Crying Roses

Featuring Inspector Walter Darriteau

David Carter

TrackerDog Media

Crying Roses

Featuring Inspector Walter Darriteau

© Copyright David Carter 2024

Follow David on Twitter @TheBookBloke

Paperback edition ISBN: 979-8337550206

www.davidcarterbooks.co.uk

The right of David Carter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publishers, except by reviewers who may quote brief passages in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

In Memoriam

Andrew Sellars

1979-2023

Much missed by all who knew him

Andrew will never be forgotten

Contents

1. Chapter One

2. Chapter Two

3. Chapter Three

4. Chapter Four

5. Chapter Five

6. Chapter Six

7. Chapter Seven

8. Chapter Eight

9. Chapter Nine

10. Chapter Ten

11. Chapter Eleven

12. Chapter Twelve

13. Chapter Thirteen

14. Chapter Fourteen

15. Chapter Fifteen

16. Chapter Sixteen

17. Chapter Seventeen

18. Chapter Eighteen

19. Chapter Nineteen

20. Chapter Twenty

21. Chapter Twenty-One

22. Chapter Twenty-Two

23. Chapter Twenty-Three

24. Chapter Twenty-Four

25. Chapter Twenty-Five

26. Chapter Twenty-Six

27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

30. Chapter Thirty

31. Chapter Thirty-One

32. Chapter Thirty-Two

33. Chapter Thirty-Three

34. Chapter Thirty-Four

35. Chapter Thirty-Five

36. Chapter Thirty-Six

37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

38. Chapter Thirty-Eight

39. Chapter Thirty-Nine

40. Chapter Forty

41. Chapter Forty-One

42. Chapter Forty-Two

43. Chapter Forty-Three

44. Chapter Forty-Four

45. Chapter Forty-Five

46. Chapter Forty-Six

47. Chapter Forty-Seven

48. Chapter Forty-Eight

49. Chapter Forty-Nine

50. Chapter Fifty

51. Chapter Fifty-One

52. Chapter Fifty-Two

53. Chapter Fifty-Three

54. Chapter Fifty-Four

55. Chapter Fifty-Five

56. Chapter Fifty-Six

57. Chapter Fifty-Seven

58. Chapter Fifty-Eight

59. Chapter Fifty-Nine

60. Chapter Sixty

61. Chapter Sixty-One

62. Chapter Sixty-Two

63. Chapter Sixty-Three

64. Chapter Sixty-Four

65. Chapter Sixty-Five

Author's Notes

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Chapter one

Sergeant Karen Greenwood started her Cayton Cerisa, flipped down the sun visor to protect her eyes from the low watery sun, and drove the few miles across the city to pull to a gentle stop outside Inspector Walter Darriteau’s redbrick Edwardian detached house.

The small front garden sported three distinct clumps of daffodils and narcissus, invited in by Walter’s new gardener, a cheerful Downs Syndrome kid name Harry Hall, who, months before, came round with his mother touting for gardening tidying business.

Harry Hall never stopped smiling and liked everyone, and sometimes people he should not. Walter didn’t have the heart to say no to him, and employed them on the spot to visit once a week, giving the kid a crisp new plastic twenty-pound note to buy whatever they thought best to brighten his front plot.

It was the previous autumn when they first called, giving them ample time to get appropriate bulbs into the ground, ready to show off their blooms, come the spring.

The seasons turned, winter finished, spring arrived, and everyone was happy, producing a time of longer days and lighter nights, to turn the thermostats down, or even off, saving precious pounds on gargantuan fuel bills. Was there anyone other than lambs who didn’t like spring?

It was almost eight in the morning when Karen arrived at Walter’s place. She hadn’t been to his house in ages, and couldn’t help noticing the blooming front garden, as if she had pulled up at a neighbouring property. She grinned and wondered if he had found an interest. Karen could not remember anything like it happening before.

Sometimes when she collected him, he would wait in the front room to come bounding out, saving her getting out of the car, but that morning no one appeared, as she checked herself over in the driver’s mirror. The small front gate was open, maybe left that way by a careless paper delivery boy or girl.

She hustled up the short five-yard path, glancing down at her dark pink casual shoes, the new ones with white soles, and tapped the doorknocker. A few seconds passed before he opened up, thanking her for collecting him.

Normally he would grab the little bus on the short journey to town, but that was not possible for the blessed buses, or rather the blessed drivers, had decided on strike action to force through a chunky pay increase. Walter had no opinion on that. Sure, the drivers were not paid well, especially in difficult times, but the bus company was running at a hefty loss, and giving pay rises when the bottom lines were red was anathema to the bean counters at bus HQ. As in many things in twenty-first century Britain, there were no easy answers to tricky questions.

He was glad of the lift, but hated to rely on anyone, and the sooner his bus showed its happy face again, the better.

‘Love your garden,’ she said, staring at the blooms that attracted not one but four fat bumble bees, eager to grab the goodies before the aggressive honey-making mob showed up. ‘I’d never have imagined you on your hands and knees whacking in bulbs in the autumn.’

‘I didn’t. It’s Harry and Ruth’s handiwork. I can’t take the credit.’

Harry and Ruth, Karen pondered on the names, for she could not recall him mentioning them before.

‘Harry and Ruth?’

‘Yeah, they run a small gardening business, and I have been on the lookout for someone to take it over since I fell out with that poor guy caught up in the Five Dead Rooks business.’

‘And how old are Harry and Ruth?’

‘The kid is about twenty, a Downs Syndrome boy, but he’s just so damned cheerful, laughing and grinning all the time, and I couldn’t say no to them. Best thing I’ve done in ages. They are brilliant, and cost so little. I’d recommend them to you, but flat dwellers have no need for a gardener, do they?’

‘Nope, thank goodness. Our ground maintenance is covered under the service charge, though they screw us senseless on that.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘And Ruth, how old is she?’ grinned Karen, settling in behind the wheel.

‘No idea. It’s rude to ask a lady’s age. She’s his mum, so I guess she’s around fifty.’

‘And is that a worn out fifty, or a nifty shifty pretty fifty?’ she asked, starting the engine and shooting away.

‘I haven’t noticed. They are my gardeners, nothing more.’

‘Ooh, you fibber, Mr Darriteau. You always notice everything.’

Walter shook his head, grinned, and said, ‘Can we concentrate on the driving? Always best if we get there in one piece, prang free,’ and he sat back, closed his eyes, and pretended to concentrate on a distant and difficult case, though his mind pictured Ruth Hall.

It was true, she was pretty. Slim and slight, short, but that could be an attraction in itself, boasting bright blue eyes, and thick brown hair, with the occasional imported blonde streaks to liven things up, hair that sat on her narrow shoulders.

There didn’t seem to be a Mr Hall. He was certainly never mentioned, and never delivered and collected them from his house. They arrived in an old green Peugeot diesel van, coughing and spluttering its way up the road. Walter would be amazed if it passed the emissions test, though didn’t think it sufficient a crime to bring it to their attention.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t interested, though the right opportunity had never come along. Asking someone if they were married was such a direct question, especially a single woman, and bore intrusive undertones.

Why do you want to know? What’s it got to do with you?

He liked them coming to his house, and loved their handiwork, and didn’t want to scare them away with his probing, personal questions.

He opened his eyes, squinted through the low sun, and said, ‘What a beautiful morning.’

‘It is. I love March, don’t you?’

‘I do, with daffodils out everywhere, and tulips too. Someone in the Parks & Gardens department has been busy.’

‘Perhaps your Hall people have been hard at work.’

‘I doubt that,’ and a second later, the colourful blooms disappeared as the Cayton nipped down the ramp to the underground car park, into dingy darkness, as if someone had turned off the sun, and winter had returned.

He was first out and away for the lift, shouting over his shoulder, ‘Come on, Greenwood, criminals wait for no man, or woman,’ as she gathered her things together and followed him, beeping the car locked behind her.

In the next half hour, everyone showed up. Martin and Jenny to pore over the overnight crime reports. Minor drug dealers arrested, cars stolen, houses broken into, two domestics, one resulting in a woman with a broken nose, and another unrelated incident featured a man with a badly cut ear.

Darren and Kate Foster, him peering at CCTV as was his wont, though Walter did not know who or what he was investigating, with Kate studying statistics. Everyone had their speciality, the stats she adored, while others would do anything to avoid them. Mrs West, the boss, loved statistics. The more the merrier, always had done, held a degree in advanced mathematics, hence she loved the output coming from Kate’s desk.

And the new pair, Ricky Greaves, twenty-eight, man bunned, something he thought attracted women, when it did not, pasty-faced, along with his oppo, Shirley Woodruff, standoffish, who kept herself to herself, and there was nothing wrong in that.

DCs Greaves and Woodruff, worked on car-ringing scams, vehicle thefts and dodgy deals, and Greaves reckoned they were on the cusp of preparing a case to break the local dicky car merchants wide open, though he was prone to exaggeration, bragging he would put them out of business for good.

One phone call ended the mundane stuff, important though it was, as attention was forced elsewhere. The call bounced into Karen’s office phone at twenty-two minutes past nine.

A report of a body being found, foul play, a possibility. An ageing man found dead at a local bowling club. Walter liked the sound of it from the get-go. What better thing to get his refreshed gnashers into than a suspicious death? Yes, it might be death by natural causes, but that was half the fun. The finding out business. The proving of things, one way or the other. Either it was a murder, or it wasn’t.

Karen scribbled down the address as Walter sauntered over to Mrs West’s room to break the news, though not for the first time he was too late. She was one step ahead of him.

‘Already heard,’ she said. ‘I’ll ring Jo-Tap, see if I can get him down there before you arrive,’ and she jumped on the phone as Walter headed back for the lift, and the short trip to the basement to collect Karen’s Cayton, for she didn’t mind using it for business.

The expenses allowance, not to mention fuel bills covered, were generous, and sometimes she preferred dashing round the busy city in her nippy beloved car.

Chapter two

It was closing on ten o’clock when Walter and Karen arrived at the bowling club, set by the twisting and high river.

The approach was up a narrow, unmade lane sporting a mishmash of assorted puddles, though there had been no rain overnight, with high mixed hedges on either side. An eight-foot wire fence supported on ugly concrete posts, new by the look of them, surrounded the bowling club site, and Walter guessed it was to protect the rectangular clubhouse and green from vandals and thieves.

To the right was a tall metal gate, only wide enough for pedestrians, as Karen parked the car next to the small French white van they guessed belonged to Joseph Tapper, Chief Forensics Officer. The only other vehicle there, a Ford Focus.

They jumped out into the morning sunshine; the temperature moving up a tad towards thirteen degrees C, opened the unlocked gate, and scaled three steps to the red shale stone path, running all round the large square green.

The clubhouse sat on the far side, overlooking the grass, from where thirsty members watched the action through the windows stretching the width of the building, the glass around eight feet tall. Above the windows in refreshed navy-blue painted lettering were the words: The DEE RIVER BOWLING CLUB. DRBC, and a fancy coat of arms.

The main entrance at the right end of the building, with a uniformed police officer on guard to keep out unauthorised personnel. The only other way in or exit point was a single door on the far side, as they would later discover.

Walter said, ‘Someone got here fast.’

‘They usually do,’ said Karen.

They trudged the length of the red path and nodded a greeting to the tall, fresh-faced young man.

‘Morning,’ said Walter. ‘Who’s inside?’

‘Morning, Guv. Jo-Tap is here, sorry; I meant Mr Joseph Tapper, with a young female assistant.’ He was thinking of adding; she’s a bit of a corker, but thought better of it.

‘No one else?’ said Karen.

‘Just the guy who found the body,’ and the young officer glanced at his notebook as if possessing poor memory, adding, ‘a Mr John Williams, that’s it. John Williams.’

Walter said, ‘And how old is Mr Williams?’

‘I didn’t ask him, Guv, but I’d guess he must be retired. Most of the punters are. It’s an old man’s game, isn’t it?’

‘Not anymore,’ said Walter. ‘There’s a pro circuit these days with big prizes on offer, and big money attracts the younger, fitter, desperate element, and my guess is the old ’uns don’t get a look in when it comes to cash being divvied out. Happening all over. Darts, snooker, poker, et cetera.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t know,’ and there was a five second standoff as they looked at one another, before Walter moved off to push open the door, holding it open, as he and Karen went inside.

A typical social club setup, big notice-board on the right wall setting out rules and regs, comps and matches, do’s and don’ts, opening hours, past results, a small list of banned former members, and rotas of all kinds, detailing voluntary duties.

It could have been any similar club that dragged people out of their homes in the evening, or afternoons for those that didn’t work, or were retired. Angling, golf, tennis and squash, bridge, chess, walking football, keep fit; they all possessed similar places, usually with an identical smell.

Despite leaving the big windows open as often as possible, the aroma of stale beer could never be eradicated.

A sign pointing to the changing and locker-rooms showed them straight ahead, while a double half-glazed door on the left side went into the main bar and function room, offering fab views through the cleaned glass over the green. The long bar was set on the right, with access to the toilets to the left, MEN and WOMEN, for the club was open to all for a reasonable annual subscription, providing new applicants could get past the selection police. Everyone had a better chance of admission if they knew someone who could vouch for them.

The WOMEN thing was relatively new. Twelve years since the distasteful business, when five feisty women applied for membership and were rejected, but were not to be denied. They employed a slick city solicitor to take their case, and within a week, an official letter arrived.

Unless females were considered for membership, and to deny them was against the law, a legal fight would be unleashed, and as two of the women were wealthy widows with a considerable war chest, the case was heading for the courts.

The committee met, shouted a lot, considered their lack of finances, and caved in. Henceforth, women would be considered and allowed in.

Though few admitted it, some men were delighted, for they reckoned it could become a decent pickup joint for those who were widowed, divorced, or looking for a tickle on the side. Other men sulked and slunk away, mortified at the thought of sharing the bar with women, as if they were aliens, never to renew their membership, setting up what they called Men’s Sheds, where unhappy blokes could drink in peace, tell dirty jokes, and scowl, though how long it would be before they too were forced to admit women was another matter.

There was no one in the large bar area, but on the far wall were two doors, the one on the right shut, the left one, closest to the glass, wide open, from where they heard subdued talking. Walter and Karen headed that way to tap on the open door.

Inside, was a large desk looking out at the bowling action, with countless filing cabinets set against the right wall.

Jo-Tap stood behind the desk, a young woman trainee at his side, both kitted out in their white rig-out, as he glanced at the new arrivals and said, ‘Please don’t come in, Walter. We don’t want to compromise the scene any more than it already is.’

To his other side, a slim, pleasant looking man looked back, short sandy hair, light blue eyes, presumably Mr John Williams.

Karen nodded at him and said, ‘John Williams?’

The guy mumbled, ‘That’s me.’

‘You found the body?’ said Walter.

‘I did. I’m on caretaker duties this week.’

‘And what time would that be?’

‘Oh, let me see. Nine-ish.’

‘Do you know the dead man?’

‘Of course. He’s the club president, the boss in all things, and he is always re-elected to the post because he is easy going, great to get on with, and not slow to put his hand in his pocket when we need extra cash, for whatever reason.’

‘What is his name?’ said Karen.

‘Barney Reynolds.’

‘And his real Christian name?’ said Walter.

‘Barnabus, but he never uses it. Everyone calls him Barney.’

Walter asked, ‘Is the Focus yours?’

‘No, that’s Barney’s. I walk, I only live local. I saw it there and thought he must have come in early, and now I wish he had.’

‘Have you touched him?’

‘Only to check if he had a pulse, but there was nothing. Been dead for hours, if you ask me. Stiff as a post.’

They studied the splayed body on the parquet floor. Barnabus Reynolds lying on his back, face up, his right arm and hand behind his head in a dog-leg pattern, flat on the floor, his left arm straight at his side, palm up. The dead man wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, narrow undisturbed tie, navy-blue and green stripes, with a fancy coat of arms picked out in gold thread which turned out to be the official club tie. Black trousers, and on his feet, flat soled brown shoes, ideal for bowling, imagined Walter.

‘Do you know where he lives?’ asked Karen.

‘I do. I have been there once or twice. An extended and very nice semi-detached house in Sandon Road, Newton, close to the hospital, cream rendered, plenty of off-road parking, a desirable place to live, and the prices have gone up loads since Barney bought the place.’

‘Does he still work?’ asked Walter.

‘He does. Harder than ever. Too hard, some say.’

‘Doing what?’ said Karen.

‘He owns and runs a garden centre up on the Chester High Road. Cecil Norman Garden Supplies. Devotes all his time to it. Some say he’s obsessed, but he insisted it kept his mind alert and his body out of mischief. Quite a big outfit these days.’

‘Strange name,’ said Walter.

‘Yes, he bought the business outright years ago from Cecil Norman when the founder retired.’

‘Is Barnabus married?’ asked Karen.

‘He is, to Bella, though she is not a well woman.’

‘Does she know about this?’

‘Not that I am aware of. I didn’t think it my place to call her.’

‘You were right,’ said Walter. ‘Okay, Mr Williams, you can go, but we will need you to come in and make a statement. Can you leave your contact details with the PC on your way out?’

‘Already have. He has my address and phone number, and if you can’t get me at home, you will always find me here.’

Karen said, ‘One other thing, Mr Williams?’

He glanced at her and waited.

‘Is there any CCTV? Inside or out?’

He smiled and restrained a scoff, before saying, ‘Can’t afford it. The club loses money as it is. Too expensive for the likes of us.’

Walter said, ‘It’s not so dear these days. Maybe you should check it out. A basic system might prove useful.’

‘I will. I’ve just remembered something else.’

‘What?’ said Walter and Karen as one.

‘There were three strangers here not long before closing time.’

‘Oh? Doing what?’ said Walter.

‘Applying for membership. I gave them forms.’

Karen said, ‘Bit late for that, wasn’t it?’

‘They’d come straight from the football.’

Walter said, ‘Can you describe them?’

‘Barely. They were unremarkable. Two had brown hair and eyes, maybe related, while the older guy had a big head of unkempt fly-away grey hair and a prominent nose. That’s all I remember. I was so busy. It takes a lot to run a club like this. People are so demanding.’

‘It was only yesterday,’ said Karen.

‘I know. I’m sorry,’ he said with an apologetic grin.

Walter said, ‘Did they fill out the forms?’

‘No. I told them to take them home, do it there and bring them back.’

‘Were they all together?’ asked Karen.

‘I don’t think so, but I couldn’t be sure.’

‘Okay,’ said Walter. ‘You can go.’

John Williams nodded at the four of them and they nodded back, and the guy was happy to be out of there, away from the inert body of his former friend.

After he had gone, Walter murmured, ‘Close to the hospital.’

‘Indeed,’ said Jo-Tap, ‘where he will go for a post-mortem, once the doc arrives and certifies him dead.’

‘Any obvious cause of death?’ asked Karen.

He glanced across at her and smiled.

‘Right on it, as usual, sergeant. I don’t know the cause of death, but I do know there are suspicious circumstances, more than suspicious, I would say. Stay where you are and I will point them out. How good is your eyesight?’

‘Twenty-twenty,’ said Karen in a rush.

‘I rarely need specs,’ added Walter, leaving it at that.

Jo-Tap crouched over the man, pointed to his neck and cheeks, before saying, ‘There are numerous tiny puncture wounds in these areas. I mean, there must be at least twenty of them, maybe more, and some on the hands and wrists.’

‘Defence wounds?’ said Walter.

‘Could be.’

‘Ever seen anything like it before?’

‘Not exactly, no.’

‘Best guess?’ said Karen.

‘As you know, Sergeant, scientific men like myself and the doctor are not into guessing, but I am sure we will arrive at satisfactory conclusions once we have examined things in greater detail.’

‘You are suggesting they could be a gateway to introduce poison?’ said Walter.

‘I didn’t say that, but it would be one explanation.’

‘How long before you know?’ said Walter.

‘You are always in a hurry, Mr Darriteau, and our answers are always the same. We will work as fast as we can, and you will have the results when we have done.’

Karen said, ‘Murderers and potential murderers are always in a hurry to flee the scene, and flee the town, hence our urgency.’

‘I get that. All I am saying is these things cannot be rushed. Hurrying examinations causes errors, and you would be the first people to jump on us if we made mistakes through haste.’

‘We understand,’ said Walter, ‘and I cannot remember a time when we have jumped on you because of errors.’

Jo-Tap grinned and said, ‘That may be because we don’t make many.’

Touché, thought Walter, and before anyone could speak again, they heard someone hustling across the bar, heading for them, and the president’s office, and a second later the doctor appeared, the thrusting medic in a hurry, man about town, Doctor Philip, Phil, Upward, early forties, clean cut, slim, six foot, married, though with a roving eye that strayed across the slim frame of the sergeant he had heard a great deal about, before moving on to the interesting forensics assistant. It was hard, but he dragged his mind back onto medical matters, and crouched down over the prone man.

Walter said, ‘Any sign of a murder weapon?’

Jo said, ‘We have seen nothing like that.’

Karen said, ‘And no sign of a break-in?’

‘Can’t say we have looked, though that wouldn’t have been necessary, seeing as Mr Reynolds was still on the premises.’

‘A robbery?’ suggested Karen.

‘It’s possible,’ said Jo. ‘We haven’t seen any money.’

Walter asked Karen to check out the locker-room and shower area, and look for additional entrances and exits. She bobbed her head and left them to it.

The upwardly mobile Doc Upward said, ‘You don’t need me to tell you he is dead.’

‘How long?’ said Walter.

‘Between ten and twelve hours.’

‘Any obvious signs of cause of death?’

‘Tiny puncture wounds on neck and face. A faint trace of bleeding from some. They are odd, that’s for sure.’

‘I have already pointed them out,’ said Jo, and the two men nodded and exchanged a professional glance.

The doctor spoke again. ‘Should know more when we get him home and the examination under way.’

Walter said, ‘I’d appreciate knowing as soon as poss.’

‘Of course you would,’ said Upward, standing up. ‘And you will. Ambulance been called?’

Jo said, ‘Not by me. Thought I’d wait for you.’

‘Ditto,’ said Walter, anticipating the doc’s next question.

‘Fair enough. I’ll get that organised,’ and the doc produced his mobile and made a call.

Walter mumbled a thank you as Karen returned, and still speaking on the phone, the doctor checked her out again. He rated them a tie. Both women A-star, and that was a rarity.

Walter glanced at Karen and she nodded back, before Walter said, ‘We’ll leave you to it.’

‘Be in touch, Walter,’ said Jo, before he turned to his oppo to give her additional tasks to complete, including taking more photographs from every conceivable angle.

Chapter three

As Karen drove away, she said, ‘Is it me, or did the doctor stare overmuch at both myself and the science girl?’

‘He did. I noticed that.’

‘I couldn’t miss it. I felt his eyes boring into me. Quite unnecessary, and so surprising. Tell you the truth, Guv; it made me feel a little uncomfortable.’

Walter pulled a face and said, ‘Want me to have a word with him?’

‘No,’ she said, grinning across the cabin. ‘I can look after myself, thanks, but I appreciate the offer.’

‘Pity about the lack of CCTV,’ said Walter.

‘Yeah. So many people never learn until it is too late.’

It took them twenty minutes to get to Sandon Road, where they found the cream-rendered house without a problem. Solid properties built to last in the early thirties, and more sought after than ever. There were three parking spaces off the road to the front, a cream Mini parked in the centre bay, as Karen slipped into the left, where Walter imagined the Ford Focus usually stopped.

The house boasted a wide porch, lots of glass and more cream render, with a fancy new grey and black front door. To the left of the door, maybe eight feet up, was a smart modern outside light, not on, and beneath that, a jazzy rectangular house nameplate. LANZAROTTY, with a golden button doorbell beside the sign.

Karen and Walter stood together on the step as Walter glanced at her and said, ‘Go on, Greenwood, the sooner we get this done the better,’ and she rang the bell.

Decent double glazing or not, they heard it ringing inside, as they detected two further sounds. The first, two deep-throated dogs making their presence known. An early warning bark, raiders-were-approaching, and a damn good bark was always fun. The next thing the officers heard was a croaky woman’s voice yelling, ‘Shut up!’

Walter imagined she had a throat infection or was a heavy smoker. He couldn’t see it but pictured the dogs being shut in a spare room. A moment later, she came to the inner door, opened up, and stared through the glass at a pair of strangers, not liking the look of them. A heavily built grey-haired black bloke, and a skinny blonde with an entitled look on her face, the archetypal odd couple.

She took another look and said, ‘Not today, thank you,’ ending with a rough cough.

It wasn’t unusual for officers to be greeted and treated that way.

Walter tried a comforting, reassuring look through the glass, and said, ‘Bella Reynolds? We are police officers. We need to have a word.’

‘ID!’ she snapped, and both produced warrant cards bearing hideous photos.

She sighed and muttered to herself: what has the old fool been up to now? As she opened the front door. ‘What is it? I’m busy.’

Karen said, ‘It’s about your husband, Barnabus.’

‘No one calls him Barnabus! It’s Barney, if you don’t mind.’

‘It would be better if we came inside,’ said Walter.

‘I have dogs.’

‘Rottweilers, I know. We don’t mind that, do we, Karen?’ glancing at her.

She forced an icy grin and steeled herself.

‘Alright,’ said Bella, ‘they are in the front room. They can’t get out. Don’t wet yourselves,’ and she stood to one side and beckoned them in and down the hall.

The doorway at the end opened out into an impressive extended kitchen dining area, with room for two comfy looking sofas overlooking the back garden via the new black-framed bi-fold doors. Ten sparkling spotlights shone down from the ceiling, and more peeked from the foot of the kitchen units.

‘Take a seat,’ she said, letting go another cough into a man’s handkerchief. ‘I can’t give you long.’

Walter and Karen sat together on one sofa and she crept across the flash tiled floor and flopped into the other, saying, ‘What is it? What’s he done now?’

‘We are sorry to say we bring bad news,’ said Walter.

‘Terrible news,’ whispered Karen.

Bella puffed out her cheeks and said, ‘Go on. At my time of life, I am used to getting bad news. What is it? Spit it out.’

Walter knew there was no easy way to say such things, and came to the point.

‘At just after nine this morning, John Williams, the caretaker at the bowls club…’

‘I know who John Williams is!’

Walter nodded and continued, ‘He entered the building and found Barnabus, Barney, dead on the floor.’

It took the wind from her sails before she said, ‘Shit,’ not appearing so surprised. ‘Heart attack, was it?’

‘We don’t think so,’ said Walter. ‘His body has been taken to the Countess for a post-mortem. We will know more once we have the results.’

‘Well, if it wasn’t a heart attack, what the hell killed him? People don’t drop dead for no reason. He is only fifty-eight, and that ain’t old. Stroke, you think?’

Karen said, ‘As the inspector said, we will have those answers once we get the PM.’

Bella sat back and sucked her lips, her brain going into overdrive.

‘Do you think some bastard killed him?’

Walter sighed and said, ‘We have an open mind. Inquiries are just getting underway. We don’t yet know anymore.’

A thought came into her head.

‘Who the heck’s going to look after the business? I can’t do it. I’ve got emphysema, and it’s never going to go away.’

Karen said, ‘Do you have any family?’

‘Good and bad on that front. Two grown-up boys, happy-go-lucky young men, one in New Zealand and the other in faraway Australia, and for all the good they are, they may as well be living on Mars.’

‘Is there anyone you’d like to come round and be with you?’

‘No, Bill and Ben can do that. Give them the chance to pay for their keep.’

‘Bill and Ben?’ said Karen.

Walter added, ‘The dogs.’

‘Aye, the dogs, and a damn sight more reliable and loyal they are too. Look after me, they do. Funny thing is, I’d miss them more than I’ll ever miss Barney.’

‘There’s something I don’t understand,’ said Walter.

‘There are millions of things I don’t understand, chief, the mysteries of the universe, and all that crap. Go on. What’s the crossword puzzle clue that’s defeated you?’

‘Didn’t you miss him coming home last night? Weren’t you worried?’

‘Ah, that. No, I didn’t miss him. You see, he does that in a while. It’s not unusual. There’s no way to sugar coat this, or pretend any different. He has a floozie on the side. A whore, tart, a mistress, call it what you like, and I don’t blame him,’ coughing again, ‘because I’m knackered as you can see, and not up to bedroom heart-racing antics, and no good to a man like Barney. He always had an enormous appetite for the carnal things in life. Even when I was perfect, and I was once, he still went off on his dallying adventures when the feeling took him. At the beginning, I tried to stop him, but what can you do? He’d promise one thing and do the opposite, and I was too weak to do anything about it, and if I’m honest, too enamoured of the comfortable life he provided through sheer hard work, and when the boys came along, they took all my time. No one leaves a successful husband when they have two young boys to bring up, or at least not many. He is, or was, not a bad man, just over-sexed. I think that’s what the relationship counsellors would say. It’s in his genes. His father was the same; travelling salesman, a gal in every town, pants round his ankles, you know the type. I’ll miss him, of course, but we are well insured, and I will be comfortable, so that’s good. It isn’t the end of the world. Life moves on. I’d rather sleep with the dogs anyhow. They leave me alone, though I admit, they fart a lot, and it stinks, but we can’t have everything, can we? No one ever said life was perfect, and we have to make the best of it,’ comments issued through a stony face.

Walter produced his notebook and said, ‘The floozie. Do you have a name and address?’

‘I do not! And I don’t want it. Perhaps I didn’t express myself correctly. There isn’t or wasn’t one particular floozie, but a succession of money-grasping bitches. He’s been at it, the floozie-fucking thing, for over thirty years. A long succession of them. Some he ditched as his interest waned, and no doubt there are others in the dirty little black book of his mind who still sometimes attract his attention. I know there was one up at Willaston, he paid the deposit on her flat, and another over the border in Mold in Wales, though she had her own place, but it would be like looking for a condom in a rubber Johnny factory, trying to track down the current hot squeeze.’

Walter and Karen exchanged a look, as Karen said, ‘Money?’

‘What about it? I told you; I am provided for.’

‘Not that money,’ said Walter.

‘Go on. I’m not with you.’

Karen bobbed her head and said, ‘The takings from the bar at the bowling club.’

‘Yeah, what about it?’

Walter said, ‘What would happen to it? Where would he keep it? Is there a safe at the club somewhere, because we didn’t see one?’

‘Nope, that’s because it’s upstairs in the box bedroom, but don’t tell anyone, will you?’ and she put her index finger across her mouth and said, ‘it’s secret.’

‘The takings for yesterday,’ said Walter, ‘appear to be missing.’

‘Buggers! Thieves everywhere these days. Have you noticed that? Mind you, in your line of work you must come across evil hot-handed brigands every day.’

Walter thought about it and said, ‘The takings for yesterday would be about two grand. Am I right?’

She pulled a face in thought, wobbled her head, and said, ‘Yeah, about that. You won’t be far off. Clever you.’

Karen said, ‘Do you think John Williams might have pocketed it?’

‘No-ooo, of course not. John is as honest as the day is long. He’s not short of a few bob either. A year or two ago, he won a couple of hundred grand on the lottery, and as far as anyone knows, he never spent a penny of it. Money means nothing to him. You can count him out.’

‘Cecil Norman Garden Supplies,’ said Walter. ‘How is it doing? Finance wise.’

‘Good. It’s doing great. Give away a tomato seedling for free, and they come from miles around and spend fifty quid while they are there. That was one of Barney’s better ideas. Tell you the truth; the business is doing better than it ever has. Oh, we had a few rough years when the credit crunch fiasco was on, fifteen or twenty years ago, but Barney was always one to ride through any storm, coming out grinning and solvent on the other side. Amazing in that way, he was.’

Walter said thanks for the info and asked again if there was anyone she wanted calling. She said no and accepted his card with another wheeze. It seemed she couldn’t do anything without an accompanying cough.

Bella thought the odd couple had turned out quite nice, and visitors were getting rarer, and she regretted not offering them coffee or tea, though it was never too late.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

Predictably, they declined.

Walter and Karen stood up, making ready to depart, as she staggered to her feet, and as they made their way through to the hall, Walter said, ‘Just one more thing, Mrs Reynolds.’

‘Oh, aye?’

‘Did Barnabus have any enemies? Anyone you know who might have wanted to hurt him?’

‘Kill him, you mean?’

‘Possibly, or injure him?’

‘No, or if he did, I don’t know who. But if he did, the obvious line of enquiry would be to concentrate on upset boyfriends, fiancés, and husbands through the philandering lark. I don’t know for sure, but my guess is, the cuckholded “other men” would never be happy with having an active Barnabus Reynolds on their territory, for obvious reasons. You get me?’

‘Thanks,’ said Walter. ‘I do. We will look into that. And if you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him, or damage his business and standing, or if you have any questions about any aspect of this case, call me any time. You have my card.’

She glanced at it again, and muttered, ‘I will.’

One dog, detecting movement and chatter in the hall, barked, setting off the other animal, and a second later, the house was a pit of yap-bark, yap-bark, noise.

Bella opened the front door as goodbyes were spoken, and in the next moment, they were in the car, Karen starting the engine, backing out onto the road, to head for the station.

After they had gone, Bella let the dogs out of the spare room, before taking an energy drink from the fridge. She’d become addicted to the damned stuff, though didn’t know why. She sat on a sofa, staring through the glass at the greening lawn, burst open the can, and gulped a mouthful while pondering on the hideous news. A moment later, tears ambled down her face, tears no human would ever see.

The dogs caught the mood and wandered round the room in a circle, yelping, before going to their mistress. It was as if she had lost a loved one, and the only other living creature in the house was the pack leader, her mate, and he hadn’t been seen in ages.

Bella glanced down at her animals, one on either side, patted them, and basked in their company. Dogs understood death and dealt with it far better than any human.

Chapter four

As Karen drove them back to HQ, she said, ‘What exactly is emphysema?’

‘Lung disease. Nasty thing. COPD. Best avoided.’

‘Is it curable?’

‘Sadly, no, not yet, though no doubt one day it will be. But it can be treated to give sufferers some relief. I am not up to date with the latest state of play. Let’s hope they can help Bella Reynolds.’

Walter went on the phone and rang Mrs West.

‘What news?’ she said.

‘It looks like murder. The dead guy, Barnabus Reynolds, known as Barney, was attacked when he was left alone in the club. The doc and Jo-Tap both pointed out numerous tiny puncture wounds on his face and neck. If you didn’t know they were there, you could miss them.’

‘How’s that happened?’

‘No idea. Hopefully, forensics and the doc will come up with a rational explanation.’

‘Next of kin been told?’

Walter confirmed they had just come from Bella Reynolds’ place.

‘Okay, see you soon. Full meet when you get here.’

‘Yes,’ said Walter, and he cut off.

Karen kicked off the inquiry, saying they were investigating the suspicious death of Barnabus Reynolds in the Dee River Bowling Club. The post-mortem would show whether it was murder, though early signs indicated it was.

‘His wife, Bella, has been informed. She was a fount of knowledge. Bella is sick, emphysema, and says her husband had always conducted affairs with countless women across the area. She told us she didn’t mind, for he possessed a huge sex drive, and with her illness, she wasn’t interested in such things. She didn’t enjoy the situation, but understood it. Could Barney’s attacker be someone connected with his extra-marital affairs?’

‘A spurned mistress?’ said Darren.

‘It’s possible,’ said Walter, ‘but more likely an angry husband, partner, or fiancé.’

Darren pulled a face and nodded as Karen spoke again.

‘Mr Reynolds owns the Cecil Norman Garden Supplies business on the Chester High Road. Bella told us business is great, but we don’t take her word on that. Jenny, as soon as we have finished, get on his numbers. We want to know everything there is to know about his finances, both business and personal. And talking about money, a considerable amount of cash, we don’t know the exact amount, has gone missing from the bowling club, and it could have been stolen by the assailant.’

Walter interjected.

‘Just because the business is rumoured to be doing well, it does not mean everything in the money garden is rosy. According to Bella, Barnabus wasn’t backward in offering cash support to his mistresses. He stumped up a substantial deposit on a flat for one lady in Willaston, and I get the impression he enjoyed flashing his money. Working hard, playing hard, that kind of thing, and if he overdid it, it might have led to financial difficulties,’ and he nodded Karen on, keen to get finished and the team active.

She took her cue.

‘Martin, I want you to look into the background of one John Williams. He found the body, and as we know, the person who finds a dead body often turns out to be the killer. He seems a nice guy, retired, and a former lottery winner if Bella is to be believed, but nice guys and lottery winners are as capable of murder as the rest of us. Barnabus Reynolds was the long-time president of the bowling club, and it’s possible John Williams fancied himself as the successor. Just a thought. We need to know everything about him.’

Martin nodded and said, ‘On it, sarge, deep dive into Mr Williams’ affairs.’

Ricky Greaves, the man bun newcomer, said, ‘Where is this bowling club? I have never heard of it. I used to take my wife bowling, but she was hopeless, all her efforts ending in the gutter. It was so embarrassing, I had to stop taking her.’

‘It’s not that type of bowling,’ said Walter. ‘It’s Crown Green bowling, one huge green outdoor square, and you can bowl any way, any angle. The centre of the green is fractionally higher than the edges and the bowls slope towards the side. Popular in the North of England, and parts of North Wales.’

‘Ah, no wonder,’ said Ricky. ‘That’s the old fogey’s game. Wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole.’

‘No,’ said Walter, becoming annoyed at repeating himself, ‘there are lots of younger players playing Crown Green, and there’s big money to be won in the major competitions.’

Greaves pulled a face and nodded as Karen started again.

‘Darren and Kate, I want you to visit Cecil Norman Garden Supplies. Ask around. Take the business’s temperature. Are the employees happy? Are there any money or wage issues? Would they know anyone who might wish to harm Barnabus? And most important of all, is anyone there aware Barnabus was into mistresses in a big way, and if so, we want names and addresses.’

Walter added his thoughts.

‘See if there are any attractive women working there? Are any visibly upset? Anyone had to go home on hearing the devastating news? Maybe Barnabus kept things in-house. The helpful, smart woman who answers your questions might be more than your average employee. Was Barney liked and was Barney loved? You know the drill,’ and he nodded Karen on again.

‘Ricky and Shirley, I want you to visit the bowling club to get a better idea of the setup. Question the members, but this is not an interrogation. I can’t emphasise that enough. Don’t go blundering in like bullies. We believe Barney Reynolds was loved by all. Was that true? Sound people out about his personal relationships. Take your time over it. This is not a rush in and rush out job. Sit down and take a coffee with the members. Sympathise with their predicament. Do they know anyone who might have wanted to harm Barney? Be kind, considerate and concerned. Gain their trust, because they sure as hell won’t tell you anything if you are not sincere. Were they surprised at his death? And would they have any idea who Barney was sharing his nights with, because he often never returned to the Sandon Road house in Newton? That was the reason Bella wasn’t surprised when he didn’t come home. It wasn’t unusual, him gallivanting; bunking down at his lady friend’s house or flat. You need to be tactful, that clear?’

Ricky smirked at his oppo, Shirley Woodruff, and said, ‘We can do tactful, sarge, can’t we, Shirl? It’s my middle name.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ she said, looking away, not an entirely convincing endorsement.

There was a brief silence as everyone looked at everyone else before Mrs West, watching and listening from the back, said, ‘That it?’

‘For now,’ said Walter. ‘Meet here at 4.30 for an update, and that gives you plenty of time to have something concrete to contribute. It would be nice if we had a prime suspect in the frame by close of play.’

Mrs West added, ‘I am hoping we have the post-mortem by then, and a Jo-Tap update.’

‘Very good,’ said Walter, clapping his hands. ‘For those going out, get your skates on. There is not a moment to lose. If this is murder, there is a killer out there waiting to be apprehended, and as in all cases, the best time to do that is as soon after the killing as possible. The longer it goes, the colder things get. Get your jobs done, do them well, and let’s finish this business before it gets out of hand.’

‘Correct,’ said Mrs West, standing and heading back to her office, as the leaving ones gathered their thoughts and jackets and made to move out.

After the meet broke up and the dispatched ones were on their way, Karen said, ‘What do you make of Ricky?’

‘Man bun?’

‘The same.’

‘First impression is he could be irritating.’

‘I second that. We need to keep an eye on him.’

‘You do that. And the girl, woman, Shirley Woodruff?’

Karen thought about it and said, ‘She’s quieter but has a reputation for being a cold fish. Rarely speaks unless she is spoken to, or has something constructive to say, and she might prove a useful brake on Ricky.’

‘Perhaps. I don’t mind the coldness. Some of the best detectives I have ever known were cold and calculating and often had little to say.’

Karen grinned and said, ‘You thinking of anyone in particular?’

Walter returned the grin and said, ‘No, not me, you prune.’

There was a tiny silence before Karen said, ‘It’s okay being cold and withdrawn; though I am not sure Shirley will become much of a team player.’

‘True, though if one of them turns out not to be, my money’s on man bun. We will treat their trip to the bowling club as their first test. Come back with good news and no complaints and their standing will rise. Return with nothing but groans about their overbearing and rude attitude, and it will be a long time before we give them anything of substance again.’

‘Agreed.’

Walter sniffed and said, ‘They can go back to checking car numbers for the next six months, until the penny drops.’

Karen exhaled and said, ‘Sounds good. What next?’

‘I am going to sit and have a think. I thought you could spend some time scanning the work the others have been doing before this business broke out.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘The boring things, you mean?’

‘Only until later. Jo-Tap and the doc are bound to have lots to add, plus we sift through everything coming back from the investigating teams. They are out interrogating; and later, you and I will go about ours, interrogating them like there is no tomorrow.’

‘I like the sound of that,’ she said, grinning, and moving off to check on the ongoing crime reports and cases.

Chapter five

Darren drove the navy-blue BMW up the Chester High Road, heading north, looking for the garden supplies place on the left side.

There were several similar businesses on the stretch of flat highway, and the Cecil Norman place was the third along.

A much larger enterprise than they envisaged, as they pulled into the huge half full car park.

Kate said, ‘Do you think the Reynolds family own all this land?’

‘Probably.’

‘It must be worth a fortune.’

‘It will be, but if it is designated agricultural land, it will not be worth as much as it could be. If they could get planning permission to build houses, the value would skyrocket, though I doubt they would.’

‘What? Get permission, or build houses?’

‘Both.’

Darren pulled the BMW to a halt next to a fat and muddy 4x4, and they jumped out and headed for the main building. It was long and low, mainly glass fronted, with the words CECIL NORMAN GARDEN SUPPLIES along the top in big forward-sloping green letters.

Kate said, ‘Who is Cecil Norman?’

‘No idea.’

‘You’d think it would be BARNABUS REYNOLDS GARDEN SUPPLIES.’

‘Barney bought it as a going concern,’ said Darren, as they approached the sliding electric double doors opening before them.

Inside, a team of green-overalled staff were active, preparing for the coming busy period. Toy and Home Computer businesses made much of their income in the three months before and after Christmas. Gardening and agri businesses welcomed their busy spell from March to August, and any business that didn’t cash in on their busy times could be heading for a fall when sales tailed off.

Hundreds of dahlia corms were being loaded onto long trestle tables close to the entrance, looking to tempt buyers after the winter. Seed potatoes on the next display, with a sign saying Grow Your Own, Eat Your own, Enjoy Your Own! Two men and two women busy stacking the produce high, and Darren wondered if it would ever get sold.

They approached the staff, and Darren asked who was in charge.

The bloke said, ‘Mr Beaumont is the overall manager. Barry Beaumont.’

‘And where will we find Mr Beaumont?’

The guy was about to say when he thought better of it. Who were these people? Reporters from the local press, looking to unearth juicy gossip for radio or TV?

The guy said, ‘And you are?’

Kate guessed what was coming and flashed ID.

The man looked happier and said, ‘About the sad business of our owner, is it?’

‘Could be,’ said Darren. ‘Mr Beaumont?’

The guy nodded and said, ‘I’ll take you. Come with me. It’s a little complicated,’ and they followed the man across the cavernous building, through luxurious garden furniture displays set out at massive prices, passing the weed-killer and fertiliser aisles, both with their own peculiar smell, going outside into the sunshine, through hundreds of garden ornaments ranging from Greek Goddesses to resin horned Highland Cattle, all prices, all sizes, and back inside into a different building, where a stink reminiscent of school dinners and strong coffee intermingled.

The café was separated from the goods for sale space by a long and low white picket fence, and they followed the fence past comfy looking chairs on the other side, where people were settling down to their snacks and drinks. A woman gawped at her phone, a plate of salad and chips before her, and opposite, a fat white French bulldog stretched out on a padded bench-seat, looking up at passers-by, yawning as if the poor thing had endured a hectic morning.

’Not much further,’ said the guy, as they left the restaurant behind, to be replaced by the toilet section, smelling recently cleaned and perfumed, and beyond to a display of working fountains, from tiny for a few quid, to gushing that wouldn’t have looked out of place over at the Llangollen rapids, rushing water to make anyone need the loo.

On the opposite wall were two doors, a small one with a sign saying PRIVATE. NO ADMITTANCE, and a big double width wide-open entrance with a draught blowing in, protected by drooping thick clear plastic strips. A forklift bullied its way in, heaving a pallet of more fertiliser to be dumped in the correct place, ready for selling.

The guy opened the NO ADMITTANCE door and went inside, Darren and Kate close behind. There were two more doors there, one signed GENERAL OFFICE, and the other GENERAL MANAGER, with glazed partitions, so they could see inside, perhaps six or seven people hard at work, mostly women and girls, attractive females, both Darren and Kate noted that, busy at computer terminals, gazing at flatscreens, inputting data, monitoring stock and sales, shrinkage and theft, taking phone calls, servicing their online shop, collecting print runs from a huge colour printer super busy in the corner.

They headed towards the GENERAL MANAGER door on the left, seeing one guy inside, sitting at a big modern grey desk, nattering on a phone, obligatory screen set to one side. The officers guessed he was about fifty, though he could have been ten years older or ten younger.

The guide knocked on the door and they were called in.

‘This is Mr Barry Beaumont,’ said the bloke.

The man put the phone down, stared up, and smiled at the young visitors, people he had never seen before, guessing they were police, and proved right when the staff member introduced them, saying, ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

The manager said, ‘Pull up two chairs,’ and they did. ‘I think I know what this is about.’

Darren and Kate made themselves comfortable, as Darren kicked things off.

‘We are here to talk about Barnabus Reynolds.’

‘Thought you might be. But please refer to him as Barney. He’d be furious if he heard anyone using his full name. He hated it, and I still feel his presence in the place, perched on my shoulder, disapproving.’

Kate said, ‘You knew of his passing?’

‘Yes, Bella rang, and it’s a good job she did. Barney was very hands on, liked to keep an eye on everything. All the things he did, his many duties, I have had to delegate to others to ensure the continued smooth running of the business.’

Darren asked, ‘Did Barney have any enemies? Anyone who might want to kill him?’

‘So, it was murder? Bella was right?’

‘We have no proof of that,’ said Darren. ‘Just routine enquiries.’

‘Please answer the question,’ said Kate.

‘People who might want to kill him? Well, this business has grown big in recent years, grown fast, and it is a competitive trade, and our growth must have come at the expense of other similar companies. You don’t have to look far, or go far, to see them. But would anyone there want to kill Barney Reynolds? No, I don’t think so. He was on the committee of the local plants and growers’ association, was well liked, and he fought everyone’s corner when it came to issues affecting us all. I don’t for a minute think there are any potential assassins lurking amongst the seeds and bamboo on this stretch, or anywhere else.’

Kate said, ‘Who is Cecil Norman?’

‘Ah, old Cecil founded this business over fifty years ago. A man who knew plants inside out, and knew what he wanted, and would never suffer fools. As he grew older, he became, what shall we say, cantankerous, and some regular customers felt the wrath of his tongue, and people would not accept that, and instead of pulling in here, they motored further on and turned in where they were more likely to receive a warmer welcome. Let’s leave it at that.’

‘So, Mr Reynolds bought the business?’

‘He did, though I believe he paid a fair whack for it, and that was twenty odd years ago.’

Kate said, ‘Did Cecil Norman have any sons or daughters who might have been upset about seeing what they thought of as their birthright, being sold from beneath them?’

‘Ah, now that I would not know. I never met him, and I have no idea if he had children, or what happened to them. It was way before my time. He’s long dead now.’

‘What about other people who might have held a grudge against Barnabus, I mean Barney?’ said Darren.

‘Like who?’

‘Spurned mistresses, unhappy husbands or love rivals?’ said Kate.

‘Ah, Bella told you about that, did she?’

‘Do you know who his current lover is or was, and be careful how you answer?’ asked Darren.

‘I don’t know about that, though I can tell you the rumour mill always said it would be unlikely he only had one on the go.’

‘A man with a great appetite?’ said Kate, grinning across the desk.

‘So, they say.’

‘Did you socialise with Barney?’ asked Kate.

The man nodded and said, ‘Sometimes, yes. There are three or four decent pubs, most with restaurants, on this road, as I presume you know. We would go there on occasion, if, for example, we had enjoyed a particularly good week, or spectacular day, when he might round up five or six of the late-stayers, the people who worked over and beyond their set hours for free, and he would treat us to a meal and a few drinks. Sometimes we would go down to Parkgate to that flash Chinese restaurant on the promenade. He was good that way, but always fixed it so people would never drink and drive. He was a stickler about that.’

Darren said, ‘Mistresses included?’

‘It’s not for me to speak out of turn.’

‘It is for you to help the police with their enquiries into a potential murder.’

‘Come on, Mr Beaumont,’ said Kate, ‘you must know more than this.’

Darren said, ‘Tell us about the mistress he had in Willaston?’

‘There’s not much to tell.’

‘Do you have a name?’

‘Yes, I know her name.’

‘Could she be involved? Was he still seeing her? If he spurned her, could she have gone to the bowling club to murder Barney Reynolds?’

Kate added, ‘You still haven’t given us her name.’

Barry Beaumont grimaced, and it was clear he didn’t want to answer, but he started up again.

‘Her name is Katy Bennett, and there is no way she is involved in this, and she is not seeing Barney any longer, or had recently, and hasn’t for ages.’

Darren said, ‘How do you know?’

‘Because officer, Katy Bennett is now Mrs Katy Beaumont, my wife of nine months.’

Kate’s mouth popped open as she and Darren shared a look, as they thought of a suitable follow-up question.

Chapter six

DC’s Ricky Greaves and Shirley Woodruff were at the bowling club earlier than Darren and Kate arrived at the garden centre because it was nearer.

As usual, Ricky drove, an older dark BMW but still an impressive beast. He thought it the man’s place behind the wheel, an attitude to annoy Shirley, who enjoyed driving, but getting the keys off Rick was a hard task.

They sauntered along the red shale path; the stones scrunching beneath their feet, and pushed through the door to enter the club. A neat and tidy man met them, booking in and out visitors, and he knew the strangers were not members.

The man was John Williams, and hearing they were police, called someone out to take his place, as he took them across the bar, and into the president’s room.

They sat down as John said, ‘What can I do for you?’

Greaves was straight there.

‘We wondered if you had any fresh thoughts on who wanted to harm or kill Barnabus Reynolds?’

‘As I told the other officers, I don’t know anyone who would want to kill Barney. Everyone liked him. He was that kind of chap. Anyone in trouble he would try to help. Anyone causing a problem, more often than not, he would give them the benefit of the doubt, perhaps with a final warning. Believe me when I say I don’t think he had any enemies.’

Shirley said, ‘What kind of problems?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘You said anyone causing a problem. What problems?’

‘Oh, minor things. Late payment of membership fees. Getting inebriated and embarrassing themselves. Making unwanted passes. Silly, niggly things that always seem far worse at the time.’

Man bun Ricky said, ‘That goes on a lot, does it? People making unwanted passes? Something of a singles bar on the quiet, is it?’

‘No! Don’t be absurd. It happens once in a blue moon, and don’t forget the average age of our members is well over sixty.’

Shirley jumped on that.

‘Which is the age STD’s are on the greatest rise.’

The accurate fact stunned John Williams for a second, as he sat back and said, ‘Really? You amaze me. For what it is worth, and I keep an ear to the ground on club gossip, I have never heard anyone mention they were attending a sexual diseases clinic.’

‘Hardly surprising. Not something people would brag about,’ said Shirley with a slight grin.

‘You could be right. Is there anything else I can help you with?’

‘There is,’ said Ricky. ‘Mr Reynolds had a reputation for being a Casanova, and we were wondering who his latest squeeze might be?’

‘I like to think people’s private life is precisely that. Private.’

‘Come on, Mr Williams,’ said Shirley. ‘You can do better than that. The late Barnabus Reynolds was screwing everything in a skirt for twenty miles around, if our information is correct. You cannot be unaware of that. Who was he involved with, and are they members of this club?’

John Williams gazed at them through a benign face and said, ‘I think I have said enough. I have to say, I don’t like your tone. If that’s all there is, it might be better if you left.’

Ricky said, ‘We haven’t begun. We want to talk to the members who are here today.’

‘Is that necessary?’

‘It sure is, because out there,’ pointing to the door, ‘there may be a murderer hiding in plain sight, and if he or she has killed once they might get a taste for it, and kill again. Even you, sir. Had you thought of that?’

‘No, when you put it that way, I had not. I find it impossible to believe any of our members would stoop so low. Why would they? Where is the motive?’

‘Any number of things,’ said Shirley. ‘Jealousy, rage, people can get possessive over a partner they have no intention of sharing, and of course, money.’

‘What do you mean, money?’

‘Takings have gone missing, haven’t they, Mr Williams? Know anything about that?’

‘I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you are insinuating.’

‘Really?’ said Shirley. ‘I think you found it hard to resist. A couple of grand in ready cash sitting there, unattended, and no one would ever know.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! I am a lottery winner, for goodness’ sake. Why would I filch a couple of grand? That makes no sense.’

‘Makes sense to me,’ said Ricky. ‘You are a lottery winner. We are aware of that, but you are also a hoarder, aren’t you, Mr Williams? And maybe a miser as well, and hoarders and misers can never get enough of their chosen thing, and your chosen thing is and was money. That right, John? You like to pile it high, and never miss a chance to increase the size of your heap. You saw it there, unattended, and couldn’t resist tucking it into your pocket. Maybe you thought it wouldn’t be missed, seeing as the bigger picture wasn’t money going missing, but murder.’

‘I didn’t steal anything, and I am not aware any money is missing.’

‘Maybe,’ said Ricky, ‘we’ll come back to that, and then there is the matter of personal public standing.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘For a bright fellow, you seem a little slow on the uptake,’ said Shirley. ‘We are talking about the presidency.’

John Williams scoffed and said, ‘Are you seriously suggesting you think one of our members killed Barney, the president of a tuppenny-ha’penny bowling club, to get in this seat?’

‘It’s been done for less,’ said Ricky. ‘Believe me, which brings us on to your goodself. Word on the ground suggests you have long hankered after the position.’

‘I have not! If you listen to worthless gossips, you get worthless information.’

‘Really?’ said Shirley. ‘It doesn’t seem to have taken long for you to settle in his chair.’

‘I am sitting here to talk to you. No other reason. What do you expect me to do? Perch on the windowsill?’

‘We’ve been thinking,’ said Ricky, ‘picturing the scene, imagining what might have happened.’

‘Yes,’ continued Shirley, ‘and it is easy to imagine things between you and him taking a turn for the worse. You were sick and tired of waiting, weren’t you, of being ordered around by Barney, taken advantage of, and maybe you argued on a daily basis?’

‘That makes sense,’ said Ricky. ‘I can see it now. It wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing. It had been boiling up for months, giving you ample opportunity to perfect your plan. Needles and pinza, as the old song goes. Know what I mean?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘We believe, John, Barney was jabbed with needles and pins, and on the end of those stainless-steel pricks was some kind of poison. Is that how you did it? Possess a supply of deadly poison at home, do you? Maybe a search of your place might be in order.’

‘I have heard enough. I will not answer any more of your preposterous questions without a solicitor present.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Ricky, ‘suit yourself. That’s often the path guilty people tread. It’s your right. We’ve no problem with it, but we will be questioning everyone. Not an interrogation, just friendly chit-chat to see if anyone can throw a sliver of light on the cold-blooded murder of the late Mr Reynolds, and who knows, maybe a pointer or two towards your involvement.’

‘I can’t stop you doing that. Perhaps you should get on with it, get finished, and be off these premises sooner rather than later.’

‘Your comments are noted,’ said Shirley, standing up. ‘Thank you for your time,’ and Ricky stood too, opened the door, and a second later they were outside in a filling bar, where some people were watching bowling going on outside through the huge glass windows, with others gathered in corners with their beers and gin and tonics, charged-up phones and upmarket newspapers, whispering about the shattering news Barney Reynolds was no longer with them, the idea a murderer could be at large, or even among them, the hot topic of conversation and speculation. Maybe he or she could strike again, and until they were caught, everyone was at risk.

The Dee River Bowling Club would never be the same.

Chapter seven

Following the revelation one of Barney’s Wirral mistresses, Katy Bennett, had become Barry Beaumont’s wife, Barry told them they made a solemn promise never to talk about past events. It was all behind them, blurred and blanked, to remain in the past.

He didn’t want to talk about his new wife Katy, insisting he knew nothing further, or anything of Barney’s string of lovers. He knew they existed, but turned a blind eye, and refused to discuss anything further.

Despite Kate’s best feminine prompting, he stuck to his guns and said nothing else, agreeing it was okay for them to speak to other staff on duty, so long as they were not too long in doing so.

Darren thanked him for his help, and they went out and popped into the general office. There was plenty going on. Data going into machines, the printer bunging out price-lists, two people talking on phones, as someone stapled sheets together with gusto. Kate counted six people, five women of varying ages, all neat, well-dressed and attractive, and a young lad, maybe a trainee, there to learn and run errands.

Darren called for their attention and they stopped what they were doing and fell silent, except for the printer that continued on its merry way.

‘We are police officers, and I am sure you have all heard the dreadful news.’

The eldest woman, slim and smart, said, ‘About Mr Reynolds, you mean? Then yes, we have, and I hope you are here to catch the swine.’

Kate said, ‘Do any of you know of anyone who might have wished to harm Mr Reynolds?’

None of them did, or if so, they kept it to themselves.

The follow-up question was trickier.

Kate said, ‘Mr Reynolds had a reputation for the ladies. That is not a criminal offence, and nor is going out with the boss, but we need to know who his current girlfriend was?’

Everyone looked at everyone else, some more guilty than others, but if they knew, they were not about to share the news.

Darren nodded and made sure everyone took one of his cards, saying, ‘You can call me anytime. If you know anything about Mr Reynolds’ death, or who he was seeing, we would love to hear from you. Don’t forget, if it proves to be murder, and it’s looking that way, a killer is on the loose. It’s in everyone’s interest he or she is caught ASAP before they do further damage.’

Darren and Kate stared round at silent faces. No one uttered a word.

‘Okay,’ said Darren, ‘that’s it for now, thank you for your time,’ and he and Kate left the room.

As they made their way back across the huge complex, Darren said, ‘They know something. I could tell.’

‘Of course they do. But if one of them was married and being screwed by the boss, she is not going to stand up in front of everyone and say so, is she? Be realistic, and her mates are not going to tell, are they?’

‘Perhaps they should, if there is a killer on the prowl.’

Kate thought of answering, but didn’t have the right words.

In the station, Karen immersed herself in the car-rigging scam, trying to make sense of Ricky and Shirley’s notes, which was no easy task.

Walter opened his eyes and said, ‘Laptop and phone.’

‘Beg pardon, Guv,’ said Karen, ‘did you say something?’ looking up from her bunch of papers.

‘It will be in his laptop and phone.’

‘What will?’

‘The contact details for all Barney’s lovers and conquests.’

‘Makes sense. We should have asked Bella for them.’

‘We should. Slow off the mark there, Greenwood.’

‘Why wasn’t his phone on him?’

‘Good question. Maybe the killer took it.’

‘Do you want me to ring Bella now?’

‘No, I’ll do it,’ and he sat up straight, found her number, and pressed call.

A Rottweiler answered the phone, or it seemed that way, for the first sound he heard was a hefty bark.

‘Shut up, Ben, and go in there!’ were the initial words Walter received as the animal was dismissed. ‘Bella Reynolds here, sorry about the dog.’

Walter introduced himself and was straight to it.

‘Barney’s phone, and did he have a laptop?’

‘Yes, to the laptop, though it’s an old one. Never changed it. Liked to get his money’s worth. Why change, he would say, when it was working well? He had several phones. There is one here, though it’s not his main one. Laptop and reserve phones are upstairs in his desk drawer.’

‘We didn't find a mobile in his office.’

‘Strange, then I can’t help you.’

‘Have you ever read the contents?’

‘No fear! I don’t want to know any of his sordid shit. I can guess what is on there, and there, it will remain,’ and she coughed loud and hard on expelling the words, a bark of her own tempting one of the dogs to reply.

‘We need to see them. We have to find out who he was talking to.’

‘Because you think a killer is lurking amongst the stuff and nonsense?’

‘It’s possible, Bella. Any help we can get in tracking down the perpetrator will be helpful, and the sooner the better.’

‘Makes sense,’ and another cough followed. ‘I’ll dig them out. What time do you want to come?’

‘Half two, okay?’

‘Perfect, I’ll banish the dogs to the back garden, see you later,’ and she cut off, but not before another rough cough made its way into Walter’s ear.

He glanced across at Karen and said, ‘Half two.’

‘Gathered that. I’ll have the car ready for ten past.’

‘Dogs being banished to the back garden.’

‘That’s a bonus.’

In the garden centre palace, Kate and Darren split up. Darren concentrated on the women, Kate on the men, which may or may not have been planned, but it worked well.

By the time Darren had finished, he had names and phone numbers of three women, all attractive in their own way, all aged between twenty-five and fifty, Darren reckoned, a Mrs Golding, a Miss Adamson, and a Mrs Barber. They all seemed eager to talk, and spoke of Barney in glowing terms. Great boss, understanding, charismatic, and yes, of course he was attractive to women, though never a pest, he wasn’t like that, though all three ended it there, none admitting or hinting at having had any kind of personal relationship with the man.

Kate’s progress was less impressive, though four men, who clearly enjoyed the company of the opposite sex by the way they attempted to chat her up, confirmed Barney was flirtatious with the girls, though to their knowledge he had never become a nuisance, and never used his position of power to pressurise anyone into any kind of relationship.

One man went further, saying: If you want my honest opinion, there are several horny women here who would have loved Barney to make a move on them, and were disappointed when he never did.

To the key question, do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Barney, killed him, even? The women were unanimous. They didn’t. Not even spurned lovers. Why would they? Barney was generous. Why kill the golden goose? More than one said: it was better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all, and ended with: and besides, while he was alive, there was always the chance he might ring again out of the blue, or a text or email pop into the phone. He was renowned for that. Trawling through his backlist. Keen to relight former fires. And I’ll tell you one thing, said another; few would refuse a fresh summons from Barnabus Reynolds.

The men were different. They admitted they had speculated on who could have done the dastardly deed. They didn’t rule out a kicked-out lover turning nasty. Jealousy produced powerful urges. Hell hath no fury, and all that. Don’t rule out an angry woman, but which woman? To that, they had no concrete ideas. As for men, unhappy at his activities, it was possible.

Don’t look at me, two said with a smirk, and to the question: how was he killed? Darren and Kate insisted they did not know, and even if they did, the information would remain under wraps.

All the men and women spoken to seemed helpful, interested, and concerned, but none of them had any idea who might have committed murder, if they were to be believed, and none pointed the finger at anyone, or hinted who the killer might be. The flirty Mrs Golding, on being asked outright who the killer was, said, ‘We are as much in the dark as you are, darling.’

Darren and Kate thanked them for their help, left more cards behind, and urged them to call if they heard anything that might be useful to the inquiry, or thought of something they hadn’t mentioned, reminding them a killer could be on the loose, and it was in everyone’s interest the perp be caught and prosecuted sooner rather than later.

In the car on the way back to Chester, Kate said, ‘What did you make of that?’

‘Do you want an honest answer?’

‘I don’t want a dishonest one.’

‘Okay, here’s my take on things. I think he was shagging them all.’

‘Darren! That wasn’t necessary.’ There was a brief pause for thought before she said, ‘What makes you say that?’

‘Why wouldn’t he? His missus is sick and doesn’t want to know. He’s charismatic, energetic, clearly possessed a big sex drive, he’s the big boss, a huge aphrodisiac, super wealthy, splashed the cash, knows how to treat a lady, especially a divorced or estranged one lacking in love and attention. He’s looked up to by all, and not beyond setting women up in fancy flats, and he’s getting on a bit, and realises his time clock is ticking. So, he says to himself: I had better step up my activities while I can. And instead of slowing down, he speeds up, and somewhere along the line, crosses an invisible border, and in doing so, infuriates someone, man or woman, enough to turn them into a killer.’

‘My God, Darren. You have given it some thought. That image almost sounds like you.’

‘Don’t be silly, Kate. I am in my twenties, not fifties, and I am not wealthy, or a murderer. Totally different basket case.’

‘I wonder how Greavsey and Shirl have got on at the bowling club?’

‘No idea. Just hope they haven’t made more progress than we have. That wouldn’t be good.’

‘Is everything a competition to you?’

‘Of course it is. Life is a competition. If you don’t yet understand that, it might be an idea if you did.’

Kate sat back in her seat and thought on his words. They seemed harsh, and besides, she didn’t believe them. She could be competitive when needed, but at all times, in all things? No way. She shook her head to banish the thought, for living like that must be hellish.

Darren didn’t notice, as he said, ‘Almost back,’ as they headed towards the Fountains roundabout and the inner ring-road. ‘I have a feeling it’s going to be an interesting afternoon.’

‘I think you could be right.’

‘I sure hope so.’

When they signed back in, man bun Greaves and Shirley Woodruff were still out, relaxing in the bowling club bar with a quiet snifter, Darren imagined, while the Guv and Karen were also out, gone back to face Bella and the dogs about something. Lucky them.

Chapter eight

Walter and Karen arrived at Bella’s house in Sandon Road at dead on half two. Karen rang the doorbell. No dogs barked. The next sound they heard was Bella’s throaty cough as she shuffled to the door.

She opened up with a smile and invited them through to the swish back room. Walter and Karen both noticed the laptop, phones, and charging gear on the modern dining table.

Bella said, ‘Take a seat,’ and they sat at the table. ‘Like a tea?’

‘Sure,’ said Walter, ‘strong for me, no sugar.’

‘Water for me,’ said Karen, ‘tap will do.’

Bella nodded and set about providing drinks. A minute later she brought them to the table, and set them down on garden centre coasters, as she sat at a third side of the table.

‘Well, as you can see,’ she said, ‘I dug out the kit you wanted, and I made sure they are all charged.’

‘Thank you,’ said Walter. ‘Do you know the codes?’

She was ready for the question.

‘Oh yes, they are all the same. Barney was most particular about it. If he bought a new machine, he always set the code to the same number. If the supplier couldn’t or wouldn’t go along with it, he wouldn’t buy.’

They looked at her, waiting for the number.

‘1066,’ she said. ‘Barney was a big Saxon supporter. Had a thing for King Harold, but you don’t want to know that. He used to say the wrong man won the battle, and to be honest, I had no idea what he was talking about.’

Walter said, ‘May we switch on?’

‘Sure, but I don’t want to see or hear any of the content.’

‘Understood,’ said Walter. ‘We will just check we can get inside,’ and he nodded Karen to boot up the laptop.

The Battle of Hastings date from almost a thousand years before, went in, the machine woke up and smiled at them, sporting flash photographs of glorious sunny beaches from across the world.

As Karen switched her attention to the phones, Walter said, ‘I was wondering if you could help with another thing?’

‘Oh? And what might that be?’

‘Cecil Norman?’

‘What about him?’

‘Did you ever meet him?’

‘I did, several times. It happened when we were trying to buy the business. Barney was the manager of another garden centre back then, a smaller affair on the south side of Chester, off the A41. We had both inherited a little money from dead parents, and he suggested we pool it and buy our own gardening supplies outfit.’

‘How did the connection with Cecil Norman come about?’

‘I couldn’t be certain, and we can’t ask him now, can we? But I think Barney heard a snippet of gossip in the bowling club, yes, he was a member even back then. The talk was the old man, who was not so well, was interested in finding a working partner to run and manage the business, while he stayed at home with his feet up, counting the money, watching the racing and golf. But that would have been a nightmare, him on the phone every day, suggesting this, complaining about that. It would never have worked, and Barney and I decided we wanted to buy a business outright, and be fully in control, live or die by our own decisions, with no outside interference.’

‘How did Cecil feel about that?’

‘He didn’t like it. Not at first, anyhow. To be honest, I didn’t like him. Too boorish and overbearing for my liking, and I wanted to walk away, but Barney said we must stick with it. He had set his heart on landing the place. I’ve no idea why, but he’d run the figures through his own personal financial microscope, and said he could see how he could make it far more profitable. The head honcho of a man was holding it back through clutching all the strings of the biz tight to his chest. There needed to be delegation. A series of managers employed and trained, and they should be on performance related contracts, which, as you know, if the company makes a profit, they get a share. A small share may be, but a share nonetheless. That’s what Barney told me, and he was convincing. I believed him. He was a persuasive man in all things, seducing people in every way, though the less said about that, the better.’

‘How did the negotiations go?’

‘Not smoothly, if that’s what you think. Cecil fought tooth and nail over every damned thing, even the tiniest details. Barney said we should invite them out to a posh dinner and make a fuss of them. I think he thought a few good wines down him would bring him round, make him more amenable, though it didn’t work out that way.’

‘Go on.’

Bella scratched her lined forehead, coughed into a handkerchief, and said, ‘We took them to the Grosvenor, him and his wife, Georgia, and it cost a packet, I can tell you that. Barney asked Cecil what wine he’d like and the man curtly answered, “None, I’m on the wagon,” which put a dampener on things. We ordered Riesling, and he turned his nose up at that, but Georgia and I polished it off, as the men jousted back and forth across the table over every minute detail.’

‘He could be cantankerous?’

‘You can say that again. I think it was his middle name. But the crux of the matter was, he was keen to sell the business, but didn’t want to sell to one of the big groups. He wanted to pass it to what he called “the little man”, which wasn’t very complimentary. In truth, he wanted to sell it to someone he imagined he could bully into paying too much, while agreeing to some of his more arcane conditions.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, to give one example, he insisted written into any sale contract, was the stipulation any buyer must keep the name of the business, his name over the door for a minimum period of fifty years. Yes, fifty! Cecil didn’t know it, but Barney had some logos and dummy letter-headings printed up in the name of CHESHIRE GROWERS and when he mentioned it to Cecil, the man refused point blank, giving short shrift to the idea. I remember now. He said if we wanted to start a business called CHESHIRE GROWERS, a nondescript name he was sniffy about, he invited us to go away and do it somewhere else, because it would never be on his land or his site.’

‘Barney must have been disappointed.’

‘He was, but he was also pragmatic. By then, he really wanted the deal, and would do more or less anything to get it done, hence he agreed to the name remaining, and I don’t think he regretted it too much, though that blessed clause still has a quarter of a century to run. I won’t be around to see it when it finally runs out, and I have no idea who the owners will be, but they will have the option to take his name down if they wish. My gut feeling tells me because it is so long established, they might keep it.’

‘If it’s not a rude question, how much did you pay for it?’

‘Ah, there is no easy answer to that. I can’t recall the exact figure. It was a most complicated deal, I remember that. There was never a single price struck. The man haggled over every last pound and every last plant, and he wanted far too much for it, more than we could afford. In the end, it came down to a huge cash deposit, pretty much all we had, with the balance, he insisted paid by monthly standing order for the following five years. If we missed a payment, we would forfeit the deal. I think by that point Barney realised unless he agreed, he would never get it over the line, so he took a punt and said, “Fine, let’s get it done,” and thrust his hand across the table, a turn of events that set old Cecil back on his heels. He glanced at Georgia, she smiled and nodded, desperate to be rid of the millstone, and perhaps against his better judgment he reached out, grabbed Barney’s hand, and said: Deal!’

‘You must have been relieved.’

‘Relieved, and apprehensive, for we had taken on a huge headache. Not to mention saddling ourselves with five years of heavy debt we never envisaged at the outset. Even then it didn’t stop him making further demands, whilst whingeing we had taken advantage of him, even suggesting we got him drunk to coerce him into signing a dodgy deal, which was complete tosh as he was drinking mineral water. The man was incorrigible, hard to deal with, and it has to be said, untrustworthy. But when the contracts came from the solicitor, and he had signed and we signed, there was nothing more he could do to interfere or scupper the sale. I think it was the highlight of Barney’s life when he got that done, business-wise, that is.’

‘And you paid off the five-year debt?’

‘We did, and a big struggle it was, though it didn’t do Cecil Norman much good.’

‘How so?’ asked Karen.

‘Because, young woman, two years after we moved in, Cecil Norman moved out, out of this world, I mean. He was always a big man, and a nervous and stressed individual, and I guess his heart gave out after so many years of badgering and arguing with anyone who crossed his path.’

Karen said, ‘Did they have children?’

‘Oh yes. Cecil always bragged the Normans were excellent breeders, and would poke fun at anyone who didn’t have kids or managed a solitary one. He said it came down through the centuries from their Norman heritage. He was proud of it. Normans versus Saxons all over again. He liked to brag his titled relative was a Norman duke, one of the leading Norman knights on the battlefield during the invasion back in 1066. Though I think it was made up fairytales, and he kept on with it because he knew no one could or would dare contradict him. Meanwhile, Barney was astute enough not to mention he was sympathetic to the Saxon cause. I don’t think he would ever have sold to us if he knew where Barney’s heart lay. He probably turns over in his grave to this day, knowing his baby had fallen into Saxon-supporting hands.’

Karen said, ‘The Norman invasion, the battle was almost a thousand years ago.’

‘I know! Ridiculous, isn’t it? But it mattered not. Stories handed down from father to son and daughter, and then again on through time, ad infinitum, as the centuries slipped away. The story of the visitors and the vanquished. Tragedy and elation. One side having their lands requisitioned, stolen, in plain words, their daughters married off to gain some kind of acceptance, the victors building massive cathedrals and castles you can still see dotted across the countryside as permanent reminders of who was in charge, and who were the conquered, and who owned the land and power, and it culminated in the great survey, when everyone’s animals were counted and recorded, from shire horses, to chickens, cattle and pigs, sheep, and the rest. When every corn mill was recorded and taxed, for corn mills were such an important part of any country’s wealth and structure. Everyone knew the miller would mill anyone’s corn for a fee, deducted at source by retaining a hefty percentage. There were never any poor millers, and in time, the great survey became known as the Domesday Book, or dooms day, as the indigenous inhabitants called it, where everyone’s wealth was calculated and recorded down to the last farthing, in every town and tiny village, and still to this day, a thousand years later, it remains the greatest and most comprehensive survey ever carried out detailing the wealth and power and influence in this country. The modern-day ten-year census has nothing on dooms day.’

Walter sat back in his seat, thought about it for a moment, before saying, ‘Tell us about the kids?’

‘The kids? Yes, if I must. Well, there were five of them, a mixed raggedy-bag, shall we say? I met most of them, no, all of them at various times, and some of them I liked and some I didn’t, and I don’t think any of them liked me or Barney, because they always gave the impression they thought we got him drunk, and conned the old man into selling the business on the cheap, stealing their birthright, if you will, though they didn’t actually say so, though it was forever written over their skinny faces. Cecil Norman called them his G-Men, and proud of them he was, named after some American outfit.’

Walter nodded and said, ‘G-Men were early FBI operatives.’

‘Well, whatever they were, our G-Men were a constant pain in the neck.’

Karen said, ‘How so?’

‘It’s a long story.’

Walter rubbed his hands together and said, ‘We like stories, don’t we, Karen?’

‘We do, Guv, live by them.’

‘Okay, if I am not boring you.’

‘You are not.’

‘Would you like another drink?’

‘We are fine, thanks,’ said Walter. ‘The G-Men? Who were they?’

Bella coughed but tried to hide it, and said, ‘Okay, if you insist.’

Chapter nine

Earlier, at the bowling club, as Ricky Greaves and Shirley Woodruff came out of the president’s office, she whispered, ‘Don’t be so confrontational when we talk to them.’

‘Confrontation often produces results. You should know that by now. You saw how close he was to spilling his secrets. I almost nailed him.’

‘You didn’t. You riled him, and he clammed up.’

‘Follow me, girl, and see how the master operates,’ as they approached two older men sitting at a corner table, whispering, as Ricky grinned down at them and said, ‘Mind if we join you for a few minutes? We’d like to pick your brains.’

They looked up at the strangers and didn’t like what they saw, but were too polite to say, as one eased out a low stool for the girl, a reasonable looker, but such a miserable gaze on her inquisitive face.

Before the officers could speak, one of the old guys said, ‘You are police, aren’t you?’

‘Is it that obvious?’ said Shirley.

‘It is to us,’ as the second old guy added, ‘Who else would be let loose in a private club one day after a murder occurred on the premises, other than the law?’

‘You’ve got a point there, old timer,’ said Ricky.

‘We are not old timers; we are gentlemen of leisure, enjoying our twilight years.’

The second bloke said, ‘Spit it out. What do you want to know?’

Ricky scratched his forehead and said, ‘The dead man, Mr Reynolds, did you like him?’

‘Everyone liked Barney.’

Shirley said, ‘Someone didn’t.’

Ricky added, ‘Did he have any enemies?’

‘None that we are aware of.’

Shirley took the conversation in a different direction.

‘He was a bit of a lad for the ladies, that right?’

Before he could answer, Ricky said, ‘You’d think at his age he would have rammed his sword back in his scabbard.’

The first old guy looked at Ricky askance, and said, ‘If you think people of fifty-eight don’t enjoy sex, you are stupider, more stupid, than you look.’

The remark hit home, as Shirley said, ‘Is it easy to become a member? Are people often rejected? Is that where rancour and bad feeling reared its head? Could the attacker have been blackballed?’

Before he could answer, Ricky added, ‘Is there a long waiting list to get in?’

‘There’s no waiting list. Most people are accepted, unless there is good reason to refuse them.’

Ricky grinned and said, ‘Do you think we’d get in?’

The old guys exchanged a look and a grin, and sipped their drinks, before one said, ‘I think the lady would not have any problem. We would be pleased to see her here, and she would be made most welcome, but you, sir, you might find it harder.’

‘How so?’ said a surprised Ricky.

The guy leant forward a tad across the small table and peered around the side of Ricky’s head.

Rick sighed and said, ‘Are you seriously telling me people are rejected because of their hairstyle?’

‘Not often, but that creation of yours does you no favours.’

‘Ridiculous!’ said Rick, as Shirley smiled at the old fellas and giggled.

‘Let’s try another table,’ said Ricky, standing up.

‘You move on,’ said Shirley, ‘I’m happy here,’ and she nodded him away.

After he’d gone, one guy said, ‘Your mate’s a bit touchy.’

‘Always has been.’

‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Love one, orange juice with ice, thanks.’

He stood up and ambled to the bar.

The other bloke said, ‘Your oppo, always bumptious, is he?’

‘He can be. Bull in a china shop syndrome. Never knows when to tone it down.’

‘I’d have thought tact in your job was one of your best weapons.’

‘Correct. You are not wrong. Do you have any idea who Barney was seeing before his death?’

‘By seeing, I presume you mean courting?’

‘Courting, yes, old-fashioned word, but a good one. Any thoughts?’

‘I heard a whisper of a name, but you didn’t hear it from me.’

‘Go on.’

‘A Mrs Barber.’

‘A married Mrs Barber?’

‘The title Mrs usually indicates someone is married.’

‘True. Do you know where he met her?’

‘No idea, not here at the club. There is no member of that name.’

‘Or where she lives?’

‘Can’t help you with that, sorry. That’s the thing with philanderers, Casanovas, adulterers, call them what you will, they have a tendency to keep everything under wraps, secrecy is the name of the game, sliding through life under a welter of lies, and I am sure Barney long ago mastered the art of keeping his affairs quiet.’

‘Can I ask who told you about Mrs Barber?’

‘You can, but I won’t answer.’

The other bloke returned with a small tray bearing three drinks, two alcoholic for them, and an iced orange juice for her.

‘Thanks,’ said Shirley, sipping the drink, before saying, ‘was Barney Reynolds well off?’

The two shared a look before one said, ‘He gave that impression, successful business and all. But who knows? His outgoings must have been extensive, and Bella, his wife, is on the sick and does nothing. Maybe you should examine his accounts.’

‘I’m sure that is being done.’

Shirley nodded and stood up, grabbed the drink, thanked them again, and moved away to another group of three men and one woman standing at the bar, mulling over the news. Shirley edged her way in, introduced herself, and said, ‘We are looking for any leads regarding the dreadful events of yesterday.’

The woman smiled at her and said, ‘So are we, and that’s the truth. If you are asking who we think did it, the simple answer is, we haven’t a clue.’

A tall, slim distinguished guy said, ‘Do you know how Barney died?’

‘Nope, not yet. Post-mortem underway as we speak.’

‘So, not stabbed or shot?’ said the woman, ‘or bonked on the head?’

‘Not that I know of. Enemies? He must have had some. Maybe people hankering after his prestigious position. Who would they be?’

The tall chap said, ‘If there was ever a man without enemies, it was Barnabus Reynolds.’

‘That may be the case, but he clearly had one.’

The man sighed and said, ‘That is undeniable.’

‘Okay, thanks for your help,’ and Shirley left them to it and crossed the room to where a solitary man was cradling what looked like a double whisky, as he stared through the glass at bowling in play.

‘Penny for them?’ she said.

The guy smiled and said, ‘Don’t tell anyone, but I am engaged on secret operations. A spying mission.’

‘Ooh, how exciting! Tell me more.’

He nodded at the glass, and said, ‘See that Mr Hancock.’

‘The rotund fellow?’

‘That’s him, though he would not like you saying it.’

‘What about him?’

‘Next week I have a quarter final knockout match featuring yours truly and Charley Hancock. I’m studying his game, trying to figure out where he is strong, and where he is weak. Any thoughts?’

‘Not really. Bowls isn’t my strong point.’

‘No, I suppose not. You won’t tell him, will you? That I’m seeking a tiny advantage.’

‘Not a word, but in return, could you give me a hint or two?’

‘Aha, I have fallen into a devious woman’s trap, haven’t I?’

‘Have you?’ said Shirley, smiling at him, hoping for progress.

‘Yes, I give a little, but only in return for something else.’

‘That’s the way of the world,’ she said. ‘What can you tell me about Barney’s love life?’

‘I imagine you are going to be busy unravelling that can of writhing worms. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll up the ante, raise the stakes so to speak, to see what you are made of.’

‘Intriguing. Go on.’

‘What are you doing on Saturday night?’

The question took her aback before she said, ‘What I always do. Eat a takeaway and drink a bottle of chardonnay.’

‘Why don’t you break the habit of a lifetime and have dinner with me?’

‘Are you propositioning me?’

‘No, I’m asking you to dinner.’

‘You, sir, are old enough to be my granddad.’

‘So what? I may be getting on a bit, but there is a lot to be said for experience. I can still keep the ladies happy, I can assure you of that, and you, young woman, if you don’t mind me saying, look as if you could do with some attention.’

‘You cheeky hound!’

‘I have said worse, and heard worse.’

‘I’ll bet you have. So, answer my question. Barney’s love life? Who is or was his current squeeze?’

‘No Saturday night dinner, and come in for a coffee afterwards, I suppose?’

‘No Saturday night dinner, or coffee, either.’

‘Spoilsport. Oh well, you can’t stop an old panting dog from trying. I’ll give you a titbit, if you will pardon the expression. A Mrs Golding is the name I heard, but don’t ask any more about her for I know nothing, and you didn’t hear it from me, and seeing as you don’t wish to take up my offer of hospitality, I am off outside to study my nemesis close-up. Maybe it might put him off, get under his skin, that kind of thing, psychological warfare. Any tiny advantage must be grasped when it appears. Good luck with your quest, and if you change your mind, my name is Brian Lilley. I’m always here, ring the club and ask for me,’ and the guy grinned at her, poked out his tongue, and headed towards the door, as Shirley shook her head and went in search of Rick.

Chapter ten

In the Sandon Road house, Bella blew her nose, coughed into one of her husband’s huge handkerchiefs, and glanced across the dining table at her police visitors.

She enjoyed having them there, and liked them as people. They seemed concerned, and other than Barney, there was no one who had given her any love or care in a long time.

‘The G-Men,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ said Karen. ‘We are intrigued.’

Bella bobbed her head and said, ‘For a start, they were not all men, though that never bothered Cecil. He referred to all of them as his G-Men, girls and boys alike.’

‘Why G-men?’ said Walter.

‘Because they all had names beginning with G. All the kids created by him and his beloved Georgia were named as an homage to her. Cecil said when naming them that way, it helped him remember their names. When he couldn’t, he would take a stab at any name beginning with a G, and he’d never be too far away. There was science to his madness, he said, and maybe there was a sliver of truth in it, because even now, after all these years, I remember their names. If they had been named haphazardly, I doubt I could.’

Karen said, ‘Who was the eldest?’

‘Gordon, and he never let the others forget it. He ordered them around, kept them in order, and when they were younger, wasn’t above giving them a slap if they stepped out of line. He protected them from school bullies and in return demanded loyalty and obedience, and it was obvious Cecil approved of this hierarchical behaviour, because he turned a blind eye to it.’

Walter said, ‘I imagine that created ill-feeling, especially when they grew up?’

‘Spot on, Inspector. From what I saw and heard, and from what Barney told me, they all grew to hate him, though Gordon didn’t care, because he wasn’t bothered. He had his own agenda.’

‘Doing what?’ asked Karen.

‘He fell in with the wrong crowd. Began drinking more than was good for him. Argued with his father; and their rows became legendary. But it was only the beginning, for things grew far worse. He started running round with horse-racing people and betting in a big way. Went to all the tracks every Saturday and during the week. Was introduced to some semi-shady trainers’ stables based here in Cheshire and Shropshire. Liked to do what he called, cultivate them, believing they would feed him information on horses that could and should win. Only, all too often they lost, and large sums of money slithered down the drain, and before long, Gordy was chasing his losses, borrowing more money, to begin with from reputable banks, but when the credit lines went cold, he would take money from loan sharks, and as I am sure you know, they are not the type of people to give extended credit.’

Walter asked, ‘Was he still working at the garden centre?’

‘Yes, for a while, and earning decent money, but after one row too many, Gordon stormed out, saying he was aiming to become a professional gambler, utilising the intelligence his racing pals provided. Barney said he greased palms and paid bribes to get info, though I have no idea if that was true.’

‘Sounds like it didn’t end well?’ said Karen.

‘Correct, young woman. It ended in tragedy. He was found battered black and blue in a back alley in Shrewsbury, first thing one Sunday morning, close to Shrewsbury Abbey. You might remember the case. It had a lot of publicity, you may know more about it than I, because it saw a big murder inquiry rumble on, and so far as I know, it was never solved, with no one charged.’

‘Wow,’ said Karen. ‘I don’t remember it at all.’

‘How long ago was this?’ asked Walter.

‘Ages, long before we bought the business, so it must be what? Twenty-five, even thirty years.’

‘Ah! That’s why I don’t remember, because it happened before I was born,’ said Karen with a grin.

Walter said, ‘I was alive and well, but it rings no bells with me. When I have time, I’ll look at it. Let’s move on. The second child?’

‘Ah, yes, Grahame Norman, the next in line, the independent one. Always did the opposite of what his dad told him to do, or suggested he did, and that was bound to provoke the inevitable split. Turned his back on the business, went to university, Birmingham, I think it was, though I could be wrong. Got a good degree in sports science, and as soon as he qualified, told his siblings and parents he had been offered a job on a rugby coaching programme in New Zealand, and off to NZ he went. It was supposed to be for two years, but I think I am right in saying he met a local Maori girl, fell in love, took out citizenship, produced a family, and so far as I know, never returned.’

‘Two down and three to go,’ said Karen.

‘Correct. Number three, Gillian, was always considered the brightest child. Cecil had visions of her taking over as MD of the business, but that never happened. She hated the idea. Wasn’t even keen to help at weekends during busy periods. Gillian couldn’t wait to get away to Saint Andrews University to study medicine, and in due course, qualified, wanting to be a GP, but not before she met the love of her life. I can’t remember his name, but he was a Scot from Dundee, and he took her back to his parents to tell them she was the girl he was going to marry, long before he asked Gillian. His persistence must have won the day, for they were married within eighteen months, and so far as I know, still live in Dundee, I’d guess with a family, while she is a superb GP, if the gossips are to be believed. I think he became a teacher, something like that. Either way, she came back once or twice, but the frostiness of the welcome she received from her mother and father for leaving behind the family and their flourishing business, I imagine persuaded her to stop coming, and cut ties. I don’t believe she even went to Cecil’s funeral. On holiday in the wilds of Canada, I think they were, uncontactable, and the rest of the family would never wait on the off chance she might show.’

‘A dysfunctional family?’ said Karen.

‘Yes, but that is not unusual. Family members can fall out big time just as easily as non-related friends,’ as Bella, struggling for breath, let go a heavy coughing fit.

Walter paused a minute to let her gather herself before saying, ‘On to number four?’ glancing at his notes, as both he and Karen recorded every relevant fact and figure.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Bella. ‘The tragic one.’

‘Tragic? In what way?’ asked Karen.

‘Grace, the apple of her daddy’s eye. He made no effort to hide his love for her at the expense of others, and perhaps because of it, her premature death hit him harder than it might have done.’

‘How old?’ asked Walter.

‘Just seven. Leukaemia. Came out of nowhere, killed her within three months, and glorious Gracie was gone from this world, ripping a chunk of Cecil’s heart out as she departed.’

‘Oh, geez,’ said Karen. ‘That is tough.’

‘More than tough,’ said Bella. ‘I don’t think Cecil ever got over the loss. He was never the same man afterwards, and became more irascible if that were possible, as if he felt he had been singled out for punishment and pain. If anything, he blamed the other kids, hinting they didn’t look after her, as if that would have made any difference.’

Walter said, ‘And that leaves the fifth G-Man? Boy or girl?’

‘Boy, Garry, and if Grace was daddy’s favourite, Garry was the mother’s. Perhaps it was because he was the youngest, but for whatever reason, Georgia doted on him as if he were the Prince of Wales. He was the one who shot up the pecking order. They made no secret they both wanted Garry to one day become the big boss of the family garden centre. If the others’ noses were not already out of joint, they certainly were when they saw how favoured Garry became. I never understood it, for he was the slightest and, in some ways the most unremarkable, the weakest, the least interesting, despite his business prowess, for he was good at figures, and knew how to turn a profit, and was always the one devoted to it.’

‘So,’ said Walter, ‘to recap, Gordon found dead in Shrewsbury, death unexplained. Grahame away in New Zealand, maybe alive, maybe dead. Gillian, doctoring in Dundee. Grace tragically passed away in childhood, leaving Garry alone to fly the flag.’

‘That’s about the size of it,’ said Bella. ‘Forgive me if one or two details are wrong, but I will be close enough. Barney used to come home and we would sit at this table, or one of its predecessors, and discuss what disasters had befallen them. It was like a much-watched soap opera, always some kind of scandal, chaos, or intrigue going on. Who was ill and indisposed? Who had a crush on whom? Who had been dumped? Who might get married next? Who might flee the nest, or indeed the country? Barely a day went by without a fresh development or rumpus featuring Cecil and Georgia Norman, and their brood of five G-Men making the news across the area. It was impossible to ignore them. They would never go away. I thought our kids were cold and uncaring, but by the cringe, theirs trumped ours every which way.’

Walter said, ‘Does Garry still live in the area?’

‘I’m not sure about that. The family house was sold after Georgia died. Rumour had it Garry pocketed the lion’s share of the estate, though you might want to check on that. I doubt if Grahame in NZ got much. Gillian in Scotland might have stood a chance.’

There was a pause for thought before Walter said, ‘Unless there is anything more, I think that is it for today. If you think of anything else, let us know, and we will pop back.’

‘I will. I have enjoyed having you here.’

Karen and Walter stood up, as did Bella, with a cough. One dog outside sensed movement and let out a bark.

‘Think they are ready to come in,’ said Karen.

‘They’ll be all over me as soon as you have gone.’

A second later, Bella opened the front door to bid them goodbye. Twenty seconds passed before Karen backed the car out into the road, and headed back to town, and as she drove, she said, ‘What did you make of that?’

‘Interesting. I think we need to look into what happened with all the kids. Did Gordon get murdered in Shrewsbury, and if so, who did it and why? Is Grahame in New Zealand? Just because Bella said so, it doesn’t mean he is. Same goes for Gillian in Scotland. Grace, sadly, is one we can set to one side, while the young one, the favoured child, Garry, is a man we need to research. What is he doing now? And what did he spend his sizeable inheritance on? If you want to be blunt about it, if he wanted Barney dead, he had the money to pay someone to do it. If any of them had the thought of bumping off Barnabus Reynolds because they stole their future, he is the favourite.’

‘Lots to go at, Guv.’

‘There is. I wonder what will reveal itself, and as one final thought, we only have Bella’s word for what went on. She had motive aplenty to relieve herself of a philandering, cheating husband over some decades. She likes to paint a picture of warmth and happiness in that house, but is that correct? If he treated her so abysmally, I imagine there must have been many fractious conversations in the happy home, and who knows, maybe some of them morphed into serious rows.’

‘A different picture to the one painted.’

‘Yes, it is.’

Chapter eleven

The update meet got underway at half-past four. Everyone was there, including Mrs West, who sat at the front next to Walter, with Karen on board duty.

In the past, Mrs W often sat at the back, keeping a quiet eye on everyone, but she’d taken to sitting at the front in order to see the faces.

Walter had briefed her on his visit to Bella, and he and Karen had a good idea on who would be doing what, though it would depend on what they had to contribute.

Karen kicked things off with, ‘What progress, team? Darren and Kate, how did you get on at the garden centre?’

They shared a look and Kate nodded Darren on.

He glanced at his notes, grinned at everyone, and said, ‘First up, we identified the Willaston mistress. A Miss Katy Bennett, except she is no longer Katy Bennett because, get this, nine months ago, she married the garden centre manager, a Mr Barry Beaumont, so she’s now Mrs Beaumont.’

Walter couldn’t keep out of it.

‘So, this Barry Beaumont took Barney’s mistress off him and married her?’

‘That is correct.’

‘Did you get an address?’

‘She doesn’t live in Willaston any longer, because she lives with him in Neston.’

Walter thought about it for a second before saying, ‘Did you pick up any vibes the change caused bad feelings between Barry and Barney?’

‘Not really, though Barry said he wouldn’t talk about it, and said Katy would not discuss it with anyone, including him, as it was buried in the past, and no one else’s business but theirs.’

‘We’ll see about that. Carry on, Darren.’

He bobbed his head and started again.

‘There are loads of attractive women of all ages working there, ranging from twenty to fifty, in both the office, and working the floor, and I gained the impression quite a few had been involved with the boss, or would like to have been. I did get the names of three women, and spoke to them and they all agreed they were on friendly terms with Barney, but nothing more. Two were married, so maybe they would say that. But everywhere I went there were knowing looks and grins and, honestly, Guv; I think the boss guy was having a field day.’

Walter looked at Kate and said, ‘Agree with that?’

‘Pretty much, yes. Everyone in the place knew Barney was feasting on the women. It was an open secret. But no one suggested he was a pest or needed to put pressure on. The impression I got was he was such a charismatic man, they couldn’t wait to have their time in the limelight with him, if only once.’

Darren said, ‘It seems he was like a ram in a field with fifty sheep, going round, taking his pick, intent on bedding them all. That was the impression I got, but nowhere did it create rancour, or that was how it came across. We questioned everyone we could with the big one. Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill Barney? But no one produced solid names. Honestly, Guv, it could be any of them. A couple of blokes mentioned they had been discussing who the killer might be, and it centred around unhappy husbands or fiancés.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Walter. ‘I agree with that, and in that case, I want a full list of all the women who work there between eighteen and sixty, and once we have it, a list of their better halfs. Husbands, boyfriends, or whatever, and I reckon you should be able to compile that over the phone. Get on with that Darren and Kate as soon as we have finished.’

Karen picked up the thread and said, ‘Ricky and Shirley, what happened at the bowling club?’

Ricky Greaves jumped in before Shirley could speak.

‘The club is a dead and alive hole, Guv. One step away from a nursing home.’

‘Meaning?’ said Karen.

‘It’s packed with OAPs with nothing to do but gossip. It’s like God’s waiting room, and they will bore the tits off God once they get up there, so much so he might send them packing to another place. The John Williams geezer, he’s a bit iffy, to say the least, making himself comfortable in the president’s seat. We should definitely look at him. I could see him bumping off the boss. I reckon he stole the cash as well. He’s a hoarder, a miser, and even if he has won the lottery, his aim in life is to accrue as much cash as possible. Honestly, sarge, I was this close…’ and he held up his hand, finger and thumb close together, ‘this close to getting him to confess.’

‘Confess to what?’ said Karen.

‘Everything.’

Karen switched attention to Shirley and said, ‘You agree with that assessment?’

‘Not entirely.’

Ricky pulled a face and stared at his oppo.

‘Go on,’ said Karen.

‘Yes, John Williams revelled in his new position of power, but I didn’t get the feeling he was either a thief or a killer.’

‘Did you find out anything else?’

‘A couple of things.’

‘You never told me!’ said Ricky.

Karen said, ‘Let Shirley speak,’ nodding the woman on.

‘One of the old guys said he heard Barney was knocking off a Mrs Barber.’

Darren’s face lit up, and he jumped in.

‘That’s one of the names we got. Spoke to her and she said they were good friends, but nothing more.’

Karen glanced back at Shirley, and said, ‘Go on.’

She nodded her head and began again.

‘The same guy said Barney long ago mastered the art of keeping his affairs secret. Brilliant at it, he was. Whisking lovers and potential lovers out of the area to quiet hotels where they might never be seen or disturbed. He also suggested even though Barney was wealthy, he spent money like there was no tomorrow, and with huge outgoings and demanding mistresses, he didn’t rule out the possibility the man was close to breaking point with money.’

Walter said, ‘Jenny will speak about finances in a second. Anything else?’

‘Yes, I spoke to another older guy, retired, slim and neat and a bit of a lounge lizard, and he asked me for a date, dinner, Saturday night to be exact.’

Everyone laughed.

‘You didn’t tell me that!’ said Ricky.

Shirley ignored him and said, ‘Refused, of course, but not before he coughed up another name. A Mrs Golding.’

‘You didn’t tell me that either,’ whinged Ricky.

‘You didn’t ask.’

‘Yep,’ said Darren, waving his notebook, ‘we got the same name, and we spoke to her. Another middle-aged woman, slim and well-manicured, and maybe she wasn’t getting much attention at home. She also said they, her and Barney, were good friends, but I don’t know. I think there was more to it than that.’

Karen wrote Mr Golding and Mr Barber on the board as persons of interest, along with Mr John Williams and Mr Beaumont, before turning back to the crowd, saying, ‘Anyone else?’

Mrs West said, ‘There could be when we check out the other husbands and boyfriends. The thing is, are any of them jealous enough, or desperate enough to set about killing Barney Reynolds? Most jealous people remain just that, jealous; and seething. They might let down his tyres or scratch his car, but they don’t kill the root of their jealousy, the man. And you...’ glancing at Ricky and Shirley, ‘need to communicate more. You should act as a team, sharing info and ideas, not going your own ways in the dark.’

‘Ma’am,’ said Shirley, as Ricky scowled and nodded.

Mrs West glanced back at Karen, and said, ‘Sergeant Greenwood has a whole new tale to tell, bringing new characters into play, so pay attention.’

‘I do,’ Karen said, staring round. ‘The Guv and I went back to Bella Reynolds, and she told us a long story about Cecil Norman’s family, and their five children, and among those five there is one unsolved murder, one premature death, and three others who need to be checked out. The surviving ones have a plausible motive for Barney’s demise; losing the family business they thought would provide a comfortable living till their dying day.’

‘What murder?’ said Darren.

‘Gordon Norman, the eldest child, went off the rails, gambling, drinking, visiting loan sharks, was found dead in an alleyway first thing on a Sunday morning close to Shrewsbury Abbey. So far as we know, the killing was never explained or solved, and we want Martin to search the archives and dig up as much intel as poss.’

‘How long ago?’ said Martin, pencil poised over his notebook.

‘We think twenty years, but it could be five more, or five less.’

‘I’m on it as soon as we have finished.’

Karen switched back to Jenny Thompson and said, ‘Jen, what have you got?’

She stared down at a sheaf of printouts, back at Karen, the Guv, and Mrs West, and sailed away.

‘A few interesting things.’

‘Like what?’ said Walter, eager to gobble up any morsels.

‘For one, Mr Reynolds pays a monthly standing order for a thousand pounds to Lion Estates Ltd.’

‘A rented property?’

‘Spot on. I spoke to Lion, and they gave me an address in Carlton Buildings, one of the fancy new blocks close to the river. Two bedrooms, all mod cons, and I’m guessing a right little love nest.’

‘Could be. Can you get a key?’

‘Yep, it’s on standby.’

‘Good, what about his main finance situation?’

‘The business is healthy, turns over a vast sum and a lot in cash. If you know garden centres, you will notice a lot of their stuff is expensive, meaning greater profit. But the declared net profit has been falling, £62,000 three years ago, £51,000 two years ago, and £39,000 last year, which for a business of that size is puny.’

‘Hardly earth shattering,’ said Mrs West.

‘No, but no losses and the small profits could be a sign Barnabus was overspending everywhere, and by the way, there is no mortgage on the family Sandon Road house, so he could have raised cash against it if necessary.’

‘Anything else?’ said Walter.

‘Not so far. The flat is the main point of interest.’

‘Get the key and we will check it out.’

Jenny nodded and glanced back at her paperwork, as Walter said, ‘Martin? Back to you. Any progress?’

‘John Williams, Guv, hasn’t been on a spending spree. Hasn’t moved house, didn’t buy a new car, and no expensive foreign holidays. Instead, last year, he went to the usual holiday cottage in Cornwall for two weeks instead of one.’

‘That’s the way to treat the wife,’ said Darren, looking round, ‘more days in Cornwall, the beast.’

Everyone ignored him.

‘Anything else?’ said Walter.

‘He has twelve and a half grand in his current account, earning a pittance in interest, and twenty grand in premium bonds, coughing up an odd fifty quid now and again. He’s on a decent pension from the insurance business he worked at for thirty years, and doesn’t receive any payment from the bowling club. All voluntary.’

Darren yawned aloud, which summed up his thoughts on John Williams, and it was hard to disagree.

Walter said, ‘If the cash is not in his bank account and he hasn’t spent it, where’s the money?’

‘Good point,’ said Martin, hating being caught on the hop. ‘I’ll look into it.’

‘You do that. Basic stuff, Martin,’ which didn’t improve Martin’s mood.

Mrs West said, ‘What about the other Norman children?’

Karen studied her notes on the G-named kids before speaking.

‘There were five kids. Gordon, the eldest we know, is dead, under suspicious circumstances maybe, but dead and out of the picture. Number two was Grahame, who fell out with his father and went to work in New Zealand. Jenny, we want you to check him out. Is he still there? Has he ever come back? Could he have returned and killed Barney, and remember, all the kids have good motive for seeing Barnabus dead?’

Jenny nodded and made notes and looked forward to diving deep into the records.

Karen started again. ‘The third child is Gillian. Bella told us she qualified as a doctor and went to work in Dundee. Same questions apply. Is she still there? Does she ever come back? And does she communicate with her siblings? And do any of them come to that, keep in touch with each other? The fourth child, Grace, we can put to bed, so to speak, as the poor mite died young, or at least that is what Bella told us.’

Walter leant forward and said, ‘Bella Reynolds was a mine of information. Very helpful, but it doesn’t mean we take her words as gospel. She is getting old, and sick, and who knows, she might be getting confused or forgetful. Everything she says needs checking.’

Darren said, ‘And don’t forget, she has dozens of reasons to want to rid herself of Barney, and possesses the money to do so. Maybe she paid someone to do away with her philandering husband, and presumably she would be left with everything now he’s gone.’

‘All needs clarifying,’ said Walter. ‘Check and double check everything, Jenny,’ as she looked at the Guv and nodded.

Karen said, ‘The fifth child, and the most interesting is Garry. He was expecting to be crowned the king of the garden palace after all the others were ruled out for whatever reason, but almost at the last moment, Cecil Norman sold the business to Barnabus and Bella Reynolds for big bucks, and they were in and Garry was out. Not long after, Cecil died, and we think left most of his estate to Garry, but we need a copy of the parent’s wills. Who received what? And who got nothing? Could be plenty of potential motives there.’

Walter spoke again. ‘We want to know what Garry is doing now. Is he employed, and if so, doing what? Where does he live, and what was he doing on the night of the murder? He could have been seething for years over being cut out, and finally did something about it, and like Bella, if he has wealth, he could have recruited an outsider to cut Barney’s life short.’

‘That should keep you busy all day tomorrow,’ said Karen, grinning at Jen.

‘Not a problem. Looking forward to it.’

Walter considered they had overloaded Jenny and glanced at Martin and said, ‘When you have finished investigating Gordon’s murder, give Jenny a hand with the rest.’

‘Sure,’ he said, ‘be a pleasure.’

Jenny’s face betrayed nothing.

The main door opened and everyone stared that way, as reinforcements arrived to join the party.

Chapter twelve

Joseph Tapper, forensics boss, carrying a Gladstone bag, and Doctor Upward arrived together, marching side by side, satisfied grins on their faces.

From the front, Mrs West, Walter, and Karen monitored their arrival as they grew closer. Mrs W thought they looked like a pair of naughty schoolboys, silly grins in place, as if hiding secrets only they knew, and they had a conundrum. They would like to have kept the information to themselves, yet couldn’t wait to reveal what they had, hoping to bask in the glory of being cleverer than anyone else. Men were like that sometimes, especially when expecting compliments, pats on backs they would only receive if they had something special.

Before they could speak, she seized the initiative by saying, ‘What have you got?’

It set them back a tad, as they shared glances and nods, as if debating who should speak. The thrusting Doctor Upward grabbed his moment.

‘We don’t normally work closely together, but we have on this case, as it is most interesting.’

Word soup, thought Mrs West. Waffle and chips.

Darren wondered why he was speaking in Sherlock Holmesian speak; most interesting.

The guy spoke again.

‘As we both pointed out,’ glancing at Jo-Tap to give him a modicum of credit, ‘there were tiny puncture wounds on the deceased’s face, neck, and hands.’

‘Where we thought poison might have been introduced?’ said Mrs West, eager to hurry them along, for she couldn’t abide wasted time and male tautology.

‘Correct, ma’am, and we were right. We discovered no less than sixty-two puncture wounds between us, didn’t we, Jo?’ and Jo nodded on cue, before Upward continued, ‘many unseen to the naked eye.’

‘And?’ said Mrs West, her prickliness on show for all to see.

‘Those sixty-two punctures were used to inject miniscule amounts of poison.’

Walter said, ‘Which poison?’

‘Cyanide,’ said the doc, looking ever more pleased with himself.

‘Technically, is cyanide a poison?’ said Mrs West.

‘Yes,’ said Jo, and before he could elaborate, Doc Upward jumped in again.

‘There are four main types of cyanide, and identifying which one we were dealing with was difficult, and we stayed up…’

‘Yes, all right, all right,’ said Mrs West, ‘spare me the minutiae; I am sure all the tiny details will be in your report. The question we are interested in is what instrument was used to inject the poison, the cyanide, in such tiny holes, in miniscule amounts. Have you ascertained that?’

‘We have, ma’am,’ said Jo-Tap, as the doc butted in again.

‘The killer, whoever it may be, was an innovative fellow, or fellow-ess, if you get my meaning. Neither Jo or myself have ever seen anything like it before.’

More florid Victorian prose, thought Mrs West and several others, when all they wanted were the relevant facts. Mrs West glanced at her watch, and no one missed it. The message he was overplaying his hand clunked into Upward’s brain.

‘Rose thorns!’

‘Rose thorns?’ repeated Walter.

‘Correct,’ said Jo-Tap. ‘Barnabus Reynolds was hit about the face and neck with rose thorns. Phil and I have conducted extensive experiments. We visited Grosvenor Park, secateurs in hand, and snipped off ten new shoots from different rose plants, all around a foot long. I am sure the Parks & Gardens Department will forgive us. Half of them were green, both the stems and thorns, and half maroon, almost purple.’

‘Yes,’ said the doc. ‘Our theory is the killer peeled off or pruned all the thorns from the bottom six inches, thus providing a handhold, and removed all the burgeoning leaves, leaving just thorns on the top six inches of stem. We have here our best guess as to what the assault weapon looked like,’ and he opened Jo’s black bag and pulled out two examples, one green, one maroon, and handed one to Mrs West, handle end first, and one to Walter.

She took it, studied it, and said, ‘I take it these are cyanide free?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Upward, ‘they could be fatal otherwise.’

Walter wafted his weapon around in front of his face, picturing the scene, the startled Barnabus Reynolds taken aback, late at night, when he was tired and wanted to go home, or off to one of his eager concubines, when a crazy idiot wafted a rose stem in his face, not believing the attacker would actually strike him, never once considering the thorns might be cyanide tipped.

Walter said, ‘I thought roses were pruned in the spring. How do you account for that?’

‘Ah, but you are not a gardener, are you?’ said Upward, eager to display his horticultural expertise.

Mrs West would allow him some leeway, but not much.

‘Roses should be pruned either in November or March. It is a personal preference, and I am a rose man, and know what I am talking about. These were clearly pruned in November, allowing five months growth over the winter, producing strong shoots such as we have here, and bearing in mind climate change…’ and Mrs West had heard enough.

‘Yes! We get the picture. Can you tell whether it was a maroon or green assault weapon?’

‘Maroon, for sure,’ said Jo.

‘And a rose variety?’

‘Ah, now that is tricky,’ said the doc, eager to launch into another diatribe to show what a wonderful job he had done, he and Jo.

‘Just the bare facts! Time is of the essence. Do you know the variety? Yes, or no?’

Her brusqueness set the doctor aback. Everyone was relieved to see it. Jo-Tap saw his moment and took up the thread.

‘We cannot be certain, but it is definitely one of the floribundas, and within that group, the killing twig, for want of a better phrase, belonged to a group containing the sharpest and most plentiful thorns, deliberately chosen. We have narrowed it down to two candidates, Rosa Vicenza, and Rosa Londoniensis, both of which could have and would have inflicted the wounds we examined.’

‘Thorny roses,’ said Mrs West. ‘Thornier than average?’

‘Correct, ma’am. Very thorny.’

Walter said, ‘Were either of those varieties in the park?’

Jo-Tap shook his head, and the doctor couldn’t resist speaking.

‘We didn’t find them, but there must be thousands of roses across the city, and indeed the area. I’m sure Parks & Gardens could help you with that. They keep detailed records of all plantings in public places.’

Walter said, ‘How do you know the leaves were stripped off?’

Jo-Tap smiled and said, ‘That’s an easy one. If leaves were present, there would have been sap marks on the skin, perhaps unseen to the naked eye, but there for sure, and we found none. The leaves were removed.’

Mrs West said, ‘I wonder what happened to the murder weapon. The killing twig, or whatever you called it. You wouldn’t want a child to trip and fall on it if it was tossed away.’

‘True, ma’am, we can only hope the same thought occurred to the killer, and he or she disposed of the clipping with care. On a bonfire would be best.’

‘Maybe, but we won’t take a chance. Ricky and Shirley, when we have done here, go back to the club and see if you can see any rose cuttings lying around, maybe outside, and don’t tell them what you are looking for, and if you find one, don’t be clever, don’t touch it. Call in and we will get HAZCHEM down there super-fast.’

Darren Gibbons stuck up his hand.

She saw him and said, ‘Speak, DC Gibbons?’

‘The cyanide?’

‘What about it?’

‘Would that be powder or liquid?’

‘Good question, Darren. Jo, what do you know?’ and they all looked at Jo-Tap.

He nodded and said, ‘Most often it comes as soluble salts, easy to dissolve in water, which we think occurred here. The killer sat in the garden with a small paintbrush and plastered it over the thorns, and you wouldn’t need much. There was way more than enough in Barnabus’s body to kill him, and it did.’

‘Correct,’ said the doc. ‘He died of cyanide poisoning. No doubt about it. It will all be in our reports. I would add, it can also come as a gas, and is extremely dangerous, especially to children.’

‘And when will we have your reports?’ said Mrs West.

‘Within twenty-four hours. We have a few last experiments to complete. We came here this afternoon as soon as we agreed on our prelim findings, realising how important and urgent this is.’

Mrs West said, ‘Cyanide. Where can it be obtained? How difficult is it to get hold of? Who would stock it?’

‘I’ll look into that,’ said Karen.

Walter said, ‘No, you’ve too much to do, going through Barney’s laptop and phones. A licence is required to buy most poisons, though it is a hellish rigmarole to get one, and rightly so. It lasts for three years, if memory serves. As for where you can buy cyanide, you might be surprised to learn if you try hard enough, you could buy it online. There was a case a few years ago of a man who did that, and used it to kill himself, though it is rare.’

‘Perhaps I can help,’ said the doc, surprised he hadn’t been asked.

Mrs West stared at him and said, ‘Go ahead.’

‘Any industrial chemical company will have a licence, plus any research lab or institute, and there is a long list of substances controlled under them.’

‘Could a GP or a pathologist get hold of cyanide?’ asked Darren.

‘I can’t imagine why a GP would want it or need it, but yes, I could get it if necessary.’

‘Of course you could,’ said Mrs West. ‘Okay, is that it?’

No one had anything else.

Afterwards, they all knew a great deal more about cyanide, though not enough, and it was clear more work was needed. Mrs West would wait for the experts’ final reports before taking action.

The update meet broke up, and most were keen to get away and grab some dinner and an early night. Ricky and Shirley drew the short straw, dispatched back to the bowling club on the lookout for discarded thorny twigs.

Walter nodded them away, reminding them to call if they found anything suspicious, and to be careful.

Chapter thirteen

In the morning, Karen drove Walter five miles up the Heswall road, before pulling in on the left side to the Cecil Norman car park. It was filling up as it would on a sunny spring day.

They left the car and headed for the entrance. All around, picking up snippets of excited conversation.

‘Don’t forget the parsnip seeds, Dorothy.’

‘I want big red dahlias like we had last year.’

A little boy, not yet in school, wailed, ‘Can I have some more fishes, granddad?’

‘Of course you can, Jeff. How many would you like, three or five?’

‘A hundred! No less than a hundred, grandpa.’

Karen and Walter swapped a look and a grin and headed into the main entrance.

Before them were a mixed group of assistants, fussing over a bulb and corm display. Karen was straight in, introducing them and telling them they needed to see Mr Barry Beaumont.

A tall skinny bloke took it on himself to answer.

‘I’ll call him and let him know you are here.’

‘No,’ said Walter, ‘don’t do that. Take us to him.’

The guy shrugged his narrow shoulders and said in an effete voice, ‘Oh, okay. You’d better follow me,’ and they did.

As he walked ahead, Karen pictured him as a human coat hanger, skinny black jeans hanging off his prominent hip bones.

A minute later, they were at Mr Beaumont’s office.

‘I’ll introduce you,’ said hippy.

‘No, don’t do that,’ said Walter. ‘I’ll do it myself, thank you,’ and he nodded the lanky lad away.

He gave the same answer, ‘Oh, okay,’ before beetling off to his precious coloured bulbs.

Walter opened the door and went in without knocking, Karen close behind.

Barry Beaumont wasn’t on the phone, but standing, his back to the door, studying a multi-coloured wallchart, all blues and greens and yellow boxes that must have meant something to him, but no one else. The guy turned round and Walter introduced them.

‘We are here in connection with the Barney Reynolds murder.’

‘I guessed you were. Take a seat,’ and they all sat down.

‘Right, to business,’ said Walter. ‘We have several questions for you and your staff, and it’s going to take a while. So, first things first. We need a private office for our interviews.’

‘Understood. We don’t really have anywhere, though thinking about it, you could use the stationery cupboard. It’s more than a cupboard, maybe ten feet by ten. There’s a table in there, and we could throw in a few chairs, and it has a skylight, so there’s plenty of natural light.’

Walter scratched his chin and said, ‘I’d much rather use this room.’

‘What? My office? But I need it. I have calls to make and take, people to see, and orders to issue.’

Karen said, ‘I am sure that could wait a wee while, and phone calls can be made from anywhere, and after all, surely the untimely death of your boss and proprietor should take preference.’

‘Well, if you put it like that. How long will it take?’

Walter said, ‘No more than three hours.’

Barry Beaumont issued a sigh of disapproval and said, ‘Three hours, wow. All right, if you must. I suppose I could use the other place for a bit.’

‘Excellent,’ said Walter, standing up. ‘Thank you for your cooperation.’

‘You want me to go?’

‘No, not yet, but as I am conducting the interview, it might be better if I am sitting in the big chair. It gives the right impression, don’t you think? I am sure you understand.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Barry, standing and grabbing his fancy pen, mobile, and desk diary to make his way to the door.

‘No,’ said Walter, ‘take a seat in front of me for a moment.’

‘Oh, right. If that’s what you want.’

He made himself as comfortable as he could in a not-so-comfy chair, and looked across the desk at the inspector making himself at home, flexing back and forth in Barry’s chair, with the girl perched on the front right corner of the desk, close to the boss. The girl, blue eyes, blonde hair, fitted white blouse, tight blue jeans, and faintly ridiculous pink casual shoes with white soles. He thought she resembled a dim Swedish bint he bonked in Barcelona.

Barry wondered what Barney would have made of the cop, if she worked there, though he didn’t need to, for he knew Barney would have been right in, asking if he could buy her dinner one night, and Barry could imagine the girl’s negative response.

His mind was brought crunching back to the moment when the inspector said, ‘I have three questions for you, Barry. Number One. How did Barney react to the news you took his mistress off him? Two, where is Katy Bennett, as was, at this precise moment? And number three, do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill Barnabus Reynolds?’

Barry Beaumont sighed hard again and watched the sergeant open her notebook, readying to write and record his replies, and he took a moment out for thought before speaking.

‘Okay, this is how I see it. Barney was ambivalent about losing my Katy. He had so many irons in the fire; I doubt he lost any sleep over it or her. Their relationship had run its course. Katy was ready for a change, and Barney couldn’t be faithful to anyone to save his life. She had grown tired of him and his insatiable chasing of women, young and old. As for my wife, she is at work, earning an honest crust as we speak, or she’d better be. Where else would she be?’

Karen said, ‘Where does she work?’

‘She’s a seamstress, works for Peninsula Fashions over at Rock Ferry. It’s a busy place. Two hundred of them beavering away for little more than the minimum wage if they are lucky. If the factory was in Bangladesh, it would be looked down upon and deemed a sweat shop. But being in Birkenhead, it is described as a vital business providing great employment opportunities for the county’s women. As for question number three, no, I don’t know anyone who wanted to kill Barney, as I told your colleagues before. Not a soul, and as you can imagine, I have given this lots of thought, and I will be as interested to find out as you.’

Walter said, ‘Where were you between 10.30 and 12.30 on the night of the murder?’

‘At home with my beautiful wife, as she will testify with no prompting. It was her birthday, and after the fine meal I prepared, if I say so myself, plus a few drinks, and the great present-opening ceremony, we took an early night, and don’t ask what happened after that because it’s censored.’

Karen grinned, as Walter said, ‘Buy her something nice, did you?’

‘Can’t see the relevance of that, but I did. A silver chain with a solid silver K on it, the letter picked out in diamonds, a locket kind of thing, I don’t know the technical term, but it looks great on her, and she loves it, and wears it all the time.’

‘Cost a lot?’ said Karen.

‘It did, but she is worth it.’

Walter said, ‘Talking about people buying presents for others, we believe Barney gave Kate a considerable deposit towards the Willaston flat.’

Barry shifted in his seat before replying.

‘I think that is correct, though it was their business and nothing to do with me.’

Karen said, ‘Has the flat been sold?’

‘It has.’

‘And the deposit repaid?’

‘No idea. You will have to ask Katy.’

‘Okay,’ said Walter. ‘I think that is all for now. Please tell your wife we would like a word. Any time tomorrow will do. Ask her to call me, and one other thing.’

‘Go on.’

‘We have been given three names, a Mrs Golding, a Mrs Barber, and a Miss Adamson.’

‘Three names for what?’

‘Oh, come on, Mr Beaumont, as possible mistresses, I guess. Barney’s “friends” shall we say. Any comment to make on that?’

Barry clicked his tongue and said, ‘I think you need to understand more about Barney’s psyche. If he saw a pretty woman, any age from twenty to seventy, he would make it his business to find out more about her. Married, single, available, divorced, interested, it didn’t matter, and if his attention was piqued, none of those factors would make any difference. They wouldn’t stop him. He would make his play and attempt to seduce them. No one in a skirt was safe, though these days one has to be so careful,’ and he let go a silly laugh before finishing, ‘skirts and dresses are no longer the exclusive property of women, are they? More’s the pity.’

Karen made notes, as Walter nodded Barry on, feeling there was more to come, and he started again.

‘He would sound them out, the girls, and if he received the remotest feeling they might be receptive, he would turn up the charm button to maximum, and that could end in an invite for dinner in a top-notch place. Sure, he would have knock-backs all the time, but it didn’t faze him, because he knew it wouldn’t be long before another darling, as he called them, would come along and accept. For every kickback, I reckon he received enough come-on smiles to keep him in business. He was never a modern man, more of a character from an earlier time, he would say, a more romantic age. A Victorian style seducer and lounge lizard, that was Barney.’

Barry paused, thinking he had said too much, as Karen said, ‘Carry on.’

‘We are not just talking about the staff here, but all the customers as well, and I mean all. There is a certain type of older lady whose interests centre around gardening. They spend a lot of time and money here, and maybe they have lost their husband to death, impotency, or a younger model, and are susceptible to advances from a charming, charismatic man. His eyes would light up and he would say: have you seen the complimentary tomato plants? And nine times out of ten they would say: no, I haven’t, and he’d take their arm and lead them to the tommy toes, and help them pick out the best one, free today, he would say, and if he was still interested, he’d offer to buy them a coffee in the café, and often they would accept. How could they refuse the old charmer, for it made such a pleasant change, and he was the boss, and loaded, and he would be off and running, and another name and phone number would make its way into his not so little, little black book. That’s how he was, and I never knew how he got away with it, but he did, leaving a trail of upset and annoyed husbands and partners in his wake across the county and beyond. I’ll tell you one thing, Inspector, there will be hundreds of them, and I don’t envy you the task of tracking down the greasy snake skulking in there who found the guts to do something about it.’

Walter nodded and said, ‘And the three names?’

‘You will have to ask them. I am not into telling tales about people out of school. That is not my style, or my business.’

‘Fair enough. Thank you for your time, Mr Beaumont. Send Mrs Golding in to see me,’ and Barry gathered his things and abandoned his own office.

Chapter fourteen

The previous evening, Ricky and Shirley returned to the bowling club. If the people there were curious why they reappeared, they didn’t say, though maybe they wouldn’t. Curiosity dulled in later life, didn’t it?

They didn’t find what they were looking for. Killing twigs were obvious by their absence, despite searching the hedges on the unmade road. Ricky said they were wasting their time and after an hour, Shirley agreed, and they knocked off and went home for dinner.

The following morning, everyone was in the station, working hard, checking facts and figures, making phone calls, accessing old records, with only Walter and Karen away at the garden centre.

When any of them looked up, they couldn’t miss the four words Mrs West had written in big letters on the top of the whiteboard: THE PRIME SUSPECT IS? It was a great question. So far, they didn’t have a clue.

Martin was charged with looking into the death of Gordon Norman. It happened an age ago when records were being transferred onto the PNC. There were computers before that, but they were slow and rudimentary, and not all of them could or would speak to their brethren, and some were downright hostile, running under different non-compatible operating systems. Sharing data, it seemed, was a novel idea not everyone bought into.

He located old computer records but there were many missing, with tons of blank sections, and didn’t think they were helpful, and went back to the handwritten papers. They weren’t great either, but at least he knew and understood what he was looking at. He was lucky. They had been transferred from Shrewsbury to Chester because the Normans were a renowned Cheshire family, and it was deemed Chester should store them once the death was ruled unexplained.

The officer dealing with the records back then was PC Colin Douglas, and a quick phone call established he died eighteen months before. Colin was famous for his large and fine handwriting, even when under pressure to write fast, the tall curving uniform letters in oval style, a pleasure to behold. Maybe they stuck out because everyone else’s writing descended into scrawl and untidiness.

One of his last entries read: Gordon Norman became involved with an unsavoury ring of five gambling characters. All confirmed alcoholics, and all with minor and not so minor criminal records, including ringing and stopping horses, bribery and corruption, pressurising stable staff, befriending and threatening jockeys, especially lesser-known riders, more open to bribes, and other offences involving physical threats. All activities mentioned, rumoured, and looked at, but no allegations proven, with none of the suspects charged.

Gordon’s post-mortem confirmed he too had a serious drink problem, and was an alcoholic, or heading that way fast. Cause of death, blunt force trauma, maybe caused by a collection of clenched fists.

Colin Douglas concluded by saying: It is likely the gambling cohorts who allowed Gordon into their number, though never fully accepted, joined in battering Mr Norman to death over an unpaid debt. It was known Gordon borrowed money wherever he could, and may well have taken funds from his so-called mates, and they were not the kind of people to accept welshers. It seemed they believed Gordon’s wealthy family would stump up losses incurred by him, but that didn’t happen, and Gordon, after falling out with his father, was hung out to dry. The rogues would never have lent to him, but for his family connections.

There was one other note at the foot of the page, written sometime later by a different untidier hand: All the gamblers were questioned about the death but produced rigged alibis, and nothing could be proved against them, and none were charged with any offence.

Not that it did them any good, for all five died of alcohol-related diseases within eighteen months, and the case fell down dead and was closed, the authorities not looking for anyone else.

Martin sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pictured the scene. Five heavily built drunken men, their patience and bank balances exhausted, deep into the early hours of a Sunday morning, ganging up on Gordon, giving him a dig or two as if the blows might magically produce their missing cash. If he had any money on him, it wasn’t there when the local police checked over the body when it was first reported at 6am. Not a single coin. Even the loose change in his trousers was missing.

No money and no satisfaction, as Martin imagined one bully hitting Gordon, and it wasn’t hard to imagine them all piling in, losing their tempers, pondering on how they could finance the coming week’s gambling, for they had a red-hot tip, losing their common sense and dignity, flailing fists, snarling faces, and it wouldn’t be long before Gordon took a fall, when boots would enter the fray, breaking ribs and shoulders and any other bone falling in the way.

Martin grimaced as he read the post-mortem report. No one deserved to depart this world with so many injuries and broken bones, in appalling pain, especially when it was so avoidable.

Gordon George Norman was out of the picture, long dead, and Martin couldn’t see any way his death and his departed brutish killers could have anything to do with the death of Barney Reynolds. It looked like Colin Douglas was right. The Gordon Norman case was closed, the file shut, growing dust, and forgotten.

There was nothing more he could do there, and it was back to John Williams, and tracking down what happened to his hefty cash windfall. Where would anyone put big money other than in a bank? It was a harder question to answer than it looked.

Jenny checked out the other kids. She adored such work and was good at it. The NZ authorities confirmed the second in line, Grahame Glen Norman, was still in the country, a long-time citizen. He voted in the recent general election, and they had no record of him ever leaving their territory since he first entered.

From the UK point of view, there was no proof he had ever returned to Britain, and that was enough for Jenny. Barring a miracle, Grahame was ruled out as a possible vengeful killer.

The little one, Gracie, did indeed die from leukaemia aged just seven, a sad confirmation, buried in Blacon Cemetery beneath one of the grandest white marble gravestones on the site, as Jenny imagined the family gathered there, comforting the parents, the mother tight-lipped, staring ahead through cold eyes, the father Cecil, in floods of tears, grieving over the death of his beloved Grace Ghislaine Norman, a tragedy he would never put behind him.

Three down with two to go, as Jenny sailed on to Gillian Gail Norman. It was true; she had qualified as a doctor, and moved to Dundee to marry a Mr Findlay Buchanan, and became Gillian Gail Buchanan. There was no record of any children, and Jenny wondered if that was an active choice or a fluke of nature.

Perhaps being brought up with four competitive siblings and a pair of demanding parents, the thought of replicating a noisy and argumentative household was too much for her, and despite her husband’s pleadings, she refused to bear children. Jenny sat back and thought about their experiences.

It could have introduced angst and conflict into the home, and she wondered if Gillian told Findlay that was her plan before they married. It might have been better if she was barren or he was firing blanks. All possible, though relevant? The main point of looking at Gillian was to decide if she could have been involved in Barnabus’s slaying. There was nothing to say she had, and nothing to say she hadn’t.

Financial records? The next port of call. It would be interesting to see if she had withdrawn twenty thousand pounds or similar, in cash a week or two before Barnabus met his end. That could point towards a conspiracy and an assassin. It might be unlikely, but it made sense. Someone killed Barney. The culprit had to be in the mix somewhere. Jenny filled out a finance request docket and set it on Mrs West’s desk when she was absent from her room, and couldn’t imagine it being refused, because Mrs West was under pressure to clear up the mess.

Only Garry Guy Norman remained, and from the outset, he was her favourite. She had a hot hunch about this guy, though she hadn’t mentioned it to anyone because hunches could be dangerous, despised by many, and had a habit of splashing dog do-doos all over the face.

She had championed unsubstantiated hunches in the past, and was told in no uncertain terms to get off her backside and find evidence, actual proof, before relying on feelings and feminine instinct. Intuition and suspicions were nowhere near enough.

It didn’t mean those same hunches were always wrong, because they weren’t. If she had to place a bet, her money would be on Garry, though that would not prevent her from looking at everyone with equal ardour.

Garry Guy Norman, the youngest child, and after Gordon and Gracie’s demise, the favourite kid, and it wasn’t unusual for favourites to go off the rails, as if the burden of favouritism was enough to derail the soundest mind. Yeah, the more she thought about it, the stronger the hunch became.

Where did he live? Did he work? How well off was he? Did he have kids? Was he straight or gay or indeterminate? Was he stable and did he speak to his siblings? For the feeling was, he had been favoured at their expense, so maybe not. She wanted his records, finance, bank statements, phone logs, though she had no reason to believe it was him, other than gut feeling, and it was among those paper trail records she imagined she would find something, and as she thought of that, the admin department sent her an email with attachments of Cecil Norman and Georgia Norman’s wills.

Jenny loved wills because they revealed what dead people really thought of their loved ones, relatives, and friends. People rarely told lies in wills. Why would they? It was their last chance to set things straight, and it was a rare person who left a stack of money to someone they detested, unless there was a weird reason to do so.

In wills, one could get even. Even a coward could pay another back through their last wishes. A man, woman, or relative they despised and loathed. Harder still if the person was liked and adored by all, and maybe that worshipping contributed to secret envy and jealousy. In death, in a will, the deceased had one last moment to say and do what the hell they liked, with no comeback. Little wonder they were Jenny’s favourite.   

She sent the attachments to the printer and couldn’t wait to settle down and study and analyse what the Norman parents thought of their children. The ideal scenario would be something hinting at anyone who might have taken the law into their own hands, leading on to the killing of Barnabus Reynolds, slain in vengeance for stealing their inheritance, the family business, and that could happen, and the thought excited her, as she stood up and hurried to the regurgitating printer.

Chapter fifteen

Mrs Golding, forty-six, tall and elegant, told Walter and Karen she didn’t need the money her meagre wages provided, but worked there for company, companionship, and fun.

She admitted she often dined with Barney because he was great to be with, and in her words, a hoot. Mrs Golding neither confirmed nor denied things went further, insisting she was happily married, and her husband would not be happy to hear or field any salacious questions about his wife. She threw in the fact her husband was a top divorce lawyer, practising in Chester, an ace legal eagle, and not a man to be trifled with on any legal issues, a man she said, could look after himself, in court or out.

Mrs Barber was totally different. Forty-four and petite, and both officers detected she could attract men like flies to flypaper, which might beg the question, why would she bother with an ageing lothario, when she could have a handsome, younger model?

Dark-haired and eyed, sporting tight clothing with no unsightly bulges, and bright teeth she adored putting on full display. She admitted, if admitted was the right word, she had enjoyed a long and passionate affair with Barnabus, as she always called him, despite there being fourteen years between them.

To the question, did Mr Barber know? She said he would be blind if he didn’t, but she didn’t care one jot because he had been doing the same thing since their marriage twenty years before. In her mind, it was payback time.

‘I don’t give a flying fig,’ she said. ‘Anything else you want to know?’

They did. Her whereabouts on the night of the murder?

At her son’s house, meeting the new fiancé, came the reply. An alibi, Karen noted, and one to be checked.

To the question: who do you think killed Barnabus? She produced a similar reply. Hundreds of possible candidates. Good luck with that.

‘One last question,’ said Walter. ‘Miss Adamson, what do you make of her?’

Mrs Barber pulled a face and looked bored, before saying, ‘Holly Adamson is a lightweight, and you would be wasting your time there. But yes, she had a brief, and I mean very brief affair with Barnabus, but it was a disaster waiting to happen. He took her to the old-fashioned Argosy Hotel in Liverpool, the one near the station. They went for dinner, and as usual he turned on the charm, bought her a bottle of champers with the meal, and I am not sure she had ever had champagne before. He told me she went at it as if it were iced lemonade, despite him telling her to take it easy. An hour or two later, they adjourned to a pre-booked room. He was always well prepared, was Barnabus, and from what he told me, they were semi-naked on the bed, getting excited, when she regurgitated the entire meal over him and the king-size bed. Masticated onion rings, copious booze, and rare and bloody steak, plus the large chocolate pudding with ice cream she forced down her bulging neck. The mess and stench were beyond imagining, and the hotel rightly stung Barnabus with a mighty clean-up bill. He was a regular there, and the pushy manageress took him to one side and told him to be more particular who he brought in future.’

Karen said, ‘Anything else?’

‘If you want my advice, don’t waste a second of your valuable time on Holly Adamson.’

Walter thanked her, not that they would take any notice, and waited for Mrs B to leave, though she paused as if she had more on her mind. She went to stand, but sat down again, to say, ‘There is one thing.’

‘Oh?’ said Walter. ‘Fire away. We are all ears.’

‘You might as well hear it from me before someone else pipes up.’

‘Go on,’ said Karen.

Julia Barber shook her head before saying, ‘The problem is, the mad cow.’

‘Which mad cow?’ said Karen.

‘And what problem?’ added Walter.

She sat back in her seat as if getting her words in the correct order before speaking again, taking a big breath before saying, ‘There’s an upmarket Chinese restaurant on the promenade down at Parkgate. It’s called the Blue Lantern. I don’t know if you know, but Barnabus had a habit of taking a select group of staff out for occasional dinners, often on the spur of the moment. A thank you for our hard work and our company. Maybe ten or twelve of us would go, and you won’t be surprised to know, the numbers would always be skewed towards the girls. Perhaps eight women to four men, a typical line-up. Barnabus liked it that way as it gave him an almost free run, and an unfair advantage, not that he ever needed either.’

Mrs Barber paused, her brain clunking over.

Walter egged her on, eager to keep her talking.

‘I’m sorry to say it was my idea to go to the Lantern, when Barnabus always preferred the English steak houses up at Heswall, and boy, did I pay a high price for pushing the Chinese. The first time we went with Barnabus, I think there were eleven of us and I’m pretty sure there were only two men, and the mad cow was there, and it was the first occasion he set eyes on her.’

Karen said, ‘Does the mad cow have a name?’

‘Of course she does. She goes by the name of Marina Moo, and she owns and runs the place with her husband, Mickey Moo. He always said they both came from Hong Kong, but who knows? She was full of airs and graces, and seemed to look down on everyone, though maybe that wasn’t helped by the angular upturned nose she sports. She insisted on being addressed as Madame Moo, but I reckon those westernised names were adopted, not their real ones. Heaven knows what their real names are.’

Walter said, ‘If they came from Hong Kong, they could be their real names, after the British governed the place for a hundred and fifty years, when lots of locals took western names.’

‘Really? Well, whatever. The point is, and I am sure you can guess what happened, Barnabus the bastard, fell head over heels in love with the cow.’

‘When was this?’ asked Walter.

‘About a year ago.’

‘And was the love interest reciprocated?’

‘Yes, up to a point. But she is a devious and conniving bitch, and realised she could dangle him from the silk cord emphasising the narrow waist on the sophisticated long tight silk dresses she wears. His eyes almost fell out of his head, and I had never seen him quite like that before, and it couldn’t have come at a worse time.’

‘How so?’ asked Karen.

‘Because our affair was flaming hot. He could not get enough of me. It got so bad he would call at the general office in the afternoon and say he had a special task I needed to attend to, and he’d take me out the back to where the delivery vans were, and we would jump in one, and he would drive away to a secluded wooded place he knew in Puddington, where he’d order me, persuade me, cajole me, call it what you will, into the back for a quick half hour of you know what. I am sure the others in the office must have guessed what we were up to. I never once enjoyed it in the van, but I was so smitten I would have done anything, especially after we began talking about me getting a divorce, and us buying a house together. A place where we could sleep together whenever we wanted, whenever the feeling took him, without being interrupted. I am not stupid. I knew he would never divorce Bella, but it didn’t matter because he never slept with her, so there was no jealousy involved, not on my part, anyway.’

She stopped and exhaled hard, as Walter said, ‘Go on.’

‘The trouble started when he began making eyes and passes at the mad bitch. I’ll admit I have never been so jealous or angry in all my life. I’ll be honest with you, Inspector, I could have scratched her green eyes out and thrust them down her dreadful green dress.’

Karen said, ‘What did Mickey Moo make of it?’

‘He was livid, as upset and jealous as I was, as rumours circulated of their furious rows, though they never surfaced in public. Give them their due, they were professional that way. But one day I heard Mickey say he would get a gun, though I don’t know if he did. I never saw one. Either way, it became clear she would not forgo the attention Barnabus bestowed on her. I had seen it all before. He went to work on his women until they capitulated and he won them over. It was so exciting if it was you on the end of it, but hellish when it was someone else. I had seen it first hand and knew how he operated. He won her over when he offered to buy her a car, and he had never done anything like that before, certainly never with me. Perhaps I should have played harder to get.’

Karen said, ‘He bought her a car?’

‘He did, a brand-new Audi A3, five doors, all electric, and those things don’t come cheap. Cream and black and silver, it is. He intended to have her, and have her he would; regardless of how much it cost. He didn’t care about the money.’

Walter said, ‘What did Mickey Moo make of it?’

‘I reckon it broke him. No one knows for sure, but soon after, she said he’d flown back to Hong Kong. Disappeared, it seemed to us.’

‘Disappeared?’ said Karen.

‘Yep, and he hasn’t been seen since.’

‘Was she asked about his absence?’ said Walter.

‘She was, and came out with a cock and bull story about him being summoned back to HK to answer potential tax fraud charges, and if he didn’t go of his own accord, the new government would apply for his extradition.’

‘Shouldn’t be too difficult to check,’ said Karen.

‘Good! It would be nice to know the mad cow is a born liar, as I thought all along, and even better if it proved she murdered him, because I think she is capable of it, and you could lock her up and melt down the key, and I could have offered Barnabus a shoulder to cry on, ’cept it is too late now.’

Karen said aloud what was on Walter’s mind.

‘If she could murder Mr Moo, could she have murdered Barnabus Reynolds?’

Julia Barber went into thinking mode, and said, ‘I never thought of that, probably because I was too close to things, too loved-up, and too keen for us to buy a house together, and maybe find a little lasting happiness. Though I am not naïve enough to think he would have mended his ways and become faithful. I guess at fifty-seven, going on fifty-eight, even he, the lover extraordinaire, would slow down, and be more content with his lot, sharing his life with someone who loved him.’

Karen said, ‘Did Madame Moo love him?’

‘She said she did, though I never believed her, though in the end, to be fair, I think she might have done, especially with Mickey out of the picture. No middle-aged woman wants to be alone. They were making plans; I know that much.’

Karen said, ‘What kind of plans?’

‘Oh, it was last mid-summer night, when I arranged a weekend away in York. Best hotel, trip on the river, day at the races, you know the kind of thing, and I was stupid enough to pay for everything in advance, no refunds, if nothing else to show what he meant to me. It was his birthday that weekend, and I pushed the boat out and bought him some men’s jewellery. The usual stuff. Diamond encrusted gold cufflinks and matching tiepin, plus one of those silly willy rings for a bit of fun, and the less said about that, the better. I punished the credit card, I know that.’

‘And your plans fell through?’

‘You can say that again! The bugger only gave me ninety minutes’ notice he couldn’t make it, telling me he had other plans he could not get out of.’

‘Do you know what they were?’

‘I didn’t then, but I do now.’

‘Go on.’

‘He took the cow to London. Stayed at the Connaught Hotel. Found her theatre tickets for a show she had always wanted to see, those fabulous Chinese dancers and singers, Yen Shu, I think they are called. He had to pay through the nose for them, I know that, well into four figures, watching Chinese bitches screeching, because that is not singing in the normal sense of the word, at least not in my opinion, and do you know what he did when they were down there, thrashing about like a pair of love-struck cranes?’

‘What?’ said Karen, thinking she knew the answer.

‘The bastard proposed to her. Asked her to marry him. Got down on bended knee, they say, while slipping the biggest rock on her greasy finger.’

Walter said, ‘How did that turn out?’

‘Like everything he touched in his personal life. A monumental disaster, thank goodness, but it didn’t stop her saying yes, and still to this day she flaunts the hideous ring to all and sundry. Go down to the Blue Lantern tonight and take a peek if you don’t believe me.’

Karen said, ‘So, Barney proposed to Madame Moo even though she was married to Mickey Moo, and he was married to Bella Reynolds?’

‘Correct, the mess of all messes.’

‘Does Bella know?’

‘No idea. You would have to ask her.’

Walter thought about it and said, ‘If Barnabus proposed marriage to Madame Moo and she accepted, I don’t see any circumstances where she might want to kill him.’

‘I agree,’ said Karen, ‘but it would give Mr Moo a good motive to do away with his wife’s lover.’

‘True,’ said Walter.

‘If Mr Moo is still alive,’ added Julia Barber.

There was another pause for thought, and a lot to think about, before Walter glanced back at Mrs Barber to say, ‘And you, Julia. Where does that leave you?’

‘Seriously? Broken and bedraggled, with a husband I detest, a man who doesn’t love me, and that’s something, because I can’t bear him to touch me. While at work, I am the butt of continuous jokes and faux sympathy, making getting up and going to work every morning a real chore, and unlike some, I can’t stop because I need a regular wage coming in.’

Walter said, ‘Thank you for your help, and good luck with whatever you do in the future.’

‘Thanks. I won’t say you have restored my faith in humanity, and men in particular, but you have edged the dial a tad. You will let me know if Mickey Moo made it back to HK?’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I will.’

Mrs Barber sniffed into a tiny hanky, stood up, and said, ‘If there’s nothing else?’

‘No,’ said Walter, ‘you get off. We’ll be in touch.’

After she had gone, Walter and Karen let out a synchronised sigh, before she said, ‘Where do we start with that?’

‘If Barney changed his mind about getting together with Mrs Barber, what is to say he didn’t change his mind about marrying the oriental temptress, Madame Marina Moo? And if he did, think of the shame of it, the loss of face on her part, and they hate losing face, and that would have provided a powerful motive to get even, and maybe kill him.’

‘Yes,’ said Karen, ‘Madame Moo needs to be added to the ever-growing list of candidates.’

Walter said, ‘First things first. Find out if Mickey is alive and well in Hong Kong?’

‘I’m on that as soon as we get back.’

‘Fancy going for a Chinese tonight?’

She glanced across at his expressive face, grinned and said, ‘I do, especially if you are paying. Mine’s a chicken chow mein.’

Walter nodded and said, ‘Before that, we have more people to see.’

She glanced at her hastily prepared list.

‘We do. Six more by my count, three blokes and three women, who I am guessing will all have interesting tales to tell.’

‘Let’s hope so. We are making progress, but we are still nowhere close to a prime suspect. Let’s get them moving,’ and Karen stepped outside, hunting the next rabbit.

Chapter sixteen

Jenny kept the coming of the wills to herself until she had the time to go through them with her sharp eye.

She knew Cecil Norman died first, and it made sense to start with his last testimony. She was about to find out what he thought of the three surviving kids, and couldn’t wait.

The first bequest was an annual annuity of £1,000 to look after and maintain Grace’s impressive grave. No surprise there, and Jenny couldn’t help wondering what she would have received if she had been alive.

The next beneficiary was the doctor. Not Cecil’s doctor, but his first daughter, Gillian, who received £10,000 tax free, a reasonable slug of ready cash to arrive out of the blue, but a pittance compared to the full estate. It wouldn’t even buy a new car.

Next up was the youngest, Garry. His father left him £20,000, a figure to surprise some, and one he could have been disappointed with, though he need not have worried.

There were no charitable donations other than £1,000 to the local parish church, a place Cecil rarely ventured inside, and Jenny imagined he was trying to gain a small favour, just in case.

The last beneficiary was Georgia, his faithful wife, a woman who produced five children for him, and tolerated his quarrelsome behaviour over many decades, with fortitude and fun in equal measure. No one was surprised to see or hear she gained control of the family fortune.

It didn’t bother Garry because he knew he was her long-time favourite, and when her day of reckoning arrived, he remained confident she would be generous to him.

£80,000 set aside to cover death duties, a small amount bearing in mind the estate ran to £2.75 million, (some people were just so damned lucky, thought Jen), a low tax figure brought about by the bulk of money being in the family home, along with careful and astute financial management over several years. The accountants had earned their whopping fees, and then some.

Cecil passed the baton and responsibility of the Norman family to Georgia to decide who would one day receive the lion’s share, providing she didn’t go batty and leave it to next door’s dog, or the lions in Chester Zoo, as had happened in a recent contested family will on the other side of the city.

The second son, Grahame Norman, enjoying his life in New Zealand, received not a penny, or a mention, which some thought the correct decision for abandoning the family, while others considered him unjustly penalised by a father who never warmed to the boy. Either way, Grahame was scrubbed from history as if he had never existed.

Jenny yawned and struggled with her concentration. Should personal likes and dislikes decide where family money was passed? Probably not, though most people did it, and perhaps the main reason Grahame fled to the other side of the world was Cecil’s overbearing, even bullying, behaviour. Who knew? Cecil was dead, and everything forgotten.

The long dead older son, Gordon, received no mention in the will, and no one was surprised at that.

There it was, done and dusted, as Jenny set the papers down and moved on to the matriarch, Georgia. A frisson of excitement fizzed through Jen’s mind, for she hoped it would signal who would carry the family’s standard and wealth into the future.

First up again was Gillian in Dundee. £20,000 would wing its way to her, double the amount Cecil left, but still tiny.

Next, a token £5,000 would find its way to windy Wellington in NZ for Grahame, with a note to spend some money on their children, grandkids Georgia had never seen or heard from. Grahame expected nothing, yet when it came, he couldn’t keep long-buried bitter feelings from his heart. If Grahame had his time over again, he wouldn’t do anything different.

If those back in the mother country wanted to heal wounds, five grand was an insult. His children would never know of the bequest, and Grahame donated the money to a New Zealand charity supporting rugby players, suffering catastrophic injuries. His wife wholeheartedly approved, loved him the more for it, and joined him at the presentation to the rugby authorities.

Georgia mulled over for weeks which charities to leave money to, unable to decide, settled on giving £500 to twenty different causes. £10,000, and she was happy with that. It was a fair amount to give to strangers, though some thought she could have been more generous.

The entire balance of her estate, coming down from Cecil to her, and on again, she left to her beloved son, Garry Guy Norman. The youngest one, the love of her life, not to mention the only child to produce available grandchildren. A boy, Jordan, and a girl, Caroline, beautiful kids Garry brought to see their grandma often. He knew which side of his bread was buttered, even if he didn’t enjoy the visits one bit.

Georgia thought time spent with the children was the happiest she ever had. In her mind, Garry deserved everything for his conduct. He was such a handsome and upright fellow, a member of the masons, popular and loved by his many friends, sharing the same values and beliefs as her, and he and his family brought her feelings of pride and fulfilment.

Besides the official-speak and disclaimers, a note about legal fees, and small amounts of outstanding personal tax, that was it. Finito. The end of the Cecil and Georgia story, dying wealthy people, leaving behind well-educated children scattered across the globe. Both parents lying together, cuddling up to Gracie in Blacon cemetery, similar sized marble headstones so none were superior. If only they could talk, what would they say?

Jenny did a quick check and discovered Garry and family wasted no time in moving into a sprawling place in Christleton by the name of Floribunda Farm, though it had never been a farm, where the kids delighted in charging between mature trees in the vast lawned gardens, bothering the ducks on the sizeable pond.

Death duties rose to £95,000, a mere trifle, and a manageable figure kept at bay by skilled legal manipulators, and it was no surprise the total estate was higher, at £2.95 million, reflecting the rise in property values.

Both wills were overseen and managed by Mr Ron Golding, though Jenny did not connect the boxes, too busy figuring out what they were thinking, reading between the lines. Was there anything in there pointing towards Barney’s killer? If so, she didn’t see it.

She sat back and sighed. It was interesting, but predictable. No secret mistresses or lovers. No scandal or contentious issues, and no dirty washing being displayed, and in the end, a disappointment. She didn’t know what she expected, but it left her with a feeling of failure.

Across the desk, Martin remained baffled, unable to find any trace of John Williams’ lottery win, searching high and low without success, before he had a minor brainwave.

He rang the lottery company, and after much to and froing, getting them to call back to prove he was who he said he was, they confirmed one simple fact. John Williams, living at the provided address in Chester, had never won a major prize in the lottery. He may have won smaller prizes where the winner’s names went unrecorded, but nothing more.

So why had he lied? And what did it mean for the missing bowling club money, and did it have any bearing on Barney’s murder? He couldn’t see it, but was keen to speak to the Guv when he returned, for he would have thoughts on the matter.

Chapter seventeen

The last six interviewees at the garden centre proved a waste of time. All were keen to gossip, and attempted to extract scandal, but none had anything fresh to add, other than repeat rumours and innuendo.

On the drive to Chester, Walter and Karen remained silent, lost in their own thinking, trying to figure out who most wanted Barnabus dead.

As they crossed the canal, Karen said, ‘Guv, can I ask you a personal question?’

‘Oh?’ he said, surprised, and a little alerted, for whenever anyone said: can I ask a personal question, they usually meant an embarrassing one.

‘If you must, though there is no guarantee I will answer.’

She grinned and said, ‘Okay, here goes. What exactly is a willy ring?’

Walter guffawed and almost spat out his mint before saying, ‘I think you’d be better off asking your better half about that.’

‘I can’t ask him! He’ll think I’m a right div. Come on, Guv, you’re acting like an embarrassed parent being asked about the birds and bees by a ten-year-old.’

‘Not at all. My advice is, try Darren. He’s an expert on all things personal.’

‘No-oo, I don’t want to ask him. He will turn it into one huge joke, and never let me forget it.’

‘Search the internet. Everything is there if you look for it.’

‘I will if I have to, but it’s such a cold place, and I’d much rather hear it from another living, breathing human being, and thinking about it, when I first started working for you, I distinctly remember you saying I was free to ask you anything, anything at all. Remember that?’

‘I remember something along those lines, though I am not sure personal matters were included in the brief.’

‘Oh, go on, Guv. I won’t tell anyone.’

‘Ask Shirley. I am sure she could fill you in.’

‘I’ll bet she could, though she’s a bit rough, isn’t she? I reckon there is something weird about her. I think I’d have to get to know her much better before broaching the subject.’

Walter sighed and said, ‘Oh, all right! Why do I feel I am going to regret this?’

‘You won’t. Go on, Guv. Presumably it goes on…’

‘Yes! That’s correct, you’ve nailed it, sergeant.’

‘But why? What’s the point? I don’t get it. Have you got one?’

‘No, I have not! And that is as far as I am going. Change the subject, Greenwood. Is Madame Moo the rose twig murderer? Does she have a garden with roses? Can she get hold of cyanide? And does she have any cyanide in the Blue Lantern?’

‘You’re trying to change the subject.’

‘Maybe I am, but they are fair questions.’

‘Perhaps we could peep over her garden hedge when we see her later, assuming you still want to go.’

‘I do. Pick me up at half-past seven.’

‘I will. Smart cas, is it, dress wise?’

‘Yes, I don’t think they would appreciate you turning up in filthy, ripped jeans. Mind you, filthy jeans seem to be a certain type of person’s best clobber these days. I think I must be getting old.’

‘Trendy, Guv, or at least they think they are. Don’t worry about it. Stick to your suit and tie, and I’ll run with smart cas, no dirty and holey jeans on display.’

‘That’s a relief,’ and a moment later they edged past the Fountains roundabout, and headed on towards the station to see what everyone had been up to, and hopefully in there somewhere would be strong pointers towards pinning the title “prime suspect” on one of the grinning and gurning faces they had assembled.

There was a quiet atmosphere in the office, but not quiet, as in nothing going on, quiet, as everyone going about their business with zealousy, an unusual word, close to jealousy, but with more positive connotations.

Both Walter and Karen noticed the keenness everyone adopted, and that was good, as they took their seats, and joined in with the positive thinking in seeking a killer.

Martin was first to their desk to tell them it seemed Gordon Norman was murdered by his alcoholic friends, who were all dead, and thus, he was satisfied the case was closed. But more interesting was his discovery John Williams had won nothing substantial on the lottery.

‘Why would anyone do that?’ he said. ‘He’s asking for a fall.’

Karen said, ‘Maybe he has nothing going on in his life, and was desperate for attention.’

Walter rippled his eyebrows and said, ‘Karen’s nailed that, I think,’ and Martin went to move away, as Walter said, ‘Good work, Martin. We will ask him the next time we see him,’ and Marty nodded, felt happier, and returned to his workstation.

‘A few things I want to look at,’ said Karen, and she departed the room.

Next up was Jenny, with the results of examining the wills and all that entailed.

Walter said, ‘Give me the condensed version, Jen. My mind is going into info overload.’

‘Okey-doke. Garry, the youngest child, is minted, picked up almost everything, including the value of the sold family home. Grahame in New Zealand is out of the picture, or the evidence we have tells us so. Gillian the Dundee doctor received thirty grand but no more, and the other two children are certified dead.’

Walter pulled a face, his lower lip extending as he said, ‘Fair enough. Good work. Go to town on Garry and Gillian, and dig up all you can on them. Has she been back to Chester, and what has the favoured one been spending his money on? Big finance can produce big opportunities, and if he held a long-term grudge, he could have organised Barney’s demise without going anywhere near the man, or the bowling club. He might even have been out of the country to provide a rock-solid alibi. Be interesting to know if he was abroad when the murder took place.’

‘On it, Guv, leave it with me.’

A moment later, Karen returned to the room, hustling down the office towards Walter, papers in hand. At their bank of desks, she paused a second, stooped, and whispered in his ear, ‘They are called cock rings,’ grinning and giggling like a schoolgirl, before going on her merry way, hustling towards the records office.

Walter shook his head and shouted after her, ‘The Moo-Moos?’

‘I’m on it. Be back soon,’ and she disappeared.

She was as good as her word, smiling down at him, sitting down, saying, ‘Michael Mickey Moo is alive and well and residing in a Hong Kong police station, denied bail, pending trial on tax fraud and tax evasion charges.’

‘Did the Hong Kong police tell you that?’

‘Nope, but the local English language newspapers are full of it. It’s all there on the internet if you care to read it, including photos of him in handcuffs, a frightened look on his face, being dragged into the courtroom for his last bail hearing, which was denied.’

‘I am surprised there are any English language papers left in Hong Kong after the authorities forced so many to close and put their brave proprietors in the dock.’

‘Whatever, but there are still two or three, though I guess they must be heavily regulated, and who knows? Maybe their days are numbered.’

‘Looks that way. So, Madame Moo is not a murderer?’

‘I didn’t say that. I just proved she didn’t murder Mr Moo. Still want to see her later?’

‘Oh yes. Pick me up at 7.30. I’m looking forward to it.'

Chapter eighteen

Walter’s phone rang. Mrs West inviting him into her web. Dammit! He wasn’t ready, though a summons from the queen-bee was not something to ignore or she might send her drones to buzz him.

He bent down, tied his shoes, stood up, and loped away without a word.

Her door was half open, and he tapped on it and went inside.

‘Sit down, Walter. Time for a chat.’

‘Good,’ he said, unable to think of anything more positive.

She set her pen down, sat back in her chair, stared at him, and he looked okay. He’d sure looked worse.

‘What happened about the love nest flat?’

‘Sorry, I forgot to mention. Nothing there, ma’am. Utilitarian. The place was used for one thing and one thing only, and we found no records or technology or anything to move things forward.’

The boss pulled a disappointed face and continued.  

‘Prime suspect, Mr D?’

‘No, don’t have one.’

‘Not what I wanted to hear. In that case, no prime suspect means it is time to list all the runners and riders, and eliminate them one by one until we are left with two or three, or better still, just one.’

‘It will be a damn long list.’

‘So you keep saying. All the more reason to get started right away. Take it away. You have control.’

He looked around her office and back at her. Like everyone, she was in a determined mood, and that was good. Determination was almost as good as persistency.

‘Okay, from the off, here we go. The last man to see Barnabus Reynolds alive, other than the killer, unless they are one and the same, is John Williams, the gofer and do-anything bloke at the club. He says he left Barney there at night, and when he returned first thing the next morning, found Barney dead on the floor of his office.’

‘People who discover a dead body and report it are often the killer.’

‘True, though we have no evidence of that. But…’

‘But what?’

‘Martin has discovered John Williams has lied to us, and everyone else.’

‘Oh? What about?’

‘He never won a big lottery prize.’

‘Is that all? Perhaps he craved attention, people seeking him out, maybe asking for a loan. In most circumstances, telling the odd porky-pie is not a crime.’

‘That’s what we thought.’

She exhaled hard before saying, ‘When I was a young DC, just starting on the job, wet behind the ears, didn’t know a thing, you know how it was, my grizzled sergeant said: when interviewing, start with the proven liar. It’s served me well. If he lied about that, what else has he lied about?’

‘A fair point.’

‘Get him in tomorrow morning and grill him. Be harsh on him if necessary. Shake his tree and see what fruit and veg tumble out.’

Walter nodded, though he thought it would be a waste of time, but before he could comment, she barked, ‘Next!’

Walter took a breath and said, ‘There were three strangers in the club that night.’

‘Who? What? Where? Why?’ she spat out, as if it were the first time she had heard such a thing.

‘They were there to fill out application forms with a view to joining.’

‘And?’

Walter took out his notebook to refresh his crowded mind.

‘Two brown-haired and brown-eyed men, similar in looks and build, maybe brothers or cousins, or just good friends, aged late forties, something like that.’

‘People often choose friends who look like them. What time was this?’

‘Around ten.’

‘Strange time to turn up at the club, don’t you think?’

‘There was a football match that night, Chester FC, and they came straight to the club after the match ended. It seems there was a bowling club ad in the programme offering a free trial session, and they thought it worth checking out. No time like the present, that kind of thinking.’

‘Probably more into subsidised beer prices, if I know social clubs. Who spoke to them, and do we have names for these characters?’

‘The same John Williams. He seems to do everything. I reckon the club would fold if he wasn’t present. But, no, ma’am, no names. He was so busy he said he gave them forms to fill in, or is it fill out, and come back when ready for their promised free lesson and session, and if they were still interested, he would put their application to the president, reassuring them it shouldn’t be a problem.’

‘Takes a bit on himself, doesn’t he? He’s got good motive. Have you considered the killer might be staring us in the face?’

‘Possibly, ma’am, though for whatever reason, I don’t think it’s him.’

‘We can all be wrong, Walter.’

‘I know, and I haven’t closed my eyes or mind to that.’

‘Three? You said three strangers.’

‘Yes, the third one was older, a big head of exploding grey hair, Williams said, the full set, mutton shops, moustache, all wispy grey except for the bushy black eyebrows John noticed, plus a substantial nose.’

‘Nothing wrong with a big nose, Walter. Did he get a name?’

‘No, not taken. The man was quite open about being lonely, and hoped to make friends at the club, and said he would be there four or five times a week spending money in the bar, if he were admitted, as if that might swing his membership.’

‘Just the kind of members they would want.’

‘Yes, could be.’

‘That club should buck its ideas up with who comes and goes, and they should take names, addresses, and phone numbers of anyone who turns up unannounced.’

‘I will impress that on Mr Williams when I see him tomorrow.’

‘And by the way, it isn’t unusual for men to have grey hair and black eyebrows. All my uncles were the same. The hair, such as it was, seemed to grey in differing areas at different times.’

Walter wasn’t going to argue.

Mrs West spoke again.

‘That’s four candidates in five minutes.’

‘I said it would be a long list.’

‘How did you get on at the garden centre?’

‘I was coming to that.’

‘Crack on. Give me the précised version. We haven’t all day.’

Walter bobbed his head, sorted his thoughts into decent order, and set off, telling her about Mrs Golding, Mrs Barber, and Miss Adamson, and maybe irate husbands, and countless others, and the Moos and more, plus Barry Beaumont, though he had an alibi, albeit from his wife, and that could not be relied on.

Mrs West said, ‘Madam Moo sounds interesting. If Barney messed her about, as you say he was wont to do, she might have lost her mind and turned to thinking of having him killed.’

‘However much we might despise unfaithful partners and serial adulterers, it is not a criminal offence.’

’I know. You don’t need to remind me of that. Though maybe it should be. The more I hear about Barnabus Reynolds, the less I like him.’

There was a break for thought, before Walter told her Mr Moo went missing, and some speculated she had bumped him off, but that proved incorrect, for he was in HK in custody on fraud charges, and thus out of the country at the time of the murder.

Mrs West sniffed into a pristine hanky and said, ‘Maybe we should get Madame Moo in tomorrow and grill her like sticky pork ribs.’

An interesting image, as Walter said, ‘Going to see her tonight. Karen and I.’

‘Are you eating there?’

‘That’s the thinking.’

‘Watch out for wafting rose twigs,’ she said with a grin, ‘and take plenty of money. It’s expensive, and not on exe’s, Walter. Your choice to dine there, you pick up the tab.’

Walter was always going to pay, and shifted onto the wills, and the two UK based surviving Norman children, Garry and Gillian.

‘They interest me,’ she said, leaning across the desk. ‘If Garry inherited millions, what is he doing, or what has he done with the money?’

‘Jenny is looking into that, and we must not forget Bella.’

‘The devoted but stricken wife, putting up with a shit-head of a husband, right?’

‘The same,’ said Walter, wondering at the description.

‘You think she’s capable of murdering him?’

‘Not especially, but she had motive. It looks as if she will receive everything after his demise, and we don’t really know how she felt about his rampant bedroom activities across the county.’

‘I think we can guess. I know how I would feel. She would have been mortified, and if she had the wherewithal, she might have found someone to splash cyanide and do the job. Are there roses in her garden?’

Walter thought back to the Sandon Road place, with the rottweilers grunting in the back, and an image came to his mind of a rose-bed in front of the adjoining fence on the right side, in a long straight flower bed with ample rotting horse manure, burgeoning plants within the decaying dung, having a whale of a time, sucking up rotting nutrients.

‘There are, you’re right.’

‘Check it out next time you go.’

‘Talking of cyanide,’ said Walter, ‘are the final reports in?’

‘No, not yet. They said there was a slight delay as more tests were required to prove which type of cyanide was used. You know what they are like. All belt and braces, never write anything down until they are 100% positive. There are four types, not that it makes any difference to us, or to Barnabus. They all kill.’

Walter said, ‘It might help if we could track down where it came from.’

‘True, once we know what we are dealing with, it should narrow down the field. So, go on, Mr Darriteau. Run me through the new line-up of runners and riders, and don’t tell me there are lots of them.’

‘Okay, this is how I see it. John Williams, ever-present at the club. Three John Does, as the Americans would say, two brown-haired blokes, maybe brothers, and a lonely Father Christmas character with black bushy eyebrows. I must mention there were also perhaps a hundred other people in and out of the club that night, and it could be any of them, so that is the proverbial needle. After that, the two Norman children, Garry and Gillian, a third one in NZ, though he has never left the country. Barry Beaumont, who took Barney’s mistress off him, and we don’t know how much ill-feeling there was there. Many angry and irritated husbands and partners, including Mr Golding and Mr Barber and several others, plus Mrs Moo, and not forgetting Bella. All told, there could be two hundred people to identify, go through, and eliminate, so to speak.’

‘I see why you are struggling. Two things come to mind. Did you know Mr Golding, one of the potential unhappy husbands, is the big wheel at Sears & Golding, Solicitors, and he oversaw both Cecil and Georgia Norman’s wills?’

‘I did not. Though thinking about it, I don’t see anything underhand or crooked about that.’

‘No, but interesting. Have we forgotten anyone?’

‘For sure, it could be someone we haven’t come across, or thought about.’

‘Gut feeling?’

‘I don’t have one. Not yet.’

‘Time for you to have a heart-to-heart with your gut, I reckon. So, it’s Madame Moo tonight, Johnny Williams in the morning, and nose-put-out husbands at supper time?’

Walter grinned, before saying, ‘Something like that.’

‘Okay, I’ll give you the six I favour.’

Walter nodded and said, ‘Feel free.’

‘Garry Norman, the mysterious visiting Three Kings of Orient Are, Johnny Williams, and Madame Moo. I’d be amazed if the killer wasn’t within that bunch.’

‘You could be right. Between now and tomorrow lunchtime, we hope to have whittled down the field. Anyone providing a rock-solid alibi is out.’

Mrs West nodded and said, ‘True, so long as they haven’t employed someone else to do the deed.’

‘There is that, I suppose.’

She beckoned to the door and said, ‘Off you pop, Walter. Set your brain clunking. It’s about now you see something no one else could. Crack the whip. I want and need a prime suspect to relay to the quizzical spirits perched on my shoulder. Find him or her, and we go about preparing a solid case.’

‘That is the aim.’

‘Good man, keep me up to speed,’ and Walter stood up, nodded down, and slipped away, though she still had time to add a final thought. ‘Don’t forget the rose twigs. How many of these creeps grow roses?’

‘Ma’am,’ he said. ‘Looking in Moo’s garden tonight,’ and he was away, glad to be out of there, wondering if the killer was hiding within her favoured six.

Chapter nineteen

Karen rolled up outside Walter’s house at twenty-five past seven. He was ready, newish navy suit, yellow and blue striped silk tie, polished black shoes, and a shorty dark coat he shrugged on when hearing the car.

It took twenty-two minutes to drive the twelve miles through light traffic to Parkgate. The commuters had gone home for supper, while the cinema brigade were lounging in their comfy seats. On the way, they passed the garden centres on the left, including the sprawling Cecil Norman complex, closed at six, locked and bolted with burly security guards on site, looking after several million pound’s worth of stock.

They turned left at Neston crossroads, and rolled down the gentle hill at twenty-eight miles an hour, to the bottom, before turning right at the popular pub and diner, onto the ancient promenade.

It was wide there, with plenty of room to park on the left, though the road soon narrowed. Fresh double yellow lines on both sides of the road for the new season, warning allcomers they parked at great risk. Any vehicle disobeying and blocking the road could be loaded onto a flatbed truck, and towed away at any time of day or night, with a release fee costing hundreds of pounds.

After the lines, Karen found a space and parked the dark BMW behind a new VW. She put on the handbrake, took out the key, and jumped out, as Walter eased out onto the pavement. To the left, a low seawall, but no sea and no boats, not even a rowing boat or abandoned canoe, no beach or breakwaters, for the estuary had long since retreated, leaving Parkgate silted up and abandoned.

A port where the nation’s all-time hero and pin-up boy, I see no ships, Horatio Nelson, once sailed and strolled and dallied with the ladies. On the other side of the wall the boggy damp ground was five or six feet below, where straggly bog and moisture-loving plants struggled to gain a foothold, the growing season beginning, warmer days providing fresh growth.

A designated nature reserve attracting twitchers and the curious from across the country, seeking the sight of ground-nesting birds, busy building their homes. An inhospitable place, for predators abounded. Bold cats, feral and house pets from surrounding cottages, and rats seeking a meal, in danger of being devoured. Out of control, and off the lead dogs, or a hungry fox, seeking chick-snacks, or better still, eggs, unworried at the possibility of getting wet feet and knees in the boggy ground. The discomfort would be worth it, and worst of all, for the ground nesters, the aerial brigade.

Three types of owl, a kestrel, an occasional heron, and the big boy in the district, a buzzard, all interested in fresh, easy picking chicks. And that was before one factored in a variety of merciless gulls who would eat anything.

Walter stared across the estuary, to the fast-flowing water, almost a mile away. The last shreds of daylight were dissolving over the low Welsh hills on the faraway opposite bank, as the lights from Flint twinkled in the distance. A quarter moon appeared low in the sky, not yet bright, low candle-power, though it would not remain that way for long.

Avian night-time flying operations were cancelled, other than owls, with the predators home on their nests, counting eggs, checking on the wife, for there were plenty of aggressive unattached local males looking for fun, giving the ground-dwellers a brief break from aerial bombardment, before the watery sun reappeared, and slaughter recommenced.

Walter and Karen set off, heading north along the promenade, zeroing in on the Blue Lantern, still a hundred yards away. Despite the cooling darkness, there were people about. The odd dog-walker, a Westie, a poodle, and a yappy French bulldog, all pulling and sniffing and seeking mischief.

A young couple hopelessly in love, walking arm in arm, happy in their own company, not noticing anything or anyone, and an old couple, also arm in arm, oblivious to the world, more in love than ever, and more so than the youngsters, for a long-term relationship could do that. What was their story?

On the other side of the road, the old buildings crowded in on the patched tarmac, many of them attached to their neighbours, though there was still the odd ancient detached cottage, set at a right-angle, two hundred plus years old, clinging on to a small rose-less garden where firethorn and forsythia were waking up, ready to smother and bother the weeds.

Ancient paving stones where Admiral Nelson might have once peered through the glass, two and a quarter centuries before, into welcoming windows, candlelight twinkling, curtains not yet drawn, wondering who was at home, and how they were, and who they were, and what they did, and were there any pretty ladies inside?

There were several restaurants on the stretch, trendy and upmarket with expensive overheads, and big tickets on the menu prices to keep them solvent. A sandwich shop, specialising in prawns and crab butties, closed for the night, two ice cream parlours, also shut, awaiting the hustle-bustle of the new season, any day now, when they would open all hours, piling up cash to pay their bills through the winter months. A small award-winning fish and chip shop, five impressive rosettes in the window, open and busy and doing brisk trade.

No neon on display in gaudy flashing colours, strictly forbidden. You would have to go across the water to Rhyl in North Wales if you wanted that. Or up to the northernmost tip of the busy peninsula, the packed commuter-land of New Brighton, where plenty of pulsing neon adorned the seafront clubs, restaurants, and bars.

There was even a sizeable school on Parkgate promenade, bulging out onto the street, all black and white faux Tudor construction, a private school sending out big quarterly bills to the parents of any kid lucky enough to attend.

As they walked, the road grew ever narrower, while further up it would slim down to a single lane. Not a single lane going either way; but a single lane catering for both ways, where oncoming traffic would wait for those opposite to come through. An after you, Claude, arrangement, that worked pretty well.

The British were many things, but for the most part, were still polite drivers. Yes, there would be an occasional speeding idiot, or a drive bully pushing through, out of turn, leaving others aghast, standing, waiting, with maybe an apologetic girlfriend sitting alongside the bully, mouthing an, ‘I’m sorry,’ thinking her beau was a fool, keeping the thought to herself, telling her big boy, ‘You should have waited there, Matt,’ only to be ignored.

Up ahead, the Blue Lantern came into view. They could smell it before they saw it. Located slap bang on the front, with amazing views over the estuary, views they did not make the most of, with thick lace curtains keeping the eyes inside.

Walter said, ‘Have you been to the Lantern before?’

‘Once, a long time ago, but it was under different ownership, and a different name.’

‘Yeah, same here.’

Time to cross the road. They checked the light traffic and paused as a fat Bentley purred through, coming from the left, big headlights on making a big statement, a British Asian man driving, looking pleased with himself; a blonde bombshell at his side, going to heaven knows where to do heaven knows what.

‘I know him,’ said Karen.

‘Is there any man in the county you don’t know?’

She giggled and said, ‘That’s not nice, and it’s not my fault if I have a vast circle of friends. It’s Rohit. He owns the Carousel Club in Chester. Packed out every night, and he’s making a fortune.’

Ah yes, the Carousel Club. Even Walter knew the place, though didn’t patronise it. He was too old for that. The thump, thump, thump-bang, bang, bang, head-rattling music, not his scene. It never had been, and he guessed Rohit, whatever his name was, met his twenty years younger blonde friend at the club. Nothing illegal in that.

They checked the road again. It was clear, and crossed over to stare at the restaurant. Atop the wide bank of curtained windows was a small blue lit sign: The Blue Lantern, written in a fancy font. Almost neon, but not intrusive, nor huge, or flashing on and off, with no picture or logo within, just the name, and that was enough. Many Wirral and Chester people knew the Lantern, and most of them had ventured over the step at least once in their lifetime, finance permitting.

The building was joined rock solid to both its neighbours, with no room for any garden, meaning no burgeoning thorny rose bushes, though there was always round the back. Walter grabbed the polished brass door handle, pulled it open, and said, ‘After you.’

Karen stepped in, saying, ‘Thank you, my man,’ and in the next second they were inside, where the warm aroma hit them, a feast for the nose, inducing hunger, seducing the senses, persuading the punters to think of buying an additional course, never worrying about the tariff.

Walter glanced round, seeking Marina Moo, not seeing her, and worrying she might not be in the house.

Chapter twenty

Inside the Lantern, Walter and Karen glanced round the large room. He removed his coat and hung it on a curly coat rack, as Karen’s skimpy short jacket remained in place.

Before them, a polished hardwood lectern with a startling carved dragon on the front, a slight Chinese gentleman standing behind. Before Karen and Walter were two couples, a young, glamorous pair at the front, both blonde, her hair long and wavy, his, short and gelled. Estate Agents, Walter reckoned, though it was dangerous to pigeonhole people.

They gave their name, Cowley. Walter knew no one of that name, unknown to the police, some might say, and the maître d’, or whatever he was, called for a waitress. A young Chinese girl appeared, perhaps a teen, in black skirt and white blouse. He barked at her in Cantonese, and white blouse said in accented English, ‘Follow me,’ and the blondes tracked her to their table.

Next in line, two greyhairs, maybe sixty, well-groomed and dressed, perhaps out celebrating, not short of a bob or two by the look of them, archetypal business owners, or maybe local politicians. They looked the type, or perhaps they owned another garden centre on the High Road, one of Cecil Norman’s rivals. Funnier things had happened. They shuffled closer to the lectern to give their name, knowing the procedure, maybe indicating regulars.

‘Horsethwaite,’ he said with a lisp and flying spittle.

The Chinese guy nodded, checked his booking, and was satisfied.

Karen and Walter shared a look, as she whispered, ‘Nice name,’ and the ceremony at the front repeated itself, with a different waitress escorting them away to a better table and a better seat in a different part of the room. Regulars for sure, thought Walter.

While they waited, they checked out the place.

Between most of the square tables, low stained-glass windows divided the space, giving some privacy to diners, for they couldn’t be seen while sitting, but standing servers and supervisors could monitor everything. On each table, a small low-powered black light, with a tall circular white shade, and on the shade, written in red, were splashes of Chinese calligraphy, the prized and valued art form, keeping ancient proverbs alive. Walter would love to know what they said, but that was for another day.

Within the stained-glass dividers were Oriental designs featuring pagodas and rivers and mountains, dragons and mythical creatures, and most important, the immortals. And thinking about immortals, on a ledge two thirds of the way up on the back wall, Walter spotted eight two-foot-high marble statues of the most important examples, legendary Taoists from Chinese mythology. Not quite gods, but almost, closer to Christian saints.

Walter thought them impressive and expensive; as he wondered if they were imported, or made in the UK, perhaps in a small workshop in Chinatown, twenty miles away, across the River Mersey, in Liverpool, close by the two cathedrals. Walter imagined Confucious saying: giving business to friends was wise, even if it worked out more expensive than shipping from home.

In the centre of the room, on the high ceiling, was a huge black framed six-sided blue lantern. It looked antique, and Walter wondered if they had brought it from Hong Kong. The light was on, shining through the blue glass, but not bright or overbearing, more a statement piece, always there, reminding everyone where they were.

In the background, soft Chinese music played, giving a warm hum to the place. The sound of contented conversation rising in competition, as diners took their places and whispered across the tables, and it would be at least an hour before the spoken word reached peak level.

The little guy at the lectern brought them back to the moment with a barked, ‘Next!’

Walter and Karen eased forward to the polished timber.

‘Name!’

Walter said, ‘We want to see Mrs Moo.’

‘What-about? You can’t!’

Karen flashed ID and calmly said, ‘We are police officers and need to see Mrs Moo, like now.’

The man took the ID and stared at the photo and credentials, and back at the blonde woman, he guessed might be fun.

He returned the ID and said, ‘You tell me what-about.’

Walter said, ‘Bring Mrs Moo out to see me or I will put you under arrest.’

He thought about it for three seconds, before saying, ‘You wait!’ and he turned about and disappeared through the two-way swinging double doors, where waitresses were bringing out trays of sizzling aromatic meals, or taking dirty, discarded dishes back in.

They waited two minutes, and two minutes when standing, kicking heels, in a restaurant queue seemed an age, as new arrivals backed up.

A moment later, Mrs Moo appeared; the little guy in her slipstream.

She studied them through bright green eyes, nodded and said, ‘About Barnabus’s death?’

‘It is,’ said Karen.

‘I have been expecting. You late. Slow off mark. Not good for policemen.’

Karen wanted to correct her by saying police officers, though remained silent, as Marina Moo spoke again.

‘Come out of way, we busy,’ and she beckoned them towards the curly coat-stand.

The maître d’ barked, ‘Next!’ and the following couple of mid-rangers, late-forties and happy, perhaps rid of the kids, maybe spending any potential inheritance on their own enjoyment.

The guy glanced at Walter, murmured, ‘Excuse us,’ as they half-smiled and eased past, the bloke recognising Walter from somewhere.

Mrs Moo said, ‘What ya want?’

Walter said, ‘We need to speak to you about important matters, but not here, somewhere private.’

‘No! You speak here, and quick. We busy.’

Karen said, ‘You don’t understand. We either speak to you here in private, or we will take you back to the police station in Chester for a formal interview.’

‘Fuck!’ she said, a strange response, they thought, as another couple turned to look, before she added, ‘Police! Same world over. Nosy parkings. Five mins. You follow,’ and they exchanged eye contact, as she turned about and headed towards the double doors.

In those brief minutes, Walter saw a great deal. It was true; Mrs Moo was arrogant, rude, overbearing, rough and unladylike, but also stylish, immaculately dressed, taller than the norm, super-fit, well-groomed and perfumed, green-eyed, and stunningly beautiful.

She didn’t hold the door open, as Karen reached ahead to grab it before it swung back in her face. Walter caught it and they went into a busy kitchen. He counted eight people, all hard at work, some yelling, all Chinese, but for one auburn-haired European, maybe twenty-five or thirty years old.

The noise was amazing. Sizzling frying food, pans being shaken and banged, thick China plates being slapped down to be plated up. An industrial dishwasher in the far corner going ballistic, people shouting and bawling in Chinese, maybe: Service! or, need more bean-sprouts! or even: police in the house! Who knew?

Mrs Moo glanced over her shoulder, and shouting to make herself heard, said, ‘Come on!’ and she opened a single door and they followed her into a dingy corridor in need of decoration, as Walter shut the door behind them to keep out the din.

Walter said, ‘You live here?’

She paused and glanced round at the grubby walls, before saying, ‘What? You think it scruffy? You think it shitty? You think it stinks?’

‘No, not at all.’

She nodded and said, ‘Up there,’ nodding at the ceiling. ‘I have nice flat. Super views. I like. Warm and cosy. Good.’

Walter nodded, and they continued past a closed door on the right side, following her to the back of the building, to a sizeable square office cum admin department, lace curtains and bars over the big square window. She went in and sat in a chair behind a desk, groaning under paperwork, and beckoned them in.

On the right wall were several heavy shelves with thirty fat, grey and white ring binders, Chinese characters handwritten on the spine, while in the left corner was a large and heavy safe, made by a famous Liverpool maker decades before, a piece of kit only a specialist could lift and shift.

There were no other seats in there. They would have to stand, and she hoped it would bring the meet to an early end.

‘Go,’ she said. ‘You hurry.’

‘We have a lot of questions,’ said Walter.

Karen produced her notebook.

Mrs Moo looked down her nose and said, ‘Better hurry, then. You be quick. I needed.’

‘Where were you on the night Barnabus Reynolds was murdered?’

‘What! You think I kill ’im?’

‘Did you?’ said Karen.

‘You serious?’

‘We are ruling out everyone where we can,’ said Walter.

‘I here, working. Ask anyone. I work every night. I hard worker. I not killer. We lovey-dovey. Barney loves Marina, yes? He bought me car. Everyone know. You ask silly question.’

Walter said, ‘Were you still lovey-dovey?’

She sighed, thinking on her reply, ‘Bits, not so much, he bad bloke sometimes, play around, butterfly, bloom to bloom, says one thing one week, different the next.’

Karen said, ‘He asked you to marry him?’

‘He did. Proof!’ and she flashed the big rock ring Walter clocked the moment he set eyes on her.

Walter said, ‘But you were married to Mr Moo, and Barnabus was married to Bella Reynolds, so you couldn’t marry. That right?’

She brushed her hand fast across the desk and said, ‘Mr Moo in Hong Kong, may never come back. He not here, we not married, easy divorce, and Mrs Reynolds sick. Only matter of time. We marry when ready. Barney promised. No sweat. I reel him in.’

Karen said, ‘Was there a date in the diary?’

She stared at Karen and said, ‘Lots of dates in diary!’

Walter said, ‘What Karen means is, was a date for the wedding fixed?’

‘No! Not yet. Will do. Soon as… or would have done.’

Walter said, ‘Do you know anyone who wanted to kill Barnabus Reynolds?’

She puffed out her cheeks and shook her head in thought, not as a denial, more in frustration.

‘Barney upset lot people. Many men like to punch him. I like to punch him sometimes. Could be annoying. But punching and killing, they different things.’

Walter said, ‘Sometimes in a fight, when punching goes on, accidents happen. Angry punching can lead to killing. Happens all the time.’

‘If you say. Is that what happened? Heavy punching?’

Karen said, ‘We are not sure. Under investigation.’

‘You catch him! You put him behind bars. Better still…’ and she pointed to her smooth throat and slashed a finger across. ‘What he deserve. I wouldn’t blame you.’

‘We will catch him, or her,’ said Walter. ‘You can be sure of that.’

‘You think it could be bitch?’

‘We have ruled nothing out.’

‘If it bitch, you look at Mrs Barber. She jealous cow. She hate me, and in the end, I think she hate Barney.’

Walter said, ‘She has a rock-solid alibi.’

‘Maybe family lying to save her.’

That was possible.

Karen asked, ‘Do you grow roses?’

‘Eh! What?’

Walter repeated the question.

‘When do I have time to grow roses? Where would I? No garden. Why you ask such stupid thing?’

‘Out the back?’ suggested Karen, pointing that way.

‘Nothing out back. Bins, concrete, and car. No more, I show you before you go.’

‘Do you keep cyanide on the premises?’ said Walter, ‘and think carefully before you answer.’

‘What? You think I poison customers? Same people who pay bills. You think I mad?’

‘No, not that,’ said Walter.

‘Ah, I see. Barney and cyanide. He poisoned? Age old way,’ and she exhaled and shook her head. ‘Poison best. Easiest. No violence. Leave poison, nibbly-nibbly, walk away, no see, job done.’

‘Do you?’ said Walter. ’Have any cyanide here?’

‘Not know of. Maybe in rat killer? That have cyanide? Like every food place, rats show up hungry, sniffing the air. They breed over road, come round when starving, seeking a way in. Always worse in year of rat. I not joke. Every time. Once every twelve years, plagued by them, though it’s lucky to be born in year of rat. I was. I rat. Good omen. Long life, charming and intelligent. That what it say. I lucky girl.’

‘Could you show us the rat killer before we go?’ said Karen.

‘Okay, can do.’

A pregnant pause followed, and she broke it by saying, ‘That it?’

‘For now,’ said Walter, setting his card on her desk. ‘If you think of anything else, or anyone who might have harmed Barnabus, call me right away. Anytime.’

She picked up the card, glanced at it, set it in her top left drawer, banged it shut, and said, ‘Okay, I show you yard, and rat killer.’

She squeezed past them and opened the side door. It led to a back door, but before that, on the right side, was a large, wall-mounted cupboard. She took a bunch of keys from her dress pocket and opened up.

Inside were all kinds of chemicals and killing agents. Extra strong bleach, drain cleaner, cockroach killer, ant killer, fly killer, wasp killer, and last but not least, rat and mouse killer. She handed Walter the half full box. He studied the ingredients. Nowhere did it say cyanide, but it included the words prussic acid, and prussic acid was another name for hydrogen cyanide. Walter made a couple of notes and handed the box to Marina Moo. She slapped it on the shelf and closed and locked the cabinet.

‘Wanna see out back?’

‘Might as well,’ said Karen.

Mrs Moo nodded, selected another key, and opened the back door.

Karen stepped outside. It was pitch dark in the yard, the tall building screening out the moon. She produced her phone and switched on the torchlight app. Amazing how much light it provided.

The yard was big, almost twenty yards by twenty, the entire ground concreted, with an array of industrial sized wheelie bins, all closed to keep out hungry invaders.

On the left side, a washing line ran the length of the yard, with six patterned tea towels fluttering in the cool March air. At the far end, a tall wooden fence, sturdy, but showing its age, and within the fence, a wide and tall gate, closed and bolted, and set inside the gate, pointing out, was the impressive cream electric Audi.

Karen pointed to the car and said, ‘From Barney?’

‘Yep, he good man sometimes. I miss, and wherever he is, he miss me.’

They came back in and she locked up. In the next second, they were through the kitchen, the fantastic aromas reminding Walter how hungry he was. Back in the restaurant, between the lectern and coat-stand, Walter looked at her.

She said, ‘That it?’

‘Yes, but we thought, while we are here, we might take some dinner.’

She grinned a haughty grin and shook her head.

‘No can do. Eleven days.’

Karen said, ‘What’s eleven days?’

‘Booked up for eleven days. Can do on twelve day. You want me to book?’

Karen glanced round the restaurant and could not see a single vacant seat.

‘We will leave it, thanks,’ said Walter. ‘Don’t forget to call me if you think of anything else?’

He threw on his coat, turned to say goodnight, but Mrs Moo was nowhere to be seen. In the next moment, they were back on the promenade, walking towards the car, the moon higher in the sky. Someone had turned up the candlepower.

Walter said, ‘I am sure she could have fitted us in somewhere. I think she wanted us out.’

‘I checked. There wasn’t a spare seat in the house.’

He wasn’t convinced, but his attention was taken by the smell of fish and chips floating from the award-winning chippy.

‘Can I treat you to fish and chips?’

Karen smiled and said, ‘Sure, I’m glad I didn’t come in my car now,’ and a minute later they stepped into the fish parlour, only one person waiting, to order two large cod and chips, though “large” had dwindled by half in the last two years, inflation, deflation, some kind of ’flation decimating the fish.

They remained on the prom, sitting in the BMW, making their way through the excellent fish and chips, going over everything Mrs Moo said.

Karen said, ‘She spoke fast and sometimes the words came out in an odd way.’

‘Nosy parkings was a good one.’

‘It was,’ and Karen giggled. ‘You think it scruffy? You think it shitty? You think it stinks?’

‘Yes, that too, and she used the F word.’

‘She did, and that was a surprise. But through it all, are we any further on, Guv? Can you see her murdering Barney, because I can’t. And she can’t murder Mickey Moo because he isn’t here. It’s been interesting, filling in background, but I think we can rule her out.’

‘You could be right, Greenwood, but I feel there is more to come.’

‘Agreed. So, who’s the prime suspect?’

Walter shook his head and munched on deep fried cod fillet before saying, ‘I wish I knew.’

A second later, he dropped a large piece of greasy batter in the footwell.

‘Uh oh,’ said Karen, ‘that won’t please Hoakey when he sees the stain.’

Happy Hoakey, the man in charge of the cars, cleaning, maintaining, polishing, and he detested mess. The happy used ironically, the Hoakey a nickname, though no one knew where it came from, or why, for the guy’s name was Stan Hewitt.

Walter finished his dinner, crossed his fingers, held them in the air, and said, ‘Hoakey and me are like that.’

‘I’ll take your word for it. Want these few chips? I don’t want any more.’

Walter glanced across the cabin. The remainders looked good, and he reached across, saying, ‘Be rude not to polish them off. Award-winning food, and all,’ and she grinned at him, as he set about them.

Chapter twenty-one

In the morning, Walter sent Ricky and Shirley back to the bowling club to pick up Johnny Williams to bring him in for questioning.

Ricky was cock-a-hoop, repeating several times he always thought the man was dodgy. He had been right, and the man was a murderer. Walter had to rein Ricky in; reminding him it was for an informal chat.

Shirley said, ‘What happens if he doesn’t want to come?’

‘Arrest him in connection with the murder of Barnabus Reynolds and bring him here.’

‘See!’ said Rick. ‘Everyone knows it’s him.’

The next time Walter took an incoming call, it was Bella. After polite intros, she kicked things off.

‘You remember you said if I thought of anything else I should call?’

‘I do.’

‘There is something. I can’t imagine how it slipped my mind, but with Barney’s death, and everything one has to do, arranging a funeral when you release him, and trying to contact my boys on the other side of the planet, perhaps it’s understandable.’

‘Of course it is. Take your time. There’s always tomorrow.’

‘But that’s the thing, Inspector, there isn’t, not always, is there?’

A negative thought Walter could do without.

‘Come on, Mrs Reynolds. Tell me what’s on your mind?’

‘Oh, no, I can’t. You know me. Always prefer face to face. I’m free this afty if you can make it.’

’Just a second,’ and Walter slipped open his diary. There were a couple of things there, but only minor admin matters, and nothing that couldn’t be shifted. ‘I can do 2.30,’ he said, pen poised.

‘Perfect, the dogs will be out. See you then.’

‘I’m glad you called. There are one or two things I wanted to ask you.’

‘Ooh, that sounds ominous.’

‘Not really, just boxing things off, making sure everything is just so. We’ll talk about it later.’

‘Okey-doke, that makes sense, see you soon,’ and the phones went down.

Karen returned from somewhere and Walter said, ‘Bella Reynolds, 2.30 this afternoon.’

She smiled down at him and said, ‘Am I to presume you want transporting to the outer reaches of planet Chesterion?’

‘Yes, that would be great. Get the ship ready, and your expertise and perceptiveness. Bella said she remembered something, and we have questions for her.’

‘We sure do. I wonder what she has to say?’

‘Good question. I have no idea. We’ll find out soon enough.’

Ricky and Shirley brought John Williams in and asked Walter where he wanted the man.

‘Interview room one,’ he said, and the guy was taken there and dumped.

Five minutes later, Walter and Karen went in and sat down. Karen started the recorder, saying the time and who was present.

‘John?’ said Walter, pausing to see if the man spoke, and he did.

‘What is it? What do you want? They treated me like a criminal.’

‘Just zealous in their work,’ said Karen.

Walter said, ‘We want to know why you lied to us, John.’

‘I haven’t.’

‘But you have. You said you were a lottery winner.’

‘Oh, that was nothing, just a bit of fun.’

‘You see, John, people who lie over little things often lie about big things as well.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. You tell us.’

‘I haven’t lied about Barnabus, if that’s what you think, and I didn’t kill him.’

Walter exhaled and said, ‘Have you thought of anything else, any tiny morsels to push us in the right direction?’

‘Not really, except one of the brown-haired men was called Joe, or was it Jimmy? No, Joe, I’m sure it was.’

‘Joe,’ said Karen, ‘Joe who?’

He shook his head and said, ‘No idea.’

Walter said, ‘My boss is worried your club is not well run.’

‘Eh? How do you make that out?’

‘It is a members’ club, isn’t it?’

‘You know it is.’

‘People coming and going at all hours; and no one records who they are. Not efficient, is it, or legal?’

Karen added, ‘And what happens if you had a fire and there were casualties? No one would have a clue who was present, and who could be missing.’

John sighed and said, ‘Okay, I take your point. We are short-staffed and unpaid, trying to offer a useful facility to the locals, and sometimes we get it wrong.’

‘That’s it for today,’ said Walter. ‘Just a friendly warning to tighten up, and stop telling silly fibs, and remember, we need help in solving a violent murder. Anything you hear or see, you ring me, understand?’

‘Sure, yes, I will.’

‘Okay, John, you can go. Sergeant Greenwood will see you out.’

‘What about a lift home?’

‘We are also very busy, and short-staffed, while trying to track down a cold-blooded killer.’

John shook his head and rubbed his top lip with the top of his index finger and followed her out.

Walter and Karen left at ten past two in case of snarled traffic. Another dry day, though still a cold nip in the air.

‘Dogs,’ she said.

‘Lovely creatures, out the back. If you get a chance, check out her roses. See if you can see anything that fits the bill. Strong maroon shoots. Better still; nip a couple off for comparison.’

‘I’d have to go outside for that.’

‘No problem. I’m sure Bill and Ben are looking forward to meeting you. You are not normally reluctant to meet handsome boys.’

Karen grinned and said, ‘The boys I know don’t bite, or at least not like Rottweilers, nor do they have four legs.’

Traffic was mediocre, and they pulled up outside the Reynolds family home at 2.25. Karen hustled to the door and rang the bell. No dogs barked. A few seconds passed before they heard coughing, and a moment later, Bella opened the door, nodding them in.

They went through to the swish modern room at the back and sat down opposite Mrs R.

Walter kicked things off.

‘You said you remembered something else, and I’m guessing it’s important, so would you like to start, and I’ll tell you what we are looking for when you have done?’

‘Fairy nuff,’ she said, or it came out that way, and she took a big breath before clearing her throat to begin.

‘It happened years ago, and maybe that is why it slipped my mind, though you will be surprised when you hear the magnitude of it. Way back to the credit crunch and businesses going bust left, right, and centre, 2008, was it? Something like that.’

Walter and Karen didn’t interrupt, keen to keep her talking.

‘Anyway, it was a hard time for everyone, interest rates rocketing, banks going bang, unemployment rising, financial institutions across the world in trouble. I am sure you remember it well. Add to that, I had the two young boys, and they were so demanding, I didn’t know what day it was half the time. They had so much energy, and I was always knackered, and he was always late home, if he came home at all, working on the business, he said, and sometimes he was, while others, well, the less said about that the better. Even now, thinking about it, it sears my heart. We made a pact, Barney and I. He would look after everything out of the house, meaning the business and all that entailed, and I would deal with everything inside, the boys. Getting them washed and dressed and off to playschool or primary school or whatever it was; and they were always at each other’s throats, tumbling about the floor, often after I had tarted them up for school. My god, they were a handful, and Barney never once helped. We made a deal. He stuck to his part, and I was supposed to look after mine. He was happy with the arrangement, and looking back on it, we can see why.’

‘What happened?’ said Walter.

She nodded, realising she was rambling.

‘It wasn’t long after we had taken over the business, when we handed every penny we had, and more, to the money-grabbing weasel, Cecil Norman, and we were stretched to breaking point. One of the first things people stop buying when there is a credit crunch, is trees and garden stuff. Oh, they might buy seeds, imagining they were going to cut their grocery bills, but it rarely works out that way. Anyway, to cut a long story short, sales plummeted. People stopped buying. Christmas decoration sales fell through the floor, and we sell tons of those, fancy garden furniture, big-ticket items stopped selling, water features, tree planting, garden design, all that kind of thing was put on hold, as sales collapsed, and we were this close,’ and she held up her hand, finger and thumb close together, ‘this close to going to the wall.’

Karen said, ‘It must have been hard.’

‘It was beyond hard, a living nightmare. We both stopped sleeping, endless restless nights, and I believe for a while he even stopped chasing tarts, so drained was he, though that didn’t last long, and I did my best to accommodate him in that department, though I’m not sure he noticed. It got to the stage where he was reluctant to go to work, for he knew when he arrived, there would be a call from the bank manager, a Mr Crank. No one was ever more suitably named, as he demanded we cut the overdraft, just when Barney was desperate to increase it. You know what bankers are like. When you don’t need money, they will lend you the Empire State Building without a second thought. But when things are hard, they won’t even lend you the grubby public conveniences outside the bus station. Buggers they are, always were, and always will be.’

Walter said, ‘How did it play out? What did Barney do?’

‘Just when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did.’

‘How so?’ said Karen.

‘One evening, after a filthy day on the sales tills, more refunds going out than fresh sales coming in, and not long after the doors closed, one of the under managers went to see Barney, wanting a word.’

‘What about?’ said Walter.

Bella nodded, coughed, and began again, ‘I’m coming to that. For the life of me, I can’t remember the weasel’s name. Small fellow, he was, slight, like a rodent. I never liked him. Wore built-up shoes to make himself look taller, and longer trousers to cover them, when all it did was make him look ridiculous. Anyway, he collared Barney and said his wife had just given birth. The rent on their house had gone up, as his landlord was feeling the pinch, and with most things going up in the shops, especially baby foods, and everything needed to keep babies happy, he was desperate for an immediate pay rise, and it had to be a decent slug, or he would have no alternative but to leave.’

‘Maybe not such a bad thing,’ said Walter. ‘Let him go. No point in keeping a disgruntled employee. Cut the overheads, and get someone else when things improved.’

‘Yes, that was my initial thought, but Barney said he had let go three good people only the previous week, and hated doing so, and felt bad about it, and it was something he didn’t worry me with. I had no idea. They were down to the bare bones, and could not afford another pair of hands going missing. I think the weasel knew he was pretty much indispensable, and saw his opportunity and took it.’

Karen said, ‘What happened?’

‘Give him his due, Barney dug in his heels. He was never one to be bullied. Told him sales and budgets would not allow pay rises for anyone, including us. He promised to look at it again at Christmas. But the guy refused, and from what Barney told me later, he lost it, and said after all the hard work and good things he had done for the Reynolds family and the Norman family before that, when he was on the brink of being evicted, we couldn’t help him out of a hole. He said our behaviour was scandalous and despicable, saying he did not believe we couldn’t afford to pay him a little extra. After that, he stormed out, leaving Barney sitting there, heart racing, his mind in turmoil, as sweat tumbled down his chest and back, as he told me later.’

‘How did it play out? Did he leave?’

‘I’m coming to that. Barney stayed another hour, collating figures for the bank, massaging them to make them look as encouraging as possible, doing whatever necessary to keep HMS Cecil Norman Garden Supplies afloat, and when he had finished, he left the place and drove away. I have no idea where he went, but if he was seeking a buttock to cry on, it wasn’t mine. He did not come home till gone two in the morning, reeking of drink and perfume, so I think we can guess what he had been up to.’

‘And the unhappy employee?’ said Walter.

‘He was a devious bugger! He didn’t go home, but hid somewhere. Even moved his car from its usual place on the site, to let others think he’d left.’

‘And?’ said Karen.

‘When the coast was clear, and all was quiet, he went to the fertiliser and chemicals section, picked up the biggest can of industrial weed-killer he could find, and went outside to the plant sections, and began sprinkling the foul-smelling stuff over every plant he saw, starting with the most expensive and desirable. You are supposed to water it down on a ratio of fifteen parts to one part chemical, but he didn’t bother with that. He dished it out neat, and there is not a plant on God’s earth could cope with such overwhelming chemical warfare, and when he had finished emptying the can, he tossed it to one side and went back in for another. Nothing was spared. Bamboo, fruit trees, conifers, rhododendrons, eucalyptus, the roses, even the cacti, they all got it, before he moved onto the newly arrived bedding plants. Busy Lizzies, geraniums, viola, pansies, nothing was safe, and nothing would survive. The veggie seedlings, tomatoes and peppers, nothing left untouched. The guy had a major brain fade, and the evil bastard left the expensive and rare orchids till last, and I don’t know what they had ever done to him. He gave them a double dose, going back a second time to make sure every one of those beautiful and delicate plants was killed, murdered, decimated, and mutilated.’

‘I remember something about this,’ said Walter.

‘Aye, I’m not surprised; it was a big case back then. Nothing like it had ever happened anywhere, before or since, not to my knowledge.’

Karen said, ‘What happened in the morning?’

Bella bobbed her head and continued, ‘You may well ask. The weasel arrived early, ten minutes before Barney, and when my Barney got there, the maniac acted distraught. Saying you won’t believe what has happened. Come outside and see this. Barney told me he could smell chemical residue in the air half a mile from the site, more than twelve hours after it happened, and I later heard when Barney first saw the carnage, he burst into tears, and I can understand why.’

‘Irresponsible,’ said Walter.

‘You can say that again! And that doesn’t do it justice. But the cheek of the bugger. He blamed it on a gang of local teenagers who had caused a minor contretemps in the café a few days before. Complaining the cakes were stale, that kind of nonsense, eating most of them, and demanding refunds. Barney and his best mates booted them out. No refund, no bother. But the dopey police, no offence meant, were ever eager to believe the story, and set about rounding them up, keen to solve the case and get a bunch of easy arrests in the book. It was two weeks before anyone realised it wasn’t the kids, but an inside job, and it wasn’t difficult to prove, for the weasel’s fingerprints were all over the cans.’

‘Was he charged?’ said Karen.

‘Eventually, yes, and in court, his tricky barrister pleaded his prints would be on the cans. No surprise there, for he had stacked the damned things in the store a few days before.’

Walter scratched his chin and said, ‘What did the bank manager make of it?’

‘A whole new ballgame. I’ll come to that in a minute. I need a brew. I’ve a throat like rusty barbed wire. Can I tempt you?’

‘Sure,’ said Walter, ‘strong, milk, no sugar.’

‘Water for me,’ said Karen.

‘And water you shall have, young woman,’ said Bella, smiling and struggling to her feet, to shuffle away to the fancy modern kettle boasting multi-coloured lights all the way up the handle. What was the point of that?

Karen stood and went to the bi-fold doors. The roses looked healthy in the spring sunshine. One dog spotted her, ran to the doors, and barked hard. Karen showed the animal her back, and returned to sitting down, as the dogs resumed play at the far end of the garden.

Chapter twenty-two

Walter and Karen sat behind two drinks, one steaming, and the other with two ice cubes clinking about, waiting for Bella to begin.

They didn’t have long to wait, as she made herself comfortable, cupped her tea in both hands, sipped and sighed and spoke.

‘We thought it would be a total disaster, the final straw to break the back of enterprise Norman. Barney told me there was no chance we could meet the next bank repayment, or indeed our monthly payment to the Norman family, and Barney reckoned if we didn’t pay, the bank could and would call in the receiver.’

‘Bankruptcy beckoned?’ said Karen.

Bella nodded and said, ‘One step closer, for sure.’

Walter said, ‘You were closed for business?’

‘Oh, yeah. That industrial weed-killer is powerful sauce, and the loon splashed it undiluted every which way. In places there were still standing puddles of the stuff. Imagine kids coming in and getting down and playing in that, or God forbid, drinking it. It could have killed them. We were closed for weeks because all the ground was hazardous, which meant the tills stopped ringing, as did any deposits into the bank.’

‘So, what saved you?’ said Walter. ‘Discover a wealthy aunt or uncle?’

‘No, nothing like that. No such luck. Would you believe the insurance company came through, and when they saw the carnage, they divvied up super-fast? I don’t know who was the more surprised, Barney or me. My views of insurance companies are similar to that on bankers, but I had to swallow the thought, for they were brilliant. The first hefty payment came through within a week. We couldn’t believe it. It was the insurance firm run by farmers. Wonderful, they were. Who knows, perhaps they recognised a fellow agricultural business in distress. But either way, I can’t be complimentary enough, and we are still with them to this day. Thank goodness we insured everything. Barney was most particular about that. Those insurance premiums were the best investment we ever made. Bailed us out big time. The bank manager was amazed, though Barney gave me the impression Mr Crank was disappointed, as if he was looking forward to seizing control of the business, our business, the life’s work we had sweated blood over. When you open a business bank account, or take out insurance policies, no one tells you what a ruthless hornet’s nest you are blindly stumbling into, do they?’

‘Nope, it’s caveat emptor. Buyer beware. It’s up to the buyer, or the customer, to do due diligence, and check every damn thing, read the small print, and then everything again, and always be super-careful about putting your house on the line.’

Bella sighed, finished her drink, and set her mug down.

‘I was dreadful by then, useless to anyone.’

‘What?’ said Karen. ‘The emphysema kicking in?’

Bella shook her head, ‘Nope, that came later. I think I had a nervous breakdown, though tried not to show it, but I know I was useless to Barney. He carried us through, and no mistake. I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I kept shaking, and burst into tears over the tiniest thing, worrying we would be in the bankruptcy courts, and evicted from this happy home.’

‘Until the insurance paid up?’ said Karen.

‘Yes, but even after that, the stress and worry didn’t go away. The tortuous sleepless nights remained, and we still had the problem of starting all over again, or Barney did. I didn’t contribute a thing. It’s a vast business, and you can’t imagine how much work was involved in rebuilding it. Clearing everything out and putting it back together. On reflection, I don’t know how he did it. Good job we were a lot younger, because there is no way we could have done it today.’

‘The thing I am most interested in,’ said Walter, ‘is what happened to the culprit?’

‘He went to court and was found guilty, as I told you, though I never once went anywhere near the law courts. I think seeing him would have tipped me over the edge. It was all I could do to look after the boys.’

Karen said, ‘What sentence did he get?’

‘Don’t know. No idea. I told Barney I didn’t want to know anything about it, and him seeing me as I was, never mentioned a thing. He’d not bring home any newspapers, and banned me from watching the news programmes, local or otherwise, and I made it my business to avoid them. Honestly, Inspector, in some ways, at that time I was living in a different world.’

‘No worries,’ said Karen. ‘We can dig out the old records.’

Bella paused and considered ending it there, but started again.

‘Five years after it happened, Barney told me the truth of what he went through.’

‘Oh?’ said Walter.

‘I told you when he saw the carnage, he burst into tears.’

‘You did, and that is understandable.’

‘But he wasn’t alone in crying.’

Walter said, ‘Go on. I’m not with you.’

‘You’ll laugh when I tell you. Barney trudged round the rows and rows of plants, a day before, vibrant and green and growing and grinning at customers passing by, hoping to seduce them into buying them and taking them home to place in a sunny position in their favourite flowerbeds, close enough to the house to be seen all day. It’s like puppies in dogs’ homes, pleading with visitors to buy them, and take them out.’

‘And the next day?’ said Karen.

‘Carnage, utter carnage, as if chemical weapons had been dropped from low-flying raiders, which, in a way, is what happened. The vast majority of plants had keeled over and were dying or dead. Obliterated, with the pots and ground beneath contaminated, polluted and useless. Yet when Barney came to the roses, most were wiped out, but some, a small number were hanging on, scarred and burnt, ruined and wrecked, and roses were always Barney’s favourite, and I will tell you something you won’t believe.’

‘Go on,’ said Walter.

‘Barney said, in their death throes, he heard them crying, robbed of life, wilting under the spring sun, and the filthy concentrated chemicals splashed over their growing stems and fresh leaves. Crying roses. Have you ever heard the like?’

‘New one on me,’ said Karen.

Bella nodded and said, ‘They may not cry like humans, but they produce sound when thirsty or stressed, and the image of my beloved husband crying his eyes out, alone there, amid that terrifying scene, listening to the roses crying back, pleading for their lives, is one that brings me nightmares. Huge damaged roses still come to me in the night, buckling under the poison, monstrous razor-sharp thorns growing before my eyes, reaching out to impale me, to stab me in the eye, howling and moaning. I know one thing: he believed what he heard, and who are we to doubt him? He was the best plantsman I have ever met, could grow anything anywhere, and if he said he heard the roses crying, I believe him.’

Walter and Karen shared a look, for a moment short of anything constructive to add, and the silence was only broken when Bella spoke again.

‘Did you know there are 380,000 plant species on this earth, and we rely on them 100% for our existence? If the plants went extinct, we would soon follow, and in thirty years the earth would be dead and barren like the moon or Mars. You’d think we’d learn to treat them with more respect, for they hold the key to our future. Not technology, not medicine or science, but the plants we see all around us. Barney was always banging on about that, and he was right.’

Walter scratched his scalp and said, ‘I think it’s fair to say there must have been huge ill-feeling between Barney and the perp.’

‘Of course there was!’

‘If the perp received a hefty prison sentence, maybe that bitterness built up over time, enough in his heart and brain until his mind told him to do something about it, and the only way he could eviscerate it was to attack Barnabus.’

‘You think that evil man murdered my Barney?’

‘No, but I am saying it’s a possibility. The truth is, Bella, we have a growing list of people angry at Barnabus.’

She shook her head and sighed and said, ‘Yes, well, in some ways he was a selfish man. He had overwhelming needs, and when they came into play, everything else, and I mean everything, went out the window.’ She glanced at Walter through rheumy eyes and said, ‘I suppose that is what you wanted to ask about?’

‘In a way, it is, yes.’

‘Go on. What do you want to know? If I can help, I will.’

Chapter twenty-three

In the Sandon Road house, Walter finished his mug of tea, set it down, and said, ‘This is delicate.’

‘It doesn’t matter now, does it, Inspector? Barney is dead, and nothing we say or do will bring him back. If you want to know something, now is the time to ask.’

She struggled to finish the sentence before another coughing fit came on.

Walter paused for her to regain composure before continuing.

‘There is a Chinese restaurant in Parkgate, the Blue Lantern. You ever been there.’

‘No, I have not. Barney was clever that way. He would take me to different places to the ones he took his wicked bitches.’

That made sense, standard practice to the well thought out philanderer.

‘The manageress there is one Mrs Moo.’

There was a momentary pause, and Karen broke it by saying, ‘Do you know this woman?’

‘I have heard the name. It’s not one you are likely to forget, is it?’

‘You’ve never met her?’

‘Not knowingly. I presume you are telling me this because she was one of his many whores?’

Walter said, ‘Yes, Barnabus knew her well.’

‘Knew her? You mean he was ramming her?’

It was a hard question to answer. One had to consider sensitivities.

Karen said, ‘Something like that.’

‘You don’t need to dance around. I put up with his fornicating ways for over twenty years, and I am beyond being shocked. I knew what he did and what he was capable of.’

Walter said, ‘It seems he proposed marriage to her.’

Bella’s mouth fell open in genuine surprise.

‘The stupid man! Pathetic. He was married to me. We never discussed divorce, and I would have opposed it with everything I had. He couldn’t marry again.’

Karen added, ‘And she was married to Mr Moo, so they were stymied both ways.’

‘You’d think at his age he would have grown out of acting like a love-struck teenager.’

‘Some men never do,’ said Karen, shaking her head.

‘What about a Mrs Barber?’ asked Walter.

‘Another of his horrible whores?’

‘Possibly,’ said Karen.

‘And a Mrs Golding?’ said Walter.

Bella scoffed and said, ‘Are you going to make your way through his entire catalogue of unscrupulous bitches, because if you are, we are going to be here till gone midnight?’

‘No,’ said Walter, ‘but someone killed Barney, and it’s possible one of his former lovers, maybe a jilted or slighted one, could have tipped over the edge and decided to get even. We wondered if any of the names we mentioned meant anything to you, or indeed, any others we are unaware of.’

She thought about it for a few seconds before saying, ‘I have heard the name Mrs Barber before. Julia, is it?’

‘Correct,’ said Karen.

‘Tell us more,’ said Walter.

‘I remember now, a year or two ago when we were in the garden, laughing and joking about something mundane, he turned and said: don’t be silly, Julia, though he corrected himself straight away, brushing it off as a slip of the tongue, and I didn’t make an issue of it, and one night when he was “working” late, I stole into his office upstairs and looked at the payroll register. He always did the wages, right up to his dying day. I don’t think he trusted anyone else to do it, and it wouldn’t be right if one of the minor office wallahs knew what everyone else was earning.’

‘And?’ said Karen.

‘There was only one Julia, and you are right, a Mrs Barber.’

Walter said, ‘Have you met her?’

‘Not to speak to, but on one of my rare visits to the garden centre, I made it my business to seek her out. We didn’t need to be introduced. I spotted her a mile off. Smirking smile, pink lipstick, copious makeup, well dressed, tight clothing, pointy tits, her perfume arriving five minutes before she did, high heels, yes, high heels working in a garden centre, I ask you? You know the type. The words slutty tart come to mind, a husband snatcher, as she slithered from one grubby affair to another. I knew it was her because she was precisely the type of woman he would lose his head over within two minutes of meeting her. Don’t tell me he proposed to her as well?’

Karen said, ‘Pretty close, we think.’

‘And does she have a fiery-tempered husband?’

Walter said, ‘She has a husband, but one who doesn’t care for her.’

‘I’m not surprised, the way she carries on. Shame he didn’t give her a good hiding.’

Walter sighed and said, ‘So, you wouldn’t have any idea which of his former lovers, or their husbands and boyfriends, might have been involved in Barney’s murder?’

‘No. I wish I did. The fact is, it could have been any of them, and as I said before, there are legions out there to choose from, and I don’t envy you going through them, and one thing I would ask, and that is, I don’t want to know anything about them.’

Thinking about past events, and the mistresses, seemed to bring on a worse coughing fit, and she launched into it with gusto, overwhelming the damp hanky in her hand. Karen stood and went to the kitchen towel standing tall on one of the marble worktops, reeled off three sheets, and returned to Bella to hand them over.

‘Tah, lass,’ she said, spitting into fresh paper, trying and failing to complete the task in a genteel manner.

Karen ambled to the bi-fold doors and stared out at the dogs and roses. It looked like the animals were getting used to her, for they came to the glass and seemed more amenable. At least they didn’t bark. She returned to the sofa and sat down, saying, ‘You grow roses?’

‘We do.’

Walter said, ‘Do they cry?’

Bella grinned and said, ‘Only when Bill and Ben jump or dump on them.’

‘Are the roses your work, or Barney’s?’

‘Neither, really. He loves them, or loved them. But I put them in. Roses are as tough as old boots. They don’t ask for much. Put them in and they will see us out. I much prefer that to annual bedding plants. Can’t be doing with all that kerfuffle, putting in new ones every year, only for them to keel over and die within months at the first sign of a chill. I like my money’s worth. Give me twenty years, I say.’

Walter said, ‘Mind if we take a clipping or two?’

She pulled a surprised face and said, ‘Nope, if that’s what you want. Help yourself. Thinking of growing roses, are you?’

Karen said, ‘The Guv is smartening up his front garden. I couldn’t believe it when I saw it. I thought I’d driven to the wrong house.’

‘It takes your mind off things, that’s for sure.’

Walter grinned at Karen and said, ‘Off you pop,’ and turning to Bella, ‘she’s a little apprehensive of dogs.’

‘Don’t be. They are softies. See that blue tin at the end of the worktop? It’s full of dog biscuits. Give them one each and they will love you forever. You know what dogs are like; sell their souls for a morsel of food.’

‘I’ll take your word on that. Scissors? To cut the stems?’

‘It’s best if you don’t cut them. Pull them off by hand, and be gentle, but watch the thorns.’

Karen went to the tin and grabbed two coloured biscuits. A canine sixth sense kicked in. Any movement towards their favourite container attracted the hounds. They closed on the bi-folds and jumped up and down.

Bella said, ‘Make sure they don’t come in.’

Karen nodded and went to the door, eased it open, making sure the dogs could see the titbits, walked them into the centre of the lawn, before giving one to each. They nodded in appreciation and began crunching as Karen made her way over to the rose-bed. She took out an evidence bag, shook it open, bent down on her haunches, and selected three vigorous shoots, two purple, one green, and eased them off without nicking her fingers, and a minute later was back in the house, the dogs lying on the clipped grass, panting in the spring sunshine.

Bella said, ‘Anything else?’

‘Just to be clear,’ said Walter. ‘You have no strong feeling about anyone who might have committed the crime?’

‘None at all. I have told you that before.’

‘Okey-doke, thanks Bella, you have been most helpful.’

‘I hope I have, and you will check out the squirt who ruined our site?’

‘First job when we get back.’

‘Thanks. Can you see yourselves out?’

‘Sure,’ said Karen. ‘You look after yourself.’

‘I’m trying,’ and in the next minute they were outside, getting back in the car.

On the way back to the station, Karen said, ‘Do you think Barney was killed by one of his own roses?’

‘Not for one second. But if by some miracle he was, and we didn’t check, we would be in the mire.’

Karen thought about it before adding, ‘Bella will not be happy if she thinks we have tricked her into believing you are into loving roses.’

‘It won’t come to that. When the method of murder is released, I shall ring and tell her long before she hears it elsewhere. In the meantime, concentrate your efforts on a man we know attacked Barnabus Reynolds’ business. Where is he now? Did he go to prison, and if so, for how long? Does he have access to cyanide and roses, and does he have a criminal record, other than the plant-slaughtering brain-fade attack?’

‘What I don’t understand, Guv, is if he got even by destroying the site for not getting a pay rise, why would he, years later, want to get even again?’

‘Maybe he lost his house. Perhaps he lost his wife and child, and if that happened, he could have festered away in his cell, planning serious revenge, thinking a few plants going down the drain was nowhere near harsh enough.’

‘Could be. And if it’s not him?’

‘It’s one of the three late-night signer-uppers at the club. Their behaviour remains unexplained.’

‘I’d forgotten about them.’

‘Don’t.’

‘And Mrs Moo?’

‘It’s not her. She hoped to marry him, and they might have married if anything happened to Bella, if nothing else to keep Marina happy and available. It’s not her.’

‘She had a funny way about her.’

‘You mean Mrs Moo?’

‘Yeah. As if in every sentence, she stripped out half the words. He miss me. No violence. Leave poison. You think I mad. She jealous cow. We lovey-dovey, and on it went. Could become annoying after a while.’

‘I guess if we learnt a smattering of Chinese, we would be the same.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Come on, Greenwood, progress awaits,’ as she steered the car down the ramp for a park, fresh fuel, and a well-earned rest.

Chapter twenty-four

Solway Grange Prison, a Cat-D establishment, was set in Warrington in the northern part of Cheshire, midway between the twin cities of Liverpool and Manchester, from where most of its inhabitants originated.

But there was another city, albeit smaller and ancient, contributing inmates to Solway, and that was Chester, twenty miles to the south.

Open prisons housed criminals deemed not dangerous, nor a flight risk, which was just as well as security was minimal, plus other good behaviour cons approaching the end of their sentence.

The thinking was with release imminent, few prisoners would jeopardise their future freedom by absconding weeks or days before being released on licence.

Prisoner 9159 had been there almost a year, longer than most. Prior to that, he served eighteen years in top security prisons, which was crazy when one considered he had never stolen a thing, attacked or abused anyone, or killed another human being.

Solway Grange was modern, built in the Dutch style, a Dutch barn shaped roof, with brown timber cladding to the first floor, and red brick at ground level.

He shared the ground floor room with two others, all three beds in a line in front of a wide window, overlooking lawns and medium-sized trees coming into leaf. Each bed boasted a teak bedside table, with a small modern push button low wattage lamp. The three residents enjoyed a four-piece bathroom featuring bath, sink, separate shower, and toilet, meaning two or even three men could use it at the same time, with piping hot water always available.

On the left wall in the main room was a framed print of the Haywain, a picture 9159 despised. Too twee for his taste, while on the opposite wall, another print stared out, a Turner, featuring a Napoleonic Wars man o’war bathed in blurry sunlight, smoke and mist, a picture to challenge the eye. He could stare at it for hours, yet always saw something different within its pastel shades.

Both prints were framed, though neither contained glass, for broken jagged glass was a permanent nightmare in the minds of prison authorities. Clear, nigh-on unbreakable Perspex did the job.

There was no TV in the room, deemed likely to start arguments over who watched what, and besides, there was a good TV room down the hall, with a super-sized flatscreen anyone campaigning for harsher sentences and treatment would be appalled to see.

The door was left open during the day for strolling warders to monitor events inside. 9159 was sprawled out on the middle bed, lying back, relaxing, reading a John Grisham novel featuring hardened cons in a tough-as-nails Texas penitentiary.

Prison Officer Andy Oakley, known behind his back as Annie, and sometimes to his face, though that was risky because to address him that way could bring a feisty interview with the governor, which could mean any release date slipping down the calendar. It depended on what mood he was in.

Andy was fifty and going to seed, too much dark ale and too little exercise, the culprits, stopped at the door, set a huge hand on the doorframe, and stared in.

‘Ah, mush,’ he said. ‘You are in, are you?’

‘Looks that way. Where else would I be?’

‘And where are your partners in crime?’

‘Fatty’s gone to the dentist, four extractions, two fillings, and a new plate, and I don’t envy him that, all paid for by HMG out of your taxes, the lucky man. While skinny is enjoying an accompanied visit to town.’

By town, he meant Warrington, big enough to be interesting, small enough to see in an hour. Everyone preferred non-accompanied trips, they were the sought after perk, not least because it was common knowledge a new brothel had opened above the greasy spoon café, and so long as visitors could muster the necessary ackers, a good time could be had by all, though most days the panting punters were back on the pavement, skint as a skunk, in less than fifteen minutes.

The attractions of Marlene’s Health & Beauty never appealed to 9159. He preferred to keep what little money he possessed in his prison bank account, and his nether regions healthy.

‘Letter for you,’ said PO Oakley, ‘and your prison number does not feature in the address. You know it should be there, and when absent, sometimes letters are returned to sender. Only telling you for your own good,’ as Oakley stepped into the room and dropped the single envelope on the man’s skinny thighs, before he turned about and left.

9159 grabbed the long cream envelope and studied it. He was not expecting mail, indeed any letter came as a surprise.

In the top right corner was a first-class stamp featuring a barcode and an image of the new monarch. King Charles the Third, the first of its kind he had seen. The address was typed or printed and looked neat and tidy, with no mistakes.

His correct name.

Solway Grange Prison,

Warrington, Cheshire,

and an accurate post code.

Judging by the weight, he imagined a single sheet of mid-grade paper inside. He remembered it was usual for various charities to write to inmates coming up for release. Sometimes offering advice, even short-term financial help, or perhaps a halfway house accommodation arrangement, but he had no need for that.

Cheshire County Council found something for his first six months of freedom, an AP hostel, Approved Premises, and though it was run by a religious order, it didn’t bother 9159 for two reasons. First, he didn’t rate religion, or the do-gooding pious pricks who promoted it, and second, he had no intention of staying there for one day longer than necessary.

He imagined it a wasted letter, the equivalent of junk mail, and considered tearing it up unopened, but on the off chance it might be important, he kept it, and would read it later.

9159 could not concentrate on his book. The coming of the letter had messed with his thinking. He so wanted to tear it up and toss it in the tin bin, but couldn’t. He sighed, grabbed the envelope again, and ripped it open.

A computer-generated letterhead told him it came from the HOLLYOAKE CENTRE with an address in Seel Street, Chester, neither of which meant anything to him, and that was no surprise as neither existed.

The typeface was Times New Roman, the heading 18 point and the main body, 12 point. It started politely enough.

Dear Sir,

So glad to hear you are coming out soon. No doubt you will be looking for some light fulfilling work, and we may be able to help. The proposition we have offers good pay, satisfying work, a short-term contract, and no long-term commitment.

In short, we need a capable chap, and we think we would work well together.

If I may, I will contact you again when you are enjoying the free air.

Best wishes,

Gardenia Blackthorn.

He gazed at the letter and read it again. It was a puzzle, though perhaps it showed someone cared, and that was a surprise. The problem was, he had never heard of Gardenia Blackthorn.

Chapter twenty-five

Walter and Karen arrived back at the station at half-past four. Mrs West wanted to get another update meet underway straight away.

Karen didn’t have time to check who had decimated Cecil Norman Garden Supplies twenty years before.

The boss was feisty, bordering on anger seeping through her white pores. She wanted a PS, because her bosses demanded a PS, and with all the manpower, person power, and resources being poured into the Barnabus Reynolds murder, it was the least she and they expected.

‘A prime suspect?’ she said, staring round at the packed room. ‘You’ve had long enough to come up with one.’

Ricky couldn’t keep out of it.

‘Johnny Williams is dodgy. I have told you that before. He’s a proven liar. If it were up to me, he’d be the one.’

‘It’s not up to you, and he is not the one,’ said Walter, shaking his head and glancing at Mrs West for support, though none was forthcoming.

‘Right!’ she said. ‘We have a long list. Go through it again. Tell me why they are not the PS, or indeed why they damn well should be?’

Walter looked at her and took a punt.

‘Before we go through the list, ma’am, and I’m all for that, Karen and I have unearthed a potential prime suspect.’

She looked at him askance and said, ‘Why didn’t you say?’

‘We were about to.’

‘What’s his name? Presuming it is a man.’

‘It is a man, but we don’t know his name.’

‘You have a prime suspect, but don’t know who it is?’

‘Correct.’

‘I think you’d better explain yourself, because so far, it makes little sense.’

He glanced at Karen, bobbed his head, and set off, telling them about the long-forgotten case when a disgruntled employee, on being refused a pay-rise during one of the many credit squeezes that abounded twenty-odd years ago, took his revenge by obliterating every plant and seedling on the vast site, utilising ample supplies of industrial weed-killer piled high in the store.

The horrendous attack brought the business to the brink of bankruptcy, and both Barney and Bella Reynolds were close to nervous breakdowns. The business was forced to close for many weeks to clean up, reorganise, as sales figures collapsed to zero. The bank prepared to step in and appoint an official receiver, but before they could, the insurance company, an agricultural specialist, stepped in and saved the day, covering the entire cost of lost plants and chemical damage.

The next day the perpetrator blamed local teenagers, and there had been minor trouble with bored teens messing about in the site café, but when proved innocent, police looked at the possibility of an inside job, and the culprit was identified. Walter said they hadn’t had the chance to delve back into the files to discover more.

He considered mentioning crying roses, but thought better of it, not wanting to muddy the waters, knowing many would sneer and laugh at the ridiculous thought.

‘Where did you get this information?’

‘Bella Reynolds. She remembered it well, all except the man’s name, as she was on the brink of a breakdown, and didn’t want to know anything about anything.’

‘Why would the culprit want to murder Barnabus Reynolds twenty years later? Why wait?’

Walter shrugged his shoulders.

Karen said, ‘We believe the man was in prison. Maybe it was festering in his brain all the time.’

‘Right!’ said Mrs West, ‘You!’ pointing at Karen. ‘Leave us and find those damn files. Have a quick read, pull out an ID, and come back and fill us in. Go on! Speed is of the essence. We need to show more urgency.’

No one missed the hint they all could have done better.

Karen nodded and said, ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and fled the room.

‘And while Karen is away, I have a titbit for you, and then we will go through our existing suspects.’

She paused as Walter said, ‘The titbit, ma’am?’

‘Yes, quite so. The type of cyanide used in Mr Reynolds’ murder was hydrogen cyanide, and for those that don’t know, it goes by another name, prussic acid, now confirmed by Jo and his team.’

Walter jumped on that.

‘In the Blue Lantern, there is a cupboard packed with killing agents. You know the kind of thing, insect killer, rodent killer, the works, and we looked at the half full box of rat killer, and lo-and-behold, one of its potent ingredients is prussic acid.’

Mrs West beamed and said, ‘In solid form?’

‘Correct.’

‘I wonder if an expert could extract the prussic acid, convert it into liquid, and splash over rose thorns.’

‘Good question. I wouldn’t know. But if someone managed to, I guess they must have chemistry expertise. Do you want me to ask Jo?’

‘No, Walter. I’ll do that. Tell us more about this mad cow, Mrs Moo. Do you think she could have killed Barney? Why would she do that if he bought her a weighty engagement ring and a smart car? And is there a garden there that includes roses?’

Walter took a breath and said, ‘No, to the garden. The entire backyard is laid to concrete. As for murder, anyone’s capable of killing if the right circumstances prevail, and we know the relationship between Mrs Moo and Barney was stormy, despite the gifts showered upon her.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, despite his generosity, and proposing to her, which he did, he couldn’t keep his zipper shut, and continued pursuing any attractive woman he came across. It was as if he was wired that way. Maybe he considered himself a failure if he didn’t regularly find new conquests.’

Mrs West scoffed and said, ‘Stupid man,’ before adding, ‘is there any merit in getting her in for a grilling?’

‘Not yet, ma’am, we haven’t enough.’

‘Okay. Move on! Who’s next? John Williams, is it?’

Walter took the question.

‘As I said, there is no evidence Mr Williams murdered Barnabus, but during our interview, he revealed a small additional fact.’

‘Namely?’

‘One of the brown-haired men, we don’t have an ID for any of the three potential new members, but John remembered one calling the other, Joe.’

‘Just, Joe. No surname?’

‘Correct.’

‘You were right. It is a small fact. Who’s next?’

Walter said, ‘Barry Beaumont took Barney’s onetime favourite mistress from him and married the woman to make sure she was off limits.’

‘If what I am hearing of Barnabus Reynolds is true, the fact the lady in question, Katy Bennett, I presume, would have become more attractive, more of a challenge, not less, and maybe he set out to win her back. You know what it’s like when you break up with someone, and when you have a quiet week, the mind turns to thinking perhaps it wasn’t all over, and was it possible to go back to the well to rekindle whatever it was they had? If so, it would put Beaumont’s nose out of joint, and the one way to fix it could be to finish Barney off.’

Everyone thought about that, and Mrs West’s take on falling out with past lovers, and all that went with it; and it put her in a different light.

Walter thought it far-fetched bunk, but knew better than to say, and contented himself by adding, ‘It’s possible, ma’am, but we don’t have any proof. I spoke to Katy on the phone and she said she was happier than she had ever been, and despite her advancing age, said they were trying for a child. Beaumont also came across as being happy and content.’

‘If he murdered his love rival, he would say that.’

‘True, but he didn’t appear in any way stressed or worried, and didn’t give off uneasy feelings.’

‘Okay, I’ll go with you on that.’

‘Next!’

‘Mr Golding and Mr Barber, husbands of ladies involved with Barney.’

‘Ah yes, now, this is interesting. For those that don’t know, Ron Golding is the senior partner at Sears & Golding, solicitors of this parish. He is a powerful man with lots of contacts. Do we look at him? Yes, we do. Do we go blundering in with lots of heavy-handed questions? No, we don’t! Before he is questioned by anyone, you must first come back to me and tell me what you have. If it isn’t watertight, don’t waste your time and mine. He’s not off limits, but he is sitting behind a tall steel wall, puffing on a Cuban cigar, a wall we only breach with sufficient ammo, a fortification we leave glinting in the sunshine until we have weapons powerful enough to melt it. Make myself clear?’

Most nodded. Some mumbled, ‘Yes, ma’am.’

It didn’t bother Walter. He had never considered Ron Golding a serious candidate.

Mrs West spoke again.

‘And one other fact about Mr Golding, he oversaw and dealt with Georgia and Cecil Norman’s wills, so there is a flimsy connection with this business.’

‘Did he?’ said Jenny. ‘I didn’t pick that up.’

Mrs West pulled a face, nodded at Jen, desperate to progress, and said, ‘Next!’

Walter said, ‘Mr Barber couldn’t care less what his wife did, and I think he is out of it.’

Mrs West agreed and said, ‘Gillian Norman? What’s the story there?’

‘She is indeed a GP practicing in Dundee. Married, now a Mrs Buchanan, no children, and so far as we know, rarely ventures south of the border. No record of her returning to Chester in the past five years, though she could have done.’

Jenny said, ‘She has motive.’

‘Tell me more!’ said Mrs West.

‘The entire business, assets, property, the complete estate, went to the golden boy, Garry Norman, barring a pitiful thirty grand to Gillian.’

Darren said, ‘I wouldn’t mind getting thirty grand.’

Martin looked at him and said, ‘You would, if others received multi-millions.’

‘Oh yeah, I suppose. Go on, tell us, what was Gillian’s motive? Why would she kill someone she might not have known?’

‘Fair question,’ said Mrs West, looking back at Jenny.

‘Because ma’am, while the business was in the Norman family, Gillian and others might have expected to have inherited it, with all its assets, cash flow, and benefits. In their eyes, they believe Barnabus Reynolds talked the ailing Cecil Norman into selling the business at a knockdown price, cutting out the children altogether.’

‘Is that speculation or fact?’

Jenny grinned and said, ‘A little of each, ma’am. Maybe Gillian used the thirty grand to pay a hitman?’

‘Be careful not to stray into the realms of time-wasting fantasy, DC Thompson. Do we have any concrete connection between Gillian Norman, now Buchanan, and Barnabus Reynolds?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Keep looking! You find one and you might be in business. Next up?’

Jenny scanned her sheet and said, ‘Garry Norman, the preferred one, the anointed one, the man who inherited everything, enabling him to buy the sprawling mansion known as Floribunda Farm.’

Mrs West said, ‘Has anyone been there?’

Lots of shaking of heads and denials, as she glanced at Walter and said, ‘Can you take that?’

‘Sure, we will try to fix something up in the morning.’

‘Try to fix something tonight. Next?’

Jenny again studied her sheet and though there were many ongoing threads of inquiry; unidentified men at the club, disaffected husbands and lovers, there remained the same names and faces, and she had nothing fresh to flag up.

Walter sensed she was struggling and said, ‘We need to ID the three strangers in the club, to rule them in, or rule them out.’

‘Easier said than done,’ said Mrs West.

‘If one or more is the killer,’ said Walter, ‘it could be why we are struggling.’

Everyone clocked Karen coming back into the room, clutching a fat slug of papers, with an I’ve-made-big-progress smile on her face.

‘Wait till you hear this,’ she said. ‘I think we have a PS.’

‘About time!’ said Mrs West. ‘Go on, Sergeant. You have the floor.’

Chapter twenty-six

Prisoner 9159 did not mention his mystery letter to anyone. Not to his room-mates or Annie Oakley, though he thought of nothing else. All day and all night he turned the text over in his mind, and before long, knew the wording by heart.

Who had written it, and why?

The authorities had opened the envelope before he received it. All incoming and outgoing mail was monitored, read, and scanned into the prison computer for future reference.

Most prisoners thought it an infringement of their human rights, but 9159 was savvy enough to realise they could not allow secret correspondence coming and going, detailing confidential matters such as escape plans, criminal activities, or prisoners to be attacked.

On the left side of the front of the envelope was a red handstamp, OPENED & RECORDED, with a set of three initials A.P.E. which seemed apt. It beggared belief the government employed people to open, read, and scan every piece of correspondence before initialling the envelope, but they did.

The sender, Gardenia Blackthorn, appeared to know him, and knew his release date was imminent, and you couldn’t get that information without investigation. He trawled through his fifty-seven years and was certain he had never met anyone by that name.

Perhaps the sender knew letters were monitored and recorded, hence the secrecy, pointing to the missive being written in code. Another thought to keep him awake at night, puzzling over the conundrum.

The day dawned of 9159’s release. A bright but chilly early spring day. He breakfasted as usual on porridge, a meal whose name became synonymous with incarceration, but enjoyable nonetheless. Two mugs of strong tea, builders’ tea as they used to say, whether or not it contained chemicals designed to dampen the ardour. If it did, judging by the feedback from visits to Marlene’s Health & Beauty, the amount tossed in needed to be increased.

His said goodbye to his chums, though they were never that, and even Annie Oakley stopped by to wish him well, and bleat the usual words: I never want to see your ugly mug again, a comment demanding the inevitable reply: nor yours, Annie, and then it was off for his last visit to the Governor’s office, no doubt to receive a final pep talk.

The careworn guy sighed and said, ‘You have served your time, Prisoner 9159 Coleman, far more than you needed, and more than necessary, but fair’s fair, you are long overdue release. But please, man, no more demolition Derbies, eh?’

A minor rebuke, or a timely reminder? He could handle that; he was off out into the free air. The prick could say what the hell he liked. Time to bite the lip and accept the cold, proffered handshake with the inevitable phrase.

‘I never want to see you again!’ issued in a faux jovial manner, the same to every releasee, done by the book, identical to a thousand times before, and a thousand times to come.

The men nodded at one another for the last time, before another prison officer ordered 9159 Coleman from the room, heading for the stores, where his few possessions would be found and handed over, plus new clothing, fresh from the packet, issued for the transition back into the outside world.

Three hundred and sixty-two pounds handed over and signed for. Accrued back pay, plus a modest government grant given with a warning not to blow it on drinks or drugs, or a hedonistic weekend at Marlene’s den of iniquity, a remark revealing the authorities were aware of what went on above the fried sausage and eggs. Perhaps some from the other side sampled the services, and he would not be surprised to hear it.

Imagine going to Marlene’s and finding in the next booth, on the next couch, the governor, or worse still, Annie Oakley, grunting, gurning, and muttering, before coming out with a guilty look on his face, to glimpse someone they knew. P9159 could guess at the mumbled excuse they might utter.

‘I’m only here to check everyone is healthy.’

He laughed aloud at the thought, as the POs gazed at him and wondered if the many years of deprived freedom had addled his brain.

He threw on the short navy coat, three chunky buttons all done up, for it was parky out, and a minute later he was waved away down the main drive, past the unmanned entrance, and out of there and free, leaving behind Solway Grange forever.

The prison was set on a busy road. Not wide, nor dual carriageway, but big enough and busy enough for occasional heavy trucks and red and blue double-decker buses to rumble through.

To the left was the main bus stop. Frequent services taking people into Warrington, a bus stop where snooty people waited, staring at anyone who may have come out of the prison, in case they were released killers. When the bus arrived, if the nutters went upstairs, everyone went down, and vicky-verky.

Next to the bus stop was a long bench seat, recently painted green to match the green-lawned borders, though it was nicely dry. Three people waited there. A man and two women, but it was clear they were not together. They never spoke. The man sat towards the far end, looking relaxed and happy with his day, dressed in dark clothing, not doing much, no newspaper or phone in evidence.

The two women sat at the near end, as far away from him as possible, the one closest to the bloke giving him occasional glimpses, as if checking him out, but not monitoring as if she were interested. She glanced that way more in worry; her body language speaking volumes, as if she were frightened. In her mind, she pictured sitting next to a released murderer or rapist, and that didn’t happen every day, and it was creepy.

The stories they heard of men coming out of that place were legendary. Everyone knew about it, setting women on edge, making their skin crawl, and she had to fight herself not to look at him again. The bus could not come soon enough. Come on, bus, come on.

Opposite, to the right, on the far side of the road, was a long lay-by where a collection of disorganised humanity waited in various vehicles.

Four cars parked there, all facing to the left, and the prison entrance, and at the front, a smart modern Jaguar, top of the range model, gleaming in the spring sunshine, lots of chrome on display around the windows and wing mirrors, looking out of place among the old rusting bangers.

Former P9159 ambled from the prison grounds, peered over the road, and thought he saw a single person aboard, sitting behind the wheel, looking across at him, and in the next second, the headlights flashed.

Better than jumping any bus; and it didn’t matter who it was or what they wanted. He scanned the road to the right and left, and when clear, scooted across, a jaunty spring in his step, renewed sparkle in his eyes, the body language of a cow released from the barn to fresh pasture after a long and hard winter indoors, swinging his plastic bag containing his worldly possessions, checking out the woman behind the glass, imagining he detected a slight smile on her welcoming face.

The three people sitting on the bench seat watched him cross over and jump in the car, and thought him a lucky git to be collected in a luxury saloon like that.

Chapter twenty-seven

In the station, as Karen stood at the front, eager to reveal what she had discovered, she opened the fat file and began, photo in hand.

She couldn’t keep a smile from her face, blurting, ‘The man in question was the under manager at Cecil Norman Garden Supplies, name of Crispin Coleman.’

The keener ones made notes.

‘He is now fifty-seven, and get this, was released from Solway Grange Open Prison, near Warrington, days before the murder,’ and she pinned the small photograph on the board.

Mrs West went to it and peered at the guy, beady eyes, and thinning, greasy, straight dark hair.

‘Recent photo?’

‘Yes, ma’am, two weeks before release.’

‘Why was he in prison?’

‘After decimating and destroying every plant on the garden centre site, he was eventually identified as the culprit and charged. There was some evidence he tried and failed to set fire to the complex. At his trial, he pleaded not guilty, though would never get away with it. The judge, who it later transpired was the president of the Chester Rose Society, laid into him as if he were a serial killer, telling Mr Coleman it was the worst case ever to come before him, other than murder and rape charges.’

Darren said, ‘Coleman lost his temper, threw a wobbly, and ran amuck. I’d have thought five years would have been ample.’

Mrs West said, ‘What sentence was handed down?’

‘A whopping twenty years,’ said Karen, and she returned to the file. ‘In his final summing up, the judge said Mr Coleman had shown a total disregard for human life. Imagine if children had entered the site the following morning to find gallons of high-powered weed-killer sloshing about. They could have died if they had drunk it. It was irresponsible. He said Mr Coleman was a vindictive man, intent on revenge when he was refused a pay increase, a pay rise the business could not afford in credit crunch times. He showed recklessness, cruelty, vindictiveness, and rank spite, behaviour that could not and would not be tolerated in modern society.’

Darren said, ‘He slaughtered a bed of cry-baby roses. Big deal. Get a life. Move on.’

Karen jumped on that.

‘He destroyed thousands of plants across the vast estate, causing untold financial damage, and could not be allowed to get away with it.’

‘Twenty years seemed harsh,’ said Mrs West, ‘but a custodial sentence was inevitable.’

Walter said, ‘What was his prison record like? If he behaved himself, he should have been released much earlier.’

‘Not good, Guv,’ glancing at the reports, ‘though these papers are long out of date. First thing I’m doing when I leave here is ring the prison for an update.’

‘Crack on with that,’ said Mrs West.

‘So,’ said Walter, ‘the guy is sitting in jail, and I imagine it wasn’t an open prison.’

‘Strangeways, Guv, Manchester, a tough place, and he served all of it there, until the last eighteen months, when he was moved to Solway Grange.’

‘And in all that time, he was planning revenge on the man who would not give him a pay increase?’

‘Looks that way,’ said Mrs West.

Walter said, ‘Where did he go on release?’

‘A Christian fellowship halfway house here in Chester,’ said Jen.

Mrs West said, ‘Is he still there?’

‘No, ma’am, I rang a few minutes ago. He left after a few days, coincidentally on the night of the murder. They reported he went missing, but with everything else going on, it ranked two zillion and five in things to be looked at.’

‘It wasn’t a coincidence,’ said Mrs West. ‘Him disappearing.’

‘Banged to rights,’ said Darren. ‘The twerp. He came out of prison after serving a murder-type sentence, though he did not commit murder, and is looking at going back inside for the rest of his natural. How stupid can you be?’

‘Any family mentioned?’ said Mrs West.

‘A wife and child, young, back then. She is recorded as visiting three times in the first year, but after that the visits dried up, and we don’t know where she is now.’

‘Might be an idea to find her,’ said Walter. ‘If he’s left the hostel, he must be bunking down somewhere. She would seem as good a place to start.’

Martin Kane said, ‘Why not release his name to the media? See if anyone comes up with something useful.’

‘It may come to that, but for now, we keep it under wraps,’ said Mrs West. ‘We don’t want to alert him we are looking for him. If he knew, he might bolt.’

‘My guess is he has done that already,’ said Walter. ‘What is to keep him here? No, I think he’s on the run.’

There was a momentary silence before Jenny said, ‘There are so many things that don’t add up.’

‘Like what?’ said Mrs West.

‘Where did he get the cyanide? How did he know about the bowling club? How did he know Barnabus would be there? Looking at that photo, he doesn’t fit the description of any of the strangers at the club that night. Did anyone see him? If they did, they haven’t reported it.’

A collective pause for thought followed, before Walter said, ‘Jenny’s right. He had help. He could not have done all that in such a short time.’

Mrs West said, ‘All questions you are going to answer. Crispin Coleman is the prime suspect, and I can’t wait to tell my superiors. It’s about time we had some positive news to relay. Your job is to get on and find answers, and the most important one is where the hell is he? Find him and bring him here. I don’t care how long the hours we have to work, get on and get him.’

It seemed an easy enough job, but as so often, easy jobs had a habit of morphing into major headaches, lasting weeks or months.

‘Any questions?’ shrilled Mrs West.

If anyone did, they didn’t deem it the right moment to ask.

Walter and Karen returned to their workstations.

Karen said, ‘Where do you think Crispin Coleman is now?’

‘As I suggested, if he did it, and it looks like he might, he’s gone on his toes. Find out how much money he had. Prison allowance, that kind of thing, because that will limit the mileage he puts between us.’

‘Possibly, though his helper, whoever he or she is, could have subbed him.’

‘Yeah, maybe.’

Walter’s mobile rang.

He pulled it out, while saying to Karen, ‘Ring Floribunda Farm and see if Garry Norman is there. Ma’am seems to have a bee in her bonnet about him.’

Karen said, ‘Sure,’ though she imagined Mrs West’s attention had been taken by the new kid on the block, Mr Coleman.

Walter didn’t recognise the number on screen, and said, ‘Hello?’

‘Inspector?’

Things changed. Walter couldn’t miss the accented English.

‘Mrs Moo, what can I do for you?’

‘You said I call if think of anything.’

‘I did. And, is there?’

‘One thing. Not know if important. You come and I tell?’

‘You could tell me now.’

‘No! Not like phone speak.’

‘We could come tonight.’

‘No! Come alone. Girl set me on edge, sitting like attack buzzard on your shoulder, staring like to peck out my eyes.’

‘Okay,’ glancing across the desk at Karen, speaking to someone at Floribunda, and he wondered if she gathered the gist of the conversation.

‘Tonight?’

‘That good. Seven-thirty?’

‘I can do that.’

‘See Chin. He show you in.’

‘The little man?’

‘That him,’ and she cut off.

He sat back and sighed as Karen finished her call.

She looked at him and said, ‘All good, Guv. Seven tonight.’

‘Ah,’ said Walter.

‘What’s the matter?’

He told her of his appointment in Parkgate, and Mrs Moo’s preference he went alone.

‘Maybe she fancies you. She seems to go for men of your vintage.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! Anyway, it’s worked out well. Kill two birds with one stone. Me and Mrs Moo, you and Garry Norman, and take Ricky with you. He could do with extra training.’

‘Oh, do I have to?’

‘Yes, that’s an order. Only with more training will he turn into a useful member of the team, and if he can’t cut it, he goes.’

‘I get all the crappy jobs, and you get to see a sexy woman.’

‘You think Mrs Moo is sexy?’

Karen scoffed and said, ‘Don’t tell me you don’t?’

‘I hadn’t noticed.’

‘Ooh, you are a fibber sometimes, Mr Darriteau,’ and the conversation ended as Ricky Greaves sauntered by, only for Walter to grab him and tell him to ride shotgun to Floribunda Farm with Karen, leaving just after half six.

He stared at the sarge and said, ‘Fine, yeah, sure thing,’ for she was a big upgrade on Shirley Woodruff.

After Ricky moved away, Walter said, ‘Don’t forget to ring the prison. How much cash did he have? And see if they can tell you anything useful about the man. ’

‘I hadn’t forgotten.’

‘Good, I didn’t think you had.’

Chapter twenty-eight

On the day Crispin Coleman was released, the woman collecting him in a fancy new Jaguar, wore designer gear, smelt amazing, and was as far away from the women in Marlene’s place as it was possible to be.

Cris said, ‘Thanks for picking me up.’

‘Not a problem, Crispin.’

‘Seeing as you know my name, am I allowed to know yours?’

‘Let’s say I am your guardian angel, and leave it at that.’

‘Fair enough,’ and he glanced across at her and said, ‘I feel like we have met before.’

‘Not met, exactly. I attended your trial. Only three days, but I was there for the sentencing.’

‘Sorry, I don’t remember you.’

‘I have that effect on people. Walk round like a ghost most of the time. I was struck by your…’ and she paused, seeking the right word.

‘My outburst?’

‘Yes, if you like. You showed real passion. The judge was a hopeless old idiot, now long dead, and good riddance, while the so-called injured party was nothing more than a middle-class jumped up nobody who received what he deserved.’

Crispin threw his head back and let go a curt laugh.

The woman spoke again.

‘So, Mr Coleman, where would you like to go?’

He thought about it for a few seconds before saying, ‘A tour round the Highlands of Scotland would be nice, plenty of fresh clean air, lots of wide-open spaces, though I might get into trouble, and be dragged back to Solway Grange. I have to report in at the Cheshire Fellowship Hostel before half-past four or I will be recorded as missing.’

She bobbed her head, an action to release another hint of perfume, before saying, ‘And that’s in Chester, right?’

‘It is.’

‘Okay, let’s get you to Chester, and we’ll talk as we go.’

She started the hybrid Jag, and it schmoozed away from the lay-by, as she pointed it towards Chester. The heavy beast did as ordered, and cruised away south-west on the A56, back towards his hometown and the county capital.

During the journey, he broke the silence by saying, ‘You wrote me a letter.’

‘Did I?’

‘Gardenia Blackthorn, that you? Though I don’t suppose it’s your real name.’

‘You needed to know you hadn’t been forgotten.’

He pulled a face and continued, ‘And the Hollyoake Centre?’

‘Doesn’t exist.’

‘You wrote in code.’

‘We wouldn’t want prying eyes to see.’

‘Gardenia Blackthorn reeks of garden centre.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘You said, or the letter said, you might have work for me?’

‘I might. We’ll get to that. Don’t be in such a hurry.’

On the night Mrs Moo asked to see Walter, he took a cab there. It dropped him on Parkgate promenade just before half-past seven. A dry night, but a hint of fine moisture sprayed through the air, the wind picking up, zipping it along. A portent of rain, or scooped from the high spring tide, flooding into the Dee Estuary. It was hard to tell. It could have been both.

He watched the diesel Skoda taxi cruise away, letting go fumes in its wake, before he checked the road and stepped across. The Blue Lantern was as before, excited people making their way in, licking their lips in anticipation. A pleasant gent held the door open, and Walter nodded a thank you, and in the next second, was inside.

He glanced around. Not all tables were full, though it was early, and if Mrs Moo was to be believed, they were booked up for eleven days. Lucky them. The high prices and testy economy were not putting people off, though West Wirral and Chester seemed immune to economic woes, for many, at least.

Chin or Mr Chin, or whatever his name was, busied himself booking in the cheerful couple in front, as a different young waitress appeared, and directed them away to a smart table by the curtained windows. Walter moved forward. Chin stared down at his diary before barking, ‘Next! Name!’

Walter edged towards the lectern but didn’t speak, forcing the man to look up, initiating eye contact. The Lantern might be one of the most successful restaurants in the north of England, but it sure could do with a few lessons in politeness and welcomativity, if such a word existed, which Walter knew it did not.

Chin stared into Walter’s face, where the hint of a smile appeared as if to say: that wasn’t difficult, was it?

‘Ah, it you. Mrs Moo waiting. You know way. Through kitchen,’ and he pointed at the double doors, as Walter nodded his thanks and set off.

All was as before, lots of people spending huge amounts of energy, shouting and shifting in the blazing heat, the sweat pouring off some of them, and the evening was only getting underway. He nodded at a couple of them and they nodded back, as if it wasn’t unusual for strangers to come through to see the boss at the back.

In the next second, he tapped on her half open office door. She was busy tickling a large calculator, a ledger of hand-written figures set out before her. He thought it odd in the twenty-first century she should record them by hand. Wouldn’t a computerised system be preferable?

Then he remembered many businesses in the catering world ran two parallel sets of books. One, the true set, often the handwritten ones, only known to the proprietor, and another computerised, numbers only entered after considerable massaging. It wasn’t unusual, and a hard thing to prove, though a solid and unexpected VAT check would often do the trick. Declare less profit, pay less tax, and whip the surplus back to Hong Kong. It wasn’t rocket science.

Rumours said such chicanery was more popular on the Continent, though Walter wasn’t sure about that. Either way, it brought a new meaning to the term double-entry bookkeeping.

She glanced up and said, ‘Ah, Inspector, come in, dead on time, sit down, story to tell, sharpen those ears.’

On the same evening, Karen and Ricky Greaves were getting comfortable in an amazing sitting room in Floribunda Farm. The slight Garry Norman sat opposite, short neat hair, immaculately dressed in suit, shirt, and silk tie, looking the part of a well-heeled millionaire, relaxed and comfortable in his own skin.

Ricky wanted to be like him. Ricky wanted a house like that, and a Tesla like his, and a position of power and influence, where people deferred to you, and admired you, and Rick doubted he would ever get there slogging round the city as a DC. He might have to re-evaluate his career path, and his appearance.

Karen took the lead.

‘We are looking into the death of Barnabus Reynolds.’

‘Why else would you be here?’

‘To rule you out. Could you tell us where you were on the night of the murder?’

Ricky saw his chance and jumped in with a day and date.

Garry said, ‘What time?’

Karen said, ‘Between 10pm and 1am.’

‘Masonic Lodge till midnight, then I drove home, quite sober, in case you were wondering, where I found Casey asleep, the missus, if you didn’t know, and my moving round the bedroom woke her.’

‘So, other masons could corroborate your story?’

‘Of course, dozens of them. Though it is not a story, it’s a fact.’

Ricky said, ‘And Casey could confirm you were here?’

‘I wouldn’t have mentioned her if she couldn’t.’

Karen said, ‘Where is Casey tonight?’

‘Out with friends. They meet twice a month. Play cards, eat chocolate, drink wine, compare holidays, and gossip about their husbands and sex life on the agenda, if she is to be believed. Taxi back, I assure you.’

Ricky asked, ‘Are you working at the moment, Mr Norman?’

‘I keep myself busy. One can’t play golf all day, every day.’

Rick was not to be shrugged off.

‘What is it you do?’

Garry sighed and said, ‘I’m a school governor, an amateur football referee. I paint and exhibit, and even sell one or two, and I support the flower show down in Shrewsbury, and believe you me, it keeps me busy.’

‘Thanks,’ said Rick, making a point of taking notes.

Karen said, ‘Do you grow roses?’

‘A few, though I prefer peonies.’

Karen again, ‘Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill Barnabus?’

‘Not off the top of my head, though one hears whispers and rumours.’

‘Like what?’ said Ricky.

‘Oh, come on, if you are doing your job properly, which I assume you are, you will know the dead man was a rampant philanderer, and it’s difficult to philander without upsetting people. Not that I have ever trodden that rocky road. If I were you, I’d be looking at his girlfriends, and their spouses and other halves.’

Karen said, ‘Did you harbour any ill-will towards the man?’

‘Certainly not!’

‘You had motive, didn’t you?’ said Ricky.

Garry adopted a scathing look and looked down his nose at the rough-and-ready idiot.

‘I did not and do not have any motive for killing Mr Reynolds. If that’s it, I think I have gone as far as I want with this.’

Karen ignored the comment and asked, ‘When did you last see your siblings?’

Garry sniffed, thought about it, and said, ‘I haven’t seen Grahame since he cleared off to the other side of the world, and good riddance. He was a coward for leaving us as he did.’

‘And Gillian?’

‘We saw her last year. Took the kids up to Scotland hoping to see the Loch Ness monster. Stopped off at Dundee to see her and him. Oh, they were polite enough, but the reception was cool. She warmed to the kids but not to us. They don’t have any of their own. She stopped sending us a Christmas card after mum’s will. I guess she was jealous about who received what.’

‘Isn’t the truth of it you received practically everything?’

Garry grinned and said, ‘I can’t help it if I am Mr Popular.’

‘Did you think of evening things out?’

‘What? You mean giving them a slice of what was rightfully mine? I don’t think so. Do you know anyone who would do that? Come on, be sensible.’

Karen thought about it for a moment as Ricky said, ‘And Gordon?’

‘It may have escaped your notice, but Gordy was murdered years ago.’

‘We know. I was wondering if you had any idea who was responsible?’

‘Not really. You guys came to the conclusion his gambling pals did it. Are you telling me different?’

‘No,’ said Karen. ‘Nothing has changed. How did you get on with Gordon?’

‘Distant, I think you’d say. He was the eldest, and I was the youngest, and we had no shared interests. His life centred around drinking, gambling, and horses, and I wasn’t interested in any of that. He was also a bully when we were kids, and that would never endear him to the rest of us, or it didn’t to me.’

Ricky asked, ‘What were your interests?’

‘The business, plants and gardens. I loved all that, just like dad. Ensuring the business remained profitable, and later, the family became more important. Producing kids, continuing the dynasty, providing heirs to succeed me. That is where my interest lay, and I think mum and dad appreciated it. Only Grahame and I managed children, and no one in England has ever set eyes on his, so I guess it was left to me. No wonder mum and dad were generous. Who wouldn’t have been?’

Karen said, ‘What did you think when the business was sold to Barnabus Reynolds?’

‘How do you think I felt? I was mortified, and dead against it. I thought it was a massive mistake. Don’t tell anyone, but when I first heard, I thought about killing the guy,’ he said with a smirk, ‘though I never did, officers, honest.’

‘And when you heard someone had murdered him?’

Garry sighed, scratched the side of his head, shrugged, and that said it all, though he added as an afterthought, ‘If you want my honest opinion, the guy had it coming, and not just from the Norman family, as I am sure you know.’

Karen stood and thanked him for his time, and as they made their way towards the hall and the front door, Karen said, ‘Just one more quick question, Mr Norman. Which lodge did you say you belonged to?’

‘I didn’t, but you’ll find us at the Millingdon Masonic Hall. My late father was a member, and I’m keeping alive the family tradition, and hope my son follows suit when his time comes.’

Thirty seconds later, they were outside on the huge gravelled drive.

Away to the left, three cars dozed under a super-sized timber car port. A white Tesla, a top of the range sporty Cayton Cerisa, ideal for dashing about town, and a shiny Jag.

Karen said, ‘What did you make of that?’

‘I think it’s him, or someone acting for him. Time on his hands, money burning a hole in his kecks, and after living with the hatred he had for Barney for so many years, he plucked up the courage to do something about it.’

‘Two hours ago, you were convinced it was John Williams. It doesn’t work like that. Every person you see, you get a feeling he or she is to blame. Where is the evidence, Ricky? Where can you build a case for the CPS to take to the Crown Court? You haven’t anything other than a gut feeling. Forget what your gut thinks and identify discrepancies and lies, and only when you have, come and see me and we’ll look at it.’

It set him aback. He didn’t like the way she spoke to him. But she was a woman, and they didn’t think the same as men, and if he wanted to rely on his guts he damn well would, and when he produced something of interest, she would be the last person he would take it to.

Chapter twenty-nine

As the woman drove the Jag south-west for Chester, Cris Coleman relaxed in his seat and wondered what she wanted.

It wasn’t his body, that was for sure, nor his money, for his few hundred pounds would be spending-money in the hair-stylists for a woman like her. It didn’t leave much. A favour, most like, but a favour about what? He was keen to know, but reluctant to let his keenness show. He’d play it by ear, take his time, and see what she said, and he didn’t have long to wait.

They moved onto the fast-flowing M56, and she scooted along, cruising at 70-mph, though it seemed less, for quality sizeable executive cars felt that way.

‘Do you remember your outburst, Cris?’

‘How could I forget? Words seared into my red-eyed brain.’

She grinned and said, ‘I remember it well. Your words were: I don’t care how long it takes! One day I will get even. You can be certain of that. I’ll be waiting in the shadows for you, Reynolds. Your life is as good as over!’

‘You have a great memory.’

‘I made a point of writing it down, acting as your private and personal court reporter.’

‘Lucky me.’

‘Did you mean what you said?’

‘I was angry, and I meant it.’

‘There were some in the public gallery who sympathised with your predicament, and took comfort from your outburst, though over time, most of my contemporaries lost their anger and desire.’

There was a pause before he said, ‘Can we cut to the chase?’

‘Be my guest. There are mints in the glove compartment if you’d like one.’

‘I don’t want a mint!’

‘The thing is, Crispin, after twenty years, do you still feel the same, or has lazing about in a smelly cell dulled your desire to nothing?’

‘Lazing about in a smelly cell, as you put it, doesn’t kill feelings of revenge. On the contrary, the slow creeping passage of time sharpens it. The time stinks. It’s everywhere, the stench. In your pores, in your bed, in your bodily fluids, everywhere. Time magnifies it. Every second. Sharpens it, the desire for vengeance. It’s the one thing that keeps you going, because you know in the back of your brain lies a sheet of solid bedrock. The satisfaction of setting matters right, of putting the thief and conman and philanderer out of this world forever.’

She glanced across at him. He’d gone red in the face. It was a sight to behold, and just what she wanted to see. Retribution burnt bright within him. Here was a man worth investing in.

A moment later she said, ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘I’m glad you’re glad. So, what is it you want?’

In the Blue Lantern office, Walter sat in a small new chair and waited for Mrs Moo to begin. He didn’t have long to wait.

She set down her ball-pen, relaxed in her blue chair, took a breath, and said, ‘Not know if important, might not be, but want you know what you deal with.’

‘Go on.’

‘Some months ago, another night when place full, Chin came and say three bitches, his word not mine, wanting speak. Table eighteen in corner. He not know what about, and nor did I.’

‘Did you know them?’

‘I come to that. I went to restaurant and table eighteen, set for four, three there, one spare place. The tallest one point to empty chair, said: sit down. Rude speak. Not: please sit, or would you like to join us? Just: sit down! I thought they had a nerve, but I seen them before, and guessed they spent big bucks, and we like fat purses, even if rude. We grin and bear it, take money, laugh when gone, and think we win.’

‘What did they want?’

Marina Moo did a backhanded swipe of a wave, though her hand never went higher than her chest, a dismissive gesture as if to tell him to be patient.

‘They came right out. They say Barney theirs. Cheeky bitches. They say: keep greasy hands off. My hands not greasy,’ and she flashed her clean and well-manicured hands across the desk, deep red nails catching his eye. ‘I think they jealous. Barney want me, not them. They has-beens. He been there. He want fresh. He made it clear. I prettier and sexier than them. Barney think so. You think I am prettier and sexier than them, Inspector?’

Walter swerved the question by saying, ‘I couldn’t answer that without seeing them.’

She nodded and said, ‘One: tall, ugly and fattening. One: poison dwarf, fading face, and other: gangly dragon. You miss nothing. Two of them past it, the other, riding on coat tails. Is that how you say? Riding on coat tails? I never seen a coat with a tail. The younger one worried life passing her by. No wonder Barney want me.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I say Barney decide who he wants. Not their business. Nothing to do with me. I stood. Tall bossy bitch said: sit down, or we’ll ruin you.’

‘And did you? Sit down?’

‘I stayed in seat. No one ruins me. I only ruin myself. They wrong and they rude, and they not frighten me. I wonder what they going to say.’

‘Go on.’

‘The dwarf said: we are not joking, so I said: Oh, and what you do?’

‘What did they say?’

‘Gangly dragon spoke. I picture red comb on top of head, ugly-mugly-ugly,’ and Marina Moo grimaced and shook her head, before continuing, ‘long stinky tail under table, horrid eyes, bad breath, buck teeth, she need dentist and quick, and she say: if you see Barney again, we will write nasty reviews of this place on internet. Not one or two times, but lots and lots. Every week until you are shut down. Say cockroach in rice, say duck rotten, say rat spotted rushing across floor. Say do not go there. Keep clear! Say place infested. Say, should be closed. Say place stinks of shit. Report to public health. Write dreadful things.’

‘That must have been hard.’

‘Terrible! Later, keep me awake. We not have rats or cockroaches. You see how much killer we have. We spotless clean. You see that, yes?’

‘Yes,’ said Walter, ‘I can see that. What did you do?’

‘I say place clean. They mistake. They wrong; and Barney would decide. If he want their ass, he madman. If he want mine, he can. Any time. He chose me. Better ass, I reckon,’ and she grinned a wicked grin. ‘They frightened fools. They jealous. Nothing more. Green-eyed dragons, all three. They lost. I won. Tough tits. Game over. Barney mine.’

‘Did they accept it?’

‘No, course not. The big one, Mrs Golding, I knew her name for they finished stuffing faces, and she pay with card. She say: if I saw Barney again, they would kill me. Kill me. Can you believe?’

‘They threatened to kill you?’

She nodded hard and said, ‘Did! Too right.’

‘Did they say how?’

‘Not then, later. I told them get out my place and never come back.’

‘And did they go?’

‘Not straight away. Golding said they not joke. Said they knew law. Husband top legal eagle. Know how to kill and get off, and he tell her, tell all three, how to do it.’

‘Did she tell you?’

‘Spoke nonsense. Went loony. Said, fix car so catch fire or crash. Kidnap, take out to sea, drop over side on rough night. Feed me to local pigs. Put me in blender bit by bit. Silly made-up shit. They not frighten me. They desperate. They in love with Barney. Obvious. Bitches on heat. Can’t get enough of him, but he not want them. He want me. I laugh in their face, and tell Chin to see them out.’

‘Did you report this to the police?’

‘No!’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I immigrant. You know how it is. Who they believe? Fat bitch husband lawyer, poison dwarf, or mad dragon? They believe them three before me. They make up stories. They lie for each other. Cover own asses. My husband in court in Hong Kong on twumped up charges. They think we cwiminal family. We not. Never have been. I could get deported. Blue Lantern kaput. No, I strong woman, I fight battles, I ready. Look after number one. Me! No one else.’

‘So, what changed?’

‘You changed. You came to see me. I think you decent. Feel I tell you anything. Feel you not brush shit under carpet. They deserve hassle. Live in ivory tusk towers. They nothing. Poundland pussies. Deserve smack. They not allowed to threaten, are they? They not get away with it. Barney gone now. Murdered! They still here, making trouble. I tell you, if they couldn’t have Barney, they would kill him. I think they kill him, Inspector, and now you say big one married to legal smart-bum, he show them how. He tell them everything. They not do it themselves. They not courage, but they arrange it. Deffo, man. All makes sense.’

‘I’ll look into it,’ said Walter. ‘But thinking someone did something and proving it are two quite different things. Poles apart.’

‘What? From Poland?’

‘No, north pole to south pole, so far apart. Forget that. We would need solid evidence. Do you have any actual evidence, Mrs Moo?’

Marina looked downcast, glaring at ledgers, before saying, ‘No, not yet. But I get. If they kill Barney, I find it. I good ’tective.’

He glanced across at her and admired her staying power, and who knew, perhaps she was right? They had motive. All were spurned lovers; and had access to topline legal advice. Stranger things had happened, as he allowed himself a minute to wander along that treacherous road, before she brought him back to the present.

‘You eat?’

‘No, not yet, and I don’t enjoy dining alone.’

‘You eat wi’ me?’

‘I thought all the tables were booked?’

She grinned and said, ‘They are, but I keep one for me.’

He thought about it for a moment, pondering on the wisdom of eating with a person caught up in a murder case he was investigating. Fact was, he didn’t believe she was a murderer.

‘I’ll eat with you, Mrs Moo, on one condition.’

‘Go! What?’

‘I pay the bill.’

‘No! I not allow you pay bill in my place. Lost face,’ and she shook her head. ‘Not possible. No way. You help, I feed. Only right.’

‘I am not allowed to accept favours. I must pay the bill, or I will leave.’

‘Stubborn fucking man!’

She used the F word again, and it came out as much of a surprise as before.

‘Barney the same! Stubborn as puffer fish. I call him sucker fish, or puffer fish, and one day, fucker fish. But I train him. He good in the end. He not stubborn when I finish with him. But I not do you any favours, no favours at all.’

He glanced across at her and nodded and said, ‘Are we eating, and am I paying?’

‘Yes, though not happy.’

‘And not at table eighteen?’

‘No!’ she said, smiling, and she had a nice smile, and it didn’t break out often enough. ‘Hate that table. Bad feelings, bad memories. Rotting dragons. Stinking bitches. You fix, yes?’

‘I will look into it, but no promises.’

‘Huh!’ she said, standing up. ‘Promises from men worth as much as puff in Parkgate wind. Come on, follow Marina,’ and Walter stood up, as they hustled through the grubby corridor and busy kitchen, on through the swinging double doors, where she nodded at Chin, and told him they would eat at her special table.

He should send the best waitress in fifteen minutes, a table always reserved for her, as far away from the door and the window as possible, tucked away in a quiet corner, out of sight, where the low coloured-glass separators were a little higher than elsewhere. Not that Walter understood a word that passed between them.

Chapter thirty

Crispin Coleman had asked the car driver what she wanted, and she hadn’t answered, as he said, ‘I know nothing about you. You could be an undercover cop for all I know. I’m reluctant to say anything. Are you married?’

‘The less you know about me, the better. To put your mind at rest, I am not a cop. I believe we share the same desires and targets. We want you to follow through on your threats.’

‘Who is “we”?’

‘Like-minded individuals. You don’t need to know who.’

‘You must give me more than that.’

‘That’s understandable. Ten grand in cash, half up front, the rest when the job is done.’

‘When what job is done?’

‘Don’t be a dick! I’m not saying out loud. You never know who is listening. You know what I mean, and you know what I want.’

What she said made sense about speaking aloud. Latest listening technology was everywhere, and it was likely people could be interested in him, and tuned in, and maybe on her as well.

Crispin was never one to sell himself short.

‘Twenty grand, half up front, rest on completion. I could work with that.’

It was the figure she’d guessed he’d want. She nodded and didn’t see any point in haggling. He was sitting on his ten grand.

‘Under your seat is a manila envelope containing ten G’s. It’s yours. Balance on confirmation of a satisfactory result, but don’t think of taking the ten and disappearing. We have financial muscle, and a long reach. We would find you, and when we did, we’d tie you up, put you in an oversized barrel, and empty fifty cans of undiluted potent weed-killer over your head. Long and slow death, they say, or maybe not so long.’

Crispin didn’t miss the connection, and it didn’t matter. He would have carried out the work for nothing, and saw the cash as a bonus.

He took a breath and said, ‘I’ll need help.’

‘We understand, and will provide all assistance. In the glove compartment are two secure, untraceable burner phones. One for you, and one for me. The numbers have been cross-referenced and are ready to go. Don’t use the phone for any other purpose. Buy your own out of your cash. When you speak to me, don’t use names. Keep calls brief, and to the point. No frivolous gossip. Don’t mention prison and don’t say any traceable facts. I repeat, never use your burner to ring anyone else. It could lead to us being traced and connected.’

‘You don’t need to tell me that. I have just graduated from twenty years in Criminal College. There is no better place to learn. I know more of what modern phones and modern technology can do than almost anyone on the outside, and more importantly, what the opposition does to counter it. Some of the expert lags put on seminars in jug, with detailed lessons on phones, including live demos using the most modern tech, even though they are banned inside, and they do it all for the fun of it, and a packet of fags.’

‘You’ve convinced me. What will you need?’

‘Where does the target live? Where does he work? Is he still married to Bella? Where does he socialise? Especially later at night, when he will be relaxed with his guard down.’

‘Not much has changed. He still works in the same place; you know it well. Still lives in the same Sandon Road house, and he’s still married to Bella, though she is sick, and as for socialising, he is the president of a local bowls club, when he is not carrying on with any woman who will let him.’

‘Still at that business, is he?’

‘He is.’

‘You’d think he’d have worn it out by now.’

‘He must have stamina; I will give him that.’

‘Which club?’

‘The Dee River Bowling Club. As the name suggests, it’s by the river.’

‘I’ll find it. Might be better there, and late on when everyone has gone home. I wouldn’t want Bella involved, or too many people about.’

‘Watch out for CCTV. It’s everywhere.’

‘Another thing covered at the recent seminar,’ said Crispin, grinning across at her. ‘You don’t need to worry. They won’t see me.’

He glanced through the window. Little had altered in twenty years. All the roads looked familiar, as they switched onto the M53, leaving at Gate 12, the last one, before turning right and heading into the city.

She said, ‘Do you know where the Cheshire Fellowship Hostel is?’

‘I’ve a fair idea. Handbridge way.’

‘I’ll drop you close to the old bridge.’

‘That’ll do.’

‘You need to think about what you will do when the job is done, because you will be the first person they look for.’

‘I know. I’m not stupid. Do you think I haven’t thought about it? I have had plenty of time to plan. Once the work is done, I will tell you where I will be in order to collect the second payment.’

‘I see you are well organised. Give me as much notice as possible.’

‘I will, and as soon as I have the money, I will vanish, and you will never see me again.’

‘Sounds good, but if you are caught, we never met. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. Understand?’

‘Goes without saying, except you know who I am, but I know nothing about you.’

‘Couldn’t be done any other way.’

‘It’s all irrelevant. I will do the job. You pay me. I vanish. Simple as that.’

They turned left at the inner ring-road, through two roundabouts, and left the main road, sign-posted Handbridge.

A minute later, she cruised to a halt on the left side.

‘This do?’

‘Perfect. I’ll call tomorrow night with news.’

‘Fab.’

He reached under the seat and felt for the fat envelope. It was there and unsealed. He eased open the flap. It was packed with plastic ten and twenty-pound notes. They were new, and different. In places you could see right through them. Damned hard to counterfeit, and that was the idea, but it wouldn’t be long before resourceful citizens mastered the brief. Paper money had been copied for gain since paper money was invented in China in the seventh century, and even if they were no longer made of paper, there would always be ways of duplicating them.

Clever people had made them, and both sides of the law harboured plenty of those, as Crispin discovered over the past twenty years. What one person could create; another person could copy. Stood to reason.

She said, ‘Don’t forget your phone.’

‘I hadn’t,’ as he leant forward and opened the glove compartment to take out a slim-boxed burner phone hiding beneath a fat pack of mints. He dumped it in his bag along with the money and was good to go.

‘I’ll ring at nine,’ he said, stepping out.

‘I’ll be waiting, and don’t call anyone else,’ and in the next second, he was out in the fresh air, the smell of the rising river in his nostrils, as he walked smartly away.

She cruised past him without turning her head, and thirty seconds later was out of sight, though not before he memorised her registration number.

Chapter thirty-one

After his night in the Blue Lantern, Walter was in super-early. He hadn’t slept well, his mind turning over everything he knew.

Mrs West arrived early too, even earlier than Karen. He had given the boss the heads-up on his chat with Mrs Moo, concentrating on the assertion the three women may have been involved in killing Barney after receiving advice from one of the husbands, the solicitor.

Walter said, ‘After what you said about my approaching Mr Golding, I thought you’d better know before I see him.’

‘I should think so! What did I say? You must have solid intel. What have you got? Tittle-tattle from another love rival for the late Barnabus Reynolds’ favours. Did the Moo woman have anything concrete to connect the Golding couple to the death?’

‘Not yet. Said she would find it.’

‘Well, when she does, come back and see me. Until then, both Goldings remain off limits.’

‘Appreciate that, ma’am. Just thought you’d better know.’

‘Indeed, though it was hardly worth coming in early for.’

Outside, Karen had arrived. Voices floated out from Mrs West’s open office door, Walter’s and the boss’s, both unmistakable. She wondered what was going on and what she was missing.

No matter, she had her own tasks, as she grabbed the phone and rang Solway Grange. It took a bit of fence jumping before she was put on to someone who could help, a Mrs Wilson, a civvy manageress.

She asked Karen to wait a moment while she checked out Prisoner 9159, Crispin Coleman’s recent records and activity.

‘Ah yes,’ she said, ‘here it is. P9159 received £362 in accrued back pay, and a government grant of £300.’

‘£662 in total, all in cash?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘One could travel quite far on that.’

‘Indeed, even across the Atlantic on a good day. Though we have no record he has a passport; and if he left the country, he would break the terms of his release. No foreign travel. Out of the question.’

‘Thanks, I don’t suppose you know if he had any visitors over the last month or two.’

‘It will be on his record. Just a sec. No, sorry, no visitors recorded, other than official ones, church people, probation officers, that kind of thing.’

‘And mail? Would that be recorded?’

‘Of course. We can’t have criminals sending and receiving correspondence detailing forthcoming bank robberies, can we?’

‘No, indeed.’

‘We keep copies of all correspondence, though it might take a few minutes to locate it. Would you like to wait, or prefer me to ring back?’

‘I’ll wait, if that’s okay.’

‘As you wish. Stay on the line. I won’t forget you,’ and the connection went quiet.

In Mrs West’s office, she glanced across the desk at Walter and said, ‘You are not getting involved with our superior Oriental Queen, are you?’

He exhaled and said, ‘No, certainly not.’

‘Did you eat there?’

‘I did, and very good it was, too. Sliced Wagyu beef in black bean sauce. Highly recommended.’

‘And did Mrs Moo dine with you?’

‘She did. I was trying to extract more info on her idea the Goldings were involved in Barney’s death.’

‘Without success?’

‘So far, yes.’

‘Dare I ask who paid?’

‘I did. I may be getting on, but I am not getting stupid.’

She sat back and thought about it.

‘Do you have the bill?’

‘I do. I never chuck bills away.’

‘Alright, on this one occasion, I will allow the bill on expenses, but don’t make a habit of it, seeing as you were questioning a suspect in our murder case, even though she is not the PS, and neither are the women she is pointing her finger at. It’s Crispin Coleman we should concentrate on, Walter. What progress there?’

‘Darren’s going through railway station CCTV, so far without success. I’ll have another word with him in a moment.’

‘Full update meet at 10am,’ she said, ‘and I am expecting progress.’

‘It’s coming, ma’am, I am sure of it.’

He paused, and she noticed it, and said, ‘Is there anything else?’

‘Yes, we all agree Coleman is the PS, but we also agree he needed help. Could it be the Goldings provided it?’

‘A hundred to one chance, I suppose, but for us to develop that line of thinking, at the risk of repeating myself, this is delicate. We would need to see something solid. Find that and I am with you. Without it, we concentrate on Coleman, and other possible co-conspirators.’

Walter nodded and said, ‘I am with you. Thanks, ma’am,’ and he stood and sloped out of her office.

He saw Karen talking on the phone, while the others drifted in, sat down, and stared at their screens and printouts appearing on their workstations overnight.

Mrs Wilson was back in Karen’s ear, and she could tell by the tone in her voice the search had proved fruitful.

‘One letter only, from a Mrs Gardenia Blackthorn at the Hollyoake Centre.’

Karen said, ‘Name means nothing to me.’

‘Nor me, never seen it before,’ came the reply, before she added, ‘would you like me to send it over as an attachment?’

‘That would be great. If you think of anything else, could you call me?’

‘Sure,’ and though Karen couldn’t see it, Mrs Wilson tapped the side of her head and said, ‘Your interest is logged up here,’ and after that, the conversation ended.

Karen waited for the email to come through. It arrived within a minute. Super-efficient, was Mrs Wilson.

Walter said, ‘What’s going on?’

‘Give me a minute and I’ll have something to show you,’ as she sent the attachment to the printer and ran over to collect the document.

Within another minute she was back, setting it before Walter’s eyes, before she went into the tech, searching for Gardenia Blackthorn.

Walter read the letter, set the doc down, and said, ‘I think this is somewhat in code. I don’t know of a Seel Street in Chester. I think there is one in Liverpool, and I have never heard of a Hollyoake Centre. You?’

‘Nope, new to me. How many Gardenia Blackthorns do you think are registered in the UK?’

He scratched his chin and said, ‘Let me think. It’s a rare one. Three. How about that?’

‘Wrong! One.’

‘Oh, and where is the good lady?’

‘She is eighty-three and lives permanently in a hotel in Ilfracombe in hilly north Devon.’

‘Ah, not our letter writer, then?’

‘Looks that way.’

‘Gardenia Blackthorn sounds like a plant Cecil Norman’s might have sold.’

‘Could be, Guv. It would fit with the code idea. Maybe we should get an expert code-breaker to cast an eye over it.’

‘They would probably laugh at it, and us. I think it is more a general message Crispin could expect to be contacted after release… by another who disliked Barney Reynolds.’

‘There are plenty of those.’

‘Indeed. The line between love and hate is easy to traverse.’

‘Seel Street?’ she said. ‘You were right, one in Liverpool and another in Ashton-under-Lyme, south Manchester, and the only Hollyoake Centre is in Geordie-land in the north-east. Nothing in Chester for either, so the letter is fake.’

‘Not fake. It is just not saying what it purports to say.’

‘I think I understand.’

‘Did you see Garry Norman?’

‘I did, or we did, and man, he can be irritating.’

‘Who? Garry or Ricky or both?’

‘Ricky. I have no idea how Shirley puts up with him.’

‘Find out anything?’

‘Not a lot. Are we having an update meet?’

‘We are, at ten.’

‘Can we leave it till then? Save going over it again.’

‘As you wish.’

Chapter thirty-two

The latest update got under way at dead on the hour, Mrs West hunting for progress like a starving shark. The questions flooded out of her like sharpened arrows.

Walter was given first dibs. She expected him to open up about Mrs Moo’s ridiculous assertion the Goldings were responsible, but he didn’t. He introduced something new. The letter to Crispin Coleman from one Gardenia Blackthorn, false name, no one relevant of that name existing.

The only person in the country was eighty-three and living in Devon. All intel Karen dug up. If she was miffed at him stealing her lines, she didn’t show it, as the thread moved on to her visit to Floribunda Farm, accompanied by Ricky Greaves.

Mrs West said, ‘Did you see Garry Norman?’

Karen said, ‘We did.’

‘And?’

‘I think it is fair to say he is retired. He paints, supports flower shows, referees amateur football matches, and oh, he’s a mason, following his father’s footsteps.’

Ricky added, ‘He’s also a school governor, all that middle-class uppity muppity shit.’

Everyone ignored him.

‘Which lodge?’ said Walter.

‘They meet at Millingdon Masonic Hall. He gave the impression he is a big wheel there.’

‘Got too much time on his hands, if you ask me,’ said Ricky, ‘and too much money, and if anyone employed someone to bump off Barney, he could be your man.’

Karen added, ‘He said he was at the Lodge till midnight and there were others there who could vouch for him, and if true, there is no way he could have killed Barney.’

Ricky added, ‘He could have paid someone else to do it, knowing he had a cast-iron alibi.’

‘Any evidence of that?’ asked Mrs West.

‘Not yet,’ said Ricky, grinning at her.

Walter said, ‘Does he get on with his siblings?’

Ricky made a point of studying his notes before replying.

‘He saw his only surviving sister last year, though they clearly don’t get on. He got the money, she received a pittance, and it rankles.’

Karen said, ‘He admitted he was mortified when his dad sold the business to Barney Reynolds, and there was no love lost between them. He also said Reynolds had it coming.’

Mrs West said, ‘You mean the murder of Mr Reynolds?’

Karen and Ricky nodded as one.

‘And the living brother?’ asked Walter.

Karen answered. ‘According to Garry, Grahame has never been back, which supports our earlier intel, and they have never met or spoken since he fled to NZ.’

‘Did you see Garry’s wife?’ asked Mrs West.

‘Casey? No, out drinking and gossiping with girlfriends,’ said Ricky.

There was a meeting-wide pause before Walter said, ‘Okay, on to you, Darren and Kate, and the CCTV.’

Jenny stuck up her hand and said, ‘Before you move on, Guv, I unearthed one interesting fact about Gillian.’

‘Oh? Go on.’

‘She’s married to a Mr Buchanan, and he is a teacher.’

‘Didn't we know that already?’ said Mrs West.

‘We did,’ said Walter.

Jenny grinned and said, ‘He teaches A level chemistry, ma’am.’

A moment for collective thought before Mrs West said, ‘You’re suggesting he might have access to hydrogen cyanide, prussic acid?’

‘I think he might, or could have ways and means of accessing it.’

‘Good work, Jen,’ said Walter. ‘Does anyone have any info pointing to him or her being in Chester?’

No one did.

Walter’s mind ran ahead.

‘Check the DVLA database and find out what cars the Buchanans possess. Get the numbers and run them through ANPR.’

Darren said, ‘That will be a lot of work, Guv.’

‘I’m aware of that, but if we can show she or he or both arrived in Chester a day or two before Barney’s murder, we could be on to something. And while we are at it, can someone find out if they have phone contracts with the big networks? Get the numbers, and the phone mast information might prove useful.’

Mrs West thought it a time-wasting diversion, but would let them run with it for a while, as she tried to bring them back on track to Crispin Coleman, the PS, as she kicked out another question, ‘How’s the CCTV search going, looking for Coleman after the murder?’

Darren sighed and said, ‘Not great. I couldn’t see him at Chester railway station that night. Though to be fair, there were very few late trains, and nothing to London after ten.’

‘Coach travel?’ said Mrs West.

Kate piped up.

‘Yep, there was a bus leaving Chester for London at twenty-five to one.’

Mrs West said, ‘That sounds more like it! CCTV?’

‘They are slow in providing it, ma’am. Still to come through.’

‘Not good enough! We are investigating a murder, not a Sunday School trip to Chester Zoo. Darren, get down to the bus station and throw your weight about, and take Kate with you.’

‘Ma’am,’ he said, glancing back at Kate with a supportive smile.

Walter looked at Martin Kane and said, ‘What have you been up to?’

‘Looking into Crispin Coleman’s background and family.’

‘And?’

‘As we already knew, he was married to a Primula Hoskins.’

‘Sounds like a cheese!’ said Darren.

He, too, was ignored.

‘She stopped visiting him in prison and soon after, filed for divorce, and it was granted unopposed. They had one son, Daniel, and less than a year later, she met another bloke, name of Skelton, and they married. He came from Derby and took her and the boy back there. I’ve not been able to trace where they live, and I doubt if Crispin knows.’

‘He might go there to see his son,’ said Mrs West.

‘Sure, if he knows where they are.’

‘Keep looking,’ said Mrs West, and she glanced at the faces. ‘I notice Shirley is missing. Where is she?’ the question directed at Ricky.

‘Two day’s leave, ma’am.’

‘Since when? Who the hell takes leave during a murder inquiry? How long has it been in the book?’

‘I don’t know, ma’am.’

‘Tell her to come and see me as soon as she reappears.’

Ricky looked at the boss and mumbled, ‘Ma’am,’ as his mind returned to half-past seven that morning.

He called at Shirley’s twee two-up, two-down Victorian terraced cottage, where he rang the bell four times. When she came to the door, she looked a mess, stank of drink, and needed a wash. Rick watched her turn round and stagger away down the narrow hallway, holding on to the staircase banister to stop falling over.

In the next moment, they were in the small kitchen diner at the back. Shirley sat at the square table and picked up a large glass containing a little white wine.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ he said, taking it from her and tipping it down the stainless-steel sink.

‘Swine!’ she slurred. ‘Waste of good wine, that.’

On the draining board was an empty bottle of cheap chardonnay, and next to it, another bottle, maybe a third full.

‘Come on, Shirl. Take a shower and smarten yourself up. You need to get into work. We’re investigating a murder.’

‘Nope, not today, Jose. Taking a couple of days off. Having some Shirley bender time. Not had one in yonks. Long overdue. It’s… it’s only… it’s only right to have a relaxing time once in a while, once in a blue… blue moon. Isn’t that right, Ricky Dicky, my Mickey mate? We are all entitled to some downtime, that right, ain’t it?’

‘You’ll get into big trouble, Shirl.’

‘Nope. not me. I want you to do me an ickle favour.’

‘Go on.’

‘When you goes in, can you book me in for two days hols… for today and tommoz?’

‘You’ll get me shot!’

‘I’d do the same for you.’

‘I hope you never have to. I’ll see what I can do. I have to be off.’

She grabbed the almost empty box of cigarettes on the table, drew one, slipped it in her lips, and lit up. Pungent blue smoke filled the small room.

‘Get yourself something to eat. Get sober and back to work as soon as you can. This afternoon would be good, or tomorrow at the latest.’

She took another draw, and it was a while before any smoke emerged.

‘Have you found the murd…the murd… the killer, yet?’

‘No. I think it could be Garry Norman, the youngest child who inherited all the money.’

She smiled at him and sucked on the cigarette again and said, ‘You think you are a right little Sherlocky Holmsey, don’t you?’ and she let go a strange girlish giggle. ‘But I’m better than you. I bet… I bet… I betcha anything you like I find the bastard before youse. Come on, how much you wanna bet?’

‘I am not betting on nonsense. Have you been to bed?’

‘Not yet. Is that an offer?’ she said, glancing up at him, her long yellow tongue out, flicking from one side of her mouth to the other.

‘There is not a man on this earth who would go to bed with you looking like that, in your current state!’

She thought about it for a second. Was he right? She thought he fancied her. What harsh words the divvi spouted first thing in the morning.

‘I’m going back to work, and next time I call, if you are not sober, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, I’ll be forced to report you drunk and incapable of duty.’

‘You would… you wouldn’t… you shouldn’t… do such a creepy thing.’

‘Watch me! Sort yourself out, Shirl. This isn’t the first time, but it will be the last.’

In the incident room, Ricky shook his head to remove those grubby images, as he patted his man bun. Shirley looked ten years older, pathetic and desperate, as he was brought back to the present when Martin said, ‘Isn’t it time we released Coleman’s picture to the media?’

It wasn’t a bad idea, thought Walter and several others, but Mrs West dug in her heels, saying, ‘I will release the picture when I am ready! You all have plenty to do. Get on with it. Where did Coleman go after the murder? Check more CCTV. Get an address in Derby, and by all means, check on Gillian Norman’s movements, or Buchanan, or whatever her name is. Coleman must have had help. It could have come from her. She might have brought the prussic down with her. That makes sense. Well done, Jenny. More of the same please, from all of you. Walter, when we have finished, come and see me.’

‘Will do,’ he said, wondering what she was thinking, trying to anticipate the probing questions she might have up her sleeve.

Chapter thirty-three

Crispin was as good as his word. He rang Gardenia at one minute to nine. She was trying to relax, watching TV, and was not alone.

She was on edge, waiting and thinking about the call, when her burner phone rang. She stood up and said, ‘I will have to take this,’ and left the room, closing the door behind her, before heading into the kitchen diner and closing the door.

‘What do you need?’ she said, doing away with formalities.

‘Only one thing.’

‘Name it.’

‘Prussic acid, AKA hydrogen cyanide.’

She knew what it was, and what it could do.

‘Solid or liquid?’

‘Liquid. Can you provide?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long?’

‘Two days.’

‘That’ll do. It’s all I need.’

‘I will ring when it’s ready. Out.’

Walter took his seat before the boss, wondering what was coming, and no matter what he considered, he didn’t think it would be good.

The door was closed, and the phones muted.

She began. ‘I have been thinking about what you said.’

‘Oh, and?’

‘I am more convinced than ever Crispin Coleman is the PS.’

‘So am I, but he needed help.’

‘I agree. On the off chance one or more of Barnabus’s spurned lovers turned against him to the tune of wanting him dead, it would be foolish to rule anyone out.’

Walter nodded and said, ‘My thoughts all along.’

‘Is it possible one of our three women is Gardenia Blackthorn?’

‘It’s possible, though I would be surprised.’

‘Do you think there is any merit in quizzing two of them?’

‘It might be a step in the right direction. Two is better than none. Sandra Golding excluded; I assume.’

‘That would be my play.’

Walter thought about it for a moment before saying, ‘Actually, it might work.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘If we interviewed and quizzed Julia Barber and Holly Adamson, they are bound to mention it to Golding. I’d bet my pension on that. It might rattle her. It might rattle the pair of them, Mr & Mrs G, and rattled people make mistakes, flying off the handle to do something they later regret.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it that way.’

‘I’d want to go in hard, ma’am.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning, telling them we were investigating their conduct involving allegations of threatening and intimidatory behaviour against Mrs Moo and her restaurant, and it could lead to prosecution.’

‘It would never come to that. Not without more evidence. At the moment, it is one person’s word against three.’

‘True, but they don’t know that. They have no idea what we have. If we could divide them, they might have more to tell, especially if it meant saving their own skin.’

She thought about it, but said nothing, so Walter spoke again.

‘They threatened to kill her, ma’am, and that can’t be allowed to go unchallenged.’

‘If Mrs Moo is telling the truth.’

‘I think she is. Why would she lie?’

‘Maybe she likes to be the centre of attention. Some women do, lording it over everyone in her flash café.’

‘No, that doesn’t stack up. I’m not buying that.’

‘All right. I’ll run with it, so long as we leave Golding out of it, at least for now. If there is any contact to be done with Ron Golding, I will do it.’

‘Suits me, ma’am. I never warmed to the fellow. But I’d love to be a fly on the wall when she goes home, armed with alarmed talk from her mates. Pity we couldn’t record it.’

‘We are nowhere near that level of surveillance.’

‘I know, just saying it would be interesting.’

‘When are you going to talk to them?’

‘No time like the present. Thought I’d mosey on up the highway with my oppo and catch them unawares in an hour from now,’ and he glanced at his oversized wristwatch looking puny on his wrist.

‘Seems like a plan. Rattle their cages and see what tittle-tattle spews out. Do you think they know Crispin Coleman?’

‘One of the first things I’d like to establish. If we do that, we could be on to something.’

‘Best of luck. Come and see me when you get back.’

She turned the phones on again, a sure sign the meet was over, as he stood and showed her his back, a slight grin on his face she never saw, as he pondered why she had changed her mind. Perhaps it was a case of covering all bases in case there was something in Mrs Moo’s allegations.

Two minutes later he told Karen the plan, and fifteen minutes after that, they rolled out of the station in a Ford saloon, boasting a powerful engine and a massive top speed, something Karen didn’t miss.

At the garden centre, they went straight to Barry Beaumont’s office, going in without knocking. He was there, alone, poring over improving sales figures, though he would keep that stat to himself. He glanced up, dismayed to see them, and said the first thing that came into his head.

‘You are not having my office again!’

Walter said, ‘It will only be for half an hour, max. We will be gone before you know it.’

‘I’m not having it!’

Walter shook his head, looked sad, and exhaled hard, before saying, ‘The alternative is to take six people back to Chester for official interrogation, and I didn’t think you’d want to be without them for the rest of the day.’

‘You are incorrigible. I’m thinking of making an official complaint.’

‘That is your prerogative. Don’t let us put you off. We are only investigating a violent murder, after all. Mucho helpo appreciated.’

‘If I must! But only for thirty minutes. Who is it you want to see?’

‘Julia Barber and Holly Adamson.’

‘That all? I thought you said six?’

Walter grinned and said, ‘I may have exaggerated.’

Barry Beaumont glanced at the fab looking sergeant and said, ‘I’d hate to work for him. You could never believe a word coming out of his mouth,’ and he switched back to Walter, ‘any particular order?’

‘No, pot luck. Just as it comes.’

Barry grabbed his phone and desk diary and eased past them and out of there before he said something he might regret.

Five minutes elapsed before Julia Barber came knocking at the door. They saw her through the glass.

‘Come in,’ said Walter, and she entered the room, grinning and smiling, especially at the man, because she was wired that way. She imagined she could get any man to do her bidding, forgetting for a second how it had played out with Barnabus.

She accepted the offered seat, sat down before them, and crossed her legs, her short skirt riding up, as she continued to stare into his eyes.

‘Something new? Something fresh?’ she said. ‘Made progress, have you? I hope so, because Barnabus’s killer is still out there,’ as she jerked a thumb over her shoulder.

Karen, perching on the end of the big desk, took her attention by saying, ‘Mrs Moo.’

‘What about her? Are you telling me she was involved in his death? I’m not surprised. I told you that before.’

‘Not quite,’ said Walter. ‘We want you to cast your mind back to a dinner you had at the Blue Lantern, you and two others,’ avoiding the Golding word. ‘Remember?’

‘I told you. We went there a few times, both with Barnabus and without, though it wasn’t my favourite eating place. It could have been any night.’

‘No, this was just three women, you being one,’ said Karen. ‘When, if you recall, you invited Mrs Moo to join you, and when she did, you made accusations the meal was unsatisfactory. Cockroaches in the rice and rotten duck, I believe it was.’

‘And,’ said Walter, ‘you went on to say the place was dirty and rat ridden. Remember that?’

Mrs Barber uncrossed her legs and crossed them the other way before smiling again, and saying, ‘I seem to remember something along those lines, but it happened in fun, and we had enjoyed a couple of bottles of expensive wine. It isn’t cheap there. Anyway, I remember she took it as a joke, and soon after we went our separate ways.’

‘A bit of fun?’ said Walter. ‘I don’t think so, because the conversation progressed to the three of you warning Mrs Moo off Barnabus, and you did so because you imagined he was your personal and private plaything, the three of you, sharing him, enjoying his hospitality, shall we say? Though how you could think that, beggars belief, as he was chasing and bedding every woman across the Wirral peninsula and beyond.’

‘I don’t see why you have to be crude.’

‘Crude, is it?’ said Karen. ‘Well, how about this for crudity? Mrs Moo states the three of you threatened to kill her if she kept seeing and sleeping with him.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! That’s a barefaced lie.’

‘Is it?’ said Walter. ‘You see, I don’t think it is, and for your information, threatening to kill someone is a serious offence, and could in certain circumstances carry a sentence of ten years in prison. As it happens, I don’t think it was you who did the threatening. Come on, Mrs Barber, why don’t you tell us what happened? You will feel better for it, and if it wasn’t you, you will be in the clear.’

She went into thinking mode, considering her options, wondering if she could blame someone else, but at the last second changed tack, saying, ‘Am I under arrest?’

‘Not yet,’ said Karen.

‘In that case, I’d like to end this meeting. If you want anything further, let me know and I shall attend the police station along with my solicitor.’

Karen said, ‘Is your solicitor Mr Golding?’

A question Walter would not have asked.

‘He might be. Why?’

‘No reason, just asking in case we need to speak to him.’

Walter scribbled a note and gave it to Karen. She read it and left the room.

‘Gone to fetch you more sandwiches, has she? Always at your beck and call.’

‘No, nothing like that, though I believe they are good here.’

The note said: Fetch Holly Adamson. We don’t want them swapping notes.

‘Are we done?’

‘In a minute,’ as he glanced past her and through the glass in the door.

A couple of seconds later, Karen and Holly showed up.

Walter said, ‘You can go now.’

Julia Barber said, ‘Do you fancy Mrs Moo? Is that what this is about?’

‘Not particularly. Why do you ask?’

‘I wondered why you were taking her side.’

‘We don’t take sides. We investigate murders, and threats to kill. I’m surprised you should think otherwise.’

‘And I’m surprised you should take her word in anything. She’s a greasy snake, as you will discover to your cost.’

Mrs Barber stood and turned round as Karen opened the door and ushered Holly Adamson in. Both Walter and Karen noticed the cold look passing between them as if to say: don’t say a thing.

Thirty seconds later, Holly was settled in the seat, with Walter in front of her and Karen back on the end of the desk.

The conversation followed closely what had occurred before. It was only when they reached the part about them issuing threats to kill Mrs Moo, Holly panicked and said, ‘It was nothing to do with me! I didn’t threaten anyone.’

Karen said, ‘You were there. If it didn’t come from you, who said it?’

She fidgeted and shuffled around in the seat before saying, ‘They are older than me. They know more about the world than I do. I followed along for the ride. I mean, look at me? What would I know about killing people? If anyone said anything, it was the drink talking. Be serious. It was just a bit of fun.’

Walter said, ‘Turn it on its head, Holly. Would you think it was a bit of fun if Mrs Moo threatened to kill you by sabotaging your car?’

Karen added, ‘Or by taking you out into Liverpool Bay on a rough night and tossing you overboard?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

Walter said, ‘Quite. Who made the threats, Holly?’

She looked close to tears and grimaced before saying, ‘Oh, do I have to say? This isn’t fair. If I said anything, you wouldn’t tell them, would you?’

Karen said, ‘Who was it?’

‘I have to work with these people. We socialise together. They are my friends. Can’t you see I don’t want to dump anyone in the dog crap?’

Karen glanced at Walter and said, ‘It looks like we might have to charge all three, Guv.’

Holly Adamson cursed under her breath and said, ‘It was Sandra. Sandra Golding. I thought it was a stupid thing to say. But honestly, nothing came of it. The Moo is still alive, isn’t she? What’s all the fuss about? It’s Barney’s murder you should be investigating.’

‘Funny you should say that,’ said Walter, ‘because that is what we are doing. There is someone in our sights, and he needed help. Know anyone who might have assisted a killer, Holly?’

‘Of course not! We thought Barney was wonderful, especially Julia. She loved him to bits. Why would any of us want to murder him?’

‘Good question,’ said Karen. ‘Who would?’

‘I have no idea, and you’re confusing me.’

‘Okay, you can go,’ said Walter, ‘but my advice is not to chat with your colleagues. Keep things under wraps, eh?’

‘I’m hardly likely to, am I?’ Holly said, standing up, eager to get out of there.

After she had gone, Karen said, ‘Mrs Golding wants taking down a peg or two, married to a high-powered city solicitor, or not.’

‘Yes, you’re right, though I don’t see Mrs West going for it. But to get back on track, I can’t see any of these women aiding Crispin Coleman. I doubt they even know him.’

‘I’m surprised you didn’t ask them the question.’

‘I didn’t want to reveal who we think the killer is.’

‘There is that. Back to the station, is it?’

‘I think so. I shall give my report of confirmed threats to the great one, and she can decide if there is any case to answer.’

‘And Mrs Moo?’

‘I’ll talk to her sometime, though not yet.’

‘If Barnabus was still alive, and we were investigating spoken threats, and if Mrs Golding was not married into the legal profession, would we be taking this further?’

‘For sure, though there are two big “ifs” there, and for the moment, Mrs West wants us to concentrate on Crispin, and she is right.’

Barry Beaumont came back into his office, looking grumpy and tapping his watch. Thirty minutes had elapsed. Walter thanked him for his assistance, and they said their goodbyes and a minute later, Karen drove the big Ford back towards Chester.

Chapter thirty-four

Every Tuesday and Saturday at noon, the ancient ceremony of the Town Crier yelling news and proclamations at Chester Cross rang out across the old city. Other towns and cities had a crier, but none of them did it as regularly or as impressively as Chester.

It always drew a crowd. Camera phones raised, and the modern ceremony of holding them high above heads took place, as tourists and locals alike didn’t want to miss a thing. Once, it was the job for the man with the loudest voice, or the ability to project sound the furthest. But in the spirit of modern times, when everyone must have an equal chance to do everything, the position was shared between a man and a woman. They took turns, and most folks had a preference. The tall, broad man bellowing, or the smart lady yelling.

There were no half measures. Tri-corn hat, fancy eighteenth century red and black coat with lashings of gold braid, ample silver buttons, tight white silk stockings, big-buckled black slip-on shoes, the man boasting a grey wig; the woman preferring her hair hidden beneath the hat.

Crispin Coleman hadn’t gone to town to witness the sight, but found himself on a bench seat close to the Cross. A crowd began to build. He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes to midday, and at two minutes to noon the dandified bloke appeared, grinning at everyone, maybe a tad nervous, a rolled-up sheet of what looked like parchment in one hand, with a sizeable hand-bell in the other.

He took his traditional place, gazed round at the sizeable crowd, and rang the bell. Some citizens, hurrying by with urgent messages, paid no heed and scampered away, but most would stop and stare. Other bolder ones might offer the bell-ringer some cutting advice bordering on fruity, others not so polite.

Crispin, in his sedentary position, found his view blocked by the curious and interested. He stood for a better look, thankful for the built-up shoes he had acquired with his prison release funds.

There was a set of ancient wooden stocks there, open and menacing, awaiting an unsuspecting vagabond who might be dragged from the crowd. A stupid thought entered his mind. What if they grabbed him and jammed him in the grubby timber frame, him being a jailbird, and all?

‘Hear Ye! Hear Ye! Hear Ye!’ bellowed the Crier.

He sure had a loud voice. Some laughed. Others offered more raucous advice, as the Crier greeted people in four different languages. The tongue would change from week to week. Crispin recognised Welsh, French, Spanish, and thought the fourth was Polish, before the man switched to his unaccented English, bawling words from his scroll.

‘Proclamation for the people of the county of Cheshire! By the power invested in me by His Majesty King Charles the Third, I order Johnny Mason be brought to the stocks without delay!’

The crowd tittered. Everyone stared round for a Johnny. Was he there? Did such a person exist?

Away to the right, a young family laughed aloud. Dad and Mum, maybe thirty-five, finding a moment for a pecked kiss, with two young girls, perhaps three and six. Officers of the law approached and seized Johnny Mason by the arms to lead him away. The older girl shrieked with laughter. The younger one burst into tears, yelling, ‘No! Don’t take my daddy!’ As mum took pics on her phone for the family album and the grandparents, before stooping to the young one to say, ‘It’s only in fun, lovely, just a laugh. He’ll be back in a jiff.’

Johnny Mason was led to the stocks, looking guilty and apprehensive, and fed into them, the upper timber beam coming down over his spread-eagled wrists and neck, the rusty ancient bolts securing him in place.

People laughed and heckled; thankful it wasn’t them.

‘Leave him there for a week!’ someone bellowed. ‘He’s a Wrexham fan.’

The little girl cried again and looked away. The big one thought the stage-managed entertainment in the spring sunshine hilarious. People paid a small fee to be humiliated and verbally abused. At least the tossing of rotten tomatoes and worse had long been abandoned.

It brought smiles and enjoyment to maybe a hundred or two souls, pausing there to see how things used to be done, some of the older ones wishing the punishment had never been abolished.

The Crier yelled again.

‘The Council Tax payable by all citizens of Cheshire is to be increased by 5% in the new fiscal year!’

The crowd booed. Who would cheer that?

In Crispin’s pocket, the burner phone rang.

He turned about and walked away, seeking a quiet spot before speaking.

‘Hi.’

It was Gardenia. Who else could it be?

‘Your order is ready.’

‘Very good.’

‘Where are you?’

‘In the city centre.’

‘I will meet you at the main entrance of the cathedral at one o’clock. I will not speak; just hand over a bag.’

‘Understood.’

The line went dead. He glanced at his watch and returned to the Cross to see what remained of the fun.

Johnny Mason was out of the stocks, returning to his family amid much laughter, except for the young one, still in floods of tears, for it was frightening, her face red and scrunched, as she wailed, ‘I thought, I fort, they were gonna keep you there for a week, daddy! You would get cold and wet,’ grasping his broad thigh, as he scooped her up to curl her chubby arm around his sixteen-inch neck. They exchanged hugs, bringing back memories of her as a babe, a confirmed daddy’s girl from birth to his death, fifty years hence.

Crispin glanced at them and wondered about his own family, and what might have been, and where they were, and would they wish to see him, for he sure as hell wanted to see Dan again, though a boy he would no longer be. He hoped he would be taller and more muscular than himself. He sighed and trudged away, memories and regrets swirling through his mind, for he had a scouting mission to complete before his appointment.

Fatty from the prison told him Horace’s Joke Shop was in Frodsham Street, close to the cathedral. He said he went there often, for his kids adored the silly jokes and pranks, and would return with stink bombs, though Fatty could produce his own, caps for toy guns containing real gunpowder, fake blood, sawn off hands and feet, hideous masks, fake turds, itching powder, no-tear toilet paper, and much more to chill the blood, and scare, or make them laugh and cringe.

He found it without a problem, and it was busy. Tourists and locals gazing in the cleaned window at a fresh display of witchetty things, though it was nowhere near Halloween. He peered through the half-glazed door. It was busy inside. He would return after his meet on the cathedral steps.

The red stone cathedral was also busy, as it was during any dry day. Built of local stone, it wasn’t the biggest in England, but had an attraction of its own, and unlike others in different cities, still free to go in.

Few knew a religious building had stood there for at least eleven centuries. How many folks had found their way inside in that time? How many births, marriages, and deaths had it seen? How many souls seeking sanctuary or comfort through countless bloody wars and frightening turmoil? It was what cathedrals did, bringing calm, peace, harmony, and hope. Displaying a sense of no matter how bad things might become, the old place was still there, welcoming anyone and everyone with open arms. Be they troubled, the happy, the desperate, and even killers, for who would know if a killer strolled through the wide door?

The church relied on donations and the gift shop and café to meet the £6500 per day it cost to maintain the site and building.

Crispin arrived on the steps of the main entrance at two minutes to one. A minute later, he spotted Gardenia approaching, walking fast along St Werburgh Street, coming from the left, cream jacket, blue jeans, white soled casual shoes, carrying the smaller Bestdas bag for life. He hadn’t appreciated what a good-looking piece of fluff she was.

She spotted him but didn’t look at him, as she hustled up the stairs as if needed inside, not stopping for a second, as she slipped the bag over an offered arm, and disappeared into the red-stone house of worship without a glance or word.

He looked in the bag. One item only. A brown glass indigestion medicine bottle, seven inches high. The blue, white, and orange paper label still attached. Someone had scrawled two letters over the label in thick black marker pen, P.A., as if it might belong to someone with those initials. The bottle was three-quarter full, the cap screwed tight, everything he needed, primed and ready to go.

Crispin skipped down the steps and headed back towards Horace’s place, a short shopping list in mind, money in his pocket, a killing agent in his bag.

Chapter thirty-five

Murder investigations were like any other cases, and sometimes they stalled, and the slowing down always felt ten times worse when someone had lost their life.

Trails grew cold and fresh impetus was needed, and when that happened, the bosses cracked the whip and demanded more effort from an already stretched team. Clues and leads could come from anywhere. Maybe an anonymous informant or paid snout, only as good or as valued as their last piece of intel. But more often, the stalling days and logjams were broken by one of the hardworking team stumbling on, or figuring out, a fresh thread to tread.

It wasn’t often two new factors appeared on the same day, but in the Barnabus Reynolds case, that happened midway through the afternoon.

Martin Kane ambled to Walter’s workstation and waited for the man to speak. Karen’s place opposite was vacant. She was in a private room, diving deeper into Barnabus’s technology.

Walter said, ‘What have you got, Martin, and if it’s an urgent request for leave, don’t waste your time and mine?’

‘Nope, I couldn’t think of a worse time to be away.’

Walter set his pen down, half-turned, and stared up at the big guy. ‘What’s on your mind? What do you know that I don’t?’

‘It may be nothing, just struck me as odd, that’s all.’

Walter studied the guy’s face and recognised uncertainty. It was often there in the eyes and faces and body language of new officers, though Martin had been with them long enough to have lost the coltish demeanour.

‘What struck you as odd? Come on Martin, what have you got?’

‘Didn’t we say Garry Norman wasn’t known to us, or am I imagining things?’

‘Nope, I believe that is the case. Are you telling me he is?’

‘Well, yes and no, Guv.’

‘Now you are confusing me, and I hate being confused. Has he ever been in bother?’

Martin smiled and said, ‘No, nothing like that, Guv, more the complete opposite.’

‘You are not telling me he has served time on the force?’

‘No, not that, either.’

‘Well what, then?’ Walter’s voice raising in volume as he struggled to remain calm. Doc’s advice. Need to watch the blood pressure, Mr Darriteau. You are not getting any younger. The kind of well-meant talking-to most people received when they advanced in years, and often it was followed by another question. Thinking of retiring, are you? Might not be such a bad idea.

Martin coughed up his gem like a fish regurgitating a mothball.

‘He’s a registered informant, Guv, or at least he was. Pretty good one, too, if the records are to be believed.’

‘Is he? That is a surprise. When was this?’

‘Oh, ages ago, maybe fifteen years since.’

‘Oh, damn,’ said Walter, sitting back in his chair. ‘I thought it might have been current. I hoped it could have some bearing on the Reynolds’ case.’

‘Maybe it does.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘As far as I can see, Garry fed us intel on three cases, maybe more, but these are the ones that were recorded.’

‘What intel? Where from? What about?’

‘All of them came through his contacts at the Millingdon Masons.’

‘He spilled Masonic secrets?’

‘Yes, though at first, I think he was a newish member.’

Walter pulled a face and shook his head.

‘You realise new masons have to swear before their brethren they will never disclose any secrets of what they learn, under no less a penalty of having their throat cut across, their tongue torn out by the root, and their body buried in the sand of the sea at low tide?’

Martin grinned and said, ‘Yeah, well, we have all heard that, haven’t we? But that’s only window-dressing. They would never go so far as doing anything like that.’

Walter’s eyebrows moved up a tad, as he said, ‘You reckon? You sure about that?’

‘You think they might?’

Walter would not enter any conversation about what masons were capable of, and what not, not least because he had never been one, never wanted to join, and didn’t know the correct answers.

‘Tell me everything, Martin. What cases?’

He glanced at his scribbled notes.

‘There are three main ones.’

‘So you said.’

‘The first relates to a bloke called Derek Dusty Miller. It seemed our Dusty was one to specialise in fiddles and frauds of every kind. Even recruited one or two brothers to join him, hoping to make a quick buck. As I am sure you can guess, it went tits up, and people lost big money. Dusty was black-balled and binned, or whatever masons call it, or do to the disgraced and disbarred.’

‘I think the word you are looking for is expulsion, Martin, and expulsion is the severest penalty to be inflicted upon a delinquent Mason.’

‘Other than having your throat cut, you mean?’

‘We’ll pass on that. And this case came to a head because of information Garry Norman provided?’

‘So it says here.’

‘Any mention of his dad, Cecil?’

‘No, I looked for that. Nowhere to be seen.’

‘I am not surprised. Cecil would rather have shopped his grandma than spill masonic secrets. I wonder why the young Garry did it?’

‘It wasn’t for the money, Guv. He received a pittance, and there’s a note saying he donated it to African Famine, which was big back then.’

‘It still is, but we won’t go there. Case number two?’

Martin nodded and grinned and said, ‘A bit more fruity.’

‘Oh, good, we like fruit. Go on.’

‘There was a bloke at Millingdon called Harry Cromlin, and Harry enjoyed the company, shall we say, of younger men. I mean very young, if the records are to be believed. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, that kind of age.’

‘Boys.’

‘Yeah, older boys, if you like. Young to middling teens.’

‘Go on.’

‘Harry was a love-them-and-leave-them merchant, but when he had finished with his “boys”, as he called them, he liked to earn a few extra quid by introducing them to other sex-starved older men.’

‘Men who were sex-starved for boys, you mean?’

‘Correct, and he did well out of it, financially speaking. A grand an introduction, according to the intel Garry Norman provided, and the notes his handler left.’

‘Interesting. So, Harry Cromlin moved in affluent circles. Who was Garry’s handler?’

‘A bloke named DC Marsden Baines.’

Walter thought about it for a second before saying, ‘I remember him. Dead now, which is a pity. A bit standoffish. Came from a good background. Didn’t socialise to my knowledge, or at least not with other officers. Bit of a cold fish, know what I mean? Never promoted, though he said it didn’t bother him. I didn’t believe him and always thought he was in the wrong job. He would have made a much better taxman… or pest controller.’

‘I see,’ said Martin, though he didn’t.

Walter said, ‘What do you make of that?’

‘Well, Marsden noted Garry said he should never have revealed any secrets. Reading between the lines, Guv, I think he was getting cold feet by then, about telling Marsden anything. But the Harry Cromlin business was so disgusting, Garry said he could not turn a blind eye; hence he passed intel to Marsden. Garry refused any reward, but insisted something was done about it.’

‘And was it?’

‘Yes and no. It seems the Masonic hierarchy got wind of it, provoking an internal inquiry. It didn’t go well for Harry, and he was severely censured, which is about as hard as they can get before expulsion looms, and not long after, Harry died of a heart attack on the golf course, and that was the end of that.’

‘I wonder if Harry Cromlin was interviewed by the police.’

‘Could be, though if he was, I can’t find any record of it.’

Walter huffed and puffed and said, ‘There were plenty of off-the-record interviews made, and often not in any official station, and especially back then. Not so much now. Mrs West would go crazy if anyone did anything like that today. Maybe the stress of it brought on the attack, and he was worried to hell he might be exposed.’

‘That’s what I wondered.’

‘And the third case?’

‘Ah, this is the more interesting one, and maybe the most relevant, but I don’t think it goes anywhere.’

‘Go on. Hit me.’

‘It relates to Gordon Norman, the eldest child.’

‘The gambling one?’

‘The same, and Gordon was also a member of the Millingdon Lodge.’

‘Oh, interesting. All conniving boys together.’

‘And so were at least two of the gang who traipsed round the racecourses with him, screwing money out of anyone they thought could be screwed. Bookmakers, jockeys, stable lads and lasses, dodgy owners who might sell “inside information” for a few quid. All that kind of malarkey, and Garry asked Marsden to look into it.’

‘You mean Gordon’s death?’

‘I reckon so.’

‘And these people were the same bods who attacked and killed Gordon Norman in Shrewsbury?’

‘Never proven, Guv, as you know. Another dead end, no pun intended. Just thought you should know.’

‘Maybe, maybe not. The question is, why did Garry Norman not mention any of this to us?’

‘Good point. Do you want me to nip down and ask him?’

‘No, Martin, I can see you are champing at the bit, but I think Karen and I will pop over to Floribunda and see if he has anything to add.’

Martin’s disappointment was writ large, and only eased a degree when the Guv said, ‘Well done, Martin. You did well, though, as you say, it’s probably a dead end.’

‘Just one other thing, Guv.’

‘What?’

‘After the Gordon Norman case, Garry resigned as an informant. Said he had done his duty, but could no longer cope with betraying his brethren. Said he should never have done it in the first place, and asked Marsden to expunge all records of information he leaked.’

‘But Marsden didn’t?’

‘No, he didn’t, thank goodness, though I suspect he told Garry he did.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘From the little I know of Marsden, and correct me if I am wrong, the records give the impression he was as straight as a dye, and deleting records was not in his make-up.’

‘Nope,’ said Walter, ‘or rather, yes. I think you have summed up Marsden Baines to a tee. Well done, again. Come and talk to me if you find anything else.’

‘I will, Guv, for sure.’

Walter sat back and thought about it, though before he dissected what he had learnt, Darren appeared next to him, an excited look on his face.

‘What is it, Mr Gibbons?’

‘I think I have found something interesting, Guv, something you should know about.’

‘Oh, goody, it’s my lucky day. Bring it on.’

Chapter thirty-six

Walter glanced at Darren, and across as Karen’s still empty place, and said, ‘If you have news, Darren, take a seat in my surgery and tell me what’s going on.’

Darren peered at the empty chair, back at the Guv, and said, ‘Where is she? She won’t be happy if she comes back and sees me in her seat.’

‘Tech-hopping, going through Mr Reynolds’ toys, and won’t be back for hours.’

‘If you say so.’

‘What have you got, and make it good?’

‘Well, you know you asked me to check out what cars the Buchanan couple own up in Dundee?’

‘I do.’

‘That was the easy part. A three litre Jag, and a modern mini.’

‘What do you reckon? The Jag for the bloke, and the mini for her?’

‘Could be, Guv, though if she’s the doctor and he’s a chemistry teacher, the doc might take preference.’

‘Maybe, who knows?’

‘I’m coming to the good bit.’

‘Go on.’

‘We started checking ANPR, Kate and I, and hey ho, it pings.’

‘What does?’

‘The Jaguar.’

‘Where?’

‘Just coming off the M53, heading into town.’

‘When was this?’

‘That’s the interesting bit, Guv. Three days before the murder.’

‘Oh, wow. Now you are talking. Giving whoever it was, time to meet Crispin, hand him prussic acid, and perhaps a fistful of cash, and our mate from Solway Grange, the man who served years in prison for trashing Barney’s garden centre, is ready to go. A few days later, Barney is attacked and murdered, and the Jag driver flees back to Scotland, and Crispin jumps a train or coach and disappears into who-knows where.’

‘That’s what I thought, Guv. And Gillian Gail Norman, as was, has a motive, being short-changed by her parents, with the business being sold from beneath her, because she believes Barney persuaded Cecil to sell it at a knockdown price without her knowledge or permission. Stealing it, in other words. Afterwards, the vast majority of family cash is handed to righteous Garry, and that must have stung.’

‘All perfectly possible, Darren, though there is too much speculation for my liking. Where is the proof?’

Darren thought about it for a few seconds before saying, ‘Maybe we could find out if Mr Buchanan was handling or obtaining P.A. from his school lab, and we need to check their bank withdrawals.’

‘I thought we had their financial records?’

‘We do, but we have been tied up on ANPR. We could do with another pair of eyes.’

‘What’s Ricky doing?’

‘No idea.’

‘Get hold of him and get him on financials. If he argues, tell him to come and see me. Is there a picture of the Jag approaching Chester?’

‘There is, Guv, but it’s useless. The sun is shining on the windscreen, and it’s impossible to make out the driver. I’m pretty certain there is only one person in the car, or at least in the front seats, but I can’t tell if it’s a man or woman.’

‘There could be someone in the back, though it is unusual to travel that way, unless they had a falling out. Check out with Buchanan’s school and Gillian’s medical practice, if either or both were absent in those few days before the murder. If they were, it’s one more brick in the wall.’

Darren smiled and said, ‘Never thought of that. I’ll get on it now.’

Walter nodded him away, but before he left, Walter said, ‘Good work, Darren, and let me have a copy of the photo.’

‘Sure, Guv, thanks.’

Three seconds after he had gone, Walter’s phone rang. He grabbed it and said, ‘Hello!’

Mrs West paused a second and said, ‘Sorry I was absent when you returned. I am free now. Do you want to step inside and we will have a chat?’

‘Sure,’ said Walter, full of enthusiasm, for this time he had various items of progress to share.

Her door was open and he went in, closed it, and sat down.

He wanted to tell her about Garry Norman being a registered informant, and Gillian Norman or her husband or both, visiting Chester just before the murder, but Mrs West always wanted first things doing first, everything boxed off, straight and logical, before moving on to fresh meat.

‘Tell me what happened at the garden centre? Did you rattle their cage?’

‘We did, ma’am. Well and truly.’

‘To good effect?’

‘We think so.’

‘Excellent. Tell me more.’

Walter glanced at his notebook, for he guessed it would be needed and told her what was said.

Julia Barber confirmed, after copious drink at the Lantern, silly threats were made about having the restaurant closed down if Moo didn’t stop seeing Barney, though Julia insisted it was a joke. She denied they threatened to kill Mrs Moo. When we insisted they had threatened the lady, she went into solicitor mode, telling us she would not say another word unless her legal eagle was present. She said Mr Golding might be her solicitor, and didn’t confirm it either way.

Mrs West pulled a face and said, ‘And the younger one, the Adamson girl?’

Walter glanced back at his notebook, though had no need to, before speaking again.

‘It took some brow-beating, but she caved in and told us threats to kill were made against Mrs Moo, though they were said in a semi-joking tone, and when pressed to confirm who made the threats, said it was Mrs Golding.’

‘My, my, what do you make of that?’

‘People cannot go round threatening to kill, or have people killed, imagining it is okay to do so because several bottles of wine have been consumed. How many folks have been murdered because the killer was drunk? Alcohol can never be an excuse for violent or intimidating behaviour, and the idea it was said in jest doesn’t sit well.’

‘No, I can see that. Leave it with me, and I will take advice.’

Walter didn’t agree, though he understood why. Mrs Golding was married to a senior solicitor, though that should not matter one jot, though Walter was glad he wasn’t making the decision.

Mrs West said, ‘You intimated you have made progress?’

‘We have, ma’am, or at least the team have, nothing of my doing,’ and he told her everything Martin and Darren dug up, and where they were going with it.

‘Excellent! Get on with it, and keep me informed,’ and her eyes flitted towards the door and he didn’t need any excuse to leave.

Karen reappeared at half-past four, puffing out her cheeks and shaking her head when asked if she had found anything interesting.

Walter said, ‘Fair enough. If it’s in there, it will show itself when it is ready. In the meantime, I want to go to Floribunda Farm.’

‘Why?’ she said, back in her seat.

‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

‘Do you want me to call them and make sure they are in?’

‘No, not this time. Let’s call unannounced and see if we catch them on the back foot.’

It made sense. Sometimes people made mistakes when caught unprepared, and other times there were people inside who wouldn’t want to meet police officers.

Chapter thirty-seven

At five to five, Karen drove a BMW into Floribunda Farm, pulling the car to a halt on the gravelled drive to one side of the impressive timber carport. Sheltering beneath like nervous mares were a smart white Tesla and a fancy Cayton Cerisa.

A moment later, they were out of the car, heading for the impressive main front entrance. Up four grey stone steps, into a wide stone porch, to the double half-glazed doors. To the right was an old-fashioned brass bell-pull. Walter nodded her on and she tugged. Jangly bells rang inside.

Garry was in the vast property alone, lounging in his square office towards the rear, with the door open in case the bells rang. He wasn’t expecting anyone, though it wasn’t unusual for callers to stop by, some known and invited, others, chancers, and snake oil salespeople.

He hastened to the hallway and saw two people through the glass. One he recognised, the blonde sergeant who came before. The other, a wide black bloke he hadn’t met in the flesh, though had seen him on TV and around the city.

Garry opened the door and said, ‘You again? What can I do for you?’

Karen introduced Walter, as Garry said, ‘Greater artillery, is it? Someone further up the greasy pole. More important questions, more important man. You puzzle me. I can’t imagine why I should interest you.’

Walter said, ‘May we come in?’

It would have been interesting if he said no, but he didn’t. Garry stood to one side and said, ‘Of course, come in. Be my guest. We have nothing to hide,’ and he beckoned them in, saying, ‘same room as before,’ as Karen led the way.

As they walked through the house, Walter monitored for movement or sound, but detected neither. It seemed Garry was alone. Seconds later, they were seated, Walter and Karen on one luxurious sofa, with Garry opposite in another.

‘So,’ said Garry, ‘what brings you here? I take it you haven’t arrested anyone for Reynolds’ murder?’

‘Not yet,’ said Walter. ‘But we will. The wife and children out?’

‘Gone to the zoo. They must have been a hundred times but never tire of it, and can’t wait to return.’

The two sides looked at each other as if expecting the opposition to speak, but when no one did, Garry said, ‘So?’

Walter said, ‘Tell us about your activities as a registered police informant.’

‘Oh, that? It was years ago.’

‘Why didn’t you mention it to Karen?’

‘As I say, it was years ago, and not relevant to the Barnabus nonsense.’

Karen said, ‘It isn’t nonsense. Barnabus Reynolds was murdered in his office when he should have been home looking after his sick wife.’

Garry laughed and said, ‘If the common stories are to be believed, Barnabus should have been looking after his sick wife a great deal more than he did, rather than trawling the neighbourhood looking for fresh skirt to poke.’

‘Did that bother you?’ said Walter.

‘No, it did not. He could do what he liked. His scandalous behaviour was nothing to do with me, and one day it became obvious to everyone it would catch up with him; and it did. Someone with more balls than I possess stepped up and ended the thing.’

Walter said, ‘Did you pay someone to do that?’

The man laughed long and loud and said, ‘No!’

‘You haven’t answered my question about your informant days.’

‘Not much to tell. I was younger then, and what shall we say, wet behind the ears. I didn’t realise the seriousness of my situation, releasing information I shouldn’t, though once I grew up and understood what I was doing, I knocked it on the head. Look at your records. I am sure it will confirm it.’

‘Let’s talk about your eldest brother.’

‘If we must.’

‘It seems he was murdered by members of the Lodge.’

‘It’s possible, though they are all dead, so it looks as if karma came calling and closed the book.’

‘Did you know at the time they were responsible for your brother’s death?’

‘No, I did not. Maybe had suspicions, but that was as far as it went.’

Karen said, ‘How did you get on with Gordon?’

‘We were a few years apart in age, so we were never bosom buddies like some siblings.’

‘Did you like him?’

‘Not much. As I told you, he was a bully, and being the eldest, he thought he could and should keep us in line, and wasn’t averse to giving us a smack, or, to be more accurate, a punch. Bloodied my nose on more than one occasion, and the girls were not immune. Ask Gillian, if you get to speak to her, and it was one reason Grahame cleared off to NZ. Pity really, because Grahame was the only one who might have filled out enough to take him on. Secretly, I think all the kids hoped Grahame would take him down a peg or two, and he disappointed us when he chose the easy route, and left. I think Gordon enjoyed it, throwing his weight around, and what’s more, I’m sure dad turned a blind eye. So no, I didn’t like Gordon much. None of us did.’

Walter thought about it for a second before saying, ‘It suited you for Gordon to be out of the way, didn’t it?’

‘Hah! If you are suggesting I had my brother killed to leave me one step closer to the keys of the kingdom, you are way off beam. Gordon grew away from the business and became infatuated with everything to do with racing. The problem was, he was hopeless. I watched him once, while he was gambling. A race at Lingfield on the TV. There were only four runners, and the idiot ended up backing three of them. The fourth horse, the outsider, bolted up, leaving Gordy nursing a stinging loss. He’d have his phone on all the time, tuned to BritBetEx, the betting exchange. He was on there from morning till night. Sure, he’d have some big winners from time to time, and when he did, he made sure everyone knew about it, even splashed out a few twenties, but the dozens of days in between when he was quiet, you knew he was suffering losses, and soon after, I learnt he was borrowing money left, right, and centre.’

Karen said, ‘Did he borrow from you?’

Garry pulled a face and nodded and said, ‘Tried to, but the first time he asked, I turned him down flat, and he never asked again.’

Walter said, ‘Did he borrow from your father?’

‘No. He didn’t even ask, for he knew the answer he’d get.’

‘Did Gillian harbour a grudge against Barnabus?’

‘Too right she did, which was strange.’

‘Why strange?’ said Karen.

‘Because she was always heading for the medicine trail, and the training there is years, meaning her interest and connection to the business slipped away to nothing. But despite that, I am sure she wanted it to remain in the family, and the thought of the upstart Reynolds getting his greasy mitts on it at a knockdown price appalled her.’

Walter said, ‘With her out of the way, it left you clear as last man standing?’

‘That is how it turned out, but none of my doing. I didn’t kill my brother. I didn’t sod off to NZ, or move away to be a GP, or die young, and it just turned out I was left holding the baby, until…’

‘Until what?’

‘Until dad, and a lesser extent, mum, did that awful thing by selling it out from beneath me, from beneath us. I’ll tell you one thing. The biz is worth ten times the figure the family received for it, so of course, we harbour regrets and bitterness with the feeling of what might have been, but it doesn’t mean we popped Barney.’

‘Who did?’ said Karen.

Garry shrugged and said, ‘Who knows? What about the guy who went potty and wrecked the site, and was banged up in prison? He always struck me as weird as hell.’

Karen glanced at the Guv, seeing a tiny nod, as she said, ‘We are looking into his activities.’

Walter said, ‘If he did it, he would have needed help. Someone out there aided him. Was that you?’

Garry laughed again, a relaxed laugh, not a worried or nervous one, as he said, ‘No, I did not. I didn’t need to. Someone did it for me, and when I find out who it was, I will send them a fat congratulatory cheque.’

Walter said, ‘Do you grow roses?’

‘Of course we do. Have you seen the size of the grounds? Who wouldn’t? Why do you ask?’

‘Just filling in background.’

Karen said, ‘Would you have prussic acid anywhere?’

His brow furrowed as he thought about it. Not if they stocked prussic acid, more as to why she asked.

‘Not that I know of, unless it is in weed-killer.’

‘It can be,’ said Walter, adding, ‘I think that is all for today. Thank you for your help.’

‘You are welcome, and don’t forget to tell me who is it when you find him, or her, so I can get my cheque-book out.’

‘Rewarding criminals is never a great idea, Mr Norman. I thought you knew that.’

Two minutes later they were outside in the BMW. The spring weak sun had vanished, as they sat for a moment, before Karen said, ‘What do you think?’

‘He’s a smooth one, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, and a confident gent.’

‘Let’s have another look at his finances. A whopping cash withdrawal days before the death might prove interesting.’

‘He hated Barnabus, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, and couldn’t hide it, but if the figures he quoted are anywhere near correct, it could be understandable.’

‘He hasn’t done badly out of it, Guv. Look at this place.’

‘True, but you know what high-flyers are like. However much they have, it is never enough.’

Karen started the car, turned it round, and moved off Floribunda property to head back to HQ.

Chapter thirty-eight

At 10pm on a late March night, a bushy grey-haired man approached the area housing the bowling club, a bag in either hand, the first, an old-fashioned briefcase, wider at the bottom than the top, the other, a Bestdas bag for life.

He walked along a narrow straight street, made skinnier by a succession of cars parked nose to bumper along the left-hand side. Streetlight was minimal, but enough. On the quiet night air, away to the right, he heard men talking. He paused close to a Volvo saloon and ducked out of sight. Across the road, a narrow and dark pedestrian alley joined the street. The voices came from there. Seconds later, two men were spat out onto the road.

In the miserable light he saw they were similar in size and build, both wearing half-length coats, not winter gear, more in-between styles before summer arrived and coats were consigned to the wardrobe. Both wore modern trainers, neither wore glasses, as they turned right and headed away to where the road became a narrow, unmade lane with high hedges on either side, as the men approached the club.

He paused and looked around, before parting the privet on the right to stash the Bestdas bag deep within, out of sight, before following the others, swinging the case in time with his steps. He imagined at that hour people would be coming away, not going in, and hoped the place would be semi-deserted, but it seemed not.

As he closed on the building, he saw it lit up like Blackpool Illuminations, though no sound made its way outside. He guessed on a busy night it could be noisy, as he walked by a single parked car, dew forming on the bonnet, and closed on a pedestrian gate.

The late arriving men had gone through and were on their way in. He sauntered after them, following the shale path, the flat stones making it impossible to cross without a scrunch. No one paid any attention. A second later, he stepped up the single step to try the door. It wasn’t locked. He eased the handle down and stepped inside to sniff the warmer air.

The heating was on. Someone wasn’t budgeting as they should. Aromas of mixed beers and Aussie wine permeated his nose. It wasn’t unpleasant, though he wasn’t a drinker. Five yards ahead, a man quizzed the two late arrivals, all three standing, leaning over a high desk cum worktop, fixed to the left wall. Forms were dished out, and instructions, complete your application there, rules and regs there, fees and additional requirements such as appropriate footwear. Grey hair tuned into the conversation.

The strangers were asking about joining and how much it would cost. What better words to explain his presence? He would also apply for membership. More forms would be needed. The guy on duty seemed harassed and tired, as if he had been there all day, and it was becoming difficult to maintain his spirit of bonhomie, his voice carrying a note of bored resignation.

‘Yes, as I said, fill in the forms and bring them back, and we will get you sorted as fast as we can.’

It didn’t sound too difficult to join. Who would want to belong to a club that took any old Johnnies? Not that he was concerned about that. He caught something about they had come straight from the football. He would come from the football too, so long as he wasn’t asked which teams were playing, or the result.

The two newcomers turned away from the staff member, and headed back towards him, one nodding a short greeting, imagining the old grey-haired duffer might be a committee member, even the president, with his briefcase, as he made ready to leave and go home. It was always best to keep on the right side of authority, no matter how small or low-powered it might be. Grey hair nodded back, and a second later he was alone with the tired guy, a man looking forward to his late supper, a warm cheese pastie and a good cup of tea.

Grey hair stepped forward, passing an open double door on the left to a large bar, approached the man, and tried a weak smile. The guy looked up at yet another late stranger. What was wrong with these people? Why couldn’t they come at a civilised hour? Didn’t they have a happy home to go to? But so many members didn’t. They had homes, though for many, happy they were not.

‘Membership, is it?’ the guy said.

‘Aye, that’s it.’

‘I’ll give you some forms.’

‘Thank you.’

A moment later, several pieces of paper were passed over, accompanied by a quick repeat of what needed doing.

‘I see. Thank you. I’ll bring them back tomorrow.’

‘Very good. Any questions?’

Before they could be aired, a distant man’s voice barrelled from the bar.

‘John! Johnny Williams, are you there?’

The guy glanced at the grey-haired man and said, ‘I’ll have to go. When the president calls, we jump,’ spoken in a jokey fashion, with underlying tones of annoyance. ‘Can you see yourself out?’

‘Of course, I understand. You get off and see what he wants.’

‘I will.’

Grey hair opened his briefcase a sliver and slipped the papers inside.

The guy, John Williams, bobbed his head and hurried into the bar to see what was happening.

The grey-haired man closed his briefcase and went to the front door, opened and closed it with a slight bang, but remained inside. The doors to the bar area had drifted half closed. He stepped past the ajar door and headed up towards the signed lockers and showers. There was no one there. Late players and drinkers had long since bowled their last wood, sunk their last gin, to head home.

The programmed late cleaner had not long finished before scooting away. No damp towels on the floor, or discarded shampoo and cosmetic bottles, or surreptitious fag butts left lying about by lawbreakers. All the showers were off, though somewhere nearby, water dripped. In busy locker-rooms that wasn’t unusual. A flowery flavoured disinfectant aroma settled on the long and narrow room. Whatever it was hiding, it was doing a good job. He stood behind the door; waiting for sound, wondering how long it would take.

The ideal scenario was for John Williams to leave first. Grey hair didn’t want them to leave together. He knew the president and knew he liked to work late. It was a gamble, but one he was confident of winning.

In the president’s office, John studied Barnabus, counting out a pile of notes and coins.

John said, ‘Can you believe three late arrivals wanting membership forms?’

‘What? During the evening?’

‘In the last ten minutes.’

‘Weird, but welcome. We could do with more membership fees, John.’

The money was totalled, scribbled in a lined ledger, placed in a large envelope, to be slipped in a right desk drawer, atop yesterday’s takings, for he hadn’t had an opportunity to take it home or to the bank.

‘Is the heating off, John?’

‘Just switched it off.’

‘We were a bit late, weren’t we?’

‘Sorry about that, been busy, hither and thither. The sooner we get the timer working again, the better.’

‘No worries. It will go off for good soon. Anything else, John?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Okay, you get off,’ and John turned round, only for Barnabus to add, ‘Oh, and John? Well done for everything you do. I know we take you for granted and rely on you too much.’

‘Not a problem, Mr President. I enjoy it,’ a slight lie, but no one would know, as he tapped the side of his head with his right hand and flicked a silly salute.

In the next moment, he was in the hallway, taking a last look round. Should he check on the locker-rooms before leaving? No, he remembered Dilly had not long done it, and she was super-efficient and never needed supervising, and besides, he had a warming light supper waiting at home, and couldn’t get there fast enough.

He turned a chunk of lights off to save electricity, slipped on his light jacket, went to the door, and stepped out into a cooling night. Mist was floating up the river, giving it an other-worldly look, coating everyone and everything in its damp embrace. He sniffed the air. Someone close by was enjoying a late curry. Lucky things. He turned back to the door and locked it, president’s instructions, in case a late chancer found their way in to mug and rob the main man. It would never happen, not on John’s watch.

A minute later, he had gone.

Grey hair, skulking in the locker-rooms, heard the main door open, close, and be locked. It was time to move. He slithered from the changing rooms. Everywhere was silent, just an occasional creak caused by the freshening wind. The corridor was dim, as was the bar beyond, as he crept inside.

On the far wall were two doors. The right one shut, the left, closest to the long windows, half open. Light flooded out through the doorway. The President was talking on his phone. The man crept closer, interested to earwig on the conversation.

‘I’ll need feeding,’ the President said.

Grey hair could not hear the answer.

‘You always do.’

‘And after that, I’m going to give you a right thrashing. You won’t be getting much sleep tonight.’

‘Promises, promises.’

‘I’m right in the mood.’

‘You always are.’

‘You don’t complain.’

The woman giggled, and even grey hair heard it.

‘See you soon,’ said Mr President.

‘Don’t be long!’ and the call ended.

Barnabus Reynolds sat back in his chair, a cat-got-the-cream grin on his face. She was a wonderful woman, one of the best, so exciting, and he couldn’t keep away.

The grey-haired man had heard enough. It was time to become reacquainted. He stepped towards the half-open door, his spoken lines and actions rehearsed for the tenth time, for his moment had arrived. He went inside, jaunty and upbeat, swinging the briefcase.

Chapter thirty-nine

Barnabus Reynolds had aged, but after twenty years, who hadn’t? He was sitting behind an impressive desk, expensive white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, with a narrow club tie, his jacket on the back of the chair.

A smart red Anglepoise lamp, bright and burning, sat on the right side of the desk.

He glanced up and started in his chair.

‘What the hell?’ he said. ‘I thought everyone had gone!’

‘Everyone but me,’ said the wild-haired man.

‘Were you one of the late arrivals looking for membership?’

‘John Williams, is that his name? He thought so.’

‘Well, if you are not looking to becoming a member, what are you doing here?’

The stranger didn’t answer the question and said, ‘We have met before.’

Barney took a second look at the wind-blown character.

‘I don’t think so. I never forget a face, and yours is one I would remember.’

‘And why would that be?’

Barney glanced at the man’s angular face, and a nose it would be hard to forget.

‘Ah, I see,’ said the man. ‘It’s my hooked nose. It upsets you.’

‘No, I wouldn’t say that, but you have to admit, it is impressive.’

‘Aye, it is.’

The visitor set his briefcase down at his side, flipping open the catch to leave it ready.

Barnabus shook his head and said, ‘Okay, you’ve had your fun. I think it’s time you showed me a clean pair of heels and made your way home.’

The man sighed and said, ‘But that’s the thing, Barnabus Reynolds. Thanks to you, I don’t have a home.’

‘Ah, sorry to hear it. You’re a vagrant? One of the nation’s growing army of homeless. I sympathise, and don’t envy you. ‘

The stranger stared down and gave a half nod but didn’t speak.

‘Look, perhaps I can help,’ and Barney reached into his jacket draped on the back of his chair to collect a long wallet, flipped it open, slipped out five twenties, and placed them across the desk. ‘Here, get yourself into a hotel for the night. There’s a Premier Lodge just up the road. I’m sure they will have a spare room, warm and cosy for the night, excellent spacious beds, very comfortable. I’ve stayed there many a night, and they do an excellent cooked breakfast for those with an appetite, none of that croissant and avocado crap.’

The wild man looked unimpressed.

Barney imagined it was the paucity of the offer.

‘Oh, yes, you are right. I forget how much hotel costs have gone up in the past year or two, especially in this city,’ and he revisited the wallet and pulled out another five notes, and set them on top of the first hundred.

The man ignored the money, as he glanced round the room as if he hadn’t seen it before.

The wild man said, ‘I have something to show you.’

‘In the briefcase, is it? Go on, be quick, I have a date.’

‘A floozy, no doubt?’

‘I wouldn’t call her that. She’s a bit old to be described as a floozy, but she’s good in the sack. That’s the main thing, willing and able, and likes to join in. You know how it is. Come to think of it, at what age does a floozy morph into a mistress, a bit on the side, or scarlet woman? Come now, I am sure you are a man of the world. I’ll bet you could tell a story or two.’

The man thought of his estranged wife and boy, grown up, and no doubt wondering who his dad was, and where he lived. Barnabus noticed the stranger was miles away, and broke his concentration by saying, ‘Ah well, not to worry, take the money for your troubles, and we’ll say no more.’

‘I was going to show you something.’

‘Ah yes, so you were. My apologies. Chop, chop. Let’s see it. I’m in a hurry to get away. My late dinner and sexy squeeze await me.’

‘You’re still betraying your fine wife, Bella, after all this time; who I hear is sick.’

It stopped him in his tracks.

‘How do you know about Bell, and her illness?’

‘The trees talk in this town, Mr Reynolds. Secrets are impossible to keep. Every time the wind blows, the leaves rustle, spreading the news about the city, and you are a man who always produces news to gossip about. You could never keep your grubby secrets to yourself. I thought, as a dedicated plantsman, you would know that.’

Barney went to stand.

‘Sit down! I haven’t shown you my surprise.’

Barnabus slumped in his seat, worried about the mental stability of his visitor, and what he might have in his grubby worn case, before saying, ‘Go on, surprise me.’

Wild hair bobbed his head, and his hands went to his face.

The left hand held his forehead steady, the right cupped under the impressive conk. In the next second, he loosened the nose, and a moment later, peeled it back, up towards his forehead, his head slanting back as if he had a nosebleed, and in the next instant it detached from his face. For a moment, he held it above the desk, above the proffered cash, squeezing it before tossing it to his right, where it fell into the case.

‘Impressive,’ said Barney, scratching his chin, ‘and if you don’t mind me saying, quite an improvement, though I don’t understand why you feel the need to hide your real nose.’

The moustache and mutton chops were next to go. They too were dropped, floating down feather-like, falling into the open-mouthed case like a ton of krill into a starving whale.

Barney peeked at the man again. He looked so different, and there was something familiar about him, before he said, ‘We have met before, you’re right, but I can’t place it. A while back, I think.’

The man’s hands raised again, head held back, as the grey fluffy unkempt wig was peeled back and away, before he gazed at Barney, into the man’s filthy, philandering eyes.

He set the wig on the corner of the desk, as Barney took a breath and said, ‘You! After all this time? The rose killer! What do you want with me? You’ve got a nerve. You should not be here. If the police knew about this…’ and he reached for the phone.

Crispin was too quick for him, leant across and smacked the hand so hard the man squealed.

‘If you try to make a phone call, it will be the last thing you do.’

‘Okay, okay, no phone calls,’ said Barney, rubbing his fingers, slouching in the chair, realising things had turned nasty. ‘What do you want? Money, is it? I can do that.’

‘Ah, yes, money, the root of all evil. I once asked you for money, remember? Not for me, but for my young wife and baby. We needed money, not a lot; just enough to cover our rising rent bill, and do you remember your response?’

‘I can’t say as I do,’ said Barney in a rush, eager to banish such thoughts.

‘You remember! Of course you remember. You know what you did to me. Your actions sent me over the edge. I admit, I lost my temper and for an hour or two, I lost my mind, and all because you would not spare me a few hundred quid. You should be ashamed of yourself, Barnabus Reynolds, and because of you, I lost twenty years of my life. The same years that should have been the best, most enjoyable, and satisfying times any man could wish for, sluiced down the drain on the back of your meanness and greed.’

‘But it wasn’t like that.’

‘It was! It was exactly like that.’

‘Look fella, Crispin, isn’t it? I am sure we can come to some arrangement. How about if I made a hefty payment to make up for it? £20,000. No, £50,000, I think I could manage that. What do you say?’

‘You think you can solve any problem by throwing a few quid at it. To buy me off? You haven’t changed one bit. You throw money at your mistresses, willy-nilly, and they lie down and do your bidding. They no longer find you attractive, Barney. You are getting old and decrepit. I barely recognised you. It’s the size of your wallet that attracts them, not the size of your worn-out dick! You are a reprehensible man, devoid of morals, and one who never deserved the high position in society you scrambled up to.’

‘But… you murdered my roses, my pride and joy. It took me years to get back to where I was before your disgusting attack.’

‘Ah yes, the roses. You remind me. I have brought a few. I admit, I stole them, and take no pride in saying it. Yesterday, I took the bus to your garden centre, and when no one was looking, I peeled back not one but three healthy growing shoots, and slipped them in my bag. This bag, as it happens, and they accompanied me to my religious bedroom. They needed slight attention, a little spicing up, shall we say, and I have them with me. Here, I’ll show you,’ and he pulled the first vigorous cutting from his bag, to hold it above the desk.

Barney stared up at it. Maybe a foot long. Maroon, or was it purple? He always preferred those varieties; the maroon colour fading as the plant matured. The leaves had been removed, though it was mighty thorny, boasting long sharp spikes, bursting with spring growth and energy. They had nicked him countless times in the past, which identified it as Rosa Londoniensis. A fine choice, though he wasn’t keen to see it there.

‘I think you’d better go before someone gets hurt.’

Crispin grinned a toothy smile, a look devoid of humour.

‘Go? I haven’t started yet. We have so much to discuss.’

Chapter forty

When Walter and Karen arrived back at the station after seeing Garry Norman, he found a note on his desk. Ring Mrs Moo.

He waited to make the call, knowing Karen had a hot date, and it wouldn’t be long before she left. Fifteen minutes later, she said, ‘Okay if I get off, Guv?’

‘Sure, you get away.’

Something told her he was keen to be rid of her, and that was unusual, though she didn’t think too much of it, as her evening was planned and potentially exciting.

He gave her fifteen minutes to get clear before grabbing his mobile to call Marina Moo. She answered straight away, thanking him for returning her call in her weird staccato language.

‘What can I do for you, Mrs Moo?’

‘Me Marina, you Walter, yes?’

He sighed and shook his head and didn’t have the heart to argue.

‘You say I call if I have anything new.’

‘I did, and have you?’

‘Maybe, maybe not. You come and I say.’

‘Can’t you tell me now?’

‘No! In person. I speak, I see your eyes. Eyes say everything.’

‘If you insist. I’ll be about an hour.’

‘That do. I feed you nice food, and I pay. My turn.’

‘You can’t pay, Mrs Moo,’ forgetting the Marina word, ‘I am not allowed to accept favours, food, meals, from anyone who may be a witness in a criminal case.’ He almost said potential suspect.

‘You stubborn man.’

‘You are not the first person to say that.’

‘I believe. See you later,’ and she cut off, leaving Walter staring at the handset.

After finishing a few things, he grabbed a taxi, and it was just over the hour when he landed on Parkgate promenade. A cloudless night, the house lights twinkling on the far side of the estuary, a little warmer, a harbinger of better days to come.

He stepped over the threshold and went inside. It wasn’t as busy as usual, but it was early, and that explained it. The dragon on the lectern looked fiercer than before, as Chin glanced up from his book, saw Walter, and nodded towards the kitchen, saying, ‘You know way, not need me,’ and Walter nodded a thank you and headed for the two-way hinged doors. A moment later, he tapped on her half-open office door.

She glanced up from her ledgers and stood up. The sky-blue silk dress displaying a woven pattern of a pair of love-struck cranes suited her. She’d done something with her dark hair, and the striking scarlet lipstick stood out under the neon.

‘You come, bit late, but you come. Sit!’ she ordered, as if she were training a young and mischievous hound.

He smiled across at her and sat down, catching a whiff of French perfume, saying, ‘You said you had something to tell me.’

‘I do. I not waste time. I not tell lies. There is something. I forget before. Or, I not want to say. Personal. Not for strange ears.’

‘I think you had better tell me all about it, Marina,’ as Walter thought ahead to what it might be, without an idea of where the thread was heading.

She sat back, sighed, put her pen down, and looked across at him. He reminded her of a bear, and guessed he could give great bear hugs, though bears were dangerous, and must be respected.

‘The night Barney kill.’

‘The night Barney was killed,’ correcting her tense, for kill and killed meant different things.

She nodded and said, ‘What I said, the night he kill.’

‘What about it?’

‘He ring me, late. I might be last person he speak to.’

‘He rang you?’

She nodded.

‘What time was this?’

She blew out, thinking hard, before saying, ‘Round eleven, maybe bit later.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Not much. Quick speak.’

‘He must have said something.’

She shifted in her chair, ill at ease.

‘He very lovey-dovey. He say he come round, he make promises, he say…’

Walter nodded. ‘Yeah, I get the gist of that. Think hard Marina, was he alone?’

‘I not know. I not hear anyone.’

‘He didn’t speak to anyone in the background?’

‘I not hear anyone.’

‘And he didn’t come?’

‘No! I wait and wait. I shower specially. I want him come. He disappoint me. Three hour I wait. I went to bed. Tears come, wet pillow. I say I hate him. I say I never see him again. I upset. Not sleep. Think of him with three bitches, images of the devil,’ and she shook her head and looked hateful.

‘I see. What happened in the morning?’

She shook her head again, and said, ‘Nowt!’

A northern word, a local word, a variety of nought, picked up from somewhere, maybe from a local waitress, but a word with a clear meaning.

‘Did you ring him?’

‘No!’ she snapped. ‘He must ring me! He must apologise. Beg my forgiveness. I not forgive, not without fight.’

‘But he was dead.’

‘I not know that! I sit and fret and worry, thinking of those evil pigs. I scratch their eyes out if they come, but they steer clear.’

‘If it’s any consolation, we don’t believe they killed Barney.’

‘Who then? You know who?’

‘We are looking for a man.’

‘Which man? Tell me name.’

‘I can’t reveal his identity, and I don’t think you know him. It’s a man from his distant past.’

‘Ah, the past? Yes, Barnabus have heavy past, filthy past, busy past, many skellies in Barney’s cupboard. No surprise. Makes sense. I think you right. I hope you find him. I want to see him. I want to ask why.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

She shrugged and said, ‘Why you think?’

‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

‘Lovey-dovey conversation. Naughty words, said aloud. I didn’t want to say.’

‘I understand. I think we can forget it.’

‘Never forget. Last time he said he want me.’

‘I’m sure he did. Let’s talk about you.’

‘Me? What about me? You wanna date?’

‘No,’ said Walter. ‘That would be unprofessional.’

‘Fuck you!’ she said with a grin, as she tried to say the word unprofessional, without success. ‘You mean, like footballers? Lots of footie players come here.’

‘Not quite.’

The sulky look returned to her face; a woman Walter guessed unused to rejection.

Walter said, ‘I am trying to tell you we have been investigating the three women who came to see you.’

‘The bitches?’

Walter nodded and said, ‘The same.’

‘What about?’

‘We are satisfied they made threats against you, and the case is being looked at.’

‘I told you that!’

‘I know. It could go to court. Threatening behaviour. Not certain, but possible.’

‘Good! They deserve it. They nasty cows.’

Walter couldn’t comment on that. They were not the worst women he had come across, and drink played a big part, though it was no excuse.

‘You gonna catch this man?’

‘We are.’

‘You promise?’

‘I promise you that.’

She sucked her lips, bobbed her head, and looked more hopeful.

‘Dinner? You want dinner?’

‘Yes, I want dinner, but I pay.’

‘You pay yours, sunshine. I pay mine.’

‘It’s a deal,’ he said. ‘What’s hot tonight? What do you recommend?’

‘All hot, all good, I not sell shite.’

‘Let’s hope not,’ said Walter under his breath, standing up, and she stood too and said, ‘Follow me,’ and he did.

Chapter forty-one

In the President’s office, the late-night visitor was on the move, going to his right, brandishing the rose twig before him, coming round the side of Barney’s desk.

The voice in the grey-hair’s head adopted a soothing tone: You know what you must do. It’s all there for you, Crispin. Kill him! Kill him now.

Crispin nodded and said, ‘Today, Barnabus Reynolds; is your day of reckoning.’

‘Keep away from me, or by God, you will regret it!’

‘I have no regrets, or maybe one, and that I am about to put right.’

‘Keep away!’

‘I can’t. You wronged me, and tonight I am correcting the past.’

Barney stood up.

It made no difference.

Crispin slashed him across the face, thorn tips entering the left side of Barney’s cheek.

It stunned him into silence and torpor, affording Crispin a second free hit. A back hand drive duly delivered, dragging fresh thorns across his right cheek.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m introducing you to your own roses. Say hello!’ and he dragged another back hand swipe across Barney’s forehead.

‘You’re mad!’ as some kind of defence mechanism kicked in. Barney raised his arms and hands before him, readying to ward off further blows.

As he did so, he felt unwell. Perhaps adrenaline had kept the sickness symptoms away, feelings that could not be denied. Barney’s thought processes slowed. Crispin saw his chance and thorned both the hands held in front of him, clipping the wrists with a quick one-two.

Barney went to speak but found it impossible. The P.A. was going to work. Hydrogen cyanide, classic symptoms revealing themselves. Difficulty in breathing, followed by seizures, the first of those not far away. Unconsciousness would come soon enough, bringing about cardiac arrest and premature death.

There was still time for another two passes with the purple stick of loaded thorns, one hitting the right side of his forehead, the other sweeping across the Adam’s apple. Barnabus made a pathetic attempt to step forward, but his legs abandoned him, turning to jelly.

Crispin took two paces back to take in Reynolds’ last moments.

Barnabus stopped staring at his attacker and gazed at the floor as if Crispin wasn’t there. Barney’s body was shutting down. Everyone was brought down in the end. The standing upright on two feet, an interminable interlude. It was Barney’s bringing down moment. He swayed one way, his final brain command telling him he must correct it or he would topple over, but he over-corrected, and it was fatal.

Barney crashed down on his back, his right arm doglegged out, up towards the side of his head, his left arm and leg loose and useless, as if he had suffered a stroke. He went purple in the face. Fitting, thought Crispin. Purple complexion brought on, and brought down, by purple.

Crispin wanted to look away, but could not. Look! Look at him! Ordered the voice. It wasn’t everyone who enjoyed the sight of a non-family member dying. There was something fascinating about it, as if one expected the victim to recover when all science said it was impossible.

He stepped over the dying man, grabbed the two hundred pounds, the phone, and a bunch of keys on the desk. A man on the run could never have too much money, or too many keys, and he was about to find a big bonus. In the top right desk drawer, there were not one but two envelopes, both containing substantial funds. He would not count it, not there, for he knew it was time to abandon the club. Crispin slipped the twig and packages in his bag and headed out of the office, across the silent bar, through the doors to the hall where he took a left, and hustled into the locker-rooms.

He wanted to revert to being the wild man. It took some time and careful handling, as the nose went over his own, mutton chops and moustache onto his face, crowned with the impressive realistic wig, and he was good to go.

Was there anything else he needed? Was there a last task he must complete? Had he left tell-tale evidence? The answer was a certain yes, but it didn’t bother him, for he was about to fall off the face of the earth. No one would find him. He was confident of that.

He retraced his steps back to the President’s office. The philandering man, once known as Barnabus Reynolds, had not moved a muscle, and had taken his last breath. Crispin hoped it a painful one, for Douglas’s sake.

He switched off the Anglepoise and headed out of there.

In the sizeable hall on the far wall, next to the fire alarm, a bank of sixteen light switches clustered together in a rectangular pattern, handy for the front door. Ten were off, six on. He turned them all off. There was something satisfying about turning a quantity of light switches on and off, as if it gave the switcher power over who possessed light and life, and who did not, as darkness returned.

He unlocked the main door, stepped outside, pulled the door closed behind him, and locked up. For a matter of minutes, the moon came out, producing a strange thought: moonlight and roses, an enjoyable, romantic interlude, full of excitement and desire. Not quite, though it wasn’t far off. It had been enjoyable, the slaying, the vengeance, and exciting, much more than he ever imagined. The romance he would leave for philanderers. It had always been overrated. There was too much to do in life to waste time on soppy nonsense.

On the still night air, he imagined his scrunching feet could be heard a hundred yards distant, though he need not have worried. The local houses and homes, the braver ones with open windows on a chilly late March night, were used to it. Everyone knew Mr President worked funny hours, and often not alone, and rumours of what went on late at night, in that office, on that desk, could fill ten tomes, sweaty action sometimes continuing deep into the night in the local hotel.

No one looked out, for it was a common occurrence, him leaving late, more often than he should.

Crispin slipped through the single person gate and closed it behind him with a slight squeak. On he went down the dark unmade hedged lane, pausing to collect his bag stashed deep in the privet, before continuing along the narrow tarmacked street.

All the cars remained in a line, awaiting the morning, growing cold under the late-night dew, trying not to shiver, their headlights watching, observing who came and went, waiting and hoping for the sun to come up, and their master or mistress to return. Chilly nights could kill ageing cars, and ageing people, not that anyone cared.

He stepped out harder, the bags swinging, heading into town, streetlights on, though not for much longer. After ten minutes, he came to a bus stop, the end of the line. Too late for transport, though it was useful, for in the skinny open-sided bus shelter was a narrow bench seat.

He went in, sat down, and pulled out Barney’s phone. He didn’t know why he had taken it, as he recalled the precious teaching. Many modern mobiles contained tracking devices. Yuck, he didn’t want that. He stepped forward towards the kerb. Ten feet to the left was a long grid. He peered inside. Far below, he saw and heard running water, dashing fast from right to left. He dropped the phone and it disappeared, swept away by the murky water, where it wouldn’t stop until it was dumped into the deep and fast River Dee.

He turned back to the bus shelter, sat down, pulled out the burner, and switched on. It told him it was 11.43. Late, but never too late to make an important call. He brought up the single number and pressed go. Gardenia had better not be asleep.

She was preparing for bed, and hoped it was the expected call, and just as well, she was alone. She pressed a button and said, ‘Hi.’

‘The order is complete. Payment is now due. Speed is essential.’

‘Hitches?’

‘None.’

‘Where will you be?’

He gave her the name of a well-known pub, close to the bus and coach station.

‘I know it.’

‘I am shipping out at half-past twelve. It must be before then.’

‘Understood. I will not stop or speak.’

Crispin thought of an appropriate reply, but before he could answer, Gardenia cut off.

He stood and set off fast for the pub. Things were going well, but he was wary of hitches and mistakes. The one thing in his favour was Gardenia knew he was capable of extreme violence, even put him up to it. If she didn’t fulfil her side of the contract, she could expect a visit, and he was right when he imagined she would not want that.

As he neared the city centre, traffic increased. Perhaps people returning from hot dates, or fancy dinners, or social clubs, and it was amazing what went on in out of the way clubs. He could not contain a grin. The odd pedestrian appeared, coming head on, some with dogs and others without, and Crispin noticed most clocked the old geezer with the protruding conk and wild and windswept grey hair.

He almost wanted to be noticed, because it wasn’t him. Minutes later, he arrived at the pub. Traffic slipped by, but less with each passing minute. Taxis were busy. He stood in the doorway waiting, peering up the street, seeking a shiny Jag. None came. She wasn’t coming, the bitch! She was playing with fire. Fretting and sweating he looked left and right, when a Jag appeared in view, driving close to the kerb, slowing, but not stopping.

As it passed the pub, the woman driver hurled a fat package through the open passenger window. She never once looked at him. The package tumbled through the moving air towards Crispin’s feet, producing a muffled scuffing sound on landing. He glanced back at the car as it sped away. Providing the agreed funds were in place, she had honoured her side of the contract, and he expected nothing less.

It was a win-win situation for him, and for her. He was paid handsomely for doing something he was destined to do. Sometimes life was sweet. Not often, but occasionally. Moonlight and roses. Give us a kiss. The yellow moon shone down, as if guiding him away.

He scooped up his wages and slipped it in the Gladstone bag, before turning and heading for the swish horse-shoe shaped bus and coach station. In his wallet, a coach ticket to London purchased that afternoon from a city travel agent. The coach was due out at twenty-five to one, and he would be on it and planned never to return.

A new life beckoned, a fresh start, buried in society where no one knew him, where pursuers would never think to look. The perfect murder? Maybe it was. Crispin Coleman thought so. It was time to leave the old city forever. A clean slate, a new beginning, and a last dash at happiness.

He prayed the voice in his head would be impressed, and it was, but only for an hour or two.

Chapter forty-two

The weekend came and went and clocks moved forward an hour in the UK, as they do in the spring, bringing more light to the evenings, a preface of the summer to come.

The first day of April, a day reserved for fools and the foolish, though as it turned out, progress accelerated in several areas.

Walter remembered the impressive fresh tattoos on the muscular forearms of his new gardener, Harry Hall. The kid had been busy over the weekend in Walter’s front garden, inserting hardy fuchsias among other plants. Walter didn’t like them much, too fussy and bordello-like for his taste, but didn’t have the heart to say. Preferred chrysanths any day. The tatts brought something into his mind.

He glanced across the desks, caught Karen’s eye, and said, ‘Any plans to speak to Mrs Wilson again?’

‘I don’t, but I will. What’s on your mind?’

He told her about the tattoos and wondered if Crispin Coleman possessed any body art. If the man had been going round in disguise, as seemed possible, tatts were a hard thing to hide and disguise.

She pulled a face in agreement, and said, ‘Let’s find out.’

They both knew distinguishing features were recorded on prisoner’s records, anything to mark them out and identify them. Birthmarks, scars, most people had some of those, even if they were small, tiny reminders of childhood, tattoos and ear piercings, missing body parts, the odd finger or two lost in gang-warfare, all would be on the record. A minute later, she was through to the courteous and competent woman.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘but I’ll check and call you back. Actually, I’m glad you rang. I unearthed one new salient fact, maybe not earth-shattering, but one that might prove useful.’

Karen nodded to no one and said, ‘Go on.’

‘Whenever people are released, where we can, we monitor who collects them.’

‘Interesting. And did you with Crispin?’

‘We did. We station a man on the bench outside the prison, close by the bus stop. He comes back in once the prisoners have gone.’

‘And?’

‘He was there on the morning Coleman was released. It’s funny, but other people waiting for the bus often think anyone waiting, like our man, are newly released criminals, and perhaps not unnaturally, get nervous around them. I’ve looked at our officer’s report and he mentioned two women sharing the seat, edging away from him, and he was dying to tell them not to worry, he was a prison officer, monitoring who came and went, and who collected who.’

‘We are not interested in innocent bystanders. Did he see if Coleman was collected?’

‘He did. A smart Jaguar waiting in the lay-by on the other side of the road. He believed there was one woman in it, driving, and Coleman got in beside her, where a brief chat followed, before the car moved away.’

‘Did he get the number?’

‘If he did, he didn’t record it.’

‘Silly oversight,’ said Karen. ‘What’s his name, and is he on duty?’

‘His name is William Betty, and he is not on duty because he is out of the country.’

‘Not a problem, mobiles work pretty much anywhere these days. Give me the number.’

‘It won’t help. He left a big note saying he would not be taking his phone because he was going out into the wild with zero reception and wanted a complete break from work matters.’

‘Where’s he gone, the moon?’

‘Argentina, Patagonia, puma trekking and spotting. There are almost no masts there, and he won’t be back on duty for another ten days.’

‘Brilliant! But thanks, and you’ll call me about Crispin’s tattoos, or lack of them?’

Mrs Wilson confirmed she would, and the call ended.

Karen shared the titbit of intel. Coleman was collected by a woman in a Jaguar.

Walter said, ‘Gillian Norman has access to a Jag.’

‘She does, but for your information, Guv, when Rick and I went to Floribunda Farm, there was a pristine Jag sleeping under the carport.’

‘Really? It wasn’t there when we went.’

‘No, so I noticed, but Casey Norman was away, wasn’t she?’

‘Could Gillian have been visiting Garry?’

‘If she did, Garry is lying. He said the only time he has seen her in recent times was at Gillian’s house up in Dundee. Frosty welcome, he said.’

‘Find out if the people down at Floribunda own a Jag.’

‘Next job.’

‘Could brother and sister Gillian and Garry be in cahoots? Financing and fixing Crispin to murder Barnabus as an act of mutual revenge?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘So, who collected Crispin Coleman from the prison? Gillian or Casey or someone else?’

‘Million dollar question, Guv.’

‘And one we would know the answer to if the goon had thought to note the number. You would think it would be the first thing in the notebook.’

Karen sighed and said, ‘Should have, Guv, but hey, they are not police officers. They don’t think as we do.’

‘They are, as good as, just a case of switching on the brain. That’s all he needed do.’

The thread was interrupted when Mrs Wilson called back. According to their updated records, Crispin Coleman did not have any tattoos, though he could have changed that since release. Nor did he have any missing fingers or substantial birthmarks. In short, he was as pristine as the day he was born.

‘Damn,’ said Walter, adding, ‘it was only a thought.’

His mind turned to Mrs Moo. He hadn’t mentioned he’d met her again, when she told him of the late-night phone call from Barney. It didn’t have any bearing on the case, though he was wary of not mentioning it, for not sharing intel had a way of coming back to bite. He’d sleep on it. There were more important things to deal with.

Shirley Woodruff was back on the desks, only to be summoned to Mrs West’s room as soon as the boss saw her. It wasn’t so much a discussion, more a warning her attendance was required during a busy murder inquiry. Mrs West ended by asking if she wanted to remain part of the inquiry team, only for Shirley to insist she did.

The boss’s final words were stark: you won’t be for much longer if there’s any more slacking. Shirley slunk away with her tail between her legs. She hadn’t pleaded her case because she knew she was at fault, and it was always the same policy with dressing-downs: keep them short and sweet, as brief as possible, and get out of there.

In her absence, Ricky Greaves produced an early breakthrough. A bank statement shown to Walter proved Gillian Norman withdrew £20,000 in cash four days before the murder. It fitted their theory. Gillian could have subsidised the killing, passing funds to Crispin Coleman as running expenses, plus a hefty reward. Jenny backed it up by sharing the fact Gillian had taken two weeks’ leave, a chunk over the Easter holiday, and was still absent from work.

But within thirty minutes, Jenny put a dampener on things, taking the latest thinking in a different direction. She discovered Casey Coleman, Garry’s wife, was a research scientist at the Cromford Chemical Corporation PLC based at nearby Stanlow. Cromford held a dangerous substances licence, had done for years, and would have hydrogen cyanide in their big and all-encompassing chemistry set.

The CCTV from the bus station finally found its way onto police computers. Kate was poring over it when she called Darren over. She had begun the video run from 11pm on the night of the murder and had reached half-past twelve.

One National Express coach in the depot, taking on a smattering of passengers, signed destination, London Victoria, the driver in place, ready to go.

‘Look at this guy,’ she said. ‘One of the late arrivals at the bowling club was described as having a large nose and long, grey, wispy hair. He would fit.’

They watched the man carrying a bag in either hand, stepping up the two steps onto the coach.

Darren said, ‘You’re right, well done. Let’s get the Guv over,’ and he gawped across at Walter, and whistled.

It was hard to say who was the more surprised.

Karen said, ‘Cheeky boy!’ as Walter stood and limped over to see what the fuss was about.

Before Darren could speak, Walter said, ‘I am not your favourite lurcher to be whistled over at your behest.’

‘Sorry, Guv,’ he said, a slight grin on his face. ‘I got a bit carried away. No disrespect meant. I think Kate has turned up something useful on the bus station CCTV.’

‘Show me!’

Kate rewound and replayed the video, and said, ‘Big nose, exploding grey hair. That not an accurate description of the man at the club?’

‘I’ll give you that. The question is, does this man look like he appears, or is he in disguise?’

Kate said, ‘I’ve been looking at his shoes.’

Walter said, ‘Why?’

‘I read somewhere Crispin Coleman was self-conscious about his height, or lack of it, and wore built-up shoes when he could.’

‘Is he wearing high heels?’

‘It’s hard to say. The man’s trousers are longer than the norm, hiding the heels.’

‘That’s good enough for me. He’s wearing extra-long trousers. Who wears pants like that, dragging on the ground? He’s wearing them long to cover chunky heels. There’s no point in disguising your height if you let everyone see you are doing it. Do we think that could be Crispin Coleman?’

Darren leant closer to the screen, squinting, for it sometimes cleared fuzzy pictures, though he could not be sure.

Walter said, ‘If it is, he would need a long grey wig, moustache and mutton chops, because he did not possess those on release, and a prosthetic nose. Where in such a short period could he get such things?’

Darren didn’t need to think.

‘Horace’s Joke Shop, Guv, in Frodsham Street. They do a roaring trade when the Rugby Club has their annual fancy dress party. It gets more outlandish every year. Wigs of every kind, added body parts including huge boobs, fat lips, noses, false backsides, ginormous ears, dodgy dicks, ripped stockings, suspenders, the whole thing, everything and anything you want.’

‘Trust you to know that,’ said Karen, who had wandered over to join them.

Walter said, ‘You and Kate get down to Horrie’s place and see if they have served such stuff to a man recently. They might have CCTV. They would remember selling a hooked nose, wouldn’t they?’

‘You’d think so.’

‘And take a photo of Coleman with you. Do they remember him calling? It is super-recent, so if it was him, they should.’

‘Sure, Guv.’

The fresh intel and potential leads did not end there.

Perhaps she was due a break, and it came when Shirley called out, ‘Gillian’s Jag has pinged again.’

‘Where?’ said Walter.

‘A41, Guv, going north; heading away from Christleton.’

‘Away from Floribunda Farm,’ said Walter.

‘Could be,’ said Karen.

‘What are they doing?’ said Ricky, back in place opposite Shirley.

‘That is what we want to know,’ said Walter, ‘and believe me, we will.’

‘If she pinged there, as she continues, she will ping again. Keep a lookout, Shirley.’

‘Sure, Guv,’ grinning across at Ricky, and feeling better about things.

Chapter forty-three

On the night Crispin arrived at the bus and coach station in George Street, resembling a wild man, carrying two bags, he saw the late-leaving London coach, standing waiting.

There were five people aboard, and another two boarding, as he joined the short queue. Two minutes later, he boarded the bus, a bag in either hand. One contained all his possessions, the second, the Gladstone style bag he’d bought in a Chester charity shop for ten pounds, contained the money, the two payments from Gardenia, plus two envelopes of cash from the club, and his meagre allowance and prison wages.

He had no idea how much the club envelopes contained, and would be pleasantly surprised when he counted it. Also there, in a separate compartment, were the flattened twigs, to keep them out of his way.

As he stepped on the red, white and blue coach, he faced the driver, a chubby, yawning man. The guy glanced at his watch and saw he was due out in two minutes. He peered at the wild man’s ticket, checking it well, for forgeries had appeared in recent months, and found it good to go.

He gave latecomers an extra two minutes before setting off, and sure enough, a young long-haired kid came running, carrying a green sports bag, puffing and blowing, paying cash for a late ticket. A minute later, the driver pressed the button, turning off the parking brake, and the coach crawled away.

Crispin took it all in. There was only one other coach waiting, destined to make its way to the garage for a check-up, and nothing else would come before five in the morning. Nine passengers on a coach to carry sixty, and the owners would never make money doing that. Then he remembered it would stop in several towns and cities on the way, picking up and setting down, and it was there, bag-thieves might strike and make a run for it.

He was desperate for sleep, but wary of being robbed of all his money. The last bloke to board seemed a likely candidate, and he’d keep an eye on him. Crispin didn’t sleep a wink, the worry of losing everything overwhelming any thought of nodding off, as the coach hit the motorways, and the miles rolled away beneath them, Crispin hugging the bag as if it were a sick infant.

The bus trundled into London Victoria Coach Station at three minutes past seven. Pretty good, and everyone filed off, nineteen yawning people by then, all but two thanking chubby chops for the ride. Only Crispin gave a tip, slipping the man a tiny fiver, an act to surprise the driver, as he slipped it into his shirt pocket with a curt thanks.

Maybe it wasn’t a great idea, as the one person the driver would remember would be him, though he took comfort in knowing it wasn’t him at all, but a caricature of a man about to disappear from the world.

He saw another coach idling close-by, heading for his eventual destination, and was tempted to board, but CCTV cameras were everywhere, and if they tracked him to Victoria, they would see where he was heading, and he couldn’t countenance that.

Away to the left, a taxi rank was busy with travellers from across the globe, hustle bustling between airports and railway stations, coach depots and hotels, and everywhere tourists and travellers must get to.

Third in the queue, four minutes’ wait, and he was on the move again, heading for Waterloo Station on the south side of the river. Waterloo, once the biggest railway station on the planet, with its twenty-four platforms, twenty-seven back in the day, but it wasn’t the biggest anymore. No doubt that honour lay in the Far East, India or China, with their overwhelming masses of people zipping across the continent like so many billions of confident, industrious ants.

It was five minutes to eight as he ascended the steps into the huge railway station; the place packed and noisy. Nervous people with active eyes, studying oncomers, desperate to get out of there as soon as possible, for in the modern world, one never knew who those people were. It was best to be free of them, and no doubt many looked at him and considered him an outside bet for a troubled man, and who knew what jittery people in the twenty-first century were capable of?

He studied the orange and black departure boards. Due out in forty minutes and that was good, but before he left London, he had three things to do. Buy a ticket, visit the public conveniences, and make a phone call. The ticket was the easy thing. He stood and queued rather than use an automatic machine. He had been told in jug never to trust such things, and he wasn’t used to modern technology.

The happy black lady with amazing teeth and a perfect smile, supplied a ticket, and took his money, before a machine spat one out with a metallic cough, the girl pushing over a tiny amount of change, with one final comment, ‘Have a good trip,’ and he was away, the ticket deep in his trouser pocket.

The Men’s conveniences were extra busy, a smell of discharged stale ale permeating the long and narrow room. He found a cubicle, sat on the toilet, and removed his disguise, dumping it in one bag. Horace’s Joke Shop had done a great job, even if the items were pricey, but he couldn’t have done the deed without them.

The wild-haired man had vanished. When he hurried out of there in a few minutes, he would emerge as the slight wiry figure with short, straggly greasy hair, wearing his new black built-up shoes.

He felt good about things and good about himself, as he stood and made ready to leave. In the next second, he was gone, back into the sea of rush hour commuters and travellers from across the globe. Crispin needed a quiet place to make one important phone call, but where in the world would he find it?

Maybe he should have made it in the lavatories, but who knew who might be listening, and he hated being overheard. He peeped into the first waiting room, but it was packed with people, many with yelling babies and toddlers.

Crispin went to the far end of the station, where it was quieter, with a narrower, lesser used exit, as he strolled through, a bag in either hand, to look outside. He wasn’t alone in seeking peace and solitude. There were four others there, spaced out, leaning against the wall, all with something in hand. Two smoking fags and two making phone calls.

Cris delved in his pocket for the phone, and scrolled to the second number he obtained via directory enquiries. It was still before half-past eight and he wondered if she would be up and about. Only one way to find out, as he pressed CALL.

Just shy of a hundred miles away in rural Hampshire, an elderly lady answered after four rings.

‘Aunty Elspeth?’ said Crispin. ‘Is that you?’

‘What!’

‘It’s Crispin, Aunty Elspeth. John’s boy.’

‘Eh? Who did you say?’

‘Crispin Coleman, Aunty, your nephew.’

‘My nephew?’ she said, as Crispin pictured her trying to make sense of it. Maybe she’d gone batty. He hadn’t thought of that, but he reckoned she must be eighty-eight, and lots of people of eighty-eight were forgetful, to say the least.

‘How’s Aunt Edwina?’

‘What! Edwina? She’s been dead ten years. Shows how much you know.’

‘Sorry to hear it. I’ve been away, working abroad, only came back last week.’

‘What do you want?’

‘The thing is, Aunty, I am in your neck of the woods later today and I wondered if I could pop by and see you?’

‘Pop in and see me? I don’t know about that. I wouldn’t recognise you. I’m on my own in this big and draughty house.’

‘You’ll recognise me. I haven’t changed much. Ask me anything you want about the old days.’

‘Err, like what?’

‘Anything you like,’ he said, glancing at his watch, fretting on missing the train.

‘Alright. What was your father’s full name?’

‘Ah hah, good one. John Howden Coleman.’

It was the Howden moniker people never remembered.

‘Okay, and your mother’s name?’

‘Sarah, of course. How could I forget?’

‘And her maiden name?’

‘Ah, that’s a tougher one. Give me a sec and it will come to me. Batt, that’s it, Batt, wasn’t it?’

‘It was. You seem to know your stuff. What time would you like to call?’

‘Around lunchtime.’

‘I could do that, but you take me as you find me. The dust builds up quicker than I can cope with, and I am not as young as I used to be.’

‘Great, Aunty, thanks a million. I will see you later. Just one more thing? Remind me where you are.’

‘I’m in Brockenhurst.’

‘I know, but whereabouts?’

‘I thought you’d have known that.’

‘It was a long time ago, Aunt. I was only about ten or eleven.’

‘Well, I don’t know. It’s a rum do.’

‘Please Aunty, I’d love to see you.’

He sounded sincere, and a little desperate, and at least he had said please.

‘Alright, you get off the train and cross the bridge into town. Head straight down the high street, past where the post office used to be, and Bestdas convenience store, all the way to the end, and over the ford. There’s a bit of water in it, always is at this time of year, but there is a path on the right side. You won’t get wet, and turn right, with the church opposite and we, or rather I, am along that way. If you get to the catholic church, you have gone too far. There’s no street number. It’s called Serpentine House; you can’t miss it. There’s a big sign outside.’

‘Serpentine. I’ve got it. I’ll see you later. Must dash to catch the train, and thanks Aunty,’ and Crispin cut off before she asked him anything else, or changed her mind.

Elspeth stared at the landline and wondered if she had done the right thing. She would have to dig out the old photograph album to remind her what the boy looked like. A little runt back then, if memory served, not an enjoyable boy, either.

He was difficult company, if she were thinking of the same kid, rarely smiled, always looked at you as if possessing dark thoughts. Sly, that was how she remembered him, and not to be trusted. She recalled one occasion when silver coins went missing from the old electricity meter tin. He insisted it wasn’t him, blaming it on gypsies who came calling, trying to sell pegs and sprigs of heather.

A half crown, two and six, a florin, two bob, and a silver tanner, an old sixpence, five bob in total, disappeared and never accounted for, gone from the yellow and black Old Holburn tobacco tin, not long after they had gone decimal. She would bet her last diamond on him being the same boy, and the culprit. Maybe she should ring Jack about it. He would give her sound advice. She trusted him, but she was getting sleepy.

Since living alone, Elspeth always rose early, at six every morning to hear the dawn chorus, but by nine, she was ready for a nap, and she could always call Jack later. She headed for her favourite chaise longue in the back room overlooking the massive garden, and settled down to sleep.

Back at Waterloo, Crispin grabbed his bags and hurried away to the correct platform. He couldn’t miss the CCTV everywhere, but couldn’t imagine why anyone would look for him there. Even if they did, they could not know where he was heading. He could jump off at any of the three stops before Brock. Basingstoke, Winchester, or Southampton, all busy hubs with tons of people coming and going, milling around.

No, he was content. Everything was falling into place. She said she lived alone, and how accommodating was that? He found a seat in a busy train and cuddled his bag of cash all the way through the hundred miles to the New Forest. William the Conqueror’s New Forest, from the eleventh century, and a new life for William, and a new life for Crispin, and he intended to give himself the future he richly deserved.

Chapter forty-four

Crispin arrived in Brockenhurst before noon. He ascended the passenger bridge over the tracks, a bag in either hand, left the station, and a minute later, began the long amble down the high street.

Most of the shops were at the far end, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers, or at least a prosperous ironmonger, and a new charity shop. Unlike many towns, Brock had held on to its indie shops.

Passing a convenience store on the left, he spied an orange skip in the car park. He headed for it and found it half full. Someone had tipped in a quantity of used newspapers. With no one around, he took the wig, nose, and facial hair from his bag and tossed them in, reaching in to cover them with yesterday’s news, and all connection to the wild-haired man had gone for good.

While there, he thought it a suitable place to dump the twigs. He burrowed deeper into the rubbish, keen to bury them forever, and returned to the bag. Carefully lifted them out, and dropped them into the skip. Grabbed a handful of old newspapers and set them on top, forcing them deeper into the trash, using a spent French glass mineral water bottle, until the killing twigs had gone.

Crispin sniffed, returned to the high street, and continued on his way. At the far end, the road dipped and curved down to the ford.

Elspeth was right. There was a fair bit of water in it, where a small group of people had gathered to watch the cars splash through, some laughing and pointing, others taking photographs. The water was only three or four inches deep, but the cars still made an impressive splash.

He crossed the brook, more of a muddy rivulet, carrying away the spring rains, with the small Church of England building almost opposite, turned right and continued on. Trees concealed most of the houses on the far side, while those on the right were set a good way back from the road. Big and boxy red brick detached houses, tall and broad, all different. Edwardian or Victorian, built to last. No expense spared, many with cattle grids to keep marauding beasts out, and Crispin guessed more desirable than ever.

Between the road and the front gardens were areas of wide public grassland, where five pregnant forest mares were feeding on the new season’s growth. They paid no heed to him as he continued on, seeking Serpentine House.

Just as he thought he had missed it and gone too far; there it was. The white weather-beaten timber sign to the right of the four-foot-high double-width wrought-iron gates. He went to them, opened the right side with a clank, went in, and closed it behind him.

The front garden was laid to gravel, scrunching under his feet as he approached the big black front door, 100% panelled timber, no glass set within. To the right of the door was a bell-push, and as he prodded, he heard it ring inside.

Cris took a pace back, set a pleasant look on his face, and waited for someone to come. It took her two minutes to get there, as he heard her unbolting the door, top and bottom. In the next second, she opened a tad, and a grey-haired lady peered around the edge.

‘Aunt Elspeth?’ he said, trying a smile.

‘You must be Crispin?’

‘I am, yeah, thanks for seeing me.’

She thought he was right; he hadn’t changed so much. Still a squirt, a little rat-like, not looking like a true Coleman at all. There had always been gossip he resembled the coalman, but there was no denying it was him. As for Crispin, he didn’t recognise her at all. She was taller and slimmer than expected, looking all of her eighty-eight years, but carrying something of a distinguished look, like the wife of an ageing country squire or minor aristocrat.

‘You’d better come in,’ and she stood to one side to give him room.

There was a slight musty smell inside, though not as bad as he feared, with tall skirting boards all carrying a coat of dust. At her age, it would be a chore to get down and clean them. The hall was long and wide, with high ceilings and tons of original features, but it was dark, with a single low-wattage bulb burning in an ancient grey glass circular shade, resembling a distant dwarf planet. First impression of Serpentine House, cold and silent.

‘Go through,’ she said, ‘I live in the back, brighter and quieter,’ and he did as asked.

The door at the end of the hall opened into a fine sitting cum dining room, with large windows letting in loads of light. To the left of the windows were a pair of French doors leading out to the vast garden. Outside, to the right, twenty yards away, he saw a huge stand of rampant wild rhododendrons, getting out of control, not yet in flower, but budding, and thinking about it.

On the left edge of the garden, a long and rectangular flowerbed ran away from the building, housing dozens of rose plants, new year’s growth well under way.

In the room, to the right, an archway led through to a spacious square kitchen, not modern, but top quality, with a cream and green AGA cooker set against the far wall.

In the sitting area, he counted five ageing but quality mismatched armchairs, and wondered how long it had been since all five were filled, with to the left side, a well-used chaise longue. Crispin pictured her lounging there, struggling to keep her eyes open. It was a degree or two warmer in the back room, no obvious heating on. Maybe she was frightened of unexpected, spiteful bills.

‘Dump your bags and sit down,’ she said. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Yeah, sure, tah,’ and he did as commanded.

The chair was comfortable, the house spacious and impressive, and an easy one to forgive its shortcomings.

‘Biscuit?’ she called through, rattling a tin.

‘Don’t mind if I do, thanks Aunty,’ and he sat back for a moment and closed his eyes, for he hadn’t slept in a while.

Elspeth was back in two minutes, setting a mug of tea on the small table beside the chair, as she handed him the biscuit tin, saying, ‘Help yourself,’ though resisted adding: make yourself at home. What the hell did he want?

He took a digestive, broke it in half, and dunked it in the steaming tea as she sat opposite. Good it was, too, and he took another, sipping hot tea, before saying, ‘How are you, anyway, Aunt Elspeth?’

‘I’m alright. I’m eighty-eight. How do you think I am?’

‘You look great to me. What happened to Edwina?’

The look on her face told him he might have overstepped the mark with such an impertinent question, and he didn’t think she would answer. What a nerve he had, reappearing after almost fifty years to ask such a personal thing, but it would be impolite not to say.

‘She died. Your Aunt Edwina died, and you didn’t come to the funeral, did you?’

‘No, Aunt, sorry, I didn’t know. As I mentioned, I was working abroad.’

She blew out hard, sipped tea, and said, ‘Stroke, she had a stroke.’

‘Sorry to hear it.’

Perhaps Elspeth didn’t often have someone to talk to, and she began again.

‘We had a tea ritual. Every Sunday we would change routine. One week, I would rise early and make the tea. She liked it strong, and I’d take her up a cup. The next week we would change over. I would lie in, and she would get up, make tea, and wait on me. We’d done the same thing for years.’

‘Good idea.’

‘It was a Sunday morning, changeover day, her turn to brew. I slept in, resting, as you do, and when the sun streamed in through my bedroom window, I came to, and realised I had no tea. Edwina! I called, but nothing.’

‘Oh, dear.’

Elspeth nodded and continued, ‘I got up, dragged on my dressing gown, and hurried through to her room. I knew what had happened the moment I saw her. Her face was lopsided and hideous. She couldn’t speak or move her left arm and leg. I told her not to worry and rushed to the phone and called an ambulance. Give them their due. They came within fifteen minutes, and I know we can be a little isolated here. Not much more to tell. They took her out, and I just had enough time to ask where they were going.’

‘And?’

‘Southampton General, they said, which is a real bind, and I hate travelling there. They left in a rush, blue lights on, and everything.’

‘How far is it?’

‘Sixteen miles, give or take. Yes, there’s a reasonable train service, but the walk to the station gets longer with each passing week, and when you get to Southampton, you have to find a taxi, and that is not easy. Then you have to get back to the station, and it’s such a chore.’

‘What did the doctors say?’

‘A little fellow he was, slight and oily, with funny dark hair, a little like you when I come to think of it. I can’t remember his name, but he said he came from San Fernando, as in the song, wherever that is. But I warmed to him. He had sparkly eyes and unblemished skin, and that night I dreamt about him,’ and she let go a naughty giggle.

‘What did he say, Aunt? About Edwina?’

‘He said she’d had a stroke, as I knew, but it wasn’t the worst he had seen, and was confident she would make a full recovery. I could ring anytime for an update, or visit whenever I liked.’

‘Did she come home?’

‘No, never. Not on your Nelly, but I was telling you about my dream.’

Crispin didn’t want to know about her weird dreams, but she seemed determined to tell him.

‘Sometimes when I am alone, I put on a Strauss record at full volume. This house is big enough and fat enough not to bother the neighbours. Then I dance around, as if I am in the doctor’s arms, him holding me, leading, as I dance from here to the hall, into the drawing room, lost in the music, even up the stairs, round and round we go, happy and gay, him guiding me wherever he wants to take me. It was such fun, with the man from San Fernando. Now and again, I still do the same thing.’

He stared at her radiant face and didn’t have the heart to interrupt, but she said nothing more.

After a while he said, ‘Did you ever get married, Aunt Elspeth?’

The question caught her off guard.

‘Married? Me? No. Oh, don’t get me wrong. We had our mad moments with men, Edwina and I, some married and some not, maybe more than we should, but marriage never came along. One or two caught my eye; of course they did, but never convinced me I would like to wake up next to them every morning. God, no thanks. What a nightmare that would have been, and I’m sure they would never have completed the tea run. So, no, neither Edwina nor myself, ever married.’

‘What happened with Edwina in hospital?’

‘Mr San Fernando called. He didn’t say it outright, waffled something about bearing bad news, and I guessed by then. Another massive stroke carried her away, bigger than the first. Quite unexpected, he said, and it killed her, and that, as they say, was that. One minute I had a beautiful sister, friend, companion, and confidante, and in the next, I didn’t.’

‘And you have been living here by yourself ever since?’

‘I have, for my sins. Though, as each year flies by, I am more content in my own company.’ She rubbed her chin and said, ‘I had to return to the General to identify the corpse. Not a pleasant experience, I can tell you. Oh, they had done the best for her, but she was no longer my little sis. Some misguided person had plastered her mouth with scarlet lipstick. Too awful. It was a different person, though, that wasn’t the worst part.’

‘Go on.’

‘I endured the train journey from hell, and it seemed never-ending.’

‘How so?’

‘I made the mistake of going in the rush hour. When I arrived at the station, puffing and blowing, for I feared missing the train, the platform was crammed. The train pulled in and there was an almighty scrimmage for the doors. No ladies first, nothing like that. Pull and push and elbow people out of the way, the new norm, so it seemed, with frail old ladies banished to the rear. Get past seventy, and we are invisible to most folks. By the time we struggled aboard, many with enormous bags and cases, all the damned seats were taken, mostly by young ignorant men, with a mixture of foreigners thrown in. That morning, not one of them thought of standing and saying: would you like my seat? Oh, no. I stood jammed together with two other women and they were older than me. We looked at each other and muttered words about declining standards, where chivalry had died and gone to hell.’

‘Way of the world, I am afraid.’

‘In that case, I hate the place. I think I was born in the wrong era. Take me back to Jane Austin’s day, any time you like.’

The old girl pulled a face, shook her head, and sucked her lips before continuing.

‘There was one man who really annoyed me, and everyone else in the carriage. I saw him pushing his way on, fat sod he was, rushing to a seat with a table, breasts dancing, where he sat and opened a large laptop, and next to that, set not one but two phones.’

‘Some people can’t do without them, can they?’

‘He had an enormous head, damned ugly, and massive high hair he kept playing with, smoothing with his palm, and a voice that made sure everyone on the rails heard him. Hateful creature, English, I am ashamed to say, never taught any manners by his parents. I’ll bet they would have been mortified if they had seen his performance.’

‘What did he do?’

‘One of his phones rang, and he grabbed it and said the same thing they all say: I’m on the train. The fool! Then he said: no, William, you don’t want to touch Red Wing Railways, they are a big no-no. I’m looking at Inter-Continental, got it up on screen, except he pronounced it without the T’s, Inner-Con-inen-al, like an American. All the figs look great, he said. Put your money in there, boy. I can remember the conversation verbatim, after all this time.’

‘Go on.’

‘Yes, yes, yes, he said. Why do they have to repeat themselves? It’s the stock to buy, William. I’m going in balls-deep. Disgusting phrase. I saw lots of passengers exchange glances, and mutter he was a nutter.’

‘I know the type. Too self-important for their own good.’

‘He was, Crispin, you’re dead right. Well done, you,’ and she reached across and tapped his forearm.

Crispin smiled at her and said, ‘Carry on.’

She looked round as if she were speaking out of school, as if someone was listening.

‘By then, I had been jostled round almost behind him. I could see his bloody boring screen, and his high hair, as his piercing voice rammed into my head, still talking utter nonsense. No Willy, don’t even think of doing that, and at that moment, I hatched a plan.’

‘Tell me more, Aunt, I am loving this.’

‘That morning, I made myself bacon and eggs with fried bread. Don’t know why, but I did, and I could still taste it in my mouth. I imagined throwing up over his fragrant bouffant, splashing the computer, silencing it and him once and for all with steaming, stinking sick. I could do that. Why not? I think the others would have applauded. I’d blame it on travel sickness, being forced to stand, thrown about and messed about, and perhaps one of the so-called gentlemen might have offered me their seat. Trouble was, Crispin, it is not easy to summon up vomit on demand, hard though I tried. I have never suffered from travel sickness, and I so wanted to. I couldn’t give two hoots, and it was the only thing I could think of doing to shut the cretin up. If ever a man deserved to be spewed over, it was him.’

‘What happened next?’

‘The computerised voice burst from the Tannoy. It always comes as a surprise, don’t you think? You are approaching Southampton General. Please take your bags with you. I wasn’t the only one to thank God I was away from such a mean and selfish scallywag. You know the type? All hat and no cattle, and as we got off the train, he remained there, yelling to make himself heard over the moving crowd: no Willy, he said, the fags and hags are getting off. That’s all it is. Carry on, boy. You have my full attention!’

Crispin laughed, longer than needed, and knew it was time to roll the dice.

‘I’d better be going,’ he said, ‘I’ll have to run and sort out a room for tonight. Anywhere local you could recommend?’

Elspeth thought about it for a moment, taking in what he said.

‘You mean you haven’t booked anywhere?’

‘No, not yet. I go where the wind takes me. Let fate decide, that’s me.’

She thought again and wondered if she should, but why not? He had been amiable company, and it made such a change to have someone in the house to talk to, and she did have six bedrooms over three floors.

‘Why don’t you stay here? I’ve got room,’ yet even as she spoke the words she wondered on their wisdom.

‘Oh, I couldn’t do that, Aunt. I wouldn’t like to impose.’

‘Go on, be a sport, for my sake.’

Crispin made a big effort at thought, before saying, ‘Well, I suppose I could stay, especially if you have the room, but I insist on paying, I’m not a cheapskate. I’m loaded. Had a stellar career, no complaints there. I know what, fifty quid a night. How would that be?’

Her eyes widened, and she said, ‘Oh, that’s far too much.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ getting out his wallet and producing a wad of new King Charles the Third notes, him looking a lot younger than he was, a decent trick if you could get away with it.

Crispin stood up and closed on her, saying, ‘Hold out your hand.’

The crooked hand obeyed, and he began counting, and didn’t stop until he had reached three hundred and fifty pounds.

‘What’s all this?’

‘Seven nights at fifty quid a night; and we are square.’

‘I couldn’t take all this.’

‘Course you can. It would be much dearer up the road, and I won’t even expect tea in bed.’

‘But I didn’t mean…’

‘Don’t say another word, Aunty. I appreciate your hospitality. Family must look after family, don’t you think?’

She stared down at the money as if stunned. She was going to say: I didn’t mean you could stay for an entire week. Just one night would have been more than enough, but three hundred and fifty quid in her hand in fresh readies. That was more than an extra week’s pension, and she could do a lot with that, maybe even buy a new dress down in Lymington, and the week would fly by, wouldn’t it?

Before she could say another word, he said, ‘Now, you be a good aunt, and toddle upstairs and make up a bed for me. I am not fussed, single, double, queen, king, they all come the same, and while you are away, I’ll take a little nap right here, as the journey down was most tiring, and after that, Aunty, maybe a spot of light lunch, eh? Any beans in? Beans on toast would be nice.’

Elspeth stood up, slipped the cash in her slacks pocket, and made her way to the hall to ascend the stairs, wondering what she had let herself in for.

Chapter forty-five

Darren and Kate nipped over to Frodsham Street to Horace’s Joke Shop. It was busy, and they found Horace an amenable character who liked the sound of his own voice.

He was happy to talk to the cops, for they were good to him when he had break-ins and major shoplifting offences, but he did not possess any CCTV. Kate watched him as he spoke, his red cheeks and ample upturned lips giving him a clownish appearance.

Yes, he sold the gear as described, and yes, he remembered the man. Kate showed a photo.

‘That’s him! 100%. What’s he been up to? Lying in the road in protest over something? Writing hurty words on the internet? He looked the type, sanctimonious and… oh, but I shouldn’t judge. Who knows, maybe he’s right. He could be. What’s that you say? Oh, yeah, he paid in cash and it came to a fair whack. My best customer that day by a distance, I remember that, and he carried a big wad. Know what I mean? Tried to hide it, but I clocked a fat pack of money.’

They thanked him and hurried back, and as they walked, Darren said, ‘We need to get CCTV from London, Victoria.’

‘There will be lots of it.’

‘True, but it needs doing.’

‘And the coach will have stopped at several places on the way.’

‘Can’t see him getting off anywhere else. If you are going on the run, you hide in the biggest pie, and the big smoke is the fattest pie in all of Western Europe. Nine million souls officially, with maybe two million no one knows about.’

‘Can’t be that many, surely?’

‘I think so, though fact is, Kate, no one knows, and they never will.’

‘You realise you have a reputation for exaggeration, Darren?’

‘Do I?’ he said, smiling down at her. ‘It could be worse.’

Back in the police station, Walter and Karen were getting ready to visit Casey Norman at the Cromford Chemical Corp. Jenny checked, and she was on site.

When Darren confirmed Crispin had bought the disguise gear, Walter went to Mrs West and suggested it might be wise to put out an APB on the man, circulating two pics, one with disguise and one without. She said she would think about it, which wasn’t the urgent action he wanted. Maybe she had good reason, but he couldn’t see it.

‘While I have you here?’ she said. ‘Two things.’

Walter bobbed his head and waited.

‘I mentioned to my boss about interviewing Ron Golding.’

‘And?’

‘They don’t think there is any mileage in it.’

‘And why would that be?’

‘To put it simply, your interviews with the women were not done under caution. If you now brought them in for questioning, the received wisdom is Ron Golding would represent all three, and they would all no comment all afternoon. Other than Holly Adamson’s earlier words, if they vanished off the table, what else have we got?’

‘We have Mrs Moo’s complaint.’

‘Indeed, but it would end in a your-word-against-mine situation, or rather her word against three. No, it’s not going to happen unless we have something more. Good try, Walter, but no cigar.’

‘So, no papers for the CPS?’

‘No, not as it is, don’t waste any time and officer-hours on that. You are off to see Casey Norman, I believe?’

‘That’s the plan.’

‘Good enough, but make sure we don’t get in a similar situation. If it’s more than casual talk, make sure she is cautioned, and if need be, bring her back to be interviewed under approved conditions.’

‘Of course, ma’am,’ he said, while thinking he’d been rebuked, and though he knew why she had mentioned it, it still stung. Was every witness and bystander to be questioned under caution in the station with a Smart Alec solicitor present? Imagine the additional workload and wasted time in that, and the number of no comment interviews? Geez, it was depressing, or was it demoralising, or both?

‘You said two things, ma’am?’

‘I did. If Gillian Buchanan has withdrawn a large sum of cash, and is still in the neighbourhood, I want her locating and bringing in for a formal interview. Why did she draw the money? What was it for? Why is she here? It’s a long way from Dundee. Does she know Crispin Coleman, and did she meet him? And has she imported prussic acid into Chester? If so, does she still have it? Where is she staying? And where was she on the night of the murder? All questions we want answers to.’

‘We are looking for her, ma’am.’

‘Don’t look. Find!’

‘Gotcha. Leave it with me.’

She nodded and said, ‘Good luck with Casey.’

As he left the room, he felt they had crossed an important marker in the road. One way or another, they were closing on the perpetrators.

Before they left, he told the team to step up their hunt for Gillian. If they found her, she was to be brought in for questioning under caution. No ifs, no buts, to be quizzed about Barnabus’s murder, though there was no need to tell her that.

Walter added, ‘Tell her we need her help, and leave it there.’

On the way to Stanlow, he told Karen everything, and she wasn’t in the least surprised, more interested in why an APB on Coleman hadn’t been issued.

Walter sighed and thought the same, as she put on the left blinker, and in the next minute they were leaving the motorway, going down the slip-road, to enter the vast petrochemical complex at Stanlow, with its millions of pipes and towers and silos and storage tanks.

They could tell where they were blindfolded. Even with the windows shut, a creeping chemical aroma slithered into any vehicle. On a bad day, it could catch on the back of the throat. Someone once said the best road to Stanlow was the highway out of it, and Walter would not disagree.

Road-tankers of all kinds and every company were coming and going, all flagged with Hazardous Chemicals rectangular badges, boasting various numbers for the emergency services to identify the cargo, if they were ever involved in any kind of collision or mishap.

Karen said, ‘I wonder how much prussic acid is sitting on this vast site.’

‘I doubt anyone knows, but it’s a lot.’

Five minutes later, they approached Cromford Chemical Corporation’s premises. Ahead, a low square sentry hut, with an obligatory red and white pole across the road. Karen buzzed down the window to be greeted by a concentrated whiff, and a seated inquisitive guy. She flashed ID. He noted who was in the car, before nodding his head without speaking, glancing up at his in-house CCTV to make sure the vehicle’s arrival was recorded.

All good to go. He raised the barrier, and a moment later, they were inside the compound, as Walter monitored the red and white in the mirror descending behind them.

The on-site science block was three stories high, boxy, long and rectangular, maybe seventies design, with lots of greeny-blue glass, affording plenty of light. They found the main entrance and strode in to face another inquisition point.

A pleasant, seated young woman in a navy-blue suit wanted to know who they were and who they wished to see, and did they have an official appointment?

Karen flashed ID again, and told her they were there to see Casey Norman, no appointment necessary.

She took it well and said, ‘I’ll see if I can locate Doctor Norman.’

Walter and Karen exchanged a glance. Doctor, was it? Two doctors in the same average sized family. One medical, the other scientific. No denying, pretty impressive.

Doc Casey Norman was located, saying she would be there in five minutes, and six minutes later, she popped out of a side door, smiling and nodding at the girl behind the desk, while glancing at her visitors.

White coat, round white hat, blonde hair, mostly hidden, stunning blue eyes, slim figure, flat working shoes, and a confident demeanour she made sure no one missed.

Garry Norman was batting way above his pay grade. She was at least ten years younger than him, and both wondered where they met, and what his attraction was, other than his or his family’s wealth. Though thinking about it, maybe her family was equally stacked.

Walter smiled at her and she smiled back, as conversation began.

Chapter forty-six

Crispin’s second day, hidden away in Brockenhurst, began with a breakfast of toast and marmalade. He had hoped for a full English, but no such luck.

As they munched their way through well-done toast, Elspeth announced she would be going out at half-past ten.

‘Got a hot date, have you?’ said a grinning Crispin, sipping tea.

She laughed and said, ‘No, nothing like that. I’m on the flower show committee at the Village Hall. It isn’t until July, but these things always come along sooner than you think.’

‘You exhibit, Aunt?’

‘Oh yes, with this garden and my heritage, it would be rude not to. Roses, I specialise in roses, just as my father, Jasper, did. He was embedded in the local agricultural scene, and back in his day, chaired the New Forest Show more than once.’

‘I love roses,’ said Crispin, thinking of the cuttings, and prussic acid, and the hateful day from long ago when Barnabus Reynolds forced him into a corner, until he acted to defend his honour. ‘Yes, I used to love the roses most of all.’

‘Really? How strange. Perhaps it runs in the family, maybe it’s in our genes. Ah well, must get ready. That’s the thing about getting old, Crispin. It takes twice as long to do anything, and it especially applies to getting ready. Sometimes I spend hours in front of the dressing-table mirror and when I am finished, I am no better than when I began. I try not to be late for anything, but often am,’ and she shook her head and left him to it, hoping the strange man might at least wash the dishes and tidy up.

On the day Walter and Karen met Casey Norman at Cromford Chemicals, like everyone else, he was impressed. She had that indefinable something, warm smile, fragrant, soothing voice, and a confident way about her to put anyone at ease.

‘I’ve been expecting you,’ she said. ‘Perhaps not here, but some kind of contact. Follow me and we will find somewhere quiet.’

They went through the same door she appeared through, and along a short corridor to a door on the right. She opened up, stood back and said, ‘Go in and sit down,’ and they did, to find a small square room housing one modern office table with six tubular armless chairs set around.

The one long window looked out over the industrial site with myriads of pipes going every which way, some steaming and looking busy, and Walter wasn’t alone in wondering what would happen if fire broke out. Best not to contemplate disaster, and he wouldn’t be sorry to be away from the manmade hell on earth.

Walter and Karen sat on one side, with Casey opposite.

‘Right,’ she said, ‘what can I do for you?’

Karen took the lead.

‘Where were you on the night of Barnabus’s murder?’

Casey nodded and said, ‘Ah, I see. I am a murder suspect, am I?’

‘No,’ said Karen. ‘We are just ruling out everyone we can,’ and Karen recited the day and date.

Walter added, ‘Between 10pm and midnight.’

She rubbed her porcelain neck and said, ‘I don’t remember off the top of my head. I will think about it. Maybe even have to consult my diary, and I am sorry to say it is at home.’

Karen glanced at Walter and back at the woman and said, ‘Do you own a Jaguar?’

‘I do,’ she said, grinning, happier on motoring territory. ‘We have always had Jags. Dad was the same. I was practically brought up in a Jag: picnics, holidays, going to school, fancy picnic kit always in the boot; you know how it is. I think it’s the history, the heritage of the cars. Yes, I know they are no longer British owned, but to us Jag enthusiasts, they will always be an integral part of British life.’

‘Can you give us the reg number?’

‘Sure,’ and she recited it without thinking, as Walter noted it in his book.

He said, ‘Do you know where Solway Grange prison is?’

She thought for a moment before saying, ‘Isn’t it up Warrington way?’

‘It is,’ said Karen. ‘How did you know?’

‘I read the papers and watch the local news. It’s often featured. So and so being remanded, the occasional riot, or stabbing, someone else getting released. It’s hard to avoid these stories, and we are newshounds in our family. Brought up that way. Dad said news was an education, and he was right. Never music in the morning but Radio 4 every day,’ and she exchanged a look with Karen as if to say: you know how it is, impossible to get away from men tuning the radio and TV.

Walter said, ‘Have you ever been to Solway Grange?’

‘Not that I am aware of. Might have driven past once or twice, without knowing.’

Karen said, ‘We’d like to talk about Crispin Coleman.’

‘Who?’

‘Come on, surely you have heard the name?’

She grimaced and said, ‘Can you remind me? It doesn’t ring a bell.’

Walter stepped in.

‘Crispin Coleman is the man who vandalised the Cecil Norman Garden Supplies business back in the day, causing hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of damage.’

‘Ah yes. It was him, was it? Now I remember. That would be after the Norman family disposed of the business. Sadly, Cecil sold it to a weird couple, the reprehensible Reynolds, and after that, we had nothing more to do with it, or them.’

‘That’s as maybe,’ continued Walter, ‘but we believe Crispin Coleman murdered Barnabus Reynolds, and is now on the run.’

‘Really? Goodness me. I can see you have your work cut out.’

Karen said, ‘Have you ever met Mr Coleman?’

Casey switched her eyes from Walter to the blonde and said, ‘Not knowingly.’

‘The thing is,’ said Walter, ‘we believe Coleman needed help with money and supplies before he carried out the killing.’

‘That right? What supplies?’

‘Prussic acid,’ said Karen, adding, ‘hydrogen cyanide,’ not for Casey’s benefit because she would know that, but to show they knew what they were talking about.

‘If you are asking me if we have hydrogen cyanide on site, then of course we do.’

Walter said, ‘What do you use it for?’

She shook her head, blew out hard, and said, ‘Countless processes. I couldn’t begin to list them.’

‘And if some of it went absent? Would it be missed?’

‘It should be.’

‘A small bottle’s worth?’

‘We have tight procedures in place. If any amount went missing, it would be a worry. Controlled substances are just that, controlled, and it would not be easy for anyone to steal stuff from here.’

‘But, possible?’ said Karen.

‘Yes, of course. Anything is possible.’

‘To your knowledge, have there been any reports of hydrogen cyanide going missing?’

‘I don’t know of such a thing.’

‘Could someone check?’ asked Walter.

‘Yes, not a problem, though it might take a little time.’

‘How long?’ said Karen.

‘A few days.’

‘Just to be clear,’ said Walter, ‘you have never removed any prussic acid from these premises, and you would not have any at home?’

‘Correct, and if I did, I would be mighty worried. For example, if the kids stumbled across it and God forbid, sipped it, well, it doesn’t bear thinking about. There is no P.A. anywhere on Floribunda Farm, or if there is, it would be news to me, and woeful news at that.’

Walter slipped his card across the table, saying, ‘I’d appreciate a call when you can confirm where you were when Barnabus was murdered, and if any P.A. has gone missing.’

She picked it up and slipped it in the front pocket of her white coat, nodded, and stood up. ‘I’ll get that for you, and if there’s nothing else, I need to get back to work.’

Walter and Karen made ready to go, as Walter said, ‘Thanks for your cooperation,’ and a minute later, they were making their way through the foyer and outside, back to the car.

On the morning Elspeth Coleman left Serpentine House for the Village Hall, Crispin ran up the stairs and watched her saunter away. He saw her heading left towards the ford and the village, and gave her two minutes to get clear. Once out of sight, he peeked in every room, making sure not to disturb a thing, not wanting to alert her.

In the main front bedroom where she slept, he found a jewellery case on top of the smart mahogany dressing-table, crammed with rings, bracelets, and necklaces collected over sixty years, and worth a pretty penny.

Quite a find. Why were they not in a strongbox in the bank? Were large country-based houses not automatic targets for thieves and robbers? He would be amazed if they were not.

He was amazed she had left him alone in the house, and for a second, he wondered if he had stumbled into a trap. Was there CCTV rigged up, monitoring the dressing table and jewellery box? Could she have gone to the police to report a stranger? Or was she going batty, believing in her own invincibility? He shook his head and put everything back as he found it, before studying the room and ceiling for spying equipment.

Nothing in the top corners, nor in the lampshade, or the bedside lights, though he knew modern cameras could be tiny and easily hidden. Crispin thought he was okay, though worried he might have missed something.

He left the room and went back to the bedroom next door, smaller, oblong, and decked out as an office. Along the right wall was a long bench, maybe a surplus worktop from the kitchen, making a useful desk, with a comfy padded chair tucked in. At the left end was a portable typewriter, while to the far right, a fifteen-year-old computer sat in silence, dormant and dusty. Small flatscreen, keyboard, chunky tower and printer, all black, and he wondered if it worked.

Between the dated technology, handwritten ledgers and notebooks were scattered about. To the right, beneath the worktop, was a small two-drawer brown and cream metal filing cabinet. Crispin couldn’t resist looking, though there didn’t appear to be anything of interest inside, and he would save that for another day. He returned to the ledgers and opened the main book set in the centre, as if ready to go, where he found a loose Last Will & Testament. Without a second thought, he opened and read it.

Back at the Chester police station, Kate Foster found CCTV showing the wild man, thought to be Crispin Coleman, alighting in London. Proof positive he had gone all the way, but when they tried to track which bus he jumped on next, if indeed he did, or where he went, the man disappeared from sight behind a slow-moving coach. After it crawled away, the target had vanished.

Chapter forty-seven

As Karen drove Walter away from the Cromford Chemical complex, he said, ‘What did you make of that?’

‘Very polished, confident, and clever, a dangerous combination. But did she assist in Barney’s murder, and why would she? Where was the benefit? What was to be gained? It doesn’t sit right, does it?’

‘When you put it like that, no. The ironic thing is, if William Betty had the brains to note the Jag reg, we would know if she knew Crispin, and if she was lying, and she could have been on the way to the station for an official interview.’

‘Not sure that’s irony, Guv.’

‘You know what I mean. Find out if she’s withdrawn any sizeable sums of money while we wait for her answers. Nothing from her in twenty-four hours, and we call again.’

Karen bobbed her head and spurted the car back onto the M53, heading for Chester.

In Elspeth’s Brockenhurst study, Crispin sat back in her comfortable chair; her typed will spread wide open in front of his eager eyes. It began with basic bequests to six charity shops spread across the area. Two hundred and fifty pounds to each. Fair enough. She could afford it. A thousand pounds left to the New Forest Show as a small donation to help keep it going. Five hundred to both the Village Hall, and the National Rose Society, and a thousand pounds to one Jack Goscote, for his care, friendship, and attention.

Who the hell was the Jack character she had left money to? Crispin imagined he might have a rival.

Then came the biggy; the lucky person on the end of Elspeth’s largesse.

I leave the rest of my estate, Serpentine House, and all contents within, including my jewellery, plus all monies in my bank accounts, to…

Crispin stared at the paper and turned it over to see if it continued, but it did not. She hadn’t typed anything further, but why? Was she debating who to leave it to, or had she been interrupted by Crispin’s phone call and unscheduled arrival? It was a mystery, but things grew stranger still, and strange for the better.

The old bat had signed the will, and not only that, had ensured two gentlemen witnessed it. First, one Frank Barnes, whose address and occupation were listed as Award Winning Country Butcher, with a local address, and second, by Sergeant Tony Witcombe, giving his address as Hampshire Constabulary, Avenue Road, Lymington, Hampshire.

Manna from heaven! A signed and witnessed will, no doubt typed on the green and grey Olivetti portable typewriter parked on the left end of the bench. All one needed do was type in a beneficiary, and Bob’s your uncle. Crispin chuckled and sat back in the chair to think.

The first thing to cross his mind was speed was the essence. She could, at any point, type in her last and biggest beneficiary. Maybe even that day or that evening once she returned from the Village Hall. Once she had done that, the will would be complete, and valid, and mighty difficult or even impossible for him to amend. Any opportunity lying within would be lost forever. If he were to make a move, it had to be within hours.

The previous night he had thought long and hard about what he could do with her, and an idea germed in his mind. He invented a distant cousin of Elspeth’s in faraway Norfolk, who had gone into an upmarket nursing home. Beatrice Lewington, also in her late eighties, well-endowed with monetary assets, and after being there for three weeks, was so smitten, wrote to her cousin down in the New Forest, with complimentary stories of how wonderful it was. A little expensive, perhaps, but the food and company, leisure activities and trips were second to none, making it worth every penny.

Crispin imagined Beatrice speaking. The staff were all British and fantastic, and why not consider coming up to look at the place? Give it a try, Elspeth. You could stay for an entire month before making a final decision. It would be great to have you here, and as for the money, you can’t take it with you, can you, darling?

He closed his eyes and refined the idea. If anyone called at Serpentine, he would say she had gone to Norfolk and he was looking after the house. He’d butter it up a bit. You know what she is like, he would say, never using the past tense, a little absent minded, dare I say confused, and it wasn’t a surprise she upped sticks and fled the forest. No, sorry, I don’t have an address. It’s definitely in Norfolk. Manor, something, I think it’s called. It was all done in such a rush; she didn’t have the chance or think to tell me more about it.

There could be something in that. Elspeth being away. But where would she actually be? Or where would her remains be? He thought of the enormous garden, shielded from prying eyes by the huge rhododendrons. He could do anything he liked there and no one would know. It would not be difficult to dig a new flowerbed and transplant several fine roses on top, garnished with bedding plants from the village, and all the while, six feet under, Elspeth Coleman would be sleeping, face down to keep her trap shut.

Before he fell asleep, his eyes alighted on the indigestion bottle containing prussic acid, set on his bedside table. Prussic acid, fast-growing roses, healthy cuttings, razor sharp thorns. Who could need anything else? A proven combination, with one down and one to go.

He always thought it a one-off, the killing business. Getting even on Barnabus the bandit, but on the coach trip down, as he struggled to keep his eyes open, he realised he enjoyed it.

Killing someone was the ultimate high, brought on by a feeling of possessing a super-power, the ability to remove someone from the planet at will, and though he had no plans to evict another, the ancient and peculiar Elspeth Coleman brought similar exciting feelings into his mind. She and she alone stood between him and great wealth. There was another tangible benefit too. It would satisfy the demanding voice in the head, at least for a while.

He adored the house. Yes, it needed improvement, but he had the cash. The village was cute and handy, with a mainline railway station boasting fast trains to every part of the kingdom, should the need arise. There was only one thing for it. She would have to go. The problem was, if she vanished, she would not be declared dead without a body, and maybe not for another ten or fifteen years.

He so wanted the prussic action again, with the rose thorns, for he felt it unique. But if she died that way, no doubt a local boffin, looking to make a name for himself, would detect tiny spike-marks on her scrawny and wrinkled body. Cris hoped the country locals might be dull and backward, not on the lookout or imagining heinous crimes, and assume she died from natural causes because of her advanced age. But was it a chance he was prepared to take?

On balance, he thought not. Which meant he would have to park the prussic and save it for another day. Which brought him to an alternative method of departure, and one stood out above all others, as a smile crossed his face as he lay in bed. An identical smile returned as he sat at her desk, reflecting on his previous thoughts, will in hand, typewriter to one side, awaiting his dainty touch.

Yes, it would suffice. Things were falling into place. Come home, Elspeth, dear. Crispin couldn’t wait to see you, to share a special day in your life, for it could be your last.

The amazing Mrs Casey Norman didn’t waste any time in returning on the phone, speaking to Karen as if they were long-lost sisters.

She said, on the night of Barnabus’s murder, she remained at home, looking after the kids. Garry had gone to one of his moronic, sorry, Masonic meetings, or whatever it was they got up to over at Millingdon Masons in Nantwich. He came home late, and I wasn’t surprised. I knew he would be late; he often was with that bunch. When he arrived home, I was asleep. Needless to say, he woke me, a little drunk, and very horny. You know what men can be like in the wee small hours after a dram or two. You can ask him. He will confirm it. I couldn’t leave the house because of the kids, and Garry will remember the night, I can assure you of that.

Karen pointed out he said he hadn’t had a drink, to which Casey replied: maybe someone brought him home. I can’t comment on that.

Karen thanked her and asked her about the P.A. Nothing missing, no shortfalls, reported Casey, and as there was nothing else Karen wanted to ask, the call ended, and Karen went to update Walter.

He told her to ring Garry and ask him to confirm she was alone in the house with the kids all night. Karen said he was bound to do that, and it was a waste of time, but Walter insisted, explaining it was important his support was on the record.

If they could break the alibi, both could be guilty, and he would be complicit. He could find himself in the dock, charged with murder, alongside both Casey and Crispin.

The thought appealed to Karen, and she went off to speak to Garry.

Chapter forty-eight

Crispin folded the will, returned it to the ledger, and set the worktop back in the same state he found it.

It was as well he did, for when he returned to the landing, he heard the heavy front door opening and close again, and Elspeth’s chunky country shoes echoing on the black and white hall floor.

He jogged down the stairs, saying, ‘Hello, Aunt, back so soon?’

‘Yes, everything is going well,’ as she glanced at the staircase and said, ‘What were you doing upstairs? Not rooting, I hope?’

‘No, nothing like that, catching up on sleep, Aunt. I’ve been working so hard, I’ve been sleep-deprived for weeks. Your country air is making me sleepy.’

‘It can do that. Be a darling, put the kettle on and get some coffee on the go. I’m parched. The muck they serve there is woeful,’ and she eased on her slippers and set off up the stairs, her rickety hips delaying progress.

Crispin moved towards the kitchen, as he caught her last muttered words.

‘They served smoked haddock sandwiches, would you believe? Give me strength! Gave me hellish indigestion.’

When Karen rang Garry Norman, he confirmed on the night of the murder his dear wife was in the house all evening looking after the kids. They were her most precious possessions, and she would never leave them. It was a semi-solid alibi. He confirmed he had been drinking, but only zero alcohol gin and beer, and towards the end of the evening, one of his worse for wear colleagues flicked his wrist to catch the time, forgetting he was clutching a double scotch, and the drink splashed over Garry’s arm, hence the stench of alcohol on his clothes, and beery breath.

He admitted he was ultra-horny that night, delighting in telling Karen of the crazy action with his incredible wife, once naked. Unnecessary details issued, Karen imagined, to embarrass her, or reinforce what a stud he was.

‘You didn’t need to explain that,’ she said, and ended the call.

She shook her head and realised for the first time Garry Norman could be creepy.

In Serpentine, two words bounced around Crispin’s brain. Hellish indigestion. Dear God, no, and he dumped the coffee, ran into the hall, and hurried up the stairs. He went to his bedroom to find her with a spoon in one hand and his indigestion bottle in the other, her crooked hands struggling to unscrew the top.

‘No, Aunt, no!’

‘Eh! What’s up? You don’t begrudge me a little medicine, do you?’

‘No, it’s not that. It’s not… the meddy, it has gone off. I noticed it last night. I meant to throw it away.’

‘Nonsense, boy, I’ve the constitution of an ox.’

She peered at the label and the black scrawled P.A.

‘Borrowed it, did you? From Pamela, what’s her name? Big jugs?’ and she giggled. ‘You wish. She wouldn’t look at you in a hundred years. If you and her were cast adrift on a desert island… but no, I won’t go there.’

Somehow, she had wrestled off the top to sniff the contents, grimaced and stared across at him.

‘By the cringe, that’s rancid! Ah well, never mind, the active ingredients must still be in there. It’ll do,’ and she poured some onto the spoon she’d collected from her room.

For a second, Crispin stared at her. What would happen if she drank it? She’d kill herself, that’s what. Save him a job. He could then complete the will, and the house and everything in it would be his, legal and legit, above board, and none of his doing. The kind aunt rewarding her only living relative who cared about her. The one difficulty would be explaining how cyanide was in the bottle, and her system, and where it came from.

It was a close call, but he ran across and snatched the spoon from her hand.

‘What are you doing? You always were a crazy boy!’

‘It’s gone off, Aunt. I told you. It could kill you,’ and he poured it back into the bottle, and screwed it so tight she could never open it again.

‘I was only trying to get rid of haddock breath and bloody burps. I don’t know why you are making such a fuss. Did you make coffee?’

‘It’s almost ready. You go down. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

She glanced at him and his agitated eyes, and wondered about the boy. A distant memory from long ago crawled back into her mind like a spider coming out of hibernation, slow and steady. Something her ageing dad, Jasper, said with a whisper from the side of his mouth.

John’s boy, Crispin, all’s not well on the bridge. Mark my words. The sisters grinned and asked him to clarify. Jasper added: in the control room, touching the side of his head. He malfunctions. Not all the dials work as they should. Be wary of him, that’s all.

It was never spoken of again, and not long after, John and Sarah and Crispin Coleman moved far away, after John landed a job in Birkenhead, wherever that was, working for a big company, something to do with ships.

Funny how a parent’s advice from fifty-odd years before could bounce back into the brain without warning. Perhaps the boy, now a late middle-aged man, did harbour mental problems. Maybe he had suffered from them all his life. How would she know? He wouldn’t go round telling everyone. Bragging about it. Look out, I’m a mental case, and she had given him carte blanche to stay with her for a flaming week. Just the two of them, living alone. She shrugged, as he arrived in the kitchen, and reminded herself to prop a chair against the bedroom door when she slept, and pray she was imagining things. The sooner he was away and out of her house, the happier she would be.

She was right about his unstable nature. They had always been there at the back of his brain, episodes waiting to surface. The odd thing was they only appeared now and again, and there were rare periods when the inner voice was borderline friendly, and sometimes years would roll by with nary a nervous twitch, and no one could explain it.

He endured a couple of episodes in prison, events contributing to him being detained for far longer than necessary, or usual.

The first involved Ciaran McGhee. Crispin had served seven years, all in Strangeways, Manchester, when Ciaran showed up. The man was young, peculiar, well built, strong, and your archetypal bully. He didn’t like the weed Coleman from the off, and didn’t fancy him at all, but was on the lookout for a bitch to do his bidding.

Not a bum bandit, but someone to clean his cell, fetch and carry, tell tales on others, brush his long hair, and do everything to make his stay in the hellhole more bearable. A week later, in the exercise area, Ciaran stepped in beside Crispin as he circled the yard.

‘You’re my bitch now. I’ve decided. You’ll do as I say. You’ll come when I whistle, do as you are told, and provide me with fags. I don’t care how you do it, but do it, you will, and if you don’t, I’ll cut your knackers off.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Crispin, speeding up and walking away.

‘Oi, squirt! No one walks away from Ciaran McGhee,’ catching up with his bitch to give him an elbow on the nose, a blow strong enough to break the bone.

Crispin ducked down and held his conk as blood trickled through his fingers.

‘You understand?’ growled Ciaran.

Crispin nodded, for there was nothing else he could do.

Many prisoners possessed a secret item, something they did not want the authorities or anyone else to see or know about, and Crispin was no different. He won a screwdriver in a poker game. Eight inches long, red handle, flat head, a tool he set about refining, sanding down the tip, using sandpaper stolen from craft classes. It took a long time, but he wasn’t short of that, paring it until it was as sharp as a craft knife.

The next time he played poker with his friends, Ciaran whistled him, as if ordering a disobedient dog. The playing partners grinned and teased Cris he was becoming the prison tart. Undo your belt, boy, before you get there, Crispy. You’ll need to be ready, well prepared. It’s over the end of the bed for you, my son!

It provoked a trigger point. The flaring of an episode, a rare but powerful thing, and he hadn’t endured a full-on one since the crazy day in the garden centre, when for an hour or more his mind no longer belonged to him.

He stood up, eyes fixed, left the card game, and strolled away, down the landing towards Ciaran’s cell. The door was open. Two of Ciaran’s acolytes were standing outside, part on guard, part waiting to be ordered about, or summoned inside, hoping for a fun afternoon. One, a fat minder and hanger-on, the other, a svelte bloke, known as Doris, now Ciaran’s bezzie mate, after even he became beguiled by his feminine charms.

Crispin strolled into the cell, leaving the door open, for he wanted the others to see.

Ciaran turned and glared down into the weed’s eyes.

‘This cell is a disgrace! I have told you about this before. You clean it, and when you have done, you will stand in the corner for one hour, facing inwards, because I don’t want to see your hideous face. If you move one centimetre, I shall be watching, and you will stand there for an additional hour for every time you move. You got that, bitch?’

‘Yes, master,’ said Crispin, playing the part, an answer to bring laughs from the three of them as he approached Ciaran. ‘Anything you say, Mr McGhee,’ as he strode towards his tormentor, slipping the screwdriver from his work trousers, to thrust it without warning, hard, straight and true into Ciaran’s belly, entering the flesh midway between the belly button and the dangly bits below.

Cris withdrew the weapon and wiped it on Ciaran’s grubby sleeve. The injured man gasped and doubled up as Crispin turned and headed for the door.

The fat minder said, ‘What the hell? You’ll pay for that, slug-brain!’

‘I don’t think so,’ said a calm Crispin, ‘because I’ll kill you first,’ and he pushed past to come face to face with the ninny, one hand on hip, the other behind his head, spouting through puckering lips, ‘Who’d a thought it? The weed has turned into a real man. Come and see me any time you like, Crispy, ducky.’

Ciaran McGhee was rushed to hospital, suffering a serious wound and copious blood loss. He didn’t die, but was never the same, and didn’t return, shipped off to a harder, colder place, further north in County Durham.

An inquiry followed, but no one admitted witnessing the attack. They may have possessed divided loyalties, but insufficient to persuade them to grass. That wasn’t done. No one spoke about it, and the crime went unsolved, though everyone on the wing knew, and afterwards, people looked at Crispin in a different light, and he wasn’t bothered again for five years.

After the fracas, he returned to his cell, cleaned his screwdriver, slipped it away in its hiding place, lay on the bed, closed his eyes, and stayed there until his episode faded away to nothing, when some form of sanity returned. He would remember everything, but never spoke of it, or admit a thing, if anyone was stupid enough to ask.

The authorities figured out what happened. It wasn’t difficult. It was common knowledge Ciaran McGhee gave Crispin Coleman a hard time. But Ciaran was a renowned bully and most were pleased to see the back of him, and in the following days, it wasn’t unusual for fellow cons to tap Crispin on the arm while playing cards, and whisper, ‘Nice one, mate,’ or, ‘good work, pal. If you need anything, come and see me.’

Every outcome wasn’t good. Notes were made on Crispin’s prison record. When he was first entitled to apply for parole, those who decided his fate took one look at the scribbled text, and back at the short skinny bloke whose appearance belied the violence living within him. Could he be trusted to live a safe and useful life on the outside? No chance! Parole denied.

In the incident room, Shirley Woodruff, eager to bounce back into the good books, yelled out, ‘Gillian Norman’s Jaguar has been spotted in Brannigan’s Hotel car park.’

Walter turned and looked at her and said, ‘Who by?’

‘An alert patrol officer, Guv.’

‘Okay. Get down there and bring her in for questioning. If she plays up or refuses, arrest her in connection with the murder of Barnabus Reynolds.’

‘Yes, Guv,’ she said, standing, grabbing her jacket to stare at man bun. ‘Coming, Rick, or do I do this on my own?’

‘I’m coming. You might need added muscle.’

Shirley shook her head, cackled, and set off for the lifts.

Chapter forty-nine

Elspeth Coleman busied herself preparing dinner. Simple fare, cottage pie with steamed broccoli. As she peeled potatoes, through the kitchen window, she saw Crispin wandering round the garden. What was he doing?

Outside, the ground was wet, April showers doing their thing. He stared up at the rhododendrons. They must have been at least twelve feet tall, and maybe thirty feet long, boomerang shaped, curling around him in a threatening manner. He wondered what they would say if they could speak, and didn’t think the words would be friendly.

From where he was, he couldn’t see another house, not even the highest eaves of neighbouring properties, and that meant no one could see him. On the ground was a pile of well-seasoned eight-foot-tall bamboo stakes. All gone brown, perhaps thirty of them, and Crispin guessed they had once been used to support climbing plants, maybe runner beans or sweet peas, domesticated blackberries, or climbing rambling roses. Yes, roses, he’d guess, and he wondered what happened to them.

He turned about and walked across the garden to the other side. He could see the tops of houses from there, though doubted anyone could see him as fences blocked the view. It was quite something, an enormous garden with 100% privacy.

Bordering the left fence was a long rectangular rose garden, crammed with forty growing plants, each with a white identifying nametag like cattle wear in their ears. It reminded him of the outside rose displays at Cecil Norman’s place, bringing back memories he would sooner forget.

The roses were shooting fast, growing hard, taking advantage of the average two degrees higher temperature they enjoyed over their distant northern cousins. Another decent reason to live near the south coast.

As his eyes slid along the plants, not in rows, but in a diamond pattern, he couldn’t stop himself noting certain aggressive shoots, the ones with the strongest growth, turning woody, with spiked stems. It was surprising how some species were bedecked with large sharp thorns, while others showed an occasional weak spike or went thornless. He guessed centuries of manmade breeding the reason. The bed would be quite a sight in full bloom.

He didn’t intend using the thorns again, but in case of emergency, selected three vicious looking growths to serve his needs. Rub-a-dub, dub-dub, a little P.A., prussic acid, hydrogen cyanide, over those hostile thorns, and in any hand, they would become a fearsome weapon, almost as lethal, sometimes more so, than an ugly, barbaric knife, providing potent killing without spilling a drop of blood. He sniffed a laugh and pondered on how the night might play out.

Elspeth opened the French doors and called down the garden, ‘Time to come in, Crispin. Wash your hands before dinner,’ as if summoning a naughty boy overstaying his playtime.

‘Coming, Aunt,’ he called back, when he wanted to say: I’m fifty-seven, for goodness’ sake!

He shook his head, as she shouted, ‘Good boy, and perhaps you could lay the table.’

In Cheshire, Walter wondered how Shirley and Rick were getting on down at Brannigans when his phone rang.

He picked up to hear Marina Moo’s voice.

‘Inspector?’

‘That’s me.’

‘You come for din?’

He blew out hard and said, ‘I hadn’t planned to.’

‘I want you come. I want talk.’

‘About anything specific?’

‘What?’

‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’

‘Yes, but personal, not for strange ears.’

He pulled a face and wondered about things, before saying, ‘Okay, half seven.’

‘That do. See ya later,’ and the call was done.

He had only set the phone down a few seconds when it rang again. Shirley Woodruff reporting in, maybe wanting him to know she was on site.

‘The Jaguar is still here, Guv, but there’s no sign of Gillian.’

‘I wonder where she is. Sorry, Shirley, but you will have to stay there.’

‘No problem. We will remain here to scoop her up, no matter how long it takes. I’ve never arrested a murderer before.’

‘Yet to be proven, DC Woodruff.’

Walter heard Ricky talking in the background, his deep voice making its way into Walter’s ear.

‘Eh up. What’s this? Yellow Skoda taxi entering the car park, with one woman passenger. It might be the target.’

‘Is it?’ said Walter, getting interested.

‘Could be, Guv, we are getting out to intervene, and ask for ID.’

‘Before you go, if it is her, ask her to open the Jag, but be careful. If there are any unexplained substances, solid, liquid, or gas, don’t mess with them. Call HAZCHEM, you got that?’

‘Sure, Guv. I’m risk averse.’

‘And call me back and let me know what’s happening.’

‘Will do, speak soon!’ and she cut off and followed Ricky out of the car.

In Serpentine House, the meal went well, though it gave Crispin indigestion, maybe too many onions in the mix. Pity there was no indigestion medication in the house. Next time he went to the village, he would call at the chemist and buy some.

After dinner, she said she felt exhausted, and made her excuses and went up for a nap. Perhaps the long walk to the Village Hall and back had been too much for her. She left the dirty dishes as a hint, and the house hadn’t graduated to a dishwasher. It would be the first upgrade he would introduce when he was king.

Outside, it was still light, as he stared through the windows, the day fading but still useful. He grabbed one of many supermarket shopping bags from beneath the sink and stepped out through the French doors.

In the next second, he was back at the roses, staring down, the roses glaring back as if apprehensive, as if fearing attack, white fly or white man. They were right to be scared, for the bloke had form. He knelt on the dampening grass, went to the pre-selected shoots, and eased them off, one thorn nicking his wrist as a reminder they were not defenceless.

A minute later, he bagged the three shoots he deemed most suitable, slipped them in the Bestdas bag, and strolled back to the kitchen.

The following ten minutes were spent in first stage preparation. Removing the new-growth leaves, snapping off the thorns on the bottom five inches with a pair of old but quality scissors he found in a kitchen drawer, affording him a good handhold, and when he had finished, he possessed a trio of perfect weapons. Even without the P.A., a smack across the face would be more than uncomfortable.

Walter arrived at the Blue Lantern in another Skoda taxi, a black one with hints of a flowery aroma, as if the previous passenger was an optimistic romantic dater, bearing flowers for his girl or boy. It was half-past seven and a light evening.

He paid the fare and stepped out, readying to cross the road, wondering why he had been summoned. Did she have something to say, or was she wasting his time? He thought it could be the last occasion he would travel that way, at least for a while. A minute later, he was sitting before her, waiting for her staccato words of wisdom.

Marina was back in the green silk creation, and he pondered on whether it was the de rigueur uniform while on duty, or did she wear similar garb all the time, espousing western dress. Either way, it suited her.

She pulled a puzzled face and said, ‘I come straight to point. I need help.’

‘Help? Help about what?’

‘I go Hong Kong. I want you come.’

The surprise on his face said everything. He sat back, exhaled, and said, ‘You want me to go to Hong Kong with you? That is impossible.’

‘Why? You say you help.’

‘I am in the middle of a murder inquiry. I cannot up sticks and travel across the world.’

‘What sticks?’

‘I am on duty. I cannot leave it.’

‘You not caught him yet?’

‘I have not, Mrs Moo.’

‘Marina! I catch him. You need me and I need you. I catch him easy.’

‘There is no way I can leave the country at the moment, and even then…’

‘You not want to help?’

‘It’s not that. Why do you need to go?’

‘Sit back. I tell all.’

Chapter fifty

At Brannigan’s hotel, Shirley and Ricky accosted a woman in the car park, believed to be Gillian Norman. She was abrupt with them, abruptness part of her make-up.

Abrupt to her father, Cecil, who insisted she show an interest in the business, his business, as he was wont to remind her. He emphasised it put food on the table. Every morsel of grub she ate through her first nineteen years came courtesy of money earned through Cecil Norman Garden Supplies.

The overbearing parent increased the abruptness, something she carried forward to her medical studies, and a trait that didn’t go unnoticed. Her tutors reminded her the best doctors cultivated a warm and friendly bedside manner. She swallowed her pride and nodded her head; yet deep in the back of her mind she assured herself abruptness was good.

If a shirker needed calling out, she would do it. If a faker tried it on, she would kill the behaviour in a trice. Gillian knew she would be busy, and for anyone to waste her time on frivolous and downright cheating was unacceptable.

As soon as she qualified as a GP, her career followed the same path, and she gained a reputation for strictness. She would not issue painkillers unless there was proven pain, and would not sign sick-notes unless patients were clearly ill. The country had too many shirkers and slackers, and she saw it as her personal mission to prune such behaviour.

Patients wised up, and either didn’t make false claims, or asked to be transferred to a different doctor. She didn’t care, so certain was she of the merits of her strict and ruthless approach.

Gillian considered the two police officers uncouth and ill-educated. Man bun and the closet alcoholic, for she could see and smell the after effects of too much booze from ten yards, as she demanded to see their IDs.

‘What is it you want? I am very busy.’

Ricky said, ‘We need to ask some questions about the murder of Barnabus Reynolds.’

‘What has that got to do with me?’

Shirley said, ‘Your whereabouts at the time of the murder, for one, to rule you out, if nothing else?’

Ricky added the day and date.

‘I was working hard in my surgery in Dundee. Now, if that’s all it is, I must get on.’

‘No,’ said Shirley, ‘you were not in Dundee because you were in Chester, and we are not discussing this here. You must come back with us for a formal interview, but before that, we need you to open the car.’

‘My Jaguar?’

Ricky nodded and asked for the keys.

She fumbled for the key fob, saying, ‘I am going to make a formal complaint.’

Shirley looked her in the eye and said, ‘That is your right, just as ours is to open and examine your vehicle.’

Gillian shot daggers through her eyes and slapped the fob into Ricky’s proffered hand.

In Serpentine House, Crispin sat and watched TV, but his mind was not on the flickering pics. At his side, his Bestdas bag contained three potential weapons, waiting to be doused in lethal ammunition.

He told himself again he wouldn’t use them; he couldn’t use them, for fear of discovery and arrest. He had no wish to return to prison for the rest of his days, though at least it wouldn’t be Strangeways.

Crispin glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock. He’d give it another half hour before making his way upstairs.

In the Blue Lantern, Walter sat back and waited for Mrs Moo to tell him why she needed to return to Hong Kong. She looked different. Not as confident or smiley, her brow creased; the lipstick ill-finished.

She took a breath and said, ‘It Mickey. He go on trial.’

‘Trial for what?’

She blew out hard, shook her head, and said, ‘Who knows? They slippery Dicks. Fix things. Tell lies. Make it up. I need to see. I need to hear. I need someone who knows when things not right.’

‘You must have some idea.’

‘Could be anything. Tax fraud. Easy to make up. Who declares every cent? One tiny error, and whoopsee, banged up, never seen again. Maybe ten years. Could be more. Tarts and farts, the lot of them. They crooks, not Mick. But I need to know. Must be clear.’

‘What must?’

‘I married woman. I not married if man in clink. No man at home, no man in bed,’ a thought to bring a slight grin to her face. ‘I need husband. I need man. No good on own.’

‘You want me to travel with you to Hong Kong to get your man freed?’

She smiled and said, ‘Yeah, you got it. That, or divorce. I need to know where I stand.’

‘But Marina, I don’t know Hong Kong law. I know nothing of the case, and they would not talk to me, and they would want to talk in Chinese. I don’t speak the language.’

‘No! I tell them English or bust. I know my rights. They speak English. They must speak English to you.’

‘I can’t see how it could work. They won’t talk to me.’

‘They will. I speak good, you speak better. You good ’tective. I see with my eyes. They afraid of you. No one in Hong Kong like you. They act big man, but you big man. You squash under boot like ant. You good. You bring Mickey back, or…’ and she shook her head and added, ‘if Mickey finished, husband no good behind bars, I not want him. See lawyer. You come too. I pay good money, I wealthy. Blue Lantern pay well. You get twenty thousand US dollar, plus I pay all travel and hotel. You not out of pocket. I need help, Inspector. You must help.’

Crispin Coleman arrived on the first floor, carrying the Bestdas bag. He went to his bedroom, closed the door, and sat on the bed.

The bottle was still on the bedside table. He went to a small chest of drawers he checked out the moment he first entered the room, and eased open the bottom drawer. Inside, he found spare bedding, sheets, and pillowcases. He grabbed a sky-blue pillowcase and returned to the bed.

Downstairs, in the long and wide hall, an antique bureau sat obediently, waiting to be used. It was unlocked. Crispin had looked inside to find a variety of paint brushes from tiny gauge bristles up to a half inch head, one of Elspeth’s many hobbies she tried and later abandoned.

For a year or two, she painted watercolours, flowers, plants, and forest animals. Foxes, badgers, buzzards, kites, ponies and cattle. He selected two brushes, one tiny gauge, the other a little bigger, took them to his room, set them on the bedside table next to the P.A., and spread out the pillowcase on his knees. In the next second, he screwed off the top and placed it on the bedside table.

He reached down and selected what he thought the healthiest cutting, the one with the greatest number of thorns, held it steady above the linen, and chose the tiny gauge paintbrush to dip in the bottle. Out it came, the black bristles glistening. Crispin grimaced and shook his head as the bitter almond-like odour made its way up his nose.

In the next moment, the razor-sharp tips received a decent covering as he twisted the cutting round, ensuring every thorn was armed and lethal. A couple of decent swipes across her wrinkled skin, and Elspeth Coleman would depart the world in poisoned agony.

Not that it worried him. She had enjoyed a fabulous innings. Almost ninety, and it was time the next generation benefited from her wealth. After all, what had she done to create it? It was her father Jasper, Crispin’s granddad, who had accrued everything, enabling the family to buy the fabulous house.

The time had come to dispatch the wealth down the family line. The day had arrived to make radical changes. Not that he could ever use the thorned weapon sitting in his right gloved hand. Of course he couldn’t, unless he experienced one of his episodes, it would be madness to kill her in that way.

He adored the glistening twig, as if it had become part of his arm, slipped from the bedroom and went along the landing to her room. The heavy high-waisted door was closed. He gripped the round handle and turned. It squeaked. There was some resistance. In the next second, he pushed the door open, easing a dining chair away. She hadn’t set it right. The landing light shone in. Her bed jutted out from the right wall, a heavy expensive hardwood effort, not four-poster, but the same impressive chunky style, minus the posts.

Elspeth lay on her back, eyes closed; her head and shoulders high against several eiderdown pillows. She was breathing slow and steady, as Crispin approached.

The old lady shouted out, jerking Crispin from his complacency.

How could she wake at such a moment?

But she hadn’t woken. She was talking in her sleep.

People say and do the strangest things when suffering from parasomnia, for they have no control, or recollection. Sentences they would never dream of uttering when awake bubble to the surface. Words they were ashamed of, or thoughts they had never had the courage to say aloud, for fear of the shame, or hurting another’s feelings, or of revealing dangerous secrets and woeful wishes.

Everyone harboured wicked secrets, even if they insisted otherwise. It might relate to family scandals, the woman or man they wanted to marry, but couldn’t or didn’t. The crooked business deal that went so right, or catastrophically wrong. The precious item stolen and hidden when temptation arose, or having forbidden sex with an under-aged girl or boy, tragic, irresponsible and criminal, but exhilarating at the time. Dreadful secrets buried in the distant and dark past, so long hidden they would forever be denied, perhaps an example of the desperate person seeking help, only to be spurned and neglected.

Everyone possessed shame, for no one was perfect, sly and private mysteries people would prefer to take to their graves, some trivial, others monumental. If Crispin didn’t know that before, he discovered it in Strangeways. Incarcerated men, some serving decades in jail, ripe for yelling confessions travelling within their deepest sleep.

I didn’t mean to! I didn’t mean to!

Mummy, mummy, please don’t leave me!

Why did those bastards abandon me in an orange box under the bridge?

Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!

You never loved me! You said you did, but you lied!

Buried in the depths of the mind, slumbering, waiting to be poked and disturbed, hidden secrets, with no idea when they might spill from beyond, from the land of slumber, as truths bubbled to the surface as somniloquy, the act of sleep-talking.

In Strangeways it might end with someone yelling: Shut the hell up! We are trying to sleep!

Crispin could have written a book on it, recording shameful and embarrassing messages, information that one day might prove useful, and as he thought back to those ice-cold days and nights, she spoke again, still speaking from the other side.

Don’t you do that! If you touch me, I shall tell my daddy! You monster!

An evil grin crossed Crispin’s face. Who was the monster? Was it someone he knew? What was he or she doing, and how old was Elspeth when those dark events occurred? He wanted to hear more, for most folks were interested in salacious gossip.

The bedroom went quiet, but for an owl hooting in an oak across the road. It was time to take positive action. He would silence those secret dreams forever, whilst satisfying his one true master. He knew he shouldn’t. It was a monumentally stupid thing to do, and would put the authorities on his trail and his tail. But so what? He didn’t realise he was having one of his more powerful episodes, and only he knew what they could be like. Sometimes they were weirdly enjoyable. A high for the brain no drink or drugs could match.

He felt blood rushing around his body, reddening his face. His breathing short and sharp, as if he were making love, reaching a climax, creating new life, while ending an old one.

Crispin knew he shouldn’t, but could not resist.

It was as if he were doing someone else’s bidding. Who knew? Maybe the devil really did exist. He raised the poison-laden twig, bent over the bed, readying to strike down, to swipe it across her wizened face. To inject. To pierce. To transmit prussic acid into her ageing and creaking system.

He wanted to smile and laugh, and dance in the contentment of killing, but whispered: It won’t take much, Aunty. It won’t hurt. I’ll look after you. Don’t worry about a thing. It will soon be over. You can rely on me. You know that, don’t you? I am your beloved Crispin, and always will be.

Chapter fifty-one

Crispin’s second brain-fade episode whilst in custody occurred when off premises. Andy (Annie) Oakley accompanied him on a day release trip to Warrington.

Only when they arrived in the town, did Andy tell Crispin he intended to visit the house of ill-repute, Marlene’s Health & Beauty.

Andy smirked at Crispin and said, ‘I don’t mind if you avail yourself of the facilities while I’m there. I’d turn a blind eye to that.’

Crispin replied, ‘Not going to happen because: A: I don’t have the money, and B: I wouldn’t touch them with yours.’

‘Suit yourself. You can stay in the waiting room while I feather my duster. I’ve paid double fare, so I might be some time,’ and minutes later Seductive Suzy, looking a lot younger than her fifty-five years, dragged him into cubicle one, where it wasn’t long before guttural grunting sounds made their way outside.

Crispin had seen and heard enough. At the top of the stairs on a set of blue metal shelving, he noticed on the lowest level an orange plastic toolbox. He crouched down, grabbed the largest spanner, and slipped it down his pants. In the next second, he skipped down the stairs and hustled out into the free air.

Not far away was a large public park. He went for a relaxing walk, enjoying his freedom, passing a small lake where ten scruffy ducks floated and squabbled. The sky turned dark and angry, rain threatened, and sensible folks headed for cover. He didn’t feel well. Buzzing sounds entered his brain, switching from left ear to right, and back again.

Some people said he suffered from tinnitus, though he knew the truth. Tinnitus, it was not. The electronic buzzing in his head grew worse, producing grimaces and grunts, enough to make him smack the side of his head, to rid himself of the torture, as people once did many years before, to deal with a misbehaving television. His eyes watered, flickering open and shut, his face turning crimson.

Through the temporary blurred vision, he made out a copper walking towards him, your archetypal Mr Plod, tall dark helmet, two medal ribbons on the left of his chest, big feet, and shiny black shoes.

He stopped before Crispin, noticing the guy looked under the weather, and said, ‘You alright, mate?’

‘Fuck off! And I am not your mate.’

It took the officer aback, and it was a moment before he replied. ‘There is no need to be abusive. I was only trying to help.’

‘Your sort never help anyone but your own kind. Off to Marlene’s Health & Beauty, are ya?’

‘There’s no call for that! I am a happily married man, and that is not a place for happily married men.’

‘I think you will find it is.’

The policeman didn’t say another word, shook his head and turned away.

Something in Crispin’s mind snapped. He drew the spanner from his trousers, ran three paces after the man, and without warning, struck him twice across the neck. The first blow came as a complete surprise, the second, catching him on the way down, both connecting with full force, combined blows to inflict fatal damage.

Crispin didn’t once look down at the inert body on the pathway, stuffed the spanner in his pants, and scooted back to Marlene’s.

At the top of the stairs, he tossed the spanner in the toolbox, and pushed the door open to enter the house of iniquity.

Andy Oakley had just emerged, a stupid look on his face, as if to tell the world what a stud he was, and how the ‘girls’ couldn’t get enough of him. He spoke in hushed tones to Marlene as she skimmed through her desk diary, seeking another appointment at a mutually convenient time.

He saw Crispin return and said, ‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘Needed some fresh air. It stinks in here. Went for a short walk.’

‘You know full well you are not supposed to leave my presence. I’ve a good mind to put you on report.’

‘You know full well you should not be in here, and two people can make reports, and besides, I could hardly remain in your presence, could I?’

The convict had a point. Andy’s mouth fell open, but he had nothing sensible to say, and two minutes later they left the place and skipped down the stairs, and nothing of the trip was mentioned again.

In the Blue Lantern, Walter linked his big hands in front of him and said, ‘Even if I accompanied you to Hong Kong, I could not accept any payment. Police officers are not permitted to take on additional employment without the express permission of a superior officer.’

‘It not employment. It ’cos I grateful.’

‘That’s as maybe, but there is no possibility of me leaving the country in the middle of a murder inquiry.’

‘You come when caught?’

‘We’ll talk about it again when the case is closed.’

‘When that be?’

Walter shrugged, and she realised she would not get any further.

‘You stay for din?’

‘I can’t let you pay.’

‘No one pay. I not pay. You not pay. Free sample. You review food. Tell me good, bad, super, shite, what? Deal?’ and she smiled across at him and held her dainty hand across the desk.

She had a way about her with men; Walter had always known that, and though by the book he should have declined her offer, he didn’t, as he grasped her hand and shook it, maybe a little harder and longer than he needed, but she offered the hand, and would get what she was given.

‘Deal?’ she repeated, grinning at him.

‘You have a deal, Mrs Moo.’

‘Marina! Told you before!’ and she stood up and said, ‘Come on. We eat. I starving,’ and in the next second, they made their way through to the restaurant.

Mr Chin was his usual cold self, as Marina gave him a talking to in Cantonese. Walter didn’t understand a word.

As they sat down at her private table, Walter said, ‘What was that all about?’

She shook her head once and grinned and said, ‘I tell him unless meal top notch, one thousand per cent, I cut his ears off and fry for last course.’

Walter laughed.

‘You think I joke?’

‘I hope you joke.’

‘He do as told. He know I mean it. He not stupid. He ’fraid of me. I know his secrets.’

‘You intrigue me. Tell me more.’

‘Ah? I not say. I tell when we in Hong Kong. Not before.’

Walter was about to say something as the first course arrived, some kind of fried river fish, carp perhaps, and he couldn’t help wondering if it had been hoiked from the local public pond. It was okay, but too muddy for his taste, and needed more seasoning. One bad mark for Mr Chin. Three courses to go.

Chapter fifty-two

In Serpentine, Crispin bent over Elspeth, arm extended, fully loaded rose twig in hand. She stopped mumbling in her sleep and opened her eyes to find a shadowy figure stooped over her.

It was Crispin. What in God’s name was he doing in her bedroom?

‘Crispin?’ she said. ‘What are you doing?’

He slipped the rose clipping behind his back, taking care not to impale his back.

‘You were calling out, Aunt. Talking in your sleep. I thought you might be unwell and came running.’

‘What did I say? Nothing filthy, I hope?’ a comment issued with a tired grin.

He thought of telling her what he’d heard, but didn’t want to resurrect dark secrets involving child abuse. There was nothing to be gained by trawling up nightmarish memories.

‘Mumbo jumbo,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t make hide nor hair of it.’

She relaxed back into the pillows, lay flatter in the bed, and said, ‘You’re a good boy. I do that sometimes. Talk poppycock when I’m sleeping. Edwina always laughed about it, and teased me. She made up ridiculous things I might have said, but they were so stupid and far-fetched I knew she was fibbing. Nonsensical nonsense, I called it. Thanks for checking on me, Crispin, that was kind if you,’ and she seemed genuinely touched.

‘Alright, Aunt, if you’re okay I’ll leave you to sleep,’ as he backed out of the room and returned to his own, where he slipped the loaded twig into the Bestdas bag, conscious of its power.

He undressed and lay down, hoping for sleep, mulling over the night’s strange events, and, against expectations, fell asleep. Two hours of restlessness passed when his eyes opened with a start. His head pounded, his ears bursting, another episode incoming, as his mind returned to the prize. She must not be allowed to get away with it. He needed to act, to dominate the narrative, to bring matters to a conclusion. Get on and get it done!

With Walter away talking to Mrs Moo, Mrs West ordered Martin and Jenny to interview Gillian Norman.

Concentrate on the money aspect, ordered the boss, that, and why she returned to Chester. Jenny nodded agreement and grabbed her pad to make notes before making their way to the interview room.

Ricky and Shirley were disappointed not to get the gig. They had caught and brought the target in, and to them it seemed right and proper they had the interesting task of nailing the target’s lies. But hey, they were new on the team, and it was to be expected. If it happened again, Ricky would take it up with Walter, and if he didn’t sympathise, he wouldn’t hesitate going over his head to the boss.  

On the night in Serpentine House, Crispin eased from the bed and grabbed a pillow. In the next second, the short, scrawny, naked and ghostly figure of Crispin Coleman crept along the corridor. It was full dark, except for a little moonlight slithering in via the window at the far end of the landing.

Her door was closed. He turned the circular handle. It squeaked again. He eased it open and went inside. The door drifted closed behind him. It was darker in there, only the faintest of moonbeams making their way through the thick green curtains. Elspeth breathed on, long and slow, no snoring, and no fresh secrets tumbling from her disturbed past.

In the darkness, he could not see her, other than the faintest black shadow. Yet he knew where she lay. She hadn’t moved a muscle. He crept to the side of the bed, pillow in hand, his naked body drooping before her. He pictured her ancient face, eyes closed, as if in death, the lungs working like a pair of bellows in need of an overhaul. His episode became intense. The voice came calling. Why wait? Why hesitate? You failed before. Are you going to fail again? Are you a man? Or are you a fraud? Kill her, Crispin, kill her!

He would not fail again. It wasn’t an option. He never failed at anything twice. There was nothing more to be said. In the morning, he would amend the will, and all would be his. No more incentive needed. He bent over her, one hand on either end of the heavy pillow, holding it out like a butler with a tray, before slapping it down on her head. She began to wake. He turned about and sat on her face, his weight more than enough, his feet anchored on the dusty carpeted floor, one hand on either side, jammed down on the edge of the thick, hard mattress.

A modicum of feeble struggling continued beneath him, plus flashes of meaningless sound. The only words he understood were: mental case. What a wicked witch she was. If anyone in Serpentine House was mental, it was her. It stood to reason. She was as batty as hell. It was time for the changing of the guard, and long overdue.

The Queen was dead. Heart attack in the night, they would say. No poison necessary. No bodily injuries, no prussic acid present, and no inquest. Long live King Crispin, to usher the Royal House of Coleman into a new era.

All movement and sound ceased. He would remain there for another ten minutes, the eiderdown pillow cool and comfortable on his bare backside. He relaxed, in no hurry to move, and eased himself up and down a few times like a child on their first visit to a public playground, or playing horsies, trying out the rides, seeing what they could do, and what not.

‘It’s done!’ he said aloud, words no one would ever hear.

The buzzing in his ears abated. The horrific migraine dissolved into a distant memory. The episode ending, reminiscent of a final part of a period drama on TV. After the climax, the closing credits scrolling up, detailing the actors, making sure everyone knew who they were, with their devoted fans, the enthralled families sitting at home, saying: that was bloody brilliant! Didn’t you just love Crispin Coleman? Such a rapscallion, but so likeable, no one to compare. When you see him, you can understand why women fall in love with bad boy rogues. I wonder if they will make a second series?

He hoped not. Crispin didn’t want to feature in further episodes. He wanted to retire and enjoy the fruit of his labours, and would employ a private detective to locate his son. He would join an upmarket dating site, one where everyone had to pay a sizeable fee to keep the riffraff out, and he would go down to Lymington.

Elspeth said there were great shops there, patronised by royalty, and he would buy the best pair of built-up shoes he could find. Taller the better, and he’d find a mistress. What woman could resist when he took her back to his place? Wouldn’t they all want to slip their delicate toes under his table?

Yes, he would say, this is the long-time family home of the country Colemans, and I am the latest in line. My son will inherit everything when I die. He’s in training, but I intend to live for another thirty years. Want to join me on my exciting journey, doll?

He grinned and laughed, stood up and went to the door, remembering to remove the pillow, opened the door, went outside, closed it without a squeak, and returned to his room. A moment later, he lay down and fell into the most blissful sleep he had experienced in years.

Sometimes life could be surprising, exhilarating, and that night, and the day to come, would be just such times, and it would all be so much better when he had someone to share it with. Someone he fancied like crazy; and a woman who fancied him back. It was true what many said. It was wonderful to be in love. But it was so much better to BE loved.

In Chester, the interviewing officers soon discovered Gillian Norman had an abrupt way about her. Some might say a spoilt entitled manner, though it wasn’t unusual. There was a certain type of family living in impressive houses, who had, at least to the outside world, appeared to have “made it”.

Martin and Jenny were given the job because they had been trained to deal with such people, the training fresh in Jenny’s mind, as she recalled the bullet points.

Never be impressed by wealth and property.

Never let them bully you.

Don’t be intimidated by the idea they might know a senior officer, or by threats to employ lawyers to commence legal cases against you, and or the police.

Always be polite, but firm.

Treat such people in the identical way you would a homeless vagrant.

Always remember, no one was above the law.

Though it didn’t always work out that way. Jenny assessed the situation perfectly. Martin didn’t. He detested Gillian’s haughty attitude and relied on Jenny to keep him in line.

To the question why was she back in town, she said she was visiting friends, but declined to name them because she didn’t want them bothered. As for the big money withdrawal, she said it was a personal matter, and refused to say anymore. Asked about Gardenia Blackthorn, her brow furrowed, Jenny believed a genuine reaction, as Gillian said she had never heard the name.  

Jenny warned her she was in a tight spot, and could be charged with assisting in murder, and asked again if she wanted a solicitor. She did not. She wanted to go home.

Martin took the questioning in a different direction, asking about the Jaguar, saying they imagined it would be the husband’s car. Gillian released a withering look and accused him of prejudice against women, before asking where the car was. Martin grinned his answer, saying it was in the police garage, being searched and examined from top to tyre.

‘I warn you now, if you put so much as a scratch on it, you will get a massive bill!’

Martin next asked about prussic acid. Gillian shrugged her shoulders and pleaded ignorance.

Jenny brought it back to the money. An innocent person would say where it was, or what it was spent on. None of your business, came the icy reply, and after that they went round and round in circles, which was okay, because it afforded the police the opportunity to receive different answers to the same or similar questions. Amended responses could point to lies or weaknesses in the suspect’s position.

In her office, Mrs West spoke to the Metropolitan Police Service, better known as the Met, arguably the biggest and most powerful police force in Britain. They handled all policing tasks within Greater London, but also took on specialised duties throughout the UK, often replying to other forces’ requests for additional help in solving major crimes.

Mrs West was convinced Cheshire Police could deal with the Barnabus Reynolds’ murder from the outset, and still felt that way, but as their prime suspect had been traced disappearing into the maelstrom of Greater London, she knew the Met would have the best chance of finding him. They requested the man’s details and set about the search.

It was hard to believe, but she made a mistake. She had not issued an APB to every UK force, and it was unlike her, and one that could come back to bite.

Chapter fifty-three

The morning after Crispin’s latest episode, one he hoped would be the last, he woke early, and hurried downstairs to make coffee and toast, before returning to Elspeth’s office.

He didn’t go in her bedroom. What was the point? He’d deal with that business later. He sat at the desk, located the almost-complete will, and tugged over the portable typewriter. The will went into the machine, carefully manipulated until he arrived at the blank section, awaiting the principal beneficiary. No point in hanging around. Get it done.

I leave the rest of my estate, Serpentine House, and all contents within, including my jewellery, plus all monies in my bank accounts, to:

My nephew, Crispin Coleman, my brother John’s son. He has been so dear to me, looking after me in my dotage, caring for me, and I thank him for the special care he afforded me. One could not have wished for a more caring and thoughtful nephew.

That would do. He didn’t want to over-egg the pudding, though the only words that mattered were his name: Crispin Coleman, and so long as he received everything, he’d be satisfied.

He scrolled it out of the machine, a loud rasping noise filling the small room, to read it aloud one last time, before folding and returning it to her ledger. Afterwards, he would pretend he never saw it.

Crispin sat back and grinned to himself, before closing his eyes. He was whacked. Family admin business was tiring work, and maybe he hadn’t yet caught up with the sleepless night on the coach. Killing was tiring, too. Don’t let anyone tell you it isn’t. Exhilarating, yes, but boy, it takes it out of you.

Later, he would pop into the village and buy some of the upmarket bath therapeutic bubble stuff, dearer than most, but so what? He was loaded. A long hot bath beckoned, maybe after he had pottered around his estate in the garden.

He was brought back to the moment by the doorbell ringing. His eyes popped open as he pushed the chair back and stood up.

There were two distinct threads when dealing with uninvited people ringing doorbells. One was to ignore and wait for the intruder to clear off, though that could make them curious why the door wasn’t answered. It could be one of Elspeth’s closest friends, and he or she might mention it to others, and they could come back sooner than one would wish, to check on the old dear.

The second line of thought was to tackle it head-on. Go down, open up, and wing it. Jabber nonsense. After all, it could be a nonentity trying to sell dusters and bin bags and cleaning materials. Or maybe the caller wanted to buy valuables, or an opinion poll loon, or a desperate recruiter seeking new members for a cultish religion.

If he chose the first option, it would always be at the back of his mind, fretting, growing more nervous, waiting for them to return. But if he chose option two, one way or the other, he would know who it was, and could deal with it. The doorbell rang again.

He skipped down the stairs, intent on answering. In the next second, he drew back the heavy bolts, top and bottom, to pull the door open. A beautiful spring morning flooded in, with a tall slim clean-cut guy in jeans and sweatshirt, standing alone, a smile meant for Elspeth deserting his face, as he gazed at a short, scrawny stranger.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I was expecting Elspeth.’

I’ll bet you were, thought Crispin, before words slipped from his thin-lipped mouth.

‘She’s my aunt, I’m her nephew.’

‘Pleased to meet you. Is she alright? I thought I’d pop past and check on her. She seemed stressed and more tired than usual at the Village Hall for the flower meeting.’

‘Really?’ said Crispin, pondering on the words.

‘Yes,’ said the stranger, ‘she’s roses. I’m sweet peas. Is she in?’

The winging began.

‘No, she’s gone to visit a distant cousin in Norfolk. The lady is residing in a top-notch nursing home, and wanted Elspeth to cast her eye over it, maybe with a view to joining her there one day.’

‘What? I hope you don’t mean soon? That would be awful, and she’s never mentioned anything like that. We’d all miss her dreadfully.’

‘Yes, we will. You are right. Would you like to come in for a moment?’

A bold suggestion, considering there was a murdered woman lying in the bed upstairs.

‘Alright, just for a second.’

A thought flashed into Crispin’s mind. He was a copper. He could always tell. Twenty years in jug gave everyone a second sense at such moments, coppers, police officers, prison officers, parole officers, probation officers. They all carried the same officer stench, an identical entitlement to ask probing questions, and tell others what to do.

‘When did she go?’

‘Sorry?’

‘When did she go to Norfolk?’

‘Oh? Yesterday afternoon.’

‘Have you spoken to her?’

‘Oh, yes, she rang to say she had arrived in one piece, and said she’d call again in a few days to advise when she was coming back.’

‘That’s good. Tell her I was asking after her, would you?’

‘Sure, but I didn’t catch your name?’

‘It’s Jack, Jack Goscote, but she calls me Sweet Pea Jack,’ and he grinned in a vaguely embarrassed way, and he hadn’t finished. ‘PC Goscote, to be exact. I’m based down at Lymington, but my manor is Brockenhurst and Sway. I try to keep abreast on what is going on hereabouts.’

‘I’ll bet you do. Well done for that.’

Sweet Pea Jack glanced up the stairs, though he didn’t know why. All was silent, but for a pair of squabbling mares outside. Crispin tracked the direction of his blue eyes. There is nothing up there for you to look at, nosey boy, now sod off, as he waited for Jack to speak again.

‘Oh well, thanks for the update. Oh, I didn’t get your name?’

More winging required. The guy would not get any accurate information.

‘I’m Irving,’ he said, spouting the first name that came into his head. ‘Irving,’ and he almost said Berlin, but was quick enough on his feet to say, ‘Ferguson.’

There was nothing wrong with that. Half of all nephews bore a different surname to the aunt.

Sweet Pea Jack smiled down at the stranger and offered his hand. Crispin, or Irving, took it and shook it, as Jack said, ‘Nice to have met you, Irving. Don’t forget to mention to Elspeth, I called.’

‘I won’t. You can rely on that,’ and Jack nodded and turned away, as Crispin eased the front door open, and a second later, the guy was through it and heading back to the village.

As he walked, he reflected on the unexpected encounter. The little man possessed clammy hands. He never trusted anyone with clammy hands. Irving Ferguson, not a common name. He’d run it through the police computer back at the station, and see if nervous Irving was known to them. One thing was certain, Jack had never seen him before, and Elspeth had not mentioned the character, and she was quite a talker when she had the chance, giving the impression she had few close friends.

Elspeth said they were all dead, which explained why she was eager to chat at every opportunity.

Back in the house, Crispin cursed Sweet Pea Jack, for he realised it gave him another problem that could morph into a major headache. He had planned to ring in later and report he had found his aunt dead in bed. How could he do that if he had told a police officer she had vamoosed to Norfolk, a couple of hundred miles away?

He’d have to say she came straight back, hating the home and the cousin and the place, but in those intervening hours, the body would stiffen. Maybe he could slow down the process by stuffing her in the chest freezer he’d spotted in the utility room.

That might work. Dig her out later, thaw her out, and meat joints always took a long time to thaw. Perhaps he could set her up by a radiator, and when she was good and ready, dry her off, slip her back into bed, and call in the unexpected and unsuspicious death. He’d think about that, though some of the rough edges might need shearing off.

In the meantime, he felt a gardening interlude coming on. One could lose oneself in the garden, especially one the size at Serpentine. It could clear the mind and sometimes produced fresh thoughts to conquer any difficulty. That made a load of sense, and he went through to the kitchen, unlocked the French doors, and stepped outside.

It was turning into a beautiful day, the garden bursting with energy, the sky the brightest blue, but a typical English April day, one moment sunny, the next, clouds might roll in from the Channel and drop a short sharp shower.

He strolled round his newly acquired estate, inspecting every inch. The tall and chunky wooden fences all the way round. She had spared no expense on those, getting it done by a local contractor who had worked for the Coleman family for decades. The bloke was getting on a bit, and a little behind with his pricing, and Elspeth screwed a great deal out of the old codger.

The huge stand of rhododendrons, looking more imposing every time he inspected them, bursting with spring growth, flower buds showing by the hundred, a hint within of the lilac colour wild rhodos always revert to.

But there was something new he hadn’t noticed before. Along the ground, within the boomerang, a rambling rose had slithered out of nowhere along the waking turf like an impressive snake in a curly zigzag pattern, seeking support to climb on, to realise its potential. Perhaps years before, it had climbed over those well-seasoned bamboo canes.

Crispin went to raise it from the ground, but it bit him. Or rather spiked him, for rambling roses often possessed the sharpest of thorns, and so many of them, needlelike, long, thin, and razor sharp, as if borrowed or bought from gooseberry bushes. He cursed the plant and dropped it quick, to suck the globule of blood seeping from his thumb.

‘I’m trying to help you,’ he said aloud. ‘Never bite the hand that feeds you!’ and he thought back to those happy days working at Cecil Norman’s place twenty years before, where he had always been happy, until financial pressures and a growing family kicked in and soured everything.

It was true; roses had always been his favourite, before the first of his dreadful episodes. Especially rambling roses, for they seemed to speak to him like no other plants could. It was as if they were speaking there, as some kind of Dickensian character, pleading for urgent help: Please, Mr Coleman, may I have your support?

It melted his heart, and support it would get.

He returned to the house, never once thinking of Elspeth. That was history, to collect the fab scissors and a ball of string she kept for a myriad of purposes. In the next minute, he was back outside, counting the bamboo poles, pacing out where he would set them, within the rhododendron boomerang, but not too close, to enable the roses to grab their fair share of sun, sea, and sex, as the garden centre operatives referred to it back at Cecil Norman’s place, meaning sun, water, and nutrients.

After the damp spring, the ground was wet and easily worked. The first bamboo pole went in, perhaps eight inches. It slipped in with a thwulp sound, and minimal effort. The second went in two feet apart, as he cut a six-inch length of string and reached up, standing on tiptoe to tie them together six inches from the top, forming an upturned V.

If only he possessed a little extra height, but there was no point in hopeless wishing. So far as he knew, there were no businesses making big bucks extending shorties’ height, not yet anyhow. Short of sticking the humans on a mediaeval rack for an hour or two, platform shoes would have to suffice.

The next two canes went in spot on, a foot to the left. He tied them together at the same height so when finished, he could lay a cane horizontal along the tops, strengthening the structure, giving his new favourite rambler every chance. The sun disappeared, ducking behind an oval black cloud.

He began the third upturned V, but the cane objected. It would only go in three inches, and that would never be enough, for a full-grown rambler could weigh a huge amount. Perhaps there was a large stone underneath, blocking the cane’s path.

No problem. He moved it two inches to the left and tried again, but the same difficulty arose. It would not pierce the turf to the required depth. Crispin cursed. There was always something to block the simplest plans. Damnation!

He was not to know he had strayed onto a piece of land once harbouring concrete hard-standing, where old Jasper Coleman used to park his ancient black Riley car. After Jasper’s passing, John Coleman, Crispin’s dad, who was a train buff and hated cars, sold the Riley for too little, and covered the hard-standing with several inches of best quality top soil, to lay it to lawn.

All those years later, Crispin moved another two inches along the row, and rammed in a different cane. It stopped at the same shallow depth. He cursed again and vowed a few underground stones would not defeat him. With additional effort and energy, he convinced himself the cane would slice clean through it.

He summoned up all his strength, his heart racing, grasping the fat cane half way up, forcing it down, heaving and grunting, pleading with it to enter the ground to the correct level. Cris brought the Coleman determination gene into the fray, and doubled up on every ounce of strength he possessed, gulping air, bending over it to use what little weight he had, giving it one last thrust to ram the pole into the ground.

Without warning, the cane snapped, issuing a crack like a rifle shot, the top half flying away over his shoulder, the sound startling nearby crows into frantic calling.

Chapter fifty-four

PC Jack Goscote ran the checks on Irving Ferguson. As he suspected, it was a rare name. There were only two others in England, one a retired major living in Buckinghamshire, and the other an eighteen-year-old kid lodging in Hull.

Neither could be the man he shook hands with, and that struck him as mighty odd. Had the guy given a false name, and if so, why? He ran it past his superior, Sergeant Tony Witcombe. The guy wasn’t impressed, saying there were countless names not showing in any records, and he changed the subject.

‘How are you getting on with the stolen bicycle business from outhouses and sheds?’

Jack insisted he was looking into it, advising countless careless people to place expensive bikes in more secure accommodation. Best of all, get them inside.

The sarge nodded and said, ‘That’s my boy.’

Jack said, ‘I’m going there this afternoon,’ though he knew he would return to Serpentine House, for he was certain something there was off.

In Warrington, Mrs Wilson stumbled across more information on Crispin Coleman. Confidential medical reports she thought should be shared with Cheshire Police, but she needed permission from above before releasing it, and civil servants often took their time in making decisions.

Crispin Coleman suffered from schizophrenia, a mental illness requiring medication to keep under control, and no one knew what caused the incurable condition. The get-on-with-it command came through, as Mrs Wilson wasted not a second in ringing Karen.

‘I have more for you on Mr Coleman.’

‘Oh good, fire away.’

Under the guise of checking bicycles in Brockenhurst, Jack Goscote arrived back outside Serpentine, four hours after he had left.

He went to the door and prodded the bell-push. It rang inside.

A minute passed before the door opened.

Jack Sweet Pea Goscote peered in.

Elspeth Coleman stared out.

He looked surprised and said, ‘Ah? You’re back, are you?’

‘Back? Back from where? I ain’t been nowhere.’

‘I called earlier. Your nephew said you had gone to Norfolk.’

‘Ah, him? I want a word with him.’

‘Is he out?’

‘I have no idea where he is. Maybe he has run away after the terrible thing he did.’

Jack’s forehead creased as he said, ‘Irving told me you had gone to Norfolk yesterday on the train.’

‘Who the hell is Irving? You are not making much sense, Sweet Pea. Come in and tell me all about it.’

Mrs Wilson relayed the updated info she noticed in Crispin’s confidential medical files. Copious notes on his mental wellbeing. He was prone to disturbing events, including violence, though they were rare and unpredictable. No one had any adequate explanation why and where they came from, but included hallucinations, delusions, confused reasoning, and violence.

The wisest opinions wrote they were most likely triggered by outside, unexpected events. An odd fact attached reported the episodes Crispin experienced were divided into two distinct types. Tangible, actual real-life events, and others only occurring within the confines of his scrambled brain.

Two examples came to mind. The first, the events at the garden centre twenty years before, when for an hour or two, it was suggested he lost his mind. The second, related to an event taking place inside Crispin’s disturbed and personal world.

Crispin believed every scene, and relayed his thoughts to PO Andy Oakley, accusing the prison officer of taking him into Warrington to visit a rough-and-ready brothel, a fun factory since closed down. Crispin insisted Andy encouraged him to participate, an invitation Cris said he declined.

While Andy went about his business, Crispin fled to a nearby public park, but not before stealing a large spanner from a sleeping toolbox. Once in the park, Cris said an interfering police officer accosted him, a man who, for whatever reason, triggered another violent episode. Crispin confessed he struck the officer on the back of the neck, not once but twice, killing him outright.

On the doorstep at Serpentine, Jack bobbed his head and went inside, through the hall to the sitting room at the back. He glanced into the garden, but saw no one.

Elspeth said, ‘Sit down, I’ve just made tea, and we will unravel this mess.’

She went into the kitchen, poured two teas, and came back to set them on the low table. A second later, they were sitting opposite; each waiting for the other to start.

‘Well?’ she said, ‘what do you know?’

He sipped strong tea, rubbed his clean-shaven chin, and said, ‘I called late on this morning, and a man answered saying he was your nephew, Irving Ferguson.’

‘Short, rat-like, pallid and puny, greasy straggly hair?’

‘That’s the fella. Is he not your nephew?’

‘He is, or at least he says he is, but his name is not Irving Ferguson, it’s Crispin Coleman.’

Jack noted the name before saying, ‘I wonder why he gave a false name?’

‘Did he know you were a police officer?’

‘He did when I told him. What did you mean when you said he did a terrible thing?’

She pursed her lips and sighed, before saying, ‘He interfered with my will, Sweet Pea. I’ll show you, wait here,’ and she eased herself to her feet, disappeared into the hall, and went upstairs. A few minutes later, she was back, panting, holding out the typed document showing she had bequeathed the house and almost all her estate to her nephew, Crispin Coleman, typed as clear as day, Elspeth’s thumb ensuring Jack didn’t see the other bequests.

‘And you didn’t approve of this? You left nothing to your nephew?’

‘Correct! I barely know him. I haven’t seen the bloke in fifty years, and between you and me, my brother John, Crispin’s father, always said the engine in Crispin’s cranky head was short of several vital nuts and bolts.’

Jack let go a curt laugh before saying, ‘He suffers from mental illness?’

Elspeth nodded and swigged tea.

He exhaled and said, ‘It’s a serious criminal offence.’

‘You can say that again! Only to the tune of two million quid.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Good question. I have no idea, Sweet Pea. It looks like he has gone out, perhaps into the village to sneak a pint of Hampshire ale, or check on house prices. Who knows? The door bolts were not on, and I always have them on when I am by myself. I am expecting him back any moment, though thinking about it, perhaps he has done a runner, after the monstrous thing he did.’

‘Where were you when I called this morning?’

‘In bed asleep. I have been so tired lately, and that walk to the Village Hall and back just about finished me off. I slept so deeply and for so long, I haven’t long been up.’

‘How weird. He insisted you had gone to your cousin in Norfolk.’

‘I don’t have any relatives in Norfolk, or anywhere else, other than him.’

‘Can I see his room?’

‘You may. Follow me.’

In the days that followed Crispin’s fracas in the park, he studied the newspapers and TV news broadcasts, expecting to see and hear the latest updates on the local cop killing. There were none, because the entire episode had taken place within the twisted gears hiding inside his head, and so powerful were the images and urges, Crispin Coleman could not differentiate between reality and dreams, visions, hallucinations, and the delusions sweeping through his strange and ill-adjusted mind.

Mrs Wilson relayed: the last doctor to see him noted that so long as Crispin took his medication, he should be okay and no danger to the public, though as he pointed out, people on such meds, often imagined they were being poisoned, and refused to take it. Because of that, when he was freed, Coleman must be monitored.

After he arrived in the Christian shelter in Chester, his progress was observed, albeit unbeknown to him, but as soon as he went AWOL, all supervision ceased. Pity, but no one seemed to understand the importance of continued monitoring, and the man was out in the wild, with limited medication, to wreak havoc, all experts agreeing he could become dangerous if something triggered in his brain.

Karen thanked her for the update, as Mrs Wilson said, ‘Do you have any idea where he is?’

‘Last seen disappearing into the mass of humanity in London. In other words, your guess is as good as mine.’

‘Good luck with that. If I dig up anything else, I’ll be onto you pronto-pronto.’

‘Thanks, you’ve been great,’ and the call ended, and Karen went off to update Walter.

PC Goscote ascended the Serpentine House tropical hardwood staircase put in to conquer the high ceilings, Jack arriving at the top before Elspeth, who made it, puffing and blowing.

‘Perhaps you could get a chairlift?’

‘Chairlift, be blowed! It’s the only exercise I get, and they cost a fortune. Here, this is his room,’ and she pushed the door open and they went inside.

The queen-size bed had been slept in, but was not made up. On the bedside table was an indigestion bottle with a big black scrawled P.A. on the label. Jack went to it and picked it up.

Elspeth said, ‘It’s gone off. He wouldn’t let me use it.’

He screwed off the top, sniffed the contents, and jerked his head back, grimacing.

‘That is not indigestion medication. It smells like some kind of acid.’

‘Acid? Why would he have acid in my house?’

Jack screwed the top back on and set it down, saying, ‘Who is P.A?’

‘No idea, but it’s not the actress. We had a good laugh about that.’

‘Maybe it’s not a person at all. Perhaps it means something else.’

He fell to his knees and looked under the bed to find several bags. He tugged the first out, a Bestdas bag, stood up, bag in hand, peeped inside, opened it wide, and showed the contents to Elspeth.

‘What the hell?’ she said, staring at prepared rose cuttings, her hand going towards them.

‘Don’t touch! All is not as it seems.’

Gillian Norman was astonished to find she was detained overnight, and protested long and loud, to no avail. She was stuck amid a murder inquiry. What did she expect?

The next morning, Walter was back, happy to sit and monitor Jenny and Martin taking the lead in Gillian’s interrogation. For the first time in ages, he felt genuine progress was being achieved.

Chapter fifty-five

The second Gillian Norman interview began at nine o’clock on the dot, still with her unrepresented, Jenny and Martin briefed to take a more aggressive stance.

Unless she cooperated and explained her moves and movements, papers would go to the CPS, seeking permission to prosecute her for aiding and abetting a murder. Once they had that, she could be held in custody, and they would redouble their efforts to upgrade charges to outright murder.

She had drawn a large sum of money the police believed financed the hit, giving a payoff to Crispin Coleman, funds she refused to account for. She had driven to Chester and was in the area before and after the killing, and had no explanation for her presence, other than to say she wanted to hook up with friends, pals she refused to name.

While in Cheshire, she criss-crossed the area, keeping busy, with no explanation why. Her husband, a chemistry teacher, was believed to have provided the prussic acid. He would be taken into Dundee Police Station in West Bell Street and asked what he knew about it.

Martin impressed on Gillian she was on the cusp of being charged. If she was innocent, she should answer their questions, and they took a break to give her twenty minutes to think about it.

It worked, for when they reassembled, she revealed certain facts about the money.

Martin said, ‘What did you do with it?’

‘Donated it.’

‘To whom?’ said Jenny.

‘SFS.’

Martin said, ‘Who?’ though before Gillian could answer, Jen said, ‘Isn’t that one of the fringe nationalist parties?’

Gillian nodded, and Jenny asked her to say her answer aloud.

‘It is. Scotland for the Scots.’

Both Martin and Jenny looked puzzled, before Jen said, ‘Why would you, born, brought up, and living all your previous life in England, the archetypal English woman, give a considerable sum of money to an organisation dedicated to breaking up the union?’

‘It’s not the same in Scotland. People think differently. Dundee is a nationalist hotbed. People want to look after their own affairs, and besides…’

‘Besides what?’ said Jenny.

Gillian took a breath and said, ‘Findlay is a rabid nationalist. Always has been.’

‘Ah,’ said Martin. ‘Now we are getting somewhere. It was his idea.’

‘No, fifty-fifty. I approved. It seemed the right thing to do.’

Jenny said, ‘How did you pay the money?’

‘In cash.’

‘Giving it to?’

‘Rob McDermott.’

Martin said, ‘Is he the party leader?’

‘No, treasurer.’

Jenny said, ‘Did you get a receipt?’

‘No. I thought about that afterwards, but other things happened, and we moved on.’

‘Where were you…’ said Martin, ‘when you handed over the cash?’

‘He came to the house. It was only after he had gone, I mentioned to Findlay, about getting a receipt.’

Jenny said, ‘And?’

‘Findlay said we didn’t need one. Rob was as straight as an arrow. It was going to a good cause, and he told me not to make a fuss.’

Jenny changed tack.

‘Did Findlay bring chemical substances home from school?’

Gillian nodded and said, ‘Yes, sometimes. If he had an experiment to set up, he might run through it first at home. We have a big office room at the bottom of the garden, more of a half-hearted laboratory.’

Martin said, ‘What do the neighbours think of that?’

‘No idea. They don’t know about it.’

‘They would if it exploded.’

‘Not going to happen.’

Jenny said, ‘Did he bring prussic acid home?’

‘Not that I know of, but I don’t sit on his shoulder watching his every move. I suppose it’s possible. We both live hectic lives. I have my patients, and he has his pupils, and we rarely discuss work. Confidentiality, and all that, and to be honest, by the time we have finished, the last thing we want to talk about is our stressful day.’

An alarming thought entered Jenny’s mind. How extreme an organisation was SFS? Might they, for example, move on to direct action, violent action, if they didn’t get their way?

‘Has he ever made explosives in his home lab?’

‘No! Course not. You’re way off beam if you think that. Findlay wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘And just to be clear,’ said Jenny, ‘you never saw prussic acid in the house or the home lab?’

‘I did not, but I didn’t look. It might be there. You’d have to ask him. I need a hot drink, coffee preferably.’

Martin and Jenny shared a satisfied look, happy in the progress they had made, and the interview was paused for coffee and biscuits, because a well-watered and fed witness, or suspect, was always more likely to spill further secrets.

Before the interview recommenced, Walter and Mrs West gave Jenny and Martin more ammunition.

Jenny opened with, ‘When did you last meet Crispin Coleman?’

‘I haven’t seen that creep since the trial.’

‘Come now,’ said Martin. ‘There’s no point in lying. We have a witness who says he saw you collecting Coleman in your Jaguar on the day he was released.’

Gillian grinned a sarcastic grin and said, ‘I don’t think so. I didn’t even know where he was held.’

Martin didn’t let up, asking, ‘Where is Crispin Coleman now?’

‘How the heck would I know?’

Jenny said, ‘Because you met him, financed him, and encouraged him to murder Barnabus Reynolds. After the job was done, utilising prussic acid your husband provided, you met Coleman again, paid him his dues, before he boarded the London bus. We believe the man is and was a murderer, Gillian. A schizophrenic, a man who needs monitoring, and you of all people know how important ongoing supervision is.’

‘You’re right. I understand this better than you, and I would never encourage a man like that to be let out into the wild without adequate ongoing checks.’

Martin and Jenny shared a look. The interview had run its course. Various points needed checking before continuing, and Gillian ate her last biscuit before being returned to the cells.

As they waited for answers to bounce back from Scotland, Walter said aloud to no one in particular, ‘When is this guy coming back from Argentina? I want a word with him.’

‘Anyday now, Guv,’ said Karen.

In Serpentine House, Jack Goscote checked the place over to confirm Crispin was not hiding within the cavernous building, before he went through his things.

In another bag, he found large amounts of medication. Olanzapine, a conventional antipsychotic, and Clozapine, known as a second-generation antipsychotic, plus a third drug, a mood stabiliser, lithium. Some silver strips with missing pills; others untouched and fully loaded.

Jack knew a little about schizophrenia and the medications used, for his cousin had ridden that rocky road before being taken into full-time care. The older bods at the station had little understanding of schizo, and were happy to defer to Jack, unless things grew serious, when doctors were called for advice.

He knew the importance of taking medication, and if Crispin left the house for any period without it, a big red light would go off in both Jack and Crispin’s mind.

Elspeth stood to one side as Jack carried out his search, interested in what drugs Crispin was taking. She had read in a magazine aimed at older people, reporting an astonishing 90% of older adults in Britain were taking at least one prescription med, and many people were on a cocktail of drugs designed to keep them going, Elspeth included.

The financial cost was astronomical, as would be the fallout if they became unavailable. A nation of legal drug addicts had been created, dedicated to pushing up life expectancy, and Britain wasn’t alone in that.

She asked Jack something she regretted the moment she spoke the words.

‘Nutter drugs, are they? Wouldn’t surprise me. I told you; his father knew he wasn’t wired right, almost from the cradle.’

‘I don’t think nutter drugs is the approved description,’ said Jack, unable to control a grin.

‘That’s as maybe, but John always said: don’t be left alone with him, and here I am all these years later, living with the guy. Did I tell you he came into my bedroom midway through the night? Almost gave me a heart attack when I woke and saw him standing there.’

‘No, you didn’t. What did he want?’

‘He said I was yelling things in my sleep. Said he thought I was unwell.’

‘And were you? Shouting out?’

She gave him a look that told him she might have been.

Jack pictured the scene, broadening it out to wondering what thoughts rushed through Crispin’s mind as he stood over her. He’d adjusted the will to give him everything, and all he needed do was wait for her death and the estate would be his, or hasten it. And what was going on with the thorny rose twigs, and what was in the P.A. bottle?

‘I need to go back to the station,’ he said. ‘Check a few things. I have noted his medication. I’ll leave it here. He will need it if he comes back, but I’ll take the rose twigs and P.A. with me.’

‘You won’t be long?’

‘I’ll be as quick as I can, but it will be a few hours before I return.’

‘What happens if he comes back?’

‘Stay cool and calm.’

‘I’m scared, Jack. I think he wants to kill me.’

Jack could sympathise. He thought the same and realised he couldn’t leave her.

‘I’ll ring in, get someone to collect the stuff, and stay here.’

She let out a sigh of relief and asked if he wanted something to eat. He hadn’t eaten in hours and was grateful for the sandwich.

Sergeant Witcombe was livid when hearing from Jack at Serpentine, but calmed down when the lad reported everything he knew. Coleman had forged Elspeth’s will, claiming all her assets running into millions, and had left unidentified substances in the house. Perhaps for once in his career, Jack was on to something, and five minutes later, a car left Lymington to collect various suspicious items.

Chapter fifty-six

Thirty seconds before the bamboo cane snapped in half, the clouds broke, and April sunshine burst back into the Serpentine House garden.

The old bamboo ruptured across one of the nodes, the circular joints all bamboo specialises in. Bamboo is not fully hollow, giving it the strength it is renowned for, the nodes solid all the way through.

The shattered joint had deteriorated. Perhaps tiny insects had burrowed in, weakening the structure, or maybe being left in the garden through successive cold and wet winters had done its thing. Going to work was nature’s way. Rotting everything in its path, even super-strength bamboo. If Mother Nature had its way, it would rot every living thing on the planet.

As the cane cracked in half, it didn’t break clean, but jagged all the way round, leaving prongs on the top section, with matching jagged spikes on the lower half, the cane remaining anchored in the ground.

When the top half flew away, a cracking sound echoed across the garden and on into nearby forest. A murder of nowty crows started yelling. They had enough to worry about with building houses, courting wives, feeding a family, and fending off interlopers, to be annoyed by scary incoming noises floating through the treetops.

At the same moment Cris forced the cane into the ground, using every ounce of energy in his wiry frame, all the leverage his bent-over body could bring into the fight, the cane burst in two, creating a fearsome weapon, as Crispin’s head and body slammed down.

The serrated end of the lower section, crumbled node and multi-faceted super-sharp prongs, stabbed into Crispin’s fast oncoming neck, and kept on going. In a split second it appeared out the other side, leaving Crispin bent over and shocked, as if an arrow had punctured his neck, a scene reminiscent of the aftermath at Agincourt, and the English bowman’s heroic victory on Saint Crispin’s day, way down in France, in long ago 1415.

The rose killer became inert, bent at the waist, arms useless at his side, his dying mind struggling to process what had occurred, the lower section of the pole anchored, strong enough to support him in his final agony.

The human neck contains three pairs of veins, the jugulars: interior, exterior, and anterior, while the average human brain weighs almost one and a half kilos, and has an insatiable desire and need for oxygen. The veins were vital in distributing oxygenated blood. If the supply was hijacked, delayed, or cut off, catastrophe awaits.

The shattered bamboo barrelled its way in, severing Crispin’s anterior vein, the smallest of the three sisters, crashing through the left side at the front of the neck, continuing on to smash through the opposite side, as if seeking daylight and fresh air.

Blood spilled to the ground as if in flood, reddening the fresh spring grass, producing an unexpected bonanza for a myriad of insects bustling out of hibernation, desperate to dine on nutritious substances.

Crispin could not move a muscle, and no one would ever know how long he took to die, or what final thoughts seared through his confused schizophrenic brain.

The sun shone on the rose beds, warming the recent growth, persuading the leaves and fresh stems to move a fraction, as if gazing towards the sun, staring across the garden, into the rhododendron framed boomerang, at an impaled man. Things over there had changed. The roses would cry no more.

The fact Crispin did not return to Serpentine baffled Elspeth Coleman and Jack Goscote. It appeared as if he had left for good, though not taking his medication was an enormous risk, and one that persuaded Jack he could reappear. He couldn’t guard Elspeth forever, and needed closure, as it spurred him to look again in the garden.

He let himself out through the French doors. The slightest chill in the air, but bright and sunny, as crows called from the far oaks. A motorbike cruised by, heading down to the A337, north for Lyndhurst and the busy M27 and beyond.

Close to the house, he couldn’t see into the centre of the boomerang, and besides, he walked the other way, along the rose beds bordering the left fence. The plants were growing fast, red and green shoots barrelling out every which way. He followed the bed to the end, and noticed some growth had been torn away, leaving weeping scars. The same cuttings he guessed he found in the Bestdas bag. But why? Who took be-thorned rose twigs into the bedroom? What was the point?

The P.A? What was hiding in the bottle? Acid of some kind, his best guess, painted on the thorned twigs, with what purpose in mind? To kill, to gain control of Elspeth’s considerable estate.

Not all schizophrenics were killers, not even a decent percentage. He knew that better than most, but some were, and more likely to harm people than the lucky ones free from the dreadful condition. Jack produced his phone and rang Tony Witcombe to ask if the science boffins had identified the substance, and as he made the call, he turned about, as people using phones do.

They turn away, seeking privacy, maybe in habit, so others could not see his face or hear his words, though there was no one there to notice, for Elspeth remained dozing in the rear sitting room.

‘Where are you, and what are you doing?’ barked the sarge.

‘I’m still in Serp…’

He didn’t get any further, gawping across the garden, into the heart of the boomerang.

‘What did you say?’ yelled Witcombe. ‘What’s going on? I can’t hear you.’

‘Just a sec!’

Jack, phone pressed to his ear, hustled across to the bent-over frame of Crispin Coleman, sometimes known as Irving Ferguson.

Pools of blood stained the grass. Jack felt for a pulse, didn’t expect to find one, and didn’t.

‘Are you wasting my time, Goscote?’

‘No sarge, not this time. I’ve found him.’

‘Found who? The bicycle thief?’

‘No! Crispin Coleman, the nephew.’

‘Really? Well done! Bring him in and get him questioned.’

‘There’s no point, sarge. He’s dead.’

‘Dead? How? Overdose, what?’

‘He’s bent over double in the back garden, with what looks like an arrow through his neck.’

‘An arrow? Are you winding me up?’

‘No, sarge, it looks like an arrow, but it’s a snapped bamboo cane. It seems he was putting up runner bean poles, or maybe a frame for the rambling rose close by. Looks like the cane snapped as he was thrusting it into the ground.’

‘You sure he’s dead?’

‘As a dodo. No pulse, tremendous blood loss.’

‘Right! Guard the site, do nothing, don’t touch, don’t let the old girl anywhere near. I’ll alert CID and get people to you as soon as poss. You got that?’

‘I have. You can rely on me.’

‘The jury’s out on that, sunshine.’

‘The substance in the bottle, sarge?’

‘Oh yeah, didn’t I say? Hydrogen cyanide. I thought it was acid all along, and it set me thinking. I’ll talk to you about that when you get back.’

‘Prussic acid.’

‘What about it?’

‘The P.A. scrawled on the bottle, another name for hydrogen cyanide.’

‘Whatever, clever clogs. See you when I see you.’

Jack imagined the goon might have said something complimentary, but nothing came before the man cut off.

It brought a positive thought into Jack’s mind. If he ever reached the rank of sergeant, or beyond, into CID as he aspired, the one thing he would do when any member of the team achieved something, no matter how little or large, he would be complimentary.

He wanted to go in and tell Elspeth he had found Crispin Coleman’s remains, but delayed, as two inquisitive rooks alighted on top of the fence by the roses. Rooks, crows, he couldn’t tell them apart. Big black buggers, how he saw and thought of them.

One of them took off and headed towards him, buzzing him as it passed, Jack fending the beast off with his phone and a curse word he rarely used. Was it his imagination, or were larger birds, crows, rooks, gulls, buzzards, magpies, all the aggressive meat-eating brigade, becoming more hostile, as if they had lost their fear of humankind, if they ever possessed it in the first place? Seemed that way to him. Maybe it was climate change, for who knew what side-effects a change in temperature might bring into a hungry predator’s brain?

He had won the first round. The black-feathered carnivores flew off and settled in a nearby sycamore, though Jack knew the moment he turned his back they would return to peck out the eyes, and hammer away at the bloody neck wounds, and the forensic guys and any relatives would not appreciate that.

Chapter fifty-seven

Half an hour later, a police team of four arrived at Serpentine House. They explained to Elspeth, PC Jack Goscote was in the back garden overseeing Crispin’s body, warding off hungry crows.

If she was shocked, she didn’t show it.

‘I wondered why he didn’t come in,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders, showing the new arrivals through to the back.

Jack was relieved of his duty, as a white tent went up and over the gruesome scene, and any hope of free meals for unwanted feathered guests evaporated. Jack left them to it and joined Elspeth in the house to tell her of the accident, excluding the gruesome details.

‘I guess that’s it,’ she said.

‘Pretty much, though there is one thing you must do.’

‘Oh? And what might that be?’

‘You should destroy or amend your will. Just because Crispin is dead, it doesn’t mean the will is invalid. Any bequest to him could go to his nearest relatives, and I’m guessing you wouldn’t want that?’

‘I don’t!’ she said, and toddled off in a huff, climbing the stairs to fetch the darned thing.

Walter sat with Mrs West in her office.

She said, ‘I sent out an APB.’

‘Just as well.’

‘I wanted to solve the case without outside interference.’

‘I know, but we need to find Coleman.’

‘I advised the Met.’

‘I am aware of that.’

‘Let’s talk about more positive things, Walter. I still think Gillian is the conduit to Barnabus’s death. She withdrew the money, and I don’t believe a word of it being handed to a minor political party north of the border. She’s as English as they come. That makes no sense to me, and we have a witness who saw her collecting Coleman from prison.’

‘When the man returns, and clarifies what he saw.’

‘He will. It’s obvious. If we can prove she financed the murder, she should be charged with that offence. In the meantime, I want you to prepare prosecution papers for the CPS based on our preference for a murder charge. We will put what we have to them, and they can decide.’

It seemed airy-fairy to Walter, but he had no better ideas, or anything fresh, and agreed to prepare the flimsy case.

Mrs West jerked her head and added, ‘In the meantime, we release her. We can’t hold her, and she’s not going anywhere. I suspect the CPS will take their time, and we can scoop her up whenever we want.’

Gillian agreed to provide fingerprints and DNA to rule her out, and once done, asked when she could have her car, and wasn’t happy when told it was being kept for further examination, and she was left to rent a replacement. The moment she collected the hire car, she filled it at the nearest petrol station, and pointed it north for her adopted home, imagining she was safer, out of reach north of the border.

In Serpentine, Elspeth came down the stairs, bogus will in hand.

‘I want you to witness my actions,’ she said.

‘The will could be amended easy enough.’

‘No! I want it gone, Sweet Pea. I’ll get new forms and start afresh. With recent events, I’ve had time to think, and I want to change something.’

‘Where did you get the forms?’

‘Stationers in Lymington.’

Jack smiled and said, ‘Your will, your bequests, your choice.’

Elspeth nodded and ripped the damned thing into a hundred pieces.

Jack explained the officers would stay with her, even for days, while he returned to base in Lymington.

He imagined she might have been annoyed with strangers traipsing through the house, but the opposite was true. She loved having them there, and set about running a canteen with the zeal of an Aggie Weston. Not that anyone knew who Aggie Weston was, which was a pity. Elspeth wondered why they didn’t teach the kids in school about Agnes Weston? Might be more instructive than some of the horse-muck heroes they pumped on about.

When Jack arrived back in Lymington, Sergeant Witcombe was ready and waiting, his discontented hard face on show to the world.

‘You’re back, are you, and not before time?’

‘Got here as soon as I could, sarge,’ said Jack, disappointed his determination in unearthing a madman and potential killer hadn’t been recognised.

‘I know you think I’m a boring old fart, behind the times, not with it, ungrateful, lacking in imagination, a belt and braces kind of bloke, and lots of ruder words besides, but you are wrong. I have some information for you, young man, and I think you’ll find it of interest.’

Jack pulled a face and half-grinned, surprised at the change of tone.

The sarge spoke again.

‘One,’ and he held up a finger. ‘As I mentioned, the substance in the bottle is acid, as we thought. Hydrogen cyanide, better known as prussic acid.’

‘Thought so.’

‘Two,’ another finger went in the air. ‘The rose twigs were covered in the damned stuff, and when fresh, or otherwise, if swiped across anyone’s face, arms, any body part, death would follow pretty damned quick.’

‘Wow! He was planning to murder Elspeth!’

‘It looks that way. Well done for bunging one huge spanner into his crooked works. And three…’ and the third finger went up. ‘An APB came in today from Cheshire Police, seeking one Crispin Coleman, wanted in connection with a murder on their patch, the murder weapon being, wait for it… poisoned rose twigs, using prussic acid. Sound familiar?’

‘No! Really?’

‘Yes! It’s all there, along with a contact number for the inspector leading the case,’ and the sarge slapped a printout into Jack’s hand.

‘I can’t believe it. I was face to face with a real live murderer on Elspeth’s doorstep. He invited me in! I always knew there was something dodgy about him. Maybe he wanted to kill me, too.’

‘Don’t get carried away, Goscote. Stick to the facts. Speculation is pants, as you well know. Now, off you pop,’ and the sarge nodded over his shoulder to a bank of desks. ‘Ring the man. You deserve it.’

Walter was thrilled to receive the call. It was the break they needed, and though he was disappointed to discover Crispin Coleman was dead, they still had an ongoing case against Gillian Norman, and asked the keen-sounding PC to investigate further. They were looking for large amounts of cash, and any connection between Crispin and one Gillian Buchanan. The enthused bloke went off, determined to make further progress.

Walter broke the news to Mrs West. She was elated to hear it, and armed with fresh intel, went off to report to her superior the Barnabus Reynolds’ murder was solved and off the book, with the only remaining thread being Gillian Norman’s involvement, as they waited for the CPS to instruct them.

When speaking to her boss, she travelled more in hope than expectation. It was great the murder case was solved, but why the hell was an APB not issued earlier? It wasn’t a question she had a perfect answer for, mumbling platitudes on the lines of: I thought we were on the brink of solving the case without outside help, a comment that didn’t impress, and she was left with one last incoming thought. You know what thought did? Followed a muck cart and thought it was a wedding, and the phone went down.

She didn’t protest her innocence because she knew she was in the wrong, and sat back and waited for repercussions. Everyone made mistakes, but the higher up the ranking system one scrambled, the worse and far-reaching they became.

Mrs West shook her head, turned to Walter, and said, ‘Nail Gillian Norman, and the case is done. It’s been creeping over me like a dose of shingles, and I’ve had the damned injection for that.’

‘Doing our best, ma’am. We’ll get there.’

‘The solving of this case should have been enjoyable, but it has been the opposite. The casus horribilis, to paraphrase the old queen.’

‘We will nail it, ma’am. You can be sure of that. Is it okay if I advise Bella Reynolds of recent progress? She asked me to, and I promised I would.’

Mrs West nodded and said, ‘Do that. You must keep your promises, Mr Darriteau, especially to a lady.’

Bella was pleased to hear her dear husband’s killer had met his end in a garden, as she imagined the close-by roses laughing at his misfortune. As for the vile Gillian Norman, if she paid to have Barnabus murdered, she should go to prison for the rest of her days, and good riddance.

Walter assured her that was their aim, and the call ended with Bill and Ben barking approval in the background.

He returned to Mrs West to update her, accepting her invitation to sit. It seemed she wanted to pick his brains on the possible ramifications regarding her lethargic action, vis-à-vis the APB.

Walter was saved from giving an opinion, and grateful for that, because he knew she wouldn’t enjoy his thoughts, as two zealous women DCs arrived at the open office door at the same moment, independent of each other, both excited, bearing notes of great interest, they said.

‘All right, all right, one at a time,’ said Mrs West. ‘Let’s hear it.’

Jenny Thompson glanced at Shirley Woodruff and said, ‘You first.’

Shirley considered speaking, but thought better of it.

‘After you, Jen. You’re the senior on the team.’

A tactful reply.

A tetchy Mrs West glared at them and said, ‘I don’t give an owl’s crap who speaks first, just spit it out!’

Jenny nodded and grinned and said, ‘I’ll start. You’ll want to hear this.’

Chapter fifty-eight

DC Jenny Thompson noticed three sets of eyes boring into her, though she had become used to that, her confidence growing by the week.

She took a breath and said, ‘Gillian Norman did not pay any money to the political party, SFS, or at least that is what they say. ‘

‘Who did you speak to?’ asked Walter, unable to keep silent.

‘Rob McDermott.’

‘The treasurer, right?’ said Mrs West.

‘That’s the man.’

‘I knew it! She can’t account for the money because she gave it to Crispin Coleman to promote murder.’

‘Could be,’ said Walter.

‘There is no could be about it!’

Walter glanced at Jenny and said, ‘Is that it?’

‘It is. I knew you’d like to know. It seems if SFS received nothing, the money is out there floating about.’

Mrs West added, ‘Or Crispin Coleman received it.’

Jenny nodded, as all eyes shifted to Shirley, with a trump-that mentality.

She believed she could, took a breath, and said, ‘Two weeks ago, Casey Norman withdrew twenty thousand pounds from their joint savings account, her and Garry’s, Casey signing the withdrawal slip at the Chester branch of the Chester & Llandudno Building Society.’

‘Wow!’ said Jenny, determined to stay until ordered away.

Mrs West glanced at Walter and said, ‘What do you make of that? Could it be the crooked sisters-in-law were in cahoots all along, cooking up heaven knows what, working together to finish off Coleman?’

‘Anything is possible, ma’am. Perhaps their reported frosty relations was nothing more than a smokescreen. The big question is; where is the money now, both lots?’

‘Perhaps they paid twenty grand each,’ floated Mrs West, though it didn’t seem she believed it. ‘Maybe Crispin spent it before he died?’

‘Could be, but what on, and when?’

‘Could be on anything,’ said Shirley.

Mrs West said, ‘Methinks lots more questions for the scientist, Casey Norman. Where is the money she withdrew? What was it spent on? She must be able to account for it. Who fancies the gig?’ looking at the three of them in turn.

‘I’ll do it,’ said Shirley, eager to return to the boss’s good books.

Mrs West looked at Walter and said, ‘You happy with that?’

‘Sure,’ said Walter, glancing at Mrs W and Shirley in turn. ‘Check if she’s at work, and if she is, get down there. Take Ricky with you. I’ll tell you where it is. If she fobs you off or cuts up nowty, arrest her in connection with the death of Barnabus Reynolds, and bring her in.’

‘My pleasure,’ she said, glancing at Jenny as if she had won the encounter. ‘What about the husband?’

‘Just Casey for now,’ said Walter, ‘and we will see where it takes us.’

An hour later, when no one was about, Walter rang Marina Moo.

‘What you want?’ she said, not the warmest of welcomes.

‘I was wondering if you have any news about Mickey?’

‘Maybe. Things move. You come for din?’

‘I hadn’t planned to.’

‘You come. I have stuff to tell.’

‘I have something to tell you, too.’

‘Good. See you!’ and she cut off.

It turned out she had very little. Only confirmation Mickey would go on trial for tax fraud, and that was a double-edged sword. If it were for a small amount, under a thousand Hong Kong Dollars, he could get off with a slapped wrist and a strong warning.

On the flip side, the sentence for major tax fraud had no maximum penalty. Five, ten, even twenty years in prison, including the possibility of hard labour, or, if the territory was going through one of its regular phases of making examples of criminals and the corrupt, the death penalty was on the table.

‘I worried for Mick,’ she said. ‘If he step on toe of pow-ful Dick, they go crazy. Jab arm. Away he float like slaughtered snake to table.’

Walter tried to ease her worries, as she remembered he said he had news.

‘What you know?’

‘The man who killed Barnabus Reynolds is dead.’

Her eyes lit up.

‘Yeah? How?’

Walter nodded and said, ‘I am not at liberty to say.’

‘At liberty, what?’

‘I can’t release that information.’

‘No? Oh, but he dead, you sure he gone?’

‘Yes, he’s gone. You can rely on that.’

‘Well done,’ she said, smiling across the table, ‘you good Dick!’

‘It was none of my doing.’

‘Betcha was. You said you catch him, and you do. Wanna-nother drink?’

He glanced at his watch. It was still early, and he wasn’t driving.

‘Okay. A glass of red would be nice.’

‘Red blood!’ she said, flashing a manic grin across the table.

‘I’d prefer wine.’

She burst out laughing, and in between giggles, repeated, ‘Good Dick, he say prefer wine. You come Hong Kong wi’ me?’

‘I can’t. The case is not yet closed.’

‘Why not? You say he dead.’

‘He is, but we think he didn’t operate alone.’

Walter studied her striking face. It resembled a sixties print of how western men imagined Oriental women to be back then, as her mind ticked over, exploring all scenarios.

‘One of the bitches?’ she said. ‘One of the shit-pits helped. I see it now.’

‘Not one of the three who came here, but it’s true, we are looking at certain women,’ before he realised alcohol was loosening his tongue, and he had said too much.

Marina rubbed her dainty chin and said, ‘Would always be one of the bitches with Barney. He had more hot bitches than pearls in Pacific. Naughty shit. Horrible man! But I love him. When you catch her, smack backside and come Hong Kong wi’ me. Mickey need help before too late.’

‘I don’t think the judge would prescribe that punishment,’ said Walter, though Marina painted interesting pictures.

‘Clink!’ she said. ‘Ever and ever, amen. That do, finished and done!’ and she clasped her hands together above the table and rubbed them hard as if washing.

It was a quarter to eleven before he left the Blue Lantern, merry, but not drunk, pondering on any possible Hong Kong trip. The dial had shuddered a few degrees, shifting round from out-of-the-question, to could-be-interesting, and it might be fun, or maybe it was the red wine doing its thing, and one should never make decisions based on alcoholic induced thinking.

In the cold light of a chilly April morning, he would consider it again, and imagined the dial going into fast reverse.

Chapter fifty-nine

As they waited for news on collecting Casey Norman, Karen watched Walter stand up and slip on his light coat. ‘Going somewhere?’ she said.

‘Yeah, I thought I’d wander over to the garage and see if I can see anything in Gillian’s Jag the boffins might have missed.’

‘I’ll take you.’

‘No, you stay here. It’s not far, and I could do with the walk and some fresh air. Good thinking time, and besides, I want you to monitor the Casey Norman business. If they bring her back and interviewing begins, you need to watch it.’

‘Gotcha, Guv, I won’t miss a thing.’

He bobbed his head and ambled out without another word.

Bright and sunny in the old city, clouds scudding across the sky, patches of blue coming and going, heavier rain forecast later.

The main police and forensics garage lay two miles from the station. That would all change when the long-mooted move came to pass, consolidation the in-word. Everything had to be merged, which meant clustered together, so moving betwixt any facility was a two-minute job, saving time and fuel, but it meant abandoning the expensive city centre, a move Walter did not relish. Maybe he’d retire before it happened.

Like most garages across the nation, he found it busy and noisy. Blokes laughing and joking while working, and lasses, too, when the stupid masculine jokes and stories were toned down, or better still, abandoned. There was a considerable waiting list for regular servicing and minor check-ups, work often interrupted by emergencies, serious damage in RTCs, and other criminal vehicles being examined.

He counted nine cars, a mixture of hatches, saloons, 4x4s, plus a single police van. Two were up on ramps, another over the pit, with a couple of police mechanics beneath, shining a powerful light up into the gubbins.

A familiar guy strolled over and said, ‘What brings the big wheel all this way to our humble abode?’

‘Hi, Doug, I’m interested in Jaguars, not our own, a potential suspect’s.’

‘I have one of those, over there in the corner, the maroon beast. Been over it meself. I don’t know what you were looking for, but whatever it was, I didn’t find it, and we wouldn’t, unless we took the damned thing to pieces. You want us to do that? It’s always fun to cannibalise a car, especially one like that.’

‘It may come to it, Doug, but not yet. Is it open?’

‘It is, but glove up.’

‘I hadn’t forgotten. Thanks,’ and he strolled over to the gleaming car.

Walter guessed it was about a year old, as he opened the driver’s door and leant in, sniffing the upholstery. It smelt new, beautifully stitched best leather contributing to that. He reached in and flipped open the glove box to find the usual stuff. Service manual, instruction book, guarantee, local garages wherever you were, in case of a problem, roadside help, emergency phone numbers, the works. The Jag and Gillian Buchanan were well covered.

He stood out, produced his phone, and rang Karen.

She answered straight away, anticipating his question, saying, ‘They have just arrived, a furious Casey now with us, if Shirley is to be believed. Questioning due to begin as soon as her brief shows up.’

‘Good, but I didn’t ring about that. What colour was the Jag that collected Coleman?’

‘From the prison?’

‘Yes!’ struggling to keep irritation at bay.

‘Light, I think, silver, something like that.’

‘Would you describe maroon as being light-coloured?’

‘Maybe in bright sunshine, at a push, but most of the time, certainly not.’

‘That’s what I thought. Gillian’s Jag is an eye-catching maroon, and I’d venture to say, a dark shade.’

‘Interesting. That would rule Gillian out. You know Casey has a silver Jag?’

‘I was wondering about that. I don’t believe the sisters-in-law were in it together like a coven of Macbeth-esque witches because I think it was Casey who collected him.’

‘Why would she do that?’

‘That is for the interviewers to discover, and if they can’t, for us to detect. Look at her again. Dig into her background. Maybe there are dark secrets hiding there. Everybody thinks she is the bee’s knees with her double science degree and professorship. She comes over as untouchable, but perhaps that’s a façade. Super confidence only goes so far.’

‘I’ll do it as soon as the interviewing is over.’

‘If you’re busy, ask Jenny to do it.’

‘She’s on the interviewing team, so the jungle drums report.’

‘Then get Darren on it. He’s a super-dirt-digger when he needs to be.’

‘Good idea.’

‘See you soon. I’m on my way back.’

When he arrived, the interview was just starting. Going into bat for the away team, Professor Casey Norman, still in her white coat, left on to denote she had been dragged away from an important experiment, and Dorothy bloody Gamston, hard-faced solicitor of the parish, short, tubby, cow brown eyes, indeterminate age, and maybe the best defence solicitor in the city.

Walter detested the woman, and the feeling was mutual, though secretly, both admired and respected the opposition’s talents.

For the home team, the opening pair making a name for themselves, Jenny Thompson, who rarely made a muggins of anything, building up a decent batting average, and she would lead, with her regular oppo, Martin Kane, big, bold, army trained, and keen.

Martin set the scene for the recorder and Jenny was straight in.

‘You withdrew £20,000 from the Chester & Llandudno Building Society in cash. What happened to the money?’

Sulky looking Casey said, ‘I heard a whisper the society was looking dodgy.’

‘Is that a serious answer?’

Tubby Gamston couldn’t wait to get her voice on the recorder.

‘Of course it is a serious answer. My client only gives straight answers.’

‘Fair enough. So, where is the money?’

‘I’ve hidden it. Thought it was more secure than leaving it where it was.’

‘Where?’

‘I’m not answering that. I wouldn’t want you goons knowing where my money is.’

Gamston again. ‘You have no right to know where my client’s life savings, or part of it, is located. Please return to clarifying why my client has been dragged here against her will, when engaged on vitally important scientific work for the national interest.’

In the room next door, Mrs West, Walter, and Karen were lined up, watching and listening.

Walter said under his breath, ‘Pompous woman,’ words Mrs West missed.

Jenny again. ‘Let’s talk about Crispin Coleman.’

‘If you must.’

‘On the day he was released, a woman in a light coloured, silver Jaguar collected him from Solway Grange prison. (Martin added the day and date.) We believe that was you.’

‘You have asked me this before. The answer is the same. It wasn’t.’

Dorothy Gamston sat back, folded her impressive arms, and stared across the table, as Jenny continued.

‘We believe you collected him that day, and paid him a considerable sum of money in cash to murder Barnabus Reynolds.’

‘Proof?’ demanded Gamston.

Jenny glared at her and said, ‘I am coming to that if you give me the chance!’

Gamston nodded her on.

‘Furthermore, you provided Coleman with a small amount of prussic acid, also known as hydrogen cyanide, a substance you possess in abundance at your place of work, and a material used to kill Mr Reynolds.’

‘You have also asked me that before, and I ran a check on HCN stocks, and none was missing.’

‘HCN the chemical formula for prussic acid?’

Casey Norman nodded.

‘Come on, Mrs Norman,’ said Jenny, ‘only a small quantity would be needed, a negligible amount, so small you wouldn’t notice it was gone.’

‘We keep accurate records of all controlled substances, and I assure you even a thimbleful going missing would be noticed.’

‘That’s debatable. How much prussic acid does the Cromford Chemical Corporation have in stock?’

She didn’t need to think about it.

‘Around nine hundred litres, about two thousand pounds in old numbers.’

‘And you would miss a spent indigestion bottle’s worth?’

‘We would.’

‘And you yourself ran the check on stocks?’

‘I did, because you asked me to.’

‘So, no one else was involved in the checking, and with the greatest respect, you could have fiddled the figures to suit your purpose.’

Dorothy Gamston went red in the face before spitting out, ‘Don’t be absurd! You asked my client a fair question, and she gave you an accurate answer. Is that all you’ve got?’

Jenny ignored the barb and said, ‘We are going through huge amounts of CCTV, tracking your Jaguar’s movements on that day. When we find it, will we see you driving Crispin Coleman around the city?’

‘Did you?’ said Gamston. ‘Find any? By your own admittance, you have not. It’s rank speculation. I suggest you produce hard evidence to support your preposterous theories before dragging hard-working experts away from their place of work.’

‘Here’s an easier question, seeing as you struggle with difficult ones. On that day, did anyone else drive your Jag?’

‘Not that I recall, no.’

It was standard practice for interviewers to throw in a fresh fact or event, the more startling the better, to disturb the interviewee’s confidence and thinking.

Jenny did when she said, ‘Crispin Coleman is dead.’

It had some effect. Casey sat back in her seat and folded her arms.

‘How? When? Where? And please don’t tell me you think I did that, too?’

Gamston added, ‘Is Mr Coleman’s death anything to do with us?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Jenny, ‘is it?’

The question went unanswered.

Martin jumped into the void, saying, ‘Tell us about Gardenia Blackthorn?’

Casey frowned and shared a look with Gamston, telling her she had no idea who they were talking about. Great acting; or genuine surprise? It was hard to tell. Either way, Casey said, ‘I have never heard the name before.’

Gamston shook her head and said, ‘Move on.’

In the room next door, DC Kate Foster interrupted the three musketeers’ viewing.

‘I have Mrs Wilson on from Solway Grange, saying she has fresh intel.’

‘Which line?’ said Karen, eager to hear it.

‘Eight.’

‘Thanks, Kate,’ as Karen put it on speaker, and Kate went out.

It was an interesting call. The gist of it was Prison Officer William Betty had returned from holiday in Argentina, chasing guanaco and puma across the hard, wild, and dry countryside. Refreshed, he remembered the silver Jag picking up Coleman, and before he went on holiday, he noted the registration number in his pocket diary, a little black book he took everywhere, including on holiday, south, way beyond the Tropic of Capricorn, into Patagonia and beyond. He realised he didn’t record it on the internal records and was about to do that on his first day back.

It was Casey Norman’s vehicle number, a positive link between her and the killer.

‘Jenny needs to know,’ said Mrs West.

No one would argue, as Karen wrote a neat note, and headed for the room next door. Walter and Mrs West watched her enter the room and hand Jenny a note. She shielded it like the best poker player, clutching it to her chest, read it once in silence without comment, not showing it to Martin, and slipped it in her pocket.

Tubby Gamston feared bad news, but went on the attack.

‘I hope that is good news, sufficient to exonerate my award-winning client?’

‘I’ll let you decide,’ said Jenny. ‘We have a witness stating he saw Crispin Coleman jump into a newish silver Jaguar outside Solway Grange on the day of his release, to be driven away by an attractive woman. The registration number of the vehicle was…’ and she read it aloud. ‘Is that your Jag, Casey?’

‘It is, but you are mistaken.’

Gamston interrupted again.

‘Is that the best you’ve got? Drummed up some halfwit layabout to say he saw something? Probably slipped him a tenner for his trouble. I don’t think so. I’d like my client releasing.’

Jenny shook her head and continued, ‘Prison Officer William Betty was the man in question. He was stationed outside the prison on the long bench seat by the bus stop to observe who collected Coleman. It was standard procedure, and a regular task for him. He does it most days, remembered everything, and noted it at the time.’

Gamston was not to be put off. ‘If that is correct, why has this just come to light?’

‘Because he went on holiday to Argentina, returning late last night.’

Gamston let out an exaggerated, annoyed sigh and said, ‘We seem to be going round in circles. I am requesting a break to consult with my client.’

Martin glanced at Jenny, saw her nod, and say, ‘Twenty minutes, we will reconvene in twenty,’ as Martin switched off the machine and the officers left the room.

Chapter sixty

Mrs West scratched her eyebrow and turned to Walter and said, ‘Well, what do you think?’

He sighed and said, ‘I think it’s her, but can we prove it in a court of law?’

‘If it seems we can’t, the CPS won’t approve the prosecution.’

Walter didn’t comment. Who expected anything else?

She said, ‘I don’t suppose there were any juicy fingerprints on Gardenia Blackthorn’s letter. That would prove a positive connection.’

‘Three sets, ma’am, but they all belonged to official fingers from Solway Grange.’

Mrs West joined in the sighing before saying, ‘Remind me again what evidence we have against Casey Norman?’

Walter pulled a face, shook his head to the right, and said, ‘We have a prison officer witness who said he saw Casey collecting Coleman from the prison, or, to be more exact, Casey’s Jaguar picking up Crispin. No positive person ID. It could have been another woman, though I doubt it. We know she withdrew a sizeable sum of money in cash, funds she has so far refused to say where she spent it, or, if unspent, where it is, and that is about it. We know she wasn’t present at the killing; and we are not saying she was. But we believe she provided funds to finance it, and indeed, encouraged Coleman to kill Mr Reynolds. She had access to prussic acid and probably supplied it.’

‘And why would she do that?’

‘Good question. We think, and I admit it is tenuous, she and her husband were miffed at losing the Cecil Norman business for a song, and it was only when Coleman was released, they could get even.’

‘I can’t see the CPS going for that.’

‘No, they won’t. We need to find the money, preferably with Casey’s prints on it.’

‘Oh, damn and bother. I can’t help feeling we are floundering around in quicksand, sinking ever deeper away from our targets.’

‘I’ll ring the guy in Lymington again and ask them to conduct another search. Failing that; I’ll go down myself.’

Mrs West wasn’t keen on the idea, officers being two hundred miles away, running up expenses, chasing unlikely leads.

‘You ring the guy. Let’s give him another go. In the meantime…’

‘Ma’am? In the meantime, what?’

‘I don’t think we should rule out Gillian. She also withdrew cash, yet to be accounted for. She drove all the way down here for no solid reason, has just as much motive as Casey, and maybe more. I can’t decide between them.’

‘In that case, ma’am, why don’t we build a case against both, in cahoots together? The CPS might be more amenable if we had the two of them on the ticket. We’ll give them everything we have while we search for the money, and they can decide.’

‘That sounds like the best of a bad bunch, and I can’t disagree. Let’s face it; our only alternative is to let them both run free.’

‘True, in the vague hope we dig up more evidence to solidify our case.’

‘That could take years, or never happen at all. I hate this job sometimes, the thought of conspiracists running free, because we can’t prove their misdoings.’

‘In the meantime, what do we do about Casey, ma’am?’

‘Let her go. Tell her enquiries are ongoing.’

‘Okey-doke. I’ll tell Jenny to set her free before I ring Lymington.’

‘Do that, and I’ll ring the big cheese at the CPS and explain what we have; and see if he can toss us a crumb of comfort.’

PC Jack Goscote was thrilled to have more interesting work to do. He confirmed the house had been searched, though it was a massive place, and some of the previous searching had been little more than cursory. Jack took onboard Walter’s advice the cash could hold vital evidence and only gloved up officers were to be used.

He told his sarge what Cheshire Police were looking for, and Sergeant Witcombe reluctantly allocated two additional bodies to accompany Jack to Serpentine House, muttering as he did, ‘Are they going to foot the bill for your time, and who is going to do your normal work?’

Jack shrugged, and the excited threesome turned up at the house an hour later. There were still other officers on site, though Coleman’s body had long been removed, and the forensics people were packing up.

Elspeth greeted the new arrivals with, ‘Hello, Sweet Pea,’ glancing at the two sidekicks, both young, one girl and one boy, clean cut and keen. ‘I’m glad you’ve come. I need to nip to the post office. I can leave you in charge, can’t I? I shan’t be long. What’s that you say? Search the house? Be my guest. While you are at it, I can’t find my father’s medals, keep a lookout for those, and I mislaid forty quid a few years ago, and that never came to light. It’s mine, and if you find pornographic magazines, they are not!’ a strange thought left behind with an even stranger giggle, as Elspeth let herself out.

A more thorough search began, as Mrs West spoke to the big boss in Liverpool. She half expected him to blow her out of the water, but he didn’t, saying on first glance he would prefer to see both Casey and Gillian on the indictment, though confirmed there was nowhere near enough evidence to prosecute either. That could all change if they found the money, a fact Mrs West was all too aware of.

Gamston made a meal of Casey Norman being released pending further enquiries, griping they had wasted a great deal of her and her client’s valuable time, and no doubt there would be more taxpayer’s money wasted through your folly.

‘We’ll be in touch,’ said Martin, staring down into her dark eyes.

Gamston scoffed and ushered her client from the room.

Jack Goscote set up HQ in Elspeth’s office on the first floor. He was a born organiser, grabbing sheets of paper to make a list of rooms and spaces in the house. A colleague would search them, and when they had finished, he would go over the ground again, checking and double-checking.

Nowhere was excluded. The damp basement, the sizeable loft, garden shed and garage, all would be examined. It was a mammoth task, and he doubted they would get finished by close of play. He imagined a conversation with his sarge, begging for another day or two, and could guess the expletive ridden reply winging and ringing its way back from Lymington.

The heavy front door downstairs opened and closed, and Elspeth came in. He jumped up and trotted down the stairs.

‘Hello, Sweet Pea,’ she said on seeing him. ‘How are you getting on?’

‘Just getting organised. It’s important we treat every room with the same zeal.’

‘Whatever you say.’

‘Does the computer in the office work?’

‘Yes, I think so, though I rarely turn it on. Prefer the typewriter.’

‘May I use it to draw up a plan?’

‘Don’t see why not. Help yourself.’

‘Is there a password?’

‘Eh?’

‘A password, to gain entry to the machine.’

‘Good God, no. Passwords only ever get lost. Turn it on and it should run.’

‘Thanks. I’ll give it a whirl,’ and he trotted back up to the office.

She was right. Switched on, booted up, options on screen, an old edition of Windows, working without an obligatory time-consuming update every second day. He glanced back at his scribbled notes and entered them into new spreadsheets, before creating nifty room diagrams, and the box ticking of who had searched what and where could be included as the day progressed.

He printed three copies, including advice and instructions, and made sure everyone had one.

After thirty-three minutes, they found a missing item.

Casey Norman took advice from the Gamston terrier regarding the police’s request for fingerprints and DNA, the police insisting they were taken to rule her out. Casey wasn’t sure about it, but Gamston nodded it through, and ten fingerprints were taken, every one different, every finger producing unique patterns, a mixture of whorls on the right, arches and loops on the left. They didn’t know it, but the toes would have produced ten different images again.

DNA may have usurped fingerprints as evidence factor number one, but prints still had their place, unique to everyone, no two people ever producing the same. Even identical twins were different. It had something to do with the tiny fingers and toes on the growing body forming in the womb. Billions of people over time, every finger producing a unique picture, still not fully understood, how and why it happened.

In the search in Serpentine, PC Goscote’s girl colleague called for his attention. She handed him a cloth-reinforced envelope, and he emptied the content into his palm. Ten years’ service, 1936-1946, producing six war medals, with ribbons, the envelope with a pre-printed black government stamp in the top right corner, the correct address on the front, the same house where the Colemans had slept ever since.

‘Thought you’d found the cash there for a minute,’ Jack said, grinning at her, as he ran to show Elspeth.

‘Well done, Sweet Pea. Where did you find them?’

‘In an old envelope crammed with ancient school reports.’

‘Mine or dad’s?’

‘Both.’

‘His were terrible. Keener on sport than the classroom. Mine were okay, if I say so myself. No money, I suppose?’

‘Not yet, neither yours nor Coleman’s ill-gotten gains.’

‘Keep looking, Sweet Pea. If it’s here, you’ll find it.’

He nodded and headed back to his comp prog to update the find.

Mrs West and Walter went over things again.

Walter said, ‘I wonder how PC Goscote is getting on. Wish I could nip down to be with him. Sometimes an experienced searcher can see things the younger ones don’t.’

‘You can’t, Walter. It’s over two hundred miles away. Let the local man search the local house. If it’s there, I’m confident he will find it without us perched on his shoulder.’

Walter pursed his lips and pulled a face, pondering on what he could do to firm up the case against either or both of the Norman women.

Another six hours passed before the search team found something else. The young bloke picked up an old Green Shield Stamp book, something he had never seen before, and had little clue what he was looking at. He flicked through the landscape format, rippled pages, three quarters full of official looking stamps, and worth nothing, but at the back he found two old QE2 twenty-pound notes, folded over twice, rammed in there for safe keeping. The paper notes were no longer valid, and looked as if they had been there since 1970, and would need to be taken to a bank for exchange.

Elspeth was delighted, not realising how much time had elapsed since she had secreted them away.

‘Well done! Nothing of yours yet?’

‘Nope.’

‘Keep at it, Sweet Pea. Your turn next.’

They were getting tired, the day ending, and he was not looking forward to updating the sarge, and left it as long as he could before ringing in.

Sergeant Witcombe wanted his staff back where he could see them, but had taken advice from above. A major murder inquiry depended on the evidence PC Goscote might discover. He was to be left in situ for another day, or for as long as it took to complete the search of the building and garden.

Jack was amazed at the turn of events and vowed they would be back the following morning at half-past eight.

‘I’ll be up to let you in,’ she said, ‘though I might return to bed once you are here.’

Jack found a moment to ring Inspector Darriteau with an update. They had found two missing items, but no real money.

‘Have you checked the loft?’ said Walter in a rush.

‘First job, tomorrow.’

‘And the basement?’

‘That, too.’

‘What about the garage?’

‘Leaving that till last,’ said Jack, wondering how Walter knew it had a garage. ‘It’s huge, and chocker.’

Walter nodded to no one and stared back at the close-up colour pic of the house, courtesy of Google Earth.

‘Okay, well done, keep at it,’ and he cut off.

At least the deep-voiced man from Chester had said a well done, and they were few and far between.

The following morning was chilly but sunny in rural Hampshire. The same three officers rat-a-tat-tatted on Serpentine’s door. A minute later the bolts were heaved back, and the door opened, revealing a bleary-eyed Elspeth, not long out of bed.

‘Come in. help yourself to coffee and toast. I’m going back to bed.’

The young bloke headed for the kitchen to rustle up an impromptu breakfast, as Jack and the girl made their way upstairs, him stopping off at the office, her going up another staircase to climb into the cavernous loft. Another sizeable space crammed with family cast-offs going back over a hundred and fifty years to when the house was built. Glancing round, she knew she could spend the entire day in its dusty atmosphere.

The young officer’s toast popped out of the black toaster, close to a matching top of the range chunky air fryer, the labels still attached. He had been thinking of buying one, giving it the once over before buttering his toast. The fancy machine wouldn’t suit. Too expensive for his pocket.

In Elspeth’s office, Jack booted up the computer. He hadn’t slept much, going over everything again in his head. If one had twenty grand plus in notes, where would he hide it to keep it out of the grubby grasp of opportunistic burglars? If it was Jack’s family home, he might know a secret place or two, knowledge handed down over generations. But Crispin wouldn’t know, unless he had stumbled on something by accident. Logic dictated it must be in a more obvious place, but where the heck had he hidden it, assuming he arrived with it in the first place?

He stared at the screen. The computer hummed on, a sound broken by raucous magpie cries outside in the trees, flitting to and from the sandstone windowsill. Weren’t magpies renowned collectors of valuables, though banknotes might be of lesser interest? Could it be out there?

He jumped up, went to the glass, and threw up the sash window. Felt beneath the overhanging sill, all along the length and at both ends. Nothing there, nothing below, or fixed to the wall. He turned round, bent at the back, and stuck his head and shoulders outside into the freshening wind, to stare up at the building. Eight feet higher, a starling was busy building its nest within a half broken and missing brick.

Jack gawped at the bird and said, ‘Where is the money?’

The creature ignored him and flew off in search of moss to line the new home. In the tree opposite, four magpies observed the newly constructed nest, and thought of juicy chicks coming soon, and the idiotic two-legged thing inside that never learned to fly. What the heck was it doing? If it wasn’t careful, it might fall out. That could be good. They weren’t beyond eating.

Jack pulled himself in and closed the window, scratched his cheek and thought hard. Was there a left luggage facility at Brockenhurst station? He doubted it. It was hard enough to find a human to speak to, never mind a manned left luggage office. He dug out his phone and rang, and was put through to a central railway enquiry point, mainly computerised. Press any number and you might be lucky. He wasn’t; and made a mental note to call in on the way home. Thinking about it, if one possessed thirty grand, or whatever it was, in cash, would anyone in their right mind entrust it to an overworked railway clerk? Seemed unlikely, but it had to be somewhere.

He went out and jogged up the stairs to join the girl in the loft. She was glad of the support and company as they moved every item from one side of the space to the other. Left side, untouched and possible, right side, searched and empty. She had done well, maybe checking a quarter of it. They would plough on all day with a brief break for lunch, as they shifted and sifted through everything, though the longer Jack spent there, the more certain he was they were looking in the wrong place.

In mid-afternoon, he left her to it, the back broken of the loft job, to go and support the guy. See if he had made any progress, as the day dragged on in an atmosphere of failure, shifting dust, and heavy sneezes, and he wasn’t looking forward to speaking to the northern inspector, and delayed doing so.

Walter couldn’t wait any longer and made the call, to be told nothing had turned up, and it wasn’t for any lack of effort.

‘I know that, young sir, but please keep at it.’

‘We will, though tomorrow will be the last day.’

‘You’ll find it if it’s there. Nothing more certain. Best o’ luck,’ and the call ended.

Jack returned to the in-house office. Elspeth was in there, standing, arms crossed, wondering how Sweet Pea was progressing.

‘Nothing yet, I take it?’

His face told her before he answered. ‘No. I am wondering if there is anything here. I don’t suppose you ever saw it?’

‘I did not.’

‘Ah well, one more day and we’re done,’ as he set the computer into closing down mode, and a minute later it vibrated and rumbled and went to sleep.

Chapter sixty-one

What would be the last day ransacking Serpentine House began at 8.30am on the dot. It started in the same manner. Bolts drawn back, Elspeth half asleep, inviting them to make tea and toast, an invitation not to be missed.

Jack directed the girl into the garden to sweep through the larger than usual garden shed, while the boys tackled the massive garage set to the right of the house.

By 9am they were hard at it, a feeling of now or never in the air, as Elspeth slipped back into a deep sleep to dream of the young Crispin Coleman from fifty years before, running amuck in the garden, trampling the flower beds, collecting rare butterflies, pulling off their wings, an action to provoke much crazy giggling from the disturbed child.

In the musty garage, Jack found boxes and boxes of spare parts for old Riley cars, and guessed they’d make a pretty penny if anyone found the time to offer them for sale. They discovered a fair amount of rat droppings too, bringing forth a feeling of unease when disturbing every box. If only he had brought Mr Johnson with him, his wild-haired white cat, for the animal held several county records for flushing out and dispatching rodents.

In Chester, Walter’s mind was divided. Part one concentrated on the Norman girls, as, like Mrs West, one minute he was convinced it was Casey, only to reflect back on Gillian. Perhaps the boss was right. Maybe the sisters-in-law were working in tandem. They wouldn’t be the first pair to propagate and fund murder.

Part two wandered forward to his possible far-eastern break to Hong Kong, accompanying Mrs Moo. How would that play out? Would mucky Mickey Moo be exonerated and released, or could he be facing the death penalty? Little wonder Marina was worried and stressed, though thinking about it, she didn’t appear that way. And how come he had become entangled in a legal spat having nothing to do with British police?

He knew the reason. Everything about it was different. A unique and exciting place, different climate, different rules, different company, and didn’t they say a change was as good as a rest? He agreed with that, so long as the long flight there and back didn’t kill him.

A call from Police Scotland perked things up and edged things on. Rob McDermott had been arrested for stealing more than £20,000 of SFS party funds, the majority donated by a doctor and his wife, or was it a doctor and her husband? The guy couldn’t remember. Either way, it seemed Mr & Mrs Buchanan did donate the withdrawn cash, and could not have used it to finance Crispin Coleman or anyone else. It wasn’t much, but it pointed to Gillian Norman as was, slipping off any hook entangled in her thin-lipped mouth.

Mrs West was disappointed, hankering after charging them both, but Gillian Buchanan was moving out of reach. If only the Jack character down in Brockenhurst could come up with something concrete.

Concrete he had, a rutted and cold concrete floor in the garage, oil stained from long ago, a thick level of dust everywhere, sweeping up their noses every time anything was moved. Thinking about it, he realised no one had been in the garage for years, for if they had, he reckoned clear footprints would be visible.

He made his excuses and went to ask Elspeth. She was awake, in the kitchen, preparing lightly done toast. She confirmed she had not set foot in the garage for at least ten years. Why would she? There was nothing in there to interest her. As for Crispin, she didn’t know if he had gained access, though admitted she slept a lot, and left him alone in the house once or twice, so he had every opportunity. He might have done, though Jack remained sceptical as he headed back to join his mate.

At half-past three, the girl returned from the shed, a little miffed she had been left on her own. No rest for the wicked, Jack set her to work on the remaining ten per cent in the garage, as he left them to it, to give the shed the once over, in case she had missed something a second set of eyes might spy.

At half-past four, the shed and garage were both signed off as searched and empty of cash, or anything else of interest. They had failed. Sure, Crispin could have buried it in the garden, but where would one start with that? The area was massive, and there were no obvious recent diggings. The money, if it existed, could be sleeping beneath one of the burgeoning rose bushes and no one would ever know. Or those creepy, overbearing rhododendrons might be clasping the swag to the collective bosom. It’s mine, it’s mine, and I am never letting go! Maybe fifty or a hundred years later, the new owner might turn over the garden to grow copious amounts of spuds, only to find a bag of plastic money, though what it would be worth by then was debatable.

Or perhaps the pointy-heads of the day might find it when they knocked over the house, clearing the site to build a ten-storey block of flats, to house who knows who?

Jack had a phone call to make, and the distant inspector, a man Jack barely knew, and a colleague he had come to like for he was easy to get on with, would not be happy with the content. Jack imagined he would think they hadn’t done a decent job, when the reverse was true. Ah well, that summed up everything in one. As the sarge always said, 99% of the time you won’t get anywhere, but the 1% makes up for it ten times over. Yeah, maybe, but he had rarely experienced the 1%.

Walter thanked the man, though couldn’t keep the disappointment from his voice. They parted, but not before both made a token effort to comfort the other. If only Walter was on site, he’d order the entire garden be turned over, but he wasn’t, and couldn’t. As for Jack, he would ask the same question of Sergeant Witcombe, who would laugh his head off before saying: it’s time to concentrate on bicycles and lawnmowers going missing from countless garden sheds!

Mrs West was as disappointed as anyone, running the latest news past the head sherang in the CPS, only to receive the reply she expected. Insufficient evidence to charge either Gillian Buchanan or Casey Norman, and until and unless that changed, they were free to continue their lives as if nothing had happened.

It wasn’t the first time Walter experienced such disappointment. It wasn’t even the hundredth time, but it still stung, and the worst part was, Walter had no idea where he could open fresh lines of inquiry. The Norman women had been lucky, though he would monitor them, and if anything changed, he’d pounce from a great height.

At five o’clock, Jack and Elspeth met in her office for the last time. She saw the disappointment oozing from every pore.

‘I’m sorry, Sweet Pea.’

‘Can’t be helped, Miss Coleman. I’m beginning to think the money was never here in the first place, and it’s all been a gigantic waste of time.’

‘Don’t say that. You’ve done well.’

He nodded and said, ‘It’s a decent computer. You should use it more often.’

‘Bah!’ she said, ‘I was born twenty years too late to be interested in fancy contraptions. You can have it if you want.’

It was a tempting offer, but the annoyed face of his fiancé, Stacey, bounced into his mind, telling him he needed to junk some of his computer equipment before they set up home, if they ever gathered sufficient funds to buy an egg-box of a house. Lymington and Brockenhurst were among the dearest places in the country to buy, and for the likes of him, earning barely 30K, it was tough.

A trawl down the high street, gaping in estate agents’ windows, was a depressing experience, with the bulk of houses carrying a seven-figure tag. The advice for young couples was move away, but they didn’t want to move, not least because they both had demanding parents to keep happy. They couldn’t do it from Lincolnshire or County Durham, hundreds of miles distant.

‘No, Stacey will kill me if I brought another machine home, but thanks for the offer,’ as he set it in closing down mode, and it did as it was told, screen went blank, a moment later, the tower vibrated and fell silent, and the only sound in the room were magpies gathering outside, on the lookout for food. Goodness knows when it would be booted up again.

Jack thanked Elspeth and apologised for the interruption.

She said, ‘Think nothing of it. I have enjoyed having you here.’

Three minutes later, they drove away, Jack encouraging the girl to drive, for she had just passed the police driving test and needed as much practise as possible. The cavernous house fell silent, bringing sadness and loneliness into Elspeth’s heart.

She had been truthful, she had enjoyed having them there, all of them, the forensic wallahs, CID, Jack and his team, the docs and medics and other detectives who came in abundance, flooding in and out, as if it were high and low tide, as all signs of life departed.

She didn’t think it right a frail eighty-eight-year-old woman should be living alone, afraid of her own shadow, rattling around in what amounted to her own personal palace. Maybe she should consider going into a care home, but she would miss the place dreadfully, and all the memories it held, happy, sad, tragic, and others full of elation, seeping from the walls and ceilings.

Elspeth could never give that up, though dwelling on it only encouraged depression, as she made a promise. She must go out the following day, for if she didn’t, the time would be interminable, never speaking to a soul from dawn till dusk, lost in memories, which were fine until she left them behind. and realised she was once again, all alone.

Late in life, loneliness could be an unbearable companion.

Chapter sixty-two

The police car approached Brockenhurst railway station, going south, Lymington bound. The barriers were down, the London train due out. Jack thought they were approaching too quick and ordered the girl to slow.

She did, a touch of panic setting in, squealing brakes, black rubber deposited on the road, as they shuddered to a halt, missing the squat low hatchback ahead by millimetres.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘a touch of daydreaming set in.’

The guys shared a look and shook their heads, though they knew it was easy for anyone to lose concentration, if only for a second, and were supportive.

The long train edged across, crawling from right to left, clanking over the rails, gentle acceleration, crammed with staring faces, spotting the traffic cop car waiting, and wondering what that was about.

The train vanished and the barriers went up. Car engines started, and the crocodile of traffic bumped forward over the crossing.

A moment later, Jack yelled, ‘Stop! Pull in here!’ his arm out to the right.

The girl and guy almost jumped from their seats.

‘You frightened me!’ said the girl, nervous after the earlier near miss.

‘Pull into the station car park!’

She put on the right blinker, staring ahead at the long line of traffic. A second oncoming driver paused and waved them in, not wanting to antagonise the law. The girl eased the car into the small station car park, twenty spaces max, all full.

‘What is it?’ she said.

‘What, Jack?’ added the rookie PC.

‘We have to go back. There is somewhere we didn’t search.’

‘Must we?’ said the girl. ‘It’s all right for you two. You’re engaged. I’m not, and I have a date.’

‘Put your love life on hold for an hour and take us back to Serpentine,’ said Jack, and in the way he spoke, she knew he would not change his mind.

The young bloke chipped in with, ‘Funny you should say that. I think I know where the money is.’

‘Where?’ snapped Jack.

‘I’ll show you when we get there.’

In the house, Elspeth settled down in front of early evening quiz-time TV. She didn’t do it often, imagining it would make her feel less lonely, though it magnified the feelings of being alone, where no one cared, the only voices she heard coming out of the set.

Fifteen minutes later, someone banged hard on the door, and she speculated who it might be. The vicar from nearby Saint Nic’s church, perhaps? He had taken it on himself to monitor elderly people in the parish, and especially those living alone. He suggested she take a dog, but she couldn’t think of anything worse, and almost said: I might as well bring a damned horse into the house and be done with it!

She shuffled towards the door, but not before someone banged again. They sure as heck were impatient. Outside, they heard the bolts being drawn back. Elspeth put them on for security, knowing the door would not be opened again that day. She was wrong.

She pulled the door open to see the happy threesome, the sidekick bloke trying a smile, the girl looking miffed over something, as Sweet Pea Jack stepped in, saying, ‘There’s somewhere we forgot to look,’ and Jack stared at the guy, saying, ‘Where?’

He beckoned straight on and said, ‘In the kitchen.’

They all trooped that way.

The officer went to the chunky pristine air fryer, glanced at Elspeth and said, ‘Do you ever use this?’

‘No! Course not. Bought on a whim because it matched everything. Too complicated for me. Flashing lights and flickering numbers. Since when were the general population NASA trained?’

Jack and the guy shared a hopeful look, and Jack nodded him on.

The label, seals, and polythene covering were all removed before the two large drawers were pulled open. In the first, two bulky envelopes, folded over at the end. Jack grabbed one and peered inside. A fat manual, paperwork aplenty, guarantees, T’s & C’s, tiny print, all the usual contractual crap no one ever reads, keeping the maker’s backsides covered in case of accidents or unforeseen medical problems. The second drawer the same, more inane bumf, including a catalogue of other products. Countless trees cut down to pulp into verbose tediousness.

The young guy glanced at Jack and said, ‘Damn! Sorry, Jack. Your idea?’

‘No worries. It was a good thought. You two stay here. Elspeth, come upstairs.’

‘Best offer I’ve had in years,’ she said, giggling, as she followed Jack, who sprinted up the stairs.

The other two exchanged a look and remained in the hall, hoping Jack would not be long.

By the time Elspeth made it to the top, huffing and puffing, he had unplugged the computer, removing all the wires from the back of the tower. He produced a small screwdriver and removed the screws connecting the tower case to the workings inside.

She stood in the doorway, arms folded, staring at him, imagining he must have had a brainwave, though it seemed a long-shot. He grabbed the front of the case and eased it free, pulling it all the way towards him until it came away in his hand.

The computer was a base model, very few extras and add-ons included, meaning more free space inside. Long before the case was off, they saw the fat padded envelope jammed in there.

‘Wow!’ she said. ‘What made you think of that?’

‘It was the only place we didn’t look.’

Jack remembered Walter’s advice and had gloved up before touching anything. He tugged out the fat package. It wasn’t sealed, the top folded over. He opened it and showed it to Elspeth, standing at his shoulder, keen for a better look.

‘Holy smokers!’ she said. Neither of them had ever seen so much ready cash. ‘How much, you reckon?’

‘No idea, but tens of thousands. It’s all in high denomination notes.’

‘Is that what you were seeking?’

‘It is.’

Jack dragged out his phone and rang the sarge. He sounded pleased and said, ‘Bring it here for counting, and ring our northern friend. He’s gonna be super-pleased with you.’

Elspeth made her way downstairs, keen to tell the others.

‘Our boy has come good. Much treasure found in the compo.’

‘No!’ said the girl.

‘As I live and breathe.’

A minute later, Jack skipped down the stairs, grin on his face, package in hand, as he glanced at the others and said, ‘We were damned lucky. The inside of a computer gets super hot. It could have set fire to the package jammed against the parts.’

‘Just as well it did not!’ said Elspeth, as they made ready to leave for a second time.

An hour later, Walter tapped on Mrs West’s door.

‘Come in, sit down, and judging by your face, you have good news to share. Bought an engagement ring, have you?’

‘Good God, no. Whatever made you say that?’

‘Most men accompanying a glamorous and wealthy woman halfway round the world often have something on their mind.’

Walter scoffed and said, ‘I told you, it’s business. She needs advice and someone to talk to, nothing more, nothing less.’

‘Yeah, sure, and you can tell that to the Chester Zoo elephants. So, if it’s not imminent joyous news, what is on your mind?’

‘Our new best friend, down on the south coast, tells me he has recovered a fat package from Crispin’s aunt’s computer, containing, wait for it, £25,750.’

‘No! I thought they had given up and gone home.’

‘Something made Jack go back, and voila, there it was.’

‘It needs to be fingerprint checked. I hope they were gloved up.’

‘Yes, and yes. Jack says it will take two or three days, and it is underway.’

‘Well, well, that came out of the blue, and who does the money belong to?’

‘Interesting question. If there is any justice, a reasonable reward for PC Goscote might be in order.’

‘Double-edged sword,’ said Mrs West. ‘If we prove Casey Norman touched it, she has a case for being the rightful owner, and Gamston will demand it back in full as soon as checks are completed.’

‘Or, as soon as the court case is over,’ added Walter.

‘There is that. I am sure it could be seized if she is found guilty.’

‘Just what I was thinking.’

‘Either way, a more positive end to the day than seemed possible.’

‘Correct. Isn’t it great when the good pieces fall into place, trumping the bad pieces across the board?’

‘Yes, well done, Walter, and give my regards to PC Goscote when you next speak. Let’s hope and pray the culprits didn’t wear gloves.’

Chapter sixty-three

The next morning, PC Jack Goscote was back on the phone quicker than they expected, saying, ‘I have some good news for you, Inspector.’

Walter took it, noted the salient points, winked at Karen across the desk, and set off for Mrs West’s office.

She hadn’t been in long, just getting settled, hoping for a positive day, cleaning her glasses, sharpening the pencil she sometimes preferred.

He tapped on the door. She called him in. Walter went inside and sat down.

‘More thoughts overnight?’ she said.

‘Not exactly.’

‘Well? Don’t keep me in suspense. You must have something on your mind.’

He nodded and told her of his conversation with Jack.

‘On a bundle of 250 plastic £20 notes, recent fingerprints were detected. A single thumbprint on the top, plus two fingerprints on the underside, first and second finger,’ and he picked up a pad on her desk to demonstrate.

‘I can envisage it, Walter. You don’t need to show me. Whose prints?’

‘None other than Casey Norman’s, matching the ones we sent, spot on.’

‘Good man. That was quick. Leave it with me. You get on with preparing the paperwork, and I’ll ring the CPS with the news.’

Everything moved fast after that. The Crown Prosecution Service was impressed and asked if there was any sign of Gillian’s prints. Not yet, still checking a large quantity of notes. They asked for the papers as soon as possible, suggesting they would approve a prosecution of murder for Mrs Casey Norman, with Gillian remaining off the indictment, unless further evidence came to hand.

Karen added the latest intel to the paperwork, and Walter returned to Mrs West to be greeted with a grinning thumbs up.

‘Excellent,’ he said, rubbing his hands together, looking chipper. ‘Next step?’

‘We’ll give Casey an opportunity to come in of her own accord. Make a call to her at work. Tell her she is required to attend this police station at two o’clock this afternoon, as further evidence has come to hand. We don’t reveal what it is, but we can say if she does not attend, a warrant for her arrest will be issued. Advise her to bring her legal representative. Oh, and get Karen to make the call.’

‘And when she comes?’

‘Once she is here, she will be arrested for the murder of Barnabus Reynolds, and after that, she will be cautioned and questioned for the offence.’

‘It’s going to be a busy day. Can’t say as I am looking forward to crossing swords with the pocket battleship, Gamston, again, but hey ho, needs must.’

They didn’t have to fetch her. She came of her own accord, with Gamston in tow, wondering what they had unearthed, questioning Casey about it, though the blank faced shrug she offered told her everything.

They arrived dead on time, keen to get it done and dusted, and be away, because Casey was in the middle of important work.

Jenny cautioned the suspect as a sour-faced Gamston looked on. A briefed-up Jenny and Martin took them to the charging sergeant, where Mrs Casey Norman was charged with the murder of Barnabus Reynolds.

‘I demand to know what evidence you have,’ shrilled Gamston.

Martin looked down on her and said, ‘All will be revealed in interview room one, starting in twenty minutes,’ as he glanced at his flash watch.

‘This way,’ said Jenny, and a minute later, Casey and Gamston were left alone, seated in the corner of the room on one side of a standard issue plain table.

Aware they were being monitored, they chatted in whispers, Casey wondering if she should state her innocence, before Gamston advised her to say nothing, until they learnt what new evidence they had.

The interview began without delay. Martin switched on the recorder and advised who was present. The video rolled on.

Jenny was straight to it.

‘Further to our last interview, fresh evidence has come to hand.’

Gamston, eager to contribute, said, ‘So you said!’

Jenny gave her a dismissive look and continued.

‘During a thorough search at the late Crispin Coleman’s aunt’s house in Hampshire, a considerable stash of cash was recovered.’

‘How much?’ snapped Gamston.

Jenny referred to her notes. ‘£25,750.’

‘So?’

‘£20,000 in new notes, the rest used. On one bundle of banknotes, three fingerprints were found, or, to be more accurate, a thumbprint on the top, and the first two fingerprints on the underside of the same bundle. All three prints belonged to Casey Norman,’ and Jenny looked across the table into her eyes, seeking a reaction or confession.

‘So what?’ said Gamston. ‘Could have got there in a hundred ways.’

‘No, only by being touched by your client.’

No comment was forthcoming and Jenny continued, for she possessed more information about the withdrawal.

‘Here is the £20,000 withdrawn from the Chester & Llandudno Building Society, initiated by Casey,’ and Jenny swivelled her laptop round to show video of Mrs Norman at the counter, signing the withdrawal slip, chatting with the teller, collecting the cash.

Casey shrugged, as Gamston said, ‘We have never disputed that.’

‘The society,’ Jenny continued, ‘monitors cash withdrawals over £10,000, noting, where possible, the serial numbers. They did on this occasion, because of the sizeable amount. The numbers match the recovered money. Can you explain, Casey, how those banknotes, the ones you touched, were found in the late Crispin Coleman’s aunt’s house in Hampshire? The same man we believe carried out the hideous slaying of Mr Reynolds, sponsored, supplied, and supported by you.’

Casey looked a beaten woman as she glanced at Gamston for comfort. Her solicitor recognised the signs and said, ‘I need to consult with my client.’

Martin said, ‘As you are entitled to do,’ and he advised the recorder the interview was paused, before adding, ‘we will return in half an hour.’

‘We won’t need that long,’ said Gamston.

When they recommenced, Gamston slipped a brief statement across the table.

I, Casey Norman, deny any knowledge of the murder of Barnabus Reynolds. Neither do I know if Crispin Coleman carried it out. So far as I know, no evidence has been put forward to confirm his involvement. I feel I have been ambushed today, brought here whilst involved in vital work on behalf of the nation, and my mind is in no fit state to discuss such detailed and important matters. I can only repeat, I had nothing to do with Mr Reynolds’ sad demise, and will fight to clear my name with every drop of blood in my body. That is all. No further statement will be made at this time. – Casey Norman, (Mrs).

‘As you wish,’ said Jenny.

‘What happens now?’ said Gamston.

Martin fielded the question.

‘Mrs Norman will be held in custody overnight to attend Chester Magistrates Court in the morning, where the magistrate will hear the charge. Most likely, he or she will set a provisional trial date, and order Mrs Norman be held in custody until that day.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ said Gamston. ‘Casey Norman is not a gangster. She is hardly a flight risk. Save the country a few quid, why don’t you? Release her overnight, and I will personally bring her to the court in the morning.’

Jenny stepped in.

‘Mrs Norman is a woman of considerable means and has the wherewithal to disappear at a moment’s notice. Furthermore, she is charged with a most serious crime. There can be no bail today. The magistrate will rule on the matter tomorrow. If you have nothing further to add, this interview is over, and Mrs Norman will be taken to the cells.’

Casey glared at Jenny and said, ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’

‘We are doing our jobs,’ said Martin, ‘our duty, nothing more, nothing less. Enjoyment doesn’t come into it,’ and a ten-minute private chat followed between Casey and Gamston, followed by one phone call made to Casey’s startled husband, before she was led down to face her first night in custody in a cold cell.

Jenny wasn’t alone in thinking she had better get used to it.

Mrs West, Walter, and Karen watched on.

Mrs West said, ‘What did you make of her statement?’

Walter said, ‘Verbal flatulence. She knows the game is up. They both do, and couldn’t think of anything better.’

Karen and the boss shared a pained look, as Walter added, ‘Okay if I update Bella Reynolds?’

‘Please do,’ and the early day business was done.

It was early afternoon before he rang Bella.

‘What news?’ she said, fighting a cough.

‘We have this morning charged one of the Norman women with the murder of Barnabus.’

‘Great! I was beginning to think it would never happen. I never liked the Gillian girl; always thought she was an impostor.’

‘That’s the thing, Bella. It isn’t Gillian. Casey Norman is the one charged.’

‘Wow!’ she said, taking a moment for thought, before saying, ‘What happens now?’

‘She will be held overnight before going to the Magistrates Court in the morning. He or she will decide what happens after that, though I’d bet my pension on Casey being held in custody, while a trial date is set months down the line.’

‘Good evidence against her, I take it?’

‘Rock solid.’

‘Well done. You’ve been great. I hope I live long enough to see it.’

‘You will. You must. Steel yourself, girl. Gird your loins, as they say.’

‘Hah!’ she said. ‘Like your language, biblical, I think, and thanks for letting me know.’

It was the longest string of words she’d issued in weeks without coughing.

‘I’ll keep you posted,’ and the call ended.

The magistrate ran true to form. Because of the seriousness of the charge and the assets at the defendant’s disposal, bail was out of the question. Remanded in custody until the trial began, and the beak set a provisional date six months hence.

Six months, 180 odd days away, and it afforded the investigating team ample time to search for further evidence against Casey and Gillian, as the police prepared and honed their case. They hadn’t given up on Gillian. She was in the district when the murder occurred, had made a special trip down, and had provided no reason for her visit. Mrs West liked the sound of it, though solid evidence against the Gillian woman remained elusive.

For the moment, the public hullabaloo surrounding the Norman family, and the strange murder of Barnabus Reynolds, subsided, and Mrs West was grateful for that, as she received a long-coming pat on the back from her Chief Constable.

Chapter sixty-four

Walter sauntered by Mrs West’s office, pondering on speaking to her, wondering if it was the right moment. Her person radar switched on. She could spot a suspicious lurker from fifty paces.

‘Is that you, Walter?’ she cooed.

‘Oh, hello, ma’am, yes, it’s me.’

‘Did you want something?’

He almost said no, but gathered his thoughts, put his head round the ajar door, and said, ‘If you’ve a minute, I could do with a quick word.’

‘You’ve caught me at the right time. Come in and speak. I’m in a good mood. I’ve had the congratulatory call from above; metaphorically patting me on the back, saying how pleased they are the prussic acid murder is solved and done, and get this, Walter. It seems my little faux pas in not circulating the APB as soon as I should, has been forgiven and forgotten, if a certain gentleman is to be believed.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ said Walter, ambling in.

‘Well, don’t just stand there. Take a seat.’

Walter nodded and sat down.

She hadn’t finished.

‘I don’t mind telling you, I have lost a great deal of sleep over this, and I thought there might have been certain repercussions, but it seems not.’

‘Glad to hear it, ma’am.’

She set her pen down and glanced across at him. He resembled a man about to ask for the daughter’s hand in marriage, whilst knowing he wasn’t the approved match.

‘Well, what is it? I haven’t all day. There’s the Chief Supers regional meet-up next week in Kenilworth, and I’ll need to be on my toes. Every fact, figure, and relevant thought salted away up here,’ and she tapped her temple, ‘because all the rest of them are men, so I’m starting at a disadvantage, barring Elsie O’Connor, and the jury’s out on her. Put it this way, Walter, any lack of homework on my behalf will be magnified tenfold because I’m female.’

‘I doubt that, ma’am. Surely, we have moved on. It is the twenty-first century, after all.’

‘That’s true, and the century is a quarter gone already. How time flies. Now, your turn. Tell me what is on your mind.’

Walter cleared his throat and spoke, almost in a whisper, ‘Now the Crispin Coleman case is coming to a close, I could do with some leave.’

‘Is that all? Of course you must have leave, and well-deserved it is, too. I have told you in the past you should always take leave when a big case ends because they are draining,’ not waiting for an answer. ‘How long did you want? Four or five days?’

‘I was hoping for a little longer.’

‘How long?’

‘Two weeks.’

That brought an unusual visage to her shocked face.

‘Two weeks! That’s not like you. What are you up to? Back to Jamaica, is it? Bit of cracking sunshine on the old back?’

‘Not quite, ma’am,’ and he took a breath and wondered why he felt the need to explain himself. He was due leave, and if he wanted to travel, it was none of her damned business, and he considered clamming up, though that line of thinking dissipated in a trice. If she found out later, and she would, she would not be impressed he hadn’t shared his thinking.

Walter said, ‘Marina Moo needs to return to Hong Kong to support her husband, Mickey, who is in a scrape over tax evasion.’

‘Really? They don’t care for that kind of business out there. Clamp down hard on it, they do, and no mistake. Pity we don’t take the same line, but politicians, eh? They have a way of their own, talking things up, breaking things down. Unfathomable, just about sums it up.’

‘Yes, they do, but the thing is, Mrs Moo has asked me to accompany her as an advisor.’

Mrs West paused a second for thought. ‘That right?’ and she grinned and smirked across the desk. ‘You are not telling me you are an item, are you? MARINA and WALTER. I could see the words in big white letters plastered across the back window of your car, if you had one.’

‘No, ma’am. Nothing like that.’

‘Well, I can’t stop you, if that is what you want. But I’d add a word of caution, or a couple of pages. You would have no authority there; you know that, don’t you? Our writ stopped running thirty years ago, and believe you me, the big boss in Beijing has consistently tightened control over the former colony. Most of the British trained lawyers have gone, civil servants, too, and it won’t be long before it is sucked into becoming another Chinese province. They only keep it as it is for trade and finance benefits. Once that deteriorates, and it will, any semblance of unique status will vanish.’

‘I realise that, ma’am. The truth is; I feel sorry for her. She needs a confidant. Someone to calm her down and ease her through. Heaven knows, she is not the most articulate woman, and often speaks without thinking. She misses her husband, wants him back, and believes I could help.’

Mrs West sat back and rubbed her chin as she was wont to do, and it was clear another not so comforting thought had entered her mind.

‘Is this a paid position, Walter?’

‘No,’ he said, bringing his head down in line with the word. ‘She offered money, but I explained I could not accept paid work… without my superior’s express permission,’ putting the thought out there.

‘And that could never be granted!’ came the icy reply.

‘And expenses? They allowed?’

‘Ah, now that would be different. Tell me more?’

‘Flight, accommodation, that sort of thing.’

‘Yes, well, I suppose there is nothing wrong in that. Dare I ask what the sleeping arrangements might be?’

What a sauce! None of her damned business! Yet, he didn’t want to sour the meeting by stating so, and heard himself saying, ‘To be decided, but if I have my way, it will be separate rooms.’

‘Probably as well,’ before adding, ‘Oriental women can be very demanding, Walter,’ though she didn’t elaborate.

She grabbed her small notepad and scribbled various points and figures as Walter looked on.

FOURTEEN DAYS, NO MORE! FLIGHTS, yes. ACCOMMODATION, yes, EXPENSES, £1,000 per day max, receipts required, NO FINAL PAYOUT OR BONUS! as she tore off the sheet, read it in silence, and tossed it over.

Walter picked up, scanned it, and nodded his approval.

‘That’s perfect, ma’am. About what I was thinking.’

‘Is she wealthy, this woman?’

‘I don’t know about wealthy, but the Lantern is always packed, and the prices are sky high, so I don’t think she is short of a few quid.’

She nodded her head and said, ‘I was generous on the expenses side because I know first-hand how dear things can be out there, meals, drinks, taxis, et cetera. They all add up faster than you think.’

‘Thank you, I appreciate it.’

‘And when is this mercy mission likely to happen?’

‘Week after next.’

She pulled a face, her bottom lip coming out in thought, as she said, ‘Do you want me to sign you off for two weeks’ leave from then?’

‘That would be perfect.’

She grabbed her diary and scribbled notes before saying, ‘May I give you a few words of advice and a gentle warning?’

‘Please do.’

‘They do not take kindly to being reminded of their colonial past, and like to reiterate they are in charge. Touchy isn’t the word for it. Your method of employment will need to be clear and upfront, and I tell you now, when you write “police officer” or “detective” or anything similar on any document, it will attract a certain amount of interest. You are prepared for that, are you?’

‘I am, ma’am, yes. I always find telling the truth is the best policy. I am going on holiday with my good friend Mrs Moo, who is enquiring about her estranged husband and his circumstances.’

‘But it isn’t a holiday, is it? And believe me, if they find out, as they will, they will have questions aplenty.’

‘Understood. I’ll cross that bridge when it approaches. There is nothing devious or underhand about it.’

‘Don’t be naïve, Walter. Your view of deviousness and theirs will be continents apart.’

He nodded and said, ‘I understand. Thanks for your advice and wisdom. You’ve been most helpful. Do I have your blessing?’

It sounded as if he was back on the marriage proposal track again. Just as well she did not have an eligible daughter; though even if she did, she would be miles too young for him.

‘Yes, Walter, you do. I’ve made accurate notes. We’ll speak again before you leave. Now, if you don’t mind,’ nodding at the door.

He thanked her, stood up, and ambled out and away to his workstation, where he waited until Karen went out before ringing the Blue Lantern.

Chin answered. Walter asked for Mrs Moo.

He said, ‘Wait!’ and less than a minute later she came on the line.

‘What news?’

‘All fixed, two weeks from…’ and he gave the date.

‘Good Dick! Knew you would. I book flight. Come for din,’ and she cut off before he could say no.

At 8pm he sat before her at her private table. As ever, he left her to order, confident it would be the freshest, juiciest food they served that night.

As they waited for it to arrive, he said, ‘Did you book the flights?’

‘I did. Manchester, late on the Saturday.’

‘Very good, and accommodation?’

‘Need discuss.’

‘That’s why I am here.’

Two of the prettiest waitresses turned up, perfect teeth, well-groomed, clean black and white uniforms, and buckets of smiles.

Marina put her hand across the table to tell him to remain silent until the food was down, and the girls had retreated.

She spooned various sizzling delicacies from the hot metal plates onto the dishes, releasing amazing aromas.

‘Not too much,’ he said, though his protests were futile.

When she’d filled both plates, she said, ‘Beds?’

‘That’s for you to decide. I don’t mind.’

She shrugged and said, ‘No! You man, you decide.’

‘Okay; if you insist, and the choices are?’

She chewed and swallowed plumptious prawns in sticky batter, before saying, ‘I think you know choices. Separate rooms; or one room for both with two beds, or one room with one enormous bed. You choose.’

He thought about it for a moment before saying, ‘Perhaps one room, two beds?’

‘You want?’

He nodded. She grinned and said, ‘Okay, I fix. And cash?’

‘Flights and accommodation, and a thousand pounds a day expenses, all to be supported by receipts, maximum payment, and not a penny more.’

She pulled a face and said, ‘Okay, deal, but you undersell yourself.’

‘Them’s the rules.’

‘Them’s what?’

‘Those are the rules. I am not allowed by law to accept any more.’

She blew out through pursed lips, making a Pppff sound. ‘Stupid rules. Only in UK.’

Walter said, ‘Before you book, I’d better warn you, I snore like a rhino.’

‘No worries, so do I, like a lion,’ flexing her red nails across the table and growling, and after that, they settled down to eat in peace, and only when they had finished, did they turn to talking about Mickey Moo, and the hopes and fears she had for him.

He tried to disseminate what she was saying. Walter was a perceptive man, but right there, found it hard to read her mind, as the old stereotype of the inscrutable Oriental returned to his head. There was nothing more he could do but go with the flow, relax, and see what transpired. He was looking forward to it. He had never been to Hong Kong, had been reading up on it, and was keen to set a good amount of time to one side to see everything the territory offered.

The question was, would they be tied up in legal red tape wrangles all day from dawn till dusk, or would it be a quick in and out hour, with the rest of the day belonging to them, and he didn’t have a clue which.

Either way, it would be fun.

They flew out of Manchester at half-past midnight on the Saturday night, Cathay Pacific, bound for Hong Kong International, travelling at 500mph. It was scheduled to arrive at five to eight in the morning, allowing for the local time difference, a fourteen-hour, twenty-minute non-stop flight.

Marina explained she always flew Cathay, didn’t like anyone else, and non-stop, wanting to get there as fast as possible, as she didn’t enjoy the take-off and landing business. The fewer of those, the better.

Walter dreaded the thought of being shoe-horned into a narrow seat with a lumbering neighbour squabbling over the arm-rest, but there was none of that. In their bank of three seats, a slim young woman sat by the window, ultra polite, pretty too, on a laptop most of the trip, once they were above 10,000 feet.

He guessed she might be a lawyer, or high-powered businesswoman, and though he could see her screen, it was filled with Chinese characters, and he couldn’t make anything of it. She probably thought he was ignorant of her language and was relaxed about it.

Marina sat to his left, the aisle seat; handy to call service whenever she wanted, or scoot to the facilities. To begin with, they chatted, but were careful not to discuss the reason for their flight, and after a while they settled down, as she watched a Chinese historical romcom in front of her, giggling with delight as the story unfurled.

Walter closed his eyes and wondered what his late father would have made of it, before settling down, and even though it was uncomfortable, the goddess of sleep, the glorious and glamorous Nyx, would not be denied.

He didn’t wake for six hours, dreamt of eating snakes, seahorses, and tiger testicles, and woke up starving, an aroma of grilled bacon filling the plane.

Chapter sixty-five

With Walter away in Hong Kong, the Crying Roses murder case was all but complete.

The trial of one or both Norman women lay ahead. The smart money said it was an even money bet. Conviction or acquittal? Another fifty-fifty. That was the thing about jury trials. No one could predict the outcome with any certainty.

In Brockenhurst, Elspeth amended her will. She imagined she had not been generous enough, and quadrupled all her bequests, and included a new beneficiary in the local parish church, £5,000 towards upkeep and running costs.

A week later she took ill with a covid-related disease. Elspeth was not alone in thinking it was only a matter of time before they measured her for her box, but against all odds, she rallied, and another week later she was back at Serpentine, in time to mow the lawns, trundling around on her cute ride-on mower.

At Walter’s house, Harry Hall and his mum arrived in the old van. They had over-ordered in the bedding plants department and spent the afternoon finding a place for them in Walter’s manicured borders. By the time they had finished, the riot of colour looked like an exhibit in the Chelsea Flower Show, passers-by stopping to stand and admire, and even photograph for their social media pages.

PC Jack Goscote reverted to chasing bicycle thieves with some success, setting a few quid aside with his fiancé every month, building a deposit for their dreamed of house, having no idea Elspeth had taken pity on him, on hearing of their struggles to find somewhere to live.

Why should they be forced to move away? It didn’t feel right, because it wasn’t right. Jack was a damned good copper and would be a big loss if he disappeared.

He had no idea Elspeth had provided for him. It hadn’t crossed his mind, while she had no living relatives after the recent early passing of her errant nephew. She had the money and possessed the power to change things for at least one decent man. There was no one else to leave her fortune to, and Jack was as good as anyone, better than most, the son she never had, and she couldn’t take it with her.

On her passing, whenever that might be, Jack Goscote would be made aware he had become the new owner of Serpentine House. The only questions to be answered were, when would it be, and would he still be living in the district?

Elspeth and Jack continued to meet once a week at the flower society in the Village Hall; her championing her happy roses, and Jack banging on about the pleasures sweet peas brought him.

Jack “Sweet Pea” Goscote would lead a happy life, one day introducing two little boys and two titchy girls into the back garden at Serpentine House. The bubbling laughter floating over the high wooden fences would be the first of its kind since Elspeth, Edwina, and their best friends from the village frolicked there, almost ninety years before.

‘Be careful of the rhododendrons,’ Jack would shout after them, as they dashed about… ‘or they will eat you!’ a menacing threat, producing nothing but gallons of copious laughter, fun, and joy.

In Floribunda Farm, Garry and the children tried hard to deal with the lack of a wife and mother. They put a brave face on things, but it was beyond hard. The kids asked daddy when mummy was coming home. He told them the truth. He didn’t know. No one did. But they were Normans; and Normans always stuck together, through thick and thin, and in the end, they would win, because that was what Normans did.

One day, they would all be together again. In the meantime, the children must follow their dreams, and in time, they did. The daughter into the laboratory, and the son into agriculture, or more specifically, plant breeding, specialising in creating new varieties of thorn-free roses, aiming to create the perfect thornless blue rose, and every time he marvelled at its beauty, it would remind him of his mother’s eyes. He would christen it Rosa Cassiopeia, named after his mum, and the beautiful Queen from Greek Mythology, though maybe the kid didn’t know she was infamous for her vanity.

Perhaps he had stumbled on a truth, for Casey Norman was vainer than most.

As for Garry’s involvement in Barnabus Reynolds’ death, he and his wife insisted he knew nothing about it. The police thought different, figuring she would say and do anything to keep him free, for the children’s sake.

It often happened in murder cases where more than one person was involved, and it was the hardest thing to define, where one person’s culpability ended, and another began. Was it possible he shared a house with Casey for twenty years, and they never once discussed killing Barnabus? It seemed unlikely. The truth was, outside the marriage, no one would ever know.

Sitting in the plane, bacon sandwich and coffee downed, Walter thought about it again. Had Garry Norman been party to murder, yet remained free? Walter couldn’t be sure, and couldn’t prove it, and if the law didn’t exactly declare the man innocent, it didn’t and couldn’t say he was guilty.

It was all on the fingerprints, the old-fashioned way of proving guilt. Casey’s were present; Garry’s nowhere to be seen. Regardless, it wasn’t hard to imagine the two of them, late at night, the kids asleep, sitting at the kitchen table, glass of red wine in hand, money before them, refining their plans, one making a fatal mistake by handling without a glove, the other more circumspect, thinking ahead, covering his back and his future.

Walter considered it again and shook his head, knowing he would have to let it go, unless Casey changed her mind at the trial and spilled incriminating secrets. He didn’t expect it, and it didn’t happen, but neither did the case slip from Walter’s mind.

That was the thing with killers. With one murder out of the way, what was to stop them committing another? The template in place, any guilt complex removed. The man had more money than he knew what to do with; copious time on his hands, and could buy any help he needed.

Walter would monitor his progress. If he strayed, if there were any unexplained deaths in Cheshire, he would be there to pick up the pieces and stick them together. In the meantime, he had other matters on his mind; Mickey and Marina Moo.

Walter imagined Mick was in more trouble than either of them realised. It wasn’t impossible there could be another killing, though this time, the government would insist it a legal death. How would she cope with that? If the worst possible outcome arrived, was he only there to provide a broad shoulder to cry on?

Inscrutable Orientals? He hadn’t a clue, but hoped it would turn out for the best, though he wasn’t sure what the best was. He knew what he would like to happen, though that was another secret to remain locked in a complicated brain, and no one, not even his creator, would ever know the truth.

The world moved on, revolving on its axis. Those lucky enough to remain alive, enjoying a little more time to do what they needed. In Walter’s case, tracking down and dumping killers in the bin. Someone had to do it, for if they didn’t, murder would become the norm. A frightening thought, a rocky road where anarchy and chaos reigned, an evil environment, closer than you think, lurking in the background like an incurable disease, and not a place where any sane person would ever wish to be.

AUTHOR’S NOTES

Thank you for acquiring my book wherever you may be, and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it. Roses really do cry; though not as we do, something I didn’t know before researching for this book.

If you have a moment, I’d love a brief review on any of the main bookselling sites. A single paragraph or sentence would suffice. That would be very kind of you.

Next year, there will be an all-new Inspector Walter Darriteau book, God willing, and there is a fair chance it will begin with Walter’s mischief in Hong Kong.

A full list of the fifteen Walter stories follows, plus other books too, and you may like to try one or two of those.

Thank you for your support, it means a lot,

Best wishes from the not so sunny English south coast. It is tippling down here today as I write this (in late September), though to be fair, like many places, we have had our warm days too.

Oh, and Agnes (Aggie) Weston (1840-1918), was a philanthropist especially known for her work with the ordinary sailors in the Royal Navy, and on her death became the first woman to be granted a Full Ceremonial Royal Navy Funeral.

Both of my parents served in the RN during World War II, and both often mentioned how grateful they were for the canteens, tea bars, accommodation, and support her organisation set up for serving sailors, servicemen, and women. If you would like to know more about her fascinating story, check out: www.aggies.org.uk/history

I’ll leave you with a quick quiz question for all you quizzers out there.

Excluding Shakespeare and the Bible, who is the only writer to have sold more than 2 billion books: that is quite a few, like: 2,000,000,000 books?

I’ll give you a wee clue if you are struggling. The person is English.

Have a great day, and remember to make time to have fun.

Best wishes,

David C.

Also by David Carter:

The Inspector Walter Darriteau Books

The Murder Diaries – Seven Times Over

The Sound of Sirens

The Twelfth Apostle

Kissing a Killer

The Legal & the Illicit

Five Dead Rooks

Old Cold Bones

Falling

The Death Broker

The Missing Man

The Final Door – Part One

The Final Door – Part Two

The Evil Man – Part One

The Evil Man – Part Two

The Inspector Walter Darriteau Box Set One

The Inspector Walter Darriteau Box Set Two

The Inspector Walter Darriteau Box Set Three

Crying Roses

The Meredith Hawkes Books

Don't Forget to Breathe

Running Forever

Other Stories

The Life and Loves of Gringo Greene

Drift and Badger and the Search for Uncle Mo

State Sponsored Terror

Grist Vergette's Curious Clock

Down into the Darkness

The Inconvenient Unborn

The Bunny and the Bear

The Bookshop by the Moscow River