Jack Rutherford and Amanda Lacey Box Set

by Linda Coles

  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.

  “Bad back. I’m better on a hard surface,” he lied. He glanced at the mug and the pale brown liquid within. Something white and lumpy floated on its surface and Jack hoped it wasn’t sour milk. He took a sip. It tasted like dishwater and he put it down on the old glass table that separated the two men. He’d done his bit, taken a sip, and now it didn't matter if he didn't drink any more.

  It was Howard’s turn to speak. “What's this all to do with? You mentioned an old case?”

  Jack was pleased to be getting down to business, he didn't fancy lingering in the man’s home for too long. He imagined fleas jumping up and biting his ankles, making their home in his socks. “It's about a case that you worked on with Maxine Keppel some years ago. Michael Hardesty and Chesney McAllister.”

  King nodded his recognition. He reminded Jack of one of those bobbing dogs that you saw at the back of people's rear windscreens.

  “You remember it, then?” enquired Jack.

  “I certainly do. Unfortunately,” said Howard. “It’s one of those cases that I guess I'll always remember.”

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  “We should have won that one, but we didn't. Hardesty should never have gone down for murder, but it all seemed to get out of hand very quickly. One minute he was driving along, minding his own business, then a car accident and a man is dead. And it wasn't from the actual car accident.”

  “So why did that stick with you?” asked Jack.

  “Because whatever we did, we seemed to hit a brick wall at every turn. Pardon the pun.”

  “So, what do you think actually happened that night?” Jack asked.

  “It was a simple altercation and nothing more. But those boys had a history together. Their families had a history together and not a good one. And somehow McAllister won. Maxine did her best, but like I said, every turn we seemed to hit a brick wall. I suspected something was going on at the time, but I could never get to the bottom of it, never prove it.”

  “Like what, exactly? You think somebody was buying somebody else off?”

  “No, not so simple as that. Though I daresay somebody would have tried it.” Howard was quiet for a moment, looking out through the smeared window. Not that there was much to see through the grime.

  Jack waited.

  After a few moments, without looking at Jack again and still looking towards the window, Howard said, “I'd been out for a drink one night. I’d had a bit of a skin-full. Actually, truth be told, it was a stressful trial, and the whiskey bottle and I were good friends for a good proportion of that time. Only in the evenings, you understand, not during the day. I do like a drink; I'm not embarrassed about telling you. I still do, but that aside, nothing to do with it.

  “So, I was on my way home one night and I was desperate for a piss, so I pulled over up a side road and snuck behind a bush. There were a few houses along there, and a pub a bit further down, so the bush came in handy. Once I'd done my business and was zipping myself up, I heard voices. They were raised, like they were having an argument. I listened, and I recognised one of them. It was one of the McAllister brothers—Mac, the big guy. I wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley. I couldn't tell what he was saying, but it was heated, sounded threatening. I stayed where I was to listen, keep out of his way. Since it was almost dark, I peered my head round to see what I could see.” King went quiet again, either reliving what he’d experienced that night, or wondering how much to tell Jack.

  “Go on,” Jack urged impatiently.

  “I can't be sure, exactly, but when I looked out, I could see the back of McAllister and he had somebody pushed up against the wall. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I guess he was reminding him of who the boss was.”

  “And did you get a good look at who he had up against the wall?”

  “Well, I couldn't be one hundred percent sure. Like I say, it was almost dark. But I thought I knew who it was, although I wasn’t totally sure. I couldn't follow the guy, but it’s stuck with me all this time.”

  Jack tried again. “Who was it? Who did you think you saw?”

  “The foreman from the trial. I only caught a fleeting glimpse of him, but it would all fit, looking back. If McAllister had bought the foreman off, that guilty verdict would have worked well in his favour.”

  “And you didn't have enough evidence to go to the judge.” Jack was beginning to understand King’s predicament.

  “Correct. What could I do? Tell him I thought I saw something, but it was dark and I couldn't be sure? He was hardly going to call a mistrial or sack the foreman because someone may or may not have seen something, no matter who the person was.

  “So, when the verdict came back guilty, that was it, the end. Hardesty got sent down, and he should never have. Not for murder, anyway. Accidents happen, and even if he had a hand in that man's death, he didn't murder him. He didn't set out to do that. That was all fabricated after the fact.”

  “What about Maxine Keppel? Did you tell her?”

  “Of course I told her, and she said the same as what I've just said: we couldn’t really go to the judge without any evidence and with just a maybe. It was pointless. We had to just do our best from then on and hope we got Hardesty off.”

  “Are you still in touch with Maxine?”

  “No, our paths don't cross anymore now. I'm retired, spend all my time in here, though she still practices. She’s still a barrister.” Howard looked at Jack's mug. “You've not finished your tea,” he said. “You want a splash of malt in it?”

  Even though it would make it more palatable, Jack never drank during the day, not on duty. “Sorry, I guess I've had enough tea for one day, thanks,” he said, standing. “You’ve been really helpful. Thanks, Howard.” Howard nodded from his chair. “I'll see myself out,” Jack said, and headed back down the dreary passageway to the front door. He opened it and stood briefly on the step. The world smelled a whole lot sweeter than the air inside Howard King’s house. It was as if the man had imprisoned himself, the way he lived. In fact, the prison where Hardesty was residing smelled a good deal sweeter than King’s lounge, with that odd rustling in the log basket. He shuddered and pulled the door closed behind him, then wandered back to his car, deep in thought.

  “Poor sod,” Jack said out loud to himself.

  He was talking about Hardesty.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  When Dr Faye Mitchell was satisfied that the s
keleton was laid out correctly on the gurney, the photographer stepped in and readied his camera. The remains of the body from the hole at the Simpsons’ old place, unlike many other skeletons they found, were complete. All the pieces had been retrieved; there was nothing missing. That was a plus, because one hand missing or the head missing or even a leg missing usually meant that the killer had tried to prevent identification. Even now, identification would be difficult unless there were any other distinguishing marks on the bones, and that was where a forensic anthropologist was required. Had the body been found earlier with flesh still intact, they might well have been able to find distinguishing features such as scars or tattoos, but in this particular case, they’d been far, far too late.

  On the gurney next to the bones lay the other items that had come from the makeshift grave—the remains of a pair of jeans, what looked like a short-sleeved cotton shirt, and workmen’s boots. There were no personal effects—no wallet, no watch, no telephone, nothing of any personal significance except a cufflink that had been recovered from the soil on top of the body. It had an eagle engraved on it.

  “Let's start, then, shall we, Quentin?” she said to the photographer. All the bones had been catalogued and measured; all the data written down in the report. The individual was male and five feet, nine inches tall. The skull was missing its second molar on the upper left side, and that fitted with the dental records of one Mr Desmond Walker—the missing landscaper. At last, they could give him a name.

  “Can you get closeups of this please, Quentin?” she said, pointing to a visible fracture on the right temple. The photographer snapped away from various angles, taking pictures of the crack alongside a small tape measure to make it easy to see the length of it. There were some flaky parts around the crack that indicated something sharp-edged had hit Des Walker's right temple.