by David Carter
It was windy up there, a balmy late summer breeze that woke up the face. Busy too, dog walkers, joggers, occasional cyclists, families out for walks, singletons ambling along looking pensive and sometimes lonely, and serious runners aiming to get big miles under their belt before their next meal.
The flat surface of the canal reflected that movement, emphasising the general busyness of the day. Ducks quacked, fishes snapped up idling insects. Sheep cried, dogs barked, pheasants in a nearby spinney croaked, circling birds of prey called from the air, and the sound of happy and curious children echoed everywhere, as they dashed back and forth seeking mischief.
Walter and Karen stopped random people, asking if they had heard about the death, and did they know of anyone missing, asking too if they were on the aqueduct the previous evening or night. Most people were interested, concerned, and helpful too, but no one had anything positive to add.
They moved further along the structure until they were in the centre of the massive bridge. From there they could see for miles. Karen peered over the side. Far below fresh water burbled across random rock formations, producing momentary splashes of white, as it rushed downstream. Walter joined her in looking.
‘The age old question,’ he said, ‘accident, suicide, or murder?’
‘You think he was murdered?’
‘Why not? Isn’t that what we were expecting?’
Walter’s mobile called him. It was Gee Dee.
‘I just got back,’ he said, sounding breathless, ‘got an ID for you. Fingerprints positive, form as long as your arm,’ except Goronwy didn’t say arm, ‘and surprise, surprise, it’s one of your own. Shane Fellday, Chester resident, chemist to the general populace.’
‘I know him,’ said Walter. ‘Thanks for that. We’re heading home in a minute. Do you want us to visit his address and report back?’
‘Save us a nasty job, appreciate it,’ and they said their goodbyes, and Walter and Karen hurried away along the towpath. They passed a single old moored narrowboat that didn’t look like it had moved in weeks, and further on, a smarter craft, the Welsh Diviner. Walter took a chance and jumped aboard and tapped on the door. No one came, no sign of life, maybe they were in the pub. Pubs and canals go hand-in-hand. It was part of the fun. Back on the towpath, they scurried away, arriving at the rickety steps, skipped down them, an empty lay-by set away thirty yards to the right, but they turned left and hurried back to the car.
In the BMW, Walter called Darren and asked him to confirm Fellday’s last known address. A small red brick rented flat in Saltney, and it wasn’t long before they were closing in on the place.
It didn’t matter how many times officers broke tragic news, it never came easy. There was a young woman at the flat, a skinny thing with greasy hair and red flushed eyes. But the babe in her arms looked okay, fat and inquisitive, with an impressive set of lungs.
The woman, nineteen, unmarried mother, depended on Shane for his money, and other things besides. The flat was rented in his name. What would happen to her when the landlord found out Shane was no more and the rent didn’t get paid? Police officers often become social workers, though they don’t get paid for it. Her name was Sharon McQueen, and she must have listened to Fellday sometimes, for she refused them entry without a warrant, and not having one, Walter left her his card, told her to contact him if she needed anything, and they left her to it. Soon after that, the lavatory was real busy.
At no time had she expressed surprise or sorrow at Shane’s death, and that was revealing. When they asked if he had any enemies she pulled a resigned face and mumbled, ‘What d’ya think?’ But she couldn’t think of anyone recent, or anyone particular who might have taken him out.
They jumped in the car and headed back to the station, as Walter rang Goronwy to give him an update. Back at base, Mrs West caught his eye and nodded him over.
‘You free?’
‘I could be.’
‘Good, come in and sit down.’
He updated her on everything. Fellday and Sharon McQueen, Gee Dee happy with his new quarters, and the blue rag they found on the bush.
‘Your own particular burning bush; was it?’ she said, smirking.
‘Something like that; though God hasn’t spoken to me yet.’
‘There’s still time. Maybe he did, with the breeze dropping signals there.’
‘Be nice to think so.’
‘Where’s the linen now?’
‘Sent for testing.’
She bobbed her head and said, ‘You think Fellday was murdered, don’t you?’
‘If I had to bet on it, yes.’
‘Well, I have a little more info on the Handbridge death. It seems Conran Williams was hitting the gear like there was no tomorrow, or so his girlfriend Shirley Hammond told Martin and Jenny. She’d been nagging him all day to lay off the stuff, when he lost his temper and attacked her, hence the black eye and cut lip. After that, he shrugged his shoulders and returned to snorting.’
‘Carry on Snorting, I don’t remember that one,’ said Walter, smirking.
‘Yes, very good, Walter. But I think we can rule his death out as being suspicious. It had been coming for some time, from what I can see.’
‘And that leaves Shane Fellday.’
‘It does, but who’s responsible for that?’
‘I’ve had another idea about that.’
‘Care to share... and that’s not a suggestion.’
‘Cotdos.’
‘What about it?’
‘I’ve been racking my brain ever since I first heard that word. Playing around with it, back to front, sodtoc, inside out, an anagram, I couldn’t find one anywhere, or as everyone tells me, it’s an acronym.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing... precisely nothing.’
‘Where does that take you?’
‘It takes me to the old conclusion that when you are left with nothing... you have nothing... because there was nothing there.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, it’s a made-up word that was thrown my way as a juicy red herring to steer me away from where I should have been going, and where I wanted to go.’
‘And remind me, again, who threw it your way?’
‘Jags Wilderton of this parish.’
‘Ah yes, Jago Wilderton, son of Torquil. You think he’s a member of this crazy gang?’
‘Why not? His father was. Don’t you think it’s a little strange that Torquers was in, but Jags was out?’
She pulled a face and bobbed her head from side to side, and said, ‘Could be, I suppose. You think Jago Wilderton is capable of murder?’
‘Everyone’s capable of murder, ma’am, as you well know. But maybe he didn’t do the deed on this occasion. And another thought came to me.’
‘You have been busy. Go on, while you are on a roll.’
‘After Torquil’s unexpected demise, there would have been a vacancy in their silly-billy club.’
‘And you think Jago filled it?’
‘Not necessarily. More like some other newbie. An enthusiastic type eager to get on in life, a go-getter social climber, desperate to prove himself. Perhaps he was set a task before being deemed worthy of membership.’
‘Could be. We’ll allow you in so long as you show you deserve it.’
‘That kind of thing. All possible, ma’am, but it is conjecture.’
‘You’re convinced this is a male only thing, are you?’
He sat back in his chair, exhaled hard, and said, ‘Hell’s teeth! I hadn’t thought of that. Not sure I’ve ever heard of secret societies for women who are capable and interested in murdering people. A novel idea, I’ll give you that.’
‘Rule nothing out, Walter,’ she said, grinning.
‘Touché, ma’am. You don’t know of such a group, do you? You’re not a member, are you?’
She laughed and snapped, ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘That’s all right, then. For a moment I thought you knew someth
ing I didn’t.’
‘It may surprise you to know that does happen sometimes, Walter. But we’ll put that to one side. Where do we go from here?’
‘I thought we’d ram all Jago’s mates under the microscope. See who he mixes with, where he goes, what he gets up to in his spare time, and what he spends his money on, the full works.’
‘Good idea. I’ll run with that. Get on with it.’
‘We’ll need his bank statements.’
‘Not a problem,’ she said, scribbling a reminder note in her diary.
‘And one other thing, ma’am?’
‘Go on,’ she said, eyeing him, knowing from experience that when he left something till last, and uttered the infamous words, one other thing, ma’am, that other thing was often big and unattainable. ‘Spit it out, Walter.’
‘I’d like to tap his phones.’
That provoked a stony silence, as Mrs West’s brain cells considered the ramifications of tapping the phones of Chester’s leading legal brain. They had to live together after it was all over.
‘Sod it!’ she said. ‘We’re all equal under the law. We’ll do it,’ yet even as she spoke she wondered if she was setting herself a spiky trap that might impale her later.
‘Another thing to remember, ma’am.’
‘Go on...’
‘It would need to be done discretely. When there are secret societies at work, we don’t know who’s in and who’s out. We don’t want him being tipped off beforehand.’
She said, ‘Mmm...’ and followed that with, ‘That’s the nature of secret clubs. No one outside knows who’s in the tent, and who’s not.’
‘Correct. All I’m saying is; the fewer people who know about this, the better.’
‘I’ll go with that. You don’t think any of our team might be involved, do you?’
‘No, I don’t think so. But one thing I’ve learned since Banaghan Meade, is don’t be surprised by anything.’
There was another silence as she gawped across the desk, imagining she had misheard or misunderstood.
‘Err... who he?’
‘Ah, sorry, ma’am, just an ancient case from when I was a crazy youth. I’ve been mulling it over a great deal these past couple of weeks.’
‘Now, now, Walter. The only cases I want you mulling over are mine.’
He smiled and scratched the back of his neck, and said, ‘That’s my thinking too.’
‘That’s the ticket. I know Jago’s home number, almost a friend of ours, but I don’t have his mobile. Can you get that?’
‘Sure, I’ll have it in five.’
‘Excellent, you do that and I’ll get on and set the ball rolling.’
Fifty-Four
Two days later, two interesting things happened. First, the forensics report on the blue linen arrived, revealing two distinct DNA profiles. One proved to be from Shane Fellday; and the other from a person unknown, but definitely male.
The second thing was a phone call to the station asking for Walter. Jenny Thompson took the call. She called over, ‘Guv, there’s a call for you on line four. Says her name is Stella Humphrey.’
Walter pulled a face and played with the name. Meant nothing to him, but he was fallible. For one crazy moment he thought it might have been a contact from Maturo Contacto, a new dating app he’d picked up, run by a Portuguese couple who guaranteed they could match anyone. Be interesting to see if the guarantee worked. But how would they have known to ring him at work?
He picked up the phone, pressed the button, and said, ‘Hello?’
‘Walter?’
‘That’s me.’
‘It’s Stella, Stella Humphrey, back in the day you knew me as Stella Hollyoak.’
‘Stella!’ he said; his eyes wide and voice enthusiastic, as Jenny peered over at him, imagining it was a former girlfriend. ‘I was only thinking about you the other day.’
‘Oh, Walter, you’re not still burning a candle for me after all this time?’
‘No, nothing like that. Just revisiting and thinking about the Banaghan Meade business.’
‘Ah that, yes, maybe not a surprise, it was career defining.’
‘You can say that again. You still in the force?’
‘Good God, no, been out twenty years. Let’s say I enjoyed my time there, but I’m happier out.’
‘I see. So what can I do for you?’
‘Peculiar as it sounds, it seems we have a mutual client.’
‘I can’t think who that might be.’
‘Shane Fellday.’
Walter grimaced and thought about it. It didn’t make much sense.
‘Can a dead man be anyone’s client?’
‘Well, the Fellday family then, Miss McQueen and Fellday’s mother, to be exact.’
‘And your interest is?’
‘I work for a human rights group called Yellow Justice.’
‘New one on me.’
‘Look, Walter, I’m in Chester for a couple of days. I wondered if we could have dinner together, perhaps tonight, and I’ll tell you everything I have.’
He had nothing planned. What do you do when an attractive woman you once knew suggests dinner? You accept, unless there was a good reason not to.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘The Big House.’
‘Okay, shall I see you there at eight?’
‘Great,’ she said, ‘thanks Walter, see you later,’ and she cut off.
JENNY THOMPSON AMBLED over to Walter’s workstation. She wasn’t sure if it was the right moment, but sailed on regardless.
‘Got a minute, Guv?’
‘Sure. Always have for you, Thompson.’
‘You asked me and Martin to study the Kelly Jones case when we had time.’
‘That was ages ago.’
‘Not that long ago,’ she said, imagining she was being rebuked. ‘We’ve been so busy, and Martin’s out, so I found the time to do it.’
‘And? Anything interesting?’
‘Maybe. There are some anomalies.’
‘Ooh good, anomalies we like. Sit in Karen’s chair and tell me what you know.’
Jenny sat down, glanced at him, and began.
‘They did not find the body until nine years after death, and there wasn’t much left, a skeleton and little else.’
‘Sleeping nine years in a dank forest, that’s going to take its toll.’
‘Correct, but there wasn’t even any clothing remnants, nothing.’
‘It was summer, wasn’t it? When she went missing? And a hot one too, so far as I recall. So two things, clothing rots faster in heat, and the summer means fewer and skimpier garments. She was a prostitute and no stranger to skimpy clothing, I’d wager.’
‘All true, Guv. But there were no buttons or zippers, no metal catches on bras or skirts, nothing besides a chunky ring.’
‘Ah yes, I remember. That helped with the ID.’
‘It did. A Taurus ring featuring a bull’s head.’
‘And she was born on?’
‘May 8th.’
‘Slap bang in the middle of Taurus. But that alone didn’t prove it was her. And after such a long time, there was still a chance it was someone else.’
Jenny shook her head and continued.
‘On the inside of the ring was a tiny inscription. Kelly had it done in the market. KJ heart RC, meaning, Kelly Jones loves Robby Caston.’
‘I don’t remember reading about him. Was he questioned?’
‘No, Guv, the guy was a moron. Broke Kelly’s heart when he finished with her on Christmas Day. I got all this from Kelly’s cousin, Jo Harrison. She seems to have been her best friend. The family DNA proved beyond doubt it was Kelly.’
‘What happened to this Robby Caston?’
‘He went off the rails. But he couldn’t have harmed Kelly because he was serving ten years in Strangeways at the time for armed robbery in Cheadle Hulme.’
‘Rock solid alibi. So what are you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking
they might have buried her naked, taken her there by car, and carried her from the nearest lay-by, which is about a quarter of a mile away.’
‘A funny thing to do.’
‘Yes, but it’s peculiar there was nothing else in the shallow grave.’
‘I’ll give you that. Who found the body?’
‘The local woodsman, a guy by the name of Johnny Cadogan. He’s in the clear. He was working in New Zealand at the time of Kelly’s disappearance.’
‘What made him dig on that precise spot?’
‘It’s a pine plantation, not a big one, but big enough. They’d cut down the trees the previous winter and were planting saplings.’
‘Fir trees are a cash crop, just like wheat or barley or sunflowers. They take longer to grow and mature, but they are a farmer’s crop like any other.’
Jenny nodded and continued, ‘He banged his spade into the ground and struck something hard. I guess he imagined he’d struck a boulder.’
‘Maybe,’ said Walter, ‘but in my experience, when anyone strikes anything beneath the ground in the garden, or wherever, their first thought is to imagine something exciting, like a treasure chest, or a World War II bomb.’
‘I haven’t heard that. But we now know he didn’t strike a boulder or treasure. The spade hit straight across Kelly Jones’s forehead. Here, look,’ and she showed him a photograph of the skull, with an obvious line an inch above the eye sockets.
The main door opened and Martin hustled in, Darren in his slipstream, with Karen behind, as if they’d all been out together.
‘The wanderers return,’ said Walter, glancing across at them.
Karen saw Jenny sitting at her desk and said, ‘Anything fresh?’
‘There could be. Jenny has been reviewing the Kelly Jones case. Darren and Martin, come and join us. I want you to hear this.’
But before they could start again one of the tech boys arrived, miniature equipment in hand, looking pleased with himself. Without waiting, he looked at Walter and said, ‘The tap on Jago Wilderton.’
‘What about it?’
‘Thought you’d like to know he’s been busy.’
‘Busy with what?’
‘Chasing women... with a distinct lack of success.’
