“I’m sorry to trouble you,” Amos began, “and please don’t be alarmed but this is the Lincolnshire police. We need to get in touch with a Mr Nick Foster who has apparently gone away for a short break. I wondered if he had by any chance come to you.”
“Good Lord, no,” the woman replied. “Nick never went anywhere. The last time we saw him was a couple of Christmases ago. Even then my husband had to fetch him and he only stayed four days, thank goodness. He’s my brother, by the way. He’s all right but a little goes a long way. It’s hard work trying to have a conversation with him.”
Then suddenly, almost as an afterthought, the voice asked: “He’s not in any kind of trouble, is he?”
“No, no,” Amos replied soothingly though untruthfully. “Just something that’s cropped up at the block of flats where he is the caretaker. He might be able to help. Please contact me immediately if by any chance he turns up.”
Amos supplied his name and phone number.
Clearly news of the killing had not travelled to Yorkshire. It had not caught the media’s imagination with a “Killiney Court Killing” or “Iron Bar Butcher” label. There was no knowing which murders would make national headlines. It was just the luck of the draw.
Amos tried the other two numbers in the underutilised address book. Neither produced an answer. That was hardly surprising. By now, the occupants could well be at work or out shopping.
He rang the county headquarters of the two areas where the addresses were located, supplied the name, address and telephone number in each case and asked for the occupant to be tracked down to find out if Foster had ever visited them.
He needed to know urgently if Foster turned up, no matter what time of day or night.
It was a pretty thin hope. In fact, it would be the following day before there was any further news of Foster.
Chapter 31
The first chill blast of autumn spread insidiously across the market place that afternoon. Constable John Lowe pulled together his jacket and cursed himself for risking venturing out without least a macintosh. Lowe, now in his mid-twenties, had never quite got used to the dry cold winds of the East coast in his seven years among the wolds and fens.
He came from the damper, sheltered valleys of Lancashire, moving eastwards when his father, long left idle by the demise of the cotton trade that once thrived in the moist atmosphere of the western Pennines, had decided to try his luck at the Butlins holiday camp near Ingoldmells. The establishment north of Skegness had happy holiday associations for the family and Lowe senior had reckoned that seasonal work was better than non-existent employment.
PC Lowe was under no illusions that there were icier days ahead and many of them. Siberia had not yet shed its summer heat, Lowe thought. Soon that cutting knife would slice across a Continent and a half, directed straight at Lincolnshire.
A little dust and a couple of chip papers snaked across the road. Little else stirred. It was half day closing and the town was, as usual, practically deserted. Lowe pulled into a doorway to escape the bite. There was no respite from that wind.
About 50 yards on was a small car that had trundled the down the high street, pulled across the deserted market place and slipped into one of the marked bays. The occupant sat there for a minute or two, apparently reluctant to brave the elements. Finally the driver got out and strolled across the road to look in a shop window. It was a woman.
Lowe could never understand why some people seemed to enjoy looking at goods they had no intention of buying - indeed on this occasion the unknown female could not have bought even if she wanted to as the shop, like those on either side, was shut.
She did not turn around as a man in his fifties approached her. The male figure came out of the pawnshop, one establishment that was open, on the far side from Lowe and his face was visible full on. Lowe knew him immediately. He was the father of one of the boys who had been in Lowe's class at senior school.
Elsie Norman turned sharply as the man stopped next to her. Lowe could see them clearly although he was looking through the side pane of the doorway and out through the front plate glass window of the premises where he stood out of sight of the other two. It was only now, though, as Norman swung her back to him, that the officer could see a small package under the woman's arm.
The man was scruffily dressed and had clearly fallen onto harder times since Lowe's school days. Was he about to mug the woman, Lowe wondered. It certainly looked like it, for the man reached out towards the package and Norman pulled back instinctively.
There was no problem. Lowe could easily outrun the thief. The two figures down the street were engaged in animated conversation for a few moments. Out of the corner of his eye, Lowe spotted another lone pedestrian walking down the street on the opposite side but heading in the direction of the two figures he had under surveillance.
Norman had spotted the newcomer, too. To Lowe's surprise, Norman thrust the package into the man's welcoming arms and scurried back to her car. Within seconds she had opened the door, slipped inside, fastened her seat belt and started up. Quickly she backed out of the space and pulled away from the parking area before disappearing smoothly down the narrow road at the far end away from Lowe.
The man stuck the package under his coat and set off walking up the street towards the constable. Lowe slipped out about 10 yards in front of the source of his curiosity. The man was startled and almost stopped but he decided to keep going.
“Hello,” said Lowe pleasantly. “It's Jim Berry isn't it? Do you remember me? John Lowe. I was in the same class as your Brian.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Berry muttered, pushing the package more firmly down the inside of his coat so it was completely out of sight.
“Found a shop open?” Lowe asked mischievously, pointing to the slight bulge in Berry's jacket. Berry looked a little startled.
“Just a box of chocolates,” he lied. “The sweet shop down at the end is open.”
Lowe hesitated. He had no grounds for demanding that Berry should produce the package. In any case, Berry was now hurrying off in the direction of his home. However, Lowe determined to relate the incident to Amos, since it involved a resident of Killiney Court.
The uniformed constable did not realise that it also involved a key suspect in Jim Berry and was to be quite astonished at the chief inspector's enthusiastic response to this titbit.
Chapter 32
Foster sat incongruously in the children’s section of the library that had been set aside as a makeshift interview room. His eyes wandered over the range of books from Noddy and Thomas the Tank Engine to Treasure Island and Kidnapped.
He accepted his lot with an air of resignation.
A uniformed officer was recounting breathlessly what had been for him his first exhilarating experience since joining the force.
“We got a call from Skegness first thing this morning, Sir,” he related to Amos, who was seated opposite Foster.
“They weren’t sure it was Foster but he matched the description and he was travelling alone. He caught an early train to Nottingham. We shot down the A15 and intercepted the train at Heckington. Foster didn’t try to deny who he was and he came quietly enough.”
Amos thanked the officer for his sterling work and nodded towards the door. The young man was patently disappointed not to be allowed to stay for the interrogation of his capture.
“So you laid low in Skeggy for the night,” Amos remarked with a disarming smile. “And now you’re going to go back to your work as if nothing much has happened.”
Foster gasped.
“You’re … you’re not going to …” he started before falling abruptly silent.
“I shall drop you at the nearest bus stop to Killiney Court. You will walk back to the building and tell anyone who asks that you had to rush off because of a family bereavement. Do you think you can manage that convincingly?”
Foster nodded.
“Then you will make your way up to your rooms and stay there until I am ready to in
terview you about your various misdemeanours. Don’t cause me any more trouble.”
Foster again nodded his assent.
After leaving the caretaker at the appointed spot, Amos drove back to the murder headquarters. Having primed the officers whose help he would need, the inspector drove home and enjoyed a long soak in the bath.
He would have a light meal and an early night. He needed a full day to put his plan into action and tomorrow was his best chance.
Fingers crossed.
Chapter 33
Amos arrived unannounced at Joanna Stevens' office, to the surprise of the officer on duty, who was yawning in the corner, and Stevens herself.
"This is a great honour, inspector," she said with heavy sarcasm.
The magistrate had said something similar when he applied for the search warrant for Jim Berry's house. Was he really so aloof?
Amos addressed himself to the officer first. The startled constable was already on his feet, embarrassed at being caught almost napping.
"I'll take over now," Amos said with a sharp edged to his voice. "As you're near the end of your shift you can go straight home. They know at the station."
The officer gabbled his thanks, grabbed his waterproof jacket and scarpered.
"I suppose you send the most boring officers because you can most easily spare them," Stevens commented, but at least now there was a touch of amusement in her voice.
"Miss Stevens, would it be fair to say that you objected to having a police bodyguard in the first place?"
"You know perfectly well I did."
"And can I take it from your remarks that you have become no more enthusiastic about the arrangement?"
Stevens leaned forwards slightly, her interest awakened.
"You take it correctly," she said.
"You understand, Miss Stevens, that if I withdraw the police guard you must accept the entire responsibility for the decision?"
"Fine by me," Stephens said with growing keenness.
"The police presence is now withdrawn," Amos told her.
For the first time, he saw Stevens smile. It was a full, beautiful unguarded smile that took five, perhaps ten, years off her face. It was the first and last time Amos ever saw that smile.
Chapter 34
Sir Robert Fletcher, Chief Constable of Lincolnshire, called Amos into his office in mid morning of the following day.
“So how’s the inquiry going into what’s his name’s murder?” Fletcher asked. “You know, that chap …what was his name?”
Amos knew well enough. There was just one murder inquiry proceeding in the entire county at that time so it was not hard to remember it, or the name of the victim.
“Jones, sir,” Amos replied slightly stiffly.
He was not greatly anxious to get into a long, involved discussion on the subject. He did not want to have to tell his superior officer that there was no-one to arrest, no clear leads, no real developments to report, that it was not even clear that Jones was meant to be murdered.
Amos did have some thoughts about how he intended to develop the investigation but he did not want to discuss them with the head of the force.
“Jones, yes, Jones,” Fletcher repeated rather noncommittally. “Jones.”
There was a silence as the Chief Constable mulled over some papers on his desk. Amos, able to avoid Fletcher’s eye, shrugged and merely said: “Hmmmm.”
Fletcher took out a pen and made a couple of amendments to the typed text in front of him. He always dealt in matters in strict order of priority. Finally he looked up.
“Well?” he asked. “Where are we up to with – what did you say he was called? – Jones?”
“We’ve had to interview a lot of people, sir,” Amos replied. It sounded like a lame excuse. “Jones knew hundreds of people. We’re sifting through the evidence now to see if we can find any specific lead.”
Amos shut up. The more he said, the worse it sounded.
“What about that chap Berry?” asked the Chief Constable, who found it easier to remember the names of suspects rather than victims, especially when he was paying attention. “Yes, Berry.”
“We can’t touch him, sir. Absolutely no motive. He clearly wanted Jones alive and there is no suggestion that he knew Joanna Stevens or had any reason to break into her flat either.”
Fletcher’s mind was wandering back to the more important issue on the desk in front of him.
“I’m just off to Nottingham,” he remarked.
It was the quarterly meeting of the chief constables of the East Midlands region. It was held in each county town in rotation and it was Nottingham’s turn to entertain. They would be ringing up from the gate in a few moments to say that the chauffeur driven car was waiting.
Amos knew about the meeting. Everyone did. Fletcher had been going on about it for days to anyone whose ear he could bend.
“Ah, David,” he called over Amos’s shoulder to a young man hovering just inside the doorway. “Have you got the press release ready?”
Amos declined to turn to acknowledge the nervous and acne-inflicted youth who obediently ran the press office and who now bustled into the room. He handed Fletcher a piece of paper.
“We’re going to discuss our strategy for a four-county blitz on drunk drivers this Christmas,” Fletcher explained confidentially to Amos. “We’ve been the pioneers of random breath tests, a crusade to stamp out drink driving. I want to make sure there is no backsliding this time.”
“How are the statistics bearing up?” Amos asked dryly. He realised his mistake even as the words slipped from his lips.
The more people who were stopped and breathalysed at random, the lower the percentage who were found to be actually over the limit. Amos had, on more than one occasion, vented his frustrations at being given insufficient resources for crime fighting by making oblique reference to the frightening level of deaths and injuries on the roads of Lincolnshire, a toll apparently unstemmed by indiscriminate breath tests.
He always regretted it and this was certainly not the right time to be attracting the attentions of the Chief Constable. Amos desperately needed a free hand to pursue the gamble he had in motion.
Fletcher spluttered and waved out his press officer. The fury rose up over his face as David scrabbled together his papers, turned, dropped a sheaf, bent to pick it up and split more papers, then scrabbled them together once more and backed out of the room as if humbly leaving the presence of an oriental king.
The Chief Constable built himself up in the few seconds it took the hapless scribe to clear the doorway. Those few seconds were, however, long enough for him to recover his composure.
“More people are killed on our roads than in murders,” he began. “Thirty times as many. More people are seriously injured than in grievous bodily harm cases. More are hurt than in common assaults. More financial loss is incurred in crashes than in muggings and burglaries. The human and economic cost of careless driving far outweighs the deliberate crimes committed every day.
“However, if you consider I am spending too much time cutting the carnage on our roads,” he said in angry but controlled tones, “then I will oblige you. I will return to the office from Nottingham this evening and you can give me a full briefing on the Jones murder inquiry, including the list of suspects, the evidence you have gathered against them and the steps you propose to take to bring a speedy end to this inquiry. Then we will consider if I need to put a more senior officer in charge.”
Amos made to reply but the Chief Constable waved his unspoken words away airily.
“No, no, there’s no need to submit your report in writing. I know how much you scorn red tape. You can tell me in person.
“Shall we say 7pm? That should give me adequate time to conduct the important business at the conference and get back here. I shall be delaying a dinner appointment to give you my valuable time so it had better be good.”
Amos slid his hands behind his back and, unseen, dug his nails hard into the palms
of his hands. Best to say no more. He had done enough damage. There were a few seconds of awkward silence as the Chief Constable returned behind his desk and stood there, the rich colour perceptively fading from his cheeks.
“Well, get along, Amos,” he said in a tone that successfully combined mocking with sounding patronising. Fletcher walked over to the open door and held the handle in a false gesture of courtesy.
Amos shuffled away, head bowed.
Chapter 35
There were just three reporters and a photographer at the press conference that Amos hastily called for 12 noon, after he was satisfied that the Chief Constable was safely out of the way. Radio Lincolnshire, the Lincolnshire Echo and the local weekly were the sum total of interest in a routine murder inquiry lacking the salacious or the sensational angle that attracted the national press.
That suited Amos fine. No doubt the reporter from the local paper would try to earn a few pounds by selling what Amos had to say to the nationals but in any case nothing would appear there until the next day, if at all.
What Amos wanted was widespread publicity locally as quickly as possible. Time was very tight.
Amos spoke carefully and non-committally to the four stalwarts as they waited to make a formal start. At five past 12 Swift, the only other police officer present, said: “I don't think anyone else is coming, sir. We might as well start now.”
It should have been the force's press officer organising the conference, Amos knew full well, but that would have meant the Chief Constable finding out and demanding to know what was to be said. Better to let him discover what was going on in due course, preferably when Amos was out of the office and unobtainable for as long as possible to allow the inevitable hue and cry to die down.
Dead Money (A Detective Inspector Paul Amos Lincolnshire Mystery) Page 12
