Troubled Waters

by Trevor Burton

  ‘I suppose that’s comforting,’ Carl observes.

  ‘It’s the best we can do for now, I’m afraid,’ Lambert says, and then turns towards me. ‘Now, about your chat last night with Carlo Peroni.’

  ‘Right. As I explained before, she did attack Amelia, which seemed totally out of character. We began talking to Carlo about the fact that Sophia was obviously worried about something, and could it really be a stalker, etc. He agreed that she was worried and also felt that a stalker was unlikely to be the real reason. When I asked if she could be violent, he categorically refused to accept it, until I suggested he listen to Amelia’s story.’ I nod to Amelia at this point to take up the narrative.

  ‘He already knew that we attended martial classes together,’ Amelia begins. ‘When I explained how the situation occurred, he kind of caved in and revealed all about Sophia’s past history.’

  We go through Carlo’s story from the night before: Sophia being sexually attacked at university, receiving a caution for taking revenge, and being on medication for stress and so on.

  ‘So we have a bunny-boiler here,’ Lambert says bluntly. ‘Are you saying what I think you are saying?’

  ‘That we have a potential killer here,’ Evans spells it out.

  ‘I don’t think we would go as far as that,’ I contend.

  Lambert scratches his chin. ‘I can see there could possibly be opportunity, but what about motive?’

  ‘Exactly,’ I agree. ‘As far as I know, your investigation has not turned anything up in the fraud inquiry.’

  ‘Absolutely not. She is as clean as a whistle in that regard.’

  ‘OK, let’s think about it some more before chasing around. We’ve got enough on our plates, what with figuring out what this Knut Amundsen might be planning.’

  ‘Do you want me to arrange some sandwiches, boss?’ Evans interjects.

  At this point Carl gets up. ‘No worries. I’ll sort that out.’ He makes for the door. We discuss various scenarios of what Knut might be planning and are ready to theorise on the murder case when Carl and his volunteers return with platters of sandwiches. One volunteer takes the drinks order and scoots off to organise it.

  Chapter 36

  Sandwiches finished, there are five of us around the table: the two policemen, Carl, Amelia and me. The subject of the murder is introduced by Evans.

  ‘Looks like Sophia did it, then,’ he states bluntly. ‘From what you told us before, anyhow.’

  ‘Steady on,’ Lambert cautions. ‘I’d agree it looks like she could have done it, but we don’t have any concrete evidence that she actually did.’

  At this point Carl excuses himself to check on his volunteers and other stuff, quite correctly pointing out that this discussion doesn’t really concern him directly.

  I am not convinced either. ‘Have we had all the information from Sammy Wang yet, as to who did or didn’t move out of the bar? Are we even convinced it was not a purely random attack, possibly sexual, by an opportunist who happened to be on the river bank at the right time?’

  ‘Two questions there,’ Lambert begins. ‘First, Sammy Wang is still going through a few loose ends on the statements of the people in the bar area. Second, there were no signs of any interference with clothing, and it appears to have happened very quickly. The only signs of injury are the bruising to the neck, consistent with strangulation by her own scarf, and a slight chafing to her right leg consistent with being caught on the iron railing as she was thrown over into the river.’

  ‘Surely there would be other physical marks where the body bumped against the river bank and the stone flags of the jetty under the windows of the Mark Addy public house?’ I point out.

  Evans takes over. ‘That is correct, but we can tell that those marks occurred after she was in the water.’

  Amelia and I nod wisely, but are still no wiser.

  ***

  It was five past two, and at the Piccadilly end of Debenhams department store Knut and John were waiting patiently for the muscle. John was dressed in dark clothes, but not so dark as to attract attention, and carrying his sports bag he could be going to the gym. The muscle materialised out of the crowd.

  ‘You’re late,’ Knut reprimanded him.

  ‘Sorry, the bus was late.’

  ‘You came on the fucking bus?’ Knut exclaimed in astonishment.

  ‘Best way on a Saturday afternoon.’

  Knut looked at John, who shrugged, as one used to the teeming hordes of London town.

  ‘Can’t disagree,’ John said, looking at the mass of people surging around them. They moved back out of the main drag into a quiet side street.

  ‘Right, you both know what the plan is when we get there,’ Knut said. ‘However, so as not to attract attention, we’re going to separate. We’ll each make our own way individually over to the tower building, where we’ll meet up again at the entrance on the Chinatown side of the building and enter from there. John, you go from the left side along Portland Street, and then turn right into New York Street. I’ll go across the centre and then round Portland Street also.’ Speaking slowly to the muscle and pointing, Knut added, ‘You go along Moseley Street and then turn left into New York Street. Once in the mall we walk together, enter the foyer of FrackUK and then its go, go, go. Any questions?’

  John and the muscle both shook their heads.

  ‘Right, let’s go,’ Knut ordered. ‘You two go first, nice and steady. My route is shorter and straight across. I’ll follow in a minute.’

  Knut’s instructions had a twofold purpose, the obvious one being that they should be less obvious to anybody watching, and the other one being that he wished to avoid the possibility of them being seen by any protesters who were still in the gardens area, albeit now in one group and smaller in number.

  ***

  Back at FrackUK we are still theorising on the murder. I am developing an idea, but feel it is too early to voice to Lambert and Evans, and would also like to know what else Sammy Wang can dig up. I decide to bide my time, and perhaps chew it over with Amelia first.

  Lambert is becoming impatient, while Evans is pacing around and keeps checking out of the window. Nothing much seems to be going on.

  ‘I think we might be of better use back at base chasing things up with Sammy Wang,’ Lambert announces, rising up from his chair.

  At that point, almost exactly on cue, there is a loud screech of brakes and horns sounding. A horrific shriek is heard from the crowd outside.

  Evans is still at the window. ‘Quick!’ he shouts. ‘It looks like someone has been run over by a tram.’

  We all rush over to the window and are afforded a bird’s-eye view. A tram has stopped, and six policemen have detached themselves from guarding the protesters and have started to cordon off the area in front of the tram. There is mayhem. All traffic is at a standstill, and sirens can be heard in the distance as emergency vehicles, police and ambulance, attempt to make their way through the traffic to the site of the incident.

  ‘If they’ve been run over by a tram, an ambulance won’t be much help,’ Amelia sadly observes.

  ‘Evans, get down there and find out what going on,’ says Lambert. ‘I’ll phone HQ and make sure they have the details. We’ll wait here until you come back up.’

  Carl comes running into the office. ‘Have you seen…?’ He stops mid-sentence when he sees us all standing at the window, rooted to the scene below.

  Evans runs out as ordered, and minutes pass before we are able to tear ourselves away from the drama unfolding before us. More police are now evident, and an ambulance arrives, siren blazing. It feels like only minutes later and a body bag is loaded into the ambulance, which starts its sombre journey to the morgue.

  Eventually, one by one, we silently return to our seats around the table. No one speaks for a minute.

  ‘I’ll organise drinks,’ Carl offers.

  ‘I’d better make the call to HQ,’ Lambert says, standing up, to be more private in the corridor
.

  ***

  Outside Debenhams department store, Knut waited the minute he had promised his minions and then began to stroll across the centre of Piccadilly Gardens. To a casual observer he was an ordinary shopper enjoying the mildness of a Saturday afternoon afforded by weak sunlight with few clouds, rare for Manchester in November. He checked on the stalls, some selling various kinds of trinkets and tee shirts, others bargain sweets and so forth. He looked up at the giant wheel as he passed under it, wondering, as most did, whether it ran at a profit with so few cars occupied.

  The tram driver on the Bury to Altrincham line had driven his tram from Victoria station south along Market Street, where he turned right onto Mosley Street for a few yards and then left to go through the bus station towards his next stop, Piccadilly railway station. He saw a tallish man on the edge of the kerb, wearing dark clothes and with fair hair cut short in a military style. The tram was going slowly, and just behind it a bus was overtaking in the outside lane. The bus passed quickly, but the man failed the routine taught to every small child: he looked right, then left, but his undoing was not to look right again. The tram was almost upon him when he stepped into the road. The driver sounded the horn automatically, his brain registering immediately that it was too late. The last thing the driver saw as the tram struck the man and his head spun around was the horrified look in his ice-cold Nordic-blue eyes.

  ***

  In the FrackUK offices, Carl returns with drinks, followed by Lambert. Stating the obvious, Lambert asks, ‘Evans still out there?’

  ‘Yes, no word from him as yet from him,’ I report.

  ‘Well, as soon as he is back we’d better be off back to base.’

  Five minutes later Evans returns.

  ‘Calming down slightly out there now,’ he informs us. ‘They’ve carted that poor sod off to the morgue, what’s left of him anyway. The driver’s in a right state, going to need counselling. He’s not hardened yet. It’s his first fatality, only been in the job a month.’

  ‘Did the driver say anything?’ Amelia asks.

  ‘Only that the man didn’t look right a second time. The driver said he’d been sounding the horn intermittently like they always do going through the centre of Piccadilly, and that he clearly saw him look right once, then left, but not right a second time. He just stepped out.’

  ‘Have we got any ID on him?’ Lambert asks.

  ‘Didn’t get to ask, sir,’ Evans replies. ‘I’ll check with uniform back at the station. It wasn’t easy to ask under the circumstances.’

  ‘Not squeamish, are you?’ Lambert retorts.

  ‘He was kind of squashed, sir,’ Evans says in his defence.

  Lambert nods curtly. ‘OK, well, let’s go and spend an hour back at the station, and see what’s turned up about this incident and check the info from Sammy Wang. He should have collated it all by now.’ Turning to us, he adds, ‘Give you guys a chance to firm up a theory as well.’

  Chapter 37

  Outside the Chinatown entrance to the building John and the muscle had been waiting nearly ten minutes for Knut, and attracted the attention of CID officers. They heard the noise of the incident in Piccadilly on the other side of the building, and also of course the police sirens. Their big mistake was not to walk towards the action, as would be expected by your normal ghoulish oglers, but to run in the opposite direction down George Street. They were quickly apprehended by the CID officers and carted off to the police station.

  ***

  Lambert and Evans having departed, and Carl on other duties, Amelia and I are now alone in the office and can theorise some more on the murder.

  ‘Let’s take a step back with regards to Sophia,’ I suggest. ‘If she did have anything to do with it, why would she ask us to help her in the first place?’

  ‘She is clearly seriously worried about something,’ Amelia agrees. ‘And maybe the story about a stalker was a cover-up.’

  ‘And she can be unstable, as evidenced by the attack on you.’

  ‘And supported by Carlo’s confession about her past history,’ Amelia adds. ‘But for the sake of argument, if she wanted to commit murder and most likely in a rage, surely she would naturally resort to martial arts, which would then leave obvious signs?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I concur. ‘And that brings us around again to the conclusion that she is not the killer but is definitely covering something up. OK, I think I might have a twinkling of an idea, but need to hear what information comes back next from the police.’

  We continue throwing ideas around, but nothing else sounds remotely feasible. Its early evening and now dark. It is now much quieter outside, the crowds having dispersed, and even the protesters have given up. The trams are not running on the track where the incident took place, and the area close around the incident is still cordoned off as a forensic team go about their business of proving what appears to be patently obvious: that a man has died as a result of being run over by a tram.

  There is a tap on the door and in walks Carl Benson, followed by Lambert and Evans, accompanied by Sammy Wang carrying a large folder of notes and printouts.

  ‘Evening all,’ Lambert mimics, in a woeful Dixon of Dock Green accent. ‘I thought it was easier to bring Sammy in with us, so you can hear the story first-hand from him.’

  ‘Good idea,’ we say, nodding in agreement.

  ‘While Sammy is organising himself,’ Lambert says, ‘Evans has some news on the tram incident and the fracking protest front.’

  We sit up, all attention at this announcement. Evans produces his own notes from a smaller folder.

  ‘Right, I’m not sure where to begin, so if anything sounds distorted just stop me. Firstly, the man knocked down earlier today was none other than Hans Johansen, alias Knut Amundsen.’

  We gasp in amazement.

  ‘We have had more information from Stavanger, Norway, via Oslo about Knut. One item of interest in this particular situation is that when he was based in Stavanger, working on an oil rig in the North Sea, there was an explosion. He survived with only minor injuries, but lost the hearing in his right ear.’

  ‘That’s why he didn’t hear the tram!’ Amelia exclaims excitedly.

  ‘Exactly,’ Evans confirms.

  ‘But… but wait. It couldn’t have been an accident that he was here. He must have been about to cause mischief of some kind,’ I splutter.

  Evans is almost enjoying himself now. ‘Hold on, I’m coming to that bit. When we got back to HQ earlier, we were given a report – or rather, the boss here was – that two men loitering outside the Chinatown side entrance were arrested on suspicion of intent to illegally enter this very building at virtually the same time as poor Knut was run over by a tram. They were caught not running towards the incident but running away, immediately causing more suspicion in the eagle eyes of the two CID officers who had independently been keeping tabs on them as looking out of place.’

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ I compliment. ‘Good policing.’

  Lambert, looking smugly proud, takes up the story. ‘One was a local hard man from Salford and had been with the fracking protest group as muscle at your mate’s farm up in Lancashire. The other man, a Cockney, was the armourer, who had a sports bag containing a rifle and three automatic handguns.’

  Carl, who has been listening intently, shouts, ‘Oh, my God! Were they going to assassinate us?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ Lambert continues. ‘Their plan was to force their way into the building, occupy these premises, and hold whoever was in here hostage until their demands were met.’

  ‘Wow! There but for the grace of God!’ Carl exclaims.

  ‘Indeed, you’re dead right there,’ I agree.

  ‘I wouldn’t fancy being a hostage either,’ Amelia adds.

  There is a reflective pause until Evans brings order and calm. ‘Anyone for a cup of tea?’ he offers.

  There is a yes from everyone, but it is Carl who steps up and gets his long-suffering volunteer on the
job again. Refreshments on the go, Sammy is now prepared to give his findings on the collation of his re-interviews at Salford into Work and the Lowry Hotel.

  Shuffling his papers, he begins. ‘As we all know, Marian Clowes was murdered on the evening of 14th November, shortly after leaving the Lowry Hotel at approximately 9pm. Owing to his immediate disappearance, Barry Milton was first suspected of being the perpetrator. He would have had motive, as he would have assumed Marian was about to blow the whistle on his fraudulent activities at Salford into Work. As a large, strong man with a history of violence, he would certainly have the means. However, the problem is opportunity, as there is no witness testimony that he was outside of the bar area at the time of the murder. In fact, there are a number of witness statements that he never left the bar area at all.’

  Amelia holds up her hand at this point. ‘Is there any possibility that a witness has not been questioned yet, or is lying?’

  ‘We are ninety-nine per cent sure that we have questioned everyone who was in the bar area, and we can see no reason for any to have lied,’ Sammy answers.

  ‘That still leaves us with a whole load of people,’ I state.

  Lambert interjects at this point, in defence of Sammy. ‘There were an awful lot of people in the bar that night, but back to opportunity and motive, we are looking for someone who had motive and opportunity, which to begin with must exclude those people who were not with the party from Salford into Work.’

  ‘But for opportunity, the perpetrator must have gone outside at about 9pm,’ I add.

  ‘That’s correct,’ Lambert confirms.

  My thoughts are crystallising now, but I wait for more.

  Sammy continues. ‘So what we are left with are witness statements that point to two people from the Salford into Work party, who it appears could have gone outside and possibly stayed outside, waited for Marian Clowes to leave the bar, and then murdered her.’