Scream Blue Murder

by Linda Coles

  “I've put the food in the oven for a moment,” said Ruth. “I figured you'd want to ask me your questions first.”

  Amanda opened her eyes and gazed across at her. “I’m sorry about all this,” she said. “I thought we’d eat first. But I don’t mind either way. Maybe it’s best to get the questions out of the way.”

  “Ask away, then,” said Ruth encouragingly. “I can't tell you much, though, because there’s not much to tell.”

  “I know.” Amanda sat up fully and turned towards Ruth, her face devoid of expression. “Have you any idea who could be buried in the garden of your parents’ house?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Ruth flatly.

  “Can you think of anybody who would have reason to bury somebody in your parents’ old back garden?”

  “No. And I haven’t lived there for a good ten years.”

  “Can you remember anybody that was up there when the landscaper went missing? Maybe other work people?”

  “What, you think one of them offed somebody and put them in a hole?” Ruth snapped sarcastically. “And since I wasn’t living there—I was here, in this very house—I’ve really no idea what went on up there. Have you?”

  “We don't know what has gone on so far, and we won’t know anything more until we have a bit more information from the autopsy. Not that there's a lot left of the body. But, hopefully tomorrow we’ll have confirmation of who the victim is, and that will give us something to work with.”

  “So, all your questions at the moment are irrelevant, is what you're saying? Really?” said Ruth smartly.

  Amanda bit back a reply. She knew if she carried on there would be one hell of a row, and she didn’t want that. Amanda held her tongue and stayed silent to let Ruth calm back down. When the tense air around them dispersed and the fiery residue of her rebuke had faded, Amanda said, “I’ll go and get dinner. We’ll eat it out here.”

  It was exactly the excuse she needed to give Ruth a little space and regroup her own thoughts at the same time.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  It was rare that a detective interviewed somebody that they knew in relation to a crime, and there was a reason for that. They were too close to the person, and no matter how tenuous their relationship, they had prior knowledge of them and it was difficult to stay impartial. But, Jack wondered, did he really know Gordon at all?

  He’d interviewed many people over his years, various small-time crooks, people that he’d come to know, the regulars that filtered through the system. The petty thieves, the sex workers and the local gang members—they’d all been part of his life.

  Jack stood in the doorway now watching Gordon Simpson leave the police station through the front door. His shoulders seemed lower, slumped even, than when he’d first set eyes on him only an hour or so ago. But that could just be the stress of it all; it didn't make a man guilty. Outside the front doors, a few demonstrators with placards saying Police cover-up and Police kill and a few other choice slogans still lingered, but they’d get bored eventually and leave. He hoped. Jack nodded at the desk sergeant and slipped back through to the squad room; it was time to go home. Tonight, he’d got a bowling match to get to and then on for a drink. He thought of Vivian, and he wondered about their ‘date’ later on. If it was a date, even.

  By the time Jack arrived home, he had just a few minutes before he had to turn straight back around and get over to the bowling green. He’d grab his gear and devour cold leftovers from the fridge to keep him going. Perhaps he’d eat something later in the pub with Vivian. Opening the front door, he grabbed the mail off the mat and quickly sifted through the envelopes. There was nothing of interest, so he headed off upstairs to get changed into his team kit. He opened the wardrobe where he kept his bowling bag and was greeted by the perfume of lavender from the soap-on-a-rope that still hung in there. Janine had always loved lavender. He took his bag out and as usual, paused for a couple of beats before gently running his fingers across the bowling bag that sat alongside his. Janine's old brown leather bag had been keeping his own company for many years; they were like two old friends. He always paused for a moment when he took his out; he wondered, as he always did, if she was watching him now and smiling as he touched it, remembering her. She’d been pretty good at bowls, and had almost made the national team. He missed her so much that at times it hurt to breathe.

  He slowly closed the door and headed back downstairs to the kitchen. Mrs Stewart had been in earlier in the day and, as usual on a bowling night, had known he'd be pushed for time. He was grateful for the yellow Tupperware box of sandwiches that she’d left in the fridge with a note propped on top: ‘Open in case of emergency.’ Jack grinned at her thoughtfulness. It was the older woman’s idea of a joke, but one that he appreciated because it meant he could eat on the way and he wouldn't arrive out of breath or late. Mrs Stewart was a wonderful woman and a real find, and he wondered how he’d managed in all the time that Janine had been gone, struggling along on his own. In fact, he hadn't really managed at all. He’d let himself go. His appearance, his eating habits, his sleeping habits. But now with some order back in his life, he was functioning better and was a good deal happier all round.

  Back in his car, he set off towards the bowling club grounds with cheese and pickle in one hand, the steering wheel in the other as he navigated the remainder of the rush-hour traffic. When he pulled up at a set of traffic lights, he rested his sandwich back in the box and fiddled with his Spotify app for a particular playlist. And a certain song. It was becoming a bit of a ritual for bowling night music, and as ELO's “Sweet Talkin’ Woman” filled the car, he allowed himself to think back as he always did to his Janine. He could see her so clearly, like she had gone only yesterday. In his vision, she was dressed in white, but not as an angel: she was in her bowling gear, looking happy and radiant as she always did. Jack sang along hoping that she could hear him; it was as though the words had been written for her. He missed her every single day.

  By the time the song had finished, he was pulling into the car park alongside Mrs Stewart’s old beige Escort. Her car was empty, so Jack figured she must be already in the clubhouse. He took the opportunity to stuff the last of the sandwich into his mouth and swallow before anyone saw him, then grabbed his bag off the front seat and headed inside to find the rest of his team. As he walked through the doorway, he was greeted with a sea of white clothing and mainly white hair. It could have been any cricket or tennis club across the country, though with older players. Most of the members were either retired or semi-retired, with only a handful of younger players that had taken up the sport after their parents had got them interested in it. Jack was considered a younger player— his hair wasn’t all white, not yet.

  He caught Mrs Stewart’s eye. She was chatting to a friend in the far corner of the room, and she waved back in greeting. Looking around the room for the rest of his teammates, he found Jim, who had once been the barman of a local pub that Jack had frequented, The Jolly Carter, and he headed over to say hello. Jim had been the landlord for as long as Jack could remember, at least 20 years, but had given it up a couple of years ago. Now retired, he still sported a huge beer gut and the ruddy face of a man accustomed to drinking copious quantities of ale each and every day. He reminded Jack of a huge garden gnome, but without the ever-present smile. Jim had always been a bit of a sourpuss during his time as a landlord and had been single for most of his life, probably because of his demeanour, but he was now finally stepping out with a woman. Jack assumed it was this particular lady friend that was putting a smile on his face now; he greeted Jack warmly with a firm shake of his hand. Sourpuss had turned into someone a little sweeter. Retirement and a woman were agreeing with him.

  “Are you ready for this, Jack?” Jim enquired. “It's going be good tonight. I can feel it in my water.”

  “I hope so,” said Jack. “I could do with something to take my mind off work. Though there’s got to be something a little more entertaining for my mind than
your waterworks.”

  Jim guffawed, the sound filling the small room. When the noise level had settled back down, he carried on. “Busy, are you?” the big man asked.

  “Always am, it seems.”

  “What are you working on?”

  “Ah, you know, the usual. Dead bodies.” Jack didn’t really want to talk about it, but he didn’t want to appear rude either.

  “You all must be sick of the grief outside your station with all those demonstrators, I expect. A bit noisy, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “You've seen them, have you? Pain in the sodding backside.”

  “Well, I can see why the family might think there's a cover-up—an off-duty police officer hits out and the man dies? It's not a good look.”

  “No, it's not,” said Jack.

  “It reminds me of that case some years ago—do you remember it, Jack? It must be fifteen or so years ago now, when that Eddie guy worked with you—what was his name?”

  “Eddie Edwards, and you're going back a bit, Jim.”

  “That I am. I can't think of all the details, but they'll come to me.”

  Jack knew exactly what case Jim was referring to. While he’d have liked to say ‘Great minds think alike,’ he wasn’t sure the rule applied in this instance. Why had Jim remembered such a case from so long ago?” he wondered.

  “You must be thinking of Michael Hardesty and the McAllisters.”

  Jack watched as recognition dawned on Jim's face and his podgy eyes opened wider in excitement.

  “That's it! Whatever happened there?”

  “The man is still inside, actually. Still got some time to go. And McAllister's inside too, though nothing to do with that case. He was always in trouble, that one. The whole damn family were, in fact.”

  The clubhouse started to empty out towards the green now, ready to start play.

  “We’d better get going,” Jack said, “but let's talk about this again, if you don't mind. Perhaps I could buy you a pint?” Jack’s gut was good for one thing, and that was knowing when there was more to a tale than was being told.

  Jim had been thinking about the same case as Jack. But why?

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  It seemed it wasn't going to be Jack's night—not for winning at lawn bowls, anyway. Jim tapped him on the shoulder as he was about to leave.

  Turning in surprise, Jack said, “You scared me half to death, Jim,” and placed his hand dramatically across his heart.

  “Sorry. I didn't mean to, but I was thinking about what we were talking about earlier. You know, with that old case, that Hardesty bloke. Maybe I could have a chat with you tomorrow? Maybe I'll come to the station?”

  “What's on your mind, Jim? There’s not many people volunteer to come to the station to talk. Wouldn't you rather meet for a coffee somewhere?” Jack was even more intrigued now, and by the look on Jim’s face, he was bothered by something.

  “Yes, probably. Yes, coffee. Let’s have coffee,” he stammered.

  Jack couldn't help but notice Jim seemed nervous, a bit unsure of himself, unsure of his words or what to say. He wasn't making clear, coherent sentences. Something was buzzing around in the man’s mind.

  “I'll call you tomorrow,” said Jack. “There’s a decent greasy spoon not far from the station. They do great bacon sandwiches. I don't get to go often. Amanda hates the place; she prefers McDonald's, though heavens knows why.”

  “Right. I'll wait for you to call me. The thing about being retired is I’ve got plenty of time. So whenever is good for you will be good for me.”

  “I'll call you tomorrow, then,” said Jack. Over Jim’s broad shoulders he could see Mrs Stewart walking towards him; she paused a moment, not wanting to intrude in his conversation, no doubt.

  He was conscious of the time—it was coming up to 9 o'clock already. Now he needed to get across town and meet up with Vivian. He hated being late.

  “I must go,” he said. He bade Jim goodbye and readied himself to walk Mrs Stewart back to her car, as was his custom.

  “Hot date waiting?” called Jim. Jack had to smile at that; the man couldn't possibly know, and while he wasn’t so sure quite what it was, he was excited about it anyway.

  “Something like that,” he called back, smiling, and focused on getting himself and Mrs Stewart back to their cars.

  He waited for her to unlock her own vehicle.

  “Good night, Jack,” she said gracefully.

  “I just want to make sure you're okay,” said Jack.

  “I’m quite alright, Jack. I appreciate your concern, and thank you anyway. And have a nice evening.”

  He waited until she’d pulled away before getting in his own vehicle and heading over to the Baskerville. Ten minutes later he was parking the car once again. He flicked on the interior light and checked his hair in the mirror.

  “What on earth are you doing, Jack?” he asked himself. “You look fine. She knows what you look like. This is not a blind date. In fact, it’s not a date at all. It's a drink.” It didn’t stop him double-checking himself again anyway. Satisfied, he flicked the light off and made his way to the pub entrance feeling like teenage Jack again—on his first date.

  It had been a good long time since he'd met up with a woman for a drink, or for anything, and he felt somewhat out of practice. He opened the door and walked inside. Since he was a few minutes late and the place was heaving, he strained to look over people's heads to spot Vivian. He couldn’t see her anywhere, and a surge of disappointment filled his chest. She’d changed her mind.

  “I'm here,” she said from behind him, making him startle. Relief replaced the disappointment, and he felt himself smiling.

  “I'm sorry I'm a few minutes late,” said Jack apologetically. “I’ve just come from the bowling club and one of the members was intent on chatting to me. But I was really conscious of getting over here and not keeping you waiting. Of all the times to want to talk, but I didn’t want to be rude. I’m sorry.” It came out in one long, exhausting string. He knew he was rambling, but couldn’t seem to slow it down.

  “It's fine, Jack,” she said, smiling back at him. “I’ve only just arrived myself. Now,” she said, calmly placing her hand on his forearm, “slow down. It's me—Vivian. You’ve known me for years, remember? Can I suggest you take a deep breath and start again?” Her eyes twinkled even in the dim light of the bar.

  Jack knew she was right, knew when he was beaten, so did as he was told, inhaling a deep breath and letting it out again, feeling his shoulders drop an inch or two and his heart rate slow down slightly.

  “Does that feel better now?”

  “It does, yes. Thank you. Sorry about that.” He needed to move on and stop being so silly. “Let's get some drinks in, shall we? What can I get you, Vivian?”

  “I'll have a gin and tonic please,” she said, and they both edged over to the bar to order. It was only then that Jack realised what was playing on the sound system—"Last Train to London.” It was on the same playlist that he’d listened to on the drive over. Another of his ELO favourites.

  “Did you win?” she asked.

  “We didn't, actually, not tonight. But that's how it goes sometimes: you win some, you lose some. Anyway, what have you been up to today?”

  “Not a lot, as it happens, actually, Jack. To tell you the truth, I think I need to get a part-time job. Since I've given up full-time work, I appear to have far too much time on my hands, and I need to do something with it.”

  Jack passed her drink to her and paid the barman for the round. “Have you any thoughts on what you might like to do?” he asked before he took a sip of his beer.

  “Not really, no. I've been self-employed for so long. I don't really fancy working for somebody else, being told what I can and can't do, part-time or otherwise. And while I'm getting a bit older, I don't have the skills to work in a do-it-yourself store like people my age seem to be doing these days to stretch their pension out a bit.”

  Jack smiled as they tur
ned away from the bar. “I can't see you in B&Q. Not sure you’d fit in. Too classy,” he said, smiling.

  She blushed and smiled back. “So, I've got to figure something out, though I haven't got a clue what as yet.”

  Jack scanned the room for an available table and chairs. There was one left and Jack nodded with his head that that's where they were headed. When they were both sat comfortably and Jack had taken a long swig of his beer, the conversation carried on.

  “Have you thought about doing some voluntary work?” he asked. “Is it that you need the money, or are you just trying to fill your time?”

  “Fill my time, really,” she said. “I've done all right for myself over the years, so as long as I don't go mad spending, cut back on the caviar, I'll be fine.” Her eyes twinkled as she teased him. “But I can't rattle around my place all on my own doing nothing all day, so I’ve got to find something.”

  Jack fell thoughtful for a moment. “You know, you've got a lot of knowledge to give back,” he said. “You know your industry inside out, and how it's changed over the years, so here’s an idea. Why don't you get involved with the girls in a support role, on a voluntary basis, educating them on personal safety, and maybe even health issues? If they are going to carry on with their career choice, why shouldn’t they also have access to support and training like anyone else?”

  Vivian’s brows knitted. “And how would that work with law enforcement, with all you coppers? Soliciting is an offence. I don’t need to tell you that.”

  “Easy. You wouldn’t be running or encouraging them—you’d be supporting them. There’s a huge difference. The sex trade will never go away as long as there’s a demand. Anyway, it’s only a thought off the top of my head; it may be absolute bollocks.” He concentrated on his beer for a moment, but from her posture, Jack could tell Vivian was mulling it over.

  Conversation between the two of them was as warm and easy as freshly baked jam tart and custard, and they spent the next hour or so reminiscing and talking about their individual future plans. Jack surprised himself with how much conversation he had to offer that wasn’t actually work-related. The extra activities he’d taken up were proving useful.