by David Carter
NOT FAR AWAY IN KNIGHTSBRIDGE, in Saint Patrick’s One, the Banaghan family had assembled for lunch at the same time. Similar large families, with similar driven heads who would stop at nothing to ensure their family, and their dynasty, would remain to rule the roost long after the main man had conked out, and was laid to rest in the cold ground of Brompton.
There wasn’t a lot of difference between the two, though the Banaghan’s were more relaxed about who sat where. Liam at the head, with his sophisticated wife, Rosanna, at the far end. Only seven additional places were laid that day, Eilish incurring her father’s wrath by ducking out. Dermot, the eldest, Oonagh, Eoin, Aileen, Cormac, Sheelagh, and Eamonn grabbed any place that suited, as they settled down and remained silent, as Rosanna recited the short grace.
We acknowledge our dependence on God, and ask Him to bless us and our food. Amen.
Everyone echoed the Amen and crossed themselves.
Liam wouldn’t let Eilish’s absence rest.
‘That’s what cosying up to the aristocracy gets you,’ he fumed. ‘Missing lunch!’
He was ignored, as three maids brought in the food, the eldest one bossing the juniors every which way. Harrod’s duck pâté was served to start, Rosanna’s favourite, though not to everyone’s taste judging by the leftovers that piled up.
A beautiful joint of English veal followed; something of a rarity, and one to be looked forward to, with all the trimmings. Liam imagined one tiny part of his success reflected through the quality and quantity of food served at his table. It was a minor miracle none of the Banaghans were huge. Though there was still time for that, when middle-age dragged them into its net and pumped them up like a collection of tyres.
Thankfully, that was still well away for the kids. Liam kept himself trim through squash and rigorous workouts in the in-house gym, while Rosanna did the same to ensure her husband retained an interest in her. She would eat next to nothing, away from the dining table.
‘Nice meat,’ said Aileen, tucking in, ‘sweet and tender.’
‘The butchers sent it over specially,’ said Rosanna. ‘It came highly recommended.’
‘I prefer matured beef,’ grumbled Dermot, ‘can’t beat it,’ as he pushed the veal around his plate.
‘When you are head of your own family, you can serve whatever the hell you like,’ snapped Liam, glancing at his fussy son.
ONE HOUR EARLIER, LIAM had called Eamonn to his home office.
Liam loved all his children equally, but he’d always had a soft spot for Eamonn, though he did everything to hide it.
‘Come in,’ he said, joviality brought on by a morning snifter of Irish whiskey.
‘Sit yourself down,’ and Eamonn sat in the plush red seat set before the big modern desk.
‘How are you doing, son?’
‘I’m doing good, dad.’
Liam nodded and sat back and said, ‘Tell me about the Meade girl?’
Eamonn pursed his lips, bobbed his head, and said, ‘Suzanne? She’s cute, and so innocent, but she’s a decent girl. Planning on going to Benidorm with her mates, she’s like a kid on her first proper holiday.’
‘And she suspects nothing?’
‘No, not a thing, dad. She’s so young, and I think, a little naive.’
‘How old is she, again?’
‘Seventeen, going on twenty-seven, you know what they are like at that age.’
Liam nodded and said, ‘That’s a fine age for a girl for you, seventeen. I first had your mother at seventeen, but don’t go blabbing that information round,’ and the two guys shared a man-thing look, as if it were a badge of honour to be cherished.
‘And you’ve had a second date?’
‘We did, last Tuesday.’
‘And it went well?’
‘Very well, I’m seeing her again on Tuesday night.’
‘Good man, but you haven’t yet... you know, visited her.’
‘No dad, not yet, she’s keen to take her time. I think she likes to keep me waiting, builds up the suspense; makes me work hard for it. I reckon she’s been reading Jane Austen novels, but I’ll get there in the end.’
‘Yes, of course you will, son. I have every faith in you. But don’t leave it too long. She might not be quite so innocent when she returns from Spain.’
‘I get ya, dad, you can rely on me.’
Liam Banaghan opened the desk drawer and took out a red leather key fob. On the fob were two new keys, a silver Yale and a bronze Chubb. He set them down in the centre of the desk without comment.
Eamonn’s brow creased as he glanced at them and said, ‘Keys for what, dad?’
‘12 Chelsea Park Mews. It’s only a one-bedroom flat, but surprisingly spacious, and real nice inside. Bit of a shag palace, if you ask me. You’ll see what I mean when you see the bed, not that I would know about that, but it’s for you, son... for your private use, and hers.’
Eamonn grinned and reached out, grabbed the fob and said, ‘I had thought of taking her to the Ritz.’
‘No,’ said Liam, ‘you’ll be better off there, more private, no one to see you or hassle you, and you can stay as long as you like without being disturbed. You’ll like it, I’m sure of it, and so will she.’
‘Sounds dead cool.’
‘Okay, son, listen carefully, here’s the deal. This is what you must do.’
Twenty-One
On a new day in the Chelsea Station Walter was in early, keen to examine everything they knew about the Banaghan and Meade families. The Banaghan’s place on the Chelsea Fields Industrial Estate, they knew well. But the Meade’s nerve centre in an old building called Lewiston House in Sloane Avenue, SW3, was relatively unknown, and maybe deserved a visit.
Sergeant Vairs came in half an hour later, looking paler than ever, and sat opposite Walter, scowling about something.
‘Fixed up the rubbish intercept yet?’
‘Not yet, sarge.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘Because we need a court order before we help ourselves. Similar thing to intercepting and reading people’s mail, I guess.’
‘Bollocks! We are not intercepting anyone’s mail. We are monitoring freely thrown away rubbish.’
Walter glanced at the guy and pulled a face that said: That’s as maybe, but my hands are tied.
‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do, what you are going to do. Find out when the rubbish is collected and get yourself down there. Slip whoever is handling it, a crisp tenner. Tell them Sergeant Teddy Vairs told them to do as they are bloody well told. You can put it on ex’es, record it as “additional rubbish removal” as authorised by me. And do the same thing for both offices, and collect from those ostentatious palaces they live in, too. You got that?’
Walter nodded and muttered, ‘Sure, sarge,’ though he didn’t look forward to it, or feel comfortable about it.
Vairs was talking again.
‘I want plenty rubbish here by tomorrow lunchtime, and no excuses, you get me?’
Walter nodded, as a short and bulky WPC appeared at the desk to advise Vairs the powers that be wanted to see him “toot sweet”, they said. He sniffed loudly and nodded at Walter, stood up, muttering something about another ruddy waste of time, and headed off toward the private offices.
Two minutes later another sergeant appeared and threw paperwork on Walter’s desk, barking, ‘Urgent photocopies required. I’m out for an hour. I’ll expect them done when I return,’ and without further comment he fled the building.
Walter rubbed his eyelid and glanced at the papers. Prelim evidence on some drug-running case into Whitstable and Sandwich down in Kent. Seemed vaguely interesting. Walter would take a read of that as the papers slid through the machine. He might as well do it while Vairs was absent because he wouldn’t be happy with him reading it when he returned. Walter gathered up the papers and headed for the new green Rank Xerox copier, a big upgrade on the previous stinking and groaning brute.
It had a reputation, the Xerox. After a few drinks some peop
le were using it to photocopy their extremities, not that Walter would get involved in such nonsense, though the stories of what went on late at night, involving a couple of WPCs made even Walter blush.
His short walk took him past the private offices. One of the doors was ajar. He heard a single word being spoken, sliding out through the narrow gap. “Darriteau”.
Walter paused. Who wouldn’t? Vairs was getting a dressing down from the Chief Super and one of the Chief Inspectors.
‘Come on, Vairs!’ said the CS. ‘We are not stupid. It wasn’t you who came up with this carbon ribbon intelligence, it was young Darriteau. We’re not surprised. The sole reason he was forwarded to us was because his previous assessments stated he was an exceptional talent and needed to be nurtured.’
Walter pulled a face. It was news to him.
The CS was still banging on.
‘Don’t go taking another man’s glory, Vairs. You’ll not profit by it in the end. We know it wasn’t you, man.’
‘Joint effort,’ stuttered Vairs, ‘equal input from both parties.’
‘Equal input, my crack!’ snarled the CS. ‘You listen to my advice. You take young Darriteau under your wing and give him his head. The man is a born detective, something you will never be.’
‘Whatever you say, sir.’
‘I do say! And make sure you tell him how pleased we are with him.’
‘Of course, sir, yes.’
At that moment Stella Hollyoak came hurrying along the corridor, the usual naughty smirking look fixed on her face, a big pile of crime stat papers in her hand, ready to be dished out to anyone she came across. She saw him loitering there, waiting by the door, looking guilty.
‘Morning, Walter,’ she whispered, grinning, ‘Be careful listening at doors, you might hear something you don’t want to.’
‘Oh, but I wasn’t...’
‘I think you were... toodle-pip,’ and she hurried away, grinning, intent on grabbing some coffee in the tearoom as soon as she had finished her rounds.
Walter exhaled hard and hurried off toward the Xerox.
It was almost ten minutes before Vairs was released from captivity. He needed a coffee bad; and a fag break. He’d had enough hassle for one day, and hustled off that way. The tearoom door was half open as he pushed his way in. There was only one person in there and that was a rarity. Stella Hollyoak, on the far side of the room, her back to him, tight skirt and zipper attracting the eye. She glanced back over her shoulder and said, ‘Hi sarge, wanna coffee?’
‘Yeah. Hot sweet and strong, a bit like you,’ as he closed in on her.
Stella grabbed another mug, checked it was vaguely clean, and set it next to hers. Vairs leaned hard against her back, sniffing the side of her neck.
‘You smell nice today.’
‘Leave it out, sarge. I’m not in the mood.’
His left hand encircled her, cupping her left breast.
‘How about you and me go for a meal on Saturday night? Enjoy a date with a grown up man for a change, a man who knows what’s what?’
No, sarge, never going to happen, now get off me. I’m spoken for, as I think you know.’
‘You don’t know what you’re missing,’ Vairs insisted. ‘I could bring you to the boil faster than that damned kettle.’
Stella bent her right arm at the elbow. Raised it high, and jerked it back, hard and fast. The point of the elbow smacked Sergeant Teddy Vairs flush in his right eye. The force of the blow sent him reeling across the room into a bank of old metal filing cabinets, due to be removed and scrapped. The din was terrific.
Vairs cursed and touched his rapidly swelling eye.
‘What the hell?’ he yelled. ‘What did you do that for?’
‘I told you to stop, sarge. You should listen more.’
‘Eh... but there was no need for that.’
‘I think there was,’ and she drank her coffee, set her mug down hard, and made for the door, leaving one parting comment, ‘Your coffee is ready, the kettle’s boiled, sergeant.’
He took his time drinking it, reflecting on his awful day, and after that, made his way to the Gents. Stared in the mirror and bathed his big purple eye, not that it made one iota of difference. Went into a cubicle and sat down for half an hour, as if it would heal in no time.
Walter was busy stapling the drug running reports together when Vairs eventually returned. He sat down and said, ‘When are you going to fix the rubbish collection business?’
‘When I’ve finished this,’ said Walter, staring at the man, and his nasty fresh eye injury. ‘What’s happened to you?’
Vairs sighed hard and said, ‘Out fighting street criminals late last night while you goody two shoe wimps were safely tucked up in your beds.’
The man seemed oblivious to the fact that Walter had seen him less than an hour before, looking white and pasty, but with two good eyes. He sensed sarge wouldn’t want to talk about it and didn’t mention it again.
Later that afternoon when it was already dark, he returned to the station, wondering if Vairs would still be there. But he wasn’t. Maybe as the day wore on he’d felt too self-conscious and had excused himself and cleared off for an early night.
Stella came wandering by, smirk still in situ.
Walter said, ‘Did you see the state of the sarge?’
‘No, what’s that?’ she grinned.
‘Big eye,’ said Walter, ‘huge,’ his hand going to his eye two or three times, mimicking it.
‘Oh, that,’ she said. ‘Serves him right.’
‘You did it?’ said Walter, open-mouthed. ‘You struck a senior officer?’
‘Not struck, exactly. I just happened to bring my elbow round a little fast and it kind of caught him in the face. Purely accidental,’ and she let go a girlish giggle.
‘God, you’re amazing.’
‘Thank you, Walter. Nice to know I’m valued by someone. I don’t think he’s ever had the benefit of reading my staff assessments.’
‘And if he had?’
‘He’d see that I was, and still am, southern area Police judo champion. Women’s section. When I told my parents I wanted to join the police, my dad insisted I took judo lessons, and the rest, as they say, is history.’
‘I’ll keep out of your way in future,’ grinned Walter.
‘No need for that, man. Fancy a drink later?’ she said, taking him by surprise.
‘Sure, yes, but what about James?’
‘What about him? The fiancé’s working late. I’m proposing a quick friendly after hours drink between workmates, maybe a laugh and a chat, nothing more, nothing less.’
‘Fine by me,’ he said. ‘I’m buying.’
‘Good, that’s what I like to hear. I’ll be in the Flying Horse at half-past six.’
Twenty-Two
Karen successfully roped in Martin Kane and Jenny Thompson to help trawl through old murder cases. In no time they came up with interesting stats and facts.
‘Let’s have a look at them in more detail,’ said Walter, shuffling his feet under the desk.
‘Definite unsolved murders,’ said Karen. ‘Cheshire Constabulary has eighteen unsolved murders going back fifty years.’
‘Not so many,’ mumbled Walter. ‘Less than one every two years.’
Karen nodded and continued, ‘None of those cases have been finally closed. You will know that each of them are dragged out for reassessment every two years by the major crime review team. But in the event of no new evidence, not much gets done with them.’
‘Lack of finance and manpower, I guess,’ said Walter. ‘Certain people would be happier to bury them and get them off the books.’
‘Person-power,’ said Karen, grinning.
Walter ignored her and said, ‘The big question is, did any of those eighteen occur during our timeframe around now, from fifteen and thirty years ago?’
‘One did from fifteen years ago, and another single one from thirty years ago,’ said Karen, looking pleased with herself.
‘Really? A semblance of a pattern, you reckon?’
‘Yes, Guv, I think so. That’s what it looks like to me.’
‘Have you got hold of the old files?’
‘Ordered them, should be here this afternoon.’
‘In the meantime, what do we know?’
Karen bobbed her head and glanced at Martin. He took his cue and started the ball rolling.
‘The first one, fifteen years ago, is a young woman by the name of Kelly Jones. She was thirty-one at the time of death and earned her living as a sex worker.’
‘She was a prostitute?’ said Walter.
‘Correct,’ said Jenny.
Martin continued. ‘She worked in a small brothel over a computer store in New Ferry up on the Wirral just off the A41. But her body wasn’t found until nine years after her death, miles away in Cheshire in a coppice close to Malpas.’
‘Which is also on the A41,’ said Walter.
‘Correct,’ confirmed Martin. ‘A nice easy run.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘I’d like to read the official files but from what I can gather, strangulation seems the most likely. But the body was in such a state there was doubt about that.’
‘Mmm...’ said Walter. ‘I guess it fits with any program of “cleaning the city streets of undesirables”, if you believe in that warped logic.’
‘Vigilantism,’ said Karen.
‘Yes, could be,’ said Walter, ‘and the one from thirty years ago? How did that play out?’
‘Doesn’t really fit the bill in every respect,’ said Martin, glancing back at his notes.
‘Let me be the one to decide that.’
‘Sure, Guv. His name was Peter Craig, forty-one, a banker. Quite a senior bod too from what I can fathom. Commuted every day to Liverpool, worked in Markhams Bank in Dale Street, close to the Town Hall.’
‘Where did he live?’
‘Had a real nice place in Bridge Trafford on the Helsby Road.’
‘Not the kind of guy to get mixed up in vigilante inspired killings,’ suggested Martin.
‘Beg to differ,’ said Jenny, holding up her pen.
