Dead Money (A Detective Inspector Paul Amos Lincolnshire Mystery) (16 page)

Amos shut up. The more he said, the worse it sounded.

“What about that chap Berry?” asked the Chief Constable, who found it easier to remember the names of suspects rather than victims, especially when he was paying attention. “Yes, Berry.”

“We can’t touch him, sir. Absolutely no motive. He clearly wanted Jones alive and there is no suggestion that he knew Joanna Stevens or had any reason to break into her flat either.”

Fletcher’s mind was wandering back to the more important issue on the desk in front of him.

“I’m just off to Nottingham,” he remarked.

It was the quarterly meeting of the chief constables of the East Midlands region. It was held in each county town in rotation and it was Nottingham’s turn to entertain. They would be ringing up from the gate in a few moments to say that the chauffeur driven car was waiting.

Amos knew about the meeting. Everyone did. Fletcher had been going on about it for days to anyone whose ear he could bend.

“Ah, David,” he called over Amos’s shoulder to a young man hovering just inside the doorway. “Have you got the press release ready?”

Amos declined to turn to acknowledge the nervous and acne-inflicted youth who obediently ran the press office and who now bustled into the room. He handed Fletcher a piece of paper.

“We’re going to discuss our strategy for a four-county blitz on drunk drivers this Christmas,” Fletcher explained confidentially to Amos. “We’ve been the pioneers of random breath tests, a crusade to stamp out drink driving. I want to make sure there is no backsliding this time.”

“How are the statistics bearing up?” Amos asked dryly. He realised his mistake even as the words slipped from his lips.

The more people who were stopped and breathalysed at random, the lower the percentage who were found to be actually over the limit. Amos had, on more than one occasion, vented his frustrations at being given insufficient resources for crime fighting by making oblique reference to the frightening level of deaths and injuries on the roads of Lincolnshire, a toll apparently unstemmed by indiscriminate breath tests.

He always regretted it and this was certainly not the right time to be attracting the attentions of the Chief Constable. Amos desperately needed a free hand to pursue the gamble he had in motion.

Fletcher spluttered and waved out his press officer. The fury rose up over his face as David scrabbled together his papers, turned, dropped a sheaf, bent to pick it up and split more papers, then scrabbled them together once more and backed out of the room as if humbly leaving the presence of an oriental king.

The Chief Constable built himself up in the few seconds it took the hapless scribe to clear the doorway. Those few seconds were, however, long enough for him to recover his composure.

“More people are killed on our roads than in murders,” he began. “Thirty times as many. More people are seriously injured than in grievous bodily harm cases. More are hurt than in common assaults. More financial loss is incurred in crashes than in muggings and burglaries. The human and economic cost of careless driving far outweighs the deliberate crimes committed every day.

“However, if you consider I am spending too much time cutting the carnage on our roads,” he said in angry but controlled tones, “then I will oblige you. I will return to the office from Nottingham this evening and you can give me a full briefing on the Jones murder inquiry, including the list of suspects, the evidence you have gathered against them and the steps you propose to take to bring a speedy end to this inquiry. Then we will consider if I need to put a more senior officer in charge.”

Amos made to reply but the Chief Constable waved his unspoken words away airily.

“No, no, there’s no need to submit your report in writing. I know how much you scorn red tape. You can tell me in person.

“Shall we say 7pm? That should give me adequate time to conduct the important business at the conference and get back here. I shall be delaying a dinner appointment to give you my valuable time so it had better be good.”

Amos slid his hands behind his back and, unseen, dug his nails hard into the palms of his hands. Best to say no more. He had done enough damage. There were a few seconds of awkward silence as the Chief Constable returned behind his desk and stood there, the rich colour perceptively fading from his cheeks.

“Well, get along, Amos,” he said in a tone that successfully combined mocking with sounding patronising. Fletcher walked over to the open door and held the handle in a false gesture of courtesy.

Amos shuffled away, head bowed.

Chapter 35

There were just three reporters and a photographer at the press conference that Amos hastily called for 12 noon, after he was satisfied that the Chief Constable was safely out of the way. Radio Lincolnshire, the Lincolnshire Echo and the local weekly were the sum total of interest in a routine murder inquiry lacking the salacious or the sensational angle that attracted the national press.

That suited Amos fine. No doubt the reporter from the local paper would try to earn a few pounds by selling what Amos had to say to the nationals but in any case nothing would appear there until the next day, if at all.

What Amos wanted was widespread publicity locally as quickly as possible. Time was very tight.

Amos spoke carefully and non-committally to the four stalwarts as they waited to make a formal start. At five past 12 Swift, the only other police officer present, said: “I don't think anyone else is coming, sir. We might as well start now.”

It should have been the force's press officer organising the conference, Amos knew full well, but that would have meant the Chief Constable finding out and demanding to know what was to be said. Better to let him discover what was going on in due course, preferably when Amos was out of the office and unobtainable for as long as possible to allow the inevitable hue and cry to die down.

The photographer was a woman, still quite a rarity these days, Amos thought to himself as he took his place. She took a few shots of him sitting at a desk in front of the almost empty rows of chairs. Swift stood against the left hand wall near the door.

“Thank you for coming,” Amos began in a somewhat apologetic tone of voice. “I have to tell you that the inquiry into the murder of the businessman Raymond Jones has come to a dead end.”

Amos stumbled as he realised the bad taste of the unintended pun. Swift was startled. She had never seen Amos so ill at ease. Normally he exuded confidence, at least in public, no matter how unforthcoming an investigation was.

There was an audible gasp from the journalists, few though they were in number. One of them half stood up to ask a question but Amos recovered his composure and continued as the reporter sank back into his seat.

“I have to be realistic. There is no new evidence, nor are there any fresh leads. We do not have any genuine suspect with a real motive for killing Mr Jones. However, we are satisfied that there is no further danger to any residents in Killiney Court.

“The file will stay open, of course, but only two officers will officially remain on a case that is, frankly, going nowhere. Detective Sergeant Swift” - here Amos indicated the only other officer in the room with a short sweep of his left hand – “will continue in charge of the day-to-day conduct of the inquiry. She will be assisted by a detective constable. They will follow up any further information that comes in. I shall remain nominally in overall charge of the investigation and will again take control should circumstances require it.”

Amos had taken the precaution of warning Swift what was coming. She stood impassively at her post.

The middle-aged man from the Echo half turned.

“How do you feel about this?” he asked Swift, ignoring Amos for the moment. “How many murder inquiries have you been on? Have you ever headed one before? What do you propose to do next?”

It was, however, Amos who answered.

“Detective Sergeant Swift is a very experienced and reliable officer who has been on various major investigations, including murder, with me and is perfectly capable of running an inquiry which, as I indicated, is inevitably going to be low key.

“I also mentioned that she can turn to me for assistance and advice if and when required. I prefer not to give details of any further steps Detective Sergeant Swift may take.”

Amos was now back in control, speaking with an air of authority that discouraged further questions along those lines.  

It was the young woman from the local radio station who asked the crucial question. She had the microphone to her tape recorder on the desk in front of Amos so she was not interested in what Swift might have to say.

“What about Joanna Stevens?” she asked sweetly. “Wasn't she supposed to be in danger? What about her police protection?”

“The police protection for residents of Killiney Court has been withdrawn,” Amos said simply. Far from being put out by the bluntness of this question, which carried more than a hint of accusation, Amos looked quite content to hear it posed.

“What does Miss Stevens think about that?” the third reporter butted in.

“She entirely understands our reasons and is quite comfortable with the decision,” Amos replied smoothly.

The reporters looked at each other slightly nonplussed. There really was little more they could think of to ask. They had come expecting to hear of a major breakthrough and here was Amos coldly calling the whole thing off.

The reporter from the Lincolnshire Echo suddenly looked at his watch, slipped his notebook into his jacket pocket and dashed off with the photographer. Unwilling to be scooped, the Lincolnshire Radio representative grabbed together her equipment, stuffed it quickly into her bag and gave chase.

Only the weekly newspaper reporter took his time. He looked at the figure of Amos leaning heavily on the desk, found nothing more to say, then walked unhurriedly past Swift and out of the door.

Amos glanced up at his junior officer.

“It could have been worse,” he said with a sigh of relief. “It could have been much worse.”

Chapter 36

It was mid afternoon and all was quiet as Amos pulled into Killiney Road.

“Glance up at the windows as we turn into Killiney Court,” he told Swift. “See if you can spot anyone at the windows.”

The guard did not recognise the car as it pulled into the drive so the barrier stayed firmly down as he got out of his box to investigate.

“That’s good, I suppose,” Amos remarked. “We’re not easily recognisable.”

He had deliberately used a different, unmarked car from his earlier visits to the block.

Amos waited until the guard was almost alongside the driver's door before he slowly wound down the window. He wanted to spin it out slightly so it looked as if it was an ordinary visitor coming in.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, officer," the guard blurted out. "Sorry, I didn't recognise the car."

"That's all right," replied Amos pleasantly. "Just give me the visitors’ book to sign. Then we're going to park up the back out of the way. Put the barrier down behind us and walk across to us casually. I want a quiet word."

"It's a bit awkward," the sentry stammered, looking round wildly for an excuse to refuse. "I'm not supposed to leave the post."

"Doesn't stop you from wandering round the back, does it?" Amos responded coldly as he started to wind up the window. "See you in a few moments."

The two stared at each other through the now raised pane of glass like two cats trying to outstare each other. The guard broke first.

As Amos drove down the side of the block, Swift reported: "There was no-one at any of the windows except that Norman woman. I had time to look at all of them while you were talking to the guard. Of course," she added hastily, "someone could have been watching from further back in the room where I wouldn't see them."

"That will have to do," Amos replied. "We're not dealing with certainties, just giving ourselves the best chance."

By now Amos had parked in Ray Jones's slot and the three occupants were getting out of the car.

"Next stop Nick Foster. You two wander up and engage him in idle chitchat for a couple of minutes. He's not down here so I assume he is in his room."

Swift and Martin set off up the stairs to the mezzanine floor. The guard peered through the back window of his box, saw Amos nod, slid uncertainly out of his shell and approached the police officer.

Amos looked at the floor and drew patterns with the toe of his shoe in the dust that accumulated unremittingly despite Foster's best endeavours. He did not look up until the guard was alongside him.

At last Amos looked him straight in the eye. "I want to keep my job and you want to keep yours," the chief inspector remarked simply.

The guard said nothing. It was his turn to stare at the floor.

"You will go back to your post and wait there. Operate the barrier as usual if anyone wants to come in or out. You will do nothing that arouses suspicion. In a few minutes Nick Foster will come down and speak to you. When he does so, you will leave the barrier up, walk round to the back of the lifts and stay there until we give you the all clear. Then you go back to your post and carry on as normal. Understand?

"It's not for me to report you to your employers," Amos added. "Not unless I feel vindictive."

"Thanks," said the guard with relief and gratitude in equal measures.

"Back to your post," bade Amos.

The guard went with measured stride. He did not look back. Amos was up the stairs two at a time. He found Martin standing lazily in the doorway of the caretaker's office, blocking Foster's exit.

Amos peered past Martin and saw Foster sitting at his little desk. Swift, hidden from view in the cramped space, could be heard going over Foster's story again. Foster looked relaxed. He had gone over his version of events of the murder weekend often enough to have it off pat.

A look of agitation crossed his face, however, when he glanced up and saw the senior of the three officers. Martin, unaware until then that Amos had come up swiftly and silently behind him, saw the changed look on Foster's face and stepped aside.