Читать книгу Missing Pieces - K L Harrison - Страница 10

Early December

Superintendent Barbara Marks had recently turned fifty and dared anyone to make a big deal of it. She was tall, five feet ten and had taken care of herself. Barbara Marks was a realist. She knew she was smart, she knew she was better than any male officer she knew, but she also knew that it did her no harm to look good. She was an impressive woman.

For all his old world political incorrectness, Spence had always dealt with women as equals. As far as he was concerned, if a woman was the best person for the job, she should get it. He had always taught Laura to strive high and to never let a guy treat her poorly, Joel notwithstanding. In her turn, Barbara Marks knew Spence’s flaws but she trusted him implicitly. However, implicit trust was not going to count for much as Spence wandered into the Superintendent’s office.

“Good morning Spence, sit down.”

“Ma’am.”

“I had the Chief Constable on the phone this morning.”

Spence’s mind drifted to Brandis, but no, he had handled that well.

“This Davidson case is still getting a lot of coverage and questions are being asked about our performance. So let me have it Spence.”

Spence and Barbara Marks understood each other. No beating about the bush, no bullshit, straight to the point.

“We are getting nowhere ma’am. I can tell you what we have eliminated – almost certainly not the wife, not the jilted lover, looks like there is no financial motive, and almost certainly not a jealous colleague. The only thing of interest is that Roger Davidson was into kinky stuff.”

“He’d have fitted well in this place then, wouldn’t he?”

Barbara Marks’ humour was sharp, precise and needed no laughter. Another reason why Spence liked her. Spence filled the superintendent in on the details of the case.

“All right Spence, let me know when you have something. Oh, we have some of our Oxford colleagues here today. As you probably know, Swindon Town are playing away at Oxford in the FA Cup this Saturday, so there is sure to be some crowd trouble. They are liaising with our uniform people to limit any mischief. I suggested they have a word with you because I know you’ve worked on football violence in the past. Meanwhile I will try to mollify the Chief Constable.”

Spence smiled and headed to his office. There was a fresh-faced uniformed Sergeant waiting for him.

“My god,” thought Spence, “they keep getting younger.”

The last thing Spence wanted to do was to waste time having to think about football matches, especially as the Town were on for a hiding. Oxford United was having a good season. Spence’s expertise related not to crowd logistics but to the undercover work he had been involved in, investigating the smart thugs who coordinated the football violence but who were too clever to ever get caught up in it.

The Oxford sergeant held out his hand.

“Sergeant Tom Hammond. Thank you for your time Inspector. I know you must be really busy.”

“That’s all right Sergeant. What can I do for you?”

“We’re expecting some trouble this weekend sir. It would appear that there are likely to be a few hundred Bristol Rovers fans at the game whose aim is to beat the crap out of the Oxford supporters. Oxford United thrashed Rovers last week and as Bristol Rovers were knocked out of the Cup in the first round, they have a week off.”

“And so a game at the Kassam Stadium gives their thugs something to do, I presume. Not too far to travel and a temporary alliance with the Swindon bovver boys.”

“Yes sir, that’s what we are hearing.”

Spence spent longer than he perhaps needed to, explaining things to the young officer on what to expect and what to look for in dealing with any crowd violence. He had no great interest in Saturday’s fixture, but he quite liked the young sergeant and did his best to give him some solid, practical advice.

“Again, thank you Inspector. I appreciate you sparing me your time.”

Just as he was leaving Sergeant Hammond had one last question.

“Any luck with the murder of that Deputy Headmaster sir?”

“No Sergeant, this one is proving to be something of a mystery.”

“I know what you mean sir. Our CID officers still haven’t made any progress in the murder of that Swindon footballer last July, Alan Ramsay.”

“Great loss that Sergeant, we could have done with him this weekend. So your boys have no idea how he ended up dead in a field in Oxford? Wasn’t some crazed Oxford United fan was it?”

“No sir, we covered that one right from the start. Yes, a real mystery.”

As the sergeant headed towards the door, he turned to Spence.

“There was one odd thing about the body though sir.”

Spence looked puzzled. “Body?”

“Alan Ramsay’s sir. Obviously he died from having his throat cut, clinical, end to end, but when our forensic pathology people examined his body, they found horizontal welts all across his backside, just like he had been caned, you know the way kids were belted at school years ago. Thanks again sir.”

While Sergeant Hammond left to join his Oxford colleagues, Spence got up and called his team in. “Ferguson, Traynor, WPC Grant, in here.”

“Shut the door. Right, fill me in what you’ve come across, unsolved cases, the like.”

Ferguson started. “Not much to give you Spence. We’ve been looking at the last eighteen months. No clinical murders like Roger Davidson’s, no attacks on school teachers. The Stratton area has been fairly quiet, just the usual burglaries, bit of GBH around the Moonrakers on the weekend, that sort of stuff.”

It was then Joanne Grant’s turn, “We did come across some rohypnol cases but they were all related to sexual crimes.”

It was time for a bit of brain-storming.

“All right everyone, tell me all you know about Alan Ramsay, the footballer.”

Traynor was in quickly, a football tragic from way back.

“He was a top player Spence. I was surprised when Norwich let him go. I guess they wanted him to have some steady first team experience. A couple more seasons with them and I would have expected him to be picked up by a top Premier League Club or an Italian outfit.”

“He was very good looking sir.”

Joanne Grant knew Spence would appreciate that.

“WPC Grant, please.”

Spence enjoyed the comment. True to character, there would be no frivolity with Ferguson.

“Murdered in Oxford July this year, had his throat slit. His body was found in a reserve near some allotments in the west of the city. As far as I know, the Oxford police have been having about as much success as we have with Roger Davidson.”

“Quite right Sergeant. Now do we believe in coincidences? I’ve been chatting with the young Sergeant from Oxford, preparations for the match at the weekend, that sort of thing. He tells me that when their forensic people examined Alan Ramsay’s body, they found something rather strange.”

Traynor got in first.

“Cane marks across his backside.”

Spence was energised.

“Now I believe in coincidences as much as I believe in leprechauns and gods. Keep this quiet; I want nobody to know about this. It could be nothing more than that two Swindon guys who were into a bit of kink were murdered within four months of each other in exactly the same way. But my gut tells me that is not the case. This afternoon we’re off to the County Ground. Traynor tee things up with the club. I want to talk to the manager, the players and the medical staff. And don’t let them give you any crap like ‘We’ve got a big game this weekend’; they’ve got no chance.”

The same afternoon

Spence did not bother much with football but as he drove into the car park of the County Ground near what Swindon locals called “the magic roundabout”, a few memories were coming back. Bonfire night 1968, as a very small lad his father took him to his first ever match, the League Cup 5thRound Replay when Swindon beat Derby County 1-0.

“Enough nostalgia,” thought Spence.

As they headed to the main club office, Spence spelled out what he wanted.

“Ferguson, I want you to talk to the medical team. I want to know about Alan Ramsay’s medical when he left Norwich, any injuries he might have had, any medication he was on, post-match treatments, that sort of thing. Traynor, you and WPC Grant talk to the players, find out what sort of guy this Ramsay was. Was he popular? Was he admired? Was he resented, that sort of thing. Ask about girlfriends, or boyfriends. I’m booked in to see the manager, Paul Caro.”

Traynor could not control his enthusiasm.

“He’s an Aussie Spence, coached the winning team in their A League two seasons ago.”

“Don’t worry Traynor, I won’t hold that against him. Right let’s get to it.”

Paul Caro’s office was modest in the extreme. Spence could not imagine José Mourinho ever having to put up with something as small as this. Welcome to the lower Leagues, he thought.

“Thanks for your time Mr Caro, I realise you have a big game on Saturday.”

“Paul, please Inspector, and yes, I am not allowed to forget the significance of the Oxford derby games.”

Spence had not heard such a broad Aussie accent since he and Bob Hamsby used to booze their way through Earl’s Court many years before.

“I’m told you wanted to ask me about Alan Ramsay. Can’t say that I can give you any more than I told the officers a few months ago.”

“I appreciate that Paul. There are just a few loose ends we want to check. You were obviously keen to sign him up, and I believe he played pretty well in the final few games of the season.”

“That’s right Inspector. Three goals in five games, not bad for a midfielder. Strong lad, dominated the midfield, and he quickly became popular with the fans.”

“How did he get along with the other players?”

“Things seemed okay, but they were together only a short time. The season finished in early May, the boys were given a few weeks off. They came back in mid-June; we had a pre-season tour in France to help get ready for the new campaign. And then of course, just before the season was due to start, Alan was found murdered. Tragic.”

“Did he have any issues with the other players?”

“No Inspector, like I told the other officers, there were no issues. He kept himself to himself. I don’t think he was much of a drinker, didn’t seem to socialise with the other boys much, but that’s not unique, and he often used to drive up to London, told me he had family up there. Ladbroke Grove Notting Hill area I think. I know Ross Davies resented him a bit, he lost his place in the First Team to Alan, but that passed. Ross got a move to Cardiff City.”

Spence reminisced a little about the “heroes of ‘69” while Paul Caro tried to convince Spence that he should visit Queensland.

“Spiders and snakes,” Spence reminded himself. No chance.

Traynor was in his element. Here he was, on the hallowed turf of the County Ground and he had the undivided attention of the Swindon players. Joanne Grant was not quite so excited.

Mario Corelli had been playing for Swindon for two years, having moved from the Serie B side Catania in Italy.

“He was strange man, real strange. You know, after game, always went to his car, drove away. We made joke about him, he the man who never showers. But he was a good player, we could do with him now. I am very sad what happened to him.”

Ray Francombe was the Swindon goalkeeper.

“Yeah, I liked him. I’d met him before when I played for Millwall. We played Norwich at Carrow Road, lost three nil. Alan scored a beauty, gave me no chance. I was glad when he arrived but he never mixed much with the boys. Never came out with us, didn’t drink, nothing wrong with that, and I don’t think he had a girlfriend. Often used to drive up to London. Maybe he had a girl up there.

Each of the players told a similar story. Alan Ramsay was a good player, likeable but a private person who seemed to spurn the camaraderie usually associated with football teams.

When Ferguson went into the medical room, Angela Rodwell had just completed some physio on Manuel Silva’s right leg. Apparently he had received a bad knock in the previous game. They made their introductions.

“Oh don’t look so surprised Sergeant. This is the 21stCentury. Women can do anything and work anywhere now you know.”

Ferguson was taken aback; Angela Rodwell had read his mind.

“I would like to ask you about Alan Ramsay if I might.”

“Ah Alan, incredible. One of those things you just cannot comprehend. He was a nice guy, quiet, not rowdy like some of the boys, a good player too.”

“Can you tell me anything about his fitness, injuries, any health issues?”

“Sergeant, you’re not asking me to divulge confidential information are you?”

Ferguson gave her a look that said, “Of course I am.”

“No, not at all, just some general comments.”

Angela Rodwell provided a general run-down of Alan Ramsay’s condition, even commenting on his pre-signing medical. Ferguson did not hear anything he did not expect to hear.

“Miss Rodwell, the Oxford police told us that when they examined his body, they found welts across his backside, as if he had been caned. Had you ever noticed this sort of thing?”

“I did ask him about it. He tried to laugh it off, and said it was just a bit fun with a lady he knew.”

“But you weren’t convinced.”

“I assume nothing we say here is going to end up in the Evening Advertiser Sergeant? Sorry, of course not. To me it seemed he was being, what can I say, beaten, on a regular basis. Look, I have no problem with people indulging in a bit of kink if that’s their thing, but some of the marks seemed quite heavy.”

“Did you tell the manager?”

“No, Alan begged me to keep it between us. Sergeant, he was otherwise in good condition, fit, and playing well. His private life was his own affair, and as long as it wasn’t affecting the club, I didn’t think I should get involved.”