The Maggie Murders (12 page)

The fact that it happened so
perfunctorily took him by surprise. He lost his virginity almost before he was
aware of what he was doing. She’d opened to his tentative knock in nothing more
than a towelling robe. Her foreplay was to drop the robe and lead him to the
bed. Having never seen a naked woman in the flesh before, Jez was glad his body
seemed to be responding to some sort of auto-pilot. The condom quite forgotten,
he was enjoying the experience so much he was almost unaware of how quickly it
had ended.

‘Your first time,’ had been her
statement to him afterwards. He was pleased to see that there was a smile
playing across her face as she said it, as a sudden feeling of inadequacy and
embarrassment had replaced the elation of a moment ago. Jez realised that far
from being displeased by what he now realised was an inept and rushed
performance, his lover (how he was beginning to savour that word) was actually
turned on by his inexperience. Her long hair tumbled on to his tanned chin and
she began to caress him with a lightness of touch which made all his previous
fantasies about this moment pallid conjecture.  If he had noticed the ring on
her wedding finger, then had not been the time to take issue.

 Even now he was uncertain of her
true status. She was never one for revealing intimate details about herself in
their meetings. He didn’t even know how old she was, if he had to guess he’d
place her in her late 20s to mid-30s. Yet she had schooled him into becoming an
able lover and their regular and frequent couplings were so intense that he
didn’t really care for anything more than the moment.  Once he had wished his
weekdays away on looking forward to Fridays in The Wheatsheaf, now he hovered
by telephones desperate for her to ring.  As his father’s mantra said - ‘The
sun shines on those who help themselves.’

Exmouth Hospital was located just
off the top of Marple Hill, halfway between the seafront and Littleham Cross.
Jane supposed from the upper floors that you might possibly be able to see the
estuary and the beach. She wondered why it was known as a cottage hospital. To
her the building seemed relatively large, though of course it would have been
dwarfed by the concrete and glass colossus of the Royal Devon and Exeter
Hospital in Wonford. Perhaps the Edwardians had bigger cottages she mused. At
least trying to trace the staff that had provided palliative care for Sgt Baker
should be a relatively simple task given its size.

She guessed most of the cases in
the summer were either from sunburn or related to the town’s growing geriatric
population. In her view, it seemed a town which seemed to be polarised between
young families and an older retired population. She and Tim had once considered
trying to buy in Exmouth, the thought of raising a family by the seaside had
appealed to them, yet the house prices had put them off. Inflated by the
incoming tide of retirees from the Stockbroker belt, Jane had felt she wasn’t
the only local or at least relatively local person priced out of the market
down here.

Following the receptionist’s
directions to the Day Clinic, she passed through an institutional colour scheme
of puke green walls, which under modern strip lighting did nothing to soften
the atmosphere of the windowless corridor. An abrupt turn brought her to a door
leading into some pretty, but overgrown grounds to the rear of the hospital.
Here a red brick extension had been added on to the Edwardian wing she’d just
left. Unfortunately, these newer buildings were smaller and stifling, whereas
at least the high ceilings of the older part had made it relatively cool
compared to their more modern counterparts.

Having passed by signs
advertising surgery on seemingly every type of medical condition she had heard
of and quite a few she hadn’t, she finally found directions to the Day Care
Unit. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a single nurse in sight and the waiting room
looked like it was aptly named.  Flashing her badge she walked past the rows of
septuagenarians and octogenarians seated on the orange plastic chairs (a few
might even have been nonagenarians) to the untended reception desk. She
sometimes wondered why people got so passionate about preserving the NHS when
at times it seemed to be on its last legs, not that she or Tim could afford
private healthcare. And at least their children had always experienced
excellent care and attention, even if one or two of the health visitors had
seemed a little bossy in her opinion…

Having pressed a doorbell which
was taped to the otherwise immaculate counter top, she was suddenly assailed by
one of the older patients demanding a closer look at her warrant card. The man
had begun a polite, but impassioned monologue on how the local police had been
advising people not to get taken in by con men who came to their doors with
fake identities. Despite Jane politely trying to get into the logic of his argument
by pointing out that this was not one of those situations, she still found
herself handing over her warrant card and waiting whilst he and his neighbour
peered myopically at her photo and details. It was when David (by now she had
learnt his name, as well as the fact that he used to be a floor manager in a
department store in Bromley and that he had once apprehended two shoplifters)
announced that he needed to change his normal glasses for his reading glasses
that Jane nearly lost her sangfroid. It was fortunate that at this moment she
was finally rescued by the arrival of the duty nurse.

Later, typing up her notes in the
incident room in a part of Exmouth police station they’d re-opened for the
duration, she reflected on what she had learnt from Sgt Baker’s carers. It
seemed he’d had regular aftercare in the form of regular visits from a team of
nurses. He’d usually see at least one healthcare professional on a weekly
basis. Though the senior nurse had said his wife had cancelled last week’s
visit on the telephone. The nurse couldn’t be absolutely certain it was Mrs
Baker who had called, nevertheless what other woman would have called up
pretending to be his wife?

This conflicted with a witness
statement in front of Jane from the house to house enquiries team, which stated
that a Mr Peter Simpson had seen a nurse entering the deceased’s house at
around 11 p.m. on the day in question. The witness had thought it seemed a late
hour for such a visit (confirmed by reports from the hospital which placed most
visits at between two and five in the afternoon), but had presumed his
neighbour must have taken a turn for the worse.

No other witness had mentioned a
nurse, though one spoke of a woman he thought was Mrs Baker being in the area
between 10.30 and 11.00pm walking down Allingham Avenue, which was just around
the corner from where the Bakers lived. Yet if Connie Baker had been telling
the truth, this would have been around the time she was with her mystery man in
the lounge bar of the Royal Standard. Still, it was worth looking into and a
quick change into the right headgear could easily convince a casual onlooker
that a nurse was coming to call.

But was it an Angel of Mercy, or
an Angel of Death who had arrived at 11.00pm?

****

E is for Evil.

‘Exe Rated Evil’ according to
the headline in the Mail.

Well I’m gratified to see that
the Press have at least called them The Maggie Murders, although naturally I
take issue with the word evil. That’s a very subjective and emotive way of
looking at it. It’s time to find a fresh perspective; if you reverse the
letters of evil, you can make the word live. And that’s what I’m doing, helping
this country to live again!

They should be writing that
I’m providing a patriotic service. Look at the evidence; this is simply Thatcherism
in action! It’s my contribution to getting the old, ugly and useless off the
benefit books. It’s the world which is crazy, not me; I mean how can they call
a man a war hero for simply burning half to death on the other side of the
world?

At least I finished the job. A
proper war hero would have died attacking the Argies. What’s heroic about
getting bombed in a landing craft? At least soldiers like Colonel H had the
decency to die with honour. It’s just typical of the left wing bias in the BBC
that makes them focus on the plight of the cripples and conscripts.

With Maggie we’ve finally
picked a leader who showed real balls in taking the Falklands back. Not even
the Yanks were prepared to back us, whereas she went straight for the jugular
and stood up for Britain. It’s about time someone in this country had some
guts. If Labour had been in power we’d have gift wrapped the islands and handed
them to Galtieri on a silver platter. Even Heath would probably have wanted to
talk about what was the right thing to do…

Well there’s been too much
talking in this country. That’s the real evil and that’s why Britain was going
to the dogs. Every sodding shop steward had to chip in with his miserable
ha’p’orth about t’ rights of t’workers and the length of every bloody tea break
had to be put to a vote! No wonder nothing ever got finished! That wasn’t
democracy in action; it was holding the country to ransom. Thank God Maggie
swept away all that union nonsense. The unions were crippling this country far
more than those bombs which crippled that marine long before I put him out of
his misery.

Like Maggie, I’m just helping
to remove the cancer of dependency from this country. In the Dark Ages they
would have seen many of our modern medical practices as evil. Their healers and
scientists would have been misunderstood as witches and warlocks as they were
too ignorant to grasp the future. Well I’ve voted for Maggie’s vision. The old
ways are dead and it’s time for people to put their superstitious moralising away
and embrace the new ways of living. Words like evil are for the morality plays
of the middle ages, words like opportunity and enterprise are the buzzwords of
today.

****

Sitting on a bench in the Strand
Gardens, Spilsbury bit into a soggy, sausage roll as his despondent gaze fell
on the War Memorial standing at the centre of the two paved paths which divided
the small park into four equal squares of neatly tended, green lawn. Exmouth
took its ‘Town of Flowers’ soubriquet seriously and the grass was not only
crisply cut, but moreover each section was flanked by blooming flower beds with
bright red, gold and orange flowers of a type his wife would have been able to
name in both English and Latin.

Students from the foreign
language school with brightly coloured clothes and plastic bags stamped with an
‘EF’ logo sat chatting in a Babel of tongues by the side facing the newly
reopened cinema and attendant burger bar. Under shady wooden benches dotted at
even spaces under the trees which bordered the gardens sat older people, some
who might conceivably remember some of the names displayed on the cenotaph.  A
couple of girls from one of the local shops or offices were smoking as they sat
on the foot high wall by the taxi rank, whilst a couple of teenage Goths kept
out of the sun as they surreptitiously took turns sipping from a bottle of
cider in the thatched shelter at the far end. He wondered if the Goths had felt
the brightly planted hanging baskets which decorated the shelter had been
placed there on purpose to annoy them?

His stomach had been unsettled in
the morning and he wondered if it was because of the case. He hadn’t told
Felicity, as she’d only insist that he went to see the quack and the last thing
he needed was for her to find out that he still hadn’t got around to
registering with a GP down here.  Experience told him that this was not going
to be one with a result at the end. Normally, that wouldn’t have over worried
him, he’d had his fair share of cases which led nowhere and yet he felt as this
was his last major case it would be nice to go out on a high. If he could be
sure it was just one murder he was investigating, then he would have felt more
confident about it. The chance that it had been carried out by the wife,
another member of the family or a friend would then be relatively strong. Yet,
if he was investigating a possible serial killer, then the odds on catching
someone killing strangers at random were not in his favour.

He had already heard the rumours
about his predecessor’s fate. Hardly noticing the bland sausage meat and pastry
he was consuming, he contemplated on whether or not he might persuade the top
brass to see if his current case might be connected with the butcher’s murder
by experimenting with a development his mate Tel had been bending his ear about
over drinks at Bob’s daughter’s wedding.

Terry, it transpired, had
engineered a transfer from the Met to the East Midlands, as his wife wanted to
be closer to her sister or something like that. To be honest he hadn’t been
paying much attention to his former colleague’s domestic arrangements, as the
free bar had already lowered his boredom threshold. It was only when Tel moved
on to shop talk that he found his interest piqued. It seemed the Leicestershire
lot had been getting excited about a new technique they’d been using in the
case of two local school girls who had been raped and murdered. So much for an
easier life in the sticks! Like Brian, Tel had been hoping for an easier life
leaving the Met, only to find himself also involved in a double murder
investigation on his first case. Though at least Terry had had the good sense
to remain a DS, it wouldn’t be his arse on the line if it went tits up…

It had been a nasty case, nastier
even than this one as kids were involved. Like him (if Hawkins’ theory was to
be trusted), Tel hadn’t arrived right at the beginning of the case, but only
when they’d connected a murder of a local teenager to another similar killing
five years’ before. Tel hadn’t been especially happy about his superiors’ decision
to bring in the boffins, as he’d been convinced they’d got their man. Under
questioning a Richard Buckland had coughed to the murder of Dawn Ashworth,
whose body had been found on Ten Pound Lane in Leicestershire. The trouble was
he wouldn’t confess to killing Lynda Mann on the sinister sounding Black Pad
Footpath in 1981 and yet the police were convinced the same guy had killed both
Lynda and Dawn.

In Terry’s opinion Buckland would
have got life for Dawn’s murder and that would have been that if the forensics
boys hadn’t been trialling a new technique with the local university. This was
something called DNA profiling and Spilsbury still couldn’t remember what the
initials stood for. The best explanation that Tel could offer was that it was
supposed to be as good as fingerprinting, although it was based on matching
blood and semen samples. At the time Spilsbury had found the latter
particularly distasteful, especially as the waiters had just begun serving the
fish.

His eyes had become increasingly
glazed over as his friend had tried explaining the science to him, but now his
greasy fingers held a faxed copy of a report from the West Midlands police
explaining it in details he was beginning to glean.  Semen samples and blood
taken from the first girl, Lynda Mann, narrowed her killer down to 10% of the
male population. Of course, that still proved too many for a match, but by the
time Dawn Ashworth’s body was found strangled in similar circumstances, the
boffins had figured out that if they took blood and saliva samples from 5000
local men, then they’d get their man.

This DNA stuff seemed to mean
Buckland was ruled out as the killer - though Spilsbury was more convinced of
his innocence by the fact that he would have been just 14 at the time of the
first murder, rather than all the sci-fi stuff in the report. He wondered if a
jury would be convinced by this type of evidence, let alone whether the powers
that be would ever consider the expense of such an investigation? The last he’d
heard from Terry was that they’d fingered a local baker for both killings.