A ghostly shadow, p.11
A Ghostly Shadow, page 11
“What words of wisdom did your friends in forensics have about the gunpowder that was used? Is it easy to get hold of?”
Jimmy shook his head. “Not of the sort that was used. They described it as homemade. Ben and Ollie did try and explain the details to me.” Shadow raised his eyebrow and Jimmy frowned at the notes he’d made. “They said there are different grades of gunpowder. It’s something to do with how fine the powder is. For example, the grade 7FA could be used for fireworks and is much finer than the grade used at the toll house that was more like 4FA. They said it was the perfect combination of charcoal, sulphur and saltpetre. Well perfect if you want to cause a big explosion I suppose. The charcoal and sulphur are fairly easy to get hold of; the saltpetre not so much.”
Shadow again recalled the theft from the university of the saltpetre. It sounded like whoever planted the gunpowder in the sandbags knew exactly what they were doing. Combining the saltpetre, sulphur and charcoal perfectly to make the sort of gunpowder powerful enough to kill a man. Could the theft be connected to the murders? Nobody at the university had seemed too concerned at the time. They couldn’t even tell him when it had been taken. Not for the first time Jimmy interrupted his train of thought.
“You know, Chief, the other week I was watching this detective show with Sophie where the murderer was killing his victims in the same way as the saints with the same name were killed. A guy called Bart was flayed alive like St Bartholomew.”
Shadow grimaced. “Surely, by now you know you can spare me the gory details, Sergeant! Especially when I’ve just eaten and after the morning we’ve had!”
“Sorry, but I was thinking. What if we’re looking for a psychopath who wants to kill tour guides in a way that suits their characters? Dick Turpin was hanged, Guy Fawkes blown up with gunpowder. You’ve got to admit Wallace Marshall is pretty unhinged.”
Shadow raised a sceptical eyebrow. Wallace might be disturbed, but did he really have the strength or forethought to carry out either of these murders? Maybe he should be grateful Andrew Gill hadn’t been hung, drawn and quartered, like Guy. He might not have recovered from seeing that. As he was thinking, Shadow turned the second evidence bag in front of him over. Now the initials showing through the paper read WM.
“Wallace Marshall?” asked Jimmy eagerly.
“It’s a thought, I suppose,” replied Shadow. He still wasn’t convinced, but Wallace Marshall and Malcolm Webster had both been close to the explosion this morning. He’d seen them for himself.
“And he’s just been brought in,” added Jimmy.
“What? For crying out loud! Why didn’t you mention it before?” asked Shadow in exasperation.
“Sorry, Chief. I wasn’t sure if you were taking him seriously as a suspect. He was arrested about twenty minutes ago for starting a fire in Dean’s Park. The Minster Police apprehended him and put out the fire, then called us.”
“Have you been down to see him?”
Jimmy shook his head. “I phoned down to the custody sergeant. The doctor is with him now. He’s got a few minor burns to his hands and then he needs to be assessed by a psychiatrist. His social worker has been held up and as he’s classed as vulnerable, I don’t think we’ll be able to interview him without him or her.”
“For crying out loud,” repeated Shadow. “If he’s vulnerable why aren’t they taking better care of him?” He was furious with himself for not realising Marshall might do something like this when he spoke to him. He must have started the fire only a few moments after Shadow had left him.
“Why don’t you try and get some more sense out of forensics, Sergeant, and I’ll do the same with Donaldson?” he snapped.
Jimmy nodded and quietly backed out of the room, closing the door behind him. Shadow drummed his fingers on his desk in irritation. He knew he shouldn’t have bitten Jimmy’s head off like that. He had taken his anger out on his sergeant even though he wasn’t the one at fault. He’d have to try and make it up to him later.
Shadow took a deep breath and picked up the telephone. Calling Donaldson meant he first had to get past his dragon of a secretary who guarded access to her boss like he was the crown jewels. Sure enough, after what seemed like an eternity of polite requests, reasoning and waiting, the man himself finally arrived at the end of the line.
“I really don’t know why you feel the need to harass poor Miss Habbershaw in this way, Shadow. I told you how your latest victim died at the scene.”
“He was definitely alive before the blast. That’s what killed him?”
“Yes.”
“Any drugs or alcohol in his blood?”
“A little of both and by drugs, I mean sedatives – sleeping pills again. He’d taken Valium as well as the temazepam.”
“Did he smoke?”
“With the amount of damage to his lungs it’s hard to tell, but I would say probably not.”
“And you are sure Nick Cooper didn’t?”
“No, he did not. I have to say your concern regarding their lifestyle is touching but a tad too late. They could both have had a forty a day habit. That’s not what killed them.”
“Thank you, Doctor. These deep medical insights are the reason I always look forward to our conversations,” replied Shadow before hanging up.
*
After taking a few seconds to calm down, which included locating a stray indigestion tablet hiding beneath a pile of papers in his desk drawer, Shadow picked up the phone again. This time he called the custody sergeant who confirmed that Wallace was still waiting for his social worker. The doctor was with him and said he was too distressed to be interviewed. Shadow made a note that he had been found in possession of lighter fluid and matches. He silently prayed that forensics wouldn’t find that either had been used at the toll house explosion. Wallace Marshall may have many problems, but Shadow didn’t believe he was a murderer and he sincerely hoped somebody unscrupulous hadn’t taken advantage of him.
He then pulled on his old wax jacket and went in search of Jimmy. He needed to make amends. His sergeant was in the incident room updating the officers who had just arrived for their shift about what had happened to Andrew Gill. He stood up when Shadow entered the room to a subdued chorus of “Morning, Chief.”
“So to confirm, Chief, we are linking the murders of Cooper and Gill, aren’t we?” his sergeant asked.
“Yes, yes absolutely,” agreed Shadow sounding oddly enthusiastic even to himself. “Continue the good work, everyone. I’m sure Sergeant Chang has given you all the information you need. Well done.”
The other officers returned to their desks. There were a few raised eyebrows. Compliments from Chief Inspector Shadow were known to be as rare as hens’ teeth. Shadow turned to Jimmy, who was also looking a little confused.
“Have you still got the bunch of keys we found on Nick Cooper’s body?”
“Yes, Chief, forensics only found his prints on them, so they gave them to us.”
“Excellent, well then let’s take a look around their place,” he said striding out of the door before Jimmy had a chance to respond.
*
Drew and Nick’s house was part of a smart Georgian terrace, off Walmgate. Shadow and Jimmy unlocked the door and stepped inside. The place was neat, tidy and tastefully decorated in white and various shades of grey, with polished dark wood floors. The hallway led into a sitting room, which in turn led into the kitchen. Shadow sniffed the air. There was no hint of cigarette smoke. It was possible Drew only smoked in the garden of course, if Nick was a non-smoker. He could see a compact, but well-kept area of grass through the kitchen window. After locating the correct key, he opened the back door.
“Have a look out there,” he said to Jimmy. “See if any cigarette butts have been dropped.”
On the granite worktop, there was a drinks tray holding several bottles of gin, vodka and tequila. There were no dark spirits. He opened the fridge. Along with the milk, juice and mineral water, there was a bottle of white wine. Only about half its contents had been drunk and the cork had been carefully replaced. There wasn’t much evidence here to show Drew was a heavy drinker. He turned when he heard Jimmy return.
“Anything?”
“No, Chief, no cigarette butts anywhere.”
“Have a look and see if you can find an office or desk, somewhere they might keep any letters or financial information. There’s always a chance whoever sent that letter was trying to blackmail them. I’ll go and check the bathroom.”
Upstairs Shadow found two bedrooms and the bathroom. It was clean and tidy like the rest of the house with white-tiled floors and walls. Shadow opened the mirrored cabinet on the wall. Inside were razors, shaving cream, a supply of toothpaste, and a packet of sleeping pills like the ones he’d seen in the office drawer. He looked at the prescription label. It was in Andrew’s name. He wandered through into the main bedroom and checked both the bedside cabinets. No cigarettes or matches. In one of the lower drawers in the cabinet nearest the window were old birthday and anniversary cards the couple had sent to each other. Shadow checked the handwriting for both Nick and Drew. Neither resembled the writing on the scraps of paper that had survived the explosion.
Out on the landing there was a large photo frame filled with carefully arranged pictures of Nick and Drew. Shadow studied it. One image caught his eye. It was of the two men looking much younger with a very pretty red-haired girl sitting between them. Could that be Tilly? They were all smiling for the camera as they held their beers aloft. From the shape of the beer glasses, and the tall houses and canal in the background Shadow guessed they were in some European city. Amsterdam maybe or Bruges.
He made his way back downstairs to where Jimmy was sitting at a small antique desk in the corner of the living room. He was flicking through a sheaf of papers.
“Anything?” asked Shadow.
Jimmy looked up. “No letters, Chief, but I’ve found their bank statements. They certainly weren’t struggling actors.” He showed the statements with their very healthy balance to Shadow.
“There was a large amount paid in about a year ago. I’ve checked and that ties in with the death of Nick’s father. He was an only child, so would have been the sole heir,” explained Jimmy.
“Anything irregular? Have they made any large withdrawals recently?”
“Nothing I can see. There are standard regular payments, direct debits going out for council tax, electric bills that sort of thing.”
*
Feeling disappointed that the visit hadn’t turned up anything more useful, Shadow and Jimmy left and began the long walk back to the station.
“You know we aren’t far from where Wallace Marshall lives,” observed Jimmy.
Shadow nodded. He had been thinking something similar, but unlike his sergeant he didn’t have the compulsion to constantly vocalise his thoughts.
“And there’s St George’s where he stole the holy water from,” continued Jimmy pointing to the church they were approaching. Jimmy had obviously been spending too much time with the forensics team. Their habit of stating the obvious must be contagious.
“They say Dick Turpin is buried there. Let’s go and have a look,” Jimmy suggested striding into the churchyard. Shadow doubted anyone had ever sounded so enthusiastic about looking at an old gravestone, but with a shrug of resignation he followed his sergeant.
The two detectives stood in front of the small stone grave marker. The inscription read, ‘John Palmer otherwise Richard Turpin, the notorious highwayman and horse stealer. Executed at Tyburn April 7th 1739 and buried in St George’s Churchyard.’
“So, who was he really, Chief? Dick Turpin or John Palmer?” Jimmy asked.
“Turpin. He changed his name to Palmer when he ran away up here to Yorkshire, after the rest of his gang were arrested,” explained Shadow, but he felt distracted. Something about the gravestone was bothering him.
“Hey I just remembered Celia’s last name is Palmer. Do you think there’s a connection?”
“No,” snapped Shadow impatiently. It was impossible to concentrate with his constant chattering. “I’ve just said, that was only a name he used when he came up here.”
As he spoke, the niggling thought suddenly crystallised. It was to do with names. Bob, complaining about the traffic warden and the name Robert being on his form and Andrew who everyone called Drew. Tilly Winter, the girl who died in Oxford. Tilly short for Matilda. Maybe MW wasn’t someone from York at all but referred to Drew and Nick’s time as students.
Jimmy was shuffling his feet awkwardly after having been reprimanded again. “Why what are you thinking, Chief?” he asked.
“I think tomorrow you should take a trip to Oxford,” replied Shadow. Tilly might have died ten years ago, but his most recent cases had taught him that your past was more likely to haunt you than any ghosts.
“Really?” asked Jimmy not even attempting to hide his excitement.
“Yes.” Shadow sighed. “As both Cooper and Gill only had cautions given by the Met, I don’t know how much help the Oxfordshire police will be, so I want you to ask around the other tour guides; see if you can find anyone they were friends with down there. Nick and Drew had lived and worked there for almost twelve years. Somebody there must know something.” He glanced over at his grinning sergeant. “You could even make Sandra and Yvonne’s day and visit them in person.”
*
On their way back to the station, Jimmy was trying to discreetly spot more black cats and tick them off his map while at the same time coming up with ever more implausible suggestions about the case.
“I remember this one film when a man was murdered on a train and it turned out all the other passengers had killed him. Maybe that’s the same with us – maybe all the ghost walk guides are guilty, Chief.”
Shadow finally escaped his endless hypotheses by calling in to a chemist’s shop to replenish his stock of indigestion tablets. He arrived back at the station a few minutes after Jimmy, who he found was still in reception and talking on his mobile. Iris was also there holding the black cat in her arms.
“Can I help?” Shadow asked.
Iris gave him a sad smile. “I don’t know what to do about Catesby, Chief Inspector. We’ve been hanging out together today, but what about tonight? Where can she go?”
“Can’t you take her home with you?”
“No, my landlord won’t let us have pets.”
Jimmy finished the phone call he’d been making and came over to join them. “The animal shelter won’t have any room for Catesby until after the weekend,” he said, then he and Iris both turned and looked at Shadow expectantly.
He suddenly felt very wary. “What’s wrong with your house?” he asked Jimmy.
“We can’t have her. Angela is allergic to cats.”
“Well I live on a boat. Cats hate water,” argued Shadow, although even to his ears it sounded like a lame excuse.
“Come on, Chief, it’s only for a few nights. She’s got nowhere else to go. I’m sure she won’t be any bother,” cajoled Jimmy as Iris transferred the cat over to Shadow’s unwilling arms.
Chapter Seven
Down 6 (5 letters)
Something Doctor Gus would never prescribe
A soft mist was settling over the river as Shadow walked along the towpath back home to Florence. Catesby was tucked awkwardly under his arm, yowling indignantly. His neighbours, the geese, honked loudly in protest as they saw him approach. Catesby hissed and swished her tail in response.
“Calm down, the lot of you. I’m not exactly happy about this either,” he said wearily.
Once they were inside the boat, he set the cat down on the floor, hung up his jacket and went to the kitchen to try and find something for them both to eat. He vaguely recalled, despite various sayings and nursery rhymes, you were supposed to give cats water not milk. This was fortunate as the carton in his fridge had gone off. He set a dish of water on the floor and discovered a tin of tuna he couldn’t remember buying. It was out of date, but he opened it anyway and placed it next to the water. Catesby sat and watched him for a moment before turning away and strolling over to one of the armchairs.
“Please yourself,” Shadow muttered before turning back to the fridge. For himself, he found some crackers to go with the piece of Stilton and a bottle of Barolo. He spent the next couple of hours eating and drinking as he listened to Ella Fitzgerald and tried to avoid making eye contact with Catesby, who was still swishing her tail.
Thoughts of the two murders jostled for position in his head. For some reason he was filled with an uncomfortable sense of foreboding. It felt like there was not only an impressive amount of planning behind both murders, but also a large dose of malice. What if Jimmy was right and there was a madman on the loose targeting the ghost walkers? He retrieved an old book about the history of York from the shelf below the window and began to flick through.
Richard III had died in battle. Shadow didn’t relish the idea of having to deal with any outcome that involved Webster being hacked to death with a sword. As for Steve playing Robin Hood and now a plague doctor, heaven knows what would be in store for him. Jack the Ripper had never been caught, so that was something. What did Celia say had happened to the nun, bricked up in a windowless room? Shadow closed the book, abruptly. If he read any longer, he’d be having nightmares – that’s if he was lucky enough to get some sleep.
*
However, that night Shadow didn’t have nightmares or hear any scratching. Instead he dreamt of Luisa. They were on Florence, sailing along Venice’s Grand Canal. He was at the tiller, carefully negotiating their way through gondolas and vaporettos as they approached the Rialto Bridge. Luisa was perched on top of the roof, smiling at him with her sunglasses on her head and swinging her feet in time to the gondoliers singing ‘Volare’. As they were about to sail under the beautiful bridge, Shadow became aware of a weight pressing down on his chest. The dream disappeared. It was difficult to breathe. A panicked thought flitted through his brain. Sophie was right. This could be it. A heart attack?
