by Leah Hope
“Ok, thank you. We’ll leave it there for now. Oh, one thing, we do need you to call into the station to get your fingerprints taken. The forensics report is due tomorrow and we really need your prints so we can rule them out. Could you call in tomorrow?”
“Yes I’m sure we can” said Gil. “We’ll call in first thing.”
Chapter Ten
Bridget had a restless night. The doctor at A&E had told her and Gil to expect disturbed sleep together with headaches, loss of appetite, depression and flashbacks as they came to terms with the trauma they had both suffered. Usually a sound sleeper, Bridget was however no stranger to insomnia when something was troubling her. She had been wrestling with an idea since she and Gil arrived back home after being checked out at hospital. She tried to put it to the back of her mind, where it surely belonged. It couldn’t possibly be true could it? Yet the more she thought about it the more she became convinced that she should at least speak to Gil and, if he agreed, to Inspector Addison. Feeling relieved that she had at last come to a decision, Bridget at last succumbed to the tiredness that was threatening to overwhelm her.
In contrast, Gil had a good night. Up and showered by eight, he decided he would make a fry-up when Bridget got up. He sliced tomatoes and mushrooms, cracked eggs in a bowl ready for scrambling and lined up four juicy rashers of bacon in the frying pan. When nine o’clock came and went and he could bear his rumbling stomach no longer, he stood at the bottom of the stairs listening for signs of life. Pleased that he could hear the shower running at last, he returned to the kitchen to start cooking.
When Bridget arrived ten minutes later, she was met by the familiar, if not altogether welcome, smells of a full English breakfast sizzling on the stove. Stifling her initial reaction, which would have been to say that a piece of toast would do, she simply smiled and sat down next to the place Gil had laid for her.
“This is an unexpected treat? To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“No reason, I was starving, thought you might be too. Besides, I thought you were looking a bit tired yesterday so I thought I’d give us both a treat.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you. I had a bad night so hopefully this will give me an energy boost, I feel I could do with it.”
“It’s not surprising after what we’ve been through. Remember what the doc said in A&E? We could experience side effects for months, years even, so let’s not rush things eh?”
Breakfast over, Gil jumped up to clear away.
“No leave it Gil, I’ll do it later. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“We’ve got to go down to the cop shop don’t forget, to get our dabs taken. Time’s getting on” he added, anxiously looking up at the kitchen clock.
“I haven’t forgotten, this won’t take long. After you’ve heard what I’ve got to say, I hope you’ll agree that it’s something we should mention to Inspector Addison while we’re there, if he’s available of course.” But before Bridget could get started, the phone rang. ”I’ll get it, it’s probably Heather.”
When Bridget returned to the kitchen she found Gil had cleared away most of the breakfast things.
“That was Heather. Maggie is being discharged later this afternoon. That’s very good news isn’t it? I asked Heather if they wanted to call in on their way to Bath but she thinks the sooner she gets her mum home the better. She’s got the builders to sort out too, to add to her worries. They were due to start work yesterday but obviously no-one’s given them a thought until now. Heather’s hoping they’ll understand once they know what’s happened.”
“I should think so too. From what Maggie said she’s paying them, that’s the least she should expect. Right, I’ve made some more coffee, so what is it you want to talk about?”
*
It was almost two hours later that Gil drove at break neck speed into the car-park behind Whytecliffe Police Station. He hated being late for anything and although they hadn’t given Inspector Addison a fixed time for their arrival, in Gil’s mind eleven thirty certainly did not constitute “first thing”.
Gil ran up the steps two at a time and pushed open the heavy glass door. Bridget just about made it through before it slammed in her face, much to her annoyance.
“Gil Honeyman and Bridget Honeyman” he said to the desk sergeant. “Inspector Addison has asked us to call in to have our fingerprints taken” adding “for elimination purposes” in a loud voice in case anyone mistook him for a criminal. If Gil had looked around the waiting area, he would have noticed that it was completely empty. “Oh and we would like to speak to the Inspector if he’s available please. It’s about the shooting on The Esplanade on Sunday.”
“Of course sir, Inspector Addison told me that you would be calling in this morning. I’m afraid he’s not in at the moment but if you would like to take a seat, someone will be with you shortly.”
Gil and Bridget had no sooner sat down than a uniformed police officer called them through a door to their right.
“I’m Gemma” the officer said offering her hand to Gil and Bridget. “Inspector Addison told me to expect you this morning. Follow me please.”
Gemma took her charges to a small room just behind the main reception area. “Before I take your prints, I want to explain what happens to them. The first thing you need to be aware of is that your prints are being taken for elimination purposed only. This means that when the forensic team examine the fingerprints they took from your property, they need to be able to discount yours. Secondly, your prints will not be stored on the police database and will be kept entirely separately until the investigation is over, when they will be destroyed. Do you both understand?”
Satisfied that Gil and Bridget were clear Gemma proceeded to take their prints. “There we are, all done, thank you very much. I’m going to take you back through to reception now and then I’ll try to find out when Inspector Addison will be available. Follow me please.”
“You’re in luck” Gemma said less than ten minutes later. “He’s just got back. He knows you’re here and will be with you shortly. Can I get you a tea or coffee while you’re waiting?”
“Oh I’d love a cup of tea please, white no sugar” Bridget said eagerly.
“Nothing for me thanks” said Gil. Not that he couldn’t murder a drink but he thought the milk would be the long-life stuff, which he hated. He had never been able to get on with it either in France or at the garage.
“That’s a lovely cup of tea” Bridget said after Gemma had handed her a large, china mug. “Fresh milk too.” Gil’s face was a picture.
“Come this way please” said a now familiar voice moments later. Gil and Bridget followed Inspector Addison along a corridor which seemed to go on forever and, after passing through an open-plan office area, were led into his office. Smaller than Bridget imagined, it occupied a corner position with windows on two sides which Bridget thought more than made up for its lack of space.
“I understand from Gemma that you’ve had your fingerprints taken” the Inspector began, pointing to two chairs in front of his desk. “That’s excellent timing as we’ve just received the initial forensic report. I can’t go into detail I’m afraid save to say that the SOCOs retrieved a number of good prints from the scene, most of which will be yours I imagine. Nevertheless, we’ll run the others through the database to see if we get any matches.”
“You mentioned yesterday that you had received the ballistics report, are you able to tell us anything about that? Gil inquired.
“The bullet recovered from your vehicle was a 9mm. Unfortunately a lot of firearms use this caliber, including many police firearms, so it doesn’t really help us to narrow things down.”
“Forgive my ignorance Inspector, but I assumed you could tell the type of gun used from the bullet” said a puzzled looking Bridget.
“Unfortunately that’s not the case, despite what some TV cop shows might lead you to believe. Now when we find the gun, ballistics experts can tell us whether or not
it was the weapon that fired the bullet we retrieved from your car. Each gun barrel is unique and it leaves a pattern of markings or striations on the bullet as it passes along it. It goes without saying that finding the gun is a priority.”
“But wouldn’t the gunman have kept it rather than throwing it away for you lot to find? Like you’ve just said, there’s a lot of evidence you can detect from it” Gil said, looking puzzled.
“Not necessarily. The gun links him to the crime so the more he can distance himself from it the better. Ballistics can only prove that a particular gun fired a particular bullet. It’s down to us to prove who fired the gun. My guess is we’ll find it discarded somewhere so naturally we’re carrying out an extensive search.” Glancing at his watch, the Inspector asked “now, what is it that you want to speak to me about?”
Chapter Eleven
Frederick Honeyman, father to Gil and Bridget and husband to Sylvia was the victim of a hit-and-run accident on Christmas Eve 1984. He was killed instantly. The manager of a bank in town, he had closed the doors at midday and, to all intents and purposes, would soon be making his way home to spend Christmas with his family. He never arrived.
Not only did his family have to contend with the shock of Frederick’s death but where he was killed raised all sorts of difficult questions. The accident took place in Fareham Place, a little street of terraced houses on the far side of town. It was almost as far away from his home on The Esplanade as it could possibly be.
Life for the remaining Honeymans was never the same again. Sylvia took to her bed after the funeral, where she would largely remain until she died a broken woman thirty years later. Hanging over the family like an enormous dark shadow that wouldn’t go away was the intense speculation about what on earth Frederick was doing in Fareham Place. After ruling out every innocent explanation, last minute Christmas shopping, visiting a sick employee perhaps, only two possibilities remained. Top of the list was an affair followed closely by some sort of fraud at the bank. Neither were palatable. Furthermore, anyone who had known Frederick Honeyman, even slightly, would have realized both were complete non-starters. He just didn’t have it in him.
As Sylvia’s state of mind deteriorated, it soon became apparent that she would need constant nursing care. Bridget had worked at the Regent Hotel in Whytecliffe since starting a Saturday job in the kitchens in her school days and was by now it’s very successful pastry chef. When Gil suggested they took on a professional carer, they could well afford it he had argued, Bridget was horrified. No stranger was going to look after her mother, not while she had breath in her body at any rate. Without a second thought, she gave up the career she loved and devoted herself to caring for Sylvia, and for Gil too as it turned out.
By now, Gil had returned to live at home following his divorce. After he left school, Gil became an apprentice at Dave King Motors. Not only did Gil find a job with Dave King, he also found a wife. His marriage to Pamela, Dave’s spoiled only daughter, was initially blissfully happy but, as things turned out, also mercifully short. Gil had always hankered after owing his own business but he acknowledged it would remain only a pipe dream, for now anyway. To say Bridget was furious when Gil told her that their mother had, out of the blue, offered him the money to buy a small garage business, was an understatement. She accused Gil of manipulating their vulnerable mother, an accusation which had cut him to the quick and which he strenuously denied. Bridget told him in no uncertain terms that she would speak to their mother and insist she took the offer back. “What need do I have for money now?” had been Sylvia’s response and Bridget, reluctantly had to admit defeat.
Life carried on very much in the same vein until several months ago. While she was clearing out the study before redecorating, Bridget found a letter in one of her father’s old books. Expecting to see his spidery writing, Bridget instead found herself reading a love letter. It was addressed to “my darling Freddie” and signed “yours ever, Eleanor” inviting him to meet her in secret at 9 Fareham Place.
Gil and Bridget were horrified. It seemed as if their suspicions of an affair had been right after all. Their father been seeing another woman. Determined to find out the truth about him and the mysterious Eleanor, however painful that might be, Gil and Bridget set out on a journey which led them the length and breadth of the country. They eventually discovered who Eleanor was and the role she had played in their father’s life. They heard an account of the fatal accident but, crucially, not who was driving the car. This part of the mystery remained. Until a second letter arrived just recently.
The letter was from a solicitor enclosing one from his late client, a Martin John Collins. It was in effect a deathbed confession to the killing of Frederick Honeyman almost thirty-five years earlier. Martin Collins had been a young police officer in the Whytecliffe force, the letter explained. On Christmas Eve 1984 he had been drinking with colleagues at lunchtime in a local pub before his shift. Realizing he was late, he borrowed a friend’s car and hurried to get to work before yet another black mark was chalked up against him. When he turned into Fareham Place he was driving so fast he ploughed straight into Frederick Honeyman who was crossing the road. Collins made no attempt to stop. He spent the rest of his expecting a knock at the door. It never came.
Collins apologized profusely for what he had done. But he also begged Gil and Bridget not to go to the police. He explained that he was the son of a police officer and that his own son was also a serving officer. It was for his sake that he made his plea, fearing it would harm a promising career. Gil and Bridget thought long and hard about what they should do. They were torn between contacting the police so that the file on their father’s accident could be at last closed, and protecting Martin Collins’ son. Gil had felt they owed none of the Collins family any loyalty. Bridget couldn’t help but agree with her brother on that point but felt uneasy about potentially damaging an innocent young man’s career. They decided to say nothing. Until now that is.
*
Bridget opened her bag and took out an envelope and handed the letter it contained to the man sitting across the desk. “I think you should read this Inspector.”
Inspector Addison put down the letter after he had read it, initially lost for words. “Well you two have certainly had your fair share of tragedy” he said after a pause. “I assume you know why your father was in Fareham Place that day? It’s nowhere near your home.”
“Yes we do Inspector, and the reason has nothing to do with Martin Collins I can assure you. If you don’t mind, we would rather keep that to ourselves” Gil replied.
“Of course. I can understand why you’ve said nothing about this letter but I’m at something of a loss as to why you’re bringing it to my attention now. Do you think it has something to do with the shooting? If you do, then I have to admit I’m struggling to see what the possible motive could be.”
“It was my decision Inspector to show you the letter” Bridget replied. “When you first asked Gil and I if we could think of anyone who would want to harm us my first thought was what happened in St Rémy. When you ruled that out, I began to look back over our lives for anything else. As you say, we’re no strangers to tragedy, sometimes I think it follows us around. For the life of me I couldn’t initially begin to understand what motive any of the Collins family could have for harming Gil or I. I mean, we’re the victims in all this, not them. But what I do know is that there is someone in that family with an undeniable link to ours and who has suffered a tragedy of their own. Grief does strange things to people and who knows how that may manifest itself. It was something you said a few moments ago when you were talking about the bullet used in the shooting, that made me think I wasn’t so wide of the mark after all. You said that it was the type of bullet used by police forces in the UK. Now what if Collins junior has access to firearms and has somehow been driven crazy by his father’s untimely death? Wouldn’t that at least put him in the frame?”
“You have a point Bridget, and may I say that I
find your reasoning impressive. But two things spring to mind. Firstly, Martin Collins says in his letter that none of his family are aware of the events all those years ago. Secondly, I repeat, I am struggling with a motive. As you yourself have said Bridget, the Honeyman family are the victims, not the Collins. However tenuous this lead may be, and I do consider it to be a lead, it’s the only tangible one we have at the present. So on that basis I think it is worth following up. I note there is no address on the letter but I’m sure we can find Martin Collins” son through his personnel records.” The Inspector glanced down at his watch again. “I’m sorry but I’m going to have to wrap things up. I’m due to give the Chief Superintendent a progress report in five minutes. You don’t fancy doing it for me do you Bridget?” The inspector said with a smile. “I’m sure he would be very impressed by how you’ve analyzed the situation, as am I. Now if you’ll both excuse me.”
Bridget was still blushing at the Inspector’s compliments as she and Gil reached the car.
*
There was a message on the answerphone when Gil and Bridget arrived back home. “It’s from Heather” Bridget said after she’d played it back. “Do us a favour Gil, make a cuppa would you while I give her a quick call, I’ve got a splitting headache.”
It was at least forty minutes later that Gil heard Bridget replace the receiver. So much for a quick call he thought. He wondered what happened to the headache too.
Bridget wandered into the living room where Gil was half lying on the sofa, reading the newspaper he didn’t get round to on Sunday. “How’s things, any news?” he asked, looking over his glasses.
“Well they got home ok but Heather said her mum is in a bit of discomfort, which is to be expected of course. She’s on strong painkillers so she’s sleeping more or less constantly. Heather hopes it doesn’t mean she’ll be awake all night, especially if she’s struggling to get comfortable.”
