Robbing the Dead (Inspector Jim Carruthers Book 1)

by Tana Collins

  ‘I’ve smelt the drink on him the next day. Fairly regularly, actually.’

  ‘You said he got on with the other lecturers most of the time,’ said Fletcher enquiringly. ‘What did you mean by most of the time?’

  ‘Well,’ laughed Sadler seemingly a bit embarrassed, ‘there’s been one or two run-ins over the years. That’s to be expected, though.’

  ‘What sort of run-ins?’ said Carruthers.

  ‘Nothing really. Just silly. Department got refurbished a few years ago in order to create more space. It needed doing, anyway. We had a couple of visiting professors from the US and nowhere to put them. Holdaway made a bit of a stink about trying to get a bigger room, that’s all.’

  ‘Did he succeed?’

  ‘No. In fact he was ousted from the room he was in and actually given a smaller office. He didn’t like that, I can tell you.’

  ‘Hardly a reason to destroy his car,’ said Carruthers.

  ‘Good Lord, no.’

  ‘Did he have any problem students over the years?’ asked Fletcher.

  ‘We all have problem students from time to time,’ Sadler laughed. ‘Students who don’t turn up for lectures or who don’t hand their work in on time. Students who are lazy, who could work harder, but still expect a top-notch grade. The Americans are particularly bad for that. Going on about their GPAs and so on. That sort of thing.’

  ‘GPAs?’ asked Fletcher.

  ‘Grade Point Averages,’ explained Sadler. ‘Then of course, they have a litany of excuses for their poor timekeeping and shoddy work.’

  ‘Did Holdaway have any trouble with any particular students over and above the normal?’ asked Carruthers.

  ‘Now you come to mention it, there was one student about five years ago. I did hear about it. In fact, it was Holdaway who told me.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Holdaway had to fail him. We try not to fail people but it happens. The boy got rather nasty about it.’

  ‘Nasty? You mean he threatened him?’ said Fletcher.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you could say that. But Holdaway took it as an idle threat. As far as I know he didn’t report it to the police. And it was five years ago.’

  ‘Can you remember the name of the student?’

  ‘No, I can’t. It would be easy enough to find out though. Just ask the departmental secretary, Mrs Fairbanks. She never forgets a name.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Fletcher making another note.

  ‘You won’t be able to speak to the student about it, though.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Carruthers.

  ‘I may not know his name but I do know he got killed several months after moving back home. Hit and run.’

  Carruthers digested this piece of information. He wondered if the student’s parents had blamed Holdaway in any way for the death of their son. After all, if the professor hadn’t failed the boy, presumably he wouldn’t have been back home at the time of his death. Grief, as he knew, did strange things to people.

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell me about Holdaway?’ asked Carruthers. ‘Anything at all? Any personal problems he’s had over the last few years?’

  ‘He did have to have time off work several years ago. Some kind of stress. I’m not sure what.’

  ‘Do you remember when?’

  Sadler cast his eyes upwards. ‘This would have been about 2002.’

  ‘How long was he off for?’

  ‘About four months. Nobody really knew why.’

  ‘He hadn’t had a bereavement? That kind of thing?’ asked Fletcher.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Actually, it was all a bit strange.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Nobody seemed to know the reason he had to take time off work. But then if it’s for a personal problem you don’t want to pry, do you?’

  ‘How did he appear when he came back to work?’ said Fletcher.

  ‘Distant. And jumpy. Definitely jumpy. I’m sorry. I wish I could be more help.’

  Sadler lapsed into morose silence that seemed to stretch forever but when he looked up again his face had brightened considerably.

  ‘There is one thing that may help, however.’ The professor got up from the table, smoothed his crumpled cords, brushing a few crumbs away and went over to an enormous wooden bookcase. There his gnarled hands searched amongst the contents for something.

  ‘Damn. Can’t see without my glasses. Where are they?’ He went over to the table and tugged at his brown linen jacket, which was hanging on the back on his chair. Felt around in the inside pocket. Victoriously brought out his glasses, which he flourished in front of them. Placing them over the bridge of his nose he went back and resumed his search of the book cupboard.

  ‘Ah, I was looking on the wrong shelf. There we go. Knew it was here somewhere.’ Professor Sadler selected a large hard backed book. Carruthers could see Fletcher peering over at the cover questioningly.

  ‘This might help,’ said Sadler. ‘It’s Nicholas’s book. I couldn’t remember the title of it. I’m ashamed to say I haven’t read it. He gave me a copy. I just stuck it in the bookshelf. I thought it was called The Failings of Welsh Terrorism. But it’s not. It’s actually entitled The Death of Welsh Terrorism.’ He handed it over to Carruthers. ‘Ironic really. If the explosion has indeed been caused by a bomb, and Welsh terrorists are behind it, I would say Welsh terrorism must be very much alive. Wouldn’t you?’

  ***

  ‘What have you discovered?’ said Bingham, cracking his knuckles. He was sitting behind his desk in his office.

  ‘We’ve searched the house at Strathburn,’ said Carruthers. ‘No clue as to where Holdaway’s gone. He seems to have just disappeared into thin air. His wife’s currently in Spain. He’s not made contact with her. She’s been on the phone looking for him. Left two messages asking him to call her.’

  ‘You must have found something out?’

  Not a hell of a lot, Carruthers wanted to say. Instead he said, ‘He appears to be a big drinker and he’s on sleeping pills. And he had to take some time off work for stress in 2002. We don’t know why. That’s about it.’

  ‘OK, Jim, what are you doing the rest of the afternoon?’

  ‘I’ve got a few phone calls to make.’

  ‘Keep me up to date.’

  Carruthers checked his watch as he left Bingham’s office. It was already after four. He walked back to his own office, picked up the phone and started with the call to Holdaway’s library. The book Nicholas Holdaway had requested was ready for pick up. Carruthers almost dropped the phone when he was given the title. Bloody Sunday – Truth, Lies and the Saville Enquiry by Douglas Murray. What the hell was Holdaway’s connection with Northern Ireland? Not just Northern Ireland but Bloody Sunday? Making a quick decision Carruthers gathered up his mobile and keys. He put his head round the open plan office to see Andie was still hard at work.

  ‘I need to head out,’ he said. ‘I’ll be on the mobile if you need me.’

  ‘Where you heading?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve got a lead. Need to go to the library here in Castletown before it closes.’

  He debated telling Fletcher about his find but instead leapt into his car. Within fifteen minutes he was leaving Castletown’s library clutching the book Holdaway had ordered. Perhaps it would give him the answers he needed. He decided to head home so he could read it in peace.

  He sat in his living room devouring each page. From the very first it made for uncomfortable reading. But all the time his thoughts strayed. Where was Nicholas Holdaway? Where could the man have gone? His car had been parked at the politics department. It was now a lump of incinerated metal. The man hadn’t gone home. That much was clear. He didn’t seem to have any friends. He hadn’t made contact with his wife. Where the hell was he? His eyes felt scratchy so Carruthers decided to have a quick break. He stood up, took off his work shirt and trousers and pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. With a sigh, he began the task of picking up his hill
walking gear from his living room floor and putting it back into a cupboard. He knew he wouldn’t be getting away to the hills anytime soon. He slammed a chicken jalfrezi ready meal for one into the oven and opened a bottle of IPA. He took the first thirst-quenching swig of the golden liquid. As he waited for his supper to cook he picked up the book on Northern Ireland and continued reading. He was still reading as the light faded.

  NINE

  SATURDAY MORNING, 2nd June

  ‘That interview with Sadler wasn’t very informative,’ said Carruthers. He was standing with Fletcher at the coffee machine. ‘It left too many loose ends.’

  ‘Instead of narrowing the search, it seems to have widened it.’ She took a sip of coffee. ‘What about that lead you were chasing?’

  ‘I found out the book Holdaway ordered from his local library is on the enquiry into Bloody Sunday.’

  ‘Jesus, what’s Holdaway’s connection with Bloody Sunday?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s thinking of writing another book… maybe he’s unearthed something about Ewan Williams … something that threatens the Welshman. What about his sister?’

  Carruthers considered and dismissed it. ‘Already a matter of public record. We need to find Holdaway.’ If he’s still alive.

  ‘Look,’ said Carruthers lowering his voice, ‘about your pregnancy, how are you feeling about it?’

  ‘I don’t really know to be honest. I’m still in shock.’ She sighed. ‘If you really want to know… I’m terrified. I’ve never had any maternal feelings. Suddenly I’m going to be responsible for a new life. If I go through with it, that is. All I’ve ever wanted is to be a police officer. I don’t want this to get in the way.’

  Carruthers’ mobile rang.

  He took the call then put his phone away. ‘Holdaway’s here. He’s just walked into the station. Bingham wants me to interview him.’

  ‘What happened to McGhee leading the bomb investigation?’

  Carruthers shrugged. ‘All I know is McGhee’s not in the station right now.’

  Fletcher put her cup down. ‘What about Mathews? Want me to go talk to her instead?’

  ‘That’ll have to wait. This is the priority. And I’d like you with me. I’ll pass on the coffee. I need a quick word with Bingham.’

  Carruthers put his head round Bingham’s office door. The man was sitting behind his imposing desk, glasses perched on the end of his nose. Carruthers rapped on the door.

  Superintendent Bingham looked up. He motioned for Carruthers to enter. ‘Two things, Jim,’ he said. ‘The first is, Holdaway’s asking for police protection. I’ve made it clear we don’t have the manpower for a twenty-four hour guard. I’m going to suggest he flies over and joins his wife in Spain until these lunatics are caught.’

  Carruthers remained silent.

  ‘The man’s an idiot,’ continued Bingham. ‘Not only did he not report the threats he received, he’s waited until they’ve been acted upon, and now he wants police protection. I haven’t read his book from cover to cover but I’ve glanced at it. Pretty inflammatory stuff. Did he not think when he wrote it that he might become a target of the more lunatic fringes? I’m damned if I’m going to waste taxpayer’s money on him. Who does he think he is? Salman bloody Rushdie? Not only has he put himself at risk, he’s also put the residents of Castletown at risk.’

  ‘Where has he been the last forty-eight hours?’ asked Carruthers, thinking Bingham was being a bit harsh.

  ‘That’s the second thing. Says he can’t remember,’ snorted Bingham. ‘I’ve put him in interview room two to make him sweat. Don’t let him leave until you get some answers.’

  ‘He would be much more comfortable in an office,’ said Carruthers. ‘Why don’t I see if there’s one free?’

  ‘Leave him where he is,’ snapped Bingham.

  ‘He’s not a suspect. Don’t you think he’s been through enough? Besides, if he’s relaxed he might open up more.’

  ‘Leave him. That’s an order.’

  Carruthers left Bingham drumming his fingers on his desk, picked up his notes from his office then made his way down to interview room two. He hadn’t said anything to Bingham about the library book Holdaway had requested. Wanted to see what the man had to say first. He collected Fletcher from the break room and headed to the interview room.

  The academic stood up as they entered. ‘Professor Nicholas Holdaway? DCI Carruthers and DS Fletcher. Apologies for putting you in one of our interview rooms. All private offices have been commandeered for this investigation. Please sit down, sir.’ Carruthers and Fletcher sat down opposite Holdaway in identical plastic chairs. Carruthers leant forward across the scuffed table and stared intently at the politics lecturer.

  The last forty-eight hours had not been kind to Nicholas Holdaway. He was dishevelled and clearly exhausted, with great bags under his eyes. There was grey stubble on his face and his white hair looked like it hadn’t seen a comb for a couple of days. His pink shirt was half tucked in, half hanging out of his brown corduroy trousers, which were stained with grass and mud. He looked like a haunted man who’d been sleeping rough. He had his head bowed.

  Carruthers felt guilty about lying to Holdaway about the reasons for the choice of room. He hated all interview rooms but this one in particular. For a start it was the smallest and Carruthers hated small rooms. It was also in need of a good lick of paint. It had originally been painted grey. Now it just looked dirty. There was little natural light as it was a room with only one small window. Orders from Bingham, who clearly wanted Holdaway rattled and at a disadvantage during the interview, were not to be disobeyed though.

  In the short time he’d been at the station, Carruthers had become adept at being selective in the orders he chose to bend or break. He hadn’t had much of a chance to decide how to proceed with the interview. He was going to ask the man where he’d been but in light of the recent revelation of the library book he jumped straight in with the most obvious question first.

  ‘Why would you want a book on the events of Bloody Sunday?’

  Holdaway frowned. ‘Northern Ireland interests me,’ he muttered.

  ‘Is that all it is?’

  The question was greeted with silence. Carruthers couldn’t decide whether Holdaway was simply exhausted or being evasive. He changed tack. ‘We’ve had confirmation that the explosion was caused by a bomb. A Welsh extremist organisation known as Bryn Glas 1402 are claiming responsibility.’

  Holdaway jerked his head up. He made eye contact with Carruthers briefly then looked away. In that moment, the police officer saw a mixture of emotion; fear, alarm, wariness even, but interestingly, not surprise.

  ‘The group’s led by a man named Ewan Williams. Have you ever heard of him?’

  Holdaway shook his head. Carruthers wasn’t sure whether to believe him. After all, the man was supposed to be the Welsh terrorism expert. Then again, if people like McGhee had only just made the link between Bryn Glas and Williams…

  ‘Ewan Williams’ sister married an Irishman.’ Carruthers watched Holdaway’s face. A mere flicker of the eyelid. ‘She moved over to Northern Ireland in the early 1970s. She was involved in the march you’ve just requested a library book on. She was shot on that march.’

  Holdaway remained silent but his face drained of colour.

  ‘Pretty big coincidence, don’t you think?’ What is going on? thought Carruthers. ‘I’m going to ask you again. What is your connection with Northern Ireland?’

  Holdaway bit his lip. ‘I’m thinking of writing a book on Northern Ireland and Bloody Sunday,’ he said.

  Was there any truth in Fletcher’s suggestion that the professor had some information about the circumstances of the shooting of Williams’ sister? Carruthers wondered.

  The professor then remained silent. A nut can be cracked without a sledgehammer, thought Carruthers. However, he was getting increasingly irritated especially as they were here to help Holdaway.

  ‘I under
stand that you’ve received threatening letters?’ said Carruthers, watching Holdaway closely. ‘Can you tell me about that? How long had it been going on?’

  ‘About four months. I received a number of anonymous letters in the post.’

  ‘So you didn’t know at that stage who’d written the letters?’

  ‘No. Like I said, they were anonymous.’

  ‘Have you kept them?’

  ‘No. I’ve thrown them away,’ Holdaway admitted.

  Carruthers sighed. ‘They may have contained vital forensic evidence. Why did you never report these threats to the police?’

  ‘The same reason I threw the letters away. I decided not to take them seriously. To be honest I’ve had a fair few threats from crackpots over the years. If I’d taken every one of them seriously I would never have ventured outside my front door.’

  ‘Can you describe the letters? What about postmark?’

  Holdaway thought for a few moments. ‘I couldn’t make out the postmark on any of them. Address was typed,’ he said carefully. ‘Inside, the letters had been cut out of a magazine or newspaper, and stuck on a page to form words. I can’t really tell you much more.’

  ‘How many did you receive in total?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘So approximately one a month?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. There would be a gap of three or four weeks then I would receive another one.’

  ‘Do you remember what these letters said?’

  ‘The usual.’

  ‘What’s the usual?’

  ‘English Scum.’

  ‘That all?’ Insulting but hardly threatening, thought Carruthers.

  ‘For the first one.’

  ‘Short and to the point. Was it signed?’

  ‘None of them were. No.’

  ‘What did the others say?’

  ‘My wife threw the second out. I never saw but apparently it said, “We are watching you.”’

  ‘What about the last two?’

  ‘“We know all about your past. You have been warned,” was the third.’

  ‘What did that mean? We know about your past?’

  ‘I’m thirsty. Can I have a glass of water?’