A Long Shadow, page 3
“I’m on it, sir,” replied Jimmy, as he almost bounded away. Shadow watched him go and smiled to himself.
“If he had a tail, he’d be wagging it,” he murmured. He couldn’t fault his new sergeant’s enthusiasm, and professional pride meant he certainly wasn’t going to let Donaldson’s rudeness towards Jimmy go unchecked. How he’d managed to put up working with that obnoxious doctor for so long was a miracle.
*
Shadow decided to take the long route home. He wandered down Blossom Street, past the railway station and over Lendal Bridge before turning down Petergate and heading back towards Shambles. It was a route full of tourists and shoppers but was also dotted with men and women of all ages, huddled in sleeping bags or sitting cross-legged in front of handwritten signs, empty coffee cups and upturned caps. Shadow was well aware that some were professional beggars, who travelled in each day from Leeds, Hull and Middlesbrough, looking for easy pickings in a city so popular with wealthy visitors. However, there were others who had become part of the fabric of York. They were as familiar to the other residents as the city walls or the River Ouse.
Byron was one such figure. He had been a permanent resident of The Haven for the last nine months. Previously, however, he’d been one of the city’s worst street drinkers and spent countless nights in police cells. A tall man, he was never seen without his Tilley hat and could often be heard loudly giving directions to confused tourists. Most days he sold a newspaper, called Helping Hand, in aid of a homeless charity. His usual pitch was outside Marks and Spencer’s on Parliament Street, but this afternoon Shadow spotted him next to the ice cream van by the Minster. They nodded to each other in recognition.
“Detective Chief Inspector Shadow, I heard you were looking into what happened to poor little Fay.” His voice was deep and booming and betrayed his London roots.
Shadow shook his outstretched hand. “Did you know her well, Byron?”
“Not very. She’d been at The Haven on and off for the last six months or so. She was a nice kid, could be a bit wild, but who of us wasn’t at that age?”
Shadow smiled in agreement, although he struggled to remember a time, he had ever done anything that could be considered wild.
“We think the vodka she drank, before she died might have been tampered with,” he explained, careful not to use the words poison or cyanide, “so remember to take care should anyone offer you some on the cheap.”
Byron ran his hand over the stubble on his chin. “Iffy booze about eh? Well, no need to warn me, Inspector, I’m as clean as a whistle these days. I’ve even gone vegan.”
“Really?” asked Shadow, appalled at the thought of a diet without meat, butter, or cheese. Byron nodded his head, vigorously.
“Best thing I ever did. Luke and Susie inspired me. They grow all their own fruit and veg, and they both look great on it. I feel amazing. You know, like really cleansed.” He spoke enthusiastically, with the evangelical zeal of the recently converted, but Shadow remained unconvinced.
“Well good for you, but if you hear of anything about the vodka, let me know.”
They shook hands again and Shadow continued on his way.
*
Mad Alice was a relatively new addition to the streets of York. She seemed to have appeared from nowhere, a few months ago. From her accent, she sounded as though she should be judging a Home Counties gymkhana, not that she made much sense when she did speak. Mostly, she was heard reciting random lines of poetry. For some reason she had made the entrance to Lund’s Court her home. It was a snickelway off Petergate and despite the council’s best efforts to make it sound more politically correct, it was still known by the locals, as Mad Alice Lane.
The original Mad Alice had been so badly beaten by her husband that she eventually snapped and was hanged for his murder in 1825. Her name had been bestowed on the new resident, who was otherwise anonymous. When Shadow approached her, she was sitting with her legs curled under her on a large, very faded velvet cushion. She was clutching several tattered books to her chest and swaying along to the accordionist, playing further along the street. She seemed so content, he almost didn’t want to disturb her.
“Good afternoon, would you like something to eat or drink?” he asked, politely. She pushed her long grey hair away from her face and looked up at the chief inspector. She had very dark eyes and small, delicate, birdlike features. Shadow thought she must have once been quite pretty.
“Oh, how terribly kind, but as you can see this wonderful music is feeding my soul.”
Shadow smiled, but privately thought she needed a lot more than music. The woman was a bag of bones. He put his hand in his coat pocket and fished out the card he’d picked up from the reception desk at The Haven. He laid it on the cushion next to her.
“There is a place you could go. Have you tried here?”
“Oh, I mustn’t go anywhere. I have to stay exactly where I am,” she replied without bothering to look at the card.
Shadow tried again. “The Haven is very nice. Miss Slater and Mr Carrington are good people, who will help you.”
She stared up at him and her dark eyes filled with tears, as she slowly started to rock back and forth, then began to whisper. “But one by one we must all file on, through the narrow aisles of pain.”
Hurriedly, Shadow decided to change tack. He leant forward, hoping to make her understand. “If anyone offers you a drink. I mean something alcoholic, especially a bottle of vodka, please don’t take it.”
Her expression and voice changed instantly, suddenly she became very serious. “Drinking is absolutely forbidden when on duty. It’s such a responsibility we have been entrusted with, to care for others,” she replied, gripping his arm and earnestly looking him straight in the eye.
Shadow nodded, unsure if he was included in the ‘we’ or if she had really heard what he’d said. With a sigh, he placed a ten-pound note under the card for The Haven, then waved her goodbye.
*
Shadow continued on his mission into Kings Square. He squeezed his way through the clapping, cheering crowds of tourists watching the fire-eater who was balancing on a unicycle, until he reached the top of Shambles. Norman the Gnome, as generations of the city’s children had called him, was short and squat with a grey beard and a woolly hat he wore in all weathers. He looked much older than his fifty-four years and had been on the streets for most of his adult life. Sounding like a character straight out of a Dickens’s novel, he was blatant in his requests for money.
“Any spare change, sir? Any spare change for the homeless? God bless you, sir, God bless you. Any spare change?” Shadow watched him for a moment. He knew he could keep this verbal stream flowing for at least an hour, or until he’d scraped together enough to make a trip to the off-licence. Most people ignored him, but some stopped to help. He waved away all offers of food or a warm drink, always coming up with some excuse why only cash would do. Today, he was telling them that he needed ten pounds to buy new shoes. Shadow knew this to be nonsense; the Salvation Army had always clothed him.
“Afternoon, Norman, having a good day?”
Norman glanced up but didn’t meet Shadow’s eye. “Any spare change for the homeless, sir?”
Their paths had crossed countless times over the years. Norman’s record was long, but not very illustrious, and full of charges for vagrancy, being drunk and disorderly, and with the occasional outraging public decency thrown in. Shadow rummaged through his pockets for his wallet.
“Look, clear off now and go buy yourself some gin, or rum, or brandy, whatever you want, but not vodka, you hear. Anything but vodka.” Shadow held out a twenty-pound note, Norman paused for a split second before snatching it and staggering to his feet. Shadow watched as he hobbled away, calling out once again. “Not vodka, Norman!”
Shadow waited until Norman disappeared around the corner, then turned around to find himself face-to-face with a furious-looking woman. She had blonde, bobbed hair and was immaculately dressed in a bright red suit. Her make-up was perfect and heavily applied, and her well-manicured hands were placed firmly on her hips.
“What on earth do you think you are doing?” she asked, angrily. “You’ll only encourage him, giving him money like that. He’s an alcoholic, you know.”
“I do know. My name is Detective Chief Inspector Shadow…” he began to explain, but the angry woman immediately interrupted him.
“Well it’s about time! I’ve been complaining about him and the others for weeks now. It’s all because of that damned soup kitchen. They think they have a right to be here!”
“I’m sorry, er Mrs…?”
“Morrison. Mrs Mandy Morrison. I own the Angelique Boutique.” She pointed to the ladies’ wear shop behind her on the corner of Shambles. “This is prime tourist season and having the likes of him practically sitting on my doorstep, bothering customers, can ruin a business. I have been on to your lot, the council, everyone to do something and what happens when you do finally arrive? You give him money! I mean…”
Shadow was aware that many of the tourists were finding their argument more entertaining than the fire-eater. One Japanese man had even started to film them.
“Mrs Morrison, I do apologise, but this is a matter for the uniform section. I will ask them to give it their full attention. Good evening.”
With that Shadow made his escape, leaving Mrs Morrison still complaining loudly behind him in the street.
*
He was relieved when he finally returned to the peace and quiet of the river. Shadow’s home was a narrow boat, moored on the River Ouse close to Skeldergate Bridge. He had bought the boat, named Florence, when he worked down in London for the Metropolitan Police. The alternative had been paying a fortune for a shoebox in the city, or a long commute by tube, which he hated. There was also the fact he could change the view from his window whenever he chose, which appealed to him.
Twenty-five years ago, when he’d transferred back up north, he simply navigated his way home through the network canals and rivers. After two weeks, he had swapped his view of Little Venice for one of Clifford’s Tower. Florence still had everything he needed. There was a large, comfortable bedroom and a compact bathroom with adequate shower. The open-plan galley and living area were small, but then he almost always ate out and never entertained. He and Florence had been through a lot together over the years and he had never wanted to live anywhere else.
*
As soon as he arrived home that evening, he flicked on his ancient CD player and poured himself a large glass of Barolo. For once he wasn’t hungry. The visit to the mortuary was still causing his stomach to churn. He stuck his nose into the glass of wine and inhaled deeply, hoping the aroma of cherries and anise would banish the stench of formaldehyde that was still lingering in his nostrils. Sinking down on to the sofa, he took a large sip as the opening chords of ‘Night and Day’ fill the room. He leaned back, closed his eyes and began to consider the day’s events.
If Fay had been given the poison and killed intentionally, it must have been pre-planned, but there was no obvious motive. On the other hand, if it was an illegal batch of vodka that had somehow been tampered with and was now contaminated, then surely there would have been more than one casualty. He took another sip of wine and eased off first one shoe, then the other.
Tomorrow they needed to trace the vodka, check if there was any CCTV of Fay, then track down Ryan and Kayleigh. He wondered how quickly the lab would have the results for the vodka. Uniform would do their best to get the message out to the publicans, but the most vulnerable, those on the streets, would be the hardest to find and the least willing to listen. The thought of a mass poisoning in the city filled him with dread and deserved another large mouthful of Barolo.
At that moment, his train of thought was interrupted by a cheerful ‘rat-a-tat’ on the door. Shadow groaned. Only one person could still sound that upbeat at the end of a busy day.
“Come in, Jimmy. It’s open,” he called out, reluctantly putting his glass of wine down. The sergeant ducked his head low as he came through the door and down the steps. He needed to continue to stoop as he walked towards the sofa. It was the first time he’d visited his boss at home, but he looked unfazed by being on the boat.
“Sorry to bother you, Chief,” he said, not sounding remotely sorry, “but another body’s been found.”
“Is it Mad Alice?” Shadow asked immediately, without knowing why she should be the first person to spring into his mind. Jimmy looked slightly puzzled but shook his head.
“No, we don’t know who it is yet. When I said body, I really meant skeleton. It’s in Museum Gardens. Some builders found it when they were working on the Hospitium,” he explained.
“For crying out loud, Sergeant! This is York. Whenever someone digs down more than a few inches they find something. The last time they dug the station car park up they found half a Viking army. Call the archaeologists in. It’s bound to be the remains of a Roman gladiator or some medieval plague victim.”
Shadow picked up his glass again and took another drink while Jimmy shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.
“The York Historic Foundation were called first, sir. You see they own the Hospitium and insisted they should be notified first if anything unusual was found. They took a look at the skeleton and, well it’s definitely one for us, sir.”
Shadow cursed under his breath, knocked back the remaining wine and pulled on his shoes.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, before disappearing towards the bathroom. When he returned, he found Jimmy with several CDs in his hand, peering at his stereo as if it was from another planet.
“You know sir, if you got some speakers you could listen to music through your phone. I could download all these old CDs and more for you. It would take up a lot less space.” He retrieved his own mobile phone from his pocket to demonstrate. Shadow looked at it in horror.
“No thank you, Sergeant. If it was up to me, a voice as great as Ella Fitzgerald’s would only ever be heard on long-playing records. And a big band certainly doesn’t belong on anything as tiny as that thing.”
“Maybe you could buy a record player then, Chief. They are popular again. Vinyl’s making a comeback.”
“I don’t need any more clutter collecting dust,” declared Shadow, pulling on his old wax jacket. Jimmy frowned as he glanced around the boat. Aside from the vast music collection and a few old copies of the Yorkshire Post, there were no personal effects to be seen.
*
Shadow locked the door and the two men stepped on to the towpath. A couple walked by with a golden retriever, and two geese flew over their heads and landed noisily on the river.
“Are you a big music fan, Chief? Do you go to many gigs?” asked Jimmy.
Shadow’s brow folded into several deep furrows. He couldn’t understand his new sergeant’s insistence on trying to make small talk at every opportunity. “No, Sergeant. As far as I’m concerned, all the musical greats are dead. I just have to make do with their recordings.”
Jimmy pressed on enthusiastically, despite Shadow hoping he had shut down the conversation.
“So, do you play any instruments yourself, sir? The guitar or the piano maybe?”
“No.” Shadow sighed, then chuckled to himself. “As Frank Sinatra used to say, I’ve got a beat like a cop.”
“Yeh? That’s great.” Jimmy laughed awkwardly, then after a short pause, “Who’s Frank Sinatra, Chief?”
Chapter Three
Down 5 (6 letters)
Let the nun go underground
Museum Gardens was a public park in the centre of York. It surrounded the Yorkshire Museum that housed the city’s archaeological treasures and gave the park its name. It had one entrance on Museum Street and one on Marygate and ran down to the edge of the River Ouse. It also contained the ruins of St Mary’s Abbey and the Hospitium, which had once given shelter to medieval travellers visiting the city, but was now hired out for weddings, christenings and other celebrations. It was a beautiful two-storey timber-framed building in the classic black and white style, with a stone staircase on the outside leading up to a balcony. However, despite its many attractive qualities, its plumbing wasn’t quite twenty-first century, hence the current building work.
It was just after dusk when Shadow and Jimmy arrived at the gardens’ tall black wrought-iron entrance gates. They were locked to the public, but a uniformed constable let them through. In the distance, they could see the white glow from the floodlights now surrounding the Hospitium. Sophie Newton, the police’s other pathologist, was hauling herself out of a freshly dug trench, as the two policemen approached.
“Evening, Chief. Evening, Jimmy,” she called out cheerfully, peeling off her latex gloves.
“What have you got for us, Sophie?” asked Shadow, taking the doctor’s outstretched hand and helping her climb out. She pointed down to the skeleton occupying the hole.
“Difficult to be accurate until I get her back to the lab, but I’d say she was in her late teens or early twenties and was probably killed between twenty-five and thirty years ago. Richard Stather, he’s head of archaeology at the foundation,” she continued, gesturing to a dark-haired, bespectacled man with a neatly clipped moustache, talking earnestly to a younger man, “he got here first. I think he’s a bit miffed that it’s not one for him. He did say the last time he could remember any sort of building work taking place in this area, was when they were improving the boat shed down by the towpath and that was over thirty years ago.”
“Any idea how she was killed?” asked Shadow, peering cautiously down into the hole.
“Looks like a trauma, possibly two traumas to the head with a blunt instrument.”
“Like a hammer?” asked Jimmy, who was busily making notes.
