Chapter 25

2022

Ticking Along

Stroking his cheek, Thurstan walked along the corridor from his office. He’d got used to the beard. Granted, there was a touch of grey on the chin, but Lizzie said she thought it made him look cool. He was happy with cool.

As he entered the main storage area, a voice called out, “Boss, just the man! Saved me a journey. All the stuff is ready for the property auction and they’re collecting it tomorrow morning.”

“Ahead of schedule! Thank you, Stanley, another fine mess you’ve got me out of.”

The Central Property Office lay in the subterranean bowels of the building, a place where natural light was seldom seen, unless you stood on a few boxes and wiped the grime off the window. Thurstan was convinced he was the palest person in his street, if not the village.

Four years ago, things had been going well at Sutton Box. They’d obtained their sample from David Thompson, who was vaguely aware his grandfather, Albert, had been adopted; his father had mentioned it once, many years ago. Not even Albert knew who his mother was and nor did his adoptive parents. If he’d ever been curious, in those days it would have gone no further than that. It was how things were done.

The DNA samples had disclosed Max Hillingdon and David Thompson were related. Thurstan decided to leave it to them to work out what their relationship to each other actually was. He’d rather investigate murders than family trees; murders were less complicated.

The Blackthorn Street file was finally closed. In his covering report, Thurstan named young Montague Hillingdon as the probable killer. He listed the reasons for his conclusion as being: Edith Henthorn’s identifications, the untested fingerprint evidence, the irrefutable family connections to the victim and the clear indications the prime suspect was studiously ignored by the officer leading the investigation who, shortly after, had been elevated to the mighty company of the town’s premier Masonic lodge, a position he could never have attained without the exertion of considerable influence on his behalf. 

As the designated decision maker, he’d claimed the detection for the force and mentally hung the scalp on his wall. All he and Gandalph had to do then was try to find Reg Barker, however, they didn’t get that far. Four years further on, he still hadn’t, but it wasn’t because he hadn’t tried from time to time.

He’d taken the Lennie Turner box with him when the Chief Constable had decided he appeared to be enjoying himself too much and curtailed his activities at Sutton by sending him to the dark grotto he now patrolled.

Occasionally, he’d taken its contents out, reacquainted himself with the facts and looked for a way forward, but never found one to lead him to Barker. Still no records of a death or even a marriage. Of course, it didn’t mean he wasn’t dead, but the circumstances involving it being unrecorded began to become something worthy of a Hollywood script. It was simpler to accept he was still out there somewhere, until proven otherwise.

He had found a former police officer who’d attended the official search of Robbie Doyle’s lock-up garage though.

Somebody on the original investigation team had still been sufficiently interested after Lennie’s arrest to discover its existence and location. They’d forced the padlock and run a sniffer dog through it.

Thurstan had spoken to the dog’s handler, who’d told him, “There’d been a stash of drugs in there, very recent like. Absolutely no doubt. My dog, Rolf, was certain and I trusted his judgement. He was a great one, Rolf. He didn’t bark and get excited when he’d found something. It was just his way, I never taught him. He’d sit down in front of what he’d found and give me this look that said, “Dad! Dad! It’s here." I’m sure he thought he was undercover. When I retired, they let me keep him because he was very near retirement himself. He never forgot what his job had been, though, which led to some interesting and awkward moments sometimes.” As an afterthought, he’d added, “It was surprising how many of my neighbours were using or dealing drugs.”

Six months after his new posting, he’d spoken to old Ted Latimer and updated him on what had happened. Of course, they met at the pub and Ted had been forthright.

“You see, Thurstan. I understand you can’t find this ex-drug detective and his partner in crime is dead, but what’s stopping you from making it public knowledge that Lennie was innocent and framed, at least around here?”

“Ted, it’s not so simple. There are certain considerations to be made. First and foremost, I need to find a journalist I can trust with the information. I need someone who can filter out issues such as Data Protection or libel or anything that could generally release a world of shit upon me.”

Ted smiled. “Why didn’t you say so before? I know just the man. He works for the St Helens News and Journal. It’s an online thing. Proper journalist, he’s in the union and lucky for you, he drinks in here a couple of times a week.”

Thurstan tried to protest. “Ted, he doesn’t sound what I’m looking for. It sounds a bit amateurish, like a one-man band sort of thing. I’m not sure ...”

He was interrupted. “Listen, lad. It’s done very professionally. Anyway, you seem to know what pitfalls to avoid so what’s stopping you writing it and letting him publish it. He’ll most probably be able to tidy it up for you as well.” He supped his drink then solemnly said, “You told me you’d solve this case, and you have, but it’s not worth a carrot if no bugger knows.”

And so it was, a week later, Thurstan found himself in discussion with the journalist at the pub over a pint or two. It didn’t take long for the DCI to be impressed and gain complete confidence.

It was published online, as a historical piece which claimed an anonymous source involved in the investigation. There was no shit storm. Outside St Helens, no one noticed.

“Possibly five thousand people will have read it,” a satisfied Ted declared. “Word will soon get around, son. I can die happy now.”