The Maggie Murders (9 page)

Reluctantly, she replaced the
video case on the shelf and went to look in the toy section.

****

Nigel Byrne looked anxiously in
the mirror at the reflection of the woman on the back seat. He just hoped she
wasn’t going to ruin the back seats, as any damage would be coming out of his
wages. Only the other week he’d had to clean up after some snotty kid had
vomited all over the taxi and then done a runner.

This mad cow had just stepped out
in front of him as he was coming up Marple Hill. The only reason he’d let her
in the car was because she was obviously pregnant and even he could summon up
some compassion on Christmas Eve. He just hoped she realised he was running a
taxi service and that this wasn’t just being done out of the goodness of his
heart.

Despite the fact the hospital was
just at the top of the hill, a part of him calculated that there might be a
large tip which would more than double the measly fare for such a short
journey. And yet as the woman moaned on the back seat, he found himself putting
his foot on the accelerator as the idea of her giving birth in his cab was
really off putting; it would mean he’d never get another fare tonight and he
needed all the money he could get if he was going to afford decent presents for
Mandy and the kids.

****

As Sobers drove to police
headquarters in Exeter to review progress on the case with his boss, he slipped
the first volume of his Stones tape into the stereo – the one where he could
avoid all associations of Ronnie when Brown Sugar appeared on the second
volume. Shuffling through the tapes in the glove department he found the mix
tape she’d given him when she’d said his taste was too fuddy-duddy. It was full
of bands like Limahl, Visage, Spandau Ballet and Duran Duran. He’d made a brief
go at trying to get into it, yet with the exception of an Adam and the Ants
song, he’d hated it. To him it was all synthesisers and drum machines. It
wasn’t what he called proper music.

Then again his bosses were
probably going to tell him that what he had been doing wasn’t proper police
work. He had no leads to go on and now felt the acute loneliness of command; at
least as a DS he’d never had to carry full responsibility for an investigation.
He knew he’d only been given the case because they’d originally thought it was
a matter of arson and that he had been allowed to keep it simply because it was
going nowhere. His arrival in Devon had given them the convenient scapegoat
they needed.

When he found himself staring
across a desk at Assistant Chief Constable Dent his only premonition was that
he was simply being axed from the case owing to his lack of progress. At worst
he expected a return to his days as a Detective Sergeant; he was not expecting
Dent to slide Ronnie’s Polaroids over the immaculately polished surface of the
desk.

The strange thing was his first
thought was not how humiliating this was having his privacy violated in front
of the ACC, the Chief Super and a young blonde stenographer who was recording
the meeting, but one of relief. So it was over. There would be no more hiding.
He could leave this bolt hole tomorrow and return to London. Not to Ronnie;
that was still over, but to his friends and possibly even to his family. If
they wanted to be ashamed of him, so be it. He was past forty and old enough to
accept his career in the force hadn’t worked out the way he’d imagined.

Dent’s tirade of vitriol washed
over Sobers. He knew it was just the excuse some of them had been waiting to
find for his dismissal. He knew all the talk of bringing proceedings against
him for bringing the force into disrepute was just their way of making sure he
didn’t put a claim in for prejudicial treatment. There was no way they could
tell from the photos that Ronnie was under 21 and anyway the whole reason their
relationship had got so fucked up was because they hadn’t. He had loved her,
even if the ‘her’ in question was in the eyes of the Law, and more importantly
in the eyes of God, a boy.

Ronnie had been more feminine
than any girl he’d ever met and just as capricious. Last year he had speculated
that one day Ronnie might be responsible for him losing his job, he just hadn’t
foreseen it happening in this way.

 Sobers had spent over a decade 
trying to make the police come to terms with the fact he was black and now the
thought of getting them to come to terms with the fact that he was also most
probably gay was one hurdle too many. He’d grown tired of fighting to prove
himself and if he couldn’t leave with dignity, at least he could leave.
Resigning, rather than fighting the accusations, was his way and he suspected
they knew it. It didn’t matter that he was in the right; it was just that being
in the right no longer seemed to make you innocent anymore. Putting himself and
his family through what was likely to be a high profile redundancy hearing was
not in either of their interests

 Fighting his own feelings was
hard enough without taking on the evangelical wing of his family as well.
Losing your job was one thing; facing the threat of a possible exorcism was
quite another. Yet maybe he still had one last trick up his sleeve to gain his
mother’s blessing. The Lord after all still worked in mysterious ways.

As for the death of George
Kellow, maybe Hawkins would get to the bottom of it – at least she only had to
fight against sexism.

There was too little time. To
have evacuated all the crowds of Christmas shoppers would have taken too long.
The warning had not specified the make or colour of the car. With increasing
anxiety their eyes had searched out potentially suspicious vehicles parked
outside the busy shops.

As tourists and locals washed
over the busy street, pooling in and out of the large department stores on the
penultimate shopping Saturday before Christmas, an explosion tore through
steel, glass and flesh. The hustle and bustle of metropolitan life ceased in
one part of the city, whilst in another there was just bafflement and confusion
as to the sudden unexpected intrusion.  For a moment all that came in the
immediate aftermath was a sense of shock. And then the bright yellow display
windows and their festive decorations were thrown into relief by the urgent
pulses of the blue sirens of the emergency services.

‘They’ve bombed Harrods.’

Jane instantly knew who the
‘they’ referred to. She joined her family in front of the television as the BBC
broadcast the news of the latest IRA atrocity. As familiar as the attacks had
become, each one on the mainland brought an added horror. They squeezed
together on the over-stuffed sofa, Leo between the two of them and Jenny
perched on the arm, as the evening news relayed the latest chapter in Britain’s
battle against terrorism.

A police car searching for the
bomb had taken the full force of the blast. At least two officers were dead and
a third was in a critical condition.  This was the media’s code for unlikely to
live. An American tourist and two other civilians had also lost their lives,
yet it was the image of WPC Arbuthnot which brought the shock home to Jane.  In
the intimacy of their living room, with some presents already sitting wrapped
under their tree and cards perched precariously on every available surface, the
photograph of a young woman wearing a dress uniform so similar to her own and a
forever frozen smile was being transmitted on the news by the BBC.

Looking into her young son’s eyes
she knew that Leo wanted to ask her something and without needing to know the
question, she answered it for him.

‘Don’t worry darling, Mummy’s
going to be alright. They’re not going to let off any bombs down here.’

Jenny gave her a reassuring hug
and Leo appeared calmer.

‘We’re a long way from London,’
smiled Tim, looking at each of their children in turn, ‘it wouldn’t be very
newsworthy if they blew up Dingles.’

‘Be a good thing if they did,
‘said Jen, ‘They never have anything I want!’

 The joke dispelled the
unseasonal gloom which had made the children unusually quiet as they enjoyed
the first day of their Christmas holidays. Tim turned the TV off and suggested
it might be nicer just to sit and look at the fairy lights on their tree,
whilst Leo got his wish to stay up until ten when Jane offered them cocoa and
mince pies.

As Tim readied Jenny and Leo for
bed upstairs, Jane felt her eyes welling up as she watched the news again on
ITV. As the pictures of the dead officers flashed onto the screen, her tears
fell in great snivelling sobs.  She stifled herself with a cushion to avoid
alarming the children and poured a generous measure of cooking sherry into the
remains of her cocoa. In her heart she felt they’d killed three of her own; the
Met might be a different force, but they were still police and comrades in
arms. Unarmed comrades who had died at the hands of vicious and cowardly
killers. The WPC had only been 22. A life not yet lived.

She could understand her
children’s concern for her personal safety, not that she feared for herself.
She remembered how Leo had become frightened last year when the news about the
first ever woman police constable to die on duty had been broken. Jane had
promised she’d never lie to her children, but when he asked her if she was
going to die, she couldn’t be truthful. Not at that moment – his little face
had looked as if it was about to burst into tears at any second.

That poor girl (woman seemed way
too adult a label) had been killed by a drunk driver - she had only been 18 and
straight out of Hendon. Jane felt that she’d never faced real danger herself.
She’d been in plenty of situations where she could have been at risk: crowd
control duties at football matches, attending domestics and being called to a
few pub fights, yet she’d never felt at any personal risk. All of the potential
dangers she had played down for Tim and the children, whose experience of
modern policing tended to be from ‘Cagney and Lacey’ or ‘Juliet Bravo.’ Tim,
for all his reassuring words to the children, was a worrier though and had
inherited his mother’s superstitious streak. He’d often say things happened in
threes and with two WPCs being killed on duty within a year, she could bet that
he would be trying to persuade her to take even more care than she already did.

Still, as Tim had pointed out,
terrorism happened in big cities like London or Birmingham. Hitler might have
had it in for Exeter, but the Army Council of the IRA probably had a hundred
other targets. Drunk drivers though, she could do nothing about.

****

C is for Ciggy

Why is everything which is fun
suddenly so bad for you? The only danger from smoking at school was being
caught and getting rapped over the knuckles. Now they’re spoiling our pleasures
with all these bloody health warnings. They’re even forcing us to wear seat
belts when driving; another initiative no doubt straight from Brussels High
Command! What’s the point of living to a hundred if you have to live like a
nun? A little danger makes life worth living.

The best ciggies at school
were always the ones we purloined.

Yes there are some risks which
make you think twice, but the trick is not to think too deeply. As it is I
nearly backed out of it. I would have had some Dutch courage, yet the thought
of getting pulled over and breathalysed made me stop. If I’d had one glass, I
knew I would have had a second and possibly a third.

And so much for my careful
planning.  I was as awkward as a virgin on her first night. Getting there
passed without a hitch; at least that part of the plan went like clockwork. 
The place was in almost total darkness and the car was well hidden from view.
Yet when I went to retrieve the tools from the boot, I dropped the Jerry can
and then realised I’d forgotten to put the gloves on. Fortunately, it fell
without much noise – though at the time it seemed loud enough to wake the soon
to be dead.  Returning to the car, I found the gloves and wiped the can down
just in case. I nearly had a cigarette to calm my nerves, but that really would
have been Amateur Night at the Palladium!

I suppose the rest of it only
took a few minutes, although I felt every second of it.

The gap in the fence was where
I remembered it and as soon as I’d clambered through, I knew I had quite
literally crossed the Rubicon. Having practised with the bolt cutters I wasn’t
surprised by the ease with which I snipped through the steel. The gate then
opened easily and silently enough, no need for the WD40 I’d taken just in case;
however the blasted cap on the can was stiff and it took me a couple of twists
to loosen it – God knows what I would have said if anyone had seen me at that
point. Dressed in a ski mask and carrying a can of petrol, I could hardly have
claimed to be canvassing for last minute votes!

It was only then that I
realised there was no letterbox on the back door. Of course there wouldn’t have
been, yet it was only when standing against the back wall of the building that
I realised this schoolboy error in my plan. I was beginning to panic and
wondering whether I should try and go around to the more exposed front of the
shop, when my luck changed. At the bottom of the door was a cat-flap –
purrfect!

So much for first night
nerves, my careful preparations were now being repaid. A funnel and a short
length of garden hose had already been acquired for this very purpose – though
it seemed to take an age waiting for the liquid to flow through into the
building. There wasn’t going to be any innocent way of explaining this now…

A click of my lighter and it
was done, though I was still caught out by the speed of it; a sudden whoosh and
the hallway lit up like the Towering Inferno.

I didn’t stop to check the
efficacy of my handiwork, having already bagged my tools I made my exit. Cue
applause.

 I’d expected him to burn, but
the paper said he died of smoke inhalation and to me that was an anti-climax
given all the effort I’d put in and all those risks that I had taken. Never
mind it was the result that mattered and I was right about the papers. I’m
right about a lot of things. The election kept it off the front page of all the
locals and it didn’t even make the nationals. Next time it will be different.
They’re bound to make a connection.

Yet I’ve planned for that;
I’ve planned for everything. Who says there’s no such thing as a perfect
murder? It’s only the bad murderers who are caught. I’m a good murderer, if
that’s not too much of a paradox.

Maybe I should carry a health
warning? And yet that would be already too late for my next victim. If I was
his doctor, I’d tell him to make the most of his remaining time on this earth.
If ever there was a man who needs to eat, drink and be merry then it’s him, as
I’m going to seriously damage his health.

****

Sobers walked gingerly over the
pebbles, as he reflected on Millais’ famous painting ‘The Boyhood of Raleigh’
in which the young Sir Walter sat on this very beach. The scene showed the
young boy gazing with wonder at an old sea dog who was pointing to the horizon
and filling the young lad’s head with wondrous tales of adventure. In the
Elizabethan era, those great sea voyages carried out by England’s early
explorers and colonists must have been like the Apollo space missions.

Growing up he had learnt how
Raleigh had introduced the potato and tobacco to England – one of the few
things he’d learnt at school about how the Caribbean had contributed to life
over here. Fags and chips, well at least they seemed to like those down in
Devon. Maybe it was time he made the journey to the Americas himself? Although
the one time he had gone over to see his family and discover his roots had not
been the epiphany he thought it would be. As a British teenager, he had not
been as readily accepted by his peers and cousins as he had hoped; It was also
the first time in his life that he had been taunted for being a batty boy.

‘Penny for them!’

He looked up from watching his
footwork and saw Jane on the way to join him. Behind a windbreak closer to the
fishing boats pulled up on the shingle, he could make out the silhouettes of
her young family. He let her guide her to the firmer ground of the foreshore
and cursed his vanity for wearing his Italian loafers.

‘Thank-you, Jane.’

‘You seem more dressed for Milan
than the beach, Sir.’

He looked around to admire the
beauty of the scene. It was a moderately warm day for January and the wide
sweep of Budleigh Salterton’s pebble beach, set against the beautiful red
cliffs of East Devon was all but empty. The village behind them nestled between
the high, lush farmland which separated it from Exmouth to the east and the
shallow, but rapid waters of the mouth of the River Otter to the west.

A few hardy pensioners occupied
the benches above the sea wall and an elderly couple in rambling gear were
negotiating the last part of the coastal path from Exmouth.  A middle aged man
was letting his dog splash about in the sea, but Jane’s was the only family to
be seen.  Tim, Jen and Leo had improvised a game of football, using their bags
as a goal. Sobers presumed they were doing this to keep warm, as even though it
had been a mild winter, it was still not the type of weather he’d willingly be
out in.

She was dressed in an Aran
sweater and slacks, a style which he thought most becoming. Jane’s face had
noticeably relaxed on her day off and her trim figure (but for his own tastes
thankfully not too thin – he hated those women who went around looking like
refugees from a famine with their spines sticking out of their backs) suited
her gamine good looks. Jane had brains, beauty and a family she clearly adored;
he envied her.

‘I was just thinking how lucky
you are.’

‘Lucky?’ thought Jane, as she
reflected on how her children’s delight on being told that they were looking
far too peaky for school that morning, had then turned into one of those
Hannibal crosses the Alps expeditions in a bid to get them ready for a surprise
trip to their favourite beach.  In this case favourite being used to suggest
‘better than school’. The fact that she’d forgotten it was early closing day
and that most of the shops were closed, especially the ones she had targeted
for their delicious local pâtés and cheeses had helped change her children’s
mood from exuberant to grouchy. They’d just been fighting over the packet of
Jaffa Cakes she’d managed to find in the one shop which was open, when she’d
seen her boss scrambling down the shelving pebble beach. Leaving Tim to umpire,
she’d welcomed the excuse to be interrupted from maternal duties and wondered
if at last they had a breakthrough in the case.

‘You haven’t come down here on my
day off to tell me I’m lucky,’ she said smiling.

Sobers broke away from her green
eyes and stared out to the horizon.

‘No. I wanted you to know that
I’ve resigned.’

****

Jez Carberry stared desultorily
at a similar seascape. Three miles along the coast from the detectives he idly
skimmed a stone over the departing tide. In a week he’d have to return to the
equally bleak prospects of East Anglia when term restarted. It was amazing how
the promise of escape could so quickly turn into yet another dead end.