by David Carter
Stella nodded, gulped wine, and said, ‘I don’t know for sure, but it wouldn’t surprise me if the big bosses were so fed up trying to nail Suzanne, they switched to concentrating on bleeding her dry. I reckon her tax returns would make interesting reading.’
‘For sure. She’ll make a big mistake one day, overestimate her position and underestimate ours. It’s only a matter of time.’
‘Let’s hope so. Though decades roll by and she sails along. Nothing ever sticks. What they need, Walter; is you down there on her case. If anyone could finish her off, it’s you.’
Finish her off. A strange phrase that Walter wasn’t altogether comfortable with. But the idea of investigating Suzanne Banaghan nee Meade, and all her dirty deals and businesses was an interesting one. Not that it would ever happen.
Walter glanced at Stella’s card and said, ‘If there’s any news in the next week or two, I’ll give you a bell.’
Maybe the Merlot was talking, but Stella was thankful for that. They each paid half the bill, left the wee guy a good tip, and made their way back to the Big House.
At the main door she beckoned inside and said, ‘Fancy a nightcap?’
‘Better not,’ he said, ‘I’ve had enough alcohol for one day.’
She was relieved. They moved together and gave each other an almighty hug, Stella whispering, ‘See you again in another thirty-five years.’
‘Yeah,’ said Walter, before adding, ‘Hope so,’ and they parted with a smile.
She skipped up the steps and disappeared, as he turned and headed for the Chester Bus Interchange, seeking the last little thing home.
Fifty-Six
The following morning through a fuzzy head, Walter re-read the forensic reports. If they could identify the DNA on the linen, the man would have some explaining to do. Could it be Jago Wilderton’s? Perhaps he had followed in his father’s footsteps? Rule nothing out.
What and where had that strip of cotton been? In contact with Fellday, for sure, but why? No one could wear it, and it wasn’t long or strong enough to bind someone. But it was big enough for a blindfold. Could someone have used it on Shane before pushing him off the aqueduct?
Maybe, but how would the killer have known it would detach and float off in the breeze? More likely they’d ripped it off at the last moment, giving the victim a fleeting last glimpse at the world before being launched into space, where the super-reliable force of gravity would cut in and drag him down to his death. How could anyone do that to another human being?
Walter grabbed the report and sought a chat with Mrs West. She’d read it earlier and agreed with Walter’s suggestion that Jago Wilderton be brought in without delay, even if it tipped off the mystery caller things were getting hot.
‘Have you ID’d the mystery man yet?’
‘Not quite, ma’am, we know which office and which company he works in. Gornall Brothers PLC, publishers, it’ll be easy enough to check and compare when we speak with them. Thought it best to leave that until we have a watertight case.’
‘Fair enough, but no more delays with Jago. Get him here today.’
Walter nodded and said, ‘I’m on it, ma’am.’
Downstairs in the car, Karen said, ‘His home or his office, Guv?’ as they drove out of the underground car park.
‘It’s still early. Let’s try the Plough Lane house. There’s loads to sort out when a senior family member dies. I think he’ll be there.’
Karen nodded and pointed the car towards Christleton. When they arrived, Mrs French had beaten them to it by a minute, getting out of her car, as the police BMW cruised in next to her.
‘Back again,’ she said, raising her eyebrows.
‘Yes,’ said Walter. ‘Is Jago in?’
She glanced at his car and said, ‘I assume so.’
A minute later they were standing in the rear sitting room, Jago appearing a moment later, clutching a steaming mug of tea.
‘What is it this time, Darriteau?’
Walter resisted any clever-dick mention of Mr Bumble, not wanting to alert Jago they were on to him, but satisfied himself with saying, ‘We’d like you to accompany us to the station in connection with our inquiries into the murders of Peter Craig and Kelly Jones.’
‘Oh, come on, Darriteau, do you know how pompous you sound?’
Walter pondered on the word pompous: An ostentatious display of dignity or self-importance. Yes, that fitted Jago Wilderton to a tee.
‘Pompous or not, we want to talk to you.’
‘And it can’t be done here?’
‘Not this time, sorry.’
‘And if I refuse to come?’
‘You know the law better than I, Jago. I’d arrest you, and then you’d come.’
‘Don’t you think I’ve got enough to do sorting this?’ he said, beckoning at mountains of paperwork.
‘It’ll still be here waiting when you get back.’
Karen resisted adding: if you get back.
Jago sighed hard like a spoilt teenager, slipped on his jacket, and followed them out to the car. Mrs French seeing them go, called out, ‘Will you be back for dinner, Mr Wilderton?’
‘Of course I will!’
They used the same interview room, number 5, Karen and Walter taking the lead roles.
She did the intros for the tape, before Walter said, ‘Do you want a solicitor?’
‘I am the senior solicitor in this city. The answer is no.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Walter, and he started with a simple question, but not an easy one to answer.
‘Did you know Kelly Jones?’
The time he took was revealing, as if weighing the consequences of his reply.
‘I don’t believe so.’
‘You sure about that?’ said Karen.
‘No, I’m not sure. That’s why I took my time answering.’
Karen continued.
‘But you visit prostitutes, don’t you?’
‘I do not! And if you repeat that remark outside this room I will sue you on the spot.’
Walter asked, ‘Did you ever meet Peter Craig?’
‘I can’t remember. That was thirty years ago. Who’d remember meeting someone fleetingly after thirty years? I mean, Inspector, come on!’
‘I’d remember,’ said Walter, ‘if I was caught up in the man’s murder.’
‘There’s your answer again,’ said Jago, grinning. ‘I don’t remember because I wasn’t.’
‘Will you provide a DNA sample?’
He paused, plenty of thought going on upstairs, before saying, ‘Why not? I’ve nothing to hide.’
Karen produced the swab and a DNA sample was scraped from his mouth.
Walter said, ‘Yesterday you received a phone call from a gentleman enquiring after an event he described as the falling.’
Jago’s mouth fell open, and he sat back in his seat. They were bugging his bloody phones! What did they have? What had he said? Had he incriminated himself? But before he could settle on any kind of explanation, the blonde bimbo fiddled with the voice-recorder, and speech appeared:
Man 1. I was just calling to check on progress. Any more feedback on the falling?
Jago: Ah, that. No, nothing to speak of. I told you before, the black bumbler’s like a terrier with these things. But as far as I can see he has nothing at all. It’s all gone quiet at this end. Between you and me, I don’t think there’s a great deal between his ears...
Jago again: There’s something Dickensian about him, floundering about in the dark. Maybe we should call him Mr Bumble, the archetypal meddlesome petty bureaucrat. That fits well, don’t you think?
Man 1 laughed: Yeah, sure does. Oh well, so long as everything’s kosher and we’re in the clear.
Jago: There’s nothing to worry about. Give it a few weeks and we’ll go out to dinner, somewhere nice to celebrate.
Man 1: Yeah, sure... cheers, sounds good.
The tape stopped.
‘Who were you talking to?’ asked Walter.
>
‘You need to know I will be making an official complaint to the Chief Constable and the police ombudsman. You have no right to listen to my private phone calls. This will finish you, Darriteau, you hear me, finish you!’
‘We’ve every right! We are investigating three murders, and I think you are responsible for one of them, and perhaps all three.’
‘I’m not saying another word until I speak to my solicitor.’
‘You said you didn’t want a solicitor.’
‘I do now.’
‘You’ll have to wait. I gave you the chance earlier.’
‘Are you refusing me access to a solicitor?’
‘No, I am reminding you I have already asked you if you would like one present. You refused, a little cockily, I thought, but there we are. You have changed your mind and we will grant access, but not now. These things take time.’
Karen tried to push things along, saying, ‘What’s his or her name?’ as she grabbed pen and paper.
‘Brax Souter, and it’s a he.’
‘And where is this Brax person?’
‘At our office, where else?’
Karen nodded and glanced at Walter.
He said, ‘When did you last meet Shane Fellday?’
‘I have never knowingly met anyone of that name, and that is the last question I will answer until Brax is by my side.’
‘So be it,’ said Walter. ‘We’ll call him.’
Fifty-Seven
He was an American, the Brax person, Brax short for Braxton. Studied law at Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island, arrived flaunting his Bruno the Bear Brown University tie. His family hailed from Texas with an accent to match, short, stocky, hard parted dark ginger hair, combed straight back.
Moved to Oxford on an exchange scheme where he met Sally McGoldrick, and married her before the year was out before she could change her mind, and they produced three mini Braxtons in double quick time.
The guy switched to English law, passed his exams with ease, and moved to Chester where he landed a great job at Hames, Carnes & Wilderton, and he’d been there ever since.
He gained a reputation as a street fighting legal guy, plain speaking, go-getting, and not beyond a little bullying when he could get away with it. He didn’t care much for Walter Darriteau, and Walter didn’t give two hoots whether people like Brax Soutar liked him or not.
Their office was within walking distance, and Brax answered when summoned, and headed for the police station the second he heard his senior partner was being quizzed.
He had a way of looking at people as if he could see through them, a useful attribute in the legal world. Karen updated the intros for the tape, stating that Jago’s solicitor, Braxton Soutar, had joined them.
Walter scratched his cheek and said, ‘We are questioning Mr Jago Wilderton about the murders of Peter Craig, thirty years ago, Kelly Jones, fifteen years ago, and Shane Fellday, this week.’
‘You’re suggesting my client is a serial killer?’ said Brax, raising his eyebrows, keen to get his first interruption in early. ‘Really?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ said Walter, glancing at Brax, who restrained a smile and nodded him on. Walter turned back to Jago and said, ‘Tell us about the rice paper knickers?’
‘How do you know about that?’ said Jago in a rush.
Braxton pulled a face and glanced at Jago to his right.
‘Tell us about them,’ persisted Karen.
‘It was all a bit of fun, that’s all.’
‘So you knew Kelly Jones?’ said Walter.
Jago nodded.
Karen said, ‘Please speak your reply for the tape.’
‘Yes, I knew her.’
Walter said, ‘Earlier, you said you weren’t sure you’d ever met the woman. But it seems you were lying.’
‘I was embarrassed by it, that’s all. It’s a hard thing to admit.’
‘Admit what?’
‘Oh, come on, Darriteau, you know what I mean. Visiting prostitutes, of course.’
Karen said, ‘Where and when did you first meet Kelly Jones?’
Jago grimaced and pulled his right ear and said, ‘An old drinking friend of mine, Frank Gillies, he’s dead now, took me to this small brothel up in New Ferry. I didn’t want to go but Frank said he needed company. I went along for the ride, so to speak. I didn’t intend to do anything. I was supposed to wait in the car while he was busy.’
‘But you went in?’ said Walter.
Jago nodded and said, ‘It was a chilly night and I didn’t fancy waiting outside alone in the car.’
‘And there you met Kelly Jones?’ said Walter.
‘Yes, she was a very exciting girl. Stood out like a beacon.’
‘And she wore rice paper knickers?’
‘Oh, come on, play fair, old man. That wasn’t my idea. It was Frank’s fetish. He liked to dress them in edible underwear and then undress them by scoffing the lot.’
Karen and Walter exchanged a look, before Karen said, ‘But you did that too, didn’t you? With Kelly Jones, and on the night she disappeared. She was wearing rice paper underwear the night she was murdered, wasn’t she?’
‘I’m not sure, I can’t remember.’
‘Of course you remember! You killed her didn’t you?’ said Walter. ‘You strangled her, then drove her down the A41 to Malpas, where you buried her in woodland in a shallow grave with this Frank Gillies person, as pictured and recorded in one of your father’s diaries.’
‘No! That’s nonsense. Frank had nothing to do with anything.’
‘Is it nonsense? I don’t think so. I believe you murdered Kelly Jones after you had finished with her, just as you and your father murdered Peter Craig fifteen years before, when you tossed him overboard from your family’s boat. And to complete the hat-trick, you threw Shane Fellday off the aqueduct this week! You were in it together from the start, you and your dad, and your other weird friends from the silly-billy club, who got it into their heads to rid the streets of vermin. One crooked banker, he gets it first, one fetish loving prostitute, she’s next, and the cold-blooded murder of one local rabid drug dealer.’
‘No, you’ve got it all wrong.’
Braxton held up his hand and said, ‘Inspector, I must request an interview with my client.’
‘Denied,’ said Walter. ‘We asked Jago if he wanted a solicitor at the outset and he refused. I’m not finished here yet. We’re making progress and I mean to proceed.’
‘So long as my request is noted.’
Karen said, ‘It’s on the record.’
Walter said, ‘On the phone call played earlier, a man rang you at work and asked if there was any news on what he called, the falling. I ask you again, who was that man, and what did he mean?’
Jago glanced at Braxton and he nodded encouragement.
Jago sighed and said, ‘His name’s George Gornall, he runs Gornall Brothers Publishing.’
‘From the Weaver Street office?’
‘That’s correct.’
Karen said, ‘What is his involvement?’
‘I am not saying another word until I have received private counsel from my advisor. That’s it, Darriteau! I’ve played fair all along, and now I want you to do the same,’ and he crossed his flat hands above the desk and performed a quick scissor motion like boxing refs do when a fighter is counted out.
Walter said, ‘Will you provide a written statement when you have finished your meet?’
Brax and Jago shared another look. Braxton nodded at Jago and he grunted, ‘Yes.’
Karen said, ‘This interview is suspended to enable Mr Wilderton to meet with his brief, timed out at...’ and she glanced at the clock and read the time.
Walter and Karen stood up.
Braxton said, ‘We could be some time.’
‘Take as long as you need,’ said Walter, ‘but please, no more lies.’
‘Some tea would be nice.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Outside
in the corridor Walter whispered to Karen, ‘Send Martin and Jenny to bring this Gornall character in for questioning. If he won’t come voluntarily, arrest him on suspicion of the murder of Shane Fellday. And forget the damned tea!’
She looked happy with that, and said, ‘Sure, Guv,’ and sped away to brief the team.
Fifty-Eight
Gregory Morrell had taken a day off work from his transport business. He was keen to spend more time with his family, though that lunchtime, only Haley was at home. She was improving every day and looked much better.
They were sitting together watching daytime TV, channel surfing, looking for something decent to watch. He was enjoying it for he had never done that with his grown-up daughter before. She settled on a programme about people emigrating to Australia. The country, thirty-two times bigger than Britain, with one third the population, was portrayed as one massive holiday camp.
Haley loved the prog, even gave her a few ideas. Why not? For the price of an old semi-detached house in Chester, people were signing up for a brand new detached house doused in permanent sunshine, with swimming pool and huge barbie for the same price! What was not to like? Forget the fact half the people returned within twelve months.
Haley, fiddling with the remote, said, ‘Where did you go on Wednesday night, dad?’
Greg pretended to think about it and said, ‘The pub, I think.’
‘No you didn’t,’ she said, grinning. ‘You went out at half-past ten and were gone ages. You didn’t come back till the wee small hours.’
‘Oh, Wednesday, you said? I remember now. We had a wagon break down on the Wrexham road. Parked up on the Gledrid roundabout, it was.’
‘I didn’t think you got involved with repairs.’
‘I don’t, but the driver was left on his own for ages, waiting for the mechanics to arrive, so I thought I’d show willing and give some moral support.’
‘Oh,’ she said, thinking about it. ‘You never said.’
‘Didn’t I? It wasn’t important.’
‘You burnt your old shoes in the bin at the back.’
