Back-Slash (13 page)

The following morning, when Nash walked into the CID suite, Andrews was already there. He signalled to her to follow him. They’d barely reached his office when Jack Binns called out, ‘Mike? I’ve got Superintendent Dundas of Yorkshire Central for you on the phone. He sounds like a boiler about to explode.’

Nash studied a moment. ‘Tell him I’m in a meeting and can’t be disturbed. Join us as soon as you can, Jack.’

After he’d explained the events of the previous day to them, he sighed. ‘I need time to think all this through. I’ll have to take it to the chief. We might have identified the killer of the couple from The Golden Bear, and a connection to the Jeffries murder. However, the rest of the news is far from good. Marshall seems to have an uncanny knack of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m only guessing, but he may be in serious danger. May even be dead by now.’

‘I hope not, he’s a nice bloke. I told you what happened at my flat when my ex turned up?’ She went on to explain about the surveillance and her suspicions of Smailes.

‘Sounds as if you did the right thing, ditching him. Don’t worry about the internal guys. I’ll get the chief to sort that. With what’s in here’ – he tapped his files – ‘that won’t be difficult.’ He paused for a second or two. ‘Although, it might be better if things took their course. From an outsider’s point of view at least.’

‘I don’t understand?’

‘We now know Marshall’s innocent. It might be to our
advantage
to let those who really are responsible for the killings believe we still think he’s guilty, and that we’re still hunting him. If they see you’ve been suspended following investigation,
it would further the illusion.’

Lisa stared at him in disbelief. ‘You mean to say you’re going to let them ruin my career? But I haven’t done—’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Nash interrupted. ‘I’ll see you’re OK. I’m going through to Netherdale. I’m meeting Superintendent Edwards and then we’re taking all this to the chief. Jack, anybody rings for me I’ll be back late this afternoon.’

‘What about Superintendent Dundas?’ Jack asked.

‘Particularly him. If anyone from Internal Affairs rings, tell them where I am. No one else though.’

The chief constable was predictably shocked by Nash’s news. He produced the file and pointed out the relevant parts. O’Donnell sat back in her chair. ‘How do you want to play it, Mike?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that on the way over. Obviously we can’t have Dundas investigating the Jeffries case or anything where Alan Marshall’s a supposed suspect. On the other hand, we don’t want to alert the real killer to the fact that he’s been rumbled. One way would be to combine operations, with us taking charge, but the way we are on manpower that’s also a non-runner. All I can think is to let Yorkshire Central continue with the Jeffries enquiry but keep them clear of the Moran/Robertson case.’

‘You’re absolutely convinced Marshall’s innocent?’

‘Oh yes, without a doubt. I’m not sure exactly what happened with the Jeffries murder, but I’m inclined to believe Marshall’s version of events. As to the others, I was unhappy about the original conviction when I read the file you’ve just looked at. As to Moran, well, if you look at the photo of Marshall and imagine him trying to get into that waiter’s uniform it’d make you laugh. There’s also this letter.’ Nash placed it on the chief’s desk. ‘Moran arranged for it to be sent to Marshall in the event of anything happening to him. Obviously, Moran had done something that made him fear for his own life and wanted to put things right. It clears Marshall completely. It does more than that, though. It suggests the motive for Anna Marshall’s murder lies in Marshall’s own past. What that might be, I’ve no idea.
Nor will I have until I can get to talk to him, providing he hasn’t become a victim as well. And that’s a real possibility. Forensics has found traces of blood on the knife from Marshall’s cottage matching both Moran’s and Robertson’s, besides his.’

Nash explained what had happened in York. ‘My only hope is that Marshall has managed to steer well clear of Brown and gone to ground somewhere. If so, he’s alive and well. But if he encountered Brown, then I think we must assume that Marshall’s dead. The local DI told me Brown’s reputation is horrific. Unfortunately none of the information is provable, except for what we found in Brown’s flat.’

Nash told her about the paperwork. ‘That in itself is damning, but it might not be enough to secure a conviction on its own. However, there’s more.’ Nash related the finding of the
bloodstained
boiler suit. ‘If the blood turns out to be that of Councillor Jeffries, we’ve a cast-iron case.’

‘There’ve been no sightings of Marshall, then?’

‘None whatsoever. That worries me, worries me a lot. The only thing is, there’s been no sign of Brown returning to his flat either. I find that rather strange. He’d no knowledge that we’d been there or that there’d been an intruder, I assume. No reason to think there was anything amiss. York CID has somebody watching the place, and Brown’s not been near. Nor have there been any visitors.’

‘We must hope Marshall turns up, then. I don’t see we can do any other.’ The chief constable glanced at Ruth Edwards, who nodded agreement.

‘There’s one other thing I need to discuss though. It’s to do with DC Andrews.’ Nash explained about the surveillance. ‘I’m concerned about her,’ he admitted.

‘I can get that quashed easily enough,’ the chief said. ‘I imagine that’s what you want, manpower being as it is?’

‘Not exactly,’ Nash said. He glanced at Edwards. ‘Ruth and I have a different plan, but we need you to sanction it.’

Nash outlined what they had in mind. At the end of it, O’Donnell leaned back in her chair. ‘You do realize it’s totally unorthodox.’ She studied both Nash and Edwards. ‘OK, but as
long as Ruth’s involved and ensures everything is documented, I think it could just work.’

‘Thanks, ma’am,’ Nash said as he stood up to leave.

‘Ruth, would you mind? I’d like a word with Mike before he bolts back to Helmsdale.’

‘Certainly, Chief,’ Ruth turned to Nash. ‘Do you want me to ring Dundas for you?’

‘That would be great, thanks.’

When Ruth had left, O’Donnell smiled. ‘You’re a devious son of a bitch sometimes, Mike. We’ll play it your way. Now, can I ask about your domestic arrangements?’

‘Sorry, ma’am, I’m not with you.’

‘It seems your seductive charm has reached the rank of superintendent, I don’t want you to get ideas that it could reach any higher.’

‘Hang on,’ Nash objected. ‘Ruth’s only staying at my place because she couldn’t get a hotel room. Nothing more than that.’

‘Really? OK, I’ll believe you, this once. I did wonder, but then I got to thinking about this man Marshall. Perhaps the reason you’re so keen to prove him innocent is you’ve something in common.’

Nash frowned. ‘Sorry, I’m not with you.’

‘Marshall’s wife was murdered, and by the sound of it, he’s never got over that. And much the same thing happened to you. There’s your common bond.’

‘I guess so, ma’am.’

‘Right, in that case I’ll say no more about it.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Now, I’ll have to think up some tale for the Chief Constable of Yorkshire Central.’

‘Can you manage not to tell him anything, ma’am? Not yet at any rate. Not until we’ve more proof.’

O’Donnell considered this. ‘I’m not in favour of all this secrecy,’ she sighed. ‘But sadly, given the circumstances, I don’t see how it can be avoided. But, Mike, please try and get this cleared up as quickly as possible. With such an exceptional situation, I’m even prepared to tolerate some unconventional
methods, as long as it gets the job done. You understand what I mean?’

When Nash emerged from the meeting, Ruth was waiting. ‘How did it go?’

Nash smiled. ‘Carte blanche.’

All the way back to Helmsdale and long afterwards, Nash remembered the chief constable’s words. Was it true? Was that why he was so prejudiced in favour of a man he’d never met, had only spoken to on the phone once? And although he convinced himself time after time that he’d got over what happened to Stella, perhaps that sort of thing never truly goes away.

The wind that blew across Roundhay Park seemed to be coming directly from the Arctic. Scudding grey clouds threatened rain, or possibly snow. It was no day for walkers and the park was all but deserted. The two figures who met by one of the benches alongside the footpath were muffled tight against the weather. It had the added advantage of making them virtually unrecognizable.

‘Are you sure all this was necessary?’

‘Absolutely. Stop worrying. Everything’s going according to plan.’

‘That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’ll be in the
limelight
if it goes pear-shaped.’

‘It won’t go pear-shaped. That’s why we’ve taken such stringent precautions.’

‘The latest event is drawing a lot of attention.’

‘We’re playing for high stakes, far higher than before. You know the consequences if we fail. Think about that and compare the risk against the potential rewards.’

‘But was it necessary?’

‘It was prudent housekeeping.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Harry, you make it sound so normal. We’re talking about murder in case you’ve forgotten.’

‘Listen, we’ve both been in the construction industry a long time. If I were to tell you what the bridge supports on the M1 contain for example you wouldn’t be so fucking squeamish about a few slit throats.’

‘It still makes me nervous.’

‘If it eases your political conscience, it should be over now. We’ve achieved almost everything we planned. Once the election and the takeover are done with, we’ll be free and clear. Then the way will be open for us to really clean up.’

‘What if somebody ties us in to those murders?’

‘Who’s going to do that? The point of the whole exercise was to dispose of anybody who could blow the whistle on us. Now they’re out of the way. Nobody else knows anything except the paymaster and he’s too deeply involved to harm us without harming himself. Besides, I’ve enough on him to scare him shitless. He doesn’t even know what’s been going on yet. But he soon will.’

‘Won’t the people we’re paying panic?’

‘It’ll act as a timely warning for them not to step out of line.’

‘What about Brown?’

‘I have my own plan for dealing with Brown. I’ll tell you about it soon.’

‘I sometimes wonder if there’s anything you’re not capable of to get your own way?’

‘You’re happy enough to go along with it, you’ve never complained about the end results.’

‘Yes, and that frightens me too.’

‘I suggest you continue with your campaign, leave the rest to me.’

The ranks of the party faithful attending their candidate’s first public meeting were swelled by a large press contingent. As by-elections go the result was a foregone conclusion, the only speculation being the size of the majority. There was
considerably
more interest in the candidate, for he was regarded as something special. Political editors have an instinct second to none for such matters, and there’d been whispers.

The meeting wasn’t much out of the ordinary but the
candidate
was certainly impressive. The pressmen, more interested in style than content, watched keenly. He gave a short speech, starting with what was becoming a likely catchphrase: ‘Let me begin with my surname. It is pronounced like a body of men, not a man’s body.’ This was obviously intended as an ice-breaker before inviting his audience to ask questions. Abandoning
the stage, and with the aid of a roving microphone, he took to the body of the hall. He sat on a chair facing his questioners. There, at the same level as the audience, he answered their queries about his background. He told them how he’d started in the construction industry, how he’d built up Coningsby Developments, and imparted some of his philosophy along with his biography.

There was little new in what he said, nor, to be fair was that the issue. It was the candidate who was being judged, by both the party members and the press. Neither was disappointed.

The passengers felt the change as soon as the aircraft touched down. The contrast between England and Barbados in January was stark. Even with the terminal building to protect them, they shivered from the cold.

Having queued with typical British patience at passport control, they formed a massive discontented scrum around the carousels of baggage. There is something about the reluctance of these devices to disgorge luggage that brings out the worst in people. The Barbados passengers were no exception. Eventually, with the safe recovery of their cases completed, they got through customs clearance into the spartan surroundings of the arrivals hall.

Such is the nature of British holidaymakers that the first things they require on returning home are a newspaper and a cup of tea. Nor were the Barbados passengers about to break this tradition.

One of the passengers walked purposefully across to the kiosk and queued for a paper. Having bought one of the tabloids he returned to his wife who was standing sentinel over their luggage. On his way he glanced idly at the paper’s front page, then stopped dead. He skim-read the text, muttered, ‘Good God!’ and continued to the baggage guardian. ‘What do you say we go get the car and head straight home?’

‘Why, Chris, is something wrong?’

‘No. But the car will be warm, the house will be warm and this place is bloody freezing.’

Even after long years of marriage Julie Davidson was never sure when Chris was lying. There surely couldn’t be anything in the lurid headlines to upset him?

‘We’ll have to stop somewhere to buy milk.’

‘No problem. Let’s get out of here.’

As he drove, Davidson couldn’t get the newspaper’s front page out of his mind. The sooner he got to a telephone the better.

‘Hello, boss. It’s Chris Davidson.’