A Forgotten Shadow, page 12
“I know it’s not ideal, but it’s better than nothing and at least if it does bounce, he’ll be easy enough to find. It’s either this or I can call uniform in,” offered Shadow.
Marco shook his head. “No, Sir Charles Richmond—the MP—was in the party. He’s one of our best customers. Mum and Dad wouldn’t want to do anything that might embarrass him.”
“I’m sure they’ll be happy with the way you’ve handled the situation,” Shadow said as he patted Marco on the shoulder and then hauled his lordship to his feet.
“Time to go I think, sir.”
Fortunately, Lord Eastwold didn’t argue and together they staggered out through the private dining room door and across the small walled garden with Marco following close behind. His lordship continued talking loudly along the way.
“You know, Shadow my good man, in a few days all my problems will be solved. They’ll disappear in a heartbeat.” He seemed to be highly amused by this last comment and began laughing loudly, then he pointed to Marco. “Never fear, young man. Tomorrow evening I shall return to your excellent establishment and celebrate with your finest champagne.”
“Oh God, please don’t,” said Marco under his breath as he held the garden gate open for Shadow, before shaking his hand.
“I can’t thank you enough for your help, Chief Inspector.”
“No problem at all, Marco. Don’t worry, everything will be fine and if it isn’t let me know.”
Out in the plaza, the cool evening air seemed to sober Lord Eastwold up a little, at least enough so he no longer needed Shadow to support him.
“Thank you, my good man,” he slurred as he clapped Shadow on the back. Then he walked unsteadily towards a taxi that had just dropped a fare off on Duncombe Place. Shadow watched him climb into the taxi and hoped for the driver’s sake he wasn’t sick on the way home.
It was still too warm and muggy to sleep when he returned to Florence, so he opened a bottle of Chianti and went to sit outside and mull over the case a little more. It had been a long day of interviews and as always after receiving so much information it took a while to understand which bits were important. He imagined it was like panning for gold. He had to sift through an awful lot of rubbish to find a few precious nuggets.
Perhaps because they had been more forthcoming, he found himself dwelling on comments some of the women had made. Siobhan describing Aidan as being sprawled across the road was still stuck in his mind. Then there was Lavinia’s barely disguised jealousy of Annabel, and not providing any real reason for turning up late to the shoot. Plum had also been less than subtle when it came to her desire that Seb should inherit the estate, but none of this seemed to link back to Flynn. Something else that was troubling him, was despite almost every female he spoke to telling him how attractive Flynn was, he was no closer to discovering who he had been having an affair with.
As Shadow sipped his wine, he watched as his neighbours the geese flew low under Skeldergate Bridge and landed with much honking on the river, sending a shower of water splashing on to the boat.
“Bloody hooligans,” he muttered wiping his face dry with the back of his hand. Then knocking back the last of the Chianti in the glass, he remembered something else. The previous day Annabel had told Bertie she couldn’t wear her white dress because it had been stained by wine. Lavinia said Annabel didn’t drink, so who had spilt the wine on her? Bertie or her brother, or was it possible that she had been the one to throw wine over Flynn and have it splash on to her? He wasn’t sure, but he would very much like to have seen that white dress.
For once he didn’t feel like pouring himself a second glass and decided to go to bed instead. Between the stains on Flynn’s shirt, Annabel’s dress and the carpet stains in Clancy’s cottage he’d had enough wine for one night.
Chapter Seven
Across 6. Tim and Tom begin to put money on who they think will win (7 letters)
The next morning when, Shadow bought his Yorkshire Post from the newsagent’s as usual, he noticed the headlines in one of the tabloids: ‘Racing Death Mystery—Trainer killed on shoot with Duke and MP’. Alongside the story, there were small photos of Flynn, Bertie and Sir Charles, but the main picture was of a pouting Annabel, from her modelling days. Immediately, Shadow remembered seeing Eastwold slipping the brown envelope into his pocket. Giles Greenwood had been wrong. Someone in the village had talked.
It was before nine when he arrived in the incident room. He wanted to have as much information as possible before being grilled by the chief constable. Jimmy was already there sipping one of his expensive takeaway coffees.
“Morning, Chief,” he said, then seeing the newspaper Shadow had brought with him: “Oh dear they won’t be very happy with that headline up at Kirkdale Castle.”
“No,” agreed Shadow, “I doubt the chief constable will be either.”
“I’ve got good news though. Siobhan, Bertie and Piers each have a fairly long list of motoring offences against their names, but none of the castle staff or anyone at the stables has a criminal record,” Jimmy said cheerfully. Shadow was about to reply that he didn’t think this was particularly good news when Ben and Ollie dashed into the room, out of breath. Their appearance was even more chaotic than usual. Ben’s shirt was untucked, and Ollie was still tying his tie.
“Sorry, Chief, we both overslept. Are we late?” panted Ben as he tried to flatten down his hair.
“Almost,” muttered Shadow. “What else did you find yesterday? Anything in the chapel or tunnel? Where there any prints on the phone we found? Could you trace it? Did Jimmy tell you the same number called both O’Doyle and FitzAllan?” He could hear himself firing questions around like a machine gun, but the disorganised scientists had the uncanny ability to make him more impatient than ever.
“Well,” began Ollie, “firstly nothing in the chapel, but it’s possible the killer was never in there. We didn’t find prints on the entrance to the tunnel and no footprints either.”
“It’s so wet down there we didn’t really expect to find any,” added Ben.
“Right,” agreed Ollie, “but re the phone you found—we’ve managed to charge it by the way—it had a great thumbprint on it, but no match on the database. Again, not that we were expecting to find any.”
Shadow leaned against the desk he was standing next to and folded his arms. He should never have insisted on meeting them himself. He should have sent Jimmy to listen to what they hadn’t found and only report back if they actually said something that was worth repeating.
“But the tunnel phone is the number that FitzAllan used his burner phone to contact and the number that called him on his usual phone before he died,” Ollie continued.
“Is it registered to anyone?” asked Jimmy, who was better at reading his boss’s body language than his two colleagues.
“No, it’s a burner,” replied Ben.
“What about the number that called O’Doyle and FitzAllan the day before he died?” asked Shadow.
“That’s a burner too.”
“For crying out loud,” Shadow exclaimed in exasperation. “Why haven’t these damned things been banned yet? Who needs to use one unless they are up to no good?”
“Actually, Chief.” Ollie raised his hand, ignoring Jimmy who was silently shaking his head at him. “I believe the Home Office has raised the possibility of making them illegal.”
“But if they did criminals will only use encrypted internet phone services like WhatsApp, and these disposable phones can be useful for someone who doesn’t want to get tied into a contract,” said Ben.
Shadow raised his eyes to the ceiling.
“All right, all right, let’s move on from phones. What about the gun used to kill FitzAllan? Was it the Lumley or not?”
Ollie and Ben exchanged a worried glance.
“Yes, at least we think so, but we don’t know how,” said Ben hesitantly.
“What?” Shadow really didn’t think he had any more patience left to lose.
“Well, you see it only uses special Lumley cartridges and they don’t fit any other gun. FitzAllan had plenty containing the modern steel pellets, but the ones found in him are the older lead version. We’ve run some tests and carried out some research and they are about fifty years old,” explained Ben.
Shadow’s brow creased. “So, you are telling me either the killer had another of these extremely rare and valuable guns or they somehow managed to get FitzAllan’s gun off him, load it with fifty-year-old cartridges, and then shoot him with it twice?”
“When you put it like that, I know it doesn’t sound very plausible,” said Ben.
“Plausible? It sounds impossible,” snapped Shadow as he stood up and pointed to Ollie. “All right, you can go and speak to Dr Donaldson and even if you need to beg him on bended knee to examine the body again, make sure he’s one hundred per cent certain FitzAllan wasn’t hit on the head or incapacitated in some way before he died.”
Then he turned to Ben. “You said you knew about guns. If these Lumleys are as special as you say, there must be an expert who can tell you how many there are in the country and who has them,” he said as he swung his arm out and pointed to the door.
“Yes, Chief,” they replied in unison, before scurrying away. When they had disappeared, Shadow turned back to Jimmy.
“I swear they’ll be the death of me. What do we have on the CCTV from the racecourse and on Tadcaster Road?” asked Shadow.
Jimmy began scrolling through his notes. “Plenty of images of Siobhan at the racecourse all afternoon and driving off in her horsebox at the time she told us. Not long after she’d gone, Aidan showed up on the camera at the entrance to the course. It looks like that’s when he headed across the road to the Lucky Horseshoe.”
“Doesn’t the pub have a camera?”
“Yes, but it only covers the car park at the back, not the side entrance Aidan used.”
“And nothing on any of the other cameras in the area. No sign of a horse?”
“I’m afraid not, Chief, but Tom left a message. He did some calculations and agreed with you that it would take a couple of hours there and back from Kirkdale to York cross-country on a horse.”
Right on cue Tom appeared.
“Morning, sir, we’ve just received a message from the chief constable’s office. She’s been held up at HQ and won’t be here until later this afternoon.”
“There is a God,” said Shadow exhaling loudly as he stood up. “Right, in that case, I’m off to see how George is doing. Jimmy, you keep looking into the stables. See if FitzAllan has ever been involved in anything underhand, using performance-enhancing drugs, that sort of thing. And keep chasing our friends in forensics for information. I don’t want them getting distracted and see if you can find out anything about Lord Eastwold’s financial position.”
Jimmy looked up from scribbling all the instructions down. “Anything else, Chief?”
“Yes,” replied Shadow. “Tom, I want you to find out as much information as you can about the previous Duke of Kirkdale, particularly his time in the army serving in Northern Ireland. Then see if you can get hold of a plan of Kirkdale Castle or architectural drawings. It must be registered as a listed building or a building of historic importance. See what you can get your hands on.”
Without any further explanation Shadow left the incident room and the station and made his way across St Helen’s Square. On his way to George’s, he decided to call into La Scuola Femminile to see if Marco had encountered any problems paying Lord Eastwold’s cheque in at the bank. He glanced at his watch. It was about an hour before they were due to open for lunch; however, as he turned on to Petergate he saw Sir Charles already leaving the restaurant.
“Hello there, Chief Inspector,” said the politician. He was immaculately dressed as always in a navy pinstriped suit and his gold badge for the members’ enclosure at the racecourse was dangling from the top button of his jacket.
“Morning, Sir Charles, are you off to the races again today?”
“Yes, I’m on my way now. I have a meeting with the stewards before lunch.” He turned and nodded towards La Scuola Femminile. “I understand Eastwold made rather a fool of himself after we’d left last night. I’ve just called in and settled the bill. Between you and me, I didn’t have much faith in Eastwold’s cheque clearing and after the shooting Annabel doesn’t need any more grief.”
“How did you know about him paying by cheque?”
“It was me who paid for his taxi when he arrived back at Kirkdale. Everyone else had gone to bed. Of course, he didn’t have any cash and I had to hear all about the terrible banks and how he couldn’t pay his bill here either. Thank you for stepping in by the way. As I said the last thing Annabel needed is to bail her brother-in-law out.”
“Well, it was good of you to come over. I’m sure Marco appreciated it.”
“Not at all, I should have known better than to leave Eastwold to settle up.”
The two men shook hands and Shadow watched as the member of parliament disappeared down Petergate, then he turned and entered the restaurant. He found a relieved-looking Marco at the reception desk, tearing up Eastwold’s cheque.
“We’ll never know if it would have bounced or not now,” said Shadow. Marco looked up and grinned.
“No thankfully. Sir Charles phoned this morning and asked me not to present it to the bank. He said he’d call in and settle the bill and he just did. Cash too.”
“Even better,” replied Shadow. “By the way, when did Sir Charles leave last night?”
“About an hour before Lord Eastwold. Lord Eastwold was already quite drunk, and his wife and sister seemed a bit upset, so Sir Charles said he would take them both home.”
“Where was the Duke of Kirkdale? Wasn’t he here with them all?”
“No, there was no sign of him.”
“Well at least everything has worked out okay. How’s your granny by the way?”
“Good thanks, Chief Inspector. They kept her in overnight to run some tests but she’s coming out later today.”
“More good news. Give your parents my regards.”
With a wave goodbye Shadow left, wondering why Sir Charles was so concerned for Annabel DeVere. His interest seemed more than that of a gracious guest. He headed down Goodramgate and then Monkgate, before turning towards Heworth where George lived in a neat and tidy semi-detached house overlooking the stray.
“It’s good of you to come, John,” said Carol as she answered the door. “Is there any news?” Her voice sounded both hopeful and fearful.
Shadow stepped into the hallway. “Nothing concrete yet, but everyone is doing all they can,” he reassured her. “How is he?”
“Putting on a brave face for my benefit.” She sighed. “I wish he wouldn’t.” She showed Shadow through to the living room. Like the hallway it was spotlessly clean and there was a faint smell of baking wafting through from the kitchen. Wherever he looked there were framed photos of Carol and George’s two daughters, from their school days, through to university graduations and their weddings. Sitting in pride of place on the mantelpiece was a large picture of Harry, their grandson. At one end of the room a sofa and two armchairs were arranged around a fireplace with a gas fire and at the other end was a dining table and chairs that George seemed to have commandeered. He stood up when he saw Shadow and shook his hand warmly.
“I’ll leave you two to chat while I go and put the kettle on,” announced Carol before disappearing into the kitchen.
“It looks like you are keeping yourself busy,” commented Shadow as he sat down and took in the piles of notebooks, and pens and papers stacked in front of George.
“I’ve been going through my old diaries. I’ve found the one from the year you joined us. I think you might find it interesting, especially with this investigation at the Kirkdale estate. Do you remember old Maurice Hardwick? I couldn’t sleep last night, and I remembered he knew your father. When you arrived at the station, I wrote down what he told me.” George put his glasses on and cleared his throat before he began reading. “He began by saying you seemed a bit quiet and reserved, but that if you were even half the officer your dad had been, you’d be all right.”
“It’s kind of you to think of me, George,” interrupted Shadow gently. He was truly touched his old friend had been thinking of him, but he should be concentrating on his own case. George put up his hand to stop him.
“Nonsense. I need to do something to keep my mind off things. Carol thinks I’m barmy, but the truth is I miss my files, my office. I miss being useful. Now listen to the next bit. Sergeant Hardwick told me your dad was shot by a Lumley gun, but they never found it.” He looked up with a triumphant expression. “So, don’t you think it strange that a Lumley gun should be used in a shooting in the same village again fifty-odd years later?”
“Very odd,” murmured Shadow as he tried to process what his friend was telling him. George looked disappointed by his less than enthusiastic reaction. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“I don’t know, John, maybe I am past it and maybe I’m being an old fool, but what if the Lumley gun FitzAllan had was the same one that killed your dad?”
“Hold on,” said Shadow suddenly, “how do you know what sort of gun was used in the FitzAllan shooting?”
“Ben from forensics phoned me from the crime scene late that afternoon. He said it was an unusual gun and asked me if I had any information in the records office. It was the last thing I was researching before I left that night. What do you think?”
Shadow’s first reaction was to feel a pang of guilt. Ben had started looking into the Lumley already; perhaps he’d been a bit harsh on him at their meeting this morning. His forehead creased as he recalled the few details he knew of his father’s death.
“The gun was never recovered.”
“No.” George shook his head. “Identified from the cartridges found in the wood but there was no sign of the gun. That’s what I was looking up. When you arrived old Sarge Hardwick told me there was something fishy about the investigation. Considering it involved the death of one of our own, it wasn’t very thorough. Privately Sarge Hardwick wondered if there had been a cover-up.”
