by Rob Wyllie
Then not more than an hour later, he received another call, this time from Ronnie French, who apparently the previous day had enjoyed a sneaky day out in Winchester. When Frank had asked him to take a look at the Susan Priest hit and run case, he'd envisaged a couple of phone calls with the local force, but fair play to the lazy shirker, he'd seemed to have come up with the goods. A casual conversation with some youths who habitually hung around the shops where the incident took place revealed that on the day in question, they had noticed an unfamiliar Ford Focus parked up fifty yards or so down the street. An old mark one, on a two-thousand-and-five plate. It was the kind of motor they liked to nick for a swift half-hour's joyride, on account of its hopeless security and tidy handling, but by the time they'd thought about it, their attention had been diverted by the excitement of the hit and run. No, they couldn't say if it was that motor that had done it, and no, they didn't catch sight of the driver, but it was a useful lead nonetheless. Focuses of that vintage were becoming rarer by the day and there was every chance that one of the local ANPR cameras would have picked it up. By any measure, that was progress.
But then came the less encouraging news that tracking down the precise location of Geordie wasn't going to be the work of five minutes as he'd initially hoped. The problem was, the building where he lived was an eighteen-storey tower-block with sixteen flats on each floor. Which flat was his was thus impossible to say, and there was no way they could do a door-to-door, because as soon as Geordie-boy saw a squad of coppers swarming all over the place then evidence would be quietly destroyed and they'd be left without a leg to stand on. No, this had to be approached with stealth if they were going to get anywhere. Luckily, Jayden Henry's clever location software had established his current place of work, an international bank in Canary Wharf, but initial enquiries revealed they employed over two thousand staff at the site, and with data protection laws what they were, you couldn't just ask them to hand over a list of employees, and in any case, he might just be a contractor or something and so not actually on the payroll. The same went for the records of the names of the residents of Geordie's block. The leaseholder would have that data, obviously, but it would need warrants and associated paperwork to get them released. But with any luck it wouldn't take more than a week, ten days at the most, and then they would have a name.
So not brilliant, but by the standard of things, a more or less satisfactory day. That was, until he'd got a third call, this time from his mate DI Pete Burnside over at Paddington Green. After which, things took a decided downward spiral.
'I don't expect you've heard pal, but our big friend DCS Barker's got your brother banged up in an interview room over here. Some woman he was having dinner with last night was found up an alley in Fulham, dead as a doorknob. Some of the SOCOs have just got back and they're telling me it's a right mess, three stab wounds to the lower abdomen and blood everywhere, and her clothes ripped too. There's signs of sexual assault too apparently. Her knickers were removed and there's scratches on the inside of her thighs. They're just getting the body down to the morgue for the formal ID but a couple of the young coppers on the squad recognised her right away. Anyway, he's got that Maggie solicitor lady with him and they're questioning him right now. You best get over here sharpish mate.'
It was fortunate that Frank knew most of the guys at Paddington Green and fortunate that all of them despised DCS Colin Barker as much as he did, so he was able to waltz unchallenged past the front desk and down the maze of corridors that lead to Interview Room 6. A uniformed constable whom he vaguely recognised was standing at the closed door.
'I think the tape's running sir,' the constable said apologetically. 'They're in a formal interview session.'
'Good to know,' Frank said, then pushed open the door.
'So what's going on here?' he said, surveying the scene. On one side of a small table sat Jimmy and Maggie, on the other his nemesis Detective Chief Superintendent Barker with a guy he didn't recognised but whom he assumed was a DI or DS assigned to the case.
'Bloody hell, stop the tape Jones, will you?' Barker said in an exasperated tone. 'So it's DI Stewart. I might have known that you would turn up like a bad penny as soon as you heard about this.'
Frank smiled. 'Sorry sir, but I heard the victim was a Macallan and I thought there might be a connection to a line of enquiry we're pursuing.' It wasn't quite true, but it wasn't exactly a lie either. 'So is my wee brother under arrest or what?'
'Jimmy's just helping DCS Barker with his enquiries,' Maggie said pleasantly. 'As far as I can see the police have no evidence against him, so we'll be wrapping this up and leaving in a few minutes.'
'That's for me to decide,' Barker said, adopting his customary pompous tone.
'With respect, it isn't,' Maggie said, raising an eyebrow. 'It's the law. So unless you plan to arrest my client, we're out of here.'
Frank smiled. 'She's got you there sir, I think.'
'If I needed advice on the law, you're the last person I would ask,' Barker said sharply. 'And it might interest you to know that we have a number of witnesses who heard your brother arguing with the victim just a few minutes before she left the restaurant. So it's perfectly reasonable we should identify this man as a possible suspect.'
Jimmy leaned back in his seat and looked at the ceiling. 'How many times do I need to tell you we weren't arguing? She just got annoyed with me for asking how she was, that was all.' His defence was spirited but Frank could tell he was worried.
'So Jimmy,' he said, 'have you told DCS Barker everything you know?'
'Yes,' he replied, 'I told him we had a couple of drinks at her flat, then got a cab to the restaurant. And I told him she was a bit distracted during the meal and then she just took off. To be honest, I thought I'd just been dumped.'
'And that was everything?'
'Aye. I got a wee waitress to look in the ladies’ loo in case she'd passed out or something, and then when I saw that her jacket was gone, I assumed she had legged it. So I settled the bill and went home, a bit pissed off to tell the truth. I sent her a sarcastic text, you know, thanks for a lovely evening or something like that, then went to bed and forgot all about it. And then thirty-six hours later the bloody police turn up at my door saying she's been murdered.'
'So I'm assuming you didn't actually kill this woman then?' Frank said, smiling.
'No, of course I bloody didn't.' Jimmy shot out the words, evidently in no mood for a joke. 'Why would I do that?'
'Well that's fine then,' he said, smiling at Barker. 'Just wanted to make sure you weren't planning to make a confession or anything like that. So like Miss Bainbridge said sir, I think we're done here.'
'Now just wait a minute,' Barker said, spluttering. 'I'm not finished with him yet. There's a lot more background we need to find out.'
'That's fine,' Maggie said, giving a dry smile, 'and of course my client will be delighted to help you with that in any way he can. But we're not doing it here. Make an appointment and you can pop round to our Fleet Street offices at your convenience. Come on Jimmy, let's go.'
◆◆◆
'We'll nip down to the canteen and grab a coffee and you can tell me all about it,' Frank said. 'And I'll tell you about my developments. I think you'll find them more than interesting.'
It was about the only attraction of Paddington Green nick when he came to think about it. They had much better coffee than the vending machine stuff at Atlee House, properly expensive barista stuff with a rich nutty aroma that you could detect from a mile away, served from machines that went woosh as they emitted steam from every pore. They settled down at one of the long wood-laminated tables, leaving a few empty chairs between them and a group of uniforms who he assumed had just come off an early shift.
Frank spoke through a mouthful of blueberry muffin. 'So Jimmy boy, what's the story?'
'Not much to tell,' Jimmy said, giving him a rueful look. 'Around nine-ish Elspeth said she was going to the loo to freshen up and she never cam
e back.'
'And that's it? Nothing else?'
'Well there's one thing that I've just thought of. You see, she got a text or a WhatsApp or something, a minute or two before she went. But she didn't look at it, and I remember thinking at the time that it was a bit odd. You know, as if she was expecting it and already knew what it was all about.'
'What, you mean it was pre-arranged or something?' Maggie asked, evidently amused. 'That's going to a lot of trouble just to be able to walk out on a date, getting a friend to text you.'
'Aye, very funny,' Jimmy said. 'I mean, maybe it was nothing but it would be good to look at her phone records.'
'Well hopefully Barker's boys will have thought of that already,' Frank said, looking doubtful, 'but I'll chase that DI Jones up and remind him, just in case.'
The thing was, he'd been in and around DCS Colin Barker's investigations often enough to know that nothing could be taken for granted, not even the absolute basics. For years, it had puzzled him how the useless lump of lard had held onto his job. That was, until that clever wee Eleanor Campbell had got him access to his iCloud account. It was surprising how far you could go in the police with the right handshake.
'I tried to tell Barker about the will of course,' Maggie said, 'but he wasn't listening. Because with Elspeth dead, it doesn't half simplify things.'
'Aye, and it's a cracking motive for her sister and her husband, isn't it?' Jimmy said.
Maggie nodded. 'Yes, and for her step-mother too, don't forget. If she's come to some arrangement with Rory Overton and Kirsty, then it's all suddenly looking very neat and tidy.'
'Or it might just have been an opportunist sexual assault,' Frank shrugged. 'A beautiful girl like that walking alone along a quiet side street at that time of night. Every bit as likely in my opinion. But listen, I'm sure Barker will get on top of this soon enough and the first thing he'll want to do is check out the alibis of all the Macallans. I wouldn't have thought that would be too difficult, even for that fat arse.'
'Kirsty and her husband were going out that night,' Maggie said. 'They told me they were meeting some friends for a drink and then going on somewhere to dinner. It was some sort of surprise and Rory hadn't told his wife where they were going. It did occur to me at the time that they might turn up at the same restaurant as Elspeth and Jimmy. It would be worth checking if that was their intention, don't you think?'
Frank smiled. 'I'll add it to my list, or at least the list I'm going to pass on to Barker. And maybe you could ask them too? Because I assume there's now going to be a lot to be tidied up with respect to the will.'
'Well that's true enough,' she said. 'But I'm not exactly top of their Christmas card list at the moment. They're not taking my calls or answering my messages.'
'Ah well,' Frank shrugged, 'it'll just have to be a police matter then. I might just get my mate Ronnie French to pay them a visit, unofficial-like.'
Which caused him to smile inwardly, since he knew it would piss off Barker big-time to have his wee Department 12B clumping all over his murder investigation. That in fact was what would make it all the sweeter. But he couldn't hide the fact that he was worried about his brother becoming unwittingly involved in this brutal murder. The unscrupulous Barker had a track-record of playing fast and loose with trivial little things like actual evidence, and it wouldn't be hard to imagine how he could easily spin a half-credible case against Jimmy. The non-existent argument in the restaurant would be amplified into something it wasn't, and then they'd find out about the nervous breakdown his brother had suffered after witnessing the murder of that young female soldier in Belfast. The damaged bomb-squad officer loses it in a fit of rage after having his sexual advances rejected, and lashes out. All lies of course, but the motive would have to be disproved, since nowadays the concept of innocent until proven guilty seemed to be out of fashion in the prosecution system. No, he was going to have to keep a bloody careful eye on the case and be ready to step in if he didn't like the way it was going.
But now he was just going to give them a wee update on progress on the Morag and Isabelle McKay murders before heading back to Atlee to see how they were getting on with the Geordie warrants. In a moment of madness, he'd delegated responsibility for that task to Ronnie French, a task so outside the lazy turd's zone of competence as to be on another planet. Dismayed, he realised he'd best get on to Google as soon as he was back at his desk.
To check for the signs of early-onset dementia.
Chapter 24
It was no surprise to Maggie that Kirsty Macallan had swiftly taken to her social media channels in the days after her sister's brutal killing. In every appearance, it was evident her stylist had been to work, expertly-applied make-up revealing the tracks of her tears and her hair carefully dishevelled for maximum effect, but there was no concealing the dark crescents under her eyes and the genuine heartache in her voice. Although as Jimmy had pointed out with ill-disguised bitterness, the Macallan twins had been media-trained to within an inch of their lives and it could just as easily be faked. Whatever the truth, Kirsty was now regularly pleading for anyone with any information that could help the police in their quest for her sister's killer to come forward. Interspersed with these direct appeals were a series of heart-wrenching vignettes addressed to her dead sister, telling her how much she had loved her and how her life could never be the same again. It was Jimmy who had pointed out that indeed, her life would not be the same. Sure, she had lost her twin, no more than six months after losing her father and brother, and all in the most terrible of circumstances. But she had gained a beautiful country house and a six-thousand-acre estate.
What had been a surprise was that the press had somehow discovered that Maggie Bainbridge Associates had been tasked with sorting out the mess surrounding the late Commodore's will. That gave them the excuse to re-run a sort of greatest hits compilation of her and Jimmy's past life difficulties, reminding their readers and viewers that she had been at one time dubbed the most hated woman in Britain, on account of engineering the acquittal of the teenage terrorist Dena Alzahrani, and that he had been the Hampstead Hero, saving the life of a six-year old child in Alzahrani's follow-up outrage with no regard to his own safety. And not only that, Jimmy Stewart had been the last person to see Elspeth Macallan alive, and was therefore seen as a possible suspect for this baffling crime. The murder and everything connected to it was now dominating every media outlet, but nobody seemed to be asking the most obvious question of all. Was Kirsty Macallan in any way responsible for the death of her sister?
This was the question Maggie was asking Frank as they waited for Jimmy to return from the barista's counter with their order. They were once again in residence at their favourite Starbucks on Fleet Street, conveniently located a stone's throw from the salubrious offices of Maggie Bainbridge Associates. The fact that it was an inconvenient two-tube ride from Frank's Atlee House base seldom seemed to discourage him from attending their frequent and informal case conferences, and Maggie was glad of that. She liked Frank and she liked to see as much of him as possible.
'Aye, well the motive is clear enough,' he said, 'but talking to that DI Jones who's working the case, their alibi's rock-solid.'
'Yes, I saw them earlier on the night in question if you remember,' Maggie said, 'and they told me they were having drinks with friends and then going on to a restaurant.'
Frank nodded. 'And that checked out. They left the pub at about quarter to nine in an Uber and arrived at the restaurant at about ten-past nine. Some place in Chelsea it was. Anyway, DI Jones' lads have apparently chased up the driver and it all seems to stack up. Although to be fair, the guy didn't speak much English so they're not sure if he understood what they were asking. They've asked Uber for the cab's GPS records, so we'll see what they bring. But it looks solid as I said.'
'So what is the thinking now?' Maggie asked.
He nodded toward his brother who was returning with their coffees. 'Jimmy-boy's the only suspect they've got, a
nd before you say anything, no-one's taking that seriously, don't worry. It's just the way these things work. The brass go mental if there's not at least one name in the frame. So, to get back to your question, the thinking is now opportunist sex attack. Someone sees Elspeth coming out of the restaurant onto that quiet street, and with that handy wee alley-way next door thinks, hello, here's my chance. He drags her into the alley and tries it on, hence the ripped knickers, but then she fights back and he panics, pulls out the knife and stabs her. Then scarpers, obviously.'
'And is that what you think happened?' she asked.
'Aye, I suppose so,' Frank said.
Maggie detected the uncertainty in his voice.
'But?'
'But she was stabbed. Which means the assailant came prepared. I'm not saying it means anything, but I've mentioned it to the murder team.'
'But it's been what, nearly three weeks now?' Maggie said. 'And no leads?'
Frank shrugged. 'Aye, it's another DCS Barker master-class. But I'm probably being unfair to him.' To Maggie, he didn't sound the least bit concerned if he was. 'The thing is, the forensic boys haven't found anything worthwhile. I know it's a bit unsavoury to say it, but normally in these attempted rape cases the perpetrator's got his dick out and well...well, often they find traces of semen. But nothing in this case.'