by stewartgiles
FIFTY FIVE
THE PURLOINED LETTER
Thursday 7 January 2009
“Please tell me you have something for me Whitton,” Chalmers said, “as you know, the Super has his annual crime stats presentation next week and this unsolved murder of ours is going to drag his figures right down.”
“Can I ask you something sir?” Whitton said.
“Fire away.”
“How did the Super reach such a high position in the force? I mean, anybody who knows him thinks he’s a complete buffoon.”
“He went to the right school and he knew the right people Whitton. Don’t be so bloody naïve; that’s the way things work in this job. Eton, Oxford, high power job. Intelligence doesn’t even come into it. What did you get from Willow?”
“He was a bit reluctant at first,” Whitton began, “but he’s given us a different direction to take; it could be someone with a grudge.”
“That’s some grudge,” Chalmers remarked. “You’d better get moving on this. Willow is due in court next week. The press have already labelled him a wife killer. He’s going down for this one unless we find something.”
“Willow has given us a list of consultancy work he used to do. Me and Bridge are going to check it out.”
“Have you heard from Smith?” Chalmers asked.
“No sir,” she replied, “should I have?”
“It’s just that you and him are pretty tight; I think you’re the only one he trusts.”
Whitton blushed.
“I’d better get cracking sir,” she said.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
“Sorry sir,” she said.
“Answer the bloody thing,” Chalmers insisted.
It was Smith.
“Detective Whitton,” she said.
“Why so formal Whitton,” Smith joked, “you could see it was me. Are you busy?”
“Busy with a case,” she said quietly.
“Is the DI there?” Smith was astute.
“Yes.”
“Put the phone on speaker,” Smith said, “he needs to hear this too.”
Whitton did as she was asked.
“Morning sir,” Smith said.
Chalmers looked around the room in confusion; he was not quite up to date with technology.
“I’ve put the phone on speaker sir,” Whitton said, “Smith has thought of something.”
“Where are you Smith?” Chalmers said.
“Spending a bit of quality time with an old friend,” Smith replied.
“Who’s that?”
“Nobody you know sir.”
“What have you got for us Smith?” Chalmers said, “We haven’t got much time; Willow is almost certainly going to be sentenced to jail next week.”
“We’ve been stupid sir,” Smith said, “all this time we’ve been trying too hard; we’ve been concentrating all our efforts on something we think is deeply hidden.”
“You’re talking in riddles Smith.”
“Where’s the best place to hide something?”
“Where nobody would ever think of looking for it I suppose,” Chalmers replied.
“Exactly and where’s that?”
“Spit it out Smith.”
“Have you ever heard of Detective Dupin sir?”
“Never heard of the bloke.”
“The Purloined Letter,” Whitton said.
“The what?” Chalmers was becoming agitated.
“Purloined, stolen sir.”
“I know damn well what purloined means Whitton.”
“Let me explain sir,” Smith said, “Edgar Allen Poe wrote a short story. The Purloined letter. A letter was stolen, an important letter and the owner of the letter was being blackmailed so she contacted the Police so they could help her find it. This is my point. The Paris Police are very competent and this is what the thief who stole the letter is banking on. They tear open walls and search every conceivable place for the letter but they still can’t find it.”
“Smith,” Chalmers said, “get to the point.”
“This detective Dupin, an amateur detective I might add, searches the room and finds the letter immediately.”
“Where was it?” Chalmers was suddenly interested.
“In plain sight sir. It had been placed in a card rack where everyone could see it.”
“So what you’re saying is,” Chalmers said, “we need to look at what’s been in front of our faces the whole time.”
“Who else can be placed at the Willow place around the time Wendy Willow was murdered? Who was also at the babysitter’s place?”
The room was silent.
“Who even helped us to solve the babysitter’s murder?”
“The taxi driver!” Whitton exclaimed.
“Our friend Dave,” Smith said, “not only was he there but he still hung around afterwards; he was more than willing to help. He was in our bloody faces the whole time, he even brought my dog back to my house.”
“I still can’t see it,” Whitton said, “Dave, a murderer. He seems so nice. What made you think of this?”
“Just something an old friend said,” Smith replied, “can you remember that time when Dave dropped us off at the Blues Club?”
“I won’t ask,” Chalmers said.
“You said there was something odd about him that night.”
“I remember,” Whitton said, “he seemed different from the first time we met him; he seemed agitated about something.”
“I’ll be back in a few days,” Smith said, “I’m going to make sure Martin Willow doesn’t go to jail.”
“That’s not your decision Smith,” Chalmers warned, “you’re on leave. The Super is already after my balls; I really stuck my neck out for you there.”
“I know sir, but you need me.”
“Ok Smith, I can feel my pension going up in smoke as we speak. You’re on leave for another ten days; if you want to do a bit of snooping in your spare time make sure nobody finds out about it. This conversation never took place ok?”
“Thanks Bob,” Smith said and rang off.
“Cheeky bastard,” Chalmers smiled but Smith could no longer hear him.