by Bill Kitson
He waited for half an hour and by that time was reasonably certain he was safe, for that night at least. He picked up his mobile phone and rang the Dickinsons’ number. Shirley answered. She sounded brighter than when he’d spoken to her last. She recounted her conversation with Lisa which cheered him immensely. He took the news of the delay in obtaining the car registration details in his stride, then explained how his evening had gone.
‘What will you do? And what about this letter?’ Shirley asked.
‘To be honest I’ve no idea. I can’t think why this is happening. My only thought is about that car and the owner. If I can find that out, it might give a clue as to who’s behind all this. At the moment I seem to be blundering from one crisis to another and getting myself deeper in the mire. When I left Woodbine Cottage I was a suspect in two murders. Since then I’ve managed to avoid being arrested, committed an assault on a police officer and now I could be suspected of the Jeffries murder. The worst of it is, I can’t think of anything positive to set against all that. I’m not sure how much longer this hotel will remain safe. All I can do is to sit tight, keep my head down and hope.’
‘There is one other thing you could do.’ Shirley’s tone was diffident. She reminded him about Lisa’s suggestion of contacting Nash.
‘I don’t know,’ Marshall said. ‘I keep thinking back to what Moran said, about not trusting anyone. How do I know this isn’t a trick?’
‘Phone from your mobile. There’s no way they can trace you from that. What harm can it do? You’re in that much trouble a phone call’s not going to make things worse. They can’t get any worse.’
‘I’ll give it some thought,’ he promised.
After he rang off he sat for a long while, then crossed to the bedside and switched on the clock radio. He tuned into the local station and waited for a news report. It was 10 p.m. when the bulletin came on. The announcer’s tone was grave as he described the finding of Councillor Jeffries with his throat slit in the lavatory of the hall where he was holding an election meeting. The newsreader went on to say the police had almost been successful in detaining the man they suspect committed the murder, but the man escaped after assaulting an officer.
Marshall switched off the radio and sat on the edge of his bed, deep in thought. The manhunt for him before this would have been as nothing compared to what it would be now. He looked round the room, assessing his position. Then he reached for his mobile.
chapter eleven
It was turned seven o’clock before Nash was about ready to leave the office, when the phone rang. It was Ruth. ‘I’m just leaving Netherdale,’ she told him. ‘How do you fancy eating out? I’m paying.’
‘I’ll go for that, especially the last bit.’
‘Spoken like a true Yorkshireman.’
‘How long do you reckon before you’re here?’
‘Half an hour, tops.’
As he waited, Nash read the Marshall file again. He knew there was something in there he should have spotted before. An inconsistency. But he couldn’t nail it. He’d closed the file, and as Ruth Edwards entered the CID suite, he realized what it was he’d missed.
‘What is it, Mike?’ Ruth could tell something was wrong by his expression.
‘Bear with me a minute, Ruth.’
He reopened the file. He had to check his facts. If he was right, everything about the case, all their preconceived notions, went out of the window. He stared at the sheet of paper. He moved it to one side, hunting through the rest of the file until he located what he was looking for. ‘There,’ he said triumphantly. ‘I knew it! I knew something was wrong.’
He looked up, saw Ruth’s puzzled expression. He laid a hand on the folder. ‘This is the file relating to Marshall’s original conviction for the murder of his wife. Read that’ – he pointed to a report – ‘then read this statement. Look at the dates.’
She bent over the papers, her rich, auburn hair sweeping forward framing her face. After a few moments, she looked up. ‘I’m sorry, Mike. I don’t see the significance.’
Nash pointed to part of the statement. ‘That’s a transcript of the first interview with Marshall, right?’ She nodded. ‘Read that sentence there, and compare it with the report on the other piece of paper.’
Ruth read it once, then a second time; then realized what she was reading. She looked up, her expression one of shocked disbelief. ‘That’s not possible: totally impossible.’
Nash shook his head, his face grim. ‘No it isn’t. In one set of circumstances, it is perfectly possible. But the circumstances are almost unthinkable.’
‘Explain it for me, please?’
‘At the time of Marshall’s first interview, Anna’s body hadn’t been found, only her car. Dundas was obviously trying to pressure Marshall into confessing. He asked him’ – Nash glanced down at the file – ‘“isn’t the truth that you slit your wife’s throat and disposed of the body by tossing it into the sea?” At first, when I read that, I was dreadfully worried that Dundas might have been involved. How else could he have known precisely how Anna Marshall was murdered? But then I read this….’
Nash turned the pages of the file until he reached the document he wanted. ‘This is a transcript of Dundas’s interview of Stuart Moran, the day before he questioned Marshall. In it, Dundas asked Moran, “What do you think happened to Mrs Marshall?” Moran’s reply is very enlightening. “I believe Marshall slit her throat, drove to the coast and dumped her body in the sea. He had a ferocious temper, Anna told me that, and said he was insanely jealous. She told me they’d had terrible rows, and that she was so embarrassed about them she dreaded bumping into their neighbours.” In those few sentences Moran planted the idea for Dundas that Marshall had murdered Anna, and even pointed the way for him to question the neighbours. Dundas would not have been aware of how Anna was killed, but Stuart Moran certainly knew, and his whole statement is a very clever attempt to frame Marshall. An attempt that succeeded. It probably sounded plausible to Dundas in view of the facts surrounding the finding of her car.’
‘And you think the neighbours were bribed to say what they did?’
‘Bribed, blackmailed or cajoled some way or other, yes. Reading the file, there were only two who said they’d heard these so-called rows. On its own, hardly overwhelming. But together with the other evidence, enough to build a successful prosecution on.’
‘You realize I’ll have to act on this?’
‘Wearing your other hat, you mean? Your, Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary hat?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Hang on,’ Nash warned. ‘First of all, we’ve a killer to bring to justice. A man who’s got away with his crimes for far too long. We can’t afford to warn him by precipitate action. We know Marshall couldn’t have killed the couple in The Golden Bear; not wearing that uniform. Now, we also have evidence that proves he’s innocent of his wife’s murder. As long as we remain in charge of the investigation we can afford to let the world continue to believe in his guilt for a while longer, giving us chance to try and find out who is behind this, and what their motive is.’
‘Have you any idea how?’
‘Yes, I think so. I’ll tell you over dinner.’
They opted for a Mexican meal. Much of the time in the restaurant they spent conversing in low tones, barely above a whisper. Diners at surrounding tables would have assumed them to be lovers. The conversation would have startled them out of that belief. ‘Somewhere out there is a killer with a penchant for slicing throats in as bloodthirsty a fashion as I’ve ever seen,’ Nash stated.
‘Agreed, and the problem we’ve got is, we haven’t the remotest idea who it is. Could be any one of the adult population of the United Kingdom.’
Nash smiled. ‘Actually, you’re wrong, Ruth.’
She looked at him, curiously. He explained about Andrews and the car registration. ‘Lisa checked it out. The car’s registered to an address in York, not been reported stolen. I’m waiting to hear if the lo
cals know anything of the owner.’
They were no sooner inside the flat than his mobile phone rang. ‘Mike Nash. Who’s this?’ He listened. ‘Mr Marshall − Alan. I’m glad you’ve rung me.’
‘Where is he?’ Ruth mouthed.
Nash shook his head. ‘Listen, Alan. I’ve some more news for you.’
The conversation lasted almost half an hour. When it was over, Nash put the mobile down. ‘Do you think we’ve done the right thing?’
Ruth thought about it. ‘I don’t see we’d much choice, given the circumstances. There’s certainly nothing in regulations that comes close to covering them.’
‘One thing for sure, Ruth, I’m glad you’re here to back me up. Given your position.’
After another late shift, covering an assault in Netherdale following a rowdy birthday party that had got out of hand, resulting in several arrests, Lisa was exhausted. She found sleep impossible. She was more involved than she ought to be in the Marshall case and couldn’t rest. At 6 a.m. she got out of bed and went into the kitchen to brew a cup of camomile tea. It did the trick. She wandered sleepily through to the bedroom and climbed back into bed. She was asleep within minutes. The ringing phone awoke her. The clock on her bedside cabinet showed 8.35 a.m. Lisa groaned and tried to ignore it, hoping whoever was phoning might get bored and ring off. Eventually, when the ringing continued Lisa thrust back the duvet. She stood up still marginally woozy from sleep and trudged reluctantly through to the hall.
‘Yes,’ she said testily without bothering to check the caller display.
‘I wonder how interested your superiors would be in the identity of your new boyfriend.’
‘What? Who is this? What do you want?’
‘Consorting with a murderer; a man wanted by every police officer in the land. Watching him commit an assault on another officer without attempting to intervene. Conniving to help him escape. That would look really bad on your career record, wouldn’t it?’
Lisa identified her former lover at last. ‘Donald, what the hell are you talking about?’
‘Your bloodthirsty, throat-slitting lover, Alan Marshall, that’s who. Do you really expect me to say nothing whilst you help him? Of course, I might do just that for a small fee.’
‘Donald, as usual you’re full of shit. Marshall isn’t my lover, he isn’t a murderer and I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. So why don’t you take the message I’ve already given you several times. Why don’t you piss off and go back to shagging Jackie, because you’re not screwing me any longer. Not even for money. Blackmail’s an ugly word, Donald, but it suits you because you’ve an ugly, dirty mind. So piss off and stay out of my life, you worthless cretin.’ Lisa slammed the phone down to reinforce the message.
Unable to face the thought of trying for more sleep, she had a shower and was in the process of dressing when the phone rang again. She snatched the receiver up. ‘What is it now?’ she snapped, assuming it to be Smailes.
‘Morning, Lisa, Mike Nash here.’
‘Sorry, boss, I thought it was someone else.’
‘Listen, I know you’re not due in until this afternoon, but could you make it a bit earlier? Something’s come up.’
Donald Smailes sat with the phone in his hand for a long time. He regretted the impulse that had caused him to take up with Jackie. She wasn’t a patch on Lisa in bed, nor, as he was beginning to find out, was she as pleasant and loyal a companion. She blamed him for breaking up her friendship with Lisa. He felt bitter at the way things had gone, bitter and cheated. Although why he should have felt cheated only someone with as corrupt a mind as Smailes could have explained. In the end he dialled a number.
His phone call was handled with discretion, as was always the case. The nature of the work handled by the department he rang made it not only desirable, but in most cases essential. ‘I have information concerning a serving officer, one of those involved in the Marshall enquiry. I think you should be aware that the officer has been aiding and abetting a fugitive escape from justice. The officer is DC Andrews from Netherdale and I believe she and Marshall may be lovers. She is in regular communication with him and I have reason to believe they’ve slept together on at least one occasion since he became a wanted man. Certainly she helped him escape arrest when there was a general warrant out for him.’
The listener replaced the handset and began to discuss the call with a colleague, who told him, ‘We’re bound to investigate such complaints, no matter what the motive behind them is. That’s the function of this department.’
‘I know, but that caller sounded so vindictive, how can we be sure it isn’t someone merely being malicious?’
‘I’m afraid the only way is by carrying out an investigation.’
‘How do you want us to approach it?’
‘We’ll begin as normal with audio and visual surveillance of the young woman’s residence. At the same time I’d like you to organize an inspection of everything she’s been working on over the last three months. In particular, check whether she’s been supplying the suspect with information or other assistance. That covers the first part of the allegation. As to the second assertion, that’s not going to be as easy to establish. If DC Andrews has entered into a sexual relationship with the suspect that’s an even more serious allegation, especially if she’s slept with him since he was wanted for questioning. Quite how we’re to prove or disprove that without catching them at it I’m not sure. For the time being, concentrate on setting up the surveillance.’
‘What about listening to her phone calls?’
‘Yes, I think so. Given the nature of the allegation and the fact that her alleged lover is a fugitive I consider it not only advisable, but essential. Particularly so, as the man Marshall seems rather successful at evading capture.’
Lisa had met Barry Dickinson briefly when he’d helped her with Marshall’s Land Rover; this was the first time she’d met Shirley. Before she could shake hands, Lisa had to greet an enthusiastic Labrador that was frisking around her. ‘This is Nell, isn’t it?’ she asked.
‘That’s right. Come along in. When Nell will allow you to, that is.’
‘I wondered what had happened to her.’
‘He entrusted her to us. The poor thing’s been fretting a bit. The two of them were rarely apart for long. I just hope this nightmare’s over soon, for both their sakes.’
‘I wanted to ask if you’d heard from Alan,’ Lisa began, as she accepted a cup of coffee. ‘Especially with what happened in Leeds last night.’
‘Yes,’ Barry replied. ‘He rang us; spoke to Shirley. We didn’t know what to do, other than advise him to phone your boss.’
‘Don’t worry, he did ring him, that’s why I’m here.’
chapter twelve
Alan Marshall certainly hadn’t slept easy in his bed. When morning came he rose before daybreak and slipped out of the hotel before any of his fellow guests were up and about. He went to a small café opposite the market for breakfast. It was an establishment that was constantly busy, so much so, the staff had no time to inspect their customers. If the staff were kept busy, the customers were too preoccupied with their own affairs to notice one another. It suited Marshall perfectly.
As soon as he’d eaten he moved on, spending all morning in the library where the high bookcases provided shelter from prying eyes. He read the morning paper which contained a full-page article on the Jeffries murder, a glowing eulogy on Councillor Robert Jeffries and a savage condemnation of his killer. It didn’t quite go so far as to indict Marshall for the crime but if it fell short, it wasn’t far short. Marshall noted the media conference scheduled for 11 a.m. and knew it would fuel the publicity surrounding him; the last thing he needed. He spent the remainder of the afternoon and early evening in the darkened anonymity of a multi-screen cinema before returning to the hotel after nightfall.
The reception area was deserted but as he walked towards the flight of stairs his gaze strayed to his right. The office used by the propri
etor was unoccupied but the light was on. Marshall saw an open copy of the local evening paper lying on the desk next to the phone, revealing a photograph of Marshall under the single word headline: “KILLER”.
The paper’s proximity to the phone rang alarm bells. Even with his new growth of stubble Marshall was easily recognizable. He turned to head for the stairs, then, on impulse, turned back and grabbed the paper before setting off for his room. He heard the distant sound of sirens. Somehow he knew exactly where they would be heading.
He pulled his holdall from the bottom of the wardrobe and stuffed his clothing and few possessions inside. He realized the front of the building was a no go area. Fortunately the fire escape ran past his window. Cautiously, he eased the window up, crawled through on to the steel platform and started down the iron rungs as fast as he could.
He’d got to within ten feet of the ground when he glanced down, in time to see a figure move away from the wall, little more than a darker shape in the darkness. ‘Watch out, he’s here,’ a voice called out.
Marshall jumped. His feet and knees simultaneously hit the man in the midriff, who collapsed with a huge sigh, like a deflating balloon. As Marshall regained his balance a second man launched himself out of the shadows. Marshall swung the holdall and heard a cry of pain. Then he was off down the garden like a sprinter. He cleared the low hedge at the end like a steeplechaser and landed in the grounds of a terrace house in the road behind the hotel. The building, sub-divided into flats, had the garden area paved for car parking. Marshall sped across the tarmac and into the street beyond.
