A Forgotten Shadow, page 5
Shadow turned to Jimmy.
“Find out if anything fitting that description was found at the crime scene—anything, even if it might not seem like an obvious weapon, like say an old-fashioned dustbin lid. Make sure any CCTV in the area is checked too, not only the one at the pub. Tell them not to overlook anything. I don’t want George’s life to be ruined because we missed something. Then I suppose we should concentrate on identifying the victim.”
“Actually, Chief, identification won’t be a problem, but it has made the whole thing a lot more complicated,” said Jimmy, who was simultaneously making notes on his electronic notepad while trying to read the messages coming through on his phone. “The victim still had his wallet on him, so it was easy to identify him. His name is Aidan O’Doyle and he’s the head stable lad for Flynn FitzAllan. Although, lad is stretching it a bit—he was fifty-eight.”
Shadow stared at his sergeant for a moment.
“Are you telling me that a famous racehorse trainer and the man in charge of running his stables died within a few hours of each other and their deaths are…let’s say suspicious at the very least?”
“I take it you don’t think it’s a coincidence then, Chief?” asked Jimmy, earning himself a scowl. Sophie was looking a little happier though.
“If it isn’t a coincidence and they were both targeted by the same person, surely that would be good for George,” she suggested. Shadow sighed. He wasn’t so confident. The Crown Prosecution Service often moved in mysterious ways.
“What else did they find in his pockets?” he asked.
“Other than his wallet, which still had all his bank cards and some cash in it, only his mobile. Forensics have them both,” said Jimmy scrolling through the information he’d been sent. “They are running tests, but Ben has read the last text message he received. It was sent at ten thirty and it said, ‘Meet me outside,’ and was in response to a text the victim sent a couple of hours earlier.”
“And what did that say?” asked Shadow, unable to hide his impatience.
“‘Ten grand to shut me up,’” replied Jimmy.
Shadow raised his eyebrows. “So, Aidan was blackmailing someone, or someone was bribing him, and it looks like they found a cheaper way to guarantee his silence. Can we trace the other mobile?”
“Forensics are on it, Chief.”
“Who’s his next of kin?”
“Well, he’s an Irish national, like FitzAllan, so it hasn’t been easy. We haven’t contacted the stables yet, but we think Tom has managed to track down a brother living in Cork through social media.”
“Get Tom to contact the Irish police tomorrow to check, then ask them to inform the brother and see if they can find any more information about Aidan.”
Jimmy’s phone bleeped.
“George’s test results have come back negative,” he said with a relieved smile.
“There should never have been any doubt that they wouldn’t,” grunted Shadow.
“If Aidan was hit over the head because he was blackmailing someone, what does that mean for George?” asked Sophie.
“In the short term, it means I’m going back to the station to sign his release papers. He’s been there too long as it is.”
Jimmy and Sophie exchanged a concerned look.
“What about the chief constable?” asked his sergeant.
Shadow shrugged. “I’ll worry about her in the morning.”
*
The Minster bells were striking two when Shadow finally arrived home. He lived alone on Florence, a narrow boat moored on the River Ouse by Skeldergate Bridge. She had been his home for almost thirty years. He’d bought her when he’d first served as a constable in London, before returning to his home city of York, after the death of Luisa—his girlfriend. His stomach grumbled loudly as he kicked off his shoes and shrugged off his jacket. It had been a long day and the upset with George had done nothing to aid his digestion. After a quick rummage through the cupboards of his compact galley he found a half-empty packet of tablets to help settle the churning. He popped a couple in his mouth and let them dissolve before falling into bed and an uneasy sleep.
Despite his late night, Shadow was awake early the next morning. The previous day’s events were occupying his mind too much to allow more than a few hours of sleep. He showered and dressed quickly, but his fridge and cupboards were so bare he couldn’t even make a cup of coffee. The sun was glistening on the water and it was already warm when he stepped on to the towpath. His neighbours the geese were awake early too and honking loudly at any joggers and dog walkers who got too close.
It was too early for Bettys to be open for breakfast, so instead he took a bag of dirty washing straight to the laundry he used on Goodramgate. Although there was a washing machine on board Florence, Shadow preferred to have his suits and shirts cleaned professionally. The laundry was owned by Maggie, an old friend from his primary school days. Despite the early hour, she didn’t look particularly surprised to see him, nor did she mince her words.
“You look terrible. Didn’t you get enough sleep? What was keeping you awake? This awful business with poor old George or is there more to Flynn FitzAllan’s death than meets the eye?”
Shadow was no longer surprised that Maggie already knew about everything that was going on. Thanks to her extensive network of friends, family and her ability to chat to everyone she met, she was possibly York’s most well-informed resident.
“A little of both,” he replied with a sigh as he dumped his laundry bag on her counter.
“So, was it a case of foul play with Flynn? A jealous lover perhaps?” she pressed on with a mischievous grin. Shadow gave her a reproachful look. She knew perfectly well he couldn’t discuss the details of any case, but she just gave him an innocent smile in return.
A thought occurred to Shadow. “Have you heard something or was that a guess?” he asked.
“An educated guess maybe,” replied Maggie as she began to sort through his shirts and fill out a receipt. “Flynn FitzAllan was in here about a week ago with a shirt and jacket he wanted me to get a red wine stain out of, telling me some blarney about how he’d got overexcited watching a horse of his win at Ripon and spilt it on himself.”
“What makes you think it was blarney?”
Maggie pursed her lips and gave Shadow a knowing look.
“Picture it—if you spill wine on yourself it goes on the front of your shirt and jacket, but his were stained on the back and shoulders too, like someone had poured a glass of wine over his head. Now in my experience, men don’t tend to throw wine over someone when they are angry, but women do. Women who have been wronged.”
“It sounds like you are speaking from personal experience.”
“I may have chucked the odd glass of Merlot in my time,” she replied, her dark eyes twinkling a little, “but in my defence I was always provoked.”
“You’re sure it was FitzAllan?”
“Of course.” She pointed to the copy of the Racing Post lying on the counter. “I like a flutter every now and again. Flynn FitzAllan was quite the rising star. His horses are always getting tipped. I backed his last two winners and made a tidy profit. You can take that if you want. I’ve already picked my runners for today.”
Shadow picked up the newspaper. The front page was dedicated to Flynn’s obituary and was accompanied by a photograph of him with one of his horses winning at Newmarket only a few weeks ago. It felt strange to see his face smiling and full of joy compared to how he’d seen it yesterday—damaged and lifeless. Shadow conceded that Flynn had been a handsome man with high cheekbones, bright blue eyes and his dark hair worn in a style that Shadow thought was a little too long and effeminate, but he understood some women might find attractive.
After leaving Maggie, Shadow went straight to Bettys Tearooms on St Helen’s Square and arrived as they were opening their doors. He was more ready than ever for his full English with a pot of Yorkshire tea and took his usual seat in the corner of the room. He opened his copy of the Yorkshire Post, noting that their lead story was also the death of Flynn, before turning his attention to the crossword. By the time he’d swallowed his last mouthful of bacon, there was only one clue remaining. He tapped his pen against the table as he tried to solve it, but his concentration was interrupted by another tapping sound and a sense he was being watched. He looked up and sure enough there was Jimmy’s finger tapping the glass and his face smiling at him through the window. Having got his attention, his sergeant then began an elaborate mime of pointing to his watch, then back towards the police station, pulling an angry face, then drawing a finger across his neck before finishing with a thumbs up. Shadow sighed as he stood and pulled on his coat. He supposed he should be grateful that he’d at least managed to finish eating in peace.
“Good morning, Sergeant. Are you planning on becoming a Marcel Marceau tribute act or do you have something to tell me that couldn’t wait until I arrived at the station?” he asked as he stepped out into St Helen’s Square.
“A couple of things actually, Chief,” replied Jimmy cheerfully ignoring Shadow’s sarcastic tone. “Firstly, Dr Donaldson has the results of the post-mortem on Flynn FitzAllan, but as usual he’s only willing to discuss them with you.”
“At least he isn’t insisting on sharing them with the duke first,” grunted Shadow. “What else?”
“The chief constable wants to speak to you too.”
“Okay, I’ll phone her after I’ve spoken to Donaldson.”
“Actually, Chief, you’ll be able to speak to her in person. She’s at the station and I got the impression she isn’t very happy.”
Shadow groaned. Their relationship was difficult enough when the chief constable was in Northallerton and they were separated by a distance of thirty miles. He couldn’t see it improving when they were both in the same building.
Back at the station, Shadow went straight to his office to call Donaldson. Waiting on his desk was a copy of Debrett’s Peerage that he had asked Tom to find for him before he’d left last night. He hoped it might help him understand the dynamics of the DeVere family. He laid Maggie’s copy of the Racing Post alongside the hefty reference book. Then he picked up the telephone receiver with a sigh and dialled the number for Donaldson. The call was answered by Miss Habbershaw, the dragon in human form who fiercely guarded access to the doctor.
“I’m sorry, Chief Inspector,” she began, not sounding remotely sorry, “Dr Donaldson tried calling you earlier, but he is now too busy to speak with you. I am, however, in the process of typing the report for your case and it should be with you in the next day or two.”
Shadow’s jaw tightened. This was typical of Donaldson’s pettiness. Making himself unavailable simply because Shadow had missed his call. Two days was far too long to wait.
“Thank you, Miss Habbershaw, but it would be helpful if you could provide me with the answer to two questions now,” replied Shadow, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. “I really do need to know the size of the pellets found in the victim and whether he was definitely shot first in the back, not in the head.”
“Hold the line a moment please, Chief Inspector, and I’ll see if Dr Donaldson will permit me to reveal that information,” said Miss Habbershaw primly. Shadow waited as the phone went quiet and watched as the minute hand on the wall clock ticked around the face fully five times before she returned.
“Chief Inspector? Dr Donaldson has kindly allowed me to inform you that the lead pellets were three millimetres in size and that the victim was hit first in the back and then in the head, as he suspected.”
Shadow managed to stop himself asking why if she could speak to Donaldson directly he hadn’t been able to, and instead thanked her and hung up. Now for the next difficult conversation.
*
The chief constable had temporarily taken over Superintendent Branston’s office on the ground floor. Shadow couldn’t remember the last time he’d been there. Although Branston was the superior officer at the station, he knew he had risen as high as he could hope for and was quite happy to spend his last few working years quietly watering the plants in his office until the day of his retirement. Shadow doubted whoever the chief constable chose to replace Branston would be quite so easy-going. He didn’t know why she couldn’t just promote Deputy Superintendent Clarkson. He was responsible for the day-to-day running of the uniform division and left Shadow and CID to their own devices. With an impending sense of doom, Shadow knocked on the office door and waited.
“Come in,” said an all too familiar, slightly shrill voice. Shadow opened the door and stepped inside. The place felt strangely empty without Branston’s vast collection of plants, but the scent of tobacco from his pipe still lingered. The chief constable was sitting at Branston’s old desk. She was a slim, athletic woman of medium height, who wore her grey hair cropped short. Her face was free of any trace of make-up and her blue eyes had deep creases in the corners, which Shadow found quite odd as he struggled to recall her ever smiling.
“You’ve had quite an eventful twenty-four hours, I understand, Shadow,” she said by way of a greeting.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Shadow.
“Two unexplained deaths, one involving a fellow officer.”
“Yes, ma’am,” repeated Shadow, not sure why she had called him in only to tell him what he already knew.
“I hope I don’t need to remind you that proper procedure must be followed. From the evidence I have seen it looks like Sergeant Hedley could be facing a charge of causing death by dangerous driving, yet I see you released him from custody last night. We must not be shown to be giving Sergeant Hedley any preferential treatment just because of our own personal regard for him.”
“No, ma’am,” said Shadow, although he doubted the chief constable had any personal regard for George or even knew his first name until yesterday, despite him being the longest-serving officer in the station.
“The other death, the shooting, will also need to be treated extremely carefully, Shadow. Many of those involved are prominent figures in the county.”
Now Shadow knew what the meeting was about. The chief constable was more worried he was going to upset the duke and his friends than about the future of one of her officers.
“Sir Charles Richmond has already telephoned me,” she continued. “Since the story broke overnight the press have descended on Kirkdale. I have sent several uniformed officers from Thirsk to the entrance of both Mr FitzAllan’s stables and Kirkdale Castle to prevent any harassment. I understand you plan to return to the village today and would ask you to avoid any interaction with the press too.”
“Yes, ma’am. On the subject of Sergeant Hedley… We believe there is a connection between the death of the victim in his case—Aidan O’Doyle—and Mr FitzAllan. The two men worked together and died on the same day. If we can prove the blow to Mr O’Doyle’s head was attempted murder, would that have implications for the case against Sergeant Hedley?”
The chief constable put the pen she’d been holding down and laced her fingers together, resting her chin on them as she considered what he was asking before responding.
“Yes, Shadow, I think if you could prove a more serious crime had been committed against Mr O’Doyle that would cast quite a different light on Sergeant Hedley’s situation.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” replied Shadow, as she dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
*
Ten minutes and several phone calls later, Shadow was relieved to be finally getting out of the station and the city for the day. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and the chief constable, even if it did mean enduring Jimmy’s driving and chatter.
“Sophie liked all the photos I took, but I couldn’t convince her that we should move out to the countryside. She said as we both have jobs that need us to be on call, we should probably stay in York.”
“Yes, well she does have a point.” Shadow sighed. Thankfully, Sophie was far more pragmatic than her fiancé. “What have you got there?” he asked pointing to another book wedged at an angle into the compartment between them that usually held Jimmy’s takeaway coffees.
“It’s a pocket guide to British wildlife. I thought, you know, while we were out in the countryside, I could tick off anything new I see. There’s a section in the back for trees and flowers as well. Is this the right time of year for bluebells? They’re Sophie’s favourites.”
“No,” replied Shadow. He had brought reading material of his own: the racing newspaper and Debrett’s and if Jimmy shut up long enough, he might actually be able to find something useful in them before they arrived in Kirkdale.
“Oh, look what’s that? Is it a lady pheasant?” asked Jimmy suddenly as he swerved and narrowly missed a bird that had run out in front of them.
“No, it’s a partridge,” growled Shadow, putting his hand against the dashboard to steady himself as the Racing Post fell on to the floor. “And for crying out loud, look where you’re going.”
“Excellent, I haven’t got one of those. Sorry, Chief.”
After narrowly missing two more of the county’s game birds, Jimmy’s phone began to bleep. He glanced at the screen.
“It’s a message from forensics, Chief,” he said.
“Then stop in this gateway and see what they have to say,” ordered Shadow, grateful for a pause in the erratic swerving and braking. Jimmy pulled over and picked up his phone and began reading the text.
“They are liaising with Donaldson about the pellets found in Flynn; apparently there is an anomaly with those in the cartridges he was using at the shoot. The ones Donaldson removed were made of lead, but ones Flynn used, at least the ones they found in his pocket, contained steel shot. They’ve checked his burner phone and it only ever received calls and messages from one number, until yesterday when he got a message from a new number. They’ve managed to fix the smashed phone and around the time of his death he received a message from the number that usually called the burner.”
