Treble Clef, page 10
part #8 of DCI Cyril Bennett Series
Owen leaned sideways. “Reports on the board, sir.”
Cyril allowed it to pass and continued. “So on the night they died they were both close to the same person when they were clothed. Keeping an open mind that could have been during the convention or even when walking back to their digs. There was no evidence of sexual activity. The person with them had also been in the room on and according to the evidence, before the night they died. Anyone?”
It was Quinn again who raised a hand having found a little more confidence. “Could they be in those rooms by invitation, sir, placed there like?”
It was April who answered. “Until we know who this third party is we’re at a crossroads. It’s a good point though. Do we know who booked the rooms?”
There was silence.
“I’ll see it’s checked.”
“So, if…?” Cyril looked again at the officer.
“Quinn, sir.”
“So, if Quinn is correct, they both might have known their killer.” Cyril quickly changed tack. “Escape rooms… what do we know regarding the two men?”
Harry, who was leaning against the wall chewing the end of his pencil, raised a hand. “We have separate reports. Carruthers has been to three from what we can ascertain, Leeds, Newcastle and one in Bradford. The dates are here and are recent. We’ve no record of Van de Meer being present with him but he could have been booked in under a different name. Each facility has CCTV in the rooms but it’s not recorded, it’s purely for support during the game and to ensure those playing are safe and that nobody nicks anything. They tell me cameras are less intrusive than windows. One company is thinking of recording the events but a CD will only be given to those participating. The entrance and Reception have CCTV and some keep records for forty-eight hours, whereas one keeps them for four years. We have those here. They came through this morning after a good deal of searching and co-operation on their part.”
Harry picked up the remote and the large screen turned from blue, containing the North Yorkshire crest, to black before the grainy images were displayed. “These are stills.”
“It’s taken some time to find these images as neither man was the lead name on the booking. What we have here is the person we believe to be Carruthers with two others. This is from the Manchester rooms.”
“Don’t they need the names of all the group for health and safety?”
“If you book a group to play five-a-side football you only need one name who takes responsibility. The same applies here. One person signs the form accepting the company’s terms and conditions.”
“Do you have the name of this business?” April asked.
“IQ Escapes. When I rang them initially I was informed that a secret agent would speak to me shortly. It’s role play with a capital R, believe me. They immerse you in the experience and I can see why it might become addictive, challenging and very competitive. Those organising come from a theatrical background and so they know how to create the spaces to reflect authenticity.”
April wrote down something that struck her from what he had said. They immerse you in the experience and I can see why it might become addictive, challenging and very competitive.
“The room wasn’t booked in Carruthers’s name. Booked under a Colin Boardman. What I believe to be significant is that Van de Meer and Carruthers went to the same escape rooms but not at the same time. One went with friends one week and then the other the following week and vice versa.” He paused as if giving them time to catch up.
“So, the same friends went twice?”
“No, look carefully. The people with them are different. I’m aware the images are not the best quality.” He paused allowing them to watch as the images played through a couple of times. “So, the question now is, do you see what I see?”
Chapter Fifteen
There was something about The Stray, especially at this time of the day that made one glad to be alive. On looking up the blue sky demanded more than a brief glimpse. It was streaked with curving lines of cirrus cloud that appeared dragged and smudged informally across a giant canvas, clearly complementing the straight trails of high vapour left from a passing jet. Scenes such as these needed savouring; time to watch the slow but subtle changes. To the observer there was clearly something harmonious about the silent collision of man and nature way above in the heavens. “Beautiful but it will all be gone in a moment, lost forever.”
The traffic was busy along the peripheral roads but within this open space the thrum was more soothing than annoying. A dog barked to the right of the path as its owner scooped up a tennis ball and launched it into the distance. The dog, turning swiftly, barked loudly and set off after it at a pace.
All life was here, each person going about their business at a different pace and for varying reasons. It was clearly special. No matter what the season it always had something to offer.
Walking away from the path, the dew, still lingering on the long grass, was of no concern as the green, wooden hut was his immediate destination. The building had the appearance of a large ice-cream stall and was positioned just away from the junction of West Park and close to where Montpellier Hill came into view. As long as one approached from the rear one would be out of view from those on the roads and the main pavement. Even though the small building had windows around every side it was not easy to be seen. Besides, this task was only going to take a minute or two.
***
Harry was clearly both excited and frustrated. “Don’t you see? Manchester one week and Leeds the next for Carruthers’s group, Leeds and then Manchester for Van de Meer’s, same venue, alternate weeks. It was as if they were having some kind of competition. There was some kind of rivalry.”
“That’s clever,” announced April. “They challenge each other and compare scores. What did you say a while back? Addictive, challenging and very competitive, right? When was this?”
“Last one was the week before they were killed, the week before they came to Harrogate.”
April laughed. “It’s staring us in the face. If they were good friends why book rooms some distance apart? If I were going to a convention with a colleague I’d either be in the same place or pretty close by. I certainly wouldn’t book accommodation so far away.”
“Good point, April, and well done, Harry. Who was the lead name for Van de Meer’s group?” Cyril asked.
Smiling Harry replied, “Booked under the name of Colin Boardman.” He allowed the information to sink in. “Yes, same as the other group.”
“So, who’s Colin bloody Boardman when he’s at home?” Owen asked. “I’m beginning to smell a rather large rat.”
April was quick to interrupt again. “How did they pay for their entertainment?”
“Cash in all cases.”
“Didn’t they need a deposit when the booking was made?”
“Apparently not.”
“Facial recognition on these players?”
“That’s the next step. Can we justify the cost, sir?”
“Boardman may well be a false name. I’ll clear it,” Cyril promised, tapping the pencil against his cup. End of round one. “Thanks.”
***
Holding one of the ears to the back of the hut, just above the window and near the centre, he positioned the inner part of the auricle facing downwards. Squeezing the trigger on the staple gun, the metal quickly penetrated the stiffening cartilage, pinning the ear to sit horizontally against the cream painted wooden frame. It was attached as if it had grown there, having the appearance and colour of bracket fungus. He placed the second ear at a slight angle and a little higher. Here the wood was painted green offering a greater contrast. The gun triggered again securing the flesh to the timber. They had been pinned at approximately six feet from the floor away from dogs and children but clearly visible as they contrasted curiously with the painted coloured wood.
“Now how long will it take the clever and the curious to discover these I wonder? Let’s hope before some hungry bird decides to take the occasional peck,” he whispered before turning away and following the slope that would lead to the bottom of Montpellier Hill.
***
Valerie Thew turned the key in the lock and opened the door of the charity shop. The same aroma crashed into her nostrils making her pull the face she must have pulled every time she entered. She had thought on many occasions it was as if someone or something had died there overnight. A quick spray of the air freshener and the smell was masked. She moved through to the back room to hang up her coat and put her handbag safely away. Within moments the bell on the front door rang.
“No rest for the wicked,” she mumbled.
***
“It’s clear what we need to do,” Cyril announced whilst checking the time on the digital clock positioned on the far wall. “Shakti, I want the media news desk to put out a call for this Colin Boardman. Get them to tidy up and release these images. I want it broadcast on the local radio news, TV and in the press. Get them in as many of these escape rooms as you can. Might just jog someone’s memory. It should be straightforward to identify him. This Boardman is acquainted with both victims and we know what he looks like, providing he was one of those in either party but then there’s no guarantee about that. We can take nothing for granted. I also want photographs of the victims posting on line and on all other available sites.” He pointed to the screen. “Do we have recent images of both?”
Harry nodded.
“One last thing. Do we have the address of Carruthers’s previous lodgings?”
Stuart Park stuck up his thumb.
“April, take Quinn with you and check it out. As much information as possible, pictures would help. You know what we need. See if they’ve seen Van de Meer before. You know the drill. Remember too that the hand was deliberately placed where it was bound to be discovered and we can reasonably assume the ears will also be located somewhere. That’s my gut talking.”
***
Jim West was standing by the door his hands tucked into his jacket pockets.
“Are you stalking me, Mr West?” Valerie asked with a chuckle. “Or are you looking for something in particular?”
“A stalker at my age… goodness me no. My stalking days are over, that’s if they ever existed in the first place.”
They both laughed. Even though they had been out together there seemed to be a degree of discomfort, a reluctance on both parts to relax. However, the laughter helped to ease the atmosphere.
“I wondered if you’d like to have lunch, or maybe a coffee? As you know it’s my games night tonight. I have a detective fellow popping along. It’s to do with those murders. They say the killer removed certain body parts. You’ve read about them in the Harrogate Advertiser I take it?”
“Harrogate used to be such a safe place and now what with drugs and stag parties coming here the place is changing. Happiest place in the UK to live it was at one time and now… Wendy, Bill’s wife, he owns the gallery yonder.” She moved by the window and pointed as if to emphasise the direction. “Found one of those body parts, a hand I believe, stuck in the eaves of the building in the Valley Gardens, Magnesia Well, you know the one. Imagine that! I wouldn’t be able to sleep for a week.”
“I’d only heard a rumour. Someone said they found a head so unless I hear it first hand…” He shuffled with a degree of unease. “Sorry!” He dragged a smile across his face. “Lunch?”
“Sorry, yes. Quite carried away. Betty’s will be busy,” she said tongue in cheek knowing it was too expensive.
“I wasn’t considering pushing the boat that far out, Valerie. I was thinking more of a pedalo trip around the pond… metaphorically speaking, that is. A coffee and a sandwich?”
“Sounds lovely. Gloria comes in at eleven-thirty and we can go then before the rush. Meet you by the Cenotaph?”
“The Cenotaph, eleven-forty. Right, see you then.” He turned and left, giving a wave as he passed the window.
Valerie raised her hand and waved back. She brought her hand in front of her face, opening and closing it a few times, then shivered. “How disgusting and to think it happened here in Harrogate too.”
Chapter Sixteen
Owen’s desk could never be described as either tidy or orderly, but then neither could Owen himself. If one looked carefully enough, there was a modicum of structure to the way he worked. There was ample reference too to the snacks and meals that had been consumed in the previous seventy-two hours, be it in the form of empty wrappers or morsels and crumbs. A small mug printed with bold red letters as if it were written in dripping blood asked in all innocence, Is it Friday yet? It contained his new-found favourite confectionery, Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls, and it was strategically positioned to one side of his computer screen. To the other side was the only exposed piece of the desk, a small oasis amidst the chaos, but it contained more crater-like rings than the moon, past evidence that this was the location of the myriad cups of tea that had kept him refreshed.
Owen, having pulled his chair away from the desk, had one of the drawers on his knee as he continued his search. Cyril strolled across, the day’s newspaper rolled beneath his arm.
“What is it today for which you search, Owen? The Holy Grail, the lost chord, maybe Blackbeard’s treasure or is it the winning lottery ticket for last night’s game?” He paused and raised an eyebrow. “And when it’s found you’ll be able to put us all out of our misery and release us from the bombardment of crap society in general wants to throw at our door.” He tapped the paper. “Like misogyny and the plethora of other hate crimes you can now report, serious ones, wolf-whistling and the like.” Cyril dropped the paper onto the desk bringing to it an immediate and aesthetic appearance similar to that when an untidy garden is covered in snow.
Owen, having put the drawer back, looked up before thrusting his hand deep into the bowels of the lower drawer with the delicacy of a drainage rod forced in to unblock a pipe. He pulled a face as his tongue protruded from between his lips. The operation was becoming delicate and difficult; concentration was clearly needed.
“Online banking password and details,” he said between the occasional grunt as his arm disappeared further into the desk until his elbow disappeared. “Thought I’d taped them to the back of one of these drawers. One more wrong attempt and I’m locked out and I need to transfer some cash otherwise it’s overdraft time.” He pulled another face that conveyed the gravity of the situation perfectly.
“You’ll be pulling more than a face after you’ve read that. Page six.” Cyril leaned over to the mug containing the sweets only to pull out an empty wrapper. “I bet you put the empty packets of the After Eight mints back in the box too!”
Using his free hand Owen dipped his fingers in, pulled out a wrapped sweet and handed it to Cyril. “Search and thou shall find, sir, as my gran used to say.”
“I can see that from your, let’s say, morning exercise. When you read that,” he tapped the paper, “you’ll need to search not only for your patience and your sense of humour but that part of your brain that controls your anger.” He popped the sweet into his mouth, dropped the wrapper into the open drawer and marched off towards his office. “Thanks for the mint.”
Owen retrieved the wrapper and popped it into the pot with the others before picking up the paper and turning to the said page.
“Shit and bloody derision! Shakti!” he called.
Shakti’s head appeared from the side of a computer screen. “That’s me.”
“Come and read this and please, please tell me it’s not just me and Flash who find this total and utter bollocks.”
She moved towards Owen’s desk before leaning over his shoulder to read the column headline.
Investigating hate crime risks taking police away from core priorities.
“No shit Sherlock. Listen to this, Owen. Since 2015 hate crimes recorded by police in England and Wales have soared from just over 54,800 to more than 100,000. Really!” Shakti’s anger exploded. “We’ve fewer front line officers, limited resources, a downward spiral of officer morale and we have not only to investigate name-bloody-calling but also when some bloody snowflake’s upset because a builder’s wolf-whistled as they passed. And yet real crimes are on the increase and the clear-up rate has dropped. It doesn’t take a genius. Let’s refocus. We have two victims this week, one has no hand and another no bloody ears but apparently, we should be searching out Internet trolls. It’s not what I came into the force for, Owen, not this shite anyway.”
“We could all have a brush surgically implanted and we could sweep up as we went along,” Owen suggested as they stared at each other until he decided there was only one thing to do. “Have a mint ball,” Owen grunted proffering the cup and producing a broad smile. “It’s going to get worse before it gets better.” He burst out laughing. “You’ve just got to see the funny side. Remember that force, somewhere down south, I think, or was it Lincolnshire? Anyway they got a roasting for setting up a scheme where they’d only respond to burglaries at properties with an even house number thereby halving their call outs. I can see this happening soon with the different religions or certain housing estates or town and city areas unless more resources and a more common-sense approach is taken to these so-called hate crimes. If we’re not careful we’ll see people taking policing into their own hands and with that will come unofficial judge and jury courts and… I don’t need to say more. It’s trouble with a capital T and it’s just around the corner. Mark my words, Shak.”
Shakti sighed and shook her head. “Thanks for that, Owen. Just what I needed was someone to raise my blood pressure to the point of triggering a headache.” She thumped him on the shoulder.
“I’ll make you and the boss a brew. That makes everything right for us northerners, put it right with tea.” Owen grinned.
Shakti sloped off to her desk. “Two sugars.”
“You don’t take sugar.”
“I do now.”
Within minutes Cyril appeared. Owen held up the small piece of paper. “Is that a clue? Been reading all about these escape rooms. Might give you the missing combination.”
