Dead Again

By John Burrows

When Cobb's friend dies by suicide the police say that it is an open and shut case, but Cobb is far from satisfied. He follows his nose and a few psychic intuitions, and what was a simple suicide turns into a series of devilish crimes. Cobb tears himself away from his university lecturing and follows a very dangerous course to put all the clues together. He ends up asking himself the question "how can a dead man have committed these crimes?" It is a very traumatic time in Cobb's life. Not only does he escape death by a hair's breadth, he finds himself having a passionate but loving relationship with a younger woman

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291802733

Book preview

Dead Again

DEAD AGAIN

A Mystery Thriller

By John Burrows

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COPYRIGHT © 2014 John Burrows

All rights reserved

ISBN 978-1-291-80273-3

JohnBurrowsBooks.com

DeadAgain.co.uk

Lulu.com

About this book

When Cobb’s friend dies by suicide the Police say it is an open and shut case, but Cobb is far from satisfied. He follows his nose and a few psychic intuitions, and what was a simple suicide turns into a series of devilish crimes.

Cobb tears himself away from his university lecturing and follows a very dangerous course to put all the clues together. He ends up asking himself how can a dead man have committed these crimes?

It is a very traumatic time for Cob. Not only does he escape death by a hair’s breadth, he finds himself having a passionate but loving relationship with a younger woman.

There is a sting in the tail and more than one twist so please do not read the end until you get there.

1 Death

He wondered how Elaine would be.  No note.  No word.  Not even a brief message to remind her just how much he loved her.  It was too late for that now.  The, oily, metallic taste of the gun muzzle in his mouth sickened him and made him want to vomit, but it wouldn't be long.

It was his final thought.

The explosion was violent.  The heavy .38 slug ripped through the roof of his mouth and splattered his brain onto the wall behind him.

2 Impossibilities

News of Michael Jeffries death travelled fast.  Cobb heard that same evening.  At first he didn't believe it; just another one of those wild rumours that circulated the university.

He had phoned Michael's home, just to dispel the rumour, but the police had answered the phone.  When he had explained who he was and asked what had happened the senior officer had come to the phone, confirmed that Michael was dead, and explained that it looked like suicide. 

Suicide? 

Michael……..suicide?

Never.

His hulk sank into the easy chair.  He closed his eyes and relaxed his head back into the worn leatherwork.  Dear God.  Sometimes life could be so cruel. 

Cobb had known Michael Jeffries for twelve years.  At first they had come into casual contact at the university and that had developed into a simple friendship but that friendship had lasted a long time and had strengthened with the years.  He had many friends at the university - it wasn't difficult to make friends - but Michael had been a very special friend.  Michael's infectious laugh echoed in Cobb's ears.  They had appreciated the same humour and he smiled as he recalled Michael's impression of a German parrot speaking in broken English...

He settled deeper into the soft leather as his mind wandered over some of the good times they had had together.

In the days that followed the police asked questions of Michael's contacts around the university, Cobb included, but the questions seemed to be directed at trying to find a reason for his suicide.  To them, it was obviously cut and dried.

He attended the inquest a few days later but, as expected, it was short and simple and the suicide verdict went unquestioned.  Cobb was tempted to get up and shout 'Suicide?  You must be bloodywell crazy', but how could he, it was equally crazy to think that anyone could have wanted to kill Michael.

Cobb lingered after the decision.  There had been only a few people in the Court but, none the less, he had sat at the back.  Now, as the Court emptied, one other person remained.  She sat there, at the front of the Court, head bent.  Cobb thought that he recognised her.  He had met Michael's sister, Elaine, maybe twice in all the years he had known Michael.

He moved to his feet and walked slowly down the Court towards her.  She raised and turned her head slightly as he approached.  She had been crying.

Yes, Cobb recognised her.  He held out his hand.  I don't know if you will remember me.  I'm Cobb.  You are Michael's sister Elaine.  It was half statement half question.

She smiled slightly.  Mister Cobb.  Of course I remember you.

She hesitated.

Michael often spoke about you on the phone and in his letters.  He thought a great deal of your friendship.

He nodded his head slowly.

It's a sad time for both of us.

I... I'm going back to Michael's place. she replied hesitantly.  Would you like to come over and have a cup of tea?  I... I feel I need to talk to someone. 

Her, still reddened, eyes appealed to him.

I'd like that very much, he replied.

Michael's place was only a stone's throw away.  He had been there quite often.  It was just as he had last seen it except that, now, a bed sheet was draped over the wall in one corner of the living room.  He guessed that whatever it covered was best forgotten.

Elaine lit the gas fire and switched on some of the reading lamps.  Cobb followed her into the kitchen.

You know, I just can't believe it, she said as she placed the kettle on the stove.  I just can't believe that Michael would take his own life.  He never left any message.  No....  Her voice trailed off.

He motioned her to sit down.

She sat down at the small kitchen table.  He sat opposite

She looked at Cobb, trying to maintain her composure, but then suddenly the tears flowed.  She rested her head on her arms and sobbed.

Cobb missed Michael terribly but he knew that it was nothing to what Elaine was feeling now.  Although, in recent times, she had lived some distance away he knew that they had remained in regular contact, and had thought a great deal of each other.

Eventually she raised her head and looked at him.  Her eyes were sad, and red again.  He just couldn't have done it.  He just couldn't.  You know, Mister Cobb, don't you?  It wasn't like him at all, you know that.

Cobb didn't know what to say.  He didn't believe that Michael could have done it, but then again, it seemed impossible that anyone could have wanted to kill him.

I just don't know, he said eventually.  I just don't know.  It wasn't like Michael at all.  For me, he was the last person in the world to commit suicide.  I was only talking to him on the phone a couple of days ago and he sounded fine.  But, I just can't believe, either, that anyone would want to kill him.  You knew Michael.  He got on well with everyone.

Her eyes were running again and she wiped her nose across the back of her hand.  Cobb pulled a clean pocket handkerchief out of his top pocket, leaned over, and placed it over her nose.  She blew hard.  He left the handkerchief with her and she dabbed at her eyes.

She remained thoughtful.

Yes, that's true.  I can't believe that anyone would want to kill him.  But I know for sure that he wouldn’t have killed himself.  If he had been depressed about something he would have spoken to me.  But even that was unlikely.  He didn't depress easily.

He stroked his beard, thoughtfully.

Yes.  Yes.  You are right.  It's impossible to think of Michael in that state of mind.  He just couldn't have done it no matter what anyone says. 

Cobb felt happy now that he had made the decision.  It had upset him to think that Michael might have been so depressed that death was the only way out.

Elaine looked better, too.  Her eyes looked brighter and the sadness had been replaced by a look of determination that he hadn't seen before.  Whoever they are, they just won't get away with it, she said.  "They just won't get away with it.

3 Reflections

Cobb sat in his rooms looking down the line of trees that followed the rear of the library.  The trees were golden, but the leaves were just beginning to fall.  He wondered why he had never painted this view.  Perhaps he would if he could find the time.

His cat, Cagney, jumped up on to his lap and settled down in it's favourite spot.

Cobb loved Newborough.  He loved the people.  He loved the old buildings and the antiquity of the place.  The pace was slower than Cambridge.  Cambridge had been fine during his student days but now, at forty-six, he felt better with the tempo of things at Newborough.

He had good memories of Cambridge.  He had secured his art's degree and doctorate there, and had spent some years lecturing before coming to Newborough.  Cobb, though, was a 'mixed bag'.  In contrast to his artistic profession, he had had a lifelong interest in criminology in which he showed some flair.  It was an interest which had spilled over into writing and, while at Newborough, had written three moderately successful crime novels.  He was also a bit of an eccentric.  Everyone else knew it, and he knew it.  He couldn't figure out when it had happened.  It just seemed to have crept up on him over the years.

Cobb thought about Elaine.  Somehow, he was feeling different since the day he met her at the inquest.  Since then he had visited her once - she was staying over to sort out Michael's affairs - and they had spent time talking about each other.  Elaine was slowly making her way through Michael's papers in the hope of finding some clue to his death, and was determined to bring about a change in the Coroner's verdict.  He had to admit that he found Elaine attractive but she was only thirty, and - well - what would she want with an old fool like him?

Cobb looked at the clock.  It was seven PM.  Not too late to phone Elaine and maybe find a reason for going over again.

She answered immediately and was obviously pleased to hear his voice.  Before he could speak she had invited him over for a meal. 

In ten minutes he covered the three miles, parked his old Citroen car, and was at the door.  It opened as he approached.  Car's a bit grumpy, he said, couldn't get here any quicker.

She laughed.

Come in Mister Cobb.  Please excuse the place, I've been doing some sorting.

You're going to have to stop calling me Mister Cobb, he replied, just call me Cobb.

Is Cobb your family name?

Well, not really. 

They went inside and sat down but the question remained hanging.

Where did the 'Cobb' come from?

Well, it's quite a long story.  When we have an hour some time, I'll tell you all about it.

Cobb suits you fine, anyhow.

She screwed up her nose at him in a most delightful way.

By the way I didn't cook anything special.  Just threw a few extras into the pan when you said you were coming over.

Smells great.

They were part way through the meal when Elaine got back to the subject of Michael again.  Did you have any new thoughts?

"Not really.  I managed to speak to most of Michael's regular contacts at the university, but I am afraid it came to nothing.

Cobb paused, and then went on again.

Are you sure that Michael never mentioned anything that would suggest he had a possible enemy?

Elaine stopped eating and became thoughtful.

No.  No.  I'm sure that there was never any suggestion about anything like that.

What about here?  He motioned with his head as he spoke.  Did you manage to find anything of interest?

Nothing, so far, she said, except this.  I don't know if it's anything special.

She handed Cobb a bunch of papers across the table.  He put down his fork and started to look through them.

Finish your meal, first, Cobb.  You can look through those afterwards.  I doubt that they are anything special, anyway.

He was rather glad she said that.  He enjoyed good food and, living alone as he did, he often neglected himself.  At least that was his story.

While Elaine went through to the kitchen to organize drinks, Cobb picked up the bunch of papers and transferred his hulk into one of the easy chairs.  He pushed his glasses up from the end of his nose and buried himself in the papers.

There were six neatly typed A4 pages, all stapled together in the top left hand corner.  The first page was titled 'Memorandum and Objectives of the Bastion friendly Society'.  The first page and a half was subdivided into sections and described in minute detail the objectives and aims of the society.  The third page was simply headed 'CONTRACT' and was a legal document written in small print.

Cobb turned to the last three pages only to discover that they were a complete photocopy of the first three pages.

He looked again at the first three pages and read through them from beginning to end.  They looked like what they claimed to be, namely the mission and objectives of the Bastion Friendly Society, and a contract between the society and a recipient.  There was no address, telephone number, or other point of reference.  Cobb turned the pages over.  They were all blank except for the back of the first page on which was written 'Ian Craghill'.

Elaine came in carrying the coffee.  It was two sugars wasn't it?

I am afraid so, he said patting his stomach.

Anything special in those? Elaine asked, nodding towards the papers.

I'm not sure.  They are legal documents relating to some Friendly Society.  Unfortunately there is no address or phone number but it shouldn't be difficult to trace them through the Companies Register.  Did you ever hear Michael mention an Ian Craghill? he asked, showing her the reverse side of the first page.

She looked thoughtful but slowly shook her head.  No, I can't say the name means anything to me, although it does look like Michael's writing.

They both sat, quietly, sipping their coffee.  After a while Cobb said I suppose it is a slightly unusual document for Michael to have had around but no doubt there is a good reason for it.  I'll check it out tomorrow.

The following day he had no morning lectures scheduled so he phoned Swansea and was connected with Company Registration.  He explained that he was making enquiries about a Friendly Society, was told that he needed Department C, and was transferred.  A lady answered and listened to Cobb's request but told him that a search could not be initiated from a telephone request.  If it was urgent then the best thing he could do would be to send a fax.  Cobb phoned Maggie in Communications and explained what it was that he was after.  They'll need a charge card I expect, Maggie commented. 

Yes, they did mention that, Cobb replied, and relayed his charge card number to her.

Two hours later the phone rang.  It was Maggie.  No joy on the Friendly Society I'm afraid.  I'll send over a copy of the fax.  It arrived a few minutes later.

'Our search of the register was NEGATIVE.  There is no entry for a Bastion Friendly Society. We have the following adjacent listings: Basildon Friendly Society. Bay Friendly Society.  END.

Blast. Cobb said, glaring at the fax as if that would make it reveal more information.  Where do we go from here?

He picked up the sheaf of papers again.  Craghill.  Ian Craghill, he repeated to himself Well, maybe we can find you.

Cobb walked to the main hall of the library, entered the smaller Ainsworth Library, and crossed over to a small office in the corner.

Maggie, I want you to do something more for me.

Cobb, you know I'll do anything for you, she grinned.

Now keep your mind on business, Maggie.  I want you to check out all of the local directories for an Ian Craghill.  He wrote the name out on a slip of paper.

Sure, but tell me.  When are you going to get yourself a new pullover, Cobb?  That one will be touching the floor shortly.

Everyone knew about Cobb's pullover.  He had bought it, maybe, ten years before and had worn it through many of his lecturing years at Newborough.  It was, and remained, one of his eccentricities.  During lectures he had a habit, particularly during times of intense concentration, of pacing backwards and forwards while tugging at its lower edge.  The pullover, of substantial cable construction, had slowly got longer and longer.  To Cobb it was now an old friend, and Cobb did not relinquish old friends so easily.  It was, however, one of Maggie's regular taunts whenever she saw him.

Maggie bent to pick up some of the directories.  Cobb gave her bottom a good slap just to even things up.  Let me know as soon as you find anything, he said over his shoulder as he disappeared through the door.

Margaret Farnham was a treasure.  Like a small power-house, she ran the small communications office along with three other staff.  The faxing, telexing and photocopying which was done from there was only a small part of the service which they provided.  If anyone could find this Ian Craghill, she would.

Three hours later Maggie phoned him back.  She sounded weary.  "Cobb, I'm afraid it's just not your day.  I checked out all of the local directories for this guy but, would you believe it, there wasn't a Craghill in any of them.  Since then I have had all of the UK phone directories checked.  Only found two Craghills in the lot.  They were in London by the way and neither of them had the initial I.  I have since checked with directory enquiries but there were no recent listings of the name.  I'm sorry.  Is there anything else you want me to try?"

No, Maggie.  Leave it at that.  Thanks for your efforts.  I'll give you a call if I get any more flashes of inspiration.

He had no sooner put the phone down when it rang again.  It was Elaine and she sounded excited.

Cobb, you'll never believe what I've found.  I have hotel bookings and flight tickets to Cyprus, in Michael's name, for next week.  I've spoken to the travel agents and they say that it's absolutely correct.  I've even spoken to the person who saw Michael and made the arrangements.

Elaine, I'm coming over to see you.  Do you mind?

Please do, Cobb.  I'll be expecting you.

The door opened on his approach and Elaine started babbling before he could get through the door.  I told them.  I told them.  I knew all the time that Michael hadn't...

Hey, hold on.  Slow down a minute.  Why don't I just have a look at the tickets while you pop the kettle on.

Elaine gave Cobb the travel folder and went into the kitchen while he settled down to study the contents of the folder.  It contained a number of items.  Hand-written notes on bits of paper, obviously in Michael's handwriting.  There was an agent's voucher, in Michael's name, confirming his reservation at the Paphos Beach Hotel.  Flight tickets to and from Cyprus, and a small brochure giving details about the Hotel.  Everything was in Michael's name, and timed within the coming two weeks.

Elaine came in carrying the drinks.  It's two sugars in coffee, isn't it?

He just smiled back.

What do you think about those, Cobb? Elaine asked, still as excited as ever.

Well, I guess I should have thought about this before.  I remember, now.  Michael mentioned a couple of months ago that he was thinking about a low season special offer in Cyprus.  Looks like he went ahead with it.

That proves that he couldn't have committed suicide, doesn't it?

Well I wouldn't put it as strongly as that but it certainly has the makings of a good argument.  You say you spoke to the agent?

Yes, I actually spoke to Mr Kendrick.  Elaine pointed to his name on one of the slips of paper.  He confirmed that he had made all of the arrangements for Michael.

Cobb thought for a moment.

Why don't we go over and talk to him?

Half an hour later they were at the offices of the Venture Travel Agency and were talking to Mr Frank Kendrick.

Although fairly youngish, he obviously knew his job well and was equally well organized.  He went to one of the filing cabinets, pulled out a file, and returned to his seat facing them.  I don't know that there is any further information I can provide you with, Miss Jeffries.  What's the nature of the problem?

Elaine hesitated, and Cobb stepped in.  I am afraid that Mr Jeffries is deceased.

Kendrick suddenly looked serious.  "Dear me, I am sorry.  I... found Mr Jeffries a very pleasant gentleman.  We got along very well together.

Dear me, I am sorry, he said again.  How did he die?"

Cobb wasn't sure how Elaine was taking all of this.  The Police say that he committed suicide, Mr Kendrick.

Kendrick obviously didn't know what to say.

Eventually, Cobb spoke again.  When was the last time you spoke to Mr Jeffries?

Kendrick fingered his way through the papers in the file and then stopped to study one of them.  Well, as a matter of fact the last time we spoke, together, he actually came into the agency just to make sure that everything was OK.  That was on the... twenty-fourth of October.

Are you quite sure about that? Cobb asked.

Yes.  Quite sure.  I have a confirmation of the flight details which I printed out for Mr Jeffries while he was here.  Why, is it important?

It could be, Mr Kendrick.  That was the day before Mr Jeffries is supposed to have committed suicide.

Elaine, I think you ought to calm down and then we can decide what to do next.

I knew it, Elaine replied.  I told you didn't I?  I told you Michael could never have done it.

Elaine, you don't have to convince me, it's the Police you need to convince.

Elaine was busily turning over the pages of her diary.  She came to a stop.  Detective Sergeant Clarke.  That's him.  That's the man who was in charge of the case.

OK, but it's a bit late now, Cobb replied, looking at his watch.  I suggest we go to Police Headquarters in Preston first thing in the morning.  We will probably be able to catch him then.

Detective Sergeant Clarke was surprised to see Elaine.  He remembered her well enough.  What can I do for you Miss Jeffries?

I wonder if Cobb and I could speak to you in private please?

Of course.  Perhaps you would like to come through to my office.  He led the way into a small cluttered office, removed some folders from a couple of the chairs, and invited them to sit down.

He rested his chin on his hands and looked directly at Elaine.

Yes, Miss Jeffries, what can I do for you?

Elaine said nothing.  She opened her bag, removed the travel folder, opened it wide and placed it on the desk in front of him.  The printout, dated the day before her brothers death, lay on the top.

Sergeant Clarke looked puzzled.

My brother was going on holiday to Cyprus, Sergeant.  He had the hotel and flights booked.  He even went to the travel agent the day before his death just to make sure that everything was OK.  That - she nodded her head towards the slip of paper resting on top - is a confirmation of the flight arrangements.  It was printed out the same day.

Sergeant Clarke frowned, looked from one to the other and then started to go through the various items in front of him.  After a few minutes he placed them down on the desk, shrugged his shoulders and, with a less than convincing look on his face, said I am afraid that this proves nothing at all, Miss Jeffries.

Cobb had seen Elaine in various moods but anger was a new one to him.

Proves nothing!  What do you mean, it proves nothing?  Are you telling me that my brother was busy finalising the details of his holiday one day - a holiday that he was obviously looking forward to - and then the next day he decides to kill himself.  You must be bloody crazy.

Cobb rested his hand on Elaine's shoulder and gave it a squeeze.  "Sergeant, I don't think we are going to get anywhere like this.  Perhaps we could speak to the Inspector if you don't mind.

I don't think that is going to make any...

Sergeant, Cobb interrupted, I think it will save us all a lot of time and I expect that your time is as valuable as mine.

Perhaps it was the determined look in Cobb's eye that convinced him.  The Sergeant got up from his seat and disappeared through the door mumbling to himself.

Chief Inspector Armstrong impressed them immediately.  He wasn't loud spoken or flamboyant but he emanated an air of rock-like assurance and confidence.  A feeling that everything would be OK if it was left in this man's hands.  Stocky, square jawed, and balding, he reminded Cobb of a uniformed Clive James.

He sat down opposite them.  Sergeant Clarke remained standing.

Miss Jeffries.  Mr Cobb.  What can I do to help you?

Cobb said nothing.  He left it to Elaine.  She explained who they were, who her brother was, and what they had discovered about the Cyprus holiday.

Armstrong listened, patiently and without comment, to all that Elaine had to say.  When she had finished he picked up the flight tickets, and the other items, and studied each, carefully, in turn.  That done, he still didn't speak.  He sat back in his chair, grimaced with his lips compressed tightly together, and nodded his head slowly and thoughtfully.

Eventually he emerged from thought.

What you say is valid, Miss Jeffries.  I can't fault it.  Unfortunately however, to change the outcome of any inquest there has to be material new evidence.  It could be argued that, no matter how Mr Jeffries was on one day, something could have arisen to have thoroughly upset or depress him.  I know that you will say that your brother was not at all like that.  That he couldn't possibly have done it, but, the Coroner sees all kinds of cases and would not be easily convinced.  There are situations where a person can change quickly from normality to being suicidal, and the Coroner is aware of that.

He hesitated and looked from Elaine to Cobb and back again.

If you come back to me with some solid evidence, something concrete, then I shall be pleased to approach the Coroner on your behalf.

Elaine looked despondent.  She thanked the Inspector, and she and Cobb left the building.

Later

Ah, Jack.  Come in.  Detective Chief Inspector Armstrong indicated a seat, and Sergeant Clarke sat down.  I've been thinking about that business with Miss Jeffries.  I said what I said but, between you and I, it does seem unusual that Michael Jeffries should one day be making arrangements for a holiday and next day killing himself.

Armstrong steepled his fingers under his nose and looked thoughtful.

"Are we sure that everything was what it seemed, Jack?  Nothing unusual?  No questions unanswered?

Jack Clarke hesitated.

What is it?

Well there was just one thing?

Yes?

Well, we had some difficulty over the gun.

Oh?

We couldn't trace where it came from.

Clarke paused.

Miss Jeffries said that her father used to have a gun which, she thought, looked something like the one that was used.

Why couldn't you trace it, then?

Well, that's the point.  There was no number on the gun.  It had been removed.

What did Forensics say?

They couldn't do a thing with it.  They tried all of the usual techniques to recover the number but without success.  As a matter of fact they said that it was the most effective removal that they had ever come across.

Armstrong was thinking.

Very strange.

4 Extermination

Jack Bainbridge was feeling tired.  The approaching cat's eyes mesmerised him as they loomed up out of the dark.

It had been a busy day in which he had hardly stopped to eat, and then he had driven the two hundred or so miles from Bath.  Normally he would have been wiped out after such a day but it so happened that he was also on a high.

As a private detective, Jack Bainbridge was not a high ranker.  Most of his work involved looking for missing persons or in collecting evidence for divorce proceedings.  Occasionally, though, he displayed remarkable tenacity and an ability to ferret things out.

His visit to Bath had lasted three days.  It was the culmination of an enquiry that had started eleven years before and which he had picked away at, periodically, ever since.

Back in 1984 an American student, at Bath University, had been murdered.  Bainbridge had become interested through the stories of a friend who had happened to be on the same course as the murdered man.  The police had made extensive enquiries at the time but after a while, without any real leads, the whole thing had fizzled out.

Jack Bainbridge had maintained an interest and, working mostly through his friend who continued to study at Bath, he had pursued a number of possible lines of investigation.  By 1987 his friend had left Bath and, other than having eliminated various possibilities which had come to his mind, Jack Bainbridge had made little progress.

With, then, no direct contact for him at Bath, the whole business had slipped further to the back of his mind.  It had remained that way until just about a year before when, quite accidentally, a slip of information had come his way.  He had wondered if it might relate to the Bath murder.  The chance that it bore any relationship was pretty remote but, none the less, he had promised himself a trip to Bath when the opportunity arose.

After sitting on it for a year he had at last made the trip to Bath and, in just three days, had confirmed his original suspicions.

He glanced at the dashboard clock.  Nearly ten PM.  The cat's eyes continued to flash by.  Another twenty-five minutes and he would be home.

It was absolutely unbelievable, but his suspicions had to be correct.  It