Josiah Dark Thrillers Box Set

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Understood.’

  He made his way out. Louise Isherwood was younger than Henn. If he was desperate enough to contact her, he’d be handing in his letter of resignation and retiring to Lowestoft, or somewhere just as warm.

  The one thing that the SCD had that Bootle Street didn’t was space outside the glass building to hold a press briefing without getting run down by pedestrians and vehicles.

  He’d expected the television cameras and hundreds of reporters, but there were only a handful of the freezing hard-core who didn’t really seem very interested in what he had to say.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, remembering that he was the face of Manchester – at least for this morning. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Josiah Dark of the Serious Crime Division. On Wednesday afternoon, the body of a young man was found in the water at Lock Number 9 of the Peak Forest Canal, which as you know is located between Marple and Marple Bridge in Stockport. The post-mortem, which was carried out yesterday, concluded that the man had been murdered thirty-six hours earlier. As yet, we have no leads and no suspects, but the investigation is ongoing. If any member of the public has information which might assist our investigation, please call the confidential number – thank you.’

  People began shuffling off.

  He could hardly blame them. The temperature must have been well-below freezing.

  ‘Inspector?’

  He looked up.

  A woman, in her late thirties, with long dark-brown hair sticking out of a red woolly hat that had been pulled down low over her ears remained where she was. She had a black North Face jacket zipped-up tight that appeared to be at least three-sizes too big for her and blue lips that resembled those belonging to a corpse.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mable Webb from the Marple Review. You failed to say what the cause of death was.’

  ‘Inconclusive, Mrs Webb.’

  ‘You don’t think the wooden stake in his heart had anything to do with his death then?’

  Some of the other reporters, who had been leaving, stopped and turned back to hear his answer.

  ‘No comment,’ he said, feeling like a suspect who’d been presented with a photograph that showed him standing over a dead body with a smoking gun in his hand.

  ‘Was the victim a vampire, Inspector?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mrs Webb.’

  He turned and headed for the car park. That hadn’t gone quite as he’d planned, but it was hardly surprising that news of the stake had leaked out. He could imagine that any fallout from the press briefing would land on him. Henn hadn’t been there, so he would simply point a well-manicured finger in his direction and explain to the Chief Constable that he had in no way authorised Dark to deny the existence of vampires on behalf of the Greater Manchester Police Force.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Well, have you solved the case yet, Lake?’ he said as he walked down the stairs to his basement office.

  She pretended to laugh. ‘Very funny. The Chief Superintendent wants you to call him. I think it’s about you letting the vampire out of the coffin.’

  He stopped at the side of her desk. She’d personalised it with a family photograph – her father, late mother, two weird-looking sisters around the same age and a younger brother with droopy eyes. There was also a small brown teddy bear that looked as though it had travelled from Peru, a bonsai tree that appeared to be at least a hundred years old, and a ceramic pot with some pens and knick-knacks in it. ‘I’d like to know how you know what Henn wants to talk to me about before I know.’

  ‘He told me. He’s a friend of the family.’

  He pulled a face and shook his head. ‘A spy for the enemy. That’s exactly why I don’t want you as my partner, Lake.’

  ‘No, it’s not. You don’t want anybody as your partner. You’re just using that as an excuse to try and get rid of me.’

  ‘Well, what have you found out about Flagg?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to call Henn?’

  ‘No. Why? Are you going to snitch on me?’

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘Flagg?’

  ‘He has a flat at 54 Hall Street in New Mills and has lived there for three months. His father died in a hit-and-run accident fifteen years ago. The police never found out who did it, which is possibly why they moved away to Saltney in Chester.’

  ‘One of the reasons!’

  ‘His father came from Marple, but his mother was born in Chester. She had no relatives in Marple, they were mostly in Chester. So, she took Toby and moved back there with him.’

  ‘Seems logical. Did you get the file on the hit-and-run?’

  ‘Yes, it’s on your desk.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘His mother died of cancer seven months ago, but he still has a stepfather of sorts called Victor Green – although they were never married – and a seventeen year-old stepsister called Arabella living there, at 27 Conway Close in Saltney. He attended Rose Hill Primary School, but before he was due to enter secondary school his mother took him away.’

  ‘Could the hit-and-run be the reason he came back here?’

  Lake shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Rose Hill train station doesn’t have CCTV.’

  ‘Mmmm!’

  ‘There was nothing on him in Crimint, he didn’t have a passport and his driving licence was clean.’

  ‘Did he own a car?’

  ‘No. I also phoned the professor and he said he’ll obtain the dental and medical records, and contact us once he’s confirmed the body is that of Toby Flagg.’

  ‘And the bank, credit card and phone records?’

  ‘Burrows will contact us when she has something.’

  He looked at the crime scene photographs on the whiteboard. ‘Did Burrows drop by?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He took down the pictures of the mangled victim Lake had stuck up. ‘I don’t think we need those staring out at us.’

  ‘I did wonder.’

  ‘Wonder no more. I think we can both remember what he looked like when he came out of the water.’

  ‘Yes. I also told Burrows not to continue with the analysis of the CCTV footage from Marple train station.’

  ‘You should have checked with me first before making that decision.’

  ‘You said I should use my initiative.’

  ‘And that includes knowing when to make decisions on your own, or not. That decision wasn’t yours to make, it was mine. I’m the SIO, and ultimately responsible for all decisions made during the investigation. You’re an apprentice. You don’t blow your nose unless I’ve authorised it. Is there anything about what I’ve said that you don’t understand, Lake?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t think so! I don’t want there to be any ambiguity about what you can and can’t do in the future, so you’re either sure about the limits of your authority, or you’re not – which is it?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it. Make me a coffee. You can do that without supervision, can’t you?’

  She went to the kitchen without responding.

  ‘I hope you’re not crying in there, Lake? I hate women who cry.’

  When she returned with his mug of coffee, the whites of her eyes were red.

  ‘You’ve not put any foreign bodies in my coffee as a way of getting back at me, have you?’

  ‘Do you think I’m that petty?’

  ‘I don’t know what you are, Lake. Here’s what I know about you so far: You speak about me to my boss behind my back, so I can’t trust you; you get side-tracked easily by men who want to have sex with you in bars when you’re meant to be questioning them; you make decisions that aren’t yours to make, which jeopardises the continuity of our investigation; you complain about lack of sleep when that’s part of the job description . . . Do you want me to carry on?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re
here because of Henn. I was honest with you right up front that I don’t like partners and I didn’t want a partner, but both you and Henn insisted I have one regardless of my wishes. In effect, I had no choice in the matter. Against my better judgement, I was prepared to be generous and give you the opportunity to prove me wrong. So far, that has not been the case. If anything, you’ve proved me right. Has that made it clear about where you stand, Lake?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If all I can trust you to do is stick inappropriate photographs on whiteboards and make lousy coffee, then that’s all I’ll be asking you to do. Any questions?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Any calls to the confidential number from the public?’

  ‘There were three hundred and fifteen calls. Do you want to look at every call log yourself?’

  ‘Have you looked at them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were there any that you think I should take a look at?’

  ‘Three – they’re on your desk.’

  ‘Can I trust you to determine what’s relevant and what isn’t?’

  ‘According to you, I’m not qualified to make that decision.’

  ‘If I have to do everything myself, then there’s no point in you being here. So, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt this time.’

  ‘Very generous.’

  ‘Not really. I’m thinking of myself, not you. What did Burrows say about the DNA swabs from Flagg’s jacket?’

  ‘She’s still waiting for the results.’

  ‘Did she say when she’s likely to get those results to us?’

  ‘Later this afternoon.’

  ‘Preliminary post-mortem report?’

  ‘The professor faxed it through late last night. It’s on your desk.’

  ‘Have you read it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is there anything in there that’s different from what we learned at the post-mortem?’

  ‘No. We won’t get the toxicology report until this afternoon.’

  ‘Okay. Anything else you want to tell me?’

  ‘I mentioned the lack of clerical support we have here to the Chief Superintendent, and he said we could employ a part-time clerical assistant.’

  He pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Just when I thought we’d made some progress, you go and do something like that. Who’s in charge down here, Lake?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘You are, Sir.’

  ‘That’s right, I am. And who makes decisions about the need to employ someone in a clerical capacity or not down here, Lake?’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘So, why are you asking your pal for clerical support without my authorisation?’

  ‘Because I thought that if you asked him, he wouldn’t give you any, and I don’t want to do clerical work.’

  ‘I see. Do you think that what you want to do, or don’t want to do, has any bearing on my decisions, or the running of this office?’

  ‘No . . . Sir.’

  ‘That’s right. With immediate effect, you’re not to speak to your pal Chief Superintendent Henn about me, the investigation, or what goes on in this office. In fact, don’t talk to Henn at all.’

  ‘But he’s . . .’

  ‘A family friend! So, you’ve said. But I’m your boss, and I’ve given you a direct order.’

  ‘Yes . . . Sir.’

  ‘If you do speak to Henn again, your apprenticeship will come to an abrupt end regardless of what happens to me. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And while we’re on the subject of your nebulous apprenticeship, you can get that personal crap off your desk and take it back to where you brought it from. It implies you’re staying, and that’s becoming less likely as the hours pass by. Right, we have a long list of places to visit and people to speak to, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Let’s go then. Rose Hill Primary School first.’

  He blamed himself. He should have made his expectations clear right from the start. The trouble was, she’d been foisted on him in the middle of an investigation. He’d been unprepared, had no time to formulate a defence strategy or an attack plan. Now, he seemed to be fire-fighting on a daily basis.

  ***

  ‘You can drive.’

  She held out her hand.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Keys.’

  He grunted. ‘In your car.’

  ‘My car?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Have you seen my car?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have a . . .’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘He’s a 1985 Citroën 2CV. I call him Monty, not Jesus.’

  It was a mixture of yellow, black and rust. The type of vehicle that anybody in their right mind would be lucky enough to sell for scrap, instead of having to pay for it to be towed away.

  ‘Does it actually work?’

  ‘Of course. Monty’s very reliable. Unlike some of the other men I’ve known.’ She bit her lip. ‘Are you sure you don’t want us to go in your car?’

  He glanced over at his Rav-4. That would certainly be the sensible thing to do, but he really needed to read the paperwork he’d brought with him, and he couldn’t do that if he was driving. ‘We’ll go in your car. It’ll give me the opportunity to assess your driving skills. Have you done the Advanced Driving Test?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Something else to look forward to then.’

  He walked around the car to the passenger side.

  ‘It’s open,’ she said.

  ‘You leave it open?’

  ‘That door won’t lock.’

  ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’

  ‘Monty’s getting old. Parts are wearing out. A bit like yourself.’

  He climbed into the confined space. His knees were pressed up against the dashboard. ‘How do I adjust the seat?’

  ‘The handle broke off.’

  ‘What about the seatbelt?

  ‘There aren’t any.’

  ‘That’s illegal.’

  ‘Monty doesn’t care. He knows that nobody in the car would survive a crash regardless of whether they were wearing a seatbelt, or not.’

  ‘That’s a comforting thought.’

  ‘He also knows that I’m a safe driver.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. What’s all that rubbish on the back seat?’

  ‘Just stuff.’

  ‘Drive.’

  He skimmed through the preliminary post-mortem report first. Lake was right, there was nothing in it that they didn’t already know.

  He was freezing. ‘Doesn’t the heating work either?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Not now. It’s playing-up at the moment.’

  ‘I bet it works in the summer?’

  ‘Every time.’

  Next, he looked at the three calls to the confidential hotline by members of the public. All three witnesses stated that they’d seen Flagg with two men – one old with grey hair, and the other young with dark hair – in and around Rose Hill train station, which was helpful up to a point. The descriptions would be useful in constructing E-FIT composites. At least they now knew, if the reports were to be trusted, that Flagg had met two men. The problem was, there were no sightings of Flagg after that. They still had no idea where he’d been, or what he’d been doing, in the ten hours between 5 p.m. on Monday afternoon and his death at around 3 a.m. on Tuesday morning.

  ‘Do you think those two men killed him?’ Lake said.

  ‘Do you think that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Just a feeling.’

  ‘A feeling?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that like female intuition, or a gut instinct?’

  ‘I suppose so.’


  ‘You’ll be telling me next that you possess a sixth sense, and that we should hold a séance to ask Toby Flagg who killed him. It’s a good job you’re not running this investigation, Lake.’

  ‘Maybe a psychic might be able to help us.’

  ‘Instead of police work, you mean?’

  ‘As well as police work.’

  ‘I’m sure we don’t need a psychic when we’ve got you with your “feelings”. Have you been onto Burrows about constructing an E-FIT of the two men?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The basics, Lake! Stop playing around with the Ouija board and do the job you’re paid to do.’

  He tried texting Burrows, but found it impossible to construct a message with the car juddering like a Reliant Robin. ‘Doesn’t this contraption have any suspension?’

  ‘Is that on the inside or the outside of the car?’

  ‘Never mind.’ He called Burrows instead.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Three people saw our victim at Rose Hill train station with two men. I want E-FIT facial composites of those two men based on their combined descriptions.’

  ‘Okay, Sir.’

  He gave her the names of the three members of the public. ‘By tomorrow morning?’

  ‘We’ll do our best, Sir.’

  After ending the call he began reading the report into the hit-and-run resulting in the death of Flagg’s father. At seven forty-five on Thursday, June 14, 2002, Albert Flagg had finished work for the day at the firm of solicitors – Alexander, Flagg & Druitt – on Strines Road where he had an office. He was crossing the road to his own parked car, when a black BMW came out of nowhere and mowed him down. A single witness – Mrs Joanne Musgrave – reported that there was no attempt to avoid Mister Flagg, nor swerve to avoid him. The absence of any skid marks supported her version of events.

  Subsequent enquiries discovered the BMW, which had been stolen the day before in Glossop, burnt out on waste ground in Hyde. After an exhaustive investigation by a Detective Constable Angela Vickers from Hazel Grove Police Station, it was concluded that Albert Flagg had been killed by joyriders.

  The “exhaustive investigation” that had led DC Vickers to that conclusion included interviewing Mrs Miranda Flagg, and Albert Flagg’s two partners in the law firm – Peter Alexander and Drew Druitt. Vickers also examined the Flagg finances, and reviewed his past and current legal cases, but found nothing that might have led someone to murder him. The case was quietly moved onto the unsolved pile in the hope that new information would become available at a future date, which it never did because they were not actively seeking it.