The Suitcase Murderer

by James Andrew

  ‘But he’d have to get Amelia to cover for him.’

  ‘Is she that frightened of him?’ Blades doubted that.

  The two men were now looking at the map of Birtleby. ‘The streets nearest the Roots’ to start off with,’ he said. ‘No one is going to want to lug body parts a long way. Blood might seep out of a bag, or anything. There are enough back gardens and back yards just on that street to take a proper search a while.’ Blades drew a circle round the street. ‘We start off with streets to the west of Main Street, going ten streets up. Then we cover the area behind it, again ten streets up.’

  ‘Why no further than that?’

  ‘Duggan wouldn’t want to be seen. He’s having to take a chance with the disposal of this body, but he won’t carry any bag too far.’

  ‘Unless he took a car?’

  ‘In which case he probably went right out of town. And our search area could be as wide as the one we have covering the Roots. But I don’t think he got rid of the body parts in that way. He might get blood in the car. That’s evidence. Duggan would know he’d be suspected. No. He carried Emma about in different bags. He walked about Birtleby, lifting his cap to greet friends, smiling at young ladies, talking to acquaintances, all the while with a bag that contained the bloody remains of his “fiancée” – if he’s the one who did it.’

  ‘And some women thought the world of him.’

  ‘A charming fellow.’

  Then Blades stepped back from the maps and looked at them from a distance, nodded, walked back up to the map of North Yorkshire and marked out another area, then walked over to his desk and put his pencil down.

  ‘This is going to take weeks if not months, if we do ever get it all done, but it’s time to give out the orders now,’ he said to Peacock. ‘Time to get this job started.’

  ‘Sir,’ Peacock replied.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Blades was doubtful from the moment the phone rang. It was too quick. What they were looking for was a needle in a haystack and they would not find that in five minutes. But the call had come in. A suspicious suitcase had been found two streets down from the Roots’. Blades had Peacock drive him straight there. Entry to the back was gained through a side-gate.

  It was an inauspicious setting, Blades thought, as he and Peacock strode through. The buildings in this street were old, soot-blackened, back-to-back, terraced houses, and the back yards were nothing but dirt, black dirt, with spiked railings in between, brick washing houses at the bottom of the yard, alongside outdoor closets. People seemed to pile their rubbish in corners here, instead of using the communal middens further down the street. There were broken chairs, rusty mangles, torn bags with old clothes tumbling out of them, and, there, in the corner, against the wall that separated this back yard from the next one, an old brown leather suitcase. It was battered, and there were stickers on it from better times when it had been used to carry belongings on journeys in trains and boats. The thickness of the leather suggested it had been a quality suitcase.

  There was what looked like a stain at the bottom, as if something inside was seeping out, or had done. Or had it just knocked against something as it lay there? They would find out when they opened it. But Blades was in no hurry. One thing he could see about this suitcase was that it matched the one described by a witness, the woman who said she’d seen a man lugging a case about with difficulty. This was a large enough suitcase to fit the description, and, if it had been filled with the parts of a young woman, it would have been heavy. As it lay there, pregnant with possibility, Blades noticed one fastening was hanging open, the lock broken as if forced. That might not fit in with what they were expecting to find, but there was one thing Blades was sure of: he would get as much evidence from this bag as he could.

  He signalled to Peacock to get his camera out. They started off with photographs of the case in situ, which Peacock duly obliged with. Then fingerprints were taken. Peacock took out his chalk powder and his insufflator. Once the surfaces in view had been well and truly covered in chalk, Peacock took his painstaking photographs of the fingerprints on show. Then the case was turned over and Peacock took fingerprints from those surfaces as well. The constable who had found this had said he had not touched the case, but his fingerprints would be cross-checked with the ones found here anyway.

  Blades looked at the windows above him. These buildings were in a bad state, the sashes on the windows needing a coat of paint, and the faces that peered down at Blades were those of a poor couple, pale, and malnourished, but curious, and with eager eyes. What was this going on in their back yard? Why were the police there? Blades knew that when they turned up, rumours always abounded, and some people made themselves scarce. But this couple had not done that. They were wondering: what’s in that suitcase? Why are the police interested in an old case?

  Blades looked at it. They had reached the moment of truth. He put out his hand and unclicked the fastening on the right, then slowly pulled the lid of the case open, and peered in. Nothing. Nothing at all. Just torn and dirty silk lining. Could this case have contained body parts? There were no signs of blood, but it was something else to be sent off for examination. He felt relieved. Finding the remains of a body would have been a triumph but would have given no pleasure. As it turned out, it was a suitcase that had been discarded because of a broken lock – more detritus from the world they lived in. It had been made use of, then thrown away when no further purpose could be found for it. He supposed in a way that was what had happened to Emma. And at twenty-three, it had been so soon.

  He picked up the case. He was not surprised this had been a dead end. This was not an investigation that was going to go quickly. They might find their body in time. They were still difficult to dispose of, even if they were cut into pieces, and this one would probably surface, but it was never likely to have happened as quickly as this.

  The men would persevere with their search. The overtime figures, and the costs, would mount up, and Moffat would continue to groan.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  When he met with Russell Parkes, Blades took particular note of the man’s appearance. Did it match any description in the witness statements so far gathered? Possibly. Blades and Peacock were interviewing Parkes at his parents’ house. They had been reluctant to allow them to interview Parkes on his own but had in the end acceded. With a laugh, Russell had brushed away his mother and father’s concerns. He had seated himself in an armchair, leaned back, crossed one leg over the other, and looked the part of a debonair young man holding court. Russell Parkes did not lack arrogance. With a shake of Mr Parkes’ head and a groan from Mrs Parkes, his parents retreated from the room.

  Russell Parkes was about five foot ten, with black hair and a gold tooth in the right upper part of his mouth, that gleamed. There was a bit of a dash to the cut of his suit, and a thick gold chain led to a pocket of his waistcoat where his pocket watch lay. He wore a gold signet ring with a black onyx in the centre of it, and Blades noticed the gleam on Parkes’ black leather shoes. This was a young man who liked to make an impression, but Blades did not think him as confident as he pretended; his eyes flickered with uncertainty between Blades and Peacock, despite Parkes’ show of a smile.

  ‘How can I help you, gentlemen?’ He beamed.

  ‘We’re looking for help from you with an inquiry,’ Blades said.

  Russell raised an eyebrow in answer to that.

  ‘It’s about Emma Simpson, the young lady who disappeared. We’ve been informed that you knew her.’

  The smile remained on Russell’s face, but it had acquired a stiffness, and the stretched limbs had tensed.

  ‘Ah, Emma. There’s still no sign of her?’

  ‘No, and from what we’ve discovered, we don’t think we will find her.’

  ‘You think she’s dead?’

  Blades studied Russell. Was that an act? After Musgrave’s recent article, Blades was sure everyone thought Emma had been murdered. Perhaps this affable young man di
d not read newspapers; he did not strike Blades as being especially bright.

  ‘It’s a strong possibility.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. So, how can I help you?’

  ‘You did know Miss Simpson?’

  ‘Slightly.’

  ‘Define slightly, sir.’

  Russell repressed a laugh, scratched his head, then, realising he had done that, laid his hand on the arm of his seat.

  ‘Let’s see. We’d seen each other once or twice. I treated her to afternoon tea once and accompanied her to the pictures on another occasion. She was an attractive young woman, but I had the impression she had someone else in her life.’

  ‘Would you know who?’

  ‘I can’t help you there.’

  ‘Do you know her other friends?’

  ‘I didn’t get to know her all that well. Chance would have been a fine thing.’

  ‘She gave you the brush off.’

  ‘If you like to put it that way, yes.’

  ‘And how did you feel about that?’

  Russell had to think for a moment. ‘Disappointed?’ he replied.

  ‘Can you tell us about your movements on Saturday the fifteenth?’

  Blades could not help but notice the indignation as it gathered in those poised features.

  ‘And why would you ask me that? What would I have to do with Emma’s disappearance? The first I knew of it was when my mother pointed out it had been mentioned in the Birtleby Times.’

  No. Russell Parkes did not read the newspapers himself. ‘If that’s correct, you won’t object to telling me about your movements?’

  The expression on Russell’s face was now puzzled.

  ‘I won’t?’

  ‘As you’re innocent, you’ve nothing to hide.’

  ‘I suppose.’ He paused for thought, then continued. ‘All right. I was with someone else all day. I went out to lunch with her and then we went for a walk in the park. There was a band playing at the bandstand and we stopped and listened to that.’

  ‘Would you name this person?’

  ‘Rose. Rose Weller.’

  ‘And where could we get in touch with her?’

  Russell told him.

  ‘When Emma gave me the “brush off” that’s what I did about it. I asked someone else out. I didn’t kill Emma – or abduct her. All right?’

  Russell’s voice was quiet, but no effort was made to hide the anger in it, not that this meant innocence, Blades knew. He had heard that convincing note from felons before.

  ‘Oh, another thing. Why did you leave the Leighton Insurance Company?’

  There was a flustered look on Russell Parkes’ face as his mind searched about for an answer to that.

  ‘Why would you want to know?’ he asked.

  ‘We were told you left under a cloud?’

  ‘I left for a better job. The Prudential’s a better company.’

  ‘You landed on your feet. Well done. It must have been a relief.’

  ‘Who’s been saying what to you? Because it sounds like rubbish.’

  ‘There were problems with your accounts? It sounded lucky you weren’t reported to the police. Or did you pay the money back and resign from the company in return for not being prosecuted?’

  Parkes was now seated bolt upright on his chair, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists.

  ‘I deny all of this,’ he said.

  ‘It would be easy enough to check with the Leighton Insurance Company.’

  Russell had no answer to that. He just stared back at Blades. Then Peacock added his tuppence worth.

  ‘It’s also true that you have gambling debts, isn’t it?’

  ‘What? How did you know that? All right, some, but not enormous ones. I’ll get them worked out.’

  ‘You like a flutter on the horses, though? You go down to the racetrack regularly?’ Peacock continued.

  ‘It’s not illegal,’ Russell replied. ‘What makes it any business of yours?’

  Peacock did not reply to that, but it was Russell’s eyes that moved away.

  ‘And, as you say,’ Blades said, ‘it’s not against the law to bet on horses – and Leighton Insurance hasn’t preferred charges against you. I should warn you against running up debts, though. It can lead to difficult situations where it could become our business.’

  Then Blades stood up to leave. On the way back to the car, he spoke to Peacock. ‘How did you know about the gambling debts?’

  ‘I didn’t, sir, but we do now.’

  Blades laughed.

  ‘And the fact he bet on horses?’

  ‘It was either that or the dogs. I happened to get it right.’

  Blades laughed again.

  ‘Very good. Of course, money had nothing to do with Emma’s death, as far as we know. There’s no money missing from the Roots’ place and Emma didn’t have any.’

  ‘There is that,’ Peacock replied.

  ‘But he’s a suspect.’

  ‘He is?’

  ‘His alibi is a girlfriend. How suspicious is that?’

  ‘Quite.’

  Peacock engaged gear and drove off.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The witness who had called into Birtleby Station was nervous. He was a youngster and he was standing at Sergeant Ryan’s desk with an older man, presumably his father.

  ‘Tell him,’ said the man, whom Sergeant Ryan was to discover was called Stan Atkinson.

  Stan was a stout, bewhiskered, balding man of middle age. He wore a rumpled suit and battered bowler. His shoes were worn down at the heel. But he had an earnest look to his face. This man was trying to be helpful about something.

  The boy was about fourteen, skinny as a rake, with ginger hair, a face covered in freckles, and a long, hooked nose. The embarrassed look on his face was pronounced.

  ‘Speak up, Alan. We can’t hear you,’ boomed Stan.

  Alan struggled to find his voice at all, and the man had to speak for him.

  ‘He’s a butcher’s boy is Alan. Apprenticed to Hogg in Victoria Road.’

  ‘I know the one,’ said Sergeant Ryan.

  ‘And he saw something you’ll want to know about, didn’t you, Alan?’ Then Alan’s father gave Alan a nudge which almost unbalanced him.

  ‘Yes. Yes. That’s right.’

  ‘So, tell him, Alan.’ And the boy opened his mouth, but, before he could speak, his father did. ‘He doesn’t do deliveries usually. He’s an apprentice, but he has some to do – Saturday mostly – because it’s so busy. And it was on the Saturday that girl disappeared that he saw it.’

  ‘Saw what?’ Blades asked.

  But it was as if Stan was not listening. He had his tale to tell and he would stick to that.

  ‘He was sure it was a different week. He’s no idea of time. A different week? He doesn’t know what day of the week it is. Lives his life in a dream, he does. But it was that Saturday, the fifteenth, and that’s when he was taking sausages to the Briggs in the Main Street. That’s what you were doing that day, wasn’t it?’ He gave Alan another dig, and Alan nodded this time. ‘But he didn’t think he could have seen anything. He’s no confidence in himself at all, Alan. I keep telling him to take more pride in himself. That’s the way to be noticed in this world and get on. But he still doesn’t think he could have seen anything that mattered, not that it takes any talent to do that. If a person’s in the right place at the right time completely by accident, anyone can see anything, can’t they? And you did, didn’t you, Alan?’

  And Alan had to nod.

  ‘Tell the gentleman,’ his father boomed.

  Then Sergeant Ryan and the boy’s father stared at Alan while he looked back from one to the other and blinked. He opened his mouth again, and, not being interrupted this time, started to speak.

  ‘I’d just turned the corner into Main–’

  Then he stopped as if searching for the right way to put things.

  ‘Don’t finish now,’ his father said. ‘You’re getting u
s going here.’

  A peevish look came over Alan’s face and words started to explode out of him.

  ‘I’ll tell you if you give me the chance.’

  ‘Just be patient with him,’ Sergeant Ryan said. ‘He’ll speak in his own time, won’t you, Alan?’

  Alan looked in a fierce way from one to the other, then nodded his head. ‘I’m telling you,’ he said. ‘I’m telling you.’

  Sergeant Ryan and Alan’s father waited again.

  ‘He was coming out of the Roots’ door,’ Alan said. ‘I’d never seen him before, and I wondered what he was doing there, but I minded my own business. I didn’t say anything to him.’

  ‘Who was coming out of the Roots’ door?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘A man.’

  ‘What did he look like?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘Tall. With a hat on. When he opened the door, he looked all around before coming out. He did see me but didn’t think I mattered or something. Most people don’t. But he seemed nervous and I noticed him because of that. And he had two suitcases in his hands.’

  Ryan’s heart sank at the mention of the suitcases. Maybe this wasn’t new information. Maybe this was something to do with the suitcase they’d already found, though the boy had said two, not one. Was that crucial?

  Well wound up by now, the boy chatted on. ‘I wondered if he was a burglar, then thought, no. I must have got that wrong. He’s just setting out for somewhere. Though I knew he wasn’t one of the Roots. I know what they look like. But I don’t suppose there’s any reason why I should know who’s staying at the Roots’ or not. I thought he must be some visitor, a relative or something.’

  ‘Do you know what time this was?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘I’d just passed the town clock and it was just after eleven. I remember noticing because it meant I was in fine time with my deliveries.’

  ‘Can you tell us anything about the suitcases?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘They weren’t a pair. One was bigger than the other. They were both brown, I think. One was darker. They were both a bit battered. And they were heavy. It was an effort for him to lug them about. And I couldn’t help wondering what he had in them.’