by David Carter
‘There’s nothing we can do. It’s better if we keep out of it and clear the area, and anyway...’
‘Anyway what?’
‘I want to see where this Julius bloke pranced up and down, thrashing all comers.’
‘I don’t think Julius was ever a prancer, darling.’
‘Anyone with a name like Julius must have been a prancer. Stands to reason,’ and despite the disaster unfolding behind, Vairs laughed a cold, clipped laugh.
The water in Walter’s bath grew cold, and the level had gone down. How could that happen? He turned on the tap and topped up.
He thought again of the ten-member Banaghan family and the heavy price they paid. Liam and Dermot dead, Cormac dying from his wounds. Eamonn shot in the arm, recovered, married Suzanne, had two children, a boy and girl they called Grahame and Eilish. Grahame was brought up protestant like his mother, and Eilish a Catholic like her father, named after the aunt she would never see.
After Oonagh left prison she enjoyed life, loved the monthly girls’ night out, though she was still looking for love. Eoin and Sheelagh, both happily married and employed in the legit business. Aileen, crazy in love with the still skinny and eccentric genius, Caroline. Maybe that eccentricity was her attraction. And the matriarch, Rosanna, married to Walter’s former colleague and boss, Teddy Vairs.
They both died in their eighties, two weeks apart, but they’d made each other happy, and that meant everything.
Of the Meade family of nine, Grahame was murdered in his flat by the Banaghan goons, Benny and Caz, with Caz issuing the final blow. Walter suspected Suzanne shot him dead, but could never prove it. Benny, the former French Foreign Legionnaire was a reformed character, assisting in church activities when he could, giving wads of pay to homeless charities, and it was Benny who helped Suzanne get Eamonn out through the back door.
He still worked for Eamonn and Suzanne, gets on great with her, and like the rest, they never discussed that dreadful day when Howard and Johnny met their maker. Billy vanished in Australia, Roger, the peacemaker, died in Wormwood Scrubs. Cynthia had it rough and was happy to depart this world.
Of the Meades, only Suzanne, Caroline, and the effete Ricky remained. After his father died, Ricky took his chance at freedom and became a society photographer. But he was hopeless and job drifted, ending up in theatre-land, where he landed minor parts from impresarios who felt sorry for him, and thought he was cute. That didn’t last long, but he stuck at it, his last job a small part in Puss in Boots in Morecambe.
It took a while for Caroline to throw off the mental trauma of what happened on that wintry Sunday morning.
Maybe it was a surprise she remained in the business, but Suzanne held the reins, driving things forward, struggling to operate within the law. She was not always successful, but she was getting there. Eamonn assisted where he could, and she was happy to accept his advice.
Walter scratched his chin and murmured, ‘What a mess!’
But he wouldn’t have missed it for the world. No wonder that affair returned to his mind. The biggest case he ever worked on. But lying in the bath, he decided it was time to let go. He ordered his brain to push it to one side, not that he could ever do that.
Besides, he had a massive case of his own, and that was where his reasoning, logic, and energies should lie. Unsolved murders on his patch, and he meant to clear them up. As for the Banaghan Meade business, that was over and done with. Trouble was, life had a weird way of messing up promises and plans. Within a week, someone appeared that brought it all back into focus.
But before that, the closure of those long-ago days brought an instant result, or that was how he liked to think of it. The cotdos business, he’d finally figured it out.
Fifty-Two
The cute bus slid along, heading into the old city, and Walter shifted in his seat. It was early, the bus was full, as he glanced at his fellow travellers. A sense of unease sat on his shoulders and that wasn’t unusual.
The on-edge feeling came and went, and long experience told him there might be a good reason for that nervousness. Maybe another random murder was close.
Most of the passengers were regulars. When he was bored he tried to figure out what his fellow travellers did for a living. Were they happy in their job, content and fulfilled in life?
The usual young woman was there, long hair, slim figure, beige leather boots, short skirt, staring at her iPhone, an impassive look on her smooth face. The archetypal secretary, perhaps a little bored with work, but Walter imagined she lived an exciting existence.
Opposite her, the skinny guy, cuddling his plastic brief case as if it contained gold. Not reading a paper or device, not doing anything, staring ahead as if dreading the day. If anyone on the bus looked unhappy it was Mr Skinny, though Walter grinned and considered his reasoning might be way off. Maybe Mr Skinny was deliriously happy, living with his magical wife or husband, and didn’t want to leave the house.
And the sullen young kid, Gavin. Walter heard an older woman call him that two mornings before, at the bus stop.
‘Have a great day, Gavin, roast beef and Yorkshire puddin’ for your tea, Gav,’ she said, smiling at her boy as only mothers can, as he clambered aboard. What did he do for a living? What was his story?
First job, maybe? Trainee clerk in some boring office? Or did he sell clobber in some mid-range menswear shop? No, the clobber idea was out, judging by his scruffy, ill-fitting clothes. He could be a trainee surgeon for anyone knew. But it didn’t matter, as long as he was happy and following his dreams.
Maybe he wrote music or played an instrument, or perhaps he was a champion gamer. There was big money in gaming in the twenty-first century. Walter couldn’t get his head round those competitors being described as “athletes”, and ridiculous people campaigning for them to be included in the Olympic Games.
But what did he know? Maybe that was where the world was heading, where “champions” of the future, and the celebrities everyone looked up to, admired and worshiped, would find fame and fortune staring at and reacting with a blessed computer screen. What a cold and depressing thought. Sometimes the future looked bleak.
The bus pulled into town and stopped with no braking noise. Mr Skinny and Miss Pretty stood up at the same time, though he paused and nodded her on. She let go a tiny smile, for it was only to be expected. Men of all ages were always doing that, waiting and nodding her on, and smiling, though it wouldn’t last.
Gavin didn’t seem keen to get off. Lounging back on the double seat, legs akimbo, yawning as if he’d suffered a late night. He hadn’t shaved, but he was only about eighteen, and maybe he didn’t boast a heavy beard.
Walter wanted to say, ‘Come on, Gavin! Up and shift yourself or you’ll be late for work,’ but resisted. Walter stood up, preparing to alight. It sparked the boy into action. He jumped up as if someone had stuck a needle in his bum, pushed his way in front of Walter, bounded down the bus, jumped off with a big leap, and disappeared into the bustling crowds of people arriving from the Chester suburbs.
An old lady, shuffling down from the back, muttered, ‘Charming, no manners!’ but didn’t expound, as Walter let her go in front of him, and a couple of seconds later he was heading for the station, that uneasy feeling still present.
Karen was at her desk, hair tied back, yellow pencil set between her teeth, sticking out horizontally, looking like a Papua and New Guinean cannibal. She opened her mouth, and the pencil fell to earth, bouncing on the desk, as she said, ‘Good morning, Guv.’
‘Mmm, yes,’ he mumbled, turning on his computer.
Darren Gibbons came in with a box of fresh doughnuts and asked if anyone wanted one. Karen pulled a sour face and said, ‘No... thank... you...’ with a big silence gap between each word.
‘You, Guv?’ he said, shaking the box before Walter’s interested eyes, guessing that temptation would get the better of him.
‘Okay, if you insist,’ and he took one out and set it to one side on a sheet of s
crap paper, as Darren rammed a whole one in his mouth and hustled away to his workstation.
Martin Kane and Jenny Thompson came in together, looking happy with life. They often arrived together, and went home together too, and in a room of seasoned detectives who never missed a thing, that behaviour was being commented on.
It wasn’t approved of, two officers dating, but neither was it illegal. But they should keep it confidential, and under no circumstances let it get out of control while on duty. There had been a few cases in recent years where officers were having sexual liaisons whilst on duty, and on occasion, in the damned station, and that would never be tolerated, and if proven, instant dismissal awaited.
Walter checked on suspicious deaths.
One in Chester, and another across the border, near Wrexham. The Chester case was in Handbridge in an Edwardian semi-detached house, a narrow street Walter knew well. He had a special girlfriend there once, spent many a happy weekend there too, though that was long ago, and maybe a wasted opportunity.
When those houses were built, town planners had never considered each family might possess not one but two or even three vehicles. The cars were getting bigger, and the road seemed to be shrinking, and there were no parking spaces, other than on the road. It was first come first served when everyone arrived home. Some days were lucky days, but the chances were slim.
The Handbridge death report said the man who’d died, one Conran Williams, had just celebrated his thirtieth birthday. There was no obvious cause of death, though the bloke had several convictions for drug use and dealing, and his live-in lover, Shirley Hammond, aged twenty-five, possessed a black eye and cut lip. The address was flagged as one visited three times on domestic abuse and late night disturbances over the past twenty-four months.
No one would be surprised to discover it was a drug overdose death, though that would have to wait for the toxicology report. One had to keep an open mind. Maybe the girl had reached the end of her tether and had figured out some new and ingenious way to kill her tormentor. Suspicious deaths had a habit of throwing up surprises. Rule nothing out.
Walter called Jenny and Martin over. Showed them the data. Told them to get across the river and check on the girl, and find out what had caused Conran Williams to vacate this world.
‘Sure, Guv,’ said Martin, looking happy to be out in the sunshine, as he turned to Jenny and said, ‘Come on, DC Thompson, you’re wanted,’ and the pair of them left together with a spring in their step.
Walter turned to the Welsh case and read what little there was. The body of an unidentified man was found below a tall aqueduct. The place was a popular, if that was the right word, suicide drop off point, and suicide was being touted as the cause of death. But there was no ID or any cash on the victim, if indeed he was a victim, and that rang alarm bells in Walter’s head.
If you were going out to kill yourself would you make sure you left your ID at home, not to mention the cash aspect? No, it stank! People carried emergency funds of some description. It reeked even worse when he considered they were expecting an unusual death, and lo-and-behold, maybe this was it. The corpse could have been robbed of money, but what kind of cold and heartless person would do that? The downside was, it didn’t fit with the gallows sketch.
He picked up the phone and dialled the new Wrexham Station less than thirteen miles away, south-west of Chester, across the border in the Principality of Wales. The old station had been blown up, or to be more exact, blown down. He’d seen the spectacular pictures on YouTube.
‘I’d like to speak to DI Goronwy Davis.’
‘Who’s speaking?’
‘Inspector Darriteau, Chester.’
‘Hold on one second.’
A moment later Goronwy’s distinctive voice boomed through.
‘Walter, you fat scoundrel, what can I do for you?’
Walter wasn’t so keen on the “fat” word, but ignored it and said, ‘Hi, Gee Dee, I’ve just noticed you’ve flagged up a suspicious death.’
‘You don’t miss much, do you? Not much changes there. Yes, we have a body, so far unidentified, male, aged around thirty, into drugs judging by the puncture marks on both arms.’
‘Has he been removed from the scene?’
‘He has, gone off for testing within the last hour.’
‘Mind if I come down for a look?’
‘Be my guest. What’s your interest?’
‘I’m not sure. It might fit with something we’ve been working on.’
‘You want to meet me at the site?’
‘That makes sense.’
Goronwy gave Walter the details, and they agreed to meet under the aqueduct in an hour, and it was half an hour later when Karen drove the BMW5 out onto the Chester inner ring road.
Less than thirty minutes later, Karen pulled the car to a standstill in the closest car park to the aqueduct, on the lower level, close to the riverbank. There were three other cars there but none that looked like Goronwy Davis might have stepped from. Two minutes later a big Ford saloon came steaming in, Goronwy glancing round, looking for somewhere to park, and checking if Walter was already there.
A moment later they were standing together in the sunshine. Walter introduced Karen to Gee Dee, as everyone called him, and he led them down the short stony path towards the river.
The water level was low, and the aqueduct was high, very high, looking more impressive with every step closer. Karen paused and glanced up at a red and green narrowboat high above, floating across. Back at ground level, further down the path, the white tent-like structure assembled over the man’s remains, was still in place.
Walter said, ‘Who found the body?’
‘Usual thing, early dog walker, first call reported before 7am.’
They paused outside the tent and Karen said, ‘Okay to go in?’
‘Sure, forensics have been and gone.’
They went in and stared down at the light grey rocks splashed with scarlet. No matter how many times one saw it, it was never an easy sight.
Walter said, ‘Was there anything in his pockets?’
‘Nope, not a thing.’
‘Don’t you think that’s odd?’
‘Maybe, but if I was going out to top myself I don’t suppose I’d be bothered if I had anything with me, or not.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Walter, as they stepped outside and stared up at the brick and stone structure.
Karen said, ‘How high is it?’
‘About a hundred and thirty feet, give or take.’
‘I can’t imagine anyone doing that,’ she said. ‘Kill yourself, maybe, but take a bottle of pills and two bottles of vodka, for God’s sake. But to jump off that thing,’ and she glanced up again. ‘Can you imagine what thoughts rushed through his head as he cascaded down?’
‘I don’t suppose it matters much which method you employ, once you’ve chosen to end everything,’ said Gee Dee, but his singing phone interrupted him.
While he was talking Walter said, ‘I don’t think it was suicide.’
‘I agree,’ said Karen.
‘Yeah, I’ve got that,’ they heard Gee Dee say, ‘yeah, okay, understood, thanks, see ya,’ and he cut off and slipped the phone in his trousers.
‘Death was caused by severe blunt trauma. Almost every bone in his body was broken, consistent with falling onto rocks from a considerable height. Whether it was suicide or something more sinister has yet to be established. If you want my six pennyworth, suicide would be my red hot fave. And one other thing, folks. Class A drug residue was found in his pockets, which no one is surprised about after seeing the state of his arms.’
Karen said, ‘Have you ID’d him?’
‘No. We’ve been asking round, but no one’s come forward. Maybe he isn’t a local. You any ideas?’
Walter said, ‘Not yet.’
‘Care to let me in on your interest?’
Walter again, ‘We’ve been expecting a suspicious death, and we have two. This one, and another drug
gy related business in Handbridge. Either or neither or both could fit the bill.’
‘Tell me anything more?’
‘Not yet, Gee Dee, but I will if either death fits in with what we already have.’
‘Fair enough, man. Want to come back to base for coffee? I’d love to show you what twenty-two million quid buys in the way of a new copshop. Thirty-two state-of-the-art cells, every comfort, like a flippin’ hotel, it is. Amazing.’
‘Another time, maybe, and you’ll only make us jealous. How do we get up there?’ asked Walter, jerking his thumb in the air.
‘It’s a little walk, but if you follow the aqueduct back that way,’ said Gee Dee, pointing along the path, ‘you’ll come to a staircase that will take you up to the towpath.’
Walter nodded his thanks. Gee Dee shook Walter and Karen’s hand and turned back towards the car park.
‘Nice fella,’ said Karen.
‘He is,’ said Walter, as they set off along the path running parallel to the massive structure, away from the burbling river, a path bordered by short, untidy bushes struggling to gain a foothold and make a living on the stony ground. One bush twenty metres ahead had a single branch bursting from the top as if to prove itself, and tangled round the spindly growth like a flying ensign, was a raggedy blue piece of cloth, as if tied there as some kind of signal.
‘That’s odd,’ said Walter, ‘and interesting,’ slipping on latex gloves, and stepping ahead. ‘Evidence bag,’ he cooed, as he leant over and unravelled the linen.
Karen stood at his shoulder, bag in hand, and the torn blue cloth was dropped inside.
She said, ‘What are you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking it looks odd and doesn’t belong, and it’s odd too that the guy had no money or ID, and who knows, maybe two odd facts in quick succession might make something when put together.’
She pursed her lips, shook her head, stuffed the bag in her light jacket pocket, before they moved on ahead, seeking the staircase that would take them to the top.
Fifty-Three