The Final Straw Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Jenny Francis

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

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  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 978 1838597 474

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Dedicated to calling out the bullies

  and making them answer for their crimes

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prelude

  A Hot Summer Day

  Chapter One

  The Quiet Prisoner

  Chapter Two

  Jesus Lives Here

  Chapter Three

  Spencer Middleweek

  Chapter Four

  Jim Baxter

  Chapter Five

  Duncan Toogood

  Chapter Six

  The Counsellor

  Chapter Seven

  Sid Marples

  Chapter Eight

  The Tool Repairer

  Chapter Nine

  The Bug

  Chapter Ten

  The Biker

  Chapter Eleven

  Unfinished Business

  Chapter Twelve

  Interlude

  The Birdwatcher

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Scrapyard

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sarah’s Story

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cold House, Cold Hearts

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Final Straw

  Postlude

  Author’s Note

  The Final Straw is the third murder mystery to feature Detective Inspector Charlie Moon and his journalist friend Jo Lyon as they team up again to unravel another case filled with unexpected twists and turns. Over two years have passed since Moon was suspended from duty for breaking house rules but the feeling his bosses are out to get him still hasn’t gone away.

  Like the earlier books, The Final Straw is set in the West Midlands at the time of the Millenium. The characters are fictional but the issues are all too real.

  Jenny Francis

  2020

  More about books by Jenny Francis can be found at www.meetjennyfrancis.com

  Prelude

  A Hot Summer Day

  AUGUST 1976

  A listlessness hung in the air as they drove through the outskirts of the city making detours here and there to avoid the worst of the hold-ups. It was the start of another long hot day in the longest hottest summer anybody could ever remember. Her thoughts though were on other things as she stared out of the side window while he said nothing apart from grumbling about the heat and cursing the drivers of buses who pulled out in front.

  They were almost there. A turn to the left into a quiet road where the pavements were shaded by giant horse chestnuts. She remembered those trees for many years afterwards. The way their leaves were already starting to change colour because there’d been no rain for weeks. The way they were witnesses to the moment she finally gave up hope all this could be sorted out and abandoned herself to what he told her would be best for both of them. No, the time for talking was over. Soon she’d be faced with coming to terms with what went against everything she’d ever believed in but the inner torment would have to be put to one side for now. She knew though it would come back to haunt her.

  Chapter One

  The Quiet Prisoner

  october 2001

  Detective Inspector Charlie Moon realised he’d cut it fine. He could see the gates of the crematorium coming up ahead but it was already two minutes past two according to the digital clock on the dashboard. Fortunately for him there was a space left on the car park and, pausing only to grab his overcoat from the back seat, he hurried across to where he could see the tail end of the procession of mourners filing into the funeral chapel.

  Once inside he took a seat in the empty row at the back where he had a good view of what was going on. Retired Chief Inspector Tommy Dodd had been a popular figure in the West Midlands Police so it was not surprising to see a few familiar faces from the old days had turned up to pay their respects. The escort for the coffin Moon took to be the committee of the Golf Club or else a contingent from Tommy’s Lodge who’d come to give him a good send-off. Tommy’s wife had predeceased him so Moon guessed the family group down at the front consisted of his children and grandchildren.

  The service was brief, just as Tommy would have wished it, then the final moment when the curtains around the coffin closed and everybody made their way out to the sounds of dance band music from the forties played through the chapel’s speaker system.

  Outside the autumn sunshine was still strong enough to feel pleasant as people gathered in the Garden of Remembrance to look at the flowers. Moon chatted with colleagues from days gone by who he hadn’t seen for years then, just as the crowd started to disperse, he felt a soft touch on his elbow. Turning round, he saw a man in a navy-blue gabardine raincoat whose features he struggled to place at first.

  ‘I thought I might catch you here,’ the man said holding out a hand for Moon to shake.

  Suddenly it clicked. Alf Stepney, formerly Detective Inspector Alf Stepney of the old West Midlands Serious Crimes Squad. A growth of stubble on his chin and a bit more flesh around his cheeks but the South Wales accent gave him away.

  ‘How long’s it been? Ten years? More? I left the Force in 1992 and, before that, I was on garden leave for twelve months.’

  Moon cast his mind back. Alf Stepney survived the great purge after the Serious Crimes Squad was disbanded in 1989 but it wasn’t long before he crossed swords with the new faces who came in at the top. The official version put out was he’d decided to take early retirement but it didn’t take much guessing to work out he’d fallen foul of authority over something.

  ‘How’s that twat Willoughby keeping?’ Stepney asked looking round and referring to Moon’s boss, the Team Penda Commander. ‘I didn’t take a shine to him from the minute I clapped eyes on him but still that’s all water under the bridge.’

  Moon said nothing. He didn’t know how much Stepney knew about his own clashes with Willoughby but he felt it best not to get drawn into conversation with somebody who, according to rumour, was still walking round with a chip on his shoulder.

  Stepney smiled. ‘Wise man Charlie. Don’t talk shop with a disgruntled old bastard like me. Keep your own counsel. In this life you never know who you can trust. You must have wondered though why I decided to jack it all in when I was still a few years off picking up a full pension.’

  Moon shrugged. ‘We all go through moments when we think to ourselves the hassle and arse-kickings aren’t worth it. I can’t say I blame anybody for feeling they’ve had enough.’

>   ‘You don’t get it, Charlie. They wanted me out. It came at the time Willoughby was still finding his feet but my guess is somebody warned him off when he mooted the idea of taking me through a disciplinary. I knew too much. I’d seen how people operated who went on to pick up their CBEs and knighthoods. I could have shopped the fucking lot of them and they knew it. Guess what? Instead of having my card marked it was just Willoughby and me in his private office and he was making me the offer I couldn’t refuse.’

  ‘They paid you off?’

  ‘A cash lump sum, tax-free, and the offer of investment advice if I wanted it. The deal was I went quietly and signed an agreement in front of solicitors to say I’d never divulge any information about the Force or individual officers without the written consent of the Chief Constable.’

  ‘You snatched their hands off?’

  ‘Too true I did but the trouble is I took the money and spent the next year living it up down on the Costa del Booze. I did nothing about purchasing the annuity like I was told to do. I pissed most of it up the wall and spent the rest on slow horses and fast women – now look where I’ve ended up.’ He unfastened his raincoat to reveal the black serge uniform he wore underneath. ‘Doing security on a building site. Five twelve hour shifts: two weeks on days followed by two weeks on nights and as much overtime as I can get so I can make enough to pay the bills. You might say I’ve got what I deserve. I’m the biggest prat of all when you think about it.’

  The last of the mourners drifted away and soon it was just the two of them left.

  Stepney spoke again. ‘Let me come clean, Charlie. Buttonholing you today wasn’t all social. I’ve come with a message. Denny Wilbur wants a word. I had a phone call from one of his old associates who didn’t want to be seen as a go-between. No, don’t ask me what it’s about because I didn’t inquire. Tommy Dodd’s funeral coming up today was coincidental. I reckoned it was a safe bet you’d be here and I was right.’

  They walked back to the car park together.

  ‘Let’s not leave it so long next time,’ Stepney said as he got into an old Vauxhall Viva with rust spots on the side. ‘The years go by too quickly and none of us are getting any younger.’

  • • •

  Denny Wilbur was a name Charlie Moon would never forget. The brains behind the Wilbur Brothers’ crime syndicate which Moon had a big hand in busting. Denny was sent down for fifteen years as an example to others although, at the time, many thought the sentence handed down by the judge was a bit harsh.

  Two days passed before Moon found the time to pay a visit to Winson Green Prison where Denny was incarcerated. It was a dreary day with the rain coming down in sheets adding a further grim touch to the prison’s forbidding exterior. Once inside he was taken up an echoing stairwell to a room with bare floorboards and whitewashed walls. A table and two chairs had been set up in the centre and another chair by the door. He waited. Presently he heard the sound of heavy boots coming up the stairwell. Two figures walked in: one wearing a prison officer’s uniform, the other a blue boiler suit who, although he no longer sported a suntan and his face was thinner, Moon immediately recognised as the man whose collar he’d felt five years previously.

  ‘Apologies for my appearance,’ Wilbur grinned. ‘You caught me in the middle of the safe-cracking classes I’ve been doing. They call it welding and flame-cutting in here but I’m sure you’ll be pleased to see I’ve been giving a bit of thought to what I’m going to do when I get out.’

  They sat down at the table: Moon one side, Wilbur the other. The prison officer sat on the chair by the door.

  ‘No hard feelings Inspector,’ Wilbur said resting his forearms on the table. ‘I respect you did a good job for the folk of the city when you got me taken out of circulation. Let’s hope one day they’ll step up to the mark and give you the recognition you deserve.’ He turned to the prison officer. ‘Cedric, do me a favour mate and fuck off for ten minutes. There’s something private I need to talk to the Inspector about.’

  The prison officer looked at Moon and Moon nodded. As he went out he closed the door behind him.

  ‘I expect you’re wondering what this is about,’ said Wilbur no longer with the grin on his face. ‘I’d hazard a guess you thought I’d got you here so I could grass somebody up.’

  ‘It did cross my mind.’

  ‘In which case, sorry to disappoint you but, contrary to the view you may have formed of me during the course of our professional acquaintance, I don’t fit the normal criminal profile – know what I mean? There’s an altruistic side to me which surprises a lot of people. Why am I telling you this? When I came in here there was a character doing a life sentence who always walked round with a smile on his face and a Bible in his hand. At first I thought he’d gone stir-crazy. He didn’t mix with anybody or say a lot and some of the callous bastards you get in places like this used to take the piss out of him. Does the name Wilson Beames mean anything to you?’

  ‘Should it?’

  ‘He was what some people would call a white Jamaican: everything about him was black except for the colour of his skin. He confessed to the murder of a girl back in the seventies but he didn’t seem right in the head to me – you know, like he didn’t belong in here. Then, one morning, they found him dead in his cell. He’d hung himself with a length of electrical cable he’d managed to get his hands on. Yes, it caused a bit of a flap at the time. Some of the staff started to get jittery because they could see the finger of blame coming round in their direction.’

  ‘We’re talking about when?’

  ‘Back end of last year. By my reckoning he’d done over twenty years of his sentence.’

  ‘You’re saying somebody should have spotted he was in need of psychiatric care?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘He couldn’t read or write yet they reckoned he’d signed a confession. Besides which he wouldn’t have had the brains to know what he was signing anyway.’

  ‘Are you suggesting he was stitched-up?’

  ‘We all know what went on in the seventies, don’t we Inspector? Some naughty people in your mob occasionally did some naughty things.’

  ‘This was all a long time ago, Denny.’

  ‘So what? While I may not be society’s idea of a model citizen, I do know the difference between right and wrong.’

  ‘Have you spoken to anybody else about this?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘You singled me out? Is there a reason?’

  ‘You come with the reputation of somebody who’s prepared to get off his arse when the issues are important. Inspector, the truth is still out there somewhere. So is a killer.’

  • • •

  ‘Got a minute, Dave?’

  Detective Sergeant Dave Thompson just happened to be standing by the front desk when Moon arrived back at HQ. Together they went through to Moon’s office where, once the door was closed, Moon filled his young colleague in on the conversation he’d just had with Denny Wilbur.

  Thompson shook his head. ‘The seventies, you say. I must have been just out of nappies when all this happened. Did you buy the idea somebody like Denny Wilbur felt moved to bend your ear because his conscience won’t let him sleep at night?’

  ‘I know it stretches belief Dave but, taking Denny Wilbur out of it, I don’t like the feel of this.’

  ‘You’re saying this character doing the life sentence may have been fitted-up for some reason?’

  ‘Stranger things have happened.’

  ‘Mr Willoughby’s not going to like the idea of raking up what went on years ago particularly when he hears everything up to now hangs on the say-so of somebody like Denny Wilbur.’

  Moon looked at him. ‘We’ll keep Mr Willoughby out of it for the time being. We’ll see what this is about first.’

  • • •

  It w
as coincidence that on that same evening Moon had arranged to meet up with Jo Lyon for an after-work drink. The venue they chose was a bar in the city centre which was mainly frequented by people from nearby offices. Moon hadn’t seen much of Jo over the summer so the meeting was a catch-up with what was going on in their respective worlds. Moon’s relationship with Jo had landed him in hot water several times in the past. She earned her living as a freelance journalist and Willoughby had a bee in his bonnet about keeping the press at an arm’s length.

  The rain hadn’t stopped all day and the fading light was a reminder it was only a week to go before the clocks changed. Back to winter, dark nights and coughs and colds, Moon reflected gloomily to himself as he drove along to the accompaniment of Jazz Gillum’s voice and harmonica coming out of the CD player.

  A shared taste in music was what brought Moon and Jo together in the first place although, over the years, their professional lives had touched many times. Jo had made her name as a campaigner on women’s issues and, when Moon sat down next to her in the busy bar, she told him about the series of articles she was writing on the subject of domestic violence.

  ‘It’s difficult to assess,’ she said as she watched Moon pour wine into her glass from the bottle he’d just bought at the bar. ‘Is it more battered wives and girlfriends are coming forward or is something happening in society which nobody has twigged?’

  ‘I’d put my money on the first,’ Moon replied. ‘In days gone by some poor woman who got knocked around every Saturday night when her husband rolled in drunk from the pub kept her mouth shut. Today it’s different. Women are more inclined to speak out – which has to be a good thing.’

  ‘So,’ said Jo changing the subject. ‘How’s the fight against crime going. Are you and your pals making it any safer for us decent ordinary citizens to go out on the streets after dark?’

  ‘Ask the muggers,’ said Moon. ‘We’re too busy sitting at our desks inventing facts so people at the top can tell everybody we’re meeting our targets.’