by David Carter
Walter started the car and pointed it towards the station. At a busy junction he paused the car and said, ‘Did you know Rosanna Banaghan back in the day?’
‘What made you ask that?’ blurted Vairs.
‘Just vibes I picked up.’
‘Huh!’ he snorted. ‘We’ll make a detective of you yet. Yeah, she and I were close once. I did her a good few times, but keep that gem to yourself. But Liam was always in the background, pursuing her, you might say. I guess she thought a villain’s prospects were far brighter than a copper’s meagre pay, working for the Metropolitan Police. What chance did I have?’
‘She still likes you.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Oh yes, for sure.’
Vairs glanced across at his new oppo. He was warming to the black git, and he thought that would never happen.
Darriteau was talking again. ‘Does Liam Banaghan know that you and her have history?’
‘Good question. I can’t be sure of that. We never bumped into him when we were out together, but this was donkey’s years ago. Maybe she’s told him, maybe she hasn’t, who knows? Can’t say as I’m bothered.’
‘I don’t think she has.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Why would she? It would only introduce a sour note into the household. No, I think she keeps that little secret close to her heart.’
Vairs laughed and said, ‘You’re the little romantic on the quiet, aren’t you, Darriteau? I’d watch that trait if I were you. There’s no place for it in this wicked world of ours. It’ll only leave you cold and lonely and disappointed in the end.’
‘That’s a pessimistic outlook, sarge.’
‘Always expect the worst, and whatever you get is an improvement.’
Walter drove the car round the back of the Italianate style station in Walton Street, and yanked on the handbrake, pleased to see it did not come off in his hand. They jumped out and entered via the back door, the tradesman’s entrance, as Vairs referred to it. He was in a big hurry to check the latest thinking and ideas on the Grahame Meade murder.
Five
In the Chester HQ, Walter opened the file again and stared at it hard. There were some cases he couldn’t wait to get involved with, but Operation Brown Mole wasn’t one of them. Just a little hearsay and tittle-tattle, was how he saw it, though rumours and gossip had their rightful place.
If it hadn’t come from Donald West, Walter guessed no one would have given it houseroom. Walter read Donald’s notes again. An ancient man, worse for wear through drink, was reported to have said: It’s been fifteen years since... and something about: It’s going to happen in two weeks’ time. It was all about as much use as a pink blancmange for your dinner.
The dead guy was a senior solicitor, and that needed to be factored in, though he hadn’t practised in years. He was nearly ninety and no one could be surprised if he wasn’t becoming a little forgetful, to put it politely.
Karen Greenwood, his sergeant, came back and sat opposite. She’d been for a dental check-up. Though why she needed to do that was a mystery, as she possessed the most perfect set of gnashers he had ever seen. Maybe regular checks were the answer.
He said, ‘Did you have a chance to look at the file?’
Karen pursed her lips and nodded.
‘Something and nothing,’ she said. ‘Honestly Guv, why are we wasting time with this shit?’
Walter’s mouth fell open.
‘Language please, Greenwood, you surprise me,’ as he glanced round to see if Mrs West was around and listening, but no sign of her. ‘We’re looking into it because my senior officer has tasked us to do so.’
‘But what is there in it, Guv? Really? Some ranting old loony determined to rub the local square-boys up the wrong way.’
‘I think there’s a bit more to it than that, and the old loony, as you describe him, was one of the senior law guys in the county for many years, though it’s his son, Jago Caspian Wilderton, who runs the place now.’
‘And that’s another thing,’ she said. ‘What’s with all these phoney stuck up names? I mean, how many Jagos and Caspians do you know?’
‘Besides seas, not many, I’ll give you that. Where did the old bloke live, any idea?’
‘Don’t know, but I’m sure I can find out.’
‘You do that, and we’ll go and see what the place is like.’
It took her five minutes to discover that the late Lysander Torquil Sholto Wilderton, or Torquers, possessed a five bedroom detached house in Plough Lane in the Chester suburb of Christleton, barely a couple of miles from where they were sitting. No mortgage either, no financial stress in the Wilderton family.
‘I’ll tell you now,’ said Karen, ‘the houses down there are really swanky, worth a big pot too. I used to go out...’
‘Don’t tell me! You once went out with a guy who lived in Plough Lane.’
Karen grinned and said, ‘Something like that. I haven’t had that many boyfriends. You make me sound like a right slapper.’
‘Not so many boyfriends... but lots of admirers, eh?’
Karen smirked and said, ‘I can’t help that, or control what goes on inside young men’s heads, and some not so young, who should know better.’
‘It’s maybe not a surprise that a senior legal bod owns a mortgage free house. We all know they charge the earth to scratch their backside.’
‘True, Guv, and that’s never going to change. He was also reported as saying that something big was happening in two weeks’ time. What like a murder, you reckon?’
‘Could be, why not? He mentioned they were busy cleaning the streets, ridding society of vermin, the words reportedly accompanied by fingers being dragged across the throat. I don’t think he was talking about rats, do you?’
‘Only two-legged ones, and there are plenty of them around. He also said it had been fifteen years since it had happened before, or whatever. What had? And why fifteen?’
‘Search me. I have no idea. You can see why Mrs West was puzzled by it all. It seems to have set off a queen bee buzzing in her active hive.’
‘Don’t you think it’s just a load of piffle?’
‘Maybe, but our job is to find the truth of it. Piffle or mystery, that is the question.’
‘And what did he mean when he was bragging about his society being more important and proactive than the Masons?’
‘I wish I knew.’
She sipped lemon flavoured water and said, ‘Do you know any secret societies operating in and around Chester?’
‘No, I do not, but I wouldn’t. They don’t interest me. Why don’t you ask your David? He might know.’
‘I will, on one condition.’
‘Go on.’
‘You ask Mrs West the same question.’
Walter waggled his head from side to side, and said, ‘That’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had, you’ve got a deal,’ and he stood up and sauntered over toward Mrs West’s office, where the door was ajar. He tapped, received the formal, ‘Come!’ and went inside and sat before his pale boss.
Six
Seventeen-year-old Suzanne Meade was incredibly excited as she set off for Harkin’s travel agency on the Fulham Road in Chelsea. Her parents had never allowed her to travel abroad before without at least one being present, and she couldn’t wait to get away.
She was supposed to go to Harkin’s with her pal, Norma Gebbs, but Norma had gone down with a winter bug, and rather than delay, Suzanne had decided to go on her own, pay the deposits, and secure the bookings.
The roads were gleaming wet; it had been sleeting most of the morning, as Suzanne took down her umbrella, eased the glass door open, and slipped inside. There was a great atmosphere in there; she could almost touch the sense of excitement and anticipation, the rich dark red decor adding to the experience, as an aroma of roasted coffee floated through the shop.
The place was busy. Six travel advisors in a line along the left wall, all with chunky square comp
uter screens, lit up and alive, and each person busy with a singleton client, or a couple, as the experts tapped on keyboards. The nearest assistant glanced up from attempting to sell an expensive Australia package, and smiled at the standing Suzanne.
‘We won’t be long, please take a seat opposite until an advisor comes free.’
‘Sure,’ she said, ‘no problem,’ as she ambled over and sat in one of the comfy red bucket seats set before huge murals of tourists overlooking the Grand Canyon, photographers taking pictures of Ayer’s Rock, and another great shot of happy crowds walking through the cherry blossoms in Japan.
The door to the street opened again, and a young man entered. Suzanne glanced at him, trying not to stare. She didn’t know him, but he looked okay. Nice recently done black mullet haircut, smart clothes, and good shoes. Suzanne had inherited a shoe fetish from her mother, Cynthia, and forever checked out people’s footwear, men and women alike.
The nearest advisor, the woman with the big black afro, glanced up at the young guy. She liked the look of him too and smiled his way. It seemed she was team leader or manageress, for she was keen to help and direct everyone.
‘We won’t keep you long, please take a seat over there,’ pointing in Suzanne’s direction.
The guy nodded, grinned, glanced over, and was happy to make his way towards the girl who looked like she belonged on Top of the Pops.
They exchanged mutual admiration glances, and the guy said, ‘Busy in here today.’
‘It is,’ said Suzanne, ‘maybe everyone’s got the winter blues and are desperate to get away for a bit of sun and fun.’
‘I think you’re right, the weather’s dreadful at the moment. Where are you off to?’
‘Benidorm, I’m paying the deposit today.’
‘It’s great there; you’ll have a fab time.’
‘You’ve been?’
‘Yeah, twice, you’ll love it; just make sure you take your dancing shoes.’
‘I love a boogie, me,’ said Suzanne, mimicking a silly dance, ‘first up every time.’
‘I think I could have guessed that about you.’
Suzanne smiled, and they exchanged another keen look, as one teller came free and called out, ‘Who’s next, please?’
‘I think that’s you,’ said the guy, and Suzanne grinned, grabbed her bag and brolly, and muttered, ‘I think you’re right,’ and headed across to take the fifth seat down.
She sat and undid her raincoat, explained they had made a booking, and she’d come to pay the deposit for all four girls. The smart guy she’d just met watched the transaction. One cute girl with the blonde bob-cut, counting out plenty of notes onto the counter.
His concentration was broken when he heard another voice calling, ‘Next please, I’m ready for you now.’
It was mother hen at the front of the line. The guy stood up and ambled over and sat down.
‘What can I help you with today?’ she said, a little flirtily, he thought.
But before he could answer, blonde bob-cut was on the move, standing up, thanking the assistant, doing up her raincoat, heading towards the main door where she smiled down at the guy as she passed and murmured, ‘Nice to have met you,’ and in the next second she was out in the sleety street, wrestling with her red and white patterned brolly, until it was just so, as she headed down the road and out of sight.
Mother hen monitored the guy. He was staring through the main window. She recognised the disappointment on his face and said, ‘She was a cutie, wasn’t she?’
‘Yeah, you’re right there, look, err... I’ve forgotten my wallet, I’ll have to go and fetch it, be back later, you can count on that,’ and before she could answer he was up and out of there, flying through the door, striding after the blonde who had gone some forty yards.
He broke into a trot, determined to catch her before the lights. The traffic lights were against her and she paused, waiting for them to change. The guy arrived beside her, breathing hard, his eyes wide and staring.
‘Hello,’ she said, ‘you were quick.’
‘I hadn’t finished, I err...’
‘You err... what?’
‘I wondered if you’d like to grab a coffee,’ he blurted. ‘If you’re not in any hurry to get away, that is.’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ she said, still smiling, ‘I don’t usually go for coffees with complete strangers.’
‘Neither do I,’ he grinned, ‘but I’m willing to take a chance.’
‘You fancy yourself, don’t you?’
‘Someone has to. Look!’ he said, ‘we’re getting wet standing here, there’s a coffee shop over there,’ nodding across the road, ‘a quick coffee, that’s all. What’s the harm in that?’
‘All right,’ she said, ‘but you’ll have to come under the umbrella or you’ll ruin your hair.’
It wasn’t an invite he was about to refuse, getting closer to her, as she linked his arm, and they dodged across the road through the sleet and traffic, and in the next second they were inside a flash new coffee house that hadn’t skimped on the fix and fits.
They stood at the counter, second in line, looking at each other, and glancing away.
The guy said, ‘What’s your poison?’
‘Cappuccino.’
‘I’ll go with that, wanna muffin as well?’
‘Nope, watching my weight.’
‘You don’t need to. You’ve got a perfect figure.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, bathing in his compliment. How could a young guy excite her so much through words and looks alone?
‘Over there,’ he said, pointing away, ‘a vacant table, you grab it and I’ll be over in a sec.’
‘Okay, want some money?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Don’t drop them,’ she grinned, and headed across the shop to make herself comfortable at the small circular table.
Seven
The Wilderton house in Plough Lane was called Mandamus and was as impressive as Karen had suggested. Long gravel drive, stout and recently refreshed double wooden gates at the entrance, wide-open and inviting.
Karen drove in and the car crunched up the fifty yards to the large car park set to the left of the house. Red brick, more modern than they’d imagined, L-shaped and huge, and they both wondered why the old guy needed such a pile. There were three cars parked side by side, a new bronze Jaguar, an old silver Rolls Royce, and a black Cayton Cerisa.
Walter said, ‘Looks like someone’s home.’
‘Yeah, let’s see,’ as they jumped out and made their way towards the porched front door.
To the side of the door was a second nameplate, Mandamus, and below that, a black and white bell push.
‘Odd name,’ she said.
‘It’s a Latin legal term, it means We Command.’
‘Ah,’ she said, ‘that figures. Well, we command an audience,’ and she grinned and rang the bell.
A smart prim woman with a puzzled look on her face came to the door. Black suit, white blouse, maybe fifty-five, assessed Walter, perhaps a housekeeper, or maybe old Torquers had got real lucky and snagged a woman more than thirty years his junior. But Walter discarded that notion and settled on the housekeeper idea. Maybe the black Cayton was hers, and perhaps she was worried her job was under threat.
Karen flashed ID and did the intros, as Walter said, ‘We were very sorry to hear about old Mr Wilderton.’
‘Yes, we all are,’ she said. ‘Despite his age, he always seemed quite indestructible. It’s caused quite an upset. Young Mr Wilderton is here today, would you like to see him?’
Walter nodded respectfully and said, ‘Yes, Jago, that would be grand, thank you.’
‘You know him, Inspector?’
‘Yes, we are in the same line of business, you might say, the law and legalities. We’ve come across each other many times over the years.’
A second later a man came to the door, speaking loudly, ‘Who is it, Mrs French? Don’t keep them hanging about on th
e doorstep,’ as he arrived by her side, spotting Walter and his bimbo sidekick.
‘Ah, it’s you, Darriteau; you’d better come in, though I can’t imagine why you are here. There’s been no crime committed so far as I’m aware.’
Mrs French stood to one side, beckoned them in, and they followed Jags Wilderton into the bowels of Mandamus. Down a long hall; two doors solidly closed on either side, before the space opened out into a huge sitting room at the rear. On the far side of the room were smart black-framed bi-fold doors, looked recently done, overlooking an impressive lawn with flowerbeds and a large pond beyond, where a heron was taking to the late summer sky.
‘Take a seat, like a coffee?’
‘That would be nice,’ said Walter, sitting in a vast, expensive leather couch.
‘Pot of coffee, Mrs French,’ he said, pointing to the coffee table as if it might appear by magic, and she nodded and hustled away towards the kitchen.
‘So,’ said Jago. ‘What brings you here?’
Walter scratched the back of his neck and said, ‘On your father’s last night he was in company with three other gentlemen, where he made a series of opaque remarks.’
‘Opaque? Strange choice of word, Inspector, obscure, impenetrable, not transmitting light. First I’ve heard of it, the remarks, that is. Tell me more.’
‘Among other things he said something big was happening in two weeks’ time. Any idea what that might be?’
Karen studied the guy as he replied. Bald head, white tufts of hair creeping over his ears as if craving attention, large hooked nose boasting several brown age spots that could never be described as attractive, his appearance suggesting he didn’t look well, and how old was he? Between sixty and sixty-five, maybe, but he looked a fair bit older.
‘I have no idea,’ said Jago. ‘We have nothing family planned. He was retired but kept himself busy. Patron to any number of societies. He was always off out somewhere. Everything from country pursuits to providing adequate housing for released criminals. You name it, old Torquers would be there, chequebook in hand, as I suspect the other parties hoped, though most of them take credit and debit cards these days.’