by Ted Tayler
“My Frank was there this morning?”
Yes, thought Gus, one hundred yards away from where we chatted, thrown in the corner of the field with his face shot off.
“We believe so. Do you know of anyone who wanted to harm Frank, Mrs North?”
Irene North’s hand shot to her mouth.
“Oh, my Lord. Are you telling me it was murder? Frank didn’t have a heart attack or something.”
“No, it was murder.”
Irene started to get up from the chair.
“I must go to him,” she said.
“That’s not a good idea,” said Gus.
“What do you mean? What did they do to him?”
“They shot him, Mrs North. They’ll take Frank’s body away later this afternoon. We’ll look after him. Maybe, you can say goodbye to him later. Do you have family members to contact? Is there someone who can come and stay with you?”
Irene North sat and considered for a moment.
“There are only a few family members to ring,” she said. “Not many have cars. The buses are useless, especially on Sunday. I could ask my neighbour to sit with me. Her old man won’t be back from the pub until closing.”
Gus popped next door to ask the neighbour if she’d mind keeping Irene company. He’d left the two of them drinking a glass of sherry. It was a new bottle, so with luck, Irene North would sleep well despite everything.
When he returned to the bungalow, he had noticed the red light flashing on his landline.
Geoff Mercer had left a message.
“Thought you deserved to hear the good news. When we resumed the interview, I just placed the postcard on the table, then the diaries. I told them we were waiting for a transcript of text messages extracted from Mark Richards’s phone. We sat in silence for two minutes. His QC could see he was about to crack, and when Pemberton-Smythe leaned forward to speak, he tried his best to stop him. The brief could tell we had him bang to rights. It’s done and dusted. The penny dropped later that we hadn’t got anything so far from the two phones found with the body. We may get lucky in time. Perhaps I should have said we were waiting for a transcript of text messages extracted from Vanessa Richards’s phone she said came from her brother. A slip of the tongue.”
Gus had been amazed to learn Geoff Mercer could be a devious bastard; they might make a decent copper out of him yet. They had the right bloke. That case was done and dusted before the coup de grace yesterday afternoon. As for Frank North, that was a different matter.
Gus wasn’t surprised to find parking spaces scarce at HQ. It was Monday morning. There had been a shooting in a village a few miles from Devizes. The media would be swarming over that and pressing for information on what the police activity had been about at the Manor House on Friday. How the ACC kept a lid on it throughout the weekend, he couldn’t imagine.
Reception staff were more used to him now. He signed in and stood outside the ACC’s office in no time. That probably meant the ACC wasn’t there. Gus never trusted operations that ran like clockwork.
“Good morning, Gus. Hope I didn’t wake you when I left.”
DI Suzie Ferris was back in uniform and looking terrific. Very young, and with a wicked sense of humour.
Gus spotted Kassie Trotter over Suzie’s shoulder. He could have sworn her chin hit the desk when she overheard that remark. Wherever Suzie headed, she looked to be in a hurry. Gus didn’t have the chance to reply; so, he stopped by Kassie’s desk to limit the damage.
“Before you go spreading malicious gossip, may I point out DI Ferris and I worked together yesterday. We found a dead body near the cemetery wall on the allotments. Suzie parked in my driveway until released from her duties and then she drove home.”
“Whatever you say, Mr Freeman,” said Kassie, “was this another thing I need to keep quiet, then?”
“As long as you tell the truth, that will be fine.”
“Mr Truelove’s in with the Chief Constable, in case you wondered,” she said, nodding towards the ACC’s door.
“I can wait,” said Gus. “Until he gives me another case to crack the Crime Review Team have nothing to do, anyway. I suppose DS Mercer is still off-site?”
“He’s finished with that politician. The ACC gave him twenty-four hours leave; I reckon they’re keeping those closest to the job as far away from the media as possible.”
“For which, I shall be eternally grateful,” said Gus.
He knew there was someone behind him. If his sense of smell was still intact, the woman had worn the same perfume on Friday night.
“Good morning, Vera,” he said.
Kassie’s eyebrows tried their best to rise, but they were at an implausible height already.
“You are a detective,” she cooed.
“Hello again, Gus,” said Vera, handing him a file. “The ACC asked me to give you the details of your next case. He apologises for not being available to recap last week’s success. There’s a press conference in fifteen minutes where he will confirm we’ve charged Leonard Pemberton-Smythe with two counts of murder relating to events from June 2008. The ACC doesn’t expect to escape from the media’s clutches for a while.”
“Keep calm, and carry on, I guess?” asked Gus.
“That’s the size of it. You’ll hear this soon enough, but the Police and Crime Commissioner called the Chief Constable in for an urgent meeting yesterday afternoon. The best way to describe the outcome would be to say they asked him ‘to consider his position’. We expect his resignation within the hour.”
“At least he waited until the poor chap finished his round of golf. A harsh decision, but fair enough in the circumstances,” said Gus. “They’ll need another picture to commemorate the opening of the Hub now. Two of the smiling faces have fallen from grace.”
“Trust you to point out something as trivial as that,” said Vera, with a smile.
“It is a big picture, though,” said Kassie Trotter, “It will leave a gap. I’ll contact the Publicity people to see what they’ve got in stock. An image of the Stones would be good.”
“Not sure the Rolling Stones can claim any Wiltshire heritage, Kassie,” said Gus.
“Stonehenge, I meant,” she replied, giving Gus a pitying look.
“That’s a great idea, Kassie,” said Vera, “or Salisbury Cathedral spire, given the latest news headlines.”
Kassie trotted off to hunt for a replacement photograph for the Hub wall. Vera and Gus could chat in peace.
“Friday was fun, and you had a hectic weekend, I hear,” said Vera.
“I had a delightful Friday evening too, thank you. I spent most of Saturday in Camden Town, or at the Manor House collecting final pieces of the jigsaw. I planned to relax for an hour before dropping those pieces over to Geoff Mercer yesterday morning, but one of the villagers came to inform me her husband was missing. As soon as I’d finished briefing Geoff, I drove to Urchfont to meet Suzie Ferris.”
“I heard a whisper,” said Vera.
“Nothing escapes people around here, does it?” he said. “As Geoff pointed out, I can’t go wandering around sticking my nose into active cases, or reports of suspicious activity. Not as a consultant. Geoff Mercer volunteered Suzie Ferris as my official police presence.”
“Responsible adult might be better,” said Vera.
Gus could tell she was winding him up, but it felt good to spend time with her. If he held his nerve, he might ask her out again this week.
“Did you hear that we found the missing man’s body in the allotments?”
“That was terrible,” said Vera. “Suzie said the killer shot the poor man in the head. She didn’t know how she held on to the vegetable soup you prepared for her.”
“I’ve only met Suzie twice, but she has the makings of an outstanding officer. The sky’s the limit for her. As for inviting her to lunch, it was the civil thing to do after dragging her away from exercising her horses. Or whatever else she planned to do with her Sunday,” said Gus.
Vera
stroked his upper arm.
“No need to explain, Gus. I understand; you’re a gentleman. Good detectives and gentlemen have something in common; both are very much a dying breed. We need to treasure you as long as we can.”
Now could be an excellent time to ask her out, thought Gus, but Peter Morgan, the Police Surgeon, arrived at the top of the stairs. He was heading for one of the outer offices but stopped as soon as he saw Vera.
“Good morning, Vera. Did you have a good weekend?”
“Quiet, Peter, and yourself?” she replied, with little warmth.
“I finally reached the Brecon Beacons. Walked bloody miles, overate food as usual and undid the good work.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” Gus offered. Morgan turned as if noticing him for the first time. Morgan and Vera must have known one another for a while, Gus thought. Perhaps they had a history.
“Freeman? Friday’s episode was a shocker, eh?” said Peter Morgan.
“Good police work. I shall be interested to learn what you discover from the items removed from the ground at the Manor House. There’s another body for you to look at I’m afraid. This one was unconnected to the Manor House case. A gruesome start to the week.”
“That’s life,” said Peter Morgan, without a hint of irony. “It appears I’ve missed a lot by motoring to Wales for the weekend. I heard on the way in that the Chief Constable has fallen on his sword. One has to vet one’s friends carefully for skeletons in the closet. Although that may not be the best metaphor.”
“There’s no suggestion the Chief Constable knew what his golfing chum had done,” said Gus. “Ten years ago, they hadn’t even met. The Minister’s sexual preferences wouldn’t preclude the two men becoming friends in many walks of life. But public confidence and trust in his role must be maintained at all costs. His position was untenable.”
Peter Morgan shrugged and left for his appointment.
“Don’t mind, Peter,” said Vera, “he’s a pompous prat.”
Gus smiled. What a relief.
“Suzie mentioned you searched for this missing man near Cambrai Terrace,” said Vera, “she didn’t say why you thought he might be up that way.”
“Frank North had a reputation for housebreaking. Those cottages up on the hill are holiday homes. I wondered whether he might have had an accident trying to gain access to an empty place. Frank’s wife didn’t believe he would have left the village, so we covered as much of the area as possible on foot.”
Vera seemed convinced. Gus decided to take a risk.
“Would you have dinner with me later in the week, Thursday or Friday?”
“I’m meeting the girls on Friday,” said Vera, “but Thursday sounds good.”
“Chinese, or Italian?”
“I love both. Surprise me.”
“You’re paying.”
“Sorry?”
“Well, you said to surprise you. Also, I noted your concerns over being seen too often in public before your final divorce. I hoped we could eat in a restaurant off Market Square near the Old Police Station. We can meet after work for a drink, and I’ll book a table for around half-past six. How does that sound?”
“Perfect,” Vera replied, “you had better run along before your team send out a search party.”
“See you on Thursday in the Ring O’Bells. It’s across the road from the office.”
“I know it; we girls have visited it once or twice. It’s better than the Crown.”
Gus was too wise to refer to the last of the FEW, Kassie Trotter’s unkind quip referring to them being members of the frustrated ex-wives club. He restricted himself to a brief wave as he left her.
Vera returned to her desk in the administration area. As he descended the stairs to the Reception desk, Gus met Kassie struggling with a large package.
“Can I help you with that?” he said.
“I’m alright, Mr Freeman,” she said, “this was a print they bought at the time. I reckon it’s great, but Takashi Murakami got rejected by Japan’s Got Talent Committee.”
Gus left Kassie to carry the modern artwork to its new home. He could understand why Kassie found an affinity with it. Her sleeve tattoo came from a similar palette. What the staff in the Hub would make of it he had no clue.
Gus drove from the London Road HQ car park just as the Press Pack descended on the building. It was like watching sharks in a feeding frenzy. He wished Kenneth Truelove every bit of luck in the world.
His arrival back at the Old Police Station didn’t go unnoticed.
“The wanderer returns,” said Neil Davis, as the lift rose from the ground floor.
Gus’s team had followed his instructions and finished entering data to the murder book. The team had decided to call it the Freeman File. It contained collated documentation relating to the Tolliver and Richards cases.
Their charts and whiteboards were cleared ready for a new challenge. If an office could ever look pristine, then the CRT office fitted the description.
“Morning, guv,” said Neil, “what was the atmosphere in Devizes?”
DS Alex Hardy and Lydia Logan Barre turned their heads to hear their master’s voice.
“Where’s my coffee?” asked Gus. “black, no sugar. How can I work without sustenance?”
“I’ll go,” said Alex.
He raced across the room, negotiating the door into the restroom in his wheelchair without a bump. The Gaggia whirred into action and mugs and spoons clinked on the worktop.
Gus flicked through the murder file Vera had handed him while he waited. Coffee was the last thing he needed really, but he wanted the team alert and focused. They performed well last week, but in this game complacency soon set in. It was a hard fault to eliminate. The murder of Trudi Villiers he was looking at for the first time could prove a difficult nut to crack.
Lydia thought Alex would struggle to bring four coffees back into the office. She got up to help him with the tray.
“Alex will work it out,” said Gus, “each team member puts in an equal share. I told you that last Monday.”
Lydia hovered, unsure whether Gus was serious; then realising he was, she took her seat.
Alex emerged from the restroom with four mugs of coffee in a plastic tray moulded to accept four containers.
The tray looked safe and sound, securely positioned on his lap. Hands-free, Alex never spilt a drop.
“Black without, guv. Black with one sugar for Lydia. Two white with one sugar for Neil and me.”
“How much did that cost?” asked Neil.
“This beauty cost under a tenner,” said Alex, “I use it at home when people visit. I decided it was stupid not to bring it to work.”
“Only one design fault that I can see,” said Neil, “there’s nowhere for the Hobnobs.”
“Right,” said Gus, “while we drink this coffee, I’ll tell you the latest. Neil will have told you what happened on Saturday until I dropped him off at home. I received more useful evidence from the lady of the Manor in the evening. Then I passed everything over to DS Mercer at the custody suite on Sunday morning. Geoff got a full confession yesterday afternoon.”
He paused while Alex, Neil and Lydia clapped, punched the air or did a little dance.
“There’s been another casualty this morning,” Gus continued. “The Chief Constable has resigned. The PCC has seen his friendship with the Minister as a lack of judgement. Although, how he could have known the bloke killed two people from the way he swung a golf club, heaven knows.”
“Another new face at the top, then,” said Alex. “How will that affect us, guv?”
“The ACC and DS Mercer championed this CRT initiative. As far as Geoff Mercer’s concerned, if we keep getting results, it won’t matter who’s in the Chief Constable’s chair. They’d look stupid if they pulled the plug. It’s the PCC who appoints the Chief Constable anyway, so I’d be more worried if a new face took over that role and decided they’d prefer cold cases remained unsolved.”
�
�Is there anything else you want to tell us, guv?” asked Neil.
“If you mean, did DI Ferris and I discover the body of a murdered man yesterday afternoon, then yes, we did. You don’t need to know what we worked on as it doesn’t impact our work on cold cases.”
Neil realised they wouldn’t learn any more regarding events that occurred late on Friday evening after they left the Waggon and Horses. The boss had moved on already.
Alex wondered how Gus had got involved in something dangerous. When he agreed to return as a consultant, it was to tackle cold cases. Suzie Ferris was a Detective Inspector very much at the sharp end of live criminal activity. It sounded far more than a chance discovery of a body and more interesting than gossip about the boss’s love life.
The team spent the rest of the day poring over the details of the Trudi Villiers murder.
Just after one o’clock Sunday morning, the fifth of October 2003, Trudi Villiers left the Ring O’Bells pub where she worked as a barmaid. Her route home took her through Market Square and along Riverside Walk. Her destination lay at the north end of the Greenwood Estate, a vast network of housing, small shops, two schools and the community hospital.
Trudi was twenty-six years old, single and left school at sixteen. Her first job was at Graceland’s, the care home on the outskirts of town. Eighteen months later she switched to Woolworth’s on the High Street. Trudi never stayed anywhere for long. As soon as she saved enough money for a holiday, she jetted off to the hot spots of Magaluf or Aya Napa.
By the time she reached twenty-one, Trudi had changed jobs five times and been on twenty Mediterranean holidays. There was no accurate number for the men in her life. Her reputation was nothing to be proud of, and the landlord at the Ring O’Bells would never have employed her unless they hadn’t needed her physical attributes to sell beer.
The girl had pulling power, and the punters loved her. Her low-cut tops, short skirts and outgoing personality seemed to be what male pub goers expected to see on the other side of the counter. Trudi never disappointed them.
Krystal Warner, Trudi’s flatmate, started work alongside Trudi three months after she pulled her first pint. Although Krystal was attractive enough, she didn’t possess the same sparkle as Trudi. Nevertheless, she followed Trudi’s lead in whatever she did, and her wardrobe and banter with the paying public gave the pair a formidable presence.
