The Maggie Murders (23 page)

‘Scandalabra’ stood just off
Cathedral Close in Exeter. Or what was left of the premises did. The fierce
blaze had completely gutted the shop which stood in one of the few surviving
medieval parts of the County Town. Exhausted fire crews had been fighting a
desperate battle in the ancient streets to stop the blaze spreading to other
shops and cafés in the vicinity.

The badly burned body of Gerald
Mallowan had been found in the remains of a first floor office above the
premises. At least they presumed it was him, dental records would have to
confirm it. The property developer had so far been identified only by his Rolex
watch. The alarm had been raised at two a.m. and the fire crews had finally got
the blaze under control at just after seven o’clock that morning. Early
indications were that Mallowan, if indeed it was him, had died sometime between
those hours. Their medical expert had given an educated guess as to smoke
inhalation being the cause of death; albeit a hopeful guess.

‘Rub a dub dub three men in a tub,’
Jane gazed at the burnt out shell,’ the butcher, the baker and now our
candlestick-maker.’

‘Remind me again, who was who?’
requested D.C.S. Osborne.

Given his solicitous attitude
towards her, she was more than happy to answer the new Super’s questions;
though part of her wondered if he was just being kind, as he did not strike her
as a man who ever needed much reminding.

‘George Kellow was the butcher,
Calum Baker was nominally our baker and now we’ve got a likely fit for our
candlestick-maker.’

‘Unless we’re still investigating
the line of inquiry linking them to the elections…’ mused Osborne as he peered
at the ruined remains  of the timber framed building which supporters of
English Heritage were going to be mourning the loss of far more deeply than
that of its late owner.

 The badly damaged shops on
either side had certainly been on the exclusive side if the smoke damaged signs
above their blackened fronts could be believed. One had been a boutique which
sold haute couture and another had been an expensive gallery. The scraps of
fabric and burnt canvases which could be glimpsed in their wrecked shells must
once have cost thousands in Osborne’s estimate. He hoped they’d had adequate
insurance, as he couldn’t see much worth salvaging. The only thing he could
make out in the debris of ‘Scandalabra’ was a twisted, iron candlestick holder.

 Beyond the police cordon which
had closed the narrow and dark street, stood the Gothic glory of Exeter
Cathedral. Unlike Coventry’s medieval masterpiece, it had survived Hitler’s
Baedeker raids of 1942 which had deliberately targeted England’s prettiest
cities.

‘I think the Maggie Murders were
just a fortuitous link for our killer, there’s no way whoever did this could
have predicted she’d still be in power today,’ remarked Jane.

‘I don’t know, it feels to me
like she’s been there forever and I don’t think she’ll be stepping down now.’

‘But that’s looking at it with
the benefit of hindsight. And if there is a link, then why didn’t she start in
’79?’

‘Perhaps our killer was only
interested in elections they thought Maggie would win? Or maybe we’ve missed
something?’

‘I’ve trawled through all the
deaths by fire in the UK on the night of the ’79 election and there’s nothing
to go on.’

‘Maybe it wasn’t a death by
fire?’

The idea had crossed Jane’s mind
before, but checking every single suspicious death in England on that night
would have taken far more resources than she had on offer. Checking the ones
which had taken place in East Devon had been time consuming enough.

They watched as Gerald Mallowan’s
charred remains were removed from the premises in a body bag.

 ‘I tried to tell Spilsbury back
in ’87 that they were connected, but he wasn’t having any of it.’

‘I’m not surprised, although from
what I hear Dent was putting a lot of undue pressure on your boss to get a
result.’

Jane looked more searchingly at
Osborne. He was already four rungs up the ladder from her, despite being only a
couple of years her senior and yet he seemed to wear his rank lightly and to
value her insights. His face invited candour.

‘He was going to retire. Serve
out his last few years in some sleepy, rural backwater and then take the wife
to Spain. Trouble is he ended up hitting someone, someone who deserved to be
hit in my view, but it gave Dent leverage, ’she explained.

‘And he allowed that dodgy
mini-cab driver to perjure himself?’

‘We both felt his statement was a
load of rubbish, but as you say Dent wanted a result and to be fair to
Spilsbury, he did think Connie was guilty.’

‘Well I wouldn’t worry about
that. Water under the bridge and all that. From what I hear our Chief Constable
is beginning to get a reputation for having gained quite a few unsafe
convictions on his watch, so I think it’ll be his pension pot giving him
sleepless nights from now on.’

‘Too late for Spilsbury.’

‘Come on, let’s get a coffee.
From your local knowledge you should be able to find a place near here selling
coffee at police prices, rather than tourist prices.’

Pleased by Osborne’s affability
and his willingness to acknowledge he was no fan of Dent, she put aside any
lingering jealousies she had over his rapid rise to a rank she would never hold
and led him to one of her favourite cafés hidden away behind the bus station.

Stepping down from the London
coach, Debbie Rowe hefted her rucksack on to her shoulders and wondered where
would be a good place to stay. Even if Exeter coach station was as uninviting
as any of the other municipal coach stations she had seen, it felt good to be
back in Devon – well good in a weird sort of way.

She probably should have told her
Mum sooner that she was coming down; however the life of a freelancer was never
that well planned and she’d only been able to sell the idea of an in-depth
piece on the Devonian backdrop to the Maggie Murders to a friend on the Sundays
last night. This might be the break she needed; a piece in the nationals where
her local knowledge might pay off!

She figured she needed to be in
Exeter for at least a day to scout out the background to what had happened to
the candlestick-maker. In all honesty it sounded like someone was playing a
bizarre game to her, but one that had now taken three lives since she’d been a
cub reporter down in Exmouth.

In the past, coming up to Exeter
from Exmouth had always been a treat for her, the chance to go to the really
big shops like Boots, Our Price and Dingles, but now it felt like she was
arriving at a place where her newly acquired metropolitan snobbery was making
her anxious about the quality of the coffee and the likelihood of finding a
decent wine bar.

Scolding herself for being too
big for her very comfortable biker boots, she reminded herself that in a few
days she could pop down to Exmouth for some spoiling from Mum and of course
some further research into the first two murders. Having wangled a promise of
having reasonable expenses being paid as part of the commission, she set out
for the centre in search of a cheap hotel.

****

‘
Magic Beans’
might have
seemed an odd place to find two detectives discussing a case, it was  more the
type of New Age place that plain clothes officers might possibly visit in a bid
to get information on the drugs trade, or Animal Rights activists. The wooden
floor was covered in Moroccan rugs, whilst wind chimes hung by the entrance and
New Age art work lined the shelves of its dark interior. In fact it was just as
likely to be filled by Exeter’s chattering classes as students from the
university, as it specialised in home baked breads and had an extensive range
of vegetarian options. Tim had found it on one of his shopping expeditions and
had taken to buying all their coffee from it in order to assist the cause of
the Sandinistas. Jane only had a very vague idea who the Sandinistas were, but
they certainly had a good taste in coffee.

‘So you’d never heard of
’Scandalabra’ before today?’

 ‘Wasn’t it supposed to be a bit
kinky – the sex shop by the Cathedral is how I’ve heard some of the lads refer
to it this morning?’

Osborne had blushed, to Jane’s
delight as he made his reply.

‘They may have been confusing
erotica with exotica, sir.’

Sitting at their slightly wonky
table, Jane outlined the rise of the ‘Scandalabra’ boutiques.  The ashes and
cinders they’d been seeing earlier were the remains of the first branch which
had opened in 1982. The shops combined quality high end furnishings and
accessories with some slightly risqué designs. Nothing too sensational: a
tasteful selection of nude prints which edged on the erotic, nothing that you
couldn’t take home to your mum if you had cash to burn. Quite literally cash to
burn if you could afford the range of exotic candlesticks and candelabra they
specialised in.

Ignoring the evidence in front of
him, a frankly bemused Osborne had exclaimed –

‘But no one uses candles anymore!
They went out with Dickens and the Workhouse!’

Jane pointed to the unlit candle
on their table.

‘Well apart from a few New Age
hippies,’ he conceded.

‘A few New Age hippies that make
exceedingly good coffee, ‘smiled Jane.

‘Okay, the coffee is very good. I
just hope that’s a joss stick they’re burning behind the counter, ‘he grinned
as he sipped his coffee.

‘You’re not married are you,
Sir?’

‘Still young, free and devil may
care Jane. And please call me Simon, it’ll make me feel easier and might make
our young waitress less worried that we’re staking out the place for a drugs
bust…’

Jane laughed obligingly,
Osborne’s manner would certainly give him top marks at a charm school, though
in many ways she found the invitation to be informal more daunting than simply
calling him ‘sir' or ‘guv’. She’d have to keep reminding herself how their
ranks should really be reversed if life was any fairer, otherwise she’d find
herself really getting to like this university educated high flyer. Musing that
if she hadn’t been pregnant with Jen, she too might have completed her degree,
she let her thoughts return to the matter in hand.

‘So you’re not really into
interior design, home furnishings or trips to the shops on Sundays looking for
those final touches to your des res?’

‘I’ll clear away the takeaway
trays and bin the bottles if that’s what you mean?’

‘Well when you find Miss Right,
you may find she may want a little more around the house than your 32”
television and enormous record collection.’

‘It’s mainly CDs actually and a
portable Sony, but I take your point – Chez Osborne does border a little on the
Spartan, though if you ever want to come around and see my etchings...’

Jane smiled in spite of herself
as she sipped her coffee; she hadn’t expected to achieve such a natural rapport
so quickly. She hadn’t taken to a man so quickly since working with Derek.

Forcing herself to get back on
track, she continued helping Osborne get up to speed on the case. As he was
another outsider, having only recently transferred from Thames Valley,
following a spell in Yorkshire, she sketched out how ‘Scandalabra’ had become a
local success story. Candles made by monks at a local abbey had become one of
their most popular lines and they weren’t cheap. It wasn’t one of those shops
you could go in hoping for change from a ten pound note. Some people suggested
that was the key to its success. Products its upmarket clientele would normally
have given a wide berth to when priced at a reasonable amount, or found en
masse on supermarket shelves, suddenly appeared desirable when expensively
priced and packaged.

The sale of some more
controversial work by contemporary artists had also given it a slightly daring
reputation which had made it stand out when set against the more traditional
antiques and craft shops located near the galleries and designer clothes shops
of the Cathedral. Although it might be fair to suggest that anything later than
John Constable might have proved controversial given the generally conservative
tastes of the locals. During the boom years of the mid-80s the business had
proved very lucrative and other branches had soon opened in Totnes and
Dartmouth.

Gerald Mallowan, a local property
developer, had just been the financial muscle behind the business. The public
face of it was his wife, now widow, who would be their next port of call.

****

In London, Derek Sobers peered at
the photograph of George Kellow and wondered if they’d use a similarly bad one
of him, if he was ever unfortunate enough to end up meeting a tragic demise. He
felt that the blank stare and cold expression gave the man more the look of a
murderer rather than of a victim. The photographs of Baker and Mallowan which
accompanied the article also seemed to have been taken from a rogues’ gallery.
At least the one they had dug up of him was more flattering, though he doubted
the Archdeacon would welcome the attendant publicity.

He’d caught a glimpse of Jane on
the evening news and was pleased to see that she looked as pretty and
attractive as he remembered. They’d last met two years’ ago, shortly before
she’d gone on maternity leave and he’d been happy to guide her and the kids
around the tourist traps of the metropolis. He was glad that she hadn’t seemed
resentful that her career in the police had stalled at the rank of sergeant,
though she had been perhaps justly critical of some of the colleagues who had
passed her by on their way up the greasy pole.

Yet the family life she had with
Tim, Jen, Leo and now baby Max was one he envied. From what he could gather the
‘terrible teens’ were on their best behaviour when they came up. On the phone,
Jane would often go into detail over the rows she had with Jen over boys, bands
and smoking, yet together mother and daughter seemed to him to have more
similarities than differences. He was astute enough to realise that Jane
probably didn’t like the way that her role was more often than not that of ‘bad
cop’ when it came to the discipline side and that easy going Tim had a hard
time being anything other than the indulgent dad. He’d even had to promise Tim
that he wouldn’t mention the fact he’d caught Dad and daughter sharing a
surreptitious cigarette when they’d imagined he and Jane were catching up over
old times! Whereas Leo’s only problem seemed to be that he didn’t want to rebel
– here was a young man who’d preferred visits to the British Museum, the
Courtauld Gallery and the V & A over the chance of going to Madame
Tussauds, or Piccadilly Circus!

Well at least his own family were
on far better terms with him now he’d been ordained and he had a whole gaggle
of nephews and nieces to spoil. Ronnie had moved on too and got himself
involved with a television presenter from what he could deduce from Mrs
Forrester’s constant chatter about celebrity culture. That part of his life had
been buried. There were of course times when his desires nearly overpowered him
and however hard he tried to be strong and sublimate those needs through the
strength of his faith, it didn’t always work, but then what else was
forgiveness for?

He was still fascinated by one
part of his old life though, the murder he had never solved. Death was always a
mystery which people were interested in, he should know that more than most he
reflected as he poured coffee from the cafetière into a V & A mug. After
all, detectives tried to solve the mystery of death, whilst vicars tried to
answer the mystery of life. He was just continuing his old job from another
angle.

Jane had kept him up to date
about the second killing and they’d spent many a long night adding to the
profits of BT shareholders by looking at connections between the crimes. The
novel idea that these killings may not have had anything to do with politics
had struck them before, they’d both agreed that the timing of the deaths may
have been just a convenient cover, but they’d never had anything more than
theories before.

The Butcher, The Baker and the
Candlestick-maker was no longer an abstract link in the case, it was a fact
which took these murders in a whole new direction. Sobers recalled an Agatha
Christie mystery in which the deaths had been linked by references to the
nursery rhyme ‘A Pocketful of Rye’ and wondered if the killer was using this
nursery rhyme in a similar way. ‘Rub a dub dub, three men in a tub’ he tapped
his long fingers on the deal worktop as he recalled the verse. It was a short
piece if he remembered correctly and that should at least mean the killer had
finished, unless they intended to move on to a new rhyme?

Enjoying the taste of the Nicaraguan
coffee Tim’s visit had given him a taste for, he wondered if Jane would find
the time to call him about the case tonight. They normally caught up with each
other on Mondays, as it was his freest day of the week, for a long natter on
the phone, but if there was something special in her life she was prone to call
at any moment. Maybe this really was the time to buy an answer phone, as he
didn’t want to miss the latest instalment.

****

Waiting in the library at Mrs
Mallowan’s plush residence in St. Leonards, Jane had time to wonder how people
could increasingly afford servants nowadays.  Were they still called servants?
Perhaps ‘domestics’ was the more politically correct phrase today, after all
they weren’t living in a Jane Austen novel.

The Filipino maid who had opened
the door to her and Osborne was unlikely to have grown up in the West Country.
Her heavily accented English was devoid of the distinctive local burr which
marked out the natives. She was probably a live-in domestic, as the Georgian
pile they’d been ushered into was certainly big enough to have retained its
servants’ quarters, as from the outside, the large detached house seemed to
possess at least four storeys. As she tried to puzzle out whether servants were
more likely to have been housed in the attics, or in the basements, she
reflected that the Mallowans could probably have squirreled away half the
population of Manila in the marble hallway they now found themselves in.

Ushered up a magnificent sweep of
stairs, they were asked to wait in the first floor library. A room which was
certainly doing its job if it had been built to impress them, as the immaculate
floor to ceiling mahogany bookshelves along two of the four walls certainly did
that. The wall facing the door was given over to two huge sash windows with
what looked like a reproduction Rothko print hung between them.  At least she
presumed it was a reproduction; the late Mr Mallowan had been rich, but had he
been that rich? An antique desk, topped by a computer and monitor overlooked
the rose garden at the back of the house. An open fireplace, the panelled
doorway which had allowed them entrance and a large, framed photograph of the
late Mr Mallowan behind the wheel of a yacht were on the other side of a room
whose marble floor space, decorated with a bear skin rug, would easily have
swallowed up both her lounge and kitchen/diner.

 Osborne settled himself in one
of two black leather, wingback chairs positioned either side of the fireplace
and picked up the Telegraph lying on the exquisite, glass coffee table. Clearly
he was no bibliophile. Well at least he had continued to allow her to grace his
company; the DCS had seemed more than happy to have Jane assist him in the
current investigation, rather than just leaving her to wander around the dead
ends of the earlier cases.