Chapter 7

The Visit

The following morning, Thurstan stared at his desk as he entered the room. The box was back. “Stephen! What’s this doing here?”

A voice from beyond replied, “Ah, yes, I can explain that, Boss.”

The DCI called back, “Then do so, please!”

Gandalph appeared, carrying two cups, one of which he handed over. “I came in early and caught him in the act,” he declared, quietly, turning round to reveal nothing.

Thurstan couldn’t prevent himself from following the gaze down the empty corridor before letting out a blank, “Who?”

Gandalph: “Colin Parfitt, Boss. He’s the Area driver, you know the one who takes dispatches and various stuff all over the place...”

With what little patience he’d woken up with slithering away into a void, Thurstan interrupted, “Yes, I know what an Area driver does, Stephen. Why does he keep putting this bloody box on my desk?”

Gandalph: “It’s best if he explains it.” He called him forward, “Colin! Come and meet the Boss!”

A slender man appeared from the kitchen wearing a support staff uniform and badge - early thirties, clean shaven, slightly receding brown hair.

Thurstan pointed to the package: “What’s this all about?”

Sheepishly, Colin replied, “Well, I’ve been putting it there every now and then in the hope you might take some notice, maybe open it and start reading. It’s my uncle’s fault, he told me he thought there was something not right about it.”

Thurstan slid the lid up and off the body of the container, grasped the top sheet of A4 paper and quickly studied the information it contained. “It clearly indicates here someone was arrested not far from the crime scene in possession of the murder weapon. The Magistrates sent him to Risley Remand Centre.” He read on then said: “Committed suicide in his cell three weeks later.” He fell silent.

Colin cut in on the DCIs thoughts. “The more he thought about it, the more my uncle thought the lad had been set up. He didn’t really have any evidence, just it felt all wrong to him.”

Thurstan: “Take a seat, Colin. Did your uncle know the lad?” He paused to look at the sheet he held. “Leonard Turner?”

Colin: “Not really, but sort of. My uncle used to be a policeman. When they brought young Lennie in, he was the Custody Officer. He said although it wasn’t blatantly obvious, he felt something wasn’t altogether right with him. The lad didn’t seem at all concerned; he wasn’t cocky or brash, he wasn’t timid or scared, he was just, well, he was just there, no emotions. Uncle Jack said, he thought it odd and asked the arresting officers to make an enquiry with Social Services just in case they’d had any dealings, then he had him put in a cell whilst he went for his meal break. He told the Sergeant who’d come to take over, there were to be no interviews until he got back.

“When he did get back, two plain clothes guys passed him on their way out. He said he vaguely knew them by sight and thought they might be from some sort of regional drug squad. They seemed smug, full of themselves, so he asked the other Sergeant what they’d been doing there and was told they’d only wanted a quick look at this lad, Lennie, to see if they knew him.

“Because he was busy booking someone else in, the other Sergeant had let them wander down to the cells but said they were only there a couple of minutes at the most.”

Thurstan looked back at the civilian driver. “I’m assuming your uncle has probably passed on by now?”

Colin shook his head, “No, he’s in sheltered housing. He’s not quite the man he used to be. He can get confused often but on a good day he can be quite sharp.”

Thurstan glanced over at Gandalph, who was sat on the edge of the desk, and received a ‘why not’ shrug followed by “I can crack on with the Blackthorn Street job, Boss, while you wade through this box. It’s not a problem.”

The DCI thoughtfully pulled a few more sheets from the box, read them over then sighed, “Alright, young man, I’ll have a read of it today. Give your contact details to Stephen here and, if we need to speak again, one of us will give you a call.”

When the civilian driver had left, Thurstan asked his DC to see if he could find out what happened to Doris Farmer - where she went when she left service at the Hillingdons, when she died and if there were any living relatives.

“And that’s going to help us, how, Boss?”

Thurstan shrugged. “I’m not sure, but if she had any relatives she was close to, and they’re still living, I’m wondering if she ever told them anything more than we know already. Domestic servants could hear all sorts of things going on in these big houses. It’s worth a try.”

They cracked on – the DCI wading through the box, his DC on the internet tracing Doris Farmer’s relatives and general information.

Just after midday, Gandalph nipped out to get them both something from the local chip shop down the road. There was a queue, but he was grateful for the break, so instead of returning and coming back later, he lounged around inside, watching the world go by, or what there was of it.

The black limo, preceded by two yellow-jacketed police motorcyclists, glided past and pulled into the Sutton Box car park. He knew who it would be and decided not to place his order until the Chief Con’s cavalcade had departed. He wasn’t going to wander in there with a carrier bag of fish and chips and a gormless smile, drawing attention to himself and the arrangement he and the Boss had made.

A short while later, Thurstan watched the limo and escort disappear into the distance and, seeing Gandalph trudging towards him with a small bulging white plastic bag, decided to wait in the sunshine. The DC joined him in staring down the now empty road and said, quietly, “Never seen that before; a Chief Con with a motorcycle escort.”

“No,” came the laconic reply.

“Was I seeing things, or has he got flags fluttering on the front wings?”

“Yeah.”

“Does he think he’s the President?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me, but I’d wager General Patton, at least.”

They exchanged glances that silently said, “Yeah ... wanker.”

In the office, Gandalph asked, “What did he want?”

Thurstan replied, “He came to tell me my future. Apparently, if I see a job advertised in a fish and chip shop, I should take it. Anything in the window down there?”

Gandalph shook his head. “No, they’ve just taken someone on. If it’s any consolation, you only missed it by a week.” He went for the plates and cutlery.

When he returned, Thurstan had opened a package and was blowing on a chip.

Gandalph laid the table and began unwrapping everything. “I thought I’d push the boat out and got some curry sauce as well, Boss. I suspected you might need cheering up.”  

“Thanks. What do I owe you?”

“Nothing. My treat.”

After, with a cup of tea each, they sat at their desks in a silence only broken by the DCI eventually declaring, “Right, best crack on with this then.” He eased the top off the box, removed the main file, sighed, and began to read.

****

Just after ten o’clock at night, in a street forming part of a small upmarket area of roads subjected to several recent burglaries, plainclothes OSD officers saw 19-year-old Lennie Turner discard something over a low garden wall. They turned their unmarked car around and stopped him.

While one officer patted him down, the other rummaged around in the front garden of a bungalow nearby and returned with a bloody knife. The officer searching noted their suspect had traces of blood on his hands and on the jacket he was wearing.

Lennie tried to explain he’d been given the jacket and had found the knife in a pocket. Knowing he shouldn’t have such a thing on the street, he’d thrown it away and, because his hands were sticky, he’d wiped them on the jacket. He pointed out the house where he said a man had given him the coat and was then handcuffed whilst one of the officers went to enquire with the householder. On returning, the officer told Lennie he was being arrested on suspicion of murder.

Inside the crime scene, diminutive local market trader, Robbie Doyle, lay dead in his kitchen. His heavily blood-stained shirt, and the knife Lennie had admitted to having, indicated the cause of death was a stab wound to his chest.

The detectives investigating were adamant Turner was ‘bang to rights’ and his refusing to say anything in interview, other than “No comment” did nothing to convince them otherwise. He also had an official caution listed against him for burglary some years previously, so they theorised he’d tried the same thing but, on this occasion, it had gone horribly wrong.

After a brief appearance at the Magistrates Court, Lennie was kept in custody to be sent to Risley Remand Centre. A second court appearance followed, and he was again kept in custody. Shortly after, in the place known to many in the Northwest of England as ‘Grisly Risley’, he was found dead in his cell. He’d hung himself with his tracksuit pants.