by Tony McHale
“Do you want me to read out what the letter says?” Naylor asked the caller.
The caller, it seemed, was more interested in getting their hands on the letter itself. Naylor ignored this request and started to read the words on the front of the envelope, “The Property of Caroline Ashton to be handed to the police on the death of her husband Jed Ashton. Well that’s fortuitous, me being the police and all.”
As the caller insisted they wanted to look at the letter, Naylor took it out of the envelope.
“As I can hear you’re in a hurry I won’t read it out, but suffice it to say that it does explain the facts of two deaths … facts that, if they became public, then certain lives would be immediately curtailed.”
The caller knew how to work Naylor and offered up a time and a place where they should meet.
Naylor said he couldn’t wait and as he hung up the call he placed the letter back into his brief case. His desire to get to his new assignation made him break his usual routine - he failed to tidy his desk.
* * * * *
Naylor was driving out of the centre of Whitby when he got a call on his mobile. The meeting was cancelled. Maybe another night.
Naylor did a u-turn that upset a number of drivers, but Naylor didn’t care, he was pissed off and he was a cop. In his mind that meant he could do what he liked.
The drive back to his house in Scalby took about thirty minutes. By the time he’d arrived home, his mind was back to its methodical self. He parked his car on the drive in its usual place. He took out his brief case, double checked the car was locked and headed in to the detached suburban dwelling, opening the front door with his latch key.
This was the point Naylor’s methodical brain hit a glitch. The door was open. He didn’t need his key.
Why was the door open? The door was never open. He had always told his wife that the front door must be closed and locked at all times. He was a Chief Superintendent, he couldn’t be seen to be inviting in burglars.
He pushed the door open, gently. He knew there was a rubber doorstop that would stop the door banging into the wall.
Gingerly he stepped into the small hall still clutching his brief case. He wasn’t sure what to do. None of his training had prepared him for this.
“Pauline?” There was no reply from his wife. Again this was strange. If she’d have been going out she wouldn’t have left the door open and she would have told him.
“Pauline?” he tried again. Still nothing. He placed his brief case on the hall floor and picked out a walking stick that was in the umbrella stand.
Naylor, stick in hand looked into the kitchen which was the first door on the right. A low light under the cabinets showed that the place was empty.
Naylor moved slowly to the next door, then stopped.
What am I doing? I should get help.
He started to walk backwards out of the hall then he heard a voice.
“Sam … Sam … help me! Help me ...” It was his wife, a fear evident in the few words he heard from their neat and chintzy sitting room.
At the sound of her voice, Naylor didn’t even pause. He turned and left the house. He wasn’t going to hang around. Anything could happen and he didn’t want to be part of it. If they wanted to torture his wife, then let them, whoever they were.
As he stepped out of the front door, a shovel, wielded by a gloved hand, hit him square in the face and he crumpled to the ground.
* * * * *
The following morning the milkman knocked because it so happened to be payment day. He got no reply, so he went away.
Two hours later the Naylors’ cleaner arrived, Naylor didn’t trust her with a key, so she knocked, got no reply, knocked again, still got no reply, so walked away.
By ten in the morning, Naylor’s absence was more than obvious. Decisions needed to be made and he wasn’t there to make them. Calls were made to his home and to his mobile. No response.
At just after midday a uniformed bobby was dispatched to Naylor’s house to see if he could discover where Naylor actually was.
Again no reply was gained from him knocking on the front door, so he went round the back of the house. He looked through the sitting room window and could see immediately why Chief Superintendent Naylor wasn’t at work today.
Naylor lay on the carpet in front of his wide screen TV - his throat had been cut. Next to him laid his wife, Pauline. Her hands and ankles had been bound in brown packing tape. She too had had her throat cut. There was a lot of blood. Pauline’s eyes were open, her husband’s eyes closed. There was no doubt both were dead.
The Scenes of Crime gang went over the place with a fine tooth-comb. There was no sign of forced entry and there was no sign of theft. A motive for the murder seemed to be lacking. Then somebody commented on how Naylor had left a bottle of Scotch and two glasses on his desk the night he was killed. Also the last person to see him that day was Anthea Moorhouse.
WPC Moorhouse was in shock when she heard the news of her superior’s death. She was questioned the same day about the meeting she’d had with Naylor. Very soon she confessed to the fact they’d had a drink together and that he’d actually made improper advances to her. She lied and said that she’d rejected the advances. She also lied when asked if this was the first time this had happened, she said it was. She claimed she had slept on it and had come to the decision that she would report the Chief Superintendent, another lie, but then news of his death broke.
Anthea’s relationship with DS Paul Armstrong was no secret. The officers investigating the case wondered if his girlfriend had told him what had happened and he in a rage had gone and extracted revenge on Naylor, but it seemed DS Armstrong had a rock solid alibi for the time of the murder – he was on a stake out with two other officers.
DI Jack Wood arrived at the Naylors’ home while Scenes of Crime were still doing their thing. One officer had photographed a shovel found on the drive from every angle and was in the process of placing it in an evidence bag.
Wood covered in a protective white boiler suit and protective coverings for his shoes looked around the murder scene.
What was this about? No drawers pulled out, no money or credit cards missing from Naylor’s wallet, none of Pauline’s jewellery appeared to have been touched. It seems the killer either just wanted to kill these two people, or they knew exactly what it was they were looking for and went straight to it. Maybe that happened after Pauline was killed and before her husband suffered the same fate.
Wood deduced that whatever it was that the killer wanted must have been in Naylor’s brief case, because the brief case was the only thing that was out of place. It was in the hallway, on the floor, Naylor’s keys had been used to unlock it and they lay abandoned next to it. What was in the brief case? Wood had no idea. He wondered if Naylor’s office might offer further clues.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Madhur Bahl called The Black Dog and asked to speak to Charlie. The brief conversation that followed generated a first time meeting between Charlie and Devika’s parents.
This minor eventful happening was in the bar of the Marine Hotel, which was quite busy, something Charlie was pleased about. He wanted plenty of distractions.
They were waiting when Charlie walked in and as they were the only Anglo/Asians in the place, Charlie had no difficulty picking them out. They already had drinks, Madhur a beer, he liked ‘real’ ale and Anju had a white wine. Madhur bought a red wine for Charlie and then somebody had to broach the subject of death. Charlie eased the situation by saying how he felt responsible and he realised if it wasn’t for him then Devika would not have been in North Yorkshire and she would not have been on that road at that time of night. This blame by coincidence was the right approach, because the Bahls couldn’t really argue with it. They couldn’t point the finger of blame, because Charlie was taking the blame.
Then the subject of his mother’s death came up. The Bahls mentioned nothing about any connection between their daughter’s death and Caroline Ashton’s death, because for them there was no reason to think they were connected. They knew nothing of the break-in at Shaw and Shermans and they knew nothing about the envelope. They asked politely whether any progress had been made in the search for his mother’s killer and Charlie waffled about police procedure and opportunistic murders.
The subject of Devika’s funeral came up, which was really what this meeting was all about. The fact that her parents wanted to organise the funeral was a massive relief to Charlie. Until this moment in time he’d never really understood grief. But now he was hurting - every single part of him. He couldn’t turn a corner, open a book, see a painting without thinking of Devika. And he missed her, like he’d never missed anything before. To set about organising a funeral for her, he didn’t know how he’d emotionally be able to do it.
There was one thing he requested, that somewhere, during the service, they played the Dies Irae from Verdi’s Requiem, or at least part of it. They’d once been invited to a ‘charity do’ at the Royal Albert Hall and with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra and the London Philharmonic Choir where they’d heard this piece of music. Neither of them were particularly classical music lovers, but both had commented that if they did die, not that they were expecting to, but if they did die then they’d like that piece of music at their funeral. Charlie’s comment at the time was, “Let’s blow the fuckers away.” This bit when telling the Bahls the reason for the request, he wisely decided to omit.
So the business concluded, Charlie thanked her parents and prepared to leave. It was at this point that Anju asked, “When you last saw her, how was she?”
At first Charlie wasn’t sure how to answer this, then he quietly and slowly said, “She was as always … amazing. She was excited because we were making plans together, she was excited because her career was going from strength to strength and she was excited because she just loved life in general. It was like living with somebody who truly knew the value of life. Most of us don’t. We’re always looking for something else, or to be somebody else. Devika never was. She wanted to grab it from every angle. She wanted to experience every facet of living. She was always optimistic, she never saw the bad in anyone. She was a weird mixture of an angel and a tiger. She was dangerous, but angelic. She needed taming, but she wasn’t a killer. And if it’s any consolation, we were happy … really happy. Your daughter died happy.”
This may have been something that Devika’s mother was longing to hear, or it may have been something that she’d never expected to hear, whichever - the emotion exploded in her and she started to cry, but in this outpouring of grief it wasn’t Madhur she turned to, but Charlie. She buried her head in his chest and wept. Charlie took her in his arms and held her as he too started to cry.
And this was the photograph that appeared on the front page of The Sun the following day with the headline – UNITED IN GRIEF.
* * * * *
Up until this point the press had just presented the story as the tragic death of a model and even knowing the public’s love hate relationship with the paparazzi, they hadn’t gone to town on it. But the photograph of Charlie and Devika’s mother wrapped in each others arms caught the public’s imagination immediately. There was sudden interest in this man who had lost his mother and then shortly afterwards lost his partner in a tragic road accident. The fact he was a celebrity photographer come paparazzo didn’t seem to affect their sympathy and empathy for Charlie.
Some of the copy alluded to the fact that she was in North Yorkshire to support Charlie and in fact she was another victim, however indirectly, of Caroline’s killer.
Others alluded, some more subtly than others, that no matter what class, colour, creed or race, all prejudice and discrimination disappeared when true emotion took over. Charlie wasn’t sure whether they were referring to his prejudice and discrimination or the Bahls. He wasn’t aware of any on either side.
This sudden surge of interest brought the media enmass to Whitby. All this attention wasn’t what Charlie wanted and it certainly wasn’t what Beck le Street wanted. Charlie didn’t believe the world becoming interested in his mother’s murder would help the case be solved in any way, and the residents of Beck le Street liked their anonymity. They liked to live their lives in their own way and now Chief Superintendent Naylor wasn’t there to deter people’s interference, they were preparing for a siege.
By mid afternoon of the photograph being published Whitby Police Station was encircled by news crews, a dozen or more crews encamped at the roadside alongside those holding a vigil for Devika and turning the place into a mini Greenham Common, whilst The Black Dog had more customers than anyone could ever remember. Even the passing OAP coach trips didn’t fill it up to this extent.
In his bedroom Charlie could hear the pub filling up downstairs. He knew what they were all after – interviews, photographs, quotes. They’d be happy with comments from friends, relations, villagers, but what they were really after were shots and quotes from Jed Ashton or Charlie Ashton.
Now Charlie had always been on the other side and had always understood the reluctance of some people to talk to the press. But he also knew that the only way to avoid them is either to secretively leave for a desert island or get it over with, do the interviews, do the photographs, because after a short while, the pack would grow bored and find someone else to hound. Very few news stories remain headlines for more that a couple of days. As Mick Jagger sang … “Who wants yesterday’s papers …”
Jed was holed up in the sitting room; refusing to go anywhere near the ‘bloodsuckers’, which is what he called the press. Charlie tried to persuade him that if they did one hit, the pair of them, then the ‘bloodsuckers’ would drift away, because they would have got what they wanted.
Jed’s idea was to ring down to Farrah, tell her to shout ‘Last Orders!’ and shut up shop until they got fed up.
Charlie convinced him that wasn’t the best approach. The press would just continue to make his life hell; after all in their minds they had him down as a possible suspect. Charlie said he’d go and talk to them, have his photo taken, answer some questions, then they would have enough to fill some columns tomorrow and Beck le Street could return to normal.
Jed said he couldn’t stop him, but Charlie wanted one last thing. A few family snaps from when he was younger. A family photograph of mother, father and son would really be gold for them and would end the digging … they’d have done their job.
Jed was against it, but finally after some gentle persuasion from Charlie, he agreed. His only proviso was that he had nothing to do with it. He couldn’t bear to look at shots of a different time, a period in their life when all that was happening now seemed as fantastical as a chapter from a Lewis Carroll novel. Charlie said he’d dig out the photos and promised to keep them well away from his father.
Across the landing from the sitting room was a little box room which Jed used as an ‘office.’ Here he had all the order forms, VAT forms, Health and Safety forms neatly filed away. He also kept a number of personal items such as birth and marriage certificates, Charlie’s school reports and photo albums stacked neatly on the shelves.
Charlie knew where the photos were; they’d always been there. He selected a crimson plastic bound album off the shelf and pulled it out, placing it on the desk on top of a new World Atlas. He started to look through it. Most of the photos he remembered, because most of them he’d taken. Even the photos of the three of them, Charlie had been responsible for quite a number of them. He had this fantastic timer, which his parents had bought him for his thirteenth birthday. He loved that piece of kit. For him that timer set him aside from all the other kid photographers. He was the business.
He selected a few photos, some from when he was quite young and others in his teens. But
there was no way he was going to give these originals to the waiting press, because despite their promises he knew he’d never see them again. So he started to scan them on his dad’s scanner and run off copies.
As he was methodically going through the process he accidentally dropped one of the photos onto the floor. He bent down to pick it up and as he did so could see an index card on the front of a filing cabinet – Bank Statements. Why he decided he needed to look at his father’s bank statements, he wasn’t sure. It was probably a combination of the fact he needed to know as much as he could about his father, so maybe he could begin to understand what had been going on in his relationship with his mother, as well as wanting to know how much his father was worth. Although Banasak had alluded to Jed siring children out of wedlock, something in Charlie didn’t want to believe that. He would like proof that Banasak’s story was just that … a story and the real cause for his mother’s desire to write her husband out of the Will was something else entirely. Maybe something financial.
Charlie froze … listening for any sound that suggested his father had stirred from the sitting room. The only noise he could hear was from the bar downstairs as more people arrived for what was turning into a media circus. Satisfied his father was still watching the television, he slid open the filing cabinet.
Everything was there from the last seven years. In the front of the drawer were Business Bank Statements and at the back were Personal Bank Statements. Everything was filed in yearly files, each yearly file having separators dividing the statements into months … eighty-four each Charlie quickly calculated. There was no way he was going to be able to go through them all. So he decided what was needed was a random selection. He would take a statement from each year for both Business and Personal, fourteen in total, scan them, then go through them at leisure, seeing if there was anything that might give him a clue to his mother’s decision.