Paul addressed John and Alison, “I’ll do the enquiries with Cambridge about the Birth Certificate and anything pertaining to it if you two can have a go at the I.D. cards. Keep me informed and I’ll let you know what I turn up, and keep your phone on.”
The last was directed to Alison as John hardly ever bothered to use a mobile nor had any inkling to own one.
“Jimmy can try and sort out the newspaper and what he wanted £1000 in cash for.”
Alison was still thinking of the name ‘Black John’ and the numerous times she had heard it as a child from her Father and the exploits that seemed to always accompany it. This must be a totally different ‘Black John’ to the one of her youth. They both went to the canteen where Alison, who had started to take a closer interest in John, noticed that he took a table in the corner furthest from the servery and sat with his back to the wall. As they ate a late lunch, she found herself watching John more closely and noticed his eyes constantly monitoring the room over her shoulders, but she still could not imagine this was the ‘Black John’ her Father spoke so fondly of. He was just an old detective constable coming up to retirement with the same nickname: but then he had quite impressed her with some of the things he had done and said so far. She could not get it out of her head when John interrupted her thoughts.
“What are you thinking about? You’re miles away. You still studying me?”
Before she could stop herself, she blurted out, louder than she needed causing the occupants of the closest table to take stock of her, “Do you know my Father?”
“Ah so that’s it. I do, who told you?”
Alison could not believe it. All the things she had heard as a child related to the man seated in front of her. She explained how she had heard about a man called ‘Black John’ from her Father and just previously from Paul, and put two and two together but couldn’t believe it quite made four.
She asked some probing questions really just to confirm to herself that it was the same ‘Black John’.
He answered nearly all quite truthfully until he said, “I would be obliged now you have discovered my little secret that you do not divulge it willy-nilly to anyone else.”
Strangely, Alison, who didn’t know why, agreed readily to the request and then said, “You’re a bit like Armstrong. Not what you appear to be.”
John moved the conversation away from himself and said, “If we could solve the conundrum of the cup and the I.D. cards, that may open the case sufficiently and take us to the murderer.”
Alison was now back on track and said, “I think I could probably find something about the ID cards on the Internet, I’ll have a go when I get home.”
This was a technology that John had yet to embrace fully. Having heard how useful it could be, he just didn’t trust it.
“If you go straight home after lunch it will give you more time.”
Alison’s stomach was rumbling loudly as the first food she had eaten today seemed to fill the empty chamber and echoed around it. John was too much the gentleman to comment.
To cover her obvious embarrassment, “How do you go so long without eating? Were you a camel in your previous life?”
“I think camels have to eat, it’s water they don’t need so much of.”
“You can be an exasperating sod at times.”
“Thanks.”
“What are you going to be doing this afternoon?”
“I’ll check out the mug and I want to try and find a will.” He thought for a second or two. “Here’s another quandary though for you to ponder. Jimmy has the last year’s bank statements of Armstrong, and they have been checked thoroughly. All his bills have been paid using direct debits. The cheque book has not been used for anything except to draw cash. The largest amount having been £500 and the average £200. First: being a housebound invalid, did he go to the Bank to cash his cheques? And, how did he get there? Or did someone do it for him? Second: and in my opinion more significantly is what did he spend the cash on, and how?”
28
Tuesday 7th June 2011
Vilf was a townie. He loved the buzz of London. The countryside was all right, but not much seemed to happen in it: other than the occasional murder. Villages were too quiet for him but the smaller towns were chiefly passable. Bognor Regis was big enough to have a buzz and it was by the sea. He had reached the age of twenty-three before he’d seen the sea for the first time and that had been at Clacton in company with some woman he had been trying to impress. A few days later, he had helped himself to a swimming costume and towel from Marks and Spencer with the ultimate goal of going into the sea. Unfortunately, his efforts went unrewarded as being arrested and locked up for an old burglary thwarted them.
Now he was in Bognor. He’d been in a café for a sandwich at midday and was sitting on a bench on the prom watching the few ‘white horses’ that were atop some waves while licking an ice cream. There were a couple of pubs he’d noted doing food and he planned on eating later at one and having a drink in the other before heading back to his lodgings in Midhurst. As he sat staring at the dark grey green sea of the English Channel and pondered the logic of the local authority not repairing the pier, he overheard part of the conversation of the two men seated on the next bench. Cars passing along the seafront road drowned out the majority of it, but he heard enough.
He couldn’t bring himself to look because he knew that they would see him, and anything could happen then which frightened him. His car with his gun, which he considered an equaliser was some way off. What he had heard, he believed, confirmed that he was in the right place. Straining hard, he tried to hear more above the sound of the passing traffic on the road behind the prom and rumbustious screaming children desperate to be on the beach and their bawling overprotective parents. Yes: it was Russian, he was sure of it. He’d heard them mention Dimitri. That bloody obnoxious foreigner he had been forced to share a cell with for seven weeks. Had he heard them say he was due out? If true, he would have to speed up his plan!
Casually getting up, he walked the couple of yards forward across the prom and stood for a few seconds looking at the sandy beach and sea beyond while wolfing down the remnants of his ice cream cornet. Then he turned, and saw a single man sitting in the middle of the bench with his arms out resting on the back of it, glegging. Glancing up and down the prom he couldn’t see two men together. In the corner of his eye he caught them, just reaching the far side of the road having dodged between the traffic. One much larger than the other. All he could see were their backs!
They were soon out of sight walking rapidly off down a side street. Vilf was not as nimble on his feet and could not get across the road fast enough. He really wanted a good look at them.
Accepting defeat, he made his way back to his car resolving to move his lodgings to Bognor.
29
Tuesday 7th June 2011
Alison left for home as John went back to the office to pick up a full list of local Solicitors in West Sussex that Paul kept in one of his own indexes.
Paul gave him a photocopied list and said, “What do you want it for?”
“I hope one of these will have a copy of the will and we might get to see it.”
Paul said, “Don’t tell me you’re going to get a solicitor to show you any will they have before an inquest.”
John replied, “Why is it that no one seems to trust lawyers? They are reasonable people if you speak to them nicely. I’ll be in the conference room. The ‘phone in there is a direct line and doesn’t show up on 1471.”
With that he left and made his way down to the empty conference room where he placed his briefcase on a large table, pulled the telephone from the window sill that was it’s normal home, and then sat down facing the only door in and out. He was still a very nervous person, and knew that people from his past would love to see the back of him even now. During his service, he had been shot at, caught in bomb blasts and physically attacked and only a few years earlier, a man who John had given prima
ry evidence against, had broken out of gaol swearing vengeance against him. One thing he’d learnt in his career was not to be predictable, and this trait held true in most things that he did. Scanning the three pages of Solicitors and their telephone numbers, he picked one from about half way down the second page at random, and dialled the number.
“Good afternoon. Peters and Morris Solicitors. My name is Maureen. How can I help you?”
“Hello Maureen. This is John Whiles from the Police. We need a copy of George Armstrong’s will for the murder enquiry in case there is anything of evidential value recorded on it. Do you think I could collect an endorsed copy and a producing statement tomorrow?”
“Just one moment please” and John heard a click as the call was put on hold.
Mundane music of no recognisable composer commenced its weary dirge. Maureen was soon back on the line.
“Hello Mr Whiles. I can’t find any record of us holding a will in the name of George Armstrong at all.”
“Maureen, I am so sorry, I have rung the wrong firm.” John glanced at the list and said, “I meant to call Petra’s.”
“No problem Mr Whiles. It was nice talking to you. Have a pleasant day. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye Maureen. Thanks anyway.”
Both hung up. John didn’t really trust lawyers that much either and thought if a firm believed he had knowledge of something in their possession, they would probably be more forthcoming in imparting information.
John continued to dart up and down the list at random calling the firms shown and crossing each one off as he called them. Some were immediately helpful, others were after some cajoling and then a few with blatantly contrary, or plain sheer lazy secretaries told him he should know better than to ask them such things. There were two that told him that he should address his request in writing to one of the partners in the firm. Making a note against these as ‘possible’ for further attention should the need arise, he continued. Just short of three hours and just prior to 6 o’clock when most solicitors’ secretaries were getting ready to go home, John struck lucky.
He’d rung the third solicitors shown on the first page of the list. Aldwright, Sedgwick and Partners of Bognor and spoken to the receptionist who sounded like a teenage girl. In fact she was in her mid-twenties and had only been at the firm for about six months. Today she was by herself as the senior receptionist had stepped out for some cakes for the partners. When John called, her first thought was she had neglected to prepare a copy of the will and was as helpful as she could be. It had been drummed into her, like all other solicitors’ receptionists, that she should not divulge anything to anyone over the telephone, but here she was giving John the information. Mr Sedgwick had removed the file only last week and then as a throwaway remark stated that he was probably dealing with the duplication himself. Thanking her for her candid assistance, he said he would call tomorrow to talk to Mr Sedgwick and they both hung up. With rueful resignation, John realised if he had started at the top of the first page of the list, he would have discovered the whereabouts of the will within about fifteen minutes. ‘Sometimes,’ he thought to himself, ‘life’s a pain.’
Looking at the assembled pile of jumble inside his briefcase, John found and took out the gas bill, unfolding and smoothing it before laying it flat on the table. Turning to the ‘G’ page of his address book which he always kept secured in a pocket of the briefcase, John found ‘Gas’ and the name next to it: Gordon Weeks, with a Croydon telephone number. It rang for so long that John was just thinking of hanging up when he was jolted into action by the voice that answered.
“Weeks.”
“Hi there Daily, Oscar here. How’s retirement?”
“Bloody hell, I thought you must have been dead by now. Where are you, or shouldn’t I ask?”
“Sussex. I’ve got a little problem though and I thought of you.”
“You only ever call me if you’ve got a problem or you want someone to buy you a pint, what is it this time?”
“I have a gas bill from a guy who was murdered, and I want to know all his banking details. Can you help?”
“Yeah. Shouldn’t be a problem. Give us the reference number and I’ll have the details tomorrow about 12ish. That do you?”
“Be great.” John read out the reference number and Gordon read it back to him for confirmation. John continued and said, “I’ll come up and see you and bring someone you might know.”
“I was right then; you want me to buy you a pint. Mind, it’ll still be good to see you. Make it the office then in Crawley. I could do with a day in the sticks.”
Both said their goodbyes till tomorrow and hung up.
Gathering all his papers up, he threw them back haphazardly into his briefcase and returned the phone to its exact position on the window sill which was identifiable by the absence of dust. The Police employed a professional team of cleaners who were obviously neglecting their duties in some of the lesser used rooms around the station. Checking that as far as possible he had left no discernible trace of the fact he had been there, he went upstairs to find Paul.
Doreen had gone home a bit before 4 o’clock to Mum and her tea ready to go out early to her book club meeting. Jimmy had ‘legged’ it even earlier so he could get himself ready for a great night out with his new sexy girlfriend at one of Chichester’s noisy and busy night clubs. Paul was looking through the papers scattered about on one of the spare desks, and throwing some away and putting others into his own ‘in’ tray for further thought in the morning when John walked in.
“Cuppa?”
“Why not.”
Paul opened Doreen’s large bottom drawer and took out an electric kettle and the accoutrements and set about making a coffee. Sussex Police frowned on kettles in offices if they weren’t PAT (Portable Appliance Tested) tested and there was a perfectly good canteen two floors below, hence the feeble concealment. Pauls argument, should anyone have found it and questioned it, would be that the office would remain unmanned while he queued two floors below. Other than Groves, the whole team, including Prodow knew of its existence and location.
John updated Paul with the details of the Solicitor holding the will in order that he could arrange for Prodow to sort out a copy to be obtained for information. He already knew that the lawyers were to act as sole executors thanks to the accommodating secretary.
Both men sat with their feet resting on the edge of Paul’s desk as they drank the hot coffee. Paul had searched at the back of the drawer that held the kettle until he found the biscuits that he loved to dunk. They chatted amicably about the case and Groves and how he hadn’t a clue considering his reputation as a DS.
Paul said, “Do you think she did it?”
“It’s possible but I think unlikely. What do you reckon?”
“I don’t know. Everything points to her, but I’m not sure.”
John said, “The thing that worries me is the missing letters and other items. For a man who keeps pamphlets and postcards in neat piles, he should have some letters and definitely an address book of some kind. By the way, we are off to Crawley tomorrow where I think we may get some leads on his financial affairs.”
“Try to get back sober, Prodow is due in at 4.30.”
“You mean quarter to 5.”
They continued ‘chewing the fat’ for a further twenty minutes before they closed the office and made their way into the yard and towards their respective cars. Paul looked disdainfully at John’s Vauxhall.
“I don’t know which is oldest, the briefcase or the car.”
“Nor do I.” retorted John laughing at his lie.
30
Wednesday 8th June 2011
Alison had got in early, she wanted breakfast today. She wasn’t on a diet and didn’t need to be on one, and after yesterday not eating before nearly 3pm she thought she might have wasted away. ‘Everyone knows breakfast is the most important meal of the day’ she thought to herself, ‘so how is he so damn large if he hardly eats anything?’
John ambled into the canteen and saw Alison sitting at the same table that they had occupied for lunch the previous day, but this time she had her back to the wall. He went to the servery without speaking to her, and bought a coffee for himself and a tea for her remembering to put in two heaped teaspoons of sugar. Walking back to the table, he placed the tea in front of her.
“Some years ago, I was on a boat going down the Thames when we went past a sugar factory. I could see all these little black things on the sugar cane where it had been offloaded before being refined. When I asked the skipper what they were, he said ‘Rats’. I’ve never taken sugar since in tea or coffee.”
Alison looked at him for a few seconds and said, “Good morning to you too.”
John sat at an angle in his chair and said, “How did you do yesterday?”
“Not too bad, I’ve got to make some phone calls between 9 and 5. There are some people connected to the DWP (Department for Work and Pensions) in Newcastle that may be able to help and the MOD (Ministry of Defence) as well as the National Archives. What did you do?”
John filled her in with his afternoon activities of the preceding day, and then said to her, “Do you think she did it?”
Alison, who had just taken a sip of tea, nearly choked on it at the question which she had definitely not expected. She had assumed like nearly all the murder team from the start that Munroe was responsible for Armstrong’s murder because she had been arrested within two days of the crime, and had since been charged with the offence of murder.
An Urgent Murder Page 8
