A Well Dressed Corpse

by Jo A. Hiestand

  We were seated near Keeler’s private office, in a corner as far as possible from the main action. The dart players, football diehards, and young courting couples were for the most part in the main dining and bar area away from us. Privacy was ours. Except for the eleven or so rugby players who just made their grand entrance. From the looks of them, it seemed they were all around twenty-two, built for the sport, and not at all happy for taking what appeared to be a loss prior to making it to the Black Eagle. Keeler would have his hands full with them as the beer flowed. Nobody better to handle it, though, as he would be in the middle of them within minutes, talking of their game and making new friends.

  “I wanted to sit with you two for a moment before I get back to the bar,” he said, perching on the edge of his chair. “Scott, Hugh is in a position to help, and more than that, he wants to do what is right by the police. He can do his own talking in a minute, but what gets said here, stays here. Roper must be dealt with. No friend of mine gets gashed open by slime like him; no other coppers get murdered with no repercussions aside from a prison stay.” Keeler’s face was getting more and more red as he spoke; the reason for the meeting was now clarified. My weeks in intensive care and at home recovering—thinking about retribution for Roper—were now coming very much alive. I was more than a little interested in hearing from Claxton now.

  As I stared at Keeler, my words came slowly. “You know what I am, Stanley. My badge hasn’t been tarnished in many long years in the job. It’s how I can go home and look at my wife and kids with no shame, no regret.” My fingertips tapped on the side of the glass as I expressed my feelings. “Let’s be clear here. Roper murdered several people in cold blood. And now…well, look at me. A graying old copper who never thought he could lose a scrap—just out of hospital, which is where I should have died if the statistics had gone the other way. All from one thing I can loosely call a human being. King Roper.” As I spoke, Hugh Claxton very noticeably shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was now leaning forward, keeping his mouth shut, but anxiously waiting for a pause to jump in.

  With his wire-rimmed glasses, Claxton had the look of a professor. Yet, his build reminded me more of a runner. But perhaps more than that, he appeared more studious than a person who merely worked with the worst of the worst in a maximum-security facility such as Wakefield. Although I trusted Keeler with my life, the tone of this conversation made me wonder who Hugh Claxton really was, and if he fully realized who he was dealing with by being here.

  As I was about to speak, Keeler’s massive right paw grabbed me by the back of my head and pulled me to within inches of his face. His words were like ice water splashing on a sleeping giant. “Roper will suffer in Wakefield, Scott. It will happen.”

  The room sounds faded as Keeler’s words echoed in my head, louder and louder until I thought everyone else in the pub must surely hear it. How did Keeler know that? What was going on?

  Claxton spoke quickly, quietly, emphasizing Keeler’s last statement. “As Stanley here is well aware, Mr. Coral, King Roper also killed a very close friend of mine. I will not go into further detail. I don’t need to remind you, either, that he put a fellow copper in the morgue, put DCI Geoffrey Graham in a coma, assaulted WPC MacMillan, and put you, Mr. Coral, in intensive care. A person such as that should not be sitting in front of a telly for the next fifty-four years of his life, getting fed and taken care of. He belongs in a deep pit to rot. Or…possibly other alternatives would be fitting.” Claxton continued inching closer as he spoke. I didn’t know whose eyes were more strained, his or Keeler’s, as both men seemed capable of staring holes into rocks as he held my gaze.

  Claxton eventually nodded at Keeler and, as if on cue, Keeler excused himself from the table. “Trust him, Scotty,” he grunted, patting me lightly on the shoulder. “You’re like my son; I wouldn’t steer you wrong. Hear him out.” He wandered back to the bar, his broad shoulders perhaps straighter than I’d ever seen them before.

  “I don’t know how familiar you are with corrections intelligence at Wakefield and other facilities,” Claxton continued, “but our units are quite spectacular on the whole, learning who is affiliated with whom inside the walls. I can tell you Roper thought he was a big fish until he landed inside. Make no mistake, Roper has influence both inside and out of Wakefield, but the larger, more established gang sets are not at all happy with his arrival. In fact, we have learned some would like to see him go away permanently.”

  My heart kicked into overdrive, as though I’d just completed a mile run after an escaping burglar. Sweat suddenly beaded on my forehead and my throat tightened. I gripped the glass, pushing the blood from my fingers until the flesh showed white, needing something to hold on to as the room tilted.

  Claxton, evidently, didn’t notice. He took a quick sip of beer before asking rather nonchalantly, “Let me ask you, have you ever heard the name Sam Taylor?””

  The room pulsed between dark and darker as I fought to understand the significance of Claxton’s question. What was coming? Something to do with Brenna? I replied, “He’s the brother of an acquaintance. I’m quite certain you knew that prior to your asking.”

  “Indeed. And he was moved on my authority after our unit found his life was in danger from henchmen loyal to Roper, henchmen doing time at Strangeways prison.”

  “Where Sam Taylor is,” I murmured.

  “Right. But here’s the part we did not expect. As soon as the plot to kill Sam Taylor was uncovered, we learned that those three having contact with Roper regarding the Taylor plot all had backgrounds as informants with the Greater Manchester Police Drugs Squad. In fact, all had a role in taking down a major trafficking operation that landed two of the highest ranking gang members in Wakefield.”

  My head felt like it was going to spin off my neck. What other bizarre turns was this case going to take?

  “They’re referred to as the Dodders,” Claxton went on. “An offshoot of the old Doddington gang. To say they’re big fish is an understatement. You, being in the job as long as you have, are well aware of the deadly path the Doddingtons have blazed throughout the country.”

  I nodded, hoping that would suffice. I was incapable of speech at the moment. Wasn’t this the stuff of Hollywood films? But this was real life.

  “Both men have forty-year sentences as a result,” Claxton said. “We have nine intel specialists devoted strictly to that group.”

  He rushed on before I could completely appreciate the manpower involved in all this.

  “But here is the beauty of it all. In return for helping turn evidence against the Dodders, the three loyal to Roper all had their sentences cut in half. In fact, with good behavior, all could be out within two years.” Claxton looked around the room, as though he expected to see the three sitting at the next table. “We know for a fact that Roper would be dealt with quickly if the Dodder hierarchy learned of his control of those three informers, the three who put their gang leadership in Wakefield through their cooperation with the Drugs Squad. In fact, the mind wonders at the level of suffering Roper would go through.”

  Again I nodded, my mind quick to picture some of those methods.

  “Of course, how that information would be leaked, if ever, would be unknown to anyone, here or elsewhere, Mr. Coral.”

  The groundwork being laid was quite brilliant, and I found myself whistling quietly under my breath. But this was a dangerous conversation and I knew it. Should it ever be leaked, my knowledge of it would destroy my life. Oddly, my internal turmoil was minor, at best. Actually, it was nonexistent. I wanted and needed to hear more, but why was Claxton risking everything to tell me? He assumed—correctly—I would not get on the phone at that moment and have our own intel unit, not to mention MI-5, outside the door waiting for him at the end of our talk. After all, this was a plot to kill a killer. To remove a man who had caused more death and destruction, who had ruined more good families, who had been the closest to pure evil, than I had ever seen.

  Claxto
n took a sip of his Tanqueray Ten on the rocks. How can I not like this man, I wondered. He knew quality gin.

  He sat back as he drank, looking quite informal, and glanced around the pub. I chuckled to myself and leaned forward. Keeler was behind the bar, speaking with one of his employees and pointing to the rugby group. As I looked at him, he briefly nodded at me, as if in assurance that all would be right in the world very soon. I turned back to Claxton, but while doing so scraped my back across the chair. I gritted my teeth as the wood pressed against my still-tender flesh and the scar tissue. Ah yes, another reminder of Roper that I would carry until my death.

  My resolve was complete, and, frankly, never in question with this plan. I asked Claxton to give me an idea of Roper’s life while I’d been in recovery. He nodded, yet waited as David Keane, a pub employee, came over to us with a fresh pint of Bass.

  “Funny you should ask.” Claxton smiled for the first time that evening. He took off his glasses, exhaled on the lenses and carefully wiped them clean with his handkerchief. Replacing them, he made certain David was well away from us before adding, “I want you to know that you did quite the number on him.”

  “I’m glad something good came out of our little duel,” I said, sniffing.

  “I’m not sure you’re aware, though, that you’re not the only one with a permanent reminder of your ‘meeting’ on that day.”

  I wondered if one of the constables or prison officers had been injured escorting Roper to his cell.

  Claxton soon cleared up that point. “I hear per our medical staff that King Roper will only have partial usage of his right arm. More specifically, you really screwed up his elbow and wrist. Something about ligaments being ‘snapped’ and permanent damage… Well, his attempts to hide his deficiencies from other inmates inside the walls have been the source of great humor to our staff. On that we congratulate you.” With that, Claxton held up his glass, to which I gladly—and proudly—clinked with my Bass.

  I had heard Roper was hurting when they got him into custody. But nobody ever told me the specifics after I was released from hospital. Noting I was in deep thought, Claxton asked if I wanted him to continue with his information.

  My mobile phone rang into the brief quiet, sounding like gunshots and startling us both. I looked at the called ID panel. A call from home.

  “Hello?”

  “Scott, I hate to do this to you but work called and they need me in now. Can you come home? I know you’ve needed to get out during your recovery, but this is important.”

  Alexa needing to go into work at this hour was unusual, maybe a once every six months occurrence. But when it happened, she had to go.

  “I’ll be there soon,” I replied. “No worries. I love you.”

  “Me, too. See you soon. Bye.”

  Hugh Claxton watched as I flipped the phone closed. His voice seemed more at ease, more casual now that the discussion about Roper was over. Perhaps it had all been a strain on him, too. “I understand if you must leave. Family, I assume. So go, and maybe we’ll meet again down the road.”

  “A meeting I’ll look forward to with great anticipation. Shall I say you have my wholehearted support, or did you already assume it?” We stood and shook hands.

  “Please understand that this meeting was just to have a drink, should anyone ever learn we met here. Just a couple of old mates of Stanley Keeler sharing war stories.” Claxton did not appear nervous as he made the statement. This was one cool customer, as my American wife would say.

  “Right. Just a drink. Nothing more. It’s been…interesting. Night.” Keeler was not to be found as I thanked Claxton. And with that, I left the Black Eagle a different man.

  FIFTEEN

  I wasn’t the only person stumbling into the early morning meeting the next day. Mark looked as though he suffered from a hangover, though he was immaculately dressed in brown trousers and tie, and a green and tan striped shirt. PC Byrd hurried in at the last moment, still talking on his mobile. He glanced at Graham, had the grace to look embarrassed, and snapped his phone closed before taking a chair somewhere in the back of the seating area.

  Margo nudged me, asked if I had talked to Adam yet this morning, when Graham walked up to the white board, leaned against the edge of the table, and bid us good morning. Looking as though he had been up for hours, he was dressed in black trousers, aqua-colored shirt and tie. He took a quick sip of hot tea before dropping his opening bombshell.

  “We’ve just begun investigating Reed Harper’s murder,” he picked up a dry erase marker, “and you’ve already assembled some valuable and interesting information. I congratulate you on this. Hold that in your mind while you hear this next bit. As you know, in any case there is a degree of pressure.” He paused, waiting for our apprehensive murmurs to subside. “This case, unfortunately, brings more pressure than any of us, including me, has probably previously experienced. To be specific, the victim. Reed Harper is the brother-in-law of Divisional Commander Dirk Tierney.” In other words, Superintendent Simcock’s boss…Graham’s boss’ boss.

  He let us think through the implication, his gaze taking in our reactions. Margo muttered something about all hell to pay if we did a cock-up on this investigation, while Mark exhaled heavily. After giving us a minute to more-or-less silently vent, Graham apologized for the pressure we were now under. “But Superintendent Simcock’s feeling it from Divisional Commander Tierney, and I, in turn…” He stood up, the sign he was ready to begin our session.

  “As I’ve just stated, we’ve begun making headway on the Reed Harper investigation. Margo and Byrd have been showing photos of the cloth found with the bones to the village residents. Detective-Superintendent Simcock has given us both cases, which you may know why…or can at least conjecture upon, if you’re new to this type of case.” He took another sip of tea before continuing. “Both remains, body and bones, are treated under the same investigation due to the golden rule of investigation. Which is?” He waited for someone to show that such a basic bit of school hadn’t been forgotten.

  “We don’t believe in coincidence,” Margo said.

  Graham smiled and set down his mug. “Thank you, Miss Lynch. Coincidence can prove fatal. For us, the location where the body and bones were found could have significance to the murderer or body disposer. So we inquire about both, believing there to be a link. If there is none, another DI takes over the bones case.

  “With that in mind, have either of you anything to report on the fabric investigation?” Graham looked hopeful, gazing from Margo to Byrd. Margo shook her head and Byrd said that no one could confirm that the fabric looked familiar. “Perhaps they just didn’t want to,” Graham said. “Do you think it’s another case of not wanting to get involved with a police inquiry?”

  Both constables said they had the impression that no one remembered seeing the fabric.

  “Well, keep trying, will you? I suppose there are no photographs in the pub or the church hall, showing village events through the ages?” He walked around the table, staring at the walls. Nothing more recent than the announcements of the well dressing work schedule and the fete activities were posted. “Still, that doesn’t predispose there aren’t photos. Maybe tucked away in the vicarage, or the pub’s back room. And I don’t need any volunteers to chat up the publican and workers, buying pint after pint to ‘pay’ for their information. There are other ways to gain information than by my team sacrificing themselves for the sake of hangovers.”

  The comment produced laughs and groans, with some of the men snapping their fingers in disappointment.

  Graham thanked everyone for their dedication to duty and walked back to the board. “Now, the facts so far on the Harper case.” He picked up the dry marker, not so much to jot down notes—for the information was outlined and tacked up there already—but to use as a pointer. Rolling the marker between his palms, he started at the beginning of our case, restating and refreshing our minds as to the pertinent facts. He talked about Reed Harper’s perso
nal history—the many women he had had affairs with, how he and Marian met and married, the ad agency, Reed’s work with the village fete and dominance as its director. Graham took us through the timetable of Tuesday night—when Reed was last seen, the order in which people left the meeting and Marian’s subsequent talk to each person as she tried to find out where Reed had gone. Graham then moved our thoughts to the crime scene: who found the body, the how/when/where and why of the discovery. He talked about the scene itself—did it have significance to the killer or was it just a handy, anonymous spot where he could dump the body with little threat of being seen? From the body, he directed us to the postmortem report and to the opinions by the forensic team, pathologist and Home Office biologist—the insect cycles testifying to Reed’s body having laid there approximately thirty-three hours, which gave us the probable time of death as ten o’clock Tuesday night.

  Slapping his palm on the covers of several large albums lying on top of the table, he said, “If anyone needs to refresh his or her mind as to body and bones condition, crime scene makeup and detailed plans drawn to scale, or the postmortem…” He paused, looking around the room at each of us, his gaze finally settling on me. An unspoken, shared in-joke about my inability to get through a PM without getting sick. The room fell silent as each person, perhaps, mentally focused on a particular part of Graham’s talk. A car roared down the road outside the church, and for a moment I thought of the lyrics coming from the car’s radio or CD player. “Leave him lying in the bracken, leave him lying where he fell, better bier ye cannot fashion, none becomes him half sae well…”