‘What can I get for you?’ the barman asked when it was eventually his turn in the queue.
‘I need to have a word with you,’ Carmichael shouted over the din. ‘Can we go outside for a minute?’
‘I can’t mate,’ he replied. ‘It’s pretty busy in here. What’s this about?’
‘I need your help with something,’ Carmichael said.
‘You police?’ he asked.
Carmichael didn’t answer but nodded his head.
‘Look,’ said the barman, ‘I’m due a break in fifteen minutes. Can it wait till then?’
Carmichael said that was fine and that he would wait outside for him. True to his word, the barman stepped outside fifteen minutes later and lit up a cigarette.
‘What can I do for you?’ he exhaled.
‘I was in here yesterday lunchtime having a pint when a man came over and started talking to me. He was stocky-built with a skin head and tattoos on his knuckles. I wondered if you remembered him or if you know who he is?’
‘Owe you money does he?’
‘Sort of.’
‘That’d be right. There’s not many he doesn’t owe money too. He’s just that sort of bloke. He’ll do anything for a quick buck, you know the sort?’
‘Yeah,’ Carmichael chuckled. ‘You don’t happen to know his name do you?’
‘He’s called Carl but I don’t know his second name. He comes in here most lunchtimes and disappears around four. He’s a degenerate gambler, but he always seems to have enough cash to buy his beer so the landlord doesn’t mind him coming in. He’s pretty harmless if truth be told but he plays the hard man a bit.’
‘Has he been in today do you know?’
‘Haven’t seen him to be honest, but I didn’t start until four so he may have been in and gone before I started my shift.’
‘Would you do me a favour?’ Carmichael said producing a business card from his wallet. ‘Will you phone me on this number if he comes back in? They’ll be a hundred quid in it for you if you do.’
The barman stubbed his cigarette out under his shoe and took the card.
‘No worries,’ he said, and then walked back into the pub.
Carmichael was tempted to follow him back in for a well-deserved lager but instead he headed back to the office. It was dark now but the glow of the office light ahead showed him the way. Melissa was busy on her mobile phone when he walked in.
‘Any joy yet?’ he asked, putting the kettle on and plugging his phone into its charger.
‘You could have warned me that my computer was fucked,’ she said angrily. ‘Do you know how long it’s taken me to look this guy up on this piece of shit,’ she added waving her small mobile phone around.
‘I do appreciate it, Melissa,’ he said honestly.
‘Yeah, I know,’ she conceded. ‘Sorry for having a go, I just hate my phone.’
‘Have you managed to find him yet?’
‘I’ve located a Darren Watkins Facebook page but because we’re not friends there’s not much I can see. I’ve managed to get you a date of birth from his page and the fact that he posted a status update last night would indicate he is still alive.’
He remembered Mercure’s crack that Stan Pensa was dead, and was relieved that this suspect was alive at least.
‘Okay, do you know where he lives?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find at the moment. There are fifteen ‘D. Watkins’ listed in the online telephone directory, but it’s not certain he is one of them. I’m trying to get hold of a friend who works for the council, to check the electoral register for me, to see if I can narrow the search down.’
Carmichael brought her a cup of coffee over.
‘Thanks for tidying up,’ he said sitting down in his chair.
‘That’s fine. I figured you’d get me to do it on Monday anyway so I might as well do it now.’
‘You know me too well,’ he laughed, taking a sip from his mug. The coffee was hot but tasted good. He imagined it wouldn’t be the last cup he would have that night. He was going to need a lot of caffeine if he was going to work through.
‘I can’t believe the prick who burgled us broke our monitors. What a twat!’ she said aloud. ‘You still think Frankie’s husband did it?’
‘I’m pretty sure. I need to prove it though. I tell you what, if I could get him in a room alone, I’m pretty sure I could get him to confess.’
‘Got him,’ she suddenly shouted out.
‘You’ve located his address?’
‘Sort of.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well…I’ve found someone by the name of Darren Watkins who fits the age bracket you’re looking for but you’re not going to like it.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well I had no luck with the electoral register so I did a search of his name on local newspapers. I got a hit on The Daily Echo from earlier this year. His name was mentioned in relation to a community story where a load of homeless people volunteered to help smarten up a local shelter. The article says he was resident there.’
‘He’s a bum?’
‘I guess so. Doesn’t mean he’s not the person you’re looking for. In fact, if he’s homeless now, God only knows what he’s done in the past to end up in that state.’
Carmichael considered the prejudiced viewpoint but she was right; he was still a suspect for the attack on Beth Roper twenty-four years ago.
‘Can you print the address for me? I’ll go there first thing in the morning and pay him a visit. Is there a photo?’
‘I can’t print the address from my phone but I can email it to yours. There is a photograph but it’s a group shot of all those who helped. I have no idea which one he is. I’ll email that one too.’
He wasn’t listening. His feet were up on the desk, his eyes were closed and his breathing had become relaxed. He was fast asleep.
Melissa sent the two hyperlinks in an email, turned the office light off and headed back up to her flat. She returned five minutes later with a blanket that she wrapped over him. He had a lot of work to do but a good night’s sleep would help him no end, she decided.
SUNDAY 01 DECEMBER
35
Carmichael shot upright as the telephone on the edge of his desk rang loudly. It was light outside, but he had no idea what time it was. He scooped up the receiver.
‘Yes?’ he yawned.
‘Carmichael? It’s D.C.I. Jan Mercure. Good to see you haven’t skipped the country.’
‘You’re phoning to check up on me?’
‘No, not exactly. I wanted to check what progress you have made?’
His watch told him it was nearly ten a.m. He couldn’t believe he had fallen asleep, let alone slept for so long.
Why didn’t Melissa wake me up?
‘I’ve managed to identify the bloke from the pub,’ he yawned. ‘I spoke with the barman last night and he is going to give me a call when the slimy git turns up. Apparently he’s a bit of a magnet for trouble and so I’m guessing that somebody paid him to pay me a visit and warn me.’
‘Paid? By who?’
‘That’s the sixty-four thousand pound question, isn’t it? I have my suspicions but nothing concrete yet.’
‘What’s his real name? We’ll put an A.P.B. out on him and bring him in if he’s spotted…’
‘No,’ he interrupted. ‘If you pinch him he’ll clam up and deny ever speaking to me. Let me find him first: I’ll get him to talk.’
‘Stay within the law, Johnson,’ she warned. ‘We’ll both be for it if you draw attention to yourself, you understand?’
He acknowledged what she had said without consenting to it.
‘Listen,’ she said, quieter now, ‘I thought you should know that the forensics team have confirmed that Lauren Roper was raped before she was killed. She was stabbed with a small, non-serrated blade, possibly a pen knife. There is every reason to believe that the person who attacked her is the same man who attacked her mother all those
years ago. It’s too coincidental not to be related. Do you know if she had mentioned her theory about Green to anybody else? Maybe she told the wrong person and…I don’t know, what are your thoughts?’
‘To be honest, having read the accounts of the attacks of the three women he was convicted of assaulting, Lauren’s description of what happened to her mum just doesn’t sit comfortably with me. I tried to tell her from the outset that I didn’t believe Green was guilty of the assault, but she was fixated with it. If it wasn’t him, then it begs the question: who did it. I mean, Green selected his victims to meet certain criteria. He carefully planned each attack whereas Beth Roper’s assault appeared to be more chance. Have you got anything else you can tell me that might help?’
‘The coroner has confirmed that she died before three o’clock, which you’ll be pleased to hear, puts you in the clear…for this one at least.’
‘Have you arrested Benold yet?’
‘What for?’
‘Murdering Frankie, of course. Also, what is his alibi for when Lauren died?’
‘We are still following up leads on the Frankie Benold murder. There is no evidence to suggest that James Benold was anywhere near Lauren Roper’s flat but I do intent to ask him some more questions later today.’
‘You said Lauren had been assaulted, did you get any D.N.A.?’
‘Yes but there’s no match on the National Database yet, unfortunately. Did she have a boyfriend do you know?’
‘I have no idea,’ he admitted. ‘I hardly knew her. I didn’t notice any photographs of young men in her flat, and I don’t remember her wearing any rings on her fingers so I assume not.’
‘We’ve contacted the hospital where she worked to advise them, and I’m going to send a couple of my team around later to speak to her colleagues to see if they can offer anyone we haven’t considered yet.’
‘You don’t suppose…’
‘What?’
‘You don’t think there’s a copycat out there do you? You know, like we’re approaching this from the wrong angle?’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, what if Green had assaulted Beth Roper after all, and this attack on Lauren is someone trying to recreate what he did?’
‘It sounds like you’re clutching at straws, Carmichael.’
‘Maybe. I better go. I’ve only got eight hours until I need to be back in.’
‘There’s a good boy,’ she patronised. ‘Let me know how you are progressing. Oh, and by the way, you can pick your car up when you’re ready.’
‘You’ve finished with it?’
‘Well, yeah…you’re no longer a suspect in the Roper case so you’re free to take it. Oh, and Carmichael?’
‘Yes?’
‘Get the bloody car cleaned will you? It’s full of crap!’
He unplugged his mobile phone from its charger and checked his messages. Melissa had emailed him the address of the shelter so he decided to go and track down Darren Watkins.
*
The Society of St. James runs homeless shelters across Southampton. The particular shelter mentioned in the article was based in Albert Road, near Ocean Village. A detour past the police station meant he was able to drive the short distance to the edge of the Itchen Bridge and park in a nearby car park. He had no idea what Darren Watkins looked like or even if he was still at the shelter, but he hoped that whoever was responsible for running it might know what happened to him. He had brought the image of the group with him too, and hoped that whoever he spoke to might be able to pick out the mystery man in the shot.
The shelter looked closed up and abandoned when he arrived but he banged his fist on the metal shutter regardless. The building was flanked by a disused hotel and a fruit wholesaler’s warehouse. After a couple of minutes he heard a set of keys rattling behind the shutter and then it was opened. A tall man with a trimmed beard was behind a semi-closed door beyond the shutter.
‘Can I help?’ the man asked.
‘Hi,’ said Carmichael handing his business card over. ‘I’d like to speak to whoever is in charge around here, please?’
‘Certainly,’ the man replied, opening the door wider and ushering him in.
‘I’m sorry,’ the man offered, ‘we’re a bit behind schedule today. We usually have the doors open for the early lunch takers by now. I was late leaving Mass this morning. Follow me, please.’
Carmichael was led down a corridor, through a large canteen with enough tables and chairs to comfortably seat at least one hundred people. This led through to a large hall, with partitioned bedrooms about eight feet square. He glanced into one of the partitions as he walked through and saw an empty bed and small chest of drawers.
‘It’s pretty quiet here,’ Carmichael commented.
‘Oh, that’s because the shelter is empty at the moment. Our residents only sleep here at night, we are open for two hours in the morning and afternoon for food, and then we open our doors properly for four hours in the evening, which is when we offer shelter to those in greatest need. We lock up at eleven and let everyone out again at eight a.m. My office is just through here,’ the man indicated as they reached a small office at the far side of the hall.
The two men entered a room, not much bigger than the partitions, but instead of a bed, this one contained a desk, two chairs, a couple of filing cabinets and a computer. There was also a door separating it from the rest of the building. The man sat down behind the desk and encouraged Carmichael to sit opposite him.
‘I’m Father Ambrose,’ the man said, holding out his hand.
‘Johnson Carmichael,’ he reciprocated, shaking the man’s hand. ‘I didn’t realise you were a priest, you don’t have a…’
‘Dog collar?’ Father Ambrose finished for him. ‘I know, we like to keep things a bit more relaxed around here. Now, how can I help you? Are you looking for shelter?’
‘No, no,’ Carmichael laughed.
‘I see, are you looking to make a donation, then?’
‘No, sorry,’ Carmichael said. ‘I’m a private investigator, I’m looking for someone. I know he used to be based here, and I’m hoping you will be able to point him out to me.’
‘The Society of St James is open to all those in need of support in getting back on their feet, Mr Carmichael. The people who come and stay with us are encouraged to seek help to find more permanent accommodation, or to undertake programmes for addiction and the like dependent on their need. We have an unwritten contract with each person that we offer support to, that we will help for as long as they want us to, but the commitment needs to be on both sides. You understand?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘This man you’re searching for, what’s he done? We are not at liberty to inflict further difficulty on any of our residents, you understand?’
‘He’s not in any trouble,’ Carmichael lied. ‘I think he may have been witness to a crime that occurred many years ago, and I merely want to find him to understand what he knows. I promise I mean him no harm.’
‘Good. What can you tell me about this person? What makes you think he is here?’
Carmichael passed his phone over. ‘His name was mentioned in an article in The Daily Echo at the beginning of this year. He was involved in a project that you guys did to decorate and restore the shelter. I believe he is in the photograph at the top of the article.’
Father Ambrose put a pair of glasses on and then took the phone. Despite the spectacles, he still squinted at the image on the small display of Carmichael’s Blackberry.
‘Oh, yes,’ Father Ambrose replied. ‘I remember this. It wasn’t this particular shelter we were renovating, but one over in Northam. We asked some of our regular visitors to come and support us. It was a good couple of days. We got loads done and one of the local D.I.Y. stores donated some paint and brushes to help us. So the man you’re looking for is in this photo?’
‘I believe so. Are any of these men still staying here?’
Father Ambrose studied the photo
carefully.
‘It’s hard to say,’ he said eventually. ‘The photo is a bit grainy. It would help if I knew the man’s name. I don’t suppose you have that?’
‘Yeah. Darren Watkins? He would be in his mid-forties maybe?’
Father Ambrose put the phone down on the desk and started laughing.
‘Something funny?’
The priest quickly apologised and then looked Carmichael in the eye, ‘I am Darren Watkins, or at least I was.’
‘You’re Darren Watkins? Did you attend Bellemoor School in nineteen eighty-five?’
‘Yes, yes I did. I would have been…ooh…fifteen back then.’
‘Do you remember a girl in your school by the name of Beth Roper? I guess she would have been in your year or maybe the year below?’
‘Beth Roper…oh yes…that takes me back. I do remember her, you know,’ he said smiling wryly, his eyes glazed over as he relived memories.’
‘I can’t believe you’re the man I’m looking for,’ Carmichael said, unable to hide his astonishment. ‘When did you…’
‘Take Holy Orders? I suppose I first heard God’s calling during Secondary School. Don’t get me wrong, I ignored the signs for a long time, but something kept pulling at my heart strings, as if destiny was calling me to come forward and help my fellow man: to preach the Word of God. I actually entered the seminary on my eighteenth birthday. That would have been in the spring of nineteen eighty-nine. My mother was so proud. She had been a strict Roman Catholic all her life, and the thought that her son was to become a messenger of God was like a dream come true. I don’t think my father was so keen initially, but I think he realised I had made the right choice before he died. I actually delivered the last rites to both my parents. It was the hardest but most rewarding activity I ever did.’
Trespass (P.I. Johnson Carmichael Series - Book 2) Page 21
