by J P Lomas
Chapter 8
Just a few elderly holiday makers were ranged around the fussily laid out tables inside Ye Olde Tithe Barn, enjoying their elevenses in the form of a Devon Cream Tea. It had been known for one or two tourists to occasionally become confused by the name of this treat and to question whether they should add the thick, Devon clotted cream and strawberry jam to their actual cups of tea, rather than the scones on which they were supposed to go. Their long northern vowels marked them out as surely as their sun hats did.
Sobers had decided it would be pleasant to review the details of the case with Jane in the local tea room; they might as well have something to enjoy. Sitting on wooden dining chairs, at a small chintzy table outside the front door, they both tried to feel the weak warmth of the morning sun. An irregular form of traffic trundled past them on its way to and from the caravan park on the red cliffs above them. The only other vehicle was a military one, probably on its way to the shooting range on the headland adjacent to the holiday camp. One or two cows in the field behind them lowed and the fact that these cattle were still standing gave superstitious locals the belief that at least the rain should hold off for now.
‘You’re going to tell me that you’ve found a neighbour with an ancient grudge against Kellow going back to a family feud begun in the 1600s and who left his prints all over the crime scene…’ smiled Sobers.
‘Afraid not. Forensics hasn’t found anything which might help us tie any of our suspects to the murder.’
‘Ah, we have suspects at least!’
‘Well, we did wonder if local businessman stroke dodgy dealer Darren Price might have had something to do with it, but his mum has given him an alibi for the night.’
‘She may well be lying and perhaps one of his associates was employed to set the fire?’ Sobers asked hopefully.
‘Quite possibly, but our only witness sighting is of an indistinct vehicle with an even less distinct description of its driver.’
Sobers looked disappointed and Jane felt a desperate need to give him some hope, as unlike most of her colleagues he treated her as an equal, even if he outranked her.
‘And do you think we’re barking up the wrong tree with this homophobic angle, Sir?’
‘Surely there would have been some plausible claim to that effect?’ Sobers countered, although he felt pleased by her acknowledgment of his rank.
‘Such as?’
‘An anonymous letter or telephone call which showed some insider knowledge of the murder. I know you did well in digging up his past history, but surely that would be it for most people? ‘
‘If it was past history?’
‘Most statements paint him as a miserable old bugger, no pun intended. I can’t exactly see him popping down to his local gay bar even if there was such a place in Exmouth.’
‘Actually, there is. It’s called Rafael’s. It’s a tiny pick up joint which masks its identity as an Italian bar cum restaurant, yet has an almost exclusively male clientele and only the occasional lost group of tourists who have mistaken the rainbow flag in the window for something to do with Greenpeace… It’s just off Albion Hill and away from the usual tourist haunts. I asked about Kellow in there and no-one seemed to recognise the name, or the photo I brought along.’
‘And there’s no other motive, apart from the money?’
‘I suppose his sister could have found a hit-man and had him bumped off, but for an estate of just under fifty grand, I’d say it was a long shot, ‘grinned Jane.
‘Though nursing home fees can be quite expensive… Maybe there’s an ex-marine who does cut price contracts for the old folks, ‘smiled Sobers as he sipped his tea.
‘So what now, guv?’
‘We keep up the house to house enquiries and hope we can jog someone’s memory. If this case was perceived as important, a disappearing school girl or the murder of a young mum, we might have got a bit of national attention and hoped to jog the memories of any tourists who might have been driving back to the camp at the time – though even that’s a long shot.’
‘Do you think we’re going to catch him?’
Sobers answered her honestly.
‘No. Without forensics, reliable eye-witnesses or even a plausible motive we’re scuppered.’
****
P.C. Mark Salmons felt like he was standing outside the head’s door; though at the sprawling site of Exmouth Comprehensive he had rarely seen the head, but standing outside the Chief’s door at Middlemoor was he guessed what it would have felt like. If Salmons had paid more attention in the R.E. lessons at his former school and perhaps less attention to currying the favour of Gary Beasley by flicking pellets at Daniel Press, he might have realised a more apt comparison would have been with Judas or Brutus.
Although having never studied the end of the Roman Republic, it would be perhaps unfair to expect Salmons to know about the treacherous Brutus; that type of general knowledge was only for the geeks like Press. Although if Salmons had made more of the educational opportunities on offer at Exmouth Comprehensive, then he too might now have been enjoying regular holidays in Rio like Press, rather than in his girlfriend’s leaky, family caravan in Weymouth.
Squeezed into his dress uniform, Salmons awkwardly positioned himself in the chair facing Assistant Chief Constable Dent. The Key Market carrier back he placed noisily to the side of the elegant, wooden chair was completely out of keeping with Dent’s immaculately decorated office: the mahogany desk, silver framed certificates and black leather chair all managed to intimidate the constable – the very effect Dent had hoped to achieve.
Dent offered the constable tea or coffee, another tactic used to unsettle Salmons, who failed to make a swift and decisive reply, before being forced to endure his superior’s small talk as they waited for their tea. Salmon’s discomfiture was amplified by the appearance of two, delicate bone china cups of milky white tea. A heavy mug or polystyrene cup was more suited to his grip.
Having thoroughly disconcerted Salmons, Dent got to the point –
‘You have something to tell me about Detective Inspector Sobers, constable?’
The sense of scorn with which he conveyed Sobers’ rank, was balanced by the sense of lowliness he attached to Salmon’s.
‘It’s just, well I found these…’
Salmons slid the carrier bag across the smooth, polished wood of the desk.
Whether Dent’s look of distaste was more for the vulgarity of the receptacle, or the content was hard to say.
‘Where did you find them?’
There was no getting away from the truth.
’In his desk...’
Dent looked closely at the thickset, squirming young man in front of him.
‘How old are you?’
’24, sir.’
‘Wife or girlfriend?’
‘Girlfriend, sir. We’re hoping to marry when our prospects pick up…’
‘I expect you find this type of stuff pretty reprehensible, don’t you?’
‘It’s disgusting, Sir.’
‘I think he gave you these, constable.’
‘Sir?’
‘Bright boy like you, who should be making sergeant very soon, I don’t think you found them at all.’
The penny dropped.
‘No, Sir.’
‘I think he made a suggestion to you, constable, which quite rightly you found disturbing. I think he gave these to you in the locker room and suggested you might enjoy them.’
By this point Salmons had reached for his notebook and was making a note of what had actually happened, now that the ACC had given it his official sanction.
‘No need to make notes, constable. If I need you to back this up, I’ve only got to ask haven’t I?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘We need more forward thinkers like you in the force, constable.’
Salmons was aware the interview had been terminated. He was tempted to attempt drinking the tea, but the brief bonhomie had been replaced by the froid
eur which had greeted his arrival. Further inquiries about his thirty shillings would have to be put on hold. Still, at least that bent nigger had it coming to him. That would wipe the smile from Sandy’s face and teach her who her friends were. Lionel Richie? Sobers was singing from a different hymn sheet altogether…
****
With the case seemingly grinding to a halt, Jane felt there was no harm in getting a little Christmas shopping done before she spent the rest of the day typing up reports and filling in forms. Unless Sobers came up with a major breakthrough they weren’t going to find the killer.
Walking into the pedestrian precinct which formed the newly built Magnolia Centre, she noted the brass plaque commemorating its opening by Angela Rippon. That woman at least had made something of her career thought Jane. Rippon had broken through the old boys’ network at the Beeb to become Britain’s first female news presenter – a position previously only thought serious enough to be entrusted to fusty old men who might have sufficient gravitas to announce a Soviet invasion of Western Europe. Although to be fair, her mum had always had a soft spot for Kenneth Kendall and she had to admit there was something about a man who took care of his appearance and knew how to enunciate. Sobers certainly had that style.
She glanced in the display windows of Waltons. One of the mannequins had been togged out in an unseasonal blazer and Panama hat. She tried to imagine it on Tim and failed. It would only make him look like one of those old farts reliving the War over pink gins in every bungalow from here to Honiton. Tim would always be a jeans and T-shirt man and she loved him for that, even if she wished he owned a dozen fewer ones emblazoned with his heavy metal heroes.
She wondered if Detective Sergeant would be the pinnacle of her career in the police. Would the glass ceiling mean she was always the sidekick, Watson to Sobers’ Sherlock? Captain Hastings to his Hercule Poirot? At least those guys would have been able to solve their case…
Was it worth spending so long trying to work twice as hard as the boys in order to impress upon anyone who might notice that she was D.I. material? The children had Tim to look after them, yet didn’t they need to see more of their mum too? She knew she couldn’t have done it without Tim. One of her friends from Hendon must be in the running for Superwoman as she had managed to juggle: a career husband, three kids and the rank of Detective Inspector; however that had never been an option they’d seriously considered. In fact Tim had been all too eager to quit his job in Sales once she had spoken to him about wanting kids. The loss of a company car and their annual holiday in Brittany had been sacrifices they hadn’t found too arduous and as he’d never been that ruthless at pursuing commissions, the added family benefits they’d qualified for had eased their financial worries.
Maybe she was just suffering from the Monday Morning Blues? She tried to put her dark mood aside as she briskly crossed the wide pedestrianized area separating the twin flanks of ground floor retail shops and first floor office buildings channelling her journey. With the arrival of chains like Boots and W.H.Smiths she was pleased to note that Exmouth was beginning to catch up with shopping centres across the South-West. Only the older building of Walton’s department store at one end of the precinct predated the 80s and apart from a bookseller and coffee shop, most of the businesses were the ones you could find anywhere from Land’s End to Liverpool.
At least there weren’t too many places to search for the video which Leo wanted for Christmas. And if Tim’s stockbroker brother hadn’t given them a video cassette recorder for their anniversary, this certainly wouldn’t have been on any of their wants lists. At least given Leo’s current obsession, there would be quite a wide choice of presents to buy for him.
Throughout the spring Leo had been pestering them to take him to the Doctor Who 20th Anniversary Exhibition at Longleat. They’d eventually relented and taken him there as a birthday treat, although given Tim’s addiction to all things Sci-Fi, she sometimes wondered which of the men in her family had actually engineered the whole thing. The queues had staggered them. There must have been thousands of fans of all ages who had descended on the country house better known for its wildlife park that weekend. At least she’d known who the people dressed as Daleks and Cybermen were supposed to be – they’d had those on the show in her day. Even Jenny had stopped whining when they got to see the current Doctor in the guise of boy’s own heartthrob Peter Davison.
Now Leo was trying to persuade her to buy him a Doctor Who video, although she already wasn’t that keen on the amount of television her children were watching. Ever since that fourth channel had opened last year, there seemed to be more TV than ever. You could even watch it at breakfast now! When she ever did manage to get home early, she’d find the children slumped in front of quiz shows like Countdown or Blockbusters and not at all overcome with delight to see Mum in daylight hours. Tim tried to tell her they were educational; she wasn’t convinced. The content of some of the shows on Channel 4 also worried her - Jenny was into this new soap opera called Brookside, which to her was a little too dark and realistic for 12 year olds.
She hoped a Doctor Who video wouldn’t be too scary for a 9 year old, as she scanned the plastic cases displaying the new videos on display in WH Smiths. Revenge of the Cybermen was the only one they had on sale; it displayed a picture of Tom Baker playing the Doctor on the front and one of those silver monsters which had so frightened Leo last year – though not enough to put him off the series. Yet it was the price which gave her a fright - £39.95! That was almost forty quid! That was more than a meal out for the whole family, including wine, coffee and a choice from the sweet trolley! Even the blank cassettes for recording the show were a tenner each and they only lasted long enough for recording three episodes of Dallas!
Reluctantly, she replaced the video case on the shelf and went to look in the toy section.
****
Nigel Byrne looked anxiously in the mirror at the reflection of the woman on the back seat. He just hoped she wasn’t going to ruin the back seats, as any damage would be coming out of his wages. Only the other week he’d had to clean up after some snotty kid had vomited all over the taxi and then done a runner.
This mad cow had just stepped out in front of him as he was coming up Marple Hill. The only reason he’d let her in the car was because she was obviously pregnant and even he could summon up some compassion on Christmas Eve. He just hoped she realised he was running a taxi service and that this wasn’t just being done out of the goodness of his heart.
Despite the fact the hospital was just at the top of the hill, a part of him calculated that there might be a large tip which would more than double the measly fare for such a short journey. And yet as the woman moaned on the back seat, he found himself putting his foot on the accelerator as the idea of her giving birth in his cab was really off putting; it would mean he’d never get another fare tonight and he needed all the money he could get if he was going to afford decent presents for Mandy and the kids.
****
As Sobers drove to police headquarters in Exeter to review progress on the case with his boss, he slipped the first volume of his Stones tape into the stereo – the one where he could avoid all associations of Ronnie when Brown Sugar appeared on the second volume. Shuffling through the tapes in the glove department he found the mix tape she’d given him when she’d said his taste was too fuddy-duddy. It was full of bands like Limahl, Visage, Spandau Ballet and Duran Duran. He’d made a brief go at trying to get into it, yet with the exception of an Adam and the Ants song, he’d hated it. To him it was all synthesisers and drum machines. It wasn’t what he called proper music.
Then again his bosses were probably going to tell him that what he had been doing wasn’t proper police work. He had no leads to go on and now felt the acute loneliness of command; at least as a DS he’d never had to carry full responsibility for an investigation. He knew he’d only been given the case because they’d originally thought it was a matter of arson and that he had been allowed to k
eep it simply because it was going nowhere. His arrival in Devon had given them the convenient scapegoat they needed.
When he found himself staring across a desk at Assistant Chief Constable Dent his only premonition was that he was simply being axed from the case owing to his lack of progress. At worst he expected a return to his days as a Detective Sergeant; he was not expecting Dent to slide Ronnie’s Polaroids over the immaculately polished surface of the desk.
The strange thing was his first thought was not how humiliating this was having his privacy violated in front of the ACC, the Chief Super and a young blonde stenographer who was recording the meeting, but one of relief. So it was over. There would be no more hiding. He could leave this bolt hole tomorrow and return to London. Not to Ronnie; that was still over, but to his friends and possibly even to his family. If they wanted to be ashamed of him, so be it. He was past forty and old enough to accept his career in the force hadn’t worked out the way he’d imagined.
Dent’s tirade of vitriol washed over Sobers. He knew it was just the excuse some of them had been waiting to find for his dismissal. He knew all the talk of bringing proceedings against him for bringing the force into disrepute was just their way of making sure he didn’t put a claim in for prejudicial treatment. There was no way they could tell from the photos that Ronnie was under 21 and anyway the whole reason their relationship had got so fucked up was because they hadn’t. He had loved her, even if the ‘her’ in question was in the eyes of the Law, and more importantly in the eyes of God, a boy.
Ronnie had been more feminine than any girl he’d ever met and just as capricious. Last year he had speculated that one day Ronnie might be responsible for him losing his job, he just hadn’t foreseen it happening in this way.