Kissing a Killer

by David Carter

  The woman laughed.

  ‘We try. Once a detective, always a detective, eh?’

  ‘Something like that. New is it, the car?’

  ‘Six months.’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Best car I’ve ever had.’

  ‘Great,’ said Walter. ‘What’s your name, by the way?’

  ‘Mary Warner, I’m not a suspect too, am I?’

  ‘No. Course not, just....’

  ‘Yes, I know “routine enquiries”.’

  Walter nodded and grinned.

  ‘Can’t stand about here all day,’ she said. ‘Nice to have met you. Good luck with whatever it is you are looking into.’

  ‘And you too,’ said Walter, as they followed her down the stairs and out into the gloomy November day.

  Sitting in the car, they watched her back the Cayton out and smile and wave and drive off.

  ‘What was that all about?’ asked Karen.

  ‘I have no idea. Nice woman though.’

  ‘You fancied her?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly. And anyway....’

  ‘Anyway what?’

  ‘I have a new lady friend now.’

  ‘Do you? Since when?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘No, you did not.’

  ‘Met her on the Internet.’

  ‘Did you now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On the site I mentioned?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘What’s her name? What’s she like?’

  ‘Not now, let’s get on with the job. I’ll maybe tell you later.’

  Karen grinned and made a mental note to come back to that.

  ‘Where to? First Image?’

  Walter nodded and growled, ‘Yep,’ and then he added, ‘how old do you think she was, yellow Mary?’

  Karen pulled a face and said, ‘Hard to tell, forty, maybe forty-five.’

  ‘She was well preserved for that.’

  ‘You think so? I hope I look like her when I am forty-five. Forty-five is positively ancient.’

  ‘Forty-five is positively young, but that’s another issue, come on, I want to talk to this vacuous man, Nesbitt, as Dot described him.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Karen. ‘Can’t wait.’

  Six

  The general manager at First Image wasn’t too keen on having an important member of his sales staff dragged off the floor during peak time selling, and even less impressed when the police commandeered his office to speak to Nesbitt. Derek came to the open door and knocked.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Karen, doing the introductions.

  ‘No trouble is there?’ said an obviously nervous Derek, as he sat down in front of the desk.

  ‘Just routine,’ said Walter, trying to put the guy at ease.

  Walter glanced across as the man. What was he? Mid to late thirties maybe, probably six feet, slim to medium build, short neatly parted brown hair, dark eyes, and neatly and smartly dressed, which was almost certainly a requirement in his profession. Walter kicked things off.

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but are you Ellie Wright’s boyfriend?’

  ‘Ellie? No, why? I know her but she isn’t my girlfriend, no way, never.’

  ‘Really?’ said Karen. ‘But Ellie’s mother told us that you went to Spain on holiday with her.’

  ‘Well yes, we did, but just as mates, not as a couple, we’re not bed sharers, or anything like that.’

  ‘But you knew her well?’ asked Walter.

  ‘Yeah, I guess, look what is this all about? What’s Ellie been up to now? What’s she been saying?’

  Walter and Karen ignored the questions for both wanted to ask the same thing. Walter got there first. ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘Ooh, let me think, last week sometime.’

  ‘When last week?’ persisted Karen.

  ‘Let me think, Friday, we went for a curry together, no, hang on, Thursday night it was, Friday I was out playing darts.’

  Walter clarified. ‘You last saw her on Thursday night?’

  Derek nodded and looked confident. ‘Yeah, Thursday it was, look, do you mind telling me what this is all about?’

  Again the officers ignored his question.

  Walter asked, ‘Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘Yeah, course, she’s staying in a dilapidated old caravan down by the river, at the very end of Marigold Lane, pretty rank it is too. I’ve been trying to persuade her to get a decent flat.’

  ‘Do you do drugs, Derek?’ asked Karen.

  ‘Me? Certainly not. I’m clean.’

  ‘But you knew that Ellie did?’ said Walter.

  Derek pulled a face and said, ‘Yeah, she’s messed about with it, but nothing too serious. At least I don’t think so.’

  ‘Do you deal drugs?’ asked Karen.

  ‘Me! No! Course not! What do you take me for? Look, what is this all about?’

  ‘What else do you know about Ellie Wright?’ asked Walter.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You know what we mean!’ said Karen.

  Derek breathed out heavy and fidgeted in his seat. Looked as if he needed a cigarette.

  ‘Come on Derek,’ said Walter softly. ‘What else?’

  ‘You mean the men?’

  Walter nodded.

  ‘The men?’ said Karen.

  ‘Yeah. You know, she did tricks for men, for cash like, now and again.’

  ‘Down at the caravan?’ said Walter.

  ‘Yeah, there, and other places too.’

  ‘What other places?’ asked Karen.

  ‘She went to their gaffs sometimes, so she said, even in hotel rooms, on occasion.’

  ‘And you approved of that?’ asked Walter.

  ‘Course not!’

  ‘Are you her pimp, Derek?’ asked Karen.

  ‘What! No! Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘But you didn’t try and stop her?’

  ‘Course I did! She didn’t want to know. To tell you the truth I think she quite liked her way of earning a living.’

  ‘Is there anyone special in her life?’ asked Walter.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a straightforward question,’ said Karen. ‘Are any of the men special to her?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Did she mention any names?’ asked Walter.

  ‘Not that I remember, and by the way, it wasn’t just men.’

  Walter ignored that too for he knew that already and asked, ‘Where did she meet these men?’

  ‘She was well known around the local pubs.’

  ‘Which pubs?’ asked Karen, and Derek reeled off four different drinking establishments.

  ‘Did she have any close friends?’ asked Walter.

  ‘Not really. There was one girl, a mate. Jani Jefferson, Janice, they’d go out drinking and clubbing sometimes, she’s the only one I know of.’

  ‘Where does she live?’ asked Karen.

  ‘She has a little flat near the railway station. Over one of the shops. Over a cycle shop, it is, can’t remember the address exactly.’

  Karen and Walter shared a look and Karen said, ‘I know the shop, Guv.’

  ‘Look! What’s going on here? What’s she been up to?’

  ‘On Friday night Ellie’s caravan burnt down,’ said Walter.

  ‘No! Is she alright?’

  ‘We believe she was inside it at the time,’ said Karen.

  ‘What! You mean she’s dead?’

  ‘It looks that way,’ said Walter.

  Derek leant forward and put his hands on his knees and pursed his lips and breathed out heavy. ‘Fuck!’ he said. ‘I can’t get my head around this.’

  ‘Which pub were you playing darts in, Derek?’

  ‘Eh? Oh, the Red Lion.’

  ‘What time did you leave?’ asked Walter.

  ‘About eleven, why? Hey, hang on a minute. Was this fire st
arted deliberately?’

  ‘Was it Derek?’ asked Walter.

  ‘Eh? How the hell would I know? Look what the fuck’s going on here? Are you trying to say she was murdered? Do you think I had something to do with it?’

  ‘Did you?’ asked Karen.

  ‘Of course I fucking didn’t! Ellie was a good friend to me.’

  ‘So far, we don’t think anything, Derek. We are just trying to find out what happened down there,’ said Walter. ‘In the meantime can you please not leave the city without telling us first, and if you think of anything further that may help us with our enquiries, we’d appreciate you getting in touch,’ and Walter held his card out across the desk.

  Derek took it and glanced at it and nodded and slipped it behind the red handkerchief in his breast pocket.

  ‘Do you own a car, Derek?’ asked Karen.

  ‘Sure. A silver Cayton.’

  ‘And did you ever drive down Marigold Lane?’

  ‘Once or twice.’

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘Yeah, on that Thursday night.’

  ‘The last time you saw her?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Walter nodded and glanced at Karen.

  Derek jumped into the momentary silence.

  ‘Is that it? Can I go now?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Walter, ‘and thank you for your assistance.’

  Derek nodded and didn’t need a second chance to flee the room. A moment later the manager reappeared and stood in the open doorway.

  ‘Everything all right here?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Walter. ‘It would seem that one of Derek’s friends has recently died. He’s obviously a little shaken up.’

  ‘Oh, fair enough, that’s a relief, I thought he was in some kind of trouble there for a moment.... sorry that didn’t come out quite right,’ said the manager, looking a little uncomfortable.

  ‘Do you know any of Derek’s friends?’ asked Karen.

  ‘Me? No! Certainly not, we don’t socialise at all, purely a boss and employee relationship.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Walter. ‘And your name again is?’

  ‘Kenneth Boyce.’

  ‘Well, thank you Mr Boyce, you have been most helpful, sorry to have interrupted your day.’

  ‘Glad to assist,’ he said, as the officers left the room and hurried from the building and back to the car.

  Walter scratched his nose and sat back in his seat. Karen took a quick swig of blackcurrant still water and said, ‘What did you make of Derek?’

  ‘He didn’t come across as particularly vacuous.’

  ‘No, I thought that.’

  ‘But if he left the Red Lion at eleven he could have driven straight to Marigold Lane. He knew where it was, and he probably knew she would be there. And if there are tyre tracks of his, he’s covered that by saying he was there on Thursday.’

  ‘Does he come across as a murderer?’ asked Karen.

  ‘Not especially, but who knows what went on down there? Maybe he visited and things got out of hand. Anything could have happened.’

  ‘He’s the best we’ve got.’

  ‘So far....’

  ‘Maybe we should take a look at his car.’

  ‘He’s already admitted he’s been down there. We’d expect to find Marigold Lane mud on his car. Doesn’t prove a thing.’

  ‘Guess you’re right. Where now? Jani’s?’

  ‘You got it.’

  It didn’t take them long to find the cycle shop, and the flat above, but Janice Jefferson wasn’t there. In Madeira, apparently, so the helpful young bloke in the cycle shop said, enjoying a little early winter sunshine, back in a couple of days, he said. Walter wrote a brief note on a card to get in touch, and slipped it through the letterbox. Any input from Jani would have to wait awhile.

  Everyone was back and ready and keen to get started by half past four. There was no point in delaying. Walter called the evening meet to order.

  Karen kicked things off by sharing the data about Derek Nesbitt and Janice Jefferson. Next up was Hector Browne and he had real things to contribute.

  ‘There were three possible runners in the recent prison releases.’ Everyone glanced at the screen. ‘All of them are out on licence so we have full recent records as to where they are residing, and they all have to report in at varying intervals, and up till now they all have.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Walter, eager to get to the meat.

  ‘I think we can rule this one out. Housebound. He’s got a broken leg.’

  ‘How did that happen?’ asked Karen.

  ‘Playing football, apparently.’

  ‘And the others?’ said Walter.

  ‘Number two is James “Jimmy” Crocker. Aged thirty-six.’

  They all stared up at the balding hard-faced figure that insolently stared back through cold eyes.

  ‘Tell us more,’ said Walter; trying hard to remember if he’d ever met the guy.

  ‘Long time career criminal, but mainly low key stuff, but then for some reason he imagined he was a hard man and began battering people, sometimes for money, sometimes seemingly because he enjoyed it. He’d racked up a big score of assaults before he was finally sent down.’

  ‘I remember him,’ said Gibbons. ‘A right prick!’

  ‘Passed me by,’ said Walter.

  ‘Me too,’ added Karen.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Hector, ‘he got ten years for GBH, and was released after five.’

  ‘When was that?’ asked Karen.

  ‘Three weeks ago.’

  ‘Got an address?’ asked Walter.

  ‘Sure,’ said Hector. ‘He’s back with his mother at Saltney Ferry. 20 Laburnum Gardens.’

  Walter grunted and said, ‘One for you Gibbons, I think. Take Nick with you first thing in the morning. Find out where Crocker was on Friday, and thoroughly check out any alibi.’

  ‘Thanks a lot, Guv,’ said Gibbons, not really wanting to meet Jimmy Crocker again.

  ‘And the third one?’ said Walter.

  ‘The most interesting and promising one, in my opinion,’ said Hector, looking pleased with himself.

  ‘Let’s hear it.’

  ‘Michael, Mickey Flanagan. Aged thirty-nine. Went to prison for twelve years for the manslaughter of his wife. Released after seven on licence for good behaviour.’

  Everyone looked up at the new picture gazing down on them. Long straggly greasy dark hair parted in the middle. Looked like some refugee from a metal rock band. Hard looking eyes; but weren’t they always when they were photographed under stress in a police station.

  ‘He has one son who was taken into care. He’ll be twelve now. So far, Michael Flanagan has not been permitted to see his son, and indeed the boy has expressed a wish not to see his father.’

  ‘When was he released?’

  ‘Twenty-six days ago,’ said Hector, without hesitation.

  ‘Where’s he living?’

  ‘Christleton.’

  ‘Address?’

  Hector coughed it up. Walter memorised it.

  Jenny said, ‘Do you want me to check him out, Guv?’

  ‘Won’t be necessary, Jen, I want to see this guy myself.’

  ‘That it, Hector?’ asked Karen.

  ‘Yep, for now.’

  ‘How did you get on?’ asked Walter, glancing at Jen and Nick.

  ‘Not a lot in truth,’ said Jenny. ‘We interviewed everyone who was available in Marigold Lane. Two families are away, one on holiday, one away working. Of the others no one heard or saw a thing except for a Mr Duffield.’

  Nick Barr took up the story.

  ‘Mr Duffield is not allowed to smoke in his bungalow.’

  Slight tittering filled the briefing room.

  ‘All right,’ said Walter. ‘Settle down. And?’

  Nick grinned and began again.

  ‘His wife won’t permit it in the house; so just before he went to bed he stepped outside the back of his property onto a large flagged patio and enjoyed a lat
e night fag. While he was doing that he noticed a glow in the sky from the direction of the caravan, but put it down to kids who had been known to go down there at the weekends, and make a fire and drink and stuff. He didn’t think it so unusual. He says he didn’t hear or see anything else, and after his ciggie was done he stepped back inside, not least because it was raining, and thought nothing more of it.

  ‘Did he see anyone driving up the lane later on?’ asked Karen.

  ‘Nope. Their room is at the back, so they couldn’t have seen a thing.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Walter.

  ‘If someone set fire to the caravan they could have walked up the lane,’ suggested Jenny.

  ‘Possible,’ said Walter. ‘But why would you?’

  ‘Avoid tyre tracks, maybe.’

  ‘Or maybe a local person?’ added Gibbons.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Walter.

  ‘Or perhaps,’ said Jenny, ‘they didn’t want Ellie to hear their arrival by car, so they crept down there on foot instead.’

  ‘And left the car, if they had one, back up on the main road,’ said Karen.

  ‘All possible, but we want something more concrete than that,’ said Walter.

  ‘There is a lay-by on the main road, maybe a couple of hundred yards along from Marigold,’ added Gibbons.

  ‘Someone might have seen it if a car were left there,’ suggested Nick.

  ‘Again, it’s possible,’ said Walter. ‘Did you turn up anything else, Jen?’

  ‘No, we tried lots of other further away properties, maybe thirty or forty, but no one saw or heard anything unusual.’

  ‘That just leaves you, Gibbons,’ said Walter, and everyone turned and stared at Darren. ‘What did you turn up in the pubs?’

  ‘Plenty of tittle-tattle and interest. Lots of the punters knew of Ellie Wright, though none of them were brave enough to admit to visiting her at home, so to speak.’

  ‘So there’s quite a few liars in the pubs then?’ said Karen.

  ‘Clearly,’ said Mrs West. ‘And there’s no point in testing them for DNA because we have nothing left at the possible crime scene to compare it with, and there’s nothing left in the wreckage of the caravan to incriminate anyone. No juicy diary or business records, or appreciative gifts. That would have been nice.’

  ‘Someone in those pubs must know something,’ said Walter. ‘I think we need to have another go at them.’

  ‘Is that it for now?’ asked Mrs West, anxious to get on with other work.