Murder Club

by Mark Pearson

  DC Cartwright looked over at him. ‘Bob Wilkinson?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure if you make me laugh much more today I swear my funny bone will fall out of my body, Sally.’

  ‘Kate, I take it.’

  ‘She’s on her way to the morgue’

  ‘What’s the squeal?’

  ‘You’ve been reading too many American detective novels, Constable.’

  ‘No time to read, sir. Catching up on Sky Atlantic.’

  ‘Well, the squeal is that someone matching the description of the woman Bible Steve says he killed has turned up. Died on Friday night according to Dr Bowlalong Bowman’s best guess.’

  ‘And Bible Steve?’

  ‘Being operated on.’

  ‘So we have two dead bodies. One male from twenty years ago. And one young female, recent. And the two people who might be able to tell us something about them are both in hospital and unable to speak. They don’t make it easy for us, do they, boss?’

  ‘Didn’t they teach you that in Hendon?’

  ‘Everything I learnt as a detective I learnt from you, boss.’

  ‘God help us all then,’ said Delaney.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Sally swung the wheel and parked outside a medium-sized detached house in Pinner. The driveway and pavement had been cleared. A man in his late forties was making a snowman in the middle of the left-hand lawn.

  He raised a hand in greeting as Delaney and Sally Cartwright walked up to his house.

  ‘Caroline is inside, Detectives,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know why you couldn’t have a meeting at the school.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ asked Sally.

  The front door opened and a woman in her mid-thirties appeared. She was of medium height with a curvy figure and shiny, coppery hair. She had bright-red lipstick and long eyelashes. She reminded Delaney of somebody but he couldn’t place her.

  ‘Because the school is closed, darling, you know that.’

  ‘Well, next term then, you bring enough work home with you as it is.’

  The woman smiled at Delaney. ‘Ignore him, Inspector, he’s just a grouch.’

  ‘I’m only saying …’ said her husband.

  ‘Well, don’t, just keep at it. I want that snowman built before Natasha comes home!’

  ‘Yes, darling,’ said her husband, with a dispirited grin and picked up another handful of snow.

  Inside the house Delaney and Sally sat in the lounge on a large, white leather sofa. It was a comfortably cluttered room. A boudoir grand piano had a bunch of family photos on top of it. Mainly of a young girl whom Delaney presumed was Caroline Lewis’ daughter. She certainly had the same lustrous hair and easy smile.

  Except Caroline Lewis wasn’t smiling now. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything – tea, coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re fine, thanks. And sorry to disturb you on a Sunday evening. But it is urgent. A body has been discovered in the grounds of your old church.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘We don’t know. Maybe nothing.’

  ‘It was all so long ago.’

  ‘Twenty years ago.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘About the same time, a man was shot in the head and buried in the grounds of the church.’

  ‘Like I say, that has nothing to do with us. With what happened.’

  ‘What did happen?’ asked Sally.

  ‘Does it matter now? No charges were brought. We made a mistake.’

  ‘Reverend Hunt is an old man now,’ said Sally. ‘He is very ill and in hospital. He can’t hurt you now.’

  ‘He never did.’

  ‘Are you saying you made it up? He never touched you or Susan Nixon?’

  Caroline Lewis reddened. ‘I never said he actually touched us.’

  ‘What did happen then, Caroline?’ pressed Sally Cartwright.

  ‘We were both in a play the church was putting on that Christmas. Part of the celebrations for the week.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It was a play he had written. Kind of a religious pantomime, I suppose. The girls were dressed as Herod’s serving women. I played Salome.’

  ‘And he made you take off your seven veils?’

  ‘No. Not in the play at least.’

  ‘But when you were alone.’

  ‘Not really. It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘He had put a clothes rail up and hung blankets to make a changing area for us girls. There was a gap and he would peek through when we were changing.’

  ‘And you reported him.’

  ‘The other girls didn’t know. But Susan caught him one day. It was just the two of us. He was touching himself.’

  ‘And your parents put a stop to it?’

  ‘No. It was all Susan’s idea. She said he could continue but he had to do it in front of us. And pay us. We were fifteen. We thought it was funny. He gave us fifty quid each.’

  ‘How many times?’

  ‘Six or seven. Susan’s parents found her money and all hell broke loose. But you can’t tell anyone about this. I’m a school teacher.’

  ‘He was still to blame, Caroline. You were fifteen years old.’

  ‘I know. We weren’t exactly virgins, though. But I can’t have my husband knowing. The man was sick. A Peeping Tom. But we shouldn’t have done what we did.’

  ‘Like I say, he’s guilty under the law. I can’t make you bring charges,’ said Delaney.

  ‘It’s too late. What good would it do anyway? Susan and I will never say anything in court. You can understand why.’

  ‘How many others were there, though?’ asked Sally. ‘How many other children did he peep on, abuse, maybe assault?’

  ‘We were nearly sixteen, Detective Constable. We weren’t children.’

  ‘Yes, you were,’ said Delaney.

  ‘You said he was very ill?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Then maybe he is being punished. Maybe it’s enough.’

  ‘Maybe somebody didn’t agree with you, Caroline. Maybe somebody at the time wanted to punish him more. Someone whose body we may just have found in his back yard.’

  ‘I can’t tell you that, Detective. All I can say is that I have forgiven him, and that I have forgiven myself too. ‘Sometimes that’s all you can do.’

  Delaney looked at her for a moment. ‘Sometimes,’ he said. Sometimes we can do a little more.’

  The woman would have responded, but at that moment her husband came into the room.

  ‘Darling, you haven’t even offered the officers a cup of tea.’

  ‘I did do, darling, but they are just leaving.’

  ‘That was quick. Did you get everything sorted?’

  Caroline looked over at him and smiled. ‘Yes, I think we know where we all stand now.’

  ‘So you’ll be giving a talk to the school next term, Inspector?’ her husband asked.

  Caroline looked at Delaney, her eyes pleading with him. Delaney smiled. ‘Something along those lines. Thank you. I think we have all we needed here.’

  ‘Excellent, excellent. Well why don’t you come along and have a look at Sammy?’

  ‘Sammy?’ asked DC Cartwright.

  ‘Sammy the snowman. I just need a carrot to finish him off.’

  He hurried out of the room as Sally and Delaney stood up.

  ‘Let’s just hope it’s for his nose,’ Delaney muttered to Sally.

  61.

  DETECTIVE INSPECTOR EMMA ‘Catwalk’ Halliday wasn’t exactly drunk, but she wasn’t exactly sober either.

  She was on her third medium-sized glass of wine. Sauvignon Blanc, after declaring her mulled wine undrinkable. Tony Hamilton was on his second pint of Abbot, but had barely touched it.

  ‘I don’t know how you can drink that stuff,’ said Emma.

  ‘It’s natural. Nutritional, no chemicals added, just barley, hops and water.’

  ‘Still tastes like pond water.’

 
Hamilton laughed. ‘Maybe it’s an acquired taste. Some things are.’

  ‘Are you hitting on me, Tony?’

  ‘No. Sorry – don’t do the work/personal thing. Gets too messy.’

  Emma Halliday raised her eyebrows. Not sure if she was relieved or offended. ‘I wasn’t saying I wanted you to, Tony.’

  ‘That’s okay then.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘You ever had a relationship with a fellow officer?’

  ‘Once.’

  ‘Didn’t work out?’

  ‘In some ways I thought it would be easier. At least he’d understand the job. The hours. The stress.’

  ‘There is that, I suppose.’

  ‘But we never got to see each other. Different shifts. Different shouts.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘Well, I’m a big girl I guess.’

  ‘You certainly are that!’

  Emma gave him a flat gaze and finished her glass of wine as the barmaid came past.

  ‘Can I have a word with you’ the barmaid asked Tony.

  ‘Sure,’ he replied, smiling. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Outside. I could do with a breath of fresh air.’

  ‘Okay.’ Tony took a slug of his ale and followed the barmaid to the entrance.

  ‘Can I get a glass of wine here?’ Emma Halliday called after them, but her words fell on deaf ears.

  The snow had finally stopped and the moon was riding high in the sky. The barmaid fished a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and offered Tony one. He shook his head and looked along the High Street as she flicked at her nearly empty Zippo lighter. It was a picture-postcard kind of town. With the snow covering the ancient buildings, he half expected a coach and horses to come clattering up the High Street. He could see why someone would want to move from Harrow-on-the-Hill to here. Was pretty sure, though, that it would drive him mad after a month or so. He’d miss the adrenaline rush London provided on a daily basis, but right now he could have stayed there for a week or two. Recharge his batteries. He thought about Emma Halliday sitting at the bar. A long streak of attitude and smiled. He wouldn’t mind if she stayed with him, come to think of it.

  ‘So, what’s the mystery?’ he asked the barmaid who had finally got her cigarette alight.

  ‘No mystery as such, just wanted a fag and I didn’t want the old dragon to hear.’

  ‘She doesn’t like you smoking?’

  ‘She doesn’t care as long as it’s outside. I meant her not hearing what I was going to tell you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Lee told me you had been asking about her husband? You think he might have been murdered.’

  ‘How did he know that?’

  ‘He was listening at the door. He’s got no time for the old dragon either. He used to be her toy boy before she traded him in for a younger model.’

  ‘She does seem to be a woman of appetite.’

  ‘You can say that again. Sure if sex were potatoes she’d supply the town with chips.’

  ‘That a Cork expression, is it?’

  ‘It is now,’ she replied with a wink, drawing on her cigarette again and blowing out a long stream of smoke.

  ‘Well, he heard right. Andrew Johnson was officially logged as a suicide.’

  ‘I’m not surprised people believed it, especially if they’ve met his wife.’

  ‘Now we think he was murdered.’

  ‘You were asking if he had any enemies.’

  ‘And did he? Do you know something?’

  ‘There was an incident in his old pub back in Middlesex, at a staff party. Everybody got very drunk apparently. One of the barmaids, Michelle Riley, claimed Andrew Johnson assaulted her.’

  ‘But she never brought charges?’

  ‘She was flirting with him in the cellar, they had a bit of a snog. He wanted to take it further, she didn’t.’

  ‘But he still did.’

  ‘Raped her. Didn’t take long – I suppose that’s something.’

  ‘Why didn’t she go to the police?’

  The barmaid laughed. ‘You’re joking me, aren’t ya? A staff party, alone in the cellar, she leading him on. His word against hers. What are the chances of that getting to court? And even if it did, what are the chances of a successful prosecution?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yeah, you do. And besides she was paid off. Big time.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Fifty large, apparently.’

  ‘And you know all this how?’

  ‘The old dragon told Lee. One night off her head on the Tanqueray while he diddled her.’

  DI Hamilton smiled. ‘Diddled?’

  The barmaid grinned. ‘The old diddley do. Makes the world go round so they say.’

  ‘So they do.’

  The barmaid flicked her cigarette on the floor and ground it under her heel, then jerked her thumb back towards the bar. ‘So the Queen of Narnia in there …’

  ‘Detective Inspector Halliday.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Are you diddling her?’

  ‘Ours is a strictly professional relationship.’

  ‘Good. I come off shift at eleven o’clock if you’re snowbound and still around.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

  ‘Do that.’ She handed the detective a piece of paper. ‘Name and address. If she’s still there, that is.’

  ‘How did you get hold of this?’

  ‘The old dragon’s phone book. All their old numbers.’

  ‘You consider a career change, come and look me up.’

  ‘And if you fancy making the world go round, come and do the same.’

  She winked at him and walked back into the bar.

  A couple of minutes later, DI Halliday came out of the Ladies and up to the bar. Tony had his coat on and his beer remained untouched. She looked at the piece of paper in his hand.

  ‘Give you her number, did she? And where’s my wine, by the way?’

  ‘She gave me a number, yes. And you won’t be needing the wine.’

  ‘I bloody will, if I have to sit here and look at your “cat that’s got the cream” smile much longer.’

  ‘They’ve cleared the jack-knifed lorry on the M11 and the B-roads are clear enough now. We’re good to go.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that!’ She stood up and fished the car keys out of her pocket.

  Tony took them from her. ‘You’ve had three glasses of wine, I’ve had a pint and I only took a sip of that gin.’

  Emma Halliday was going to snap back but realised he had a point. ‘Fair enough. Come on then,’ she said, putting on her coat and heading for the door. Tony Hamilton shrugged apologetically at the barmaid and followed her.

  ‘So what’s the number you’ve got?’ asked DI Halliday as the night air hit them.

  ‘It’s what you might call a bit of a clue.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Michelle Riley. Used to work for Andrew Johnson when they ran a pub in Harrow-on-the-Hill.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And,’ replied Tony as he beeped the car door open, ‘seems she claims that Andrew Johnson raped her one night in the pub cellar.’

  ‘Ah!’ Emma moved the seat back a little to accommodate her long legs.

  ‘Ah, indeed. And it seems likely he did, because they paid her fifty large to keep her mouth shut about it.’ Tony Hamilton pulled his seatbelt around him and clicked it into place.

  ‘Michael Robinson. Andrew Johnson. Both from Harrow. Both rapists. Some kind of club, you’re thinking.’

  Tony fired up the ignition. ‘Rape club? I don’t know. Maybe.’

  ‘Somebody used a police-style Taser to make them jump in front of a train. Maybe we have a vigilante?’

  ‘I’d say we definitely have!’ said Tony Hamilton as he flicked on the windscreen wipers to clear away the fallen snow and pull
ed out into the High Street heading back to London.

  62.

  DEREK ‘BOWLALONG’ BOWMAN was whistling rather tunelessly as he laid out his instruments on the trolley by the mortuary table. He looked at his watch and smiled as Kate Walker came into the room, followed by Diane Campbell.

  ‘I was just about to start without you,’ he said.

  ‘That’s okay, Derek. You can start when we’ve gone,’ said Deputy Superintendent Campbell.

  ‘Fair enough,’ replied the pathologist, laying down the circular Stryker saw.

  Diane and Kate walked across and looked at the naked body of the young woman lying on the table. Her hair had been straightened, her arms laid flat alongside her. Her eyes were closed, the blue veins in her eyelids even more prominent now.

  Diane Campbell pulled out a photograph and compared it with the dead woman. She handed it to Kate. ‘Looks like we found her,’ she said.

  ‘Who is she?’ asked Derek Bowman.

  ‘She’s a statistic, Derek,’ said Diane Campbell. ‘More proof that we’re not doing our job.’

  ‘The police aren’t responsible for homelessness, Diane,’ said Kate.

  ‘I meant as human beings.’

  ‘She was living rough?’

  ‘Had been on and off since she was fifteen years old. She ran away from abuse at home, into prostitution, drugs, prison. Seemed she’d been let down by society her whole life. According to the homeless shelter where she was registered, she had the mental age of a child.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Margaret O’Brien,’ said Diane. ‘Everyone called her Meg.’

  ‘What did she die of?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Neglect.’ Dr Bowman shook his her head. ‘Just as the Chief says. Left on the street, sub-zero temperatures. Didn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘She wasn’t murdered?’

  ‘Depends how you define that. The cold killed her as far as I can tell pre the post. But it certainly looks like hypothermia to me.’

  ‘It does,’ agreed Kate.

  ‘But someone beat her first. At least we know who she is, now. Maybe give you people something to go on,’ he said to Diane Campbell.

  Kate Walker looked at the girl’s right arm. The bruises on her arms were purplish and mottled.