Shades of Evil

by Shirley Wells

  ‘Nine o’clock on Monday morning?’ Colin suggested.

  ‘Great stuff. Thanks for that. And you’ll let me know if there are any problems?’

  ‘Of course.’

  There wouldn’t be any problems though. The properties had been built by established reputable builders. No corners had been cut. The wiring, like everything else, was spot on.

  It was 8.55 a.m. when Colin rang the bell and waited for the security phone to crackle into life.

  All was silent so he rang it again.

  This was typical. Tenants wanted the early appointments and half the time they weren’t even out of bed.

  Colin stabbed a finger at the bell for a third time.

  This job would take fifteen minutes tops, and that included filling in the paperwork, but if he couldn’t gain access to the property, he would be putting in a bill for time wasting.

  ‘Come on,’ he muttered, ‘open the bloody door!’

  He read the notes on his clipboard and realized that for once he had a phone number for the tenant.

  Back in his van, his gaze not leaving the front door, he called the number from his mobile. There was no answer. It was possible, he supposed, that the tenant was in the shower and unable to hear either bell or phone.

  The dashboard clock read 8.58. Colin decided to smoke a cigarette and then try again. He had a busy day ahead and he didn’t want to have to call back later.

  The nine o’clock news came on the radio when he’d smoked half of it. Knowing his luck, he’d be moaned at for being late now.

  He tossed the butt out of the window and left his van.

  Three times he rang the bell, but no one answered.

  It was the ground floor apartment so he walked round the back of the block and peered in through the kitchen window. No one was there. He couldn’t see signs of movement through the bathroom’s frosted glass either.

  When he looked into the lounge, the first thing he saw was a dog. Odd that it wasn’t barking.

  The second thing he saw—

  ‘Bloody Nora!’

  He ran back to his van, grabbed his phone and punched in 999.

  ‘I need an ambulance,’ he gasped out. ‘And the police, too!’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  After the morning briefing, Max took the stairs to Phil Meredith’s office to update him on their progress. There was progress, but it was going at the speed of an injured slug. Blink and you’d miss it.

  He tapped on the door and stepped inside.

  ‘Right. Let’s hear it.’ Meredith took three Polos from a packet and tossed them in his mouth together. ‘You must have something by now, Max.’

  ‘Yes,’ Max said, taking a positive stance. ‘First, the Yasmin Smith case. A photograph of her taken at a friend’s party was put on the internet.’

  ‘Bloody internet,’ Meredith muttered. ‘The damn thing should be banned for people under eighteen.’

  Max knew where his boss was coming from. He also knew that his sons would be lost without it. Not so long ago, Ben had told Max he ought to get himself a page on Facebook.

  ‘Then we could be friends,’ Ben had said.

  ‘Sorry. We’ll just have to be friends in real life,’ Max had told him.

  ‘We don’t know which site it was put on,’ he told Meredith now. ‘Her friend thought it was Facebook. Then she wondered if it could have been SeeYouThere. That’s yet another social networking site. Anyway, we have the girl’s computer and Mel’s going through it now.’

  Meredith nodded at that. Even he knew that Mel was more than an IT wizard; she was a genius.

  ‘We’ve got a lot of CCTV footage from Blackpool,’ Max went on. ‘We’re looking for Yasmin or the white Mercedes.’ He didn’t add any white Mercedes or hint that they still didn’t have anything to mark that particular car from any other of the same model.

  ‘So that’s moving along a bit,’ he said, still being Mr Positive.

  ‘Good. But what about these bloody murders? The press know damn well that Cole was murdered. If we haven’t called suicide within twenty-four hours, they know we’re looking at murder. They’re spreading rumours about serial killers being on the loose now.’

  Max knew that, and he wasn’t surprised. Serial killers sold newspapers like nothing else.

  ‘Going on Jill’s theory,’ he explained, ‘we gathered mugshots of people in the right age bracket on record for burglary. One of those was a Maurice Temple. Vincent Cole’s cleaner has identified him as the man she saw with Lauren in town one day. The owner of the corner shop that Lauren sometimes used recognized him, too.’

  ‘And where is this Temple?’

  Good question, and one for which Max had no answer.

  ‘We’re tracing him now.’

  Having crunched his way through his Polos, Meredith put three more in his mouth. Max wondered if his boss was suffering from indigestion. It wouldn’t surprise him. Meredith didn’t cope well with stress and was a likely candidate for ulcers or a heart attack.

  ‘So really, it’s going OK,’ Max pointed out.

  ‘Hm.’ Meredith wasn’t getting excited. ‘You need to run this by the book, Max. If Jill’s theory turns out to be a load of baloney, you’re going to look like bloody imbeciles.’

  ‘Jill only offered us a short cut by telling us where to look. We’ve had two positive IDs for Temple.’

  ‘Being seen with a victim doesn’t make you guilty of murder,’ Meredith said, crunching on each syllable.

  That was true enough, but when you had as many other leads as Max – i.e. none – you were grateful for anything.

  Without ramming cars out of the way, something even DS Warne wouldn’t do, there was nowhere to park on Dale Street. She drove into a side street, finally found a gap that only blocked half an entrance, and headed for the jeweller’s.

  The shop looked as if it had been there forever. The facade was clean enough, but it wouldn’t have looked out of place on a film set from the forties or fifties.

  There was no doubting the quality of the items for sale though, and there were no price tags on the slim gold watches or antique rings. Grace guessed that if you needed to ask the price, you couldn’t afford it.

  A tiny bell tinkled as she pushed open the door.

  ‘Good morning,’ an elderly man greeted her.

  ‘Mr Atwood?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘DS Warne.’ Grace flashed her ID and he examined it closely. He’d been looking at a small silver plate and still wore an eyeglass. ‘We spoke on the phone earlier.’

  Grace had drawn up a list of the most likely places a thief would try to offload booty from Vincent Cole’s home. Atwood’s shop had been fourteenth on that list.

  ‘Indeed we did.’ He removed the eyeglass. ‘I thought at the time there was something suspicious about the items that man was selling. I’m afraid to say that isn’t unusual, though.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘No. Because I deal in antique jewellery and silverware, people think I’ll pay cash for anything. They’re wrong. Unless sellers can provide me with certificates of ownership, I’m not interested.’

  Like the shop, the owner’s suit could have featured in an old film. The lapels were wide, and the fabric was a dark grey that had worn thin. In its day, it would have been quality. Sadly, its day had passed a couple of decades ago.

  ‘Can you recall the items mentioned?’ Grace asked.

  ‘The only thing the chap actually showed me was the silver rose bowl that I told you about. A large one, and a very fine example. It was ten years old.’

  ‘You say that was the only item he showed you?’

  ‘Yes, but he described other items. A milk jug, a stem vase, a silver-backed hairbrush …’ He rubbed a finger down the length of his nose. ‘Several pairs of cufflinks. One was gold, he said. I think he guessed from the start that I wasn’t interested in buying, but he wanted to know how much the items were worth.’

  Grace looked around t
he shop.

  ‘Do you have security cameras?’ she asked, already guessing the answer.

  ‘I don’t. The shop, however, as I keep telling the insurance company, is very secure. There are metal shutters on external windows and doors, and, at night, everything is locked away in the safe.’

  She wasn’t too interested in security, more in catching a glimpse of the man trying to sell stolen property.

  ‘Could you give me a description of him?’ she asked.

  He closed his eyes briefly as if trying to bring the image to mind.

  ‘Twenties, I’d say. Early twenties. Scruffily dressed. That in itself speaks volumes, dear. He was wearing the uniform of today’s youth. Jeans that were in need of an iron’s soleplate, not to mention a good wash. They dragged on the ground by at least two inches. One of those shapeless tops. It was grey with a hood. He had very short fair hair and his face was slightly pocked as if he’d suffered from acne at some stage. Oh, yes, and he wore an earring. A cheap little cross, gold coloured, hanging from his right ear.’

  Grace was impressed with his powers of observation. Who needed CCTV?

  ‘That’s great.’ She handed him a photo of Maurice Temple. ‘Would you say this is him?’

  ‘That’s him. Without doubt.’

  ‘Would you be prepared to officially identify him?’

  ‘I certainly would. The items are all stolen, I take it?’

  ‘They are, yes.’ She returned the photo to the envelope and gave him a bright smile. ‘You’ve been most helpful, Mr Atwood. Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch. Oh, and if he happens to call on you again, please let us know.’

  Grace left the shop in an optimistic mood. For all he wore the uniform of the young, Maurice Temple got himself noticed. People remembered him so it couldn’t be too long before they found him. And once they found him, it wouldn’t take long to nail him.

  Grace couldn’t wait.

  Jill was about finished for the day and was hoping Max was, too. She wanted a lift, preferably one that went via her cottage so she could pick up some clothes. She could, of course, insist on moving back home, but, for some reason, she’d made an unconscious decision to leave it a few days.

  The first person she saw as she set off in search of Max was Clive White. Damn it all. Was there a day when he wasn’t in the building?

  ‘Clive—’

  ‘Jill, hi. How’s things?’

  He had no idea how he was annoying her. The genial smile, the delight at seeing her – he had no idea at all.

  ‘Clive,’ she began again, ‘when you were suspended from duty, the idea was that you had a rest and stayed at home. At home, Clive. It’s one thing calling in occasionally to try and raise some sponsorship, but you’re here every day.’

  ‘Aw, I know.’ He gave her one of those looks that said he was about to come clean. ‘I called in to see if anything was happening in the Yasmin Smith case,’ he admitted. ‘I was dead chuffed with myself for spotting her on the CCTV.’

  CCTV that he shouldn’t have been anywhere near.

  ‘That was good,’ Jill said, ‘but you’re not supposed to be here. What’s the point of suspending you, Clive? The way things are going, you’ll be facing another couple of months away from the job. Unless you can prove that you—’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he cut her off. ‘The thing is…’ He shuffled from one foot to the other. ‘Angie’s moved out.’

  It took a moment for Jill to realize that Angie was his wife. She recalled meeting her once. Slim, dark-haired, stunningly attractive with a brain the size of a pinhead.

  ‘How do you mean, moved out?’

  ‘Things have been a bit difficult between us for a while,’ he admitted, ‘and she’s packed up and moved back in with her mother. I expect she’ll come round, but, at the moment, the house is feeling a bit empty.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but it doesn’t alter the fact that you’re not supposed to be here. Perhaps you’d be better occupied talking to your wife.’

  ‘I’m going to. In fact, I’m on my way there now.’ He put up his hands in a gesture of submission. ‘I’m gone. And you won’t see me again until my assessment.’

  ‘Good.’

  Smiling, and striding along the corridor as if it was his own personal domain, he went on his way.

  Jill let out her breath on a frustrated sigh. She’d meant it; if he didn’t stay away, she would recommend that he was suspended for a further couple of months.

  She carried on towards Max’s office and met Grace coming from the opposite direction.

  ‘Christ, what a bloody day!’

  ‘Has something happened?’ Jill asked.

  ‘Haven’t you heard? Steve Carlisle was found this morning with stab wounds. I’ve just come from the General.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah. An electrician called at his flat—’

  ‘But Steve doesn’t have a flat. He lives in Kelton.’

  ‘He moved out on Saturday apparently,’ Grace said. ‘He’s now living in Harrington. A flat. Ground floor, thank God, or he wouldn’t have been found. The electrician called to check the wiring this morning and was nosy enough to look through the windows when no one answered the door. Steve Carlisle was lying in a pool of blood. Stabbed and left for dead.’

  Jill was struggling to keep pace. None of this made any sense.

  ‘How is he now, Grace?’

  ‘Not good. It’s touch and go, I gather.’

  ‘Any idea who—’

  ‘Not a bloody clue! Catch you later, Jill.’

  As Grace raced off in the direction of the CID room, Jill stood for a moment to try and take in what she’d just heard.

  Then, gathering her wits, she headed out of the building. It was a nuisance not having her car with her and, really, she couldn’t see much point in having it parked outside her cottage. Her favourite prankster might assume she was in and play more tricks, thus getting caught on camera, but she didn’t think that having her car parked on the drive would make an iota of difference.

  Fortunately, it was only a ten-minute walk to Harrington General and, although it was cold, it wasn’t actually snowing.

  As she’d missed news from the Kelton Bridge grapevine over the last few days, she hadn’t heard about Steve moving out. Gossip would be rife because, of all the couples in the village one would expect to split up, the Carlisles weren’t one of them.

  Moving out was one thing, though. Being stabbed and left for dead was another matter entirely. It made no sense at all.

  The lights from Harrington General were bright in front of her and, as she walked through the car park, she saw the usual signs of frustration. First, visitors couldn’t find a parking spot. Then they had to beg, borrow or steal enough money to feed the machines. Not a week went by when people didn’t complain to the local newspaper about the situation.

  Perhaps not having her car wasn’t such a disadvantage as she’d thought.

  She walked up to the main desk and waited until the receptionist ended a phone call.

  ‘I’m a friend of Mr Steve Carlisle,’ Jill explained. ‘I gather he was admitted this morning.’

  Without needing to check records, the receptionist nodded.

  ‘He’s in the intensive care unit, but I’m afraid you won’t be able to see him. Immediate family only.’

  ‘That’s OK. Thanks.’

  Jill walked along sterile corridors and then took the lift. The ICU had a small visitors’ room and, through a square of glass in the door, Jill saw Ruth and Frank Carlisle.

  She went inside and Ruth rushed forward.

  ‘Oh, Jill …’ Tears welled in her eyes and she hugged Jill tight.

  ‘How is he, Ruth?’

  ‘I don’t know. Alison is in there with him now. They’ll only let one person in at a time, you see.’

  ‘He lost a lot of blood, they say,’ Frank explained.

  Jill joined them on the row of blue plastic seats.

  �
�Does anyone know what happened?’ she asked.

  They both shook their heads and Jill saw the way Frank reached for his wife’s hand and gave it a squeeze supposed to convey that everything would be all right. Jill hoped it would.

  ‘He’s wired up to machines,’ Ruth said, her voice shaking. ‘He’s only just come out of the operating theatre and they said they’re keeping him sedated.’

  Jill’s heart ached for them both. They looked small, lost and very confused in this harsh environment. In other parts of the hospital, relatives were treated with as much respect and kindness as the patients. In the intensive care unit, the patient was the only priority and everyone else had to fend for themselves.

  ‘I just want to be here with him,’ Ruth added. ‘I know he won’t know whether we’re here or not, but I’ll feel better.’

  That was understandable and Jill would feel exactly the same. They couldn’t do anything other than rely on the power of their will to pull him through.

  ‘I’ve been staying at a friend’s over the weekend,’ Jill said, ‘so I had no idea Steve had moved out. Is it a temporary thing or—?’

  ‘He’d finally come to his senses,’ Frank said. ‘I don’t believe in divorce. Weakness I call it. Couples today have their first quarrel and head straight to a solicitor. They can’t seem to grasp that marriage is all about compromise, and about considering the other half of that marriage. But in Steve’s case, I think it’s justified. It’s never been a happy marriage and now—’

  He broke off and his lips clamped tight.

  ‘Now?’ Jill prompted.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Jill wondered what he’d been about to say. She guessed she wasn’t going to hear it, though. Not while Ruth was within earshot, at least. She’d have to catch Frank alone.

  ‘I think this trouble he was in,’ Ruth said, ‘gave him a chance to think. I think it dawned on him that life was too precious to waste. If he’d ended up in prison, I don’t know what he would have done.’

  ‘His moving out was a bit sudden, wasn’t it?’ Jill said.

  ‘He went on Saturday morning.’ Frank spoke as if it wasn’t a moment too soon. ‘He found that flat through a friend and, as the chap was happy to have Cally there, Steve signed the lease. He waited till Alison got back from Liverpool and then him and the dog left.’