The Maggie Murders
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Authors: J P Lomas
The Maggie Murders
by J.P. Lomas
Text copyright
©J P Lomas 2012
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Cover
Illustration by Tim Major
Also
by J.P. Lomas
‘Special
Measures’
For Tanya and Edwin
‘I know full well the
responsibilities that await me as I enter the door of No. 10.’
She radiated success as she stood
triumphantly in front of 10 Downing Street; the grocer’s daughter from Grantham
who had just been elected Britain’s first female Prime Minister. This smiling,
but steely lady, with her carefully modulated voice had led the Conservative
Party to a clear victory in the General Election. Her party’s majority of 43
seats in the new Parliament would be decisive enough for her to set about a
programme of radical reform.
The Mini Cooper may not have
been going as fast as a bullet along the A303, yet it was certainly hurtling
along at well above the 70mph speed limit on that West Country dual carriageway
and it had already given many drivers in the London bound lanes cause for
consternation.
Margaret Thatcher turned to
address the nation she now led. The media pack assembled across the road from
the landmark London terrace, scrambled to record the historic photo
opportunity.
The startled driver of a Ford
Capri was only just able to change lanes in time, as the speeding Mini shot
past on the inside lane.
Hardly looking at the headings on
the tiny file card concealed in the palm of her hand, Mrs Thatcher began
reciting the words which many in the press would ascribe to St Francis of
Assisi:
‘Where there is discord may we
bring harmony…’
Soon after passing Stonehenge,
the driver of the bright red Mini lost all control.
‘Where there is error, may we
bring truth…’
The car clipped the tail of an
orange Morris Marina, veered violently towards the central reservation, and
then ricocheted off the barriers, before it somersaulted through the sky and
landed upside down on the black carriageway.
‘Where there is doubt, may we
bring faith…’
A London bound blue juggernaut
shunted the still spinning Mini onto the hard shoulder where it burst into
flames.
‘And where there is despair, may
we bring hope.’
There was little hope for
whoever was left in the still burning vehicle when the emergency services
reached it twenty minutes later.
In London, the door of Number 10
closed; a new era had begun. Whatever history’s verdict would be on Margaret
Thatcher’s premiership, she had undoubtedly joined Boudicca and Churchill as
one of Britain’s more remarkable leaders.
Part 1
1983
Generation Exe
Election Night. Once again the
Conservatives and Labour were slugging it out to decide who would govern
Britain. In crude terms it was Me versus We. The Tories, in the blue corner,
fought for the interests of entrepreneurs; they championed the private sector
and a free market. The Labour Party, in the red corner, fought for the interests
of the unions and the working man; they championed the public sector and a
command economy. The only other major party represented the middle ground and
despite the optimism of its leaders it would finish where every third party had
finished since the War - third.
As the reigning champions the
Tories were expected by the pundits to defeat a divided Labour Party and be
returned to power. Four years of harsh economic reform and soaring unemployment
had deeply affected the country. Yet a divided opposition and a short,
victorious war in the South Atlantic had placed the electoral odds firmly in
Maggie Thatcher’s favour.
Even without the uncorking of
patriotic jingoism let flow by the successful recapture of one of Britain’s
last remaining colonial outposts, the votes of the majority of Devonians in any
election were all but guaranteed for the Conservative Party. Cut off on
England’s south-west peninsula, this rural redoubt had been reliant on fishing
and farming to sustain its traditional way of life since the Bronze Age.
Benefitting from a clement climate and outstanding natural beauty, tourists and
wealthy pensioners had become more recent migrants to its rolling hills and
coastal havens.
East Devon, protected by its red,
Jurassic cliffs on its seaward border and guarded by Iron Age hill forts on its
flanks, was in many ways even more reactionary than the rest of the region – as
unlike most of Devon it had remained loyal to King Charles I in the Civil War.
It was true that they had rebelled against the teenage Edward VI, yet only
because he had tried to impose a radical new prayer book on them. The battles
of Clyst St Mary and Woodbury Common, like the Civil War siege of Powderham
Castle had been to retain a way of life, rather than to change one.
Its principal town of Exmouth,
lying at the mouth of the River Exe, had developed into a respectable, seaside
resort during the 18th Century. It was the type of place which was conservative
whichever way you spelt it. The university city of Exeter might occasionally
flirt with more radical politics, yet East Devon never would. As Mrs Thatcher
swept towards a landslide victory in the General Election, it was hardly worth
reporting that her party had retained this particular parliamentary seat.
On the Friday morning following
the election, this quiet seaside town would have given no obvious signs of the
horrors waiting to be discovered. Normality appeared to reign: a coaster was
just steaming out of the docks, the seafront hotels and guest houses were
getting breakfasts ready for their visitors and those who worked in Exeter were
beginning their morning commutes.
High up on the Beacon, in his
parents’ penthouse flat overlooking the bay, Jez Carberry slept fitfully.
Drinking Stella always made him grouchy and the bottle of sweet, white wine
Liddy had shared with him had not been a good mixer. It was either that or the
double tequila Steve had bought him at last orders, just before they’d
staggered outside to continue celebrating Katy Bennett’s 18th birthday on the
beach. He absently scratched his back where some grains of sand from his post
pub snog in the dunes with Liddy Bennett had stuck to his skin. If he’d known
that she was in fact only 14 he might have slept less easily, but as it was he
dreamt of his own 18th birthday party taking place the following month.
Thoughts of his forthcoming A’ Levels and his provisional place at The
University of East Anglia didn’t disturb his peace. If he hoped for anything,
he just hoped it might be good windsurfing weather – revision could wait for
another day or two…
In Brixington, Calum Baker lifted
his body up by his arms and swivelled around with some difficulty. Cursing, he
tried to lower himself on to the wheelchair at the side of his bed; however his
first attempt was at the wrong angle and he slumped back onto the duvet. For a
moment, he thought of pulling the cord and calling his wife downstairs to help
him and yet he would be damned if he was going to give in. Besides, he wasn’t
even sure if she was in yet. He cursed, as again he took up his weight on his
arms in preparation for another go at getting up. He’d found it easier running
over the Common in full kit every morning than this…
At her new home just off the town
centre, Catherine Sullivan (a name she was still road testing) smiled as she
looked in the mirror. She wondered when the children would notice and start
asking questions she’d be only too happy to answer. Yesterday‘s day off had
been a welcome bonus; however now was the time to share the good news with her
colleagues in the staffroom. She was sure Sister Ruth would be delighted,
though of course it would create a few difficulties for St Winifred’s. She
smiled as she went to tell her husband who had used yesterday’s bonus of having
their primary school being used as a polling station to go out and have drinks
with an old friend. Still, she couldn’t be cross with him after this…
Tuning into Breakfast Television,
a novel concept which he was only just beginning to appreciate, Gerald Mallowan
watched the round-up of last night’s election highlights. As his wife prepared
his fry up in the new open plan kitchen of their detached house on Castle Lane,
he wondered if it would soon be time to look for an even more impressive
property. Righting a capsized champagne flute, he considered that the prospects
for people who wanted to use their talents in this decade were going to get
even better. Though, as he rubbed his temple, he considered it might be best to
be a little more careful with the amount he drank…
In a rented first floor flat
above an ironmongers shop on the unimaginatively named Exeter Road, Nigel Byrne
came to on a settee which was badly in need of reupholstering, unaware that an
election had even taken place, or that he’d made his girlfriend pregnant
(again). Having lost his job at the shoe factory and whistled through half the
dole cheque he’d picked up yesterday, his fuzzy brain began to recall Abel’s
offer of doing a bit of mini-cabbing on the black. The open door to the bedroom
showed him that Mandy had already taken Rob to her mum’s and that he could take
advantage of the flat’s double bed before reflecting any more about work, or
his lack of it. As he picked his way between the lager cans, pizza boxes and
album covers on the stained pile carpet, he swore as he heard Iron Maiden’s
latest record crack beneath his portly bulk...
The only unusual thing in Exmouth
that morning was the smoke rising in black clumps behind the small parade of
shops at Littleham Cross and the emergency services vehicles blocking the road
as they dealt with the fire there.
By the time Detective Inspector
Derek Sobers had driven down from Exeter, the body of a local butcher had
already been removed from the flat above the shop and Margaret Thatcher had
been returned to power as Britain’s Prime Minister with a landslide majority.
To Sobers, the crime scene seemed incongruous in the bright light of
mid-morning. The Cross was the type of place where people were supposed to slip
away in their sleep, not be murdered by arsonists. Apart from the marked police
cars parked conspicuously outside the small parade of local shops and a
uniformed bobby standing by the dingy front entrance to the butcher’s there was
little to mark the drama of violent death which had played itself out in the
early hours of the morning.
The ambulance had left leaving
just a single fire engine behind, which had now been parked more conveniently
in the car park of the pub opposite, allowing much more room for the traffic to
thread its way along the narrow road to Littleham Village and the holiday camp
beyond. The bakery on the right of the butcher’s appeared to be open, though
Sobers knew from recently acquired experience that you could never be utterly
sure when anything was open down here – he suspected that the Devonian equivalent
of an Enterprise Zone would be a shop that didn’t have an early closing day.
Only the convenience store’s modern PVC framed glass frontage seemed to reflect
the current decade, as it broke up the sedate Edwardian respectability of the
shop fronts like a gold filling in a maiden aunt’s mouth. Positioned between
the darker, more traditional facades of the Post Office and Butcher’s it had a
gaggle of people outside – though Sobers felt it was probably not because of
the notice board in its window advertising the services of dog walkers,
gardeners and odd job men.
He felt their eyes on him, as he
locked his car and crossed the road to where his DS was waiting for him outside
the bakery, with what looked like a cheese roll in her hand. So that shop was
open; it was probably taking advantage of the fire to feed the ghouls who were
now gawping at him. As he crossed into the shade created by the short shopping
parade, he felt glad he’d decided not to leave his suit jacket in the car, even
the sunshine was deceptive. It might be warm enough for northern families to
brace themselves behind wind breaks on Exmouth’s golden sands, ignoring their
goose pimples as they spent their redundancy money on one last holiday, but
he’d need it to be much warmer before venturing out in even shirt sleeves.
Self-consciously he straightened his narrow tie – Italian silk, if they wanted
to gawp then at least he could give them a show.
Hawkins was already affecting
their entrance when he reached her. The cheese roll, if it had been a cheese
roll, had miraculously disappeared when she’d seen the distinguished features
of her boss appear and she was all professionalism in her neat trouser suit
when he reached her, not a hair out of place on her shoulder length bob and
just the right amount of make-up; feminine without being tarty. Sobers
approved. Even if the suit was from M & S or C & A, it was much better
than the jeans and leather jacket look she had greeted him with on their first
meeting.
Sobers didn’t like jeans,
especially on women – it made them appear too mannish. He hadn’t said anything
to her, as he could tell she was just trying to fit in with how she thought a detective
should dress. Instead he had just left his extensive wardrobe and understated
style to do his talking for him. This, together with some un-engineered
conversations about London fashion, had seen a metamorphosis in her. In a few
more months he might even make some in-roads into her policing style, though
that might be more difficult to alter, but if you could change a woman’s sense
of style then what couldn’t you change about her?
He followed her around the back
of the buildings. The bakery stood at one end of the parade and there was an
alley way leading between it and the butcher’s to a wider pathway which ran
parallel behind the row of shops. This formed the boundary between the shops’
backyards and the back gardens of more substantial Victorian detached houses
standing on the other side of a small stream, which struggled to cover the soft
shale it trickled over. This stream and some flimsy wooden fencing demarcated
the end of leafy gardens where Sobers could have lost his London flat, from the
less salubrious, backyards of these Edwardian businesses built to service their
neighbouring success stories. Although the presence of a bright orange
excavator, in the garden of one of the large villas opposite, suggested that
some modern families might not require quite such palatial living.
Neither alley nor path was wide
enough for a motor car, though the path they now walked down might once have
been intended for horses as it was as wide as a bridleway. The red brick wall
running along the back of the shops was at least a foot higher than Sobers’
six foot frame, which made it a challenge to climb – the broken glass he could
see atop the stretch outside the butcher’s doubly so. The constable led them
through a weathered wooden gate, with a sprig of barbed wire at the top –
Sobers noticed that he held it open for Hawkins and suppressed a smile as he
reflected on whether she would welcome such an old fashioned courtesy.
The backyard was even bleaker
than he’d imagined. It was surfaced in a rough, modern concrete. A line of
nylon cord tied between a hook on the back wall and an old coal bunker at the
back showed it had been used for utility and not for leisure by its present
owner. A wily estate agent might have dared to suggest that the restoration of
the original flag stones and the addition of a few potted plants could have
turned it into a charming courtyard garden, and yet even without the stench of
smoke and the grim iron bars fixed to the back windows, this would not have
been Sobers’ idea of a place to relax, or potter.
Another constable guarded the
rear entrance of the premises and Sobers allowed his sergeant to confirm what
he already suspected about the killer’s entrance. Why on earth someone so
seemingly hell bent on security should have fixed the broken lock on the back
gate with a flimsy padlock was beyond him, talk about exposing an Achilles‘
heel! At least forensics might be able to pick something up from the broken
padlock. He’d bet a bolt cutter had been used to affect entry.
He followed Hawkins into the
deeper darkness of a long and narrow hallway. Even without the fire damage,
the passageway would have felt cramped and airless. Sobers held a handkerchief
ineffectually to his face, as he peered up the internal stairs leading to the
living accommodation above the shop. The acrid smell of petrol still hung in
the air and the old fashioned butcher’s shop’s gloomy interior was made even
darker by the smoke damage.
‘Hope you like your steak well
done, Ma’am,’ the local uniform called up after his sergeant.