'Maybe council business records for the period would churn out some information, if not the owner's name,' Smithson said.
'Stating the obvious but I'd imagine they could be named Bates. I mean the seventies was kind of like that from what I remember growing up. There was a corner shop at the end of our street called Thornton's Corner Store. Whether these Bates would still be living is any body’s guess, but it's definitely worth taking a punt on, along with a look at the archives at what businesses were on top of those drains during the 1970s. Anything else we should know?'
Smithson picked up a lower arm bone. ‘See this in the bone?' he said, pointing to a gouge about two inches in length and an eighth of an inch deep. ‘It's a blunt force trauma, maybe a defence wound from a fight.'
CHAPTER 11
‘I've just come back from the mortuary and we now have something to work with regarding our mystery man. Unfortunately the DNA results are going to take longer than usual to come back, since we are literally working with a skeleton.
'The back of his skull has been stoved in with a fire extinguisher which Jeff Foxhall and I discovered further down the drain. So, whoever murdered him tried to bury the weapon along with his body. There's also a gouge on the radius bone, which could be a defensive wound. But we’ve no way of telling if this was inflicted when he was attacked, or sometime before, given the bones have been in that tunnel for forty years or more. Having said that, the leather jacket he was wearing has provided some clues, all be them circumstantial. Ten pound notes that were in circulation between1973-1978, some loose change, and a book of matches with the name and address of a café that used to be on the site where he was found. These were all discovered in a stainless steel cigarette case in the jacket pocket. Before I dish out the tasks, does anyone have any questions?' Blake asked his team of assembled officers.
Several officers shook the heads.
'OK, I'll be following up on the matches to see if I can find the original owner of Bates Café. We'll liaise back here, early morning, to go through any updates,’ he said, ending the briefing.
CHAPTER 12
Blake arrived home around 6:30p.m., starving. Thankfully, his daughter, Isabel, had texted him with the welcome news that she cooked spaghetti bolognese earlier; no crappy takeaway or tedious chopping of vegetables tonight, he thought.
She was back home from Liverpool Uni for a few days and he was looking forward to spending some time with her. It seemed like ages since they'd had a catch-up. Like any father, he worried about her, but probably more than most, given it was only seventeen months since her kidnap and the tragic events leading to the discovery that she had a brain tumour. Thank God the proton therapy in the US had given him his daughter back. The thought of losing her was far too painful to bear.
His wife and son would have been so proud of how she'd grown into such a caring, kind young woman. If only they could see her. Dylan would have been twenty-years old now. Even ten years after the crash, he still missed them terribly.
Glassy eyed, he turned off the ignition of his 1967 Jaguar Roadster, grabbed his leather portfolio from the passenger seat and climbed out of the vehicle. As he entered the open-plan kitchen-dining room, Isabel greeted him with a hug and a cold bottle of Moretti, the perfect companion for Italian food.
'Ah, that garlic bread smells great, Izzy.'
'Hope you're hungry, Dad. It's a full baguette,' she smiled.
'I could eat a bloody horse; it's been one of those days. We didn't get any lunch. Some bloke, off his head on Monkey Dust, almost jumped off the old multi-storey in town.'
'Why?'
'From what he told me, he's had a tough life with drugs and homelessness. The fact social services are denying him access to his young lad finally pushed him to do something drastic.'
'Makes you realise how easily people can become suicidal when they feel society has let them down badly,' she said, thoughtfully.
'Seems the psychology degree is illuminating. How's the forensics going?' He had tried hard to dissuade her from a career path toward working with the police, but, like him, she was stubborn and determined, so he'd stepped back and accepted it. At least if she did decide to stay in Stoke-on-Trent, he could keep a protective eye on her.
'Good, yeah. We're working in crime scene environments and the lab at the minute. It's really fascinating.'
'Glad you are enjoying it. The CSI team we use are very knowledgeable and dedicated. That could be you one day, Izzy?’
She shrugged shyly, 'Maybe. We'll have to see how things work out, Dad.'
'Speaking of crime scenes. We were called to a demolition site opposite the multi storey. Workmen there discovered human remains in a disused drain.'
She looked surprised, 'A body?'
'Bones in a jacket and boots, to be precise. You know I can’t talk about it, Izzy: police policy and all that.'
'I'm sure I can get more out of you once you've had a few bottles of beer,' she smirked.
She topped the spaghetti with large dollops of steaming bolognese sauce and carried the pasta bowls over to the table.
CHAPTER 13
The next morning, DI Blake phoned the council business rates office and spoke to a very helpful lady. She’d worked in the department for years and vaguely remembered Bates Café from her youth. He arranged to pay her a visit.
He headed to her office in the new Smithfield council building, coined the Rubik's Cube by locals after it was listed in the top ten worst building designs of 2018. It was a sixty-million pound monstrosity which only housed half the staff: yet another gross waste of tax payers’ money. But it didn’t surprise him in the least, as most of the decision-makers rolled in on trains from south of Birmingham, collected their obscene salaries for a few years, then sodded off to wreck another regional town. Their short-sighted decisions destroyed local livelihoods and historic buildings they knew nothing about. At the station, they’d nicknamed them the Mercenaries.
'I managed to pull up the records you're looking for, Inspector. Clifford Bates was the registered owner for over thirty years, before he handed the reins to his daughter, Joanne. The café closed in 1997, and was re-purposed and re-opened as a hardware store before the site was condemned in 2012.' 'Brilliant, that's really helpful. Do you have contact details for Mr Bates, assuming he's still alive, that is?’ Blake asked the clerk.
She shuffled a few old-looking A4 papers and dropped one onto her desk.
'Here we are. Bates, Clifford, aged seventy-one. Last known registered address for council tax is 44 Newfield Close, Packmoor. There's a land-line number, as well. If you sign this data protection form, I can photocopy this for you.'
Blake fished his Parker pen from his jacket pocket and signed the form. 'Thanks Elaine, you've been a huge help.'
CHAPTER 14
Blake drew up his Jag outside Clifford Bates’ Packmoor residence: a pristine bungalow with topiary box bushes, skilfully carved into neat balls, lining the block-paved driveway.
Turning to PC Emerson, who sat in the passenger seat, he said, 'Nice place. Looks like someone’s a keen gardener?'
'It’s lovely, Boss.'
He'd brought the young uniformed officer along to help her gain experience. Soon he'd be recommending her for a step up to CID. She was intuitive and often provided valuable insights his DCs failed to notice.
They were permitted into the bungalow by Mr Bates. He ushered them along the hallway to the living room.
'Please, have a seat?' he said, with an open hand toward the burgundy leather armchairs that matched the three-seater sofa. Blake dropped into the chair nearest to Bates and glanced around the room. A large mahogany bookcase on the back wall contained what looked like Readers’ Digest hardbacks, judging by the gold fonts on the spines.
'I didn't want to go into detail on the phone, but we've found a book of matches from your old café on the East-West Precinct.’
‘Oh?’ Mr Bates looked startled.
‘It was in the jacket poc
ket of a dead body. The skeleton of a man, in fact. The remains were found in an old drain that had been built over at some point in the past.' Blake passed him a photocopy of an architect's plan of the precinct from 1970.
'Good God. When you said you wanted to speak with me about human remains, I was shocked, but didn't expect this. You think the victim may have used my café at some point?'
'Yes. Take a look at this precinct plan. I've highlighted the position of your place in relation to where the man’s bones were found. Unfortunately, the council can't tell us what business was on the exact spot, because it changed hands frequently over the years. Seems there's a gap in the records.'
Bates studied it. 'That's terrible. Any idea who it is?'
'Not yet, the DNA results aren't back in.'
'Such a shame the council neglected the site after my daughter took over the café. It was thriving, back then. No doubt they'll build some monstrosity once the rubble is cleared.' He looked thoughtfully at the plan, tracing his finger between the café and the deposition site.
'I know it's a long time ago, but it would be hugely helpful if you could remember?' Blake asked.
Bates ran his hand through his threadbare white hair, 'The Golden Nugget was on the site there between 1973 and 1978. Definitely. I'll never forget the pair of thugs who ran that amusement arcade,' he said, adamantly.
'Thugs?' Blake said.
'The Wilder brothers. Certainly lived up to their name, that pair. Before your time, Inspector. Lenny and Johnny, reputed to be up to all sorts. It was rumoured the Nugget was just a front for criminal activity. Thankfully, I never crossed paths with them. But I heard stories from a few people who did. The café was a social hub, back then. Bus drivers, shoppers, and most of the staff who worked in the shops on the precinct, used it. People knew each other, there was a great sense of community, and no bloody McDonald's or any other of those chains that dominate the high streets these days,' he said, bitterly.
Blake glanced at Emerson to ensure she'd got it all down.
'I see. Sounds like you had a successful business, Mr Bates. Going back to the Wilder brothers, do you know anyone who was involved with them directly?'
'As it happens, I do. George Rills. He worked in the change booth at The Golden Nugget, full time. On his breaks he used to come into the café for a smoke and a cup of tea. Frail sort, Georgie was. Not very confident with the ladies, and he seemed petrified of his bosses, I seem to recall. He had an accident that left him disabled.'
Blake glanced at Emerson. This was absolute gold. Considering his age, Clifford Bates was sharp as a tack.
'What happened to George Rills? Have you heard if he's still alive and in the area?' Blake asked, hopeful.
'Unfortunately, at my age you lose touch with most people. My wife would’ve been able to tell you, but she passed away eight years ago,' Bates said, glancing mournfully at a photo on the mantelpiece.
'Sorry to hear that. You must miss her terribly?' Blake said.
Bates sighed, 'Yes, we worked together for over thirty years. Suppose I've been lucky. Some people never get to know that kind of happiness.'
Having lost his own wife and son, Blake knew that feeling of grief and despair all too well. 'It must be hard for you living here alone?’
'I do OK. I've got the dog,’ he glanced at the ageing collie lying in front of the fireplace. ‘And my daughter pops round a couple of times a week for a natter and brings me a bottle of ale.'
'Sorry to change the subject, but going back to the Wilder's: these rumours, can you elaborate on those?' Blake said, realising he'd gone off topic.
'It could be just gossip, but I heard they beat people up who owed them money. I know they were womanisers. Saw both brothers with different women, regularly. There was even talk of prostitutes at a club they owned. Huge bloody place across town: The Heavy Steam Machine, I think it was called. Lenny's girlfriend used to do a few shifts for me in the café around that time.’
'I know it’s such a long time ago, but can you remember her name, Mr Bates?'
'I forget a lot of stuff these days, but I'm quite good with names. Margot Matheson. She was a cracking looking young lady; all the blokes wanted her on their arm. God knows what she saw in Lenny Wilder: ugly brute, he was.'
'I see. Did this Margot ever reveal anything about Lenny?'
'No, she only worked a few months for us.'
'Do you know what happened to the Wilder brothers in the end?'
'All I know is, they dropped off the radar after Lenny disappeared in seventy-eight.'
Blake’s brows rose. ‘When you say disappeared, what exactly do you mean?'
'Again, I only heard speculation, but it was going around the precinct that Lenny Wilder had met his match. Maybe they ran him out of town.'
'Can you remember when in seventy-eight?'
'Late September, I think. The police visited all the shops on the precinct asking if anyone knew anything. We knew it was serious because they sent a detective, along with the uniformed officers.'
'A detective?
'Yes.'
'Again, I know it was years ago, but can you remember his name?'
Bates paused in thought for a minute, 'Er... no I can't, sorry, Inspector.'
'Not to worry. We'll find out from our old case files in the archives back at the station.'
'I remember the arcade closed overnight. After that, I didn't hear about the Wilders again. Although I believe Johnny's still alive.'
'So it's just possible the human remains could be Lenny Wilder?'
'I suppose so,' Clifford Bates said.
CHAPTER 15
Back at the station, Blake called a meeting in the Major Incident Room.
'OK, listen up everyone. PC Emerson and I have just spoken to Clifford Bates, the owner of Bates Café on the East-West Precinct in the seventies. He's provided some extremely useful intel on who I think could be our man in the drains. It’s only speculative at this point, but given what he told us, I think there's a strong possibility that it's wide-boy Lenny Wilder who, according to Bates, disappeared in September 1978.’ Blake paused and took a sip of water. 'Mr Bates also suggested Lenny's brother, Johnny Wilder, may still be alive. John, check the Misper database for him, and seventies records on HOLMES to see if these brothers are on there. If they've got form, like Mr Bates suggested, we may get lucky. Can you also check who the investigating officer was? Mr Bates remembers the police questioning everyone who worked on the precinct about Lenny's disappearance: a more senior detective accompanied by some PCs, apparently.'
'Bloody hell. The old man's got a decent memory,' DS Moore said.
'Yeah, he's sharp. His intel could prove invaluable. If we can find Johnny Wilder, we'll be able to get DNA. DS Moore, I want you to check the electoral registers for a woman Bates employed briefly, Margot Matheson. She went out with Lenny Wilder back in 1978. If it is him, she may know something. Any questions?'
'Boss, what makes Clifford Bates think these brothers were organised crime?' DS Brogan asked.
‘Rumours going around at the time implied they were into loan-sharking and prostitution, with connections to a nightclub called The Heavy Steam Machine, in Hanley. Both were ladies’ men and fairly unsavoury characters, by all accounts. Another person of interest is George Rills. Mr Bates said he worked at the Wilder brothers’ amusement arcade.
'To recap: our number one priority is to find Johnny Wilder, if he's still alive, and bring him in for questioning and a familial DNA test.’
'Any forensics back on the skeleton yet, Boss?’ DC Longsdon asked.
'No. Apparently, the lab extracts the best DNA samples from the femur and teeth. So, it could take up to fourteen days, but Felix has stressed the urgency, so we might get those in the next few days.'
CHAPTER 16
DS Murphy approached Blake as he headed to the coffee machine in the new galley kitchenette at the back of the CID office.
'Boss, I've got the name and address of the DI
who investigated Lenny Wilder's disappearance. Vincent Brady. He was a prolific thief-taker back in his day, judging by some of his case notes from1978,' he said, waving the notes in his right hand.
'Brilliant, John. Anything else turn up in those?'
'Nothing out of the ordinary for the time. Usual, less than thorough hand-written notes.'
'That's seventies policing for you. No PACE. The top brass weren't all that interested in dotting the Is and crossing the Ts, back then. As long as they got their man, everything else would follow; at least that's what old DI Charlie Tanner told me, God rest his soul.'
Shaking his head, Murphy tutted.' Not very PC, slating the old squad. To be fair, they didn't have computers, mobiles or internet,' he smirked.
'I suppose an address is pushing my luck?' Blake jested.
'Now you're asking! As it happens, I do. Mine’s a pint of that new Goose Island IPA they've got at the Smith’s.'
'You can have two pints, if you sort out a patrol car. I'm taking Emerson with me, she needs the experience. I'm encouraging her to apply for a transfer to CID on a permanent basis.’
'Really?
'Yeah. She carried herself much better than the lads during the Staffordshire Hoard case. She'd make a great DC.' Blake said.
'OK. It's a done deal,' Murphy said, patting his shoulder.
****
Blake noted PC Emerson's driving was much smoother than DS Murphy's, which often made him feel nervous because he took the corners too fast.
Like Clifford Bates, retired Detective Inspector Vincent Brady, seemed in good shape for his age.
'Please, come in,' he said, ushering them down the terracotta-tiled hallway into the kitchen of his large detached Victorian villa on Hillman Street, Longton.
The Missing And The Dead: A tense crime thriller with a shocking twist Page 3
