Authors: Trevor Burton
The three girls are staring at me as I replace the handset.
‘They’ve booked me on a flight to Portugal in the morning.’
‘Looks like you’re on a jolly then,’ Amelia quips.
‘I guess so,’ I confirm, shaking my head in disbelief as the girls giggle away at my discomfort. Ten minutes later they’re gone and I’m packing my bag for an early start in the morning. I try to book a cab, but it’s too short notice for the first company I call. Not relishing the best part of an hour’s drive, I opt to drive to Crewe station as normal, and pick up the airport train, which takes only thirty minutes. As usual before an early morning flight I struggle to sleep, and wake up in a panic when I remember I’m supposed to be collecting Wendy Davenport on the Friday evening. My sleep is unsettled, with visions of trains and boats and planes.
I park at Crewe long-stay car park and walk over to the station, realising there won’t be much time to get from the airport station to the airport gate at terminal two. The train is due to arrive at 07:04 and the flight is 07:35.
I jog over to terminal one and see Lambert and Evans at the side of the desk, checking their watches, presumably all checked in. There is only a straggle of fellow last-minute travellers queuing, so Lambert waves me forward and pushes me to the front. A tattooed bruiser steps up to remonstrate, but soon retreats at the flashing of Bill’s ID.
With only cabin baggage, we are soon through customs, with airport staff warned that we cannot miss this flight. We catch what must be the last bus to the aircraft and are seated by 07:25. At 07:30 the bruiser enters the cabin and stares angrily at us, clearly just having made the flight with no time to spare.
I sit in the window seat, feeling like a captured fugitive being escorted to his fate. The flight is pleasant, on time and unremarkable. We go over the little information we have on the murder of Marian Clowes, and the police view remains that Milton is the perpetrator. I still feel that this is far too convenient. Refreshment is tea and a chocolate bar, after which we talk about past flights and holidays.
Electronic scanning gets us through passport control in minutes, and with no hold baggage we’re exiting the airport arrivals by eleven o’clock. Strolling out through the exit doors, the heat is immediately apparent, even at this time of year. It’s a good ten degrees warmer than Manchester. At the taxi rank we climb into a big black air-conditioned Mercedes E-class cab, which whisks us through the outskirts of Faro and onto the A22 toll road. The toll system is efficient. There are no manned areas, and the toll control is operated by overhead scanning of number plates. Most vehicles have a transponder fitted in the vehicle, which is automatically picked up by the scanner and billed accordingly. Portuguese cab drivers seem to feel obliged to drive at top speed in the outside lane at all times, and we arrive in Lagos by noon.
The taxi drops us opposite the marina, where we cross the road and traverse the bridge over the waterway, which is periodically raised to allow sea traffic to pass through on its way to the Atlantic Ocean. We walk the same route the girls would have taken, to a strip of bars and restaurants fronting the marina. Taking time out in a first-floor bar for coffee and to work out a strategy, we are afforded a fine view of the marina: a beautiful sight on a sunny day.
‘What’s the plan, then, boss?’ Evans asks.
Lambert looks at me, ‘Did the girls say exactly where this yacht brokerage actually is’
I have to pause to think for a moment. ‘Yes, they said it was on a corner of a small square at the far end, where the road bridges over the river are.’
We all peer north, inland, where the Monchique Mountains are just visible in the distance.
‘I can see the square clear enough,’ Lambert observes, ‘but I can’t quite make out any names on the windows. It should be pretty obvious, though, when we get a bit closer.’
‘Do we walk in and grab him, then, boss?’ Evans asks.
‘More or less, yes, once our friend here has identified him,’ he answers, glancing at me.
‘Can we actually do that?’ I ask hesitantly.
‘Theoretically, probably no, but they say possession is nine tenths of the law,’ Lambert chuckles. ‘But given the choice between being handed over to the Portuguese police and taken down to Portimao police station to wait out an official request, or a nice little airplane trip with us, I know what my choice would be. Evans has the cuffs, and we risked the expense of an extra ticket back – last row on the plane, so less visible to other passengers going on and off.’
‘You seem to have thought of everything,’ I smile.
‘We did feel it in the public interest to speed things up if we could,’ Evans says.
We finish our coffee and take the stairs down at the end of the veranda nearer to our target. We stroll along the marina, trying to look like normal tourists but probably standing out a mile in suits, pale-faced and looking hot. As we check out the larger yachts and gin palaces, Evans says, ‘Don’t suppose I could afford one of those on my salary.’
‘Not a chance, Evans,’ Lambert confirms.
Approaching the end of the marina, we take a left and notice a brokerage at the back of the square. We continue, and a few yards further right on the corner, just as described, there is another.
‘That must be it,’ I say.
‘Right, let’s separate. If we all look through the same window it’ll give the game away,’ Lambert orders. Gesturing at me, he adds, ‘You look through the main window and we’ll hang round the side a bit. If he’s there, give us a nod. We’ll go in first and get his attention with an enquiry, then you follow in half a minute, OK?’
I stroll to the window and pretend to read an ad for a twenty-one-year-old sloop. As I peer into the shop, I can see a man with his back to the window talking to a customer. Both are bending over a table, and the man is pointing down to what appears to be map on the table. I glance over and hold up one finger to indicate one minute. They peer in the window too, and give a thumbs-up that they understand. The two men inside stand upright and shake hands. The customer turns, and the man faces the window, so I quickly move closer to the window as if reading small print on the advert. I move an inch to see the man’s face, and it’s definitely Milton, beard or no beard. I turn, hoping he hasn’t recognised me.
‘It’s him,’ I whisper to the two policemen, who are primed like athletes waiting on their marks. Surprisingly swiftly, they run to the door and are inside. I follow moments later as ordered.
Job done,
I think. They are standing in front of a desk as I walk over, the man behind the desk not yet visible. He appears concerned as I walk into view and stare at the badge bearing the name
Luis
. I am gobsmacked. Shaking my head, I exclaim, ‘It’s not Milton!’ ‘He must have recognised me and slipped out the back.’
‘Where’s the other man?’ Lambert demands of Luis holding up his ID.
‘Harry, go to the bathroom!’ a now frightened Luis replies, glancing towards the rear of the shop.
‘Is there a back door?’ Evans demands.
‘Yes, but what is going on?’ Luis asks as we all rush to the rear of the shop.
‘Later,’ Lambert offers over his shoulder.
The rear door opens onto the outside of the square.
‘How bloody stupid could we be?’ Lambert curses, looking at me and Evans. Our sheepish silence confirms our agreement. There are only two directions he could have taken, one back to the marina, but unless he is hiding, the way back along the marina is clearly visible but no one is in sight. We jog in the opposite direction, which takes a dog-leg to the right behind the square and forward again behind older, greyer buildings to a road.
There is no traffic on this road, because to the left is a bridge over a river with ongoing construction work. If he’s taken that route, he would still be in sight on the bridge. To the right along the road in the direction of Portimao there is no sign either. Across the road is a supermarket, but that is unlikely. However, on the other side of the road between the supermarket and the river is a rough path with undergrowth, which we stare at for a moment. We are rewarded for our attention, as near the end of the path, as it reaches another bridge, movement can be seen. It’s Milton, moving fast despite the clawing weeds, sand, and other vegetation.
The chase is back on. Evans, as the youngest and fittest, sprints ahead as we cross the road in pursuit. Like Milton before him, Evans is slowed by the undergrowth, allowing Lambert and me to catch up. We climb up to the road and look right: nothing. Looking left, we see Milton three-quarters of the way across the bridge. We are perspiring heavily as we reach the end of the bridge. Milton turns left onto another similar path alongside the river, which will take him back in the direction of the marina and downtown Lagos. Following as fast as we can, Evans pulls away on the easier terrain and is twenty-five yards ahead as we hit the path.
Milton is slowing. We’ve seen no people up to this point, and I am praying that Evans can catch him before we get much closer to town, where he could easily mingle into the crowds.
The path ends, and we are back onto normal pavements heading into Lagos, passing the brick walls of what must originally have been a fish-canning factory. The factory is now long gone, save for several original brick chimneys left standing. Storks are clearly visible nesting on top of the chimneys. I glance across the road at old buildings that also have nesting storks on the roofs. Milton ploughs on across a roundabout, the centre of which is adorned by a metal sculpture of a stork. This is where the bridge construction begins again. We jog on, and soon we are nearing the footbridge leading back to the marina.
There are lights flashing, indicating that the bridge is about to be raised. To mine and my companions’ amazement, Milton runs onto the rising bridge. Surely not? But yes, he is trying to beat the raising of the bridge to avoid being caught. His efforts are in vain, however, for it rises surprisingly quickly, and at halfway up, close to vertical, a clearly fatigued Milton falters and slides slowly down into the waiting embrace of a very hot Detective Sergeant Evans. Lambert and I arrive a good half-minute later, perspiring freely and out of breath as a beaming Sergeant Evans is placing the cuffs on his quarry.
‘Nice to see you, too, Mr Barry Milton,’ a still-breathless Lambert says sarcastically. ‘Let’s see what you’re calling yourself today.’
Evans is holding Milton tightly, so I search through his pockets. I find a passport, flick it open, take a peek, and hand it to Lambert, smiling.
‘Harry Wilton. Is that the best you could come with?’ he laughs.
By now a crowd is gathering as the bridge has been lowered. We move away quickly before attracting the attention of the maritime police.
‘Move normally,’ Evans orders Milton, ‘unless you want to be locked in a cell in Portimao within the hour.’
Milton meekly complies. Five minutes later we’re back at the taxi rank in the centre of Lagos. Another big Mercedes, this time cream, whisks us away to the A22 toll road bound for Faro airport. I sit in the front, while Barry/Harry is wedged like a sardine between the two policemen, making full use of the seating capacity of the big Merc.
We make a short detour on the way to Milton’s rented apartment to collect his original passport in his real name. Evans hands me the key, and I soon find his passport hidden under boxer shorts in a bedroom drawer. We continue on to Faro, where we are booked on an early evening flight back to Manchester, and we have time to spare at Faro airport. The airport is not busy, and finding a quiet spot it is the first time Lambert has had a chance to question Milton.
‘So, Barry, what have you got to say about the murder of Marian Clowes?’
Milton looks astonished. ‘I didn’t kill her. I thought this was about the dodgy claims at Salford into Work.’
‘It’s about that as well, Barry,’ Lambert persists. ‘Why did you run, then, if it is only the dodgy claims as you say?’
‘Come on, you know I’ve done time before in Strangeways. There’s no way I want to go back in there.’
‘You had motive and opportunity, Barry,’ Evans chips in.
‘But I never left the bar that night. I don’t think I even went to the toilet, so how could I have done it?’
‘Can anyone back you up on that?’ Lambert demands.
‘I was talking to people from work most of the time. Phil Biggins was there, and the barman knows me. He would say so, I’m sure he would.’
Time is now pressing and we have to move.
‘Well, you’ve got a few hours to think some more,’ Lambert says. ‘Next time we chat it will be official at GMP HQ. Let’s go.’
The flight back to Manchester is unremarkable. Milton is subdued and dozes most of the way, appearing resigned to his fate. The in-flight food is acceptable, and we land at 8:30pm. The policemen and their charge, are met by a uniformed driver and whisked away in an unmarked Vauxhall Insignia to GMP HQ. I’m left to my own devices and head for the airport station, joining the other passengers waiting for the last train back to Crewe.
I’m feeling deflated after the excitement of the day, and then it hits me: oh hell! I was supposed to be meeting Wendy at Piccadilly railway station at 8:45pm. It’s now 9:05 and the train to Crewe has not yet arrived. I move further down the platform to be more private as I call her. I check my mobile for messages – surely she would have called or texted by now? Panic sets in as I push the green button. What has happened? Is the train merely late, or has she taken the huff, thinking I’ve stood her up? I get the
I can’t take your call right now
message. I had been dreaming of a first night together, but bloody Milton has taken care of that, hasn’t he? I wonder what to do. I’ve lost my place in the queue, and I don’t know what hotel she was booked in to. I decide to wait until I get back home. Eventually the train turns up. I collect my car and arrive home pissed off and worried.
***
Mid-afternoon Friday, at Bath council planning department, Wendy Davenport is preparing to leave early. She is due to travel by train up to Manchester to visit her daughter and also renew her acquaintance with the man who helped trace some of her family connections.
An acquaintance
, she thought.
Who am I kidding?
She had in fact been up a few weeks prior and had been on a date with him, but her Uncle John’s heart attack had put paid to any further romance, for the short-term anyway. On receiving the news, she had immediately visited Wythenshawe hospital, and the prognosis that he wouldn’t survive the night had unfortunately proved accurate.
She had attended the funeral and then returned to work in Bath. Her feelings for the Gent, however, remained, and her remorse at running out on her date weighed heavily on her. She’d called him and was over the moon at the reciprocated feelings.
Arriving at Manchester Piccadilly at 8:45pm, she made her way down the platform with some slight apprehension. Would he be waiting as promised, or would he have changed his mind? The meeting place was in front of the automated departure board. At 8:50pm, her heart dropped. There was no sign of him. She searched around the departure board, peering at the entry/exit doors of the station. Feeling like a little girl abandoned, the tears flowed. Embarrassed, she walked to the exit and a few yards beyond, hoping against hope that he would come striding up the approach at any moment. It was not to be. ‘Pull yourself together,’ she said out loud. Dabbing her eyes, Wendy returned to the automated departure board, but there was still no sign.
Don’t be daft
, she thought, searching her handbag for her mobile and his number.
This number is unable to receive calls at the moment. Please try later
. What could have happened? It was now 9:05. A thought occurred: she had the number of his business partner, Amelia.
Nervously tapping out the number, she waited.
Amelia was helpful and upbeat. ‘Hello,’ she trilled. ‘I’ve not been able to get hold of him either. I’m sure he’s been delayed somewhere – he had to go chasing some villain with the police. I’m confident he will call in the morning.’
‘Oh, thank you so much,’ Wendy said. ‘I felt such a fool stood here worrying.’
‘No problem. Have fun tomorrow. Bye.’
Feeling greatly relieved, but concerned that he was in danger, Wendy hailed a cab to the Renaissance Hotel. After checking in she took a sleeping pill and retired to bed for the night.
***
It’s now ten thirty. I pour myself a drink and turn on the TV for news. I remember the landline and listen to messages: there’s one from Amelia, checking what’s up. She had called the mobile, but assumed I was still on the flight and hoped we could speak in the morning. I consider ringing her but realise I hadn’t mentioned about meeting Wendy off the train. I give up and go to bed, troubled.
I sleep late, and am woken by the landline. It’s Amelia.
‘Thought you must have stayed in Portugal,’ she says.
‘No, Milton was where we expected but ran off before we could nab him. He led us a merry dance, I can tell you, but we brought him back. He’s denying any involvement in the murder, of course.’
‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ she replies.
‘Says he has people in the bar who can give him an alibi. Meanwhile he’s in custody at police headquarters.’
‘What about the fraud stuff, though?’
‘Oh, he’s admitted that. He says he only did a runner because he didn’t want to do time again.’
‘Fair enough,’ she says. ‘Oh, your friend Wendy called last night. I didn’t know she had my number, but anyway, she was only slightly miffed that you didn’t show last night. I did explain that you were on a mission, but gave no details. She’s staying at the Renaissance Hotel. I said I was sure you’d ring this morning.’
‘You’re a real gem, Amelia, thank you. I’ll call right away. Speak later.’
I put down the phone, feeling elated, and all tiredness gone. Wendy answers immediately.
‘I must apologise profusely,’ I begin.
‘Don’t worry. After ten minutes’ waiting at the station, I called Amelia and she told me you were off chasing crooks somewhere with the police, so I understood.’
‘It’s not quite like that, but close enough. I did try to call from the airport but only got a recorded message, and by the time I got home it was too late. What are your movements today? Can we meet up later?’
‘Of course! I’ve got to see my daughter at lunch time, so how about later? Why don’t you come over for dinner? I’m staying at the Renaissance in Blackfriars.’
‘That sounds perfect. 7:30 OK?’
‘Yes, indeed. See you later,’ she ends.
Calm now restored, I make another cup of tea and wonder what I will do for the rest of the day. I’m sure Cyril the farmer has chores for me, but I don’t really fancy mucking out today. Milton being the murderer of Marian Clowes still isn’t adding up. In all the talk about blowing the whistle on the various frauds, did anyone actually do it? Blow the whistle, that is? Or did it only come out when the employees of Salford into Work were interviewed by the police?
The rest of the day passes slowly and uneventfully. I manage to avoid Cyril’s beady eye as I check on the pigs and chickens – all sound. I shower and change into light chinos and a blue linen jacket. The Saab has been washed, of course, to impress.
I give myself plenty time to make sure I’m early – I can’t have Wendy waiting on her own in the bar of the Renaissance Hotel. The M6 and M62/602 motorways are light on traffic and I’m able to park on a street opposite the hotel by seven fifteen. One minute later and I am in the bar. I order Bombay Sapphire gin and tonic with lime and sit down on a bar stool to wait. I suddenly realise that if we choose to eat out I haven’t booked a table, and it is Saturday in Manchester.
I sense a presence and look up. ‘You must have been early,’ she says, looking like an angel in a classic blue dress framed by a fashionable poncho-type shawl and killer black heels.
‘Traffic was light,’ I answer, trying to sound casual. ‘What would you like to drink?’
The barman has appeared as if by magic. ‘Can I have one of those, please?’ she asks, gesturing at my drink.
With no stools left, I step down and we move away to a more discreet setting as the barman says, ‘I’ll bring them right over.’
‘Here’s to you,’ I say, raising my glass.
‘To us,’ she reciprocates. ‘Have you thought about eating? Only I had lunch here with my daughter. Very nice it was too though.’
I’m stumped now, and have to admit it. ‘I messed up. I forgot to reserve somewhere, but I may have a get-out if I can just make a phone call. If you don’t mind, that is. It is a rather nice Italian restaurant and I’m owed a favour.’
‘Of course I don’t mind, and I love pasta. Do you want me to go the loo or something?’
‘Not at all, as long as you can stand my creeping to the owner.’
‘Sounds like fun,’ she replies.
Unsure whether I’m doing the right thing by exposing myself to potential future embarrassment, I dial the number for Peroni restaurant. It is answered in three rings.
Is that a sign of being busy?
I wonder. It is a Saturday, after all. I ask for Carlo and he is a lifesaver, explaining that an
early bird
diner will be finished in twenty minutes and if we can be there soon he will reserve the table for us. I’m chuffed and thank him profusely.
Wendy smiles at me. ‘A man of influence, obviously,’ she says.
‘More good fortune,’ I retort, but glowing at her admiration. ‘He said it could be twenty minutes and he will reserve the table for us. It’s only ten minutes to walk, so no need to rush your drink.’
I ask about her daughter and we indulge in other small talk while finishing our drinks. Leaving the hotel, we link arms and take a romantic stroll across Deansgate through St Ann’s Square, where the Christmas Market has a Bavarian influence. Moving up King Street, we reach Peroni at eight fifteen. The table is ready, and a waiter escorts us over with menus. A minute later Carlo brings two glasses of champagne. Wendy gives me a quizzical look, as though I had planned it. Carlo is at his most effusive.
‘I can recommend the chef’s special tonight, sir, for you and your beautiful companion.’
‘Wendy, Carlo,’ I complete introductions. Bowing ever so slightly, he glides off, leaving us to the menu.
‘Bit of a charmer,’ she muses.
‘Can be a tad over the top sometimes,’ I agree.
The waiter returns, and I order a bowl of olives to share, and
orecchiette
pasta for Wendy, with broccoli, pine nuts and basil pesto. I choose a hearty lasagne, the posh twist being that it is described as
with beef meatballs
rather than mince, accompanied by a bottle of Montepulciano red wine. The meal is wonderful, with Carlo and his team paying due attention to make it a special occasion. After coffee we retrace our steps back to the hotel. After our ill-starred and curtailed lunchtime date, I am hoping for a more romantic outcome. We sit at the same table as earlier in the evening. We order a nightcap: coffees with brandy.
‘I do believe I’m a little drunk,’ she purrs, her lips touching my cheek.
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Not at all,’ she answers, downing the rest of her brandy in one go as she stands, takes my hand and walks me to the lift. The lift doors are still closing as we embrace, and we remain in one another’s arms until the fifth-floor bell chimes. Once inside the room there is no embarrassment, only a gentle languorous slide into ecstasy.
The next morning is relaxed and comfortable, as though we have known each other for a long time. We have coffee and chat for a while. I ask to meet later but she is lunching with her daughter again and is catching an afternoon train home. I leave, promising to call her in a few days. I walk back to the Saab with a smile on my face and in my heart, even though it is raining. Even the parking ticket on the windscreen doesn’t wipe the smile off my face.