David Balaam - No One Is Sacrosanct

Christine stood and stretched. She paced the large office, looking for distractions, but although the room was filled with many objects and antiques, she could only focus on the obvious. “During the investigation, Mandy asked Graham King to try to decipher an anagram we found in a notebook belonging to Peter Dunfold. He said he could not make anything from it, and I had forgotten all about it. But what if he did solve it, and told Mandy.” Lionel’s eyes widened.

“I did not know that, Christine. There was no mention of it in the book.”

“No, she couldn’t use it. Even at the trial, we couldn't produce the notebook as Superintendent Jarvis had taken it.”

“But if he did somehow find an answer and told Mandy, she also told someone else. Who is this friend by the sea?”

“That is the worrying aspect. He is my old boss DCI Crane. He had a stroke and is in a nursing home near Scarbrough. But if she did tell him, why didn't she tell me?”

“To protect you, I guess. But from what, or whom?” Lionel offered. “How long are you in the UK for? I will be happy to help check anything out if you want me to.”

“That’s very kind of you, Lionel.” Christine said, reaching for her coat and handbag, “but I need to visit Bell Street and speak to some colleagues first. I promise to keep you updated with any developments, and thank you for the brandy, it helped a lot. In fact, coming here has helped a lot.” They shook hands and Lionel escorted her out of the building into a waiting taxi. “Bell Street Police station, please.”

Christine cleared security and was escorted to the fourth floor, her old office. “DCI Dallimore. It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. We can talk in my office.” Christine was used to summing up people. He certainly looked the part; Thirtysomething, thick light brown hair neatly parted on the left, smartly dressed, sensible tie with Windsor knot, pale cream shirt, and showing just enough beard growth not to be taken as un-shaved. Very ‘noughties’.

“I imagine this was your office once,” Dallimore said, making small talk.

“Yes, it was, but I see nothing much has changed, except the staff,” Christine said, turning half round to scan the outer office for familiar faces.

“Is DS Flynn still here?”

“Yes, he is. He should be back soon.” Dallimore said, wanting to get on with the meeting, and wondering why an ex DCI was here. There's nothing for her here after all. “So, how can I help you, Christine?”

“Mandy Silver and Graham King were friends of mine and both were involved in the Rope Killer case. I find it more than a coincidence they have both died within a few months of each other, under suspicious circumstances, inspector.”

“Suspicious? In what way? Ms Silver, I believe, was a hit and run. Most unfortunate, but hardly suspicious, and Mr King I know nothing of his circumstances. Please enlighten me.”

At least Christine had his attention. It just remains to be seen how intuitive he is. “One unsolved aspect of the Rope Killer case . . .”

“Apart from Hartmann not being arrested, you mean.” Dallimore shot in.

Christine kept her cool. “. . . was the missing black notebook, and its contents. Before it disappeared, via Chief Superintendent Jarvis, I asked Ms Silver to see if Mr King could identify an anagram, the only one I managed to remember. Mr King was the Guardian’s crossword compiler. Unfortunately, he could not.”

“And . . .” Dallimore asked knowing there must be more.

She wasn't sure why, but she decided not to mention the note signed MH. Not yet, at least. “What if he did finally solve it and told Mandy . . . Ms Silver. His editor told me he had never taken a day off work and was the fittest man he knew, but died of a heart attack.”

Martin Dallimore leaned back in his chair, bemused, and slightly concerned a retired DCI wanted him to investigate a dead-end case.

“You want me to look at these deaths. See if there is anything suspicious?” Christine nodded silently. “It would give Mandy’s parents some closure as well.”

Dallimore smiled and nodded. “I will keep this just between us for now. How can I reach you?”

“Something else, please Martin. Do you have the address of where DCI Crane is? I would love to see him before I return home, for old time sake.”

“Of course, but from what I hear, he may not recognise you, let alone talk to you.”

Christine's flight was at 6.45pm and it was now just after 4.00pm. No time to visit Crane today in Scarborough. Christine took a taxi to the airport, re-booked a flight for the same time the next day, and then faced the trickier conversation – calling her husband to explain why she won't be home tonight. She decided to check-in at the airport hotel before calling home. Clive took it better than she had expected. He knew her well, having worked with her on the Marcus Hartmann case. If she had a new lead then nothing was going to stop her.

Next, she called Bell Street Police Station. “May I speak to Michael Flynn, please. Yes, my name is Margaret Flynn, his cousin from Derry.”

After what seemed for ages, a familiar voice was on the line. “Aunty, what a nice surprise. . .”

“Flynn, it's Christine Ling. Don’t let on who you are speaking to. I need a favour.”

***

“You know, I’ve only ever taken two sickies off in all the time I have been in the force. Once when my mum died in 1998, and once when England beat Germany 5-1 in the 2001 World Cup qualifier in Munich. Now you ask me to drive you to Scarbrough to see DCI Crane. What the hell is going on, ma’am.”

By the time they passed Hartlepool, about halfway, DS Flynn was fully in the picture. “So much for your retirement then.”

“Michael, I don’t plan to be over here after today. I just want to check out something with Crane, and hope DCI Dallimore will do the rest.”

“And pigs might fly . . .”

“What do you mean? Isn't he reliable?

“He's OK, but . . . well, he’s more interested in becoming a Chief. Sucks up to the bosses. I.T. mad and a workaholic.”

Christine laughed. “I think he will do just fine. And why are you still a DS? You could have made DI by now.”

Now Flynn laughed. “Not my priority. I like being where I am; In the middle. You learn a lot more being lower down the ladder than at the top if you get my meaning.” Christine did and admired the man for his principles. During the rest of the journey, DS Flynn bought Christine up-to-date with everyone in the office, and what happened to her team, so by the time they arrived in Scarborough her head was spinning with unwanted information.

Scarborough on a bad day, like any east coast resort, would be miserable. Luckily they drove in brilliant sunshine all the way down the A64, arriving around 11.30 am. Christine had not called ahead so there was a fifty/fifty chance this was a wasted journey, but her ‘gut feeling’ was whispering to her, and she always listened.

Green Shores Nursing Home is a large rambling Victorian building covering three floors, with extensive gardens. The receptionist was a young east European woman who spoke English with a slight accent. “How may I help you?” she asked with a practiced smile.

As Christine explained who she was there to see, the young woman’s face morphed into one of extreme unease. “Please take a seat, madam. I will find the duty manager.”

Christine did not sit but paced the reception area wondering why the receptionist’s face had turned pale. A few moments later a smartly dressed woman came to introduce herself. “I am Dorothy Chambers. How may I help you?”

Christine repeated her request.

“Mr Crane is extremely ill. He had a stroke you know.” The woman said assertively.