Chapter 2

I was up with the lark on Monday morning, and dressed in my leather jeans, high boots, wool-knit sweater, and leather jacket. Today, I was Polly, the hard-nosed PI. I started with the car showroom in Arcadia Road, getting there as a young lad was washing the weekend grime off the cars on the lot.

I was able to sit down with the manager and talk about Bernard. He was, so I was told, a good worker and a good salesman, letting his knowledge do the selling without any overbearing tactics. He was the one salesman who would have the repeat business and there would be a lot of customers who wouldn’t be happy that he wasn’t around. He had a knack of finding out what a customer really wanted and was often able to source something through the trade that fitted the bill.

I could see where he found some of those customers who would pay for a restored vehicle. It was also evident that no-one here knew about his side-hustle. I asked if he was particularly friendly with anyone in the business and was told to go and speak to Jeff, the spare parts manager. Jeff was reticent, at first, but opened up when I let on that I knew about Bernice. He then led me outside, where we couldn’t be overheard, and laid it out for me, and my recorder.

He, and Bernice had been having regular sex for some years, and had been with her on the night of her death. He hadn’t been asked anything, by the police, but had been fearful about getting arrested. He told me that they had been together, for sex, early Saturday evening, but Bernice had rushed off, just after seven, after getting a phone call that obviously excited her. I got him to spit into a sample container and he wrote his name on the label. I assured him that his truthfulness was in his favour and that the police may talk to him later in the week.

I then went off to keep my appointment with CI Dawlish. He was an impressive man, chunky and hard but with a soft touch. He took my hand and smiled.

“I am so happy to meet you, Polly. I was seconded to Derby when you had your unfortunate meeting with a crazy woman and a box cutter. Your supervisors were sorry to see you leave the force, they had you pencilled in for a fast-track movement to Inspector and above. I’m glad that you’ve managed to overcome the setback and have embraced your new life. I’ve read reports where your finding of runaways have let us close several files in the area. Now, George tells me that you’re looking into the Williamson case. I would be happy to reopen that one if you can give me some reasons to do so. I believe that you knew Hutchins when you first joined and think that he is an idiot. I have to tell you,” he grinned. “That I think the same.”
We sat down in two easy chairs in his office and a cadet brought us a pot of tea. As we drank, I told him what I had thought that Hutchins had missed finding out. I said that I would be going to talk about Bernard and Bernice to the repair shops this afternoon. I played him the interview from this morning and gave him the sample container to test against the sperm found in the body. I told him that I thought that I had been told the truth. I asked if a phone had been found on, or around, the body. He pressed a button and asked the cadet that came in to go and get the evidence box from the Williamson case.

When the box was brought to us, we both put on forensic gloves to look through it. I bet that, if the contents were tested, they would be loaded with Hutchins’ DNA. There wasn’t a phone, but I took the opportunity to look through the clothing, making notes of the makers and likely outlets that carried them. When we sent the box back, we removed our gloves and shook hands.

“Polly, thank you for your help, today. Let me know if you find anything else and I’ll reopen the case. After looking at the file I’m sure, as you are, that we are looking at murder, but, unless we get more evidence, it will have to remain as accidental death. Like you, I want to see that phone and the changing room. Find either and give me a call, I’ll send out a forensic team.”

I gave George a wave on the way out, then went to have a sandwich at the café that Angela told me she ate at every day. When she came in, she came and sat with me and I gave her some of the information that I now had, asking her to stop pestering the police as they now need only a little more information to reopen the case as a murder investigation.

That afternoon I went to Wainfleet Road. The industrial area is huge, with factories alongside lockups. The first place I went to had never heard of Bernard, but Bernice, the woman who could find cars, was well known. As I went, from place to place, I realised that she had been on a very good deal and was sorely missed. At every one, I asked about the likelihood that she had a shed, somewhere. Most thought that she might have a place with cars garaged, as she could often come up with a car inside an hour. No-one had ordered an S Type Jaguar last year.

My feet were hurting, and my voice was failing when I struck lucky. I was nearly out of places and was at the last repair shop on my list. The mechanic told me that he had wanted a part for an old Rover and Bernice had taken him to a newish shed at the far end of Hassall Road, where it ran into open land and Holly Road. Inside was set up like a parts store, with boxes of bits for old cars. He had been given the part and she had returned him to his workshop.

I followed his directions and found myself at what had once been the edge of the industrial estate. One building stood out, newish and unmarked by any signs. The Yale that I had opened the lock on the gate, as well as the lock on the building. I parked my car away from the building, pulled on my gloves, and went in. The power was on, so I turned on the lights. The description was spot-on. The part I was in was packed with shelving, all carrying boxes marked with car names.

I moved further into the shed and through a door to a large garage, with ten cars lined up. There, at the far end, was a grey S Type Jaguar. There was also a very tidy TR6, which I expected was her own transport. There was another door, which took me into a bedroom, with an ensuite. It was packed with wardrobes, all filled with good clothes. A large vanity was set up like one you would find in a theatre, with lights around the mirror. There was a phone on it, which I didn’t touch.

I went outside and called Dawlish, then waited until he, and his forensic team showed up. As they put on the protective suits, I told them where I had gone, and that I hadn’t touched anything. I told them that the S Type needed a good look at, and that the phone was down the far end, in the changing room. I stood with Dawlish as an unmarked car pulled up and I was introduced to the Detective Inspector Carson, who ran the murder squad. He, and his sergeant, donned the suits and went in.

Before I was asked to leave, I was told that the Jaguar may match the description of one seen at a bank robbery, in Sheffield, many years before. Carson admitted to collecting old ‘Wanted’ posters, and this case was still open. I was invited to a meeting, at the police station, on Friday morning, seeing that it would take the rest of the week to sort this lot out. On the way home, I dropped in to see Angela and gave her enough information to make her smile. It was good to make her happy. Whether she stayed that way when the details of her husbands’ life came out was another thing. One thing was certain, if all the cars and parts were free and clear, she was going to earn a pretty penny when they went up for auction.

I spent the next three days working through other cases on my books. On Wednesday evening I was in Manchester, at a gay nightclub, talking to one of the runaways. She, as it certainly looked like a girl I was talking to, didn’t want to go home and face her father. Having spoken with him, myself, I didn’t blame her. I gave her a burner phone which had one number in the phonebook and explained that her mother was anxious to speak to her and would help in any way she could. All it would take to keep herself in contact was to ring that number, which was a similar phone that her mother had. The father would never know.

Thursday, I busied myself with making sure the books were all correct. The cheque that Angela had given me was in the bank and, as far as I was concerned, I had done what she wanted and got the case re-opened. Friday sent that idea right out of the window.

Friday morning, I took extra care with my outfit, opting for an office look, with a skirt suit and heels. As I drove down to Skegness, I wondered what may have come out of the investigation in his shed. If the TR6 ended up in an auction, I might have a go at getting it. Most of the production run was exported, so the number on British roads was small. A nice, in-line two and a half litre six would be lovely to drive. On top of that, it was painted yellow. If original, that would put it into the mid-seventies.

When I arrived at the police station, there was another desk sergeant, who asked me to wait a moment, while taking my picture and making me a pass to wear. George came into reception and led me into the building, until we arrived at a conference room. When we went in, I was surprised to see Angela and another civilian, already at the table. I joined them and was given a cup of ‘police coffee’ by a female officer, who, by the notepad and recorder next to a chair, would be recording the conference. I had only just found out that the man with Angela was a legal officer from her bank when we were joined by the rest of the attendees.

George stood as the big boss came in. He was not in any uniform, but the authority came off him in waves. He went to his seat at the head of the table, next to the meeting secretary. We also had Dawlish, DI Carson and his Sergeant, and a guy who, by his non-uniform hair, was the police surgeon and head of the forensic laboratory. The big boss rapped his knuckles on the table, and we quietened.

“Ladies and gentlemen. I am Chief Superintendent Strachan and am in charge of this station. If you haven’t yet been introduced, we have Chief Inspector Dawlish, who is in charge of the administration and allocation of resources, and next to him is Sergeant Smythe, our desk sergeant. Then we have DI Carson, in charge of homicide, and his Sergeant Roberts. This other gentleman is Colin Thredbolt, our head of forensics. The female officer is Cathy Chatterton, who will be recording this meeting. I would like to thank Angela Williamson and her legal representative from her place of employment, for coming along. I’m sorry, Angela, but you will hear some things, this morning, which may be upsetting. Ask us to stop, at any time, should you need to. Last of all, I have to welcome Polly Ibbotson, the Private investigator who has caused this meeting to take place. Dawlish has shown me her record as a Detective Sergeant, and I am sorry we couldn’t keep her in the force. Now, down to business, Dawlish, you start.”

“Yes, sir. The case file was opened in February, and I gave the case to Constable Hutchins to look at. It first looked like a simple case of accidental death, due to intoxication. The victim, Bernard Williamson, was found, face-down, in the Fairy Dell Paddling Pond. Hutchins did nothing more than compile the record, upset the victims’ wife, and write the case off. I believe that it was his revulsion of cross-dressers and gays that was the reason behind his actions, or lack of them. He is now working in the Merseyside Division, where his lack of empathy has no bearing on his workload.”

“Exactly right, Dawlish. He was an odious man, used to bully the female staff. Carry on.”

“When our desk sergeant told me that an investigator was going to look into the case, I took it as an opportunity to have Angela Williamson stop taking us to task. Hutchins had filed the reports as completed. It was only when I looked at them myself, that I saw that we had dropped the ball on this one. I authorised the file to be copied and given to Polly, with the hope that she could shed some light on the case. That was a week ago, on Friday. On Monday, I saw her, and she gave me a container of spittle that matched the residue found in the victims’ anus. Not only that, but it also had the donors name written on the label and she played me a recording of her interview with that man. He has been interviewed, officially, and I believe that he can place the victim here, in Skegness, up to about seven on the evening he died. The man told us that the victim had received a phone call and gone off then.”

“That was quick work. So, what happened after that.”

“I received a call around three thirty that Monday, from Polly, who gave me an address in the Wainfleet Road Estate, where she claimed that she had found the victims premises. I called Carson to meet me there and alerted Thredbolt to get a team there. Polly had entered the building, looked around and left it without touching anything, so we sent forensics in.”

“How did you get in, young lady?”

“I had found a key, in the glovebox of Bernards’ car, that matched the serial number on the one found in the handbag at the scene of the crime, sir. I did not use any force to gain entry.”

“Very good, carry on Dawlish.”

‘Right, sir. Here is where it gets complicated. The shed was a long one, with one end being a store for old car parts, and the other being the victims changing room. The middle section was a garage with nine cars that are runners, and one in need of restoration. All the cars are older vehicles, and collectors’ items, which ties in with his second life as a source of old cars for special customer orders. He would supply cars to the auto-repair shops to put back into roadworthy condition for customers. We found his, or should I say, her books, as all of this was carried out in the name of Bernice Williamson. We also found banking details, in that name, with a reasonable sum in a business account under the name of Bernice Motors, which has a credit card and chequebook in that name. We have checked, and all taxes and fees have been paid, so there are no caveats attached to that money, which will become part of the estate. For the rest of it, I believe that DI Carson should continue.”

“Thank you, Inspector. Homicide were never brought into this case, and, when I looked at the file, last week, it would have been classed as suspicious had we seen it. The place where the body was found, the totally bizarre circumstances surrounding the timeline, as well as the fentanyl in the system, was obvious that the body had been placed in the pool, no-one, with that level of drug in the system, would have been able to get there under their own steam.”

“So, the case would have moved forward three months ago had you seen the file?”

“Yes sir. Now, the shed was a genuine Aladdin’s cave, if you like old cars. We looked through the boxes of parts and there is enough there to start a genuine business. The cars were mainly collectables, properly purchased and all written up in the records. There was a sports car which was registered to Bernice Williamson, a Triumph TR6. She could have carried on doing the same for many years to come. The one stand-out was a Jaguar S Type. It has a couple of dents that match the description of a getaway car from a bank robbery, in Sheffield, back in ’82. The records showed it to have been stolen in early ’82. The engine number matches the stolen car, but it was purchased, by Bernice Motors, without plates or papers. It would have made an idea restoration, only to have been taken after the engine numbers had been checked. The previous owner has been interviewed, and claims that he had bought the car, cheap, at an auto-jumble, for cash. They had done nothing to it before on-selling it to Bernice Motors.”

“So, no chance of tracing it back to a vendor at the auto-jumble?”

“No sir. Thredbolt has had that car in his laboratory for checking and can offer more insight. However, we did check the phone found in the end room. It is registered to Bernice Motors, and the last call on it was at seven-o-five, the night she died. We are still trying to track back with the provider to find out who placed the call.”

“Good work. Now, Thredbolt, what do you have for us?”

“Sir, we have been very careful with the car. It gave us traces of four different DNA samples in, and around the driving seat. One is definitely the victim; one is definitely the previous owner. One other did give us a result, and that was ‘Speedy Sam’, otherwise known as Samuel Arthur Johansen, a career criminal who died, in the Scrubs, in ’96. He was a well-known getaway driver, ex-racer, who was suspected of being part of the Sheffield bank robbery, but never arrested for that one. The S Type was his favourite and had been since it had been released. His DNA was on file as part of an old paternity case. There was remnants of banknote wrapping behind the back seat that matched the takings from Sheffield. The boot gave us six different samples of old blood. Four of them have been DNA matched with kidnapped people, where ransom had been paid but the person never returned. The old mud, under the wheel-arches, match soil that can be found all along the east coast, between Norfolk and northern Lincolnshire. However, there was a decent amount of a different soil, close to the body, so a bit older. It was the red chalk, found around Hunstanton. The car was purchased from a property, near Peterborough, where it had been in a shed for three years, and the auto-jumble was at Donnington, so whoever had the car after Sheffield, it has been local for a lot of years. We are asking for funds to search pits and deep water around Hunstanton just in case we can find any remains.”

“Looks like you have some ongoing work there. Anything else?”

“Yes sir. In a drawer of the end room, we found some photocopy sheets. They looked like the contents of a persons’ wallet. They carry the name and details of a man who is well-known among the business fraternity in Skegness. I will not name that person in the presence of civilians, sir.”

“Quite right. What’s your take on this, Carson?”

“We think that the person named on the photocopies may have been the one who phoned the victim. A likely scenario is that Bernice saw a chance of a little blackmail. Perhaps she found the wallet behind the seats, or in the boot, putting two and two together and making four. She may have just contacted this person and said that she had found the wallet in the car, offering it back for a reward. There must have been something else if she was attempting to blackmail him. She must have made the delivery of the goods on the night she died and was murdered instead of being paid. Her shed is a long way from where she was found. It’s only coincidence that her body was so close to her actual residence. Investigations are under way, sir, but have to be done with a lot of care. The person named can do a lot of damage to our careers if they get wind of it.”

I sat there, taking it all in. The last statement opened up the whole can of worms. The only people who can wreck a career in the police is either a senior officer, or a highly placed politician. That, alone, gave me enough to work back from, should I want to do so.

Angela then asked a question.

“Superintendent Strachan, I have not claimed any insurance for my husband’s death, nor have I had the will read. He left me well enough off to live without need of extra funds, my own job helping. His employer has paid out all of his accrued holidays and wages. What is the situation with this shed?”

Stachan looked at Dawlish, who looked at some papers in front of him.

“Angela, we have checked, and Bernard was doing very well as Bernice Motors. The property is fully owned and, when cleared, will probably sell for a couple of hundred thousand, at the very least. We can release the contents, except the S-Type, to you as soon as Thredbolt is happy he can’t get anything else. The bank balance will form part of his estate, the last payment in was for a Sunbeam Rapier that was delivered in the week after we found the body. The last payment out was by credit card to the company he used to move the cars around and was for delivery of that car. I can give your representative all the paperwork to take control of the account. As I said, the building will have to wait until we’re finished. You can take the other cars out, if you want, or even use the place to store other things. I know it will be hard for you to clear out the clothes, but I’ve been told that it’s all good quality and could be welcomed by vintage resellers.”

“Thank you. I’ll have to think about what I’ll do. After so many weeks trying to get things moving, this has all happened so quickly I find it hard to take in. I knew Bernard was a cross-dresser, and we hadn’t had sex for some years, but the breadth of his other life is hard to reconcile. I never had an inkling of all this. Polly, if I continue to pay you the going rate, will you help me with the details. I really can’t face it alone. Steve, here, can take over the financial side of things. If I can state that my husband was murdered, we should be able to do something with his estate.”

“We will organise a coroner’s session, next week,” said Strachan. “With a finding of death by actions of a person or persons unknown, it will allow you to move forward on that one.”

Steve nodded and wrote in his notebook. I could see Angela was well supported there. It was her emotional side that would need some support. It was a good job that I had nothing urgent to do for the next few weeks. And then Strachan looked at me.

“Polly, it was your detective work that opened this up. We will need someone, from the outside, who our suspect has never met, to help us work through the rest of the case. If I add you to our Division as a consultant, will you stay with the case?”

Marianne Gregory © 2023