Verdict Unknown... The Sequel

By Gordon S. Dickson

Following the murder of Albert Noel Parke’s first wife and the eventual jailing of the perpetrator, Welshman William Jones, the local police in Cornwall begin to suspect Parke himself. A Detective Inspector in the London Metropolitan Police, known as ‘Bobby’ to his friends, he is accused of framing Jones for arranging the death of his second wife. Jones was convicted, but Detective Sergeant Arnold Baxter of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary is determined to uncover the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781528969000

Gordon S. Dickson

Gordon S. Dickson was born near Inverness, Scotland, but left there soon after when the family returned to Northern Ireland, where he still resides. He was educated at Secondary and Grammar schools, and scraped through English ‘O’ level, as essay writing was not a strong point. He was employed in the Civil Service for a number of years and is now retired. He has only recently taken up writing. He enjoys reading, gardening, watching football, and occasional visits to the cinema.

Book preview

Previously

Two men met in a quiet public house, The Lord Nelson, in Soho, London. They sat in a secluded corner, well away from the other customers, to avoid being overheard.

The first man, Bobby Parke, said, ‘Well, that went very well. William Jones put away for life, with no possibility for parole. Let’s hope he has a long life and suffers every minute of it.’ He raised his glass in a mock toast.

‘Yeah,’ said his companion, known as Mr John Smith, the killer of Janet Parke, Parke’s second wife, real name Claude Atkins, a prison officer. It was him who strangled the victim in a hotel in the town of St Austell, Cornwall.

‘It worked out perfectly,’ Atkins continued. ‘Great idea of yours to frame that swine, Jones, for having your first wife, Sue, murdered. It is handy I am a prison officer in the same prison as Jones and was able to plant that mobile phone.’

‘That is why I chose you, being on the inside as it were,’ laughed Parke. ‘Excuse the pun. We have been friends for a long time so I was sure you would be willing to help.’

‘Too true, and the money helped,’ Claude Atkins laughed. ‘Just in case anyone checked up on me, being as I was off work when the murder happened, I got my son to take photos of Yorkshire on my own mobile to prove I was there. I told my son I hoped to go there next summer, and it would be nice to have some idea of the area. He didn’t think it odd, thankfully. No imagination has my son.’ And Atkins laughed again.

Atkins, who was completely bald, had used a ginger wig and beard, a crooked nose formed with theatrical make-up, and green contact lenses as a disguise when he became John Smith whom a couple of witnesses had described.

‘Yeah, that was a good move. And I am sure the hundred grand I paid you will come in useful,’ Parke said.

‘I have most of it stashed away in a building society, and in a year or so I will quit the prison service and jet off to sunnier climes,’ Atkins said. ‘Shame about the young woman though…your second wife.’

‘She was just a means to an end. I totally hated the thought of Jones getting out in a few years’ time, and going on with his life, as if nothing had happened,’ said Parke.

‘The cops will still be looking for the mysterious Mr Smith,’ laughed Atkins.

‘That will keep them distracted,’ said Parke. ‘Revenge is sweet! Revenge…is…sweet! Maybe I should have taken out a life policy on wife number two as well, but that would have been too suspicious.’

Albert Noel Parke known as Bobby to his friends, a Detective Inspector in the London Metropolitan Police, was aged forty-five, six feet tall, and had dark wavy hair going grey.

No one could remember how he got the nickname Bobby. Perhaps it was because as a child he wanted to be a policeman, a bobby, or a footballer like the late great Bobby Moore, an England World Cup hero.

He had initially been charged with the murder of his first wife, but the case was withdrawn when the real culprits, William Jones and Edward Martins, were apprehended.

Meanwhile in St Austell police station in Cornwall, CID officers were discussing another unconnected case.

One officer asked, ‘What time exactly was the phone call made…?’

‘NO! NO! We have been taken for mugs,’ Detective Sergeant Arnold Baxter suddenly shouted, jumping to his feet, his chair toppling over noisily behind him. He leaned forward on the table.

The others stared at him open-mouthed. The detective inspector glared and demanded, ‘Please explain this outburst, Baxter!’

‘In the Janet Parke murder case, Sir, in the hotel, we have been fooled…hoodwinked! How could that John Smith have spoken to William Jones on a phone in the prison, in the middle of the day? The witness said it was at lunchtime, anyone could have overheard him. Was there a record of a call on either of the mobile phones used? Someone go check it, please.’ Detective Constable Beamish jumped to her feet and hurried off. Baxter continued, ‘We were meant to link the phones to Jones. I’m sure of it.’ Everyone was speechless. ’I have always felt uneasy about this case.

‘That bald prison officer, Claude Atkins, could easily have worn a false beard and wig to carry out the murder, and have planted the phone in the cell. He had plenty of opportunity, and he was the only man on leave at the time of the murder. Jones always denied knowing where the phone came from. He maintained he found it in his cell when he returned from recreation.

‘It wasn’t William Jones who wanted revenge, it was, I’m certain, Detective Inspector Parke. I shall nail him if it is the last thing I do,’ Baxter vowed.

Chapter 1

Discussion of the other case continued until Detective Constable Sarah Beamish returned about fifteen minutes later from the evidence room.

Every eye turned towards her. ‘You were right, Sarge. There is no record of a call made midday, or at any time, on either phone. Only texts. I’ve checked ’em. Looks like there could have been a terrible miscarriage of justice…’ she halted, hesitating, because she realised her words implied her boss’s failure.

‘Very true, and it is my fault,’ said Detective Baxter. ‘I hold my hands up.’

‘None of us thought of it, Sergeant,’ said the Detective Inspector, Iain MacAdam, who had been listening. ‘I should have spotted it too. It is as much my fault. Anyway, get on to New Scotland Yard and set up an interview with that Claude Atkins, the prison officer, as soon as possible. We will get to the bottom of this one way or the other.’

‘He and Parke, if Parke was behind it, have made us look total fools,’ said D S Baxter.

‘Reilly,’ he spoke to a detective, ‘check out the CCTV in the town on the morning of the sixteenth of June last. We should have done that at the time. How could I have missed that?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ said Detective Constable Peter Reilly, who had recently been promoted from uniform branch.

‘What makes you think Parke is the one behind it, Sarge?’ asked another detective.

‘Just a gut feeling more than anything,’ said Baxter. ’The way he was so cut up about the death of his wife when I told him in the hotel foyer; I thought he was going to faint, yet when he identified the body, he was completely in control. Never shed a tear, or in any way looked upset, when I think back. He was very…together, you could say.

‘And when we swabbed under his fingernails, he was very quick to let us know he was a police officer, like he couldn’t possibly be a suspect.

‘He was also very quick to implicate Jones, even though he was in prison at the time. He mentioned, I recall, Jones had got only twenty years for murdering Parke’s first wife. I did feel uneasy at the time, but there was nothing concrete to go on. No motive. No indication whatever of his involvement. Who could ever imagine a man getting his new bride murdered?’

Detective Sergeant Arnold Baxter was a slim, athletic-looking, recently turned thirty-six-year-old, man, with fair, curly hair and neatly trimmed beard. He was an experienced detective of several years’ standing. The thought of such a stupid blunder horrified him.

William Jones, a Welshman, whom the then Constable Albert Parke had identified as a bank robber with violence, and who was subsequently imprisoned for ten years, left prison with revenge on his mind.

He had paid a ne’er-do-well Glaswegian, called Edward Martins, to murder Parke’s first wife Sue, née Arbuthnot, and had been locked up for twenty years.

That was some ten years before, and Parke had framed Jones for the murder of his second wife Janet, née Wilkins. Parke could not bear the thought of Jones being freed.

Having served ten years Jones was eligible for fifty percent remission as the Law demanded.

The unfortunate Janet had been strangled in a hotel room when on honeymoon in Cornwall. Parke had been in the town centre of St Austell at the time and had met Claude Atkins who subsequently donned a disguise and carried out the deed.

Chapter 2

In New Scotland Yard, London a few days later:

‘An interview timed at 10:50 a.m. on January fifteenth, 2013, with Claude James Atkins, Prison Officer. Also present: Detective Sergeant Arnold Baxter and Detective Constable Sarah Beamish of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary. Claude Atkins has declined legal representation.’ D S Baxter spoke for the tape recording as they sat opposite each other at a table.

‘I ain’t done nothing,’ Atkins chimed in. ‘I just thought I’d mention that before you start.’ He smirked.

‘That remains to be seen,’ said Detective Sergeant Baxter. ‘Where were you during the week ending sixteenth of June 2012?’

‘I was on holidays, wasn’t I!’ Atkins said slouching back in his seat. The detective half expected him to put his feet up on the table! ‘No law against that, is there, Officer?’ He pronounced the word officer like it was a swear word.

‘Where did you go on this holiday?’ asked Detective Constable Beamish.

‘To Yorkshire, weren’t it, with me son, Sid. Up on t’moors as they say.