by David Carter
Officers were forever searching, looking for intel and leads that might aid their cause. Often they were seeking information that was never there in the first place. But when nothing was found, it created suspicion and fuelled rumours.
DC Jenny Thompson searched the records for anything on Trevor Tapscott and known associates, looking for criminal activity over the last quarter-century. She found nothing. But there were other places within the massive PNC still to trawl.
There was another possible explanation for drawing a blank. Occasional computer cleaning happened, often instigated by incoming governments. They might wipe clean minor crimes and records, a section here, a section there. Was it really necessary to tie up so much memory on old minor crimes?
But where did the cleaning stop before it cut into vital intel? A titbit of information might be trivial on its own, but one day it could lead to solving a serious case. Everyone knew it happened.
Walter remained hopeful. But as time passed, Jenny was becoming sceptical. Too many searches were producing the dreaded flashing UNKNOWN message, and nothing fresh emerged that day. Harry Cameron didn’t receive the hoped for phone call. At half-past six, Walter grabbed the foil pack of chocolate cake, bid everyone goodnight, and sloped downstairs to meet the little bus for the short journey home.
Chapter Twelve
The following morning dawned bright and clear. It was cold but that was no surprise in northern England in the spring. At least it wasn’t raining. Walter had slept well, and was feeling chipper.
He rose early, washed and shaved, took a light breakfast with instant coffee, threw on his short navy coat; and at 8am, left the house and ambled up the road to collect the cute fume-free bus that would sweep him into the old town.
Walter had always enjoyed his job, even the horrid bits. The appalling days, the times everyone wanted to forget, but never could. The days when guilty criminals were slipped off the hook by a smirking barrister, or were perhaps released on a technicality. Maybe some form hadn’t been filled in correctly, or a procedure had been compromised. That happened, and when it did it provoked anger and dismay. But if one worried about it too much, it could build up and prey on the mind.
But far worse than that, were the days when one of the team was injured or killed. All officers understood the risks they ran, that it could happen to any one of them. But it still came as a massive shock when it did.
Or the days when an innocent member of the public was attacked and the police, despite long hours and best efforts, failed to track down and arrest the assailants. It was inevitable there would be horrific days to challenge the most optimistic mind. But it made no difference to Walter.
He’d always known what he’d wanted to do in life, even as a boy. Some people never have a clue what their chosen path might be, their calling, as some described it. Walter pitied them. He was different. He was born to be a law enforcement officer, a policeman, that was the path he’d chosen, and he would travel it for as long as possible.
Fact was, he’d never wanted to do anything else, and when the day came when they said his race was run, the last sand had slipped through his fingers, he would shrug his shoulders and walk away, and listen to jazz and blues, watch cricket, visit the pub, talk to his cronies, and set the world to rights, while complaining about the government, much like every other free man whose working days were done.
He’d always been optimistic and swore that optimism fed through into results. He would reason: when did a pessimistic man make a good copper? Usually, he was right. He was optimistic on the bus that morning, too. The sun was shining. The school-kids looked happy and well turned-out in their smart uniforms; their cheerful voices always a tonic in fighting pessimism.
The lollypop lady looked good too, stopping the bus, ensuring the kids crossed the road in safety, as she smiled at the driver and the passengers, including Walter, before waving the bus on, and retreating to the pavement.
Even Reg the Rag, the old newspaper seller, who had stood on the same spot since Walter had first set foot in Chester, seemed tickled about something. Maybe he’d had a good touch on the horses. Walter had seen him several times at Chester races and knew he was a follower of the turf.
And to top it all, for once, the newspaper was optimistic, with a blaring front-page headline that screamed: UNEMPLOYMENT HITS NEW LOW. But one had to take that with a pinch of salt when one considered which political party that paper supported.
Whatever happened to the days when newspapers, the internet and TV, reported the news without comment or bias and sarcastic looks? Just give us the blessed facts! We’ll make up our own mind. We are adults! We’re not stupid. We don’t need the rolling eyes, funny faces, big sighs, and mini-tantrums, thanks.
Or perhaps those halcyon days never existed. Maybe media feeders have always been biased. It was too nice a day to worry about that. The world moved on regardless of commentators and pundits. They were expendable. The silent bus had dropped Walter in the city dead on time, and he stepped out with renewed vigour. It was going to be a great day. He felt it in his water, and for once, his limp was less pronounced.
Most of the team were in and working. One or two drifted in soon afterwards. Walter grinned at them in turn and they looked back, somewhat baffled by his unusual demeanour.
There were the usual early morning daily briefings and updates, before Mrs West swept into the room and gave everyone a buzzy pep talk, before dumping various papers on most workstations, and then she disappeared as fast as she’d arrived.
Walter glanced at the mixed bumf with little enthusiasm. He was determined it would not detract from his optimism and his day. Maybe that optimistic streak paid off too for at ten minutes to ten, Jenny Thompson appeared next to him; print-out in hand, with a satisfied look on her face.
‘Success,’ she said, ‘of a kind,’ realising it wasn’t quite the result he wanted to hear.
‘Go on, it sounds like a qualified success to me.’
‘You could be right, Guv. Here’s what I’ve got. Trevor Tapscott ran a garage on the Hemley Industrial Estate. It had a bad reputation. It seems he specialised in buying crashed and written off cars for a pittance. If he had a Merc where the front was caved in he’d cut it in half, keep the backend and scrap the front. Then he’d wait or search for the same model that had been involved in a rear end collision. Buy that at scrap price, cut it in half, and Voila, he has two good bits he welds together. Give the newly created vehicle a smart paint job, and hey presto, he has a real nice looking car he might use or rent out, or even sell to some unsuspecting punter for a fat fee.’
Walter sighed hard and sat back in his chair.
‘It never ceases to amaze me what some people will do to earn money. If he was starving it might be almost understandable, but I’m guessing, he was far from that.’
‘It gets worse, Guv.’
‘Go on. Give me the punch-line.’
‘He did the same job on a BMW 5 Series. Powerful car, top engine spec, and took it for a test drive on the Wirral motorway, the M53, fortunately by himself. Somewhere before the Clatterbridge interchange the welding gave way, the car broke in two, crashed into the central reservation, bounced back across the carriageway, hurtled down an embankment, and careered into a mature oak.’
‘Killed?’
‘Instantaneous, and thankfully no one else was hurt, either close by or in passing vehicles. Eye witnesses estimated he was doing 90mph. They said they were doing 70 and he sailed past them as if they were standing still.’
‘Doesn’t help us much. When was this?’
‘Eight years ago.’
Walter scratched his ear and rubbed his chin.
‘Have you found anything on known associates?’
‘No, but still plenty to trawl through. I think I will.’
‘Keep at it. Do you know what the garage business was called?’
Jenny glanced back at her sheet.
‘Yeah, here it is, TT Motors.’
‘Sensible enough name for him, and for that industry, I guess. Is it still going?’
‘Not under that name. But I did a quick check and there’s still a garage business operating from the site. It’s called Chester Executive Cars, or CEC. The current boss’s name is Mark Kenning.’
‘Is Mr Kenning known to us?’
‘Not that I can find.’
‘Thanks, Jen, bring me anything further you discover as soon as you have it.’
‘Sure,’ she said, flashing a smile and retreating to her workstation.
Five minutes later, Karen came back from heaven knows where. She glanced down at him and said, ‘Anything happening, Guv?’
‘There is. Maybe something, maybe not. Get a car and I’ll see you downstairs in ten.’
‘Where are we off?’
‘Get the car sorted and I’ll tell you on the way.’
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, the Ford Focus pulled out of the underground garage.
‘Where to, Guv?’
‘Hemley Industrial Estate. A garage business,’ and Walter revealed everything he knew about Trevor Tapscott’s dodgy car business, and violent demise.
‘Karma comes to everyone, eventually.’
‘It’s amazing how often that happens.’
‘You’re thinking the current owners will give us a lead to Tapscott’s associates? Bit tenuous, isn’t it?’
‘Have you anything better?’
Karen grinned and said in a rush, ‘Nope,’ and little else was said until the Focus was cruising through the Hemley Estate, where they found Chester Executive Cars, not that there was much to see.
Typical big grey prefabricated building with a sloping roof to either side, a pair of huge wide open sliding doors to the front. Inside, a white car was up on a ramp, while outside, in a line, were eight executive saloons with garish prices on the screens, all looking old-fashioned and dated. Big brands, yes, Merc, Audi, Lexus, Jag, but all gas guzzlers and more than a little passé. Not what the younger generation wanted in an electric age.
Karen said, ‘Do we have a name?’
‘Yes, Mark Kenning; not known to us.’
‘Okey-doke,’ she said, ‘let’s see what this Mark bloke has to say,’ and they stepped from the car and headed up the slight incline toward the doors.
Chapter Thirteen
There was a steady hum of echoey noise going on inside the building. A car being started and revved, some kind of metallic hammering interspersed with ribald laughter, as two mechanics shared stories of the previous night’s dates, and all surrounded by ubiquitous pop music, seeping from an old ghetto blaster.
There was a heavy garage smell too. Oil and petrol and grease and rubber, and heaven knows what else. The mechanics stopped what they were doing when they spotted the big black guy and the smart blonde approaching. Karen put on her best do-what-I-tell-you smile, flashed ID, and asked for Mark Kenning.
In the far right corner was a square wooden-framed office, the top half of the walls were dusty glass, the bottom half, grey breezeblocks, with a dark-suited man sitting at a desk, talking on the phone. Walter clocked the guy, but didn’t know him.
The mechanic nodded that way and said, ‘In the office. He’s not in any trouble, is he?’
‘No, just routine enquiries.’
‘You lot always say that.’
Karen bobbed her head and said, ‘That’s because 99% of the time that’s true.’
‘If you say so,’ said the guy, in no hurry to return to work. Walter was already on his way, Karen scurrying to keep up.
There was an open flimsy door giving access to the office. Walter went in without knocking and sat in the single visitor’s chair.
The guy seemed to have a smell under his nose, as he chatted on the phone, ‘Must go, have visitors,’ as he finished the call and set the phone down.
He looked up and saw the attractive blonde standing in the doorway, propped up against the doorframe. Who were these characters? Factory inspectors, maybe? Some kind of time-wasting authority nerds; had to be. He’d never seen them before.
‘Can I help you?’
Karen said, ‘We’re police officers,’ flashing ID and introducing Inspector Walter Darriteau.
The guy blew out hard, puffing his cheeks, saying, ‘What’s up now? I run a legit business here. My cars are all legal, serviced and tested, insured under my group policy, and they’re taxed too where they need to be. Don’t you people realise how hard it is to make an honest living in the motor trade, these days? We could do without being hassled.’
Walter said in his deepest voice, ‘You don’t know why we are here yet.’
Mark Kenning did a second take of his visitors and changed tack.
‘Sorry, I just assumed...’
Walter said, ‘Don’t make assumptions. Are you Mark Kenning?’
‘I am, for my sins.’
‘And you own this business?’
‘I do.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Almost eight years.’
‘Did you buy the business from Trevor Tapscott?’
‘I might have known! Will I ever rid myself of the stain of that awful man? Just last week I had a punter in moaning at the service that bloke offered, and it was donkey’s years ago.’
Karen said, ‘Please answer the Inspector’s question.’
Kenning looked her up and down and said, ‘No, I did not buy the business from him. I acquired it, what there was of it, from the Official Receiver after Tapscott’s demise. All legal and legit.’
Walter said, ‘Did you ever meet him?’
‘Once or twice. Most of the dealers know each other. It’s a friendly rivalry, most of the time. We sometimes trade between ourselves, though everyone I know was wary of having anything to do with Tapscott because the guy was no good.’
‘Did you ever meet any of his associates?’
‘I might have done. It’s a while ago.’
‘Think hard, Mr Kenning, this is important.’
Mark scrunched his face, stared into space, scratched his chin and said, ‘Now you come to mention it, there was a guy. Faux Italian, bit of a prick, if you ask me. Put on an Italian accent, sometimes wore a blue Italian football shirt, said “Ciao” a lot, and “Prego”, affected idiot, know what I mean?’
‘Do you have a name?’ said Walter.
‘Italian sounding for sure, might have been false because everything else about the guy seemed fake. Grizelli, Minelli, Borelli, something like that.’
Karen said, ‘Think again. It’s important.’
His face lit up.
‘Fratelli, that’s the one. They all sound like ice cream sellers, don’t they? But it was Fratelli, I’m sure of it.’
‘And a first name?’ persisted Walter.
‘Now you’re asking. “Git” would have been accurate,’ and he sighed, but was still thinking, and then it arrived, ‘Eddie! That’s the guy, Eddie Fratelli.’
Walter said, ‘Thank you, Mr Kenning. Would you happen to know where this Eddie Fratelli lives?’
‘No! And I don’t want to know either.’
Karen said, ‘How long is it since you last saw him?’
Another big exhale as he sat back in his seat, ‘Must be ten years, and if I see him again in another ten it will be too soon.’
Walter said, ‘Any idea where we might find him, places he might go?’
‘Not really. What’s he been up to?’
‘Just routine enquiries. We need to talk to him to rule him out of something.’
‘The guy was a creep, didn’t say much, and I didn’t trust him one bit. Mind you, I didn’t trust Tapscott either. They were well matched. Pair of wasters, always looking to con people.’
Walter took out his card and set it on the desk, saying, ‘If you think of anything further, or if you hear about where he might be, I’d appreciate a call.’
Kenning nodded and picked up the card and thought about it, and said, ‘I’ve helped
you as much as I can. Any chance you could help me when I need a favour?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Walter. ‘We don’t do favours.’
‘Thought as much,’ and he tossed the card in the metal waste bin. ‘As per usual, you want everything but give nothing in return.’
‘I’d keep the card if I were you,’ said Walter, nodding at the bin, standing and going to the door. ‘You might need it one day. Good afternoon.’
Mark Kenning watched them heading out of his garage. There was something in the way the black guy spoke. Who knows? Maybe he was right. He retrieved the card and slipped it in the desk drawer.
Two minutes later, Walter and Karen were heading back to the Station, wondering what the PNC would throw up on Eddie or Edward, or was it Ted Fratelli?
‘What do you reckon?’ said Walter.
‘One of three,’ said Karen, ‘gone to Italy, in clink, or dead.’
‘All would explain his long absence from the scene. Be interesting to find out.’
WALTER SET JENNY THOMPSON on the search for information on Eddie Fratelli. It took her less than thirty minutes. That part of the PNC must have been intact.
She stood at his workstation and pursed her lips, a fair sized printout in her hand.
‘You’re going to get fed up with me.’
‘Why’s that, Thompson?’
‘Because you keep giving me leads to track down, and I keep returning with dead ends.’
‘That doesn’t sound good. What have you got?’
Karen stopped what she was doing to listen.
‘Edward Brian Fratelli.’
‘He didn’t sound much like a Brian.’
‘I thought that. He met his end in Liverpool nine years ago this week.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Shot dead with a crossbow, so the reports say.’
‘Charming. I remember something about that. Inter-gang rivalry, from what I recall. Two feuding families. The Sullivans and the... I forget the others.’
‘The Kemps.’
‘That’s right, the loopy Kemps.’
