‘Jacob was a good friend. We spent many hours down the allotment, me and him…’ As his voice trailed off, Burton and Fielding glanced at one another, sensing the pain of his friend’s death tearing him apart and feeling utterly incapable of helping him.
‘Do you live here on your own, Mr Cousins?’ Burton asked him, understanding Fielding’s look of concern regarding the elderly man and how he was reacting to what had happened.
Mr Cousins nodded. ‘Missus died a couple of years back. Was just me, Jacob and the allotment after that… and now he’s gone too…’ His voice faded away again.
‘Any relatives who could come and stay with you, or you go to them?’
‘I’ll be all right,’ he said, wiping a tear away. ‘Got to be, haven’t I?’
‘Can you think of anyone who would want to harm him?’
Mr Cousins looked at Burton with an expression that looked like a combination of shock and disgust. ‘Hurt Jacob? No, nobody, absolutely not. You couldn’t want for a nicer man, he was the salt of the earth… salt of the earth.’
It was clear that he wouldn’t be able to help them, so Burton decided to call it a day and leave the man in peace. But he did think that it might be a good idea to contact social services once they’d left, just to make sure that somebody could look in on him, check that he was okay. The two detectives got up to leave, but before going, Burton asked the one main question that they’d come to ask. ‘Have you ever seen either of these men before, sir?’ And brought out a copy of the sketch artist’s drawing of the man they urgently needed to find now that they’d discovered he wasn’t Alex Carruthers, along with a photo of Carruthers himself.
Cousins took the images from him and went in search of his reading glasses, which he eventually found in the kitchen on the workbench beside the cooker. As he scrutinised the faces on them for quite some time, both Burton and Fielding felt that there was no recognition in the man’s eyes. However, he finally declared, ‘Yes, I think I’ve seen him down the allotment before,’ pointing at the sketch artist’s drawing. They felt as if their luck had changed for the better, only to be let down promptly again when he added, ‘but I’ve no idea what his name was or where he’d come from. Looked official though, was dressed decently enough. This one,’ he said pointing to Carruthers, ‘I’ve never seen him before.’
They thanked him before leaving, then headed back to the car. As they now had good reason to believe that their unknown man may have met with Jacob Stephenson at some time, they hoped that the victim’s widow may be able to help them. Perhaps her husband had talked to her about him, maybe she’d even seen him? With that in mind, they decided to pay her a visit at her son’s house where she was now staying. They knew that it didn’t necessarily follow that she would know, but it was another line of questioning they had to pursue, and couldn’t afford not to.
One thing Peter Cousins had said interested them, though. He’d said that John Doe – they’d decided to now refer to him as John Doe, considering that they had no idea of his identity and couldn’t keep calling him ‘him’, ‘the man’, or ‘the faux nephew’ – looked official. Perhaps he was from the council? As all the allotments on this site were rented on an annual basis through them, it was something they would follow up if Stephenson’s widow couldn’t be of any help to them.
Jacob Stephenson’s son lived in a peaceful but expensive leafy suburban street in north Salford.
‘Wonder what he does for a living?’ Fielding speculated as they pulled up on the road beside the driveway to a very large, detached house.
‘Must pay a great deal judging by the look of it,’ Burton said, looking the extensive premises up and down. The house, or perhaps a more fitting description of it would be a mansion, was quite the contrast to his two-bedroomed apartment just outside Manchester’s city centre. This must have at least four, maybe five bedrooms over its two floors, and a very generously-sized double garage just off to the side of it. They had already called ahead to say they were coming, so were expected. As they walked up the path towards the front door, they could see movement through the blinds of the large window off to the left of it, which was presumably the living room, and then the front door opened for them. A smartly-dressed man in his fifties greeted them, introducing himself as Jacob Stephenson’s son, Joshua, and invited them into his home.
‘I’m not sure what my mother can tell you, detectives,’ he said, leading Burton and Fielding through the hallway and into the spacious living room area, ‘but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t question her too much. Our doctor came in earlier and prescribed her some very strong sedatives and she’s already taken them, so I’m unsure how well she will respond to your questions.’
Two women were seated on the L-shaped leather sofa and the younger of the two rose as they entered. ‘My wife, Lisa,’ Mr Stephenson Junior said, introducing her to them, ‘and this is my mother.’
Jacob Stephenson’s widow looked very frail and remained seated. She looked up at them but the detectives could see by the look in her eyes that she had already had enough sedation for the day – maybe even for the next few days too.
‘We’re so sorry to have to bother you all, but we would like to show your mother a sketch of a couple of people who may have been known to your father.’ Fielding directed her question to the son who remained standing.
‘As you can see, I’m not sure what you will be able to get from her but please do so if it will help you.’
Burton sat down on the sofa next to the widow and took the sketch and photograph out of his inside jacket pocket. ‘Mrs Stephenson,’ he began, and the woman turned slowly to face him. ‘Do you recognise these men at all?’
It came at perhaps no surprise that she was unresponsive to his question. Burton glanced at Fielding and knew she was thinking the same as him: they were not going to get any further with this line of enquiry, as neither the son or his wife recognised the images. The only thing they had to go on now was to contact the local council to see if John Doe was from their allotments department as Peter Cousins had suggested. They’d get a couple of the detective constables to go and check it out when they got back to the station.
But when he checked the time, Burton realised that it was too late now to have John Doe’s photograph circulated around the council offices today. ‘Get on the phone to the station and tell Banks and Wayman to get down to the council first thing in the morning. The more people about, the more chance we have of getting a lead – if there even is one. Allotments come under parks, playgrounds and open spaces, as I recall. Tell them that too.’
As instructed, Fielding rang the station as they were driving along. The rain had started again and was beating against the windscreen with a vengeance, and Burton turned his wipers up to their maximum speed. Deep in thought about the events of the past two days and concentrating on the busy road ahead, he hardly heard a word Fielding was saying. Rush hour was well and truly under way. Everyone was eager to get back to their loved ones and spend the night in the warmth and comfort of their own homes as this storm looked to have settled in for the night. Heavy rain had been forecast for around five, and here it was, lashing it down and probably contributing to people going a lot slower on the roads than they normally did at this time of the evening. His car now seemed to be stuck, right slap bang in the middle of it, and he’d been forced to slow down to almost a snail’s pace.
It wasn’t until Fielding had finished her call and he heard her say his name that he snapped out of his thoughts. When he took his eyes off the road and glanced at Fielding, her face was ashen.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. He hadn’t seen such a shocked look on his partner’s face for quite some time.
‘Turn around, we need to get to the general hospital fast. Right now. Simon Banks has been injured and he’s in surgery.’
8
Although Burton was full of questions about how this could have happened, he didn’t speak again until they pulled up outside North Manchester Ge
neral Hospital on Delaunays Road in Crumpsall, just over three miles north of the city centre.
Screeching to a halt, Burton parked up in a yellow chevron restricted area just outside accident and emergency, usually reserved for ambulances and other emergency vehicles. Hurriedly, he rummaged around in the driver’s side pocket for his ‘police on duty’ sign to put on the car’s dashboard. He found it tucked away behind a letter he’d forgotten to post the previous day. Cursing, he slapped it down onto the dash behind the steering wheel just as a paramedic alighted from the ambulance next to them and started to make his way over. He saw the sign go up on the car window, stopped in his tracks and pulled back. Burton had seen him begin to approach and shouted, ‘I’ll move it as soon as I can,’ as he and Fielding sprinted past him. He also spied a group of people huddled together at the next entrance down. Reporters, he thought, seeing a camera crew setting up their equipment right beside them, but they managed to get into the building before they’d even noticed them arrive.
Flashing their warrant cards to the queue already formed at reception, they asked the receptionist the whereabouts of their detective constable. She informed them that he was still in surgery, but if they wished, they could wait with his other colleagues who were already at the second floor visitors’ area.
When they exited the lift on the second floor, they saw Jane Francis and Phillipa Preston sitting with a few other people on the blue chairs at the far end of the corridor. Jane had her head bent right down on her chest, and Phillipa was sitting next to her with her arm around her shoulders, trying her best to console her. It didn’t seem to be working. On seeing Burton and Fielding approach, Preston stood up and walked towards them, informing them that the other two DCs were on their way but held up in traffic. Burton could believe it, judging by what they’d just driven through.
‘Does the DCI know?’ Burton asked, making his way over to Jane, who’d raised her head on hearing his voice. She looked pale and in shock, and he could see blood all over the front of her blouse and trousers.
‘Yes,’ Preston said, ‘and she’s on her way too.’
‘We saw the press outside when we came in; they’re on the ball as ever,’ Fielding said to Preston.
‘They weren’t about when we arrived. News travels fast, it seems,’ Preston told her.
‘Yes, bad news always travels quickly,’ Fielding agreed with her.
‘Sir,’ Preston added, ‘these are Simon’s parents, and his wife and daughter,’ indicating the elderly man and woman and the younger woman with a child who were sitting a couple of seats away from them. He had not met Simon’s wife and daughter before, but he recognised them from the photographs of them proudly displayed on his desk; none of which, he had to admit, did them any justice.
At forty-two, Simon Banks was the oldest member of the team and had been married to his stunning Polish wife, Agnieszka, for only three years. They’d met while he was visiting her country for a friend’s stag party, and the once confirmed bachelor had fallen head over heels for her at first sight. His beautiful daughter, Hanna, aged two, was the apple of his eye and he was as devoted a husband and father as anyone could be. This made the situation seem even worse to Burton. Simon Banks had waited a long time to find the woman of his dreams, and his life was now hanging in the balance. For him to lose his life now would be an unspeakable tragedy for everyone.
‘Is he going to be okay?’ Mr Banks senior asked him, standing and shaking Burton’s hand when he held it out to him.
Burton thought that to be an odd question as he wasn’t a doctor, but the older man’s faith in his son’s boss touched Burton. ‘I don’t know anything yet, sir, I’m sorry,’ he had to admit. ‘We just got the news when we were heading back to the station. We don’t even know how it happened.’
‘The young girl there,’ Simon’s father said, indicating Jane, ‘said that they’d been investigating a break-in when somebody hit Simon with a weapon…’ His voice trailed off and his wife reached up to grasp his hand, and he sat down again. Burton placed a consoling hand on his shoulder.
‘Jane,’ Burton said, crouching down in front of her, ‘I need to know just what happened… if you’re up to telling me.’ Fielding sat down on the seat beside her and reached for her hand to hold. It was damp from the soggy tissues she was holding.
She looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes, the colour of Simon Banks’s blood on her clothing. ‘We went to Altrincham, like you said, after that man was injured, to talk to his wife.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘She said she’d been in the kitchen and happened to see a torch light coming from next door. She knew that the house was empty and up for sale, so she told her husband to go out and take a look. They thought that it was unlikely that somebody was being shown around it in the dark, so the man went out to see what was going on. The next thing the wife knew was that her husband was calling out for her and when he got in through the back door, he collapsed on the floor. Looked like he had been hit on the head with something, and he’s now in hospital – this one as a matter of fact.’
Jane paused as if to organise her thoughts. ‘As we were looking around the outside of the property – Simon was around the back and I was at the front – I heard Simon cry out and heard someone running away, and then I found him… on the ground. I rang for an ambulance… and…’ Jane stopped. ‘There was so much blood coming out of his head and his side. I just rang 999 and kept my hand pressed on the side wound. It was just gushing…’ she took a quick look to her left and stopped as she saw Simon’s parents were listening to what she was saying. They didn’t need to hear all that.
Burton, realising why she’d stopped, took her free hand and squeezed it tightly. ‘You did good,’ he told her. ‘You’ve probably saved Simon’s life.’ Jane knew that he was saying that as much to Banks’s parents as he was to her.
‘I don’t know, sir,’ she whispered so that the parents couldn’t hear, ‘they say he’s pretty badly hurt.’
At which point DC Sam Wayman appeared out of the lift and headed their way. He looked tired and rubbed his eyes as he walked. Life was hectic for him outside of work as well as in it. The twenty-six-year-old Cornishman was married with three children, two girls and a boy, all under the age of six. His colleagues joked that he came into work each day to escape from the chaos of his very hectic home life, and to get a bit of peace and quiet. Today was not one of those days.
‘The DCI is outside with Summers,’ he told Burton, ‘and she’s talking to the press as we speak. They pounced on us when they saw us coming in. Couldn’t break away from them. I think she’s asked him to stay with her for moral support. They’re coming up when they are through.’
Burton thought that she wouldn’t have needed much support as she could be quite a formidable character when she put her mind to it.
They must have sat for about an hour before anyone came out to see them, during which time Ambleton and Summers came and went, asking to be kept up-to-date with Simon’s progress every step of the way. Eventually, two doctors, who looked like they had just come straight from theatre as they were dressed in green medical scrubs and had their face masks pulled down beneath their chins, made a point of coming out to speak to them all.
‘I’m Mr Williamson and this is Mr Waterstone,’ the taller of the two surgeons introduced themselves to the group.
Everyone stood up, including Simon Banks’s family.
‘We’ve successfully operated on Simon and he is now in recovery,’ Williamson said. ‘He sustained a pretty bad head injury and a side wound which fortunately didn’t go near to or damage any of his major organs, but he’s now doing well and is going to be fine. We need to keep him in for a while, though. He just needs rest and time to fully recover.’
‘Can we go in and see him?’ Simon’s wife asked, her daughter clinging to her as she spoke.
To which the surgeon replied, ‘Yes, but only you and one other person at the moment, please,’ looking around at the police officers, adding, ‘I
’m sure you’ll all understand that he needs time to get well again and everyone going in at once will just be too much for him at the moment. Perhaps one or two of you could come back tomorrow to see him?’ At which point, Burton and the team took their leave, while Simon’s wife and his mother followed the two surgeons to his room. His father and his daughter followed on behind, saying that they would wait outside his room, and that his father would go in later.
As they couldn’t stay and see their colleague, Burton decided to call it a night then. By the time they all left the hospital, all the reporters, TV crew, Summers and the detective chief inspector had gone. There was no doubt that this would now be all over the evening newspapers and television news reports. Saying goodnight to DCs Francis, Preston and Wayman, Burton watched them all get into Preston’s car and drive away. He had told them all to go home, and everything could be written up in the morning rather than going back to the station and doing it tonight. He’d drive Fielding home himself, then, hopefully, settle down for the night and try to get his head around all of this.
They’d hardly got themselves settled in the car and moved off when the call came through from dispatch, directing them to an address just past the care home in Middleton.
‘Now what?’ Burton said. The last couple of days had been non-stop. They’d hardly had time to turn around and it now seemed like they were being bombarded from every conceivable angle. They had a baffling murder to solve, they had no idea who their John Doe was, they didn’t know what to think of Alex Carruthers, and now one of their own had been injured and hospitalised. What else could possibly go wrong?
A lot, it seemed, for as they were drawing up at the address that they’d been given, both their phones pinged to notify a message had been delivered to them.
Murderland Page 6
