Dead End

by Sally Spencer

  Bowing to the inevitable, Crane stood up and took the proffered hand.

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ he said.

  The town hall had a canteen for its workers, and no doubt most of the married men with kids and mortgages would be grateful for the subsidized institutional stodge available there, Crane thought. The ‘lads’ however – the free-as-a-bird young invoice clerks and trainee bookkeepers – would probably head for the Dog and Partridge (conveniently situated just across the road) for a pint and a sandwich. Thus, by the time the big hand and the little hand of the bar clock were as one over the twelve, Crane had already positioned himself at the back of the room, from where he had a clear view of everyone entering.

  Half a dozen clerks suddenly burst through the swing doors, jostling each other in a way that could not possibly be interpreted as anything but good natured. The landlord, noting who was there, began pulling pints – two mild, three bitter, one black-and-tan – without them even having to ask.

  Crane gave them a few minutes to settle in, then sauntered casually over to then and said, ‘Sorry to disturb you, but I’m waiting for a mate of mine – name of Richard Judd – and I wondered if you’d seen him.’

  He could feel the wave of resentment run through the group the moment the name was mentioned.

  ‘If you’re waiting for Rarely Round Ricky, then your wait could be a long one. Nobody’s seen him since the end of last week.’

  ‘Do any of you happen to know …?’

  ‘None of us have got a clue where he is. We never do. When he goes off on one of his little excursions, it’s like he’s vanished into thin air.’

  Crane grinned. ‘Yes, he is quite a character,’ he admitted. ‘But you can’t stay mad at him for long, can you?’

  ‘Can’t you?’ one of the other men asked. ‘Well, maybe you can’t, but then you don’t have to work twice as hard because he’s not pulling his weight, do you, pal?’

  ‘I really don’t know how he gets away with it,’ a young man with ginger hair said.

  ‘I do,’ said another. ‘After every time he’s been away, he drops his trousers and lets Mr Barnes do what he wants with him.’

  ‘Now then, now then,’ said the landlord. ‘We’ll have none of that mucky talk here.’

  TWENTY

  Colin Beresford strode across the personnel department, directly to the head of personnel’s door.

  ‘You can’t do that!’ gasped Howard Barnes’ secretary, whose desk was just by the door.

  Beresford turned the handle and stepped inside.

  Barnes, startled, instinctively rose from his desk. ‘What …?’ he began.

  ‘You’ve been giving one of my young officers the run around,’ Beresford said.

  ‘Then you’re a policeman?’

  ‘DCI Beresford.’

  Barnes sank back into his seat. ‘Do sit down, Chief Inspector, and could you please, if at all possible, show a little respect.’

  ‘A little respect,’ Beresford repeated after he’d taken his seat. ‘For what? Because you’re older then I am? Because you’re a war hero? Because you’re head of personnel?’

  ‘Or simply because I’m another human being,’ Barnes said mildly.

  ‘Fine,’ Beresford said. ‘But in return, I want you to show some respect for the police.’

  ‘I do respect the police,’ Barnes said.

  Beresford shook his head. ‘No, you don’t,’ he said. ‘Not really – otherwise you’d never have lied to my officers.’

  ‘I lied to one of your officers,’ Barnes corrected him. ‘I didn’t want to, but I had no choice.’

  ‘Great defence!’ Beresford said. ‘I expect everybody will be using it soon. “I didn’t kill the whole family, your honour, just the youngest daughter.” “And why did you kill her, Mr Homicidal Nutter?” “I didn’t want to, but I had no choice.” “Oh, that’s all right then, Mr HN. You’re free to go, and here’s a book of complementary luncheon vouchers”.’

  ‘I do not like being ridiculed,’ Barnes said.

  ‘And I don’t like being pissed about when I’m trying to catch a killer. Why did you lie?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘Then I’ll tell you,’ Beresford said. ‘And the reason I know is because this is the second time we’ve had M15 …’

  ‘I never said anything about M15,’ Barnes interjected.

  ‘Please listen,’ Beresford said. ‘A man visits you. He tells you he represents the security services, and he asks you to ring a number – the Ministry of Defence or 10 Downing Street, for example – and the person on the other end will vouch for him. Which he does.’

  ‘I’m saying nothing,’ Barnes said.

  ‘This man tells you to employ Richard Judd. He says that Judd will have the skills to do the work you assign him, but sometimes he will be absent from work, and when he is, you will find someone to cover for him.’

  ‘I can’t comment,’ Barnes said.

  ‘You don’t need to – the fact that you’ve not said that what I’ve told you is bollocks is comment enough.’

  ‘You can’t infer …’

  ‘Of course I can,’ Beresford said. ‘I’ll be needing Richard Judd’s personnel file.’

  ‘You can’t have it.’

  ‘I’m investigating two murders and a possible security leak.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Beresford sighed. ‘Tell me, Mr Barnes, when you were flying Spitfires, what was the one thing that kept you in the air?’

  ‘Well, fuel, I suppose.’

  ‘We’re just trying to do a job like you were just trying to do a job,’ Beresford said. ‘Please don’t deny us our fuel.’

  Barnes got up from his desk and walked over to his filing cabinet. He was moving like a much older man than he had been only a few minutes earlier. He extracted a thin file.

  ‘There’s not much there, I’m afraid,’ he said.

  Beresford smiled. ‘It’s probably a bit like the war. You have to make do with what you’ve got.’

  The team were sitting in the office when the call came through.

  ‘This is Inspector Green of the Cornwall Constabulary,’ the man said. ‘I’ve been asked by Chief Superintendent Crouch to contact a DCI Pam Something-or-other.’

  ‘Paniatowski.’

  ‘That’s right. But they tell me she’s not available.’

  ‘I’m DCI Beresford filling in for her,’ Beresford said, clicking on the speakerphone. ‘What can I do for you, Inspector Green?’

  ‘A few years ago, you issued an arrest warrant for … let me see, I’ve got the name here somewhere … for a Roger Pemberton.’

  ‘Yes, we did, but …’

  ‘Well, the good news is that we’ve got him for you – and the bad news, I’m afraid, is that he’s dead.’

  It would have difficult to say which of them looked the most shocked.

  Green couldn’t possibly have Pemberton (alive or dead) because they had him – they’d dug him out of the ground at the allotments, and they had him sitting in the mortuary.

  ‘Tell me more,’ Beresford said cautiously.

  ‘He was washed up onto one of our world famous Cornish beaches yesterday morning.’

  A mistake! Beresford thought. It just had to be a mistake!

  ‘How did you identify him, Inspector Green?’ he asked. ‘Was it from the photograph?’

  Green chuckled. ‘Oh dear me, no, we couldn’t have done that. His face took a battering on the rocks, and once the skin was broken and it was opened up a bit, there were half a dozen sea creatures who took that as an invitation to a free buffet.’

  ‘Then how?’

  ‘He didn’t have any driving licence or library ticket on him, either, so my bright spark of a sergeant suggested we checked his fingerprints. Well, as it turns out, he doesn’t have a criminal record, but apparently he’d done some work for the Ministry of Defence, and they had his prints.’

  Beresford was beginning to wish he wa
s dead himself.

  ‘Have you established the cause of death?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not me personally. We have a police doctor for that,’ the amiable Inspector Green told him.

  ‘Is that a joke?’ Beresford asked.

  ‘No, we really do have a police doctor,’ Green said, sounding puzzled. ‘Don’t you?’

  At long last he’d met a real actual yokel, Beresford thought. How lucky was that?

  ‘So what was the cause of death?’ he asked patiently.

  ‘It would have been an overdose of drugs if he’d lived long enough,’ Green said, ‘but before they had time to kill him, he’d drowned in the sea.’

  ‘Is there any suspicion of foul play?’

  ‘None as far as we can tell. And a couple of the barmen in town have given statements to the effect that a chap dressed just like him has been hanging around the pubs for the last couple of days and drinking himself stupid, but that’s as far as we’ve got.’

  ‘You couldn’t find out where he’s been staying, could you?’ Beresford asked hopefully.

  There was a slight pause, then Green said, ‘We’re a bit short on manpower down here, to tell you the truth. Is it very important?’

  ‘No,’ Beresford admitted. ‘Thank you for your help, Inspector Green.’

  ‘It’s been my pleasure, DCI Beresford,’ Green said.

  Beresford hung up.

  ‘So what are we left with to investigate?’ he asked Meadows and Crane.

  ‘We’re left with an unidentified –and probably unidentifiable – body, and a man called Richard Judd, who may or may not have killed him, but who almost certainly buried him,’ Meadows said.

  ‘The body’s a dead end,’ Crane said. He gave the others a weak grin. ‘No pun intended.’

  ‘Good, because if there had been, I’d probably have had to kill you,’ Meadows said.

  ‘And if we rule out the body, then all we’re left with is Richard Judd,’ Crane continued.

  ‘Does either of you think that’s his real name?’ Beresford asked. The other two shook their heads. ‘Does either of you think he’s still in Whitebridge – or that if he’s left, he’s coming back?’ Again, Meadows and Crane shook their heads. ‘That’s what I thought.’

  Beresford opened his drawer, took out a folder, and slapped it down on the desk.

  ‘This is Richard Judd’s personnel file, for what it’s worth,’ he said despondently. ‘Why don’t you two spend a pleasant afternoon seeing what you can extract from it.’

  ‘Where will you be, sir?’ Crane asked.

  ‘I’ll be out of the building.’

  ‘Could you be a little more specific?’ Meadows asked.

  ‘Since I won’t be contactable, there doesn’t seem to be much point in being specific,’ Beresford said, with an edge to his voice which would have been ample warning to most people not to push it further.

  ‘I’d still like to know,’ insisted Meadows, who was not most people.

  ‘All right, then, if you must know, I’ll be visiting Monika,’ Beresford snapped.

  Meadows looked at Crane, and Crane looked at Meadows. Neither of them spoke a word, but their eyes said, ‘Oh, it’s as bad as that, is it?’

  The listeners’ shift changed at four and first thing the new man heard when he got into the van was the sound of someone singing.

  ‘Who the bloody hell’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s Beresford,’ the other man said. ‘He’s singing to Paniatowski.’

  ‘He’s got a terrible voice.’

  ‘I think you’re being a little charitable there. Personally, I’ve heard better sound coming out of concrete mixers. But that’s not stopped him. He’s been at it for over an hour and a half.’

  ‘It’s a good job she’s unconscious, or she’d have gone barmy by now,’ the new man said.

  ‘Ain’t that the truth,’ the other man agreed. ‘As a matter of fact, if I’d had to sit through another half hour, I think I’d have been about ready for the funny farm myself.’

  ‘Why do you think he’s doing it?’

  ‘Maybe it’s the pressure. Maybe that phone call from the Cornwall police finally pushed him over the edge.’

  ‘We can only hope,’ the other man said.

  It was half-past seven, and they were back in the Drum and Monkey.

  ‘So what do we know?’ Beresford asked, reaching for his pint of best bitter and taking a swig. ‘We know that just after Arthur Wheatstone was killed, somebody else was murdered and buried on the allotments. Do we have any idea who that somebody might be?’

  Meadows shook her head.

  Crane said, ‘I’ve checked the records. There was no one else reported missing in central Lancashire that week – or the week before, for that matter.’

  ‘Let’s call him Wilfred,’ Beresford suggest. ‘Does anyone have any idea who might have killed Wilfred?’

  ‘Richard Judd,’ Crane said. ‘We know that he works for the government, and that he had an allotment just so he could keep his eye on Arthur Wheatstone, John Horrocks and Philip Jennings. We know that Archie Eccleston actually caught him in the act of digging on Archie’s allotment. It has to be him.’

  ‘Why did he kill Wilfred?’

  ‘Since Wilfred’s not from Whitebridge, maybe he was a Russian spy,’ Crane said.

  ‘But if Judd had killed a Russian spy, he surely wouldn’t have had to dispose of the body himself, would he?’ Beresford asked. ‘They have a special department for that. You know the sort of thing – a black van pulls up, the two men inside it load the dead man on a stretcher, and he’s never seen again.’ He paused. ‘Or maybe I’m starting to confuse real life with what I’ve seen on the television.’

  ‘They really do have departments like that,’ Meadows said, and when saw the two men were looking at her oddly, she added, ‘I used to know a man involved in that kind of work.’

  Of course she did, Crane thought. Take an Eskimo drug dealer, a South American gun runner, a Kalahari bushman and a Tibetan butterfly collector to a party, and chances were that Meadows would have cracked a whip over all of them at one time or another.

  ‘So let’s assume the murder was a private matter – absolutely nothing to do with spies at all,’ Beresford said. ‘Did Judd lure his victim to Whitebridge and then kill him? Or did he – for some insane reason – kill Wilfred somewhere else, and then bring him here?’

  ‘We’ve no way of knowing,’ Crane said. ‘And more to the point, we’ve no way of finding out, because we don’t even know who Judd is. That’s right, isn’t it, Sarge?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Meadows agreed. ‘It says in his file that the last place he worked before he had his job at the town hall was a supermarket warehouse near Salisbury, which, as I’m sure you’ve both already worked out, is very close to Boscombe Down air force base.’

  ‘A Ministry of Defence test and evaluation centre,’ Crane said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘The BAI and Boscombe Down,’ Beresford mused. ‘Now that’s hardly likely to be a coincidence, is it?’

  ‘And before that, he worked at a paper mill near Bradford,’ Meadows said, ‘except that no such paper mill exists or ever has existed.’

  ‘So what did Richard do before that?’ Crane asked.

  ‘There was no Richard before that – at least, not this one. I checked his national insurance number, and it belongs to a Richard Judd who died in a car crash fifteen years ago.’

  ‘If we could get a warrant, we could search his flat to see if we could find anything that might tell us who he really is,’ Beresford said.

  ‘It wouldn’t do any good,’ Meadows said. ‘There’s nothing there.’

  ‘How do you …?’ Beresford began. ‘Kate, don’t tell me you …’

  Meadows shrugged. ‘I had an hour to spare,’ she said. ‘And it’s not as if I got caught, is it?’

  ‘I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway,’ Beresford said. ‘We’ve got two murders to solve, and th
e only people who could help us are Richard Judd – who’s disappeared and is probably called something else by now – and Roger Pemberton, who witnessed the first murder and may have witnessed the second, but can’t tell us about either, because they fished him out of the sea this morning.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ Crane asked.

  ‘So tomorrow I go and see the chief constable and tell him it’s hopeless. He’ll ask me if I’m sure, and I’ll say I am. Then he’ll see to it that we’re assigned to something else, and we’ll agree that we’ll review this case when things are a little less hectic – except that we both know we won’t.’ Beresford sighed. ‘It’s a failure, and since this is my team, it’s my failure.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Crane said.

  ‘Don’t talk pissed up,’ Meadows told him.

  Beresford sighed again. ‘Perhaps if Monika had been in charge …’

  ‘If you go self-pitying on me, I’ll rip off those bollocks you’re so proud of, and wear them as earrings,’ Meadows threatened.

  Beresford grinned weakly.

  ‘Does anybody want another drink?’ he asked.

  Meadows shook her head, and Crane said, ‘No thanks, I’ve had enough and I think I’ll just drift off home.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that!’ Beresford said. ‘Apart from Monika, I don’t think there are two people in the world I’d rather be with – but I don’t want to be with you right now.’

  ‘God, but you look rough!’ Diana Sowerbury said, as Beresford stood in the doorway to her flat.

  ‘I feel rough,’ Beresford admitted.

  ‘Well, sit down,’ she said, taking his arm, ‘and I’ll get you something restorative.’

  She led him to an armchair and eased him down into it.

  ‘Now what shall it be?’ she wondered. ‘Beer? Or whisky?’

  ‘I don’t really …’

  ‘I wasn’t asking you. I think I’ll make you cocoa.’

  She must have already had the milk near to the boil, because no sooner was she gone than she was back again, with a steaming cup of cocoa. She gave him the cup, then sat on the arm of the chair, stroking his hair.

  ‘My nurses tell me you spent a long, long time with Monika today,’ she cooed.

  ‘That’s right,’ Beresford said, taking a slurp of his cocoa.