‘Bollocks,’ Stafford returned shortly. ‘In my day all police officers had big manly feet. Sign of a good cop. Tell me about Carl Wood.’
He turned a page or two. ‘Professor Carl Wood, recently retired senior lecturer in history. A wife, one grown kid, a number of published works — books, journals, that kind of thing. He specialises in military history, and in particular is an expert on the English Civil War. The lecture he’s giving today at the Birmingham Apollo is called, Cromwelclass="underline" Hero or Villain? Right up your street, sir,’ he said. ‘He’s been invited to the conference by the National Civil War Society. They’re the ones hosting it.’
‘People pay to go to these things?’ said Stafford incredulously. ‘Must be as dry as a nun’s crotch.’
Styles frowned at his bluntness. ‘History is big business,’ said Styles. ‘Other than that there’s not much more to say about Carl Wood. Roundabout coming up, sir.’
‘Jesus, Nobby, cut the river of instructions will you? You sound like my wife. I can see the blasted roundabout.’ He stopped at the roundabout, foot tapping the accelerator. ‘So what have you got for me on The Body in the Barn case?’
Styles flipped more paper, one eye on the cars careering round the roundabout as Stafford waited impatiently for a suitable — or not so suitable, if he knew Stafford — gap in the flow of traffic. ‘DCI Thomas Rayne, good cop, successful career with a number of high-profile cases under his belt. Appears he was taken out with a shotgun by one of his own narks, a small-time crook called Bobby Garrick, and this finished his career. Garrick copped it eight months later in prison with a knife in the gut during an altercation with a fellow inmate. The Body in the Barn case was never resolved, according to the book. Anyhow, I searched police records and to be honest there’s not a lot of information on it. Seems details of the case were lost in a fire during the Blitz in 1940. The case did make it onto radio though. I found mention of it in old microfiche records, in a copy of the Radio Times from the 1930s. It was the last episode in a series broadcast by the BBC called, The Casebook of Inspector Rayne of the Yard. I tried to find out if any old recordings survive but drew a blank. They simply destroyed them after they’d finished with them, not like they do nowadays. Did you know they wiped a Michael Parkinson interview with John Lennon?’ He tut-tutted and shook his head.
‘Never liked Lennon; too clever for his own good. I’m more a Harrison man myself. Anyhow, forget Lennon. What else?’
‘The author of our book, True Crimes, Mr Justin Symons, acknowledges in the preface how fortunate he was to get a frank and detailed interview with Rayne, so as far as we can tell the details of the murder came straight from the horse’s mouth. But I decided to do some further digging and found out that publication of this book was stopped and any distributed copies recalled. A few obviously managed to slip through the net, like ours, but they must be as rare as hen’s teeth.’
‘Are you saying the book was banned?’
‘Effectively, yes.’
‘By whom?’
‘It’s impossible to say. But you’d have to think that it most likely contained something that someone didn’t want broadcasting.’
‘Or the book was simply crap and sales were bad.’
Styles shrugged. ‘I also checked up on the author.’
‘And?’
‘Justin Symons was found dead at his home six months later, hanging by a necktie from the banister. The coroner’s verdict was suicide. Now you could put it down to depression brought on by a creative temperament, but it all starts to look a little suspicious, don’t you think?’
Stafford smiled. ‘Now this is where you’ve got to be careful, Nobby,’ he said. See, it’s like Tutankhamun’s curse…’
‘Not following you, sir.’
‘Death followed death followed death, all put down to a curse on those who defiled Tutankhamun’s tomb in the Valley of Kings. But in reality there was no curse, that bit was made up; and each death was made to fit something that never existed in the first place. People see what they want to see, Nobby, remember that.’
Styles shrugged. ‘I also checked to see if Thomas Rayne had any living relatives. Turns out he has one, his grandson Charles, who lives in Derbyshire. Might be able to help us shed more light on his grandfather and the case.’
‘Not bad, Nobby,’ he said. ‘Not bad for a pup.’
Styles closed his notebook and sat back in his seat with a sigh. ‘Pedestrian crossing, sir,’ he said sharply.
‘Damn you, Nobby, stop that!’ Stafford snarled.
They pulled into the car park of the conference centre, the security guard at the barriers refusing to let them through without a valid pass. Stafford flashed his ID. ‘All this fucking security for a history conference,’ he moaned, finding a spot to park the car. Rather badly, thought Styles. Stafford looked over to the large modern building, reminding him of some kind of technical college from the ‘Sixties. A crowd of people were spilling out of the twin set of revolving doors. He looked down at his watch. 4.15pm.
As they marched across the tarmac he noticed how serious some of the faces were, and tiny knots of people had gathered in quiet conversation. Usually there was a bit more of a buzz at the end of a conference, if only to get out of the place, thought Stafford, but that’s history for you…
He heard a siren in the distance, turned and saw the blue flashing lights of an ambulance streaking through the barriers and headed for the conference building.
Stafford grabbed someone by the arm. ‘What’s going on?’
The man, his conference badge still attached to his jacket, a delegate pack clutched in his hand, said, ‘It’s Professor Wood.’ He saw Stafford’s blank expression. ‘Haven’t you heard? There’s been a terrible thing happened. Professor Wood collapsed in the gent’s toilets — they say he’s had a heart attack. He was right as rain when he was up there on stage giving his lecture.’ He threw his hands up in despair. ‘One minute he was fine, the next…’
‘Where is he?’ Stafford asked. The man pointed, gave hurried directions, and the two officers drove through the revolving doors with the ambulance crew hot on their heels.
They pushed through a crowd of people gathered in the corridor that led to the toilets, holding out their ID to a security guard who stood over the body of a man lying face down on the tiles by the urinals. His eyes were open, his mouth agape. A medic bent down to the stricken man. He checked for a pulse and then looked up at Stafford and Styles, shaking his head.
‘Too late,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid he’s dead.’
Styles searched the dead man’s jacket and unpinned a name badge with a photo on it. ‘Carl Wood,’ he said, holding up the badge. He rose to his feet and stood by Stafford’s side. ‘I reckon it’s Tutankhamun’s curse, don’t you, sir?’
Stafford gave a grimace.
28
It was late when he picked up the Land Rover from the station car park back in Cardiff. He drove off into the growing night with his mind on overdrive, churning over his meeting with Lambert-Chide, feeling he’d come away with a raft of unanswered questions. That there was an ulterior motive behind the tycoon’s invitation was without doubt, but as to what the motive was remained unclear. He did appear inordinately intrigued by Erica, beyond that of a man robbed of personal possessions by a thief. He hardly disguised the fact that his interest in her eclipsed that of the soon to be returned brooch. Then the unnerving appearance of the so-called Canadian reporter, the same man that turned up at the hospital looking for Erica. A coincidence? That one was too hard to swallow.
Tiredness began to strip Gareth Davies’ body of energy, though his mind still raced. What on earth was his next move to be in trying to locate a sister, a woman who, save for a brief incursion into his life, disappeared and looked as if she didn’t want to be found again? Why? What was all this about? Didn’t she know how much that hurt him, how painfully cruel that was?