‘Yes, although I’m surprised after they found the bass player stabbed and with his head bashed in.’
‘Yes, so am I,’ Nolan agreed. ‘Perhaps they get a kick from the notoriety. You’d better get back to tailing the man then.’
‘OK, I’ll drop you off and get on to it. Want me to bring your stuff in?’
‘No, I’m not an invalid. Get going.’
Alec duly did as he was bidden. He swiftly unloaded the luggage and skis and headed off back into Manchester.
***
A day or so later I was playing in a competition at Forest View Golf Club. There was a backlog, and as I finished off the second hole, Detective Inspector Bill Lambert was waiting to tee off for the third hole. He looked around and took a few steps, to pass the time, and leaned in close to me. ‘Could do with a quick word, but not here,’ he whispered. ‘There will be too many people about after the competition. Best be somewhere quiet and away from here – what about that pub in Prestbury, near Macclesfield? Can’t remember the name now. Used to be called the Black Boy, but they had to change the name. Political correctness and all that.’
‘I know the place but I can’t remember the new name either. Should be quiet mid-afternoon. What time?’
‘Three fifteen,’ Bill offered, lining himself up to take his tee shot.
‘See you later,’ I confirmed, keeping well out of the way as Bill took an almighty swing, driving well down the fairway, before the ball suddenly curved sharply to the right and into the rough. He lined up again to take a provisional shot in case his first ball could not be found, which would mean adding a penalty shot to his second shot from the tee, making three in total. I couldn’t quite catch the precise swear words.
Later at the pub, Bill’s mood seemed to have improved, and he was grinning like a Cheshire cat as I walked over to the bar.
‘Usual Bombay Sapphire Gin and Tonic?’ he offered.
‘What else?’ I confirmed, adding, ‘You’ve cheered up since this morning. What happened?’
‘Believe it or not, after that bad tee shot on the third hole, I managed to focus better and came second in the competition.’
‘Well done,’ I congratulated, clinking glasses with him.
We settled down in a quiet corner.
‘So, what’s new?’ I asked, guessing he had some kind of job for me.
‘A musician has been murdered recently – stabbed and with his head bashed in, found on a narrowboat owned by an Elvis impersonator. All the newspapers thought it was hilarious. One got it wrong and the headline read: Elvis found dead in Manchester. One strange thing, though: there was a diamond found under the body. We don’t know whether it has anything to do with the murder or not at this stage. Forensics are working on it to see if it’s worth much and if it can be traced.’
‘Yes, I read about it in the Manchester Evening News,’ I confirmed. ‘Makes a change from the norm, though: Elvis spotted in Manchester chip shop. Unusual situation that’s for sure, anyway what can I do to help?’
Bill went on to relate a lot of what I already knew, but I decided to keep quiet for the moment about Lady Jane.
‘We’re doing all the forensic stuff on the body and the suspects, as you would expect, but the narrowboat has disappeared. We’re trying to trace it, but so far have drawn a blank. GMP doesn’t have team of canal experts, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why, if he needed to scarper, he didn’t just head for the airport and leave the boat where it was. A missing narrowboat isn’t featuring high up on the Chief Constable’s list of priorities, so my resources are limited. I thought it might be more up your street.’
‘That is an unusual request, but OK, yes, I think we could give it some thought. It is a strange one, though. Usual arrangements for my expenses, I assume?’
Bill nodded and I went over to the bar for more drinks. While I was waiting, it occurred to me that I probably had even less knowledge of narrowboats than Bill and his colleagues. Placing the drinks on the table, I asked, ‘Are you going to give me some clues about this boat, then?’
‘Yes, but we don’t have a great deal of information, because, as you would expect, we were concentrating on the body. However, it was described as a seventy-footer, in a colour combination of red and green.’
‘Does that mean green with bits of red or the other way around?’ I asked, trying not to sound sarcastic.
Bill gave me a look that suggested I was being sarcastic.
Half an hour of polite chat later, I waved him off before piloting the Saab gracefully home, deep in thought. I wondered if I was doing the right thing in holding back information that might be of use to a Detective Inspector of Greater Manchester Police, not to mention how on earth you’d go about finding a missing narrowboat when the police themselves didn’t seem to have a clue. My thoughts swiftly leapt to the coming evening, when I was due to attend a Cheshire Diners event. The last one, a fortnight before, was quite successful, and I’d chatted to a svelte Portuguese brunette called Helena, whose delightful accent when speaking English made the conversation positively sensual. I had failed to secure her phone number, but was determined to succeed tonight should the opportunity arise
I parked the Saab outside the garage, and briefly considered giving it a wash, but soon decided that would be over the top. My landlord Cyril, the farmer, was trudging across the farmyard as I made my way to the door of my converted barn. Preferring not to chat to the garrulous farmer at this time of day, I managed to keep it short before moving indoors.
Chapter 8
Malcolm Nolan, aged forty-two, was a millionaire. The money came from property investment, in which relatively new enterprise he had been extremely lucky. Previously he had dabbled in drugs and a few seedy inner-city lettings but he had then spotted a loop-hole in the buy-to-let schemes that had been encouraged by successive governments. His strategy was to purchase run-down, sizeable family properties, many of which were old, spacious, Victorian-era houses, and convert them into several tiny flats that would be attractive to benefit claimants. By adding a small kitchen and a bathroom, his clients were entitled to a much higher level of housing benefit, effectively increasing the annual rental income of the properties by up to a factor of four. This business model was running in London and half a dozen other cities up and down the country.
It was seven-thirty in the evening, and he was at home in Wilmslow. He had flown in from Heathrow, after a business trip, to London viewing more houses to renovate. He had expected to be picked up by Alec, who hadn’t shown up and wasn’t answering his mobile phone. He’d had to stand and wait in a queue at the taxi rank for half an hour, so by the time he arrived at home he was in a foul mood. Adding to his woes, Malcolm’s wife Jane was off out on a jaunt with her sister, a BBC producer – he didn’t know whether it was another Streetsound gig or some other venture. He poured himself a brandy and fumed. Alec was not the sharpest tool in the box, and he was starting to wonder whether it was time to dispense with his services. Perhaps it was time to get rid of her too. He’d been away for three nights, and needed sex badly. He thought about calling her, then changed his mind. He had the number of an escort agency, so he impulsively picked up the landline, then hesitated and placed it back in the cradle. It was never quite the same with an escort, and he loved his wife. He loved her despite her family, who thought they were bloody royals because of a tenuous connection to some duke who’d gambled away most of the family money.
As with any family where cash was swiftly running out, the attraction for his wife Jane was of course his money, the sources of which she never asked too many questions about. When asked by her posh friends what he did for a living, she grandly answered property magnate. There had been enough family cash to afford her a private education at a quality girls’ school, after which she’d dabbled as a model and secured a few bit-parts in the odd soap, courtesy of her younger sister’s connections at the BBC. No one ever remembered her performances, however, and she had not been asked to
repeat any.
Jane was not, in fact, at a Streetsound gig with her sister, but shopping at the Trafford Centre with another female friend, where she had invested £700 in fashionable clothing bargains. She arrived home at eight-thirty to find Malcolm drunk and morose. A quick viewing of some skimpy lingerie soon improved the situation, if not his performance a short time later in bed. Laying back afterwards, and smoking a joint, she thought not of Malcolm but of Matt, her toy-boy drummer, and wondered, if only…
***
Brian Hampson was moored at a quiet spot on the Trent and Mersey canal, south of Middlewich in the heart of Cheshire, an old salt town from Roman times. The first thing he had done before departing from Castlefield was to retrieve the cache of stolen jewels and other assorted valuables from the safety deposit box. He secreted it in a disguised cabinet in the engine compartment.
Elvis had spent a couple of days completing the disguise of the Voyager. On the roof, he’d added multi-coloured pots with flowers, purchased from a canal-side chandler, while on the roof were a box of logs and an old second-hand bicycle. A few transfers now adorned the sides, and the windows were covered with old greying curtains hung on a plastic-coated wire, all bought from a charity shop. The fancy captain’s chair was replaced with a discarded plastic one retrieved from the towpath. Inside, the opulent interior, invisible to a passer-by, could only be seen if one stepped onto the boat. To all intents and purposes, it was now a much older narrowboat that had seen better days. On the towpath, sitting on a cheap green plastic chair and smoking a roll-up, a bald man with a grizzly beard, dressed in an oily boiler suit was passing the time of day with a dog walker. The transformation was complete.
Brian felt guilty. He had not contacted his son Julian, and felt sure he would be worried. He vowed to make contact with him He would go out later and buy a new mobile phone, in addition he did want to be the replacement bass player He knew mobiles could be traced these days, but the technology was way beyond his comprehension. To be on the safe side, before setting off from Manchester he had opened the old phone, taken out the battery and SIM card and stamped hard on everything, before throwing the separate pieces into the murky water of Castlefield Basin. He hoped that was enough, and even if they could trace it to Castlefield, so what?
He knew the police would be searching for him, but he was feeling quite confident that they would find it a struggle now that he had disguised both himself and the boat. Neither he nor the boat now fitted any profile they were likely to come up with. In fact, only a few hours before, a plod on a trail bike had ridden past without a second glance. As soon as he had his new mobile, he would contact his colleague at his planned destination scheduled for three days ahead. He could also let Julian know he was OK. They wouldn’t be checking his calls, would they? Maybe he should make contact via email from an internet café or something.
Meanwhile, Julian Hampson was getting some stick from the band members. They would have to miss the next gig if no bass player could be found in time, and would thereby lose money. Unable to contact his father, he was frantically ringing everyone he knew who could play bass, however badly.
Eventually he managed to contact an old friend of his father who was happy to step in at short notice. No longer in demand, he was currently making ends meet by playing in small clubs and bars around Manchester. The gig was on.
Chapter 9
Matt was in a panic. It was late afternoon on Wednesday – well over a week since Jake was found dead. He had to see Brian Hampson, as he was sure his lover Jane now knew what he was up to. She couldn’t be that stupid, could she? He would have to stop fencing jewellery and diamonds for Brian before she spoke to someone about it. Perhaps it was time he finished with her. He had been trying Brian’s mobile for days, and didn’t understand why he couldn’t get an answer. He had another drink. What could he do? If he was found with all the stuff, that would be the end of everything. Julian had told him the boat and Brian Hampson had disappeared because the police were after him. Brian couldn’t stay away for ever, surely? He must be back by now, maybe moored up in a different place.
There was nothing to lose. It was time to check while Jane was out having her hair done in the hotel salon. Paranoid, he paused in the hotel lobby to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He waited for a minute, but there was no sign, so he left by the front door. He did not know that Jane, having had her hairdo, was returning back to the room, she had seen him heading towards the lift, and so ran down the three flights of stairs to the reception area and out of the hotel into the street. She then ran across the street to hide in the doorway of a small supermarket.
Matt walked the short distance to Deansgate and then turned south in the direction of Deansgate metro station, dodging fellow pedestrians on his way. Turning into Liverpool Road, he cast a furtive glance behind him, and seeing nothing untoward made his way to Castlefield Basin. He had been stealing jewellery regularly for two years. Some friends he supplied drugs to often paid in stolen jewels, which along with his own thefts, he fenced off to Brian Hampson. Staying in hotels gave him ample opportunity to sneak into rooms. He had not been caught yet, but if he couldn’t reach Brian, keeping hold of his spoils was a dangerous game.
He patted the pocket of his parka-type jacket. The package was still there. He relaxed as little as he took the short run of steps onto the canal bank and then over a steel bridge passing under high arches carrying the railway tracks into Manchester Piccadilly rail station. Darkness and dankness prevailed. There were few lights, and the boats appeared ghostlike, with only the odd faint glow and soft throb of diesel engines signalling occupancy. Breathing a sigh of relief at nearing his destination, he climbed over another bridge and round two large pillars supporting the arches.
There was no sign of the Memphis. Had he taken a wrong turn? Surely not – he had been here many times before. He looked around. Brian may have just moved the boat to another berth. Matt decided that Brian must be here somewhere He looked up and down and both ways as far as he could see, and then walked back along the Bridgewater Canal for a hundred yards. He peered around a bend, but there was no sign of the Memphis. Now he really did begin to panic. Where could Brian be? And what the hell was he going to do with all the stuff in his pocket? He’d got several gold rings from a druggie mate, and a pair of expensive diamond earrings courtesy of Jane.
Meanwhile Jane had easily followed him lost in the throng of people on the street. On Liverpool road, the crowds became sparse and she had to be more careful. On the canal side itself, she fell further back, heart in her mouth in case he should turn and look back, but fortunately he was completely engrossed in his task. She ducked behind a bridge support as he paused at a particular spot and stared up the canal and then back in her direction. He shook his head and looked up at the sky in anger. She had panicked at this point and. perspiring with tension she decided whatever he was up to was not good. She had better go before he came back in her direction. Ducking back behind the bridge she ran back to Liverpool road and walked back to the hotel in a haze fearful of how she would react when he returned.
Matt slowly retraced his steps back to the hotel wondering what on earth he was going to do. As he entered the room Jane said, ‘Oh! Wondered where you were?’
‘Just felt like a walk.’ He answered carefully placing his jacket and the package concealed therein in the wardrobe. ‘Nice hairdo’
‘Yeah, it’s OK, but the hair dryer has given me a headache, do you mind if I go back to my place.’
‘No, no, that’s OK, see you later.’ he replied absentmindedly.’
***
At 6.30pm I set off for my Cheshire Dining event in a cosy venue near Bramhall. My Portuguese friend Helena was in the bar and accepted my offer of a drink. Tonight, she was wearing a sculpted blue dress, her brunette hair swept back in a pony-tail, and matching sapphire earrings and necklace enhanced her Portuguese features. We slipped into easy conversation, and I managed to get myself seated opposite her, despit
e the suggestions of the host who was trying to partner me off with a fat lady with a ridiculous shade of red hair. I found Helena’s accent enchanting, and the conversation flowed as easily as the fine Rioja wine. I was driving, so I waved my hand as the waiter attempted to ply me with more. Helena told me all about her childhood on the Portuguese island of Madeira, and all about its celebrity – she even claimed to know the footballer Cristiano Ronaldo. I’m not sure I wanted to know any more about him and the flora and fauna of the island, so I tried to change the subject. She powered on regardless, holding her wine glass up to the waiter for more. I wondered if it was my imagination, or whether her voice really was getting louder. She began talking to a man with a seventies-style drooping moustache sitting on her right-hand side. He reminded me of a flash detective in a seventies TV show… Magnum, or was it Jason King? No matter, whoever it was, he wore excruciating flared trousers. I excused myself for the bathroom, buying myself time to think. Had I made a mistake? Returning to the dining room, I saw Helena showing signs of being the worse for wear. She was fawning over Moustache Man, and I wondered whether I should quit while I was ahead. The host, Rebecca, appeared from nowhere and touched my elbow, guiding me to the other side of the room.
‘I tried to place you somewhere safer,’ Rebecca said. ‘I’m afraid Helena, albeit very attractive, is a bit of a lush. I’ve had to call a taxi for her on more than one occasion.’
‘Oh!’ I exclaimed, somewhat lost for words ‘I feel I might have had a lucky escape.’
‘Indeed, you have,’ she confirmed. ‘Come and sit next to me. I promise I won’t eat you alive.’ She winked.
‘How could I refuse?’ I replied, feeling like a lamb to the slaughter.
Fortunately, the evening ended well. Helena and Moustache Man, who was equally inebriated, staggered off to a waiting taxi. I was by this time rather taken with my new friend Rebecca, who whilst not excluding those around at the table, was obviously giving me slightly more attention. I took my leave after having got her mobile number and email address. I promised to ring her before the weekend, then drove back through the lanes feeling quite positive.
Caught in a Trap Page 5
