Josiah Dark Thrillers Box Set

by Tim Ellis

  He closed the file.

  ‘It was murder, wasn’t it?’ Lake said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That DC Vickers didn’t do a good job.’

  ‘And you’re the expert in doing a good job, are you? What would you have done differently?’

  ‘The report doesn’t say who the stolen BMW belonged to.’

  ‘Do you think that was relevant?’

  ‘It might have been.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘It said she looked into his cases, but it doesn’t say what those cases were. If we wanted to re-examine the investigation, we’d have to go back to the source, and there’s no guarantee that people would remember what those cases were.’

  ‘It’s possible that she might have overlooked something, but it’s doubtful. Do you know what type of solicitor Flagg was?’

  ‘Doesn’t it say?’

  ‘I’m asking you.’

  ‘He was just a normal solicitor, wasn’t he?’

  ‘No. He specialised in all aspects of property law.’

  ‘Oh! I didn’t know that. I thought maybe he was a criminal solicitor.’

  ‘Did your second sight desert you?’

  ‘It must have done.’

  ‘But you’re right that the report doesn’t identify the cases Flagg was working on – it should have done.’

  ‘It makes a change for me to be right.’

  ‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’

  Lake pulled a face. ‘Do you think that his father’s hit-and-run has something to do with Toby Flagg coming back to Marple and his subsequent murder?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it’s a line of inquiry that we’d be stupid to ignore.’

  ‘We should question that DC Angela Vickers if she’s still a police officer, and find out why she didn’t do a good enough job in the first place.’

  ‘Well, you’ll get the opportunity. Angela Vickers is the Assistant Chief Constable of Derbyshire Constabulary.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ***

  Ms Francis Killion PGCE QPH was the Headteacher of Rose Hill Primary School. She was stern-looking with quaffed hair that was interlaced with strands of grey, thick-rimmed glasses that had slid down to the end of her thin nose, pinched lips and permanently surprised eyebrows.

  They weren’t expected, but she’d made time for them anyway.

  ‘How can I help you, Inspector?’

  ‘Toby Flagg.’

  ‘One of our current crop?’

  ‘No, he left fifteen years ago.’

  ‘Two years before my arrival, I’m afraid. Can I ask what it’s about?’

  ‘The body found in the lock on Wednesday afternoon.’

  ‘How awful. Was it not an accident then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Dear me.’

  ‘Would you have any records?’

  ‘Seven years. That’s the legal requirement. After that they’re incinerated. I’m very scrupulous about that. We do, however, have one member of staff who’s been here nineteen years – a Mister Gregory Dawson. He might very well remember Toby Flagg.’ She stood up. ‘We’ll walk down to his class. He has a support assistant, so he should be able to talk to you in the corridor.’

  They followed Ms Killian along winding corridors that were littered with miniature furniture; waist-high silver coat hooks outside classrooms; pairs of child-sized yellow Wellington boots in neat rows; impressive works of art in crayon and water-based paint stuck on the walls about the night sky, the numerous world religions; and some dubious-looking self-portraits.

  Eventually, they arrived at the classroom of “Mr Dawson: Blackbird5”.

  ‘Wait here, I’ll just pop in and ask Mister Dawson to come out and talk to you.’

  Not long after, a large man with short spiky blond hair, a ruddy complexion and a garish striped tie appeared with Ms Killian. He looked more like a children’s entertainer than a teacher. ‘Greg Dawson,’ he said holding out his hand. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Toby Flagg.’

  ‘The body in the lock?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Damned shame. A really bright boy. Obtained a wonderful score on his 11-plus examination, and was due to take up a place at Stockport Grammar School until his mother moved back to . . . Chester, I believe.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Dark said.

  ‘I had high hopes for him, but then his father was killed by a joyrider . . . Damned shame.’

  ‘You don’t have any idea who the joyrider might have been, do you?’

  Dawson shook his head. ‘No. If I had, I would have informed that female detective at the time.’

  ‘Did you hear any rumours about who the joyrider might have been?’

  ‘Same reply.’

  ‘Did you speak to Toby after his father had been killed?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I think Mister Flagg died in June. Toby came back to school in the first week of July, and the summer break began a couple of weeks later. He’d changed. Prior to his father’s death, he’d been a happy-go-lucky boy, but when he returned he was sullen and morose. In class, he was the ideal pupil, always the first to put his hand up to answer questions, but I don’t recall him doing that once during those last two weeks.’

  ‘What about friends – male and female?’

  ‘Everybody liked him. He didn’t have a best friend, but I think he had a bit of a crush on one of the girls . . .’

  ‘Leah Rice?’

  ‘You’re like one of those magicians who pulls rabbits, pigeons and alligators out of a hat. How on earth . . .?’

  ‘We’ve already met Miss Rice. She gave Toby a lift on Monday afternoon.’

  ‘Yes, it was Leah Rice. Toby followed her around like a puppy, and she treated him like a servant. He didn’t seem to mind though, he was besotted with her. He was merely happy that she noticed him.’

  ‘Well, thanks very much for your help, Mister Dawson.’ He passed the teacher a card. ‘If anything else comes to mind that you think might help us, please call.’

  ‘It won’t help Toby though, will it?’

  ‘No. I’m afraid he’s beyond any help now. All we can do is find justice for him.’

  Ms Killion showed them out.

  Dark shook the Headteacher’s hand. ‘Thank you for your co-operation, Ms Killion.’

  ‘It’s always been my belief that we, as public servants, must set an example for the great unwashed.’

  Chapter Ten

  He stared at the dashboard. ‘Where’s the satnav?’

  ‘Yeah right! They didn’t have satnavs in 1987.’

  ‘You can buy them to stick on your windscreen, you know.’

  ‘Do you see a cigarette lighter anywhere?’

  He examined the basic 2CV dashboard – there was nothing apart from a shelf ‘Why are you driving around in something out of the dark ages when your father is a Chief Constable?’

  ‘He offered to buy me a new Mercedes sports car, but . . .’

  ‘And you didn’t snap his hand off?’

  ‘I’ve had Monty since I was at university. I didn’t want to betray his many years of faithful service.’

  ‘That ruthless streak will get you a long way in the police force, Lake. So, what’s your plan for getting us to the Inland Waterways Association in Congleton?’

  ‘Don’t you know the way?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I have an A to Z.’

  ‘Reading a map while you’re driving is also illegal.’

  ‘You could . . .’

  ‘I’m a Detective Inspector, not a map reader. I have thinking to do.’

  ‘We could stay here and wait for a miracle, or we could go back to Bootle Street and retrieve your car?’

  ‘Where’s the map?’

  ‘On the back seat.’

  ‘I’ll let you find it.’

  She rummaged through the layers of clothing, crisp packets, plastic water bottles, shoes, books an
d papers until she eventually found what she was looking for. ‘Got it!’ she said, and passed him a curled up yellowing copy of a Manchester A to Z.

  He fingered it gingerly, turned it over to inspect it for smears of food or rat droppings, and sniffed it. ‘Are you living in this jalopy?’

  ‘Monty and I have shared a bed together in the past, but now I have an apartment that resembles a cardboard box, so I leave him outside in the cold and rain. Of course, I feel guilty . . .’

  ‘It needs cleaning.’

  ‘I know he does. I haven’t had much time, or the inclination to clean him lately.’

  As her mother had just passed away, he decided to give her the benefit of the doubt, but his doubt benefits were definitely running low.

  It had been a long time since he’d used an A to Z, and he had to dredge his memory in an effort to remember how it worked. He turned to the index at the back, found Rope Walk, the page number and grid reference, turned to the stated page and located the road he was looking for. ‘Okay. Head for Congleton town centre.’

  It took a while for the engine to start, but eventually the noise and juddering began again.

  Lake stopped the car at Rose Hill Primary School entry/exit gates and said, ‘Which way?’

  He had to bite his tongue. A satnav would have given them all the directions they needed. Which way? How the hell should he know? He looked up and down the road, but there were no signs for Congleton, so he had to open the A to Z again and work out which way to point the car from their present position. ‘Turn left. Follow the signs for Hazel Grove, Poynton and Macclesfield. Congleton is the other side of Macclesfield.’

  She indicated left and set off. ‘I’m running low on petrol. I might have to stop at a garage.’

  ‘That’s no problem.’

  ‘It is – I have no money.’

  He sighed. ‘You’re becoming a burden, Lake.’

  ‘You’re the one who wanted to come in my car.’

  ‘You should have made it clear what obstacles we’d face by coming in your car.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘You should have done.’

  ‘So should you.’

  ‘Just drive. When you pass a petrol station – pull in. I suppose I have no choice but to pay.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And stop talking.’

  ‘You’re a miserable bastard . . . Sir.’

  It took Lake over an hour to reach Congleton.

  He dozed fitfully most of the way. He hadn’t had much sleep for a couple of days now. Every time he closed his eyes he had visions of Ellie prostituting herself to old men on streets, in bars, along canals and on the third floor of Force HQ . . .

  ‘We’re here.’

  He wiped the dribble from the corner of his mouth. ‘Here where?’

  ‘Congleton.’

  ‘On Rope Walk?’

  ‘No. I don’t know where that is. We’re just coming into Congleton.’

  It took him a handful of seconds to get his bearings. Then he located their position on the map and said, ‘Take the next left.’

  They crossed over the River Dane.

  ‘Right at the roundabout and then first right . . . Go down to the end.’

  ‘Hey! There it is. You could get a job as a satnav.’

  He ignored her. Secretly, he was glad he’d actually found the place. He could imagine what she would have said if he’d got them lost, even though it was her fault for not having a satnav in the first place.

  The IWA had offices in an old red-brick building called Watersedge Mill, presumably because it sat beside the River Dane and used to be a textile mill.

  ‘Why are we here?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘I’m asking you.’

  ‘We want to know who was on the canal at the time of the murder?’

  ‘More accurately, we want to know which narrowboats passed through the lock between 11 p.m. on Monday night and 3 a.m. on Tuesday morning.’

  ‘Yes, but they won’t be able to tell us that.’

  ‘So, we should just give up?’

  ‘Well no, but . . .’

  ‘I’m glad about that. Let’s go.’

  Dark showed his Warrant Card to the old grey-haired woman sitting behind a desk in the reception. She wore a calf-length flower-patterned dress, squinted through a pair of pince-nez glasses that hung around her neck on a grey cord, and in her nobly hands were a pair of knitting needles that were click-clacking away on what looked like a baby’s jumpsuit.

  She peered at the card. ‘A Detective Inspector?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And is Dark your real name, or a pseudonym?’

  ‘It’s my real name.’

  ‘Are you a dark type of person as well?’

  ‘I’m not here to answer questions. I’m here to ask them.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that answers my question, doesn’t it?’ She looked at Lake. ‘What about you, dearie?’

  ‘I’m not a dark person.’

  ‘No, I can see that.’ She glared at Dark. ‘But he is, isn’t he?’

  ‘Definitely. They don’t come much darker than him.’

  ‘Mmmm! I can always tell. He has eyes that burrow into your soul and rummages about in your secrets. Never smiles that I can see, and carries his troubles around like he’s the only one who ever had any. Well, what do you want with me, Inspector Darkness?’

  ‘Are you in charge, Mrs . . .?’

  ‘Mildred Taylor?’ The woman laughed like a Mongolian gerbil. ‘No, I’m not in charge thank you very much. That’ll be Mister Sheldon.’

  ‘Is he available?’

  ‘I suppose you’d like me to go and ask him, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Please.’

  She put her knitting down on the desk and shuffled to a door on the wall opposite the entrance.

  ‘I think she had the measure of you,’ Lake said.

  ‘Like I have the measure of you?’

  Lake pulled a face, but didn’t answer back.

  A man appeared. His hairline began more towards the back of his head than the front, and it seemed as though he wanted to keep as much of the straw-like hair as he could, because it had been left to grow long and unkempt, and there were tufts of grey sprouting up in disparate places like pampas grass.

  ‘A Detective Inspector,’ he said. ‘We are honoured.’ He licked his lips as he noticed Lake, took her right hand in his and kissed the back of it. ‘And who might you be?’

  ‘I’m Detective Constable Annie Lake.’

  ‘How divine. You have the most wonderful eyes. We can do something with your hair, I’m sure. And I imagine you have a very nice figure underneath those winter clothes. I would love to have you model for me.’

  ‘I thought you ran the IWA?’

  ‘Oh, I do, but I’m also a keen amateur photographer. I could provide you with a very tasteful portfolio.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Dark said. ‘We’re not here so that you can take pornographic photographs of my partner.’

  ‘No – I said tasteful.’

  ‘That’s the same thing, isn’t it?’

  Sheldon’s brow furrowed. ‘Why are you here, Inspector?’

  ‘We’re investigating a murder that took place around 3 a.m. on Tuesday morning at Lock Number 9 in Marple on the Peak Forest Canal.’

  ‘And how do you think I can help?’

  ‘I’d like to know which boats passed through the lock between 11 p.m. on Monday night and 3 a.m. on Tuesday and who was in those boats.’

  ‘Do you know how many boats and people that could be?’

  ‘No, that’s why I’m asking.’

  ‘It will take some time – days, possibly weeks – for me to collate the data.’

  ‘Do you have the information?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Is it possible to identify which boats went through Lock Number 9 between those times.’

  Sheldon slowly shook his head. ‘Do you kno
w what happens on the canal?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘People hire the narrowboats. On the day of the hire, after a quick lesson in how to operate and navigate the boat, they set off, travel along the canal as far as they can, turn around and then take the boat back to where they hired it from.’

  ‘Sounds exciting.’

  ‘Some people think so. Hire boats have to be taken back before it gets dark. And day-hirers are not permitted to travel along the canal or operate the locks at night either. So, the only boats on the canal at that time in the morning would have been those owners who live in their boats, but most of them would have been moored up. A lot are permanently moored, some are semi-permanent. A few travel up and down the canal when the mood takes them. Very few – if any – travel at night.’

  ‘Does that mean you have no idea where a boat is on the canal at any point in time?’

  ‘I suppose, if one was interested, one could plot the locations based on speed, time and distance, but I’m not going to do that for you.’

  ‘But you’ve got the information for one of our experts to be able to carry out the calculations?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He glanced at Lake. ‘Phone Burrows. Tell her what we’re trying to do. I’d like someone to construct a map of the canal, which shows me where every boat was located at the time of the murder. She should have someone who can do that. Ask her for an email address and telephone number, so that Mister Sheldon can send them the information.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Does that work for you, Sheldon?’

  ‘I can do that.’

  ‘Good. Thanks for your help.’ He stared at Lake. ‘I’ll be waiting outside. Don’t be long, and don’t give him your card.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You know why not.’

  He made his way outside. What was he doing travelling around in Lake’s wreck? He’d made some bad decisions in his time, but opting to use her car instead of his own today definitely ranked with the worst of them.