Justice Delayed

by David Field

  ‘She’s home today,’ Mike told him, ‘but she’s undergoing a personal crisis which I’m not at liberty to divulge, so she might not be at her brightest. As it happens, Dave’s home with her, so I’ll get him on his mobile, and see where we go from there.”

  Brandon stared in curiosity at the entries on Mike’s whiteboard, while Mike made the connection on his ‘speed dial’ facility.

  ‘Hi Dave, Mike again – how’s your patient?’

  ‘Surprisingly chipper, for someone who’s just agreed to marry me,’ Dave almost laughed back. ‘Why, did you expect that she’d thrown me out already?’

  ‘No, it’s just that I need to speak to her. Is she OK to talk shop for a minute?’

  ‘Ask her yourself. Sweetheart, it’s Mike for you.’

  Even over the ’phone, Mike could detect impending tears in a voice, and he just hoped that they were tears of happiness and relief. Either way, he had to keep it brief.

  ‘Joy? Mike here.’

  ‘Before you say anything else,’ came back the gurgled reply, ‘I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for what you did today. You’ve made two people very happy, and if there’s a spare seat in Heaven, you just earned it. Dave’s too shy to ask, but would you agree to be our best man?’

  ‘Of course, but could I ask you to think “records” for the moment?’

  ‘You need my help again on this case?’

  ‘’fraid so. You remember Brandon Tait, Maggie Gilles’s dinner guest friend last weekend?’

  ‘The handsome man who’s a genealogist? Of course I remember him.’

  ‘Well, he’s down here helping us on a case, and he’ll need access to County Records. He wants to know how to navigate through your website. Hang on, I’ll put him on.’

  Mike left them to it, and waited in the outer office until Geoff and Cathy returned, the latter carrying a carton of peach yoghurt which she handed to Mike like a flower girl at a wedding.

  ‘I noticed you left your ham salad,’ she said coyly, while Geoff tried not to smirk.

  ‘Thanks,’ Mike said, ‘but I wasn’t here awaiting my sweet course. In my office is Dr Brandon Tait, one of this country’s leading genealogists, who’ll be working at the desk next to Cathy’s, and will be putting flesh on the bare bones of the names littered around the walls in here. He’ll require not to be disturbed, so keep the twitter levels down, OK?’

  ‘Sure,’ Geoff replied, ‘but I can’t speak for Cathy if he reminds her of her father,’ at which point Cathy kicked him hard on the left shin. He was still cursing and hopping around the office when Brandon came out, notepad in hand.

  ‘Brandon, come and meet my children,’ Mike invited him. ‘Geoff’s the one doing kangaroo impersonations, and Cathy’s the one with the deadly right foot. Avoid her at all costs, and don’t let her feed you yoghurt if she takes a shine to you.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you both,’ Brandon beamed back. ‘As Mike probably told you, I’m hoping to identify the ultimate fates of the folks on the wall there.’

  ‘If you can trace my real Dad, you’ll achieve more than Social Services did for six years,’ Cathy replied with a friendly grin.

  ‘And perhaps you might also care to test my father’s hypothesis that I’m a useless bastard that my mother farmed off on him,’ Geoff smiled.

  ‘All in due course,’ Brandon assured them, ‘but right now, I need to get some things from my car.’

  Geoff looked enquiringly at Mike, whose jaw dropped.

  ‘Shit! Slipped my mind completely. Where did you park?’

  ‘Out at the front, where all the police vehicles are.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Mike blasphemed, and held his hand out for the phone which Geoff almost clairvoyantly handed up to him, having dialled a four digit number in the meantime.

  ‘Hello, Front Desk? DCI Saxby here. There’s a car parked out at the front, index number ...’ He raised an eyebrow at Brandon, who gave him the number that Mike repeated down the ’phone.

  ‘Take the clamps off it, and issue a Visitor car park pass to a Dr Brandon Tait. No expiry date at this stage. Thanks.’

  ‘They probably crawled underneath it looking for explosives as well, I’m afraid,’ he told Brandon, who smiled back reassuringly.

  ‘Ever tried parking inside Buckingham Palace gates?’

  That wasn’t Mike’s only car parking issue that day. At 5.45 pm, he swung into his front drive as usual, then jammed on the brakes as he realised that his path down the drive was blocked by a shiny silver 4WD bearing the advertising plates of a Stockport Toyota dealer. Cursing quietly, he climbed out of the car, just as a tall, somewhat underweight, youth emerged from the front door with his latest haircut.

  ‘Sorry, Dad,’ Steven said, ‘but Mum wasn’t expecting you home until after six.’

  ‘Good job you weren’t the milkman,’ Mike joked back. ‘So come and give me the customary tribal hug, to please your mother who even now is watching us out of the front lounge window, then tell me how much this new vehicle cost me.’

  ‘My own money, honestly. My first earnings as a professional musician.’

  ‘Who hired you? Justin Beiber?’

  ‘Tell you over dinner, but I need it for transporting band equipment.’

  ‘What band? You could transport your flute on a pushbike.’

  ‘Again, over dinner. Now come and hug me, before Mum slashes her wrists.’

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Since when did you learn to cook Greek?’ Steven enquired in an awestricken tone. ‘This Moussaka’s delicious. Is there any left?’

  Alison smiled as only a recently complimented mother can do, and reached for the serving spoon.

  ‘Speak nicely to your sister’s new landlady, and you could have meals like this sent up to your digs in Manchester. You still at the same address?’

  ‘Yep, although I’ll be moving around a bit in October and November. We’ll be on tour with the band.’

  ‘Stay off the drugs,’ Mike growled between mouthfuls. ‘And don’t have a third helping; some of us are only on our first.’

  ‘And some of us aren’t getting a second,’ Alison reminded him, then smiled back at Steven. ‘What band’s this? And don’t you mean “orchestra”? Surely you learn classical music at the Conservatorium?’

  ‘Indeed we do, and some of us occasionally perform locally, as part of the Uni’s commitment to the community. We call ourselves the “Con-Artists” – I thought Dad might appreciate that. But some of us are also in another band called “Chordia”, and we’ll be touring the North and Midlands backing a jazz fusion singer.’

  ‘Hence the new van?’ Mike enquired.

  ‘It’s a “four wheel drive”, or “RUV”, Dad. They don’t call them “vans” any more.’

  ‘Looks like a van to me. And your Mum mentioned that your new girlfriend’s a singer – same singer, I take it?’

  ‘Yep. We met when me and some of the “Con” laid down backing tracks in a Manchester studio for her new concept album. That’s where I got the money for the “van”, as Dad calls it. Plus I traded in Mum’s old Chevette, which was on its last legs anyway.’

  ‘What’s her name?’ Alison asked.

  ‘Gina. Gina Hamilton. Remember the name – she’s on her way to the top, and you heard it first from me.’

  ‘Never heard of a golfer called “Hamilton”,’ Mike admitted. ‘Mind you, I’m a bit out of touch these days.’

  Wesley Hamilton. He came ninth in the US Open last year, and hopes to be in the top three this year.’

  ‘Hence your sudden interest in golf?’ Mike suggested.

  ‘I’d like to say how inspired I was by watching you digging holes in the Northwood Hills course, but as you rightly surmise, I want to be able to look half competent when and if I meet Gina’s Dad.’

  ‘And what makes you think you will?’ Mike probed. ‘Don’t these relationships between musicians come and go like the master volume settings?’

  ‘Hopefully
not this one,’ Steven replied, his eyes back down on the place mat in front of him. ‘What’s for afters, Mum?’

  ‘I thought a fruit salad might be nice, after that heavy main course. And then there’s coffee and petits fours. Have you got a photo of this “Gina” girl?’

  Steven’s face set for long enough for Mike’s instincts to kick in.

  ‘No, ’fraid not.’

  ‘You’d be the first person your age, in what as far as we know is a first romance, not to have a piccy of the lucky lady in his wallet,’ Mike observed. ‘What’s the problem – green hair and a face full of ironmongery?’

  ‘Mike!’ Alison protested. ‘Leave the poor boy alone. It’s his first night home, and you can see you’re embarrassing him. I hope you’re a bit less like an interrogating police officer by the time he has to leave.’

  ‘Is this the appropriate moment to inform you that I’m going to prison on Monday, along with a colleague?’

  ‘Not Dave Petrie, I hope,’ Steven replied. ‘You only just told me I’m getting some golf lessons from him.’

  ‘That’s Sunday,’ Mike reminded him, ‘and in any case I’m going north with Geoff Keating on Monday. We’ll be gone at least two days, into North Yorkshire.’

  ‘We had that wonderful holiday there, remember?’ Alison reminded him.

  ‘I remember being in bed for several days after we got back, as sick as a parrot, if that’s the holiday you mean. But this is further west – right on the top of the Pennines, in an open prison.’

  ‘Why do they insist on calling them “open”,’ Steven quibbled, ‘when no-one’s free to leave anyway?’

  ‘One of the great mysteries of the criminal justice system,’ Mike replied, ‘along with why we still cling to the naive belief that accused persons tell the truth in the witness box.’

  ‘Enough shop for one evening,’ Alison intervened. ‘Tell us how your studies are going, Steven – when you’re not on tour, that is,’ she added proudly.

  There were several loose ends to be tied up the following day – Friday – ahead of what was likely to be a two day absence at the start of the following week. First was the re-packaging of the remaining documents from the Giles archive, which Mike handed over to Cathy Norman as soon as she had placed her shoulder bag on the carpet beside her, and opened up her computer.

  ‘Cathy,’ Mike instructed her, ‘by way of compensation for my absence from the yoghurt counter for a few days, here’s some homework for you. In each of these folios is a newspaper account of a death or deaths that Jeremy Giles thought important enough to link with the Ursula Winthrop matter. Go onto the PNC and see if there are any more crime reports to go with them. Then follow your nose with anything that doesn’t quite seem right As you already know, we have P2, which involves a Newcastle prostitute, then P3 deals with an apparent suicide in Chesterfield. P4 is Ethel Clay, and P5 is what appears to have been a single vehicle double fatality on Exmoor. P6 will take you to a shooting accident in Scotland, while P7 appears to have been a gang-related piece of unpleasantness in Cardiff. P8 – the final one we have so far – is the Emma Baynton matter. I assume they’re all related in some way, and your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to find the link.’

  ‘What do I do after morning tea on Monday?’ she smiled sarcastically as she took the folders from him, then looked round as the door opened and Brandon Tait walked in and began unpacking his briefcase.

  ‘Right,’ he announced with a determined smile, ‘I’ve got the low-down on County Records from Joy, along with a login and password, so let’s see if this computer’s up to it, shall we?’

  No reply seemed to be called for, so Mike walked back into his inner office and dialled Dave on his mobile.

  ‘Nothing pressing, don’t worry. And certainly nothing which requires your immediate attention in here. How’s it going on the home front?’

  ‘Swimmingly,’ Dave breezed back. ‘Literally. We’re off to the Kingsmartin Aquatic Centre this afternoon. Joy fancies a few lengths of their Olympic pool before we check out a couple of potential wedding venues on the east side. You haven’t changed your mind about being best man I hope?’

  ‘No, but if I’m the best you can manage, then you must have led a sinful life. However, it comes at a price.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Assuming you’re still golfing with Steven on Sunday, could you employ your best probing technique to find out more about his latest girlfriend? He came across a bit coy when we asked him about her, and I just want to check that she’s not got any form or anything. All I can tell you is that her name is “Gina Hamilton”, she’s a professional jazz singer, and her father’s an up and coming US golfer.’

  ‘Not Wes Hamilton?’

  ‘I think “Wesley” was the name he mentioned, why?’

  ‘I can probably tell you already what’s troubling him, but I’ll leave it until you’re back. Wednesday, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Hopefully. While I’m away, you might want to ring Cathy a few times a day, just in case. And make sure she has your mobile number.’

  ‘Will do. Have you got morning dress, by the way?’

  ‘Yeah, pyjamas and slippers, why?’

  ‘I may be regretting my choice of best man already. Enjoy your trip.’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘You need to turn left off this motorway and actually go through Scotch Corner itself to access the A66 west,’ Geoff advised him.

  ‘I remember it well,’ Mike grinned. ‘We spent the first night of our honeymoon at the hotel here. So did most other people heading over the border after a Midlands wedding, and we’ve been living a cliché ever since.’

  ‘Talking of clichés,’ Geoff replied, ‘I suppose this Tasker bloke’ll spend all his time telling us he’s really innocent?’

  ‘I’m hoping he’ll actually prove it,’ Mike replied. ‘There has to be some reason why Giles singled this case out, and made it his first folio. I’m hoping that it was this case that first alerted him to whatever had him killed, in which case the clue we’re looking for will be closer to the surface.’

  ‘Any progress yet from that genealogist bloke?’ Geoff asked, then realised that Mike was staring intently through the left of the windscreen.

  ‘There’s some sort of Italian restaurant ahead of us,’ Mike announced with a grin. ‘Fancy pasta for Monday lunch?’

  Over three hours later the largely token metal gates to ‘Bowen Moor Open Correctional Facility’ ground open, after Mike had flashed his warrant card and the gate security officer had telephoned ahead to confirm that the visit was authorised. Inside what looked like an old baronial hall with a few ‘tasteful’ concrete and steel extensions, they were ushered through a series of scanners and self-locking grilled doors until they were met by a middle-aged woman in a prison officer’s uniform that made her look even more portly than she probably was.

  ‘I’m Gwen Battersby,’ she advised them. ‘Prisoner Tasker’s waiting for you in Room 3, second on the left down the hallway there. Just come back out when you’ve done, and I’ll arrange his return escort. Hopefully that’ll be before dark.’

  ‘Don’t the inmates live in this building?’ Mike enquired.

  ‘Only the newer ones. Older “trusties” like Tasker get to live in the huts you passed on your way up from the main gate.’

  Tasker certainly looked anything but a security risk as he rose to meet them, and held out a hand already spotted with age. His blue overalls hung off him like a horse blanket, and his face was deeply lined with resignation.

  ‘You’re my first visitors in five years,’ he advised them gloomily. ‘My sister used to come until they moved me up here, but she lives in Morecambe now, so it’s not so convenient. I take it you haven’t brought my release papers?’

  Mike waved him back into his seat on the far side of the battered metal interview table, and took out his hand-held tape-recorder.

  ‘Do you mind?’ he asked.

  ‘Would it make
any difference?’ Tasker smiled grimly.

  ‘Probably not, but I want to learn all I can about your wife’s death.’

  ‘So did I – once,’ Tasker replied. ‘Now, to be honest, I couldn’t give a fuck. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before, but I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘Any idea who did?’ Geoff asked. Tasker raised his eyebrows enquiringly at Mike, who nodded reassuringly.

  ‘He’s with me. Detective Constable Keating.’

  ‘Geoff,’ Keating added.

  ‘If I knew who killed her, I wouldn’t be here, would I, sonny?’ Tasker growled back, and Geoff decided to leave it all to Mike.

  ‘I read in the trial papers that you couldn’t account for your whereabouts on the afternoon she died,” Mike reminded him. “Presumably you did tell the police at the time where you’d been?”

  “For all the use it was. I had my leg over a woman in Warwick Bridge. Name of Kathy Clements, a dairyman’s wife. It’d been going on for years, ever since Carolyn – that was my wife – got that promoted teaching post in Lancaster. We needed the money, and she stayed down there Monday to Friday. Kathy and I met through the business, ’cos we supplied all our milk to them. Her husband was the violent, jealous type, like the police at the time made me out to be, except he was the real deal. We normally met in a motel out of town, but that particular week Jack – Kathy’s husband – was in hospital, so we did the deed at their place. I told the police all this, and they went over and checked it out. Kathy panicked and denied it, and not even my solicitor could persuade her to give me the alibi. She had the fucking cheek to turn up for every day of the trial, snivelling away into her hankie, then she sent me a few letters once I got put away. Nothing that would help my case, just “missing you heaps” type of stuff, then the last letter I got she said she had to go into hospital for some tests, and I never got any more letters, except one from her sister, to say that Kathy had croaked it on the operating table. So forget following that particular line of enquiry.’

  ‘Was your wife having an affair in Lancaster, do you happen to know?’ Mike asked gently.