Catching Up With Murder - Chapter 28

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“Something’s wrong, I tell you,” Sadie Chapman insisted into the telephone, “Carol Brady promised she would ring me every evening around nine and last night she didn’t call. I haven’t even heard from my…” she hesitated and thought better of going down that path, “…from Freddy Winter either.”

“As far as I know, Fred Winter is not an investigating officer in this enquiry, snapped Mike Pritchard, “but I’ll pass your concerns on to my guv’nor when I see him. His name, for your information, is DI Lovell, that’s Detective Chief Inspector Lovell. And you are again…?   Ah, yes, well, thank you for calling Miss Chapman. Sorry, Ms Chapman, Yes, I’ll be sure to pass the message on…goodbye.” Pritchard wearily hung up and decided he needed a decent take-away before he could walk another step. He dialled a local pizza company and wondered, absently, why Carol Brady’s name rang a bell.

Undeterred, Sadie rummaged through her memory cells until she came up with the name of Winter’s former colleague now living in Canterbury.  Rather than call the police station and risk being put through to a dozen well-meaning but predictably unhelpful contacts, she dived into the telephone directory. After working through numerous A. Baileys, she finally hit upon the right one. To her pleasant surprise he wasn’t in the least dismissive and, if anything, appeared to share her growing apprehension.

“It could be nothing, of course,” Sadie felt obliged to tell Bailey, “but, somehow, I don’t think so. Oh, Carol Brady may have her faults…don’t we all?  But I definitely got the impression she’s a woman who means what she says. If she says she’ll do a thing, wild horses won’t stop her.  Not to ring at all last night, it’s…well…frankly, Mr Bailey, I’m worried sick.”

“Leave it with me, Mrs Chapman (she didn’t bother to correct him and only ever called herself Ms to put the likes of Detective Sergeant Mike Pritchard in his place) and I’ll get on to it right away.”

“You need to speak to a Chief Inspector Lovell and don’t settle for anyone less,” she emphasized and felt reassured by the dry chuckle coming down the line.

“Be assured, Mrs Chapman, if I can’t get hold of Charlie Lovell I’ll go down there myself. But try not to worry, okay?  Fred Winter knows his stuff. Blimey, he should, he’s notched up more scalps than most people have had hot dogs in Hyde Park. Leave it with me and you can take it as read I’ll be in touch as soon as I find out anything.”

“Make sure you do,” said Sadie and gave Bailey her mobile number but wryly refrained from mentioning she was a vegetarian. She put the phone down, promptly picked it up again and hit the keys with practised precision. “Iris, is that you? Look, sweetheart, I need a big favour. Can you work tonight?  Great, you’ve saved my life. Phil will be in so you should be okay, just the two of you. Me? I have to shoot off somewhere…bit of a crisis…you know how it is. What? No, nothing I can’t handle. Phil will lock up. I have to run now, sorry. And thanks again.”

She put the phone down and went to find a road atlas, not having a clue how to find her way to Monk’s Tallow. Fred Winter may be able to take care of himself and she suspected Carol Brady was of the same brass mettle but Harry was vulnerable and she couldn’t hang around exchanging trivia with punters all day while the man she loved could, for all she knew, be in deep trouble. It crossed her mind, as she flung a coat, on that she must love him even more than she had let herself believe if a frantic pulse and heartbeat were anything to go by. “Oh, well, in for a penny…” she muttered, scrabbling around in a drawer with one hand for car keys only to discover she had, all the time, been clutching them in the other.

Meanwhile, in Monk’s Tallow, Charlie Lovell was berating his tight-lipped sergeant for hugging information to himself. “I didn’t think it was important sir,” the unfortunate Pritchard protested, “but I did remember to tell you anyway…” he pointed out.

“By which time a swallow could have flown south and back again!” Lovell complained heatedly. At the same time, he had to admit, they had other fish to fry and Arthur Bailey wouldn’t be the first to get his knickers in a twist over a bit of skirt. He grinned inwardly. By all accounts, according to Fred, Sadie Chapman was a bit of all right. “Get over to The Fox and Hounds and see if anyone’s seen Fred Winter or the Brady woman.  And don’t take no for an answer. Talk to people…and I mean talk. Mike, not interrogate. As soon as you find someone who has anything to say worth listening to, be sure you damn well listen, okay?  Then get back to me pronto.

“It’s probably nothing. All the same… Fred Winter’s no amateur and if he’s on to something…better to be safe than sorry.”

“But sir, I’ve got a thousand things to do!” Mike Pritchard protested.

“Well, now you’ve got a thousand and one. So the sooner you sort it the sooner you can get on with the rest, right?  Oh, and take young Dave Beale with you. He’s another one who looks as though he could use some exercise,” glancing pointedly at Pritchard’s hint of a paunch.

“Yes guv,” murmured the hapless Pritchard, saw it was useless to argue and went in search of DC Beale.

It was Beale who quickly established that Fred Winter and Carol Brady had been last seen leaving the car park of The Fox and Hounds in a hurry, heading off in the direction on Monk’s Porter.  Pritchard called Lovell.

“Get over there,” Lovell barked down the line. “Sniff around the Philips place and see what you can find out but be discreet.  Let me know if you find out anything or need any help. Oh, and Mike, if you spot Philips…leave well alone, okay?  If he’s our man, I don’t want him scared off.”

“You know me, guv, discretion’s my middle name,” Pritchard assured him and hung up before he could catch the full blast of Lovell’s snort in his ear.

In fact, Pritchard waited until he had satisfied himself that Horton was armed before calling Lovell again.

“You did…what?” Lovell was furious.

“I thought it best to ascertain…” Pritchard began, feeling aggrieved.

“Yes, yes, I dare say…” Lovell snapped back irritably, “So what, exactly, have you ascertained apart from the fact that Horton and Sarah Manners are at the cottage and Horton could well be armed? Did you see any sign of Fred Winter, apart from his car, or Mary Bishop, apart from hers? Or Carol Brady, for that matter, not to mention Harry Smith or whatever his name is…?”  He’d heard of too many cooks, but this was ridiculous.

“No sir.”

“Did you look?”

“Well, no sir.  But Winter and Mrs Bishop, at least, must be in the cottage, surely?”

“You’ve ascertained that for certain, have you sergeant?”

“Whatever, Horton’s armed, guv. I’m sure of it.” Pritchard repeated doggedly.

“Yes, well, let’s hope for all our sakes you’re mistaken and this is nothing more than a storm in a bloody teacup. Because if it isn’t…forewarned is forearmed, sergeant, and you’ll do well to remember that. Next time, do as you’re damn well told and leave the war to those who’ve won a few battles in their time. Now, stay put and don’t move. If anyone leaves the cottage, get young Beale to follow and tell him to maintain contact but do nothing, NOTHING, sergeant, until we know what we have here. And if it is just a Mad Hatter’s tea party, I’ll have your guts for garters, you can bet on it.” Lovell slammed down the phone and tried to avoid paying too much attention to a tightening of his stomach muscles while he set about organizing what he prayed would not turn out to be a hostage situation.  What the hell was going on, for crying out loud?  Nothing, probably, he kept telling himself. Oh, but who am I kidding?  Given that Fred Winter was in the thick of things, something was definitely up.

The phone rang. Lovell snatched it up impatiently and he found himself talking to Arthur Bailey. At the same time, he spotted a scrap of paper sticking out from under a file with a telephone number scrawled across it and a message to call back. He pulled it out and read Bailey’s name with dismay while the other proceeded to enlighten him about Fred Winter’s suspicions. 

Lovell was about to dismiss any link between Sarah Manners and the death of Liam Brady years ago as nonsense when Bailey dropped his first bombshell. “You’re joking!” Lovell shouted down the line as it began to crackle and break up just as the other man was coolly informing him that the body in the grave bearing Ralph Cotter’s headstone was not Cotter’s. It was, to say the least, an unexpected blow. He had been   on the Brady murder case himself and remembered it well.

Barely had Lovell recovered from the first, when Bailey dropped his second bombshell. “For heaven’s sake…”was all he could say as he listened, incredulously, to the gruff, earnest voice repeating itself several times until satisfied Lovell had heard him correctly. Liam Brady, Carol Brady’s “deceased” son - the very same who had witnessed his father’s death all that time ago - was apparently not only alive and well but using the name of Harry Smith… that same Harry Smith, it would seem, last seen in Monk’s Tallow with Fred Winter talking to Mary Bishop, whose distraught husband was convinced she had run off with Sarah Manners. It occurred to Lovell that maybe she had done just that and they were hiding out at the Philips place. But Winter’s involvement - not to mention Winter’s car found parked some distance from the cottage - put the mockers on that little theory as sure as eggs was eggs.

“Yes, yes, Arthur, as soon as I hear anything you and Sadie Chapman will be the first to know,” he told Bailey, replaced the receiver then grabbed it again.   “…Yes, sir, I did say armed officers…” he found himself repeating seconds later while struggling to keep his tone respectful “…and, no, I can’t guarantee the situation warrants it, you’ll just have to trust me on this one sir. Yes, yes, I appreciate my head will be one of the first to roll if it turn out to be a wild goose chase. No sir, the press have not – and will not – be informed unless…Yes sir, I understand the need for caution…but Fred Winter…yes sir, Fred Winter, he’s one of those we think…yes sir, I’ll get on to it right away…”

Lovell hung up, not unimpressed to discover that Fred Winter’s name still carried clout in high places. As his chief had said, he could be an oddball at times but he’d also been a damn good copper. Nor does a damn good copper suddenly stop being one just because he takes early retirement. He kicked open the door, slipping into his jacket as he went, and burst into the main incident room. “Okay now, you lot, listen here…”

…………………...................

Horton gave a loud guffaw and let his tongue loll like a panting dog’s. Behind him, two women on the bed remained collapsed in an untidy heap.

On the floor, Liam Brady lay inert with a sticky red stuff pouring from a gash on the side of his head. Ahead, a grim-faced Fred Winter allowed the knife in his left hand to prick Cotter’s throat without drawing blood. His right arm tightened its grip on Cotter’s neck.  It had to be Cotter, he knew for sure now. It couldn’t be anyone else. Certainly, this was no woman’s body pressed hard and impotent against his, rage and terror coursing through the veins, vying for supremacy like a cornered animal’s.

Cotter yelped.

“Throw the gun over here, Horton. One stupid move and I’ll slit the lady’s throat…or should I say your boyfriend’s?”

Horton paled at the jibe, reached in his pocket and slowly withdrew the gun. At the same time, his surly mouth broke into a broad, lopsided grin. He pointed the weapon directly at Winter.

“If you want to shoot me, go ahead,” the detective growled, “That is, if you want to watch your boyfriend bleed to death. Believe me, I’m not bluffing.”

“Oh, but I think you are,” Horton jeered. Cops don’t slit people’s throats. It’s not in the manual.”

“Ex-cop,” Winter corrected him, “…and one with nothing to lose.”

“Please, Daz, do as he says,” Cotter croaked, face bright red and tears rolling down his cheeks.

Ignoring Cotter, Horton refused to let his attention waver from Winter’s fierce, penetrating stare. “What about the others?” he taunted Winter. “Who’s going to save them if I kill you?”

“Who’s going to save me if you don’t?” Winter countered, drawing the flat of the shiny blade across Cotter’s throat.

“Daz, please…” Cotter begged.

“You’re bluffing, Winter…” Horton took aim and focused entirely on the detective’s expression. Was it his imagination or did it falter a fraction? He tightened his grip on the gun handle and loosened the safety catch, just like he’d seen them do in the movies.  The cold metal pressing against his hand began to feel as if it was a part of him. There was some comfort to be had after all.

A gurgling sound rose in Cotter’s throat and Horton was reminded of a baby with a dummy in its mouth. He began to laugh. No wonder Ralph had used a gun to kill Sean Brady. This was fun, the best he’d ever had. You should have told me what fun it is. He threw an accusing look at poor Ralph who was not only sobbing but dribbling now too. You disgust me.  As soon as the thought occurred, Horton was genuinely shocked and filled with remorse. Yet, did he really care if Fred Winter carried out his threat?  But if poor Ralph bled to death, that would leave him, Horton, all alone. He would hate that. No, he could not allow that. “You haven’t got the bottle, copper...” he sneered, forefinger lightly caressing the trigger as if it were a lover’s nipple. 

Without warning, Horton shifted the weapon slightly in his hand and pointed it at Liam Brady. His eyes, though, did not leave Winter’s face. “Go ahead, cut his throat. I’ll still have a few bullets left after I’ve killed your girlfriend’s little lad here…” He began to squeeze the nipple.

Winter did not lose his nerve. At the same time, he felt old. He’d had his fill of playing mind games and doing battle with his conscience. Well, it has to be something like that doesn’t it?  The truth was, he would never know why he dropped the knife and let Cotter go. Inconsequently, he felt bound to say, “She’s not my girlfriend.”

Cotter hastily retrieved the knife and waved it in Winter’s face, “I ought to…” he spluttered, visibly recovering fast from his ordeal.

“Leave it, Ralph, we don’t have time for that. We’ve got a plan to put into action, right?”

“Right, Daz,” Cotter giggled, dropped the knife and kicked it across the floor before going to stand by his partner.

“Kneel down copper. Let’s hear you beg. And get those big hands of yours up where I can see them,” Horton snarled.

“You’ll have a long wait,” Winter retorted but sank slowly to his knees. He did not raise his hands, however and ignored repeated gestures from Horton to do so. “If you’re going to use that thing you might as well use it now. Never shot anyone before, though, have you Daz?” He was guessing but had clearly hit a nerve. Horton got angry, held out the gun at arm’s length, mouth and nostrils smoking, eyes red and flaring like a pony Winter had once seen rip its belly on a barbed wire fence at his uncle’s farm years ago. 

Horton’s rage dissipated as quickly as it had arisen and he burst out laughing. “No such luck, copper, no such luck.  Tie the bugger up, my turtle dove. We don’t want any more distractions do we?” He laughed again until tears were streaming down his face.

Winter continued to observe Horton intently, even as Cotter tied his hands then ankles behind his back. He was quite mad of course. But that was the least of the detective’s concerns. A fine mess you’ve got yourself into this time, Fred Winter. Let’s see you wriggle out of this one then. He winced as Cotter linked the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles, jerking his legs sharply.  Falling on one side, he bit his lip rather than give his captors the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.  Cotter pulled the knots tighter.

Winter was facing the bed. In the gloomy space underneath, he caught a glimpse of something shiny. His heart leapt. It was the kitchen knife. Out of the corner of one eye he thought he saw Carol Brady move slightly. She was the only one with her hands still free. Winter allowed himself to feel a trifle optimistic, only to have his hopes dashed when Horton, too, must have spotted something and ordered Cotter to tie the woman’s hands.

“Oh, and with what?” Cotter demanded.

“I don’t know, do I?  Use your socks for all I care, just do it and get on with it. It’s high time we were out of here. “Oh, forget it. She’s dead to the world anyway,” he grumbled as Cotter continued to flap. “That is, if she isn’t now, she soon will be,” he added then flung his head back and guffawed.  Winter gave an involuntary shiver. It was, he thought, one of the most menacing sounds he had ever heard.

Carol moaned softly appeared to give her captors no further cause for concern. 

“Come on, let’s go.” Horton went to the door, but paused long enough to fling Winter a long, evil look. “Enjoy the fireworks,” he cackled then was gone, Cotter panting at his heels. Winter heard a key turn in the lock. Not long afterwards, he caught the first, strong, unmistakeable whiff of petrol…

He looked around. Liam was stirring. One glance at the ashen face and glazed expression, however, was enough to tell the detective that he couldn’t be relied upon for any immediate help. Mary Bishop was, as far as he could tell, still unconscious. “Carol?” he called out, “Carol, can you hear me? Wake up, Carol.” He could smell burning now. Shit, they’ve set the place alight. “Carol, wake up you stupid mare!” he yelled.

Carol opened her eyes. “What the…?” she groaned and thought she heard Freddy Winter’s voice calling her.

“Carol!”  There it was again. Slowly, her eyes began to focus. She became aware of someone’s breathing next to her and found herself staring at a woman she did not recognize.

“Carol! It’s me, Freddy. I’m down here, on the bloody floor. Pull yourself together woman!” Winter yelled again. He was feeling very tired, his movements, such as they were, were sluggish enough without being encumbered by the cords that had him trussed like a roasting chicken. In spite of himself, he could not resist a rueful grin. It wasn’t the most reassuring of comparisons to make in the circumstances, he had to admit.

Smoke had begun to drift under the door.

“Carol, for heaven’s sake...!”

Shakily, Carol sat up. Slowly her vision cleared. She saw Winter and attempted to grapple with the implications of his being apparently tied up. Then she looked at the woman lying beside her again and saw that she, too, had been bound. Her face looks a mess too, poor thing. She began to cough and looked enquiringly at Freddy Winter but neither saw nor heard his plea for help as her heavy eyes focused on Liam lying, unconscious and bloodied, inches away from the detective. “Liam!”  Her breath quick and rasping, she forced herself to clamber off the bed, dropped to her knees beside her son and cradled his head in her lap. 

“Carol, the knife, under the bed…. Get the knife, Carol!” Winter found himself yelling although she was right next to him.

She gave no sign of having heard but leaned over to kiss her son’s bruised face, ran her fingers through the hair, damp with blood, and kept saying, “Liam, Liam. Oh, Liam, my poor darling, what have they done to you?” She started coughing again. Her eyes turned instinctively but blindly to the door. By now smoke was pouring through the tiny gap between its base and the floor carpet. 

“Get something to stuff up the gap, Carol, Carol, can you hear me? Do as I say, woman, before we all choke to bloody death! Carol, for pity’s sake, listen to me damn it!”  It crossed her mind that it was so typical of Freddy Winter to lose his temper.  “Carol, snap out of it or we’re done for, all of us, Liam too. You have to make an effort Carol, for Liam.”

Make an effort, for Liam? Of course I must make an effort for Liam. He’s my son, isn’t he?  What the hell does Freddy think he‘s playing at, talking to me like this? She coughed again. Only, this time it struck here why she did it. For a moment she could only stare at an ugly black cloud rising from what had become a rush of thickening smoke under the door.

Carol started screaming then, and did not stop until Liam opened his eyes and murmured, “Mum?”

To be continued 

Catching Up With Murder - Chapter 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“We can’t just break in like common criminals!” Harry Smith protested in the welcome shade of the monkey tree.

“There will be nothing common about it, I can assure you,” Winter told him. As   if to prove his point, the detective produced a set of skeleton keys from his jacket pocket. “Believe me no one will know we’ve been here so just make sure you don’t disturb anything and give the game away.”

“I don’t know…”

“Well, I do. Trust me, I’m a copper.” Winter not only continued to reassure his reluctant accomplice with a broad grin but also produced two pairs of surgical gloves. One pair, he handed to Harry while pulling on the other himself before trying a key in the door. It took five attempts before one fitted

“Suppose someone sees us?”

“Believe me, no one ever notices people entering by a front door. A window, yes…a back door, maybe. But a front door, never. “Eureka!” The door swung open and Winter strode confidently inside, leaving his nervous companion to shut the door. Nor did Harry Smith wait long before cautiously following, anxious to put the door between him and any prying eyes. 

“What now? Harry wanted to know, his voice barely above a whisper.

“We take a quick look around then scarper,” said Winter in his normal voice.

“What if…”

“No bloody ifs, alright?  Do as I say and let’s see if we can’t come up with something that will give us a clearer idea of just what we’re up against.  And for heaven’s sake, be careful.” Winter entered the sitting room, his eyes everywhere at once or so it seemed to an increasingly jittery Harry-Liam.

Winter looked in every room, searching this cupboard, that drawer, examining shelves and peering under the unmade bed with the speed and precision of someone with years of experience. He was alone in the main bedroom when he discovered, tucked among other personal items in a drawer, a birth certificate…for one, Marc Philips.

The detective frowned. If Sarah Manners had acted as a go-between for the sale of the house in Monk’s Porter, she may well have needed it for verification purposes of course. On the other hand…why hang on to it?  A birth certificate was something anyone would be sure to want back, surely?  He was still considering the matter when he heard movement and turned to find that Harry had entered the room and was looking around with the air of a furtive fox expecting to be sniffed out by a pack of hounds baying for his blood at any minute.  Winter replaced the certificate and decided it was time to leave. He was about to gesture the same to Liam when the young man’s expression changed suddenly.

“I’ve been here before,” he said slowly as if continuing to turn over the likelihood in his mind.

“Ah! What makes you think so? Do you recognize something…the wallpaper, the carpet…what?” Winter struggled to restrain his excitement, keeping his voice low and matter-of-fact.

Harry Smith shook his head. “No, nothing…but something is missing. Something isn’t here that was definitely here before…and I have been here before, I have,” he repeated stubbornly, countering Winter’s wary look with a meaningful glare.  

“So what’s missing? Come on, think, man, think!”  Winter urged, trying hard not to betray his exasperation. But Harry Smith continued to shake his head and give the impression of someone peering, desperately, through a thick fog. The birth certificate still dwelling on his mind, the detective instinctively decided it was time to play another hunch. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Let’s see if we can’t find out some more about the elusive Mr Philips.”

Harry did not say a word on the short drive to Monk’s Porter. Winter recognized the hallmarks of a man on auto-pilot. He could but guess at the young man’s torment. It was bad enough trying to remember something on the tip of a tongue that refused to deliver the goods. It had to be a thousand times worse for an amnesiac.  On impulse, he called Julie Simpson again. “Did you aunt ever mention whether Sarah Manners had any kind of allergy?”

“Oh, yes. Nuts. If she ate them or anything containing them, even flavouring, apparently she’d go…well, nuts,” she giggled then added apologetically, “It’s no laughing matter of course. It can prove fatal. I believe she had one or two nasty turns. Poor Auntie used to worry herself sick about it, always reading the ingredients on food labels etcetera whenever she went shopping. Why do you ask?”

“Do people grow out of that kind of thing?” neatly side-stepping her question with another.

“They might, I suppose,” she sounded doubtful, “But I gather Sarah had always been stuck with it, from birth I think. So it’s hardly likely, I imagine. You’ll have to ask her.”

“I will indeed,” Winter growled into the phone, suddenly remembering to ask about the wedding plans, but it was obvious from her tone that this was a bad time. Was there ever a good time, he wondered?  Julie managed a cheerful enough ‘Bye bye’ but hung up almost immediately.

Liam, Winter was pleased to see, caught on fast for all that he remained very subdued. The two men entered the cottage in Monk’s Porter by the front door, as if they had every right to do so. The police, Winter knew, had already searched the place and found nothing. But they had been looking for clues as to Marc Philips’ possible whereabouts. Whereas, he…?

Winter tugged at his beard. What did he expect to find here?  Lips pursed, a wry frown crossed the rugged face. A sixth sense told him, though, that he would not be disappointed. Nor, it transpired, was he. He found a pair of women’s panties draped over a stool in the bathroom.  Winter paid scant attention. So Philips had a girlfriend or he was a transvestite…so what? It was then that a man’s scream blasted his ears like dynamite.

Winter dashed into the next room - a bedroom - to find Liam prostrate on the floor. A thick piled rug had broken his fall and spread unevenly across the floor like a pool of blood. Thankfully, of the real stuff, there was no sign.

After heaving an unconscious Liam on to the bed, the baffled detective hurried to the bathroom, only to return minutes later with a wet flannel. He was still was wiping the pale, sweaty face, when the younger man’s eyes flew open and stared, blankly at first, into space before filling up with such terror that he sat bolt upright. “Take it easy now, yeah?” Winter struggled not to betray alarm. “Everything’s okay, Harry, you’re going to be just fine,” he murmured. “Don’t be frightened. There’s nothing at all to be frightened of, okay? Just try to relax. You fainted, that’s all. Now, take some deep breaths and try to relax,” he kept repeating and felt encouraged by the fact that Liam seemed to be taking notice and growing calmer by the second.

Gently but firmly, Winter pushed the trembling shoulders back against the starchy white pillows. “Now, take some deep breaths and try to relax,” continuing to make reassuring noises while wiping pellet-size drops of perspiration from the young man’s deeply furrowed brow.

Harry tried to speak but only an intelligible grunt emerged from the dribbling, quivering mouth. He flung out a hand towards the window.  Winter saw immediately what the young man meant. A hideously battered teddy bear, one ear missing and the other dangling by a thread, sat on the windowsill.

Winter could only stare, incredulous. “Tweedledeaf...!”  There was no room for doubt. Moreover, it was several minutes before he realized the involuntary cry had erupted from his own throat. Unable to tear his gaze away, Winter half expected the old bear to respond. He felt as if he were under a spell of sorts until it was broken by

a plaintive shriek from the figure on the bed.

Harry Smith screwed his eyes tightly shut.  This time, however, he remained conscious. Winter had to take what comfort he could from that.  

Forcing himself to stop staring at the teddy bear, Winter’s sweeping gaze took in the rest of the room. On the face of it, there was nothing extraordinary or untoward to alert the sensibilities of a suspicious copper, or anyone else for that matter.  He went to the wardrobe and opened the door. Surprisingly, the inside was bare.  Marc Philips was obviously a man who liked to travel light. It struck Winter as was odd, though, to say the least. He’d have expected to find at least a few items of clothing if only a raincoat for wet weekends.  He glanced at Harry who lay unmoving on the bed, hands by his side with both fists clenched. His eyes were still closed but his breathing more regular now. Winter thought it best to leave him to recover in his own time. 

The rug, where Harry’s fall had sent it sliding untidily across the floor, cried out to be straightened and replaced. Winter was about to do just that when he noticed a loose floorboard. Kneeling down, he examined it more closely. It surrendered easily to even the most cursory exploration. The detective found himself looking into a black hole. Intrigued, he lowered an arm and felt around inside. His fingers found what might have been a cardboard box.  Whatever, it would not budge.  Undeterred, Winter began to remove more floorboards with surprisingly little difficulty. Finally, with a grunt of satisfaction, he withdrew a hatbox from its hiding place.   .

“Bloody hell…!” By now Harry Smith had opened his eyes and begun to show an interest in the proceedings.  His reaction was much the same as Winter’s when the detective lifted the lid to reveal a very convincing wig and beard, plus a pair of horned rim spectacles which, on further examination, proved to contain plain glass.  There were other documents, including a medical card. Winter made a mental note of the name and surgery address of a local doctor.

Harry Smith frowned. As he watched Winter return the items to the hat box, drop it back into its hiding place and carefully replace the floorboards, his mind, like the detective’s was racing ahead of itself. If Marc Philips was a fake, who the hell was he and why disguise himself?  More to the point, perhaps…whatever happened to the real Marc Philips?  A chill ran down his spine as a string of possibilities played on his imagination, all of them nasty.

Winter, meanwhile, was thinking along much the same lines but had taken several steps further in what had struck even his suspicious mind as a completely absurd hypothesis…

If Marc Philips was not who he pretended to be, who was to say he existed at all? Anyone could put on a false wig, beard and glasses…even someone local like…

Daz Horton’s name sprung to mind.

Harry had already, excitedly, explained it was the same teddy bear that had gone missing from Monkey Tree cottage although he had no idea why he should remember seeing it there and nothing else. So how had it ended up here if Horton hadn’t brought it…or Sarah Manners…but why?  Liam Brady, the detective mused pensively, would have good cause to remember that particular toy. Moreover, it followed that there had to be a connection with Ralph Cotter. But what, damn it…what?  His copper’s nose began to twitch.  He stroked his beard. Suppose, just suppose the tramp’s body had been substituted for Cotter’s all those years ago? That would mean…

“Shit!” the detective swore aloud. But if Cotter was still alive, where the devil was he hiding out - he and Marc Philips both…in Monk’s Tallow? It seemed unlikely. At the same time, if he was right and Philips did not exist as the residents of Monk’s Porter knew him…

Nothing, as usual, was making much sense.

The two men exchanged few words on the drive back to The Fox and Hounds. Winter told Harry Smith to go ahead and he would join him at the bar in a few minutes.  He called Carol. Sadie answered the phone and asked eagerly after Harry. Winter did his best to reassure her and restrain his impatience to speak to Carol. She came on the line, also anxious for news about Harry-Liam, but took the trouble to enquire about himself too. Winter could feel his cheeks burning and was relieved she could not see him. “Can you recall whether Ralph Cotter was buried or cremated?” 

“What sort of question is that? Of course I remember. I went to the damn funeral, didn’t I?  Why on earth do you want to know?”

“You went to the funeral of your husband’s murderer?” the grizzled detective could not conceal his astonishment. “Doesn’t that strike you as being bizarre, to say the least?”

“It’s what our Americans cousins call ‘closure’,” said Carol in clipped tones that warned him to tread carefully, “and if you must know, he was buried. Jean Cotter didn’t hold with cremation although why, in this instance, I can’t imagine since he was burnt to a bloody crisp anyway. She had the whole works, church choir and all. Mind you, it gave the press a field day and she probably made a pretty penny out of it.”

“Didn’t you?” Winter couldn’t resist asking.

“Of course I did. I had a child to support, remember? If she could get blood money for playing the grieving widow, so could I.  I earned it too, we both did.”

“Where is he buried?”  She told him. “One more thing, Carol, did the teddy bear ever turn up? You didn’t give it away or anything…?”

“Give it away? Not bloody likely. That bear was family, for heaven’s sake. Look, Freddy, what the hell’s going on down there?  And don’t tell me ‘nothing’. It’s me you’re talking to, not some halfwit colleague.”

“Sorry, Carol, you’re breaking up. I’ll call you again later. Bye.” He hit the off button, keeping his finger on it till the tiny screen went blank.

For a while, he  continued to sit there, pondering the unlikely, then turned the mobile back on, thought about calling Charlie Lovell but hit Arthur Bailey’s name in the directory instead. Lovell had his hands full and would, in any case, think he had finally lost his marbles.

“You want me to…what?” Bailey was more shocked than surprised.

“Trust me, Arthur, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t dead important.”

“We’d have to get Jean Cotter’s permission and why should she agree to have her husband’s body exhumed just on some daft hunch of yours? Besides, I seem to recall there wasn’t much left of it anyway.”

“She married again, didn’t she? I’m sure she’ll want to make sure she isn’t a bigamist, I know I would,” responded Winter with a chuckle and was relieved to hear another at the other end. Arthur Bailey, he knew, would do his damn best.

“Suppose she agrees…what then?”

“Try for a DNA sample and see if it matches with any you can get of Cotter’s. There must be something.”

“If there had been a switch, don’t you think someone would have sussed?”

“Why should they?  There was no reason to suppose the charred remains in that car weren’t Cotter’s.”

“And now there is?”

“Too right, there is.” Winter exuded more confidence than he felt and it did the trick.

“It’s not on my patch,” Bailey was at pains to point out.

“True, but I wouldn’t mind betting you know someone whose patch it is and that they owe you a favour.”

“You wish!”

“Come off it, Arthur, the world and his dog owe you a favour. When have I ever asked for one?”

“More times than I’ve had hot dinners,” commented Bailey ruefully.

“Well, what’s one more hot dinner between friends?” Winter cajoled. 

After a long pause, “I’ll see what I can do but no promises.”

“You’re a star.”

“I’m an idiot.” Bailey hung up.   

That evening, Harry Smith was quiet and restless. He barely spoke over dinner and excused himself almost immediately afterwards, without bothering with a desert, leaving Winter to devour a strawberry ice cream sundae with relish. 

Across the room, the Bishops, too, were sampling a Fox and Hounds “special” lamb roast. Mary nodded and Winter nodded back. Sam Bishop did not appear to notice this mute exchange or, if he did, chose to ignore it. They were a glum couple, thought Winter, not for the first time. Then Sarah Manners arrived. She was alone.   Mary Bishop immediately brightened at the sight of her friend while her husband’s welcoming nod was but cursory. The librarian sat next to Mary, made no attempt to order anything but seemed content just to chat. Again, Winter could not help but notice how tactile the two women were with each other.

After about ten minutes, Sam Bishop left. The severity of his expression gave Winter cause to speculate further on whether he mightn’t find his wife’s behaviour towards her friend… disconcerting, to say the least.

Sarah Manners spotted Winter at once and waved. It was an indifferent wave, merely acknowledging his presence. Certainly, it could in no way be construed as an invitation to join the two women. Winter waved back. The light caught the charm bracelet on her wrist, plunging the detective into deep thought.  If Sarah Manners was not who she claimed to be…who was she? And if she was wearing Sarah’s bracelet, how did she come by it? It was a puzzle and no mistake. The glimmer of a notion crossed his mind but he dismissed it to nether regions as too fantastic for words.

His thoughts turned again to Philips, another likely figment of the imagination. Did Sarah Manners know this?  Could that be the reason she helped him purchase the cottage in Monk’s Porter, because he could not do so freely in his own name? Could Marc Philips and Ralph Cotter be one and the same?  The detective shook his head. It made no sense. If Philips did not exist then the implication had to be that Cotter was still alive.  If so, where was he and how did Sarah Manners fit into the general scheme of things?

Winter went to the bar and ordered another beer.

The medical card found among the wig and other items continued to play on his nerves. If, for argument’s sake, Cotter was alive, it made sense that he would need a medical card in an assumed name. But that did not explain the disguise. He could easily have grown his own beard, dyed his own hair and worn plain glass spectacles. If he had already acquired another man’s identity, why bother with the theatricals? Unless he was living locally, of course, in which case he wouldn’t want the GP to know who he was, but why should that matter if he was known under an assumed name anyway?

Winter watched Mary Bishop and Sarah Manners leave the dining area, arm in arm, giggling like a couple of schoolgirls. The absurd notion that had struck him briefly earlier returned to haunt him. If the librarian wasn not the real Sarah Manners, it might explain James Morrissey’s distress…enough to cause him to lose control of his car or even commit suicide.  His suicide, in turn, might explain Ruth Temple’s. But where did Liam and Carol Brady fit in to all this? And what about the teddy bear? Suppose Liam had recognized the teddy bear? It might have proved enough to send him over the edge…figuratively speaking, maybe even literally. But how did the damn bear got to Monkey Tree cottage if Cotter hadn't taken it there himself, and why move it to Marc Philips’ bedroom? If Cotter and Philips were one and the same person, that meant he was not only local but also had to be well known to Sarah Manners and her partner.  Unless…

Winter shook his head again. Impossible…

He drained his glass and made his way to the bar for another pint. “Impossible!” he barked at a bemused barman.

Across the bar, he could see into another room where Sam Bishop was leaning heavily on the bar, knocking back shorts like nobody’s business.

To be continued

Catching Up With Murder - Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Do we need to worry about Carol Brady?” Cotter wanted to know.

“I don’t think so.” Daz shook his head.

Cotter, however, was not convinced. But it won’t do any harm to make sure. I think I’ll pay the lady a visit, he thought, but did voice his decision aloud. His lover hated to be contradicted.

For the first time in ages, Cotter took himself off to the cottage in Monk’s Porter and assumed his Marc Philips persona.  It was strange but curiously exciting to become a man again. It always amazed him how the wig, a shock of wavy, sandy coloured hair, altered his appearance so dramatically.

He was about to pull up outside the house in Camden Town when a tall thickset man with a shock of grey hair emerged from a side road, walked briskly up the path and rang .the doorbell. There was something oddly familiar about the man. Cotter parked, waited and watched.  He could just make out the figure of Carol Brady (it has to be her in those garish clothes, surely?) as she opened the door and let her burly visitor inside.  “I know you,” he muttered pensively and racked his memory for a name.  It came to him, as names often do, while his thoughts were heading along an altogether different track. Bloody hell, it’s Fred Winter.

It was a sobering discovery. What the devil did that old buzzard want with Carol Brady?  Hadn’t he read somewhere that Winter had retired, something about wanting to spend more time with his wife...didn’t she have cancer or something?  Retired or no, a cop was a cop and Winter had never been one to risk underestimating...or you paid the price, too right you did! “Shit!” Cotter groaned and kept his eyes on the faded blue front door.

It seemed an eternity to Cotter before Winter returned to his car and drove away. He followed at a discreet distance. Carol Brady could wait, too right she could. He needed to know what Fred Winter was up to. Finding out where the former detective lived would be as good a start as any. Nor did Winter disappoint him but drove directly to Watford, too preoccupied with unsettling thoughts about Carol Brady to even notice he was being followed.

After a while, Cotter headed back to Monk’s Tallow but took care to arrive as Sarah Manners. It would not do for Marc Phillips to be seen calling, especially given the monstrous idea that was not yet fully formed in his head. He needed to but time, chew a few things over with Daz.  Although…maybe not.  He sighed. Daz would only accuse him of getting into a state as usual. But they were in this caper together, weren’t they? They would see it through together, every step of the way. Besides, he didn’t need to remind himself that his long-time lover had a peculiar fetish for the unexpected.  Hadn’t he demonstrated it often enough? He grimaced. At such times, he, Ralph, would invariably panic and get worked up enough to all but wet himself for sheer excitement. “I’ll show you…” he muttered, although he wasn’t sure what he meant or whom he was addressing.

Cotter grinned inwardly, well aware of the severity of any punishment his lover would mete out for soiling his briefs.  Even so, perhaps it would be better to bide his time for now? After all, a pleasure deferred…

The next day Cotter, as Marc Phillips, drove back to Camden Town and rang Carol Brady’s the doorbell. There was no response and he was about to leave when a small, rotund woman with thin, untidy hair opened the door. “Who are you?”

“I’m looking for Carol.”

“She’s probably at work but you can try knocking.”  She pushed past him and scurried, crab-like, along path and street. Cotter entered the gloomy hallway and banged on the flat door. Again, he got no response. He looked around, felt along the ledge over the door then tried the stairs.  A key presented itself, tucked under the stair carpet, after only a cursory search.  Unable to suppress a smug grunt, he took a pair of gloves from a pocket, slipped them on and let himself in.

The flat was unimpressive, poorly decorated and the furnishings looked both ill matched and second-hand. Moving with the agility of a cat, Cotter searched the flat, taking care to leave everything seemingly undisturbed. He had no idea what he was looking for but would know what it was if and when he found it. In one drawer of a bedside table, he found some personal documents, scoured pages of a diary and flicked through an address book but neither yielded much of any interest. He frowned. While several comments about appointments and some general reminders written in bold capital letters caught his eye, there was nothing here to suggest the woman might present a threat of any kind.  

He was about to leave when he noticed the teddy bear. (How could I have missed it?)

Cotter’s heart missed a beat. A rush of memories sent him reeling. Hadn’t he told Horton about the two teddy bears more times than he cared to recall.  In turn, Horton hadn’t minced his words in warning Ralph that his obsession with the bear he’d unintentionally carried away from the Brady house years ago bordered on lunacy.

“Mark my words, that damn bear will see the pair of us swing yet,” Horton had scolded more than once. “Chuck it, or I’ll chuck you.”

Cotter had been mortified. “It’s a piece of history, that teddy. You can’t chuck history.”

“Maybe that’s why it has a nasty habit of repeating itself,” grunted Horton but hadn’t felt inclined to pursue the matter.

Now, Cotter picked up the bear and grimaced. It was ugly, shabby and its head was only hanging on to the rest of it thanks to a liberal application of masking tape.  There was a hole, badly darned, where its mouth should have been; its eyes put him in mind of a pet dog given as a Christmas present. After nearly fourteen years, it badly needed to be put down. No member of the family, including himself, had been able to face taking the poor mutt to the vet. By the next morning it was dead. It had been his first and only pet. “I’ve got a bad feeling about you,” Cotter told the bear and had to resist an impulse to pulverise its ghastly face before replacing it.

He left, careful to return the key to its hiding place under the stair carpet (Oh, shit! Now, was it the second or third stair?). It occurred to him that it mightn’t be a bad idea to drive over to Fred Winter’s house and have a good sniff around. But the traffic was bad so he headed home instead.

Horton was furious. “I’m coming with you next time,” he insisted. “It makes me nervous when you’re charging around getting into heaven knows what. You should have told me what you were up to!”

But Cotter had other ideas and drove off early the next day, leaving Horton still fast asleep. He hadn’t expected to enjoy playing the role of Marc Phillips so much that it titillated him no end.

He found Carol Brady exactly where and about the time he expected, just as her diary had so helpfully revealed. As soon as the chance came, he grabbed it, slammed his foot on the accelerator and drove straight at her. At the last split second, he swerved. He would never know why, he just did.  Even so, a figure appeared out of nowhere and sent her flying. A glimpse of the woman’s terrified expression, the screeching of tyres and the pounding of his own heartbeat...all these stayed in his head and frayed his nerve-endings throughout the journey home. 

As he pulled up outside the cottage in Monk’s Tallow, he had no clear recollection of how he had arrived there. He could already hear Horton yelling at him Hell’s bells, Ralph, are you a total nutcase or what?.He felt physically sick and needed to unwind, let of steam, re-assert his own identity. Hopefully, Daz would be inside because, for sure, he was in no mood to wait...

“Damn, it, I’m not letting you go on your own and, this time, there’ll be no sneaking out behind my back!” Horton complained much later. Cotter merely nodded, looking none the worse for a good beating; Daz hadn’t touched his face this time. Sex had been fantastic, as always. Yet, there had been a marked difference on this occasion, for Cotter at least. Eyes tight shut and fists clenched he had, as always, relished every excruciating second. Only, this time wasn’t Daz dominating his thoughts and every timbre of his being...but Mary Bishop. Nor had he, Cotter, been the victim portrayed by the movie showing in his head.  She had lain where he lay now, helpless, while he administered her just deserts for being such a desirable...slut!

“Slut, slut, slut…!” Horton was chanting and it was not only music to Cotter’s ears, it was sheer inspiration.

The next day, Cotter took off yet again. Daz could rant and rave as much as he liked, this one was down to him.  On this occasion, he had more luck and caught Carol Brady a nasty blow as she flung herself out of his path at the last second. Again, he sped away. He glanced in the rear view mirror. The face that looked back at him was effeminate, true, but wore a look of wide-eyed masculinity that sent his pulse racing. This was a side to himself he had never envisaged. The mirror clouded over and Carol Brady’s face, stained with fear, superimposed itself on his reflection but only fleetingly. It was replaced by another. The prevailing image was that of Mary Bishop’s beguiling looks transformed by sheer terror as the car filled with the scent of her perfume until he could scarcely breathe and had to wind down a window.

Cotter drove furiously to Monk’s Porter, changed, and was soon back at the cottage in Monk’s Tallow relating all, breathlessly, to a livid Horton of whose company he was genuinely glad when they returned to Watford the next day. Not that his lover had allowed him any choice in the matter. Cotter still ached all over as a result of Horton’s relentless disciplining the previous night. “And you needn’t think our friend Marc Phillips is getting the upper hand either,” Daz had snarled, “He’s a sometime convenience, no more or less. You, my turtledove, are Sarah bloody Manners and don’t you forget it!  As for this detective geezer, you had better show me before you dump us in the shit once and for all!” 

Consequently, it was Monk’s Tallow’s resident librarian who drove to Watford where both men had the shock of their lives when they saw Liam Brady turn up on Fred Winter’s doorstep. 

“Shit!” Horton growled.

“It can’t be. It just can’t be,” wailed Cotter.  The blood drained from his face until it turned a shade of off-white, not unlike the favourite Sarah Manners trouser suit he was wearing, reserved though it was for strictly off-duty excursions. “It can’t be,” he repeated a third time.

“Well, it’s him and no mistake,” snapped Horton, “Hell’s bells, he must have more lives than a cat, damn and blast it!” They saw Fred Winter open the door and, after a long pause, show Liam inside. “But what’s he doing here? Besides, we should have heard from the cops by now, let’s face it.  None of it makes any sense unless, maybe...”

“I’m scared, Daz,” Cotter moaned.

“Shut up and let me think,” Horton barked and chose to ignore the sulky expression on Ralph’s prettily made-up face. “The way I see it, there can only be one reason why we haven’t had a visit from the law and that’s because they don’t know what’s happened any more than we do.  Young Liam can’t have told them a thing - and why not?  I’ll tell you why not, shall I?” Cotter nodded dumbly. “My guess is he doesn’t know either. He’s got bloody amnesia. That’s what he’s got, flower, bloody amnesia...”

“But for how long?” wailed Cotter.

Horton shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, flower, but at least it buys us some time. I could be wrong, I suppose, but nothing else makes sense. How he survived the crash, God only knows. I knew we should have belted him in, I just knew it.  He must have been thrown clear or maybe he came round before the car went over and somehow managed to jump out. Hell’s bells, what a turn up for the book eh?” he guffawed.

“So what do we do now, Daz?” whined Cotter.

“We wait, my turtledove, we wait,” Horton told him and snickered, a gleam in the eyes that made Cotter shudder with an anticipation soon visible in the crotch of his trousers. “There’s only one way to find out if I’m right but we need this Fred Winter character out of the way first.”

“You mean bump him off?”

“Don’t be daft, he’s a copper. No, we wait, my flower. For now, at least, we just wait...”

They did not have to wait too long. After less than hour, Fred Winter emerged alone and drove away. “Good. Now we can pay our old mate Liam a little visit without any interruptions,” Horton declared, pursing his lips reflectively.

“But, suppose...” Cotter stammered.

“Suppose, my arse!” retorted Horton, “Come on, let’s go.”

“Maybe I should wait here?” Cotter suggested weakly.

“We’re in this together, right? Besides, if I’m guessing wrong about him having amnesia, I’ll need you to lend a hand.”

“Oh, all right,” muttered Cotter crossly but took his time wrenching opening the passenger door all the same. Nor did he start breathing properly again until Liam Brady opened the front door of Fred Winter’s house, stared at them blankly.

“Yes?” Liam asked.

“We’re friends of Fred’s,” explained Horton with growing confidence. “There’s been an accident, nothing serious though.  But the hospital may have to keep him in overnight so he’d like you to bring a few things. Can we come in?  We can give you a lift just as soon as you’re ready.”

Horton already had a foot inside the door. Liam-Harry stood back, feeling distinctly uneasy as the couple pushed past him. “Wait in the lounge,” he mumbled and pointed. The man, he reflected, was a big burly bloke who carried himself confidently, if brusquely. The woman, on the other hand, seemed nervous and unsure of herself. He found himself wondering about their relationship and did not doubt for a moment that here was a man who liked a woman to know her place…and a woman who was only too happy to oblige. Yet something did not ring true. He could not put a finger on it. Their story was plausible enough. Could it be the couple themselves that somehow failed to convince him…but, of what? 

Liam was puzzled, confused. Why, he kept asking himself, did he not feel the slightest concern for Fred Winter?  The only explanation was that he did not believe a word he had been told about any “accident”.

“I’ll be right back…” he told them, smiling in a way he hoped would convey a mix of casual politeness and mild dismay.  In the kitchen, he hesitated only a fraction at the back door then fled.

He ran, loped and finally walked, panting, through a maze of alleyways and side roads before ducking into a café whose windows were so steamed-up no one could tell if it was empty or bursting at the seams. In the event it was neither. An elderly trio sat at a table chatting over cups of tea while two young women in one corner kept taking time off from devouring egg and chips to toss meaningful glances at a gay couple in the opposite corner. 

Liam ordered a large mug of tea, much relieved to discover that he had enough small change in his jeans pocket to pay for it then went and sat down at a table nearest the counter which gave him not only an overall view of the café but, more importantly, its steamed-up door and windows.  They gave him a sense of security. No one would find him there, he was sure of it. But why, he wondered, should the odd couple have lied to him? Why on earth should anyone intend him harm?  “Who am I?” he demanded of finger scrawls on the glass, assorted stains on the plastic tablecloths and – not least – a motley bunch of characters that kept throwing curious glances in his direction. Certainly, the Three Wise Men and teenage gigglers were undecided as to who was providing the most entertainment…the gay couple holding hands and kissing or the newcomer muttering to himself like nobody’s business.

Aware suddenly that he was a focus of attention and why, Liam shut up. Instead he tried to remember. But nothing came to aid or rescue. No images came to mind that meant anything. He caught glimpses of faces but might as well have been peering through the café windows, no way of telling who was who or what was what. Places, objects passed in front of his eyes but it was like watching a blurred slideshow. The only thing that had any meaning was a teddy bear…a shabby, tatty lump of mangled fur that no more conjured up a name than any of the faces but invoked powerful feelings all the same. Nor were these feelings in the least unpleasant. On the contrary, the teddy bear gave him a warm glow, like cold hands at a cosy fire. Yet how did that explain the nightmare? Why should he stab the teddy bear?  Words sprung unbidden to mind, a quotation of sorts…something along the lines of a man killing the thing he loves. 

Not for the first time, Harry Smith asked himself the question, “Who have I killed?”

The more the cold mug shook in his grasp, the harder Liam clutched at it. His teeth began to chatter. He staggered to his feet, lurched towards the counter and ordered another cup of tea in a low, mumbling voice.

“This is a respectable café, not a drop-in for those with nothing better to do than act queer,” said the young woman behind the counter and gave him a frosty look.

“I can pay,” Liam muttered, hoped it was true and counted out the exact money on to the counter’s much-battered wooden surface.

“Well, I suppose…but don’t you go disturbing anybody or you’ll be slinging your hook before you know it,” she declared loudly, plainly enjoying the unspoken approval of pensioners and teenagers alike while the gay couple showed no interest whatsoever but continued to have eyes only for each other.

Liam sighed. He missed Sadie terribly. Perhaps the best thing would be to return to The Green Man and pretend Fred Winter did not exist?  They had got by okay so far, he and Sadie…well, hadn’t they? Why spoil everything? “Because none of it is real,” his alter ego was quick to point out. “Everything is a sham. You’re a sham.” But I love Sadie, that’s real enough. “So prove it. Feelings, if they are real, can survive anything…even the truth. If you love her, and she loves you, the truth won’t matter. You’ll be together as a real couple, not a pair of losers pretending you’re on a winning streak!”  We’re not.  “Well, that’s how it looks. Do you want to spend the rest of your life playing at being in love or take a chance on it being the real thing?  What have you got to lose?” 

“Everything,” Harry Smith groaned aloud.

The gay couple got up and left. Five pairs of eyes watched them go while the sixth started into his mug as if the muddy brown liquid that passed for tea might hold the solution to all his problems.  “You have to go back, face Fred Winter and the woman who says she’s your mother,” his distorted reflection declared. I can’t. “You can.” I can’t. “You must”. What about Popeye and Olive Oil?  Liam’s thoughts turned to the unsavoury couple that had practically barged their way into Fred Winter’s house.  But there was no answer, only the sound of chairs scraping the lino floor as the Three Wise Men prepared to leave.

Meanwhile, back at Fred Winter’s house, Cotter continued to whine and wail while Horton slumped thoughtfully in the detective’s favourite armchair, sipping at his best malt.

“I tell you, Liam knows. He must know or why else would he do a runner?” Cotter groaned.

“Trust me, he knows sod all,” said Horton with a firmness that went some way towards easing poor Cotter’s frantic state of mind. “If he’d had so much as a clue who we are, he wouldn’t have bothered with play-acting, he’d have let us have it good and proper then called the Old Bill.”

“I’m not so sure…” Cotter remained sceptical.

“Well I am.”

“So what do we do now, wait?”

“Wait for what, Christmas? No, my flower, we catch up with young Liam and sort our little problem once and for all.”

“He could be anywhere.”

“So he could, but somehow I don’t think so. I think our Liam will be doing exactly what half the bloody world does when it gets its knickers in a twist.”

“And what might that be?” demanded Cotter, emulating Sarah Manners at her most peevish.

Horton shrugged. “He’ll hot foot it back to mum of course.”

“But if he’s lost his memory, he may not know he even has a mum!” Cotter pointed out with growing exasperation.

“Ah, but basic instinct, flower, basic instinct... it never lets you down even if you haven’t got the foggiest idea where it’s coming from. Mark my words, our Liam will be banging on his mum’s front door right now.”

“Then we had better get a move on,” snapped Cotter, unconvinced.

“I suppose we better had,” Horton agreed parting reluctantly with his glass and leaping to his feet with such unexpected alacrity that Cotter took several paces backwards in alarm, sent a lamp stand flying in the process and promptly burst into tears. “Don’t you worry about a thing, my turtledove,” murmured Horton and gathered his old friend in a bear hug. “Our Liam won’t know what’s hit him by the time we’re through and the same goes for that nosey parker, Fred Winter, you’ll see.”

Cotter, enjoying the hug, felt totally reassured. Suddenly, Horton thrust him away and banged his palm against the side of his head. “What is it, Daz, what’s up?”

“The bear…that bloody teddy bear you said Carol Brady’s kept all these years!  If young Liam recollects we’ve got its other half or goes and tells anyone else, we’re in big trouble, my turtle dove. It won’t take a genius to put two and two together and come up with the right bloody answer.  I warned you. Didn’t I warn you that damn bear would be the death of us yet?” But he let Cotter stammer and sweat without waiting for an answer. “Come on, we’re wasting time.”

Each made a simultaneous dash for the front door.

“Suppose we don’t find Liam in time?” Cotter wailed.

“We find his mum, we find Liam,” muttered Horton crossly. He had a bad feeling about all this.

“And then what?” Cotter insisted.

“We finish what we started, what else?” snapped Horton. Even so, he took care to avoid meeting the anxious expression in his companion’s eyes. . 

The front door had barely closed on its latest drama before they were heading for the car at a brisk walk. 

To be continued