The Maggie Murders

by J P Lomas

  Fortunes were being made so fast these days, that Jez’s dream of being a millionaire by the time he was thirty didn’t strike him as absurd. Computers were just going to get more and more powerful and the games that could be played on them were already several generations away from his adolescent attempts at controlling one paddle on a crudely pixelated screen, as he tried to return a ball to Player 2. Nowadays, gamers could already play everything and anything in colour, from platform games like ‘Donkey Kong’ to more strategic games like ‘Elite.’ If you hit on the idea for a good game, you could make a fortune and Jez had a very good idea indeed.

  ****

  Having failed to find Catherine Sullivan the previous day, Jane made sure Colonel Redfern would be available for her meeting at the Royal Marines’ base in Lympstone. This time she would have to drive, as the Commando Training Centre was a good few miles away from Exmouth and whilst the Marines might be expected to yomp such distances, Jane’s new found exercise regime did not extend to such extremes. The base lay behind barbed wire fences and guard posts on the outskirts of a pretty village clinging to the banks of the Exe. She found the security at the main gate rather more intimidating than on her last visit, as armed marines carefully checked her credentials before letting her through, but then she reminded herself that they’d just had another IRA scare up at the camp and so they had a very good reason to be on a higher state of alert than usual.

  She gazed on the impressive assault course which her son had been so in awe of when they’d gone there for an open day a few years ago. The very name ‘Death Slide’ had made the ten year old Leo rethink his plans to be a pilot and for a while all he could talk about was joining the Marines – he’d been very specific in his ambitions. If friends and family had naively quizzed him about army life, he had very sombrely explained how the Royal Marines were not part of the Army and were affiliated to the Royal Navy. Even when Leo had found out that marines were expected to run 30 miles in full kit over the difficult terrain of Dartmoor in under 8 hours, he hadn’t been put off. If it hadn’t been for his rapidly developing interest in music and his new aim of becoming a rock guitarist, he would probably still be getting up for a two mile run every morning in preparation for winning the coveted beret.

  A platoon of young recruits scrambled over cargo nets as a green bereted NCO barked orders at them. She turned round as Colonel Redfern emerged from an administration building by the car park. They’d met briefly once before when she’d been investigating an incident in which a local youth had claimed to have been glassed by one of the marines in a pub fight.

  The Royal Victoria had become notorious for local youths trying to bait the new squaddies on Friday nights. Close to Exmouth’s largest discotheque it attracted trouble like wasps to a picnic. As far as she could see, it was no more than too much testosterone and lager being squeezed into too small a pub. The elite reputation and close cropped hair of marines on a weekend pass from the camp made them a tempting target for whichever local hooligans fancied mixing trouble with their beer. The fact that the locals knew the marines weren’t meant to respond to their taunts made for a perfect scenario for whichever local wide boy fancied a chance of impressing his mates by goading the troops.

  Colonel Redfern had not only been Baker’s commanding officer in the Falklands, but had also been in command of the marine under suspicion of the glassing incident last year. Although the military police were in charge of the case, she’d been sent up there as a civilian had been injured. The fact that the local had claimed to have been glassed had instantly been laughed off by Redfern – he’d been quick to point out the accused could more than easily have used his bare hands to defend himself. In the end the case had gone nowhere and all charges had been dropped. Eventually, the local police and the Red Caps had agreed to try and keep the marines segregated in one pub and the local troublemakers in another to try and limit the amount of damage to both the town’s and the marines’ reputations.

  ‘Good morning, Sergeant! ‘hailed Colonel Redfern offering her a half salute.

  She wasn’t sure if he meant the salute as a compliment, or ironically.

  He led her to his office, which would have felt like any other admin block if it hadn’t been for the distinguished looking man in green camouflage sitting opposite her. Pouring her a remarkably good coffee, the Colonel outlined Calum Baker’s service record.

  ‘He was a good man. Popular with the lads and brave. As you already know he had a distinguished service record. Completed two tours of Northern Ireland. Absolutely terrible what happened to him in the Falklands. Probably shouldn’t say it, but...’

  ‘Better off dead.’

  ‘For an active man like that… I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but I just don’t know how they survive an injury like that. I know our medics are pretty terrific, but it can’t be the same can it? Losing the ol’ todger like that…’

  Perhaps fearing he’d overstepped the mark, the Colonel made a show of hiding behind his coffee, as Jane tried to suppress a giggle at the bizarre way he’d described the male anatomy.

  ‘The victim of the ‘83 murder was a former war hero too. Do you think there could be any connection?’

  ‘Can’t say that I do. He was an army man, wasn’t he? I mean he was in a totally different war and a totally different service.’

  ‘It might seem daft, but was there any suggestion Sgt Baker might have been gay?’

  Colonel Redfern looked like he was having trouble swallowing his coffee, before he spluttered with laughter.

  ‘Absolutely not! Firstly, there’s no room for sausage jockeys in the military and secondly Sgt Baker was very much into the ladies. Not the type of man you’d want to leave your wife alone with for too long if you know what I mean. Not unless she was wearing a second pair of knickers. In all honesty I think we were all a little surprised when he settled down with Connie.’

  ‘Because he wasn’t the settling down type?’ asked Jane as she struggled to suppress an image of a speculative Mrs Redfern wearing just a marine beret and two pairs of knickers which had mischievously popped into her head.

  ‘Partly that, but more because she was a little out of his league.’

  ‘In the looks department?’

  ‘He had no trouble pulling good looking women, no she was what we might have called posh totty. No offence intended.’

  ‘None taken, ‘replied Jane, taking a liberal dose of it.

  ‘If Connie had settled down with one of the officers, then I could have believed it. She came from a good family and had been privately educated, so it was a bit of a shock to find out she was engaged to a sergeant.’

  ‘You knew her before?’ asked Jane as she wondered whether the good colonel might have fancied his chances with the alluring widow.

  ‘Sergeant Baker brought her along to one or two of our social dos and we got chatting as you do.’

  ‘Did you get to know her intimately?’

  For the second time Colonel Redfern found it difficult to get his coffee down, though this time he didn’t look amused.

  ‘I’m a married man.’

  ‘It happens.’

  ‘Not to me.’

  Jane wondered if his answer was a little too off pat.

  ‘You’ve had problems with homosexuality in the past though?’

  The Colonel looked at her askance. Jane feared for his remaining coffee.

  ‘I mean here at the base, as you say, you are a married man,’ she clarified.

  ‘As you know, Sergeant, we do not accept homosexuals into Her Majesty’s Royal Marines. It is against the regulations.’

  ‘Alexander the Great was gay.’

  ‘He wasn’t a marine.’

  ‘What about the young boy who killed himself here a few years ago?’

  ‘If you’re referring to Noel Graham – that was a sad case involving a recruit’s personal difficulties in adjusting to the pressures and strains of Commando training. We are after all training for an
elite service and some people cannot take it. Although we are of course doing everything we can to ensure such tragedies do not repeat themselves.’

  Jane recalled Prince Edward’s aborted attempt to join the marines.

  ‘So you can think of no-one here who had any reason to wish Sgt Baker harm?’

  ‘None at all. The only people I ever knew who tried to kill him were the Argies at Bluff Cove and the Republicans in South Armagh.’

  ‘You don’t think the IRA could be operating down here?’ speculated Jane.

  ‘The base is a high profile target and we’ve had one or two scares over the years, but I don’t think your murders have anything to do with the Republicans. Bombings and shootings are their style, not setting fire to former soldiers’ homes. They also tend to admit their responsibility for their actions; it reinforces the terror, so I don’t think this has anything to do with his time in Ulster.’

  ‘Could it be the work of an IRA sympathiser?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought there were too many of those operating as sleepers in the depths of Devon!’ laughed Redfern, ‘and why would that be linked to the killing of a regular soldier who fought in World War 2?’

  The Colonel placed his cup down in a way which indicated he at least regarded the interview as at an end. Feeling there was nothing further to be gained in needling him any further, Jane allowed him to escort her off the base.

  Jane had a feeling Spilsbury’s reactions would mirror Colonel Redfern’s as she drove out of the camp. If the victims had both been former marines, or if they had both served in Northern Ireland she might have had a link. If Baker had been a closet homosexual, then there might be something in running with a series of homophobic hate crimes, but sadly that had been a hare which had refused to run. The only thing which linked the crimes was the so called ‘Maggie Murders’ connection which had been Christmas come early for a media preparing for the summer hiatus of the silly season.

  Could the killer be doing it out of admiration for Thatcher, or was it a protest against Thatcher? And yet the murders had had no political messages attached to them and no letters or telephone calls had been made to the papers; other than the usual crank calls. Well she presumed they were hoaxes – the only ones they had followed up successfully had led to further dead ends. If there was a political message behind these murders, then it was a very subtle one, she reflected.

  Chapter 18

  Jane had finally managed to arrange a meeting with Catherine Sullivan; she noted that the woman still preferred to keep her married name, even though Spilsbury had told her that the husband had initiated divorce proceedings.

  They met in what had once been the family home, a pleasant three bedroom terraced house between Marple Hill and Exeter Road. Having taken the car to avoid the possibility of further disappointments, Jane was still left ruing her visits to this address as she tried in vain to avoid the over friendly moggy which had ambushed her in the hallway. Inwardly cursing that she had had her slacks returned from the dry cleaners only yesterday, she followed her host into the front room.

  Jane noticed that the wedding photographs were still displayed on the mantelpiece and that Mrs Sullivan (for now) still wore her ring. The only other decorations in the simply furnished sitting room were a picture of the Pope over the mantelpiece and an image of the Sacred Heart above an étagère which displayed some crudely mended china figurines. She settled herself down onto the sofa of a stained three piece suite and took the mug of tepid tea being pressed into her hand.

  She assessed the woman in front of her. Catherine Sullivan was still in her twenties, but looked as if she could be pushing forty. This probably had more to do with the way in which she was dressed, in a frumpy pair of jeans and baggy jumper. She hadn’t lost the weight from her cruelly shortened pregnancy and her face showed the lines of a woman who would never recover from the harrowing loss of her baby.

  ‘I may have to stir some painful memories,’ began Jane.

  ‘If it’s about that bitch, then I’d rather not talk about it.‘

  The bitterness of Catherine’s reply still carried a trace of southern Ireland.

  ‘I’m sorry, but as I explained in my call– we are investigating two murders.’

  ‘Well, it’s a real pity you’re not investigating three!’

  Catherine sank into the chair opposite and picked at a thread on her moulting top.

  ‘Your ex-husband…’

  ‘My husband – we are still married,’ flashed back Catherine holding up her ring finger, ‘and if those lawyers try and divorce us, we’ll still be married in the eyes of God!’

  ‘Andrew Sullivan…’

  Yet Jane was again interrupted by another passionate outburst from across the room.

  ‘And the third murder you should be investigating is that of our child!’

  The memory of the child which she had lost soon after discovering her husband’s affair proved too much for any composure Catherine may have been trying to convey as her grief welled up to the surface.

  If this was for show then the woman deserved an Oscar, thought Jane. Dropping all pretence of formality and only wanting to give some sisterly comfort, she reached out for the hand of the weeping woman, only to see her snatch it away and retreat further into herself. Rooting through her handbag, Jane eventually found a Kleenex which she was able to press into Catherine’s trembling hand.

  She waited until she appeared somewhat less distraught.

  ‘I have to ask this. You made some threats towards Constance Baker in 1983. Did you mean her actual harm?’

  ‘Of course I bloody did. She took everything I had. He wouldn’t even go back to me after being with her. Not even after I lost our baby! Who wouldn’t want a whore like that to burn in Hell?’

  Jane felt herself agreeing with the sentiments.

  ‘Did you ever try to harm her, or her family?’

  ‘Every day I pray she suffers for her sins!’

  ‘But did you actually try to physically harm her, or her family?’

  Catherine paused.

  ‘No.’

  The reluctance with which she spoke this convinced Jane of its veracity.

  ‘Would you have tried to harm her husband?’

  ‘That poor, wee cripple? Why on earth would I want to harm him? He suffered almost as much as me thanks to that Jezebel!’

  ‘Well someone did. As you probably know he burned to death in a fire on the night of the election.’

  Catherine looked genuinely shocked at the news.

  Jane wondered if it was news of the murder, news of the election, or news of both which had bypassed the shattered shell of humanity in front of her? Discreetly pouring her unwanted tea into a pot containing a withered looking spider plant, she went through the motions of checking Catherine Sullivan’s alibi.

  ‘Can you tell me where you were that night?’

  ‘I was here.’

  ‘Can anyone verify that?’

  She thought for a moment.

  ‘The cat.’

  ****

  Finally finding the episode of ‘Miss Marple’ on the cassette his son had marked ‘Match of the Day’ and spooling past the highlights of a West Ham game still recorded on the opening of the tape, Spilsbury loosened his belt, belched, asked a needless pardon from his dozing wife and poured himself another glass of cider. Well, when in Rome…

  Why did some people make their lives so complicated? Nearly forty years of marriage with Felicity hadn’t led to any of the complicated entanglements he’d come across in the current case. Lots of former and still serving colleagues had had affairs or become divorced, but he was proud that Brian and Felicity had bucked that trend. Now they’d decided between the South West and Spain, they’d use the money they’d made on their house in Chelmsford to take a well-deserved retirement. Both their children had successfully begun families of their own and neither child had hated him for too long. His bowel movements had been more regular of late and England had wo
n the Ashes in Australia. Hopefully decades of armchair cricket, visiting grandchildren and days spent exploring terra incognita in the Daimler he’d promised himself on retirement were laid up in store for them.

  He watched what looked like more pictures of Devonian scenery flicker past on screen. Perhaps the episode had been filmed down here? Christie herself had lived only an hour or so away from Exmouth in South Devon. He was almost sure he’d been motoring across where this was filmed only yesterday. The only detail which nagged him about these expensively mounted costume dramas was how bloody perfect they were. His own memories of the fifties, when he’d still been a bobby on the beat, were of a whole mixture of styles. Even in the Coronation Year not everything had looked like it was fresh out of 1953. Pre-War and Post-War had existed side by side.

  Even though the bungalow they were renting had probably been put up in the late 50s, he’d be hard pushed to tell from an internal shot of it. The pine bathroom décor was most definitely from the 70s and the three piece suite they’d brought with them had been bought for their Silver Wedding. His own tastes in popular music were stuck firmly in the 50s and 60s and he had never been one to keep regularly up to date with the fashions. Felicity’s look might do her best to mirror the 80s, yet his suits and ties reflected the mid-70s. If he was lucky his look might be due a comeback in another couple of decades.

  Not that he felt he had decades left. Although he felt no guilt for breaking Sullivan’s nose and quite a lot of satisfaction, Sullivan had had the gall to made a complaint and whilst Spilsbury knew that it was unlikely to lead anywhere, he was beginning to think he should take his retirement sooner rather than later. Deniability of any wrong-doing was one thing, deniability when you were getting nowhere in a high profile murder case quite another. And times were changing; the high flying graduates who had never really beaten the streets were beginning to take over. The ones who knew how to work those funny little computers and could quote criminology statistics. People like Jane Hawkins. She might be wrong about this one, but he’d bet she’d get there in the end.