by J. S. Spicer
He’d had to badger the Bank Manager for the address. Hugh Bishop had dragged his feet, blaming computer glitches and out of date filing systems. Each new conversation with Bishop set off more warning bells in the detective’s head. The man was hiding something, he could sense it.
Finally, after several phone calls during which Max had become more and more menacing, he had a name and address.
Travers pulled into one of the allocated visitor spaces of Belvedere Court. The car park was full of Mercs, Beemers, Audis, a couple of Range Rovers. Balconies encased in gleaming wrought iron looked out over the car park and well-manicured gardens. Travers noted how clean everything was. Approaching the double entrance doors he also noted the cameras and the security system linked to the door. He only briefly wondered what it cost to live in a place like that.
He looked at the row of intercom buttons, each with a small nameplate above. He found Flat 12. A frown creased his brow.
‘G. Field’
The name didn’t match. The owner of the safety deposit box was one Caroline Fenwick, but that wasn’t the name listed on the intercom. He pushed the button anyway. No answer. He tried again. It took four attempts to raise a response. Eventually a muffled voice drifted out of the small speaker.
“What do you want?”
The speaker was male and sounded groggy. Max glanced at his watch. Almost 11am on a Saturday. Guess some people were lucky enough to get a weekend lie-in.
Announcing who he was didn’t speed things up by much but he persevered until he was finally buzzed inside. The name discrepancy was curious but perhaps Caroline Fenwick was this guy’s girlfriend. He didn’t mention her name at all until he was face to face with the young man who lived in flat 12.
Travers took in his appearance; late twenties, dark hair, the bleary eyes of a late night on the town, possibly drugs.
The conversation took place on the doorstep. Leaning against the doorframe and holding the door open only a few inches it was immediately apparent that G. Field had no intention of inviting the detective inside. In t-shirt and underpants he yawned his way through the questions. He didn’t recognise the name Caroline Fenwick. He lived alone. He’d lived in the flat for a couple of years.
Travers was getting nowhere fast. When the door was finally shut in his face he stared accusingly at it for a moment. A prickle on the back of his neck told him he was being watched.
He turned. Across the hallway a heavily made-up face peered through the gap of the neighbour’s partially open door. Travers guessed she was early forties and high maintenance. He could smell her perfume from six feet away. Her curiosity was even more potent.
He fixed a smile on his face; nosy neighbours could be a nuisance, they could also be a goldmine.
Her name was Nina, and his reception couldn’t have been in greater contrast to G Field. With only the briefest explanation for his visit she pulled the door open wide.
“Yes, I knew Carol, she used to live here. Please, come in.”
Travers stepped into the apartment and was immediately impressed. Impressed and envious. Nina had decorated to a ‘coffee and cream’ theme, or rather, given the quality surrounding him, more likely she’d had professionals style the place for her. Walking on the springy carpet he took a proffered seat, feeling soft cream leather mould around him.
“When did Miss Fenwick move out, can you remember?”
“Let’s see.” Nina tapped a well-manicured finger against her cheek thoughtfully, but her eyes were travelling over Travers. He came across this kind of thing from time to time. He tried to ignore the greedy looks she was throwing his way and kept a politely interested expression on his face.
“Been quite a few years,” she said. “She moved out when she got married.”
Travers pulled his notebook from his back pocket. “A few years?”
Nina nodded. “I’ve lived here for about six years. Caroline lived across the hall when I first moved in, we got pally for a while. But about twelve months later she moved in with her fiancé.”
“So, that would be about five years ago then.” A long time to leave your safety deposit box listed against the wrong address.
“Sounds about right.”
“Do you have her new address?”
“To be honest we lost touch once she moved out. I’m more for the singles scene myself.” The greedy look was back with a vengeance, now accompanied by an impish smile.
“Can you tell me if Fenwick is her maiden name or married name?”
“Oh yes, that was her maiden name.”
“What about her married name, can you remember that?”
Nina nodded and wrinkled her nose. “Yes, she married such a beige little man, know what I mean?”
Travers didn’t really care what she meant, her heavy perfume and cloying arrogance were giving him a headache. He gave a curt nod, enough to acknowledge, not encourage.
“It’s Bishop, Caroline Bishop. Like I said though, we haven’t kept in touch so not sure where they’re living now. Somewhere in the suburbs, I’d imagine.” This last part dripped with disdain.
“Bishop?”
“That’s right.”
The Bank Manager was called Bishop, Hugh Bishop. Had to be a coincidence, Bishop wasn’t that unusual a name after all.
“The husband, you recall his first name?”
She sighed, “Sorry, no. Like I said, beige. Not exactly memorable I’m afraid.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Back at the station the usual swirl of human chaos bristled around the reception area. But, past the public areas, tucked away in the back offices, there was quiet.
Saturday lunchtime. By now the canteen would be full, heaving with hungry workers. Others had knocked off already, rushing away to make the most of what remained of the weekend. By late afternoon desks would be filling up with the night shift, but for now there was a lull, a temporary hush throughout the main office.
Of the few dedicated souls still at their desks that afternoon, Max quickly homed in on Carrie Winters. She was working through lunch, distractedly munching her way through a limp sandwich, eyes glued to her computer screen. Carrie was hard-working, hungry. She was always eager to help. Travers had the married and maiden name of the woman he needed to find, and her previous address. For someone like Carrie, with her savvy and the speed with which she could navigate the systems, it would be a doddle for her to dig up the information. As ever she was happy to help, even though he suspected her workload was threatening to overwhelm her judging by the state of her desk and bloodshot eyes.
“Have you taken a break today, Carrie?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she smiled wearily. Her helpfulness was genuine. Still, he worried others took advantage, using her to do their grunt work because she had trouble saying no.
“Let me get you a refill at least.” He grabbed the coffee mug from the corner of the desk, noting it was half full but stone cold. Swilling her mug at the sink he was under no illusions he was just as guilty as everyone else of putting upon Carrie; in fact he was probably the worst. Topping her up with bad coffee was a weak gesture.
Any shame for taking advantage evaporated half an hour later when she called him back to her desk.
“Here we go, Caroline Bishop. Works part-time at a local care home called Green Meadows in West Blackbridge. Caroline’s current home address is 25 Azalea Crescent, that’s on the Acorns Estate. She lives there with her husband, Hugh. No children or other dependents.”
“Her husband’s name is Hugh? Hugh Bishop?”
Carrie’s tired eyes took a rare break from her computer screen to stare at Travers. “Coincidence?”
Max Travers straightened up. His mind was spinning.
“Run a check on Hugh Bishop. Confirm his home address,” he instructed. “Please.” He remembered his manners at the last second, but then lurked nearby until the information had been coaxed onto the screen.
It was right there in front of him. No longer any doubt.
Travers negotiated the Saturday afternoon streets; roads crammed with cars, cars crammed with families. Harassed parents and lively children squashed together for their weekend ritualistic visit to the shops. Travers dipped down several side streets, short-cuts he used when needed. His route through the town was haphazard, possibly no quicker than sitting in the exhaust-filled queues, but it made him feel freer. Finally he skirted the last busy island and the traffic thinned.
From here it was the calm of the suburbs. He slowed down, let his foot relax. Let his mind focus. Hugh Bishop, Manager of the bank. The man who’d resisted giving Travers the contact information for the owner of the stolen safety deposit box. Now, he discovers that box belongs to the Bank Manager’s own wife!
So, Bishop lied.
He’d knowingly deceived the police. He knew the address was incorrect. There was no way it could be chalked up to a mistake.
What was he trying to hide?
Travers had a lot of questions for Hugh Bishop. Questions he would be asking within the confines of the police station’s dingy interview room.
25 Azalea Crescent was a neat semi-detached set amongst a handful of other neat semi-detached houses, all clumped together in a circular sweep.
Some of the residents were pushing for more modern looks, vertical blinds, block paving and artsy topiary flanking their front doors. Number 25 was more traditional; a square of lawn to one side and a simple slabbed pathway. The windows were veiled with thick net curtains, showing nothing but a few strategically placed figurines on the sills. The lack of any cars was disheartening, but Travers knocked anyway, then waited on the doorstep, listening to the silence on the other side of the door.
In the distance he could hear the drone of a lawn mower, the occasional passing car, children squealing in a garden somewhere. But number 25 remained stubbornly silent.
He knocked again. Then again.
He knew no-one was home, he could feel the emptiness of the place pushing out at him. Sometimes, hell, often, people tried to hide, pretend they weren’t at home; a visit from the police had that effect. But this was no pretence.
Max felt his frustration blossoming into anger. Hugh Bishop was trying to make a fool of him, thinking he could just send him off on a wild goose chase like that. What was his plan?
Travers was having trouble making sense of it, his thoughts were jumbling chaotically.
Bishop could be responsible for the theft. But why? These were his wife’s belongings.
Maybe there was a divorce on the cards. He would have to get Carrie to check into that. Even so, why go the trouble of something this elaborate. If he wanted to get his fair share lawyers were the way to go, not staging a break in at his own bank which would inevitably involve the police. He’d have to get Carrie to look into the possibility of a pre-nup as well; might give Bishop a motive for theft.
Travers made his way to the side gate, jiggled the latch. It wasn’t locked.
The back garden was just what he expected. Small patio, a sprinkling of decorative pots, grass cropped short, regularly mown with scrupulous edges. Closeboard fencing for privacy, its brusque panels softened by careful planting of shrubs and bedding plants.
Travers stepped up to the kitchen window. No net curtains here, just a pretty floral blind, but raised, allowing him to see right into the bright, clean kitchen. Again, just what he’d expect. Tidy, functional, homely.
He moved away from the window, heading back the way he come. His path took him past the back door. It was habit that made him reach out his hand to try the handle. He was surprised when it yielded. The door was unlocked.
Max hesitated, but only for a split second.
Inside it was clean, immaculate even. The scent of air freshener and disinfectant prickled in Travers’ nose.
Hugh Bishop had lied to the police. He’d lied right to Travers’ face, deceived him. As a consequence he’d made himself a person of interest in the bank theft. As Travers moved through the house he felt justified, if a little wary. He didn’t have a warrant, but that wasn’t going to stop him poking around to see what he could find.
Nothing was out of place. The house stood up to the perfect image of domestic respectability. But Travers didn’t like it.
Something was off.
The books on the shelves were few; DIY, gardening and wildlife, a couple of encyclopaedias. There were no photographs but lots of ornaments. The pictures on the walls were of flowers or countryside scenes. It was all nice enough, but there was no personality that Travers could see. What were these people passionate about, either of them?
Upstairs was the same. All perfect. All neat and tidy. Completely soulless.
Travers dug around for a while, carefully, hands in gloves, ensuring he put everything back how he found it. He wanted to ascertain two things; first that there were no valuables in the house that could have come from the burglary. There weren’t. The second thing he wanted to check was that Hugh Bishop hadn’t fled. If he had he was travelling light, too light. Travers found the wardrobe full of clothes, coats and shoes. The bathroom held all the usual toiletries and prescriptions. Travers felt a sense of relief when he came across the passports. So far, so good.
Where, then, were the Bishops?
Finally he headed back to the kitchen. There was no point waiting for Hugh Bishop to return, no telling how long that would be. Travers could always send a constable round later to check.
Still, it rankled. He wanted to do something, anything, to make progress with this case. He wanted to get his hands on that bloody Bank Manager, shake some answers out of him.
Pushing closed the kitchen door he noticed a calendar dangling on the back of it. Thoroughness had him running his finger down February’s page till it reached the current date.
‘Weekend at the van’.
A bleak smile stole onto Travers’ face. So, Hugh Bishop was enjoying a weekend away, was he? Well, that little excursion was about to be cut short!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Aubrey Davis shivered. He hankered for the warmth of his van. The journey to the caravan park had taken longer than expected. He should have left earlier; avoided the worst of the weekend traffic. Now he was here he almost missed the hustle and bustle he’d left behind.
He got the idea of a weekend retreat. A quiet place to escape the rat race and the pressures of everyday life. He understood the need to recharge your batteries, to step back, breathe deep and take stock. Yes, a haven from life would be nice.
That’s not what this was.
Half the site was occupied by caravans; small and large, plush and tatty. The other half was space made available for camping.
There were no campers here today.
Most of the caravans looked like they were still locked up for the winter. They were spread out across a strip of land at the top of a chalky cliff. In summer no doubt it offered terrific views out over the sea, and convenient access to the beach via the walkway meandering down the cliff face. Today it was just bleak. The wind tearing inland off the sea bit with icy teeth. The waves below were dark, angry, roaring as they clawed at the empty beach.
He glanced back at his faithful old Ford Transit van, powder blue and reliable. He knew it was locked, he’d checked twice, but he hated leaving his backpack even for a few moments. It was in the back, tucked into a gap behind the driver’s seat and covered with some old tarpaulin. Discreetly hidden in a locked van on an empty camping site. He supposed it was as safe as it could be.
With a sigh Aubrey pulled his hands from his pockets and checked the piece of paper he’d brought with him.
Lot 15.
Small plaques on wooden stakes were plunged into the ground next to each of the lots. Pushing his chapped hands back into his pockets Aubrey moved on, slowly, checking numbers as he went.
Number 15 wasn’t one of the nicest, but was far from the worst too. It was small but well maintained. If Aubrey had to guess he’d say the Bishops visited regularly enough to m
anage the upkeep of their little home from home.
He walked round it once.
No car.
On the drive up he hadn’t wavered in his resolve to check out this place. To see if Carol was here. Now, he wondered if he’d just wasted hours of his time and a tank of petrol for nothing.
He tried peering through the windows but all were covered by small, yellow curtains. He tried the door. Locked. Of course.
Not a problem. Of all the places he’d ever broken into a tin can like this was the least of challenges. He checked over his shoulder. All the vans nearby were as devoid of life and activity as this one. No prying eyes. Aubrey went to work.
Once inside he snapped the door closed behind him and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Best not to starting pulling open curtains, just in case.
He was standing in the kitchen. To his left were three sides of sofa surrounding a foldaway table which comprised the living room, and to his right were two doors; the bathroom and the bedroom.
No sign of life.
The silence was pressing. There weren’t even any sounds seeping in from outside. He felt isolated, standing there in the half-light.
He thought again about Carol Bishop, tried to imagine her here in this confined space with her husband. The kitchen was tiny, everything in miniature; the hob the size of a camping stove, the small fridge wedged between tidy little cupboards. This was where she’d cook his meals and wash up when they were taking their vacations.
Were they ever happy here? The Carol Bishop he knew could barely mention her husband without tying her hands into nervous knots and biting her lip. Aubrey was a peaceful man, but he’d been around and his time in prison had taught him plenty. He knew fear when he saw it.
When it came right down to it that’s why he was here. He might have taken Carol up on her offer anyway, just for the financial rewards, but he doubted he’d be standing here now if that was all it was.
