Blood On the Wall (14 page)

A
t six o’clock Georgiou was sitting in the office of Dan Murphy at the offices of the
Cumberland News
. On Murphy’s desk was a mock-up of a front page of its daily sister paper, the
News and Star
, for the next day, with the e-fit artist’s portrait impression of Jamie below a headline which read ‘Do You Know This Man?’ Tennyson had taken the e-fit to both BBC Television and Border TV to ensure their coverage on that evening’s news bulletins.

‘Technology, eh,’ said Murphy, grinning. ‘Do you remember the old days before all this digital stuff? A day to put together a photo-fit, then another day of your lot photocopying it and sending it out to the press, and then another day before it would go into print. Now, contact’s done within minutes. Your artist guy e-mails me this, and our reporter puts a piece together, all on the screen. Ten minutes. Fantastic.’

Georgiou looked at the man in the picture. A young, narrow face that seemed old and hard at the same time. Short, dark hair, neatly trimmed. Clean shaven. Blue eyes. The caption read ‘The police would like to interview this
man to help eliminate him from their enquiries. If you think you know this man, please telephone …’ and then followed the number, at which Georgiou had arranged for a large staff to handle the phone calls he hoped would flood in by way of response.

‘You think it’s him?’ asked Murphy.

‘I hope so,’ said Georgiou. ‘He’s the strongest lead we’ve got.’

‘What about your missing detective?’ asked Murphy.

‘That’s a different issue,’ said Georgiou. ‘He’s just gone missing and we need to find him for his own safety.’

Murphy chuckled.

‘Yeah, and pigs might fly,’ he said. ‘That won’t look good for you if it does turn out to be one of your own.’

Changing the subject, Georgiou asked: ‘Is Jenny McAndrew in the office at the moment?’

‘Your nemesis?’ queried Murphy. ‘Yes, she is, but I told her to stay out of the way while you were here, after what you’d said. Why?’

‘I’ve got a story for her she may be interested in,’ said Georgiou.

‘What story?’ asked Murphy.

‘I’ll tell you at the same time I tell her,’ replied Georgiou.

‘Why?’

‘I want to see how surprised she is.’

Murphy shrugged, then left the office and returned a few minutes later with a young woman behind him. Jenny McAndrew looked every bit as Georgiou had imagined her: small, thin, nervous, her clothes fashionably expensive, but subdued in colour. She looked like what she wanted to be: a
media person on the fast track to success.

‘Jenny McAndrew, Inspector Georgiou,’ said Murphy, making the introductions.

‘Inspector,’ said McAndrew warily.

‘Ms McAndrew.’ Georgiou nodded.

‘The inspector says he’s got a story for you,’ said Murphy.

‘Oh?’ said McAndrew, guardedly.

‘Of course, you may already know it,’ said Georgiou. ‘We arrested Ian Parks and three of his pals for grievous bodily harm yesterday.’

‘Yesterday?’ echoed Murphy. ‘And you’re only telling us today?’

‘I thought with her contacts, Ms McAndrew might already know about it,’ said Georgiou. He had been watching her the whole time, and could see that the news had genuinely come as a surprise to her.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘I’m surprised, because it seems that the Parks family have a direct line to you,’ said Georgiou. ‘As does Councillor Maitland. But you say none of them have been in touch with you?’

McAndrew nodded. ‘That’s right,’ she said, and Georgiou could feel the defensiveness rising up in her. She had been caught out in some way, but she didn’t know how, or why, and it was making her angry.

‘Perhaps because this time we have a confession, which makes it harder to deny the charge,’ suggested Georgiou. ‘We’re also looking into racism as a possible motive for the offences.’

‘Racism?’ said Murphy.

Georgiou nodded.

‘I thought, as Ms McAndrew wants to earn her spurs as an investigative journalist, it might be a story she might want to look into. It’s the sort of theme that the big London papers love: racism mixed with violence.’

McAndrew studied Georgiou.

‘Are you suggesting that there is some sort of collusion between the Parks family and Councillor Maitland, to do with racist politics?’

Georgiou shrugged. ‘You’re the investigative reporter,’ he said. ‘I’m just a detective. I’m sure you can do your own digging on any links that might exist between the people involved—’

‘So you’re saying—’ cut in McAndrew, and now Georgiou could tell all her ambitions to be a top-line national reporter were kicking in in a big way.

‘I’m saying nothing,’ Georgiou interrupted her, ‘except that four youths have been charged with grievous bodily harm. We believe there is a racist element to the attacks. And I’m surprised that you haven’t been kept informed of this latest development by your usual contacts.’

With that Georgiou stood up and turned to Murphy.

‘Thanks, Dan,’ he said. ‘If we get any feedback on anything, you’ll be the first to know.’

‘I’ll walk you to the lift,’ said Murphy.

As they left Murphy’s office, out of the corner of his eye Georgiou saw McAndrew rush off. He guessed she was heading for her desk to start this new hot story.

‘You’re putting her on to Maitland,’ said Murphy. ‘You want him shown up for a racist. Get him kicked off the
Police Authority.’

Georgiou shrugged.

‘I don’t even know if he is a racist,’ he said. ‘But let’s say that some digging into his politics won’t do any harm. He is, after all, a servant of the public. The public have a right to know.’

‘And if he’s clean?’ asked Murphy.

Georgiou smiled. ‘A clean politician? Then I will be delighted to find that out.’

T
he evening broadcast on the television news brought in a wave of phone calls, and the picture of ‘Jamie’ in the
News and Star
the next morning added to it. By lunchtime Georgiou and his team had a list of callers who said they knew where Jamie lived, the make of van he drove, and from people he’d done work for. His name, they learnt, was James Oliver Willis. He was a general handyman in his late twenties who did all sorts of jobs, including electrical and plumbing work. But at the address they’d got for him in Carlisle’s Brook Street at the back of Warwick Road, they drew a blank.

‘He was here, but he left the day before yesterday,’ said his former landlady, Mrs Irene Dodge. ‘He was no trouble. Very polite. Very clean. Always cleared up after himself. Not like some tenants.’

‘How long was he with you?’ asked Georgiou.

‘About six months,’ said Mrs Dodge.

‘How did he pay his rent?’ asked Tennyson.

‘Very regularly,’ said Mrs Dodge. ‘He was never late with it, not once.’

‘I meant,
how
did he pay it? By cheque? Credit card? Was it paid by Social Services?’

‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ said Mrs Dodge. ‘Cash every time.’

It was the same story with the people they talked to who James Willis had done work for. He would take cash only.

‘He said he didn’t have a bank account,’ said one man, for whom Jamie had done some electrical work. ‘Said he didn’t believe in banks.’

Nor did he have a credit card. Nor a mobile phone. However, he did have his van registered with the DVLA, and taxed, and fully MOT’d, all done just five months before, one month after he’d moved into Mrs Dodge’s house.

‘Where was he before that?’ asked Georgiou as he and Tennyson drove back to the office. ‘There are no records of him even existing before he turned up at Mrs Dodge’s. Nothing.’

‘Maybe he set up a fake new identity when he moved in with her?’ suggested Tennyson.

‘It’s possible,’ agreed Georgiou. ‘In which case, any info we get back from DVLA at Swansea, his so-called date of birth, et cetera, isn’t going to be a lot of use.’

‘We’ve still got to go through it, though, guv,’ Tennyson pointed out.

By the time they got back to the office the amount of information coming in about James Willis was turning into an avalanche. Phone messages from people who’d met him in a pub: ‘He was on our table in the pub quiz. He knew so much about history! We almost won the quiz that night!’ All of them said the same: a very neat and nice young man.
Very polite. A perfect worker, always left the place neat and tidy after he’d done a job. Some commented that they’d seen him out running through the local parks. ‘He kept himself very fit. He was always exercising. And he was strong! He lifted my boiler out all on his own!’

‘So where is he now?’ asked Georgiou. ‘He can’t have just suddenly disappeared into thin air!’

‘Gone just like he was before,’ commented Seward. ‘He appeared out of thin air. He’s vanished back there.’

Georgiou’s mobile rang. He checked the number. It was Conway.

‘Georgiou,’ he said.

‘We’ve got him, boss,’ Conway told him.

‘Jamie?’ asked Georgiou.

‘What?’ came Conway’s voice. ‘No. Richard. He’s turned up in Manchester. I’m taking a couple of uniformed with me to collect him now and bring him in, just in case.’

R
ichard Little sat in the same chair in the same
interview
room where Ian Parks had sat earlier. He looked a mess. His clothes looked like he’d been sleeping in them. His pale face wasn’t just unshaven, it was grimy. He stank of dirt, sweat and alcohol, a mixture of vodka and gin, Georgiou guessed. His eyes were red-rimmed. The fastidious Richard Little of just a few days ago had gone, to be replaced with a dishevelled tramp.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He sat with his shoulders slumped, a man beaten down by everything. ‘I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t cope with it.’

‘With what?’ asked Georgiou gently.

Georgiou sat on the other side of the table to Little, with Conway sitting next to him. A uniformed officer stood by the door.

Little sighed, shook his head, then said: ‘Vera’s got a lover.’

A lover? Georgiou looked at Conway to see if this was something he knew about, but Conway gave a brief shake of his head. This was news to him.

‘It’s our next-door neighbour,’ he said. ‘Vincent Driscoll,’ he added, almost spitting out the name with venom. ‘Driscoll’s wife died about two years ago. Last Christmas we thought it would be a nice thing for him to come and join us for Christmas dinner. He hasn’t got any family of his own and we guessed he’d be lonely.’

‘Whose idea was that?’ asked Georgiou. ‘Yours or Vera’s?’

‘Vera’s,’ said Little. ‘Personally, I like to spend Christmas my own way, but Vera said it was the right thing to do. So he came and had Christmas dinner with us. And afterwards he started popping in for a chat and a bit of company, as he put it.’

Richard fell silent, and Georgiou could see that he was running over all that had happened since that Christmas in his mind.

‘What makes you think she was having an affair?’ he asked.

‘About two months ago I caught them in the kitchen, kissing. As I came in they moved apart and just carried on as if everything was normal, as if there was nothing going on. I think they didn’t think I’d spotted them, because they’d moved apart too quick, but I could tell. After that they were more careful, but I could tell something was going on between them. So one night I told Vera I was going to be on night duty for a special operation down in the south of the county.’

‘The south?’ queried Georgiou. ‘Surely she realized that we don’t operate there.’

‘Like I say, I told her it was a special operation. A joint forces operation. I told her I wouldn’t be back until six the
following morning.’

‘And instead you hid and watched your house,’ said Georgiou.

Little nodded.

‘Sure enough, at midnight, Driscoll came out of his house and went into mine. I stayed watching all night. He came out at four o’clock and went back to his own house.’

‘Why didn’t you confront him?’ asked Conway.

‘Because I didn’t know what to do!’ burst out Little. ‘I love Vera. If she knew I’d spent the night spying on them, and that I’d lied to her about being on special operation, what would she think of me? What would she say to me?’

‘She’d lied to you,’ Georgiou pointed out.

‘I know,’ said Little. ‘But it didn’t make what I’d done any better. It would have showed her that I didn’t trust her.’

‘And you were right not to,’ said Conway. ‘Richard, she was cheating on you.’

Little dropped his head.

‘I know,’ he said.

Then he looked up at both men, tears running down his grimy face, his face a desperate appeal to them.

‘I’ve always done the right thing,’ he said. ‘Always. My whole life. It isn’t fair! Life isn’t fair!’

S
eward pulled into the parking area at the back of the small block of flats where she lived in Rickergate. It was a small discreet development tucked away from the main road, close to the town centre, and with resident parking. The parking space alone was worth its weight in gold. As Carlisle had expanded in recent years, so had the number of cars, and No Parking signs were now everywhere. Seward often thought it would be a good idea to sell her car and rent out her parking space to motorists desperate to find
somewhere
to put their vehicles. It was a potential gold-mine. Of course, there would be the downside of having to travel everywhere by taxi.

As she walked towards the entrance of the flats she thought about the search for James Willis. It had been just twenty-four hours since his e-fit likeness had appeared in newspapers and on television screens across the whole country, and yet no one had reported seeing him. Where was he? How could anyone hide out like that in this technological day and age? She felt a sting in her neck, and her hand flew up to swat away whatever insect it was. She felt a numbness
spreading out from where she’d been stung and her thought was, It must be some big wasp … And then, as the numbness spread and her vision began to go, she realized it was something more.

Georgiou sat at home watching a television programme about cooking. Georgiou wasn’t particularly interested in cooking, but he’d flicked through the other channels and found they were either programmes filled with alleged celebrities who he’d never heard of doing stupid things, or programmes about haunted houses, or dramas which were either about hospitals or the police. He’d even found one in which a police inspector was also a doctor, so he guessed the television company were hedging their bets. He was surprised they hadn’t thought about making the medical police inspector a celebrity chef to cover all bases.

He thought about turning the television off and listening to the radio, or to some music, but he knew his mind would just turn back to the case, and he felt like he needed a break from it. The killer was James Willis, Georgiou was sure of it. Now all they had to do was find him.

Where was he? How could anyone disappear so completely and so easily in this day and age? The country was supposed to be swamped with closed circuit television cameras and surveillance equipment. Every move anyone made could, in theory, be tracked within seconds by spy satellites and computer checks. But Willis had been careful about that. No credit card to be picked up. No mobile phone to be traced.

Where was he staying? Georgiou guessed he was hiding out somewhere in the country. The reports had said that
he used to go for long runs in the country to keep fit. There were still large empty places in the north of England, and across the border in Scotland. Places where someone could go to ground and hide. Cumbria was the second emptiest county in England, and North Yorkshire the first. Southern Scotland was filled with enormous forests, and further north was the vast areas of the Highlands. All were within easy reach by van from Carlisle.

Why hadn’t the van been spotted yet? Easy. Because he reckoned Willis had changed the number plates and then altered the van in some way. Stuck a transfer on its plain side, a logo giving the name of a company. Painted a white stripe down a side. Simple disguise.

His thoughts turned to Richard Little and the small detective’s impassioned look at Georgiou as he’d blurted out: ‘Life isn’t fair!’

No, thought Georgiou, life isn’t. Dictators murder millions and steal a country’s wealth, and live to a ripe old age in luxury in a country that is prepared to keep them safe and secure. Murders and rapists and muggers go free, while a retired vicar gets sent to a high-security prison because he can’t afford to pay the increase in his council tax. Young kids are sent to war and die in their hundreds, ill equipped and without the proper weapons and ammunition to defend themselves, while other people get rich off the profits of that same war. Some vile people do unspeakable things and live to a ripe old age, while others – good people – die young. Like Susannah. No, life isn’t fair. But it’s all we have.

The sound of his phone ringing brought him out of his reverie.

‘Georgiou,’ he said.

It was Jenny McAndrew.

‘Inspector,’ she said, in the same over-familiar cheery tones she’d used on her first phone call. ‘I have some news you may be interested in.’

‘On James Willis?’ he hazarded.

‘On your old friend, Councillor Maitland,’ said McAndrew. ‘I did a bit of digging into his political past. I thought you’d like to know there’ll be a story in tomorrow’s
News and Star
. I’ll read it to you.’ Before Georgiou could
interrupt
, McAndrew had launched into reading her report: ‘Councillor Quits In Racism Row. Councillor John Maitland has resigned from the Police Authority after allegations over his associations with a far right political organization. Investigations by this newspaper uncovered the fact that Councillor Maitland was a member of the National Front when he lived in Oldham in Lancashire in the 1980s, and that he had also signed petitions supporting the forced repatriation of foreign nationals from the United Kingdom, as well as the forced repatriation of British-born people of foreign descent.’

‘You got him on a signature on a couple of petitions!’ said Georgiou incredulously. ‘How on earth did you do that? You can’t have had time to go through a couple of pretty ancient petitions name by name!’

‘Well, between you and me, Inspector, I may have – shall we say – projected that fact from information received.’

‘You made it up,’ said Georgiou.

‘No,’ said McAndrew. ‘I had good information from someone who knew him in Oldham that Maitland actually
organized these petitions in his part of Oldham, so it’s fairly safe to guess that he must have signed them. Of course, if he disputes it, we can dig out the petitions and present them as evidence to back up my report, and I’m fairly sure we’ll find his signature on them. But right now I don’t think he’ll be wanting to stir anything like that up, do you?’

‘But he resigned?’

‘Not without protest,’ said McAndrew. ‘But Ted Armstrong, the chairman of the Police Authority, insisted. And the other members of the Police Authority backed him up so fast it was almost embarrassing. None of them want to be seen as supporting a former racist. Clean hands are needed for politics, eh?’

‘He used you,’ said Georgiou. ‘Maitland. And the Parks family. To get at me.’

‘And now you’ve used me to get rid of Maitland,’ said McAndrew. ‘And, to be frank, it doesn’t bother me. I don’t mind being used if I get something out of it. I see it as a fair exchange. Anyway, I thought you’d like to know.’

‘Thank you,’ said Georgiou. ‘And … thank you for your investigation into Maitland. With talent like that, you ought to join the police.’

McAndrew chuckled.

‘No thank you, Inspector. I like to play on all sides of the fence. But make sure you get a copy of tomorrow’s paper. We need the sales.’

‘I will. And thanks.’

As Georgiou hung up, he couldn’t resist a little smile of satisfaction. Maitland gone. But he’d be back, in some other form. People like that couldn’t stay away.

There was the sound of his doorbell buzzing. He looked at the clock. Half past ten. A bit late for someone to be calling.

There was no one outside when he opened his front door. Someone playing stupid tricks, he thought. Then he saw the piece of paper on the ground, held there by a small pebble. He bent down to pick it up, and there was a sudden pain at the back of his head, and everything went black.