THE NUMBERS GAME: a gripping crime thriller

by JOHN STANLEY

  It certainly is intriguing,’ nodded Radford. ‘Gerry, find out if there was any connection between Creeley and Garnett. Oh, and find out if anyone in the street has enough of a grudge to kill them. Anyone in any of the streets that have gone, in fact.’

  ‘What do you mean “oh, find out”?’ protested Perlow. ‘There were seventeen streets. That’s hundreds of people.’

  ‘You could narrow it down by starting with the Alma Street Action Group. They were down there this morning.’

  ‘Can’t see any of them resorting to murder,’ said Gaines doubtfully.

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Radford, ‘but perhaps we missed something.’

  Perhaps you missed something, Gainesy, boy.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘It still adds up to a lot of legwork, guv,’ said Perlow mournfully. ‘And it gets us nowhere nearer to deciding if we are dealing with a serial killer. I mean, we can’t rule it out, can we?’

  ‘No, we can‘t.’

  ‘Connor won’t like that,’ said Gaines.

  ‘Won’t like what?’

  They looked to the door as Detective Superintendent Roland Connor walked into the room. Radford gave his direct superior a friendly smile. He had known Connor for 15 years and it had proved an enduring friendship; they regularly played golf and their wives got on well. And it had been Connor who recommended him for DCI. They were different characters, though. Where Radford and his wife had no children, Connor had three teenagers; their pictures were propped up on his desk. A thin man, he had the appearance of a bank manager, an impression strengthened by his smart suit, balding pate and horn-rimmed glasses. But behind the staid appearance lurked a hard-headed detective who believed in locking villains up. It was where Radford and Connor connected.

  ‘What won’t I like, Danny?’ repeated Connor.

  ‘That we may have a serial killer on the loose in Alma Street.’

  ‘I really wish you had not said that,’ sighed the superintendent. ‘Jason de Vere will be all over us like a bloody rash now. He’s already been on the blower to the chief.’

  ‘I’ll bet he has,’ said Radford gloomily.

  ‘Are you sure it’s not just a couple of drunks scrapping?’

  ‘It could be but the dead guy this morning was Bob Garnett.’

  ‘And?’ shrugged Connor.

  ‘He was the city planner who first suggested that the Alma Street area be bulldozed.’

  Connor sighed, the political ramifications already playing out in his mind. A second death in Alma Street was just about as bad as the news could get politically. In fact, it was about as bad as the superintendent could imagine.

  Well, not quite.

  ‘Did you come for anything in particular?’ asked Radford.

  ‘I am afraid so. We need to talk.’ Connor gestured to the other officers to leave the room. ‘Alone, please, lads.’

  Once the detective had gone, the superintendent closed the door conspiratorially behind them and eyed his friend uneasily.

  ‘You see,’ he said, ‘I am afraid that your day is just about to get a whole lot worse.’

  ‘How can it get worse, for Pete’s sake? It would have to be pretty bad to…’

  Radford’s voice tailed off as he saw the expression on the superintendent’s face. When Gaines left for home shortly after seven, the light was still on in the chief inspector’s office and the door was firmly shut.

  Chapter three

  Next morning, Radford and Gaines headed out to see the former wife of Robert Garnett. Before they left, the chief inspector visited the CID room to check on the overnight jobs. Two stabbings, an armed robbery at a mini-mart and half a dozen burglaries was about typical for the city centre division, which covered the main shopping streets, numerous pubs and clubs, several shabby industrial estates and the derelict area down by the river with its red light district. Radford decided he was not needed and joined Gaines for the short walk to Jane Garnett’s home. Neither spoke much. Neither ever spoke much in each other’s company.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting in the living room of a Victorian terraced house. It was just after nine and the detectives were nursing mugs of tea and waiting for Jane to compose herself. Aged in her mid-fifties, she was a slight woman with short brown hair and a face starting to show wrinkles round the eyes. She was dressed in a dark blouse and plaited skirt.

  ‘This has come as a terrible shock,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I am sure it has,’ said Radford. ‘Mrs Garnett…’

  ‘Miss James,’ she said. ‘I reverted to my maiden name when my divorce came through.’

  ‘I apologise.’

  So grief only goes so far.

  ‘Why did you split up?’ asked Radford.

  ‘You know the answer,’ she said.

  ‘When did he start drinking?’

  ‘He had always liked a drink. I don’t imbibe myself; I think Bob was always rather disappointed at that. Do you drink, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘No.’

  She should be asking Gaines.

  ‘When did his drinking become a problem, Mrs Gar… sorry, Miss James?’ continued Radford.

  ‘It was about ten years ago,’ she replied, nodding her appreciation at the way he had corrected himself.

  ‘Any idea why?’

  ‘I know exactly why, Chief Inspector,’ said Jane, the anger in her voice hardly suppressed. ‘Before then, it had always been under control.’

  ‘Before when?’

  ‘Seven years ago this month. November the eleventh it was. I’ve never forgotten the date. The council announced a reorganisation of the planning department. Bob always said it was pointless but he was confident he would get the top job. He had so many ideas for developing the city.’

  Radford said nothing, recalling his rising sense of dismay as he sat in that meeting all those years ago, listening to Garnett expound his view that whole swathes of old properties in the city should be bulldozed in favour of retail parks, leisure complexes and Penthouse flats. It was the way forward, Garnett had said with a gleam in his eye as the words poured out. The gospel according to Robert Garnett. Regeneration. Renewal. Progress. Sitting in that church hall, Radford could not help thinking about the people who lived in the old houses. People like his old mother. People like himself.

  ‘I assume he did not get the job?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ and she almost spat out the words. ‘It went to Gerald Hedges.’

  ‘Who was?’

  ‘The deputy. A nasty little man, spent all his time sucking up to the councillors, even went on holiday with the planning committee chairman. Them and their families at Butlins. What a thought!’

  ‘How did Bob take the news?’ asked Gaines.

  ‘He was the only one who could not see what was happening. Hedges was a good old Labour man. Red tie, party lapel badge, party membership card in his pocket. It was jobs for the boys, Sergeant.’

  ‘So how did Bob react?’ asked Radford.

  ‘He seemed to give up,’ and she shook her head sadly. ‘In the end, he was drinking from the moment he got up to the moment he passed out on the sofa at midnight. I used to find vodka bottles hidden all over the place.’

  ‘How long did this go on?’ asked Gaines.

  ‘Until they caught him out at work. He’d been able to hide it from the people in the office for a while - he always used to take lots of mints - but then someone spotted it. Hedges sent him home to consider his future. It was just what he had been waiting for, he hated Bob.’

  ‘I take it they sacked him?’ asked Radford.

  ‘Not there and then. He went back on the Monday for a meeting with Hedges but he was stopped by police on the way to the office and that was that. Eight-thirty in the morning and he was over the limit. How stupid is that?’

  They said nothing.

  ‘I pleaded with Hedges to take him back,’ she continued bitterly. ‘God, that stuck in the craw.’

  ‘But he didn’t help?’ said Radford.


  ‘No,’ and she gave a dark laugh. ‘Do you know, not one of Bob’s former work colleagues came to see him and all our friends kept away. In the end, it was just him and me.’

  ‘But you left him as well,’ said Gaines. ‘I had to.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I found out he was stealing from our savings account to pay for alcohol so I told him to leave. He burst into tears and asked for a second chance but I knew we had reached the end of the line.’

  ‘It must have been a terrible time for you,’ said Radford, more sympathetic than his colleague.

  ‘I don’t think they have invented a word to describe it,’ she said quietly.

  ‘What happened after that?’

  ‘He moved into a bedsit. I went to see him a couple of times but it was an awful place,’ she shuddered, ‘an awful place. I stopped going because he didn’t try to kick the drink. The last time, he threw a chair at me. That was not the Bob Garnett I knew. After that I filed for divorce.’

  ‘But he must have left the bedsit at some stage?’ said Gaines. ‘He was living on the streets.’

  ‘His landlord evicted him when he did not pay the rent. I only found out he was living rough when I saw him begging outside Marks and Spencer. I had only gone in for some coleslaw.’

  ‘Did he recognise you?’ asked Radford.

  What has coleslaw to do with it, for God’s sake?

  ‘He pretended not to but I am sure he did. I put 20 quid in his hat. It seemed the right thing to do. I did not see him again.’

  ‘Did he have any enemies?’ asked Radford.

  ‘Enemies?’ She seemed surprised at the question. ‘Why would a man like Bob have enemies?’

  ‘I just wondered,’ murmured Radford. ‘Maybe someone whose street was demolished?’

  What happened to all the people, Jane. Ask yourself that. Where did they go? I’ll tell you where they went, to crappy homes like the one my mother died in.

  ‘Why would they blame Bob for that?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s just a thought,’ said Radford, and he noted Gaines looking at him strangely. ‘I mean, what if…’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Bob was a decent man. Well, at least he was before the drink took over.’

  ‘Did he know Desmond Creeley?’ asked Gaines.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said bitterly, ‘He knew Des Creeley alright. They were members at that golf club along from the new marina.’

  ‘The Lake?’

  ‘Yes, have you played there, Sergeant?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I have,’ said Radford, who had taken part in a tournament there with Connor. ‘It’s a good course.’

  ‘I’m not sure Des Creeley would have even known that,’ said Jane. ‘He and Bob spent more time on the nineteenth hole. I’m not sure Des could even play golf. Drink has a lot to answer for, you know.’

  Radford nodded.

  You should see what it did to my poor old dad, bless his soul.

  It was the reason the chief inspector never drank.

  A few minutes later, the detectives had left her house and were walking back through city centre streets to the police station. The rainy skies of recent days had been banished and it was a crisp winter morning, the sun shining bright and sharp through wispy clouds. For a few minutes, neither man spoke, enjoying the unusual warmth on their backs. It might not be Corfu, but on its day Leyton was pleasant enough, thought Gaines. It was the first time he had felt like that since returning from holiday, the first time that Leyton had felt like home again. He was not sure if he welcomed the feeling.

  ‘So what do you reckon?’ asked Radford, breaking into the sergeant‘s reverie.

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Well, we need something and we need it quick. The developers are hassling us to release Alma Street for demolition. It seems,’ and Radford gave a smile, ‘that we are standing in the way of progress.’

  ‘Is that what Connor wanted to see you about last night?’

  ‘Partly.’

  They walked in silence for a moment or two.

  ‘So, are you going to tell me?’ asked the sergeant.

  ‘I really shouldn’t.’

  ‘I know you shouldn’t,’ replied the sergeant, ‘but are you going to?’

  ‘I don’t want this getting round the station,’ said Radford, glancing at the shoppers thronging about them, ‘at least not yet.’

  ‘You can trust me.’

  I know I can,’ nodded the chief inspector.

  Maybe.

  ‘They are scrapping Heron,’ said Radford.

  ‘What! Surely no one in their right mind would do that!’

  ‘Who said anything about right minds?’ Radford glanced round nervously at the passing shoppers. ‘And keep your bloody voice down, will you?’

  Operation Heron had been in force for a year and Radford had assumed responsibility for it when he became DCI. Aimed at disrupting the growing number of heroin networks in the city and named after one of the street terms for the drug, it was high profile and aggressive. Combining CID officers, drugs squad members and uniformed teams, Heron had already secured thirty-three convictions with plenty more offenders awaiting court dates, seized £140,000 worth of drugs and £50,000 in cash, taken 18 firearms off the street and prompted more than 1,000 calls from the public. Amid all the uncertainties in life, Radford had been sure that Heron would survive.

  However, when Connor closed his office door the night before, the chief inspector had discovered just how naïve he had been. The superintendent told Radford that the chief constable had ruled that, with the force facing cash constraints and other management speak, Heron’s huge overtime bills were no longer financially viable. Something had to give and Heron was it.

  ‘Chief has pulled the plug,’ said Radford.

  ‘But it’s making a huge difference.’

  ‘It certainly is to the force bank balance.’

  ‘But there’s more to policing than money!’ said Gaines.

  ‘That’s what I said to Connor last night.’

  ‘Surely he agrees?’

  ‘I’m not sure he fought its corner particularly hard.’

  ‘I should bloody hope he did. It makes no sense.’

  ‘It makes every sense,’ said the chief inspector. ‘It’s the numbers game, nothing more, nothing less.’

  And it’s the game we all have to play, Gainesy boy. Like it or not.

  ‘Isn’t there something we can do?’ Gaines looked at him slyly. ‘Write a memo maybe?’

  ‘May need more than that,’ said Radford, ignoring the comment. ‘You know that reporter on the local rag, Robinson or whatever his name is?’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Gaines, ‘you are surely not thinking of going public on this?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Radford.

  ‘Because the chief constable will crucify you.’

  ‘But I have to do something,’ said Radford. ‘Get your pal to ring me.’

  And watched by the astonished sergeant, he walked through the shoppers. You think you know someone, thought Gaines.

  Chapter four

  There are some people who just have it.

  Radford sat in Jason de Vere’s wood-panelled office at city hall and surveyed the council leader.

  People who have a magnetism that gives them a sense of control.

  Radford was fascinated by such people and, although he had only been in the presence of the councillor for a few moments, already he could sense his power; it seemed to pervade the room like a musk. Such people, Radford knew, were always dangerous even though their menace was well concealed behind charming smiles.

  There is nothing so scary as sincerity and de Vere has bags of sincerity.

  De Vere sat behind the large oak desk, its surface clear except for a pen holder and blotter, and eyed the chief inspector with keen interest. The politician was in his late forties, a tall, slim man with close-cropped black hair and a neatly clipped beard. The face was sharp and angu
lar, the eyes slightly narrowed, the nose long and sharp, the lips thin, always with just the merest hint of a smile. The black suit was immaculately pressed. He wondered why the detective wanted to see him; at this stage it was curiosity, rather than alarm.

  It was shortly after 5pm and the detective’s decision to request a meeting with the council leader was not one taken lightly. Radford had spent several hours contemplating the idea and eventually approached Connor in mid-afternoon. The superintendent’s immediate reaction was alarm as he realised the political implications. He tried several times to persuade Radford to drop the idea but, eventually, was forced to relent as the chief inspector outlined the background to Robert Garnett’s death.

  ‘It seems quite remarkable,’ said de Vere, ‘that we have not met.’

  ‘I tend not to meet many politicians in my line of work.’

  ‘Perhaps we’re all honest,’ said de Vere with a smile.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  And perhaps not.

  ‘I must say, I am intrigued as to why a senior police officer would wish to speak to me when murder and mayhem has broken out in his division.’

  ‘You may be help us, Jason. Let’s start with Robert Garnett.’

  ‘He was before my time.’

  ‘Do you mean to say you never spoke to him about his ideas for the Alma Street area? Green Trees was effectively his idea, was it not?’

  ‘I have said I did not know the man.’ An edge to the voice. ‘Surely his time here is of no relevance.’

  ‘Emotions are running high thanks to you.’

  ‘You speak as if it was my personal decision. I am sure you are aware that the decision to demolish the streets was part of the due democratic process.’

  ‘But you wanted it to go through and, from what I hear, what you want you get.’

  ‘Worth bearing that in mind. Anyway, will that be all? I am a busy man.’

  ‘I guess there are more streets to flatten.’

  Go on, react, Jason. Let me see what you’re really like.

  ‘Damn it, man!’ exclaimed de Vere, half getting to his feet. ‘I am trying to revive this sad little city!’

  ‘I, or we? You see, I think Robert Garnett’s murder may be linked directly to your decision to bulldoze Alma Street.’