The Boardman Files

by Gus Ross

  Buckfield had toyed with the idea of taking the day off, as his head was just too sore and he could not really turn it properly. He had to move his whole body round, as if his head was in a brace, and that wasn’t particularly conducive to good policing, or even driving a car for that matter. But in the end he had decided that work was probably the safest option and although he was now very late, he locked the front door of his flat and made for the lift at the end of the corridor.

  He had three missed calls on his mobile, but after last night’s call he had decided he was not going to answer the annoying little device that no one seemed able to go anywhere without these days. He didn’t even want to check who the calls were from. He pressed level -1 and the lift doors slid shut.

  The underground car park was the usual characterless grey concrete affair, with too many pillars (mainly because they were holding up the flats above, but partly because some architect could not be arsed coming up with a more practical solution and secretly enjoyed the thought of Mr and Mrs Joe Bloggs smacking and scraping their pride and joy off something he had created).

  Had Buckfield been able to turn his head he may have seen the blow that killed him, but the chances were that his assailant was obscured by one of those infernal pillars. His body would eventually be discovered by Mrs Edgerton, from flat 61, an hour or so later, who initially thought she had run him over (which actually she had), and who just could not explain why she was trying to park in a bay that was not hers and clearly already had a car in it, never mind a dead body beside it.

  Those damned pillars – somewhere an architect was laughing heavily as his latest set of drawings for an underground car park were stamped ‘Accepted’.

  The strange thing was that Sternie and old shark eyes really did have the same objective; the difference was that the two men had fundamentally opposite views on how to achieve it and two very different masters calling the tune. So although at first they appeared as if they were playing on the same side, they were not. Of course, of the two of them, only Sternie had known that.

  “I need you to help me find your wife,” said Sternie, who had been sitting staring at his mobile phone for twenty minutes or so.

  I had been pretty much laid outright on the sofa, exhausted, and my mind was drifting off into the merits of interior design of all things. The bog standard house, in bog standard road, that was now our safe house, was dull, but it was also actually quite pleasant inside; well considerably more pleasant than the decaying farmhouse, the cold cell I had spent the previous night in, and, come to think of it, the now smouldering remains of my own house. The cream coloured carpeting in the hall ran through to the living room and I presumed no doubt throughout the rest of the house, as too the magnolia paintwork. In years to come I reckon we will view such bland decor in the same way we now view lime green sanitary ware; all those DIY shows have a lot to answer for; too many boring people, with boring jobs, living in boring houses is a recipe for civil unrest. Blame it all on the Magnolia.

  I was exhausted, but the sudden mention of my wife was enough to set me bolt upright in an instant.

  “What do you want with my wife? What has she got to do with this? What do you mean, ‘find her’?” There I went again; scatter gunning questions all over the place, but at least one of them was the right one to ask.

  “Hmhh. You just need to help me find her and that is all you need to know, Dave.” Sternie was not going to give up the family silver that easily and even I knew it, but that would not stop me wittering on for at least a further twenty minutes, until the sound of a boiling kettle from the open plan kitchen finally drowned me out, much to Sternie’s relief.

  And then his mobile phone rang.

  Sternie went to what I presumed must be the adjacent bedroom to take the call, which was a pretty clear sign he did not see me as a flight risk, or maybe it was just a stupid mistake. I knew I could not get very far and to be honest I had no idea where I was or who I might be running from, but there are some things that are just pre-programmed, albeit some of us have been programmed slightly better than others.

  I quickly looked round for my next weapon of choice, but before I could identify the optimal domestic purveyor of death I heard the door and Sternie’s footsteps coming back into the room. In a blind moment of panic I found myself darting to the kitchen and hurling a side plate toward the door, and Sternie’s head. He batted it away with one of his sizable mitts and gave me that look that said, “Come on you really should know better than that”. I was duly expecting to get smacked, so reached for the nearest piece of crockery, intent on at least finding my target this time.

  “Stop now you fool before I have to hurt you.” Sternie had that deep fatherly way of speaking that immediately puts the fear of death into you. I swear he would be great as a voice over man.

  I stopped and put the china cup back in the drainer.

  “Now sit yourself back down and let’s have no more of this nonsense. If you really feel you would be better off on your own then there is the door. Go on, I won’t stop you, but I can guarantee you won’t get very far and chances are they will be dragging you out of a river somewhere by morning.”

  The old child psychology thingamabobbery; offer them the choice, the free will option, and then take it away with the consequences in the next breath. But that last part about dragging me out of a river somewhere had really got my attention.

  “Why did you say that?” I asked, narrowing my brow to a questioning frown.

  “Say what?” replied Sternie.

  “That bit about dragging me from a river. Why did you say that?”

  “I don’t know, probably because that is what would happen to you. It doesn’t really matter; the point is it is not really that safe for you out there.” Sternie really could not help but sound like a dad. I wondered how many kiddie-winkles cuddled up to this Elton on steroids and called him Daddy at the end of a day. I shook that bizarre image from my head.

  “Ok, right, I promise not to throw any more crockery at you if you promise to answer some of my questions.”

  Sternie looked at me with unwavering eyes and then the strangest thing happened; he started to laugh. Whether it was the thought of a further attack by a crazy lunatic hurling everything but the kitchen sink at him, or whether it was simply a release of tension, I will never know, but soon we were both in fits of laughter.

  “How do you take your tea?” Sternie asked, wiping the tears from his eyes as he spoke.

  “White, no sugar please.”

  Maybe Sternie wasn’t all that bad after all but he was the only option I had for the moment, and perhaps the only option that would prevent me from being dragged from a river somewhere.

  I sat and waited for my tea; our own little piece of domestic bliss.

  To an outsider we would have looked just like two buddies hanging out together, although one of us did look a bit like the love child of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Elton John.

  Chapter 8: Big Oil equals Big Power.

  The 17.20 South West Train’s London to Bournemouth service was a pretty busy affair; still technically within what could be termed London ‘commuter-ville’ (which, to be fair, became a wider circumference every year, but generally meant anywhere within a two hour train journey – I often wondered what the introduction of high speed train services would mean for the property prices in the commuter belt which presumably would eventually stretch to Liverpool). As the main line class 444 Desiro pulled out of Waterloo Station there was more than one passenger who had other things on their mind than a trip to the seaside.

  The man sitting three rows back reading the Telegraph was not particularly conspicuous, he wore a light grey suit beneath a black overcoat and looked like any one of the many mind numbed commuters who had finished yet another day in the city, except that this particular commuter had been on the same page for the last fifteen minutes and was either a very slow reader, or not in the least bit interested in what his paper had to say about the worl
d. The women in the red hat, with the scarf that did not match, sat looking out of the window avoiding any form of eye contact. She had no intention of reaching the train’s final destination, in fact it was all a bit too poignant, but she was already more than aware that she was being followed.

  The man with the carrier bag neatly tucked inside his brown, over the shoulder, man bag, stepped from the number thirty seven bus and walked south for two blocks before turning sharp right. He entered the small square park area that sat surrounded by impressive looking Georgian townhouses that, on closer inspection, were really not that impressive at all; in this part of town most of them were now shabby bed and breakfast establishments on the inside and owed more to the Department of Social Security for their continued liquidity than their owners’ excellent marketing skills.

  The park was the usual urban affair; a small scruffy and worn looking grassy patch on one side, a fairly dilapidated children’s swing park on the other, all surrounded by overgrown and untended bushes and hedgerow that looked as if they were already resigned to the idea of winter. In its hay-day it would no doubt have been quite a celebrated little piece of land, a little haven in the city, but now it was more prone to vagrants and drunken teenagers than the playful sounds of children.

  He sat on one of the wooden park benches, placed his man bag on his knee and removed the plastic carrier. The park was empty, save from three rather fat looking pigeons that were in the process of waddling towards him in search of scraps or perhaps just to be neighbourly. He placed the plastic bag on the bench, rose to his feet and kicked out at his feathered friends, who in truth looked too fat to fly; they flapped a bit but were otherwise unimpressed by his display. As the man left the park, another entered by the opposite entrance; he walked briskly to the bench, lifted the bag and placed it under his arm. Within ten minutes the bag would be nestled neatly in the rear storage box of a motorcycle on route to its final recipient.

  Mac Howison had the kind of corner office that most people could only dream about; he had views out across the Thames that took in the London Eye, Parliament and Big Ben, but preferred to sit with his back to the lot of it. London was not his favourite city, too much traffic and rain and whining Limeys, always moaning about something, but he had been spending a great deal of his time here lately and at least if he had to be here, he would make sure he did not have to look out on it every day.

  His desk was made from the finest walnut, which looked like it had been polished to within an inch of its life, and the contents upon it had that organised, efficient look that only those who were really in charge ever seemed to achieve; he made the decisions, but everyone else did the work.

  Expensive oversized artwork hung from the office walls either side of the door, which he always liked to be shut. There was a large flat-screen television in the far corner of the office which was currently showing some charts and diagrams and stock prices on ‘American Money Today’ with the sound turned down. Surrounding this were four rather harsh looking, black leather armchairs that looked like no one had ever sat in them and that they had been specifically designed to be as inhospitable as possible.

  The room was carpeted throughout with a pile that would come up over the heel of most men’s brogues, but Mac liked to wear cowboy boots. He should really have been on the set of Dallas, or at least had some line of heritage back to J.R. Ewing.

  And oh how he loved it, all the opulent trimmings of Big Oil.

  On the wall to his left there was a picture of the President, the First Lady and, of course, his good self, ten gallon hat and all, plus a grin as wide as the Rio Grande. He loved a good photo opportunity but he also knew where the real power lay and these days a great deal of it was with him.

  He pushed the little green button with his oversized index finger, “Hey Susie, get me Charlie on the blower will ya’, thanks.”

  Seconds later his phone buzzed and Charles Hanson was on the other end of the line.

  “Charlie, how the hell are you?” Mac was the kind of man who you couldn’t help but like but you wouldn’t want to cross, and he generally abbreviated everyone’s name, whether they liked it or not.

  “I’m good Mac, was going to give you a call later today but I haven’t heard back from the old man yet.”

  “Gees, how hard can it be Charlie; you got more people at your disposal than I have workin’ down in accounts!”

  “I know, but we need to let the Brits do their bit, can’t just go bulldozing our way through.” Charles Hanson was no longer impressed with how easily he could lie, it was more than second nature to him; he had already made up his mind that in this particular instance protocol was out the window, there was simply too much at stake.

  “Brits Smits Charlie, those clowns still think 007 is in charge and that all the bad guy’s names end in ‘ov’. You know this is no time for pussyfootin’.”

  Charles knew it all too well but there were still rules that he had to at least appear to be following, “I understand your frustrations Mac, but I have every faith in Thompson and his people. They won’t let us down.”

  “I hope your levellin’ with me Charlie boy. You know I don’t do surprises.”

  Charles Hanson felt an uneasy sensation in the pit of his stomach; if he had learned anything from his dealings with Mac Howison it was how resourceful and powerful he was; generally he knew what was really going on before the President and more often than not before him as well. He would need to be careful.

  “Of course Mac, wouldn’t dream of anything else. I will let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

  “Ok Charlie, I’ll be waitin’.”

  Mac dropped the receiver in its cradle and pushed back on his executive chair, tipping it towards the fabulous London skyline behind him. He pretty much knew Charlie was not giving him the full picture, but for now that didn’t matter quite as much. He looked down at the desk and in particular at the nasty cheap plastic carrier that sat on it. It had, of course, been destined for someone entirely different, but then he had people where it really mattered and this was one of those things that he just had to have, regardless of the consequences. There was a cat out there somewhere, but it was not out of the bag yet and he was damned sure he would see it drowned first, with Charlie’s help or not.

  The first link in the chain of events was testimony to the quality of today’s mobile phone technology. It was perhaps the only thing that survived the crash (except for a set of teeth); the white transit van had been mangled beyond recognition, so too the body inside it, but the slim white mobile phone was pretty much as good as new, albeit the battery had run out.

  Strange that there always seems to be something that survives a crash site or natural disaster intact and undamaged, as if the event had somehow passed it by, and quite often it is the most unlikely item: a watch, a child’s toy, a shoe. In this case the significance of the item that emerged from the wreckage of the white transit van unscathed would be enough to spark a major political incident, assuming, that was, that the players in the game let it get to that stage.

  It had been sitting for two days since the crash and had it not been for some bright spark, who recognised the make and model and just happened to have a suitable charger, the whole chain of events may never have kicked into gear. They had been having real difficulty identifying the body (or what was left of it), that had been recovered from the wreckage, and the mobile offered a chance to resolve this.

  The slim white device blinked into life with that unnecessarily annoying ‘How are you today?’ message, (find me a phone that really cares and I will keep it for life). The usual scrawl for names and contacts came up blank, there were no messages and all but the last days call history had been deleted, which was odd. There had been two calls on the day of the crash; one made and one received. Only one of the numbers was live, the other had been disconnected and the paper trail on that one would run dry very quickly, the other rang out. Across town, where officers were in the process of cordoning o
ff a car park and trying to placate a hysterical Mrs Edgerton, a phone rang in the pocket of the late DC Buckfield.

  “Should I answer it Sir?” asked Constable Walker, he had only been in the force for six months and this was the first dead body he had come across. He had tried not to be sick and was doing a pretty good job of holding it together.

  “Give it to me Walker. We need to handle this one carefully. It could easily be a relative.” DI Bright took the phone in his plastic gloved hand and held it towards his ear.

  “Hello, who is this?” said the voice on the other end.

  “Hello, this is Detective Inspector Bright. Can I ask who you are please?” Bright had been slightly thrown by the callers question but had handled it perfectly.

  “Inspector Bright, this is Wiseman, Desk Sergeant at the Met, Wandsworth Borough.”

  For a brief moment there was an awkward silence as both men tried to make sense of the call.

  “Wiseman, can I ask why you are calling this number?”

  “Indeed, we recovered a mobile from an R.T.A. and are currently trying to identify the driver. There wasn’t much left to be honest.” Wiseman was about to clarify if the phone he had called actually belonged to Bright but then that was cleared up for him.

  “I see, well this phone belongs to a DC Buckfield, or should I say belonged.”

  “Belonged?” Wiseman spoke without thinking, he could probably have put the pieces together had he tried, but the question was already out of his mouth.

  “Yes belonged. I’m afraid it looks like DC Buckfield may have been murdered this morning.”

  There was silence again at the other end of the phone as Wiseman realised that trying to identify his body was going to take a lot more than a couple of phone calls.

  The significance of the call to Buckfield’s phone would take a while to piece together, but for now DI Bright took note and proceeded with the initial investigation of his crime scene.

  Buckfield’s body had some pretty clear injuries courtesy of an old lady who was probably too old to be driving, and who, as a result of today’s events, would never drive again. But there was also clear evidence of a severe blow to the back of the head that had almost certainly been the cause of death. The skull area just above the neck line had clearly caved in, and there was a mass of blood and hair and bits of bone all mushed together.