by David Carter
Walter nodded and muttered, ‘Of course, sarge.’
‘Okay, the Chief Super wants to speak to you.’
Walter glanced round as if someone new might have appeared on the scene, but there was no one there.
‘What, you mean now?’
‘When the Chief Super wants to see you, it always means now,’ and he nodded away down the corridor and added, ‘Go on, man, get your backside down there, and while you’re at it, mind your Ps and Qs. And if he asks how we’re getting on, I’m doing a great job schooling you, giving away my years of expertise and experience for free. You know how the world works, Darriteau. We look after each other down here on the shop floor. You cover my back and I’ll cover yours. You appreciate that, don’t you?’
Walter stood up and nodded and said, ‘Of course, sarge, you can rely on me.’
‘I bloody hope so, now bugger off!’
Walter glanced at the man and back at the corridor, and set off to see what the big boss had to say.
There was a smart new sign on his door, Chief Superintendent Barry Wilkins, black modern lettering inscribed deep into some kind of silver plastic, but not cheap-looking like some police signage.
Walter was about to knock when Stella Hollyoak came bounding along, ubiquitous reports in hand, awaiting distribution.
She grinned and said, ‘Been summoned to the headmaster’s study again? Been naughty, have we? A hundred lines for you, Walter Darriteau, I must book more burglars!’ and she giggled and hustled off into the distance, but not before she’d murmured, ‘Good luck, boy!’
‘Thanks, Stell,’ he whispered as he checked his tie, and knocked three times, not loudly, but loud enough to be heard. But nothing happened. Walter thought he’d better knock again, and he did, louder this time.
‘Come!’ a voice barked, and Walter opened up and went inside.
Chief Superintendent Barry Wilkins was sitting behind his modern desk set before the window, looking mighty smart in a fresh uniform, a large red phone in his hand. He glanced up and nodded to a green bucket seat set before him, all the while talking to someone he addressed as “sir”. It must have been a big beast; perhaps someone in the city, maybe a politician, for many senior officers treated them like Gods. Maybe he was hankering after an invite to Number 10, for that would sure impress the wife, and anyone else worth impressing.
To his right, sitting in an identical bucket, was a Chief Inspector whose name Walter was ashamed to admit he had forgotten. They shared a relaxed look, and the CI nodded a slight nod, as Walter sat down, and waited to hear what they had to say.
Six “sirs” later, Barry Wilkins set the phone down and mumbled, ‘However high up the freaking ladder one gets in life there’s always some prick up there peering down at you, trying to make life unbearable. But no matter, it’s the path we choose. DC Darriteau, isn’t it? Not long joined us, eh?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Walter, wondering whether he should stand and salute.
Wilkins sensed his uncertainty for he waved a casual hand by his right shoulder, saying, ‘Relax man, you’ll need to be laid back later.’
Walter sucked his lips and nodded, as Wilkins opened up again.
‘You’ve been studying the Meade and Banaghan families, I take it?’
‘I have sir, yes.’
‘And you’ve been monitoring their discarded mail?’
‘Yes sir, that too.’
‘And you’ll know we’ve been trying to nail these... what’s the right word for them?’
‘Criminals?’ suggested Walter.
The DI who hadn’t been introduced, guffawed and said, ‘I can think of another word beginning with C and ending in S that’s more appropriate.’
‘We don’t want to go there,’ said Wilkins, ‘let’s call them appalling people, human hyenas. The thing is, Darriteau, we’ve been trying to put away this opposition for more years than I care to remember, and we have been planning, unsuccessfully I may add, to get someone up close and personal to either of the families. Our mutual colleague, Sergeant Vairs, assures me that one of the Meade girls has taken a real shine to you, and that could be our golden ticket to the jackpot prize.’
‘I only met her for a few minutes, sir.’
‘Did you like her?’ asked the DI.
‘She’s a very attractive kid, but she’s still at school.’
‘She’s sixteen, as I understand it,’ said Wilkins, ‘and they grow up so fast these days, don’t they? When I was sixteen... but you don’t want to know ancient history.’
That was true. Walter and the DI exchanged a sympathetic look, before Wilkins started again.
‘Anyway, we have to make the most of any opportunity that comes our way. You’re attending the Chess Club tonight, I believe?’
‘That’s the plan, sir.’
‘And this Caroline Meade is due to be there?’
‘I believe so, sir, yes. I’m worried about it being an exclusive club; and a stranger like me won’t be made welcome.’
‘You don’t need to worry about that, Darriteau. An old friend of mine runs the club. His name is Horace Pilley, though everyone calls him Horrie. He was an English grandmaster champion back in the day. I had a quick word with him and he’s expecting you. He’ll keep mum, always been able to keep a secret, has our Horrie.’
Walter nodded and said, ‘Caroline knows I am a police officer.’
Wilkins grinned and said, ‘Yes, of course, but we are banking on nature taking its course.’
Walter didn’t reply, turning the words over in his mind: nature taking its course. The DI jumped into the void.
‘We want her to fancy the pants off you, as Vairs assured us she did. You get close to her, but take your time in doing so. There’s no immediate rush, and one day, sooner rather than later, one unassailable nugget of information will come tumbling into your sphere, intelligence that will put the Meade family out of business for good. You follow?’
‘Yes sir, I do,’ said Walter nodding, ‘but what do I do with her, I mean, where do I take her?’
‘Use your imagination, man. Find out what her interests are and capitalise on that. If she’s into show-jumping, let me know and I’ll get you best tickets for Hickstead. If its music, rock to classical, do the same, and we’ll provide. Take her wherever the hell she wants to go. The zoo, pictures, for a good meal in a nice place, Twickenham for the rugby, take her down to goddamn Brighton for a crazy weekend if you get real lucky. But the essential thing is, to build your relationship with this young woman, until she thinks of you whenever she wants to discuss any damned thing.’
‘I understand all that, sir, but I think we are getting ahead of ourselves. I only met her for a few minutes. Maybe she’s friendly with everyone she meets.’
Wilkins sat back in his chair and glanced at the DI as if prompting him to speak.
He sighed and said, ‘Vairs can be a creepy little twerp sometimes; we all know that. But he is insightful, and if he says this girl is interested in you, hotter than hot, he said, that’s good enough for us. Of course, if you don’t think you’re up to the task there are three or four other young guys here, some, it has to be said, a lot better looking than you, if you don’t mind me saying, who would be eager to have a crack at her, so to speak.’
‘No, no,’ insisted Walter, ‘I’m ready and willing to give it my best shot.’
‘Excellent,’ said Wilkins, ‘that’s the ticket, that’s fixed.’ And he opened his desk drawer and took out a hundred pounds in crisp new tenners wrapped in an expenses chitty, and slid it across the desk, demanding a signature, with a word of warning that the money was only to be used for essential expenses relating to the entertaining of the aforementioned Miss Meade.
‘By the way,’ added Wilkins, ‘this is not an Athenaeum organised thing. The Chess Club only rent the hall from the Athers mob.’
Walter nodded and tried to look onside, though he didn’t see the relevance of the comment. The DI said, ‘How are you getting on wi
th Vairs?’
‘Pretty good,’ said Walter. ‘He can be demanding but I guess that’s what sergeants are for.’
The senior officers grinned and Wilkins said, ‘And he’s keeping you in the loop and teaching you the trade?’
‘Yes sir, for sure, sir,’ said Walter, Vairs voice echoing into the back of his head.
‘One other thing,’ said the DI. ‘You keep this op strictly confidential, for your own safety, if nothing else. You don’t mention or discuss it with anyone else in the force, other than with Vairs, the Chief Super, and myself, and especially not with that walking gossip factory, Stella Hollyoak. Is that clear?’
‘Yes sir, crystal. I understand anything to do with the Meade or Banaghan families must be handled with the greatest care.’
The officers shared a look and appeared convinced.
Wilkins said, ‘Sign the chit, take the money, and get going. Come back at 10am tomorrow and tell us everything that happened.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Walter, standing, as he bent over, signed the paper, took the money, slipped it in his jacket pocket, and turned about. But before he left he paused and said, ‘Thank you for the opportunity, sirs, I appreciate it.’
The men stared at him, unblinking and silent, until the DI said, ‘Don’t bugger it up, Darriteau! This is our one chance,’ and he nodded at the door, and Walter read the signal and was out of there in a second, his head spinning, pondering on where the business was heading.
Thirty-Four
In Chester, Walter glanced round the table at his young colleagues, Karen, Martin, and Jenny. He took a breath and began. ‘I believe thirty years ago Peter Craig was murdered when taken out into Liverpool Bay by Torquil Wilderton and friends, where Craig was thrown overboard and drowned, his body washing up on Hilbre Island.’
‘Was he found fully clothed?’ asked Martin.
‘He was,’ said Walter, ‘but he was not bound and gagged. He was known to be terrified of water and must have been offered a sizeable and juicy carrot to put to sea with Wilderton and company.’
Karen said, grinning, ‘Are carrots ever juicy?’
Walter bobbed his head and said, ‘They are when they are financial, especially to a man like Craig, who was motivated by money. It was known he couldn’t swim, and I believe he was bound.’
‘There was no evidence of that,’ said Jenny.
‘There were hints he might have been. Faint unexplained marks were found, and I suggest they bound him with liquorice strings.’
‘Eh?’ said Karen, glancing at the others.
‘I tried it myself.’
‘Really?’ grinned Karen.
‘What do you mean?’ said Jenny.
‘I saw them in the newsagents. It was as if they were calling me, the red ones, not the black. So I bought some and took them home and tied them on one wrist. It’s amazing how strong they are when you put three or four together. I couldn’t easily break them.’
‘Go on,’ said Karen, sensing there was more.
‘I ran a warm bath and climbed in. Wafted the wrist around in the water and the strings eroded, though it took some time, but gradually they wore away until breaking and floating free. Imagine that happening in a rough Liverpool Bay, with a terrified Peter Craig, a non-swimmer, bobbing his head above the waves, panicking, trying to stay alive, unable to move his hands or feet. He wouldn’t have lasted long.’
Jenny said, ‘Didn’t the coroner’s report state that sweetener residue was found in his pockets?’
‘Ah yes,’ said Walter, ‘you’re right, but I think that was additional weight.’
‘How do you mean?’ said Martin.
‘Before they threw him overboard, they loaded his pockets with sugar lumps, maybe a kilo in each pocket. Four pockets, that’s pretty weighty. Lumps will have lasted a little longer than loose sugar, acting as weights, dragging him down to the depths. Maybe they were the decisive factor, who knows, with one added bonus, they were sucked away by saltwater, ensuring his death would appear more accident than murder.’
‘Hence the traces of sweetener,’ said Karen.
‘Correct. If they had tied him with rope, the seawater would have tightened them and they should have stayed in situ. But because they found no bindings everyone assumed there were none.’
Jenny smirked and said, ‘But liquorice strings don’t tighten, they weaken and disappear.’
‘That’s how it looks to me.’
‘All very interesting and even a touch ingenious, but how does it help us?’ said Karen.
‘I’m not sure it does,’ said Walter, ‘but after further tests, I shall provide the coroner’s office with a final report that will mean they can say, with some certainty, that Peter Craig was murdered. Who knows, there might still be people out there who were present, who could still be held to account.’
‘Pity Torquil Wilderton is dead,’ said Karen.
‘Yes, but his son is alive, and I think he knows more than he’s letting on.’
Karen said, ‘And you think another secret society murder is possible in the next forty-eight hours?’
‘Why not? If they keep to schedule, there will be.’
‘What kind of person could they target this time?’ said Jenny.
‘If it’s something personal between the target and one of the society, then it could be anything, or anyone. Maybe someone has run off with one of the member’s wives, or some financial arrangement went pear-shaped, or even something as trivial as someone being elected as captain of a local golf club, when everyone imagined another person was getting the job. Some people get real upset when slighted. But it could be anything.’
‘Is that motive for murder?’ asked Martin. ‘The golf club captaincy thing?’
‘There have been lesser reasons given in the past. But if it’s not a personal beef, it could be more mundane and simple. Such as ridding the streets of undesirables, perhaps drug dealers, persistent robbers and burglars, muggers or hoodlums, who for no reason attack members of the public, and maybe we know nothing about it. We all know there are annoying individuals walking the streets. Most folks shrug their shoulders and get on with life, whereas these driven vigilante type people have fallen into their own way of retribution.’
‘Just for a second,’ said Karen, ‘imagine the target is a drug dealer. There are countless number of those across the north-west, ranging from the creepy guy who sells his mates a little cannabis, to your full on importers, running a wholesale operation across the region, handling mega-money. Even if we had a list of such people, what do we do with it? We can hardly go round to each one saying: oh by the way, there might be some naughty guy out there looking to kill a drug pusher. They’d laugh their pants off.’
‘I’m sure we could put together some kind of decent list,’ said Walter, ‘if need be, though it might take longer than forty-eight hours.’
‘If it were me,’ said Martin, ‘I’d target the full-on importer. That would have more impact if they are serious about shutting down supply.’
‘Could be,’ said Walter. ‘Makes sense.’
‘Also,’ added Jenny, ‘don’t forget these people operate in a ruthless and violent world. It isn’t unknown for them to be involved in violence and murder. That’s part of the game, so to warn them, would be akin to asking a chippy if he sells fish.’
‘So what do we do?’ asked Karen.
Walter sat back in his chair and sighed.
‘I don’t think there’s a lot we can do, except maybe advise all our snouts and contacts and known pushers that something could be afoot.’
‘They’ll ignore it,’ said Martin.
‘Yes, but I’d feel better if we’d made the effort.’
‘Where do we go from here?’ asked Karen.
‘Let’s try Jago Wilderton again. See if he can give us any hint about who is at the helm of this ridiculous fifteen group. A name or meeting place might be all we need. We’ll go and see him in a minute.’
‘Okay,’ said
Karen, ‘and I’ll instruct Darren Gibbons to tell everyone to put the word out on the streets.’
‘What do you want us to do, Guv?’ said Martin.
‘You and Jenny take another detailed look at the Kelly Jones murder. See if you can find something we’ve missed. There must be something there.’
‘Sure, Guv,’ said Martin, and the casual meet broke up.
Thirty-Five
Walter had never been in the Athenaeum building before. It was quite something, and he could have stayed on the ground floor and examined the architecture, paintings, and written history on every wall for the rest of the evening.
In the centre of the foyer was a polished oak stand with a fresh printed notice affixed to the top that read: CHESS CLUB – FIRST FLOOR – the CHARLES GOODWIN ROOM. He glanced at the wide and curling marble stairs and made his way up the eighteen steps, wondering if Caroline Meade would be there, and if she was, would she want to speak to him?
An iron balustrade protected the first floor landing round its four sides, topped with a polished wooden banister. The marble theme continued with the wide floored landing, impressive too, and off the landing, facing the top of the staircase, was a square office. The heavy panelled door was wide open. There was a big smell of cleaning polish going on. Walter could see a single guy inside, maybe fifty-five, sitting behind a desk, monitoring who was coming and going.
‘Ah, I say...’ the man said, his voice echoing through the building, ‘come and have a chat, old boy.’
Walter would chat with anyone. It gave him a feeling of belonging. He went inside, and at the guy’s insistence, closed the door.
‘Take a seat,’ said the man.
Walter bobbed his head and sat down.
‘I’m Horace Pilley, I organise the club. You do play chess, I take it?’
‘Yes, though we’ll soon find out how well.’
‘Indeed we will. I don’t want to know why you are here, but I believe your interest is Caroline Meade.’
‘That’s correct, Horrie.’
For a moment the guy looked startled.