by J. E. Mayhew
A couple of volunteers were busy pulling old clothes out of plastic bags and assessing them for shop-worthiness or recycling. Chinn gave them a nod and flashed her warrant card. “Morning Ladies,” she said. “Can I ask you a few questions?”
The women were as forthcoming as they could be, but knew nothing. One had been on holiday last week and the other had only just started. Chinn looked around at the piles of jumbled clothes in cages, the furniture and the bric-a-brac. The place closed in on her. She’d never seen so much stuff all jumbled together. It was a testament to how much junk was thrown away every day and how many things we buy that we really don’t need.
A doorway led further back into the building where an office crammed full with plastic chairs and coffee-making facilities, paper and folders, looked out across the sorting room. Behind the office, a corridor led to a flight of steps. Vikki made her way up and found herself standing in a long room, stacked to the ceiling with second-hand goods. If she’d felt overwhelmed by the amount of junk downstairs, this room made her feel positively small.
On one side of the room cage after cage full of clothing stood, just waiting to be sorted. On the opposite side of the room, row upon row of clothes hung on hangers and next to them stood empty filing cabinets, a rocking horse, bags of golf clubs, stacks of board games, bedheads, chairs and tables, even a couple of old tills. The centre of the room was filled with a column of crates stacked on top of each other full of crockery, paper, toys, books, magazines and ornaments. A few mannequins poked out of the crates and stared at her with blank eyes. Chinn shivered. The tube lights flickered up here and it smelt musty and damp. It felt like she’d wandered into some kind of underworld.
Somewhere further back in the room, something rustled and moved slightly. Chinn crept along the rows, holding her breath. As she approached the end of column of crates, a man appeared and almost walked into her. Chinn gave a yelp and the man jumped back.
“Blimey, love, you frightened the life out of me,” the man said, steadying himself on the crates. He was short, with a shock of white hair and a pot-belly that his simon shirt and baggy corduroy trousers accentuated.
“I’m sorry,” Vikki said, laughing. “That’s the second time this week someone has crept up on me. DS Chinn.” She held up her warrant card. “I’m just looking around.”
“Is it about the shoes?” the man said.
“I suppose everyone’s heard about them.”
“Jamie is hardly what you’d call discreet. If you want a message to get out, just pass it on to Jamie, he’ll broadcast it to the world. I’m Sean, by the way. Sean Miller. I do all the PAT testing on the electrical goods up here.”
“What days do you work?”
“Most days, really. It gets me out of the house and there’s an endless supply of things that needs safety checking and testing.”
“Were you here when the shoes were delivered?”
“Yeah. It was the Monday evening before that poor kid was killed. The shop was shut and I was up here when the buzzer rang and, as there was nobody else here, I went down and opened the back door.”
“And someone had left the boxes?”
“No. It was the house clearance lads, Barry and Nick,” Sean said. “I told Natalie all this. Asked her if I should go to the police but she said she would pass it on.”
Vikki frowned. “So, the house clearance men brought the boxes?”
Sean nodded. “That’s right. The lads were full of it. A big old house. It was quite a haul. The owner sold the furniture and anything really valuable but he gave what was left to the hospice. It was mainly clothing and such but a lot anyway. The lads brought that here. I remember the boxes coming in because they looked a bit unusual.”
“The big house. Can you remember where it was?”
“Oh yeah, it was an odd name too,” Sean grinned. “Priest House in Raby.”
CHAPTER 36
Peter Bradshaw, father of Stephen, the murdered boy, proved harder to track down than Kinnear had hoped. His last known address proved to be a homeless hostel in Birkenhead but he’d moved on from there a couple of weeks ago. The manager of the hostel told them that Bradshaw had a sister in West Derby, over in Liverpool; he even gave them an address. Kinnear sat in the driving seat of the car and drummed the steering wheel impatiently. “I thought we were onto something.”
Manikas frowned at the rain trickling down the windscreen. “Don’t worry. We can check out his sister’s over in Liverpool.”
“I know,” Kinnear said, smiling. “Just these people with their lives, moving around with no regard for us.”
“Yeah,” Manikas said, grinning back. “Who do they think they are? Don’t they realise Merseyside’s two greatest detectives need to talk to them?”
“Come on, let’s go over the water.”
Kinnear drove down through the terraces of Birkenhead towards the river and the Mersey Tunnel entrance. “Abandon hope all ye who enter here,” he said as the mouth of the tunnel enveloped them.
“I never got that rivalry between Liverpool and the Wirral,” Manikas said. “Seems a bit weird to me.”
“Don’t think it’s rivalry, really,” Kinnear said. “Liverpool couldn’t give a toss about the Wirral. It’s people on the Wirral who get their knickers in a twist about scousers…”
"I take it you've had Blakey's 'Wirral talk' then," Manikas said. He put on a pompous voice. "This is the Wirral, Kinnear, strange, weird..."
Kinnear laughed. "Yeah, once or twice. You're entering the Twilight Zone..."
“People always think the Wirral is dead posh but if you stood in most streets in Birkenhead or Wallasey,” Manikas said, “you could be in Liverpool and vice versa. There’s no real difference.”
“Not until you get over to Caldy. Footballers live in Caldy. Different world, there, mate. All sandstone and iron gates.”
Manikas grinned. “And then there’s Neston…”
“Nobody talks about Neston,” Kinnear said shaking his head melodramatically.
Pete Bradshaw’s sister’s house backed up Manikas’ argument. She lived in a small mid-terrace in West Derby almost identical to the houses they’d passed driving into Birkenhead. It was clean and whitewashed, the front garden concreted over and the wall knocked out to accommodate a car.
A short, trim, middle-aged woman with her dye-blonde hair scraped back in a ponytail answered the door. She wore marigold gloves and held her hands in front of her like a surgeon about to operate. “Hi,” she said.
“DC Kinnear, madam, this is DC Manikas. Merseyside Police…”
“Is this about our Peter?” The woman said. “I’m his sister, Kirsty. What’s he done this time?”
“Nothing, madam,” Kinnear said. “He’s not in any trouble. We just want to ask him a few questions. About Fiona James.”
Kirsty’s face hardened. “I haven’t seen Peter for weeks. He’s not doing very well, I’m afraid. And bringing up all of that business again won’t help him. He never got over it.”
“Have you any idea where we might find him?”
She thought for a moment. “He hangs around the city centre. Usually round the Adelphi or Lime Street Station. Pissed off his head or Spiced up to the eyeballs. You won’t get much sense off him.”
“Thanks,” Manikas said and turned to leave but paused. “Can I ask? Did he have much to do with his son, Stephen and Fiona?”
“He did at first but then something changed just before Stephen went missing. He stopped seeing them as much. He took all the pictures of them down in his bedsit as well. He’d always had problems with drugs and drink and I think losing the kiddie and Fiona finished him off, to be honest. But it had started long before that.”
Back in the car, Kinnear exchanged a meaningful look with Manikas. “So what changed things, before Stephen died?”
“I can have a good guess but I’d love to hear it from Peter Bradshaw’s mouth before I commit myself,” Manikas said.
A fine drizzle ha
d set in over the city, making the paving stones around Lime Street slick and shiny. They parked behind the station and walked down towards the Adelphi Hotel.
“I never saw the sense in it myself,” Kinnear said. “Moving all the shops down towards the river. It just pulled all the shoppers away from this end of town. It’s all just fried chicken joints and vape shops here, now. Lewis’ is empty and in the middle of it all is the Adelphi. Did you know Charles Dickens used to stay there?”
“Liked the footie, did he?” Manikas said, with a grin.
It didn’t take long to find Peter Bradshaw. A woman wearing three coats and fifteen scarves tried to scrounge some cash off Kinnear and got a fiver for leading them to the man himself. Peter Bradshaw was emaciated. He looked thirty years older than his sister. He leaned against the steps on Bold Street, his eyelids heavy and his cheek bones jutting through a long grey beard. He reminded Kinnear of a picture of Rip Van Winkle from a kid’s book. His toothless sunken mouth meant that his features seemed to fold in on themselves. He wore an old green army jacket and stained jeans. Kinnear squatted down and shook the old man. "Peter Bradshaw?”
Bradshaw startled awake and scurried back away from them. “Fuck off!” he yelled swinging his head around to see who he was yelling at.
“Easy, fella,” Kinnear said. “Listen, we only want to talk to you. Can we buy you a hot drink. Maybe some food?”
The mention of food brought Bradshaw up short. “Burger King,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “You bizzies?”
“Yeah. You’re not in any trouble, Peter,” Manikas said. “Just a quick word.”
The attendant at the Burger King eyed Bradshaw with disapproval as he stood next to Manikas and Kinnear. They must have looked a peculiar sight. The two policemen in dark suits and Bradshaw in layers of crusty jumpers topped off with a stained green jacket. Kinnear could smell the stale odour from the man. They sat down and watched as Bradshaw wolfed the food down and swigged great mouthfuls of coffee laced with about ten sachets of sugar.
“So, we wanted to talk to you about Fiona, Pete,” Kinnear said. Bradshaw froze, his cup still at his lips. Then he slammed the cup down, making a number of customers glance across at them.
“Bitch,” he hissed.
Kinnear raised his eyebrows. “Really? I thought you’d have a bit more respect for the mother of your child.”
Bradshaw stared at him from under his bushy eyebrows, revealing years of pain and hurt still smouldering. “Not mine,” he said.
“What?”
“Wasn’t my child,” he said. “I thought it was but no. Then he was taken, wasn’t he? Taken away.” Bradshaw gazed into his coffee.
“So you’re saying that Stephen Bradshaw wasn’t your son?” Manikas said.
“I thought he was but he wasn’t,” Bradshaw muttered, scratching his beard and smearing coffee and mayo into his moustache. “She told me. Said she was going to make him pay.”
Kinnear leaned forward, oblivious to the smell. “Make who pay? What do you mean?”
“She was going to get money. What’s the word?” Bradshaw clicked his grubby fingers. “Blackmail. Yeah that. Blackmail. She said he’d pay for Stephen like he should. They were going to have a better life. But then he was taken. Taken away. Taken away.”
“Who was she going to blackmail, Peter?” Manikas said. “Who was Stephen’s father if it wasn’t you?”
Bradshaw blinked at them both. “Posh fella. Victor Hunt.”
◆◆◆
Maybe it was the break from routine or the thought that they might be helping with a serious crime investigation but Barry and Nick, the clearance lads for the shop, were more than happy to escort DS Chinn to Priest House to show her where the boxes had come from. They’d driven behind her car in the hospice van, grinning like lunatics and chatting so animatedly that at one point, Chinn thought they hadn’t noticed she’d stopped at some lights and were going to ram into her. They arrived at the house without incident and the two men bundled out of the van.
“Do we need to suit up?” Barry said, looking at the blue and white police tape that fluttered across the door and window. “You know, those white suits and masks they have to wear at crime scenes…”
“Oh yeah and those rubber gloves,” Nick added, extending his hand and miming slipping a latex glove on. He even made the snapping sound.
“No,” Chinn said. “It’ll be fine. I think CSI have finished with the place. Best not to touch anything, though, okay?” Barry and Nick nodded enthusiastically and followed as she let them in.
Priest House lay dark and cold. Chinn could just see the edge of the blood stain on the bare floorboards in the front room. She turned, facing the men so they had their backs to it. “So, where were the boxes?”
Barry pointed to a cupboard under the stairs on her left. She pulled it and was rewarded with an echoing creak that told her that the door opened onto a much larger space than just a cupboard. She flicked the light on and saw a flight of stone steps leading down into a cellar.
“Marcus Hunt had sold and sent all the big furniture to the auction rooms to sell. But there was still a lot of bits and pieces he didn’t want; you know, modern stuff, some clothes and the like. So we spent a few days clearing the place. Thought we’d finished but then, on Monday, just as we were doing a last check, Nick found the cellar,” Barry said, raising his voice above the clatter of their shoes on the stone steps. “We couldn’t find the key at first but then, we realised it was on another set that we’d found upstairs. So we opened it up. The orders were to clear the place, after all.”
They stood in the middle of a square room. The whitewashed walls had been painted over some time in the past with images from the seventies; Rolling Stones tongues and rainbows jostled with wizards in pointed hats, dragons, demons and stars.
“There was a big oak wardrobe in the corner, locked but with the key in it. That’s where we found the boxes and all the clothes and things.” Nick shuffled a little on the spot. “To be honest, some of the things were a bit odd. Handcuffs, ropes and syringes. It all looked a bit weird. We chucked them out.”
“The place hadn’t been opened for years. It was like it had been sealed up and left. A time capsule sort of affair.”
But Vikki had stopped listening. She was mesmerised by one wall in particular. It was dominated, floor to ceiling, by a single word written in thick, blood-red capitals ‘DRUCILLA.’
CHAPTER 37
After hours of combing through interview accounts, assessing evidence and writing reports, Blake wondered what on earth had led him to make the call. His head thumped and he still ached from the close encounter with Adam Sampson’s back gate. The garage had rung to say that they had a part for the Manta on order and should have it back to him for tomorrow. Blake smiled. If he wasn’t going to give up on Serafina, he wasn’t going to give up on the car. Sometime in the day, he’d even found time to phone Laura to see if there was any chance of an appointment on his way home.
Serafina’s truce had lasted no time at all. That morning, Blake had been awakened by a screeching and wailing and when he went downstairs, he found a huge section of hall wallpaper scratched to tatters. When he’d prepared Serafina’s food, she’d bitten his hand; not a great idea as the old adage goes. But part of him wanted to see Laura again, too. Having someone in the house had made him realise just how lonely he was.
Laura Vexley picked up straight away. “Will, how’s it going?”
“Not great, I’m afraid,” Blake admitted. “She’s using the litter trays but she scratched the hall wallpaper to bits this morning.”
“Well, it is a bit old-fashioned, Will,” Laura said. From her voice, Blake thought he could sense a smile.
“So you’re telling me Serafina is making statements about the house décor, now? Maybe I should contact an interior designer instead of a cat shrink.”
“I can come round tonight with some wallpaper samples and see what she has in mind for the decorator?”
/> Blake grinned. “That would be great, Laura. And I must pay you for your last session. The litter trays worked, so you’ve given me good advice.”
“Don’t you worry about that. We’ll settle up when Serafina is happy. I’ll be round about eight, yeah?” She hung up, leaving Blake staring at the phone with a vacant smile on his face. The headache seemed to have faded and he was left wondering quite what had been arranged.
◆◆◆
Laura Vexley turned up holding a bottle of wine and wearing an electric blue jumpsuit that looked ready for the dance floor rather than Blake’s living room.
“Hi, come in,” Blake said. “You look great. Going on somewhere?”
“No,” she said. “I just thought you might like a glass of wine after such a busy day, that’s all.”
Blake frowned. “How d’you know I’ve had a busy day?”
“You’re a policeman; all your days are busy, aren’t they? Besides, I could tell by your voice on the phone.” She waggled the bottle. “You want some?”
Blake took the bottle and led Laura into the kitchen. “Thanks. It hardly seems very business-like. Plying your clients with wine and not telling them how much you charge,” Blake said, pulling the cork from the bottle and finding some glasses. “Do you normally do this?”
“Not really,” she admitted. “Most of my clients don’t need my help as much as you do.”
“What’s that meant to mean?” Blake said, raising his eyebrows at her.
“Whatever you want it to,” she said, raising her glass. “Here’s to happy cats.”
Blake raised his glass. “To happy cats,” he said and sipped the wine. “So how long have you been an animal psychologist?”
“I did a Psychology and Counselling degree a couple of years back,” Laura said, folding her arms and leaning against the sink. “But I’ve always been interested in animals. I decided to have a go at the animal psychology quite recently, really.”
“How recently?” Blake said, narrowing his eyes at her over the rim of his glass.
