by Lou Peters
‘How about Bradley Purvis, sir should his name go down?’
‘Most certainly and put Rachel Smith’s name down and also her friend, what was she called?’
‘Riley, sir, Jackie Riley.’
‘Okay. How many names have we got down so far?’
‘Five, but I’m not sure if any of them were up to the task. We’ve got an old man and his obese, not much younger wife, two girls and a man dying of cancer. Not a very promising start, so far, sir.’
‘Two girls you said, two girls, I wonder...’
‘Wonder what, sir?’
‘I’m thinking aloud Cooper. I don’t know why, but I’ve got a very bad feeling about Miss Smith taking off. You could be right and she might have just popped out to the shops, but…’
‘You don’t think so sir?’
‘No Cooper, I don’t. Did we ever get Mrs. Smith’s contact details?’
‘No, we were going to ask Rachel for them, but we haven’t seen her since.’
‘Right, get on to Mrs. Johnson. I don’t care what you have to do. Threaten her if you have to, but we need those details... now Cooper.’
‘On my way sir, be back in a jiffy.’
Walters referred to a sheaf of papers on his desk, turning the pages over until he came to the information he required. Picking up the phone he quickly punched in the numbers.
‘Hello, Mr. Coventry it’s Detective Inspector Walters here...’
‘Oh hello detective inspector, did you have a good trip back?’ The elderly man said affably.
‘Yes thank you sir, kind of you to ask.’
‘Not at all, not at all, what can I do for you young man?’
‘I just wanted to check on the details you gave to us for your whereabouts last Wednesday. I sensed a certain hesitancy in your statement, sir.’
‘Ah... I can see you’re not in the police force for nothing. And yes, you’re quiet right, I’m sorry to say... but I’m glad you’ve telephoned. I’ve been thinking about what I said, or rather didn’t say. I’m afraid I did see Ruth more recently than I led you to believe.’
Walters felt his hand tighten around the phone as he waited for the old man’s next words. Was he about to hear a confession? ‘Go on sir,’ he urged gently.
‘We had to do it on the quiet you see. What with Lucy here and that blasted niece of Ruth’s down there, but I needed desperately to see her one more time. I’m so glad I did now, for the day after her life was taken from her.’
Walters could hear the anguish in the man’s voice. ‘So you didn’t kill her, sir?’
‘Me, kill Ruth. Don’t be so damn absurd, man. No, I took the train down to Boynton that Monday morning. We’d arranged for her to meet me at the station. We spent the day together detective inspector. I treated Ruthie to lunch. We went to the little pub in the village where Ruth lived and we talked like we used to, about the good old days. She’d kissed my cheek as I’d got back on the train. It was such a sweet kiss, that I’ll never forget it. I didn’t want to leave her, but I thought there would be other times, you see, so I got on the blasted train.’ The man’s voice was beginning to break.
‘That was Monday sir. It doesn’t explain your whereabouts for Wednesday.’ Walters said brusquely, hoping his tone would pull the man together.
It appeared to work, as when Charlie Coventry next spoke the tremor had left his voice. ‘No, detective inspector it doesn’t, but Wednesday I had an appointment with my solicitor. That was another thing I’d wanted to talk over with Ruth. You see I was going to change my will. I wanted to leave everything to her. My sons are all doing really well and I wanted to make it up to Ruth that I hadn’t given her the time she’d needed. But she talked me out of it. Told me of her heart condition…’
The thought ran through Walters’ mind, the reason why Charlie had jumped to the conclusion that Ruth had had a heart attack when first told of her death.
‘…and if I did what I’d planned, I’d only be lining the pocket of her hideous niece and her equally hideous husband. So I reneged on the idea and changed my will to leave the majority of my estate to my sons and grandchildren. I also arranged a rather hefty donation to a cat’s charity. Ruthie loved her old cat. It had been a good friend to her for many years and in my way I would be honouring that loyalty.’
‘How about your second wife, sir?’
‘Well, that’s the rather unfortunate thing. Lucy was in line to get the lot. She’d insisted we’d both made wills shortly after we were married. But since that time my feelings towards the woman have changed. You’ve met her detective inspector, so you’ll have an idea of what I’m talking about. But she’ll have her state pension and I’ve given her a leeway of three months, before the house is to be sold. The prime location and condition of the place, it shouldn’t be too long before a buyer is found. I bought the house before I met my wife, so it’s in my name only. Three months should give Lucinda time to sort herself out, don’t you think detective inspector? She still has family around to support her.’
Walters couldn’t help but smile. At least one old bitch was going to get her comeuppance. He replaced the receiver. He was still smiling when Cooper barged through the door.
‘You’re never going to believe this sir.’
‘Just spit it out Cooper.’
‘I finally got Mrs. Smith’s number from Johnson’s reluctant mother, dialled it. The number seemed to be ringing for ages. I was just about to put the phone down and try later when someone picked up. Only it wasn’t Mrs. Smith who answered but a constable on his beat. He’d been waylaid by a concerned neighbour. She hadn’t seen Mrs. Smith around for a few days. Not getting any response the constable, using his initiative, broke into Mrs. Smith’s house through a side, downstairs window. Found the woman dead in her bed. On the face of it looks like natural causes, but they’re going to keep us informed. I told the young PC to have a word with a few of the near neighbours and if Rachel Smith rolls up, to contact us straightaway.’
‘Well, that’s an unexpected development.’ Walters scratched his head. ‘If it turns out not to be natural causes that’ll certainly muddy the water and Johnson might find himself back on top of the suspect list. Speaking of the list, you can cross the Coventry’s names off. I’ve just spoken to Charlie a minute ago. It appears he was at his solicitor’s on Wednesday changing his will to the detriment of his wife. I’ve got the details if we need to check. He confirms Lucinda was at home when he returned, mid afternoon.’
Cooper grinned at the piece of news. Imagining Lucinda Coventry’s face when she eventually found out she’d been disinherited. ‘So we’re down to three names sir!’
‘With more bad news for Rachel Smith, once we catch up with her. Do you ever wish you were a painter and decorator Cooper, or something other than a policeman?’
‘Not really sir. If push came to shove, I wouldn’t mind trying my hand at being a lumberjack, out in Canada.’
‘Well detective sergeant, if we can’t get this case solved before Bowden Smythe returns, you may get your chance. Do we know how to get hold of the friend’s work, or mobile number?’
‘The Riley woman? I’ll check sir, but I don’t think so. Perhaps Mrs. Johnson would know. I’ll call her back.’
‘Good man. Can you get the coffees in while you’re passing the machine? If I drink much more of this stuff,’ Walters picked up an empty glass, ‘I’ll be incapable.’ He returned the Scotch and glasses back from where they’d come from.
Walters felt incapable enough as it was. Somewhere along the way he had the feeling he’d been presented with a vital piece of information. It was as if the solution to everything lay out in front of him. Yet he couldn’t grasp the significance of it. He couldn’t find the magic key that would open the door and reveal all. Could it have been something that Mavis Willoughby had said? Some detail about the little girls’ murders? But why would something that occurred years ago have any relevance to this recent crime?
Despite Cooper’
s earlier comment of it only being a couple of hours since Walters had been away from the office, in that time the sergeant had been busy. A print out from central records recording the details of the ancient crime sat on Walters’ desk. The case to this day had remained unsolved, closed off after five years. Angela Hastings’ body had been found on the day of her murder in a derelict house situated in a wooded area not far from the fishing village of Le Conquet, Western Brittany. The date had been Monday August fifth, 1996. She had been found by her distraught father at three forty five French time. The two girls had been missing some hours, before Angela’s father had discovered the derelict building. Hidden by trees, the partial ruin hadn’t been far away from where the family had parked up with the intention of having a picnic lunch. Because of the language problem the police hadn’t arrived on the scene until nearly six in the evening. Thereby, allowing the killer plenty of time to make good his escape. It appeared the man had been living rough in the house, utilising the room at the top of the building. A makeshift bed and other items belonging to the man had been found in the room. The little girls must have stumbled upon him while they’d been exploring the house. Cause of death was a single blow to the back of the child’s head. Mary McIntyre’s body, the girl accompanying the Hastings on the holiday, had never been found. It had been unproven if she’d been killed in the house and it was the general consensus of opinion that she’d been dispatched elsewhere, and her body buried. A search had been undertaken with the use of tracker dogs, but after a matter of weeks, when no trace of the girl’s body had come to light, this had been downscaled, the area just too large to cover. The British Police had been allowed to join the enquiry after a number of days. It had been noted there had been such activity at the scene by the local gendarmes, unused to this type of crime, that vital forensics had been trampled underfoot and lost. Some DNA was harvested, but no match was ever discovered on UK, or International data bases. Locals in the area were interviewed. A Polish farm worker had been taken in for questioning at the time, but had later been released when his alibi had checked out and his DNA sample had not been matched with any found at the crime scene.
Arnold returned with the coffee. He’d bought a couple of chocolate muffins from the vending machine in the passageway. Taking the items out of each jacket pocket, he handed one across to Walters.
‘Thanks,’ Walters responded. Tussling with the cellophane sealing the confection eventually he resorted to stabbing it with the paper knife making the wrapper easier to tear.
Between mouthfuls, Cooper informed Walters that although Mrs. Johnson didn’t have any contact details for Rachel Smith’s friend, she did say that Rachel had told her Jackie Riley still worked at the same place where they’d originally met.
‘She told me she thought it was called North Western Finance, but Rachel had said it had been affiliated with a bank and Mrs. Johnson wasn’t sure which one, or if the merger had changed the business’ name as a result. Do you want me to follow it up, sir?’
‘That was the general idea, detective sergeant. I want to find out if this friend of hers knows where Smith may have gone.’
‘Should I phone when I’ve got the number?’
‘Yes do that... It may also be worth giving the contact at the MOD another call. Now we have Johnson’s date and place of birth and middle initial it may speed up the process.’
‘We could have always asked the Johnsons if Richard had been in the forces, and if so, when.’
‘We may have to if it’s going to take so long to get the information through official channels. But I prefer to get it from the horse’s mouth, that way there can be no confusion over dates and places.’
‘Right you are sir.’ Cooper left the room, leaving Walters once again alone with his thoughts.
Walters was trying to make the leap from 1996 to the here and now. What was the common denominator between the two crimes...? Ruth Montgomery was the only thing he could think of. Ruth knew the Hastings family, possibly the McIntyre’s as well. Was it conceivable that the father could have murdered his own daughter and her friend? How would Ruth have known, if he had? And if the man was aware Ruth knew of the real circumstances of the deaths, why had it taken him thirteen years to silence her? It could be of course the old woman had made her discovery only recently, but how and when?
Walters’ train of thought was abruptly severed by his ringing phone. He knew by the intermittent ring tone it was an internal call. ‘Walters,’ the inspector barked angrily into the mouthpiece, annoyed at the interruption to his thought processes.
‘Sorry to disturb you sir. There’s a gentleman in reception who would like to speak to the officer in charge of the Montgomery murder. He says he has vital information on the whereabouts of Richard Johnson.’
‘Not another one Grimes. Can’t somebody else deal with it? How about DS Cooper?’
‘I’ve already tried that sir, but the man is adamant and if he can’t speak to the person leading the enquiry, he’s going to leave without giving his information.’
‘He can’t do that sergeant, he has a public duty and ... Oh never mind I’m on my way down. But it better be good, that’s all.’
Walters burst through the security door and into the public domain.
‘He’s over there sir,’ the uniformed sergeant pointed out. Mr. Rupert Ridgway. I did tell him somebody else would have been able to help him.’
‘Don’t worry about it Grimes, I’m here now. I could probably do with a breather, anyway.’
There were a small group of people standing at the counter awaiting their turn. One man, grasping car documents in his hand. Probably been stopped by the latest drink driving clampdown and with the absence of his driving licence and MOT certificate in the car had been asked to produce them at the station. Rupert Ridgway stood up as soon as the desk sergeant had pointed him out. The man appeared placated that his request had been respected, and he was going to be dealing with the head man. He’d immediately recognised the detective inspector from the television appeal re-broadcast again that morning.
Walters crossed the floor to join the man, his hand outstretched in greeting. ‘Mr. Ridgway?’
They exchanged handshakes. Walters had been expecting a rather officious, self important white collar worker, suited and booted possibly with briefcase in hand. But this man was nothing at all like that. Slight of build, he was apparelled in jeans and anorak. His long brown hair was pulled back and fastened into a rat’s tail at the back of his head. His eyes were blue and his smile friendly.
‘I’m really sorry to bother you. I know how busy you must be. But you did appeal for the public’s help and I wanted to make sure the information I have is given to the right person.’
‘Well you’re right, I am rather occupied at the moment and will only be able to spare you a few minutes... but let’s go where it’s a little more private and then you can divulge what you have to tell me.’ Walters returned the man’s smile as the two headed towards the stairs.
‘I can offer you a coffee, but it’ll only be out of the vending machine, I’m afraid.’ They were seated on hard chairs in an interview room, positioned one across from the other, a table as a physical barrier between them. The tape recorder placed at one end of the table was redundant for this particular session.
‘No thanks, I’ve excluded caffeine from my diet. I feel a lot better for it too, you should try it.’
‘Maybe I will, someday.’ The smile remained, but Walters was growing impatient. ‘Now Mr. Ridgway what have you got to tell me that you couldn’t divulge to any of my colleagues?’
‘I hope you don’t think I was trying to be awkward, or attention seeking.’ The man seemed genuinely perplexed. ‘Perhaps if I show you this, it might help you understand the urgency.’ He fumbled in his pocket, while continuing, ‘Not understanding how police procedures work, I didn’t want it to end up in just another file on the case.’
‘What is it if you’ve got to show me Mr. Ridgway?’ Walt
ers was becoming concerned. The man could draw out a knife or a gun at any moment.
‘This,’ the young man said with a flourish, producing a rather creased photograph and handing it over to the very relieved detective inspector.
It wasn’t a very clear shot, but there was no mistaking the subject. It was Richard Johnson. Head down, coat collar turned up, looking very suspicious, as if he didn’t want to be seen.
While Walters examined the print, Ridgway said, ‘photography’s my hobby,’
‘Do you know where this was taken?’ Walters asked, realising why Ridgway had wanted to make sure the image fell into the right hands.
‘Of course I do. I took it myself over the week-end.’
‘And would you like to enlighten me with the details?’
‘Yes, sorry. It’s in the Cornish village of Cadgwith Cove. I love going down there at this time of the year. Everywhere is so peaceful, yet there’s a certain energy about the place, the waves crashing against the rocky coastline. I could spend hours on the shingle beach, photographing the spume and thrust of the tides… Sorry, I’m getting carried away, you don’t want to hear about that do you? ’
Walters gave him a tight smile, confirming the man’s perception had been correct. ‘When did you say you’d taken the photograph?’
‘On Saturday.’
‘And, you didn’t think to let the local police know of your discovery?’
‘I’d got no idea you where looking for the guy. I only took his picture by chance. He was the only person I’d seen out and about. I nearly deleted the image when I’d first seen it, to tell you the truth. Thought it didn’t look as interesting as the real thing. The guy had a sort of aura about him, haunted and a little lost. You know what I mean? The photo doesn’t capture it. It was only this morning when I had the telly on, which again was a fluke as I’m normally in work. I saw your appeal and his picture plastered all over the screen.’
