by Tessa Dale
“Sorry, Guv. What do you want to know?”
“She used to work at the big house?”
“Yes, Guv. Until they were all fired without explanation.”
“Oh, there was an explanation alright,” Clever told him, “but you failed to get from the woman.”
“She was confused, Guv.”
“Really? Did you bother to get her name? I mean other than Ginnie the Confused, Less Than Truthful Pram Lady, of course.”
“Yes, I did ask.” Stanton considered for a moment, then it came back to him. “Virginia. That’s short for Ginnie, isn’t it?”
“Stanton!”
“Thrower, Guv. Virginia Thrower.”
“You described her as an old woman. How old?”
“A figure of speech, Guv,” Stanton replied. “Living rough has done her no favours, but I’d guess at her being no more than late forties, or fifty.”
“Go and find her,” the DCI demanded. “Both of you. Pick her up, and bring her here. Oh, and bring the pram too.”
“Yes, Guv,” Dan Jones said, assuming responsibility for the assignment. “I’ll whistle up a van. What do I do if she refuses to come with us?”
“She’s a bit odd, Sarge, but not rowdy,” Stan Stanton told him. “The poor woman wouldn’t hurt a fly. Promise her a bun and a cup of tea, and she’ll come quietly enough.”
“Glad to hear it. Why are we pulling her in, Guv?” Dan Jones asked, surprised at the turn of events.
“Thanks to our Chief Constable, she is now a suspect in the murder of Peter Kerr.”
“I don’t believe it,” Stanton muttered.
“We have to follow the chain of evidence,” Clever replied. “I have information that compels me to talk with Virginia Thrower urgently. Our man Fornell, it seems, was something of a lothario figure. He had sexual liaisons with at least three young women in the employ of Charles Vancleur. Ginnie was one of them, and it is possible that Peter Kerr was her long abandoned son.”
Dan Jones crossed to his desk and rummaged through a half dozen sheets of paper. He found what he wanted and handed it across to his boss.
“Just arrived from my pal in Coventry,” he said. “They tried to trace Kerr back through his parents. It turns out that he was a foundling. Mrs. Kerr was not his birth mother, Guv. What if Peter Kerr found out about it when his adoptive mum died?”
“There are plenty of questions, Dan,” Clever said. “Let’s get our pram lady in here, and start finding out some answers.”
Richard Clever waited for his two subordinates to leave, then made his way down to the bowels of the building, in search of the vaults where old evidence boxes were stored.
His request for the sealed boxes in the Fornell case was written down on a green form and, much to his surprise, the two packages were found within five minutes.
“Thank you, Sergeant Tidy,” he said, assessing the weight of the evidence. “Can you have one of your boys take it up to our forensics lab? He is to deliver them to Professor McFarland, in person.”
Neil McFarland was not yet aware of it, but he was about to conduct a complete forensic investigation of a twenty three year old murder. Richard Clever knew that the sharp minded Scotsman would leave no stone unturned, and could confirm or disprove Peter Fornell’s guilt once and for all.
The DCI returned to his office and, picking up his telephone, dialled an internal number. It was answered at the fourth ring.
“Hello, is that Professor McFarland? Neil, old chap, I was wondering when we could get together for a spot of dinner, and a game of chess?”
“Why, Richard, this is a pleasant surprise,” McFarland replied. A dinner invitation, without ulterior motive.”
“Ah, yes, well… the fact is….”
“The boxes have already arrived,” said McFarland, laughing at the DCI’s discomfort. “I’m guessing you want me to conduct some tests?”
“I want you to imagine that the murder has just happened, and that you have collected the contents of the boxes,” Richard Clever replied. “How soon can you let me know your findings?”
“A day or two. Don’t get your hopes up though. This stuff has been lying around in an old vault for over two decades. That might mean the evidence is degraded beyond use.”
“I ask only that you do your best,” Clever said. “By the by, I meant it about the invitation. Where do you fancy?”
“The town square. There’s a nice cafe next to the newspaper shop that does a good onion soup. Lunch tomorrow. One o’ clock, and I’ll bring the chess set.”
“That sounds great,” Clever confessed. “My place is hardly fit for entertaining dinner guests. I’ll see you then.”
It was only after he had put the phone down that he realized he had made a new friend – the first since his university days.
“Damn and bother!” he said. Friends could get under one’s feet, and seldom made for good work colleagues. “I suppose I’ll have to let him win the odd game!”
Chapter Sixteen
Virginia Thrower, at a robust twelve stone, and made to look even larger with the countless layers of old clothes used to keep her warm during the colder weather, should have stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. The addition of a large, black baby’s perambulator to the ensemble should have made her speedy capture a foregone conclusion, but it did not.
Put quite simply, and much to the annoyance of Dan Jones and Stan Stanton, the woman had vanished. She had not been seen for at least twenty four hours, and the street corners and cheap cafés she so often frequented remained resolutely unattended,
“Where the hell has the bloody woman gone?” Dan Jones railed. “One minute you can’t walk down the street without tripping over her, and the next, she’s done a passable impersonation of Harry Houdini!”
Detective Constable Stanton was just as mystified, and said so to his irate sergeant. Considering the poor woman’s abject poverty, it was unlikely that she had booked into a swish hotel, or decided to take a nice break at the seaside. He was stunned when he found the latter outlandish guess to be the case.
“Pram Lady?” One of Castleburgh’s other vagrants said, holding out his hand to receive a half crown bribe. “You’re a saint, sir, and no mistake. Dear old Ginnie stopped by yesterday to say goodbye. She’s come into some cash, and has took herself off to Blackpool for a while. The sea air will sort her out.”
“When?” DC Stanton demanded. The old man gazed around, as if about to pluck the answer from the surrounding air. The constable cursed silently to himself, but bided his time. The old chap gave a wheezing cough and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Yesterday evening,” he said at length. “She was going towards the bus depot, last I saw of her.”
Ten minutes later Sam Hurst found herself being cross examined by two very insistent policemen. She caught the thrust of their demands, and held up a quieting hand.
“Calm down, Stan,” she said. “The woman caught the last bus out yesterday. I remember because she insisted on her pram going too. The boss charged her another two shillings. They loaded her on, and left for Blackpool at five thirty.”
“We need to get onto the Blackpool police right away,” said Dan Jones.
“The Guv’nor is going to go mad at us,” Stanton replied.
“Not if we have a positive result for him. If the Blackpool lads can pick her up, we can have a van bring her, and her damned pram, back here... And no real harm done.”
“What could have possessed her,” Stanton asked. “Simply taking off like that, Sarge?”
“More to the point,” Dan Jones said, “is where did she get the money from? It takes real money to jump on buses, and to live in Blackpool, even if she sleeps rough on the promenade.”
Ginnie Thrower had never been out of Castleburgh before, and was finding the heady delights of Blackpool’s promenade to be altogether too much for her. The crowds of visitors surged around her, as if she had ceased to exist, and made her shudder with fear.
A seafood stall provided her with food, but the owner was surprised when the down at heel woman tried to pay with a crisp, new five pound note.
He was beginning to grow annoyed with her, demanding that she handed over the correct money. So, it was a relief when a policeman on a bicycle pulled up alongside her pram, and asked her what her name was.
“Ginnie,” she replied. “Are you here to take me back home?”
“Yes, love,” the young constable told her. “Some people want to talk to you.”
“Here, what about my money?” the stallholder demanded. “I want a shilling off her.”
“I gave him a five pound note,” Ginnie explained, “but he refused to accept it.”
“Then he can’t be that worried, can he?” the young PC said, throwing the seafood salesman a sharp look. “Either give the lady her change, or return her money.”
The man cursed and handed back the five pound note. He wasn’t going to get mixed up with the police for the sake of a tub of cockles.
“Right, my love,” the PC said. “Let’s get you sorted out now.”
“Yes, please. I know I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Done what?” the officer asked.
“I shouldn’t have killed my son,” Ginnie replied, her face flushing with tears.
“I’m sure the nice police officers in Castleburgh will be happy to listen to your confession,” the PC replied. He was a beat bobby, and unused to having people confess to lurid murders whilst on duty. “You can tell them all about it.”
“No, it was wrong. My poor, poor baby. God help my soul, but I strangled him. My own flesh and blood!”
The constable walked Pram Lady the few yards to the nearest Police Telephone Box and rang through to the main station opposite Central Pier.
“Sarge, It’s Constable Wilson here. I’ve found the woman Castleburgh wanted us to look out for. No, no trouble. It’s just that she’s confessed to murdering that Kerr chap they mentioned. No, as God is my witness, Sergeant McKinley. She claims to have throttled the poor sod to death!”
Five minutes later, a Black Maria van arrived, and Virginia Thrower’s short holiday was over. The telephone lines between Blackpool and Castleburgh were on fire with the news that Peter Kerr’s killer had been apprehended, and that said murderer was none other than his mother.
Dan Jones delivered the news to his DCI personally, but was surprised at his reaction. Richard Clever listened to the brief report of the capture, and shook his head.
“When Peter Kerr was cut down, his wallet was untouched.”
“So what, Guv?”
“So, where did our Pram Lady get her money from, and another small point comes to mind. If she killed him, why did she say he was coming back to marry her?”
“That does seem odd, but she’s as mad as a hatter.”
“I doubt it. I think she’s just a confused woman,” Clever said. “A woman who has been taken advantage of.”
“She made a very specific confession, Guv,” Dan Jones persisted. “She strangled her son. How confused does that sound? No, I think she lost her reason when she found out he was her long lost son, and killed him out of shame. I bet ten bob I’m right!”
“This isn’t a Victorian melodrama, Dan,” the DCI told him. “You had best get ready to hand over that money.”
“We’ll see. She’ll be here in a couple of hours, Guv.”
“Fair enough. They remembered the pram, didn’t they?”
Vincent Morant was flanked by two of his hardest gang members, but still felt uneasy about his secret meeting with Chief Constable Herbert. The policeman had demanded the get together, and was insisting on the return of any incriminating evidence Vinnie held.
“Not just yet,” Vinnie told him. “I’ve only your word for it that Jacko Ball is gone for good. His boys are coming over to me, but if he shows up again, there will be war.”
“Mr. Ball is finished,” Herbert replied. “Now, either I get what I want, or I start pulling your empire apart, piece by piece.”
“Not yet,” Vinnie insisted. “The papers are safe enough with me, for the time being.”
Chief Constable Herbert took a deep breath and reminded himself that his great success in life was due entirely to his ability to play the long game. Even as a lowly constable on the beat he had tried to anticipate the future and, with luck, make it work to his best advantage. He had attached himself to a strong sergeant, and played the part of a devoted servant until he made the step up to sergeant at twenty six.
Sidestepping the usual rungs in the ladder, Herbert had avoided front desk duty and a stint back on the beat, emerging as a Detective Inspector in CID before he was thirty. Along the way, he had done small ‘favours’ for the right people, and when his DCI dropped dead prematurely at the age of forty, DI Herbert seemed the best man for the job.
Mixing with the likes of Black Archie Morant had brought in the money that proved the perfect accompaniment to his growing power and, with words dropped in the right ears, his steady rise was assured. Patience, with a little coercion and some veiled threats, put him in the prime position when the Chief Constable’s job came along and, at the age of forty eight, he took his chance.
The long game had worked for him, but now he was a worried man. Using his position to remove Jacko Ball had been a dangerous move, opening him up to accusations of being involved with political graft and corruption on a wide scale, but it had been necessary in order that he might keep Vincent Morant from leaking damaging information to DCI Clever.
Now, Morant was trying to have his cake, and eat it too. He was no better than his pathetic uncle had been all those years ago when he had tried to upset his investigation of the Fornell murder case. Alan Herbert had bested a Morant then, and would do so again, twenty three years on.
Perhaps it was time to forget the long term approach, and tell the man how things would be if he reneged on their agreed deal. He realised that he had been silent for almost a minute, and that Morant was beginning to twitch, nervously, waiting for him to speak again.
“Our agreement was that you would turn over your uncle’s foolishly recorded account of our dealings,” Alan Herbert said, softly. “I am quite sure you understood that, Vinnie. Jacko Ball has gone, and it was by my hand. Now you say ‘thank you’ to me, and deliver your part of the deal.”
“Like I said…”
“No, Vincent. The matter is not open for discussion,” The Chief Constable glanced around the empty pub, closed for the sake of their meeting, and his eyes settled on the big, etched mirror behind the dark wooden bar. He crossed the room, picked up an empty pint pot from the counter, and threw it at the glass.
The huge mirror shattered, sending shards of glass spraying across the bar, and onto the floor at Vincent Morant’s feet. Before he could react, one of his men lunged at Herbert, who caught his flailing fist and levered the thug’s arm up his back. There was an audible snapping noise, and the man screamed in pain.
The Chief Constable released him and stepped up close to Morant, almost until their noses touched. The gangster, shocked into immobility by the unexpected events, blinked in fear. Herbert grinned then, knowing that his opponent was a man of straw. There would be little need for any further action.
“Well?”
“I don’t have it … I mean, not here,” Morant stammered. “I have a lot of stuff that could land us all in the nick. Uncle Archie was a bugger for keeping his little files.”
“Perhaps I should take everything into safekeeping,” Herbert replied. “It would remove temptation from your path. I take it that Black Archie was pally with more than just me. Spill it.”
“A lot of the stuff is out of date,” Morant said, taking the chance to step back from the big Chief Constable. “My uncle was friendly with a couple of people on the gaming and licensing boards, and was always sniffing around County Hall. You know how it goes.”
Indeed he did. Chief Constable Herbert could, quite easily, imagine gaming licenses an
d planning permissions being swapped for bundles of nice, crisp white five pound notes, and he had a shrewd idea who the culprits might be. A quiet word in certain ears could improve his financial outlook significantly, and make for a long, comfortable retirement.
“Where do you keep it all then?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“Don’t be a smart arse, Vincent. I can always give you a plaster cast too. Is it stashed in a bank, or what?”
“Yes, that’s it,” Morant replied, thinking fast. It would hardly do to tell Herbert that everything was in a couple of cardboard boxes in the spare bedroom’s wardrobe at his mum’s house. “It’s in a bank vault, under lock and key.”
“Which bank?” The Chief Constable was becoming more than a little irritated with Morant, and was considering breaking a couple of his fingers. The gangster’s other thug had backed off, and would prove to be no problem.
“Martins,” Vincent blurted out. “The branch on Hudson Road in Castleburgh. It’s in one of their safety deposit boxes.”
Herbert nodded. Martin’s was his own bank, and he approved the choice. It made sense for Vinnie Morant to take such a precaution. Even if the authorities discovered that he had a stash in a bank vault, it would take them many weeks to get a search warrant, and the bank would fight them all the way. After all, an Englishman’s safety deposit box was considered sacrosanct. It would be a brave judge who meddled in such muddied financial affairs.
“There, that didn’t hurt, did it, Vinnie?” Herbert said. “Now, give me the damned key, and the box number.”
“I can’t,” Vinnie lied. “It’s not under my name, in case the coppers got wind of it. I put it under my mum’s name.”
“So help me, Vinnie!” Herbert exploded. “Your mother has the key to the box?”
“Yes, and she’s out of town, visiting her sister in Scarborough for the rest of the week. She’ll be back on Monday, I swear. On my life, Mr. Herbert.”
