by David Carter
Walter stood there and breathed out heavy and took a moment to think, and said, ‘Can we link him to Belinda Cooper? No. Can we explain how he bypasses the tag? No. Can we prove he killed Ellie Wright? No. That looks dead in the water to me.’
‘He killed his wife,’ said Hector. ‘Known indisputable fact, that says a lot.’
‘Mmm,’ said Walter. ‘Nick, do you know what is happening with the complete SOCO report on Belinda Cooper’s house?’
‘They are still all there, Guv. Working hard. They’ll be a little while longer yet.’
‘I wish they’d get a bloody move on,’ and raising his voice he said, ‘For those of you that don’t know, we have yet another suspect in the frame, and this time it’s a woman.’
‘That make’s a change,’ said Gibbons.
‘Who?’ said Jenny.
‘Andrea Dennehey. Already known to us, convicted within the last twelve months of GBH and affray.’
Hector sniggered and said, ‘Belinda Cooper’s neck was broken. I think we can discount her.’
Karen glanced up from the laptop.
‘Andrea Dennehey could snap you in half like a twig,’ and in the way she said it no one had any doubt that Andrea could.
Walter looked down at Karen.
‘Anything more in those emails?’
‘Not yet, Guv. Just lots and lots of graphic lovey-dovey messages.’
‘I could do with some graphic lovey-dovey messages,’ said Gibbons, grinning.
Most of them laughed at the thought.
‘I could fix you up with Tracey Day for fifty quid,’ said Hector, laughing at his little joke.
‘Oh, funny, yeah!’
‘Maybe we should seize Flanagan’s computer,’ said Walter, thinking out loud. ‘He’s out on licence. We could do that.’
‘I’m up for it,’ said Hector.
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Walter, sitting down and closing his eyes for a big think.
Twenty-Eight
Corla Revelation resembled Oliver Cromwell, high forehead, large flat nose, and hefty warts aplenty, yet for all that, she was a vivacious woman, and rarely short of admirers.
She made a decent living through her full-time counselling work, and part-time fortune telling business, though where one finished and the other began was becoming increasingly blurred. She liked to say she was a spiritualist, and a medium, and had gone to the trouble in the past of inventing highfaluting sounding associations that she christened: “The British Spiritualist Congress” and the “European Mediums Association” and proceeded to have printed expensive and impressive looking Articles and Certificates, that she framed and set on her walls. They sure as hell impressed Corla, and in due course wowed her clients too. That was the plan, and most times, it worked.
In a good light and on a bright day she could pass for thirty-nine, as her friends would eagerly confirm, especially after Corla had bought the drinks. But on a bad day after a heavy night out, and maybe not standing her corner, those same friends would swear she was fifty-nine, looking sixty-nine. Fact was, no one really knew how old Corla Revelation and her close-knit family of warts were, and that was exactly as she liked it.
She’d always had an eye for the main chance, and that had served her well in the past, and it would continue to do so in the future, and she always paid a great deal of attention to the criminal cases covered in the press, and especially ones from Chester and surrounding areas, and most particularly the ones where financial rewards were offered, and of special interest to her were the worst crimes imaginable, and that invariably meant rape, murder, and death.
The Chester baseball bat murder had certainly piqued her interest, as she devoured all the media coverage she could find. It was causing quite a stir, for it wasn’t everyday that a well-liked and well-known local woman was murdered in her own home in the genteel city of Chester.
In her quiet moments Corla believed she possessed ESP powers, and she would test that ability to the max by sitting back in her favourite wing-backed armchair, a bottle of whisky on the small table close by, with her favourite crystal cut glass, as she attempted to reconstruct the face of the killer in her mind. If you don’t believe in yourself, she mused, how could you expect others to believe in you? He will come to me, she would say aloud. He will come.
He’s a tall man, and dark too, that was eminently clear, though whether that intelligence had been garnered through her imaginary powers, or subconsciously, via the increasing media coverage, it was difficult to tell.
Corla sipped twenty-year-old malt whisky, and closed her eyes and blanked her mind, and let the force swirl over her, and through her, and then she said aloud in a real strange voice: It will appear, as it always does, everything about him will materialise, and sooner than we think, and then, I shall be famous.
She reached out and topped up the glass. Always nice to whet the whistle before one went out on the town. She glanced at her expensive wristwatch, a present from a long ago wealthy lover. She’d quite forgotten his name. The watch ticked on, as it always did, never missed a beat. 8.22pm. Give it another ten minutes, she thought, and she would slip on her favourite faux leather coat, and head down to the city centre, and meet some friends, and drink the night away.
Across town, Karen was getting ready too. She’d slipped into a tight-fitting red dress. Okay, maybe it was a tad too short, but that was the idea. She wanted to excite him, engage him, and relax him, for she figured that was her best chance of teasing vital information from the man.
She’d put on her most expensive red stilettos too, the ones she’d bought the previous Christmas, and had only ever worn once. It made her instantly taller, though she would still have to look up to David when he kissed her, and that was how she liked it. The doorbell rang from down below. Karen went to the security phone.
‘It’s me,’ he said.
‘Glad to hear it,’ she replied, smirking, an intonation that transmitted itself down the line. ‘You’d better come in,’ and she pressed the button and the door below sprang open.
A minute later he was in her apartment. His eyes widened when he saw her, in that dress, in those shoes.
‘Lady in red,’ he said. ‘Ooh la la!’
‘You like?’
‘I love,’ and he grabbed her and pulled her to him and kissed her hard. He smelt good, as if he had just showered. Karen kissed him back, and it was good too, better than good, and she hadn’t kissed a man like that since she and Gregory Orlando had gone their separate ways, but she couldn’t keep a negative thought from inveigling itself deep into her brain like a burrowing worm: Was she kissing a killer? Could that really be true?
Two minutes later, and they were motoring away from her apartment block.
‘Are you sure you won’t be cold,’ he said.
‘I rarely get cold.’
‘Hot blooded, eh?’
‘Very. Where are we going?’
Maybe he was taking her into North Wales. There are lots of quiet and remote forests in North Wales, ideal places for a killer to go about his dirty business, she knew that well enough, for she had often driven rally cars through those pinewoods at breakneck speed. She comforted herself in knowing that she was as fit as she had ever been, and possessed the latest most powerful pepper spray in her black leather bag, a spray so potent it was on trial with the police, and had not yet been released to Joe Public and his sweaty chums, for it would soon find its way into the wrong hands, such as bank robbers, and muggers, and rapists, and worse.
But he, David, was fit too. She could never imagine herself being attracted to any man who wasn’t, and he was tall and powerful as well, and that fact should not be underestimated. But first, she needed to extract information from him, and that was the sole objective of the evening, for now.
‘It’s a secret,’ he said, and that wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear, for they were heading out of the city, southbound, on a quiet and poorly lit country road. She glanced across at him. He l
ooked fab, perfect husband material, as no doubt Andrea Dennehey would have said if she had ever spied him in the gym. He appeared so relaxed and contented as he drove along, and that was just as he should look, for the lucky man was dating a beautiful blonde in her prime. It didn’t get much better than that.
‘You’re full of secrets, Mr Baker.’
‘You can talk! You didn’t tell me you were a police officer until we’d met for the third time.’
‘That’s normal,’ she said. ‘One can’t be too careful in my line of work.’
‘You’re right there,’ and still they were driving south into a black and breezy night, and try as she might she found it hard to relax completely.
Walter sat alone in his favourite armchair. The curtains were drawn and the TV was on low, though he wasn’t watching it. He squished open a can of stout and poured and sipped.
He pondered on the case.
If he could eliminate enough suspects, then the one remaining must be the killer. Either that, or it was someone else entirely, and that was still perfectly possible. Eliminating people was the first step. He began with Flanagan. Mrs West was adamant that tags worked. In Walter’s world, that was compelling enough. He dismissed Flanagan. Next!
The solicitor, Williams. What possible motive could Gareth Williams have for murdering his former lover? The fact that she had eventually spurned him? Possible, though he didn’t seem unduly upset about it, and more than that, happy to be back with his wife, and add to that, he was, after all, a solicitor. Could solicitors commit murder? Of course they could, anyone can, but were they less likely to do so than others? Maybe. In the court of Walter’s mind he would give Gareth the benefit of the doubt, for now. He would be excused too.
On to Iain Donaldson. Another professional man, a teacher this time. Did teachers commit murder? Of course they did, but statistically they were far less likely to do so than others. When did you last hear of a teacher committing murder? It doesn’t happen often. And he had an alibi too, something that Walter would test in the morning when he interviewed Andrea Dennehey. He also seemed something of a wet week of a man. Was he capable of it? Walter couldn’t envisage Iain holding a baseball bat to Belinda’s throat, and coldly snapping her neck. That didn’t seem likely at all. He just couldn’t see it. For now, Walter would give him the benefit of the doubt. He didn’t believe it was Iain.
Maybe he was eliminating the easy ones first, but the field was slowly being whittled down to Miro, Nesbitt, Crocker, Andrea, Speight, Marty the drug dealer, and Marcus. Who next to look at again? Miro the Mirror man. Walter took another drink, and brought Miro into his mind.
David Baker finally pulled off the road and into a small car park. Ahead of them was a long single-story stone building. It looked a little like a traditional Welsh cottage, and that wasn’t so surprising, for they were only a couple of miles from the Welsh border. There were five or six other cars in the car park, and a warm glow coming from the small square windows.
‘What’s this place?’ asked Karen.
‘It’s the best kept secret in Cheshire.’
‘You’ve been here before?’
‘Yes, two or three times.’
‘How did you find it?’
‘A former girlfriend brought me.’
That was a little nugget. Could the former girlfriend possibly have been Belinda Cooper? In any event, it gave Karen an easy way in to starting a casual conversation about previous partners without it appearing too obvious, at least that was her hope.
‘What’s it called?’
‘Ali’s place.’
‘Ali?’
‘Yep,’ David said, getting out of the car into the freshening wind. ‘Come on, let’s get inside.’
Walter breathed out heavy and thought of Grizelda Rekatic. She had quite specifically said that she never lied. Her mother had drummed that into her, and Walter believed her too. She said that Miro was in bed with her, sleeping at the time of Belinda’s death, and if that was the case, Miro was not the man either. He could only have done it if he had woken up, dressed and left the house without his wife noticing. Murdered Belinda, and raced home again and slipped back into bed, without waking his wife. Was that possible? Yes it was. Was it likely? Not in Walter’s world.
Additionally, he had left Ellie’s caravan at around 8pm, that fact was supported by the cab company, and the fire hadn’t gone up till around midnight. It had been witnessed by Mr Duffield who lived up the lane. That all pointed to someone else, at least one other person going down Marigold Lane after Miro had left. If that were the case, that too let Miro off the hook. Walter was reluctant to set him free, for in his mind he was a man full of dreadful faults and weaknesses, an incredibly unlikeable person, but facts were facts, and honest people were honest people, and he believed that Grizelda Rekatic was indeed honest. He’d bet his pension on that. For now, Miro appeared innocent, and the Mirror man was excused.
Next up, Ronald Speight, another most unlikeable person, in Walter’s eyes. Perhaps deep down Belinda Cooper was attracted to unlikeable men, maybe without even realising it. Some women are. Though Iain and Gareth didn’t quite fit into that box. Walter squished open a second can and poured and sipped, and poured and sipped, and thought and thought.
Ali Camperdown was a Scot who’d come to Chester twenty-five years before, to take up a position as a Sous Chef in a top Chester hotel, which sounded kind of grand, but sous chef simply means under chef in French, or deputy chef, or assistant chef, if you prefer.
But like many others before him he worked hard, moved up the table, salted away a little capital, and helped by his Scottish acquisitiveness and careful nature, he set about opening his own small restaurant. He’d launched Ali’s place five years before, and though it was still something of a hidden gem, slowly he was building a decent business, based on quality and selectivity.
Unsurprisingly, he specialised in Scottish produce, maintaining his sources of supply from way back when, importing from north of the border the majority of his ingredients. River caught Scottish Salmon, none of your fish farm frauds for him, and Aberdeen Angus beef, were staples, as were hand collected shellfish and seaweed, and the sweetest raspberries you could ever find, grown on the slopes of the pretty Ochil hills where as a boy, he had spent many happy hours, picking and eating the juiciest fruit, and fabulously getting paid a few pennies for doing so.
The only way to obtain a table in Ali’s place was by booking, and David Baker had done that; determined, as he was, to impress Karen Greenwood. Inside the restaurant to the right, was a blazing log fire, and opposite that a tiny stone bar, where Ali held court, greeting his diners personally, warm handshakes and mwah-mwah’s all around.
He remembered David Baker. He’d been in a few times before, and Ali Camperdown made a point of always remembering his clientele, and their names, and why not, for his prices were sky high, and anyone willing and able to splash the cash into Ali’s till at least deserved to be remembered. This time Baker had brought with him an incredibly attractive blonde in a yes-yes-yes dress that no man would ever miss, and she was a fair bit younger than the women he usually accompanied.
Intros and aperitifs duly over, they were shown through to a small and intimate table in the far corner. The little place was already almost full with a gentle of hum of satisfied conversation reverberating back from the ancient grey stone walls.
‘It’s fab in here,’ she said, allowing David to tuck the chair in beneath her.
‘Wait till you’ve eaten before you decide that,’ he grinned, taking his seat and smiling across the table.
He handed her the small menu, only four choices, but wasn’t that far better than fifty-four? Four choices alone meant more attention to each, and the greater probability of fresh and carefully chosen ingredients.
‘Don’t look at the price,’ he said. ‘My treat.’
Too late, for she had already glanced the tariffs.
Goodness me. What was he after?
&n
bsp; Predictably, she chose the salmon, and he the steak, and both were perfect.
‘So,’ she said, ‘tell me about the lady who first brought you here.’
‘Just a woman I once knew.’
‘No, Mr Baker, you are not getting away with that, I want all the goss,’ she said, linking her hands and smiling and gazing into his dark chocolate eyes, while leaning slightly across the white cotton cloth.
Ronald Colin Speight, Walter muttered his name aloud, and pictured him in his mind. What the heck did a lovely lady like Bel Cooper see in the man? He came across as something of a bully, occasionally uncouth, intolerant, impatient, and unbearable too, though it wasn’t unusual for Walter to be found wanting when trying to figure out a man’s attraction to women.
Before he’d left the office Karen had showed him the stark photos that Speight had emailed to Bel. What was the point? What was the thinking behind such a move? Did he imagine that such pictures would turn her on? Excite her, make him more desirable, maybe, and cement their relationship? It seemed unlikely to Walter, and that judgement stood up, for not long after that, Bel brought the final curtain down on not so big Ron.
I could strangle you. Walter wondered what brought on the thought in the first place. I could strangle you. That infamous phrase that was not only inside Speight’s head and brain, but he had seen fit to write it down and email it to his partner, his lover, his lady, knowing that it would be there in her computer forever. I could strangle you. Okay, it was issued in the wee small hours when alcohol was almost certainly in there too, but that was no excuse. The thought was there, even if it were meant in a jokey fashion.
The fact that Belinda was not strangled but murdered with a baseball bat meant nothing. Who would ever say: I’m going to break your neck with a baseball bat? It didn’t slip off the tongue in the same manner as: I could strangle you, or, I could kill you. And he had motive too, and some might say the most powerful motive of all. Jealousy, and Walter had seen first hand that Ronny Speight could be a jealous man.
