR already gone. By the time Mullings and Jackson called by around 6.45 pm the last of the forensic vehicles was leaving and the house and its environs were silently familiar again.

  Mullings and Jackson accepted coffee.

  "Still no thoughts regarding anyone who might hold a grudge against you?" asked Mullings.

  "No … not really."

  Mullings and Jackson both pounced on the note of hesitancy, "Not really?" they asked in unison.

  Gil looked apologetically down at his coffee, "I wondered, when I saw the word 'Jules' … whether it had something to do with the accident?"

  "Your wife's accident?" interjected Jackson.
>
  Gil looked up, something in the way Jackson said it suggested he was already aware of the circumstances.

  "The only person I can think of is Geoff Owens."

  "Why do you think Mr Owens might be involved?" asked Mullings.

  "I don't. You asked if anyone bore me a grudge … when I saw the portrait defaced, I thought of the accident, that's all."

  "You think Mr Owens might blame you for what happened?" inquired Jackson.

  "I heard he suffered a breakdown after the accident. His wife killed herself. The driving ban cost him his livelihood. I didn't cause his problems, but I know about feelings of guilt and remorse. I've relived that accident many times … I've no doubt Geoff Owens has too."

  "I'm sure he has," agreed Mullings sympathetically, "We'll certainly make enquiries about Mr Owens' whereabouts on Saturday evening, and last night."

  "Last night?" asked Gil.

  "We found CCTV footage from Sevenoaks High Street … a Ford Galaxy at the time you described. We got its number plate."

  Gil looked optimistically at the two policemen.

  Mullings went on, "Unfortunately, the vehicle registration was under a false name. Let's hope he drives it again!"

  "You think he might not?" asked Gil.

  "Whoever it is has been very careful. You thought you'd seen the vehicle before, but it was only last night you really noted it. Perhaps because they wanted you to."

  Gil looked horrified by the suggestion.

  "We've uncovered motorway footage from Christmas Day too," put in Jackson. "We have a recording of a car backing up on the M25, then following you into the Clacket Lane Services."

  "What?" asked an incredulous Gil.

  "The car was reported stolen after the Christmas holidays. Its owner had been on a family holiday to Goa. It was taken from outside their home in Winchester, and discovered in early January burnt-out and abandoned in woodland near Watford."

  "North of London?"

  Mullings nodded, "We're dealing with someone who is being very careful."

  42

  Gil's views about his personal safety had undergone something of a sea-change. He started to sleep badly, to wake up feeling sick with anxiety and drenched in sweat. He found this depressing, as if he'd regressed to the bad days immediately following the crash. And he began to feel nervous and uncomfortable in the company of strangers.

  It seemed incongruous, almost absurd, to feel frightened here; after all, this was Sevenoaks, where conservatories were multitudinous and garages generally double. He had always gone about his daily business secure in the world that surrounded him; he hadn't experienced a situation that felt edgy or dangerous in years.

  Gil contacted the firm that had installed the burglar alarm and asked them to review his security system. In light of what had happened, this amounted to changing the locks on the external doors and windows and upgrading the alarm itself.

  Although he possessed an inbuilt aversion to them, he even considered having security gates installed, thereby converting his discreet home into something akin to a fortress. It was only when he found himself trying to calculate exactly how high a gate would need to be to provide absolute safety that he finally dropped the idea. He did however agree to cameras.

  Gil also had new computers installed for himself and Megan. These were in fact long overdue. For the very first time, passwords were introduced for logging on. The old easily-remembered, easily-breached password which had accessed his diary was changed to an unrelated set of numbers and letters in higher and lower case. The only things unchanged were his email addresses and the domain name to his website.

  The effort of making these changes was beneficial inasmuch as it took his mind off events and at least gave him a sense of being in control. The only thing he procrastinated over was buying a new car. His old one was being held indefinitely as physical evidence by Kent Police, and even if repairable, there was no way Gil could ever drive a car that had extinguished someone's life.

  Over the course of the next eight days he overhauled everything: changed bank accounts, credit cards and altered his pin numbers. No sooner had the police left than a small army of tradesmen began to stomp through his home. There was no point attempting any creative work, and he told Megan not to come in until everything had been completed. He was glad she was keeping Spike, although it was quiet without him, but the little chap would have loathed the disruption. Gil went for a daily walk with Megan and the three dogs. Spike seemed content and didn't go in too much for guilt-tripping him. Each day he took Megan for a pub lunch after the walk, when any necessary business was discussed.

  He put on a brave face, but anyone who knew Gil could tell he was troubled. After the police left there had been some hassle from newspaper reporters. A brief statement was read out by his agent, Patrick Small. This had been suggested and crafted by Patrick to help dampen speculation. Basically, it stated that Gil's car had been taken on the night in question, without his consent or knowledge.

  43

  "Any more trouble from the news people?" Megan asked as she perused the pub menu.

  "Not since Patrick read the statement Friday morning," replied Gil. Over a week had elapsed since Michael's death. "What about you?" he asked.

  "Oh, you know," she said with a dry laugh, "They try. I expect they imagine an elderly woman living alone might be a soft target for their journalistic probing."

  Gil gave a broad laugh, "Bad mistake!"

  "Indubitably," she agreed wryly. Megan continued to watch Gil as he took a sip of beer. He looked pale and unusually haggard. "How are you sleeping?" she asked with concern in her voice.

  Gil shrugged, "Oh, okay."

  "I take that as meaning badly," she retorted, "Not surprising, is it? I'm not sleeping well either. I can only imagine the strain you must be under, Sally too. How did her move to Manchester go?"

  "Fine I think. She was disappointed I didn't get to see her before she went … but I've had so much going on … alarms, computers. We speak every day. She says working flat out helps keep her mind from dwelling on stuff. She says her friends have been brilliant. I've been lucky in that department myself," said Gil, briefly patting a hand on Megan's arm.

  "When this is over, you and Sally must take a holiday."

  "We'd planned to go to the cottage once the opera opened in London."

  Megan had to think for a moment, "Do you mean your cottage in Wales?"

  "Near Llangrannog, yes."

  "I didn't realise you still had it."

  "I haven't been there since before Jules died."

  Megan nodded in approval, "What a good idea. Get away from it all!"

  "I guess it won't happen now, not unless the police can wrap things up … get Chilvers' killer."

  "Oh well," commiserated Megan, "I'm sure you'll get there later on."

  44

  By the end of Wednesday the security improvements had been fully implemented and Gil had the house to himself again. On Thursday he took a cab to Megan's earlier than on previous days. They walked the dogs as usual, then Megan drove him to a restaurant a few miles from Felix and Kate's oast where they had arranged to meet up with Patrick Small, Felix and Gil's agent. This was a long-postponed meeting to discuss arrangements for their forthcoming tour of North America.

  Felix was his usual affable self, despite retaining the remnants of a cold. His eyes had a rheuminess about them and he occasionally suffered a mild coughing fit; in spite of this, he entertained the group for half an hour after lunch by recounting jokes sent to him by child fans.

  "I received this one from a little girl," began Felix, surfing along on a wave of laughter, "A girl goes to see the doctor. She has a carrot sticking out of one ear, a stick of celery in the other, and a radish poking out of her nose. She says, 'I haven't been feeling very well.' The doctor says, 'I can see straightaway what's wrong with you … you're not eating properly!'"

  This joke, undoubtedly aided by red wine, evoked a massive laugh. Poor Felix
went a purplish-red when his laughter turned to coughing. This brought Kate in to remonstrate with him, "You'll end up in bed again if you're not careful."

  Felix, appearing chastened, looked over at Gil and winked impishly. However, Kate's intervention prompted them to get down to business, and the requirements for the tour.

  Felix and Kate had been in touch every day since Michael Chilvers' death to check how Gil was bearing up. They had invited him to come and stay, but he assured them he was fine; every one knew this wasn't the case.

  As Kate said to Megan in a whispered aside, "Who wouldn't be overwhelmed by what's happened? Poor Harp, Felix and I are terribly worried about him."

  "Have you noticed how he drifts off mentally?" asked Megan.

  "Yes, when he thinks none of us is watching."

  "Sometimes when we've been walking the dogs, I've seen a real sense of apprehension come over him whenever someone he doesn't recognise comes near."

  "It must be terrible … not knowing who's done this," replied Kate.

  "I wish he'd go off to visit Sally in Manchester," said Megan.

  "Why can't he?" asked Kate.

  "To be honest, I think he's frightened to leave home, probably in case something else happens."

  "Let's work on him," whispered Kate conspiratorially.

  45

  That evening, shortly after Gil had been deposited home by Megan, DCI Mullings rang and arranged to drop by in an hour's time. He was punctual, arriving just after 8.30 pm. He was alone.

  "I see you've had a camera installed in the porch," observed Mullings.

  "Two at the front of the house and one at the back," said Gil. "I can see whoever calls on this," indicating the monitor on the table left of the door. "I've also had the locks changed and alarm upgraded."

  "You've been busy," said Mullings.

  "You don't think I've gone too far?"

  "Not under the circumstances."

  "So you think I have good reason to be concerned about my safety?" asked Gil, voicing his fear.