Conflicted Innocence

by Netta Newbound

  “Hi Chris. I’m James—James Dunn and this is Geri, my partner.”

  We all shook hands.

  “You said you were called—”

  “Shut up, Jeannie,” Chris said, in the same broad accent. He shook his head impatiently, pushing wire-framed glasses higher up on his nose. “Do you want to follow me?”

  He led us through to a room a little bigger than the first, and much cleaner. “Take a seat,” he said.

  Once again, James explained what we were doing there.

  “Yeah, I remember him. Well, not personally, but I heard a lot about his murder.”

  “Jeannie mentioned your dad might have been around back then?”

  “Yes. He bought this place off Mufty not long after, I think.”

  “Do you suppose your dad would be up to a visit?”

  “Don’t see why not. He gets very few visitors these days—he’ll probably talk your socks off, mind.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Hang on,” he said, as he punched in a few numbers.

  *

  Half an hour later, we pulled into a gated community and soon located number eight.

  Alan Hutchins, Chris’s elderly father, greeted us at the door enthusiastically. He was practically bald, with liver spots covering every inch of exposed skin. His face lit up when he smiled, showing a full set of pristine dentures. He led us through to a tiny, cluttered lounge.

  “Take a seat. Chris told me to expect you. I must admit, I am surprised to hear you’re investigating Damien’s death after all these years.”

  James and I sat next to each other on the floral beige sofa.

  “I’m writing a book on little known murders. Damien’s case intrigued me.”

  “Well, thank goodness for that! He was a good friend of mine, and I never got over the fact that nobody seemed to really do anything about his death.”

  “Did you hear any rumours back then?” James asked.

  “I did, but they were all hearsay to be honest.”

  James shrugged. “But, as a friend, I’d say you would have a good idea what went on in his life. His wife suggested he was a ladies’ man.”

  Alan snorted. “Sorry!” he said, his hand covering his mouth. “I heard that too, back then, but it was bullshit—excuse my language.” He glanced at me and smiled an apology before continuing. “He’d appreciate a pretty girl—who wouldn’t? But that doesn’t make him a ladies’ man. Monica on the other hand...”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, Damien was no sooner six-foot under, when she was shacked up with her new fella.”

  “Really? I asked, imagining the little old lady we’d met, and not the young woman she would have been in the sixties.

  “Oh, aye. She didn’t hang around, lass, I can tell you.”

  “She must have been pretty devastated, though. I mean, what a shock to lose her husband like that. Maybe she was on the rebound?”

  Alan raised his eyebrows in a show of amusement.

  “What? You don’t think so?”

  “According to gossip at the time, she was already knocking about with Mufty, mine and Damien’s boss, long before Damien was taken out of the picture. Made it pretty convenient for them, if you ask me.”

  “Your boss? From the taxi firm?” James asked.

  “The very same. They moved away soon after, which is when I bought the company. I got it cheap if I’m being honest, but Monica had received a big insurance payout and they couldn’t be bothered hanging around for a better price.”

  Prickles started at the nape of my neck. “This Mufty,” I said. “What was his real name?”

  Chapter 26

  Hurrying back to the car, my phone rang. My stomach dropped when I saw it was Lydia.

  “Geri, they’ve refused to allow me to pick up Grace.”

  “What?”

  “That bloody bitch, Wendy, said...”

  My phone began vibrating—alerting me of another call.

  “Hang on, Lydia. I’ll call you back. She’s on the other line.”

  I accepted the call from the nursery.

  “I know all about it. Lydia just called me,” I barked.

  Wendy sounded upset. “I’m sorry, Geraldine, but I will not allow that child murderer to take Grace. I want to make sure you actually know what type of woman you’re entrusting to care for your precious child.”

  “Excuse me! Grace is my daughter and I have already signed the form stating Lydia is allowed to collect her—have I not?”

  “Yes, but...”

  “But nothing. I’m perfectly aware of what happened in the past. Lydia has served her sentence for what was no more than a tragic mistake in my opinion and I insist you release my daughter to her, this minute.”

  “I’m not happy about this. I’ll have to contact my manager and see what she says because...”

  “You do that.” I hung up.

  ***

  Deciding to go home early, Lee backed up his computer before switching it off. As he locked the main door, his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Lydia.

  “Hey, baby. I’m just on my way home. What’s up?”

  “Lee, I need your help. I’m supposed to be collecting Grace from the nursery but that bitch, Wendy, won’t let me take her.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Ten minutes later, he pulled into the carpark. The journey had fuelled a rage in him, and he was ropeable.

  Lydia jumped up from her position on the doorstep. “Thank God you’re here. She’s such a bitch—I wanted to slap her silly.”

  “There’ll be no need for that, love. Come on, let’s get Grace.”

  He led the way through to the baby area.

  There was no doubt which one was Wendy. She stood glaring at them with her hands on her hips.

  “We’ve come to collect Grace.”

  “I’ve already told her—over my dead body would I allow her to take this baby from the premises.”

  “And that is your call to make, is it?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe not legally—but morally, yes. It is.”

  “Did you contact Geraldine?”

  She nodded, pursing her lips.

  “And? I take it she told you to allow it?”

  “Listen. She is a convicted baby killer,” she said, pointing at Lydia. “And I don’t care if I lose my job over this, she’s not taking her.”

  Lee took out his phone and dialled 999. “Police please.”

  Wendy gasped and began to backtrack once she realised he meant business.

  “Hang on a second—there’s no need for that so long as you promise to supervise them at all times.”

  Lee hesitated before explaining to the person on the phone there had been a misunderstanding. He hung up and walked over to where Grace sat on the mat chewing on a plastic bear.

  “Hey, sweetie. Let’s go home.” He lifted her into his arms and was instantly overcome by the enormous feeling of loss. He’d not held another baby since his own gorgeous child, yet the chubby warmth of Grace filled a deeply buried, yet cavernous hole in the centre of his being, tearing shreds from his heart. He couldn’t let the nursery staff see his reaction, so he smiled and handed the child to Lydia before taking the nappy bag from another young woman.

  Once outside, he led them to his car.

  “I haven’t got a car seat for her. I’ll meet you at home,” Lydia said, fastening the child into a pushchair, which he hadn’t even noticed, beside the gate.

  “Okay, see you there.” He got into the car and drove the two minute journey home.

  Candice lay sprawled on the sofa, as he entered, watching daytime telly which irritated the shit out of him.

  “Do you intend to waste your life away either cooped up in your bedroom or watching that crap? How long do you intend staying?”

  She shrugged, her lips turned down at the corners.

  “Well, what were you doing before you came here? Didn’t you have a job?”

  “I had two, but I gave them
up to come and spend time with my sister.”

  “Why didn’t you do what normal people do and take holiday leave?”

  She shrugged again. “Maybe you could give me a job?”

  “There’s no chance. And besides—I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

  “Here we go,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “Yes. Here we most certainly do go, young lady. I made it quite clear when you arrived that alcohol is not allowed through that front door, didn’t I?”

  She scowled.

  “Didn’t I?” He raised his voice this time.

  “Yes!”

  “And what did you do?”

  Lydia appeared in the doorway, her fingers against her lips. “Shhhh! Grace is asleep.”

  “I asked you a question.” Lee continued a little quieter.

  “I took it to my room. Lydia didn’t even see it.”

  “That is not the point, and you know it. I’ll tell you once more, shall I? No alcohol in this place—full stop! And if you don’t abide by these rules then I suggest you move out—capiche?”

  Like a spoiled teenager she flounced off up the stairs.

  “You didn’t need to be so hard on her,” Lydia said.

  “Oh, I did. Kids of today need a lesson in respect.”

  “Is this about the two that died in the cottage? Because, sweetheart, you’re lashing out, which just isn’t like you.”

  “Well, it’s kind of why I’m annoyed, I guess. Those two rotten little bastards set out to rob me and end up dead, yet it’s me who’s charged with murder and faces years in prison.”

  “It won’t come to that.”

  “Won’t it? Know that for sure, do you?”

  “Pretty much. No court in the land would convict you for your part in their deaths. You’re the victim—it’s clear as day.”

  She pulled him down beside her on the recently vacated, still warm, sofa and hugged him tightly.

  “I hope you’re right, Lyddie. I really do.”

  ***

  “She what?”

  “Refused to let her take Grace.”

  “Poor Lydia. The first time she forces herself out the door and she is confronted with that!”

  “I know! I’m livid.”

  “So what now? Do we have to get back?”

  “Not a chance. We need to speak to Mufty—he has some explaining to do.”

  “I was hoping you were gonna say that.”

  The phone rang as we pulled onto the motorway.

  “Hi Lydia, is it sorted?”

  “Yes. She soon changed her tune when Lee called the police. Said she’d only allow it if Lee promised to stay with me.”

  “Are you okay? I’m so sorry this has happened. Do you want us to come back now?”

  “No. Don’t be stupid. We’re fine. Grace is shattered and asleep already. You take your time, and if you’re not back after she’s had her tea, then I’ll take her into yours and put her to bed.”

  *

  What should have been an hour long trip back to Stoke-on-Trent took close on two hours with the schools getting out. When, eventually, we turned onto the estate, I was almost jumping in my seat with anticipation.

  The door opened before we knocked.

  “I am popular today!” Harold said.

  “Hello again, Mr Turpin—or should I say Mufty?” James said, raising his eyebrows.

  “You’d better come in.” Harold Turpin, not quite as jovial as earlier, held the door wide open, and ushered us through to the spick and span kitchen where he proceeded to fill the kettle. “Tea or coffee?”

  My stomach growled, and I realised we hadn’t had a thing to eat and drink since breakfast. “Tea, please,” I said.

  James scowled at me, and I wrinkled my nose at him, then he nodded. “Tea would be lovely, thanks.”

  “Sit yourselves down. I won’t be a sec.” He motioned towards the round pine dining table.

  Once we were seated, he turned back towards us and threw a tea-towel over his shoulder. “So, I take it you’ve been to see my wife?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” James replied.

  “You know that anything she says can’t be trusted, don’t you?”

  “What do you think she might have said?”

  “How the hell do I know? She talks a load of old claptrap.” He returned to the kettle and filled a huge teapot with boiling water then placed the pot in the centre of the table.

  “What I don’t get, though, is why she’d tell you my nickname is Mufty? She never called me that.” He unhooked three cups from the mug tree.

  “She didn’t,” James said. “We paid a visit to Alan Hutchins who told us you were Damien’s boss at the time of his death.”

  “Alan Hutchins. Now there’s a blast from the past. I’d have thought that old coot would be dead by now.”

  “Far from it. He’s got years ahead of him I’d say. But what I don’t understand is why you didn’t mention you knew Damien earlier.”

  “You didn’t ask.” He plonked a milk jug on the table and sat down heavily.

  James laughed. “Well, I’m asking now. Could you tell me what you knew about Damien?”

  “He was a conniving ladies’ man who deserved all he got. Is that what you want to hear?” He shovelled two spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of milk into a cup, and topped it up with tea.

  I realised he wasn’t going to play ‘mum’, so I poured myself and James a cup.

  “How well did you know him?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Not much, really. I knew he had an eye for the ladies and that he knocked about with some seriously dodgy drug dealers.”

  “So he was on drugs?” James asked.

  “Either that or he was working for them. Cab drivers are often approached about making deliveries. I warned him if I found out he was delivery drugs, he’d be out of a job in a flash.”

  “Did you tell all this to the police at the time?” James sipped at his tea.

  “Of course I did. But I knew they wouldn’t do anything. The police were corrupt in those days, and the local drug lords owned them. As soon as I mentioned who he’d been hanging around with, the cops backed off straight away. I knew they’d never look into it.”

  “So, you think the drug dealers killed Damien?” I asked, still trying to get my head around it.

  He shrugged again. “Most murders have sex, drugs or money as the motive, don’t they?”

  I nodded. “I guess.”

  “So, if you don’t mind me asking, when did you meet Monica?” James asked.

  “I’d met her in passing a few times when she called into the cab office to see Damien. But we weren’t properly introduced until Damien’s funeral.”

  “You hooked up with his widow at his funeral?” James shook his head in disbelief.

  “No, of course not,” he snapped, his face contorted with contempt.

  “Then when?”

  “A few months later. I felt sorry for her, and I offered my services—helped her with a few odd jobs on my days off, would take little Jimmy to the football on the weekend that kind of thing. You know, just the stuff Damien would have done if he’d still been around.”

  James nodded. “Very noble of you.”

  “Anybody would do the same. But then we fell in love—an added bonus for me.”

  “You paint a nice picture—except Alan suggested you and Monica were having an affair long before Damien’s death.” James raised his eyebrows.

  “Preposterous! Some people have nothing better to do than to make up disgusting stories like that.”

  “So, it’s not true?” James asked.

  “I told you when it started. Now, if you don’t mind...” He slid his chair away from the table, making a loud noise on the polished wooden floor. “And, for future reference, stay away from Monica—she’s a sick woman.”

  He hurried us through the front door and slammed it before we’d even begun to walk away.

  “Charming!” James said, linking his
arm through mine.

  “So now what?” We walked back to the vehicle.

  He glanced at his watch. “Home, I guess. It’s too late to visit Monica again now.”

  “But he said we couldn’t see her again,” I said, shocked he’d even consider it.

  “It’s not up to him.”

  On the journey home we were both deep in thought. I was going over and over the day’s events.

  “James?”

  “Hmmm.”

  “I was thinking about the things Monica said about her husband—Harold, not Damien. You know, about him being horrible.”

  “A lot of what she says can’t be trusted.”

  “I know that. But, combined with Alan’s remarks, what if they killed him?”

  “Who? Monica and Harold?” He gave me a sidelong glance.

  I nodded, searching his face for any sign of what he was thinking.

  He rasped his fingers over today’s whiskery growth and continued staring straight ahead in silence.

  I turned to look out of the window, tired of waiting for a response.

  “So, they had an affair, and bumped Damien off for the life insurance money?” he eventually said.

  “Why not? Harold said himself that most murders are because of sex, drugs or money. Well they insinuated sex, being discovered in a notorious lover’s lane. There were links to drugs, with Harold suggesting he was friends with some well-known drug dealers. But nobody mentioned that the motive could be money,” I said, excitedly.

  “Certainly plausible—but surely the police would have investigated.”

  I shook my head. “Not if what Harold said was true, and they were in the gangster’s pocket. They would have tried to sweep it under the carpet. The fact he was found in his cab in a dodgy area with a bullet through his head doesn’t scream of a domestic, more like an assassination. The perfect murder, if you ask me.”

  He raised his eyebrows again, and nodded. “Proving it will be difficult after all this time. Add that to the fact Monica isn’t a very credible witness with her illness. We will have to find some other clue.”

  Chapter 27

  I handed my big lump of a daughter over to Lydia. “I swear she’s grown ten inches in diameter since yesterday. What did you feed her?” I laughed.

  “She may have done. Probably comfort eating because she was missing her mummy.”