Scream Blue Murder

by Linda Coles

  Eventually, he needed a pee.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, standing, and headed over to the gent’s toilets near the front door. Idly he wondered how many men had used the toilet excuse for a quick exit on a disaster date and skipped out, leaving the poor unfortunate woman sat there like a lemon waiting for him to return.

  Jack didn’t intend to do the same. He was enjoying himself too much now he’d settled his nerves. It might be too early on in their friendship to wish the night would last forever, as ELO had sung when he’d ordered their first drinks, but like with Jim at the bowling club, a good woman was now putting a smile on his face.

  And it felt good.

  Chapter Fifty

  Jack studied himself in the mirror. White foam covered half of his face. He set about shaving with downward strokes, first one cheek and then the other, then more gingerly around his chin. He looked at his moustache protruding through the foam and wondered whether he should shave it off. It had been there for so many years it was part of his being, and he couldn’t remember a time without it. He wondered if it had tickled Vivian as he’d kissed her cheek last night. Perhaps it was time for a change. Turning his face first to one side and then the other, he decided his moustache could stay for another day at least; there was no need to rush into a decision. He stepped into the waiting shower, and soon the tiny bathroom resembled a Turkish bath house as steam ballooned around the ceiling like warm storm clouds.

  He’d had a good time last night; there’d been no shortage of conversation with Vivian, and they’d both agreed at the end of the night that they’d had a nice time and would do it again. Maybe he'd take her for dinner. Maybe they’d meet for morning coffee or brunch on Sunday. Maybe it was the start of a new friendship, or a rekindling of an old one.

  Once dry, he dressed in a pale blue newish shirt and tie, but before he went downstairs, he dashed back to the bathroom cabinet for his bottle of Brut. He wasn't in the habit of wearing aftershave, so he slipped the top off and tested the fragrance with a deep sniff. It didn't smell too bad. Maybe aftershave didn't go off. He splashed some on to his face and neck, washed his hands and headed down for breakfast. His bathroom smelled like the locker room of a soccer team—thirty years ago.

  Amanda was already at her desk in the squad room, and she looked up as Jack walked in. He noted she didn't look too happy, and he immediately felt bad for not having called her last night to see how it gone after her conversation with Ruth. But his mind had been elsewhere; he'd had a fairly full social calendar for a change. He wandered over to her desk and sat on the corner of it.

  “How did it go?” he asked

  “Not so good,” said Amanda gloomily. “Things got a little heated. She certainly didn't appreciate the questions, even though she knows I've got to ask.”

  “How is she this morning?” he asked.

  “Quiet, but at least we’re speaking. I guess she’s worried about Gordon, too, so I’m trying to give her some space, cut her some slack. She isn’t a suspect, Jack. It’s nothing to do with her, really.” She changed tack. “And Gordon? Did he have much to offer?”

  “Much the same. Nothing he could say, so we’re left hanging out for the autopsy results, see what they throw up.” He was about to get up to leave when Amanda put her arm out to stop him. “Jack,” she said questioningly. “Are you wearing aftershave?” There was a tiny smile on her lips.

  “So what if I am?” he said indignantly.

  “It’s just that I've never known you wear it. It smells like Brut.”

  “That's the detective in you, DS Amanda Lacey,” he said, then stood up and headed for the coffee cupboard for his first of the day. When he'd set his own coffee brewing, he called around the corner of the door to Amanda, “Do you want another?” She waved a hand no and he moved back in to add the milk. When he was done, he started to take his mug back to his desk, but then decided on a quick detour back to Amanda's. He popped himself back on the corner, mug in hand.

  “I had a bit of a weird conversation last night at the bowling club,” he began. Amanda was finishing off an email and hardly paying attention, but Jack carried on. “It was with a retired barman. I've known him for some time, but since he retired and I don't go to the pub much anymore, I only see him occasionally—at the club that is.”

  “And what did he have to say that was so weird or interesting?” She was still talking to the screen rather than Jack.

  “Jim—that’s his name—mentioned the protesters out front and the whole police cover-up angle and the dead man, and then he brought up the subject of the Hardesty case.”

  “And you think that's a bit weird?”

  “I do. What would jog his memory about that case, like it did mine? Why would the average guy on the street think about Michael Hardesty from all that time ago? That’s what doesn’t make sense.”

  “I have absolutely no idea Jack. Are you going to tell me?”

  “Well, that's just it. I've no idea. But I am meeting him for a cuppa later on this morning, so I'll let you know how it goes.”

  “Have you found anything out about that case? Because you’ve probably spent enough time on it now.”

  “I haven't as yet. Let's see what Jim has to say later on, though.”

  “You do that, Jack,” said Amanda, then returned her full focus to the screen in front of her. Jack was dismissed. Amanda was in full-on boss mode.

  Jack walked round to the café; he’d texted Jim the name of the place earlier. It was 10 AM, the perfect time for a mid-morning bacon roll, and that’s exactly what the small café smelled of. Jack sat down at a vacant table, positioning himself so he could watch the door and see Jim when he arrived—not that you could miss him. He was built like a gorilla with a balding head. Jack didn't have long to wait before the door opened and said gorilla wandered in and sat down at the table opposite him.

  “Morning, Jim. Can I get you tea or coffee with your bacon roll?”

  “A mug of tea, thanks,” Jim said, and smiled. Jack called their order across to the counter. He was a regular; the Polish owners, two brothers, knew him well. That done, Jack started off the conversation.

  “So, Jim. You’ve got me thinking, got me wondering. What's on your mind about a case from fifteen years ago?”

  Jim picked up the ketchup bottle and started to examine it; it was something to look at other than Jack. A silence separated them until Jim was ready to speak. “There’d been quite a bit of controversy about that case when it went to trial, and I'd always wondered why. Then afterwards, when it was all finished and the guy had gone to prison, it got me thinking. Mac McAllister used to come into the pub quite a lot, but there was somebody else that used to come in the pub quite a lot, too, as well as your good self, that is.”

  “Oh? Who are we talking about?”

  “It was that Eddie guy, Eddie that used to work with you. Edwards.”

  “I thought he used to go to The Rose. I didn't think your place was his watering hole.”

  “Well, that's just it. The Jolly wasn't his hole. And he only came when the McAllisters were there. He never stayed long, usually just had a shot of whiskey. A quick conversation and off he’d go again. But obviously when you weren’t in drinking either. Don’t you think that's odd, a copper drinking with the McAllisters?”

  “I don’t suppose you ever overheard a conversation?”

  “No. I wish I had now. But it was around that time when the case was in the news. I’d say he met up with Mac McAllister probably half a dozen times in the back of the pub. Probably thought no one would notice or think much of it, but I did.”

  Jack touched his moustache, fiddling with the whiskers. He found stroking it therapeutic.

  It could stay a while longer, he thought. Call it a moustache reprieve.

  “And you think there’s something in it?” Jack enquired.

  “Oh, hell, I've no idea. I wondered about it afterwards, but what could I do? I’ll tell you what—a big fat nothing. It was w
ay too late. I had no evidence of anything going on; it could have been totally innocent.”

  “And there’s not a lot I can do about it now, either, to be fair, Jim. But I tell you what I'll do: I'll open the case notes and have a quick look—and when I say open the case, I mean I'll get the file out and have another look.” Jack had already had a look, but he couldn’t think of much else to tell Jim. Nevertheless, Jack’s antennae were working hard and waiting for further signals.

  Two mugs of tea and two bacon rolls arrived and Jack tucked in straight away, leaving Jim to pour ketchup all over his. Devouring the bacon roll gave Jack’s brain some space to think about what Jim had just told him.

  Eddie Edwards, his sergeant at the time, having somewhat clandestine meetings with the McAllister boys in the back of a pub at the time of the trial. Did he or the McAllisters have anything to do with it? Jack would have to dig a bit deeper, maybe pay McAllister another visit, shake some trees, as they said on TV, and see what fell out.

  He concentrated on his bacon roll as he thought about his next move. He would need to track Eddie down—wherever he was these days.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Jack always did his best thinking to music while he was driving someplace, and that's exactly what he did now. He wasn't quite sure where he was headed, but with “Mr Blue Sky” he didn’t really care. He sang along with it, each word as familiar to him as his morning routine. He belted down the bypass, headed out towards the edge of the county and some greenery. It was only when he reached Caterham that he realised he was headed in the direction of the old Simpson house. Funny how the mind worked when you were on autopilot, he thought. He hadn't intended to drive there, hadn't intended to go anywhere—he’d just intended to drive and think.

  He turned off Stanstead Road, headed to Oakham Rise and pulled up outside the house. All was quiet in the cul-de-sac; everyone was at work—as they would be by mid-morning mid-week. He turned his engine off, rested his head back against his headrest and closed his eyes, thinking. Why would Eddie have been meeting up with the McAllisters, so publicly and so regularly? And especially at that time, with the trial going on. Was it even legal? He doubted it was innocent. He picked his phone up and called Raj.

  “Can you do me a favour?”

  “Sure thing, Jack. What do you need?

  “Can you get me the details of the solicitor and the barrister that handled the Hardesty case? It would be fifteen years ago, so a while back, not an open case. I’ll give you their names. Got a pen and paper?”

  “Fire away,” said Raj.

  “The solicitor was Howard King and the barrister was Mrs Maxine Keppel. Can you find out for me whether they're still in business? And whether they are or not, can you tell me where I can find them today, maybe get me their home addresses?”

  “Sure. Can I ask why?”

  “Just putting old dogs to sleep while I’m in the area. I thought I might pop in.” There was no point advertising to anyone else what he was working on, on the quiet.

  “They local, are they?”

  “Well, they used to be; I assume they still are. Anyway, text me their addresses when you find them, would you? I’m headed their way now.”

  Jack rang off, then stepped out of his car, went up to the front door of the old Simpson house and knocked. If the owners were in, he’d tell them that he needed another look around. And if they weren't in, he planned to sneak round the back and have another look for himself. Sometimes just visiting the scene of a crime for a second time, when all the hubbub had left, allowed him to spot something, some tiny thing that could be insignificant, but when added to the other pieces of information, could be a vital piece of the puzzle. It was kind of like fresh eyes, even though those eyes were his own.

  Nobody answered the door. There were no cars on the driveway, so he slipped down the side and through the back gate into the garden. The digger sat silently beside the huge hole. Crime scene tape covered off some of it, and Jack picked his way across the lawn again and slipped underneath the blue and white plastic. There was really nothing to see; the remains of the body had gone, of course. It was just a hole, subsoil with a red tinge and nothing more. He turned back to look at the rear of the house. It was an impressive detached place, and he knew from past enquiries that it sported five bedrooms and was spacious and modern inside. Gordon Simpson was obviously doing well for himself to have afforded such a place on the edge of town.

  Turning back towards the rear of the garden he looked out onto open fields. A woman with a small white poodle walked along the cinder path, no doubt headed home from her walk into town. It was peaceful; there was just the sound of birdsong and not much more. He could understand why Gordon hadn't been in any rush to sell up after the death of his wife, like he hadn’t with his own place. Coming home of an evening or weekend to a country view of rolling hills and open green spaces was a privilege not shared by many.

  His phone chirped with a message from Raj. Maxine Keppel, the barrister, was still in business. It seemed, though, that Howard King had since retired. He sent a thumbs-up emoji in reply.

  He looked at the address; it was on the way back into town. King lived in Purley, just off the main road, so Jack decided he’d drop in on him on his way back through. Hopefully he would be pottering in the garden as other retired people did on a sunny day. Turning back towards Gordon Simpson’s old house, he scanned the part of the neighbourhood that he could see from his spot on the edge of the garden. There were no overlooking windows from other properties providing a view into the garden; the whole area was completely private, the perfect place to bury a body without anybody noticing.

  He turned back around towards the path where the woman had been walking; it was now empty. He wondered how busy that path was throughout the day. Could somebody have seen something and not realised what they’d observed at the time? It was perhaps worth questioning the locals who used it, at least.

  There was nothing else to see, and since he was there without the current owners’ knowledge, he slipped back down the side of the house towards his car. The other houses in the cul-de-sac were as silent as they had been when he arrived. There was nobody visible, no nosy neighbours who could see somebody coming or going. If a visitor had been at the Simpsons’ place at the time the body had been buried, it would have gone largely unnoticed.

  Jack drove to the end of the cul-de-sac to turn around, then slowly drove back past the house again, looking at it from a different direction. He paused for a moment, waiting for inspiration or an explanation, but nothing presented itself.

  He headed back towards town, taking the A22 towards Purley and to see Howard King. He pulled into the driveway of number 4, stepped out of the car and headed towards the house. It was a traditional semi-detached two-story home, with UPVC windows, a satellite TV dish on the roof, and a stained wood front door. It looked like every other one along the road. A small lawn at the front was edged to one side with a path that led to the entrance door. The flower beds were empty, except for a couple of Coke cans and an empty pizza box. Jack figured the guy wasn't a gardener, and neither was his wife if he had one. He noted the windows needed a good clean, and he thought again about the ones back at the squad room. King also lived in a petri dish. What was it with his sudden window fascination?

  He knocked on the door, then noticed the buzzer and pressed it. On the other side of the door, he could hear someone calling, ‘All right, all right, I heard the knocking,’ and Jack half-smiled. The door swung open, and a man of around 70 with long grey hair tied loosely in a band glared cantankerously at him.

  “Morning. Mr King, I presume?” enquired Jack.

  “Yes,” the man said abruptly. “Who are you? If you’re selling, I’m not buying.”

  “DC Jack Rutherford,” he said flashing his warrant card. “I wonder if you've got a moment?”

  “What is it about?”

  “An old case, actually. I was just passing through, and I thought I'd pay you a visit. I
would normally call first, but as I say, I was passing. From Caterham.”

  King didn’t look convinced, but he stood aside. “You'd best come inside, then,” he said, in not a particularly friendly manner.

  Jack followed King down the dingy hallway and into a side room that appeared to be the lounge. It didn't look like it had been cleaned for the last 20 years. A thick grey layer of dust covered every surface, and cobwebs hung from the ceiling corners. He thought he heard a faint rustling in the corner by the wood basket, though there didn’t appear to be an open fireplace.

  “Want some tea?” King asked. Jack wanted to say no—he didn't fancy a cup—but it was always good to share refreshments when you were after information.

  “Please. No sugar, thanks,” said Jack.

  He watched Howard King leave the room. His greying hair reached the middle of his back and Jack wondered when it had last been cut. Or washed. It reminded him of rats’ tails.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  When Howard King returned with two mugs of tea, Jack was beginning to wish he had refused. Dark treacle-coloured drip marks ran down from the rims from previous beverages; the mugs had obviously never been cleaned sufficiently in between times. He wondered who else’s bacteria he might be sharing when he took his first sip. Petri dish, he thought again.

  “Sit down, will you,” Howard directed, pointing to the sofa that Jack was trying to avoid. There were more grey dog hairs on it than there was clean space.

  “I'm good standing. Thanks,” said Jack.

  “Suit yourself,” Howard said, and sat down in his chair.

  Suddenly it didn't feel right to Jack that he was still standing; it put King at a disadvantage. If King was going to be forthcoming with information, Jack needed to be on the man’s level, literally. A wooden chair in the corner of the room caught his eye; it would be a safer bet. He pulled it a little closer and sat down. Howard King raised an eyebrow, as if to say “Why aren’t you sitting on the comfy sofa?” Jack was as perceptive as he was quick on his feet.