Josiah Dark Thrillers Box Set

by Tim Ellis

  Dixie grunted. ‘Have it your way.’

  He went to the toilet, came back, lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes. ‘Good work today, you two.’

  ‘Come on, Hendrik,’ he heard Dixie say. ‘It’s obvious we’re not wanted here.’

  The light went out.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sunday, January 19

  He’d woken up at five and remembered that he’d fallen asleep on Dixie’s threadbare sofa. Sometimes, exhaustion forced his eyes to close and his brain to shut down. Of course, the half dozen beers he’d consumed had probably played a small part as well.

  After swilling his face with cold water, and rubbing toothpaste on his teeth and gums with his index finger, he’d made a pot of coffee and then gone through into the living room to stare at the three walls. Hendrik and Dixie were still in bed, so he’d had the room to himself.

  He wasn’t too concerned about the killer of the old people. Hendrik and Dixie would get their man or woman, hopefully before anyone else died. Thankfully, he’d shifted Alicia Glover’s abduction onto DCI Campbell-Pegg, and one way or another, the truth about police involvement in the Blackpool paedophile ring would come out. He was still a little bemused as to why Chief Inspector Tom Flowers would throw away everything to warn Abingdon Street Police Station that Dark knew where Alicia Glover was. How was Flowers connected to Abingdon Street? Was he a paedophile himself? Did he know people at the station and decide to warn them? Was he simply trying to protect the already tarnished name of the police force? Whatever it was, he had a feeling that he hadn’t finished with the Alicia Glover case yet.

  Then, there was the murder of Toby Flagg. It seemed that every step forward was accompanied by three steps backwards. He thought Hendrik would be able to trace the pay-off Whitchurch had made to Angela Vickers, but it appeared that Jeffrey Higham had covered his tracks too well. Not just with Albert Flagg’s murder, but also with the murder of Alan Doyle and his family. Maybe the key to unlocking the mystery was waiting for him at 14 Hawthorn Drive in Wilmslow. After speaking to Chief Superintendent Louise Isherwood, giving the press briefing at ten o’clock, taking a short trip to Montague’s Safe Deposit Storage on Ducie Street to examine the CCTV footage of Miranda Flagg entering and leaving the building, and then seeing Doctor Justine Bird at Portman Therapy about sanguivoriphobia, 14 Hawthorn Drive would be his next visit. What would he find? Why had Miranda Flagg moved whatever it was from the safe deposit box to an unsecured location?

  Last, but by no means least, there was his wife Ellie, his two daughters and the mysterious Commander Anthony Baker. Where were they all now? Why had they left the cottage on Underbarrow Road in Kendal? Why had Ellie lied to him about where she was and what she was doing for all those years? Why had she changed her appearance, dressed like a prostitute and picked up men in hotel bars on those dates? Who had murdered and mutilated Colin Derwent? Was it really Ellie? And why had Baker – if it was him – switched the DNA sample in the evidence store at Jewellery Quarter Police Station? Dixie and Hendrik were making two-and-two equal four by assuming that the DNA belonged to Ellie, but did it? The more they found out, the less they seemed to know. None of it made any sense.

  He drove home, shaved, showered, brushed his teeth properly, changed his clothes and made his way to Bootle Street. Along the way, he stopped off at his usual cafe – Shirley’s on Brazennose Street.

  ‘Hello, you,’ Shirley said. She was small and rotund with a double helping of chin, oval glasses and a smile that could light up a dark room.

  ‘Hi, Shirley. How’re things?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Brexit this, Brexit that. They’ve made it a proper word now, you know?’

  ‘The world’s gone crazy.’

  ‘You said it first, Inspector. How’s the investigation going? I’ve been trying to keep up with it as best I can on the television, but you seem to be holding your cards close to your chest.’

  ‘It’s a complex case, but I’m conducting another press briefing at ten o’clock this morning.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to turn the television on and switch it to the news channel for the progress report. What’ll it be?’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘You say that every time, but I’ll tell you what I do have that won’t clog up your arteries and increase your blood pressure.’

  ‘I’ve got a feeling I’m not going to like this.’

  ‘Trust me. I don’t want my customers dying early – it’s bad for business. People come from miles around to eat my wholemeal breakfast muffins. They’re filled with a poached egg, lean roast ham, a slice of reduced-fat cheese, spinach leaves and a pinch of ground black pepper. Now, doesn’t that loosen up your saliva glands?’

  ‘All right, you’ve convinced me. I’ll have two of them with . . .’

  ‘A green smoothie – mango, peach, spinach, banana and water. Mmmm!’ Shirley licked her lips.

  ‘I’ll pass on that. I’m too old to be healthy. Bring me a mug of strong coffee.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re missing,’ she threw over her shoulder as she headed back behind the counter.

  He had a good idea.

  ***

  At eight fifty-five Chief Superintendent Louise Isherwood clomped down the stairs in a pair of fur-lined mid-calf suede leather black boots, a long skirt that brushed the top of the boots, a thick woollen jacket, a chunky scarf, a woolly hat and gloves. Her cheeks had a ruddy glow to them. ‘I hate you with a passion this morning, Dark. I can’t believe you’d drag me out of my lovely warm bed on a petrified Sunday morning to come down here to your dingy basement.’

  ‘You’re certainly dressed for the occasion.’

  ‘It’s like the Arctic tundra out there.’ She snuggled into the chair in front of his desk. ‘I hope you’re going to offer me hot coffee?’

  ‘Only the best for a senior officer of your calibre and stature, Ma’am.’

  ‘Don’t think I don’t know that you’re taking the piss, Dark. All senior officers are briefed about you when they take up post.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘Don’t be. Nothing of what they say is complimentary about you in any way.’

  ‘Except for my clear-up rate of one hundred percent?’

  ‘If it wasn’t for that . . .’

  ‘They’d promote me to DCI and move me in with all the other incompetents?’

  ‘Why do you say such things?’

  ‘Because they’re true.’ He headed for the kitchen. ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Three with a drop of milk.’

  ‘You’re not going to keep your hour-glass figure by having three sugars in your coffee, Ma’am.’

  She laughed. ‘I’m afraid the sand dribbled out of the hourglass a few years ago.’

  He put the coffee down in front of her. ‘I’m sure that’s not true, but with all those layers of clothes on, it’s extremely difficult to tell one way or the other.’

  After taking a sip of the coffee she said, ‘And they’re staying on as well. So, tell me about the case you’re working on, Inspector.’

  ‘It began with a body in the Peak Forest Canal at Lock Number 9, which is located between Marple and Marple Bridge in Stockport, Cheshire. A young man was found there on Wednesday afternoon, but he’d been murdered in the early hours of Tuesday morning. And if that weren’t bad enough, he’d had a wooden stake hammered through his heart. We were blessed with very few leads to begin with, but after going above and beyond the call of duty we eventually discovered his identity to be that of Toby Flagg . . .’ He shifted to the whiteboard and went through the timeline that he and Lake had constructed, which created a link between Miranda and Albert Flagg; Whitchurch Architectural Partnership; Jeffrey Higham; Alan Doyle and ACC Vickers. ‘Anyway, to cut a short story long, DC Lake and I initially believed that Flagg was killed because of what had happened fifteen years ago, but we no longer believe that now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’re almost sure
that Toby Flagg is Jeffrey Higham’s son, and a father wouldn’t hammer a wooden stake into his own son’s heart, which leaves us with no suspect for his murder after three days of investigation. However, what we might have found are possible solutions to the murders of Albert Flagg, and Alan Doyle and his family fifteen years ago; and identified a corrupt copper . . .’

  ‘Who’s now an Assistant Chief Constable?’

  ‘That may be so, but rank doesn’t absolve her of past crimes.’

  ‘You have no evidence.’

  He checked his watch – it was nine-twenty. He sat back down at his desk. He couldn’t tell Isherwood about any of the things Hendrik had illegally uncovered about Angela Vickers, such as the two hundred and fifty thousand pound pay-off, and the multiple bank accounts in the name of Nina Courtney. ‘I’m going to tell the press that Toby Flagg’s death is linked to crimes committed fifteen years’ ago, and that a local company are under investigation.’

  ‘What do you hope to achieve by that?’

  ‘Jeffrey Higham at Whitchurch will want to know the name of that local company and what we know, and guess who he’ll contact to find that out for him?’

  ‘ACC Angela Vickers?’

  ‘Yes. It’s my guess she’ll call me within an hour of the press briefing being aired on television.’

  ‘And what if she doesn’t?’

  ‘We’ll have to go back to the drawing board, but I have every confidence she’ll call. We also have the E-FITs from Rose Hill train station . . .’

  ‘Even if one of them turns out to be Higham, it doesn’t provide evidence of anything.’

  ‘And then there’s the photograph of the unknown man in Rhyl with Miranda Flagg, which is probably Jeffrey Higham . . .’

  Isherwood shook her head. ‘That isn’t proof of anything either. Not only that, because Miranda and Albert Flagg are both dead, nobody can prove or disprove Higham’s version of events.’

  ‘And then there’s the fingerprints and DNA found on the note sent to Miranda Flagg, which we need to compare against . . .’

  ‘Do you think Higham will willingly oblige and let you take his fingerprints and a sample of his DNA, so that you can pin a fifteen year-old murder on him?’

  ‘I also have whatever is waiting for me at 14 Hawthorn Drive in Wilmslow.’

  ‘Which could be nothing at all.’

  He noticed DS Joydeep Murali’s report concerning the list of Albert Flagg’s contract oversight for Whitchurch between 1991 and 2002 sitting in the fax machine, but decided to read the Sergeant’s conclusion first before giving Isherwood the opportunity to dismiss it out of hand.

  ‘You have such a negative outlook on life, Ma’am.’

  ‘Your case against Higham and Vickers is held together by spit and wishful thinking.’

  ‘Something will turn up.’ He thought he sounded like Wilkins Micawber in Charles Dickens’ Hard Times.

  ‘And what about the murder in Marple that you’re really meant to be investigating?’

  ‘We’re left with Abraham Van Helsing as our prime suspect.’

  ‘Who’s a fictional character in book and film. And anyway, Peter Cushing died over twenty years ago.’

  ‘I have one word for you: sanguivoriphobia.’

  ‘That’s a lovely word.’

  ‘It means the fear of blood eaters, which are commonly known as vampires.’

  ‘And you think the killer might have thought Toby Flagg was a vampire?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s one line of enquiry, which is based on the number 794 being engraved on the wooden stake that was hammered into Flagg’s heart. Forensics have suggested that it might refer to Genesis 9:4, because the letter “G” is the seventh letter of the alphabet:

  But you shall not eat flesh with its life, that is, its blood.

  ‘I’m assuming that Toby Flagg wasn’t a vampire?’

  ‘Professor Finn has assured me that he wasn’t, but an irrational mind might have had other ideas. I have a twelve o’clock appointment with a Doctor Justine Bird at Portman Therapy on Windmill Street to discuss the possibilities.’

  ‘I can’t imagine she’ll have much success with you, Dark.’

  ‘I live in hope of a cure, Ma’am. The other line of enquiry we have is a homeless man called Joseph Corbyn – no relation to the current Labour leader as far as I’m aware – whose DNA was found on Toby Flagg’s jacket a short distance away from the crime scene. We don’t think he’s the killer, but we’re hoping he might have seen something. So far though, we haven’t been able to locate him.’

  ‘It sounds like your one hundred percent clear-up rate could be in jeopardy, Dark.’

  ‘That’s extremely unlikely. In fact, I’ll be in credit, because I’ll be solving six murders that either belonged to someone else, or were classified as accidents. So, you can inform the senior officers you hob-nob around with that I’ll have a clear-up rate of a hundred and six percent. And that’s not counting the missing nine year-old girl I rescued in my spare time last night.’

  ‘A missing child?’

  ‘It’s a long story. Alicia Glover was abducted on a day out with her parents in Blackpool three years ago. I’ve passed the case onto DCI Campbell-Pegg. It’s more up her alley than mine. So, you can see that not only am I clearing up my cases, but other people’s as well.’

  ‘What would we do without you, Dark?’

  ‘I’ve had similar narcissistic thoughts, Ma’am.’ He stood up. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better go out there and give the press the good news. Are you coming to take a bow?’

  ‘You jest. I’m keeping warm in here.’

  ‘It shouldn’t take too long, and then we can be warm together while we wait for the phone call that will come from ACC Vickers.’

  ***

  ‘Thank you for coming along on this cold and frosty morning,’ he said to the reporters, television crews and other interested parties who had ventured out in the hope that he was going to tell them something newsworthy. They were huddled into the confines of the car park at the rear of the station, and the rumble of intermittent traffic on the A34 could be heard on the other side of the high brick wall. He noticed the television cameras were rolling from ABC1, Granada, BBC News, MKTV, CNX and NBC Europe.

  ‘It’s a bit more than cold and frosty, Inspector,’ a woman advised him from the back of the assembly.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place if you were expecting an accurate weather report, Madam. So, shall we begin? The dead body found in the Peak Forest Canal at Lock Number 9 in Marple on Wednesday afternoon we now know to be that of twenty five year-old Toby Flagg. Mister Flagg had recently returned to the area after a number of years away. He was killed in the early hours of Tuesday morning and the cause of death was a sliver of wood through the heart.’

  A hand shot up. ‘Mabel Webb from the Marple Review, Inspector. Was Toby Flagg a vampire?’

  He’d deliberately avoided the word “stake” to steer people’s thoughts away from the idea.

  ‘You again, Mrs Webb? Well, after a comprehensive post-mortem examination, the forensic pathologist – Professor Daniel Finn from Wythenshawe Hospital – has assured me he was not. So, I think we can put an end to any notions you might have had of there being a nest of vampires in Marple. I informed you all at the last briefing that we had no leads and no suspects. That has now changed, and I can tell you that Toby Flagg’s death appears to be linked to crimes committed fifteen years’ ago, and that a local company are currently under investigation.’

  A man cleared his throat. ‘Andrew Chichester from the Stockport Advertiser. Can you tell us the name of this local company?’

  ‘I expect to make an announcement in the next couple of days.’ He pointed to one of the reporters with a shock of ginger hair who was trying to get his attention.

  ‘Maurice Penketh from Radio Sunset 102. Can you give us any information on these fifteen year-old crimes?’

  ‘All will be revealed in the fullness of time, M
ister Penketh.’ He felt that he’d got his message across and answered enough stupid questions for one day. ‘Thank you all for coming out on this cold and frosty morning. Please drive safely on the way back to wherever you’ve come from, and keep your distance from the car in front. There’ll be another briefing at nine o’clock tomorrow morning outside Force HQ in Central Park.’

  He made his way back inside. The woman was right – it was a bit more than cold and frosty.

  ‘How did it go?’ Isherwood asked him as he walked down the stairs.

  ‘Fine. Message sent out loud and clear. Now, we wait to discover whether it’s been received, or not.’

  ‘You need a television in here.’

  ‘Why? If I’m out there, I can’t be in here watching myself out there.’

  ‘I’d hate to be your wife, Dark.’

  ‘So did my wife.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t know.’

  He shrugged. ‘No reason you should. The price you pay for being a copper.’ He went into the kitchen. ‘Another coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  After making another pot of coffee and filling two mugs, he went back through into his office.

  ‘What happened?’ Isherwood said, referring to the break-up of his marriage.

  He wasn’t going to discuss his private life with a senior officer, so that she could then inform the hierarchy – it had nothing to do with her, or them. ‘It’s neither interesting, nor important.’

  His phone vibrated.

  ‘Dark?’

  ‘It’s ACC Angela Vickers, Inspector.’

  So that Isherwood could hear both sides of the conversation, he turned the loudspeaker on and placed the phone on the table.

  ‘Good morning, Ma’am. What’s the weather like in Buxton?’

  ‘Cold enough for ice skating on the River Wye.’