Chapter 3

The Phone Was Ringing

The DCI’s understanding of the best way to get from here to there had proven to be a source of annoyance to phone callers. His educated guesses, whilst perusing the big map at the front desk, betrayed his complete lack of knowledge regarding locally well-known road closures and one-way streets, and his inability to supply the reason why the Force helicopter had been flying over their houses, at three in the morning, often left them in a state of being miffed that almost qualified as peeved. Once or twice, he would have described their reaction as unhinged.

He felt under-appreciated. That’s why, after the first three weeks, he’d learned to ignore the phone. However, the intermittent high-pitched squeaking of a malfunctioning cistern in the gents’ toilets was another matter. It was starting to get on his nerves. He’d mentioned it to a visiting patrol who replied, “We’ve told them about it, they said it’s on the list and they’ll do it asap.” When he asked how long ago that was, he got the disheartening answer, “Six months.”

Today, the phone rang. He ignored it. He let it ring and thought they’d soon get fed up. They didn’t. Whoever this was, they were made of sterner stuff. He briefly considered lifting the handset and putting it back down again straight away but, somehow, he knew it would just start ringing again.

“Sutton Police post, Detective Chief Inspector Baddeley. Can I help you?” He’d hoped the grandeur of his title might have put the caller off and half expected to hear just a tone.

“Hello, Boss. It’s Gandalph.”

“Stephen! Nice to hear from you. Before you say anything more, can I just say, I’m sorry my leaving took you down with me. It wasn’t intended, I assure you.”

“No worries, Boss. I’m out in Area now. It’s OK and the people I work with seem a decent bunch, but my problem is the Inspector. She hates my guts and is making things difficult.”

“I’m not sure I can be of any assistance there, Stephen.”

“Well, I heard from my mate, Davvo, you had a lot on your hands, and I thought you might appreciate a bit of help.”

“Well, that would be welcome, but I really can’t see how I’m going to be able to influence a move for you. I think I’m pretty much persona non grata at headquarters at the moment.”

“Oh, I don’t need you to do anything, well, not much. I’ve got it all sorted. I’ve done a report from the Chief Super, St Helens, requesting my Area supply one person to work at your place, manning the desk. I made up some guff about staff shortages, special events and operations then said it would only be temporary. A mate of mine copied all the signatures. He’s got a knack for that sort of thing. He even wrote above my Super’s fake signature – “The new man, Randalph doesn’t appear to be fully employed. Get this sorted immediately.”

The furrow on Thurstan’s brow would have been a worthy second in a ploughing competition. “I’m sorry for interrupting, but surely all she has to do is check with them both and you’re going to find yourself in very deep water?”

“She’ll find it a bit difficult; the St Helens boss has just left for a walk in the Andes, part of his bucket list apparently, and her own Super is taking all the annual leave he was owed and buggering off on an extended trip around Europe, even he doesn’t know where he’ll be from one day to the next. He bored me half to death telling me all about it when he did my ‘welcome to the Area’ interview. By the time she finds out they’re fake, it’ll be too embarrassing for her to make a fuss.”

“Well, I hope you’re right, for your sake.”

Gandalph laughed. “They can’t demote me, Boss. I’m already a ‘cod’s head’.”

“So, what do you want me to do, if anything?”

“It’s just, if an Inspector Barkus phones up asking about the request for someone to man Sutton Box can you just play along? Have you got an office to yourself, one with its own extension?”

Thurstan had to go back and check the number before saying: “How are you going to ensure she’ll call my number.”

“I’m going to add it to the report as a contact point before I plonk it on her desk. I just needed an extension the local bobbies are unlikely to randomly pick up. Trust me, Boss. I know her. She used to be my Sergeant years ago. She might ask a few questions with the Acting Super here but he’s not one to get involved in this sort of thing. I’m counting on him telling her to get on with it and she won’t want to look foolish by questioning him, let alone the St Helens Chief Super. She’s a promotion pole climber and won’t want to attract adverse comments on her file.”

“It sounds a bit tenuous to me, Stephen. What if she just says they can’t spare you?”

“My sergeant’s Jimmy the Fish, you might know him?”

“I don’t think so, what’s his surname?”

“Dobson, Boss.”

“No, doesn’t ring any bells.”

“Well, DI Drayton’s a mate of his. Jimmy said if the Inspector asks him anything he’ll tell her I’m a pain in the arse and he’d be better off without me. The most brilliant part of this is when she raises it with me, I’m going to refuse to go which will make her even more determined to make sure I do.”

Thurstan went for a coffee. He liked Gandalph, he knew he was adept at the more unorthodox aspects of police activities, but he couldn’t help wondering how much more shit this cunning plan would embroil them both in. Of course, if it did go wrong there was always the standard response of simply denying all knowledge and looking confused, but he was beginning to think early retirement might be a more viable option – especially if feigning stupidity didn’t work.

Back at his desk, he continued reading his latest task. The unsolved murder of Agnes Riley, a middle-aged widow, had occurred in Blackthorn Street, September 1902. She’d been found strangled and in her underwear. There was evidence in the file she’d been involved in prostitution; her late husband’s pension from the railway probably unable to keep pace with the landlord’s rent rises. Nobody had seen anything, although several of her known clients were interviewed and eliminated from the investigation. With nothing better to do, Thurstan carefully read through the file, finding a folded-up report slipped between several handwritten statements.

Constable 71 Flitcroft had spoken to a small girl, the 9-year-old Edith Henthorn, who’d told him that, at the time the murder was supposed to have happened, she’d been playing in the area behind the yards at the rear of the houses. That’s when she’d seen a man leave the widow’s premises by way of the back gate. She said he gave her an angry look and walked off towards the waterworks on Sutton Road. Constable Flitcroft reported he’d asked her if she would be able to recognise the man again and she’d told him, “It wus th’man who wus int paper last week.”

There then followed a description of the mysterious stranger and the Officer asked if he should take a written statement from the young girl. There were several unintelligible signatures following his comment, but the last thing Thurstan could read was the report had been forwarded to Inspector Ridings of the CID. He flicked through the remaining pages of the file then quickly did the same with what he’d previously read. There was no evidence that any statement had ever been taken from little Edith nor was there anything from the previous week’s newspaper, the St Helens Reporter.

There was, however, a statement taken by an illegible Detective Constable from an old woman living opposite the dead widow’s home. On days when the weather permitted, she liked to sit on a chair just inside the open door to her home, crocheting doilies or antimacassars. It seemed she had a clear view of many of the houses facing her own. Requiring glasses only for close work, she had seen no one entering or leaving the victim’s home.

At the back of the box, slotted into a tatty envelope, were several crime scene fingerprints and a report from the person who had lifted them. There being so many marks in the victim’s house, Detective Sergeant Collins recorded he’d had to be very selective. He’d taken those considered to be, in all probability, the freshest. Three were taken from two recently used glasses which he believed had contained gin. An empty bottle on the table alongside confirmed his suspicions; four partials and a full thumb print taken from it belonged to the deceased, as did two prints from the glasses. That left an almost full thumb print unaccounted for.

In the afternoon, in the local library, Thurstan was directed to the microfiche records, and it wasn’t long before he found what he sought.

An edition of a local paper, from the week before the murder, displayed a photograph of a man matching the description little Edith had given of the person she saw. He was standing, solemnly, beside two older men. The caption read – ‘Sir Montague Hillingdon and Superintendent Beeson welcome young Mr Montague to the town’s foremost Lodge’.  

****

Lizzie managed to get back for the weekend. Luckily, the weather allowed them to head out to Wales for a walk. At the top of Moel Famau, they sat in the sunshine and a comfortable silence as they ate their sandwiches, backs against the base of the former Jubilee Tower which had, long, long ago succumbed to a storm, gravity and lack of funds.

On the way down, she suddenly asked, “So, what are you doing out at Sutton Box, sweetie?” She saw his surprised look, and added, “I phoned the office, and someone mentioned you were working out there.”

“Oh, I’m just doing some historical cold case reviews and, well, I thought it best to be away from any distractions and couldn’t think of anywhere quieter.”

She smiled at him. “Well, sweets, I think you chose very wisely.” There was a short silence, then she said, “So, what exactly was it you said to the new Chief Constable for him to make you the Sheriff of Stinky Brook?”

****

Monday presented him with the grinning face of Gandalph and, over a coffee, he brought him up to speed with what needed to be done.

“What I want is for you, first of all, to get these boxes in date order then we’ll quickly go through as many as we can and see which ones we can eliminate from further serious effort.” He added, “When that’s done, hopefully, I’ll be able to get back to that one on my desk and you might be able to help me with some of the enquiries. I’ve a feeling I’ve cracked it, but I just need to check a few more things out.”

“Are we likely to get a body for it, Boss?”

“Only if we dig him up and I can’t quite see the point of that. Everyone concerned snuffed it a long time ago but what interests me is there was an obvious suspect and I’ve got the feeling there was local police corruption in high places involved. I just need some confirmation of one or two things and, Stephen, that’s where your computer skills will come in handy. You’ll be able to access those genealogy sites and save me having to register and pay search fees and the like.”

They settled down and two days later had managed to acquire a small pile of boxes in the corner to which were individually sellotaped notices stating ‘Historical cold case. Reviewed: no evidence of a positive nature – case closed’ – all nicely date stamped and signed by Thurstan. The man from the storage company came and collected them the following day and took them to a facility in the old salt mines of darkest Cheshire. Apparently, the dry air down there was perfect for that sort of thing.

He returned to his 1902 murder and, over fish and chips, he and Gandalph discovered there was a historical society exhibition at the Town Hall which they both agreed could be a pleasant and informative way to spend the afternoon.

“Stephen, have you heard anything about how everyone’s getting on back at Fantasy Island?” Thurstan asked as he locked the front door.

Gandalph surveyed the clear blue sky. “It sounds as if it’s all gone a bit ‘tits up’ and they’re working their arses off.” He paused. “Ooh, look, Boss. There’s a little cloud over there.”

Thurstan shielded his eyes in the direction Gandalph was pointing. “Oh, yeah, so there is. My car or yours?”

“Well, you can claim back the expenses, so yours, obviously, Boss.”