A Forgotten Shadow, page 11
“Where are we anyway?” asked Jimmy.
“At the killer’s point of entrance and exit by the look of things.” Shadow pointed to their left. They were about a hundred yards from the entrance to the track that led up to the moors. “Let’s walk back to the car along the road,” Shadow suggested. “I don’t fancy going through that tunnel again. Call forensics out.” He was just about to step off the verge and on to the road when Jimmy grabbed hold of him.
“Stop! Careful, Chief, don’t take another step,” he said urgently pointing to something black in the long grass. Shadow froze with his foot poised in mid-air then slowly lowered it back to its original place as Jimmy dropped to his knees and parted the grass. Lying there, almost hidden, was a mobile phone.
“Does it still work?” asked Shadow. Jimmy carefully picked it up by the edges with his latex-gloved fingers and peered at it.
“It doesn’t look damaged, but I think the battery might have run out,” he said, then with his other hand rummaged through his pocket until, like a magician, he produced a small evidence bag and slipped the phone into it.
“That’s another thing for Ben and Ollie to take a look at. You stay here and check there isn’t anything else in the grass. I’ll head back to the car and call for support,” said Shadow as he made an ungainly leap from where he was standing on to the road.
Within ten minutes several uniformed officers from Easingwold were on the scene and immediately began taping off the chapel and the entrance to the tunnel, and a little over an hour later Ben and Ollie arrived too.
“What can you tell me about the gun and FitzAllan’s phones?” demanded Shadow before the forensics team had even closed their car doors. “Your message left out half the information.”
Ben and Ollie exchanged a wary glance before Ollie replied.
“Well, Chief, some of the team back in the incident room are going through all the calls and messages. The last message he got was from the only number he seemed to use the burner for, but it was sent to his normal phone, the smashed one. It said, ‘Call me. I need to talk to you.’ That was the message he was responding to when he was killed. It was sent at one twenty-four. He called back at one thirty-eight, but nobody answered.”
“And then he was killed.” Shadow sighed. “Jimmy said there was another number that contacted him on the burner too.”
“Yes, but only once on the day before he died. It was a text and it said, ‘Back out now and it will be LP who suffers.’”
“LP?” repeated Jimmy who was busy taking notes.
“Yes,” confirmed Ollie, “but we don’t know who or what that is.”
“And the gun?” asked Shadow, failing to hide his frustration. At the moment, his colleagues were presenting him with more questions than answers.
“No not yet, Chief,” Ben began apologetically. “When we found out about the lead shot, we thought the Lumley might not have been the weapon used. We were going to start looking into it but then we got called out to Tadcaster Road. Uniform found the weapon that was used to hit O’Doyle over the head.”
“And?”
“It was a horseshoe,” said Ollie. “Small and curved just like Sophie had described. It’s quite an old one though and weighs about four pounds, so heavier than the modern ones. We ran the tests. No fingerprints, but traces of blood that match the victim’s.”
“Where was it found? Why was it missed last night?” demanded Shadow.
“Last night the search was focused on the bin bags and the pub car park. The horseshoe was found on the other side of the road, on the edge of the racecourse. Without Sophie’s description, the search team might not have considered it a weapon,” said Ben.
“It seems a weird choice. Who carries a horseshoe around with them?” asked Jimmy.
“They didn’t need to,” explained Ben. “The door to the pub is surrounded by them. Somebody had obviously helped themselves to one and waited for Aidan O’Doyle to come out. I checked with the girl working behind the bar. She confirmed one was missing. There should have been twenty-one and now there are only twenty. Apparently, it’s an old tradition that if anyone finds a loose shoe on the Knavesmire they can bring it to the pub and exchange it for a free drink. Then the shoe is added to the entrance—you know how they are meant to bring good luck.”
“I guess that horseshoe wasn’t so lucky for Aidan O’Doyle.” Ollie laughed.
“Or for George,” snapped Shadow. “I really don’t think it’s something to joke about.”
“Sorry, Chief,” mumbled Ollie, who had turned bright red.
Shadow turned away, ignoring the exchange of raised eyebrows between Jimmy and the forensics team. He was aware he was being even more short-tempered than usual and not only because of the heat. George was relying on them and so far they had found very little to help his case. What was worse, Shadow had the distinct feeling that those involved in the two cases, both at the stable yard and the castle, were closing ranks, but that the police weren’t banding together to protect one of their own in the same way and it upset him.
“Sergeant Chang, we are leaving,” he announced, then pointing to Ben and Ollie: “Go over that chapel and tunnel with a fine-tooth comb.” Then as Jimmy handed over the mobile they’d found: “I want a report first thing in the morning. And find out what’s going on with all these damn phones.”
*
When they arrived back at the station late that afternoon, Shadow was relieved to hear that the chief constable had returned to Northallerton. He was less pleased to find that she had emailed him and then had the email printed off and left on his desk, so he couldn’t claim not to have read it. In it, she informed him that she would be returning to York in the morning and insisted he report to her before in her words ‘acting rashly’ in the FitzAllan case. Shadow screwed up the print-out and tossed it into the bin. He didn’t know whether he was more irritated that she was breathing down his neck or that she had failed to mention Aidan’s case, the outcome of which affected one of her officers.
To make matters worse he discovered that under the chief constable’s instructions two incident rooms had been set up rather than one. Apparently, she didn’t consider the fact that two men who worked together and were killed on the same day was enough to link the crimes.
“Start liaising with both teams and collating any evidence that overlaps then report back,” he ordered Jimmy, “and get Tom to come and see me.” His sergeant hurried out of his office and Shadow had just enough time to locate an indigestion tablet before Tom knocked on his door.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, come and sit down. Tell me what happened when you spoke to the Irish police and O’Doyle’s brother.”
“Like I told Sergeant Chang, his brother hadn’t seen Aidan for years. They exchanged Christmas and birthday cards but that’s about it. Aidan left pretty quickly over twenty years ago and has never been back. The town he and Flynn grew up in was on the border with Northern Ireland and quite a few of his friends were prominent loyalists. His brother didn’t say what happened. It sounded like he was involved in something a bit dodgy, and it was Flynn who used his connections over here in the UK to get him out, then when Flynn set up his stables, he gave Aidan a job. That’s not all though, sir. Apparently, Mrs FitzAllan—Siobhan—wasn’t very happy when Aidan started working with Flynn. It seems her politics were very different to his. When she was younger, she was quite outspoken for her support of a united Ireland. I’ve been looking online and there are pictures of her with several republican politicians, some of whom were later jailed.”
Shadow put his head in his hands and groaned.
“This case is already complicated enough. Please don’t tell me counterterrorism are about to descend upon us.”
Tom’s face crinkled in confusion. “I wouldn’t have thought so, sir. It all happened ages ago.”
Shadow smiled ruefully. The young constable’s reaction perfectly illustrated the generation gap. Shadow could clearly remember when the Troubles dominated the news and the terrorist threats when he worked at the Met, but to someone Tom’s age, born not long before the Good Friday Agreement, it must seem like ancient history.
“There is something else though,” Tom added. “I thought I’d take a look on social media and see what people were saying about what happened to FitzAllan and O’Doyle. Loads of horse racing fans were saying how sorry they were, but someone called Clancy Kelly had set up a whole page, kind of like a memorial full of pictures of the two men.”
“That’s Flynn’s secretary. She works at the stables,” explained Shadow.
“Well lots of people clicked that they liked it, adding heart emojis and that sort of thing, you know, sir.”
“Not really but carry on, Constable.”
“One name stood out: Plum DeVere. Well, I know that’s the family name of the Dukes of Kirkdale, so I clicked on her page.”
“And,” asked Shadow who was beginning to wonder if Tom had been taking lessons from Jimmy on how to take as long as possible to pass on information.
“Well, I scrolled through her friends and a couple of names stood out. Russell James and Darren Cleeves. Both are pretty violent animal rights activists. They attacked members of one of the local hunts because they thought they were still chasing foxes not drag hunting. It was quite a nasty attack. Both of them were done for GBH. I was on duty down in custody when they were arrested last year. They’re still inside, but Plum obviously knows some dodgy characters.” He shrugged. “I just thought it might be worth mentioning.”
“Yes, you’re right. It’s something to bear in mind.” He nodded, adding as an afterthought, “Good work, Constable.”
He turned around in his chair and began searching for the map of Kirkdale he’d folded in his coat pocket and then pushed it across the desk towards Tom.
“Take a look at this. I roughly worked out the shortest distance between Kirkdale and the Lucky Horseshoe to be twelve or thirteen miles. See if you can get something more accurate, use one of those computer programmes or apps that Sergeant Chang’s always talking about. There must be one that works out the distance as the crow flies.”
Tom looked up from the notes he was scribbling down. “As the crow flies, sir?”
“Yes, you know the shortest route, across fields, not necessarily following roads. Then when you’ve done that check all the CCTV from Tadcaster Road out to Askham Bar for any signs of a horse.”
“A horse, sir?”
“Is there an echo in here?” snapped Shadow.
“Sorry, sir,” said Tom. “I’ll get right on to it.” He was almost through the door when he stopped and looked back. “I was just wondering, sir, if there is any news about Sergeant Hedley—you know if he’s holding up okay?”
“I plan on going to see him tomorrow. I’ll let you know,” replied Shadow.
Tom nodded and gave a weak smile. “Thanks, sir.”
When the young constable had disappeared, Shadow leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. His head was beginning to throb with all the information swirling around inside. He was considering slipping out and taking a walk down by the river when he heard the sound of trainer-clad feet hurrying down the corridor.
“Yes, Sergeant,” he called out as he reluctantly opened his eyes to see Jimmy standing in the doorway, looking particularly pleased with himself.
“We got it, Chief. A definite connection between the two deaths.”
“Come in and shut the door then,” said Shadow. Jimmy slid into the chair opposite him.
“Okay, so I spoke to both teams, particularly those working on the burner phones, and it was there straight away. The number that sent a text to FitzAllan about ‘LP’ and the one that told O’Doyle to meet them outside is the same.”
Shadow exhaled loudly with relief. “Finally, we’re getting somewhere,” he said. “That’s it. From now on the two incident rooms merge. I’ll sort out any problems with the chief constable.”
“I’ll get on to it, Chief.”
“How long before we can trace the owner of the phone?”
“We need to wait for forensics, Chief. Hey, who do you think LP is? Lady Plum?” asked Jimmy. “Opposites attract and all that.”
“Possibly.” Shadow sighed. “Although let me check something for a second.” He reached over for the copy of Debrett’s he’d been driving around with all day, flicked through and ran his finger down the page. “There, I thought so—Lavinia Eastwold’s middle name is Patricia. LP.”
Jimmy pulled a face at this idea. “I don’t think so, Chief. By all accounts Flynn was a lady killer. Why would he go for her? And I can’t see her being involved with a lowly horse trainer, she’s too much of a snob,” said Jimmy.
Shadow nodded. “You’re probably right. We’ll keep looking into it,” he agreed then paused as he thought. “LP might not even be the mystery woman. It could be a horse. Check and see if there are any with those initials at FitzAllan’s stables.”
“Will do, Chief. By the way, what did Tom have to report?”
“Nothing much, only that on top of everything else we might need to start investigating animal rights activists and Irish terrorists.” Shadow sighed as he stood up and pulled on his coat. Then noting Jimmy’s confused expression, said, “Never mind, Sergeant. Get Tom to fill you in. I’m going now, but I’ll be back here bright and early tomorrow morning. Double-check the gun licences for everyone who was shooting with FitzAllan and don’t forget to see if anyone at the stables or any of the castle staff have got a record. The way things are going it wouldn’t surprise me if Jarvis turned out to be an international jewel thief.”
*
When he left the station, Shadow went for a quiet stroll through Dean’s Park to clear his head, so it was late when he finally arrived at La Scuola Femminile, one of his favourite Italian restaurants. The place was heaving with racegoers, but his usual table by the window was still waiting for him. There was no sign of the owners Francesco and Lucia; instead their son, Marco, greeted him warmly and showed him to his seat.
“Where are your mum and dad?” asked Shadow.
“My granny has been staying with us, but she started feeling dizzy earlier, so Mum and Dad have taken her to the hospital to get her checked over. I told them I’d be able to manage,” explained the young man.
“And can you?”
“Almost,” replied Marco with a smile. Shadow ordered a mixed seafood starter, followed by the sea bass and a bottle of Grillo to accompany it. Then he settled back in his chair to consider the case. The gun used to shoot FitzAllan was a puzzle, as were the number of mobile phones, but what he was really struggling with was a motive. Logic told him the answer must involve racehorses somehow, but this business of FitzAllan’s possible infidelity was bothering him. He took a sip of wine and sincerely hoped Tom’s information about the two men’s pasts wasn’t going to lead the investigation back to Ireland. That would surely delay things and for George’s sake, Shadow wanted to solve this case as soon as possible.
Less than an hour later, he pushed his knife and fork together having demolished the sea bass and sautéed potatoes with almost indecent haste. He leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh, when he noticed Marco nervously waiting to speak to him.
“Is something wrong?” he asked quietly.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Chief Inspector, but I don’t know what to do?” The young man looked and sounded worried. “Lord Eastwold is in the private dining room. The rest of his party left, but he stayed behind drinking. He’s quite far gone. His waiter gave him the bill to settle but his credit card has been declined. When we told him, he got quite angry. Normally, we would call the police, but his friends and family are good customers, and Mum and Dad wouldn’t want any bad publicity.”
Shadow sympathised with his predicament. Even when sober and talking to a senior police officer, Eastwold had come across as rude and belligerent. God knows what he was like when he was drunk. Shadow stood up.
“I’ll go through and have a quiet word with Lord Eastwold and see if that helps,” he said.
“Oh, thank you, Chief Inspector,” replied the young man, visibly relieved.
“Did the rest of the party leave through the main door?” asked Shadow, wondering how he had missed seeing any of them.
“No there’s a side door in the private dining room that leads across the garden and out on to the Minster Plaza,” explained Marco.
Shadow followed him through the restaurant to the private dining room, which was situated in a conservatory with beautiful views of the floodlit Minster. In the centre of the room, a large glass table was still covered in the debris of what must have been a dinner for a party of twelve, but now there was only one solitary diner remaining. Lord Eastwold had removed his jacket and tie and his feet were resting on one of the other chairs. In one hand was a fat cigar and in the other he was holding a glass of what looked like brandy.
“Good evening, Lord Eastwold,” said Shadow. The lord looked up and narrowed his eyes as he tried to focus on who was addressing him.
“Not you again. What do you want?” he replied in a slurred voice.
“I understand there was a problem with your credit card.”
“Bloody banks, who the hell do they think they are? There’s nothing wrong with my credit. I’ll call in and settle up some time tomorrow,” he declared as he waved his cigar around airily.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir. Do you have any other cards or another way to settle the bill?”
Lord Eastwold began patting his pockets and shaking his jacket in an exaggerated fashion and finally produced his cheque book that had been folded in half.
“Here we are I’ll write you a good old-fashioned cheque. How’s that?”
“We haven’t been paid by cheque for years,” whispered Marco, who was hovering behind Shadow with the bill. Shadow handed the bill over to Lord Eastwold and winced when he saw the total was almost a thousand pounds. He watched as Eastwold struggled to focus as he slowly began to write, then when he’d finished, he checked the date, amount and signature before handing it to Marco.
