Only The Dead: an explosive new detective series Read online

  ***

  The lights of the workshop performed their usual ritual. Lawrence looked at the offending tube. It was the only dysfunctional part of his life and somehow he liked it, it offered a small degree of security. From a cabinet he took a full protective NBC suit, gloves and breathing apparatus. He had been amazed at the cost of these pieces of equipment, £6.95 including tax from a military surplus store in Leeds! They were new and vacuum sealed. He broke the seal and dressed donning overshoes and gloves. The rusting cylinder was extracted from the safe and placed onto the work-bench. He put on his full breathing mask and moved the shell to the angle-poise, illuminated magnifying glass. He soaked the detonation fuse in the nose of the shell with a strong penetration fluid and watched it search for the threads that had allowed the fuse to be screwed into the shell case. With a small, bronze, metal brush he stroked the surface, sloughing small flakes of rust from the brass fuse. In between every five or six strokes, he liberally applied more fluid. He did this with each shell before storing them vertically. He left leaving the light humming quietly. It was midnight.

  ***

  The alarm on Cyril’s phone clanged, the sound of Big Ben brought him back to reality and he felt the tape stretching across his eye. He lifted the eye patch, made a grab for the phone and switched it off. 05:30. Within half an hour he was showered, dressed and knotting his tie before dribbling a cup of tea.

  Robert Street was quiet as Cyril walked towards the large Waitrose Store that was situated at the junction but he hadn’t gone far before a silver BMW pulled over.

  “Morning, Sir,” Owen spluttered as he checked his watch. “Lovely morning!”

  Cyril just looked at the young man. “Two minutes late, traffic?”

  Owen lifted his eyes. “Must be my watch, Sir, sorry!” The news suddenly interrupted with the six am ‘pips’. Owen smiled.

  “Are we going or staying here nattering?” Cyril grumbled rather that proffering an apology.

  Owen noticed his boss shaking his watch.

  “15-Love.” Owen whispered to himself as his foot hit the accelerator.

  “Sorry, didn’t catch that,” mumbled his superior as he held his watch to his ear.

  As they headed out of Harrogate, the low sun soon dazzled through the windscreen. Cyril retrieved a pair of old aviator sun-glasses from his jacket pocket and slipped them on bringing instant relief. He thrust his electronic cigarette between his lips and inhaled. It was almost with a sigh that the vapour curled from his nostrils.

  Owen glanced sideways at his superior who was sitting looking rather uncomfortable but as usual, immaculately turned out. Bennett had always been known as ‘Flash’ in the force as he progressed through the ranks. Owen, sneaking another glance, presumed quite incorrectly that it was because of his penchant for good tailoring, but he was wrong. In the early days of his career, Cyril Bennett had carried the sobriquet ‘Gordon’ after an American playboy, Gordon Bennett, who enjoyed nothing more than racing cars and aircraft and collecting beautiful women. The Gordon Bennett Tourist Trophy was awarded on the Isle of Man for one of their suicide races but it was for cars and not motor cycles. From Gordon came Flash Gordon which ended with just ‘Flash’. Owen looked again. It somehow suited him.

  They were soon skirting Knaresborough and moving towards the A1M. For the first twenty minutes nothing was said. The passing countryside seemed to have a relaxing influence on both.

  “I take it Dr. Flint has no police record and that you’ve traced his nearest and dearest? You have a contact for his housekeeper?”

  “Nothing, Sir and from what we can discover he has no nearest. Mother died three years ago, father some time before that. He now resides in the family home.”

  A black and yellow propeller aircraft screamed over the road leaving RAF Leeming, its two pilots clearly visible.

  “It’s just outside the main town on Slee Gill. Impressive house. I checked on Google Earth, Street View. Quite a bit of land with it too and a few outbuildings. The housekeeper’s been dead ten years so cul-de-sac there.”

  Cyril looked again wondering from where this sudden penchant for French had come.

  “Speak French, Owen?”

  “Sorry, Sir. Not a word. Why?”

  Cyril said nothing but managed a half smile.

  At Scotch Corner they turned off and before long they headed through Richmond and down towards the river crossing. Cyril Bennett looked left as they crossed the bridge and was rewarded with a wonderful view of Richmond Castle nestled on the side of the river. Trees masked both banks, their branches shading the river shallows giving the view a timeless air. The road then climbed slowly but steeply from the valley heading for Slee Gill.

  “Here it is, Sir.”

  Before them stood a large, ivy-clad house linked to the road by a driveway. Its age was indeterminable owing to the deep, green camouflage. However, the imposing size and mullioned windows gave it a certain presence that separated it from the other properties in the area. The gravel on the drive crunched beneath the car’s tyres. Parking by the front door, Owen noticed the flat radiator of a Morgan sports car. He got out of the car and moved a little closer.

  “Wrong way, Sherlock,” Cyril grumbled.

  He stopped and walked to the front door but before he could ring the bell, an extremely attractive lady opened it with a breezy greeting.

  “Dr. Flint is out at the moment but shouldn’t be long.”

  Cyril removed his sun-glasses and looked at his watch, before showing his ID.

  “Does he often leave the house before seven?”

  “Walks the dogs every day for an hour or two. Left about thirty minutes ago.”

  Cyril slipped his ID into his pocket.

  “May I come in and wait? It’s important that I speak with him today. Owen, wait at the bottom of the drive.”

  He noticed Owen hadn’t removed his sunglasses and looked rather intimidating. “When Dr. Flint returns, come back to the house.”

  Owen looked at his boss quizzically and then nodded before turning, crunching his way to the road. Cyril was shown into the study. The early light penetrated the leaded lights in streams as if leading the way.

  “May I offer you some tea whilst you wait? Dr. Flint will be thrilled that somebody of your standing has come to talk about the problem of speeding motor-cycles. He’s always complaining but nothing appears to be done.” She smiled. “I’ll phone him he’ll have his mobile with him.

  “I would love tea but I find drinking a little tiresome at present with this condition,” Cyril confessed, touching the side of his face.

  “You’ll be on your own so you can slurp all you like. Yes?”

  Cyril nodded in agreement. “And shall I take one down to your young assistant or does he bite when off the lead?”

  Cyril could see that she had quite a spark and the small, mischievous grin made him feel a little more comfortable. She left and Cyril cast his eye over the room; two full walls of books, framed photographs of cars racing and a crooked steering wheel attached to a wooden plaque. He looked round for a computer but he found nothing.

  The door opened and the house-keeper brought tea and biscuits on a tray.

  “I’ve brought napkins. My brother suffered from palsy so I know just what trouble it brings. Do enjoy your tea. I’ll leave you alone until Dr. Flint arrives. He’s on his way back.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  “Nonsense, it’s nothing and if you manage to slow the bikers...” With that she was gone and within minutes a vacuum cleaner started whining somewhere in the house.

  He couldn’t help but notice that the study was a time capsule. There was nothing new. Even the television was a considerable box placed in the corner. He stood and started looking at the rows of books. He stopped at a copy of ‘A Kestrel for a Knave’ and withdrew it from the shelf. He ran his finger up the spine, glanced around the room before he began a search for one of his favourite lines. It had really amused him at scho
ol but he felt sure that if he were to read it to Owen it would fall on deaf ears. Then, curbing his snobbery, he reminded himself that when Owen nattered about computers and the internet and Facebook, he was all at sea. Each to their own! He found it and read it. Mr. Crossley was calling the register and after reading out the name Fisher, Billy called out German Bight. It made him smile again. ‘Yorkshire lad our Billy,’ he thought.

  He was just returning the book to the shelf when the door opened and in walked a tall, thin man whom he presumed to be Dr. Flint, followed by Owen and then a rather damp and smelly Labrador who quickly looked at Cyril and left.

  “Flint, sorry to have kept you. Had you made an appointment...” he didn’t finish.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you Doctor. We’re making some routine enquires regarding Ripon College in the late 60’s...” Mid sentence Cyril noticed that Owen was still wearing his sun glasses, looking more Mafia than Police. He tapped his temple. Owen got the message and removed them.

  “And we know that you were the College Doctor at that time.”

  “Bad case of Bell’s palsy, Chief Inspector. Taking the correct medicine I would imagine?” Flint moved over and looked carefully at Cyril’s face. “Need to watch that eye. A patch would be best.”

  Cyril had thought of wearing the patch he had been prescribed but he felt a little stupid wearing an eye patch when interviewing someone called ‘Flint’. It would make him think of Pieces of Eight and possibly a Dead Man’s Chest.

  “Thank you. Yes, steroids and I wear the patch at night. It is a real pain I have to say. Now can you tell us about your rôle at the College and give dates?”

  Chapter Seven

  Lawrence remembered the day as if it were yesterday, even though it was nearly two years ago, it was a Tuesday evening. He had cycled home, changed and walked to see his mother. She would have eaten her evening meal and he could sit with her for an hour. The Stray was open and the easterly wind was still quite biting. He had turned up the collar of his coat and increased his speed. He hadn’t noticed the cold whilst cycling.

  Having approached the home he had looked to see if his mother was in her usual place in the bay window but she was missing. On reaching the porch he had tapped in the five digit code and the door had opened with a click. He had always assumed that this was to keep them in and not keep others out but one never knew these days. He had signed the book recording the time and then taken the lift one floor. He had gently knocked on the door of his mother’s room and entered. The chair by the window was empty. He had looked around and seen his mother was in bed. Another knock on the door and the Manager had popped her head round the door.

  “Good evening, Mr. Young. May I come in for a minute?”

  She had moved forward anticipating a positive response. Lawrence had turned before looking back at the small figure tucked beneath the dark blue duvet. Lawrence had smiled.

  “Is everything alright?” Lawrence’s face had turned to her and he had looked anxious.

  “Your mother had a small accident today. She slipped when she was showering and she bumped her face. The doctor came to see her and he has done a full report.” She had lifted her hand demonstrating a sheet of A4 paper. “She has been sedated. You’ll see she’s heavily bruised but her Warfarin medication will make the bruising appear worse as I feel sure you know.”

  Before she had finished the sentence, Lawrence was moving towards his mother and had drawn the covers from her face to study the bruising.

  “Please show me where this happened.” Lawrence’s demeanour had changed and there was a moment of anger that flushed through him.

  He had followed the Manager to the shower room and she had produced the Doctor’s report she’d been carrying. He had taken the report and read it noting that two staff members had assisted his mother that morning a Paula Jones and a Jane Ashcroft. A frown had appeared on his face as he looked down at the signatures of the Doctor and the staff involved before looking back at the Manager. He had listened to her explanation but had been eager to return to his mother. He had checked her pulse and asked for the name of the medication prescribed.

  “I want you to call me at any time if her condition worsens and I want a staff member checking her every hour. I’ll call first thing tomorrow morning before work.” This was clearly an instruction and not a request. He had handed back the report and thanked her for the detailed explanation, kissed his mother’s head and left the room. He had to enter the code to summon the lift.

  Having signed out, he had quickly glanced at the names further up the page and noted that staff members used the same book and that Paula Jones had signed in at 10am and Jane Ashcroft had signed in at 6am. Flicking over the previous page he had read that they had both signed out at 5:10pm. He specifically recalled the accident was recorded at 7:55am and that the Doctor had attended at 8:40am. He had taken out his phone and surreptitiously photographed both pages, opened the door and left.

  ***

  Lawrence had received no call in the night but he failed to sleep well, waking on numerous occasions to check the illuminated clock. How long the night seemed. At six, when the alarm broke the silence, he had felt as though he could sleep for a week. There was, however, an eagerness to visit his mother. He had called the hospital to say he would be a few minutes late. Neglecting breakfast, he’d cycled to the home, entered the code and opened the door. He had signed in, noting that both Jones and Ashcroft had signed in at 5:56am and 6:00am. He had again photographed the page.

  His mother had been sitting up in bed, bruised but quite cheery. He had smiled at her but he knew from the returned expression she had no real clue as to whom he might be. It was only then that he had heard a member of staff in the bathroom.

  “Good morning, Mr. Young. Mum’s a bit brighter this morning. We’re going to bed-wash her today and then take her to her chair. She’ll breakfast up here. The Doctor will call later this morning just to check her again. She looks a sorry state but these old ladies are as tough as boot leather, unlike today’s youth.”

  Lawrence had smiled, amazed at how young the carer or nurse was to be offering such an astute observation.

  “Thank you Miss. Are you a carer or a nurse? I am never sure who wears what colour.”

  “Ashcroft, Mr.Young. Jane Ashcroft. I am a carer and I help the nurse, Miss Jones, with your mum.”

  “It must have been a shock for you and Miss Jones when my mother fell.”

  He had noted that her complexion reddened and that she had quickly changed the subject.

  “I’ll just get my colleague.”

  “And I must go. Thank you, Miss. Ashcroft for looking after her. You do a splendid and if I may say a difficult but rewarding job.”

  Lawrence had moved towards his mother and kissed her.

  “I’ll see you tonight, mother.” He had smiled, given a little wave and left but received nothing in return, in fact her eyes were closing.

  Chapter Eight

  Dr. Flint was very specific with his dates. He had removed five diaries from a small wall safe and read from the first; it contained the dates of when he had started at the College, his patients, his diagnoses, the outcomes and charges. He had even recorded the car he was driving at the time and its mileage. He noted it was a Triumph GT6. Cyril was more than impressed but a little more confused.

  “Please tell us about Mary Nixon.” Cyril left it at that and sat back. He held up his electronic cigarette. “May I?”

  The Doctor looked rather taken aback and flicked through the diary and stopped.

  “Is that one of those new ways to stop smoking?”

  Cyril just smiled and nodded.

  “You know she wasn’t Nixon when we met after she left Ripon?”

  Cyril glanced at Owen looking somewhat confused.

  “We married, it lasted exactly one day. Not the shortest marriage in history but it must come close. I’m sure you know all about that though, Chief Inspector. What are you really here for? Maybe we ca
n save each other a good deal of time.”

  “Was Mary ever pregnant?”

  “Yes, that was the reason we married. She was rather a fun girl to be around. Managed her studies too but was she made for motherhood? Certainly not. When we knew she was pregnant she seemed really settled and so we married quickly. Nothing fancy, but she seemed happy enough. It was on our wedding night that she popped the question; she wanted to get rid of it, the child. Correction, she wanted me to get rid of it but for me that was impossible. I was thrilled, married, child on the way, good career prospects. I just thought she was nervous after the wedding.”

  “Why did she give up her teaching?”

  “We met in the spring and she’d always held a desire to write. We thought it a good idea that she take time out. She had completed successfully her probationary year, so we decided she should do just that, write. I supported her but in reality it was she who was supporting me. She was truly astonishing to be with. She would read her writings to me and we would laugh and... sorry, Chief Inspector.”

  Cyril gave him a moment. His initial, professional misgivings regarding Dr. Flint were swiftly evaporating. He removed his eye drops.

  “Let me.” Flint moved swiftly from behind the desk, happy to seize a moment to draw his emotions in check.

  “Thank you, Doctor. You treated her at College, I believe, on a number of occasions. Were you having an affair then?”

  “I was treating many of the students over the course of my time there and I certainly wasn’t having an affair with any. I would have been informed if she had been pregnant. However, some girls did fall by the wayside. It was a liberated youth in those days but I feel sure you wouldn’t remember, must have missed it by a whisker.” A cheeky smile was just visible.

  Cyril felt Owen’s eyes turn to him and a small smile crack his lips.

  “Did many girls have to leave through pregnancy, Doctor?”

  “A few; some returned and completed their studies but others... Sad really.”

  “So what happened to Mary? We know she travelled to France and according to our records never returned.”