The Maggie Murders (20 page)

In a few years it would be their
Ruby Wedding and he wasn’t going to let down the beating heart at the centre of
his life by mucking it up now.

He paid no heed to the light rain
beginning to fall as he sat on a bench, dedicated to a Frederick Arthur Higgins
who had managed an impressive innings (from 1895 – 1979) and looked out at the
near empty beach. The grey skies and restless sea made it feel a world away
from the picture postcards of Exmouth displayed on the gift shops’ card
carousels, which now seemed perilously close to toppling over with every fresh
gust of wind.

The sand banks in the estuary
were becoming increasingly exposed as Hawkins sat down beside him, sans ice
cream, but with two polystyrene cups of coffee from the nearby cafe. He was
also pleased to note she’d bought him a chocolate.

‘Dent wants me to charge Connie
Baker with her husband’s murder.‘

‘And is Dent now running our
case, sir?’ asked Jane as she handed him the coffee and chocolate.

‘No, but he wants to make Chief
Constable. A result in this case would help him no end. Thank you,’ he said
waving the confectionery in acknowledgement.

The seagulls which had lost the
battle over the burger flew away, something about the manner in which Spilsbury
set about the chocolate suggested that there would be no spoils left over from
the shiny wrapper’s contents.

Jane’s mind was reeling as she
tried to come to terms with this unexpected development. If Spilsbury had
called this meeting to tell her the case was going nowhere she would have been
less surprised. She’d never been one for office politics and had naively
assumed policing was above that type of thing. Trying to make sense of the
shifting sands in her mind, she asked the first question which made any sense
to her.

 ‘What about the link with the
Kellow case?’

‘Dent thinks it’s a coincidence.’

‘Two suspicious deaths by fire,
which just happened to occur in the same town, on the eve of successive General
Election victories for Maggie?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘But unlikely.’

‘Maybe she killed Kellow in ’83
as a dry run for bumping off her husband this year?’

‘Do we have anything to link her
to Kellow’s murder?’

‘No. We can dig around, but
unless she confesses to it we’re just going to have to go along with charging
her with her husband’s murder.’

 Jane blew on her coffee and drew
herself in to fend off the increasing speed and weight of the droplets now
falling.

‘What about the calls saying it
was political?’

Even Jane knew that this was a
forlorn hope – a dozen or so calls from telephone kiosks had ranged from the
‘Maggie! Maggie! Maggie! Out! Out! Out!’ style rants to fragments of incoherent
political manifestos about Zionist cabals being at the heart of government.
Some of the more colourful calls had been clearly influenced by the Book of
Revelations and had been traced to an alcoholic, former RE teacher who was let
off with a warning for wasting police time.

‘Cranks or students.’

Jane’s gaze rested on a distant
sailing boat, struggling to make headway against the prevailing wind.

‘Do you think she did it?’

This was Spilsbury’s sixty-four
thousand dollar question to her.

She had the grace to at least
give it some serious consideration, before answering ‘No.’

‘Circumstances suggest otherwise.
She was playing away from home and had the expense and stress of trying to care
for her husband.’

‘Cheating on your husband, even
if he is disabled is not a crime, sir.’

‘She has no alibi for the night
in question.’

‘We can’t place her at the scene
either.’

‘There’s the taxi driver.’

There was a pause as they both
digested what had been said. After Nigel Byrne’s interview Jane had dismissed
his evidence as that of a lying toe rag who was just hoping to cop a lighter
sentence for the charges he was facing. Spilsbury had agreed with her at the
time.

‘Is this all down to Dent, Sir?’
Jane could not believe her boss was choosing to take this line.

‘Byrne’s statement places Connie
Baker at, or around the scene at the time of the murder,‘ came Spilsbury’s flat
reply.

‘Or are you angry at Connie for
sleeping around? I thought you were better than that!’

 ‘The jury will find her innocent
if he is lying,’ retorted Spilsbury in a less than convincing tone.

‘Or they’ll send her down for
life, because like you they think she’s a lying whore who didn’t deserve to
have a husband like that!’

Spilsbury watched Jane’s back as
she stormed off down the deserted sea-front with the rain now falling heavily
around them.

 She was right, but she had
another twenty or more years left on the force and a life time ahead of her. As
much as he admired her, she was a woman he could bear to let down. He no more
believed the cabbie than she did, but he had found the circumstantial evidence
against Connie both credible and compelling.

Also there was the lifestyle she
and her husband had shared; it revolted him, whereas he had a woman at home who
had supported him for nearly his whole adult life and so he wasn’t going to let
one mistake at the end of a long career ruin their remaining time together. If
Dent wanted a trial he would get one – let the jurors decide on whether they
found Connie Baker guilty or innocent.

He was going to charge her with
murder.

Part 3

1989

‘How many miles is it to Babylon?’

Traditional nursery rhyme.

The criticisms which had
threatened to spell an early end to Mrs Thatcher’s premiership at the beginning
of the decade returned to bite her at the end of it. Ever since the Falklands
she had seemed impervious to criticism and all external threats to her power
had been swept aside, as she became the longest serving Prime Minister of the
Twentieth Century.  Ronald Reagan, her great friend and ally in the cause of
championing the Free Market and standing up to the Soviet Union, had been
limited to two terms in office by the terms of the American Constitution, but
no such statutes limited British leaders. It seemed that she would go on
forever.

Yet the world was changing, even
Exmouth with its satellite dishes and fax machines was beginning to feel more
connected to events in the wider world. As the world approached the Millennium,
a growing feeling that this was the end of the old ways, if not the End of Days,
descended. A world polarised by left versus right; Capitalism versus Communism
and East versus West was coming to an end. The Eighties would end with a bang
and not a whimper.

In that fateful autumn of 1989,
events in Eastern Europe had reached a crisis point with thousands of refugees
trying to flee the repressive regimes of the Soviet Bloc in a bid to escape to
the land of wealth and capital beamed to them on their satellite dishes. If a
few hundred people storming the Winter Palace in St Petersburg in 1917 had
become the image which defined the beginning of Communism in Europe, so the
hundreds who surged across the Berlin Wall in November 1989 defined its end.
Whatever was the cause of the muddled orders given in East Berlin that night,
they couldn’t be undone.  East Germany’s dictatorial leadership received no
support when it turned to Moscow and by that time the Berlin Wall had already
fallen. Already pieces of it were being sold as souvenirs; the Free Market had
come to East Berlin.

In London, Mrs Thatcher faced
rebellion not from without, but from within. Members of her party had grown
tired of her leadership style, which some felt to be belittling, bullying or
both. Whilst the Prime Minister was gaining plaudits for the pressure she had
placed on Mr Gorbachev to end autocratic governments in the Eastern Bloc, there
were those at home who had grown tired of her own dictatorial style.

Whispers and plots in the
corridors of power were whispers and plots no more. Open rebellion came in the
form of a leadership challenge. No-one who stood a credible chance of winning
the contest had dared to make a move. Yet a stalking horse had been found in
the guise of the back-bencher Sir Anthony Meyer.  Having commanded a tank after
the Normandy Landings, this Old Etonian and pro-European was one of the few people
with the audacity to stand up to the Iron Lady.

 In football terms it was like
Liverpool versus Exmouth Town, with Mrs Thatcher standing for the Merseyside
team who would go on to win an astonishing eighteenth League title as the
eighties came to an end. Not that many people would associate Mrs T with the
decade’s most successful football team given that they played in Socialist red
and that the Prime Minister’s popularity in that northern fastness was
somewhere on the scale between that of their arch rivals in the neighbouring
metropolis of Manchester and Adolf Hitler. Given that Maggie had considered
arming the Merseyside police during the Toxteth riots of ’81, it was reasonable
to assume the antipathy was mutual.

 Sir Anthony was the equivalent
of Exmouth’s non-league team who played in front of a few dozen spectators on a
ground open on four sides and with only a tiny breeze block stand for those who
didn’t want to stand in the rain. Even Liverpool reserves would have been able
to thrash the amateurs of Exmouth Town within an inch of their lives.

Yet the fact that Sir Anthony had
even dared to stand against Mrs Thatcher was a sign of things to come.

****

H is for Hat-trick.

I can’t believe they’re
actually going to hold an election for the leadership of her Party. A hat-trick
of election triumphs and they want to throw it all away by replacing the
country’s only true visionary with another grey suited non-entity!

They used to reward success in
this country, not resent it. When a Victorian cricketer took three wickets in
consecutive balls then they’d buy him a hat to commemorate such an outstanding
achievement. Well Maggie’s the first prime minister to win three consecutive
elections since the reign of Queen Victoria’s uncle and yet it’s still not good
enough for some of the Wets in her party.

Well, she will win again, just
like I will win again.

She will crush those who are
weak and unworthy of her vision. They would have been nothing without her.
She’s had the courage to pick this country up by its bootstraps and all they do
is betray their saviour. We’d have been led by some puppet of Moscow, ransomed
by the Unions or in hock to Europe if it hadn’t been for Maggie.

Conversely, the timing is
good. It brings forward my timescale and that is an advantage. Having to wait
for another two, or three years to complete my own hat-trick would have been
bearable, yet this gives me the opportunity to cash in early.

I think Maggie would approve;
she has always been good at seizing the moment and making the most of her
opportunities. Like her I’ve learnt to be flexible and to amend my planning
according to circumstances.

The very fact that I’ve been
able to camouflage the original plan under the triumph of her successes has
been an unintended dividend. I’d only decided to use the ‘83 election to divert
media coverage of the murder. Any other time and it would have been front page
news in Exmouth and the lead story on Spotlight. When it became apparent she
would keep on winning it became a very useful smokescreen. Initially, I had
never intended for the link to be the Maggie Murders, but the fortuitous way in
which the newspapers attributed this title to me proved to be no bad thing, as
it helped to muddy the waters further.

I’d waited patiently for the
next election, knowing she might need the full five years. I still had the
success of the butcher’s death to replay in my head and I knew it would make me
careless if I became too reckless. If you’re going to make a killing these
days, you have to invest time and energy into making sure you know the market.
There are a lot of benefits to playing a long game; pleasure delayed can be as
gratifying as pleasure gained. Like my share portfolios, a lot of the
excitement was generated in anticipating both the potential profits and the
attendant risks. But the greater the risk, the higher the profit; Gilts not
guilt has become my mantra for living!

When she called the next one a
year early in ‘87 I felt elated. My pent up feelings were ready to be released
and I still had a month to fine tune the second death. Like sex the second time
is always better. You’re more prepared, know what to expect and are ready to
ride that frisson of pleasure and danger as you gain more experience of
enjoying the moment.

With the sergeant’s death I
had originally intended to signal my intentions to the world. Yet the press
decided to run with the Maggie Murders angle and I was content to let them. The
fact that the grieving widow was arrested was an unexpected dividend; I’d only
intended to plant the finger of suspicion on her.

Well this leadership election
should help to clear things up for the media. Sir Anthony is not going to be
the only one feeling very foolish in the morning. And as for me, I think I know
the very hat to choose as my reward for such a satisfying feat of ingenuity.

****

The Crescent in St. Leonard’s
certainly lived up to its reputation as one of Exeter’s most prestigious
addresses. As Jane Hawkins’ car swept down the drive, she regarded the white
fronted Georgian houses with a mixture of envy and indifference. These were
properties she’d never afford, even if she made Chief Super.  She could
envision her family clustered around a Christmas tree behind the large windows
on the first floor of one of these villas, yet at the same time she had a
feeling that this was just a dream they were being sold. After all, hadn’t Jane
Austen hated the Georgian splendour of Bath? Tim and the children were all
perfectly happy in the three bedroom new build they’d bought in Alphington last
year. Best not to let the advertisers tell you what you wanted.

When Jane had heard about the
fire in Exeter, she’d been half expecting it. True, it hadn’t been a General
Election; however another election contested by Thatcher had immediately seemed
ominous. Even so it still had taken a mammoth effort on her behalf to get the
powers that be to send her along as part of the initial investigation.

 When the investigation into
Calum Baker’s death had been scaled down, she’d been transferred to domestic
violence. It had felt like it was meant to feel; a demotion. After nearly a
decade as a sergeant, she still hadn’t made it to the rank of Detective Inspector
- so much for greater opportunities for women in the service. She’d put it down
to her failure to help crack the case, even though she hadn’t led either
investigation she at least felt guilty by association. In her heart of hearts,
she also knew her third maternity leave hadn’t helped her progress to the level
of D.I.

Max’s arrival had been quite a
surprise to her. At nearly 40, she hadn’t been planning on adding to her
children, both of whom would soon be ready to fly the nest. Tim had been
delighted, he’d begun to make reluctant noises about looking for a job now that
the children were nearly grown up, yet Max’s unplanned entrance into their
lives had given him the chance to showcase the superb parenting skills he’d
left a dead end job to acquire. As part of a sales force Tim had been at best
nondescript, as a house husband he’d been Superman.  Now he had another Tim
junior to try and convert into a love of heavy metal and Test Cricket, given
that Leo’s desire to emulate Slash had been another passing fad and her older
son’s tastes had taken a surprising turn to the dance music mania now sweeping
Britain. At least Leo was more sensible than Jen though; finding a stash of
cannabis in her daughter’s bedroom had not led to one of her finer moments of motherhood.

 Her maternity leave had at least
made it easier for her to repair some of the breaches in her relationship with
Jen and the pregnancy had brought them closer, though she hoped it wasn’t
giving her eldest any ideas. Jane had been pleased by the pregnancy, though
worried at first over the age thing – not helped by her sister-in-law Fiona who
thought any woman over 30 who had a child was just asking to die in the throes
of labour… In the end it had seemed even easier than when she had had Leo and the
break had come at the right time for her.  A few years back she would have
killed to make D.I. and lead her own team, but now domestic bliss seemed much
preferable to the stresses and strains of command. The late nights and
anti-social hours no longer seemed to be worth the few extra grand a year she’d
be paid for them. Now she was happier to clock off on time and share her time
with Max and Tim. And quite possibly Jen and Leo if they were ever content to
share an evening with the old ‘uns…

She knew Spilsbury had opted for
early retirement and imagined him sunning himself on the Costa Brava. He was
probably only a few sun loungers away from some of the old lags he’d helped to
send down in Essex. Perhaps they were reminiscing together over a few beers for
old times’ sake? She’d grown to tolerate him, but he’d clearly been winding
down throughout the 12 months they’d spent on the Baker case and now only a D.S
and a couple of D.Cs kept the files open.

Spilsbury had fancied the wife
for it, but they’d never been able to prove it. It seemed to her that it was
Connie’s lifestyle he had wanted to punish, or had he been jealous of it? Jane
banished the thought.  Unlike quite a few in the force Spilsbury’s marriage had
worked out well. She and Tim had even been invited to his Ruby Wedding; however
after their falling out over whether to charge Connie for Baker’s murder she
had lost the warmer feelings she’d begun to generate towards him and had
refused to attend. She’d heard a rumour that Spilsbury had come down with something
nasty shortly after leaving the force, but had dismissed it as canteen gossip.
Some of them had never taken to his London ways.

 As for her, the arrival of baby
Max had given them a second wind, not that they’d really needed one. They were
financially secure, having sold their old house for nearly three times what
they had paid for it and had been able to move into an even bigger place into
the bargain.

It was Sobers she pitied. They’d
set him up and watched him fail. Derek had often said that no-one noticed if a
white man failed in England, because they did it all the time, but let a Black,
Asian or Female have anything less than a perfect record and they’d be thrown
to the wolves.

Perhaps Maggie was right after
all? When the men in her government had sensed weakness, they’d tried to bring
her down; she’d led them for ten years and they’d plotted against her. Though
Tim had said the only reason she was successful, was because she had more balls
than her entire cabinet put together. In his view, she might be known as the
Iron lady, yet she got away with it because she acted like a man of steel.

She reflected that she’d never
really seen her husband angry, until lately. A few years ago his jokes about
Thatcher would have been just that.  Normally so good at keeping home and
seeing to the kids, he’d got politicised of late: berating Tory MPs when
watching ‘Question Time’, delivering leaflets for C.N.D. and organising coffee
mornings in aid of the Sandinistas. She was just grateful Greenham Common was women
only; otherwise she’d probably have found him running the coffee stall there,
whilst Jen and Leo distributed copies of Socialist Worker…