by Vic Marelle
‘OK guys, lets get the show on the road,’ bellowed Radcliffe above the chatter that had gained steadily in volume since Handley’s exit. Having gained their attention, Radcliffe proceeded to outline how he thought that they should work, hoping that Davies would not object. Like his superior, he hoped that they could keep the investigations local and tie them up with successful conclusions before Liverpool could intervene and take them away, major incidents though they may be. What they really needed was a compact team with good communications and fast exchange of information. What he was suggesting was that they should continue to operate as they had started, with Davies heading up the Lydiate Man investigation while he carried on with the Johnson attacks and the RTA murder of the Pole, with continuing debriefing between both teams daily. Davies pursed his lips, thought for a moment, then nodded imperceptibly with a slight smile.
‘Does that mean it’s really business as normal with two distinct teams?’ asked a WPC, ‘I thought that the Chief said we were to work together.’
‘No Louise it doesn’t,’ responded Radcliffe. ‘It’s just that it is more practical if we each concentrate on specific aspects – we don’t want to spread ourselves too thinly by trying to do everything yet only scratching the surface if, instead, we can concentrate on the aspects we are already familiar with and dig deeper. As the Chief said, we’ve got to communicate so that we can work as one big team.’
‘As long as there isn’t another murder then sir,’ offered a voice from the back. ‘Or we’ll have to work with three Inspectors.’
‘Let’s not get bloody silly,’ responded Radcliffe. ‘You all know what the score is here. The important thing is being efficient, sharing information and working openly. Inspector Davies and I will work pretty much together anyway. We’ll be in constant contact and meet regularly so I don’t see a problem there. But we will be hampered if you lot insist on keeping things to yourselves. There’s no place for inter force rivalry or politics. These are serious cases and we need teamwork. Sergeant Fraser will be the point of contact from our side, who will he communicate with on yours Frank?’
‘That all makes sense Don,’ replied Davies. ‘Sergeant Lescott can be the point of contact for my part of the team.’
‘That’s settled then,’ declared Radcliffe, relieved that what could have been a tricky situation seemed to have gone smoothly and he had managed to secure the high ground. Feathers had not been ruffled on either side. But pecking order had been established.
Sergeants Kyle Fraser and Debbie Lescott were already exchanging mobile phone numbers. Others in the group were starting to chatter and acquaint themselves with their opposite numbers.
‘What about our other cases? Who do we pass them on to while we are on this case?’ Despite the chatter, Louise Green seemed to be the only one voicing her concerns – though no doubt the others shared them. Did it matter who raised a question as long as it was valid? In this case the constable’s question gave him just the opportunity he needed to push home a few points and underline the cooperation needed throughout the team.
‘Good point Louise,’ replied Radcliffe. ‘You heard the boss – he wants to keep this enquiry local but we just don’t have much spare manpower so there’s no one to pass existing cases on to. We’re going to have to do a bit of juggling. Are you thinking about the car thefts?’
Suddenly the centre of attention, all eyes turned to the young constable as she blushed a deep red and nodded.
‘Well they may not be as high profile as the two deaths but we’ll still have to run them. My gut feeling is that the car thefts enquiries won’t just be on our patch and you may find that you end up talking to our opposite numbers in the Lancashire force. That would take some of the pressure off – especially if Lancs took the cases from us. You’ll have to use your charm there Louise,’ he said. ‘Overall we will have to make sure that our other cases don’t interfere with the main task. Identifying Mike Johnson’s attacker and the murderer or murderers of Peter Archer and the Pole must be our priority. I don’t think that the Chief would be at all happy if we failed to solve those cases, even if we did find Councillor Ashcroft’s Bentley.’
‘Excuse me Don, have you a minute? Downstairs.’
Turning towards the new voice, Radcliffe raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Having worked with the desk sergeant for many years, the two men had developed an affinity and an ability to communicate with few words, achieving far more with just facial expressions and a strange sort of verbal shorthand.
With just a slight nod to the sergeant - nothing more was required - Radcliffe excused himself from the group and made his way downstairs. As he left the room, the noise swelled.
……….
Radcliffe had observed many families struggling to handle the stress of a loved one after physical attacks. The inability to string a full sentence together without snatching a breath or breaking down in tears, constant fidgeting, an enquiring look searching for an explanation, and the ever present (yet often unspoken) claim that their relative was completely blameless. They rarely were.
Slumped in a chair, the woman in front of him displayed all of those symptoms. She sniffed constantly, pulled at a tissue tearing it into shreds, and bit on her bottom lip with an expression of defiance – yet tinged with some sort of query.
The last time he had seen her was at her husband’s bedside. Smart, attractive, though at the time clearly worried, she had equally clearly made an effort to look good in case her husband had regained consciousness. Now, wearing no makeup, her hair unkempt and her clothes awry, she bore no resemblance to that earlier image. Apart from her husband’s condition, which worryingly wasn’t improving, there seemed to be more concerning her.
Radcliffe drew out a chair at the opposite side of the table. His drooping jowls and bushy eyebrows giving him a hound dog appearance combined with a relaxed voice had often been likened to television narrators, creating a friendly uncle sort of confidence.
‘I didn’t expect to see you Mrs Johnson,’ he said in his slow measured delivery. ‘How is your husband? And how are you bearing up?’
‘I’m on my way to see him now. But I’ve had a few shocks and although I was going to . . . ‘
Gulping for a breath she started to sob. Radcliffe said nothing, allowing her time to compose herself.
‘Like I said, I was going to throw it away, it’s so disgusting, but then I thought that it might help you catch whoever attacked Mike.’
‘What is it Mrs Johnson? What did you nearly throw away?’
Slowly she raised her head and looked at him. Her features were distorted and flushed and he sensed that there was more behind her visit than just the passing on of information. She had delayed her hospital visit to come and seek him out personally, so whatever it was couldn’t be discussed over the phone. And in place of the volatile anger that had followed the first attack, here was a broken woman almost pleading with him for help and support. Behind her bloodshot eyes and sad expression he knew that there was a second agenda. He’d seen it before. It could be guilt, it could be embarrassment, or it could be any one of many things, but there was definitely more to the woman facing him than appeared.
‘In your own time Joan,’ he soothed. ‘Just take your time and I’ll wait. I’m here to help.’
Slowly she reached down, lifted her handbag, pulled out an envelope and wordlessly pushed it across the table. With an outstretched finger he rotated it by a corner and with the tip of a pen lifted the flap. Inside was a sheet of paper. Using a folded tissue to cover his fingers he pulled out the paper and unfolded it. There was no need to reach into his jacket for his reading glasses. The letter was really only a short note. Just six lines written in big letters with a felt marker on a crumpled A4 sheet. Short and to the point, its grammar and punctuation indicated a not particularly high education, but the meaning was patently implicit.
Raising his eyebrows questioningly he looked at her. She didn’t have the telepathic ability of the d
esk clerk but an implied question was clear. A tear rolled down her cheek. Then another. Unable to hold his gaze any longer she looked down at the handkerchief in her hand and sobbed. Radcliffe reread the letter.
‘When did this arrive Mrs Johnson?’
Though the hanky was sodden, she dabbed her eyes then looked up appealingly.
‘I don’t know,’ she stuttered. ‘It was in the mail I opened yesterday.’
‘And have you any idea at all who sent it?’
‘No.’
‘Have you shown it to anyone else? Has anybody touched it apart from you?’
‘No.’
‘That’s good. The forensics people might be able to get something from it for us. I’ll send it over as soon as we’re finished here.’
Her expression was one of the saddest he had seen. Her eyes were rimmed with red, bags under them beginning to get puffy, though her general complexion was pale and drawn. He could see that she didn’t want her personal crisis being thrown open to all and sundry. ‘If you must.’ There it was again, the pleading look.
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. We need all the help we can if we are going to catch the culprit. Perhaps the envelope will give us a lead. Who’s at the shop now Mrs Johnson?’
‘Nobody, it’s closed. Mike has a part time assistant but she doesn’t come in during the school holidays. I went and opened up yesterday,’ then pointing to the paper on the table added, ‘and that’s when I found this.’
‘OK. We’ll check it later then. There’s no stamp or postmark so it must have been hand delivered. Where did you find it? Had it just been pushed under the door?’
‘There was a big pile of mail behind the door and I just scooped it up. As well as letters there were a couple of newspapers, some circulars and a few cards and from well-wishers. This was among them.’
‘Hardly from a well wisher Mrs Johnson. Do you recognise the handwriting? Your husband claimed that your brother attacked him the first time so could this be his writing?’
‘No, of course not. Peter is dead anyway so it couldn’t be him could it?’
‘I’m sorry Mrs Johnson, really I am. But I am going to have to ask you some questions. I want to catch your husband’s attacker just as much as you do and I’m very grateful that you brought this in because it suggests a completely different possibility, but on its own it doesn’t tell us much. Now, if you don’t know who this is from, do you know to what it relates?’
‘Really Inspector,’ she gave another sniff, dabbed her cheeks with a tissue, then looked him in the eye. ‘I would have thought that it was bloody obvious. Whoever attacked Mike sent that to tell him that he’s going to be attacked again. It doesn’t need a genius now does it? He’s been attacked twice, he’s in hospital, and you lot haven’t done shit.’ Defiantly she clenched her hands together and rested them on the table, her elbows on the arms of her chair.
‘I’m sorry Mrs Johnson. That’s not what I meant. The letter is quite brief and there are no details but there’s an inference to a debt. Do you know what that debt is? Do you know who it is owed to?’
‘No.’
‘Well the art shop seems to be doing very well, you’ve got a lovely house out at Crosshill, and you’ve both got nice cars, so we should be able to track it down. One debt should stick out like a sore thumb, so don’t worry Mrs Johnson, we’ll get the culprit.’
She sank visibly in her chair, her head dropped down onto her hands, clenched on the table, and as a flood of tears pooled around them her shoulders shook. She sobbed. Radcliffe reached for the phone and by the time the woman constable had arrived with a cup of hot tea a few minutes later, Joan Johnson had regained her composure. She had told Radcliffe about the letters she had opened from the bank manager, the shop landlord, suppliers and others, all demanding money. She hadn’t known anything about it but it seemed that Mike was actually deep in debt.
Consoling her as best he could, Radcliffe pointed out that that didn’t necessarily make it harder to find the culprit. Bank managers and other professional people didn’t go around writing scrawled threatening letters or sending in the heavies to work somebody over, so whatever the debt was, it would stand apart from banks and suppliers.
‘OK Joan, now try to think back. When you opened the door at the shop, was this letter on the top of the pile, at the bottom, or somewhere in between? Did you open it first or later? Think carefully please, it could be important.’
Joan put her cup down on its saucer but held on to its handle. She had only drunk a few mouthfuls but just holding the cup or going through the motions of lifting it to her lips was comforting. She paused, looked at Radcliffe thoughtfully, then said that she had opened the letter last, but if she remembered correctly, and she wasn’t taking particular notice at the time he should understand, the letter had been at the top of the pile. Actually, after she had scooped everything up she had sorted it into piles, thrown what appeared to be junk mail into the waste bin without opening it and then gone through what remained pile by pile. Yes, she was sure that the letter had been near the top, there had just been three or four envelopes on top of the Champion newspaper and all the rest had been underneath.
‘That’s great Joan. You are doing well. We need to make sure that nobody goes in to the shop before we do so that nothing is disturbed. Can I ask my sergeant to go with you? Or perhaps you would trust us with a key since the shop is not actually open?’
Joan reached again into her handbag. Pulling out a bunch of keys she placed them on the table next to the letter but said nothing. The phone rang. Radcliffe listened but did not reply. Turning to face her, in as gentle a manner as possible he apologised for having to leave for just a few minutes, but that DC Louise Green would remain with her until his return. Rising from his chair he quietly left the troubled Joan Johnson with a rather confused constable.
……….
All the key members of the team were still huddled together discussing possibilities and exploring theories. Closing the door slowly, Radcliffe faced them with a solemn blank expression. As if the volume had suddenly been switched off, their chatter was replaced by a heavy silence, all eyes on the newcomer.
‘I’ve just taken a call,’ he announced. ‘We have another murder on our hands. Not only that, we have a third death with exactly the same cause.’
Stunned, initially there was no response from the group. Then everybody was asking questions at once.
Seventeen
Unusually, the car park at Green Fields Caravan Park was crowded. With its bare gravel surface and no bay markings, cars were parked haphazardly and Simon Charlton found threading the Olympic through tight gaps between poorly parked vehicles to the little access road leading into the park, frustrating. The parking area had not been this full at any time since he had first towed his touring caravan onto the site. Was Kevin holding an open day to attract new residents? Or was he running a presentation to attract new investment? Whatever the reason, with so many cars, and so many of them late models, the event had attracted a good crowd and was clearly successful.
Finding his way to the access road at last, Simon drove the short distance to his caravan and parked alongside. Along the route he passed nobody and saw no sign of life. That too was strange. The site was decidedly run down but normally residents could be seen here and there, relaxing in garden chairs at the side of their caravans or tending plants in neat borders. But today, nobody was about. The site was shrouded in a silence broken only by the twittering of birds in the trees.
Intrigued, he locked up the little coupe and started to walk back towards the main site buildings. Mrs Weston’s caravan door was closed, her mobility scooter nowhere to be seen. Each plot was the same, every caravan closed up and nobody around. He sensed an air of doom and desolation, reminiscent of a recently evacuated army camp. Where was everybody? Where were the people that had arrived in the cars that now crowded the car park?
Rounding the last corner, Simon could see that the big doors to the works
hop were slightly ajar. Remembering having previously been locked in, he gave an involuntary shudder, then walked across and pulled the door further open. Except for a car under a cover, everything was as he had left it a couple of days ago when he had used a little maintenance on the Olympic as an excuse to legitimately spend time in the workshop, returning the logbook to its shelf. The collection of registration plates was still on the wall, overalls still hung on the inner door, and the desk was still a mess. Nothing had changed.
Returning outside and closing the door, he could see that the Weston woman’s scooter was parked up and he could hear a muted hubbub coming from the open reception area door. As he approached, a young couple came out arm in arm.
‘Hello Rick,’ he said to the young man, ‘you look very smart today. What’s going on?’
The couple stopped and stared at him. Their expressions were quite forlorn and from their body language Simon immediately surmised that his question had been ill considered. In an awkward silence, the three of them stood looking at each other, each hoping that one of the others would speak first.
‘Mr Archer was buried this morning,’ explained the girl, breaking the silence. ‘Kevin arranged some refreshments back here for after the funeral. It’s mainly friends and relatives. With some of the park residents as well of course.’
‘Oh dear,’ responded Simon. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise. That’s just like me I am afraid – always putting my size nines in it. I should have realised though with all the cars out front.’
‘That’s no problem Simon,’ replied the young man. ‘You weren’t to know.’
Suitably admonished, Simon watched the couple as they walked away from him and stopped next to a MINI parked further along the access road. After talking for just a moment or two, the young woman kissed Rick on the cheek, got into the car and drove off. Rick then turned and walked away. Not wanting to get involved with what was clearly a private affair, Simon started to retrace his route back to his own plot, but as he came level with the open door, Kevin Archer and Joan Johnson stepped out onto the path.
