by L M Krier
He generally preferred inquests with the area coroner in charge. She was a no-nonsense 'bish-bash-bosh-done' sort of coroner, which suited him. But for a violent death it had to be the senior coroner for the division, who was dry and pedantic and clearly disapproved of everything about Ted, not just his sartorial style. He could never fault him on his presentation or delivery of evidence, but it clearly pained him not to be able to do so.
With the findings of the post-mortem examination, there was only ever one verdict which could be recorded in the case of Vicki Carr – murder by person or persons unknown. At least it was over in time for Ted to have a swift drink in a nearby watering hole. Although he didn't drink alcohol, post-inquest lunches were always a good way to catch up with officers from other areas and get up to speed with divisional goings-on.
The pub of choice was called The Grapes. Some literary wag had shinned up its sign-post to spray 'of Wrath' underneath, which had so tickled the landlord that he'd never bothered to get it removed.
It was a dying breed of old traditional pub, half-timbered in the architectural style typical of the region. It had somehow escaped the fashion to convert everything into wine bar or gastropub and had kept its smoke-blackened beams. It also retained a whiff of cigarettes despite the length of time since the smoking ban. It begged the question as to when its soft furnishings had last been cleaned.
'Gunner, please, Dave, when you have a minute,' he said to the landlord as he went in.
'If I must!' the landlord responded cheerfully. He liked Ted, liked his quirkiness. Ted was certainly the only one of his customers who drank ginger beer split with dry ginger ale, with freshly squeezed lime, 'without the Angosturas,' as Ted was often reminding him.
The place was already crowded and, glancing round, Ted could see that it was largely the court and police crowd. As Ted was waiting for his drink, a lanky young man sidled up to him and Ted groaned inwardly. He was a local reporter and Ted generally tried to avoid the press like the plague, preferring to leave that side of the job to the experts.
'DI Darling, what can you tell me about the murder case?' the reporter asked.
'Nothing more than you heard in court just now, Alastair. You need to speak to our press office for any queries, you know that.' Ted was even more averse to this particular journalist' who had shockingly bad teeth and a disconcerting habit of playing pocket billiards all the time he was speaking, which was distracting.
'Can't you give me anything more? I'd love an exclusive on this one,' the man wheedled.
'If I get anything I can pass on to you, I know where to find you,' Ted said, thankful that Dave was handing him his Gunner. He paid, excused himself to the journalist, and went across to find a seat with a few people he recognised.
He wasn't thrilled to find himself at a table with one of the pathologists, not the one who had carried out the PM on Vicki Carr, but his immediate superior. He was reputedly the leading forensic pathologist in the country, but Ted found him insufferably pompous and patronising.
'Ted, old boy!' the man said, moving his coat from a stool to make room for Ted to sit next to him. He was, as ever, in the company of a stunning woman, not one Ted had seen him with before, but that was hardly surprising since none of them lasted more than a few weeks at most.
This one was extremely tall, even by Ted's standards, with finely-formed features, high slanting cheekbones, sky blue eyes and a long veil of gossamer-fine blonde hair. If she wasn't a model, she certainly should be.
'This is, er …' there was enough of a pause for the blonde to start to look uncomfortable, until the pathologist pulled the name out of his memory. 'Willow. How's that gorgeous young man of yours, Ted? With that arse and those blue eyes, I could almost fancy him myself. We must get together again soon. What about another game of badminton? You and him, me and whoever is the current plus one for making up a foursome?'
He had a way of making almost everything he said sound lewd and suggestive, even when giving his own name. 'Roger Gillingham. With a hard G,' he always said, which had given rise to his nickname of Hard G, of which he was well aware and clearly approved. He had a way of drawling his vowels which made even Loyd Grossman's English sound flawless.
He was proud of his appalling reputation as a womaniser. He was not married, never had been, but was never short of a plus one and if rumours were true, was not averse to two at a time for all his recreational activities. Ted did wonder sometimes if they were from a high-class escort agency. But then Hard G's car was an ostentatious show of wealth and privilege – a rebuilt E-type Jaguar in British Racing Green, with cream Italian leather seats – which might prove an attraction in itself if his money and social position didn't.
He had no need to work. He was obscenely independently wealthy, money from the family pharmaceutical company shares, and plenty of it. The company owned its own jet aircraft and landing strip. Hard G used it as others would use a taxi. It was handy for his frequent trips to the various holiday homes he and the company owned around Europe and further afield.
He was apparently entitled to call himself an honourable yet chose not to, which always surprised Ted because of his pretentiousness. He owned a huge house in Alderley Edge, which even a footballer couldn't afford, and which had its own staff cottage in the grounds where he kept a cook/housekeeper and her husband, whom he employed as a driver/handyman.
Ted didn't envy the housekeeper. Hard G boasted of insisting on freshly laundered and ironed linen sheets on his bed every day and of changing his shirts three times a day. His suits and jackets were all tailor made and he had a penchant for wearing silk bow ties. He was tall and stately, still with a thick head of hair, which he wore unfashionably long, with full wings at the sides.
Ted and Trev had been to his house a few times for social occasions, although Trev didn't like going. Hard G had insisted on dancing with him one time and, according to Trev, had spent the whole dance fondling his bum.
'Fascinating case you've got there at the moment, Ted old chap,' Hard G said. 'I gave it to young James as he needs stretching a bit more and that one looked ideal. I do hope he did you proud?'
'First rate job, Roger, thanks, no complaints there,' Ted replied.
'Very unusual though. What are your theories?'
Ted glanced round, trying to locate the pocket billiard-playing journalist. He found Hard G's indiscretion disconcerting. He liked to keep a tight lid on all his cases.
'Maybe not the best place to be discussing it, Roger,' he said with a warning edge to his voice.
'Oh, nonsense, so much noise in here no one can hear a thing anyway,' Gillingham waved away his objections. 'I do hope you've not got another Yorkshire Ripper just setting out his stall on your patch?'
Ted was seething. He could just see that headline in the local rag if they were overheard. 'Can we discuss this at another time, Roger? I'd like to get your take on it but not here, not now.'
'Of course, my dear boy, you know where to find me,' came the oily response. 'But you know, if life were an Agatha Christie novel, especially with such a murder weapon, it would be a case of “cherchez le docteur”. Amazing how often it was the doctor who done it in her books. I hope this one is as easy for you to solve as the ones she presented to her Monsieur Poirot.'
Ted drained his Gunner and got up to leave. He was keen to get back to his team, bring them up to speed on the inquest, although it had been a formality, and to start driving the enquiry forward.
The most obvious suspect to date was already looking unlikely – early enquiries showed that Robert Allen had no car and no licence to drive one. It was time to start digging deeper. Ted had a one hundred per cent success rate in the many murder cases he'd handled. He wasn't about to let this bastard slip through the net and spoil that record.
Chapter Ten
Trev was just taking a pasta bake out of the oven when Ted walked in.
'That looks and smells amazing,' Ted said, trying to pick off some of the crunchy cheesy c
rust, whilst Trev pushed him away, setting the dish down on the work surface next to the oven.
'Ah-ah, don't touch,' he said, 'aren't we going to the club tonight? I thought we could eat after that, just give it a quick warm up.'
Ted leaned against the sink. 'Yes, club would be great. I really need to burn off some energy, if you're up for it.'
The club in question was not a nightclub but the martial arts club where Ted and Trev had first met. As well as attending regularly to keep their own skills up to the mark, the two men ran a self-defence club for children in a bid to combat bullying in schools.
In addition to teaching them basic self-defence and simple judo and karate moves, they concentrated on building self-esteem and teaching self-control and respect. Ted reckoned it was an insurance policy against the future, helping to reduce the crime rate on his patch by making the youngsters who came along into better human beings.
Ted and Trev didn't always spar with one another. Trev had the advantages of height, extra reach and speed. Ted was graded higher in all disciplines but in addition, his technical skills and ruthless accuracy made him hard to beat. Their randori was always fast, furious and prolonged, with neither man giving quarter. The club's senior coach often had to step in to break it up when the pair were dripping in sweat and barely able to continue standing. Trev knew it was likely to be one of those nights tonight with the pressure Ted was under.
Ted tended to take murders on his patch intensely personally. With no real leads yet, he would have a lot of pent-up frustration to unleash and the disciplined control of the dojo was a good place to do it.
'Brian sicked up a mouse on the kitchen table today,' Trev said, nodding to a smug-looking cat with long grey fur. 'Don't worry, I have cleaned.' Nothing like inconsequential chatter to lighten the mood, he knew.
'Brian, you're gross,' Ted told the cat sternly. 'I've told you before, say no to the cull.' Then to Trev, 'Right, I'll just get my kit together and we can go, if you're ready?'
'Already packed for you and in the hall,' Trev told him. 'Just double check everything is there.'
'By the way, Hard G was asking after you today. He says you have a lovely arse, but I know that already,' Ted called from the hall, where he was checking his bag. 'He can't have you, though, you look after me too well.'
'Ugh, Hard On more like, revolting old lech, I didn't just object to getting my bum fondled.'
'He wants us to play badminton with him again soon,' Ted said, coming back into the kitchen with his kit bag.
'Let's do it,' Trev said, putting their supper safely out of reach of any thieving or vomiting cats. 'Unless his latest woman is a British champion, we can wipe the floor with him again and wipe the smug smirk off his face at the same time.'
The dojo was a brisk half hour's walk away and both men preferred to walk than to drive. It gave them time to warm up and loosen muscles on the way there and to do an equally important wind down on the walk back.
There was a good turnout of youngsters, as always. Both Ted and Trev, having themselves been bullied as kids, were passionate about the club and threw their hearts and souls into it, which inspired the children who came. The schools of those participating were thrilled, reporting a reduction in bullying as children became more self-assured and less likely to become targets for bullies.
The children liked and respected Ted, working well for him, but they all, without exception, absolutely worshipped Trev, who was brilliant at inspiring them. Sometimes Ted and Trev would spar a little for them, to show what they could aspire to if they continued training. This evening they both knew that Ted wouldn't be pretty to watch.
Working a murder case meant he was seething with emotions that needed an outlet. Although he had supreme self-control, he knew it would be tested to the limit and any sparring was likely to be fast, furious and needing to be X-rated. He was in the mood for Krav Maga but it was too far to go to his nearest club.
Once the juniors had left, the seniors took to the mats and worked a little on technique until chief coach Bernard started pairing them off for some randori. He knew Ted well, well enough to read body language signals from the other side of the dojo. He could see from the tight muscles along his jawline and the darkening eye colour that there was only one partner it would be safe to put him with that evening.
Bernard indicated each of them in turn and the other members cleared away to free the mat. There was palpable tension in the air as the two bowed to Bernard, then to each other. They moved slowly to the centre of the mat then began a wary circling, each trying to get a grip on the other's judogi.
Trev knew he had at all costs to keep Ted from getting him down on the ground where he could use his superior strength and tactical skills. Ted's preferred throw was always uchi gari, one leg shooting out to hook Trev's out from under him to bring him down, then Ted following him to the mat for a stranglehold that would end the session.
Trev's best strategy was always to throw Ted as far as possible away from him, using his height advantage with throws like ippon seoi nage and tomoe nage to clear Ted out of his way and avoid close combat at all costs.
Ted's mastery of Krav Maga had honed the speed of his attacking moves so that they became a blur. Time and again Trev had to leap and dance away from that foot which threatened to sweep his legs out from under him and have him down. He kept trying to whirl himself round to position for a shoulder throw but Ted was like an eel, never staying where he needed him to be to complete the manoeuvre.
Both men were soon breathing hard and sweating but the speed of attacks and counter-attacks showed no sign of slowing. Trev constantly used his longer reach to hold Ted at arm's length and prevent him coming in for a throw but he couldn't match him on sheer strength and as he started to tire it was getting harder to do so.
Suddenly his fatigue cost him a split second's concentration, the hooking foot swept one leg out from under him and the solid force of Ted's weight took him down to the mat. Ted followed him down, forearms instinctively going for a shime-waza, choking technique.
Bernard was across the mat in no time with a barked 'Matte' command to signal a break. Ted appeared oblivious, so Bernard closed in swiftly and thrust his upheld hand in front of Ted's face with a repeated 'Matte'.
Instantly Ted's hands dropped to his sides, he rocked back on his heels and stood up, leaning forward, hands on the fronts of his thighs, while he brought his breathing back under control.
Trev rolled clear and sprang to his feet with surprising agility after such a bout. Both men exchanged bows then bowed to Bernard. Then Ted patted Bernard on the arm and panted, 'Sorry. Sorry Bernard, got a bit carried away there.'
Ted and Trev changed quickly into outdoor wear, preferring to shower at home after the walk back. As they walked, Ted was quiet and subdued, not proud of himself for his near loss of self-control. He'd pushed himself right to his limits, but he felt better for it.
Reading his mind as ever, Trev put an arm round his shoulders and pulled him close.
'Have you any idea how incredibly sexy you are when you get mad like that?' he asked. 'Come on, let's get home. I'm starving – and not just for tuna pasta bake.'
Chapter Eleven
Another pre-dawn. His mobile phone yet again vibrating on the bedside table. Luckily Ted had remembered to turn off the ring tone before going to bed. Much as Trev adored Queen, he wasn't keen on being woken up early to the sound of Freddie and Monsarrat belting out Barcelona.
Ted picked up the call and said a low, 'Hello?' Next minute he was sitting bolt upright in bed and his 'Shit' was louder than he intended, loud enough to make even Trev start to stir.
As Ted swung his legs out of bed, Trev opened one blue eye and asked sleepily, 'Trouble at t'mill?'
'Another body,' Ted said tersely. 'And you'll never guess where.'
As Trev was now fully awake and sitting up, Ted put the bedside light on and went on, 'On the rec, more or less behind this place.'
'Really?' Trev
asked. 'That's seriously creepy. Take care out there.'
Ted leaned across to kiss him then threw some clothes on and went out. No need to get his car out for this one. The house was at the bottom of the cul-de-sac and right next to their small garden, a ginnel ran down to open out onto a large playing field area, the local recreation ground.
The sergeant who had phoned him, who knew whereabouts Ted lived, said the body had been found on the side of the playing fields nearest to Ted's house. It was still dark but there was enough light around from street lamps to show Ted where the action was starting up, less than fifty yards from where the ginnel emerged.
Blue lights were flashing on a couple of stationary patrol cars, arc lights were being rigged up and a tent was already going up to protect the body and maintain the scene of crime. No one had yet taped off the entrance to the ginnel. Probably only locals realised it was there. He could see that Sal and Virgil were just getting out of Sal's car.
Ted emerged out of the gloom, hard to see in his dark jeans and leather jacket, the colour of old tobacco. A PC stepped forward to block his way then, recognising him, stood aside and said, 'Sorry, sir, I didn't see you arrive.'
'I only live over there,' Ted told him, jerking his head back towards the way he had come. 'You may want to tape off the ginnel. I won't be the only one to come down it, I don't suppose, there'll be a few dog walkers no doubt. Is that who found her this time?'
'Yes sir, couple of local lads with those pit bull type things,' the PC said. 'Dread to think what they were up to. They obviously think they're a couple of hard cases but they lost their breakfast over this one. Hope you've come well supplied, sir, it's not pretty.'
Ted reached into his pocket for the first Fisherman's Friend as he joined Sal and Virgil as they made their way over to the tent. The sound of sneezing told them that Tim Elliott, the police surgeon, was already on site to certify death.
