Blake picked up the baton, 'When the pilot died in 1977, he left the watch to his son.' He slid the missing person picture of Antonio Lombardi posing with the exquisite timepiece across the interview table.
Carmelo shot him a disapproving look.
'So cut the crap and come clean with us,' Murphy said.
'No comment.'
'That's not going to wash at all, Albert.’
Carmelo glanced at his solicitor who spoke up, 'My client purchased the watch in good faith back in the mid-1970s. It wasn't up to him to check its provenance.'
Blake frowned, 'Seriously? Mr Porter, I was under the impression lawyers were intelligent?'
Porter tutted, 'Very droll, Inspector. All I'm saying is, apart from the watch, you've produced no other evidence linking Mr Carmelo to the disappearance of Antonio Lombardi. It's tenuous, to say the least.'
Murphy glanced at Carmelo's record which had been resting on his lap since the interview began. 'Unfortunately, we don't have any forensics, but what we do have is a series of links to the Wilder brothers: a strong criminal connection. According to his record here,' he placed it on the table, 'Mr Carmelo was some kind of henchman for the Wilders: a very nasty individual who we believe was responsible for dishing out beatings to people who owed the brothers money.'
'Just because I was mates with Johnny and Lenny back in the day, it doesn't mean I had anything to do with this Italian’s disappearance.'
‘Don't take us for fools, Albert. You've been convicted of assault and battery, and we've spoken to several people who've witnessed your aggression.’
Provoked, Carmelo sucked his teeth, 'There was other stuff going on back then. I was just a small fish. Your lot were at it, as well.'
'And what's that supposed to mean?' Blake asked.
'I'm saying nowt.'
'No, enlighten us.'
Carmelo glanced at his lawyer for confirmation, then said, 'You know how it was back then; coppers on the take and all that.'
'You’re saying there was a bent copper on the Wilders’ books?'
Carmelo shrugged, 'Yeah.'
'And what evidence do you have to support this allegation? We'll need a name,’ Blake said.
'You seriously think I know that? Lenny and Johnny kept stuff tight. All I know is they were getting inside tip-offs from one of your lot about surveillance ops on them.'
Blake turned to Murphy, 'That would explain why a lot of their crimes went undetected. Must have been a senior officer? The bobbies back then weren't privy to ops until they've been finalised by higher ranks.' He leaned in to whisper something to his sergeant.
Murphy nodded in agreement and took over the questioning, 'Albert, I'm going to say a few names. You stop me if any were ever mentioned in an illegal capacity back in the day?’
Carmelo's lawyer consented.
'DS Naylor, DS Fuller, DI Vince Brady.'
Carmelo's posture perked up, 'The last one rings a bell.'
'What, DI Vince Brady?'
'Yeah.'
'In what way?' Murphy asked.
'I heard the brothers talking about Brady coming good a few times when they were being watched by your lot.'
'You’ve got a good memory? Are you sure?' Blake said.
'Yeah. They held off doing any jobs until Brady give em the all clear. I remembered just now when you mentioned his name: same surname as that child killer, Ian Brady. It's one of those… what do you call it?'
'Nostalgic recollections,' Blake said, humouring him.
'That's it.'
CHAPTER 39
DS Murphy opened the tatty box file on his desk. The date written on the spine in faded blue biro was 1978. He carefully lifted out the case files DI Vince Brady had investigated between June and December that year.
He skimmed June and July. Both months were fairly uneventful: mainly petty theft, pub brawls in Hanley and hooligan affrays outside Stoke City’s old Victoria ground. Putting them to one side, he lifted out August and September. Leafing through the old statements and charge sheets his eyes were drawn to a report of a teenager who went missing on 5th September 1978 but returned, seemingly unharmed, three weeks later. Melody Ashton, a rebellious fourteen-year-old with several shoplifting misdemeanours on her record, had apparently made a bit of a habit of disappearing off social services’ radar. She'd been in care since the age of seven after her mother died from a barbiturate overdose. The father was documented as unknown. When interviewed with the Newfield Children’s Home manager, Edward Hall, present, she strangely had very little recollection of where she'd been or what she’d done during those lost three weeks. The only thing she said over and over to DS Naylor and DS Fuller was:
"He looked after me. He loves me."
When pressed for a name, she clammed up and became evasive. A medical showed she was sexually active. Her blood tests revealed the presence of amphetamines and, given the high levels of the substance, the investigating police were of the opinion she’d been coerced into taking it regularly by some deviant.
Something that had started to bother Murphy was becoming clear: there were suspicious connections between the Lorna Atwood and Daisy Ellis Misper cases. The allegedly bent copper Vince Brady had serious questions to answer. He made his way over to Blake's office.
CHAPTER 40
'I'm surprised you wanted to speak with me again so soon about Lenny Wilder's bones turning up,' Vince Brady said.
'Why’s that, Mr Brady?' Blake said, sceptical.
'I've already told you everything I know, and I've been retired for over twenty years. He disappeared in seventy-eight. I can't really see how I can help you any further, if I'm being brutally honest.'
'There have been developments since we last spoke, and I’m convinced you’re not telling us everything, Vincent. Your case files are shockingly inadequate. In fact, there’s probably a case for negligence. That's why I'm arresting you on suspicion of conspiring to pervert the course of justice.'
Brady protested but, after some verbal abuse and wrangling, he was cuffed and put in the back of the patrol car.
****
Blake confronted Vince Brady across the table in Interview Room Three. 'The people we've interviewed have implied that someone in authority was helping the Wilders. I think you were involved with the brothers in a less than legal capacity: pre-warning them about surveillance ops on their criminality.'
'That's complete bollocks and you know it. Some scrote pensioner I put away is obviously trying to get his own back by slandering me. What deal’s he cut with you?' Brady challenged him.
Blake raised a brow. The ageing DI still retained some police instinct, even after all these years. 'The Wilders were known for intimidation and dishing out beatings to people who owed them money. We think you white-washed the investigation into Antonio Lombardi’s disappearance, to keep the Wilder brothers out of the spotlight,' he said, keeping his source hidden.
Brady shot him a stern look; his eyes were cold as flint. 'I don't know who you've been talking to, but if you’re implying what I think you are, I'm gonna sue you for slander. No one accuses me of being a bent copper, not even you; understood?'
Blake knew he'd hit a nerve, a semblance of truth, triggering Brady's defence mechanism, 'You wouldn't be the first or the last copper to take bribes, especially in the seventies when certain policing methods were questionable.'
Before Brady could reply, his lawyer interrupted, 'Inspector, I presume you've got more than the word of an ex-con to back this allegation up?'
Realising the lawyer had called his bluff, Blake changed tack, 'My team have been going through your old case files from 1978. Seems your policing methods were pretty inept. Less than thorough follow-up enquiries, misfiled case notes, missing evidence. Your M.O. was bloody awful. And I'm surprised it's taken this long to come to light.'
'I can assure you, Inspector Blake, we did everything that was asked of us during the seventies. We had none of the tools you have now that make policing so muc
h easier,' Brady said, rattled.
'Technology aside, you didn't even get the basics right. For example, we have three Misper cases here that were almost shut down after a few weeks; two of these were children, for Chrissake! Even worse, one was filed under a different decade. Totally incompetent policing,' Blake said, continuing his unsubtle line of attack.
Brady's lawyer interjected, 'Need I remind you, Inspector, my client has been retired for over twenty years?'
'I don't think Lorna Atwood’s parents and poor little Daisy Ellis's living relatives would have much sympathy for him. Daisy was six years old when she went missing from a house fire. All DI Brady could muster up was an inadequate four-week investigation.'
A horrified look appeared on Brady's face, 'That's a disgusting accusation. I'll be speaking with your Chief Inspector about slander and police harassment.'
'Be my guest, I'll give you his number. I'm sure he'd be interested in having a chat about your inept policing, allegations of backhanders, and passing inside information to the Wilder brothers: who were involved in murder, prostitution and child abuse.'
Brady shook his head in disgust.
'Inspector, either produce evidence linking my client to these outlandish allegations, or release him,' the lawyer insisted.
'Well, are you going to answer the man? Let's see some evidence, apart from official case reports that were passed as acceptable by my superiors at the time.'
Blake shot DS Murphy a disappointed look. They didn't have enough to charge Brady; however, judging by his demeanour, the interview had seriously unsettled the old DI, even though he'd won round one. Rest assured they'd be looking for other witnesses to Brady's corruption, and keeping digging through the archives for a smoking gun. This was just a short stay of execution.
'You’re free to go, for now,' Blake said, with a sarcastic smirk.
CHAPTER 41
Around 7p.m. that evening, Margot Matheson entered the Old Sal: a lonely pub on Colliery Road that hadn't seen a lick of paint since the Norton field pit it served shut in the mid-eighties after a shaft collapsed killing thirty-five miners.
'Are you waiting for someone?' the elderly owner said, handing her another half-pint of Bass.
She nodded, nervously.
'Why don't you sit down in the snug? I'll let you know when they arrive,' he said.
She didn't reply, just stared through the front window into the enveloping darkness out on the barren road.
'Maybe they're running late?' the owner said, trying to reassure her.
She glanced at her watch. She'd been there twenty minutes. This empty pub, with its mining memorabilia clinging to the nicotine-stained walls, reminded her too much of the past. Paranoid, she retrieved the typed note from her coat pocket:
"Meet me at 7.30p.m. in the bar of the Old Sal on Colliery Road. I think the police suspect something and he is watching us. It’s too risky to visit your house."
Georgie
It had arrived yesterday in a plain brown envelope, with no stamp attached. Clearly Georgie was scared their shared dark past was about to be exposed. His phone call last week, about the discovery of Lenny’s bones, was just the beginning of something more sinister and she couldn't risk ignoring this new escalation. She downed the last dregs of the Bass and ordered a gin and tonic: she needed something stronger to quell her rising anguish.
Two evenly spaced lights broke through the darkness and approached the pub. She watched them flicker as the car slowed to navigate the sharp bend and steep dip in the road. Having not seen Georgie for years, she nervously turned to face the bar and flinched as the door opened. She breathed a sigh of relief as heels clacked across the old terracotta tiles.
A woman about her age, with long gleaming black hair, stood next to her in a navy blue dress coat and ordered a double whiskey and soda with ice. Margot turned her head slowly to look at the newcomer. The woman took a sip of her drink and gave Margot a lack-lustre smile.
At that moment, the two women recognised each other. Two people whose paths had crossed in a time of social and political change, a time that now seemed like another place. That place they’d both managed to bury deep within for such a long time now resurfaced.
'What the hell are you doing here?' Margot asked, drawing back from the bar uneasily.
'Georgie Rills asked me to meet him. Is this some kind of sick joke?' Valletta Lombardi said, clasping her glass.
Would timid old Georgie really arrange this awkward meeting, given their history? Margot wondered, her posture rigid.
Valletta broke the deadlock, 'I don't know what's going on, but I'm sure Georgie has a good reason for asking us here tonight. Like you, I've been questioned by the police about Lenny Wilder's remains being found.'
Realising it was probably in her best interests, Margot put her prejudices to one side and thawed a little, 'I’m sure you're right. We're too old for resentment. Let's take a seat and wait for Georgie?'
Valletta finished her whiskey, 'What you drinking, Margot? I think we could both do with another?'
She ordered two more drinks. The old man said he'd bring them over to the table.
Margot glanced at her watch, 'Georgie's late. He told me 7.30, how about you?’
'The same. Maybe he's lost his nerve. Always was the jittery type, from what I can remember. How long is it since you've seen him?' Valletta asked.
'I've bumped into him twice in forty years, but after Lenny was discovered he phoned me. He sounded scared.'
'I used to see him regularly until I retired five years ago. He came in the betting shop I worked at about once a week. He liked the horses. Nothing too heavy, just bet a few quid of his disability allowance. Mind you, he never seemed to pick many winners.'
They'd been seated around five minutes when a tall elderly man, wearing a cream waist-length waterproof coat, entered the pub and went straight to the bar. His thinning white hair was damp, and droplets of rain covered the back and shoulders of his mac.
Margot peered out of the window, 'It’s raining.'
'If Georgie doesn't arrive soon and explain what's going on, I'm heading off. It’s turning into a foul night!' Valletta Lombardi said.
They paid no attention to the man at the bar who sat on one of the stools, nursing a pint of bitter. The two women sat for a further five minutes, making unrelated small talk. The man cast them a curious look after each sip of his pint.
At last, a small hooded figure in white sliders and garish Argyle socks slouched into the bar. He stopped close to their table, leaned on his walking stick and lowered the hood of his damp parker. A look of sheer shock appeared on his nicotine-addled face.
'Georgie, it’s not nice to keep ladies waiting. Your note said 7.30,' Valletta Lombardi said.
He looked stunned, 'Do you mean this note?'
He retrieved the limp piece of A4 with the printed message on it. He unfolded the paper and lay it down on the copper table-top next to their drinks, 'I never sent no note. Someone posted this through my door the other day.'
'I got one as well,' the man at the bar said, holding out his copy.
'Someone is playing a sick game with us,' Valletta said.
Hunched over his stick, George Rills shook slightly as he shuffled to the bar, 'I need a drink. My god, is that you Clifford?' He looked in disbelief at the tall man at the bar.
'Yes. This is a very strange set of circumstances. I overheard you ladies mention Georgie and I realised we'd all been summoned,' he said, eyes darting around the room.
Clutching her bag, Margot Matheson eased out from behind the table and stood, 'This is giving me the creeps. I mean, what's really going on here, Georgie? Why would someone bring us together like this? It makes no sense to me.'
'They're trying to frighten us. I'd bet it's that evil bastard, Johnny Wilder. He's been to my house with that maniac, Albert Carmelo. Bloody tortured me! Pair of animals.'
Bates looked concerned, 'Tortured you?'
Rills took a deep breath,
'Carmelo pulled some of my toe nails out with pliers.' He grimaced, looking down at his poor feet.
'That's horrendous, Georgie. Have you been to the police?' Valletta Lombardi asked.
Before Rills could answer, Margot interjected, 'Johnny Wilder is missing. My son abducted him two days ago.'
'Abducted him? Seriously?' Bates said.
Margot started to sob, 'Yeah, and I'm concerned what he'll do to him.'
'I don't understand. Why would your son do that?' Rills asked.
'It's complicated and deeply personal. I'd rather not say.'
Seeing her distress, Lombardi put a comforting arm around her shoulders, 'Let's go and spend a penny, and touch that eye liner up?' she said, ushering Margot toward the Ladies’.
'When they come back we need to talk; in there, where we can't be overheard,' Clifford Bates said, pointing to the darker snug on the opposite side of the bar. 'Someone from the past has an agenda and it seems to involve all of us.'
Averting his gaze, Rills nodded nervously.
****
A few minutes later, the four of them sat at a large table in the far corner of the snug, away from the bar. Wall lamps with red tasselled shades cast a soft pinkish glow onto the upholstered benches lining the walls of the room. Like the bar, it was a seventies time capsule with its musty flowered carpet, and pit-pony brasses and harnesses on each wall.
'I don't want to alarm any of you, but after what's happened to George, we need to take this situation seriously,' Bates said.
'What exactly are we considering here? There's no indication what this person wants from us,' Valletta said.
'I know, but Johnny Wilder's a very dangerous man, even if he is missing. He still knows people who could harm us,' Bates replied.
Margot Matheson looked puzzled, 'Harm us, why?'
Valletta turned to her, 'Because we know too much.'
'You mean about the past?' Margot asked.
'Yes,' Bates said.
The Missing And The Dead: A tense crime thriller with a shocking twist Page 9
