The Freeman Files Series Box Set

by Ted Tayler

  “When was the last shift you worked together?” asked Jake.

  “I can’t remember. I did Monday, Wednesday and Thursday in Swindon. She may have worked Thursday.”

  “Were there any troublesome clients? Any arguments you recall?” asked Neil.

  “Not with Gem in charge. She didn’t stand any nonsense from the customers, or the girls. Gem made it a pleasure to go to work. That’s why it seemed so wrong that someone wanted to kill her.”

  “If there’s anything else you remember that might help us, give us a call,” said Jake handing Kathy a card.

  “You haven’t found yourself a girlfriend yet then, Jake,” said Neil, as they drove towards Swindon.

  “We’re rushed off our feet at work, as you can imagine. I can’t be bothered with going on half a dozen dates before sealing the deal. I reckon I’ll call one of the girls we met today. It might be expensive, but you save on having to remember birthdays and anniversaries.”

  “Who said romance was dead,” laughed Neil,

  Meanwhile, on the other side of the county, Alex Hardy and Lydia Logan Barre were moving their relationship forward inch by inch towards the precipice.

  That’s how Alex viewed it. It was tearing him apart. His heart wanted to jump into bed with Lydia, but his head knew that if he did the odds against her leaving him would shorten.

  Today, Lydia had cooked a meal for them at her place. In the afternoon they watched a football match and then lounged around chatting. After another large glass of wine, they sat together on a leather sofa.

  “What influenced the career change you made,” asked Alex, “you need a flair for acting, and it’s quite a switch to forensics. That’s a part of your life that you’ve not mentioned.”

  “Growing up in Dundee, my childhood was a happy one,” said Lydia, “I always knew I was adopted but didn't give it much thought. On my twelfth birthday, I received a file with information on my birth parents. There were only a few details: My birth mother was eighteen when she had me. She worked in a gift shop in George Street, Edinburgh. My birth father was a Nigerian sailor who had arrived in the port of Leith two days before they met for the first time. He was on shore leave for five days. My parents had agreed to a closed adoption, which meant that the basic information I received was all the specifics anyone gets. My parents didn't even know my birth mother's name. I’ve spent the last eight years badgering the adoption agency, and adoption support groups. While I was studying, I spent countless hours in libraries and trying internet searches.”

  “It must have been a difficult time for you and your parents,” said Alex, “but I can appreciate the desire to find the woman who brought you into the world.”

  “The adoption agency wrote to say I was now entitled to learn my first name given at birth. My birth mother, Eleanor, named me Lisa Marie. It was the only thing she was allowed to do after giving birth before the baby got whisked away. Eleanor didn't have any family support during her pregnancy. I kept questioning what I was doing. What if I found her and she didn't want that? When I plucked up the courage to contact Eleanor, it was through a mediator. I said I wasn't asking Eleanor for anything but was curious to learn more about her. Communication began between us. Months passed before either of us was ready to meet in person. I had often tried to imagine my birth mother. When we finally met face-to-face, Mum turned out to be so completely normal it threw me. Instead of trying to force an instant bond as mother-daughter, we decided to be friends. We get in touch now and then. There’s no pressure.”

  “That’s great, Lydia,” said Alex, “but it doesn’t answer my original question.”

  “The next step is to find my father. That won’t be so easy. I need to find the ship he arrived on; where it went when it left the Port of Leith five days after they met, it’s something I have to do. I won’t rest until I find out who he is, what part of him has made me the person I am today. While I sat in the library searching for a way to find my mother, I wondered which occupation might offer the most access to information impossible to unlock online. I started reading books on forensic psychology to fill in time between the results of internet searches. I viewed the police as a career that allowed me to search for him without raising red flags and switched courses. Am I an idiot?”

  “Of course not,” said Alex, “we would never have met for a start. You’ll not find it easy to trace your father unless he’s here in the UK and has committed an offence. You would still need a valid reason for accessing information. We can’t just log on and root around without alerting someone.”

  “Are you saying you would help me?”

  “I’ll do what I can, Lydia, I promise, but we must tread carefully.”

  “You’re my hero,” she said, punching his arm. She lifted her head and kissed him.

  “Were you going home?” Lydia whispered.

  Alex looked into those big brown eyes and knew it was a lost cause.

  In Urchfont, Gus had spent a leisurely Saturday evening at home. The batteries needed re-charging. He had booked a table for one o’clock on Sunday.

  When he and Vera arrived, they found another country pub with a roaring trade. Gus wondered how many people ever bothered to learn to cook for themselves. He’d seen the evidence with his own eyes in Salisbury that the fast-food outlets catered for the younger set.

  Here in the heart of Wiltshire, families and senior citizens queued to get seated for a meal. Why did they show so many food programmes on TV? They gave the impression everyone was at it. As he gazed around the bar-restaurant, he decided he could solve the obesity crisis crippling the nation. People needed to be taught to either cook at home, or eat out, not both.

  “What did you get up to yesterday?” asked Vera.

  “I visited a lady in Devizes who gave me useful information. I was sure that a young footballer we were keen to talk to could assist us in our enquiries. Now, I believe he’s the key to solving the case.”

  “It would be good if you found something to take the wind out of the Chief Constable’s sails. She’s a force to be reckoned with; several senior officers are fretting over their futures. There’s bound to be a knock-on effect on those of us lower down the ladder. The ACC doesn’t seem too worried, though.”

  “Kenneth Truelove will be happy if he doesn’t survive the cull she’s threatened. He can’t wait for retirement. A new broom always has to be seen to do something meaningful. We can only do one thing at a time with the CRT. This case is moving forward at last after a very sluggish start. Whether it will be solved before the axe falls or not, who knows? Do you know anything about Sandra Plunkett? Had you heard she and Dominic Culverhouse worked together?”

  “That must have been before my time,” said Vera.

  “You knew him, didn’t you?” asked Gus.

  “I knew of him, and I didn’t like him much. I can’t think where those two worked together. You should ask Geoff Mercer.”

  Lunch had been excellent. He and Vera strolled in the local park for an hour before returning to her rented house. Gus had driven back to the bungalow the next morning.

  Monday, 7th May 2018

  As the sun rose higher in the sky, the temperature climbed too. Gus couldn’t remember a Bank Holiday with such glorious weather. He pottered around indoors, waiting for a phone call. Suzie hadn’t been in touch since she left on Saturday morning. Vera had been asleep when he awoke; he had let her stay there.

  “Time to visit the allotment,” he said to himself.

  If anyone wanted to speak to him, they knew where he’d be.

  Bert Penman was busy as usual on the adjoining patch when he reached his shed.

  “You’re gaining a new neighbour, Mr Freeman,” said Bert.

  “They’ve got someone to take on Frank North’s patch already, have they?”

  “A newcomer to the village, I expect,” said Bert, “the waiting list must be shorter than I thought.”

  They must play their cards close to their chest too if Bert didn’t
have chapter and verse on who they were and from where they originated.

  “You won’t need to worry over the weeds running riot now, Bert,”

  “No, but I’ll miss the extra vegetables Frank provided.”

  The church clock struck four before Gus made his way back up the lane. He decided to drop into the Lamb for a cold one. It was thirsty work in the heat.

  Bert perched on a stool by the bar. His pint of cider looked almost empty.

  “Can I buy you another, Bert?” asked Gus.

  “Only a toothful left in this glass, Mr Freeman. That’s very generous.”

  As they sat beside one another enjoying a quiet drink, the bar door opened and in walked an unfamiliar face.

  “That could be your man, Mr Freeman,” whispered Bert, nudging Gus’s arm.

  The stranger ordered a gin and tonic. He went to sit at the other end of the bar to read the newspaper.

  “Not very sociable, is he?” said Gus, “and he’s not got the look of a gardener.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on him,” said Bert, “next time we meet. I’ll be able to tell you more.”

  Gus thought he’d better get home. Another cider and he wouldn’t be able to drive anywhere this evening. Of course, he may not get an invitation.

  “I need to get myself a meal, Bert. I’ll catch you one evening in the week.”

  “OK, Mr Freeman. I’ll be making my way home soon. The doctor drops in here on a Monday evening. No point pushing my luck.”

  As Gus left the Lamb, the stranger glanced up from his newspaper.

  Tuesday, 8th May 2018

  “Did you have a good weekend, guv?” asked Neil as Gus walked into the CRT office.

  “It had its moments, Neil,” Gus replied.

  Not last night. He had returned to the bungalow, cooked his meal and sat with a glass of single malt listening to music alone until he had gone to bed at eleven.

  “Did you solve your emergency?” asked Lydia.

  “What emergency? Oh, that was just a fox or something that tripped the motion sensor on my cameras. Nothing suspicious.”

  “Do you want to read through the reports in the Freeman Files from Friday afternoon’s interviews, guv?” asked Alex.

  “I’m updating our files with my interview from Saturday afternoon,” said Gus, “I talked to a friend of your Dad’s, Neil. They gave me useful stuff about footballers spending big lumps of time and money in parlours around the region. Did you find Ian Hewson?”

  “Yes, guv. Hewson’s registered for a team playing in the National League South. He’s thirty-four now. His playing career is coming to a close. He might have a couple more seasons left.”

  “What time will he be here?” asked Gus.

  “Two o’clock this afternoon, guv,” said Neil.

  “I’ll read those Friday reports later, Alex. Give me the headlines?”

  “Harrison had booked a bath, guv. Do you need to learn what that entails?”

  “Too much detail, Alex. So, that meant the session overran the thirty minutes?”

  “He reckoned Camille saw him off the premises at ten to seven. He didn’t hear any whistling or singing. Nobody was working nearby then.”

  “And Babar Ahmed, the elderly dentist?”

  “A taciturn man, guv. Gentle as a lamb. Anxious that his wife never found out. Ahmed heard nothing and saw nothing. He hasn’t visited a parlour since the murder.”

  “Anything sound off with his answers?”

  “No, guv. No way could he be our man,”

  “The reports from my visits to the parlours will be updated in the next hour, guv. Jake Latimer came along for the ride. We got a similar story to the one you picked up on Saturday afternoon. Several of the parlours had footballers among their clientele.

  “Thanks, Neil. I look forward to hearing what the girls could add. We still have girls to catch. Keep hunting for them.”

  “I’ll get on it, guv,” said Alex.

  “Jeff Naylor is in this morning, I believe?”

  “He’s your noon appointment,”

  Gus nodded. A quiet morning in prospect. Jeff Naylor and Ian Hewson should bring them closer to the truth. Still, they had to go through the process with the others, just in case.

  Don Green was in his early sixties. He was a greengrocer and married three times. A somewhat corpulent man, whose nose suggested his five-a-day included something closely related to a Pinot Noir. Whether the other four items were vegetables or another grape variety was difficult to tell.

  Lydia wondered how the parlour girls could stand being in the same room. Somehow, Laura had agreed to Don Green becoming a regular. Gus followed the same line of questioning as for the other men. The greengrocer may have looked an old soak, but his replies were brief and never wavered. He had arrived on time, Gem had taken him to the room, they conducted their business, and then he left. Gem walked downstairs with him and closed the door behind him.

  Walter Shadwell was as Terry Davis had described him. In his eighties, short, bald-headed and with rounded shoulders. He was shrinking with age. Gus could imagine him standing straight and proud behind the bar as mine host in the Swindon pub Terry described. Now he was collapsing in on himself. He looked in a sorry state.

  Gus cut to the chase.

  “We don’t want to keep you here any longer than necessary, Walter,” said Gus.

  Lydia wondered if Gus feared the older man might keel over and draw his last breath on the carpet in front of his desk.

  “I should hope so,” replied Walter.

  “What time did you arrive at Gentle Touch?”

  “Seven o’clock on the dot,”

  “Did you see anybody outside the parlour; or hear anyone in the vicinity. Inside one of the nearby buildings, for instance,?”

  Walter thought for a while.

  “I don’t remember anything like that. I saw nobody. My hearing isn’t what it was, so there could have been someone talking. I wouldn’t have heard a conversation on the other side of the street, I’m afraid.”

  “We understand that you visited Gem often,”

  “Not for what you think,” said Walter, “my wife died when she was forty-seven. I’ve been on my own for nigh on thirty years now. Gem let me talk to her. I didn’t go for anything other than the female company.”

  Gus helped Walter Shadwell from his chair and escorted him to the car park himself.

  “An expensive way to get someone to chat to you,” said Neil.

  “What, you think he should have signed up to something similar to Tinder?” asked Lydia.

  “We’re no closer to our killer,” said Alex, “but Laura wasn’t just a masseuse, was she? The more we learn, the more caring an individual she appears to have been.”

  “Which makes it vital to understand why someone stabbed her time and time again,” said Lydia. “Who could she have hurt, or upset that much?”

  Gus returned to the office.

  “We don’t need to bother Walter again, guv,” said Neil.

  “I asked him in the lift what he did for company after Gentle Touch closed,” said Gus, “he told me he joined a dating agency for Over Sixties. I asked how that had gone for him. He said he received hundreds of emails from young Russian women. They were all beautiful. Every one of them was desperate to come to the UK to meet him. Sadly, they couldn’t afford the airfare. I told him it was a scam. He said he was aware of that, but he had an extensive library of candid photographs they attached to their emails designed to convince him to part with his money. The girls got nothing from him, but Walter had enjoyed writing backwards and forwards to them. It was a company of sorts, and it hadn’t cost him a penny.”

  “Crafty devil,” said Lydia.

  “Did you make a note of the site he used, guv?” asked Neil.

  “You shouldn’t be messing around with things like that with your wife in the family way, Neil,” said Gus.

  “I wasn’t thinking of myself, guv. You’re over sixty, and thought you might
need the company.”

  I’ve got more than I can handle, Neil, thank you very much, Gus thought.

  “I don’t speak Russian, Neil,” he replied.

  The less they knew, the better.

  Jeff Naylor found parking spaces at a premium when he arrived at noon. He looked hot under the collar when he arrived in the CRT office.

  Some of that was due to the warm weather. An altercation with a bollard had caused damage to Naylor’s brand-new Audi, and that irked him.

  “What a shambles,” he moaned, “these council-run car parks are useless. The lines they paint on the ground take no account of the room required for the wide variety of models on the market. They seem to imagine everybody drives a Mini or a Smart car.”

  “When you’re ready, Mr Naylor,” said Gus, “perhaps, you could sit here and answer a few questions?”

  “Right. Sorry. A bad start to proceedings. The phone call I received indicated this meeting concerned the murder of the Swindon girl in 2011. Is that correct?”

  “Laura Mallinder was the young lady’s name. You knew her as Gem. You were a regular customer of hers at Gentle Touch in Broadgreen.”

  “I hadn’t realised she used a different name until I read it in the newspapers.”

  “You were her last client,” said Gus.

  “I had booked for eight in the evening, as I had every week since the place opened. Gem was very proficient. Without a doubt, she gave the best massage I have ever experienced. I’m on my feet all day in my job. There’s a lot of lifting and carrying. I don’t think I could keep up with the others where I work if I didn’t have the kinks worked out of my muscles every weekend.”

  “Did you find somewhere else to get this weekly treatment once you realised Gentle Touch wasn’t re-opening?”

  “Not immediately. I was shocked to hear that Gem, well Laura, had been murdered. The police contacted me and asked about my session. They wanted to know if we had argued. Whether anyone else entered the building to wait in Reception until one of the girls was free. I don’t think there was anyone else there on that occasion. When Gem walked me downstairs, all the doors to the rooms were open. There was nobody in Reception either. That was strange, but I didn’t comment on it to Gem. I wished I had.”