The Maggie Murders (8 page)

His hand rested against his
father’s leather bound New Testament on the table and yet he felt he could draw
no comfort from it tonight. He walked through to the hallway and drew the case
papers from his briefcase. Perhaps amongst the statements and reports he might
find the clue as to why someone should have murdered a local butcher in an
apparently motiveless crime. If not, at least it would take his mind away from
the perils and temptations of this night.

Yet after a mere perfunctory
perusal of Hawkins’ interview with Darren Price, his restlessness returned. He
picked up the Ngaio Marsh novel he’d left on the window seat. At least he felt
he knew who the murderer was in this case; his money for the murderer was on
the leading actress at the Unicorn Theatre. Frailty thy name is woman. At least
that murder had some diverting red herrings to go on – all he had was the
suspicion he wasn’t getting much closer to the truth in this one.

Trying to take his mind off the
case, he found his place in the book and smoothed the corner of the page he’d
broken off at last night back into place. Inspector Alleyn, the Old Etonian detective,
was of course brilliant and elegant.  Sobers loved solving mysteries himself,
but had found police work less satisfying than the artfully plotted detective
novels of the Golden Age with which he had grown up. They at least backed up
the words displayed at his childhood church that the truth would set you free.
Or in the case of these villains see you dangling at the end of a rope.
Although the actual horror of capital punishment rarely appeared in these
books; the death and violence were just ripples which made occasional
disturbances in polite society.

He wondered if Marsh had known
that the Elizabethan actor manager, Edward Alleyn, after whom she had named her
detective and who also had founded Dulwich College had also been the owner of a
brothel in Southwark?  It would have been less than two miles from the estate
on which he grew up - though the prostitutes of modern South London now
reflected the city’s more cosmopolitan make-up. Then again so many seemingly
respectable people had less respectable sides. Both the Church and the
Courtiers had often made huge amounts of profit from prostitution. Even today
the line between the respectable captains of industry and the capos of the
criminal underworld seemed a very thin one.

As ‘Like the cricketer’ was the
response he usually received when he tried to book anything, he just hoped that
his namesake Sir Garfield Sobers wouldn’t be revealed one day in a News of the
World style exposé as a West Indian Porn Baron with a string of teenage hookers
on his books. And at least Gary had been a better nickname than the ones he
knew they used behind his back, well the ones who were polite enough to have
used them behind his back.

The nagging doubt returned that
the one truth he was trying to escape from was still with him. Yet if he did
put pen to paper it might turn into the confession which would make his
self-imposed exile permanent. His long fingers curled around the arms of the
chair, as he wondered how long he could bear the loneliness for. His eyes
returned to the novel on his lap and he suddenly had a horrible feeling that
he’d got it wrong.

Just a few elderly holiday makers
were ranged around the fussily laid out tables inside Ye Olde Tithe Barn,
enjoying their elevenses in the form of a Devon Cream Tea. It had been known
for one or two tourists to occasionally become confused by the name of this
treat and to question whether they should add the thick, Devon clotted cream
and strawberry jam to their actual cups of tea, rather than the scones on which
they were supposed to go. Their long northern vowels marked them out as surely
as their sun hats did.

Sobers had decided it would be
pleasant to review the details of the case with Jane in the local tea room;
they might as well have something to enjoy. Sitting on wooden dining chairs, at
a small chintzy table outside the front door, they both tried to feel the weak
warmth of the morning sun. An irregular form of traffic trundled past them on
its way to and from the caravan park on the red cliffs above them. The only
other vehicle was a military one, probably on its way to the shooting range on
the headland adjacent to the holiday camp. One or two cows in the field behind
them lowed and the fact that these cattle were still standing gave
superstitious locals the belief that at least the rain should hold off for now.

‘You’re going to tell me that
you’ve found a neighbour with an ancient grudge against Kellow going back to a
family feud begun in the 1600s and who left his prints all over the crime
scene…’ smiled Sobers.

‘Afraid not. Forensics hasn’t
found anything which might help us tie any of our suspects to the murder.’

‘Ah, we have suspects at least!’

‘Well, we did wonder if local
businessman stroke dodgy dealer Darren Price might have had something to do with
it, but his mum has given him an alibi for the night.’

‘She may well be lying and
perhaps one of his associates was employed to set the fire?’ Sobers asked
hopefully.

‘Quite possibly, but our only
witness sighting is of an indistinct vehicle with an even less distinct
description of its driver.’

Sobers looked disappointed and
Jane felt a desperate need to give him some hope, as unlike most of her
colleagues he treated her as an equal, even if he outranked her.

‘And do you think we’re barking
up the wrong tree with this homophobic angle, Sir?’

‘Surely there would have been
some plausible claim to that effect?’ Sobers countered, although he felt
pleased by her acknowledgment of his rank.

‘Such as?’

‘An anonymous letter or telephone
call which showed some insider knowledge of the murder.  I know you did well in
digging up his past history, but surely that would be it for most people? ‘

‘If it was past history?’

‘Most statements paint him as a
miserable old bugger, no pun intended. I can’t exactly see him popping down to
his local gay bar even if there was such a place in Exmouth.’

‘Actually, there is. It’s called
Rafael’s. It’s a tiny pick up joint which masks its identity as an Italian bar
cum restaurant, yet has an almost exclusively male clientele and only the
occasional lost group of tourists who have mistaken the rainbow flag in the
window for something to do with Greenpeace… It’s just off Albion Hill and away
from the usual tourist haunts. I asked about Kellow in there and no-one seemed
to recognise the name, or the photo I brought along.’

‘And there’s no other motive,
apart from the money?’

‘I suppose his sister could have
found a hit-man and had him bumped off, but for an estate of just under fifty
grand, I’d say it was a long shot, ‘grinned Jane.

‘Though nursing home fees can be
quite expensive… Maybe there’s an ex-marine who does cut price contracts for
the old folks, ‘smiled Sobers as he sipped his tea.

‘So what now, guv?’

‘We keep up the house to house
enquiries and hope we can jog someone’s memory. If this case was perceived as
important, a disappearing school girl or the murder of a young mum, we might
have got a bit of national attention and hoped to jog the memories of any
tourists who might have been driving back to the camp at the time – though even
that’s a long shot.’

‘Do you think we’re going to
catch him?’

Sobers answered her honestly.

‘No. Without forensics, reliable
eye-witnesses or even a plausible motive we’re scuppered.’

****

P.C. Mark Salmons felt like he
was standing outside the head’s door; though at the sprawling site of Exmouth
Comprehensive he had rarely seen the head, but standing outside the Chief’s
door at Middlemoor was he guessed what it would have felt like. If Salmons had
paid more attention in the R.E. lessons at his former school and perhaps less
attention to currying the favour of Gary Beasley by flicking pellets at Daniel
Press, he might have realised a more apt comparison would have been with Judas
or Brutus.

Although having never studied the
end of the Roman Republic, it would be perhaps unfair to expect Salmons to know
about the treacherous Brutus; that type of general knowledge was only for the
geeks like Press. Although if Salmons had made more of the educational
opportunities on offer at Exmouth Comprehensive, then he too might now have
been enjoying regular holidays in Rio like Press, rather than in his
girlfriend’s leaky, family caravan in Weymouth.

Squeezed into his dress uniform,
Salmons awkwardly positioned himself in the chair facing Assistant Chief Constable
Dent. The Key Market carrier back he placed noisily to the side of the elegant,
wooden chair was completely out of keeping with Dent’s immaculately decorated
office: the mahogany desk, silver framed certificates and black leather chair
all managed to intimidate the constable – the very effect Dent had hoped to
achieve.

Dent offered the constable tea or
coffee, another tactic used to unsettle Salmons, who failed to make a swift and
decisive reply, before being forced to endure his superior’s small talk as they
waited for their tea. Salmon’s discomfiture was amplified by the appearance of
two, delicate bone china cups of milky white tea. A heavy mug or polystyrene
cup was more suited to his grip.

Having thoroughly disconcerted
Salmons, Dent got to the point –

‘You have something to tell me
about Detective Inspector Sobers, constable?’

The sense of scorn with which he
conveyed Sobers’ rank, was balanced by the sense of lowliness he attached to
Salmon’s.

‘It’s just, well I found these…’

Salmons slid the carrier bag
across the smooth, polished wood of the desk.

Whether Dent’s look of distaste
was more for the vulgarity of the receptacle, or the content was hard to say.

‘Where did you find them?’

There was no getting away from
the truth.

’In his desk...’

Dent looked closely at the
thickset, squirming young man in front of him.

‘How old are you?’

’24, sir.’

‘Wife or girlfriend?’

‘Girlfriend, sir. We’re hoping to
marry when our prospects pick up…’

‘I expect you find this type of
stuff pretty reprehensible, don’t you?’

‘It’s disgusting, Sir.’

‘I think he gave you these,
constable.’

‘Sir?’

‘Bright boy like you, who should
be making sergeant very soon, I don’t think you found them at all.’

The penny dropped.

‘No, Sir.’

‘I think he made a suggestion to
you, constable, which quite rightly you found disturbing. I think he gave these
to you in the locker room and suggested you might enjoy them.’

By this point Salmons had reached
for his notebook and was making a note of what had actually happened, now that
the ACC had given it his official sanction.

‘No need to make notes,
constable. If I need you to back this up, I’ve only got to ask haven’t I?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘We need more forward thinkers
like you in the force, constable.’

Salmons was aware the interview
had been terminated. He was tempted to attempt drinking the tea, but the brief
bonhomie had been replaced by the froideur which had greeted his arrival.
Further inquiries about his thirty shillings would have to be put on hold.
Still, at least that bent nigger had it coming to him. That would wipe the
smile from Sandy’s face and teach her who her friends were. Lionel Richie?
Sobers was singing from a different hymn sheet altogether…

****

With the case seemingly grinding
to a halt, Jane felt there was no harm in getting a little Christmas shopping
done before she spent the rest of the day typing up reports and filling in
forms. Unless Sobers came up with a major breakthrough they weren’t going to
find the killer.

Walking into the pedestrian
precinct which formed the newly built Magnolia Centre, she noted the brass
plaque commemorating its opening by Angela Rippon. That woman at least had made
something of her career thought Jane. Rippon had broken through the old boys’
network at the Beeb to become Britain’s first female news presenter – a
position previously only thought serious enough to be entrusted to fusty old
men who might have sufficient gravitas to announce a Soviet invasion of Western
Europe. Although to be fair, her mum had always had a soft spot for Kenneth
Kendall and she had to admit there was something about a man who took care of
his appearance and knew how to enunciate. Sobers certainly had that style.

She glanced in the display
windows of Waltons. One of the mannequins had been togged out in an unseasonal
blazer and Panama hat. She tried to imagine it on Tim and failed. It would only
make him look like one of those old farts reliving the War over pink gins in
every bungalow from here to Honiton. Tim would always be a jeans and T-shirt
man and she loved him for that, even if she wished he owned a dozen fewer ones
emblazoned with his heavy metal heroes.

She wondered if Detective
Sergeant would be the pinnacle of her career in the police. Would the glass
ceiling mean she was always the sidekick, Watson to Sobers’ Sherlock? Captain
Hastings to his Hercule Poirot?  At least those guys would have been able to
solve their case…

Was it worth spending so long
trying to work twice as hard as the boys in order to impress upon anyone who
might notice that she was D.I. material? The children had Tim to look after
them, yet didn’t they need to see more of their mum too? She knew she couldn’t
have done it without Tim. One of her friends from Hendon must be in the running
for Superwoman as she had managed to juggle: a career husband, three kids and
the rank of Detective Inspector; however that had never been an option they’d
seriously considered. In fact Tim had been all too eager to quit his job in
Sales once she had spoken to him about wanting kids. The loss of a company car
and their annual holiday in Brittany had been sacrifices they hadn’t found too
arduous and as he’d never been that ruthless at pursuing commissions, the added
family benefits they’d qualified for had eased their financial worries.

Maybe she was just suffering from
the Monday Morning Blues?  She tried to put her dark mood aside as she briskly
crossed the wide pedestrianized area separating the twin flanks of ground floor
retail shops and first floor office buildings channelling her journey. With the
arrival of chains like Boots and W.H.Smiths she was pleased to note that
Exmouth was beginning to catch up with shopping centres across the South-West.
Only the older building of Walton’s department store at one end of the precinct
predated the 80s and apart from a bookseller and coffee shop, most of the
businesses were the ones you could find anywhere from Land’s End to Liverpool.

At least there weren’t too many
places to search for the video which Leo wanted for Christmas. And if Tim’s
stockbroker brother hadn’t given them a video cassette recorder for their
anniversary, this certainly wouldn’t have been on any of their wants lists. At
least given Leo’s current obsession, there would be quite a wide choice of
presents to buy for him.

Throughout the spring Leo had
been pestering them to take him to the Doctor Who 20th Anniversary Exhibition
at Longleat. They’d eventually relented and taken him there as a birthday
treat, although given Tim’s addiction to all things Sci-Fi, she sometimes
wondered which of the men in her family had actually engineered the whole
thing. The queues had staggered them. There must have been thousands of fans of
all ages who had descended on the country house better known for its wildlife
park that weekend. At least she’d known who the people dressed as Daleks and
Cybermen were supposed to be – they’d had those on the show in her day. Even
Jenny had stopped whining when they got to see the current Doctor in the guise
of boy’s own heartthrob Peter Davison.

Now Leo was trying to persuade her
to buy him a Doctor Who video, although she already wasn’t that keen on the
amount of television her children were watching.  Ever since that fourth
channel had opened last year, there seemed to be more TV than ever. You could
even watch it at breakfast now! When she ever did manage to get home early,
she’d find the children slumped in front of quiz shows like Countdown or
Blockbusters and not at all overcome with delight to see Mum in daylight hours.
Tim tried to tell her they were educational; she wasn’t convinced. The content
of some of the shows on Channel 4 also worried her - Jenny was into this new
soap opera called Brookside, which to her was a little too dark and realistic
for 12 year olds.

She hoped a Doctor Who video
wouldn’t be too scary for a 9 year old, as she scanned the plastic cases
displaying the new videos on display in WH Smiths. Revenge of the Cybermen was
the only one they had on sale; it displayed a picture of Tom Baker playing the
Doctor on the front and one of those silver monsters which had so frightened
Leo last year – though not enough to put him off the series. Yet it was the
price which gave her a fright - £39.95! That was almost forty quid! That was
more than a meal out for the whole family, including wine, coffee and a choice from
the sweet trolley! Even the blank cassettes for recording the show were a
tenner each and they only lasted long enough for recording three episodes of
Dallas!