by David Carter
Jago grimaced and continued, ‘I didn’t know that at the time. It all tumbled out when we met. But she wasn’t at the brothel, and they couldn’t believe she was at the house, and already dead. They stared at each other and feigned disappointment. They even said they were looking forward to doing the deed, and they’d come prepared. Each of them produced a ball of thick twine. They were primed and ready to cement their entry into the Brotherhood by strangling her. Ridding the streets of vermin. Father explained they would still be accepted into the group, so long as they carried out the burial. Dad was the head honcho at the time. The Worshipful Master, I think they called him. The guys jumped at the deal. I guess burying someone was far easier than murdering them.’
Walter held up his hand and Jago stopped.
‘Who were the two men, Jago?’
‘George Gornall and Douglas Fisher, of course.’
‘Are you certain of that?’
‘Yes, 100%.’
‘And you’d sign a statement to that effect? Confirm it in writing?’
‘Yes. It’s the least Kelly deserves. I can’t tell you how often I thought of coming to you over the years and telling you all I knew.’
Karen said, ‘Why didn’t you?’
He thought of his reply before saying, ‘I suppose I couldn’t cope with the idea of my old dad being shut away. Can you imagine the treatment he would have received? He’d never have been able to cope with that. His recent death made it easier, in so many ways.’
Walter said, ‘Did those same two men murder Shane Fellday?’
‘That I don’t know. I wasn’t there.’
‘So why did Gornall ring you up and ask for news?’
‘I don’t know the answer to that either. Maybe they overrated my influence and importance. And perhaps sometimes I am guilty of exaggerating it. ’
Karen didn’t doubt it.
Jago began again.
‘You came to the house, asking me questions I couldn’t answer. I just wanted the whole thing to blow over and go away. I don’t know who murdered Fellday, but one thing I do know...’ and he paused and thought about it.
‘What?’ said Walter.
‘George Gornall owns a canal boat. It’s called the Welsh Diviner. My office prepared the purchase contract. That boat might have something to do with it.’
Walter and Karen shared a look.
Braxton noticed and realised it meant something.
Walter said, ‘We’ll take a break.’
It was two minutes to eight and outside it was growing dark.
Braxton said, ‘If we are reconvening later, some dinner might be nice.’
Walter agreed and said, ‘Chinese, Indian or F & C?’
They both said Chinese, and Walter went with that too, and left them to it.
GREGORY MORRELL WAS still loitering in the shop doorway. He was a patient man. He would wait for as long as it took for Ciaran Webb to appear. It was getting busier in the town. Lots of people out for a pleasant evening. Maybe for a quick and quiet drink, or a hot date. Plenty of couples too, arm-in-arm or hand-in-hand. Groups of raucous guys looking to make mischief. Gaggles of short-skirted girls fuelled up on home booze before the evening progressed. It was a heck of a lot cheaper than paying over the bar prices.
A few singletons too. Men, mainly. Perhaps on their way to meet someone; or even hoping to meet their life partner. Some of them smart with a spring in their step, others sullen in scruffy clothes, unshaven, in need of a shower, looks on their faces saying the world was a harsh and unhappy place. Why was everyone else prosperous and happy, when they weren’t?
Greg glanced away to the left, hoping to see Ciaran ambling towards the Claw. A man was coming, but it wasn’t Ciaran. It was a police officer, a copper on the beat, and that was such a rarity he thought it might be fun to take his picture and flag it up on Bookface. Caption it: Is this the last known beat singleton copper ever to be spotted in Chester? But he thought better of it. There was no point in attracting attention.
The police officer came closer until he was at the shop doorway. He saw a clean-cut guy standing there, not a homeless person as was sometimes the case, an old guy who dossed in the sunken entrance. This man was leaning on the side glass, staring out, as if waiting for someone.
The officer paused and stared.
Greg thought there was something different about him. His uniform wasn’t quite right. Yellow flashes on his lapels. He was a Special Constable. Greg had once thought of applying to join them but lost faith in the local police after the Fellday drug business with his daughter. He still remembered the Specials recruitment spiel. A Special Constable in Cheshire Constabulary is someone who will be valued, supported, and integrated into the wider policing family.
Yeah, right. They didn’t even get paid. Not properly, just expenses, here and there. Why would anyone put their life on the line, patrolling the streets of Chester at night, for no reward? Greg knew the answer. Because some people wanted to hit back at the criminal fraternity, maybe even help to clear the Chester streets of... vermin. Greg grinned.
‘Evening, sir,’ the Special said. ‘Waiting for someone, are we?’
‘That’s right, constable, hot date coming up, you know how it is.’
‘Lucky you, nice night for it.’
‘It is, so long as she comes.’
‘She will, sir, I’m sure of it. Ah well, must be on my way,’ and he nodded a goodnight and ambled away.
‘Prick!’ whispered Greg.
The part-time copper reached the end of the road, went round the corner, carried on for twenty paces, and stopped. He thought of the sports or tool bag at the man’s feet. Who would take a bag like that on a date with a fancy woman? No one, never, in his experience. It didn’t sit right. The Special turned about and headed back to search the bag. Be nice to have an interesting arrest on his record before the night was through.
BEFORE THEIR LATE MEALS arrived, Mrs West called Walter and Karen in for an update. Walter brought her up to speed.
‘I was listening to you,’ she said. ‘An interesting interview, wasn’t it?’
‘It was, and it proves one thing.’
‘What?’ said Mrs West.
‘Jago’s still lying.’
‘Specifically?’
‘It’s in his written statement given to us a couple of hours ago. Clear as day. I quote: I did not kill her and was not present when she was killed. Now he says he was there and saw every damn thing. So either he was lying earlier in that written tripe cooked up with the Braxton individual, or he’s lying now. The question is, what else has he lied about?’
‘There is that, though I thought his description of her being struck rang true,’ Mrs West said, ‘and the aftermath,’ scratching her porcelain-like neck. ‘I think it’s time you had another go at Gornall and Fisher. The narrowboat connection was interesting.’
‘It is, ma’am, and it’s berthed close to the aqueduct. We saw it when we were down there. Maybe it should be searched.’
‘I agree. Get that done first thing tomorrow. But I don’t want to end up with everyone pointing the finger at everyone else, saying: Not me, m’lud, he’s the one what done it!’
‘That’s possible. It’s up to us to prove which of them are murderers.’
‘Yes, but remember this; two convicted killers are far preferable to three acquitted ones. If it comes to it, if Gornall and Fisher are convicted on Jago’s say so, that would be a good result in my book.’
‘It would, ma’am, so long as they are guilty.’
‘Of course, that goes without saying.’
‘We’ll grab something to eat and attack Gornall and Fisher again.’
‘It could be a late one,’ she said.
‘Yes, but a satisfactory one,’ and they nodded agreement, and Walter and Karen went outside to meet sweet and sour aromas floating through the building.
Sixty-Three
The Special Constable arrived back at the shop doorway. It was em
pty. The man had gone. Maybe he did have a date. The Special cursed. That guy was a wrong ’un. It was obvious. What was in his bag? He reckoned the man was “going equipped”.
He was a robber, a burglar, and he’d got away. The Special tried the shop door. It was locked. Of course it was locked. There was no point in breaking into an empty shop.
He wondered what the guy’s real target was and committed his face to memory. Maybe it might show up in the mug-shot albums back at base. But he had a problem. Should he include the incident in his report? If he did, they would ask him why he didn’t demand to see in the bag. If he didn’t, it might come back to bite him. Life was a bitch sometimes. Every damned crevasse, however tiny, he seemed to slither right into. Maybe crime-fighting wasn’t his forte after all.
Greg had made a move the moment the Special had gone round the corner. He figured the guy might have second thoughts and return, asking to look in the bag. How could he explain that array of implements and accessories? It was best to beat it.
He grabbed the bag, crossed the road, headed down towards the Bear’s Claw, and went inside to see if Ciaran Webb was hiding there. But there was no sign of him. He bought half of bitter, found a quiet table in the corner, set the bag beneath, picked up a well-read and discarded Chester Chronicle, and opened it to study the crime pages.
WALTER AND KAREN HAD another go at George Gornall. He was as cocksure as ever, confident in his ability to talk himself out of anything. He even volunteered the key to the Welsh Diviner, insisting he hadn’t been there in two weeks.
Walter changed tack.
‘I want to talk about Kelly Jones.’
Gornall thought a second and said, ‘Not sure as I know the name.’
Karen spluttered. Gornall stared at her.
Walter said, ‘That’s funny because Jago Wilderton says that you were at the house in Plough Lane, Christleton, shortly after Miss Jones was murdered, and that you and your friend Fisher, took her away for burial near Malpas.’
Gornall smiled as a man might do at his older confused uncle, before saying, ‘If you believe that claptrap there’s little hope for us. The simple fact is, you cannot prove a single word of that.’
‘We will,’ said Karen, ‘and it will be interesting to hear your response when we do.’
‘Don’t get your hopes up, dear.’
‘I’m not your dear!’
Walter suspended the interview, and they went next door to quiz Douglas Fisher.
He was biting his nails and looked up, as if happier in company.
Walter said, ‘It isn’t looking good, is it?’
‘What isn’t?’
‘Your situation, Douglas. Jago Wilderton has stated that fifteen years ago, you and George Gornall took the body of Kelly Jones away from the Plough Lane house, and buried her near Malpas.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘It’s called “final disposition”, the burial and disposal of a human body, and it’s a serious criminal offence to bury anyone illegally. You could be looking at fifteen to twenty years for that offence alone, rotting in prison.’
Fisher shifted in his seat but didn’t comment.
Walter liked what he saw and sailed on.
‘Did you know it’s a solid principle of English law that there is no ownership of the human body, that’s any person, living or dead, and under common law, the only lawful possessor of the dead body is the earth?’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about, or what you are insinuating.’
‘Is that why you buried her? In the earth?’
Fisher grimaced and said, ‘No comment.’
‘And now it’s getting worse for you.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You’ve gone one step further, haven’t you? From burying a body, we know you didn’t murder Kelly Jones, the Wildertons did that, to actual murder, when you killed Shane Fellday last Wednesday night.’
‘I was playing cards all night, as you well know.’
‘That alibi was pre-arranged and frankly, pathetic.’
Fisher fidgeted and strummed his fingers on the table. A knock came to the door. Karen stood up and opened. One of the serious looking tech guys said, ‘I need a quick word with Inspector D.’
Walter nodded and stood up and went outside. Karen closed the door and stopped the recording. The tech guy whispered, ‘I thought you’d like to know, we’ve been looking at Fisher’s confiscated phone.’
Walter liked the sound of that and urged him on.
‘In the early hours of Thursday morning, Fisher’s phone was active three times, connecting via the phone mast at Chirk Bank, the nearest mast to the aqueduct. We’ve coordinated his exact position to be here,’ he said, pointing at a hastily printed map.
‘Where?’ said Walter, squinting at the paper.
‘That’s the interesting thing, Inspector. I reckon he was sitting on top of the aqueduct. Bingo, I’d say.’
‘Well done, thanks,’ and Walter went back inside and sat down.
He glanced at Fisher and said, ‘Murdering someone means life in prison; you know that?’
‘I haven’t murdered anyone.’
‘Really? Did you lose your phone last Thursday? It’s easily done with modern slim lines, I’m always losing mine. They can slip down anywhere, inside a book or newspaper, under a car seat, down the back of the sofa, you’d be amazed.’
‘I did not lose my phone.’
Walter nodded and said, ‘That’s good to know. Care to explain how it was used during the early hours of Thursday from the top of the aqueduct, the same place where Fellday was thrown from?’
‘Look! You are getting the wrong end of the stick. I might have been in the area but I didn’t kill him.’
‘So you’re blaming George Gornall, or was Jago Wilderton there with you?’
‘No! You’re wrong. Jago wasn’t there at all. George was, but it wasn’t him, either.’
‘So who was it?’ asked Karen.
‘Gregory Morrell.’
Walter and Karen shared a look. Neither had heard the name before.
‘And who is he? And no more lies,’ said Walter.
‘He was the probationer. It was his initiation task. A pretty easy one too, as it turned out.’
‘Do you know his address?’
Fisher nodded and coughed it up. Walter went outside looking to see who was still there. Martin and Jenny had stayed late, sitting together, discussing the case. Walter gave them Morrell’s address and told them to arrest him on suspicion of the murder of Shane Fellday. They looked happy to do that and hurried downstairs to collect a car.
It was a dark Ford saloon. Martin put his hand on the bonnet, still warm. Only just come back in. Jenny jumped in behind the wheel. It stank of fish and chips, but at least the wrappers and leftovers had gone. She checked the fuel gauge. Someone had been diligent. Three-quarters full.
‘Is this the best we can do?’ whinged Martin.
‘Come on!’ she said, ‘it’s good to go.’
Darren Gibbons was in the office too. Walter saw him and said, ‘Are you busy?’
‘Never too busy for you, Guv.’
‘Good, I have a job for you,’ and he whispered in Darren’s ear. Darren nodded and grinned and stood up and hurried outside.
IN THE BEAR’S CLAW, Greg was on his third half. He was about to leave when he overheard three guys talking about Ciaran. The walking Bank of Chester was due in the house within the hour, if the alehouse gossip was correct. Regular customers were lining up to take advantage of his easy going terms. Greg sat back, waited, and scanned the Chronicle crossword.
Sixty-Four
By the time Martin and Jenny arrived outside the Morrell property, it was almost dark. The light was on in the front room, the curtains closed, but the TV was excited judging by the flickering pics. Someone was home, unless the TV was on to fool burglars.
Martin nodded to Jenny and whispered, ‘Ring the bell.’
She step
ped up and pressed the green-lit button.
Three people heard the ding-dong.
Two on the doorstep and Haley, chomping on a chocolate bar while watching a zombie movie. She grabbed the remote, stopped the pic and hurried to the door, wondering who was calling.
It was a bloke and a woman, maybe religious nuts again. You had to give them credit; they sure as heck were persistent. But they weren’t from any church. They were coppers, and they wanted to come in.
‘Shouldn’t you have a warrant?’
‘Not when we are looking for a murderer,’ said Martin.
Jenny added, ‘You’ve been watching too many TV cop shows.’
Haley grimaced and said, ‘You’re looking for a murderer, you kidding me?’
‘No joke,’ said Martin. ‘Is Gregory Morrell your father?’
Haley nodded and said, ‘He’s not long gone out.’
‘Where did he go?’ asked Jenny.
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Think hard!’ said Martin, ‘this could be important for your dad, and for someone else.’
‘Is this something to do with Shane?’
Martin and Jenny shared a puzzled look, and Jenny said, ‘What made you ask that?’
‘He’s been weird about it, that’s all.’
Jenny again, ‘Did he go out on foot?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he take anything with him?’
‘He did; a bag, like a sports bag or a tool bag.’
‘Do you know what was in the bag?’
Haley shook her head and mumbled, ‘Uh-oh.’
Martin said, ‘Where could he have gone, Haley?’
‘He said he was going to check on a wagon, but I didn’t believe him. I can always tell when he’s spinning a yarn.’
‘Somewhere else?’ said Martin. ‘Think!’
‘The only other place might be the Bear’s Claw. He goes there sometimes.’
