“You alright?”
“Yeah. I didn’t expect to be asked that question.”
“Well? What do you think?”
“Yes. I mean no. I don’t know.”
“Why not?”
“I just assumed that because she was arrested originally and has been charged, she did it.”
“Come on. Think. Remember ABC. Where’s your proof that will convince a jury?”
She sat silently in meditative thought evaluating the facts that she was aware of, as John sat looking straight at her waiting for her to make some valid comment in reply. Alison wasn’t to be rushed. Seconds passed, then a couple of minutes of silence before she replied.
“Right.” She took a mouthful of now tepid sweet tea and started. “We know that Armstrong was alive between 7.30 and 8.30am because the morning carer attended to him and filled in the relevant entry in the binder in the kitchen. Then he endorsed her signature with his own. Also, the postie who delivered the mail at about 9ish saw him in the chair by the fireplace and waved to him and got a waved response. At about 2pm, when the postie was going home along the road and approaching the driveway, he saw a small green car turn, in his words ‘quickly’, out of the drive and across the road in front of oncoming traffic and away towards Barnham. He thought it was a woman driving. Munroe has a small green Micra. When her car was impounded and searched, a really old and out of date pension book of Armstrong’s was found under the passenger seat. Could it have been in the stolen bundle of papers and dropped by her accidentally?”
Pausing to think for a few seconds, and take a final mouthful of tea, she continued.
“Munroe said to the arresting officer before the ‘brief’ told her to say nothing that she went to the bungalow about 2ish to see George to let him know she was doing the evening carers’ session, but would be late. When she was walking towards the kitchen door, she said she saw the jam jar with liquid on the floor outside the shed and put it inside for safety. Obviously, she knew her fingerprints would be found so she had this as an excuse. She claimed she didn’t go inside the bungalow because the door was locked and there was no response to her knocking. She didn’t look through any windows because she maintained she was in too much of a rush to get to another client. Other carers said that Munroe was always asking to be allocated to Armstrong and often tried to change clients with them to do so.”
Looking straight at John as though for encouragement and reading nothing in his expression, she persevered.
“There had been two complaints lodged about her in relation to inappropriate comments about client’s financial affairs. Other carers were often told by clients that Munroe was more interested in their finances than their well-being. The Post Master in Barnham has stated that just recently, a female had tried to acquire money, unsuccessfully, using Armstrong’s pension card in a card reader machine. That person had the wrong pin number and couldn’t get anything from his pension account. Mr Chaplin, his chess playing friend, says that Armstrong had told him of a carer who was getting in his words, ‘very pushy’ and argumentative. There were two cups and saucers in the sink which had both been wiped with a dish cloth and rinsed in water, indicating he knew and trusted the person who put them there.”
Considering what she had already said, she knew she was struggling. John stared impassively back at her. Alison was not quite willing to give up.
“Armstrong appeared to have been held on the floor for some time because the pathologist found a large bruise on his back. Maybe until the poison took over when Munroe left him for dead. Chaplin saw him on the floor straight away when he looked through the side window after he found the door locked. Worst of all, she said nothing really during the interviews which gives the impression of guilt, and during the first, only confirmed the handling of the poison jar and a few facts about her training and work as a carer. That’s about it.”
“So according to your account,” said John, “we only have circumstantial evidence, and not much of that either.”
She knew before the end of her summary that everything she said was circumstantial and when they took it to court as it was, they would be lucky to get it past the committal stage of the proceedings let alone to the Crown Court for trial.
Reluctantly, she sullenly agreed, “Yeah.”
“Never mind, I have arranged to see someone in the office at Crawley who may be able to shed a little more light on George.”
31
Wednesday 8th June 2011
Paul was about to make his second cup of tea, and getting another cup ready for Doreen when John and Alison walked into the office.
They greeted one another and John said, “Forgot to ask, get anywhere with the Birth Certificate?”
“No, not yet. I spoke to a very nice lady in the registry office who said she would dig out any other related information she could find today. She’s got to find the really old records from the archives and then get an endorsed copy made for us and with a bit of luck she may find out more about the parents. Doubt that it will be any more than what we have but it may make the force go bankrupt; it’s going to cost us £7 a certificate!”
John retorted, “Prodow won’t like signing your expenses claim for that.”
“The address on the envelope means nothing to anyone.”
Doreen walked in carrying her library book which she put straight into her top drawer as she sat at her desk and said, “What sort of office manager doesn’t look after his staff? They could die of thirst here.”
“Yes alright. These two have delayed me, I was just getting it.”
After some general office banter where the two older members of the team seemed to quite happily insult each other but take no offence, John asked, “Can you set the tape up tonight so we can have a quick look at it again?”
“Yes. What are you looking for?”
“Where the emergency button for the lifeline was. Can you get Jimmy to find out when the burglar alarm was last serviced?”
“Yes. Will do.”
The two left the office, and descending the stairs, went into the yard.
John said, “Let’s use mine today” and walked straight to his car with Alison unable to stop him or complain as she was struggling to match his pace.
He slid straight into the driver’s seat: the car wasn’t even locked Alison noticed, but she wasn’t able to open the passenger door. There was a click from within, and the door became free for her to open, and she slid into the passenger seat after first brushing the detritus from it. Now attired in a smart two-piece suit, she did not want it ruined. As she expected, the top of the dash board was covered in a fine layer of dust and there were bits of paper and other assorted rubbish in the foot well, but not enough to be a problem. The seat was remarkably clean once she’d brushed it with her hand. She had noticed what appeared to be a waxed jacket of some kind strewn across the back seat with an old fashioned wooden umbrella lying on top of it. From the rear-view mirror hung and swung what she really hated in any vehicle: a ‘smelly’ and this was the worst type, in the shape of a Christmas tree.
“It’s June for God’s sake, how long has that been there?”
“Not too long. I had a couple of them.”
‘What a fun trip this was going to be’ she thought.
With the horror of the vehicle still in her head, John turned the key in the ignition and the engine immediately burst into life and began to purr softly. Quieter than her little Ford. She noticed all the antiquated rocker buttons set into the mock wooden dashboard in a neat orderly line, and what looked to Alison like a steam driven radio set right in the centre of the dash. The car was manoeuvred out of the yard and into the gentle flow of what was locally described as the rush hour by those who had never experienced the cut and thrust of a true one such as the capital’s.
She scooped the papers from the floor and before he could say anything, Alison tried to open the glove box by pushing the release button with the intention of depositing them therein.
It didn’t open.
“It’s jammed, that’s why they are on the floor.”
She pushed them all into the passenger door’s pocket that already contained a full unopened can of beer which gave the impression that it was trying to keep everything else out, but she persevered and put the papers to the side of the can. The car sped out of town and into the country and neither spoke.
After a few miles, the silence was broken, “Does the radio work?” and she reached for the nearest dial which she assumed to be the on/off knob. Nothing happened.
“Let me,” and as his hand moved to the radio, she saw him gently touch a rocker switch in passing. When he turned the knob, the radio burst into life on radio 2.
‘He would listen to that’, she thought. “Anything decent on it?” and she pushed the middle of the five pre-set buttons that she assumed to be set on some obscure stations. The glove box dropped open hitting her knees and caused her to jump in shock, not pain.
Inside was a screen about six inches square glowing gently with a slowly scrolling coloured map with a pulsating green dot in the centre which Alison took no time at all in realising was their position.
“What the hell is this?”
John said, “That’s my Sat Nav. I very rarely use it, that’s why it’s in the glove box.”
“That’s the strangest and biggest looking Sat Nav I’ve ever seen. I saw you push that switch,” and she pointed at a rocker “before you turned the radio on. Is it some kind of control?”
“You don’t miss much. Yes, you’re right.”
“Now I come to think of it, my little Fiesta has two switches, how come yours has,” and she quickly counted, “ten. What do they all do?”
“Different things. It’s an old car and each switch does one thing; your switches do several things each. Now can you just push the glove box closed?”
It gently clicked into place, and in a sudden rash moment, she tried to open it again by pushing the release button, but it stayed firmly in situ.
The radio played soporific music that was what she thought would be suitable for people in mental institutions to keep them calm and was from some radio station she had never heard of. She let the music drift over her as the car swept along country roads towards Crawley. Alison was thinking quiet thoughts about the car she was in, and how her seat was so clean, how the car started a lot quicker than hers which was years younger, and how sprightly it traversed the roads and just seemed to purr effortlessly along.
“I’ve never been to Crawley Police Station before. Who are we seeing?”
“Who said we were going to the station?”
“You did.”
“No I didn’t. I said we were going to the Crawley office.”
“Where the hell is it then?”
“It’s nearer Three Bridges really, but it’s been called the Crawley office for as long as I can remember.”
Alison was exasperated and thought, ‘what’s the point, I suppose I’ll see when we get there’, and she settled back with her own thoughts, as John smiled contentedly knowing he still hadn’t told her much. Surprises are so much more fun: sometimes!
32
Wednesday 8th June 2011
The car slowed and came to a halt against a pavement in a quiet suburban street with enough room for vehicles to park without manoeuvring back and forth. John left the Vauxhall a few feet from a dropped kerb in front of a drive to a private house in order that no one could park in front of him or block him in without it being obvious. They both left the car and Alison noted John locked it on the driver’s side with a key, not a fob: ‘how antiquated.’ Although to any casual observer, they were walking together, John was leading as they crossed the road towards a junction to what appeared to be a very small private road. With a casual glance behind, John turned into the road, and within a few yards ducked into an open gated entrance with some kind of evergreen plant virtually concealing it.
Alison was taken completely by surprise as she was about to walk past. She ducked through it now a yard or two behind John and found they were walking down a crazy paved path which was enclosed on both sides by flint stone walls and a canopy of vines which were clinging to some kind of roof covering. After a dozen yards or so, John reached the end of the passage, and ducking his head; he opened a thick oak door and walked through into a dimly lit room with two tables surrounded by an assortment of odd chairs. He held the door for Alison and shut it behind her.
They entered a windowless room lit by a single light that was trying valiantly and failing miserably. From the bright sunshine outside to the dim light inside took Alison’s eyes several minutes to adapt. She didn’t know it, but there was a logical reason for the room to be kept in a subtle glow. There was a small bar area with room for one person to stand behind it in one corner with an unobtrusive closed door to the rear of it. The door flew open and a man of at least sixty years burst through it. He was only about 5 feet 8 inches in height but had the bearing of a taller man; upright and alert, fit for his age and modestly attired. His face was slightly rounded and his bulbous nose disclosed the fact that he liked a drink, and as Alison tried to see him more clearly in the dim light, she started to think how much he looked like a picture she had once seen of Captain Pugwash.
“Hi John. Long time no see, you can stay here in the green room for as long you like today.”
“We will if that’s ok with you? How are you Ginger?”
The two men chatted amicably for a few minutes as Alison tried to make out the colour of the room, and then to discreetly see what colour the man’s hair was. It definitely was not ginger, more she thought brown with grey flecks and patches: befitting for a person of his apparent age.
“Ginger, allow me to present Alison Daines to you. Last time you saw her, she was about four months old.”
Alison sat heavily down onto the nearest chair flabbergasted. She had no idea who the person was, and for some reason she felt embarrassed that he had seen her when she was so young.
“Alison, this is Jeff Taylor.”
“Hi Alison. Really nice to meet you again. How’s your dad?”
She was thrown. Totally confused. Who was this man? How did he know her Father?
“Em. He’s ok thanks” came her hesitant reply as she tried to recover her composure. “I seem to be at a loss here, who are you?”
“You’re a sod Oscar. You haven’t told her, have you?”
“No I thought you could tell her. I’ll go and see your missus and get the drinks.” And with that, he lifted the flap at the side of the bar for Ginger to step into the room and subsequently allowing him to step behind the bar and out of sight through the door.
“Have a cosier seat Alison and I’ll fill you in so to speak.”
They sat at the table nearest the bar and Ginger began to regale her with an abridged story.
“Long time ago, me and a few mates who were all ex-military were recruited by a private company to become ‘official mercenaries’ and go and help the Angolan Government who were fighting a long and protracted civil war against what they then called rebels. It was actually on behalf of HM’s (Her Majesty’s) Government who supported the elected regime at the time. We knew if we were caught that our Government would disown us and deny all knowledge of us. As it so often happens, our Government changed as did its Foreign Policy, and then things went a bit pear shaped causing us some problems and we had to get out of Angola pretty fast. We found out that the person who had recruited us on behalf of HM Government sold us out for a large amount of money to the rebels so if we were killed or caught he didn’t have to pay us. It also seemed to suit some people in our Government if we were killed. So we made a pact that whoever survived would deal with them.
All my mates were killed and I got out by the skin of my teeth and made my way back to England. I knew some older ex-military people who had worked for the same firm and was able to find out that not one of them knew what the person who had recruited us was up to. Rumour had it
that he was possibly acting as an agent for contract killers. Soon found that was right when a Russian tried to kill me after I had attempted to make contact with some Foreign Office mandarin. I’d been given your Dad’s name as a person I could trust so I found out where he was and went to see him: that was the day of your christening.”
“Brilliant!”
“Well things soon got under way with the team and they went after the recruiter and the hit men he employed. The Home Office muscled in and got involved and John’s mate ended up dead because they blabbed about it to all and sundry and didn’t take the security seriously. Anyway, the shit who sold us out got done for plotting a kidnapping of someone in Guatemala that saw him pull twenty years and you don’t want to be in a Guatemalan gaol for a week let alone twenty years. Your old man’s team went after the hit men and some got caught and banged up but a lot got away and that’s why we still take precautions.”
Alison, now composed, said with slight sarcasm, “Surprised you trust telling me then.” “Not really. If Oscar trusts you to bring you here, I trust you. Simple.”
John burst back into the bar and over to the table with two pints of some dark brew which he put down without spillage.
“Forgot to ask what you want to drink. You definitely would not like this; all the shorts are on the optics and the mixers are under the counter. Help yourself.”
“Is that ok with you Jeff?”
“Sure, call me Ginger. Your Dad owns a tenth of this pub, so I’m sure he wouldn’t object.”
It had dawned originally on Alison that she was either in a private club or in a small back bar of a pub. The fact that her Dad owned a tenth of a public house was suddenly starting to weigh heavily on her mind, and she wondered if her Mum knew of the arrangement.
She walked over to the bar and behind it through the raised flap. Thoughts swam in her head as she squatted down on her haunches to see if there was any orange juice on the chiller shelf. There were two bottles of it amongst a few other flavours, and as she removed one of them a dark object to the very right of the shelf caught her eye. Sitting there, handle backwards towards her ready to be picked up was an automatic handgun.
An Urgent Murder Page 9
