Kennedy 04 - The Broken Circle

by Shirley Wells

  He bought a newspaper, then went to the coffee bar to read it. All the while, he kept checking for updates on the ETA of Flight KL1073.

  He didn’t really have time for this. On the drive here, he’d had a call to say that Bradley Johnson, the lord of the manor, or Kelton Bridge manor at least, had been reported missing by his wife. Apparently, he’d left the manor on foot late yesterday afternoon and hadn’t returned. As he’d been planning an early drive to London today for an important meeting, his wife was extremely concerned for his safety.

  Max should really be looking into that. On the other hand, Bradley Johnson was a grown man and, although they might be short of coppers at the moment, there were more than enough to deal with a missing person inquiry. In any case, Max was always getting reprimanded about his lack of delegation skills.

  He was reading about the government’s latest harebrained scheme for reducing congestion on the country’s motorways when an announcement was made. Flight KL1073 had landed.

  Max nipped outside to smoke a cigarette and then stood to wait for the passengers to appear.

  Beside him, an attractive girl, probably early twenties, paced impatiently. Max guessed that, any minute now, a handsome young bloke would appear to sweep her off her feet.

  She checked her watch. Max checked his.

  Finally, the double doors swung open and passengers, mostly businessmen and -women, walked towards them.

  Max was wrong. His companion suddenly raced forward and launched herself at a young, blonde-haired girl. Max watched them leave, arm in arm, talking excitedly and giggling.

  Thomas McQueen was one of the last passengers to appear. Fifty-two years old, he wore his hair—long, lank and fair—in a ponytail.

  Recognition and a brief flash of anger crossed his face as he spotted Max.

  ‘Been taking a holiday, Tom?’ Max greeted him genially.

  ‘As a matter of fact I have.’ McQueen didn’t slow his pace.

  ‘Christmas shopping?’ Max suggested.

  ‘Expecting a present, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘I am.’ Max dodged a couple of people to keep pace with McQueen. ‘You behind bars.’

  ‘Behind bars for what?’ McQueen asked, a half-smile curving his thin lips.

  His lips were the only thin thing about him. His penchant for fine wines and top-class restaurants was piling on the weight and, as he was only around the five feet five mark, every pound added to the roly-poly image. Even his face was fat and bloated.

  ‘Anything. I’m not fussy,’ Max answered his question.

  The murder of a certain Muhammed Khalil would do for starters. Once they had him for that, they could worry about the rest.

  ‘You can’t pin anything on me, as well you know.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Not ever.’ McQueen stopped walking to look up at Max. ‘You’ve had it in for me ever since that Khalil lad was killed. He happened to rent one of my properties, that’s all. Thankfully, a lot of people do. If they didn’t, I’d be out of business. I’ve committed no crime, Chief Inspector. None at all. In fact, the only lawbreaker around here is you. If I’m not mistaken, this is harassment.’

  ‘Eh? Just because I happen to bump into you at the airport?’

  ‘There’s that. There’s sitting outside my house for hours on end. There’s following me into certain bars. It’s harassment, plain and simple.’

  Put like that, Max supposed he had a point.

  ‘Do you know Bradley Johnson?’ Max asked, changing the subject. ‘Lives in—’

  ‘Kelton Bridge. Yes, I know him. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Seems he’s been reported missing.’

  ‘Oh?’ McQueen’s surprise seemed genuine.

  ‘Yes, his wife phoned us early this morning.’

  ‘He’s a big boy.’

  They reached fresh air and Max spotted McQueen’s driver, minder more like, jumping out of a black BMW to open the passenger door for his boss.

  ‘My car,’ McQueen said unnecessarily. ‘Be seeing you, Chief Inspector. But not quite so often in future, I trust.’

  McQueen handed his two bags and a black briefcase to his minder, John Barry, and, leaving him to stow them in the boot, jumped in the car.

  Unlike McQueen, Barry was in the peak of condition. An ex-boxer, he must still keep in training as his arms and shoulders were massive. His head, shaved and bullish, sat no more than an inch above those shoulders. He wasn’t the sort of bloke you argued with unless you had plenty of back-up.

  By the time Max got back to his own car, McQueen would have been halfway to Harrington. There was no point even thinking of trying to catch up with him. In any case, Max had work to do. Until he could find some hard evidence linking him to Muhammed Khalil’s murder, McQueen, sadly, was nothing more than a little extracurricular activity.

  Bad news was waiting for him at headquarters.

  ‘The boss wants to see you, Max,’ DS Fletcher announced.

  Fletch was sitting at his desk, pen in one hand and a bacon sandwich in the other. In fact, now Max came to think about it, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Fletch without food in his hand.

  ‘OK, Fletch, thanks.’

  ‘The second you arrive,’ he added.

  ‘So if he asks, I haven’t arrived yet. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ Fletch agreed amiably. ‘He doesn’t sound terribly happy,’ he added, ‘so you might want a brew first.’

  Max groaned. ‘What’s rattled his cage now?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Fletch said, licking melting butter from his fingers.

  ‘Doesn’t that lovely wife of yours feed you?’

  ‘Not often enough. By the time the kids have been fed, the day’s gone.’ His eyes took on the usual dreamy expression at mention of his daughters. ‘It’s OK, though. I won’t starve.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  Fletch looked down at the amount of stomach that was hanging over his belt and sucked in a huge breath. ‘It’s all muscle.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  Max went to his office, but decided to save the brew till later. He was curious, but not particularly worried. His boss was rarely ‘terribly happy’. No capacity for happiness, Max supposed. No sense of humour.

  His phone rang and he was pleased to see it was Ben calling from France.

  ‘Hi, son. How’s it going?’

  ‘It’s dead boring,’ Ben complained.

  ‘You only arrived yesterday,’ Max pointed out. ‘Give it a chance.’

  ‘But we’ve got to go and look round a boring old museum this morning. I hate museums.’

  ‘It’ll be fascinating.’

  ‘You reckon?’ Ben scoffed, and Max couldn’t in all honesty say he did.

  ‘Anyway,’ Ben went on, ‘I just thought I’d ring to see if the dogs are OK.’

  ‘The dogs are fine, yes. I’m OK, too. Thanks so much for asking.’

  ‘Ha, ha.’ Max could hear the amusement in his voice, could picture the smile on his face.

  They chatted for a couple of minutes, then Harry came on the phone. Max wondered why he worried about them so much. They were fine, not a care in the world, other than how they might escape the boredom of a museum, which was as it should be.

  Half an hour later, unable to guess what today’s bollocking would focus on, Max finally gave up. He didn’t have a clue. So now he was extremely curious.

  He took the stairs to Phil Meredith’s office, knocked on the door and stepped inside.

  ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ Without waiting for an answer, Meredith spat out, ‘You’ve really blown it this time. You’ve been warned countless times, but you take no notice whatsoever. A law unto yourself. Always bloody have been.’

  Max still had no idea what he was talking about. One thing was certain, his boss was furious.

  Meredith had recently taken to wearing contact lenses, probably because he thought they looked better for the TV appearances he loved so mu
ch, and they had a habit of making his eyes water. His brown hair was thinning on an almost daily basis so Max suspected the next thing would be a wig.

  ‘Sorry, but you’ll have to give me a clue,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t you get bloody funny with me!’

  ‘I’m not,’ Max said patiently. ‘It’s just that I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about. I’m a detective. I work better with clues.’

  ‘I’ll give you clues all right. Thomas McQueen.’

  ‘Ah.’ It was two months since he’d been warned—officially—to keep away from McQueen.

  ‘Ring a bell, does it? I thought it might. I will not have my officers harassing a—’

  ‘Villain?’ Max supplied helpfully.

  ‘He’s an innocent man. An innocent man who had dinner with the Chief Constable a fortnight ago.’

  ‘You’re kidding me?’ Max had to laugh at the absurdity. ‘God, I knew he was conning his way into polite society, but that’s really taking the piss.’

  ‘It’s not funny. As far as we know, he’s nothing more than a highly respected member of the community.’

  ‘As far as we can prove,’ Max corrected him. ‘You know as well as I do that he’s the biggest crook in Harrington.’

  ‘If he was, he’d be behind bars,’ Meredith snapped. ‘You’ve got nothing on him, nothing at all. Khalil rented a property from him, that’s all. Oh, yes, and his car was captured on CCTV in the area at about the right time. And that’s it. Just because you dislike the bloke—’

  ‘I do, but it’s more than that and you know it, Phil. He’s mixed up in Khalil’s murder. I know he is. And I intend to nail him.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. You’ve already had a written warning. I’ve had enough of you taking the law into your own hands. You’re suspended from duty until further notice.’

  Max opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Suspended? Hell, this was serious.

  ‘Take a holiday,’ Meredith suggested grimly. ‘Do whatever it takes to get McQueen out of your head once and for all.’

  ‘You’re suspending me? Just because I had a five-minute chat with McQueen?’

  ‘I’m suspending you because I’m damned if I’ll have my officers disobeying orders and harassing—’

  ‘Friends of your golfing chum, the Chief Constable.’

  ‘I couldn’t care less if he’s bloody royalty,’ Meredith yelled. ‘I’m not having members of the public harassed by my officers. I won’t stand for it.’

  McQueen was guilty of many things, possibly even murder. Having no hard evidence didn’t make him innocent. But there was no point arguing the case. It was time for a spot of grovelling.

  ‘OK, you’ve made your point. I’ll keep out of his way, but—’

  ‘Damn right, you will, Max. As from now, you’re suspended. If you’d like to hand over—’

  Meredith’s phone rang and he picked it up to bark his name at the unfortunate caller.

  Max was glad of the distraction. Obviously, he was out of practice when it came to grovelling. He’d have to try harder.

  Meredith couldn’t suspend him. What the hell would he do all day? Walk the dogs? Sort out his CD collection? Wash the car? He’d go mad.

  Meredith banged down the phone. ‘Christ, it never bloody rains!’ He glared at Max. ‘A body’s been found in the wood out at Kelton Bridge. Presumably it’s Bradley Johnson.’

  Max, knowing it showed exceptionally bad taste when someone had died, bit back on the silent prayer of thanks. He was the duty Senior Investigating Officer and, although normally Meredith could turn to others, this week he was snookered. Don Cornwall had been rushed into hospital with appendicitis and Jerry was enjoying a well-earned rest in Mauritius.

  ‘A suspicious death,’ Meredith added. ‘Wound to his head.’

  Correction. Someone had been murdered.

  ‘I see,’ Max murmured. ‘In that case, I won’t take up any more of your time. You’ll be busy. Shortage of officers and all that.’ He turned to the door. ‘Actually, this suspension couldn’t have come at a better time. You know I’m staying at Jill’s for a couple of weeks while my boys are in France? Yes, of course you do. The grapevine might take its time getting this far but—’

  ‘You and Jill?’ Meredith cut him off. ‘Again? Bloody hell, Max, when you two were together last time, you treated her like shit and she walked out on you and the force. I’m damned if I’ll have that happening again.’

  Max winced. ‘It won’t.’

  ‘It better hadn’t.’

  ‘Right.’ Max had the door open, not sure if he was suspended or if Meredith wanted him to find Johnson’s killer. ‘I’ll go and book a week in the sun then. Or perhaps I’ll sort out my CD collection.’

  ‘Max, I’m warning you, get bloody funny with me, and I’ll have you back on the beat by lunchtime.’

  ‘You mean …?’ He assumed an expression of innocence, but the relief flooded through him.

  ‘If it were up to me,’ Meredith assured him, voice dangerously low, ‘you would be back on the bloody beat by lunchtime. But with all this bad press we’re getting …’ He left the sentence unfinished. ‘Get out to Kelton Bridge. The last thing we need right now is another unsolved murder.’

  ‘What? You mean my suspension’s over? That must be the shortest on record.’

  Meredith looked on the verge of a coronary so Max decided against milking it too much.

  ‘Every damn day,’ Meredith reminded him, ‘the press have a bloody field day with us. The public are up in arms. People are convinced we haven’t bothered to find Khalil’s killer because we’re racist.’

  Max nodded. ‘I do read the papers, you know.’

  ‘My force? Racist? How dare they?’

  Khalil had been murdered back in January, ten months ago, and they still had no suspects. Other than McQueen, that is.

  ‘We’ll find his killer,’ Max said.

  ‘Bloody right we will. Meanwhile, you’d better see what’s been happening in Kelton Bridge.’ He scowled at Max. ‘It’s handy you spending time with Jill as it turns out. This will be right on her doorstep. It shouldn’t take you long to apprehend our man.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Max didn’t like to point out that, if they had Bradley Johnson’s killer banged up before the day was over, there would be yet more accusations of the force not bothering to find the person responsible for Muhammed Khalil’s death.

  Ironically, the only people not crying racism were Khalil’s family. A nicer bunch of people it would be difficult to meet and, for their sakes, Max was determined that Khalil’s killer would be brought to justice.

  Racism. God, that infuriated Max as much as it did his boss. Max didn’t have a racist bone in his body. He hated all scum the same, regardless of colour, creed or any other damn thing.

  ‘I’ll keep you informed,’ he promised.

  ‘You will, Max. And keep away from McQueen!’

  He would; he had better things to do with his time. For now.

  Chapter Three

  When Jill let herself into her cottage that afternoon, the Rolling Stones were complaining that they couldn’t get any satisfaction. Loudly.

  Why was it that Max couldn’t do anything without background noise? And why was it so difficult for him to switch the radio off before he left?

  She silenced the radio and shivered. The central heating should have come on an hour ago. Damn it, she really would have to get in touch with a reliable plumber.

  Even her cats were feeling the cold. Sam, the laziest of the three, was curled up on top of the boiler, and no doubt wondering why it wasn’t the warmest place in the cottage. Rabble, old and stiff, strode up to her and demanded food. Tojo, more inventive, had made herself a comfortable bed on Max’s sweater. Served him right for tossing it on the sofa.

  She hadn’t had time to decide if inviting Max to her cottage had been a good idea as he’d only arrived last night. He’d come in usef
ul when Sam had ambled inside and deposited a dead mouse on the sitting-room carpet, but she remained wary.

  It was only a temporary arrangement while Max’s sons, Harry and Ben, were away. They’d left for France yesterday for a fortnight’s trip arranged by the school. The main appeal for Ben was the thought of a fortnight without lessons, and both boys imagined they would be spending their days skiing at Val d’Isère. Harry, especially, was spending hours at Rossendale Ski Centre and even Ben was becoming an accomplished snow boarder. Yet the trip wouldn’t be all fun on the slopes. Far from it. They would be improving their French and learning about the country. At least, that was the plan.

  Max was making the most of their absence by getting the decorators in. He’d given Jill a sob story and she, probably foolishly, had said he could have the spare bedroom for a fortnight.

  She hit the reset button on the gas boiler and, very reluctantly, it groaned into life. She’d phoned a plumber last week, and he’d promised faithfully to take a look at her boiler on Wednesday. And then Thursday. A week later, there was still no sign of him.

  And it was bitterly cold.

  It was the last week of November, yet Lancashire had been threatened with heavy snowfalls before the month was out. So far, all they’d had were hard frosts and, yesterday, the temperature hadn’t risen above freezing all day. So why were mice wandering into the jaws of cats? Or perhaps they were dying of cold and Sam was bringing in dead meat.

  The sun was slowly sinking now and, as she gazed out at her garden, she thought it couldn’t look more beautiful. Everything was dressed in white frost. Grass, shrubs, the shed, the bench—all white. A robin landed on the bench, his red breast the only splash of colour visible. She wished her camera was handy.

  Her home was straight off a Christmas card. People had scoffed when she’d first decided to move to the small Lancashire village of Kelton Bridge, and they had seriously questioned her sanity when she’d told them that her new home, the quaintly named Lilac Cottage, was right at the end of a narrow, unlit lane. Yet Jill loved everything about it. The village was a world away from the rough Liverpool council estate on which she’d been raised and that suited her just fine.