Massey turned away and picked up one of the cardboard boxes. “There are no bloody breweries round here.”
“But there are lots of pubs and, I bet, lots of people using home brew kits. Why not focus on those?”
“Well thanks for the chemistry lesson. I take it that you didn't come across any home brew kits at the mill?”
“Let me know if you find any. I don't mind analysing the odd crate of beer,” said Nuttall.
Massey grinned. “Home brew's far too strong for you. Two pints and you'd be legless!” The inspector walked away, still clutching a box of documents. He turned to Roker. “Grab a box…we've some paperwork to sift through.”
He addressed John Nuttall. “When do I get the full written report?”
“It'll be on your desk tomorrow.” Nuttall checked his watch. “I mean, later today.”
*****
Several months after Sean O’Malley had taken charge of the Barleycorn as the new licensee, two men dressed in smart suits visited D.C. Turner at his home in Middlewich, where he still lived with his fifty two year old mother. He was the youngest of the family. His two sisters were married, the elder to a Scot who was a deputy surveyor with Edinburgh City Council, the other, a primary school teacher, to D.I. Massey. Tragically, his twin brother and father had died together, victims of a motoring accident some years previously.
He recalls that the visit took place on a Thursday evening, partly because his mother always spent Thursdays with friends at the local bingo hall and partly because he enjoyed having the house to himself to watch Question Time on the television. He remained unsure which government agency the two men represented. Even weeks later he could recall only occasional memories, like flashes from a bad dream, such was the dramatic impact of the visit. Were they from Special Branch, M.I.5, or some other obscure wing of national security? Apart from a card containing a telephone number, they had offered no identification to verify their authenticity.
They accurately described the progress of his career in fine detail and explained that he had been selected to carry out a minor surveillance role on their behalf in addition to his normal police duties. They advised him that his future prospects were not only guaranteed but would also be enhanced by his involvement in this special project. Turner was astounded by the amount of information that they held about him. Their demands were simple. He was asked to monitor the activities of Sean O’Malley and to report anything unusual that occurred at the Barleycorn, other than the normal problems and incidents associated with a public house of that repute.
If he needed support to delve into the more private affairs of the licensee, he could rely on a certain Mary Cole, who was now the regular cleaner at the pub. She would be paid a small retainer to pass on any useful information. She would have his mobile phone number but would not be aware of his identity. She would know him as Adam. At that point, one of the men placed a mobile phone on a nearby table with the explanation that it was only to be used in relation to this assignment. He could pass any information from the cleaner or any anomaly discovered by him in the course of his duties via the mobile to the number on the card. It was his call, if he deemed something was a possible threat to national security. No other party would be aware of his undercover role.
They forbade him to discuss their meeting, the content of their discussion or his proposed undercover role with any other party. They presented him with an official secrets act document that he had to sign, whether he accepted their offer or not. They gave him twenty-four hours to consider the proposal. When he had made his decision, he was instructed to call the card number and merely say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. If he accepted, further instructions would be given verbally by phone.
The two men left in a dark saloon. Turner went to his room, lay on his bed in the darkness and eventually fell asleep, mentally exhausted. His mother returned from bingo, made herself hot chocolate and retired to bed. She thought it strange that her son had missed Question Time, but quickly put it out of her mind. Against his better judgement, Turner called the number the next day and said ‘yes’.
*****
The morning following the activity at the mill, Massey called the team in for an early briefing update, despite experiencing a restless night's sleep. He informed the team that he had despatched Detectives Kingdom and Jones to interview the natural mother of Lara Crawford. He went on to explain that Charles Howard was to be arrested on suspicion of Lara Crawford's murder, regardless of having spoken with the Crown Prosecution Service who had advised him that there was currently insufficient evidence to go to trial. However, because of the fact that Howard had lied about his knowledge of the pregnancy, he was certain that other anomalies would be revealed under more intensive interrogation.
He asked the team to complete their house-to-house enquiries by lunchtime. If just one witness could be produced to state that Lara had walked in the direction of the mill on that Thursday morning…that was all, some solid evidence as opposed to logical assumptions.
Roker and a small team left the building to arrest the suspect. Massey returned to his office. There was something ‘bugging’ him, but he was unable to fathom it. He delved deep into his memory bank; no answers were forthcoming. He found John Nuttall's forensic report on his desk. It was hardly compulsive reading as it merely reiterated the previous evening's findings. As he read the manuscript, it suddenly dawned on him what he had missed. He picked up the telephone.
“John, thanks for the report…you must have been up all night. The shoulder bag was definitely hers?”
“Fingerprints on the various items of make-up matched. The clothing was trendy and her size. D.N.A. matches not yet confirmed, but yes, I would say that it was definitely her bag.”
“Great,” said Massey. “The contents must have been put together in preparation for an overnight stay at the clinic. With regard to your analysis of the chemical substance, were any traces found amongst the containers in the shed?”
There was a moment's silence. “What shed?”
“There was a garden shed behind a privet hedge. It adjoined a large vegetable plot.”
“Sorry, mate. We must have missed that in the darkness and the pouring rain. We checked out the top of the banking like you suggested, but, I'm sure that there was no mention of a shed.”
“My fault,” admitted Massey. “We should have told you about it. The gardener keeps his equipment in there and D.C. Turner was adamant that there were several containers of weed killer and similar treatments on a shelf. It may be worth checking the contents against your results from the bin liners. D.S. Roker's down there now with some of the team. We're bringing Howard in on suspicion.”
“You believe there's sufficient evidence?”
“C.P.S. isn't very happy, but, if Charles Howard can tell one lie, you never know what other info he may be withholding. Finding the bag has helped. If you can find a match from the chemicals in the shed, it'll certainly add more weight to the case against him. Any chance of you going over there now, whilst the team's at the mill?”
“I'm on my way. That's another one you owe me!”
Massey leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Still not totally convinced, he hoped for some kind of miracle. Stay positive, there's an interview to plan. To be organised was second nature to him.
*****
Turner's secret mission had melted into obscurity. Since his meeting with the security agents, nothing extraordinary had happened at the Barleycorn apart from the routine nonsense one normally associates with licensed premises. At first, every visit to the pub with his colleagues drove him to become obsessively vigilant. He was distracted from the repartee and general chitchat to the extent that other officers thought that he was either ill or in love. Gradually he weaned himself off the drug of subterfuge and his unfulfilled assignment became a distant memory.
Some of the team were involved with the arrest at the mill; the remainder had disappeared to complete the house-to-house visits. He glanced
across the main office. Massey was on the telephone. He checked the time on his computer screen; it was almost mid-day.
His desk was by a sash window. It was impossible to open the window; too many layers of gloss paint over the years had caused that. The offices were air conditioned now; the opening of windows was no longer necessary. It was hardly the weather for opening windows anyway; outside, it was raining again. He considered that a sandwich from the canteen would be the best bet for lunch; too wet to meet the others at the pub. Last night was bad enough. Uniform must have been soaked.
The ring tone of his mobile interrupted his thoughts. He took it from his pocket and pressed the answer key. It continued to ring.
Oh, my God, it's the other one!
Turner dashed from his desk clutching the secret mobile phone to his ear and simultaneously heading for the exit.
“Hello, is that Adam? This is Mary. There's something strange going on at you know where.”
Turner froze. It was her, the cleaner at the Barleycorn. What should he say? After the initial shock, he composed himself. He looked about him. Why had he locked himself in the gent's toilet?
“What's the problem?” he asked, wondering what else he should say.
“Is it possible to meet with you?”
“I don't think that's a good idea,” he replied. What if she recognises me? My cover will be blown. I'm not supposed to exist as a real person, especially not as the local plod! “ Can you not tell me briefly over the phone?”
After a moment's hesitation, Mary spoke again. “A strange man has appeared on the scene. He was here at the weekend, but now he's returned with some other weird guys. He seems to have some kind of influence over Sean…he's the landlord of the pub… ‘cos Sean's dead jumpy when he's around. I know the man's name…it's Jimmy Moran. He's Irish like Sean. I've overheard them talking.”
“So, what's the problem and who are these other people?”
“They seem to be with this Jimmy guy, but they're not Irish. I've come across them in the corridor. They look a bit shifty, speak foreign and look foreign, you know, dark skinned with black hair and some have beards.”
“Maybe they're just a party of tourists.”
“I'm not allowed to clean upstairs since they arrived, you know, where the bedrooms are. I do the cleaning there when there are other guests. They don't have any breakfast, either. The Irish guy takes them off in a minibus every morning.”
“Perhaps he takes them on a sightseeing trip. I don't think it's anything to worry about. Have you not asked Sean about them?”
“I was told to mind my own business. He was really nasty with me. It's not normal for him to act in that way.”
“Possibly, he's just stressed out after a busy Easter.”
“He's been acting strange for the past week. I tell you, that Jimmy Moran is bad news.”
“Leave it with me,” said Turner. “I'll check it out. If anything else happens, contact me immediately.” He switched off the mobile.
She's bloody paranoid! He left the gent's toilet and headed towards the front door for some fresh air. He pulled the card with the special telephone number from his wallet and twirled it around in his fingers. His thoughts turned to his sandwich.
*****
“You must have been born under a lucky star,” said John Nuttall, on his return from the mill.
Massey looked up from his notes. “I'm not having any joy here. What have you got for me?”
“A touch of saccharomyces cerevisiae,” said the forensic detective, placing a large sealed plastic bag on Massey's desk.
“Yeast?”
“A home brew kit, partly used. Found it in your concealed shed. Not yet tested any of the chemical samples from the various containers on the shelves, but it all looks promising. The question is how and why was all this passed on to the girl and parts of her clothing? My original theory suggested that she had possibly fallen onto some surface contaminated by this concoction of chemicals. Now, I'm not too sure. Perhaps during a home-brewing session in the shed, there had been some spillage onto some bin liners, which he used later to bag her up. If we knew where she was murdered, we could construct a possible scenario.”
“I'm still working with assumptions and circumstantial evidence. When will your analysis of this lot be available?”
“As your suspect is in custody for questioning, I'll try for later in the day.”
“Thanks for all your help. I think I must owe you another.”
“And the rest,” muttered Nuttall, making for the door with his bags of potential evidence.
Massey and Roker spent the remainder of the day interviewing Charles Howard accompanied by his solicitor. Both sides made little progress and the suspect was retained in custody overnight. He had denied all knowledge of the clinic brochure and correspondence using the excuse that Lara must have mistakenly left the papers at the mill following one of her visits.
Subjected to further questioning, he had dismissed the discovery of her bag by stating that she could have left it behind after a run-through for one of her photo shoots at Kam-A-O. When questioned why the bag contained several items of clothing, he had replied that she often ‘borrowed’ outfits from the boutique on the pretext that she was sampling for the fashion shows.
The detectives had asked him to describe the format of these improvised rehearsals. He merely stated that he had taken photos of her in various poses, following which they would discuss the pros and cons before agreeing the recommendations for the studio.
Massey asked the whereabouts of any copies of the photos. He had stated that, because they were only tests and not required for any other purpose, he had erased them from his digital camera. The detective made a note to check if there were any picture files on Howard's computer and laptop, which they had seen during their search of the mill. Subconsciously he added Fiona Wilson's name to this same line of thought without realising why at that moment.
During the same interview, Howard had also stated that he was unaware of the gardener's activities in the shed, suggesting that they should speak with Fred about any home-brewing issues on his release from hospital.
By this point, Massey became irritated and frustrated. He concluded that they had reached a temporary impasse and that the interview should be progressed the following day. He based his decision on the fact that, not only would they be buying time to verify some of his statements, but also other incriminating evidence may be forthcoming, especially from forensics.
After despatching one of the team to the hospital to check that the gardener was in a fit state to be interviewed, Massey and Roker decamped to the Barleycorn. Turner followed them, principally to check out Mary Cole's ‘foreign-looking’ residents. As they entered, Ricky Dalziel was propping up the bar.
“Here he comes,” shouted the local villain, “Mister Elliot Mess in person. Still chasing shadows, Inspector?”
Massey ignored him and accompanied Turner to a table away from the bar area. Roker ordered the drinks.
“Don't you worry about it, Inspector,” continued Dalziel. “She was probably some local dike, so good riddance, I say.”
Massey looked across at Turner. “Sometimes I ask myself why we continue to frequent these premises.”
“To keep an eye on miscreants like him,” replied Turner. “Besides, this place is like having a private line to the local underworld's bush telegraph.”
“It's not yielding much about our current investigation,” moaned Massey.
Roker arrived with the drinks. “Let's face it. If the mill owner's involved we're talking about a different criminal class here, not the usual riff-raff.”
“That's a fair point,” said Turner. “Perhaps we should be raising our sights and drinking in a trendy wine bar.”
“In Winsford? You must be joking,” replied Roker.
The conversation drifted towards the frustrations which they were encountering on the current investigation and what further evidence may convince a jury
of Howard's guilt. It was at that point when Massey realised the relevance of Fiona Wilson.
“That bag which forensics found containing items of Lara's clothing and make-up…if we could prove that she left the house with it on the Thursday morning, we would have an irrefutable link to her presence in the mill.”
“And how can that assumption be proven?” asked Roker.
“Fiona Wilson. She was staying with Lara. She would know what she was wearing, et cetera… even down to the colour of her shoes.”
“How do you come to that conclusion?”
“Girls are conscious of such issues. Men don't give a toss for stuff like that. For example, without turning round, what's Dalziel wearing over there?”
“Blue jeans, a not-so-white tee shirt and trainers,” said Turner.
“Okay…a lucky guess,” said Massey.
Turner laughed. “Boss, he always wears the same. I don't think he possesses any other clothes!”
Roker started to show interest. “So, you reckon that Fiona Wilson could identify the bag as the one which Lara was taking to the clinic.”
“Exactly…and if the bus driver can substantiate that, we have him. In addition, if the gardener can confirm that he's not a home-brew fanatic…that the stuff in the shed is his employer's or that there was spillage on some bin liners in there, we will have further proof of his fabrication.”
“But this would only prove that she visited the mill, not that he murdered her,” protested Turner.
“We have him on tape lying about all these issues. If we can prove that he has lied about her meeting him at the mill, it adds more weight to our contention that, not only was she there at the time of her murder, but also that he had the motive to commit the crime, e.g. the pregnancy or even her desire for a termination. We have no witnesses, no physical forensic evidence apart from the chemical contamination, but all these pieces of the jigsaw puzzle would add up to one glaring fact. She was at the mill at the time of her murder and all the circumstantial and limited forensic evidence points at him.”
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