The Maggie Murders Read online

  The Maggie Murders

  by J.P. Lomas

  Text copyright ©J P Lomas 2012

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Illustration by Tim Major

  Also by J.P. Lomas

  ‘Special Measures’

  For Tanya and Edwin

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  1979

  The Iron Lady

  ‘I know full well the responsibilities that await me as I enter the door of No. 10.’

  She radiated success as she stood triumphantly in front of 10 Downing Street; the grocer’s daughter from Grantham who had just been elected Britain’s first female Prime Minister. This smiling, but steely lady, with her carefully modulated voice had led the Conservative Party to a clear victory in the General Election. Her party’s majority of 43 seats in the new Parliament would be decisive enough for her to set about a programme of radical reform.

  The Mini Cooper may not have been going as fast as a bullet along the A303, yet it was certainly hurtling along at well above the 70mph speed limit on that West Country dual carriageway and it had already given many drivers in the London bound lanes cause for consternation.

  Margaret Thatcher turned to address the nation she now led. The media pack assembled across the road from the landmark London terrace, scrambled to record the historic photo opportunity.

  The startled driver of a Ford Capri was only just able to change lanes in time, as the speeding Mini shot past on the inside lane.

  Hardly looking at the headings on the tiny file card concealed in the palm of her hand, Mrs Thatcher began reciting the words which many in the press would ascribe to St Francis of Assisi:

  ‘Where there is discord may we bring harmony…’

  Soon after passing Stonehenge, the driver of the bright red Mini lost all control.

  ‘Where there is error, may we bring truth…’

  The car clipped the tail of an orange Morris Marina, veered violently towards the central reservation, and then ricocheted off the barriers, before it somersaulted through the sky and landed upside down on the black carriageway.

  ‘Where there is doubt, may we bring faith…’

  A London bound blue juggernaut shunted the still spinning Mini onto the hard shoulder where it burst into flames.

  ‘And where there is despair, may we bring hope.’

  There was little hope for whoever was left in the still burning vehicle when the emergency services reached it twenty minutes later.

  In London, the door of Number 10 closed; a new era had begun. Whatever history’s verdict would be on Margaret Thatcher’s premiership, she had undoubtedly joined Boudicca and Churchill as one of Britain’s more remarkable leaders.

  Part 1

  1983

  Generation Exe

  Chapter 1

  Election Night. Once again the Conservatives and Labour were slugging it out to decide who would govern Britain. In crude terms it was Me versus We. The Tories, in the blue corner, fought for the interests of entrepreneurs; they championed the private sector and a free market. The Labour Party, in the red corner, fought for the interests of the unions and the working man; they championed the public sector and a command economy. The only other major party represented the middle ground and despite the optimism of its leaders it would finish where every third party had finished since the War - third.

  As the reigning champions the Tories were expected by the pundits to defeat a divided Labour Party and be returned to power. Four years of harsh economic reform and soaring unemployment had deeply affected the country. Yet a divided opposition and a short, victorious war in the South Atlantic had placed the electoral odds firmly in Maggie Thatcher’s favour.

  Even without the uncorking of patriotic jingoism let flow by the successful recapture of one of Britain’s last remaining colonial outposts, the votes of the majority of Devonians in any election were all but guaranteed for the Conservative Party. Cut off on England’s south-west peninsula, this rural redoubt had been reliant on fishing and farming to sustain its traditional way of life since the Bronze Age. Benefitting from a clement climate and outstanding natural beauty, tourists and wealthy pensioners had become more recent migrants to its rolling hills and coastal havens.

  East Devon, protected by its red, Jurassic cliffs on its seaward border and guarded by Iron Age hill forts on its flanks, was in many ways even more reactionary than the rest of the region – as unlike most of Devon it had remained loyal to King Charles I in the Civil War. It was true that they had rebelled against the teenage Edward VI, yet only because he had tried to impose a radical new prayer book on them. The battles of Clyst St Mary and Woodbury Common, like the Civil War siege of Powderham Castle had been to retain a way of life, rather than to change one.

  Its principal town of Exmouth, lying at the mouth of the River Exe, had developed into a respectable, seaside resort during the 18th Century. It was the type of place which was conservative whichever way you spelt it. The university city of Exeter might occasionally flirt with more radical politics, yet East Devon never would. As Mrs Thatcher swept towards a landslide victory in the General Election, it was hardly worth reporting that her party had retained this particular parliamentary seat.

  On the Friday morning following the election, this quiet seaside town would have given no obvious signs of the horrors waiting to be discovered. Normality appeared to reign: a coaster was just steaming out of the docks, the seafront hotels and guest houses were getting breakfasts ready for their visitors and those who worked in Exeter were beginning their morning commutes.

  High up on the Beacon, in his parents’ penthouse flat overlooking the bay, Jez Carberry slept fitfully. Drinking Stella always made him grouchy and the bottle of sweet, white wine Liddy had shared with him had not been a good mixer. It was either that or the double tequila Steve had bought him at last orders, just before they’d staggered outside to continue celebrating Katy Bennett’s 18th birthday on the beach. He absently scratched his back where some grains of sand from his post pub snog in the dunes with Liddy Bennett had stuck to his skin. If he’d known that she was in fact only 14 he might have slept less easily, but as it was he dreamt of his own 18th birthday party taking place the following month. Thoughts of his forthcoming A’ Levels and his provisional place at The University of East Anglia didn’t disturb his peace. If he hoped for anything, he just hoped it might be good windsurfing weather – revision could wait for another day or two…

  In Brixington, Calum Baker lifted his body up by his arms and swivelled around with some difficulty. Cursing, he tried to lower himself on to the wheelchair at the side of his bed; however his first attempt was at the wrong angle and he slumped back onto the duvet. For a moment, he thought of pulling the cord and calling his wife downstairs to help him and yet he would be damned if he was going to give in. Besides, he wasn’t even sure if she was in yet. He cursed, as ag
ain he took up his weight on his arms in preparation for another go at getting up. He’d found it easier running over the Common in full kit every morning than this…

  At her new home just off the town centre, Catherine Sullivan (a name she was still road testing) smiled as she looked in the mirror. She wondered when the children would notice and start asking questions she’d be only too happy to answer. Yesterday‘s day off had been a welcome bonus; however now was the time to share the good news with her colleagues in the staffroom. She was sure Sister Ruth would be delighted, though of course it would create a few difficulties for St Winifred’s. She smiled as she went to tell her husband who had used yesterday’s bonus of having their primary school being used as a polling station to go out and have drinks with an old friend. Still, she couldn’t be cross with him after this…

  Tuning into Breakfast Television, a novel concept which he was only just beginning to appreciate, Gerald Mallowan watched the round-up of last night’s election highlights. As his wife prepared his fry up in the new open plan kitchen of their detached house on Castle Lane, he wondered if it would soon be time to look for an even more impressive property. Righting a capsized champagne flute, he considered that the prospects for people who wanted to use their talents in this decade were going to get even better. Though, as he rubbed his temple, he considered it might be best to be a little more careful with the amount he drank…

  In a rented first floor flat above an ironmongers shop on the unimaginatively named Exeter Road, Nigel Byrne came to on a settee which was badly in need of reupholstering, unaware that an election had even taken place, or that he’d made his girlfriend pregnant (again). Having lost his job at the shoe factory and whistled through half the dole cheque he’d picked up yesterday, his fuzzy brain began to recall Abel’s offer of doing a bit of mini-cabbing on the black. The open door to the bedroom showed him that Mandy had already taken Rob to her mum’s and that he could take advantage of the flat’s double bed before reflecting any more about work, or his lack of it. As he picked his way between the lager cans, pizza boxes and album covers on the stained pile carpet, he swore as he heard Iron Maiden’s latest record crack beneath his portly bulk...

  The only unusual thing in Exmouth that morning was the smoke rising in black clumps behind the small parade of shops at Littleham Cross and the emergency services vehicles blocking the road as they dealt with the fire there.

  By the time Detective Inspector Derek Sobers had driven down from Exeter, the body of a local butcher had already been removed from the flat above the shop and Margaret Thatcher had been returned to power as Britain’s Prime Minister with a landslide majority. To Sobers, the crime scene seemed incongruous in the bright light of mid-morning. The Cross was the type of place where people were supposed to slip away in their sleep, not be murdered by arsonists. Apart from the marked police cars parked conspicuously outside the small parade of local shops and a uniformed bobby standing by the dingy front entrance to the butcher’s there was little to mark the drama of violent death which had played itself out in the early hours of the morning.

  The ambulance had left leaving just a single fire engine behind, which had now been parked more conveniently in the car park of the pub opposite, allowing much more room for the traffic to thread its way along the narrow road to Littleham Village and the holiday camp beyond. The bakery on the right of the butcher’s appeared to be open, though Sobers knew from recently acquired experience that you could never be utterly sure when anything was open down here – he suspected that the Devonian equivalent of an Enterprise Zone would be a shop that didn’t have an early closing day. Only the convenience store’s modern PVC framed glass frontage seemed to reflect the current decade, as it broke up the sedate Edwardian respectability of the shop fronts like a gold filling in a maiden aunt’s mouth. Positioned between the darker, more traditional facades of the Post Office and Butcher’s it had a gaggle of people outside – though Sobers felt it was probably not because of the notice board in its window advertising the services of dog walkers, gardeners and odd job men.

  He felt their eyes on him, as he locked his car and crossed the road to where his DS was waiting for him outside the bakery, with what looked like a cheese roll in her hand. So that shop was open; it was probably taking advantage of the fire to feed the ghouls who were now gawping at him. As he crossed into the shade created by the short shopping parade, he felt glad he’d decided not to leave his suit jacket in the car, even the sunshine was deceptive. It might be warm enough for northern families to brace themselves behind wind breaks on Exmouth’s golden sands, ignoring their goose pimples as they spent their redundancy money on one last holiday, but he’d need it to be much warmer before venturing out in even shirt sleeves. Self-consciously he straightened his narrow tie – Italian silk, if they wanted to gawp then at least he could give them a show.

  Hawkins was already affecting their entrance when he reached her. The cheese roll, if it had been a cheese roll, had miraculously disappeared when she’d seen the distinguished features of her boss appear and she was all professionalism in her neat trouser suit when he reached her, not a hair out of place on her shoulder length bob and just the right amount of make-up; feminine without being tarty. Sobers approved. Even if the suit was from M & S or C & A, it was much better than the jeans and leather jacket look she had greeted him with on their first meeting.

  Sobers didn’t like jeans, especially on women – it made them appear too mannish. He hadn’t said anything to her, as he could tell she was just trying to fit in with how she thought a detective should dress. Instead he had just left his extensive wardrobe and understated style to do his talking for him. This, together with some un-engineered conversations about London fashion, had seen a metamorphosis in her. In a few more months he might even make some in-roads into her policing style, though that might be more difficult to alter, but if you could change a woman’s sense of style then what couldn’t you change about her?

  He followed her around the back of the buildings. The bakery stood at one end of the parade and there was an alley way leading between it and the butcher’s to a wider pathway which ran parallel behind the row of shops. This formed the boundary between the shops’ backyards and the back gardens of more substantial Victorian detached houses standing on the other side of a small stream, which struggled to cover the soft shale it trickled over. This stream and some flimsy wooden fencing demarcated the end of leafy gardens where Sobers could have lost his London flat, from the less salubrious, backyards of these Edwardian businesses built to service their neighbouring success stories. Although the presence of a bright orange excavator, in the garden of one of the large villas opposite, suggested that some modern families might not require quite such palatial living.

  Neither alley nor path was wide enough for a motor car, though the path they now walked down might once have been intended for horses as it was as wide as a bridleway. The red brick wall running along the back of the shops was at least a foot higher than Sobers’ six foot frame, which made it a challenge to climb – the broken glass he could see atop the stretch outside the butcher’s doubly so. The constable led them through a weathered wooden gate, with a sprig of barbed wire at the top – Sobers noticed that he held it open for Hawkins and suppressed a smile as he reflected on whether she would welcome such an old fashioned courtesy.

  The backyard was even bleaker than he’d imagined. It was surfaced in a rough, modern concrete. A line of nylon cord tied between a hook on the back wall and an old coal bunker at the back showed it had been used for utility and not for leisure by its present owner. A wily estate agent might have dared to suggest that the restoration of the original flag stones and the addition of a few potted plants could have turned it into a charming courtyard garden, and yet even without the stench of smoke and the grim iron bars fixed to the back windows, this would not have been Sobers’ idea of a place to relax, or potter.

  Another constable guarded the rear entrance of the premises an
d Sobers allowed his sergeant to confirm what he already suspected about the killer’s entrance. Why on earth someone so seemingly hell bent on security should have fixed the broken lock on the back gate with a flimsy padlock was beyond him, talk about exposing an Achilles‘ heel! At least forensics might be able to pick something up from the broken padlock. He’d bet a bolt cutter had been used to affect entry.

  He followed Hawkins into the deeper darkness of a long and narrow hallway. Even without the fire damage, the passageway would have felt cramped and airless. Sobers held a handkerchief ineffectually to his face, as he peered up the internal stairs leading to the living accommodation above the shop. The acrid smell of petrol still hung in the air and the old fashioned butcher’s shop’s gloomy interior was made even darker by the smoke damage.

  ‘Hope you like your steak well done, Ma’am,’ the local uniform called up after his sergeant.

  ‘He’s in charge,’ D.S. Jane Hawkins flashed back, indicating Sobers.

  ‘Right you are,’ replied the constable – probably wisely saving his thoughts on the new D.I for the lads back at the station.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  The fireman in charge had emerged at the head of the dark, uncarpeted wooden staircase and was blocking the senior detective’s way into the flat above the shop.

  ‘He’s with us,’ called back the constable, ‘in charge, apparently!’

  Sobers produced his warrant card and had a feeling this was going to become a regular action in East Devon. The fireman ceded to the card’s authority and let him pass up the stairs. The staircase had escaped any substantial structural damage and was at least safe to use.

  The seat of the fire had been at the foot of the stairs. The firemen had found signs that petrol had been poured through the back door and set alight. It appeared that George Kellow had died of smoke inhalation as he slept. Even if the elderly butcher had woken, it would have been difficult to escape, as iron bars had been fixed to the front and rear windows of the first floor flat and the fire had blocked the only escape route down the stairs.