The Missing Man: An Inspector Walter Darriteau Novella (Inspector Walter Darriteau cases Book 9)

by David Carter

  Karen said, ‘You never thought of taking Eddie’s written notes to the police?’

  ‘No, I told you, I didn’t want to get involved, and this was a fair time afterwards. Things had quietened down by then. Both sides wanted to strike a peace, and your people appeared to have a handle on the whole situation. One of the Kemp cousins was sent down soon afterwards, but I’m sure you know that.’

  Walter said, ‘But Eddie was alive and getting in ever deeper.’

  Paul bobbed his head and said, ‘The gang war rumbled on for years. I have no idea what scrapes Eddie got into in that time and I don’t want to know, but it must have been horrendous. The last note I found was worrying. He wrote: “Tommoz is the big day. Going into action again. Can’t wait. Sullivan Senior is going to love me!” That’s pretty much it... word for word.’

  ‘But you still did nothing?’ said Karen.

  ‘What could I do? It was far too late. I only found the notes after Eddie was dead. It was all over and done with by then, and frankly, if you adopt that kind of lifestyle you have to accept the consequences.’

  ‘Live by the sword, die by the sword,’ said Karen.

  ‘That’s about the way of it.’

  ‘Do you know what happened?’

  ‘Only what I read in the papers and in the media, and the little I discovered at the inquest, and pieced together later.’

  Walter said, ‘I remember something about that. Eddie’s killer was a kid, wasn’t he?’

  Paul nodded and said, ‘Eighteen. From what I gather, Eddie underestimated him. Sullivan sent Ed and one other to a pub on the border between the gang’s territories. Both families considered the boozer was part of their domain. Eddie’s mission was to make sure it remained in Sullivan’s realm. He arrived there just before the pub opened. Knocked on the door and went in. Began laying down the law to the licensee, probably gave him a slap, warned him he belonged in the Sullivan camp and must never forget it, and as he was talking, a young leather jacketed kid appeared from the back rooms, grinning, brandishing a metal crossbow. The licensee later testified that he and the sidekick ran away and didn’t see a thing, though I reckon they saw everything and were too scared to admit it. Either way, a call was made from the pub to the police reporting a crossbow shooting had occurred. The mate was never identified; he could have made the call. When the medics arrived, Eddie was on the floor on his back in a pool of red stuff, three bolts sticking up out of his chest.’

  Karen said, ‘Was the crossbow kid arrested?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Walter. ‘And charged. Turned out to be another Kemp family member.’

  Paul said, ‘That’s correct. The third son, I think.’

  Walter asked, ‘In Eddie’s notes did he say anything else about Woodhams?’

  ‘Not much, bits and pieces that didn’t make a lot of sense.’

  ‘Did you ever hear anything of Woodhams again?’

  ‘Only a little hearsay.’

  ‘We love hearsay,’ said Karen.

  ‘Some blokes in the pub were talking about him one night. One said he’d heard a rumour that Jack Woodhams had been killed in a powerboat accident off the Spanish coast. He’d always liked fast cars and anything to do with speed, so maybe it was true, but I don’t know. Maybe you could check.’

  Walter said, ‘When was this?’

  ‘Years ago, nothing recent.’

  Karen said, ‘Anything else you can tell us?’

  Paul bobbed his head and said, ‘There was one other thing I forgot to mention.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Walter.

  ‘When I was listening at the door, the last thing I heard Eddie say was that if Woodhams didn’t agree to go to Spain, he would personally kill him, whether Tapscott agreed or not. He sounded kind of manic, worse than usual. He said he’d bought the girlfriend a complete set of kitchen knives in a fancy knife-block for her birthday.’

  ‘And yet you didn’t say or do anything?’ said Karen.

  ‘No, and I regret that now.’

  ‘Do you know the girlfriend?’

  ‘No, they never lasted five minutes with him. He was always changing horses, and they soon learned how weird he was.’

  Walter said, ‘Do you think Woodhams is dead?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wish I did. I hope he’s enjoying a great life in Spain.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ mumbled Karen.

  Paul added, ‘But they could have murdered him.’

  There was a short silence as they thought about that, before Walter said, ‘We need to take that with us,’ nodding at the matchbox.

  ‘Be my guest. Will I get it back?’

  ‘I doubt it. You don’t want it, do you?’

  ‘Not really, it’s just been here a long time.’

  ‘Would you object to a DNA test?’

  ‘Not sure as I like the sound of that.’

  Karen said, ‘Hairs from your hairbrush, a fingernail, that would do.’

  Walter added, ‘If this becomes a murder inquiry we’ll be able to rule you out.’

  ‘I’m not involved in any way, and I’m not related to Woodhams either, so I guess it’s okay.’

  Karen smiled and pulled out a small plastic evidence bag. Paul grabbed a pair of scissors, clipped a nail from each thumb, and slipped them in the bag. Then reached to the nape of his neck, pulled out three short hairs, and said, ‘That do you?’

  ‘Perfect. We’ll let you know what happens,’ said Karen, as she collected the matchbox and dropped that into another bag.

  They stood and headed for the door. The trip down forty stairs was easier than going up, and a minute later they were crossing the Minton tiles, through the front door, and out to the car outside, heading back to the Station.

  Karen said, ‘Has he committed a crime?’

  Walter pulled a face.

  ‘Debatable. It’s the greyest of grey areas. He didn’t find Eddie’s notes till long after he was dead and buried. But he did hear Eddie and Trevor plotting to murder or mutilate a man before the event, and did nothing about that, though he’d deny it if it ever went to court.’

  ‘I feel sorry for him, getting mixed up with villains like that.’

  ‘Don’t! That’s what peripheral people always want you to feel. We only have his word he was an innocent bystander.’

  ‘Do you think Jack Woodhams is dead?’

  ‘I don’t know. One for Jenny to check out, I reckon,’ as Karen swept the car down the ramp and into the underground car park.

  Chapter Nineteen

  They couldn’t miss the excited, jubilant atmosphere in the Station. Walter grabbed Darren and said, ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard? You came good, Guv. Those County Lines guys you put us onto. Been arrested in the precinct, and in the car we found a big stash of naughty gear.’

  Walter nodded and ambled away, satisfied, but not that interested, for his mind was on Susan Woodhams, and where she stood. He called Jenny over and told her to find out all she could about Jack Woodhams. Was he still alive? After that, he went to see Mrs West to exchange news and thinking.

  He told her everything Paul Fratelli had said. Showed her the finger and the evidence bag, though she didn’t seem that impressed.

  ‘Get it checked out. Is it Woodhams’ pinky?’

  Walter said, ‘If it isn’t I can’t imagine whose it might be. When we know for sure, and if Jack Woodhams is dead or alive, we can decide what we are going to do about the wife.’

  ‘Can we prove beyond doubt she conspired to murder her husband?’

  ‘I think that’s unlikely. Both the supposed killers are dead, and we can’t prove she paid them any cash.’

  ‘Seems wrong somehow, she’s confessed but we can’t touch her.’

  ‘We’ll put a case together as best we can, ma’am, and you can decide if it’s strong enough to go forward to the CPS.’

  ‘I am aware of that, Walter. I’ll leave the case prep to you.’

  ‘I hear the County
Lines thing came to fruition.’

  ‘Yes, well done for picking that up. Three suspects being interrogated as we speak. I put Martin and Jenny on that, with Darren observing. They’re as guilty as hell; it’s just a case of how much we can get out of them.’

  ‘With drug mules they usually “no comment” all day, too frightened of reprisals, and that’s that.’

  ‘It’s started that way, Walter, but we’ll stick at it and see where we go.’

  He nodded, stood up, and headed out to arrange for the finger and bits to be sent to the lab. Jenny was sidetracked on the County Lines questioning, and on something else another inspector wanted dealing with fast, and after that, the day petered out.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Jenny booked in early, realising she’d neglected Walter’s case. She contacted the Spanish Guardia Civil, looking for information on Jack Woodhams, hoping to discover if he’d been registered dead, or had been involved in a powerboat accident.

  They said they needed time to investigate and that was cool. She told the Guv she expected to have something through late morning. Walter nodded and said, ‘Fair enough.’

  He glanced across the desks at Karen and said, ‘Do you want to go on Sunday?’

  ‘Are you going?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Who are you taking?’

  ‘You’ll see. What about you?’

  ‘If you’re going, I’ll come too.’

  ‘Who are you taking?’

  ‘David Baker. I told you. You might have met him before.’

  ‘I don’t think I did, but I know of him. Will you need a lift?’

  ‘No, he’ll want to show off his new Toyota Sports. I might even wrench the keys from him if I’m lucky.’

  ‘Fair enough, I’ll ring Harry,’ and Walter picked up the phone.

  Harry was thrilled they were coming, and said Barbara would be elated. He said she’d bought a beef joint akin to a side of oxen, and was dreading the possibility they might have to eat it alone.

  Walter told him about Paul Fratelli and their subsequent meet. Without going into detail, Walter ended with the thought that Jack Woodhams might have died in a powerboating accident off Spain. Harry said he’d heard nothing about that, but added: don’t tell me anymore or we won’t have anything to discuss on Sunday. Lunch is at 1.30, but come any time before that.

  Walter said he’d aim for 12.30 and left it there.

  While Jenny was waiting for news from Spain, she checked if Jack Woodhams had been registered dead in the UK. That came back negative. As far as the Inland Revenue was concerned he was alive and kicking. But that would still be the case if he had been murdered, and buried illegally. No tax return had been filed in years, and that supported the idea that something bad had happened to the guy.

  The Spanish guys at Guardia Civil came back within two hours. An Englishman named Jack Woodhams with that DOB, was not in their system, and had never paid taxes in España. There was no information he’d ever been in trouble, and no record of a man of that name being involved in a seagoing accident.

  But they added two riders. First, there were several police forces in Spain, and though they worked together and shared national databases and intelligence, you know how it is; sometimes information might not filter through from one organisation to another.

  The second rider related to Gibraltar. The man you are enquiring about could have had an accident in waters where Spanish jurisdiction didn’t run. Jenny thought they didn’t want to discuss it further, and maybe that was understandable. If he’d died in Gibraltarian waters, it was more your business than ours, at least for now, was the impression the guy gave.

  She went to see Walter. Told him everything she’d discovered. As far as HM Government knew, Jack Woodhams was alive. Though where he was and whether he was living in Spain was yet to be determined. But he was certainly missing, and they could not rule out the possibility he was dead.

  Walter thanked her and told her to keep looking. He sat back and closed his eyes to ponder. Susan Woodhams confessed to murdering her husband, but she’d asked someone else to do the deed. They had taken her money but maybe had not done the job, coming up with a decent story they’d buried him under a flyover, a fact almost impossible to check. There was real evidence Jack Woodhams had been mutilated, confirmation awaiting the pinky was his. So where was the crime?

  Susan admitted she had conspired with others to murder Jack. But the “others” were now dead, and she could change her mind about the confession, as any smart barrister would insist she did. Perhaps Jack Woodhams had been attacked, even killed, but as the perpetrators had shuffled off the scene, it seemed there was a serious crime, but no one alive but Susan to place in the dock.

  Which left Paul Fratelli. He admitted he had overheard Trevor and Ted discussing murdering Woodhams and had done nothing about it. But he too could change his mind. It was flimsy evidence at best, a blurred conversation monitored through a thick door, and Walter doubted the CPS would run with it.

  The police needed to ascertain whether Jack was alive, and if he was, to extract his story, and ideally, have him press charges against his wife for actual bodily harm, maybe even attempted murder. That would add weight to the whole business. The file when ready; would go to Mrs West. It would be interesting to see how brave she was when it came to submitting it to the CPS offices in Liverpool.

  In the meantime, Walter had important business to arrange. Confirming with Sarah she was okay for Sunday lunch, making sure he had clean clothes available, and some beers to take, for one couldn’t arrive empty handed when lunching with new friends.

  Chapter Twenty

  Sarah Lewington pulled the Peugeot hatchback to a standstill outside the Cameron’s cottage in Marbury. Yanked on the handbrake, glanced across at Walter. He’d gone to some trouble, new silk tie, crisp white shirt, immaculate suit, and a close shave topped with Hugo Boss.

  ‘Looks a nice place,’ she said, glancing at the window where a pleasant looking woman smiled and waved and turned and said something, presumably, ‘They’re here!’

  Walter stood out of the royal blue car. Sarah was a decent driver and happy to drive, though she had no idea where Whitchurch was, or the general direction she was supposed to be heading. It was a fine April lunchtime, blue sky, sunny day, with a slight nip in the air reminding everyone it wasn’t yet summer.

  Walter went into the backseat and pulled out a Bestdas bag, non plastic, containing six assorted bottled beers. Sarah was out of the car too, pink dress, thin belt pulled tight at the waist, and lightweight shoes, good for driving.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I’ll introduce you,’ and he tapped on the black timber door.

  Barbara opened up fast and grinned, as Walter did the intros. The girls did a distanced mwah-mwah thing, and in the next second they were in the small hall, Walter handing over the beers.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Barbara, glancing in the bag, ‘but you know he can’t take alcohol.’

  Walter smirked and said, ‘Don’t tell him they’re non-alcoholic. Bet he can’t tell the difference.’

  ‘You are awful, what a hoot,’ and she hustled the beer to the kitchen and the visitors to the sitting room to meet Harry.

  ‘So glad you could make it,’ he said, struggling to his feet, shaking Walter’s hand, receiving a fragrant hug from the warm woman when she spotted his white stick.

  There was a thick meaty aroma floating through the cottage.

  ‘Something smells good,’ said Walter.

  ‘Think she bought a whole cow,’ grinned Harry. ‘Do you like beef, Sarah?’

  ‘Oh yes, I like my food, can’t you tell, have to watch myself or I pile on the pounds.’

  The roar of a sporty engine waved through the cottage.

  ‘Sounds like they’re here,’ said Walter, glancing through the window.

  A young guy was getting out of the car, neat woollen jersey, beige slacks, pleasant-looking man, as he glanced across proudly at Karen in her black t
rousers and white top.

  Barbara went to the door and opened before they could knock, and the same ritual of greeting and meeting went on before they were in the house, David handing over another Bestdas bag.

  ‘Didn’t know whether you were wine people, and if so, what your preferred tipple might be, so there’s one of each.’

  ‘Gee whiz!’ she said, ‘I must invite people more often, it’s like Christmas,’ and she took the wine to the kitchen, a smart Chilean Merlot, and Barbara’s favourite, Aussie Chardonnay. In the sitting room, more greeting was going on, Walter and David exchanging handshakes, as they sized each other up, with Sarah and Karen swapping pecks, before glancing back at the men. Barbara offered drinks and they all wanted coffee, which wasn’t surprising as two of them were driving back later.

  ‘I’ll check on lunch,’ said Barbara, and she disappeared with Karen following, saying, ‘Can I do anything?’

  ‘Sure! I never refuse help.’

  A square conservatory was jammed on the rear of the cottage, looked a recent addition, and set in the centre was an oak rectangular table, laid and ready to go, one seat either end, two on each side. In the centre was a neat bouquet of daffodils and narcissi, plucked from the garden, and a triple candlestick, three pristine red candles ready to blaze.

  Karen said, ‘You shouldn’t have gone to such trouble.’

  ‘Why not? I rarely have the opportunity to bring the best cutlery out. I enjoy it. Brings back memories of lunches long ago,’ and she paused a second and thought of others, before returning to the present, as she glanced across at Karen, and said, ‘I like your young man.’

  That brought a smile to her face.

  ‘So do I, too much if truth be told, but don’t tell him that.’

  ‘Can you like someone too much?’

  Karen was considering her reply but was saved as Sarah came in, saying, ‘Can I help with anything?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Barbara, ‘be a love and put these on the table,’ handing her linen serviettes, nodding towards the conservatory.