Vengeance

by Donald Phillips

Chapter 5

  Shane Flinders had been first a bit of a handful and then a tearaway for as long as any one who knew him could remember, and lots of people knew Shane. Police, Probation Service, local shopkeepers, neighbours and school teachers. They all of them knew him and of one accord detested him. Shane had defeated his own parents by the age of six and had then gone on to take on the rest of the world. At seventeen his crime sheet down at the local nick covered shoplifting, malicious damage, grievous bodily harm, burglary, car theft and general drunken rowdiness. He was a bad un'. Shane was the only son of George and Betty Flinders and was, they had thought, a gift from god when in their early forties and having given up all hope of a child, they had finally found they were to become parents. They were giving their thanks in entirely the wrong direction.

  George Flinders, a sparse, skinny man of medium height and almost completely bald, was not given to drawing attention to himself. He worked, if the travelling public can forgive the euphemism, as a porter for British Rail at Temple Meads station in Bristol. He was not the cleverest man in the world, but he was happy enough at his job and could imagine no other life after twenty-five years service on the railways. Betty Flinders was a tiny, plump woman with mousy brown hair and large brown eyes, which, in her younger days had been her best feature. Like her husband George, she also believed in keeping one's self to one's self. Betty Flinders had worked at the Will's Tobacco factory from leaving school at the age of fifteen until she was four months pregnant with Shane at the age of forty four, when the doctor had advised her that as an older mother she should stop work, stop smoking and rest more. George and Betty had at that time been married for twenty years.

  When the doctor had told the amazed couple they were about to become parents they had spared no expense. The spare bedroom of the tiny terraced house they had scraped and saved to buy was made into the nursery and a new Silver Line pram was purchased along with the finest quality crib and bedclothes. Betty followed a strict regime of exercises and rest and duly gave up smoking, not easy when she had been smoking free and cheap cigarettes for over twenty years and she also gave up chocolates. George, for his part, cut down his nights at the pub to just his regular Friday night darts match, much to the relief of the other regulars who were getting just a little tired of hearing about “The Miracle Pregnancy”. The money they saved all went towards things for the new arrival.

  As had been predicted Betty experienced a difficult pregnancy and for the last two months was confined almost totally to her bed, so bad was the swelling in her legs if she spent more than half an hour on her feet. The doctors, forgetting in their professionalism just how overwhelmed Betty Flinders felt to have finally and unexpectedly been granted the gift of motherhood, showing little sympathy for those foolish enough to have their first child at her advanced age. By the time Shane was ready to make an appearance so many people had enjoyed regaling her with tales of problems that attended older mothers pregnancies, that she had come to believe them and was dreading the moment when it would be time to actually see her offspring. A feeling that was to return with a vengeance some years later when he began his one-man crime wave.

  Shane Flinders finally entered the world some two weeks late after being delivered by caesarean section. He was born in the condition that the hospital staff referred to as “flat” and spent his first two weeks in a incubator, recovering. For a few days it was touch and go, but he then rallied strongly. By the age of three months he had caught up with and began to pass his peers. He was not a pretty child and when she had first laid eyes on him Betty's immediate reaction had been that they had shown her the wrong baby. The bright, carroty red hair and green-grey eyes being no match to anyone in hers or George's family that she could give name to. George too suffered some surprise at the appearance of his offspring, but in the manner of parents all over the world the significance of his sons looks soon paled besides the miracle of having produced a living being, and a boy child at that, someone who would carry on the Flinders name into the future. His little chest ached with being thrust forward with pride for most of his waking hours. Shane was taken home at the end of three weeks and proudly displayed to anyone who could be persuaded to look at him. Not unnaturally Shane, named after George’s favourite western, was indulged shamelessly.

  After a normal babyhood in which he progressed to the satisfactorily, at the age of five he went off to school. After he had been there several months it became obvious that he would never be a genius although he had a natural animal intelligence that would probably see him through. The only problem was his total disrespect for others property and a willingness to punch anyone to get what he wanted. There were remonstrations and punishments from both parents and his teachers, this meaning no more an occasional tut-tut or naughty boy from George and Betty and little more from his teachers, did little to change him. Consequently he found he could do pretty much as he liked.

  By the time he was fourteen, Shane had practically the physical development of an adult and this meant that pupils over two years his senior and most of the school staff were careful not to upset him. The bright red hair had remained to be joined by a reddish blonde down on his cheeks, while a large and prominent nose only just separated the tiny greeny-grey eyes. The bottom jaw was slightly undershot giving him a permanently aggressive look and bore more than its fair share of adolescent acne, while his neck was thick, short and powerfully set upon shoulders that strained his tee shirts. He was to finish growing at a height a little shorter than average at five feet nine inches, but would never be described as small because of his powerful body.

  His teachers had long since given up trying to teach him and were content to allow him to drift through his academic studies provided he did not disrupt the rest of the class during lessons. In the playground they did not even try to control him and he did pretty much what he liked to whom he liked. Smart enough to realise this he ran a one man protection racket among the younger age groups that brought him all the sweets and pocket money he needed, but he was careful not to push it beyond the bounds of reason that would have forced the authorities to take action, thereby allowing them to completely ignore it. And so a kind of truce evolved saving all concerned from what could have been a difficult situation, with the exception his fellow pupils and victims that is. The crunch had to come and it finally came at a school football match.

  Shane liked football and played as a defender for the second-eleven team in his year. He was by no means a brilliant player, but the sight of him running towards them with a look of grim determination on his face was usually enough to distract most forwards before they could take any meaningful action. Those that needed stronger persuasion than this were flattened without ceremony by a crunching and usually late, tackle. The ensuing free kick did very little to persuade them it was worth trying to pass him a second time

  On this particular occasion they were playing away at a local private school, where due to the intensive sports coaching given, the standard of opposition was a lot higher than usual and they had lost eight to nil. The opposing right-winger had been running rings around Shane all of the afternoon and had been far too quick and clever to suffer the usual “smash them into the floor” treatment. Not only had he been running rings around Shane, but also he had been laughing at him while he did it and at the final whistle Shane was not in the best of humours. He and the rest of his team had dressed at quickly as possible in their dressing room and tried to slink quickly away from the scene of their humiliation, but it was not to be. The boys from the private school were stood around waiting for their parents to come and collect them in their cars and Shane and company had to run the gauntlet to reach their old and battered school mini bus. The winger who had humiliated Shane all afternoon, as well as scoring four of the eight goals seemed to have decided they were not to get away that easily. Leaning back against the veranda rail of the chalet style wooden changing rooms beloved by small private schools everywhere, he turned his head to his colleag
ues and made his remarks in a loud voice.

  “Hardly worth turning out for really, chaps. Not even a decent practise for us today.”

  Shane and his teammates kept their heads down and walked towards the mini bus with their necks and faces turning deep red.

  “Should have scored even more you know. It would have been ten or twelve if someone hadn't let that Orang-Utan onto the pitch. Had to keep running around the blighter to reach the goal.”

  Shane's mates carted their eyes at him waiting for the explosion that did not come. Shane himself was certain the other boy was taking the piss, but being unsure what an Orang-Utan was, didn't want to make a Pratt of himself. The other boy continued.

  “You must have seen it lads. That bloody great big red monkey that was wandering about in the middle of the pitch. I asked the Ref to ring the zoo at half time and get it collected, but he must have forgotten.”

  At this his colleagues gave a few titters of nervous laughter, but Shane's build prevented outright merriment. This last remark however, had removed any lingering doubts from Shane’s mind that the other was having a go at him. Having reached the mini bus by now he threw his kit into a seat through the open door and then looked around to make sure that the teacher who had brought them here and the other school's teacher were still in the club house kitchen enjoying their cup of tea. He walked back to the other youth and stood directly in front of him.

  “Get down of that veranda you cocky little bastard and come here. I'm going to break your face for you.”

  The two boys were of an even height although Shane was by far the heavier and stronger of the two, but his did not worry the other youth. He was two years older than the redhead and the captain of the school boxing team. This big Neanderthal had a few surprises coming. By now the other boys had gathered around in expectancy, both sides feeling that the other team's man was in for a bit of a shock. Without hurrying the private school youth stripped off his blazer and school tie and after rolling up his sleeves vaulted the veranda rail and landed in front of Shane, but some six feet away. He lifted his hands in the classic boxing pose and began to dance lightly around Shane while flicking out his left fist.

  “Come on then, caveman, lets see what you can do.”

  He danced in and his left hand stung Shane twice above the right eye before he danced back out of reach. Shane blinked, shook his head and turned to face him. The youth came in again dancing lightly about and twice more the left hand landed on Shane's right eyebrow, which began to turn an angry red. Shane swung a haymaker of a right and when it missed by some six inches rushed forward to follow it up with a swinging left hook. No one was there, but two more blows landed on his face, the second bringing blood to his nose. By now the private school boys were cheering their man on madly while Shane's mates were beginning to look at each other in consternation. What the bloody hell was happening to Killer Flinders? The stinging left fist caught the right eye twice more and Shane's vision was reduced to one eye. He rushed in and tried to grab his opponent, but a combination of six or seven punches left him grasping at thin air with only a split lip and his bleeding nose to show for his trouble. The other youth looked him over and decided it was time to move in for the kill. That was his mistake.

  He danced in again and drove several punches into Shane's body before stepping back a few inches to switch upstairs to the head, but he had come too close and a large meaty hand caught the front of his shirt and yanked him forward and off his feet. The first head butt caught him on the forehead with enough force to stun him. The second landed directly on his nose, smashing the bone and sending him into semi-consciousness. The third landed on his left cheekbone as he desperately twisted his head to one side to avoid it, causing in the following order, a depressed fracture, unconsciousness and concussion. It might still have been all right if Shane had stopped there, but that was impossible, his blood was up. Feeling the other become a dead weight in his hands Shane dropped him face down onto the grass. He stepped back a little to make room and then twice kicked the other in the short ribs as hard as he could, fracturing three of them.

  It was this last action that the two masters witnessed as they came running out in response to the baying of Shane's team mates and the screams of dirty fighting from the other boys. The two of them grabbed him by the arms and pinned him against the veranda rail, panting and snorting until the red mist had cleared from his eyes and they could release him. Then they bundled all the comprehensive schoolboys into their mini bus and their teacher drove them home, while the other master rang for an ambulance for the unconscious right-winger. On the way home Shane refused even to discuss the matter with anyone, even his mates, while the teacher drove in frosty silence imagining the explaining he would have to do to the headmaster.

  It is just possible that Shane might still have got away with it if the other boy had not been Andrew Hobart, the son of a local engineering manufacturer. His father, Terry Hobart, owned and ran a precision engineering company specialising in aerospace components. He was successful because he ran a very tight ship and would not employ anyone who did not reach his own high standards. He was also a Mason and as such knew a fair number of other influential people in the city. After visiting his son in hospital, where he could scarcely believe the extent of the injuries that had been inflicted upon him, he rang a fellow mason who was a barrister and gave him the details of the affair, not forgetting that it was Andrew who had picked the fight. John Braniggan, the barrister, listened carefully before he gave his reply.

  “Well, Terry, if you take the matter to court you must expect that Andrew will not come out of this smelling of roses. He picked a fight with a younger boy of whom he felt himself to be intellectually and physically superior, safe in the knowledge that he was his school’s and the area, boxing champion.” He paused before continuing. “However, if what you say is true and the other boy used his head to knock him unconscious and not content with that went on to break three of his ribs by kicking him when he lay helpless, then I would think most of our magistrates would take a dim view of that.”

  It was what Terry Hobart wanted to hear. He thanked his friend and hung up, only to immediately pick up the phone again and dial the number for the local police station and that is how Shane Flinders started his criminal record.

  John Braniggan had called it almost exactly right. Andrew Hobart was bound over to keep the peace for a period of six months for his part in the affray. In Shane's case the magistrates were not so lenient. He was given probation for one year, provided he attended the Probation Office weekly during that time. It was the turning point that began a career of violence that over the next couple of years would make him one of Bristol's best-known juvenile delinquents.

  Stung that he should have been treated more harshly than that rich bastard who had started the fight, Shane declared war on the whole system. No one and nothing was sacred. He started by stealing a half-pound ball pane hammer from his father's shed, which he then carried halfway across Bristol to the Hobart home in Filton. Here he used it to smash every bit of glass in the Hobart's Jaguar Daimler, which for once had been left in the street outside the house. When he got home the police were already waiting for him and he was again taken off to the Bricewell and charged, the hammer found to be still in his pocket. While awaiting trial he terrorised the other pupils at his school until in the record time of just five weeks he was expelled for the safety of the other children. At home his father became afraid to talk to him and both parents took to hiding their money and valuables in obscure places.

  At this second visit to the magistrate’s court he got six months in the Youth Detention Centre on Portland Bill. Here he found that he was not leader of boys he had been on the outside. Here he was a very small fish indeed. He had to fight for everything, every day, even his food. He took to it like a duck to water and after some bloody battles and good hidings he finally worked his way up to become a part of the ruling strata of the place, one of the acknowledged hard
men. It was here he learned how to commit burglary and car theft without getting caught. By the time he was released his already prominent nose leaned at an angle across his face. It was a souvenir of his first day in the detention centre when he had yet to establish his place in the hierarchy and an unexpected head butt had floored him after he had questioned the right of another inmate to some of his cigarettes. He was also almost without physical fear as he reckoned that he had already survived the worst that society could do to him. He immediately started on a two year, one-man crime wave, only very briefly interrupted by a further three months in the Detention Centre. A hardened criminal, he now carried a one-pound ball pane hammer with him everywhere. He had it suspended in a sling under his left armpit where it was inconspicuous beneath his jacket, but ready for instant use.

  At ten o'clock in the evening on a fine summer night in late August, he was strolling down an avenue of large private houses looking for a likely burglary prospect when the latest incident occurred. In one of the houses a party was going on and parked outside were a variety of new and expensive cars. Shane listened to the loud sounds of merriment from within and then decided to give them something to wipe the smiles from their faces when they came out. Strolling down the line of cars he took out the hammer and began to smash the front and rear lights closest to the kerb on each vehicle. What he did not know was that a neighbour three doors away from the party had come home from his Rugby Club just twenty minutes earlier to find a rear tyre of his car was flat. As he was expected to be joining his wife and children at his parent’s house, Trevor Morton was angry and frustrated when he discovered the puncture. He had just finished changing the wheel when Flinders passed the end of his drive accompanied by the sound of breaking glass. Jack handle still held in his hand he ran down the drive to intervene.

  “Hey, you little bugger, what do you think you are at?”

  He caught up with Flinders and grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, waving the jack handle at him. Flinders shrugged him off.

  “Fuck off or I'll smash your face in.”

  Trevor, a halfback for Bristol and a County trialist was not afraid of a nasty little guttersnipe like Shane Flinders and grabbed the sleeve again. Because of this confidence in his size and his ability to look after himself it did not occur to Trevor Morton that he might be the next to feel the weight of the young thug's weapon, although he had heard the breaking car lights as Flinders went about his vandalism. Hanging on to his arm he attempted to pull the red headed youth along the pavement towards his house and a telephone

  “Come here with me you destructive little sod, I'm going to call the police.”

  The ball end of the hammer started its travel from somewhere behind Shane's back at around waist level. It gathered speed as it sliced upwards and around and with the full power of Shane's muscular arm propelling it, hit the other squarely on the left temple. There was the soft smacking sound of a ripe apple being thrown hard at a brick wall and the hand fell away from Shane's sleeve as Trevor Morton staggered away backwards from the blow, dropping first to his knees and then on to his face without any attempt to break his fall. He was already dead when his head hit the pavement. Shane stared down at him waiting to see if he would move again before slipping the hammer back into its harness.

  “Stupid Bastard.”

  He casually kicked the fallen man once in the chest before walking off down the street towards his own area of the city. The old lady in number fourteen had only come to the window to see what all the noise and breaking glass was about. She watched Shane Flinders walk past her front door by the light of the lamppost in the street outside and saw the whole incident. With a mottled old hand pressed to her lips she watched without daring to breath as Flinders kicked Trevor Morton's body before placing his hammer back in its sling and walking off. Then she hurried out into the hall to use the telephone. It took her nervous old hands three attempts to ring the number.

  Detective Sergeant Clive Sayers was the first CID member at the scene of the crime. He had been on his way home at the end of his shift when the call had come through on his radio. A short, stocky, fair-haired man of thirty-two, he had been a sergeant in CID for seven years, all of them working for MacAllister. As he was the stabilising factor on some of his DI's more radical views they made a good team. He and MacAllister liked and respected each other and though they sometimes disagreed fundamentally on what the law allowed or did not allow, they very rarely exchanged harsh words. Sayers was a career policeman. Still a sergeant, at his age he did no longer took it for granted the one day he was bound to make Inspector rank. This did not trouble him as he realised that he was not cut out to be the leader. He knew however, that as a second in command there was no one better. He had seen all the same nasty things as the rest of the force, but had not developed the same hard cynical edge as some of the others. He did his job as well as he could, but did not take it home with him as he felt the unsocial hours were already enough for his family to put up with. He intended to see out his remaining time on the force in CID and then at fifty five take his retirement and pension and buy that cottage in Devon he and his wife had dreamt about for a long time. After another twenty-three years of dealing with the general public, especially on incidents like this one he was on his way to now, he would have earned it.

  Sayers parked his car behind a local Panda car that was parked with its hazard lights flashing. Parked in front of that was an ambulance with its strobotic blue light intermittently lighting the street, vehicles, people and surrounding houses, as if they were all in some giant disco. Only the noise was missing. He walked up to the small group of policemen and civilians who were stood around the body on the pavement with its pool of dark liquid leaking from the head and nudged one of the policemen. The man turned and recognised with a quick flash of a smile. Sayers nodded at the corpse.

  “Hello, Bob, what have we got here then?”

  Constable Bob Evert turned to face him. Six foot two with the broad face and weathered complexion of a countryman, Evert had operated for eight years as a motorway patrol man and he was used to the sight of death. Compared to a lot that he had seen this one was a comparatively tidy death. Just a trickle of blood and the body was all in one piece. No need to go searching about in the dark for missing bits of limb with this one. He nodded back as he checked with his notes.

  “Evening, Clive. According to the neighbours,” he indicated the half dozen people stood a few yards away talking among themselves and shaking their heads, “this was Mr Trevor Morton. He's dead and it looks as if the cause of death was a blow to the head with the proverbial blunt instrument, but we are waiting for the doctor to arrive and confirm that. If it is Morton then he lived in that house over there with his wife and two kids, but there is no one in at the moment. His neighbours say that his wife always takes the kids to spend Saturdays at her parent’s house up on Clifton Downs when her husband is playing rugby away from Bristol. They usually stay there the night.”

  Sayers stared down at the body.

  “Have we got any idea what happened? You know? Who did it and why?

  Bob Evert grinned at him.

  “Must be your lucky day, my old mate. We've got an eyewitness in the house over the road. My partner Jennie Carver is with her making her a cup of tea as she is a bit shaken up.”

  They both turned as a blue Ford Mondeo pulled up with a jerk and MacAllister and Marcus Lomax climbed out from it. They both walked over to the group on the pavement where MacAllister took over without a blink. His soft Scottish accent at odds with the urgency of his body language, the deep set blue eyes darting around taking everything in. He was wearing a new double-breasted suit and for once it didn't look as if he had borrowed it.

  “Evening, Clive. Catch you on your way home did they? Never mind.”

  He turned to Marcus Lomax.

  “See that the area is properly taped off and then you and the uniforms start a house to house to see if anyone saw anything. The Doctor won't be he
re for some time as it seems that someone down in the Hotwells area has dug up a body in the garden of a house he has only just bought, so she is a bit tied up at the moment.” He turned back to Clive Sayers. “What have we got so far?”

  “I just got here, Guv, I think Bob Evert could give you a better idea.”

  MacAllister turned to Evert and moved his head in a gesture of inquiry and Evert imperceptibly straightened his shoulders and his thoughts. MacAllister didn't take kindly to rambling reports and Bob Evert had ambitions of joining the CID if the chance came his way. It would sure beat showing the flag in St Paul's or scraping the jam of the motorway for a living. He held up his notebook again.

  “We got a report at ten fifteen of a man being assaulted here in Webley Road. When we got here we found this bloke lying on the pavement with his head in a small pool of blood and no one else to be seen. I gave him a quick check over, but couldn't find a pulse so I assumed he was a goner and called for the works. The ambulance was here in minutes and they confirmed he was dead. I sent my partner over the road to talk to an old lady who saw it happen, a Mrs Blackmoor and she's also the one who reported it, and then I made sure nobody touched anything until the CID arrived.”

  He waved a hand around, a gesture that took in the whole area.

  “The only other thing is that this whole row of cars has had their lights smashed on the kerb side, front and rear. Most of them belong to that group of people standing over there. They were having a party at about four doors along at the time and according to one of the other neighbours you wouldn't have heard Concord taking off over the noise they were making, so none of them heard anything.”

  He resisted checking his notebook, determined to impress.

  “Morton was the only one at home as his wife visits his parents on a Saturday with the two kids. Saturday is Morton's busy day. He's a car salesman with the local BMW agency and then he plays rugby for the Bristol second fifteen in the afternoons. They were playing a cup match away down in Devon this week and we think he had just arrived home from the match when this incident happened. As far as we can tell he was out in his drive changing a wheel on his BMW. The boot of his car is still open, the car is up on the jack, the wheel still lying in the drive is a flat as a pancake and Morton is still holding a jack handle in his right hand. As I said, we have an eye witness in the house across the road who said she saw two men have a fight.”

  He relaxed visibly having managed a clear and concise report and resisting the urge to tell MacAllister of his own theory and conclusions and therefore put the Inspector’s back up

  MacAllister merely nodded and turning to Clive Sayers pointed at Mrs Blackmoor's front door.

  “Better get over and get the details while they are still fresh in her mind.” He turned back to Evert. “Can you give Marcus Lomax a hand on the house to house? I will look after this until the doctor gets here. Wonder why he came home instead of going straight to his parents place?”

  Evert had played a lot of rugby in his younger days and he knew.

  “They go by mini coach usually so they can have a drink with the other team after the match and not have to drive home pissed.”

  “In that case we had better check Morton's blood alcohol when they get him to the morgue. Hope the bloody doctor comes soon.”

  As if on cue a small red Alfa Romeo pulled up and the doctor arrived. Doctor Jacinda Dass, the medical examiner, was from Sri Lanka. She had been going out to dinner when she had been called out to examine a set of bones some one had dug up in their back garden. They had come from what she was sure would turn out to be an old plague pit, as they had to be at least three hundred years old. Trevor Morton was her second call on a night that should have been her night off except for a colleague’s sudden illness and she was dressed in a dark blue, silk sari with gold edging that she had put on two hours ago for the dinner date that was now ruined. She was just twenty-eight years old, slim, very dark skinned and looked absolutely stunning. She dropped her bag to the pavement and gave MacAllister a weary smile.

  “Good evening, Inspector. What have you got for me?”

  MacAllister dragged his eyes away from the beautiful vision in the sari.

  “Suspected murder by the look of it, Doctor. See if you can take a guess at what he was bashed with, will you. And if you think he has been drinking?”

  She crouched down and by the light of the car headlights with a powerful torch quickly and skilfully examined the body. After five minutes she straightened up and stripped off the plastic gloves she had been wearing. She looked up at MacAllister who was waiting patiently.

  “As far as I can see in this light, he has received one hard blow to the left temple causing a depressed fracture as severe as anything I have ever seen. I should think that death was instantaneous.” She hesitated. “I cannot be absolutely certain, but the only thing I can think of that could have caused such an injury is a hammer. As for drinking, it is impossible to be sure without testing, but he doesn't smell of drink.”

  She bent to close her bag and picked it up ready to leave.

  “You can move him now whenever you are ready. Goodnight, Inspector.”

  She gave a small smile and getting back into her car drove off to her delayed dinner date. MacAllister looked thoughtful and turned to Clive Sayers, the thumb and finger of his right hand massaging the bent nose as if he was trying to straighten it.

  “Clive, do you remember that red headed kid that we did for burglary about a year ago? The one who carried the big ball pane hammer in a sling under his arm? Call in and get his name and address and then when you have finished with the witness go and pay him a visit.”

  Sayers nodded.

  “I don't need to ask his name, Guv. It was Flinders. Wayne or Shane Flinders it was and he is a right nasty piece of work. Something like this is would be right up his alley. I had better take Marcus with me in case he fancies taking another swing at someone.”

  MacAllister turned to Bob Evert.

  “Bob do you know where Morton's parents live? We had better get over there and break the news. Do you mind if I take Jenny Carver with me on this one? You can cope here, can't you?”

  Evert nodded, but said nothing, not sure how to break the news to MacAllister. MacAllister, not the most patient of men, became irritated.

  “Well? Do you know where they live or do I have to ask the neighbours?”

  Evert wriggled.

  “You’re not going to like this.” He sighed. “His father is John Morton.”

  MacAllister jerked. Evert nodded to him. MacAllister’s hand went up and covered his eyes in a gesture of disbelief.

  “John Morton of Morton Engineering? The bloody law and order Councillor? The scourge of the police force?”

  Evert shrugged.

  “That's him.”

  MacAllister turned his eyes to heaven.

  “Ye Gods, that's all I need.”

  He turned to where Clive Sayers was approaching with a uniformed policewoman.

  “Clive I think you had better come with me and leave Marcus and the uniforms to pick up Flinders. I think the shit is going to hit the fan.”

  The Morton Senior residence was more of a mansion than a house and was set high up on the downs above the Avon Gorge, the buildings dating back to the period when the slave trade had brought great wealth to Bristol's merchants. The two detectives parked their car in the street ignoring the imposing driveway that already held a BMW compact and a large silver 530d, as though not wanting to impose their presence more than was absolutely necessary or conscious of the shabbiness of their hard working police Ford Mondeo when parked next to the more exotic machinery. Locking the car they walked up fifty meters of driveway to the house in silence. When they arrived at the enclosed porch that was almost big enough to hold a party, Clive Sayers reached out and using the big, highly polished brass knocker, announced their arrival. The noise it made sounded like the knock of doom.

  They stood back slightly so tha
t the light set into the porch ceiling could fall on their faces, aware that these days people who called after dark and unexpectedly could be treated with some suspicion, especially in a wealthy area like this. When the door was opened by the two identically dressed little blonde girls MacAllister knew that this was going to be one of the really difficult ones. They had opened the door laughing and smiling only to stop dead when they saw the two strangers. It was more than obvious this was not who they had expected to see. The smiles froze and little fingers went to mouths as they backed away uncertain of what to do. A tall willowy blonde woman in her late twenties joined them in the doorway and smilingly shooed the children back inside the house. She turned the smile at the two men standing grim faced in the doorway.

  “I am sorry about the girls but they are expecting their father any minute and they naturally thought it was him when you knocked. They should not really be up at this hour, but he usually puts them to bed on a Saturday.” She frowned. “ He should have been here an hour ago. Is him or my father you wanted to see?”

  The two policemen looked at each other, Clive Sayers saying nothing, as when it came to situations like this it was an unspoken rule that the most senior officer present did the dirty work. MacAllister hardened his heart now that the two little girls had disappeared back into the house and became a professional CID officer.

  “Are you Mrs Trevor Morton, Mam?”

  The woman nodded, suddenly scared.

  “I am Detective Inspector MacAllister from the Bristol CID and this is Detective Sergeant Sayers. Could we come in for a moment?”

  He held up his warrant card for her inspection and the woman nodded and stood to one side for them to enter, the apprehension on her face now bordering on panic.

  “Is it, Trevor. Has he had an accident or been hurt at the match? Is he all right?”

  Her voice had gone up half an octave. Sayers decided to help out.

  “Is there anyone with you, Mam? Any one else in the house?”

  She nodded, hand at her throat in a universal gesture of distress.

  “Yes. My husbands parents are in the lounge.”

  “Do you think we could go in there then please, Mrs Morton?”

  Jane Morton swallowed the questions that were about to tumble from her lips and led them across the hall and into a large and luxuriously furnished room that looked out onto a beautifully manicured and floodlit garden. Through the French windows at the far side of the room was a glassed in patio with deeply upholstered cane furniture and here an older couple were sitting where they could look out over the garden, although at this minute their heads were craned around to see who had come in. From their expressions of curiosity it was obvious that the two little girls, who now clustered against the knee of the woman, had told them of the two strange men at the front door. As the two policemen entered the lounge the man stood up and leaving the patio came to meet them and MacAllister recognised the pugnacious features of Councillor John Morton MBE. He tried mentally to prepare himself for what was to follow while he heard off to his left somewhere Jane Morton telling her father-in-law who they were. The councillor thrust his face forward. His attitude seemed unnecessarily aggressive, but MacAllister knew he was always like this.

  “CID? Well what's it all about then, Inspector.” He turned to his daughter-in-law. “Its all right, Jane. Trevor must be all right. The CID only get involved when it’s criminal.”

  He turned back to the two detectives and jerked his head at them in inquiry. MacAllister looked meaningfully at the two small girls and John Morton walked over and closed the double French windows to the Patio area. MacAllister took a deep breath and started.

  “At about ten o'clock this evening, a man identified by several neighbours as Trevor Morton, was involved in an affray in the street outside of his home. During in that affray he received a massive blow to the head with a blunt instrument, probably a hammer, and I am afraid that he was killed instantly.”

  Clive Sayers caught Jane Morton as she collapsed, lowering her into a chair and the scene that followed was one that MacAllister had seen all too often in his twenty odd years in the police force and one that he had still to come to terms with. He and Sayers went through the usual scenes of disbelief, the chance of it being mistaken identity, the requests to know if they knew the man who did it, did they have the man who did it, and finally, when were they going to arrest the man who did it. They suffered without reply to both the innuendoes and outright accusations that it was their fault, the police in general that is, who were responsible for allowing this type of crime to happen, mixed up with demands for justice when they finally brought the killer to trial. Then when the storm had blown itself out they lived with the tears and the heartbreak until relatives and friends could be identified and summoned to offer the love and sympathy that was needed at such a time. It was an hour in all and when they finally got back into their car it was past midnight and under the orange glare of the street lamps MacAllister's face looked as if it had been forged from brass. He was silent for much of the journey until just before Clive Sayers dropped him off in the police station car park. He was about to shut the car door when he leaned back inside and whispered fiercely to his sergeant.

  “I think they should pass a law that says all those stupid bastards that abolished the death penalty should be the ones that go and break the news to the victims families. Then perhaps the arseholes would change their bloody, bleeding heart minds.”

  Sayers didn't take the slamming of the car door personally or the fact that there was no goodnight or thanks for your support from MacAllister. He knew that murders like this hit the boss where he lived and that come the morning they would be all out to nail the bastard that did it. He put the car into gear and drove home to his ruined supper.