A ghostly shadow, p.10
A Ghostly Shadow, page 10
“Night, all!” he called to the remaining officers. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning.”
*
He left the station and walked across St Helen’s Square and down Stonegate, dodging past an overexcited group of little girls dressed up as witches, who were running up and down with broomsticks between their legs and wands in their hands. Shadow turned into Petergate and headed towards Kings Square where he saw Bob the window cleaner exiting the bookie’s.
“Not long until the clocks change now, Bob.”
“Good, hopefully my luck will change too,” he replied tearing up a betting slip and dropping it into the nearby bin.
“Not backed any winners recently?”
“No, but at least I’m not the only one.” Bob nodded back towards the bookie’s. Matthew West was stomping out the door with a face like thunder.
“Not a happy punter,” observed Shadow.
“He never is,” said Bob. “I’ve never met anyone so unlucky. Nobody wants to stand next to him in there – they all think he’s jinxed. He never knows when to stop either. I don’t know where he gets his money from.”
Shadow quietly filed this information away in his brain.
“By the way, we found the leaflet thief. Thanks for the tip. His name’s Wallace Marshall.”
“You see, I was right. I told you he was a wally.” Bob chuckled, clearly pleased with his own joke. “And speaking of wallies, there’s another one.” He pointed to his nemesis the traffic warden on the other side of the street. “You won’t believe this; he gave me a ticket the other day and when I showed him my permit, he didn’t believe it was mine because it said Robert on it. I tried telling him, Bob is short for Robert – everyone knows that – but he wasn’t having any of it. What a muppet!”
Shadow nodded sympathetically as Bob stomped over to berate the traffic warden yet again.
*
He turned on to Shambles and almost crashed into the menacing figure of a plague doctor coming around the corner.
“For crying out loud!” he exclaimed.
“It’s only me, Chief Inspector,” said the plague doctor, lifting the sinister beaked mask to reveal Steve West. “Sorry if I startled you.”
“You’ve got a new costume I see,” replied Shadow, whose heart was still racing.
“Just trying out a few ideas. I got this one on loan. What do you think?”
“Are the customers going to be able to hear you with that thing on?” asked Shadow pointing to the mask.
Steve frowned. “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. You might have a point.”
“Why not go back to being Dick Turpin?”
“No. I thought about it. Matt said I should, but it wouldn’t have felt right with what happened to Nick.”
“Is Matt not working with you tonight?”
Steve looked awkward and glanced back towards their office where the light was still shining in the window.
“He’s just running a bit late, Chief Inspector, as am I, so I’ll say goodnight and don’t forget to watch out for the Barghest if you’re going down Shambles,” he called before giving a muffled howl, as he replaced the mask and headed across the square.
*
An hour later, after enjoying a perfectly cooked sea bass and bottle of Grillo from Sapori, a new Italian that had recently opened on Shambles, and having not encountering any phantom dogs along the way, Shadow returned to Florence.
Yawning widely and barely able to keep his eyes open, he fished the two mousetraps out of his pocket. What he hadn’t considered when he bought them was what he could bait them with. The contents of his fridge were as usual disappointing. Although there was a nice piece of Stilton and a few slices of Serrano ham, but he begrudged giving either to a rodent. Eventually he found a few stale digestive biscuits in the back of a cupboard. He broke off a couple of bits and placed them in the traps. It would have to do. He wasn’t especially surprised when he awoke the next morning after another terrible night’s sleep, to find both traps remained untouched.
*
Despite his fatigue, Shadow had to acknowledge that it was a beautiful bright autumn morning. He stepped on to the towpath and walked past the still-slumbering geese. The night before the clocks had gone back an hour, so the sun had risen earlier than usual and was now reflecting on the river. It was a pleasant change to head to work in the daylight and he decided to take the path by the river. Although the sun was shining, the air was still chilly and his breath formed little clouds as he strolled along. He paused for a moment as he climbed up the steps on to Ouse Bridge and stared out over the water. Lendal Bridge was in the distance. He stifled a yawn, cursing his uninvited lodger once again. At least some of his fellow commuters also looked bleary-eyed, having missed out on an hour’s sleep.
Suddenly there was a loud bang and a flash from the direction of Lendal Bridge. Smoke began billowing out of one of the old toll houses. It was the one Nick and Andrew worked from. People all around him stopped to stare and point. A couple of young women began screaming. Several mobile phones appeared, some to make emergency calls, most to start filming. Shadow pushed past them and ran down Coney Street, Lendal and on to the bridge. In the distance he could already hear the high-pitched whining siren of the approaching fire engines.
When, out of breath, he arrived at the toll house that was now fully ablaze, Jimmy and several uniformed officers were already on the scene. They were trying to hold back the traffic and the crowd of onlookers that were beginning to gather while the firefighters aimed their hoses at the burning building.
“We saw the explosion from the station and put out the call,” explained Jimmy.
“What happened?” Shadow asked, struggling to make himself heard above the sirens, the shouts and the pitiful wail of the toll house smoke alarm. “Is anyone inside?”
At that moment, one of the firefighters, pushed open the door and ran inside, closely followed by his colleagues. Shadow noticed how easily the door opened and his heart sank. If it wasn’t locked that meant someone was more than likely inside. While the fire was brought under control, Jimmy and Shadow directed the other uniformed officers who had arrived to help with the traffic and the crowd. In a little under an hour, Shadow’s fears were confirmed when one of the firefighters appeared again and approached the waiting police. He removed his helmet and breathing apparatus.
“One fatality on the first floor. We’ve dampened things down and it’s safe enough now if you want to go inside.”
“OK thanks. Any idea what caused it?” asked Shadow. The firefighter wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand and took a deep breath.
“We’re not sure what ignited it, but the place was packed with sandbags full of gunpowder. He didn’t stand a chance.”
*
Shadow began coughing almost as soon as he entered the building. The flames may have disappeared, but the air was still tinged with smoke. What was worse was the unmistakable smell of burnt flesh. He turned his head and pulled the collar of his jacket around to cover his mouth. Cautiously he made his way up the stone stairs. He could feel the cool breeze coming from what had been the windows. All the glass had been blown out and it was now a gaping hole covered with flapping rags that used to be the curtains.
The furniture was charred, and the computers and printers had all been destroyed in the blast. The walls were coated in black soot and still had water from the hoses running down them. Slumped along the sofa, were the remains of Andrew Gill. Shadow, who was notoriously squeamish, could barely bring himself to look. For once he was relieved to have not eaten breakfast. The sound of quick footsteps and coughing behind him told him Jimmy had followed him in and he was grateful to have reason to turn away from the corpse.
“What a mess,” gasped his sergeant briefly removing his hand that was clamped across his nose and mouth. The two detectives looked at the debris for any surviving item that might help with the investigation.
“Do you think it could have been an accident, Chief?” asked Jimmy. Shadow shook his head, although it had been his hope until speaking to the firefighter.
“You don’t accidentally store gunpowder.” He sighed.
Any thoughts Shadow may have had about this being a terrible accident had disappeared the second the firefighter had mentioned the presence of explosives. Shadow recalled the sandbags stacked under the desk. How long had they been lying there ready to blow up and, more importantly, who had put them there? As he looked around something wedged well underneath the sofa caught his eye.
“What’s that?” he asked Jimmy, who having a stronger stomach than his boss was peering at the body. Jimmy bent down, being careful not to touch anything.
“It looks like a bottle of booze. Brandy, I think, but it’s empty and there’s something behind it that looks like an ashtray. Maybe Gill spent his last night drowning his sorrows.”
“Maybe,” Shadow said, “or maybe smouldering cigarette butts and spilt brandy was what ignited the gunpowder. We’ll have to wait and see what forensics say, I suppose.”
From outside, Shadow heard the unmistakable booming voice of Donaldson barking out instructions to let him enter.
“Come on, let’s go,” he said to Jimmy. “This place is too small to accommodate the two of us and Donaldson’s ego.”
Once he was outside again, Shadow leaned on the side of the bridge and gratefully took several deep breaths of fresh air. As he turned his head, he saw the small dark figure of Iris pushing her way through the crowd of onlookers. He motioned to Tom, who had joined the other constables, to let her through and she hurried towards him.
“What happened?” she asked, looking shocked as she raked her hands through her hair, the ends of which she had now dyed bright blue, and today’s T-shirt proclaimed her devotion to The Cure.
“I’m afraid there has been an explosion. Andrew Gill is dead,” said Shadow. Iris’s hand flew to her mouth in horror and her eyes grew very wide.
“Oh my God! That’s terrible!” she gasped. “Poor Drew. If only I’d been here.”
“It was very lucky you weren’t. When did you last see him?” Shadow asked gently as he beckoned Tom over.
“Last night. I got confused about the clocks going back. At home we would put them forward in October, then I realised and put them back again, but not by enough.” She paused and took a breath. “Sorry I’m jabbering, but basically I was running late. Oh my God,” she repeated.
At that moment, Jimmy appeared holding the black cat. “Look who I found,” he said with a smile.
“Catesby!” Iris cried out. Her face brightened as Jimmy passed the cat over to her. “You’re okay. Don’t worry I’m here now.” She kissed the cat on the nose, but Shadow thought the feline didn’t look particularly perturbed by the morning’s events.
“Did Mr Gill always arrive early?” Shadow asked.
Iris sniffed loudly. “Not really, but since Nick was killed, he’s started sleeping here, on that little sofa in the office.”
“One more question, if you don’t mind. Did Andrew smoke?”
Iris crinkled her forehead and shook her head.
“No, at least I never saw him light up – maybe he did. I’ll never know now, will I?” A tear trickled down her cheek and she buried her face in the cat’s fur.
Shadow turned to Tom. “See if you can get her a cup of tea or something, will you?” he asked.
Just then Donaldson appeared again. Shadow took a little pleasure in the fact the doctor was coughing as much as he had been earlier. Reluctantly, he went over to speak with him.
“Well?” he enquired.
“Well, there wasn’t much left of him to examine – at least not here,” replied Donaldson, removing his gloves. “The blast killed him, before the flying debris and glass tore into him and then the fire has char-grilled what remained.”
“I need to know if he was drugged like Cooper,” said Shadow, swallowing down a wave of nausea that was rising from his stomach.
“And I shall tell you once I’ve had him, or rather what remains of him, on the slab.”
With that the doctor closed his bag and strode away, pushing his way through the gawping crowd.
“Where on earth are forensics?” asked Shadow looking around irritably.
“On their way, Chief. They said they got confused by the clocks changing too,” explained Jimmy apologetically.
“For crying out loud,” muttered Shadow. No wonder they didn’t fill him with confidence. They didn’t even have the excuse of being on an unfamiliar continent. “Well you wait here for them and report back. I’m going to get some breakfast.”
*
In truth, before he went anywhere near food, he needed to clear his mind and his nostrils. His stomach was still churning from what he’d seen and smelt upstairs in the toll house, but he had at least an hour to recover before Donaldson or forensics would have anything to report. He walked down Museum Street and passed St Wilfrid’s, the Catholic church on Duncombe Place, until he was in front of the Minster. Even at this hour in the morning there was a queue forming to go into the great cathedral. Shadow dodged around the tourists and stepped through the black wrought-iron gates of Dean’s Park.
The peaceful garden was almost empty at this time in the morning. In fact, there were only two other people there and Shadow recognised them both immediately. Wallace Marshall was sitting on the octagonal stone bench that circled one of the trees. He was clutching his plastic carrier bag tightly to his chest and rocking gently back and forth. Further along the path, near the cathedral library, the tall figure of Axel, the Swedish professor was jogging away.
Shadow slowly approached Wallace. One look at the bag, told him it was already full of what looked suspiciously like more ghost walk leaflets.
“Good morning, Wallace. You’re out early,” he said. Wallace didn’t look up but continued rocking. Shadow tried again.
“You’ve been busy, I see,” he said, gesturing towards the brimming bag. “You know you shouldn’t take those don’t you?” Wallace glanced up furtively.
“I can’t rest. They don’t rest. The wicked don’t rest.”
“The wicked?”
“I’ll be safe here, won’t I? This place is sacred.” He turned his head to look at the Minster towering above them. Shadow followed his gaze. Although not an especially religious man, he could appreciate the sense of calm and peace the ancient cathedral gave to people. Wallace began to stroke one of the grotesques that the Minster stone masons had decorated the bench with. They mirrored the medieval gargoyles and grotesques that adorned the Minster and were said to ward away evil spirits.
“I’ll be safe here,” he repeated. “They can’t touch you on sacred ground, consecrated ground.”
“Yes, you’ll be safe here,” Shadow agreed, in what he hoped was a reassuring voice, although in truth he had no idea if Dean’s Park was indeed consecrated or not. He patted Wallace on the shoulder and moved away. When he looked back Wallace was now busy rummaging through his bag and Axel had completely disappeared.
*
As he strolled back down Duncombe Place, he glanced across to St Wilfrid’s. Malcolm Webster, bald headed and wearing black trousers and polo neck, instead of his costume, hurried inside. It seemed to Shadow that almost everyone he had spoken to in the last few days was making an appearance in the city early this morning. More importantly though, his appetite had returned. He turned on to Blake Street. Bettys was beckoning.
*
Half an hour later, he was back at his desk with a full but already complaining stomach. Almost before he had sat down, Jimmy appeared in his doorway.
“Feeling better, Chief?” he asked brightly.
Shadow scowled in return. “What can you tell me? Did our forensics team finally find their way out of bed?” he asked sceptically.
Jimmy nodded. “Ben and Ollie are still down there but they did find a couple of things that are interesting.”
Shadow waited impatiently. “Are you expecting me to guess, Sergeant?”
“Sorry, Chief. Firstly, the brandy and cigarettes. The bottle of brandy was definitely empty, but they couldn’t find any sign it had been spilt. It’s a brand sold in most off-licences and supermarkets. The cigarette butts were all from the same brand – Hendersons – again nothing particularly unusual about them except they were the same as the ones found on the ground at the Knavesmire.”
“Was it a cigarette that ignited the gunpowder?” Shadow asked. The ashtray had been under the sofa, surely too far away from the sandbags under the window.
“They are still working on that, but they also found these.” Jimmy produced two small clear plastic evidence bags from his pocket. He handed them over to Shadow. Inside each one was a scrap of paper with charred edges. On the first was written the word ‘murderer’ in black ink. On the second were the initials MW.
“Where did they find these?” he asked.
“On a table in the corner, or what was left of it. They said it looked like a piece of paper had been on the desk and held in place by two stone paper weights. The rest of the paper was burnt away but these pieces under the stones survived. What do you think they are from?”
Shadow thought for a moment. He couldn’t see how it could be an invoice, or receipt or any other sort of business correspondence. To him, handwriting implied a personal letter. The word ‘murderer’, was puzzling. Was the writer confessing or accusing? A thought occurred to him.
“Get a sample of Andrew’s handwriting and check he wasn’t the one who wrote the letter. It might have been a confession. Then find out what time the post was delivered to the toll house. If it didn’t arrive this morning, Iris might know something about it.”
“Do you think MW is the signature of the person who sent it? That could be Malcolm Webster. We know he has a history of writing threatening letters. Or it could be Matthew West. Who else?” mused Jimmy as he entered Shadow’s instructions.
