I left her the car keys and went inside to order a soft drink, hesitating only a second at the wine list. Still on duty. I ordered a lemonade, started a tab and sat myself down with two menus.
The table I chose was one of many empty ones in the pub, but this one faced the car park. I watched Laura’s face as she talked on her mobile; she seemed to be speaking quite fast and at one point paused, looked in my direction and
covered her mouth with her hand. That seemed unnecessary, as I didn’t remember telling her I could lip-read. I squirmed a bit in my sturdy high-backed chair. It didn’t budge under my weight, purchased no doubt by the pub chain in an attempt to stop drunken customers throwing them about in fights at last orders. Then the thought struck me that a lot of pubs probably didn’t even have last orders these days. Showing my age again. I was old enough to remember when orange juice was considered to be a starter in restaurants.
So engrossed was I in thoughts of the days when pubs were full of overflowing ashtrays and in a restaurant it was a lottery whether the entire meal could be consumed without the person on the next table lighting a cigarette before the bill came, I failed to register that Laura was standing at the end of the table. When I realised she was there, I held out a menu to her. ‘I’ll go back and order,’ I said. ‘I’ve started a tab. What do you want to drink?’
Once I’d ordered and got her the coffee she wanted, I asked again what the DCI had said.
‘Well,’ she began, stirring her cappuccino, ‘he’s mulling over making all three of them suspects.’
‘Makes sense,’ I said, considering this idea. ‘At this stage, if we nick one of them, we nick them all. Could be a bit harsh if Benjamin Makepeace turns up dead as victim four and he’s wanted for murders committed after he died. Still, can’t see how Nottingham can make one a suspect and not the others at this stage.’
Laura was about to say something when I spotted a waiter heading our way with a plate in each hand. I jerked my head in his direction, causing Laura to pause. Once the food was in front of us, we were quiet for a couple of minutes.
‘He wants us to be at the nick for three o’clock,’ said Laura in between mouthfuls of ciabatta. ‘Wants to have a briefing with us listening in on speakerphone.’
‘I wonder if the system’s compatible for a video conference,’ I said. ‘Hope not; I don’t have to do my hair for the phone.
Doubt we’d be able to set it up in time anyway.’ I paused for air in my haste to eat chips so hot they were stripping the skin from the inside of my mouth.
‘Said he’d give us a couple more things to sort out before we head home, too,’ said Laura.
‘Yeah, he mentioned that earlier. Wonder what I’ll dream about tonight? Being chased by sporrans… drowning in porridge…’
The bill settled, we drove back to the nick to find a room for a conference call and find out what progress the Incident Room had made in finding Adam Spencer, Tony Birdsall and Benjamin Makepeace. At least one of them was looking likely to be the killer.
T
ucked away in a room far removed from the main CID offices and uniform officers running in and out of the building, Laura and I sat with our paperwork in front of us. The only noise came from the telephone’s loudspeaker bringing us the rustle of dozens of investigators entering the conference room and finding a seat. We could hear clearly but still sat as near as possible to the phone, hunched over in case we missed one single word. Introductions made, it was soon under way. Laura and I had a starring role. No one said a word until we had imparted all the information we had so far amassed.
Nottingham cleared his throat. Laura and I were motionless, staring at the handset. ‘I’ve made a decision,’ he said. ‘I’ve updated the policy file and suggest that you all read it. We’ve already had two in custody for Operation Guard, David Connor and Gary Savage. HOLMES will always show them as suspects one and two. My decision reads that Adam Spencer is now a suspect. That makes him suspect number three. Anthony Birdsall is a suspect. He is suspect number four.’ Furious writing both ends of the line.
‘I have not made Benjamin Makepeace a suspect at this time. He is a missing person. We have his blood on a knife. How that blood got into Savage’s van has still not been established. It is a priority that he be found. Once he’s found, I’ll reassess, but for the time being take it that he is to be traced, interviewed and eliminated from this enquiry. Nina, Laura, while you’re in Birmingham, can you go and visit
Makepeace’s GP in case something’s been missed?’ We agreed that we would.
Half an hour later, we were done staring at the telephone. Instead we stared at a list of outstanding enquiries which needed actioning before we could call our work in Birmingham finished. Incident Rooms were run on the allocation and completion of enquiries recorded on action sheets. Their range was far-reaching, varying from locating witnesses, then taking statements, to scoping for CCTV and its seizure. Laura and I spent the rest of the day completing calls, doing paperwork and knocking on doors following up on Benjamin’s disappearance, though there was little to go on. We spent a great deal of time pestering local officers to carry out checks for us on their computer system, as security didn’t allow us direct access.
Laura managed to speak to Makepeace’s GP on the telephone and made an appointment to see him at the end of the surgery’s hours, by which time we hoped our other enquiries would be finished. The surgery had previously been contacted by local officers in case staff could shed any light on their patient’s disappearance, but they’d had little to tell. Benjamin Makepeace had only been to see his doctor on a few occasions and for nothing of note. This information, of course, had all been cleared via Data Protection. Even then, Dr Phillips informed Laura on the phone, before agreeing to an appointment, that he was reluctant to tell us anything relating to his patient’s private records. The medical profession was helpful to a point in investigations, but, for very good reasons, they did not want to be seen as assisting the police beyond their legal requirements. This was completely understandable, but we were attempting to establish if the man could have taken his own life or was a danger to himself or others. After arguing this through on the phone, Dr Phillips agreed to see us.
We arrived for our appointment ten minutes early. It didn’t pass us by that we had parked about five minutes’ walk
from the Makepeaces’ house with its Benjamin memorial. This street was much more pleasant: the houses were spaced further apart and the Wayside Medical Centre was one of the largest. The structure had been added to over time, with an extension to the side and a disabled access ramp at the front. Laura and I made our way to the front door, pausing for a young woman of about twenty-five to struggle out of the double door with her pram. Laura held the door for her.
Inside, we made our way to the receptionist, carefully cocooned within her domain by a large glass screen with a hole cut out for verbal communication. These used to be confined to Underground Station counters and bookies, but clearly the wait for a doctor’s appointment was proving too much for the clientele.
Once we’d been introduced to Dr Stephen Phillips, a small, slight man of about forty, and got settled within his office on uncomfortable plastic chairs, Laura explained again why we wanted to see him. She began with, ‘The reason we’re here speaking to you is that, when the local police first came to the surgery, the Missing Person enquiry was moderately fresh. No trace of Benjamin was found for some time. Just over a week ago, however, carrying out a warrant, we found traces of Benjamin’s blood. This was hundreds of miles away in Riverstone, so we’re making sure that nothing has been missed.’
Dr Phillips looked surprised. That might have been because he genuinely felt it, or he was used to appearing that way for patients when they imparted news to him.
‘Well, let me see. I don’t really have much else to tell you. You told me earlier that you have a copy of the Missing Person report, and everything medical about Benjamin was passed on, which was very little. He hardly came here to see me. I was on holiday when the local police arrived asking to speak to me. A colleague, Dr Darr, provided what information he could about Benjamin, but he’s quite new and I don’t think that he ever saw him as a patient. The last time Benjamin was
here, it was several months ago, for a cold he couldn’t shift. Oh, and, while he was here, I signed his passport application
Both my and Laura’s heads snapped up at this
information
. ‘Passport application?’ Laura asked.
‘Yes, I’m sorry, I realise that this information is very important to a Missing Person enquiry but, as I say, I only returned from leave some time after Dr Darr sent you the notes,’ said Dr Phillips in an even tone. I got the impression he was trying to summon up the right ‘don’t blame me’ tone.
‘We were told he didn’t have a passport and never went abroad,’ Laura said.
‘According to Benjamin, he was looking forward to his trip to Spain to visit a couple of old friends who had a bar out there,’ said the GP.
‘Did he happen to mention who these friends were?’
‘No, sorry. To be honest, I wasn’t all that interested,’ said Dr Phillips.
We asked a few more questions before deciding that we weren’t getting any further, wrote the obligatory statement, thanked Dr Phillips for his time and returned to the privacy of the car. Back within the vehicle, we stared at each other before I said, ‘I thought that passport checks were done for Makepeace?’
‘We probably assumed they were done because everyone said he didn’t have much of a life outside of his mother and the library,’ said Laura as she tapped her fingernails on the steering wheel. ‘Looks like a couple of lucky sods from the Incident Room will be getting a trip to Spain out of this. Want to make the calls and then we’ll drive back to the hotel, see what else is in the paperwork?’
Task completed, we headed for the Scottish nightmare for a shower and change of clothes before settling down to start reading our stack of paperwork. I lay on the floor, surrounded by the paperwork we’d divided in half as Laura sat on my bed, leaning back against the wall.
‘Lol,’ I said, gazing up at her, ‘these murders won’t stop, will they? Not until we find him.’
‘We’ve got a link now,’ she said, clasping the papers in her hand towards her. ‘And a list of suspects.’
‘But we don’t have any idea who may be next,’ I said. ‘It might even be one of the other boys from the home. They’re all going to have be traced and interviewed.’
My work phone started to ring from the bed where I’d left it before flopping to the floor. Laura handed it to me. I registered a flash of annoyance on her face.
‘Hi, there, Ray,’ I said.
I found her expression interesting.
‘Nina, have a bit of news for you. We’ve got Makepeace’s passport details. Seems that he flew from Malaga to Gatwick in August. He flew back on the same plane as Jason Holland.’
Now I was staring straight at Laura as the words registered in my brain. ‘Hang on, Ray,’ I said, ‘Laura’ll want to hear this too.’ I hit the speakerphone button and placed it on the hotel carpet among the messy spread of paperwork. ‘Say that again, Ray, for Laura to hear.’
‘OK, Cagney and Lacey, listen up.’ I laughed; Laura scowled. ‘It seems that there was an application for a passport check on Makepeace when he went missing. However, it was still being processed. We did it on the hurry-up after your meeting with Dr Phillips today. He flew out of Gatwick after he went missing. He flew to Malaga on his own, as far as we can establish, and back again on 22nd August. He was on the same flight as Jason Holland. There is no activity on his bank account so we’re still working out how he booked and paid for the flights. Anyway, we’re looking into whether he travelled with Holland or on his own. Well done, girls. This is one of the best bits of information we’ve had yet.’
Feeling pretty pleased with ourselves, we packed the paperwork away and made plans to head to the bar again. Truth be told, we should have saved our celebrating and finished reading. But we were exhausted.
Laura wanted to nip back to her room to grab her handbag and change her shoes so I took the opportunity to call Bill. His phone was switched off so I left him a message, wandered around my room for a bit, tried to get the broken lampshade straight and then, figuring I’d given Laura enough time, I went off to get her.
I walked along the mercifully tartan-free corridor to her room. As I lifted my hand to knock on her door, I heard her say, ‘No, Nina doesn’t know. No reason for her to find out, either.’
I stepped back, uncertain of what to do. I wasn’t sure whether to confront her or pretend I hadn’t heard. Giving myself time to make up my mind, I tiptoed back to the sanctuary of my room. I sat on the frayed bedspread, which the cleaner had insisted on putting back on the bed, despite my attempt to hide it in the wardrobe. I thought rationally about the snippet of conversation I’d overheard. Firstly, it wasn’t meant for my ears. Secondly, it could have been about anything at all, so why was I being so paranoid? For now, I wasn’t going to mention a thing, just see where the conversation went that night. Mind made up, I wanted out of the room, so I stood up to leave just as a light knocking on the door told me Laura was ready too.
The evening was pleasant enough, but in the back of my mind I kept replaying the part of my friend’s conversation I had heard. I wanted to ask her, but didn’t know how I would feel at outright denial. Besides, I kept telling myself, it might not have been anything to do with work. We chatted over dinner at a busy steak restaurant recommended by the hotel’s receptionist. Neither of us ordered steak. The force’s budget couldn’t stretch to it.
Once the chicken and pasta were paid for, we headed outside to wander back to the hotel, in time for the rain to start.
‘One for the road?’ suggested Laura, jerking her head in the direction of a seedy boozer on the corner.
Personally, I loved seedy boozers. I’d spent a lot of time working in one before I joined the job. It was a fantastic chance to meet blokes with names like ‘John the Gas’, ‘Pete the Milk’ and ‘Harry the Butcher’. Harry was actually a butcher, not someone who hacked people to bits. I’d loved it at the time but seldom went to such places since becoming a police officer. Being offered joints of beef which had been liberated via jockey shorts was always a problem when I had a warrant card in my pocket and was under oath to the Queen.
We went in via the door that promised a Saloon Bar. It failed to deliver.
Six old men well past their prime greeted us inside. They all stopped talking and stared. I went up to the bar and spoke to the young, smiling barmaid. Wine was not a wise choice in such an establishment; we took our bottles of beer and found seats in the corner, away from the pub’s few customers, who had returned to their conversation.
‘How’s it going with Bill?’ asked Laura.
‘OK,’ I said, taking a sip from my beer to mask the smile that was forming. I didn’t want to share too much at this stage and there wasn’t much to say, only a good feeling I got whenever I thought about him. ‘Much happening with you, Lol?’
A shake of the head as she swallowed some of her beer. ‘Not much.’ She didn’t meet my eye, but played with a soggy beer mat instead. Changing the subject, she held the wet cardboard coaster up and said, ‘Banned these in a lot of places, you know. They were being used to mix drugs up.’
‘Really?’ I asked. ‘How bloody sad. That why I end up with my drink dripping into my lap – ’cos some arse wants to stick cocaine up their nose?’
‘What are we doing tomorrow before we head back?’ she asked.
I exhaled, examined my beer bottle and said, ‘Mrs Makepeace, pick the rest of the paperwork up at the nick and get back to the Incident Room.’
‘Good plan.’
It was a good plan, too. In the morning, after another night of Highland night terrors, we checked out of the hotel, saying we had had an enjoyable stay due to the terrific service in the bar. This was somewhat discreet and a little spineless. Then we headed off to see Mrs Makepeace one last time.