'Things would have been different if we could prove it’s him in the films,' Murphy said.
'If only. A defence barrister would pull it to bits. You've seen the stills; that vile paedo in those is about Bates’ height and build, but that's where the similarities end,' Blake said.
'Anything back on the picture of the sunflower and head motif from the gable end?'
'Dougy Taylor texted me half an hour ago. He's coming in to see us in an hour.'
'Brilliant. He knows the area better than anyone.'
'Exactly. I'm hoping he can narrow down the search areas.'
'Any news on Johnny Wilder? I can't believe he's legged it. It’s his brother’s murder we're investigating, for Chrissake. Maybe he was involved in killing him?'
'Actually, that's not a bad theory, given we've got nothing concrete on any of the other suspects; bunch of bloody liars. And it wouldn't be the first time. Animals like the Wilders must have fallen out regularly; especially over money and women.'
CHAPTER 35
'Tom, DS Moore and I have been going through all Vince Brady's cases between seventy-seven and seventy-eight and found another missing girl. Six-year-old Daisy Ellis disappeared in September 1978. The file wasn't transferred from paper to the digital Misper database. In fact, it's been misfiled with cases from 1961 in the archives. We only stumbled across it after a few hours,' DS Murphy said.
'And you think that was done on purpose to hide it?’
'Looks that way to me; even though there's an eight year age difference between the two girls, I have a nagging feeling it could be connected to the Lorna Atwood case?'
'In what way?' Blake asked him.
'We know Brady was less than thorough in both Antonio Lombardi and Lorna Atwood's Misper cases: he failed to find any suspects. It’s striking, all these kids went missing in September 1978, and the common link is Vince Brady. Either he was a terrible copper or just plain negligent?'
'What were the circumstances surrounding the disappearance of this poor little Daisy Ellis?'
'That's the strange thing. It was a house fire that killed her parents, but the fire brigade never found the body of a child: just the two adults.'
'How's that possible?'
'Brady's original report is light on details. Here take a look,' Murphy said, climbing out of his chair and arching his back.
Blake jumped onto the warm office chair and slid his glasses from the top of his head. His eyes skimmed the old case report:
"I was called to the scene of a house fire at 53 Eastwood Road, Stoke. When we arrived the blaze had taken such a strong hold, the chances of survivors were extremely remote, and we were advised to leave the scene for our own safety.
I returned as dawn was breaking to witness the badly charred bodies of David and Bethany Ellis being carried out on stretchers. Neighbours informed me that they definitely saw the little girl enter the house with her parents around 6.30p.m. on the evening before.
After another extensive search of the massively fire-damaged property no dead child was found. However, the back door was ajar and the door window was smashed just above the handle. The fire investigator said this wasn't caused by fire damage, and we agreed it looked suspiciously like a break-in.
A scorched child's comfort blanket and teddy bear were found on a slab pathway near the rear garden gate. That gate led onto an alleyway. DS Nelson and I are of the opinion that someone may have taken the child and our investigation into that is ongoing."
'You weren't joking. This crime scene report is woefully inadequate. In fact, it’s negligent and I'm surprised Brady wasn't disciplined by his superiors at the time. And Daisy was filed as a Misper?'
'Yeah, but again Brady's follow-up was less than thorough. Have a look at the reports.'
Blake flicked through the yellowing case notes, 'According to these, Brady followed the protocols of the day, but put the investigation on a back-burner after only a month; seriously suspicious!'
'I'm convinced if Daisy Ellis's parents had been alive they would have pushed for so much more. Suppose the key question is, how did he get away with this?' Murphy said.
'Maybe he had friends in high places? We'll never know. But I intend to give the old DI a thorough grilling once we've questioned Johnny Wilder. The man has some serious questions to answer,' Blake said, picking up the phone to inform Chief Inspector Coleman of developments.
CHAPTER 36
Albert Carmelo stood looking out of the front window of the modern apartment his old mate had put him up in, rent free, the day he came out of Featherstone Prison. He loved the fact he could see anyone approaching the flat from at least a hundred yards away. Forewarned is forearmed, Lenny always used to say when they got a tip-off the old bill were watching them. God, he missed the buzz of robbing those cash-in-transit vans right from under their noses. The brothers lost interest after buying The Heavy Steam Machine. He'd suspected Lenny was a dirty bastard, but some of those teenage girls the boss had pimped from the V.I.P area, away from prying eyes, made Albert seriously uncomfortable. His own daughter had been a similar age at the time.
A text ping brought him out his reverie. Johnny was in trouble. Even though he was seventy, the mad old bastard could still handle himself in a crisis, but the mention of a gun was serious. Carmelo realised he needed to act fast.
‘On my way,’ he texted back clumsily with one finger.
Slipping the phone into his pocket, Carmelo picked up the keys to the old run-around Johnny had lent him and headed out to the car park. The Bell and Bear on Snow Hill had been boarded-up for years; luckily, he still made a point of carrying his tool bag in the boot of every car he drove. You never knew when you'd need to get in somewhere on spec, or if some unruly twat might need a persuader, say a lump-hammer or jemmy-bar.
****
Ten minutes later, he'd parked his motor in a predominately Asian side street, a few yards down from the derelict pub on the opposite side of the road. Crossing the busy A5006, Carmelo picked up the pace until he reached the boarded-up boozer.
He glanced around to see if anyone was about. The Asian fruit and veg shop opposite seemed quiet, as did the buildings either side. There was no sign of Johnny's motor. After a quick glance left and right, he sneaked down the side alley leading to the back of the pub.
Johnny's silver Mercedes was parked erratically on a sharp angle, as if it had been hurriedly dumped on the small patch of hard core. He sidled past the vehicle and looked for a way into the ramshackle pub.
Whoever was stupid enough to take Johnny had balls. There was no way he'd have gone quietly through the bent-back galvanised steel door in front of him.
Carmelo crouched and entered the pub. Inside, it was dark and the stench of damp, rotting carpet hung heavy in the musty air. Shafts of light pierced through cracks in the boarded-up windows. He passed through the small kitchen into what was once the bar area. The old Carling Black Label and Bass pumps clung to the dust-covered bar-top as a testament to the past.
He fished his knuckle-duster out of his jeans pocket and slipped it on his right hand, then retrieved the jemmy-bar from inside his coat. He scanned the filthy room. Water-stained ceiling panels just about clung to the runners and cross tee sections of the grid that once held them neatly in place. Fitted seating, in deep red valour and covered in pigeon shit, lined the walls.
Where the fuck was Johnny? Then the sound of footsteps on the floorboards above gave him direction. He noticed a curtain hanging in the far corner to the left of the front window. Must be the entrance to the upper floor. He approached it, gripping the jemmy-bar menacingly in his left hand.
****
The damp carpet silenced Albert Carmelo's every step. He stopped on the top stair and listened to Johnny’s weary groans; the wanker who took him must have slapped him around. Carmelo stood motionless for a few seconds, listening to gauge the abductor’s position in the room. The last thing he wanted was to give him the opportunity to get a shot off. Suddenly, he
heard footsteps moving toward the mould-encrusted panelled door in front of him. He knelt to balance his weight.
As the door opened, Carmelo launched the jemmy-bar straight into Matho's crotch. Taken by surprise, the blow completely disabled him. Screaming in pain, he crashed backward onto the floorboards, dropping the gun. Carmelo kicked it across the room, jumped on top of him, and began to pummel his face with the knuckle-duster.
'Albert, no! He's my son!' Johnny Wilder bawled from across the room.
Shocked, Carmelo halted his assault, 'You gotta be fucking joking, Johnny?'
'Deadly serious, mate.' He lifted his aching bones and dragged himself toward them.
Carmelo stood up, arms by his side, the knuckle-duster covered in blood.
'He'll live. I only whacked him a few times: just a thick lip and a couple of teeth missing,' he said like a prize fighter standing over his bludgeoned opponent. 'You never told me you'd got a kid?'
'It was a bit of a shock to me. Can you remember Margot Matheson? Lenny went out with her for about six months back in the day.'
Carmelo paused in thought, 'You mean the real tasty-looking one with long dark hair?'
'That's her. Well, I had a fling with her after Lenny dumped her. She only told me in 2016 about the lad. I've kept an eye on him but he's fallen in with a bad crowd. He's a druggy. Luckily, he's still breathing,' Johnny Wilder said, kneeling beside his estranged son, watching his chest rise and fall.
'So what's going on here, then? When I got your text I thought someone from the old days had taken you.'
'I didn’t have time to explain the details. The mad sod was pointing a gun at my head. His mum’s poisoned him against me,' Wilder said, looking mournfully at Craig.
‘Sounds about right. My ex did the same, but my daughter saw through it in the end.'
‘Believe me, there’s plenty of people from back in the day who'd love to see us rot in prison. Some are squealing like pigs about our past to the coppers right now. I need your help to fucking silence them once and for all, before they send us both down!'
Carmelo shot him a concerned look; he'd only just got out. 'Like who?’
'The cops have spoken to the lad’s mum. She's been spreading the dirt along with that Italian slapper Lombardi and that dirty old paedo Clifford Bates.’
'Oh, fuck, that's all we need. I'd thought that old perv Bates would have turned his toes up by now?'
'No such luck. Don't worry. Everything's in hand. I'm going to sort those grasses out. But I won't be able to if they arrest me, so I'm lying low. Let's get him in the car, and I'll tell you what to do on the way to A&E.'
'Why didn't you tell me he was your son?'
'Forget that now. His mouth looks like it needs stitches. We can turf him outside.'
Carmelo shook his head in disbelief, 'You've gone soft in your old age.'
'No matter what he's done, he's still my son. You'd do anything for your daughter, I know you would.'
Carmelo nodded, 'Suppose so.' He was getting too old for this kind of drama.
CHAPTER 37
Two patrol cars pulled up outside Johnny Wilder's property in Penkhull, for the second time in two days. Ever since they’d questioned him and taken a DNA sample, his vape store had been closed, and the ageing gangster had now disappeared.
Blake knew from experience Wilder would have to call back home at some point; unless he'd already packed his passport and a wad of cash in a bag and legged it from Stoke via some illicit route. Not that he'd get far with an APB on him. Whatever the reason, his absence was looking more like an admission of guilt as each day passed, so Blake had brought reinforcements in case the old gangster tried to relive his heyday.
An old blue Ford Escort was parked on the drive.
'He must be skint, Boss, driving that pile of scrap metal,' DS Murphy said, as the six officers prowled down the tarmaced driveway toward the front door.
Blake signalled to the PCs to head around the back in case Wilder decided to leg it. DS Murphy rattled the brass knocker and waited.' Nothing! Could have gone out?'
'Hm.’ Blake walked to the large bay window and peered through the glass. 'He's not in the living room. TV’s not on. Stay here, John, while I head around the back to see what's happening.’
As he approached the end of the garage wall, he heard a man shouting at his officers.
'Fuck off! Johnny's not here,' the man said, probably knowing full well where he was, but not intending to tell them.
'Put the chainsaw down, sir,' PC Davies said, edging toward Albert Carmelo who, judging by the branches laid out on the freshly cut lawn, was doing some amateur tree surgery.
Blake thought he recognised the man from somewhere, but couldn't recall where. 'Do as PC Davies says, sir. We don't want anyone getting hurt, do we?'
Without warning, Carmelo yanked the starter cord and the petrol chainsaw roared into life, a thin stream of smoke billowing from it.
Blake signalled to Davies to back off. This maniac could maim them all if they didn't disarm him.
With his officers at a safe distance, Blake moved slowly toward him.
'Turn the chainsaw off so we can talk. Where's Johnny Wilder, Mr...?' he shouted over the deafening sound.
Carmelo lowered the menacing device and hit the kill switch, 'He's not here. I've just come to trim the trees,’ he said, turning to look at the branches strewn around. ‘What do you want with him?'
'Please put the chainsaw down?' Blake asked again.
Surprisingly, the man did so without further menace.
'Back away from it.' Blake raised his hand in a non-threatening manner, 'We just want to talk with Johnny about his brother’s murder.'
'He's told you everything,' Carmelo said.
'And you would know because…?'
'We are mates.'
'Can you call him? It's a matter of urgency we speak with him.'
'Why would I do that?'
'Because I'm convinced we have Lenny's killer in custody, and I'm sure he'd want to know. Look,this is wasting valuable time. Can you get him on his mobile?’ Blake demanded.
'Already tried, he's not answering. Something's not right. He was supposed to meet me here, but when I arrived his car was gone.' The man sounded concerned.
'OK. Do you have a key to the property, Mr…?'
'Carmelo. No.' he said, flatly.
'You sure about that? It would save us from breaking in to check nothing untoward has happened to Mr Wilder.'
Carmelo slipped his hand in his jeans pocket and fished out a wooden key fob in the shape of a beer bottle. He held it out to Blake.
The six-man team entered the property through the back door and Blake instructed them to spread out, while he and PC Davies kept Albert Carmelo in the kitchen.
'What's this new info you have about Lenny's death?' Carmelo asked casually.
'I can't tell you anything about that, Mr Carmelo,' Blake said, looking around the kitchen. His brow raised when he noticed a watch on the worktop to the left of him. The Misper picture of Antonio Lombardi wearing his father’s rare Breitling Italian Pilot’s chronograph flashed through his mind. It was unmistakable and, Valletta informed them there were only a few on the collectors’ market, its presence here looked very incriminating. He gave PC Davies a covert nod.
Davies whipped out his handcuffs but, before Blake could read him his rights, Carmelo darted for the kitchen door. Blake turned sharply and thrust his leg out, toppling the older man into a heap on the tiled floor. Davies was on him like a heavyweight wrestler before he could get up. Considering he was around five-seven, and of slight build, their prisoner was surprisingly strong. His uncuffed arm flayed around until Blake used reasonable force to contain it.
'Albert Carmelo, I'm arresting you on suspicion of involvement in the disappearance of Antonio Lombardi in September 1978. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do
say may be given in evidence.'
'You’re fucking crazy,' Carmelo said, trying to grapple free as Davies dragged him to his feet. Johnny would be furious he'd been arrested; he’ll have to deal with those geriatric grasses on his own now, he thought.
CHAPTER 38
Blake sat next to DS Murphy glancing between Albert Carmelo's smug face and the rare Breitling watch laid out in the middle of the table. The bright white LED bulbs in the ceiling reflected off the pristine gold bracelet links. For a seventy-four-year-old timepiece, it looked in mint condition.
'Where did you get it from, Mr Carmelo?' Blake asked.
‘What's my watch got to do with anything? What is this all about?'
Blake stalled, 'I see you were released from Featherstone a week ago. Didn't take you long to get reacquainted with your old mate, Johnny Wilder?'
'Just get to the point.'
'This watch is a collectors’ item. According to the expert we've spoken to, there were only ever two hundred made, in 1946: Swiss, bespoke, with a current market value of around thirty grand.'
'So, I bought it from a dealer back in the late sixties. Cost me a hundred quid,' Carmelo said.
DS Murphy sighed, 'The thing is, Albert, we know you're lying. The watch belonged to Antonio Lombardi, a young Italian man who went missing in 1978; the same year as your mate's brother, Lenny Wilder.'
'This is bullshit. You just said there were two hundred made.'
'We've taken it to a jeweller in town and he's removed the back plate,' Murphy continued.
Carmelo's smugness evaporated.
'This watch has a serial number relating to an Italian pilot in the RAF who served in WWII. A brave man who fought for his country, flew perilous missions over France and Germany. Are you a decorated war hero, Albert?'
Carmelo managed a deadpan expression.
The Missing And The Dead: A tense crime thriller with a shocking twist Page 8
