Chapter 9 - Where Life Leads
At eleven that night, the phone rang in an elegant penthouse apartment in a new Docklands development. A slim young man languidly reached a manicured hand over the back of the cream leather sofa and picked up the handset.
"A body's been found in the Council offices at Pebbleton." The voice was controlled, but it continued with menace: "Well?"
The young man sat up, gulping air. "You - you said you didn't want to know anything...."
"I still don't," the voice growled. "I just want to know that I don't have to be concerned."
"I - I didn't want to know anything either, I'll have to make a call before I can tell you anything."
"Make the call. Don't phone here - I'll call you in an hour. Have answers." The call was cut, and the dialling tone began.
The young man sat holding the phone for a minute, staring at it. Then he punched in numbers and waited.
The phone rang in a respectable semi in a suburb of South London. A middle-aged man looked at the number displayed, and picked up the receiver. "Yeah?"
"Don't talk - just listen. A body's been found in the Council offices at Pebbleton. My client wants to be assured that it's nothing to do with his personal problem. Find out and call me back immediately." The line disconnected.
The middle-aged man frowned, then went in search of his mobile. He found a number and pressed 'Call'. It was answered after several rings, and over a cacophony of noise a voice shouted "Wassup?!"
"Go somewhere quiet and call me back - now!" he bellowed. He rang off and glared at the mobile as it should take the blame.
When it rang he stabbed his finger at the button and yelled "Listen, you little moron. You gave me your word that the Pebbleton job was done up tidy. Tell me why they've found a body!"
There was a long silence at the other end. Clearly the 'little moron' was considering his options, and finally decided that anything but honesty would leave him bereft of various vital parts of his anatomy.
"We done the job, guv, it woz a clean hit, no sweat! We just had a bit of a problem wiv the removal. Dezzer's van had an oil leak, so we couldn't go far last night. We got it fixed this mornin' and we woz gerna go back to get 'im ternight - like you said, we woz gonna dump 'im out Clapham way. We already done his face."
The middle-aged man gripped the mobile as if he'd like to choke the caller at the other end. He snarled "Where did you leave him?"
"We had a quick fink, and Dezzer found 'is keys, like you said, and you gave us the alarm code. We knew we could get back in, see - we woz right there, guv, so we reckoned it were easiest. Let ourselves out, no problem, everyfink left tidy. He woz outta sight, in the tunnel, stuck 'im against that block wall we done last time. We even put a bit o' tape round the door, so when we pulled it closed it stuck real tight, then we locked it. Way we reckoned it, even if somebody tries openin' it, they gonna fink it's jammed. Nobody's gonna find 'im, so we can come back, take 'im away soon as we got that oil pipe fixed. Dezzer sez we can't drive it like that, he's worried 'is engine might blow up."
"Brilliant. You and your genius friend Dezzer have just got yourselves a life sentence. I hope you bothered wearing gloves? I don't think I really care, you deserve whatever happens to you - for your own stupidity. If you take my advice, you'll grab what cash you haven't already spent, and leave the country. Goodbye." He stabbed a chubby finger at the 'End Call' button, and swore mightily as he threw the mobile on the floor and went to the landline to call the penthouse.
The young man in the penthouse was pacing the floor, biting his manicured nails. When the phone rang he grabbed it and barked "Yes?"
The news made the back of his neck go cold. He sat down on the leather sofa and gasped for breath. This was supposed to be easy money, far remote from him and easily forgotten. "How - how could they - this is your fault - what kind of goons did you get? What am I going to tell Mr - my client?" He babbled on in the same vein for a while, as the older man listened wearily. He was thinking that he was surrounded by goons, and the biggest was the one talking to him who had hoped to make a lot of money without getting his hands dirty.
Finally, the young man ran out of expletives, and the call ended. Within the promised hour, the penthouse phone rang again with the call he'd been dreading. He stumbled through an explanation, making sure that his client was in no doubt where the blame lay. He thought he was doing well until the client coldly told him to shut up. There was a long pause, then the client made him repeat the part about how the body had been placed. "What block wall? What happened last time?"
The morning came all too soon, as Keith Helford had tossed and turned for most of the seven hours he'd lain in bed. When he finally dropped off he dreamed of faceless bodies drifting down rivers which poured down wooden stairs and disappeared behind breeze blocks.
He got a burst of energy from a coffee and brought a cup up to his wife. She opened a sleepy eye in acknowledgement, and he knew she'd make a token effort to drink it, even though she wanted to stay asleep. It was nearly the end of the school holidays, and she had just a few precious days left to lie in. Soon enough every day would be an early start.
He crept into the bathroom and made a face at himself in the mirror - youth was now a fading memory. As he shaved he tried to make a mental list of priorities, but it was hopeless. His method relied on paper, lists and questions, crossing off possibilities until he had a clear line of enquiry. This investigation had so many questions and no obvious lines to follow. Worst of all, he had a feeling that they were not through with the bad news. That breeze block wall was on his mind.
He drove into his parking space just as Jeff Dean ran up the police station steps and vanished inside. 'Keen Dean', the other officers called him, but Helford was glad he had an enthusiastic youngster at his side, especially now he had a tangle involving local officialdom to unravel. Crime in the world of habitual criminals was relatively easy to solve, as informants usually came up with names after a suitable interval and some strategic prodding. Not that it was any easier proving the guilt of the named party, but at least you had a fair idea who you were after. In this case a local figure had been murdered, a man with a relatively uneventful past record, and no known links to crime. The media would get hold of it, and results would be expected.
It annoyed him sometimes, as he'd worked on a case where a sleazy drug-dealer had been dispatched by rivals in the area, and after a brief paragraph in the local paper and a one-day sensation on local radio, nobody cared to find out if the perpetrators had been caught. He'd not only caught the appalling gang involved, but he'd helped Vice to tighten the net on a drug ring operating around Frayminster, preying on foolish youngsters. He felt strongly about drugs, having two teenagers in local schools, and he was exhilarated at the time. Because of the ongoing drug operation, his arrests were kept quiet. Of course it looked good on his record, but the success had been quick, fairly straightforward, and private. This promised to be slow, public, and for all he knew, impossible to solve.
These negative thoughts didn't help concentration, so he tried to clear his mind. At his desk, he made a list - 'Identification, Finances, Income, Relatives, Friends, Enemies, Love life' - he paused, then wrote 'Political Affiliations'. It was a long shot, but the Council was composed of members of the various parties, and Chewter had moved among them. If, indeed, it was Chewter. Politics? It was unlikely at this local level that radical views would lead to murder, surely? Oh well, leave it on the list. He had to cover all angles.
Dean knocked on his door, and entered quickly. He had the pathologist's report, and handed it over. It had been done in double-quick time, after a long night's work. Helford took a quick look and stopped at the interesting paragraph on 'Cause of Death'. There had been a small gunshot entry wound in the back, and the bullet had pierced the heart, exiting in a mass of gore at the front. Helford had already suspected that the bloodied mess in the middle of the che
st was an exit wound. The pathologist had left a scribbled pencil note to Helford, which read 'Looks like a professional hit.' Placing the note aside, he read on in the report. The way the blood had collected showed that the victim had been laying face down for a short time after death. Obviously he'd later been moved and propped up in a sitting position in the tunnel, but his face had been smashed with a wide, flat instrument soon after death. Some blood had run slowly from this area, covering what remained of his face and congealing quickly.
Helford had supposed immediately after seeing the body that the face had been smashed to delay identification, but that made no sense if the body was Chewter. If he'd turned up in London, it would have taken a long time to get dental records checked countrywide to find a match. On the other hand, if Chewter would be quickly recognised by locals who knew his clothing, why smash the face?
"Got anywhere with dental records?" he asked Dean. The teeth had not been wrecked so badly that they could not be at least partially matched.
"Beavon's ringing round the local dentists now sir, leaving messages. They open soon, so if it's Chewter we should get somewhere quickly. And I've asked for the warrants for Chewter's house and the Council offices."
"Good man. We'd better get over to Southcliff Hall now, the delightful Miss Carvell is probably shredding files now in case we find out the Council spent too much on fairy lights last Christmas."
"She wouldn't dare, would she? Destroying evidence?"
"Ruthless type, Dean. Wouldn't put it past her. She didn't mind shredding her colleague's reputation."
"That was good old-fashioned jealousy. Don't worry sir, we'll be able to grab everything and lock it up once the warrant arrives. I've told them to send it up to Southcliff Hall. Oh, one thing Beavon found - last year, there was a call-out to Southcliff Hall at two-thirty on a Sunday morning, after a couple of left-over Saturday-night lovers heard noises coming from the back of the building - or possibly underneath it. Uniform tried to knock up Mr Chewter out of bed, but they couldn't get any answer. They eventually got Fiona Carvell up, and she opened the building up - but it was all quiet by then. Nothing was found wrong, uniform checked again the next morning."
"Interesting," Helford mused. "I wonder where Chewter was?" After a quick visit to Records to collect the file on Steve Coulthard's disappearance, they left. Ten minutes later they walked towards the porch of the Council building. A constable stood on guard, and a group of people were hanging around outside. A familiar face hurried towards them. Bill Perry was the chief reporter for the Frayminster Guardian, and his relationship with the police was one of mutual dependency. He often found out things and passed them on, but in return he expected to be told at once of any local crime.
"Bill," Helford greeted him. "I have nothing to tell you yet, so if you have something to tell me, please tell me now and quickly. We have loads to do."
"Not me, lads. I heard the local news last night and got myself over here, but your boys won't spill the beans."
"Quite right." Helford had heard from his wife that the finding of a body had been reported on Clifftop FM, and he'd wondered if young Ben Wickens had been the source of the leak. At least no name of the victim had been mentioned.
They carried on as Bill Perry chased after them, still begging for a morsel. A reporter from Clifftop FM was waiting at the police tape, looking equally hopeful. They pressed on and passed under the tape as the constable held it up for them.
As they entered Reception Miss Carvell met them, striding forward to lead them up the stairs. "Thank you, Miss Carvell, we were here last night, we know the way," Helford said firmly. She took a step back, looking offended. A group of employees were standing talking as they arrived, and now an awed hush fell. Helford took charge. He introduced himself and Dean, and asked them to go about their normal routines, but to refrain from discussing the events taking place with anyone, especially the press.
"I will be interviewing each of you in due course, so please make sure you tell me anything you have noticed out of the ordinary, no matter how irrelevant it may seem to you. It would also be in your own best interests to tell no-one else what you know, only the police. We do not as yet have a positive identification of the victim. That is all for now."
He turned and started for the stairs, but Dean was not paying attention. He was gazing at a stunning fair-haired girl who was perched on the edge of the Reception desk. She hopped off and gracefully slid into the swivel chair behind the desk, then her pretty head disappeared as she bent to turn on switches underneath.
"Dean - please take a list of names of staff here now, and those expected today." Dean jumped, and nodded at his boss with a soppy smile on his face. "Will do, sir," he replied happily.
"Any messages, constable?" Helford enquired of the young officer standing guard at the door leading to the basement. "They want to see you down in the basement as soon as you get here, sir."
There was no putting it off any longer. He would have to go down and find out what lay beyond the breeze-block wall.
James Goswell had been down in Reception, and now he wandered back upstairs, uncertain whether to make himself too comfortable in the accounts office. It wouldn't be long before Fiona started giving him things to do, and he wanted a few minutes peace first. He sat down and aimlessly picked up a report from his temporary desk, and stared at it without seeing a word. The previous evening he'd paced the floor in his flat, unable to settle or concentrate. He'd gone to bed at midnight, tossed and turned until four in the morning, then fell into a restless slumber for a couple of hours, before waking again. The rest of the night he spent imagining all sorts of outcomes to the situation unfolding.
One recurring thought in the wretched dark hours had rather surprised him. He kept coming back to the puzzle of Paula's behaviour. The previous morning she'd appeared at the door of his office, looking tense, and obviously wanting to speak to him. Just as he'd opened his mouth to invite her inside, Fiona's voice had interrupted, asking what she wanted. Obviously from her office she could see Paula waiting in the corridor. He was in the middle of a frighteningly large Agenda that had to be approved and sent out, but he would have liked to speak to Paula. She'd been uptight with him ever since the big Development meeting, and it saddened him.
Fiona had made it very clear to Paula that he shouldn't be disturbed, and persisted in offering to help. Paula had said it was nothing important, and scuttled away. Now he'd have to wait ages for another opportunity to get a private word with her. What had he done? Why had their easy friendship gone wrong?
The finding of a body in the building where he worked seemed unreal, bizarre, but it was a problem that worried him more than any of his colleagues would suspect. It seemed a remote possibility that any connection could be made to himself, but even the investigation of the crime threatened to dig up things he'd rather keep hidden. He knew the processes involved only too well. It harked back to a period of his life he wanted to forget.
Hour after hour had passed in the night, filled with images he could not erase, and despondent thoughts he wished he could switch off. He had made such progress in Pebbleton, had felt he was becoming a normal member of society - why, oh why, did this ghastly thing have to happen? That horrible sight in the basement, vile death and destruction, the evidence of someone's unfeeling contempt for human life - how could he bear to be involved again with such traumas?
Pebbleton - this little haven of normality, this village where nothing worse happened than a brick thrown at a speed camera - now it was ruined. He would have to move again, start all over. How long would it take before he could forget this? It was so unfair. He'd begun to make friends here, feel like one of a team, maybe even dare to feel for someone.....Paula. He did care for her, he realised. But it was too late, she had turned against him for some unknown reason. She was lost, his fragile peace of mind was lost, it was all shattered.....on and on his thoughts had run, h
is mind wired and past all hope of sleep.
Now, with a stack of work in front of him and no hope of the concentration to tackle it, he decided to make a call. He softly got up and closed the door, hoping this would keep Kim from coming into her own office. Dialling the familiar numbers after the '9', it all seemed so odd - two worlds colliding. A secretary answered, and he identified himself as 'Simon'. She could only tell him that the man with the quiet voice was still on holiday. He left a message for an urgent call back as soon as his paternally-minded quarry could be located. Nothing more could be done, so he rang off. Leaning forward, his elbows on the desk, he ran his fingers through his hair and gripped handfuls of it tightly, until it hurt. He'd been doing that since childhood, whenever the stress got to him. He wanted to scream and cry, but hearing footsteps approaching the door, he let go of his hair, sat up straight, and resumed the mask.