by T S O'Rourke
Starting at the top of their list, the two detectives called on Motorman Vehicle Services on Liverpool Road, where they were met by a rather gruff looking man of about fifty, wearing overalls and covered in what Grant presumed to be axle-grease or oil. His name was Kellerman, he had said, and that explained the ‘Motorman’ in the business name. Or at least that’s what Carroll thought.
Joseph Kellerman was busy and he didn’t like the cops nosing around. Grant understood why. Less than three months previous to this, Kellerman’s company had been found to be involved in the ‘ringing’ of stolen cars, replacing their identification markings with those of written off vehicles of a similar make. A suspended sentence had seen an end to the matter, along with a rather hefty fine. Joe Kellerman, as Grant remembered him, had reason to be suspicious when the cops were around. He was probably up to his old tricks again.
‘We’d like a quiet word with you, Mr. Kellerman,’ Grant said on entering the small office, situated beside the front gate of the premises.
‘About what?’ Kellerman immediately replied.
‘Just a routine matter. It’s about your car – the purple estate. You see, a car bearing a distinct resemblance to yours was seen to be involved in an accident last week and we just wanted to eliminate you from our inquiries. Simple as that,’ Carroll said.
‘So what do you want to know?’
‘Well, has your car been involved in any accidents recently?’
‘Not to my knowledge,’ Kellerman said, looking from Carroll to Grant and back again.
‘May we have a look at the car?’ Grant asked.
‘Yeah, sure – but I told you, it hasn’t been in any accidents recently....’
‘Who drives the car on a regular basis?’ Carroll asked, looking around the grimy little office. There were pin-ups plastered all around. Not the kind of place that a woman would gladly work, Carroll thought, running his fingers over an exhaust system that dangled from the ceiling.
‘I’m the only one insured to drive the estate. The tow truck has the company insurance so anyone here can drive it – so I’m the only one....’ Kellerman replied.
‘Can you tell us where the car was last Monday afternoon?’ Carroll asked, eyeing the bare chest of a model plastered on the office door.
‘Monday afternoons are usually quiet – I’d have been here all day. Where did this accident take place?’ Kellerman asked.
‘Do you have anyone who can back up that you were here?’ Grant asked.
‘My son, Tommy. He was here all afternoon – except for one pick-up he had to do out in Holloway.’
‘How old is your son?’ Carroll asked.
‘What is this, are you guys just looking for something to do or is this personal?’
‘There’s nothing personal about this Mr. Kellerman. We just need a description of your son, that’s all. It’ll help us eliminate him from our inquiries.....’ Carroll said reassuringly.
‘He’s about the same size as me – maybe a bit lighter around the girth. He has black hair and crooked teeth,’ Kellerman said, wondering all the time what exactly the two coppers were after.
‘How old is he?’ Grant asked, as the office door swung open. A young man walked in.
‘Ask him yourself, why don’t you. Tommy – the police want to know how old you are,’ Kellerman said to the young man.
Carroll looked at Grant, and Grant at Carroll. There was no way on earth that the young man stood before them could’ve had anything to do with the two murders. He was only about twenty, if that.
‘I’m twenty two,’ the young man replied. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘Never mind,’ Carroll said. ‘Your father was just helping us with our inquiries, that’s all. Thank you for your time, Mr. Kellerman,’ Carroll said, gesturing to Grant that they should leave.
‘As long as you don’t go making a habit out if it. I’ve paid my fine and I’m clean now. No more dodgy business. So you can leave me alone, okay?’ Kellerman shouted after the two detectives as they left his office. Tommy looked at his father, confused.
The next four hours saw Carroll and Grant visit the four other business premises on their list. At Drop-off Couriers in White Lion Street, they were told that the van was driven by a member of their female staff named Tracy Spalding, from Romford. She was blonde, twenty nine and getting married in three weeks time to the boss’s son, Charlie. The car, a Vauxhall, hadn’t been involved in any accidents in the last year. And that, according to the dispatch operator, had nothing to do with Tracy’s driving – it had more to do with the Gods smiling on her. Carroll laughed, Grant smiled.
A different story came from Xpress Parcel Deliveries on Pentonville Road. The dispatch operator, a guy named John, said that the estate was written off a few months before, and was parked out the back, where it was being dismantled for spares. The company had seven similar estate cars, all of the same make but in different colours and, according to John, the purple estate came in handy for spare parts. Grant informed John that the car should be registered as being written off, and left it at that.
From the moment that Eileen, the Irish hooker, had said that there were two aerials on the car, Carroll had a sneaking suspicion that the killer may be a taxi driver of some description. Or at least a hackney driver – especially when she mentioned the magnetically mounted aerial. Because of this, Carroll had insisted that they visit the hackney company on the list next.
A1 Hackney Services on Roseberry Avenue was a busy little place. The base controller was permanently on the go, with a young woman ferrying cups of coffee to him. He seemed to be buzzing with the caffeine and had trouble keeping still. Moreso when he heard that the two guys weren’t looking for a hackney.
‘What, what can I do for you?’ the base controller asked, looking up at Grant.
‘I’m Detective Constable Grant and this is Detective Sergeant Carroll. We’d like to ask you a couple of questions about one of your vehicles.’
‘Jesus, I told Harry to pay those fuckin’ parking tickets last week. I knew you’d get on to us!’ the man said.
‘It has nothing to do with parking tickets, Mr...?’
‘Greene. Jimmy Greene. I own the business.’
‘We’re interested in one of your vehicles. We have reason to believe that one of your cars may have been involved in an accident last week.’ Grant said. Carroll kept quiet and decided to watch how Grant worked the guy.
‘None of my cars have had a bender recently. Which car are you on about?’ Jimmy Greene asked, scratching his head and taking a drink of coffee.
‘A purple estate car. I think it’s a Ford,’ Grant said, looking down at the list in his hands.
‘Naw, the estate’s fine – we haven’t had any damage to it. What’s supposed to have happened?’
‘Well, we’re not sure if it was your car, but wee need to know where it was last Monday afternoon. It’d help us a lot....’
‘Just a sec,’ Greene said, turning to the young woman. ‘Bring us over that black diary over there,’ he said, pointing to a book on top of the filing cabinet. The girl brought the diary to her boss and turned away. ‘It’s great, this youth employment programme – look what the Jobcentre sent me! Can’t find girls like this everyday, can you?’
‘Last Monday afternoon,’ Grant said. ‘Around four o’clock. Where was the car then?’
‘Just a sec....’ Greene said, thumbing through the diary. ‘Ah, here it is. Car four – that’s what the estate’s called. Car four was sent out to Tottenham at three thirty and went out to Heathrow. It wasn’t free till half four, and it had a job in the City.’
‘Where in the City?’ Grant asked.
‘The Liverpool Street area, I think. I can’t read my own bloody writing sometimes. We’re so busy at the moment you’d never believe it, and getting good drivers is absolutely impossible....’
‘Who was driving car four last Monday?’ Grant asked.
‘That’d be Giri Patel. He’s out on a
call at the moment.’
‘Is he Asian?’
‘Half my bleedin’ drivers are.... Like I said, it’s hard to find good drivers these days....’
Carroll looked over at Grant and shook his head. One more call and that would be it. From then on, it would be up to Wheeler and Thompson, who were also working the list.
Jim Murney’s Heating and Plumbing Co. on Dalston Road was closed on the Monday in question and Jim Murney was the only one involved with the company. It was a one man operation, so to speak. Murney was around forty five, with a broad Scottish accent. Besides, Carroll had said to Grant, he had thick, wiry red hair. Jim Murney wasn’t the killer – of that much they were certain. It was time to clock off for the night and leave the rest to Wheeler and Thompson.
‘Fancy a pint?’ Carroll asked, unbuttoning his coat as he got into the car.
‘I’m not drinking at the moment. Besides, I’m going to see my wife and kids tonight....’
‘Well, you can’t say that I didn’t ask you – extending the hand of friendship and all that rubbish....’
‘No, man, thanks for the offer, but it’s just that I want to keep my head straight for tonight. She said she had something special to tell me and that she wanted me there for dinner at seven....’
‘Sounds ominous. What do you reckon she wants?’
‘I don’t know. But I do know that she’s not seeing her boyfriends anymore – the kids told me on the phone the other night....’
‘Well, I hope it goes well for you. You deserve to be back in there. Will you drop me off at the King’s Head?’ Carroll asked, rubbing his chin thirstily. ‘I could murder a pint!’
‘Well, as long as that’s all you murder,’ Grant replied with an unexpected grin on his face. He was clearly expecting good news at home, Carroll thought, as the they drove up Essex Road.
‘I may well murder a few,’ Carroll said. ‘I think I could become a serial killer – after a fashion....’
‘Take it easy, man,’ Grant said, as he stopped the car outside the King’s Head.
‘See you tomorrow, Tonto, and don’t be late!’ Carroll said with a smirk.
Grant shook his head and pulled out into the traffic. Once the car had been dropped off at the station, he could start making his way home. A shower, a shave, and he’d be ready. Whatever Victoria had on her mind, it had to be good, Grant thought, drumming his fingers on the dashboard.
Already three weeks had passed since Joanne McCrae’s body had been found by a paperboy in Horseferry Road. Time was marching on and the clues were mounting up, yet still they hadn’t made a positive ID. And with the details about to be released to the press, Carroll and Grant were under increasing pressure to catch the killer.
Chapter 23
Wheeler and Thompson struck lucky on the second call they had made. Harry’s Hackney Services on City Road proved fruitless, but Gem Hackney Cabs on Essex Road was everything that they had been looking for.
The gaffer, a Mr. Grimes, had welcomed the two detectives into his office and sat them down with a cup of coffee. A more cordial man you couldn’t have met. It hadn’t taken too long to establish that they had the right place.
‘So the vehicle hasn’t been involved in any accidents recently – no broken bumpers or dented wings?’ Thompson questioned.
‘No, nothing at all. What exactly happened with this accident you’re taking about – did someone die?’ Grimes asked.
‘Yes, someone was seriously injured and it could still prove fatal,’ Wheeler interrupted. Thompson looked over at his partner and then to the floor, before speaking.
‘We need the name and description of the man who usually drives the car, Mr. Grimes. It’s just standard procedure, you know....’ Thompson said with a forced smile.
‘Yeah, of course – it’s just normal procedure,’ Grimes repeated. ‘Colin Nash is the driver’s name. He’s been with me now for the last month or so. A quiet sort – hardly says a word. But he’s always early on the job and never gives me any grief – unlike the other ones....’
‘Could you give us a general description of Mr. Nash?’ Wheeler asked in the vain hope that the description would match that of the suspect.
‘Colin’s around 34 or 35, and about 175cm,’ Grimes said, searching his brain for anything that distinguished him from the other drivers.
‘What colour hair does he have?’ Thompson asked.
‘Well, what’s left of it is red, I suppose. Blondish-red.’
‘Any tattoos or suchlike?’ Thompson continued.
‘No – I haven’t seen any,’ Grimes replied. ‘All my drivers have to wear long-sleeved shirts when they work – some people are intimidated by tattoos, like, you know....’
‘Is Nash working today?’ Wheeler asked.
‘No, he’s been off for a few days,’ Grimes said.
‘Any idea where he’s gone or when he’s due back?’ Thompson asked.
‘He should be back at work on Thursday morning,’ Grimes replied
‘If you have his home address, maybe we could call on him if we need to clear anything up – but it looks like he’s not our man.’
‘If you hang on a second I’ll get it for you,’ Grimes said, rummaging through a box file on his desk.
‘Ah, here it is,’ he said, holding a piece of paper in his hand.
The whole office looked as disorganised as his filing system. It was a wonder he could find anything.
‘Colin Nash, ah, yes. Here it is, on Holloway Road. I think it’s just around the corner from the pub – you know The Flying Ragamuffin, don’t you?’ Grimes inquired, as he scribbled down Nash’s address on a scrap of paper.
‘Yes,’ Wheeler replied. ‘We know it.’
‘Well, it’s a flat in the house around the corner. That’s the only address I have for him.’ Grimes said, passing the piece of paper to Detective Wheeler.
‘Thank you for your time, Mr. Grimes – there’s no need to mention this to Mr. Nash. If there’s any reason to contact him, and I don’t think there will be, then we can always contact him at home. Thanks for your help,’ Wheeler said, shaking Grimes’ hand firmly.
‘No problem at all, detective. No problem at all. If there’s anything else we can do for you just you give me a call. I’ve got a nephew in the Met – did I tell you?’
‘No, Mr. Grimes, you didn’t. Anyway, thanks for your help,’ Thompson said, heading for the door.
By the time the two detectives reached the car, they were grinning from ear to ear and couldn’t wait to get back to the station, where they could check out what they had found. It would only take a matter of minutes to see if there was a Colin Nash on the Criminal Records Bureau Computer. And if there was, then they would have a photo, an address and a list of convictions. There was no point arresting the guy just because he fitted a description. A bit more work had to be done before they could claim a positive ID on the killer.
DCI Jones was ecstatic, to say the least. It was the first real lead they had, and they weren’t going to waste it.
By the time Carroll and Grant had made their way into the office it was nearly eleven thirty. Shift changes and extra nights worked had given them a few hours longer in bed – a fact that Detective Grant was very pleased with. Vicky had kept him awake half of the night, so a lie-in was exactly what he had needed. And Carroll, as usual, had stayed in the pub until closing time. He was looking quite normal now though, having slept through his hangover.
DCI Jones summoned the two detectives into his office as soon as they arrived. It was as if he couldn’t wait to tell them that Wheeler and Thompson had located the suspect. Whatever childish instinct had driven Jones into his little game of ‘you didn’t pin the tail on the donkey’ it was obviously irritating to Carroll and Grant. After all, it had been Carroll and Grant who had led Wheeler and Thompson to the hackney cab company’s door. Wasn’t it they who had talked to the Irish hooker in King’s Cross? And wasn’t it they who had done all of the leg-work up until n
ow? Sure it was. But DCI Jones still couldn’t resist it. Carroll almost understood. Grant didn’t really seem too bothered either way, but he was excited at the prospect of a positive ID.
‘Thompson is writing up his report and Wheeler is checking out the Criminal Records Bureau files on the computer. We should have something in the next half hour at the latest,’ Jones said with a self-satisfied grin.
He didn’t seem to be as itchy around the beard when he was happy. Instead, he removed his glasses, rubbed them with his handkerchief and returned them to the bridge of his nose.