Cherringham--Murder under the Sun

by Matthew Costello

  “Leonard Taylor?” he said.

  “Yes, Alan. You bloody know who I am. What is it? Something with the lads, the stag do, or—”

  Jack could see that Alan looked completely uncomfortable.

  “I am arresting you under the authority of an EU warrant,” he cleared his throat, “issued by the Spanish government, for the offence of murder,” another rumble from Officer Rivers’s throat, “committed in San Antonio on the island of Ibiza in 1990.”

  Jack stared at Alan, his mind racing — as an ex-cop — trying to rapidly figure out what on earth was happening here.

  Could this be a prank? Some bad joke?

  “What?” said Jack.

  He looked at Len. The man stood frozen, as if in some kind of trance.

  Frozen — but not as surprised as Jack might have expected.

  “Len — what is it? What’s going on?” came a woman’s voice from up on the stairs behind Jack.

  Jack turned to see Len’s wife Lizzie — he recognised her from the choir — in her dressing gown, standing halfway down the stairs. She pulled the dressing gown tight as she looked in disbelief at the group in the hallway.

  Jack moved to one side as Alan stepped forward, his manner abrupt, official. He unclipped a pair of handcuffs from his belt, reached forward and cuffed Len — the man still frozen.

  “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.”

  And with those words, the two constables stepped forward, one hand each on Len’s shoulders, and shuffled him towards the door. For a few seconds Len seemed to slowly become aware what was happening.

  “Don’t worry, Lizzie,” he said. “It’s just … just a thing. Not a word to Grace — okay? Not a word. Please. I’ll get it all sorted.” Then, almost a whisper. “All a mistake.”

  Then the men bundled him out through the front door into the dark April night, the lights of the van glowing in the misty air.

  “Wait! You can’t do that!” shouted Lizzie. “What the hell? Len!”

  Lizzie came flying down the stairs. Jack stepped in quickly, held her tight; the woman struggling to get to her husband, who even now was being loaded into the back of the police van, the doors slamming shut.

  “Lizzie, hang on. Nothing you can do,” said Jack. “Listen to me—”

  Lizzie crumpled to a halt. Jack turned to Alan who still stood in the doorway.

  “Alan — where are you taking him?” said Jack.

  “Custody cells in Banbury,” said Alan. “Then court.”

  “All this … really necessary?” said Jack, gesturing at the van. “Middle of the night?”

  “It’s a murder charge, Jack. We moved when we had all the paperwork. He should be thankful we didn’t turn up with an armed unit.”

  Alan climbed into the passenger seat of the van and Jack watched it drive off down Well Lane.

  Lizzie stood like a statue, her hands entwined as if working a puzzle. Jack saw a line of tears on her face.

  “You’d better get that kettle on, Lizzie. Okay? Can you manage that? And then, you, me … let’s figure out where we go from here.”

  Then he took out his cell and texted Sarah.

  She might be asleep. But for this — he certainly needed her here.

  Now.

  Whatever mess Len was in, he knew that Sarah — like him — would want to help fix it.

  Whatever it took.

  3. A Tough Call

  Sarah sat at the back of Huffington’s, facing the windows, and sipped her flat white.

  Eight-thirty on a Saturday morning, and the place was pretty empty — mostly just locals dropping in for a take-out coffee before work.

  She took out her laptop, flipped it open, ready to hit her emails. She was so busy right now — tons of summer ads and web campaigns to get signed off. Grace had really been part time these last couple of weeks. And Chloe, her daughter and new assistant, was still getting up to speed with how the office worked. And then last night, not getting home from Len and Lizzie’s place till nearly three in the morning …

  She was exhausted.

  “Got you a refill.”

  She looked up. Jack was smiling — two coffees in his hands.

  “Sorry, Jack. Miles away,” she said.

  “Not surprised. Some night, huh?”

  “Still can’t quite believe it. Hope Lizzie got off to work okay this morning — she told me she had a six o’clock start. Me — I would have called in.”

  “She’s tough,” said Jack. “Think nurses start tough — then they train them tougher.”

  “Like cops?” said Sarah.

  “Most of them, yep. The ones that hang in there.”

  Sarah switched coffees, started on her second one.

  “So, detective,” she said. “Where are we?”

  “On a case, I guess. A very old one, at that.”

  “Too right we are,” said Sarah. “A murder case. God. And, right now, we know nothing.”

  She watched Jack stir sweetener into his coffee.

  “Thought you’d given up coffee?” she said.

  “Well, extreme measures are called for,” he said, taking his first sip.

  “With you there.”

  “So, I’m guessing you didn’t get anything else from Lizzie last night after I left?’

  “Not a thing. When I left her she wasn’t in any kind of state to talk. I just made her a drink, calmed her down, got her back to bed.”

  “She didn’t have a clue what this arrest was all about?”

  “No. She’s never been to Spain. She doesn’t think Len has ever been to Spain. Least to her knowledge. But — strange thing, Jack — she doesn’t seem to know much at all about Len, from back then, when you dig down a bit.”

  “That is strange, when you think they’ve been together … what? Nearly thirty years?”

  “Exactly. Apparently, when they met, he was a patient in Banbury, and she was a young nurse. He never talked about his past.”

  “Not even his family?”

  “Said he doesn’t have one to mention. She got the impression he might have been the black sheep, and had just … moved on.”

  “So, our friend Len — least all those years ago — is a bit of a mystery man, hmm?” said Jack.

  “Looks like it. But Ibiza — murder — 1990? I’m baffled. I mean, are we really talking about Len Taylor, member of the village choir, carnival committee regular, bowls club stalwart?”

  “I know. Doesn’t fit at all. Maybe this is all just one big mistake. You know? A simple case of misidentification. Records screwed up somehow.”

  “Right. Or maybe someone way back then used his ID, stole his passport or whatever?”

  “True. Easier done in those days, before it all went digital,” said Jack.

  Sarah took another sip, coffee still hot, soothing.

  “But whatever do I tell Grace?” she said. “She’ll be in the office in twenty minutes.”

  “You working Saturdays now? Thought that was against the law in this country.”

  “Just a couple of hours. Grace doing me a favour. The backlog’s enormous!”

  “What to say? Tough call,” said Jack. “Len was kinda begging us to say nothing to her.”

  “Maybe we can sit on it, least until we know more?”

  “Maybe. You think people in the village know already?”

  “You know Cherringham,” said Sarah. “Small village, police action. Word travels fast. But it was late. Their house — down that lane — not so visible.”

  “Sure. Might have gone unnoticed. But still the story’ll get around. Couple of days, max.”

  “Hmm. Well, let’s spare her those days then. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” said Jack. “Let’s make sure that when she does learn about it … it’s from us, or her mum. Meanwhile, we need find out more about these charges. Think maybe Tony can he
lp?”

  Sarah smiled and nodded towards the door where Tony Standish was giving them a discreet wave, before heading over.

  “One step ahead of you, Jack,” said Sarah.

  “Story of my life,” said Jack. He stood up as Tony joined them. “Good to see you, Tony. Early start for you solicitors isn’t it?”

  “For us semi-retired solicitors, yes indeed,” said Tony, grinning and joining them at the table. “But, in this case, I’m happy to work uncivilised hours. Our friend Len — a good fellow, in my opinion.”

  Sarah smiled back at him. Tony had been her family’s solicitor for twenty years, and since she and Jack had started their little detective sideline, he’d been a valuable supporter — and source of information.

  “And we’re very grateful, Tony,” said Sarah, then she turned to Jack. “I emailed Tony first thing, gave him what little we knew.”

  “Terrific. So, what did you get from your police spies in Banbury, Tony?”

  “Well actually,” said Tony. He leaned in, voice low. “Quite a bit. Though I’m not sure you’re going to like much of it. I certainly didn’t when I heard what they had to say.”

  Sarah looked at Jack, then smiled as she saw they had both taken out their notepads at the same time, flipped the tops, clicked pens …

  “Shoot,” said Jack.

  *

  As Tony spoke, Jack jotted the key facts in his notebook.

  “Well,” started Tony. “As I believe you both heard, Len was arrested on a European warrant. Devilishly complicated these things — police stations hate them. Set of rules an inch thick.”

  Tony took a look around the near-empty tea room, then continued.

  “But the gist of it is — the Spanish police have what they think is a powerful case against Len. Solid evidence. Our police were duty-bound to arrest him. He’ll go to a court, then into further custody and then — without much ado — he’ll be on a plane to Spain to await trial.”

  “Whole process sounds pretty quick,” said Jack.

  “Oh — for something like this, it is,” said Tony. “If you two want to try and stop it happening, I’d say you have — at most — just a few days.”

  Jack looked at Sarah. “Funnily enough, that’s our deadline too.”

  “Ah, yes, of course,” said Tony. “Grace’s wedding. Poor dear. Has to be completely shattering. Does she—?”

  Jack quickly shook his head. “We’re holding off — long as we can — telling her.”

  “Good thing. Anyway, you’ll have to be not only quick, you’ll have to be good too. And not being police — with an international matter — that’s going to be damned hard!”

  “We’re hoping this is just some kind of clerical error,” said Sarah. “Mistaken identity, maybe. Bad records.”

  “Gosh, Sarah, I hate to disappoint you, but you can forget that. My sources tell me the ID is absolutely watertight.”

  “Shame,” said Jack.

  “Apt choice of word there, Jack. A terrible shame. And, this case, it’s a nasty one as well.”

  “In what way?” said Jack.

  Jack really liked Tony but found him — this morning at least, so far — the bearer of increasingly bad news.

  “Yes, what did you find out?” said Sarah.

  Jack watched as Tony opened a briefcase — the clasps making a solid thwack against the brown leather — and took out a classic yellow legal pad. He flipped through the pages, each one filled with neat handwriting in black ink.

  “All right then, first the victim. Sally Hayes, reported missing July 5th 1990, in San Antonio, Ibiza, by her boyfriend,” Tony looked up from the pad. “One Leonard Taylor.”

  Jack looked at Sarah, then back at Tony, who continued, his voice calm, as if he were addressing a court.

  “Ms Hayes, aged 23, was presumed, at the time, to have fallen into the sea and drowned, while under the influence of drugs.”

  “Presumed,” said Sarah. “Why?”

  “Because she was a known user. Rather, abuser. Pretty common on that island, I guess. And she had a criminal record already in Ibiza, not just for possession, but for dealing too.”

  Jack looked away.

  It all seemed unreal.

  “Let me guess,” said Jack. “Len had a record too?”

  “Correct. But only for possession.”

  Again, Jack caught Sarah’s eye. He guessed that these revelations were astonishing for her as someone who’d known Len for years as a dedicated churchgoer.

  Astonishing for him too.

  But for the rest of Len’s family? For Lizzie? And Grace?

  These facts would be devastating.

  “Shall I continue?” said Tony. Jack and Sarah nodded. “Now, I’m sure both of you are speculating — since this happened nearly thirty years ago — why the warrant now?”

  “They found the body?” said Jack.

  “Correct again, Jack. Now I’m not sure you know this, but the paradise island of Ibiza — as I have heard it sometimes described — has been rather intensely developed in recent decades. Hotels, roads, apartments, etc …”

  “Construction workers dug the body up?” said Sarah.

  “Why, yes. A new hotel project. Last week, on top of some run-down holiday villas a few miles outside San Antonio, by a rocky outcrop, edge of the sea.”

  “Forensics?” said Jack.

  “Corpse obviously deteriorated. But the island … pretty dry. Anyway, the post mortem clearly showed the poor woman had been stabbed to death. A violent attack. Oddly, very little attempt had been made to hide evidence. Clothes with blood etc. The body hurriedly buried, a shallow grave. The murder weapon too, would you believe.”

  “Kinda fits the MO,” said Jack.

  “How do you mean, Jack?” said Sarah.

  “Drugs,” said Jack. “I’m guessing, maybe a fight over a drug deal, money involved, gets out of hand, knives come out, maybe even guns. Somebody dies, nobody in a fit state to think clearly let alone cover things up properly, people just dig a shallow grave and run.”

  “In this case, perhaps somebody was at least a little compos mentis,” said Tony. “The body was found under six inches of concrete terrace, part of a small-scale holiday development.”

  “So, they knew there was going to be a concrete pour?” said Jack. “Body would never be found.”

  “That would appear to be the case. But there’s the damning thing. Len’s DNA was all over the clothes. And his fingerprints — were on the murder weapon.”

  “God,” said Sarah, her hand to her face. “Could hardly get worse, could it?”

  “I’m afraid it can,” said Tony. “Immigration records in the Spanish police file apparently show that Len was in Ibiza from May that year until July 12th, when he took a plane to England. And never went back.”

  “Just a week after she disappeared,” said Jack. “Did a runner, hmm?”

  “So it would appear,” said Tony, his lips pursed.

  Jack watched him slowly close his legal pad, put it away in his briefcase. Jack sat back, thinking about these extraordinary and almost unbelievable revelations.

  All of which made Len look guilty indeed.

  “Tony — out of interest — you got any idea what Len was doing in Ibiza?”

  “Well here’s a thing,” said Tony. “Apparently back in the day, our Len was rather a minor celebrity.”

  “Really?” said Sarah. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Me neither,” said Jack. “Never heard of him.”

  “Oh — he didn’t use the name Len Taylor,” said Tony. “Hardly the stuff of Pop Idol, a name like that.”

  “Pop Idol?” said Sarah.

  “Is that the right nomenclature?” said Tony. “X-Factor? I’m such an old fogey, aren’t I?”

  “You’ll have to explain, Tony,” said Jack. “I’m not exactly down with the kids either.”

  “Well,” said Tony, leaning forward and speaking quietly now. “In 1990, Len Taylor was better known as DJ
Spirit.”

  “What?” said Sarah. “DJ, as in … DJ? Clubbing? Our Len — a DJ?”

  “Not just ‘a DJ’. Pretty much — ‘the DJ’. From the information sheet the Spanish police have on him, he was top of the bill on the island that summer. Earning around ten thousand dollars a weekend in Ibiza. Every weekend. Cash.”

  Jack sat back, shaking his head. Len had certainly seemed to want to avoid talking about the past, but — wow — the fact that the guy had hidden all this completely? Amazing.

  He turned to Tony. “That it?”

  “For now. I have my sources still looking into things. You never know what can pop up.”

  “Can’t thank you enough, Tony,” Sarah said.

  Jack saw on Sarah’s face that all this had hit her hard.

  “Oh, for you two? Any time, and anything,” said Tony. “I mean that. By the way, I’ve done what I can to get him a good solicitor with experience in such matters. Though, based on all this, he’ll have his work cut out for him. In the meantime, if you want to visit Len today, just give me a call, I’ll arrange it. Meanwhile — I have an office to open.”

  And at that, Tony got up, bowed slightly to both of them, and Jack watched him head out of Huffington’s to his office, just across the village square.

  “Wow,” said Sarah. “I dunno. You think you know somebody …”

  “Exactly.”

  “Thoughts?”

  “Two things. First — like it or not, Len has to be a very good liar to have kept this secret for so long. And second — if he didn’t do this, then the only way we’ll get him out of this fix is to find out who did.”

  “Thirty years on. Tough. What are the chances we can do anything here? I mean, we can’t just go off to Ibiza for a week or two, digging into a case. Much as I could do with a break right now.”

  “Sure. You’re right. We don’t have the time. And not being police — harder still. But we can start with talking to Len.”

  “And Lizzie too. I can’t believe she knows nothing about Len’s past. Can she?”

  “Ah that. Don’t you believe it,” said Jack. “I’ve had cases like this, back in New York, people with whole secret lives, families never knowing a thing.”

  “But Len Taylor …?”

  “DJ Spirit, remember?”