Misery Shallows (DI Elizabeth Jewell Book 4)

by Carole Pitt

  Daly recalled Brotherton saying he'd stored the file inside a box containing evidence from a major burglary. That was too unreliable, unless he’d written down the location, which Daly doubted. How could he have been so precise? Daly's head was still spinning and for a fleeting moment was beginning to wonder if Brotherton had made the whole thing up for attention. The brass had sacked the man, albeit, camouflaged as early retirement and Brotherton had left Park Road within a matter of days. Daly recalled his final words on the matter. 'Remember Ted, after all this time there's a chance it's gone and if it has don't ask any questions. If you mention my name someone might not like the fact that you and I have met up again.'

  With hindsight, Daly had begun to see how farfetched the story had sounded. Another thing he couldn't quite get to grips with Brotherton's insistence on a cover-up. The Walker case was tragic for many reasons, which made the accusation more than alarming, it made it frightening. So why fabricate such a daft story? One possibility occurred to Daly. Brotherton hadn't anticipated seeing anyone from Park Road ever again. When Daly rang unexpectedly, it must have unnerved him. In other words, he may have worried his past was about to catch up with him again, his secure life up north might not remain that way forever. According to Brotherton, no one else had ever contacted him, which again seemed odd.

  If the files didn't turn up Daly needed to establish where the rest of the Walker investigation team were now, presuming they were still alive. He’d instruct Eldridge to track them down. He pulled out his phone and scrolled to Brotherton's number. He was tempted to ring him but changed his mind.

  Nigel suddenly appeared.

  'I'm done,' Daly said.

  Nigel was curt. 'Did you find what you wanted?'

  'I did not, so I might pay you another visit.'

  'We need the basement cleared by the middle of next week. No one from Gloucestershire Police seems to be listening to us. Maybe you could remind your superiors.'

  'The Assistant Chief Constable sanctioned this search. If you touch the basement before we’ve finished, be prepared for trouble.'

  'Dealing with you lot is worse than the County Council. We're trying to run a business here and we work to strict deadlines.'

  ‘Think yourself lucky,’ Daly said. ‘We deal with dead people.’

  Ten minutes later, he pulled up outside the warehouse.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  It was after nine when Daly decided to call a halt. The warehouse hadn’t borne any results. He pulled up outside his cottage feeling apprehensive. He hadn't rung Jean to say he was going to be late. Now there'd be an inquisition and he wished he could turn the car round, go back to his office and sleep there. Before he even put the key into the lock, he heard the puppy barking. Jean came to the door holding it in her arms and when it spotted Daly, she struggled to hold on to it.

  Daly moved away quickly. 'I'm filthy,' he said.

  'You don't look filthy, but no doubt your mood is,' she replied.

  'I better have a shower,' Daly muttered as he continued down the hall.

  'Your dinner is slightly charred. If you can't eat it you'll have to open a tin of soup.'

  Daly locked the shower room door and sat on the edge of the toilet feeling depressed. It was too late to ring Brotherton but first thing tomorrow morning that was exactly what he would do. On the way home, he'd had further doubts about Brotherton's story. He’d even asked himself what he would have done in Brotherton's situation. Slug it out with the brass or go quietly. Daly thought for a while and decided he’d have taken the same way out.

  Brotherton had found himself in a kind of exile and welcomed the prospect of a visit from someone connected to Park Road. Perhaps hoping for a bit of attention from another copper interested in the case he’d failed to solve. That he knew stuff, Daly had no doubt, but this file might well be a product of Brotherton's imagination or a way of impressing his unexpected visitor. There again, Daly pondered, if it did exist, what was in it that was so mysterious and so damning that caused Brotherton to flee north to escape the consequences. Daly opened the cabinet, pulled out a strip of aspirin and swallowed two before turning on the shower. He had to put the problem out of his mind if he had any hope of sleeping tonight.

  He felt marginally better by the time he walked into the kitchen. Jean was loading the dishwasher. She gave him a curious look, as if she sensed his turmoil. He averted her stare, went straight to the cupboard and poured himself a double whiskey.

  'Why don't you have red wine instead?' she said.

  'I don't need a lecture tonight. I'm trying to think my way through a major problem.' He lifted the crystal tumbler. 'And this will do the trick,'

  'I've sorted another major problem,' his wife said. ‘I’m calling him Rasputin.’

  Daly groaned and slammed his drink on the kitchen table. 'No way, you can't call a dog Rasputin, the man was a bloody murderer.'

  'It's different, I tried Google to see if anyone else has called their dog Rasputin, but couldn't.'

  'Well then, there's your answer. Nobody's that stupid. For God's sake woman, sit down, have a drink and we'll think of a something more suitable and remember it's a dog, not the future King of England.'

  Jean started to laugh. 'You fell for it, you idiot, as if I would,' she took hold of his hand. 'You look tired Ted and I'm finally going to agree with you. We'll call him Buster.'

  Daly looked at her amazed. 'Hang on; I never said he had to be called Buster. I just thought...'

  'Jean interrupted. 'Okay then, how about we call him Charlie, which is the next King of England's name?'

  Daly kissed her. ‘That’s a great name.’ He held up his glass for a toast. ‘To Charlie Daly, the next Crufts champion.’ He knocked back the whisky, opened the oven, grabbed hold of a casserole dish three quarters full of beef bourguignon, and mashed potato. 'This looks the business. I'm bloody starving.'

  'It's not terribly healthy but the meat is from the butchers, not the supermarket.'

  Daly ladled a large portion on to a plate. 'I don't give a toss where it came from. I've got better things to worry about right now.'

  'Do you want to talk about it?’ Jean said as she poured red wine.

  'I'd rather talk about Charlie. I might even take him to work tomorrow, as long as it doesn't interfere with your plans.'

  'So you're happy!'

  'It's a good name, now I can introduce him to the squad. I'll have to take his bed with me until we can pick up another one.'

  'That's solved my problem Ted. Joan's asked me to go shopping in the morning to try on wedding outfits. I've put her off so many times and we can't take a puppy into posh dress shops, which reminds me you need to hire a morning suit. The wedding's only six weeks away.'

  Daly stopped chewing and started on the red wine. 'It's a waste of money. I'll wear one of my lightweight linen jobs.'

  'You can't, the dress code is strictly formal for family and close friends. While I'm in Cheltenham, I'll make an appointment for you, top hats have to fit comfortably.'

  'You can forget that malarkey, Daly said while his mouth was full. A second later, he started coughing and spluttering. 'Water,' he said. 'Quick.'

  Jean Daly watched as her husband struggled to breathe. Panic immobilised her for a second, then flooded with adrenaline she yanked him to his feet, stood behind him and with one swift movement performed the Heinrich Manoeuvre until he dislodged whatever was choking him. When he slumped against the chair, she could see the fear and the tears in his eyes.

  She ran the cold tap and filled a glass with water. 'Drink as much as you can, your throat probably feels sore.'

  Daly sipped the water carefully. He was shaking and couldn't remember ever choking before, not even as a child. He was almost afraid to speak.

  Jean rubbed his back, more to keep her hands busy, than concern for him. 'In future, we'll have no more talking and eating at the same time. The way you wolf down your food I'm surprised this hasn't happened before now. You have to slo
w down Ted or you'll end up in the hospital. Since the Yeats case, I've watched you rushing around like a maniac, becoming more and more stressed. You promised me you'd retire eighteen months ago, now I'm beginning to wonder if you’re after another promotion.'

  Daly's vocal chords had recovered although his voice was croaky. 'A small whiskey might anesthetise my throat.'

  Jean Daly shook her head. 'No way,' she said.

  Daly looked at the clock. 'There's no more promotion for me, I just don't fancy retiring yet. With all the cuts in the force, they need us oldies. They'd be up shit creek if we didn't agree to do a few extra months.'

  'What more do you want to prove Ted? You've had a good career, why are you so worried about retiring?'

  Daly turned away so she wouldn’t see more tears. She was right; he had always done his best. What more was there to prove? But If he could crack both cases, the Walker affair and the current murder enquiry it would be a good place to finish up. 'I've got a better idea. Get your coat and we'll take Charlie out for a little walk, call in at the pub. We'll just about make it for last orders.'

  Jean ignored him and started to clear the table. Daly noticed her hands were still shaking and a tidal wave of guilt swept over him. He grabbed her arm. 'Come on, it will do us all good.'

  Without saying a word, she put the plates down and went to fetch her coat and Charlie's lead. Daly helped her on with it then slipped on his padded jacket. As he shut the door, the landline started ringing. Jean produced the key to open up but Daly had walked ahead with Charlie.

  'Leave it,' he said. 'Whoever it is will have to bloody wait.'

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Saturday March 22nd nine am

  Patterson was sheltering in his car when Elizabeth pulled up behind him. She craned her head towards the back seat hoping to see an umbrella. Cheltenham was cloudy when she left, now the April showers had begun in earnest.

  'Where the hell is it?’ she said, convinced there was one there the other day. The pound shop had provided her with numerous umbrellas and their whereabouts was a constant reminder to sort out her hall cupboard. No doubt, she’d find several underneath all the junk. Leaving the car during a mini monsoon wasn’t an option. She beeped the horn hoping to attract Patterson’s attention. He acknowledged her by sticking his hand out of the driver's window and by the time he'd ran to the Saab, his hair had plastered to his head, his jacket drenched.

  'Of all the days,' he said as he clambered into the passenger seat. 'By the time we get down that lane there'll be a river of mud.'

  Elizabeth was mindful of what the doctor had said about taking care of herself. 'I've forgotten my umbrella and wellies so I’ll have to go back home.'

  'I've got a waxed jacket and boots belonging to Gardiner if you don't mind using them.'

  Elizabeth was about to ask why he hadn't returned them, but kept her mouth shut. 'We're about the same size, and honestly if I get inside my front door I won't want to come out again.'

  'I'll go and fetch them.’

  'You're already soaking wet, wait until this deluge is over. I'm not walking up that lane until it eases off a bit.'

  A large tow truck appeared and took several minutes to manoeuvre into the narrow turning.

  I'll be surprised if that thing makes it.'

  'It has to. If the first caravan ends up stuck, that's it. No eviction.' Patterson grunted and turned on the radio. 'See if we can catch the forecast. Whichever way it goes I reckon we'll still be here at midnight.' He turned up the sound so they could hear above the pounding on the car roof. 'May as well find out what else is happening in the world.'

  Elizabeth leaned against the headrest and closed her eyes. She wasn't interested in the news. 'What happens in my world is enough for now,' she said.

  'Got your results yet?' Patterson asked.

  Elizabeth sat up and watched mini rain waves on the windscreen. 'It's not that bad. I have a mild form of osteoarthritis. The doctor implied it could have been a lot worse.'

  'You seem quite chirpy considering. What about drugs?’

  ‘She's given me a prescription for a steroid type medication.’

  Patterson rubbed the window with his elbow. 'It's freezing in here. Aren’t you supposed to keep warm with arthritis?’

  Elizabeth groaned. 'The electrics have conked out, no heat or blower and only one wiper. Keep forgetting to take it in.'

  'I don't want to interfere but why don't you buy new one?'

  'In case you don’t know Saab went bankrupt in December two thousand and eleven. I think a Chinese company bought them out and the one model they make is too expensive. I couldn't afford a new one.'

  'Get a second hand one. I'll come with you, I like going around looking at cars.' A beam of light suddenly struck the windscreen. 'I do believe the sun is coming out,’ Patterson said.

  Elizabeth yawned. 'Let's sit tight for a while.'

  Ten minutes later the sun seemed to be winning the battle although some of the clouds still looked ominous. Patterson retrieved the waterproof jacket and boots and as soon as Elizabeth was ready, they started down the muddy lane.

  When they arrived at the farmhouse, Elizabeth hammered on the front door hoping to speak to Lillian Fowler. Patterson went over to the gate where two men were arguing. As she approached, they hurried off and it was then she saw the devastation.

  'Oh my God,' she said to Patterson. 'It's like a disaster zone.

  Elizabeth heard sounds of human distress. The travellers had tried to block attempts to move them by erecting barricades around their homes. She could hear children’s cries and adults shouting abuse at the bailiffs as they started dismantling the feeble blockades. If the travellers were determined to obstruct the eviction process any further escalation would require a bigger police presence. Patterson had climbed over the gate and was holding up the massive lock chained to the post.

  'This needs a bolt cutter. Climb on the first bar and I'll lift you over.'

  She did as he asked and almost slipped. He caught the sleeve on her jacket and hauled her up. Once she was on the other side, she waited, wondering if they were about to be targeted. No one came near them, not even the bailiffs.

  'I’m not thinking straight, I’m not sure what to do,' she said.

  'We can get some bloody back up.'

  'And cause even more problems. We came here to carry on interviewing people before they leave, not to help throw them out of their homes.’

  Patterson was already on his phone speaking to dispatch, 'We need help at Roxbury Farm. The eviction process has turned nasty.'

  Elizabeth had received a phone call from Tom, the desk sergeant, to say no one knew Daly's whereabouts, did she? He wasn't answering his mobile or home number. ‘Keep trying,’ she’d told him.

  They didn't wait long for back up. Three patrol cars arrived with four officers in each vehicle and half an hour later most of the travellers had retreated inside their caravans. As she wandered passed, Elizabeth could hear their arguments through the open windows. Her next problem was Lillian Fowler who had emerged from the farmhouse drunk and shouting obscenities at everyone. Patterson cautiously approached her but she lunged at him, her arms flailing about trying to attack him. He backed away from her, caught off guard Lillian fell face down into the mud. It took three people to drag her to her feet by which time the woman was hysterical again. Elizabeth and Patterson held her upright, escorted her back to the house and deposited her in the kitchen where they tried to calm her down.

  'Tell me your husband's number and I'll ask him to come home,' Patterson said.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Elizabeth said.

  Lillian Fowler had not only lost the plot but the ability to speak coherently. She was falling asleep from pure exhaustion and they made the decision to put her to bed.

  Elizabeth sank into a kitchen chair, her arms aching and her feet throbbing. 'I'll hang around for a while in case she tries to get up. The last thing I need is for her to fal
l down the stairs. ‘We’ll knock on a few doors when it calms down.'

  'We’ll be wasting our time,’ Patterson said.

  'It’s worth another try. As soon as I'm sure she's out for the count I'll catch up with you.'

  In the distance, they heard an ambulance wailing, then Patterson's phone rang. He listened to whoever was on the other end. ‘That was Cronin. Two blokes are injured, a bailiff and a resident. The ambulance won’t get up the lane so we'll have to carry them down on stretchers.’

  ‘How serious are they?' Elizabeth asked.

  'One's got a broken arm. The other has a bad head wound.'

  After Patterson left, Elizabeth checked on Lillian Fowler. Her breathing appeared regular and she hadn't vomited. She drew the duvet away from her neck and looked down at her. The woman hadn't expected the travellers to protest to the point of rioting. Perhaps the absent husband had brainwashed her into believing it would all go smoothly. The Metropolitan Police officer still hadn’t located him, probably gone on some exotic holiday with his current girlfriend, Elizabeth thought. She decided to risk leaving Lillian Fowler for ten minutes but locked the front door after her. It was warming up and she hoped the ground would start to dry out. A few people had come out and were attempting to tidy up the mess. The heavy waxed jacket felt uncomfortable, and her feet were still aching. She hadn't gone far when she spotted Anya’s Lacroix waving at her. 'I'm glad you're still here, I need to have a chat.'