by Lisa Cutts
Wingsy asked the question I was trying to formulate in my head.
‘Did the police catch the driver?’
‘Depends how you look at it,’ Thomas said. ‘They made an arrest. Problem was, he had an alibi. Shona was certain that the man driving the car that hit her was Andy Rumbly – Leonard Rumbly’s son. But the police never found the car, and a friend of his said he was at a restaurant in Oxford at the time.’
‘How well did she know Andy and Leonard Rumbly?’ I asked.
‘Well enough to name him. He’d been here on a couple of occasions. I’ll have to tell you the story from start to finish. It’s not a pleasant one, but it starts well.’
Thomas Ross got up from the armchair and went towards a large wooden display cabinet. The upper, shelved part of the unit was full of trophies and football memorabilia. He opened the door on the lower left-hand side and took out a photo album. It was a black hardback album filled with pages of stiff black card. He handed me the book, and the scent of nostalgia wafted towards me. There was something about old photo albums bursting at the sides with black and white snaps, held in place at their corners by white picture mounts, that I found deeply comforting. Perhaps it was all the years I’d listened to an older generation tell me about how wonderful their youth had been and how the world had degenerated since their heyday. Seeing a better, lost world in tangible form gave me a longing for a time of innocence. Until I remembered that this was a generation getting over a world war. Innocence had long since lost its way.
As I turned the pages, the white tracing paper laid between each page to protect the memories held within crackled. One or two of the photo mounts had come loose but otherwise the contents were intact. I glanced up to see Ross watching my every move. His fingers twitched as if he was stopping himself from leaning forward and snatching back the album.
I turned each page by its edge, glancing at the photos but wondering why on earth he was showing them to me.
As if he was reading my mind, he said, ‘I wanted you to see a glimpse of how happy my life was before I messed up. That page you’re on now has a picture of me and Leonard Rumbly. We were friends once. I left that in the album to mark where my life started to go wrong.’
I studied the photo, with Wingsy leaning across my arm to get a better look. We both stared intently at a young man in football strip with his arm around another man dressed in a suit and tie. All the other pages had held two or three photos, but this particular picture had a whole page to itself.
The next page was full of wedding photographs of Thomas and the recently departed Shona. Happiness radiated from every face caught on camera. They made a very handsome couple. The final page held a newspaper article dated September 1965. The headline simply read ‘Footballer Thomas Ross charged with match-fixing’.
‘You’ve seen the highlights of my life,’ said Ross. ‘Now I’m going to tell you the low points. Before I do that, I need a drink.’
Left alone while Ross attended to the drinks – we’d asked for tea and hoped he’d stay sober long enough for a lengthy statement to be taken – Wingsy and I had a whispered conversation about how long we should stay. Ross clearly wasn’t a well man, and getting as much detail as we could against Leonard Rumbly was our priority, but we had to weigh it against his welfare. However, neither of us wanted to take the chance that, if we didn’t commit what he had to tell us to paper now, he might not be alive for our return visit. Heartless, but we had a murderer to convict.
I allowed Wingsy to broach the subject of Thomas Ross’s health. I’d murmured to Wingsy that I thought he should bring it up, as he was much more tactful than me. Really, it was because I was a coward.
Ross returned with two mugs of tea and a tumbler of whisky. By now it was lunchtime so I wasn’t going to judge. He’d brought garibaldis too, so he had something to soak up the booze.
Once we were settled back in our seats, Wingsy picked his mug up and said, ‘We know that we’ve descended upon you without any notice and we’re asking a lot of you, and there is no sensitive way to ask this, Mr Ross, but have the doctors told you how long you’ve got?’
‘Few months at the most without treatment.’ He took a swig of his drink. ‘I know you’re wondering if I’ll live to see out a trial.’
Wingsy and I both looked at our feet, and I for one was about to utter some sort of noise expressing incredulity, when it struck me that this man was no fool. He deserved our honesty. I said, in a tone I hoped conveyed compassion, ‘Mr Ross, seven people died in the Wickerstead Valley train crash. Some sort of justice for them is important, but so is your health. It’s not our intention to affect what time you have left.’
He stared at me and rubbed his stubbly chin with his free hand before downing the rest of his drink. ‘Please, call me Tommy, and it would be great to have something to live for again. How do we do this? You write and I’ll sign. I’ve every intention of being here for a trial. Leonard Rumbly gave evidence at mine. I feel it’s only polite that I return the compliment.’
32
Intrigued as to what Rumbly had said at the trial, but not wanting to jump ahead, we let Tommy Ross talk. I’d already made up my mind when he let us into his house that I liked him. My feelings about him were of course totally immaterial, but they made my task feel easier. I sat, notebook balanced on my knee, scribbling notes as Wingsy asked the correct football questions. Well, I presumed he asked the correct football questions because I knew very little about the game. Wingsy covered what teams Tommy had played for, what dates he had been at each club and who his team mates had been, as well as a few questions I was sure he asked purely out of curiosity. Eventually, Wingsy asked him about Leonard Rumbly and their relationship.
I watched Tommy take a deep breath before he said, ‘I’d known him for about three or four years before he asked me if I’d like to make some extra money. We were due to play a side that we always got beaten by. Leonard asked me if I thought we’d win this time. I remember laughing at him and saying, it would probably be like the last four or five matches and we were bound to end the game three-or four-nil down. He said, in that case, I could go along to one of his betting shops and place a bet against my own team to lose. The odds were good and he told me that, if we did look as though we were going to score, I could pull a player down for a penalty. I laughed to begin with but I could tell he meant it.’
Tommy paused to rub at his face again. I could see the tears forming as he told us his tale of shame. With his hand over his eyes, he continued, ‘It’s not an excuse, but our weekly wage was very low and I found that I could make hundreds of pounds simply by putting one bet on. So I did it again, and again.’
He took his hand away and gave me a sad smile. ‘I never fixed a match, though, despite what was said later. Despite what Rumbly said about me in court.’ His grip tightened on the glass he was holding in his other hand. ‘He made sure I wouldn’t tell by threatening to hurt Shona. Just before she was run over, I’d approached a couple of publishers about writing my biography. It was my warning from him. He sent his son to do his dirty work and no doubt Shona knew it too, but she never blamed me. Not once.’
This time, the tears did flow. Tommy waved away my packet of tissues and continued. ‘The Wickerstead Valley train crash was Rumbly’s fault. He told me that he was going to slow the train up and delay it so that the match was called off. He never told me he was going to make the train crash, but I know he arranged for a lorry to be on the line. I’d gone to another carriage to find a reporter I knew and thought was on the train, otherwise I’d have been several carriages closer to the impact. I’ve never been sure if that saved my life or meant I was in the wrong place and got concussion when I was knocked out. That’s something I’ll never know.’
Time was getting on, I was tired and, more importantly than anything else, after several hours of talking, Tommy was waning. I watched him slump further and further into his chair, and pause to think for longer and longer each time Wingsy asked
him a question. As I was about to suggest we call it a day, my friend said, ‘Tommy, can we come back and see you in a day or two? We have so much information here, and we’re very aware that this has been a lot for you to take in.’
Tommy’s reaction was to pick up his crystal tumbler, which had been empty for over an hour, and turn it around in his palm before he said, ‘I’m going to put the kettle on. Want another drink before you leave?’
We declined and told him that we would call him the next day to see if he was up for us to return and get more details or whether he would prefer to speak on the telephone. Eventually we would need him to read and sign his statement, but there was certainly no harm, in these circumstances, in getting what we needed, typing up his account of the train crash complete with evidence against Rumbly, and then bringing it back for him to read and sign. As we packed our notebooks and paperwork away, I said to Tommy, ‘Here are both my and John’s mobile numbers, as well as our direct office number.’
He looked down at the card I handed him. He closed one eye. I think he was struggling to focus. I knew the signs well, having displayed them myself a number of inebriated times. Perhaps that was why I liked him.
I was unsure of how I was going to say what I needed to without alarming him. But it had to be said.
‘Tommy, if you have any concerns at all that there’s a problem out here, don’t hesitate to call one of us. But… if you’re threatened or worried for your safety, call 999.’
I felt uneasy warning him in case it panicked him, but I couldn’t leave it unsaid. I had nothing on which to base the concern I had for this lonely soul, living in an isolated house with only scotch and a crippling conscience for company. Rumbly wasn’t going to find out Tommy had been talking to police for a while, if at all, depending on the evidence we could accrue. It was highly probable that he would know once he’d been arrested, though. I was looking forward to that day. I was building up a picture of Leonard Rumbly, complete with his criminal network and destruction of the lives of others, and I doubted that I would be warming to him. Tommy on the other hand, had suffered enough, and had a pitiful existence to show for it.
Tommy tapped my business card to his chest and said, ‘I don’t even know that Rumbly’s alive, so I doubt he knows where I live. Do you think there’s any chance I’m in danger?’
‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘I don’t. At the moment, only the three of us know you’ve had anything to tell us. However, if we get to the point of arresting him, that will change things, and we’ll need to assess what happens from there.’
With a few more words that we hoped were reassuring, we left him to it. I was quiet in the car as we drove away from Tommy’s property.
‘What’s up with you, duchess?’ said Wingsy at last. ‘You’ve said nothing for about five minutes. You’re never silent for that long.’
‘It’s an odd job we do, isn’t it, Wings?’ I said, trying to put into words how our departure from Tommy Ross had made me feel. ‘We bowl up, knock on his door after decades, ask him some questions that have released all sorts of demons, then we drive off and say we’ll be in touch.’
As Wingsy pulled up to a Give Way sign at the junction, he glanced over at me, before checking for traffic. He pulled away and said, ‘You back to normal yet?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I overreacted.
‘Nin, girl. You were stabbed, in case you’ve forgotten. It’s gonna take time. It’s not only your stomach that needs to return to normal – it’s your mind, too.’
‘What’s wrong with my stomach?’
‘Don’t be so touchy. Are you hungry?’
‘Of course I’m hungry. The garibaldis were stale. I can’t help feeling that we’ve left Tommy in a vulnerable position. We should speak to the local police and at least get him a panic alarm fitted. He’s in the arse end of nowhere.’
‘Very true. You ring Harry, update him and see what he can sort out. Ian Hammond should know what we’ve got here.’
I made the call as Wingsy drove us to a sandwich shop he told me he’d been to before. Harry Powell answered his phone by saying, ‘Hello, Detective Sergeant Powell. How can I help you?’ I didn’t know why he did that. He knew it was me because my number was stored in his phone’s memory. I could only guess that he was with senior management and didn’t want to answer the call with his usual, ‘Alright, Nin?’
‘Harry, are you free to talk?’ I began with the standard question whenever police officers made a call.
‘Can I call you back in ten minutes?’ he said.
‘Course you can.’ I ended the call as Wingsy turned right towards a sign that took us in the direction of a village called Little Knobbler.
‘Little Knobbler?’ I asked. ‘Interesting name.’
‘It’s got a great sandwich shop and restaurant. It used to be a pub and it’s been turned into an eatery. The menu’s fairly amusing – the breakfast special’s called the Ultimate Knobbler, and for the lighter appetite they have the Little Nibbler.’
‘How come you know so much about it?’
‘Me and Mel have driven out this way to see her family from time to time and used to stop off there now and again. There’s a B&B next door, too, if you and Bill fancy a dirty weekend.’
I was stopped from saying something telling about my love life that I knew I would regret later, even if it was only Wingsy, by a return call from Harry.
As I answered the phone, Harry said, ‘Alright, treacle?’ I gathered he was out of his meeting.
‘Yeah, great. I need to give you the heads-up on a very interesting conversation Wings and I have just had with Tommy Ross.’
Harry listened in silence as I summarised the morning’s conversation.
‘Ross is prepared to put it in writing and give evidence stating that Leonard Rumbly was behind the Wickerstead Valley train crash,’ I said. ‘Rumbly put Malcolm Bring up to delaying the train by leaving his lorry on the line.’
‘Coupled with the information your mate Joe Bring is prepared to give us,’ said Harry, ‘we may, after all this time, have an arrest to make. Oh, and one more thing: your staff appraisal is now well overdue. Come and see me about the outstanding objectives before I start getting an earful from the DI.’
Settled a short while later in the sandwich shop, tea in front of us, huddled in the corner farthest from the other customers, Wingsy and I discussed what we had so far.
I topped up my cup, letting my toasted sandwich cool. Dropping my voice so that Wingsy had to lean forward, his tie narrowly missing his baked beans, I said, ‘We’ve now linked Leonard Rumbly to several deaths from the train crash corroborated by Tommy Ross and Joe Bring, but there’s also the recent deaths of eighteen-year-old Daryl Hopkins, Luke Bring’s friend, who got his drugs from Andy Rumbly, plus twenty-one-year-old Errol Chandler whose drugs were supplied via the Rumblys. If that’s not enough, there’s the death of a third person in the division that we haven’t even looked into.’
‘Are you still on about that woman who was found over the weekend?’ Wingsy flipped his tie over his shoulder so that he wouldn’t drop juice from his jacket potato topping all over it. The pattern was so hideous, I doubted it would have showed.
‘They haven’t had the post mortem results yet, then?’ I muttered, looking over at the old lady who was sitting at the table nearest to us. She glanced at us, making me want to change the subject.
‘They haven’t done it yet,’ said Wingsy. ‘Thought you knew that she’d been identified as Lea Hollingsworth, aged twenty-seven. She went missing a couple of days beforehand and then her body turned up. Apparently no sign of previous drug use. It’s all very odd, especially as she had a two-year-old at home.’
Few things put me off my food, but I put my toasted sandwich back on the plate. My empty hand went straight to my stab-wound scar. I was going soft. Tears were gathering.
I heard Wingsy make a noise as if he was about to say something. I hoped it wasn’t going to be words of con
cern. As I looked back across the table at him, the beans stacked on his fork fell off on to the front of his white shirt.
Whatever he had been about to say came out as, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’
Cheered me up, anyway.
33
With me insisting on taking my turn at driving, we headed back to the office, making plans for the rest of the week.
‘It’s only Monday and I’m shattered,’ I said to Wingsy.
‘When’s your next prison visit to Joe?’
‘It’s tomorrow. I need to get what he has to say in writing. It may take a bit of time.’
‘If you’re going to be out all day, I’ll call Tommy back in the morning and see how he’s fixed for another visit on Wednesday.’
‘That’ll be three days taken care of,’ I said with a sigh. ‘We’re working Saturday too, though, aren’t we? Five more days to go before a lie-in. I’m getting too old for this.’
We settled into a companionable silence for the last hour of our journey, which gave me time to think. I needed to find out more about Lea Hollingsworth’s death. I had little concern over the quality of its investigation and doubted it would be carried out in isolation from the other drugs deaths, but I wanted to satisfy myself that they were all linked to the Rumblys. It was sounding very much as though the family was behind more than a train crash. I was going to make it my business to get to know as much about them as possible. I planned to find out what I could from the various databases available to me, pester those with access to the ones I didn’t have authority to use, and finally glean as much as I could from Joe Bring. Only then would we have enough to arrest Leonard Rumbly, with his son Andy and grandson Niall thrown in for good measure.