The Frame - from the author of the Sanford Third Age Club (STAC) series (A Feyer and Drake Mystery Book 2)

by David W Robinson

  Sam spoke up for the first time. “A breach of protocol? Not like you, Wesley.”

  He noticed the use of his full name, rather than the usual ‘Wes’, and had to force himself to concentrate. “Perhaps not. But this station was directly involved in the original investigation and, I imagine, the successful prosecution, and in my opinion, you have the right to know whether I believe you got it right or not.”

  Trentham obviously approved. “Thank you for that. Now, I must leave you in Samantha’s capable hands. She will be leading the fresh investigation, and she can introduce you to the detectives who were on the ground floor four years ago. If there’s anything you need, Wesley, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  Drake and Sam got to their feet, but as Drake prepared to leave, Sam spoke to her boss.

  “Just to put you in the picture, Neville, Mr Drake and I will be out of the station for a while. I’ll leave Frank Barker in charge. We should be no more than an hour, and Frank can brief the team on the Jenner situation.”

  Trentham accepted her decision without comment. Drake opened the door and allowed Sam to lead ahead of him. As the door closed behind them and they waited for the lift, he asked, “Do you have office space where I can work in something approaching peace and quiet?”

  “There’s a small room just along from the CID office. I’ll arrange a key for you. Presumably you’ll want everything kept secure and away from prying eyes.”

  “Correct.”

  The lift doors opened with a sigh, they stepped in and Sam pressed the button for the second floor.

  “We’re leaving the station? Where is it we have to go?”

  Her voice still held the sharp edge of irritable control. “Nowhere in particular. We need to talk, and I don’t want everyone in this station listening in.”

  Two minutes later they stepped into the CID room.

  A busy environment, detectives at their desks, some in muted conference with colleagues, others with their heads bowed over keyboards, yet others working with pen and paper, and at the front of the room, three men talking together; or rather, one man talking and the other two listening.

  Whatever it was they were discussing, they broke off as Sam approached.

  “Gentlemen, this is Wesley Drake, a civilian consultant brought in at Iris Mullins’ insistence. Wes, allow me to introduce Detective Inspector Frank Barker, his bagman, Detective Sergeant Dominic Larne, and my assistant, Detective Sergeant Paul Czarniak.”

  The younger men nodded, and Barker shook hands. “Most people call me Frank.”

  “And I’m Wes.”

  Drake estimated Barker to be somewhere in his early fifties. A strapping, square shouldered man, with massive hands, and a slightly pugnacious appearance, enhanced by narrowed eyes. For his age, he looked fit, but there was the slightest hint of a middle-aged paunch. His reddish hair was thinning at the crown, but at the rear, it clung to his shirt collar, and the overall impression was of a 1980s TV detective, harassed, straining under an increasing workload. The impression was augmented by his pale blue shirt, open at the collar and his tie pulled down.

  “What is it Iris thinks you can do?”

  Drake was already beginning to tire of the repeated question. “She wants to know if Rachel Jenner is innocent.”

  Barker sneered. “Take it from me, she’s guilty. I was one of the original SIOs. I saw the mess she made of Barbara Shawforth, and I know Rachel Jenner. It was her.”

  Drake was not disposed to argue. “You’ll need to make some time for me. You’re one of the people I need to speak to.”

  It looked for the moment as if Barker was going to open up again, but Sam forestalled him. “Frank, Wes and I have to go out. I’ll be about an hour. Can you handle the morning briefing?”

  “Yeah, no sweat, Sam.”

  Sam turned on her heels and walked towards the door.

  Drake fell in beside her. “He would have been head of CID if you had turned it down?”

  It was as much an observation as a question, but Sam replied anyway. “Yes. It took a little time for him to deal with it, but now we work together.” She glared at him. “Which is more than can be said for you and me.”

  Chapter Five

  Outside the main entrance, Drake pulled in a deep breath of the fresh, seaside air, and allowed it to invigorate him, feed oxygen into his system, clear out the cobwebs of cloistered, claustrophobic environments like Landshaven House and his father’s farmhouse.

  On the drive over he had been too concentrated on other matters to give any thought to the effect Landshaven might have upon him. Like Sam, he had entertained a long love affair with the town, thanks largely to its location, less than a hundred miles from home, but it was only now as they stepped out of the police station that he began to appreciate the change that had come over him. Gone was the self-pitying, couldn’t-care-less half wreck of the previous day, previous months, previous half year, and even if he did not look forward to the challenge Iris Mullins had set, he was looking forward to spending the next few days in this lively, popular resort.

  Landshaven House stood at the top of Town Hill, a steep road almost a mile in length, which led to the seafront, but at this end was less than half a mile from the town centre. Once out on the pavement, Sam turned towards the town, and walked briskly along, only slowing down when they emerged from the shadow of the police station’s five-storey block, and into the morning sunshine.

  They crossed the inner ring road and entered the pedestrianised High Street, where shops bearing the familiar names of most high streets, populated both sides around the entrance to Limes Shopping Mall.

  Friday morning, and the streets were busy: traders hawking their various wares, satellite and cable TV companies badgering passers-by, people milling everywhere, entering, leaving shops, some just idling away the morning, basking in the pleasant, late summer sun.

  The steep, albeit short climb from the police station forbade any possibility of meaningful conversation, and they were on the plateau before Drake said a word.

  “So what is it you want to talk about?”

  He knew the answer before she gave it.

  Sam stopped, turned, faced him and looked up, and as she spoke; she numbered items on her fingers. “Texts, emails, phone calls, letters. Once, I even thought of getting into my car and coming to Howley, but I change my mind. Why? Not a word. Not one single bloody word.”

  He shrugged. “Down to you, I’m afraid.”

  “Why? What did I do?”

  “You left.”

  “I had to.”

  “I know.” He looked around as if seeking inspiration, and then looked back, down into her fierce eyes. “When we first met at Peace Garden, you were a hell of a mess, and you needed some help. I did what I could, you came round, and I made you a promise. No matter what you faced, I would be there. I’d hold your hand if you needed me. Just until you could stand on your own feet. When Becky…” He could not bring himself to say it. “When everything went wrong, you were there. I needed you, and you were there. But you left and I wasn’t ready to face life on my own. I went down again.”

  Sam replied through gritted teeth. “I had to take up the job here in Landshaven. You knew that. Christ, you were the one who persuaded me to take it. And I said at the time, why don’t you come with me? Not because I thought there might be anything between us, but there was nothing left for you in Howley. A man with your reputation, you’d have no problem building a client list here, and I guess the local college would snap you up, even as a part timer. And you would have a friend here. Me. Note: friend, not lover. If you’d done that, then I would have been there to hold your hand. Instead, you made excuses. Oh, you had to see out your notice at Howley College, wrap up your current caseload. What a lot of hot air. You could have referred your clients and told the college to shove it. You didn’t need the money, and you were always saying your classes were not exam based.”

  Drake rode out the tirade. “I didn’t say it was your fa
ult. You asked why I never got back to you, and I gave you a simple answer.”

  Her predictable outburst had given him time to think, and now she was listening, he put his thoughts into words.

  He waved around at the hundreds milling around the pedestrian area. “Look at all these people. It’s a crowd; a mass of bodies moving in seemingly random directions, but every one of them is an individual. They each have their own problems, their own issues.” He pointed at a young woman ambling towards the shopping mall. “Did she get laid last night? Is she worried that she might be pregnant this morning? Or is she thinking what she might buy for herself, her boyfriend, girlfriend, mother?” He swung his arm around again, and this time his finger aimed at a shabbily dressed, middle-aged man shuffling down the street, supported by a walking stick. “And what about him? Will he start looking through the waste bins, see what he might find? Is he on his way to the podiatrist, or maybe the pharmacy to pick up prescriptions? Or has he just lost his wife, and is he buried in grief? Everyone has their own thoughts, their own issues, their own problems, no matter how minor. Well, Sam, I had issues. I lost my partner in the most violent circumstances, and yeah, I’m a great motivator, the man who knows how to kick people up the arse and persuade them to get on with it. But I couldn’t do that for myself. I needed someone there permanently, someone to deliver that kick. The way things panned out, you couldn’t be there.”

  She did not appear surprised by his response, but she refused to accept responsibility. “I was a phone call away, an email away, text message away. We could have hooked up on video call.”

  “And that is why I am the motivator and you’re the detective. Did I ever counsel you over the phone? No. Did I ever counsel you by text or video? No. I was there in person every time, and I needed you in person. I’m not accusing, Sam, I’m not blaming. I’m simply telling it like it was.”

  She was slightly mollified. “Yes, well, let’s get on and deal with things as they are, not as they were. Neville was at pains to point out that I’m a professional, so are you. Let’s behave like professionals.” She pointed at the cafeteria, its white lettering on a plain black background, declaring The Kettle on the Hob. “That’s where we’re going.”

  Drake nodded. “Any particular reason?”

  “They do an excellent toasted teacake, a perfect cup of tea…” Sam paused deliberately. “And that’s where the murder of Barbara Shawforth began.”

  She led the way ahead and into the café.

  Once inside Drake realised that it doubled up as a bakery and confectionery, selling pies and sweet treats as a takeaway. Tables were arranged in straight lines down the middle of the dining area, and along the side wall. He and Sam took one by the wall; he sat with his back to the exit, she facing the windows out onto the street.

  Taking Sam at her word, he ordered toasted teacakes and tea for two, and while they waited for service, they kept the conversation light, and strictly neutral, their brief encounter of late spring never mentioned, taboo by mutual, unspoken consent. Instead they fell back on the traditional, British stalwart of the weather, and the comings and goings in Westminster as detailed to Drake by his father.

  “And how is Ted?” Sam asked.

  “Same as, same as. Still refusing a cabinet position, still tub-thumping on the agricultural problems of Howley and the surrounding areas, while keeping one eye on the family business. No doubt when he hears about Iris Mullins’ call to me, he’ll have something to say, and I’ll ignore it as I always do.” Deliberately changing the subject, he went on, “How are you coping with the Landshaven team?”

  “It took a month to get them to see my point of view.”

  “By which you mean your resolve never to compromise?”

  Sam reacted to the accusation with predictable irritation. “That’s not fair and you know it. I’m always ready to compromise except on matters of conduct. If I hadn’t accepted the position, Frank Barker would have been promoted to chief inspector. He was a little more than, er, pissed off, shall we say? But he’s been at the job long enough to know that he can’t beat the system, and now we work fairly well together. Occasional disagreements, granted, but nothing we can’t sort out… by compromise.”

  The waitress, a plump, middle-aged woman, delivered the food and as Drake poured tea for them, he brought the discussion round to matters of business.

  “The murder of Barbara Shawforth. It started here, you said.”

  Sam spread a thin coating of butter over her toasted teacake. “I know precious little about it. Only what Frank told me last night when Rachel’s successful appeal was announced. I checked Rachel’s record, and from that, without having seriously studied the relevant files, I came to the conclusion that she was probably guilty.”

  Drake sighed and bit into his teacake. He chewed, swallowed and washed the food down with tea. “I’ll reach my own conclusions regarding Rachel when I speak to her.”

  “If you speak to her.”

  “I take that as a given. The murder?”

  Sam dealt with another mouthful of food. “September ninth, four years ago. Parliament sits again after the summer recess, Marc Shawforth, Barbara’s husband, is in Westminster. At twelve noon that Friday afternoon, Rachel Jenner and Barbara Shawforth met here. Before long, they were in the middle of an argument. It became heated, and developed into a shouting match. At half past twelve, the manager asked Rachel to leave.”

  Drake swilled down more tea. “Rachel? Not Barbara?”

  “Rachel was a copper. Barbara was the wife of the local MP. Faced with that choice, who would you throw out? Rachel could be controlled by a complaint to Neville Trentham. Who would the manager complain to regarding Barbara’s behaviour? Her husband? As I understand it, Barbara was nothing short of a high class whore. While her husband was in Westminster, she was busy sleeping around. According to scuttlebutt, Marc Shawforth was well aware of her activities, but with his political career in mind, it was swept under the carpet. If the manager had complained about the argument with Rachel, her husband might have torn Barbara off a strip in private, but publicly they would have displayed political unanimity. It was easier for the manager to throw out Rachel.”

  Drake conceded the point. “Fair enough. Go on with the tale.”

  “With a good deal of choice language, Rachel stormed from this place, went across to the shopping mall, and drove home where, according to her, she stayed for the rest of the day. At half past two Barbara checked into a local fleapit, the Bellevue Hotel. It’s at the bottom of Town Hill, just before you get to the seafront. She was meeting a lover who duly checked into the Bellevue just before three o’clock, and left a few minutes after half past. His alibi is irrefutable. Don’t ask me how, it just is. An hour after he left, the hotel proprietor went up to room sixteen. He assumed that Barbara had left and forgotten to drop the key in reception. The door was unlocked, he stepped in and found Barbara battered to death. I don’t know all the ins and outs, but over the weekend, evidence emerged that pointed directly at Rachel Jenner.”

  “As Trentham told us.” Drake’s brow knitted. “What do you know about Rachel?”

  “After I spoke to Frank, I checked her record. She was a good detective but she was a snapper. She’d been known to slap suspects about. As an example, she went through a rather nasty divorce with her husband, John Jenner. He was top man in CID at the time, and working together after the divorce must have been nothing short of hell. She was firearms authorised, and at one point, working on the seafront, she arrested a street dealer. Only a young kid, and he didn’t resist, but he did give her a lot of mouth. She pulled a gun on him. Christ, if I’d been in charge, I would have fired and prosecuted her. As it was, because of the problems with her divorce, she got away with a formal reprimand, a month’s suspension without pay, and her firearms authorisation was revoked. Her record is littered with examples of her losing her rag, often with only the slightest provocation. All that was taken into account – apparently – when the M
IT arrived from York to investigate her possible involvement in Barbara’s murder. Beyond that, they found evidence of Rachel’s presence in room sixteen of the Bellevue, and when her place was searched, they found more evidence. You heard Trentham say that she claimed it was planted, but the idea was never given much credence. The rest is history. She pleaded not guilty, the jury didn’t believe her, and she got life.”

  Drake pushed his tea to one side and drummed his fingers on the table. “It’s interesting that she never backed off from her plea of innocence. Anyone who is imprisoned knows that the simplest way to get out is to admit what you did and show some remorse, yet she never did. Why not?”

  Sam shrugged. “You tell me.”

  “That’s exactly why I’m here.”

  Chapter Six

  The train began to slow down, and Rachel Jenner drew back the sleeve of her topcoat, then sheepishly checked herself. The battery in her digital watch had died a long time ago, and it remained stopped at twenty to eleven. She had no way of knowing whether it had given up the ghost in the morning or the evening. Until half past nine this morning, she hadn’t seen it for four years. The prison kept all such valuables locked away. It reduced the risk of theft and its close ally, violence.

  Buildings began to appear alongside the railway. The outskirts of Landshaven.

  It had been a long and tedious journey from Surrey to her hometown, and now that she was within a mile or two of her final destination, she had to ask herself (not for the first time) whether it was wise to come back.

  Hayley Killeen, her solicitor, had advised against it. “Even now there’s a lot of ill feeling in the town, and you have enough experience to know what that might mean for you.”