Beck le Street

by Tony McHale

  “Mr Ashton … I’m Chief Superintendent Naylor.”

  Charlie slowly lifted his head and stared into his eyes. Naylor seemed a little unnerved by the directness of Charlie’s glare. Charlie could smell his after shave, Nougat For Men, Devika had bought some for Charlie – she loved it and he’d never know that this was the last sense she had before she died. All Charlie could think was Chief Superintendent Naylor was a meticulous man to put on after-shave at two in the morning.

  “I believe there’s something you want to tell us,” said Naylor in an easy, non-confrontational way.

  “I want to tell you that until someone is convicted for her murder, I’m not going to rest,” replied Charlie with a coldness that could have frozen the rain.

  Naylor looked at him. Charlie had been like an itch that needed to be scratched, something that could be tolerated with little effort, but now Naylor knew that, here on the road, in the rain, that itch had turned into a rampant cancer. It needed exorcising or it could destroy him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Charlie was shunted to the hospital where he was examined and given some Prozac, which he promptly washed down the visitors’ loo on his way out of the hospital. From there he went to the police station where he made a detailed statement about the phone call he had with Devika, at the end of which he asked about the envelope. One of the officers made a few phone calls only to tell Charlie that no envelope had been recorded amongst her personal belongings or in the car itself. During his time at the station he caught a glimpse of Wood, but there was no sign of Naylor.

  It was after three in the afternoon when Charlie arrived back at The Black Dog. Farrah was waiting for him in the bar. The place was deserted, not unusual for that time of day. Farrah had been e-mailing her son, but as soon as she saw Charlie, she left her messaging and poured him a large glass of red wine.

  “I had somebody buy me it from a wine importers in Whitby. They told me it was good.”

  Charlie picked up the glass and sipped the wine. He didn’t notice if it was good or not, but he knew it would have to be better than the ‘house’ wine they normally stocked.

  “Do you want to talk about it, do you want to get drunk, or what do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know,” said Charlie. And he didn’t. He didn’t know what to do. It was like there was a huge vacuum in his life and he could never think of anyone or anything ever filling it.

  “What are the police saying?” asked Farrah.

  “That it was an accident. There could have been another car involved, but they’ll have to see what their investigations come up with.”

  “You think there was another car involved.”

  “I know there was,” Charlie retorted forcibly.

  Charlie went on to explain about the phone call he’d had with Devika just before she was run off the road and how she’d said someone was driving into her. Farrah listened with interest, then asked the questions the police hadn’t asked.

  “Where was she coming from …? Where had she been …? Why wasn’t he with her …? Did he know she was in Whitby …?”

  Charlie of course didn’t answer these questions truthfully. That would have meant admitting to breaking into Shaw and Shermans and stealing the envelope. His rather lame excuse for Devika being in Whitby by herself was that he’d left her there because she had a meeting with someone. But who or why he was unable to answer. He just kept his replies as vague as possible, something that Farrah picked up on, but for a while didn’t mention.

  It was over an hour and nearly two bottles of wine before The Black Dog got another customer and by that time Charlie had told Farrah all he knew. He’d mentioned the envelope, admitted being party to a break-in at the solicitors and that Devika was in possession of the envelope when she was run off the road.

  Then Farrah summed up Charlie’s concerns in two questions.

  Firstly – why didn’t the police ask what Devika was doing in Whitby?

  And secondly – if Devika had the envelope where was it now?

  As Farrah served Old Atkinson, Charlie went up to his room, grabbed a towel and headed into the bathroom for a shower. All the time Farrah’s two pertinent questions were ringing in his head. Was this some huge conspiracy by the police. Was the whole of the Whitby Police Force in on it? Somehow that didn’t seem rational. More likely was the officers had been told to go easy on Charlie. He’d just lost his partner. If they needed to question him deeper then they could at a later date. For now just take a statement.

  If that was the case then who had issued that order and had it been done to spare the emotions of a distraught bereaved man, or was there some ulterior motive.

  Only the night before Wood had been asking about Chief Superintendent Sam Naylor, then sure enough he turns up at a road accident in the middle of the night. This didn’t feel coincidental to Charlie.

  What was Naylor doing at the time? Just waiting for the call? It was after two in the morning. A Chief Superintendent wouldn’t have been on active duty in the police station. Did he know that Devika was on that road and that an accident was going to happen? The only answer that Charlie could come up with was that he had to have known. And if he knew that then he must have known why she was on the road. He must have known about the envelope.

  Charlie dressed hurriedly and headed off back down stairs. He needed to speak to Naylor. He needed to look him in the eye and see his reaction when he mentioned the letter.

  The bar had about half a dozen customers, most of whom Charlie recognised. He’d left his car keys on the bar, next to the nearly empty bottle of wine. He picked them up as he headed for the door. Farrah stopped him.

  “What you doing?”

  “Going to Whitby.”

  Farrah held up the bottle of wine. She didn’t have to say anything.

  “I’ll be fine,” Charlie protested.

  “No you won’t.”

  Farrah walked up to him calmly and took the keys out of his hand.

  Charlie knew it was pointless to object, because he knew she was right.

  “Okay … can you a call me a cab.”

  “They have to come out from Whitby. Your best bet is a bus.”

  “A bus?”

  “Yeah … there’s one from just down the road in about twenty minutes. I wouldn’t be late though, ‘cos sometimes it comes early. Do you have to go Charlie? Wouldn’t you be better staying here tonight?”

  “I need to do this. I need to see someone.”

  Charlie went back to the bar, finished off the bottle of wine, thanked Farrah and left.

  All the while Jed was upstairs in the living room. He knew all about Devika’s death, knew his son must be in a terrible state, but he couldn’t bring himself to face him. He knew he’d have to sooner or later, but he’d never been good with words and he fancied he’d handle it better later rather than sooner.

  * * * * *

  Charlie didn’t feel at all drunk. It had dulled his senses, but he felt he could drink a case of wine and he still wouldn’t be drunk.

  Devika’s dead … and it’s my fault! I fucking got her into this. This is my fault. I did this!

  And for the first time an anguish welled up inside him and he let out a strangulated roar of pain. He couldn’t control it. All the pain, anger and loss poured out of him. He doubled up, then crouched down.

  How could I let this happen? Why didn’t I see it? I miss you so much! I don’t want to go on without you.

  And in that moment he didn’t. He just wanted to curl up and die.

  The sound of a vehicle coming to a halt was what brought him out of his torment. He pulled himself together as best he could, stood up and looked ahead. There was an Espace and standing there looking at him was Cassie.

  She’d heard about the accident on the Whitby road
and rumour had it that the model, Devika Bahl, girlfriend of paparazzi photographer Charlie Ashton, was fatally injured. Nothing official had been released. There’d been no news coverage; this was all gossip and conjecture, but seeing the state of Charlie, she knew the chitchat was true.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah … yeah.”

  “I’m sorry about …”

  “Thanks.”

  “If there’s anything I can do?”

  “No … I’m okay … thanks.”

  Charlie looked at Cassie and even tried to smile, but inside he didn’t think he’d ever smile again.

  “Are you going somewhere?”

  “Whitby.”

  “No car?”

  “I’ve had a drink.”

  “Can’t say I blame you. Would you like a lift? I’m off into work.”

  Knowing he should say no, he said: “Yeah … if it’s not a problem.”

  “No problem.”

  Charlie climbed into the Espace and as it pulled away Cassie glanced at him.“If you don’t want to talk, you don’t have to, but if you need to talk I’m a good listener.”

  “I remember,” replied Charlie. “I remember you listening to me telling you what I was going to do.”

  “It was we in those days. It was what we were going to do.”

  “Was it?”

  “We made plans. Everybody made plans to leave Beck le Street … but you were the only one to actually do it.”

  “Didn’t quite work out the way I wanted.

  “You haven’t done bad.”

  A knot suddenly formed in Charlie’s stomach and he couldn’t stop the tears coming again.

  “I’m sorry … I’m sorry …”

  “It’s okay …”

  “It’s just …” Charlie couldn’t get any more words out.

  “It’s okay …” Cassie repeated, because what else could she say.

  “They killed her.” Charlie suddenly came out with the statement. He’d been wanting to say it since he stood looking down at Devika’s body.

  “Killed her? Are we talking about your mother?” asked Cassie.

  “No. Devika. They killed Devika.”

  “Who killed her?”

  “I don’t know … probably the same person who killed my mother.”

  “I thought Devika was in a car accident.”

  “She was driven off the road. I heard it all … on the phone.”

  “Why would anybody want to do that?” Cassie presented the question in such a way that it didn’t sound like she thought Charlie was way off track.

  “I think it’s to do with my mother’s murder. There was an envelope … I think it’s gone missing.”

  “Sorry Charlie … I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Forget it … Forget I ever said anything.”

  “No … please … Carry on.”

  “Really. It’s just crazy talk … Just crazy talk.”

  For the rest of the journey they said very little until they pulled up outside the Police Station. Charlie thanked Cassie and got out of the Espace. He was heading into the Station when Cassie’s voice stopped him. She’d got out of her vehicle and was calling to him – “Charlie …”

  Charlie turned and looked at her.

  “If you do ever need to talk, then I’m always here for you,” continued Cassie. “I mean that.”

  Charlie just nodded, a thank you nod.

  “Come here.”

  Charlie obediently moved to her and she pulled him to her holding him tight. They stayed like that for minutes rather than seconds, then slowly broke apart. Charlie went into the station and Cassie climbed into her people carrier and pulled away.

  * * * * *

  “If you’re saying there wasn’t a crime committed, then you can let me have my partner’s possessions,” argued Charlie vehemently.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to take that up with the SIO,” countered the uniformed sergeant.

  “But if there’s no investigation, why have you a Senior Investigating Officer?”

  “I never said there wasn’t an investigation. That’s your words sir.”

  “Let me speak to this SIO … please.” Charlie was in no mood to be polite, but he realised politeness would get him further than rudeness.

  “He’s not here at the moment. “

  “Don’t tell me, he’s out investigating.”

  “Yes,” said the sergeant without a flicker of a smile.

  Charlie was slowly coming to the real reason he was there.

  “Chief Superintendent Naylor. I want to speak to him.”

  This clearly caught the sergeant off guard. Nobody had ever made such a request before and he wasn’t sure how to process it.

  “I expect the Chief Superintendent will be busy.”

  “He spoke to me last night … He came out to the accident … Tell him there’s something I need to tell him.”

  The sergeant looked at him for a moment, then he went behind a glass screen and Charlie could see him pick up a phone and speak to someone. Seconds later he was back ushering him through into the police station and handing him over to a civilian, a large woman in a floral dress, who escorted Charlie though various corridors. As they walked along a linking corridor with just windows looking down at a secure yard below, Charlie saw a couple of uniformed police officers climbing into a panda car and driving off, passing a police BMW which looked liked it had been in some high speed chase. Its front end was all crumpled and the passenger side appeared to have collided with a tank. Charlie couldn’t help but think of how hard the impact must have been to send Devika slewing off the road. In that split second she must have been terrified.

  They arrived at Chief Superintendent Naylor’s office, where Charlie was then passed into the ‘custody’ of a secretary, who announced his arrival to the Chief Superintendent and offered Charlie some tea, which he refused.

  “Mr Ashton …,” Naylor began and gestured for him to be seated.

  “Thank-you,” Charlie said as he sat on the faux leather chair.

  “I’m told there’s something you want to tell me.”

  “I think I got myself a little mixed up. What I meant to say was … I think there’s something you want to tell me.”

  Naylor looked at him.

  What the hell is he playing at now?

  “I want to tell you ..?” enquired Naylor.

  “About the envelope.”

  Like the PC earlier Naylor was caught off guard. He hadn’t expected Charlie to be so direct.

  “What envelope?” asked Naylor recovering quickly.

  “That was in the car when Devika crashed.”

  “Sorry … I’m not sure what you’re talking about?”

  “Really?”

  “Look I know today must have been terrible for you … especially coming so soon after the tragic death of your mother …”

  “My mother was murdered … and so was my girlfriend. I believe their murders were connected. I believe you know they’re connected.”

  “If you believe I’ve acted in any way improperly … then there are certain complaint procedures that you are free to pursue …”

  Charlie rose up out of the chair. He was angry and Naylor could see it in his eyes, the way he saw it the previous night at the site of the crash.

  “Let’s not fuck around. There was an envelope that contained information that was relevant to my mother’s murder. It came into my girl friend’s possession and she was bringing it to me so I could read the contents and decide what course of action to take. But someone … somewhere didn’t want whatever was in that envelope made public. What I can’t figure out was how you knew we had the letter.�
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  “Look … Mr Ashton …” Naylor wasn’t a Chief Superintendent by some stroke of luck, he’d achieved the rank because he was smart and could think quickly. “I understand you are in some sort of distress …”

  “Don’t patronise me …”

  “But I don’t know anything about any envelope … any letter … or any information.”

  “Don’t lie to me! Why were you at the station at two in the morning?”

  “I wasn’t … I was at home. I received the phone call when one of my officers recognised Devika Bahl. A famous model is involved in a fatal accident on your patch, then you react. This is big news. It was important I was there to marshal the proceedings. Have you read Facebook … Twitter? Your girlfriend was a very popular person. We held it back from the news as long as we could, but as it was all over the net an hour ago we made a statement about her death.”

  “Without telling me?”

  “You had been informed. We had heard what you had to say. Our press releases are made on behalf of our Force and not on behalf of yourself. If you wish to make a statement, I can make arrangements with the press.”

  “I am the press!”

  “Then you know how this works.”

  Charlie had never considered that news of her death was now circulating around the world. Since the accident he’d been aware of his phone ringing, but had not answered it. Suddenly nothing else in the world mattered. All that mattered was that the person he’d loved was now dead. Phone messages … phone conversations he didn’t want to become involved with them. He needed to play out his shock and his anger and he needed to play them out here … in this arena.

  “Mr Ashton … whatever dubious actions you think I’ve been party to, I can assure you - you are mistaken. I’ve done nothing wrong. If you have anything that you consider to be proof that I have acted with impropriety, please let’s get it out in the open. We can bring in a couple of other people now … people of your choice and you can lay your proof on the table, so we all know what we’re talking about. Please … let’s do that now.”