by Ian Simpson
Osborne’s face had fallen and lost some of its colour. He grimaced. He did not look like a detective who had just cracked a case.
‘You go and see him, Sergeant. Take Peters. And if he asks about me, don’t tell him anything. That devil’s supposed to be in for life. Christ knows why he’s in an open prison.’ When they had left, he turned to Baggo. ‘Can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, Baggo. Always remember that. Johnson was a villain, no doubt about it. He used to be known as Johnny. I’d forgotten his name was William. I’ll murder that Weasel for not properly telling me who he was talking about. And I never fancied his tarty wife, whatever the evil bastard thinks.’
‘You think he now wants you to have your chips, gov?’
Scowling, Osborne left without a word.
* * *
Rush hour traffic was heavy and it was evening before Flick and Peters arrived at Littlepool. Twenty-five years ago it had been a small, quaint community few had heard of, the solid ramparts of Makepeace Castle a benign, reassuring presence on raised ground beside the village. Flurries of summer visitors boosted the shop and the pub trade and Sir Geoffrey Makepeace’s erratic driving caused affectionate tut-tutting. After he had failed to take one bend too many, inheritance tax and dry rot defeated his heir, who sold up and went to live in Spain with the pub landlord’s daughter. The Home Office bought the ancestral pile and turned it into an open prison. Soon, Littlepool became known for all the wrong reasons.
The officers passed through the listed façade into a state-of-the-art modern prison. There was nothing streamlined about the procedures, and there was a delay before they were allowed to see the records they wanted. An hour after their arrival they sat in a small, glass-walled interview room. They felt dirtied by the stench of prisons, the blended odours of male bodies, preserved as if in a bottle with a dash of antiseptic. It seeped into their lungs and stuck to their clothes.
Willie Johnson came in and looked at the two officers sitting behind the formica-topped table. He drew back the chair opposite, sat down and crossed his legs and arms. Nearly six feet tall, thin and bony, enough of his white hair had escaped the cutters to show that he still had a full head. His dry, colourless skin was wrinkled. A vertical scar extended up from his right eyebrow and his nose looked as if it had seen a few fights. Primitive blue tattoos adorned his neck, arms and hands. He gave Flick and Peters the sort of look a talent show judge might give a poor act.
Flick broke the silence. ‘I’m Sergeant Fortune, and this is DC Peters. How have you been spending your time in jail, Mr Johnson?’
‘Where are you from?’
‘London. Can you answer my question?’
‘How do you think I’ve been spending my time?’
‘Well, I understand you’ve been writing.’
‘Is that a crime?’
‘No. But have you?’
‘What if I have?’
‘Have you tried to get your work published?’
‘So it’s work, is it?’
‘Writing a novel is certainly work.’
‘So I’ve been writing a novel, have I?’
Peters snapped, ‘You know you have, and we know it too.’
‘So you’ve looked at my Facebook page? But hot tottie, here, has just said it’s not a crime to write.’
Flick wished she could control her blush. ‘Mr Johnson, we are investigating the murders of literary agents. We know you sent part of a crime novel you had written to Jessica Stanhope and that she rejected you. Did you also try to get Lorraine McNeill to represent you?’
‘I can’t remember. I tried a few. They don’t want to publish stuff by guys in jail. Talk about rehabilitation. It’s a bloody joke, that’s what it is. But I’ll be out soon.’
‘If the Parole Board let you. I’ll ask again. Did you try to get Lorraine McNeill to represent you?’
‘I probably did. She was one of the top crime agents.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes. How did you feel when she rejected you?’
‘Any rejection made me feel gutted. But I didn’t go and kill these bints. Or anyone. I’m in jail, remember.’
‘Oh really? How often do you get out of here? I believe you’re training for freedom.’
‘I work in a library two days a week. Menial tasks. I’ve been home a handful of times. I bet you’ve looked at the records already. You have, haven’t you? I don’t know when these people were killed, but from your faces, I’d say I’ve got the perfect alibi for both of them. Am I wrong?’ He smirked.
Peters asked, ‘Do you know anything about the murders of Lorraine McNeill or Jessica Stanhope?’
‘Do you think I’d tell you if I did? But no. Truthfully, no.’
Flick leaned forward and eyeballed him. ‘We have information that you have made threats against agents. Do you deny that?’
‘Yes. There’s a difference between being gutted and doing something about it.’
‘Did you speak to anyone about your disappointment?’
‘A few friends, maybe.’
‘Names, please.’
‘I forget.’
‘Come on.’ Peters put on his sternest face.
‘Nah.’
Flick said, ‘You don’t want a charge of obstructing police inquiries to mess up your parole application, do you, Mr Johnson? Right now, we are going to see the governor, and then we will look very carefully at your prison records again. Is there anything at all you want to tell us today?’
Johnson shook his head. His lips twisted into a cold smile. ‘Do either of you come across Noel Osborne? Is he still Sergeant, or is it Inspector No?’
Both officers shook their heads.
‘Well, send him my best, will you?’ He got up and knocked on the glass door. When it was opened, he did not look back before stepping out.
* * *
‘A model prisoner. He did a creative writing course in Wormwood Scrubs, and since he came to us he’s hardly put a foot out of line. He’ll be out soon.’ The governor was a big man with loose flesh. He appeared to be concertinaed into his chair and spoke with a flat, Estuary English voice.
‘But he was always in trouble at the start of his sentence,’ Flick said. ‘Why do you think he changed?’
‘The fight just goes out of some people. Age, maybe.’
Flick wondered if that had happened to the governor. Johnson seemed more like a man who had shifted his battleground.
They talked for half an hour, going over the records that showed Johnson to have been in the jail at the time of the murders. They came away with nothing.
‘The boss isn’t going to like this,’ Peters said as they drove through the village.
‘Neither do I,’ Flick replied. She hoped Peters would not spread the word about the ‘hot tottie’ remark.
7
It was Saturday morning. Flick lay on her back, concentrating on the cornice of Tom Marshall’s bedroom ceiling and trying to ignore the foul air in the room. Beside her, he emitted snorts, grunts and alcoholic breath. What was he? Their relationship was not settled enough for him to be her partner, and she disliked the term ‘boyfriend’. ‘Significant other’ ticked boxes for her but made most people laugh. ‘Lover’ was too explicit, ‘friend’ too bland. ‘Lumber’ and ‘squeeze’ were beyond the pale, but not as bad as ‘shag-mate’, Sharon’s phrase. Like most traffic cops, she spent too long sitting in cars doing nothing. Probably ‘friend’ was best, qualifying it with ‘special’ when appropriate.
Right now, Tom was not at all special. He blew a waft of stale brandy across her face and she wondered how long their affair would last. A barrister, the previous evening he had taken her to a reception in the Inner Temple. Surrounded by much old wooden panelling and several judges, he had plummeted to depths of sycophancy she would not have believed possible. The worst moment was when he guffawed at a sexist joke told by a recently retired judge, justifying himself by saying the ‘dear old codger’ w
as liable to come back and sit part-time.
With other barristers, they had gone on to dinner at an expensive bistro, Tom joining in the fun of ordering wine he could barely afford and certainly not taste. While she had too many espressos, he had too much brandy, Hine VSOP. Once in bed he had pled tiredness, to her relief. Sex was over-rated, she thought, at least recently it had been.
There was one Debut Dagger entry that was full of sex. It was not her sort of book, but she was surprised that it was among the early rejects. The author had invented some imaginatively obscene ways of killing people, so she was probably worth investigating.
As her caffeine-sharpened brain flitted from murder to murder, she felt a stirring beside her. Although he was half asleep, Tom’s tiredness had left at least one part of his body. Had she not been thinking about the sexy book, Flick would have pushed him away, but she closed her eyes and fantasised about England’s rugby team, going through her personal selection for the imminent Six Nations Championship. Starting with the full back, she was picturing the explosive speed of the right wing when Tom rolled off her, sweating and satisfied. ‘Sin bin,’ she muttered as she headed for the bathroom.
When she came out of the shower, he was standing in the middle of the bedroom, stark naked and staring at her i-Phone. His body looked puny, white and undesirable.
‘Odd fellow, that Osborne,’ he said. ‘He wants you down at the station. There’s been another murder.’
‘You answered it?’ she shouted.
‘Well, yes. He rang twice. You had it on quiet. I didn’t want to spoil your shower.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Just that you were in the shower.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He sort of made a noise …’
‘What did it sound like?’
‘Like a gulp, I suppose. I told him we were in Islington. Then he said to tell you to “fit your lovely arse into your knickers and get down the nick pronto”.’ Tom said this in a cockney accent. ‘Then he rang off. What’s wrong?’
Flick glared at him. She wanted to scream. ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she said through gritted teeth, and began to dress.
Five minutes later she was in her car. She had brushed aside Tom’s offer to make toast or coffee, leaving him hurt and uncomprehending. She drove to her flat. There was no way she was going to work in last night’s clothes.
* * *
When Flick arrived at Wimbledon Police Office the desk sergeant told her to go to 32 Kitchener Crescent. She collected the equipment she thought she might need and was heading out when Baggo, panting and dishevelled, burst in the door. He gratefully accepted her offer of a lift.
As she programmed her sat-nav, she smelled a blend of exotic spices and alcohol on his breath. Her lips pursed, she wound down the window, despite the cold, and concentrated on the comfortable, female, monotone from the dashboard. The disembodied commands steered them west on Worple Road, then right into an area of semi-detached, stone houses. Away from the main roads, the frost had left a thin, skiddy sheet on the carriageway. White rime coated pavements, roofs and front gardens. A watery sun was coming up. It promised to be a good, bracing, winter day.
As Flick turned into Kitchener Crescent, she saw people gathered on the road and pavement half way along. She counted four police cars. As she parked, she saw the large white plastic tent protecting the scene of the crime. Blue and white tape kept the public back. Outside the tape, a middle-aged man and a young woman stood, their shoulders hunched. She wore a flimsy sky blue coat and carried a notebook. In a red, quilted anorak the man looked less cold. He had a camera with a long lens slung round his neck. Ignoring the questions fired by the woman, Flick and Baggo ducked under the tape and, avoiding smeared bloodstains on the pavement, entered the front garden. The tent was to the right of the weed-covered driveway.
‘At last,’ was all Osborne said when he saw them. ‘The body’s still where it was found. Have a look when Snapper’s finished. Suits on,’ he added unnecessarily.
Flick and Baggo pulled on blue sterile overalls and looked round. An untrimmed yew hedge, more than six feet high and dense, shielded the property from the pavement. A wall no higher than eighteen inches, topped by stumps of long-removed iron railings, divided this garden from its neighbour. On the other side of the driveway, an overgrown attempt at topiary looked like a big, headless bird.
‘All yours, gentlemen. And lady,’ the photographer emerged from the tent. Osborne, Flick, Baggo and Peters ducked their heads as they went in. It reminded Flick of the greenhouse of her aunt’s neglected garden. In front of the boundary wall, two mature boxwoods, shaped years ago into balls, formed straggly, untended clumps of greenery. The rest of the ground was covered by patchy grass. Between the boxwoods, the toes of a pair of light brown, buckled shoes pointed upwards. The legs of fawn chinos stuck out from under the foliage. No rime had settled on these items but the chinos were darkened by moisture. A man in a sterile suit rose slowly from a crouched position and moved back to let everyone see.
‘An odd one, this,’ Dr Dai ‘the Death’ Williams commented.
‘Bloody odd,’ Peters muttered as Flick and Baggo pressed forward.
The body was of a man in his forties. His yellow, woollen coat appeared expensive. He lay on his back, arms by his side, brown leather gloves on his hands. His hair was black, plentiful and curly. His staring eyes seemed surprised. But it was his mouth that was remarkable: it lolled open, his tongue sticking out. An ordinary kitchen fork had been driven through his tongue and lay across his right cheek.
Dr Williams squatted down again and rolled the body over. ‘Shot in the back twice,’ he said, pointing to two red-rimmed holes in the yellow coat.
‘Who is he?’ Flick whispered.
Osborne replied, ‘Denzil Burke. I’ll give you two guesses what he did.’
‘A literary agent?’ Baggo asked.
No one bothered to confirm.
‘When did he die?’ Flick looked towards Dr Williams, who had already pronounced death and extracted the dead man’s wallet from his jacket.
‘That’s an interesting one.’ Williams’ eyes lit up. ‘He appears healthy and was probably taken by surprise. Rigor mortis has only just started. This frost would certainly delay it. He might have died as early as seven last night. It could have been hours later. I’ll have to get him on the slab before I can tell you more.’
Osborne said, ‘Mrs Burke reported him missing this morning. About the time a passer-by noticed him. She doesn’t know yet. I think it’s a job for you, Sergeant. Take Baggo.’
‘There’s no doubt it’s him?’ Flick asked, her heart sinking.
‘None. We’ve seen his driving licence.’
‘So this is not his house?’ Flick asked as they left the tent and discarded the suits. It looked as run-down as the front garden. The front door, in particular, needed paint. The outline of a head could be seen behind a dirty net curtain.
‘No, Sarge,’ Peters said. ‘Looks as if it was chosen because of the cover. He lived at 55 Kitchener Grove. I guess he was walking home when he was surprised and killed then pulled in here. The murderer probably dragged him backwards into the bushes and escaped over that low wall into the next door front garden.’ He pointed to where SOCOs were examining impressions in a flower bed. Flick turned back to the house.
‘Who lives here?’ she asked.
‘An old lady, Sarge. Mrs Montgomery. She says she saw nothing.’
‘And next door?’
‘Unoccupied.’ Peters nodded towards a For Sale sign.
Osborne said, ‘Right, when you see Mrs Burke, find out as much as you can, but remember to be tactful, Felicity.’
Flick snorted. She and Baggo returned to her car, ignoring the journalist’s shrill questions. She drove off quickly and headed back to Worple Road. Once satisfied that she was not being followed, she doubled back to the Grove, avoiding the Crescent.
; ‘White man speak with forked tongue,’ Baggo remarked as they drew up outside number 55.
‘I was waiting for someone to say that,’ Flick muttered as she pulled up the handbrake.
The house was semi-detached yet substantial. Painted white, with large bay windows, it suggested prosperity rather than opulence. Clumps of snowdrops bordered the garden path. In the tiled porch, a muddy rugby ball balanced on a full sports bag. Janis Burke answered the bell, worry etched on her face. She had fine features, with long, brown hair and a centre parting. A thickened waistline was the only sign that she might be over forty. As she sat down in the untidily stylish front room, dominated by a huge fitted bookcase, Flick could see that the widow sensed the worst.
When the first bout of weeping subsided, Flick gave such details as she could, as gently as possible. With prompting, Mrs Burke told the officers that her husband took the train to work, using Raynes Park Station, ten minutes’ walk from the house. On Fridays, he went for a drink after work, normally getting home about seven. Sometimes he was later, very occasionally crashing out at a friend’s in town. The previous evening he had not phoned to say he would be late, and his i-Phone had been off when she had called him. She had gone to bed, but woken about two. Assuming he was either in town or downstairs in the spare room, she had gone back to sleep. There was no sign of him when she got up and his phone was still off, so she had called the emergency services.
Flick was noting this when the door swung open. A tall boy in his mid-teens with a shock of black, curly hair came in.
‘Is there news about Dad?’ he asked.
‘Oh Philip …’ Janis Burke began, then buried her head in her hands.
‘I’m afraid your father’s dead,’ Flick said. The boy swayed and Flick wondered if he was about to faint. He sat beside his mother and put his arm round her. The doorbell rang loudly and insistently.
‘God, that’s my lift for rugby,’ Philip said.
‘Do you want me …?’ Flick asked.