by JJ Franklin
‘No.’ Matt sighed, certain they would hear more of Tom Grace over the years. ‘Do we know when he’s due to be released?’
‘Checking on that today.’
‘Good. Wendy, have you any more on Nick Tyler or Dave Beeson?’
Wendy nodded, blushing as she stood. ‘Dave Beeson, nicknamed Beanie, is now nineteen and unemployed. He’s had mental health issues and has been in and out of St Michael’s in Warwick. His first breakdown came just a month after the trial and he went from youth custody to a mental health unit. He now lives with his married sister, Julie Pritchard, in Leamington.’
‘And Nick Tyler?’
‘He seems to be doing well. He has a steady job working with his father in a small building firm. They do house extensions and such. Nick has his own flat and a girlfriend who works in Boots. She’s expecting their first child in two months. And, this is interesting – her name is Tilly. Tilly Rowlands.’
‘Jonathan’s girlfriend,’ Sam noted.
‘So chances are Nick was treading on Jonathan’s territory. Might be a cause for friction between them,’ Matt added. ‘Thanks, Wendy. We’ll need to follow them both up.’
‘I guess two out of five going straight’s not bad,’ Sam interjected.
‘No, and if those two can make it, maybe the other two will, in time, follow suit. There’s little to add to Slim’s preliminary findings, except that the stomach contents contained a mixture of cider and whisky. Jonathan may have taken, or been given the drug in this way. Grant, any news from the drugs squad about what’s on the street?’
Grant took an age to stand and seemed unsteady as he flicked through his notes. ‘The usual street drugs – coke, ecstasy, heroin and the rest. However, they have no knowledge of this form of opiate on their patch, or in the surrounding forces. And they have their ears pretty close to the ground, sir.’
‘Thanks, Grant. It’s beginning to look as if Jonathan was the target. That is, unless we hear of any similar overdoses. Any luck with chasing this Noddy fellow, Wendy?’
‘Yes. Uniform says it could be a Phil Nodding, who hangs out with Jonathan. I have an address for you, guv.’
‘Good. We’ll get onto that straight away.’
‘How about the prison service?’
‘They’ve confirmed Jonathan was a non-user.’
‘Grant, see if you can get hold of Phil, in-between looking at the CCTV.’
‘Will do.’
‘Jane, you’re off to visit Pamela Wylde. Sam, you have your favourite, the mortuary.’ Matt waited for the ripple of amusement before carrying on. ‘Then, check out Harry Winters. I’ll catch up with Kathy Wylde. She should be pleased at the news.’
Chapter 13
Everything was ready. Eppie rechecked the client’s instructions for the third time just to be sure. Two conference rooms, both with white boards, seating for sixty. Coffee at eleven fifteen, lunch at one thirty in the Hanover Suite and afternoon tea at three forty-five. The Tudor ballroom for the evening’s major awards presentation, set out with rostrum and overhead projector.
This was the first conference she had organised for the Steller agency and, although Chris guided her through, she was in charge. Eppie expected Mrs Natasha Bellemy, vice president of Bellemy and Sheen, to arrive early and Chris warned that she was a tyrant who felt it was her duty to find fault with everything.
Eppie heard her first, clip-clopping down the corridor with a following entourage, barking orders as she went.
‘No, no, Sian, I want Meredith and his team in the Croft suite. Why can’t you listen?’
There was no time to see who poor Sian was as Natasha spied Eppie and swooped towards her. ‘Mrs Turrell, I want a word with you.’
‘Certainly, how can I help?’
‘Follow me.’
Eppie had no choice but to follow the smartly suited Natasha as she led the way to the ballroom.
As they stood in the doorway, Natasha spread her hands dramatically. ‘This is just not good enough. I’m sure you can see why?’
Eppie referred to the notes taken at their first meeting. ‘Well, no, I’m sorry, Mrs Bellemy, it is exactly as you outlined.’
‘I didn’t realise what an awkward shape the room was then. You should have informed me. Have it changed.’
Mrs Bellemy went on to describe how she wanted the ballroom set out while Eppie scribbled frantically.
‘I expect it to be done by coffee time.’
‘Of course, Mrs Bellemy.’
As Natasha swept from the room, Eppie looked around and sighed. The layout was entirely different to her original request. Still, there was nothing to do but get on with the changes. She turned and went hunting for the conference and banqueting office. They had a team of strong men who could move everything around in a trice.
Directed from their office to the workroom, she was dismayed to find it empty, except for Harry, the spiky-haired junior. He looked at her as if she was asking for the moon. ‘I’m sorry but everyone’s gone across to our sister hotel to help set up for a wedding.’
‘When will they be back?’
‘Not sure. Bob said I was to stay ’til eleven, then get off to college.’
Eppie felt a surge of panic. ‘Couldn’t you call Bob and explain the situation? Please?’
Harry picked up on the urgency. ‘I’ll have a go.’
Eppie waited while he dialled a number. She heard the ringing going on and on until Harry gave her a rueful grin and clicked the off button.
‘Sorry, they’re probably right in the middle of shifting stuff.’
‘Can’t you help me?’
Harry referred to her notes and shook his head, reminding Eppie of a plumber condemning a washing machine. ‘It’s a big job. Lots of heavy stuff.’
‘I don’t mind helping.’
‘Oh no. That wouldn’t do.’
‘Harry, this is my first event with Steller and if I can’t get it sorted by eleven, I will have messed up. Please help me. You’re the only one who can.’
She may as well have given Harry a superhero cloak. He took a deep breath. ‘Alright, but I do all the heavy lifting – understood? You can rearrange the chairs. Start on that now while I get a trolley and collect the platforms from the store room.’
Eppie could have kissed him but instead she rushed back to the ballroom to start work, cursing Natasha as she went.
They both worked hard, Harry humming away to himself as he shifted the heavy blocks into position. As soon as she finished rearranging the chairs, Eppie moved to help him manoeuvre the last two blocks into place, before they both collapsed to view their efforts.
‘I’m never going to be able to thank you enough, Harry.’
‘Nothing to it. Bit like what I do at college.’
‘What is that?’
‘Drama, stage management, a bit of everything.’
‘Are you enjoying it?’
‘Yes. Never thought I’d get the chance.’
Eppie sensed there was a lot behind why Harry nearly didn’t get the chance, but there was no time to ask as Natasha approached, causing them both to jump to attention.
While she paraded around the rearranged room, Eppie and Harry held their breath awaiting her verdict.
‘Move the rostrum more to the left.’
Harry sprang to obey.
‘Good. I suppose that will have to do.’
Natasha turned abruptly and left the room. Behind her back, Harry clicked his heels and gave a mock salute. Eppie felt like joining him but just laughed with relief instead.
‘We did it.’ Eppie high-fived Harry and was rewarded with the widest grin she had ever seen, changing his face to give him a little-boy look.
‘Let me treat you to a coffee and cake,’ she offered, intrigued to know more about him.
Harry glanced at his watch. ‘No need. It was just work. Thanks though. I need to get off. Late for college.’
Harry seemed shy, as if he’d dropped the hero cloak and turned back into a gawky, awkward teenager. With a final smile and thanks, Eppie let him go while musing about him.
Eppie would have liked to avoid Mrs Bellemy for the rest of the day, but instead chose to stay close to her so she would have no excuse to say she didn’t get everything she needed. By mid-afternoon, after a series of small grumbles from Natasha that she managed to sort out, Eppie was developing a tension headache. She was glad it would soon be time to go home, until she remembered her mother.
Chapter 14
Today, lying on the slab, Jonathan looked as if he was asleep and Sam winced as Slim made the first incision. Even his fascination at the workings of the human body failed to block out that a couple of days ago the corpse was a healthy young man. By the time it was over, Sam was happy to escape into the cold air and glad that his visit to see Harry Winters would take his mind off the post mortem.
Stratford was heaving with Christmas shoppers and it took him a while to reach the college. Unable to find a space in the parking lot, he opted for the no parking zone before making his way to the main reception, where the receptionist directed him to the drama department and offered to ring ahead to say he was on his way.
Crossing the parking lot, he entered the square structure, moving from the sun into darkness. Sam stood still while waiting for his eyes to adjust and jumped at a hand on his arm. In the dimness, he could just make out a woman with a clipboard.
‘Are you DS Withers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shush.’
‘Sorry.’
‘The young man you want to speak to is there.’
Getting used to the darkness, Sam followed as she pointed out a young man waiting behind a stage flap holding a sheet of thin metal. He was listening intently to what was going on beyond. Sam guessed this must be the backstage area. Deciding it would be best to wait for a natural break in the proceedings, he went forward into the auditorium. In the stage space, several young people were moving about, scripts in hand. During a pause, while someone waited for a prompt, Sam hurried across to sit near a man who was taking notes.
The students were good and Sam found himself engaged, almost forgetting why he was there. Even the dramatic clap of thunder didn’t remind him. When the note-taking man called for a break, he was disappointed, knowing that he wouldn’t find out what happened at the end. Still, he’d better get on with the job. Sam approached the man who he assumed was the teacher to introduce himself, knowing there must be rules about just wandering in.
‘Excuse me,’ Sam ventured, warrant card already in hand as the students flopped down in groups with their cans of Coke.
He looked up, an annoyed expression on his face. ‘Yes?’
‘DS Withers. I was told I could have a brief word with Harry Winters.’
‘Oh yes, the office rang. Don’t know why it has to be in the middle of my session though. Don’t keep him long. We’re way behind now. I don’t know how we’re supposed to carry on with all these distractions. Hurry up. Hurry up.’
Although Sam thought he was being a bit precious, he nodded his thanks and moved over to where Harry was chatting with a petite blonde. He wasn’t going to be at all pleased at Sam’s interruption.
‘Harry Winters?’
Harry barely looked up. ‘Emm.’
‘Could I have a word, please?’
The girl looked up at Sam and smiled, widening the prettiest blue eyes. He could understand why Harry didn’t want to drag himself away. Deciding it would be a shame to upset Harry’s chances with such a catch, Sam suggested they talk somewhere else.
Harry gave him an assessing look and led the way outside. Two female students were enjoying a forbidden smoke further along the wall of the building. They looked up as Harry emerged with Sam, but decided they posed no threat and turned away to indulge their habit.
‘Detective Sergeant Sam Withers.’
‘I could tell. Although I thought I’d left those days behind me. What is it this time, some old lady fallen over or what?’
Sam could understand his frustration. It was hard leaving the past behind once your details were on file and likely to be highlighted in the case of any similar offence. Harry was a young man who was trying to break out of the trap by getting on with his life and Sam admired him for that.
He spoke softly so they couldn’t be overheard. ‘It’s just a routine visit, Mr Winters.’
Harry laughed. ‘Mr Winters. Makes me sound about a hundred. Try Harry.’
Sam liked his smile, even if he did look as if he was auditioning for a boy band with his spiky hair. ‘Thanks, Harry. Sam. I guess you’ve heard about the death of Jonathan James?’
‘Yes.’ Harry looked at the ground and scuffed his toe amongst the gravel. ‘I haven’t seen him since that night, except briefly in court. Now it doesn’t feel like me…involved…in what we did.’ Harry looked up, facing Sam. ‘I don’t want to hurt anyone…ever again. It was the worst time of my life.’
Sam believed him. He’d read the case file. A mixture of cheap drink and teenage bravado was the deadly combination that caused the senseless death of Jack Wylde. There was one more question to ask before he left Harry to get back to his thunder and the girl.
‘When you knew Jonathan, were you or anyone else in that group using drugs of any kind?’
‘Nothing heavy. Sometimes grass. We stuck to alcohol mostly as it was easier. Jon always looked older than he was.’ Harry was quiet for a moment.
Sam sensed he wanted to ask something and was gathering the courage to do so. He waited.
‘Is that how he died?’
‘It looks very likely, but we’re not sure of the exact details yet.’
‘He wouldn’t touch drugs. Not after Cal. Broke Jon up more than the rest of us put together.’
‘That’s why we’re looking into his death, Harry.’
Harry nodded, understanding Sam’s position. ‘He was alright, at first. Lived not far from me. We’d play a bit of footie and have a laugh. His dad was a hard man, used to knock him about. He started to change, seemed to go out looking for trouble. Once he realised he could get the booze, you couldn’t hold him back. Rest of us just followed along. Bloody sheep.’
Harry obviously deeply regretted that whole episode of his life. Sam doubted if he would ever come to their attention again. He’d learnt the hard way how much damage one mistake could make. Hopefully, he would be able to put it behind him eventually. Harry broke into his thoughts.
‘I thought I might go to the funeral, in memory of the fun times.’
‘I’m sure Mrs James would be really pleased to have you there, Harry. Thanks for talking to me. If you do think of anything else that might help us, give me a call.’ Sam handed over his card and turned to make his way back to the car park thinking of the uphill battle Harry was facing.
Chapter 15
This visit to see Jack’s mother was little more than routine, as Matt didn’t expect Kathy Wylde to be implicated in Jonathan’s death. Although grieving relatives had, in the past, decided to pursue their own brand of justice.
Kathy Wylde’s house was in a side road going out of Stratford towards Shottery. The house, a pre-war semi, was welcoming with a bay window and neat garden. Matt pushed open the garden gate and made his way to the front door, thinking what an ideal family home this would make.
A short blast on the bell brought Mrs Wylde to the door, wiping floury hands on an apron – one of those you rarely see women wearing nowadays. Although she was only in her fifties, Matt thought it suited her. He remembered her from the night Jack Wylde died. She’d remained calm as she supported her daughter-in-law. Now her blue eyes seemed wary. Maybe she associated him with bad
news.
‘Oh, hello. Inspector Turrell, isn’t it?’
‘Could I have a moment, Mrs Wylde?’
‘Of course. Come in.’
Except for faint touches of grey at the temples, Matt saw little change in Kathy Wylde over the two years. If anything, she looked better, less drawn.
‘Is everything alright, Inspector?’
‘Yes. You may even find the news pleasing. It’s about Jonathan James.’
‘Oh. I’ll just wash my hands.’
She ushered him inside and Matt followed her down the hallway and through to the warm kitchen. The smell of baking overwhelmed him. He sensed that Mrs Wylde was flustered at the mention of Jonathan’s name. She dropped her eyes while she washed her hands and he felt she was using the time to compose herself.
‘I must just check the oven, Inspector. Then you can have a hot scone with your tea if you wish.’
Matt hadn’t the will to resist. ‘That would be wonderful. Thank you.’
She removed a tray from the oven and began putting scones on a cooling rack. ‘I usually cook a few for old Mrs Moore and the rest help raise money for the choir.’
‘They look delicious.’
‘Help yourself, please.’ She placed a plate, knife, butter and small pot of homemade jam before him and turned to put on the kettle.
As he tucked in, Matt was aware he could become too comfortable here and decided he’d better concentrate. ‘Are you aware that Jonathan James has died?’
‘Yes. I heard or saw it somewhere. How did he die?’
‘We’re not certain at this point, Mrs Wylde.’
She turned away to fill the teapot. Without turning back to face him, she said. ‘I’m not sorry.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘He kicked my son to death.’
‘There were others involved,’ Matt mumbled through a mouthful of scone.
‘He led them. That was obvious in court. Yet they still didn’t deal with him.’
Matt thought the word deal was out of place.
