by J. E. Mayhew
“Made him? Didn’t Richard take heroin normally?”
“Ritchy never took smack. I told the police that before. They didn’t believe me about Graves, either. Nobody does.”
“What kind of mood was Richard in when he left you?”
“He wasn’t in a mood,” Terry said. “He was happy. Drunk happy. Told me he was coming into some money or something. It was like he’d won the lottery. Then Graves killed him.”
“Why would Graves want to kill him?”
“Ritchy was my friend. Graves hates my friends. He kills them all. Paul was my friend. He killed Paul, too.”
Vikki looked over to Nicola who shook her head. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr White,” Vikki said, starting to stand.
“It won’t be long, though. Graves is weak. I’ve trapped his soul…”
“I see,” Vikki said, glancing again at Nicola in despair. “How have you done that?”
White grinned and tapped the side of his nose. “A special kind of voodoo. Soon he’ll be finished and I won’t have to worry about him ever again. Nobody will.”
Vikki nodded. “Thank you again, Mr White. I’ll let you get back to your work. They must be missing you by now.”
Terry White nodded but the smile still clung to his face and he opened the door with trembling hands. “I hope I haven’t over-excited him or anything,” Vikki said, once he’d gone. “Did you see how animated he became?”
Nicola nodded. “Yes. His answers became less monosyllabic, too. I might check and see that his medication is all up to date and that he’s taking it. I haven’t seen him like that for some time.”
“What was all that voodoo stuff?”
“I told you that Terry had a lot of difficulties,” Nicola said with a sigh. “He’s quite paranoid and had a phase of burning little effigies of people he thought were out to get him. Look, I’m not sure I can go further into it without completely breaking confidentiality. I’ve compromised it enough.”
“Do you think we should take him seriously when he says that Richard Ince never took heroin before?”
“I don’t know. I suppose it’s possible that he was a first-time user. As I said when we spoke on the phone, it wasn’t something we were aware of initially. Maybe he’d chosen heroin as an easy means of ending it all. He did leave a suicide note.”
“Yes, he did,” Vikki muttered, looking at the door and making a mental note to check out the note carefully. Something wasn’t quite right here and frankly, Terry White gave her the creeps.
Chapter 23
The first ripples of the media storm arrived in the form of Deirdre Lanham, reporter from the Wirral Argus, a local paper. She was a short, middle-aged woman with a round face, framed by long, blonde hair. Blake had run into her on a number of occasions and knew her to be hard-nosed but fair. She sat waiting in HQ reception as he entered to start the day which he didn’t take as a great omen.
“DCI Blake,” she called as he passed her. “Is it true you’re investigating a possible terrorist link to the murder over in Port Sunlight?”
Blake winced. “No comment,” he said.
“I take it from the expression on your face that we weren’t meant to know,” she said, with a mischievous grin. “You should know, it’s all over Twitter.”
“What are you asking me for then?” Blake said. “Isn’t that what you journalists do these days? Look on social media and regurgitate unfounded comments and opinions?”
Deirdre bridled a little. “I came here, hoping to get some kind of helpful information, DCI Blake. There was a time when you didn’t object to the media helping you fight crime. You revelled in it in fact.” She hummed the opening bars of the Searchlight theme. “So, what are you looking at?”
Blake leaned on the reception counter and folded his arms. “I’m looking at you and wondering why you’re clogging up reception, to be honest.”
“Look, Blake,” Deirdre Lanham snapped. “This is going to be a shit show and you know it. You’ll need all the help you can get in a few days. I can go and mine social media for information and print that or you can give me a few morsels that I can use and print the truth. Or maybe you want Tommy Robinson holding a rally in Port Sunlight…”
“Jeez,” Blake muttered. He turned to Madge at the counter. “Is there an interview room available Madge? Just for ten minutes.”
*****
Superintendent Martin sat blinking at Blake as though he’d just pinched his cheek, ruffled his hair and called him ‘darling’. “You did what?”
“It was a snap decision, sir. What Deirdre Lanham said was true. There’s a huge scope for misinformation here…”
“Which is why we have a Media and Communications Manager whose job it is to handle… the media, funny that isn’t it, Will? Fancy that eh? Hannah Williams gets paid a wage for dealing with journalists. She’s a qualified professional.”
“All I said was that we had interviewed some teenagers in connection with the murder and we were sceptical about reports of it being a terrorist incident…”
“And that’s enough, is it? In your professional opinion? Oh no, wait I forgot, you used to be on the telly, didn’t you, Will, so you know better than Hannah.” Martin threw his hands up.
“Sir, why would terrorists kill someone wandering home from the pub in the middle of the night? Hardly a huge spectacle, is it?”
“You’re an expert on terrorism now, too. Christ on a bike! Why don’t we just sack half the force and use your incredible, wide-ranging talents, Will? Did it ever occur to you that Travis might have been targeted? Personally, I can’t think of anything more terrifying than hit squads selecting ex-squaddies to kill.”
“It’s not that, sir…”
“You better make sure it isn’t,” Martin said. “We are going to look complacent and incompetent at the least. What other leads are you looking at?”
“I think it’s connected to the charity in some way. I’ve got Ian Ollerthwaite looking into their accounts…”
Martin went as white as his shirt. Blake was genuinely worried that the man would pass out. “You’re poking around the accounts of a veterans’ charity? How about running over a few grannies while you’re at it? The optics of this are terrible!”
“Optics, sir?”
“Yes, Will, optics! You know, the way things look to the public.”
“With respect, sir, I’m not just ‘poking around.’ Paul Travis wasn’t randomly killed. He had his throat cut. It was premeditated…”
“Terrorists!”
“I don’t think so, sir. I haven’t got to the bottom of it yet but…”
“You better bloody had. The clock’s ticking, Blake,” Martin said, snatching up the phone. “I’m going to contact Hannah to arrange a press conference and see if we can’t sort this mess out before we have protestors of all persuasion descending on Port Sunlight.” He waved his hand at Blake. “Go on, get this sorted!”
*****
Numbers had fascinated DC Ian Ollerthwaite ever since he was a child at school. Maths had been his best subject and he had always been a compulsive collector of train and bus numbers. He like the order it brought to the world. His parents had been surprised when, in a rare spark of independent thought, he’d told them he wanted to be a police officer rather than go to university and study Pure Mathematics. But he was a big and solid young man with a good store of common sense and totally committed to anything he joined. He knew he wasn’t the most dynamic or flashy of people and he rarely took up invitations to the pub or on social nights out. Somehow, though, over the years, he had ploughed his own furrow at work, and he liked to think people respected him for it. They certainly respected his head for figures.
Ian leaned back in his chair and looked at his surroundings. He could easily have ended up being an accountant in an office like this one at Pro-Vets. He might do yet, if his plan to retire from the force at 55 and take up a new role came to fruition. There was a demand for a forensic mind like his in audi
ting and inspection. His general calm and unflappable nature would be an asset when having to ask awkward questions.
This had served him well yesterday when George Owens had kicked off. He made a mental note to let DCI Blake know about Owens’ reaction. It seemed more than irritated, Ollerthwaite detected a note of fear in the man’s look. Looking at the computer screen and the file open on his desk, he could see something was amiss.
A gentle knock brought Ian’s attention to the door. Quentin Ufford’s shaggy, round head poked round it. “Fancy a cuppa, Ian?” he said, smiling.
“No thank you, Mr Ufford,” Ian said. “I’ve brought my own flask and I’d prefer you to call me DC Ollerthwaite, if you don’t mind. It keeps things on a more professional footing I find.” He turned the screen slightly, inviting Ufford to look over his shoulder. “Can you explain where this amount comes from? I’m having trouble locating its source.”
Ufford reddened slightly. “Dunno. That’s odd. It must be a glitch…”
“What kind of glitch?”
“I’d have to look into it,” Ufford said, vaguely.
“Well could you do that for me as a matter of urgency, Mr Ufford?” Ollerthwaite said, raising his eyebrows. “I’d hate to think anyone was obstructing an investigation.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll schedule it into my workflow…”
Ollerthwaite fixed Ufford with his sternest gaze. “I’m afraid that I’m going to have to insist that you make it a priority, Mr Ufford. This is part of a murder investigation. I don’t want to spend any more time here than I have to. It’s not efficient and will hamper proceedings.”
“Is there a problem, detective?” George Owens appeared from behind Ufford and Ollerthwaite suspected he’d been listening.
“It’s okay, George,” Ufford said, reddening. “DC Ollerthwaite is just querying some missing information. I’m going to sort it for him as soon as I can…”
“Right away,” Ollerthwaite said.
Owens scowled. “Look detective, we have a charity to run, here. Quentin has to make sure that everything runs smoothly. We’re one missed bid away from bankruptcy. If he gets distracted…”
“I have been looking at your accounts for the best part of eighteen hours, Mr Owens, so I do know the financial situation. It doesn’t seem that precarious to me, quite the opposite. There’s money in your accounts. I’m just not sure where all of it is coming from or going to. The sooner Mr Ufford provides me with the appropriate information and files, the sooner I can go back to HQ and let you get on with your work here. If there’s some kind of ‘glitch’ in the system, then I’m sure you’ll be as eager as I am to see it remedied.” Ollerthwaite allowed himself a brief smile.
George Owens smoothed his beard down and glanced at Ufford. “Well? What are you waiting for? Go and sort it, Quentin!”
Quentin Ufford glared back at Owens for a second and then pushed past him out of the room.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Owens said, backing out of the room.
“And I’m sure it’s not,” Ollerthwaite muttered to himself when the door had shut behind George Owens.
*****
It felt almost like a formality, given that Bobby Price had confessed to the assault on the old man and partially explained where he got the baseball bat from, but DI Kath Cryer had agreed to go and interview Alfie Lewis, the third of the boys in Price’s little trio. As she drove through the tunnel, she thought it odd that Lewis hadn’t been spoken to earlier. There had been some talk of awkward parents and difficulty finding an appropriate adult to accompany him to an interview room in Hamilton Square Station in Birkenhead.
Alfie Lewis lived in a flat above a derelict shop on the A41, the main road that ran alongside Port Sunlight and separated it from New Ferry. It was hard to tell what kind of shop it had been as the signs above the boarded-up windows had peeled away to the bare plywood. Stepping over a rather large dog turd, Kath went around the side of the shop and knocked on the flaking side door. She looked up at the blinded windows and the cracked guttering. Inside a small dog yapped and someone screamed at it to shut up. Then a baby started crying. Kath knocked again.
“Okay, okay, fucksake, I’m…” the woman who opened the door stopped dead and stared at Kath’s warrant card. She was a skinny woman with dyed blonde hair growing out at the roots. It was all tied up above her head in a messy bunch. She wore a vest and pyjama trousers and clutched a grumbling baby in her arms.
“Detective Inspector Kath Cryer, Merseyside Police.”
“Yeah? Is this about Alfie? I’m his mum. What do you want?”
“I’d like to speak to him if I may. He’s not in any trouble. We just want to get a statement from him about an incident he might have witnessed.”
“Alfie’s not a grass, you know. That Bobby Price was looking for him. I told him fuck off. You should go and arrest him. He’s a fuckin’ psycho…” The baby gave a warning growl and began to squirm.
“I just need to speak to Alfie,” Kath said, holding up her hand. “Can I come in?”
Reluctantly, the woman stepped back and led Kath up a flight of stairs to the flat above and into a small living room. The place looked as though it had just been burgled. Clothes lay strewn all over the floor and furniture, along with packets of nappies and ashtrays. “I’d have tidied up if I’d known you were coming. ALFIE! GET HERE NOW.” A small chihuahua yapped at Kath, baring its needle teeth but the woman shoved it away with her foot. “ALFIE!”
A small red-headed boy, who didn’t look fourteen peered sullenly into the living room. “What?”
“Hi Alfie, I’m DI Kath Cryer. I need to ask you a few questions.”
For a second, Kath thought the lad was going to run for it but then his shoulders slumped and he dragged himself into the room, collapsing onto the split cover of the old leather sofa. “I didn’t hurt nobody. It wasn’t me…”
“We know that, Alfie. Bobby Price told us what he did and Mr Smith, the man who was hurt…”
“Well, what do you wanna know then?”
“The baseball bat, Alfie. Where did that come from?”
“Bobby said it was his. He said…” The boy paused and bit his lip.
“Go on. Look, Alfie, Bobby told us everything. There’s nothing new here, so you needn’t worry about ‘grassing’ anyone up, okay?”
“Really? What everything? Even about his sister and that Travis bloke?”
Chapter 24
Back at HQ, DS Vikki Chinn stared intently at a piece of paper sealed in an evidence bag. She looked troubled.
“You okay Vikki?” Blake said, perching on the edge of her desk.
“It’s this Richard Ince case, sir. It’s a bit ropey if you ask me.”
“Really? In what way?”
Vikki paused, choosing her words carefully. “Well, on the face of it, you could say it was an open and shut case. Ince took a heroin overdose after suffering from PTSD for so long. He even left a note.”
“But?”
“Ince was reportedly with a drinking buddy the night he died and yet that wasn’t explored. I managed to track the buddy down. He’s another ex-soldier who works at Pro-Vets, Terry White…”
“Yeah, I met him the other day. Bit of an unusual drinking partner. Can’t imagine he’d be the kind to take your mind off things. How come the original investigation team didn’t pick up on that?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Vikki said. “Also, Terry White insists that Ince never took heroin and that he seemed really happy on the night he died. The trouble is, White wrapped it up in his own paranoid fantasy, so I imagine the original team would have disregarded it.”
“An unreliable witness, then?”
“White believes that the ghost of an old corporal of his is able to take on the identities of other people and is stalking him, killing his friends.”
“Do you think there’s a nugget of truth in there somewhere? I mean someone stalking White and his friends?”
“I don’t know, si
r, but I decided to approach the manager at the Asda store where Ince worked up to the time of his death. He provided me with Ince’s personnel file. It had his letter of application in it. Look…” Vikki placed the letter of application alongside the suicide note.
“Jeez, you don’t have to be a handwriting analyst to see that they are written by two different people,” Blake muttered.
“Even if we accept that he was stressed and suicidal, that wouldn’t account for the difference in the script, sir.”
“Who was the original Senior Investigating Officer?”
“DCI Cavanagh, sir,” Vikki said, her expression saying everything that she couldn’t say out loud.
Blake chewed his lip for a second. “Have another word with Jack Kenning and see if he thinks a second post-mortem would be appropriate. I’ll have a word with Matty Cavanagh.”
“There was something else, sir,” Vikki said. “I feel a bit daft mentioning it, really but Nicola Norton told me that White went through a phase of burning little effigies of people who he thought were out to get him.” She paused, reddening. “It just reminded me of the toy soldiers, sir, that’s all.”
“Why did White burn them?”
“I don’t know. He described it as voodoo. Apparently, he believed it trapped part of Corporal Graves’ soul. Maybe when he burns them, he destroys that little bit of Graves. I don’t know. It all sounds ridiculous, sir, I know but…”
“White was the last person to see Richard Ince alive,” Blake said, finishing her thought for her. “And if he could kill Ince, maybe he’d be capable of killing Travis.”
“He mentioned Travis as one of the people whose identity Graves had taken over.”
“But the toy soldiers found in the men’s hands weren’t burnt, were they?”
“No, sir. It could be that it’s nothing and I’m getting carried away. The counter argument to all this is that White has an acquired brain injury. He struggles to make links with anything. I find it hard to imagine him planning a murder.”
