by J P Lomas
He’d been glad to receive a card from Jane. There was something more permanent about the written word, which however brief, made all their telephone calls seem transient in comparison. He knew the Christmas cards were always sent by Tim – if he was lucky Jane would sign her own name and squiggle a couple of kisses, but she was the one who had incredibly managed to remember three out of his last four birthdays and to get cards there on time. This one had even contained a few lines about the Maggie Murders. Sobers himself had not been entirely convinced by the media circus linking the killings to the Prime Minister as he very much suspected he knew who the next victim might be; however he was no longer a policeman and no-one in authority down there would have been interested in his theories…
And yet if he was right, he trusted that Jane would be more than capable of finding her own way towards the answer.
****
Walking through the lych-gate into the churchyard, a pretty wooden arch flanked by willows, Jane recalled the last time she had visited the church in 1983 for George Kellow’s funeral. She’d merely gone out of professional reasons, as she’d been curious to see if there might be any mourners there whom she could link to his murder, yet in the end she’d been glad to attend as there were so few people there. She thought if it hadn’t been for the drama of his violent death, she might have been the only attendant.
A couple of the local shopkeepers had gone along, though most had placed staying open over attending, perhaps fearing the next funeral they’d be attending would be that of their own businesses. His solicitor was there and had arranged the service according to instructions left by Kellow for ‘a Christian burial, but no hymns.’ Debbie, plus three other print and radio journalists from the local media (there was understandably no interest from the nationals at the time) had also been in attendance. There were no relatives. Not even a wreath or card from his sister.
The only information she gained from the locals was pretty much what she knew already – he was a moody old sod, who pretty much kept himself to himself, apart from when he occasionally needed change from the newsagents when one of his rare customers had the failure of foresight to offer a £10 note as payment. The only other news she had gained was that his cat had been found killed the day after he died, the newsagent’s wife thought it had been knocked over by one of the tourists driving too fast along the road to the camp.
The vicar hardly seemed to know the subject of his elegy; she assumed that Kellow had been a Christian in name only. Yet Jane thought he had made a decent stab of it by focussing on his wartime record and the importance to small communities of the local traders who kept them going; very much placing public service as the main theme of his address. Though the constant use of Kellow’s Christian name had jarred with her; the constant refrain of George just sounded over familiar and wrong to her ears. She rather suspected that the last time anyone had addressed him so personally, was when there had also been a George on the throne.
Refreshed by a Danish pastry and a cup of tea from the local bakery, Spilsbury sat on a bench in the tranquil churchyard listening to Hawkins rehashing her ideas. Jane was puzzled as to how her superior’s earlier belligerence had seemed to vanish overnight. Perhaps if she had seen the mess her boss had made in the incident room toilets the day before (which he had ascribed to a dodgy battered sausage at lunch time) and been able to compare it to the more satisfying stool he’d deposited at home, then she might have had some reason for understanding the beatific expression on his face. Sadly, she was as much at the whims of his digestive system as he was and would never have the long term knowledge gained by Felicity Spilsbury into how her husband’s eating habits affected his moods.
‘That’s Lady Nelson’s grave.’
Spilsbury pointed to an ornate monument across from where they were sitting.
‘Emma Hamilton’s?’
‘No, she was his mistress, Lady Nelson was his wife. He packed her off down here, so he could play silly buggers with Emma up in London.’
Jane felt that she should have known this and not Spilsbury. It would be alright if he knew more than her about sport, or whisky, but local history was something she felt was her preserve. She got up to take a closer look at the grave.
Spilsbury wiped the grease off on his trousers and continued –
‘Lady Byron was packed off down here too. Seems it was quite a respectable resort in the 19th Century.’
‘The type of place men could dump their wives whilst playing away?’
‘Don’t blame me for the double standards of the past.’
‘It’s the double standards of the present I’m worried about.’
‘Don’t worry. You’ll make D.I. yet. Once the old farts like me are packed off to the Costa del Crime, it’ll be the turn of the bright young things with their computer skills and management training.’
‘I don’t have either of those.’
‘No, but I think you’re a good copper and the job’s not going to change that much, whatever PACE says.’
‘Yesterday, you thought I was barking up the wrong tree.’
‘I still do, but that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with barking up the wrong tree. Half the cases I’ve worked on wouldn’t have been solved unless someone had taken an outside punt from time to time. That’s not to say there weren’t some pretty stupid ones too.’
‘So what are we doing down here?’
‘I wanted to take a look at the scene of the Kellow case and I thought you could take me through your thoughts on it over lunch.’
‘Lunch?’ Jane shot a quizzical look at the remains of the Danish.
‘That was just an aperitif. I was told the pub does a good scampi and chips. Coming?’
Trailing in her boss’ bulky wake, he was surprisingly agile for a fat man, Jane followed him to The Lady Nelson.
Chapter 16
Driving up to Dorset on the coast road, Spilsbury felt dyspeptic. A friendly review meeting scheduled with the Deputy Chief Constable had in fact been positively hostile and Dent had made it quite clear he was not happy with the lack of progress they were making. Spilsbury had met men like Dent throughout his career and was heartily sick of them. It had been just about bearable being patronised when he was a young copper; however the fact he was probably a good five years older than his superior made it doubly distasteful to Spilsbury. Men like Dent had spent most of their time in service navigating their way to the top by piloting a desk, whereas real policemen put in the hard time. He had no time for these statistic spouting non-entities whose obsession with targets and form filling was making him disillusioned with the service. Let Dent catch the killer if he was so clever!
His stomach hadn’t been so good that morning and he’d got through nearly a whole toilet roll. Fortunately it had happened at the station; he was still fairly regular which was lucky, so he wouldn’t have to replace the toilet paper at the local Spar on the way home. He tried replacing the Buddy Holly tape with an Animals one, cursing to himself when the thin magnetic tape caught in the car’s cassette deck. Giving it a hopeful tug, he only succeeded in snapping the tape and reducing his double pack of the tragically short lived Rock ‘n’ Roller’s greatest hits to a single volume. And not even the volume he preferred…
He wondered if he ought to invest in one of those new CD players for their retirement? Adam had been proudly showing off the one he and his girlfriend Lisa had bought last Christmas, yet those little shiny discs in their small plastic containers hadn’t filled him with much enthusiasm. His son might have banged on about how the sound was so amazing and yet it hadn’t struck him as being earth shatteringly different. They weren’t like colour televisions and microwave ovens which he’d put down as the key technological leaps of the last twenty years. Being able to watch West Ham in their claret and blue strip on ‘Match of the Day’, whilst having to spend only a few minutes heating up one of those Vesta curries was really experiencing the white heat of technology in action!
&nbs
p; Besides, most of his collection was on vinyl, with his favourite LPs taped for the car, or supplemented by the occasional compilation cassette bought at service stations on a whim. Given that Felicity had more classical tastes than his, he spent a lot of time listening to his collection on the car stereo.
Unlike his son, he liked the feel of having something substantial to hold in his hand when listening to music, as well as being able to read the liner notes without reaching for his reading glasses. Some of the albums were works of art, particularly the gatefold ones. They might crackle and hiss a bit when he overplayed some of his more popular ones, but that seemed to add to the warmth. He could date the scratch on the B side of his Dance with the Shadows album to the time England won their World Cup semi-final against Portugal. At the party after the game he’d crashed down onto the floor in a moment of over celebration making the needle jump. The idea of buying it all over again on compact disc seemed a ludicrous idea and a ridiculous waste of money.
As he cruised past the yellow gorse hedgerows, he managed to free the wisps of remaining brown tape from the deck and inserted a fresh cassette. As ‘We’ve Gotta Get Out of This Place’ filled the Ford Cavalier, Spilsbury looked round to check if the road atlas was still on the back seat. If he was going to find the village Andrew Sullivan was now living in, he was going to need a bit of help. Yet it was as he turned around that he glimpsed the first ominous sign of the day.
Spilsbury had never broken the law in his life before. Even in the bad old days when corruption had been rife in the Met, he had been squeaky clean. Not one bribe or other inducement had ever been asked for or taken. He had never verballed a suspect, smashed a sock full of wet sand against some hooligan’s head or even turned a blind eye when a criminal had got a kicking. This would make his behaviour in the next few hours even more remarkable.
It was on the final part of his drive to Winterborne Zelston, that Spilsbury did his double take when he saw the sign for Shitterton. Reversing the car to ensure he hadn’t misread it as Sitterton; his inner schoolboy was delighted to discover that his first impression of the very amusing nameplate for the small Dorset village had been correct. Whether it was his impending retirement making him demob happy, or the spirit of the fourth form re-emerging, his mischievous nature found him checking both ways for potential witnesses before disappearing to the back of the car and taking out a wrench and screwdriver from the boot. Now fully equipped for mischief he advanced on the sign.
It took him little more than ten anxious minutes to free the sign from its moorings and pop the stolen booty in his car. Whatever Mrs S was going to say, this would be displayed in the guest bathroom of whichever house they would buy for their retirement. Unless of course the Chief Constable for Dorset was on the guest list!
****
Jane couldn’t believe she was shouting. She never shouted at her daughter. Well hardly ever.
‘You’re only 16!’
‘I’m old enough to smoke and have sex!’
‘And you’re not doing those either!
Jane desperately hoped she wasn’t closing the stable door after those two particular horses had bolted with that last edict; however now was not the time to get side-tracked – she returned to her main campaign:
‘You’re not going!’
‘Dad said I could go!’
‘Your father has reconsidered!’
‘Only ‘cos you interfered!‘
This was true, when Jane had discovered that Tim had given Jen permission to go to a rock concert at The Cornwall Coliseum with her best friend, Jane had well and truly decided Tim’s liberal parenting regime had gone too far.
She looked at Jen’s truculent face. Her mascara was far too heavy and as for the dye job she’d done on her beautiful blonde hair, turning it into a glossy black bob, it was ruinous. She looked like a vampire on day release.
‘You’re too young to go to concerts by yourself.’
‘They’re called gigs,’ Jen glowered.
‘It’s too far away.’
‘It’s only an hour by coach and I’ve booked my ticket.’
‘Well, you’ll have to unbook it.’
‘It’s not fair!’ shrieked Jen ‘I only want to see a band, not get pregnant!’
‘Which band?’
For the first time, Jen looked unsure of herself and her lips pursed together.
‘What is the name of this band you want to see? Level 42? Huey Lewis? Bananarama?’ demanded Jane trying desperately to think of the last time she had sat down with her family to watch Top of the Pops.
Jen looked scornful.
‘I’m not even going to consider letting you go, if you don’t tell me who it is you want to see!’
‘Vaginal Depth Charge,’ muttered Jen.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You heard.’
‘That’s the name of a band?’
‘Well I’m not complaining about period pains!’ sneered her daughter as she turned her back on Jane and tried to slam the door behind her.
Her daughter’s failure to make the satisfactory exit she had tried to engineer and her rather pathetic attempt to bang her bedroom door upstairs, at least cut through Jane’s fury and the half smile she allowed herself helped some of her temper dissipate. The very conversation she had never wanted to have with her own daughter, having experienced it with her own mother about a Kinks gig had returned to haunt her. She wondered when she’d stopped being a liberal, part of her thought it must have been when that schoolgirl disappeared a few years ago. She’d be telling Jen next that music today wasn’t proper music if she didn’t watch out… Still a line had to be drawn and she was now going to need to win Tim around to the right way of thinking.
****
F is for Floorshow.
He was aroused by the outfit; I’ve rarely found a man who hasn’t been.
He must have been wondering what was happening when I slipped ‘Private Dancer’ into the C.D. player and poured out a couple of whiskies. I don’t think most NHS home visits included that level of service.
I don’t think he could believe his luck when I began unbuttoning my blouse. By the time I’d slipped out of my skirt I think he would have climaxed if he’d still been able to. Mind you the sight of me in just my stockings and suspenders is one that has caused better men than him to lose their self-control.
I nearly gagged when he began nuzzling my nipples, although it made it much easier to slip the sedative into his drink.
The cheeky sod then asked me if I’d pleasure myself for him. Still it’s traditional to grant a dying man his last request.
Thankfully he passed out in his wheelchair before I had time to turn myself into a complete whore for him. This also made it easier to move him to the bed; for a man without legs he was surprisingly heavy.
Continuing the role of the ministering angel, I tucked him in with hospital corners. The white spirit I poured over his sheet, pillows and duvet may not have won matron’s approval, yet I’m quite sure that a lot of sisters out there would have been cheering me on.
I propped his chair up on the other side of the door to ensure he’d be warm and cosy in his bedroom. Thoughtfully taking the time to clean all the surfaces I’d touched, before changing into less conspicuous clothes, I slipped out through the French windows and on to the patio at the back of the house. The vent window to his room had already been opened when I arrived for the floor show and it was simple enough to drop a burning taper onto the spirit soaked carpet below the window.
Despite the sudden whoosh and glare of the fire, I waited some moments to make sure it had caught. There’s nothing worse than underdone meat is there?
I slipped a Walkman over my ears so I wouldn’t hear his screams as I left via the side gate.
****
The cottage and its outbuildings were located so far from the outskirts of the village it could almost have qualified as a hamlet by itself. No more than a mud track led up to its concealed entrance in the he
dgerow. If someone ever set light to this building, it would be just a smoking shell by the time the emergency services arrived.
A young girl wearing a ‘Curiosity Killed the Cat’ T-shirt and nothing much else, unless you counted the pink varnish on her toe-nails, finally answered his knocks. A roll up fag balanced on her lower lip only served to emphasise her tender years.
‘You old enough to smoke?’ demanded Spilsbury.
‘And who rattled your chain?’ sneered the teenager from under a dyed blonde fringe.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Spilsbury, Devon and Cornwall police.’
‘Bit lost aren’t you, this be Dorset,’ came the surly reply.
‘Name, date of birth and address unless you want me to give you directions to the local nick.’
Pouting, the slim and pale girl informed him of her personal info:
‘Tina, Tina Bastin, 30th Jan ‘71 and I live ‘ere!’
‘Was that January, or June?’
If it was June then she was underage, though even if it was January he would be surprised, as in his estimate she looked no more than 13 or 14, though the heavy and artless use of make-up might have contributed to her immature look. Whatever her answer, he made a mental note to check with Social Services, as the girl’s state of dress didn’t seem to indicate she’d been working on her homework.
‘January. And yes my mum knows I live ‘ere, before you get any ideas about contacting the Social.’
So she was a mind reader, or else had been having this conversation with other officials…
