Only The Dead: an explosive new detective series

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Owen’s mobile phone rang as he was in the shower. He leaned out of the door.

  “Owen,” he grumbled a welcome into the phone. “Are you sure?”

  He climbed from the shower and grabbed a towel before moving into his room. Finding a pencil and pad, he noted the details.

  “Flash is going to go fucking ape, I can tell you, I thought Proctor had organised round the clock surveillance. Where is she and what state is she in? Shit! Anything on the cars registered to the Doctor’s address? Not a match with facial recognition did you say?” Owen scribbled away before hanging up.

  He tossed the phone onto the bed and put his hand to his forehead. “Smashing! Let’s hope he spares the bloody messenger, but knowing Flash I somehow doubt it.”

  He dressed and reluctantly walked the short distance from the back to the front of the hotel to Cyril’s room. Before knocking he took a deep breath. Even though he was not at fault, he knew just what his boss was likely to say and to be honest he felt angry too.

  Cyril opened the door and smiled his slightly upturned grin. His face was certainly improving. Owen was impressed that the room was much larger than his. The sunlight hit the back wall and a slight breeze moved the curtains of the open, French windows. Music from an iPod and small speakers filled the room.

  “You’ll not like Matt Monro, I imagine, but it’s on ‘shuffle’ so something more to your taste might come next. Did you ever see the ‘Italian Job’?”

  On days like these... came from the speakers and the lyrics couldn’t have been more prophetic.

  “No, Sir but... You might not like a day like this.”

  Cyril sensed that Owen was reluctant to speak.

  “So how many cars were registered or have you come up with other, darker news from home?”

  “You might want to sit down, Sir.”

  Cyril’s demeanour changed within a millisecond as he moved to cut Matt Monro off in mid song. “There’s been another chemical attack?”

  “Yes, Sir, but he’s targeted the previous victim, Paula Jones, despite our so-called round the clock vigilance.”

  The silence hung like a weighted shroud and it was as if nobody wanted to be the first to peep underneath.

  “Bloody Nora, What on earth’s happening? We’re performing like the bloody Keystone Cops! Where was the attack and more to the point, where was Proctor or his cover?”

  “She was coming from work, late shift. The guy watching, it wasn’t Proctor, had been distracted by a disturbance. Some guy was reported nearby, throwing bottles at passing cars. They say Paula wasn’t due to leave work for another fifteen minutes but she left early. There’s no reason given for her early departure. She was attacked just down the street. She saw nothing, just felt something on her head and discovered the note. From all accounts it’s a bad one. She’s in the ICU. Boyfriend is going absolutely crazy. Our guy found her and he too is hospitalised.”

  As Cyril moved to pick up his phone, his look said it all. “I’ll be downstairs in five minutes. Please go.”

  “Two other things, Sir. The facial recognition report suggests that our Mary Stuart isn’t Mary Nixon and never has been, unless she’s invested heavily in cosmetic restructuring. Records suggest that nine vehicles, other than the ones we know about, have been registered to the Doctor’s address since 1964. Interestingly, one was never sold, scrapped or licensed again after 1972. So must be stored somewhere. The rest have a history that can be traced.”

  “And the car?”

  Owen looked at his notes, “A 1968 Jaguar 420.”

  Cyril dialled and looked at the door. “See you downstairs. Mine’s a beer. And Owen...”

  Owen turned as he opened the door, afraid, it had to be said, at what was coming next.

  “Make it a big one.”

  Relieved, Owen left.

  After twenty minutes, Cyril appeared looking rather red faced and said nothing. He simply picked up the beer and drank it. He sat with his hand to his lips, deep in thought.

  “You couldn’t make this up. Our man, as cool as you like, picks off the same victim even though she’s under observation and not only that, nobody saw who did it. There’s nothing according to forensics other than what we know already. The only real clue we have is that he must be local. Graydon has a hunch that the guy who did this is known to the victim in some way, because, our Paula Jones has been neither sacked nor suspended. She’s either a very unlucky lass or our attacker holds a grudge against her. Records are being checked.”

  Cyril finished his beer.

  “Is Mysterious Mary in or out?”

  Owen went to reception and made enquiries. “In, Sir. Room 410.”

  Cyril stood and they both walked towards the lift.

  ***

  Phillip had not long been home and he had already consumed half a bottle of wine and taken two tablets. Peter’s mind set had really caused him some concern. He took his drink to the balcony and crashed into a large, wicker chair. In all the time he had known Peter, he had never seen him like that, so confused and uncertain. Normally, he just got on with the job and enjoyed the rewards. The fact that Peter really didn’t need the money had always reassured Phillip of his commitment; it was done more to be in a family, dysfunctional and criminal but still a family, but now? The discovery of the two bodies, the police intrusion and investigating officer’s perception seemed to have really shaken Peter. Was it time to step back, just get rid of these last two and then rest for a while?

  He sipped the wine and gargled it at the back of his mouth whilst inhaling air. The release of the fruit flavour was intense. It focussed his mind on Peter’s words. It would take just one slip, one intrusive copper whose curiosity began slotting pieces together...just one slip. He didn’t drink the rest, grabbed his jacket and left the apartment.

  ***

  Mary opened the door deliberately leaving the security chain on and was surprised to see two formally dressed men in dark suits facing her. Likewise, Cyril was rather taken aback by the woman’s age.

  “Mary Stuart?”

  “Yes. Can I help you?”

  Cyril showed his ID, as did Owen.

  “Detective Inspector Cyril Bennett and Detective Sergeant David Owen. Please excuse the intrusion. May we come in? It shouldn’t take long.”

  Mary took the ID card proffered by Cyril and inspected it carefully.

  “You’re from England? So is that valid here in France?”

  She stepped back about to shut the door.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact in this instance it is, but if you would prefer, I can get the Nice Gendarmerie to send officers and we can have this conversation at the police station.” The door opened to the full extent of the chain.

  “We’re looking for a Mary Stuart, also known as Mary Nixon, who lived in North Yorkshire in the late sixties and early seventies. We know Mary moved to France but we have few other details. Your name came up as you re-entered France from Turkey, but we know from our records that you’re not the Mary Stuart we’re looking for. However, we do know that some of Mary’s acquaintances are in Cannes and its environs now, so, Ms. Stuart, this is either an amazing co-incidence or you’re linked in some way to the lady we seek.”

  Cyril’s manner was direct and to the point. He stood motionless and stared into Mary’s eyes. She felt uncomfortable and looked away briefly. The door closed and the chain was slid from it before the door opened fully.

  “You’d better come in.”

  Mary was already walking into the room. When she turned round she was crying.

  “Please sit. I knew something wasn’t right, that the offer was too good to be true. My name is Penelope Deere... You smiled, Inspector, everybody does when they shorten my Christian name, that’s why I refuse to use it. I’m here under the name of Mary Stuart at the request of a lady whom I believe I have met... three or possibly four times. She offered me a job to help look after two students for a short time. I’m normally employed in the bars and restaurants on
the southern coast of Turkey, it’s seasonal work and the winter months can be fairly difficult. I sometimes go to Cyprus to work but they are having their own financial difficulties so when this offer came up I couldn’t say no. €1,000 for a week’s work and another €1,000 on completion is good money. I also get a week here all expenses and flights in and out. A gift horse, Inspector.”

  Cyril looked at Owen. Penelope wiped her nose and seemed calmer, as if relieved to be talking about the arrangement.

  “So, part of the agreement was taking on someone else’s identity, yes?”

  Penelope nodded.

  “Didn’t you think that rather strange, possibly illegal? Were you threatened or coerced into doing this or was it purely for monetary gain?”

  “Initially it was the money but when I started asking questions about the legal side of things, I was left in no doubt that there was no turning back. I just thought that an arrangement for two weeks in France could be nothing too serious, too illegal. I left a note of everything I knew about Mary with a flat mate. If I fail to return by a certain date, she’ll go to the police. Times are hard Inspector and I can’t afford not to accept someone’s generous offer. I’m not young, I’m certainly not wealthy and there are certain things I will not do for cash no matter how desperate I am, but looking after two students when you’ve had kids of your own, that’s no problem. It should be easy.”

  “Tell me about Mary. You say you’ve seen her a few times?”

  “Sixties, very attractive. She was a teacher and that’s the link with the students, I believe. She’s very wealthy too by all accounts. She’d come into the restaurant and always leave a good tip. Sometimes she’d have a student type with her, always female, if I recall.”

  “Where does she live?”

  Penelope just shook her head, “No idea, sorry.”

  “Please tell us how this arrangement was first broached. Have you ever taken work like this before?”

  “I get offers all the time but I guess you know what some of those entail. I do get a lot of baby-sitting work in the summer, holiday makers mainly. Once they’ve met me a few times I can work my night off. It gives them some freedom. They’re more concerned than ever now since that little girl was snatched in Portugal.”

  “And this offer?”

  “Sorry, yes. My boss at the restaurant told me he’d had a call. Did I want some extra work towards season’s end? Of course I said yes initially believing it was with him. That night a Turkish gentleman finished his meal and I was sent to his table. He explained what was to happen. He passed over a flight ticket made out in the name of Mary Stuart. He then requested a passport photograph and explained I would travel via Istanbul to Nice, would stay in this hotel and be paid...well as I said a lot of money. He said I could think about it but I should deliver the photograph to my boss the next day. He also said I could say no but if I should do that, there would be no more work for me at the restaurant. It was the way he looked and the way he smiled that made me realise that there was little choice in the matter. He also assured me that there was no danger of being stopped in Istanbul, everything had been taken care of. There wasn’t as it happened and somehow his conviction assured me that he was telling the truth.”

  “Did you see Mary again?”

  “No, I was told we would meet here. I don’t know when or how. I was just told to relax, put all expenses on the room! To be honest, I thought you might be her knocking.”

  “May I see your passport?”

  Penelope stood, walked to the wardrobe and opened it. Inside was a small safe. The passport was British and as far as Cyril could make out was genuine.

  “I feel you might be in water that will either get too hot or too deep. We’re both intelligent people and you don’t, as my dad used to say, get something for no’wt. You know it and I know it. You’ve already broken the law and we could arrest you for using a false passport, entering Europe using a false name and conspiring in an alleged illegal activity for monetary gains.”

  She lowered her head and began to cry again.

  Cyril went to the desk, took some hotel paper and wrote down two telephone numbers.

  “We have not had this conversation but you need to be aware that you are not safe. Our mobile numbers, ring us any time. If you can memorise them do but don’t keep them about you. You need to co-operate and keep us informed as to what’s going on. I’ve no idea what is going on but clearly something is and one of my suspects is involved.”

  Cyril stood and went to the door. “Thank you, Ms. Stuart.”

  He turned and walked down the corridor. As the door closed, Cyril heard the security chain being put back into place. He smiled and put his mobile to his ear.

  “Liz. I need urgent information on a Penelope Deere.” He reeled off the personal information that she’d given him. “I doubt whether much of that is factual but you never know. You have some CCTV images of her so you are at least ahead of the game. As soon as you have anything I need to know.”

  ***

  The taxi dropped Phillip outside Peter’s gate and he buzzed the intercom He didn’t need to speak, the small camera had informed Jean of his identity and he pressed the gate release. The small side gate clicked open and Phillip followed the driveway to the house. Jean was waiting at the door.

  “Good afternoon. Peter’s lying down. He’s not himself.”

  Phillip just looked at Jean, raised his eyebrows and walked past, placing his brown, leather ‘man’ bag on the side hall table before heading for Peter’s room. He knew it; he knew it as soon as Peter had arrived at Charles’ house that he was drowning in guilt, it oozed from his very being and was clear for all to see.

  “Please bring some tea, I think we’ll both be needing it!” He smiled and made his way to Peter’s room.

  Jean just raised one eyebrow, returned the smile and went to the kitchen.

  Phillip knocked on Peter’s bedroom door and entered. The shutters were closed and the room seemed sad and grey. The odd, optimistic needle-beam of late afternoon light managed to penetrate areas of the room helping to contrast the dark with the light. Peter stirred as Phillip rested a hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m worried about you, my lovely man. There was no need for Charles to be so rough, he didn’t used to be. It’s only since the new players became involved. They seem to think violence is the universal panacea for solving problems and getting things done. Can I help?”

  Peter turned onto his back and as Phillip’s eyes adjusted to the poor light he could see that Peter was distraught, his lids were dark and swollen.

  “I need out. For some inexplicable reason, I’ve lost my nerve. I don’t want this anymore, do you see, no more, I’m finished!” Peter’s voice was raised to almost a scream. It wavered but it wasn’t uncertain, it was powerful and direct.

  Jean heard Peter’s raised voice as he approached the room and was immediately concerned It was unusual for Peter, totally out of character. He knocked.

  “I have your tea. I’ll leave it on the stand next to the door. If you don’t require anything further...” He waited a while but heard nothing more. He turned away shaking his head.

  “So, what you decide, my darling Peter is what I decide,” Phillip continued in a voice that was both calming and honest. “I’ll do what you do.”

  “Has Janus sent you to say that, to squeeze my bollocks in a more humane way or do you mean what you say? Your words seem to say one thing but do your eyes say something different?”

  Peter’s voice was now direct and cold. “Tell me I’m wrong. I’m finished, believe me. I am doing no more. If you’re sincere, you’ll come with me.” His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling fan that hung motionless.

  Peter slipped his hand into Phillip’s and squeezed gently. “I think I’m ready to lose all of this.” He moved his other hand, pointing to the room and the contents. “If it means being free, with you, away from the likes of Charles and the new brigade, then it’s time. Whatever the conseque
nces may be, and believe me I’m not naive to think there will not be consequences, I need out and I have an idea.”

  Phillip leaned over and kissed Peter’s forehead but said nothing; he really didn’t need to.

  ***

  Mary’s mobile whistled the theme from the movie, ‘Kill Bill’ aggravating Janet who shook her head.

  “A ring is sufficient, mother. You’re neither eighteen nor hip. It makes you look stupid. Grow up!”

  Mary picked up the phone and looked at the screen before answering.

  “I have to take this. Shall only be a moment.” She smiled and pretended to bring a Samurai sword from her back and slash it across Janet’s neck before moving away.

  “Two British police officers... this afternoon? Tell me about them!” Mary repeated what she heard. “One had a strange eye and was called Bennett, the other was a rather large, strapping, young chap... I should like to meet him! You followed the plan? Good, you need do no more. We might phone them later, seeing they’ve been kind enough to give you their contact numbers but I doubt it! Just keep your eyes open, you’ll be followed, I sincerely hope. Thanks.”

  “Everything OK Mother?”

  Janet stood as her mother approached and began to move towards the patio windows as if she were not really that interested.

  “Fine but must fly. Charles is expecting me. Do say goodbye to Peter for me,” she said sarcastically whilst pulling a strange face. She collected her things and began to make her way to her car.

  “See you tomorrow? Fancy lunch?”

  Janet didn’t respond, just gave a small nod. As she went through the lounge, Peter and Phillip appeared. Phillip was carrying a tea tray.

  “Mary says...”

  Janet didn’t finish the sentence, she could see from their facial expressions that Mary wasn’t of any interest to them. They headed for the pool. She watched them with a degree of sadness. Peter had changed in the last day or two and he seemed so despondent, he suddenly looked old beyond his years. She went to her room deciding an early night would do her good. After a few minutes there was a knock at the door. Madhul appeared.