“Friday Fiction” Series: Mrs. Blake, Chapter Two…
Mrs. Blake
Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore
Chapter Two
Although the DCI was at their briefing, he let DI Clarke handle it. He only asked a few questions as she handed out assignments to her group of assorted constables and one sergeant. They made him look good, so why interfere?
Clarke had turned out to be his best DI out of three. All did their jobs well, but maybe too by-the-book. Like the DCI, Clarke could be creative and intuitive in an investigation. DS Blake had been a good hire too; he could work wonders in an investigation as well and had done so since his arrival in Riversford. The DCI didn’t buy into the theory that it all those came from his experience in London. He was just a good copper, a natural. The DCI knew Clarke was worried that he might get promoted. She would lose him then, and so would Riversford—there was no other DI position open at the substation.
“And you’re all thinking, what’s this DI going to do?” Clarke said to finish her organizational brief. She held up a small plastic disk. “Gambling chip. After the post mortem, I’m going to try to find out where it came from. Our victim had it clenched in one hand.”
“Think it’s a message?” said Blake.
“Or rigor mortis,” said a constable, getting a few laughs as well as a glare from the DCI.
“I will find out. Hopefully it tells us who the victim is and where she came from. Okay, let’s get going. This girl has a name and a family somewhere, and we all need to resolve this murder case by finding her killer. We owe every victim that much.”
***
Clarke left the Riversford substation deep in thought. The post mortem’s results had been troubling. There had been a small injection site in the victim’s armpit and traces of toxin in her body. She’d been poisoned. They still had no name for the victim. Every murder victim for her needed help from the police because they had no way to bring their assassins to justice. It was up to coppers like Clarke. She was lucky her DS was motivated in the same way.
She drove to a nearby park, ducked out of her Morris, and soon spotted the dapper old man who was sat on a bench, feeding a few squirrels he rewarded for braving the cold. He placed the package of seeds next to him and pulled his watch fob from his vest pocket to check the time as if he were a conductor on a train. He then smiled at her.
“You’re a bit early, my dear. And how are you today?” His eyes twinkled behind the John Lennon glasses. After she took her seat, his hand wandered to pat her thigh. “I hear you now are in a relationship with a barrister. How’s that going for you?”
Ben Weyland had been her Italian tutor at an Oxford college. He called it “community gossip,” but he often knew what was going on in the Thames River Valley’ nightlife far better than any copper or reporter. As such, he was a valuable information source when he had the time to meet with her.
“I’ve only had dinner with him once, and how did you find out about that? The gossips at the station haven’t even caught on yet.”
“I chat with people and I go places. Dante by day in my college, our college; in his inferno by night, as it were—no matter where hell might be found. Keeps me young.”
“And lascivious.” She handed him the gambling chip. “Any comments?”
“Now there’s a subject that requires more academic study. We could title the study ‘Illegal Gambling in the Thames River Valley.’ But I only participate in such illicit activities for the mental stimulation, you know.”
“And the skimpily dressed women serving the drinks?”
He made a slight bow with his head, an acknowledgement of a well-done parry, or a slight admission of guilt? “Fringe benefits some enjoy, I’m sure. In my case, only as an admirer of the ‘divine feminine.’”
“That sounds like The Da Vinci Code.”
“So much more, my dear, if you can remember back to your Oxford days. And perhaps Mr. Brown stole that phrase from the various movements who used that terminology, much more secular and less violent than he portrayed, to put a fine point on it.”
“In any case, are any of these gambling sites near where we recently found a murdered woman?” She gave him the names of the street fronting the alleyway and the two side streets.
He thought a moment. “There are five at my last reckoning. I don’t particularly care for them, truth be told. All seedy establishments. They favor poker, there’s no roulette, and the blackjack dealers aren’t that well endowed. The waitresses are young and lithesome, though.”
She showed him the victim’s picture taken by Doc Olbers’s aide. “Have you seen this one?”
“Yes. I can’t say in which of the five establishments, if any. She might be an itinerant, moving to the gaming salon where she’s needed on any particular night there’s gambling going on. These women aren’t necessarily permanent employees either.”
“No name for me?”
“Sorry, not for your young victim, but I can provide a list of the five establishments’ locations when I last visited. Again, not always open for business, and often moving around as well, but in the same general area.”
Clarke rummaged around in her purse again and produced pen and paper. When he handed the list to her, she studied it.
“No names for them either?”
“Those are the names of the sleazy function halls, my dear, which anyone can rent in theory. They provide chairs, tables, and a bar area so that organizers only have to supply the gambling equipment.”
“I see. Not a surprise, I suppose.” She looked at her watch. “I’d better get back. Thanks for this.” She waved the pad.
“I think I’ll stay here a bit longer. I do enjoy the fresh air.” Again the hand rested on her thigh. “You can’t go wrong with George Benford, by the way. He’s an unusual fellow and has a sense of humor. And also honor. He actually cares about his clients.”
***
The DCI approved Blake’s plan when Clarke seconded it. The five illegal gambling sites were raided at half-past midnight, and organizers, their employees, and participants were all locked up to be interrogated, filling all the holding cells at the substation. Most of the clients and minor employees were soon sent home with only stiff fines. Three of the organizers found their stay at the station prolonged.
After a more thorough grilling and in spite of sycophantic legal representation from barristers obviously familiar with their illegal operations, the three admitted to knowing the victim but only one could remember her name.
Clarke left all three in jail just for the hell of it, deciding to max out how long they could hold them without making a formal arrest. All her team met in the wee hours of the morning, minus the DCI.
“After a long night,” she said, “we have a lead. Our actions have led to some success in the sense that we closed down five illegal gambling operations, and we now have the name of the victim. We still have to find out what Jennifer Adams’s background is, and why she was killed.”
“Probably one of those three in the cells killed her,” said a constable. “They all look like scrotes to me.”
“And you look like one too,” she said, getting a laugh. They all looked worse for wear.
“It could be someone among the clients and other employees of the five establishments,” Blake said. “That’s a tougher problem.”
“We have their names and contact info,” said Clarke. “We can get back to them. I’d say most of the clients are rightly embarrassed about their gambling habit, as well as being found doing it illegally, and would prefer that their husbands or wives remain in the dark. That’s leverage we can use later, if needs must.” She looked around the group. “Let’s call it a night, rather morning. Go home, have a bit of a lie-in, and be back here at ten a.m.”
Blake didn’t need more encouragement. He hopped into his old Morris and headed for his flat. Sally had taken his space, so he parked on the curve at the entrance way to his complex. As he walked towards the flat, he thought about how busy he had been since his arrival in Riversford to start his new posting. Not much peace and quiet…and frankly too much like London.
He felt integrated into Clarke’s team, though, and one great benefit was his blossoming relationship with the SOCO, Sally Gualchmai. But perhaps the Thames River Valley was just too close to London?
It’s good to come home to someone, though, he thought as he crawled into bed naked beside his equally naked girlfriend. Their thermostat was acting up, so snuggling was required. He’d have to ask the realty agent who to call for repair, but, with Sally there, he didn’t mind, even though he knew there would be no wild sex that night. Or morning, for that matter. And she’d probably be gone to her own job before he was up and about.
***
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