by David Carter
‘Looks that way,’ said Walter.
‘Is it a visit to Mickey Flanagan first thing tomorrow?’ asked Karen.
Walter glanced at his watch.
‘It’s only five to six,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and do it now. Never put off till tomorrow, and all that.’
One or two of them smirked at Karen’s annoyance for they knew she had a hot date. She hid it well, you had to give her that.
Seven
They had expected Michael Flanagan’s address to be some kind of down-at-heel boarding house, or an unloved renter, but they could not have been more wrong. He was living in a brand new townhouse, one of three, in a small cul-de-sac off the main A41, south and east of Chester. There were small square gardens at the front, different coloured front doors, red sandstone porches built in the local stone, and they appeared a very nice place to live.
‘Crime must pay,’ muttered Karen, opening the small white front gate, and wondering why she could not afford a little house like it.
‘Looks that way,’ said Walter, as they headed for the red door and rang the doorbell set to the right.
No one came.
Walter peered through the partly frosted glass panel and squinted inside. Couldn’t see any action. Tried the bell again.
Movement inside. A shadowy figure coming down the stairs, and in the next moment a tall neat man opened the door. He didn’t look happy.
‘We’re looking for Michael Flanagan,’ said Walter.
‘And you are?’ said the guy, though his instinct told him these people were police.
Karen did the introductions.
‘I’m Michael Flanagan,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’ Which was something of a surprise for he didn’t look anything like his photo. He’d cut his hair, short and neat; he was well dressed too, neatly shaved, smelt nice, and looked more like a businessman than a rough killer.
‘Can we come in for a minute?’ said Walter. ‘We need your help on something.’
‘I’m busy right now.’
‘So are we,’ said Karen, as Walter eased the door open, and they both stepped inside, and followed Michael into a small but neat front sitting room. The new theme continued. New large TV, new music system, new sofa, nice pictures on the wall, good beige carpet on the floor, all clean and tidy, all good to go. The three of them stood in the centre of the room and checked each other out.
‘Nice place,’ said Walter.
‘I know what you’re thinking.’
‘What are we thinking?’ asked Karen.
‘You’re thinking, how come a jailbird like me has such a nice gaff as this?’
‘It might have crossed my mind,’ said Walter. ‘So how do you?’
Flanagan breathed out heavy as if he was sick to the back teeth of justifying things, but he would anyway.
‘Thankfully, there are some well-meaning charitable societies and trusts and housing associations out there that look after people just out of prison, people like me. Make an effort to give us a fresh start, kind of thing, and just to be clear about it, I only get this house for eighteen months max, after that I have to find my own place, and just to be clear also, it was an accident, what happened to my wife.’
‘Oh?’ said Karen.
‘She came at me with a poker. I’d caught her playing around. She could have killed me. I had no choice. I gave her a slap, just the one, nothing really; she fell over and banged her head on the corner of the marble fireplace. It could have happened to anyone. Manslaughter, they said, it was an accident for fuck’s sake, but you know all this, no point in going over it all again. I’m working hard, and trying to get my life back together, so give me a break and get off my case, eh?’
‘It’s not your case we are looking at,’ said Walter.
‘Oh? So what do you want?’
‘Where were you last Friday night?’
‘Friday? Here of course. I’m tagged, don’t they tell you anything?’ and he pulled up his trouser leg and revealed the white electronic tag on his ankle. ‘Seven till seven curfew. Always knew the bloody thing would come in useful sometime, and now it has,’ and he grinned. ‘You can check.’
‘So you didn’t go out at all that night?’
‘Course not. Said so, didn’t I.’
‘What do you do for a living?’ asked Walter, but before Flanagan could answer, a loud bump came to the ceiling above.
‘We are not alone here?’ said Walter, glancing skywards.
‘Nope. Not a crime is it?’
‘You didn’t think to say?’ said Karen.
‘You didn’t ask.’
‘Who’s upstairs?’ asked Walter.
Michael shrugged his shoulders and looked shifty.
‘A friend, my girlfriend, if you must know.’
‘I’ll check it out, Guv,’ said Karen, going to the stairs and running up them.
The door to the front bedroom was wide open. A naked young woman lay on the new double bed, smirking. Maybe twenties, maybe a little younger.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Karen.
‘Misty,’ she said, propping herself up on her elbows.
‘No it’s not!’ said Karen. ‘I know you, don’t I?’
‘Do you? I don’t know you, lady.’
‘I think you do. What’s your real name?’
‘You never leave people alone, do you?’
‘Real name!’
‘For fuck’s sake! Tracey Day, if you must know.’
‘Ah yes, I remember now, Tracey Day, you’ve been done several times for prostitution, if memory serves. Which reminds me, do you know a girl called Ellie Wright?’
‘Nope, who’s she?’
‘No matter, just someone we are interested in. Anyway, get yourself dressed, right now! There’ll be no business done here today, I’ll expect you downstairs in five.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! People can do what they like in their own homes!’
‘No they can’t! Not when they are out on licence. Get dressed! I won’t tell you again.’
Tracey sulkily slid from the bed and headed toward her clothes bunched up on a low dressing table. Karen nodded and went downstairs.
‘Well?’ said Walter.
‘Tracey Day, a known Tom, about to do business by the looks of things.’
Walter glanced at Michael and pulled a questioning face.
‘I can do what I like in my own place.’
‘Do you think the charitable trust would approve of that?’
‘Oh, don’t tell them, for Christ sake, I’m just getting back on my feet.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Walter. ‘Just so long as you cooperate.’
Michael scowled, as a sheepish looking Tracey in a very short skirt appeared and stood in the doorway. ‘Can I go now?’
‘You can,’ said Walter, as Tracey headed toward the front door.
‘Give me a ring!’ shouted Michael.
‘You will not be ringing here, will you Tracey?’ growled Walter.
‘No mister black-man-police-man,’ she shouted back, giggling at her own little joke, as she let herself out, and hurried away down the path before they thought to search in her handbag.
‘Where were we?’ muttered Walter.
‘You wanted to know what I was doing for a living.’
‘Ah yes, and what is that?’
‘Cab driver, if you must know.’
‘But only from seven till seven,’ said Karen.
‘Correct.’
‘Don’t you have to have a CRB check to drive cabs?’ said Karen.
‘No! Not with all the firms, and anyway, you’re out of date with that, young woman. It’s a DBS check now, Disclosure and Barring Service.’
Karen glanced at Walter as if for confirmation. What Michael said was true, the old Criminal Records Bureau checks had been replaced by the DBS, and it was true too that not all cab drivers are checked at all.
‘Just what we need,’ muttered Walter. ‘Convicted criminals, even kill
ers, driving around our vulnerable young women at the dead of night.’
‘And young men,’ added Karen.
‘Yeah, that too.’
‘I’m not a killer! I’m working hard. I’m trying to get my life back together, get back on my feet. I want to see my son again. What would you have me do, sit on my backside all day, picking up the dole money? And anyway, I’m not driving round young women and young men, rarely anyway, more likely ferrying all the old biddies home from the supermarket, or pensioners to the station, going off on their holidays to bloody Benidorm, or to and from the local bingo hall, that’s far more likely.’
‘Do you know where Marigold Lane is?’ asked Walter.
‘Course I do. I am a cab driver; we have to learn all the roads. Part of the job.’
‘Have you been down there?’ asked Karen.
‘Once or twice.’
‘Recently?’ said Karen.
‘Last week sometime.’
‘When last week?’ asked Walter.
‘Wednesday or Thursday I think it was.’
‘How far down Marigold Lane did you go?’ asked Karen.
‘All the way.’
‘To the caravan, by the river?’ asked Walter.
Michael nodded and looked uncomfortable.
‘Who did you take down there?’ asked Karen.
‘Some guy. Didn’t give me his name. Customers tend not to.’
‘Did you wait for him?’ asked Walter.
‘Nope. Just left him there.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Got there about six, I couldn’t wait on, tag time coming up, and all that.’
‘Did you see the person who lives there?’ asked Karen.
‘No. Not a soul.’
‘Did you know the young woman who lives there?’
Flanagan shook his head.
‘Did you know she was a prostitute?’ asked Walter.
‘Certainly not! Look, what is this?’
‘Can you describe the guy you took down there?’ asked Karen.
‘Yeah, probably, though after a while all the punters tend to look the same.’
‘Try,’ said Walter.
‘Thirties, maybe, businessman type guy, suit shirt and tie, that kind of thing, didn’t say much, didn’t tip much either.’
‘Height?’
‘Six feet maybe, about my height.’
‘Hair?’ said Karen.
‘Dark, black or brown.’
‘Is Tracey Day a friend of Ellie Wright?’
‘Who’s Ellie Wright?’
‘The woman who lived in the caravan,’ said Karen.
‘I have no idea. You’d have to ask her.’
‘Did you set fire to Ellie Wright’s caravan?’ asked Walter.
Before he could answer Karen waded in with, ‘Did you kill Ellie Wright?’
Mickey Flanagan pulled a face and said, ‘Leave it out. Why would I do that?’
‘Maybe she didn’t want to know you,’ suggested Karen.
‘Maybe she turned you down flat,’ added Walter. ‘You’re in the market for an available young woman, we know that.’
‘Don’t be crazy.’
Karen wasn’t to be so easily put off.
‘Maybe you hit her because she wouldn’t give you what you wanted, and maybe she fell over and banged her head. Sound familiar?’
‘Now you’re just being stupid.’
‘Don’t think so,’ said Walter. ‘We are just trying to find out how Ellie Wright died.’
‘She’s really dead?’ said Flanagan, sitting heavily in the sofa, looking genuinely surprised, either that or he was a bloody good actor.
‘She is dead,’ confirmed Walter. ‘Do you know anything about that?’
‘I do not, I wish I did.’
Walter glanced at his watch.
‘It’s seven o’clock,’ he said aloud.
‘It is,’ said Michael. ‘And I am tag-tied to the bloody house for another day, and night.’
‘Save you getting into any more trouble, Michael,’ said Karen, smirking.
‘We’d better be off,’ said Walter. ‘If you think of anything else about Ellie and her little caravan I’d appreciate it if you’d let us know,’ and he set a card on the small hall cupboard.
‘Okay, I will, but I’d appreciate it if you’d not tell the charitable trust about, well you know, Tracey and all that.’
‘That could be arranged,’ said Walter. ‘But do yourself a favour and stay away from on-hire girls, get you into trouble every time.’
Michael nodded and muttered something about men having certain needs, and it was damned difficult meeting anyone when you had to be home by bloody 7pm every night.
In the car outside Karen said, ‘Back to base, Guv?’
‘Yes. What did you make of that?’
‘Michael Flanagan?’
‘The same.’
‘He’s certainly smartened himself up.’
‘Yes, looked a different man, didn’t he. Wonder when he did that.’
‘Dunno, but I think he’s a much more likely candidate than Derek Nesbitt. Flanagan’s got form, killed a woman, for heaven sake, and we know he went to the caravan, and frankly, I didn’t believe that he didn’t meet Ellie. He looked real cut up when you said she was dead.’
‘Yes he did. Check if he’s broken the seven to seven curfew, and get hold of the papers from his original case. See if there’s anything in there about the wife’s background.’
‘You mean you think she might have been a prostitute as well?’
‘Who knows? No reason to think it, but he said she was messing around. Be interesting to know what messing around actually means.’
‘He’s been in prison for manslaughter, he patronises prostitutes, he admitted he’d visited the caravan site, and we both thought he knew Ellie, that’s all pretty powerful stuff.’
‘Yes, it is, but entirely circumstantial. We’ll need a lot more than that.’
‘True, Guv. I wonder who the guy was he took down Marigold Lane.’
‘Could be anyone.’
‘If he took anyone at all. That could all be so much smoke-screening.’
‘Possibly, though I thought he sounded quite convincing.’
‘So we’ve now three in the frame, Derek Nesbitt, Michael Flanagan, and the guy Flanagan took down there.’
‘And don’t forget Jimmy Crocker too. He’s no angel.’
Karen pulled a face and muttered, ‘True, Guv,’ and shook her head and drove back to the station, fast. She was always a quick driver, but this was different.
‘You in a hurry?’
‘Got a date, Guv.’
‘Sorry if I’ve detained you.’
‘Not a prob.’
‘With your pal, Greg?’
‘Nope. I’m not seeing Greg anymore. Thought you knew.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t be. His complete lack of an adult sense of humour finally wore me down.’
‘Dare I ask who?’
‘Tell you another time, Guv,’ she said, as they got out of the car in the underground car park beneath the main police station, and Karen dashed off for the lift, for she wanted to get upstairs and finish things off, and get away and not be too late.
Eight
The first rumble of thunder could be heard across the old city at just gone seven. Heavy clouds had been rolling in from Snowdonia all day, and the forecast was dire, and for once the forecasters were right on the money. The rain began falling at half past seven, heavy bursts that lasted ten or fifteen minutes, and then abated for a similar time, before returning, only heavier.
Belinda Cooper arrived home at just after half past seven. She pushed the old front door open with her foot and dropped two big bags of Bestdas groceries onto the hall floor, shook the umbrella outside, dropped her handbag onto the Welcome mat, glanced up at the dark and angry sky, just as another jab of fork lightning smashed to ground not five hundred yards away.
She’d always been terrified of lightning.
Wasn’t everyone?
She stumbled into the hall and closed the door behind her, happy and grateful to be home, sopping wet, but safe and sound in her old and happy house. The heating was on, but not too high, came on with a timer at 6.30pm, and it was getting colder with each passing day, or so it seemed, and it would stay on until at least 10pm, big gas bill or not.
Bel, as all her friends called her, slipped off her beige Mac, shook it hard and hung it on the hooks above the hall radiator where it would dry before the morning. She kicked off her boots and sprinted, as best she could, up the stairs. Good exercise, and she didn’t get so much of that, but at thirty-six she was in her prime, everyone said so, just such a pity that she was living her prime all alone, though she would tell her friends that she was completely happy with that, and to an extent, she was.
She was off men, she said, whenever any of her friends asked her about it, or even worse, tried to fix her up with someone new. To date she had enjoyed five serious boyfriends, or were they now menfriends? Like so many others she was confused as to when precisely in life boyfriends became menfriends, but in the end, all five had disappointed her.
Two had turned out to be married. (Why did men lie so much?) While another, Marcus, had revealed one night in the Flying Horse after one too many gin and tonics, that he’d enjoyed several gay affairs in the past, something that Bel could never quite live with, while a fourth gentlemen, Iain, with two “i’s” as he was always keen to point out, well, maybe in Iain’s case she was responsible for the break-up there, simply because she’d become besotted with Gareth, a city solicitor who worked across the road from their shop, one of the married ones, and after all that upheaval and trauma she needed a damned good break from men altogether, and affairs of the heart, and everything that went with it. It was just too much hassle and effort.
Five lovers and five failures, not a pretty record, though only Bel was aware of that stat, and anyway, compared to some women she was almost a nun. Nevertheless, she was definitely off men, and for the foreseeable future she would remain so.
Dinner consisted of a pork chop, tinned peas, instant gravy, and mashed potatoes, something her mother and father would have happily served up twenty years before, but as they were both now residing in the central Chester graveyard, there was rarely a need to cook for more than one. Sometimes she didn’t bother cooking at all, just made a sandwich and gnawed on an apple or a punnet of pears, and that lack of heavy dinners helped to keep her fit and trim.
