Missing Pieces. K L Harrison
Ferguson over.
“Right Ferguson, what have you got for me? And I want the Len Deighton version not the John Le Carré one.”
As usual, Ferguson did not have a clue who either Len Deighton or John Le Carré was. For such an intelligent man he was amazingly ignorant, thought Spence. But Spence also knew that within fifteen minutes he would know everything there was to know about this case thus far.
“For a start Spence, Roger Davidson suffered more injuries than we first thought. Looks like this blow was handed out after his throat had been slit.”
Nigel Ferguson was looking uncomfortable and Spence could not help himself.
“Genitals?” asked Spence.
“Our murderer had given them a good blow. Josie thinks it was a solid kick but he wouldn’t have known anything about it.”
Spence went quiet and stared at the floor. His case had suddenly become even more interesting.
“And Josie found rohypnol in his bloodstream.”
“Ah, the date-rape drug. So Davidson lets someone or someones into his home. They have a drink. He’s drugged, and once he’s out, his throat is slashed and after that he’s given a solid kick in the balls. And the place is left spotless and untouched. This is a fascinating one Ferguson. We’re going to enjoy this case.”
Ferguson always felt uncomfortable when Spence spoke like this; he felt even more uncomfortable when he realised he was feeling exactly the same.
“Oh, there’s something else Spence. Roger Davidson had welts across his backside. Looks like he had been given an old-style school caning.”
Now Spence ‘was’ intrigued. “Last night?”
“No. Josie said the marks were several days old, maybe even a week.”
“Curiouser and curiouser.”
Spence did not bother to make any reference to Lewis Carroll.
“So, what do you think Ferguson? Our victim liked a bit of B and D?”
“Could be Spence.”
Spence was impressed. Ferguson actually seemed to know what B and D was. At that point, he saw Joanna Grant walk past his door. “WPC Grant, can you come here please? DS Ferguson informs me that you have some top secret information to tell me that is going to have the entire case solved in less than ten hours.”
“Well sir, I don’t know –“
“WPC Grant! Close the door, phones off, can’t be too careful.”
She dutifully closed the door; Spence was enjoying himself.
“So Constable, let’s have it.”
“Just after you left sir, I asked Mrs Davidson if she would like a glass of water, she was still very upset. She was sobbing quietly and nodded. When I returned, I stood at the door. She was totally composed and was talking on her phone as if nothing had happened. When she noticed me, she suddenly returned to sobbing and said she had been talking to her mother about what had happened.”
“But her –“
“But her mother is seriously ill in hospital.”
“Interesting Constable. And your conclusion?”
“Perhaps she was putting on that she was so upset.”
“And the phone call? Ferguson, I think we need to return to the scene of the crime as soon as possible. We need to go through Roger Davidson’s home, organise the paper work. I want it done immediately. Constable, would you like to rummage through a dead man’s possessions?”
Joanna Grant was lost for words.
“Of course you would. Okay Ferguson, 4.30 at the Davidson home. You’ll need a couple of extra uniform. See if you can get hold of Felicity Davidson’s phone. We can always return it later. Apologise. Say it got caught up with other stuff. I want to know who she was speaking to. Anything on Roger Davidson’s finances?”
“Not yet Spence. I’ve got Traynor checking bank accounts, pension plans, property and the like. We’ll have it all by the end of the day.”
“Good. A Deputy Headmaster earns about forty five grand. His wife would be on somewhat less. They presumably have a bloody great mortgage. I am still mystified how they are able to live as they do. No doubt all will be revealed soon. Get Traynor to check for any private accounts Felcity Davidson might have.”
“Already on to it Spence.”
“Of course you are Ferguson,” thought Spence to himself. He really did have to admit that there were considerable advantages having Ferguson on the team.
“Tomorrow morning, let’s say 8.30, I want you, Traynor and WPC Grant at Woodlands. We get to work quizzing the staff. I’ll give Bob Hamsby a ring to have things organised. We interview everyone. Keep it general. I doubt a staff member is behind this but we might pick up a few useful scraps. Civvies WPC Grant, but modest ones. We’re going back to school!”
As Ferguson and Joanna Grant were leaving, Spence’s phone rang.
“Spence!”
Spence was smiling broadly. “I see. So he had got the days mixed up. And it wasn’t his fault after all. And where are you now? At Joel’s place. Dare I ask which room?”
Spence quickly took his phone away from his ear. His daughter’s reaction to his last comment was as predictable as he expected. He walked over to his computer and started googling Woodlands Academy. He laughed as he read that “Mr Robert Hamsby is one of the West Country’s leading educational practitioners.” Spence had no doubts about his friend’s ability, but he wanted to know where was the reference to the man’s drinking skills?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Late July
The tourists only ever see a small part of Oxford. They come for the ghost tours through Jericho, to drink in Morse’s favourite bar, to imagine Harry Potter and his friends in Hogwart’s Hall, or to be photographed under Hertford Bridge. They do not venture out to places like Blackbird Leys. The town and gown divide of the city remains as strong as it ever was.
Constable Gary Wicks was a Blackbird Leys boy and proud of it. He was never happy if his work took him anywhere near the gleaming spires; Cowley Road or the Kassam Stadium, the home of his beloved Oxford United, were where he felt at home. And today his work was going to take a football direction.
Wicks and his partner, Constable Jenny Atherton, were heading south along Banbury Road from police headquarters in Kidlington on a routine patrol. Jenny Atherton slowed down as they passed through Summertown; there had been reports of drug dealers in the area. As they approached the South Parade intersection, Wicks’ radio burst into life.
“Body found in Botley Park close to the West Oxford Community Centre. Can you deal Gary?”
“On our way Sharon. Let’s go Jen.”
Jenny Atherton became energised. She was recognised as one of the force’s best drivers. With the blue light flashing and the siren blaring, the police Astra ate up Banbury Road and was soon at St Giles, turned into Beaumont Street past the Ashmoleon and onto Walton Street. Within minutes they were heading west along Botley Road.
Jenny Atherton expertly pulled up onto the pavement opposite the Twenty Pound Meadow allotments. By now there were two other squad cars there. A small crowd had gathered not far from the West Oxford Bowls Club. Wicks and his colleagues pulled them back, started taping off the area and waited for CID officers to arrive.
Gary Wicks walked over to the body. He looked down.
“Shit! That’s Alan Ramsay.”
“You know him Gary? Is he a friend of yours?” asked Jenny Atherton.
“Not