by David Carter
Martin laughed. Darren muttered, ‘Who’s surprised at that?’
‘Do you want to hear some snippets?’
‘Sure,’ said Walter. ‘What have you got?’
‘I’ve put a few highlights together, if you want to call them that,’ and he pressed play on his kit, and they listened to Jago ring one woman after another from the Chester Singletons website. He sounded desperate and the women must have felt that, for they all said, ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ and the tape ended.
Walter said, ‘Was it all like that?’
‘Every bit. Desperation is not a good look.’
‘Thanks for that. Keep us informed.’
‘Sure,’ he said, ‘you’ll be the first to know,’ and he smiled at the girls and retreated.
Jenny glanced at Karen and said, ‘Do you want me to move, sarge?’
‘No, you stay there. Let’s hear what you have got,’ and Karen sat on the end of Walter’s desk.
Walter recapped what they had said.
‘No clothing remnants found in the grave, and no buttons, zippers or studs, nothing, as if she had been buried naked.’
Martin said, ‘She could have been wearing lightweight summer clothing. Wasn’t there a fad for clothes made of paper at that time?’
Darren smirked and said, ‘Or even rice paper. Edible knickers. Yum, yum!’
‘Shut up, Gibbons,’ said Karen.
‘No,’ said Walter, ‘what do you mean?’
‘We’ve all done it, haven’t we? Dress the partner in sexy rice-paper underwear, throw on some edible trousers or a short skirt for added nourishment, and away you go.’
‘I haven’t!’ said Jenny.
‘Me neither,’ said Karen, looking at Darren in disgust.
Walter added, ‘Can’t say as I’ve ever partaken either.’
‘Come on, you lot, loosen up. Nothing wrong with a bit of fun in the bedroom. But you need to take care eating the bits covering the nether regions. That can be tricky.’
‘Is there no bottom to the pit of your depravity?’ said Karen.
‘Bottom, eh? I see what you did there. I don’t think you’re all as innocent as you make out.’
‘Hold on a minute,’ said Walter. ‘I think Mrs West needs to hear this. Don’t go further till I get back,’ and he stood and ambled towards her office.
The door was closed when he knocked.
‘Come!’ she said, and he went in, though didn’t sit, contenting himself in asking if she wanted to hear the conversation.
‘Can’t, Walter, look at this!’ pointing to a pile of papers on the side of her desk. ‘All must be done by 8pm... I’m running late.’
‘Okay, understood, I just thought...’
‘Hold on a sec, you think this is important?’
‘It might be.’
Walter’s “might be’s” carried more weight than most, and she glanced at one of her three screens and flipped through the interview rooms.
‘Room 5 is empty. Take them in there and I’ll listen while I work.’
Walter’s eyes widened. That was new.
‘Okay,’ he said, backing off, ‘Room 5 it is.’
‘And tell them I’ll be looking and listening!’
‘Sure,’ he said.
Walter returned to his desk and told them they were to reconvene in interview Room 5, and he didn’t want to hear any F words, as the boss would monitor proceedings. ‘And that includes you, Darren.’
‘I never use the F word, Guv,’ which wasn’t true, before adding, ‘But I use the C word a lot.’
‘Not that, either!’ said Karen. ‘Never!’
‘Carolina,’ said Darren. ‘That’s the C word for me. My new better half. Sweet Carolina. Round as melons, cool as a cucumber, smooth as silk, and kisses like an exploding submarine.’
Jenny shook her head and made her way to Room 5. A moment later they were crammed in, Walter, Karen, Jenny, Martin and Darren. A voice echoed from the wall-speaker.
‘Can you hear me?’
Everyone grinned. Walter said, ‘We can, ma’am.’
‘Good, carry on.’
Walter took a moment to gather himself and said, ‘We are examining the possibility that Kelly Jones was buried naked. No clothing traces were ever found, no zippers or buttons, nothing. Or if not naked, maybe she was clad in perishable material, hence no trace. Paper, or possibly rice paper clothing, seem to be the favourites. It seems they were trendy. Darren, our in-house expert on unusual underwear, suggested that rice paper knickers might have been employed.’
Martin added, ‘It’s true, they were popular back then. ‘I bought some once, I’d forgotten about that.’
‘Did you?’ said Jenny, aghast.
‘He’s a filthy beast,’ said Darren, grinning at Martin and Jenny.
Mrs West asked a question she would always regret uttering, her voice booming through the room so loud, Walter turned her volume down.
‘What is the point of rice paper knickers?’
Martin laughed.
Darren provided the answer with a smirk.
‘It’s exciting, ma’am, slowly eating them away until you come to the...’
‘That’s as far as we are going with that!’ snapped Walter.
Mrs West’s mouth fell open. She dropped her pen. Were such things available? It was news to her. She signed in to the auction website where you can buy anything. Typed in “edible knickers”. Saints preserve us. Hundreds of the damn things. Every colour, size, and shape. Wow! Who’d have believed that?
A cute pink pair in packs of three caught her eye, as if calling her. Before she knew it, she’d bought them with one click, dashed off the site, and eased the paperwork to one side, as she tuned in to every word her strange team uttered.
‘Look!’ said Darren. ‘Kelly Jones was a well-known Tom. She’d be no stranger to kinky sex, probably charged extra for it. I think Jenny’s right. Kelly had them on when she was buried and they’ve long since rotted away, hence it appears she was naked. I don’t think she was, but I’m not sure what it proves.’
‘It proves nothing,’ said Walter, but it raises some interesting questions. She might have been wearing paper clothing, but she could have been taken there naked for burial. She worked in a brothel in New Ferry, which is north of Chester, and she was buried near Malpas, which is south of the city. But there’s a direct road, the A41 connecting the two. So how did she get from there to there, and did anyone report seeing a naked woman being moved round?’
‘Is the brothel still operating?’ asked Karen.
‘No,’ said Jenny. ‘We closed it down years ago.’
‘What about Jago Wilderton?’ said Martin. ‘He fits the bill in more ways than one.’
‘Tell us more,’ said Walter.
‘His family are up to their neck in being involved in the Peter Craig murder. Cleaning the streets of undesirables. Maybe it runs in the family, culling prostitutes this time, but in Jago’s case, maybe he had more use for Kelly Jones, before they killed her.’
‘Could be,’ said Walter.
Darren said, ‘Was Kelly Jones strangled?’
‘Open verdict,’ said Walter. ‘The hyoid bone, the U-shaped bone in the neck, gets fractured in one-third of strangulation deaths. In Kelly Jones’ case, the post mortem revealed her hyoid was intact. But often, the lack of a hyoid fracture doesn’t rule out strangulation. It could still be that.’
Darren again. ‘So we don’t know how she died?’
‘Correct,’ said Walter. ‘Lots of conjecture, but it would be nice to know.’
A tap came to the door and the same tech guy didn’t wait for an answer. He stood in the doorway and said, ‘Sorry to bother you again, but I’m sure you’ll want to hear this.’
‘It better be good,’ said Walter.
‘It is, listen...’ and he pressed play.
They heard Jago pick up his phone.
A man said, ‘How is Mr Wilderton today?’
‘I’m good, and you?’
‘Ah, that. No, nothing to speak of. I told you before, the black bumbler’s like a terrier with these things. But as far as I can see, he has nothing at all. It’s all gone quiet at this end. Between you and me, I don’t think there’s a great deal between his ears...’
Karen grimaced and glanced at Walter. It was all water off a duck’s back to him. Jenny did too, and whispered, ‘Jago Wilderton is an idiot.’
Jago’s recorded voice started again.
‘There’s something Dickensian about him, floundering about in the dark. Maybe we should call him Mr Bumble, the archetypal meddlesome petty bureaucrat. That fits well, don’t you think?’
The caller laughed and said, ‘Yeah, sure does. Oh well, so long as everything’s kosher and we’re in the clear.’
‘There’s nothing to worry about. Give it a few weeks and we’ll go out to dinner, somewhere nice to celebrate.’
‘Yeah, sure... cheers, sounds good,’ and both men cut off.
Walter said, ‘Does anyone know who the caller is?’
No one did.
The tech man said, ‘I don’t know his name but I can tell you where the call came from.’
‘Brilliant!’ said Jenny.
‘Fifth floor office suite in Weaver Street, here in the city centre.’
‘Well done, good work,’ said Walter. ‘We’ll take it from there.’
The tech guy looked pleased with his day, backed out, and shut the door.
Mrs West’s voice echoed through the room.
‘Excellent work, team. You have been busy. Find out who the caller is.’
‘Shouldn’t be too difficult,’ said Walter.
‘I agree. Once we know who it is, bring him and Jago in. Make sure we keep them apart. With a bit of luck, we should have not one but two murder charges on the book before the week’s out,’ and she cut off before Walter could answer, and the team returned to their workstations.
Walter stood by his desk and stared across the room.
‘Let’s be clear about one thing. The first person to call me Mr Bumble buys me a pint of cold stout as a penalty.’
Jenny, Martin, Darren and Karen all shared a look, and in the next second Jenny, Martin, and Darren stared and pointed at Walter and said, ‘Mr Bumble!’
‘Excellent,’ he said, sitting down. ‘That worked well. I’ll be in the Royal Oak at 6.30. I’ll expect cold pints lined up, ready and waiting.’
Karen said, ‘Sorry, not me, Guv, I’ve a hot date.’
‘Not a problem. You’re excused.’
Darren looked at Karen and said, ‘Don’t go wearing...’
She cut him off with a snappy, ‘Shut it, Gibbons! Sometimes you don’t know when to stop.’
Fifty-Five
They were as good as their word. Walter ambled into the Royal Oak at just gone half-past six. Sure enough, there on the bar were three overflowing pints of black gold, with Martin, Jenny, and Darren standing by on guard duty as Walter arrived.
‘Wow,’ he said, eyes wide open as he sampled the first glass. ‘Thank you team, who ever bought this one.’
He made the three pints last an hour and told them he had to leave, but not before he slipped the barmaid a new twenty, telling her to look after his friends.
‘Hot date, is it, Guv?’ said Jenny.
Walter grinned and said, ‘Not really. More of a catching up with someone I used to work with when I was younger than you.’
Darren made a joke of it being back in the Jack the Ripper era. Walter laughed, nodded a goodnight, and went outside into the bright balmy evening. It took him fifteen minutes to amble to the Big House Hotel, not the best or most expensive hostelry in the city, but an establishment people were talking about.
He ambled inside and went to the bar. It wasn’t his kind of place. Too modern and minimalistic for his taste. Lots of chrome and mirrors and glass, with kids jabbering about fancy cocktails and Glastonbury. He stood at the bar, bought tonic water with ice and lemon, and took a sip while eyeing himself in the mirror-backed bar.
Stella Humphrey came in five minutes later. They recognised each other straight away. Maybe that wasn’t a surprise. True, Walter had put on some weight since he was twenty, but who doesn’t? Stella hadn’t, not an ounce, and she was still a striking woman. No one could miss that. One or two grey streaks in her styled, long auburn hair, but they suited her, and a few lines on her face. But who keeps those at bay? Maybe they stood out in the bright bar, but Walter imagined in any dimly lit place she’d barely changed a bit.
‘You’re looking good,’ he said, as she grabbed him and mwah-mwahed hard in a London kind of way.
‘Thanks. You are too, funny how things turn out, isn’t it?’
‘It sure is.’
He offered her a drink. She glanced around. The place was filling with twenty and thirty somethings, the noise level rising, and she shook her head and said, ‘Can we go somewhere quieter?’
‘Fine by me,’ and he took her outside on a short walk to a quiet Chinese place he liked.
‘This okay?’
‘Great,’ she said, as he held the door open and they went in and found a vacant table.
‘Before we order,’ she said, ‘This is on me,’ pointing at the dishes.
‘Thanks, Stella, but we’ll each pay for our own,’ he said, ‘a little rule I have.’
‘You haven’t changed at all,’ she said, smiling across at him. ‘Never to be compromised, eh?’
Walter smiled but didn’t answer, and moved on to talk about her three marriages to his none. She bemoaned the fact that men were paragons of virtue, full of humour, charm and good manners before she married them, yet within three months they showed their true colours. Which included at least six of being mean, violent, alcoholic, unfaithful, hopeless with money, gamblers, wet, weak, rude, uncaring, bigoted, failing to pay her sufficient or even any attention, and perhaps worst of all, being a crashing bore.
Walter recalled her long ago saying her James, husband number one, was full of charm. He wondered how long it was before that vanished.
‘Does your Mr Humphrey boast these characteristics?’
‘He’s the best of a bad bunch. I’ll give him that. What is it with your species? All too often within months you morph into mad monsters.’
Walter shrugged his shoulders and sipped white wine that she said she liked.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what’s the story with Yellow Justice?’
She opened her bag, took out a card, and slipped it across the table. A big yellow sun was the organisation’s logo.
‘Yellow makes us feel happy, apparently,’ she said, ‘reminds us of hot summers and wonderful holidays.’
Walter pulled a questioning face, nodded, and said, ‘Been there long?’
‘Six years, now.’
‘I’m not sure I understand what you hope to achieve for Fellday’s mother and girlfriend.’
‘The mother’s a bag of nerves. Not a penny to her name, and have you met the girlfriend?’
Walter nodded.
‘Look, Walter, the pair of them relied on Fellday to put food on the table and a roof over their head, and now there are three mouths to feed. They’re going to be in real trouble, and soon. They need help, that’s why I’m here.’
‘And how can I assist in that?’
‘I need to know if he was murdered.’
‘Probably, though that is yet to be proven.’
‘Any idea who did it?’
‘We’re working hard on that.’
‘Do you have a prime suspect?’
‘You know I can’t talk about the case, Stella.’
‘Okay. I’ll rephrase it. Do you think the potential culprits possess tangible assets?’
Ah, there it was. Compensation, and or a lawsuit coming in to squeeze money from people to redress the situation, and why not? Shane Fellday may have made his m
oney through drug dealing, but should his mother and girlfriend be penalised for that? Not to mention the innocent babe who hadn’t uttered a word to the world. If Stella could screw cash out of them, what was wrong in that? Unless Yellow Justice kept the bulk of it.
‘Does Yellow Justice take a cut from any monies accrued?’
‘No!’ and she sat back in her chair, looking disappointed he’d asked the question.
‘So how’s the organisation funded?’
‘Grants, donations, support from a wide range of businesses, billionaires, football club owners, and NGO’s, we’ve a whole raft of fund raising ideas and targets.’
That made some kind of sense.
‘Look, Walter, am I wasting my time here?’
‘With me, or your quest for money?’
‘Both!’ she grinned.
‘I’ll help you if I can, so long as it doesn’t compromise my position. And as for potential funds available, I’d say, and you didn’t hear this from me, I’d plough right on with it if I were you.’
‘Great!’ she said. ‘Thanks. Something deep down told me that,’ and she reached across the table and squeezed his forearm.
He looked away as she picked up the wine bottle. It was empty. She held it high and said, ‘Shall we get another?’
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘but a red this time?’
‘Sure,’ and she caught the eye of the cute little waiter.
Stella added, ‘Vairs is dead, you know that?’
‘So I believe, and Rosanna Banaghan too.’
‘Wasn’t that the weirdest hook-up in history?’
‘I picked up those vibes early on. It didn’t surprise me.’
‘Aren’t you the clever one? But you always were. But give him his due; Vairs did a superb job in straightening out the Banaghans.’
‘Yes, they’ve gone from strength to strength, being legal. Won a Queen’s Award to Industry, I think.’
‘They did. Can you believe it? Pity no one did the same job on the Meades.’
‘I’ve lost touch with all that. They’re still sailing close to the wind?’
‘As close as you can get.’
Walter paused, sipped Merlot, and said, ‘I read about her in the paper the other day. Can you believe Suzanne Banaghan, Meade as was, is the second highest female taxpayer in the land? Only that betting woman exceeds her. Shows how much cash Suzanne turns over.’