Mission: Murder: The Island Connection, #16

By Graham Hamer

Alan McGee, the local butcher is found with a large meat cleaver buried in his head. It's not suicide, that's for sure. Detective Inspector Sarah Flemons is called out to investigate and soon teams up with DS Josie Armstrong and Constable Don Bailey to find the killer. The dead butcher was an active member of a local vigilante group, the Civic Mission, who are stirring bad feelings in the town by their over-zealous activities. Naturally, it is the first line of enquiry that the police team follow up on.

 

They soon discover that Mr McGee had been looking into a string of thefts in the area. Other members of the Civic Mission are quick to point fingers at Paddy Quirk – a one-eyed petty thief with a long history of 'borrowing' other people's belongings. But no sooner have the police enquiries begun, when another body is discovered. Now, Inspector Flemons' suspicions fall on members of the Civic Mission themselves, none of whom has an alibi and many of whom may have had a reason to kill.

 

Add into the mix an unsolved hit-and-run, a dominatrix and her transvestite husband, and a local ne'er-do-well whose lifetime achievement was to steal some garden gnomes, and you have the setting for a problematical case that takes Sarah Flemons right to the limit – quite literally.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham Hamer
• Release date: Oct 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223513179

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Alan Irving, known to his friends as Sparky, nudged his partner and mumbled, It’s your bloody phone, Sarah.

Go back to sleep.

I can’t. Your damn phone is going. He turned over and glanced with just one eye at the digital clock. It’s quarter past five so I’ll bet you a pound to a pile of pig shit it’s police business. For God’s sake answer it will you?

Sarah let out a sigh that was good enough to win prizes. Sarah could sigh for Britain when anything disturbed her sleep. She flicked on the bedside lamp, hauled her naked body from the bed, and padded across the room to the chest of drawers where she had left her mobile phone the night before. She could sense Sparky was watching her. There was no nakedness that compared to being naked in front of someone for the first time. But, for Sparky and Sarah, the first time was fifteen years in the past and nakedness in the bedroom was the default dress code.

Yup. What? she snapped into the phone.

My name’s Snorker Dingwallace and I was told to call you because I believe a crime has been committed.

Paddy Quirk, why are you still using that stupid alias.? It’s fooling nobody.

Yeah, well I just like the name. It’s got a certain ring to it.

It sounds like something weird out of Shakespeare.

Well, if you’re going to make me change it, I’d prefer something out of Charles Dickens if you don’t mind. Maybe with erotic undertones like Quaker Quimstick or something. Anyway, there’s still been a crime committed and your desk sergeant at police headquarters in Douglas said I was to call you because you were the nearest senior officer to Peel.

Sarah sighed again and leaned an elbow on the chest of drawers. You mean he didn’t believe you so decided to wind me up instead? It’s quarter past five in the bloody morning Paddy. The only crimes being committed at quarter past five in the morning are being committed by you. I suppose you’ve got yourself locked in a shop you weren’t meant to be in, and you want us to get you out.

That’s a dreadful thing to say, Inspector Flemons. I was out walking the dog when—

Despite the early hour, Sarah burst out laughing. You don’t have a freakin’ dog, Paddy. I bumped into Clemence the other day, and she told me that Millie, your black Lab, had died a couple of years ago.

Well maybe I got another one.

Not according to Clem. She said that Millie was her dog from childhood and you only took her for walks when you wanted to look innocent in the middle of the night.

Christ alive, I’ll have to have words with that girl of mine, besmirching my reputation and the family name like that.

Sarah grunted but she had a smile on her face. So, what’s the issue, Paddy? It had better be good at this ungodly hour. Who’s dead?

The butcher in Peel, Alan McGee.

What? Dead drunk?

No. He’s dead as mutton – and in his case you can take that literally. He’s got a large butcher’s cleaver buried in his head. Now, I don’t claim to be a medical expert, Inspector, but I can assure you that, from where I’m standing, he’s not looking too perky. Not too perky at all.

Sarah stood up straight as it dawned on her that Paddy Quirk was not messing about. And where exactly are you standing? she asked.

In Michael Street, right outside the butcher’s window. You know the one - McGee’s Traditional Butchers. He’s got a long, chilled display cabinet in the window and he’s currently lying on top of a dish of offal, and a selection of home-made pork and honey sausages, though they’re looking a bit squashed right now.

Paddy, are you taking the piss? Because if you are, I’ll come with a search warrant for that big shed at the back of your house. I’m sure I shall recover half of the items that have gone missing in Peel in the last six months.

I’m not messing, honest. I rang the nick in Douglas and got that dozy sergeant what’s-his-name. Sergeant Cowley or something.

Sarah muttered a silent curse. It was true that Bert Cowley was not the brightest or best of the Isle of Man Constabulary’s officers. And it was also true that he had held a grudge against Sarah for some years. Ever since he’d been turned down for promotion, and they had appointed Sarah as detective inspector when she was still just twenty-nine. She could well imagine him telling Paddy to phone her out of spite at this time in the morning. Jeez, what a way to start the week. Okay, I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. Don’t go anywhere, Paddy, I want to see what you saw, from where you saw it. Shaking her head, she red-buttoned the call and tossed her mobile onto the bed like a hot coal. And you can stop leering at my arse, Sparky. It’ll get you all horny and you’ll have to play with yourself till I get home.

Sparky laughed. I like you naked, Sarah. You’ve got one of those delightful bubble butts which gets men’s attention. Particularly mine. And the rest of you ain’t half bad either, from where I am. Decent knockers and all that. Oh, and you've got an awfully kissable mouth too. Are you sure you can’t make Paddy wait half an hour?

Sarah chuckled. She left the room to brush her teeth and make herself presentable. Sarah Flemons was thirty-seven. She was what most testosterone-rich men would call a hot MILF. Though it probably wasn't a good idea to say so in front of Sparky, who had spent a considerable part of his forty-eight years in Britain's Special Forces. Sarah's blue eyes, generous smile and plump lips were offset with medium-length, silky, strawberry-blonde hair. Though the average hormone-driven male would be more likely to spot her ample breasts before examining her face. Sarah played down her looks while she was working, preferring to dress in trainers, jeans and casual jackets but, as one or two of her colleagues had noted, she wasn't averse to using her looks if it got a result.

Forty minutes later, she drew to a halt in Peel’s main shopping street. Paddy Quirk was leaning against a wall on the other side of the road, smoking. Thought you said fifteen minutes.

I got delayed. Sarah replied, smiling to herself. She wasn’t about to tell Paddy that the delay was caused by Sparky sneaking into the bathroom and pressing up behind her as she brushed her teeth. With just a little encouragement, even she couldn’t resist a naughty ten minutes. But then she’d had to shower, so had driven like a lunatic the four miles to Peel to try and make up some of the time.

Sarah’s Capri GT XLR was what you might call an affectation. Built by Ford Motor Company in the year 1984, it was the 2.8 litre Brooklands Special Edition fuel-injection model with a bonnet bulge, and painted a patriotic British Racing green. The car sat close to the ground on 16-inch low-profile tyres that cost a small fortune. Its black leather seats were as comfortable as any in a Bentley, and it could fly like a bat out of hell. Sarah had inherited it from her father who, in his retirement, had settled for something top of the range with cream leather, and walnut. Sarah preferred the Capri. In fact, she loved the Capri. She loved it even more after the Isle of Man constabulary had equipped it with blue flashing lights behind the radiator grille. While driving it, Sarah was as happy as a four-year-old on Christmas Day. The car’s only weakness was for the back end to give way when cornering at speed. But it never stopped Sarah from pushing it to its limits.

So, where’s this body? she asked.

Paddy pointed across the road. In the chiller display, like I said.

Sarah turned around and stared into the butcher’s window. The inside of the shop was in darkness, but the early morning light was plenty good enough to see what Paddy was referring to. Sure enough, just beyond the window, inside a long display, grey-haired Alan McGee, the local butcher lay bereft of life on a bed of various cuts of beef, lamb, pork and chicken. Not to mention the squashed sausages that had caught Paddy’s one good eye.

I wonder how much a couple of pounds of alcoholic butcher costs nowadays? Paddy muttered sotto voce.

Aged meat, marinated in finest Scotch whisky? More than you or me could afford, Paddy. Sarah raised her eyebrows in question. Does he normally leave meat in the display overnight?

Why are you asking me? I’m usually tucked up in bed keeping Avril company.

No, Paddy, half the time, you’re creeping round the back alleys looking for any weakness in security that will give you access to places of interest to a professional tea leaf.

There you go again, besmirching my character.

So, any idea if Alan McGee normally leaves his meat on display overnight?

Paddy stifled a laugh. Can you rephrase that?

Oh, don’t be so childish, Sarah said, though she couldn’t hide her smile. Have you been inside? she asked.

Now why would I do that?

Because, since they closed the local branch of Isle of Man Bank, businesses have had to drive ten miles to Douglas to deposit their cash. You know, and I know that many of them will only make the trip a couple of times a week, so they keep cash takings somewhere on the premises.

Jeez, I never thought of that.

Of course you didn’t. So, come on then, have you been inside? Best you tell me now, Paddy, before we discover your fingerprints all over the place and accuse you of murder.

Paddy laughed. You’ve never ever found my prints at a crime scene, Inspector. For the simple reason that I’ve never been there.

Sarah glanced at Paddy’s hands. He wasn’t wearing gloves. She paused for a moment then asked. You stayed here all the time since you rang me?

I most certainly did. Just as instructed.

You didn’t rush off home, empty your pockets of your ill-gotten gains, and then come back? It’s less than five minutes to your house on foot.

Jeez, Inspector, is there no end to your accusations. I may have strayed a little when I was a young man, but all that’s been behind me for years.

Ha! Only because you’ve become craftier and not been caught.

I forgive you your wickedness. Meanwhile, what do you plan doing about poor old Alan? I don’t suppose he’s feeling the cold, but it isn’t doing the meat much good having him leak brain tissue all over it.

Sarah pulled a pack of sterile gloves from her pocket. She tore open the packet and pulled them on. Don’t go away, she instructed as she strode to the shop door.

You’ll probably have to force it open, Paddy said.

Or, said Sarah, reaching out and giving the knob a twist, not.

Now, that's pure laziness.

Sarah hid her surprise from Paddy. She, too, had expected it to be locked. When she pushed the door open the little bell tinkled to let the owner know that somebody had entered his shop. Not that Alan McGee would ever hear it again. She glanced back over her shoulder. Not like you to leave it loose, Paddy.

He laughed. No self-respecting thief would do that. But then again, no self-respecting thief would enter through the front door where he could be seen by anybody passing by. If I was going to enter that particular shop - and I do emphasise the word ‘if’ - I would walk round the block and up the side of the former post office. Nice sheltered little yard, overlooked by nobody, and giving access to several of these shops on Michael Street. That’s just an observation from a casual observer, of course. Not that I have a professional interest in such matters.

Sarah nodded. Thanks. I’ll make sure our forensics check that one out.

Paddy watched through the big plate glass window as the detective inspector flicked on the interior lights for a better look. She crossed the shop floor and approached the body. Bending down, she made a cursory check on his neck for a pulse, but she was just ticking the boxes. They both knew that Alan McGee was as dead as the carcasses in his chill room at the back. Dead bodies weren’t like unconscious ones. It was as if you could sense that something had fled from them, that some essential spark was now missing. Anyway, no-one could survive having a stainless-steel meat cleaver buried in their head. Any moment now, Detective Inspector Flemons would get on her phone and call the coroner, the police pathologist, and the forensics team.

Sarah checked her watch. It was quarter past six. They wouldn’t appreciate having their sleep disturbed. But, too bad. Nor did she. It was never a convenient time to die.

From the darkened window of one of the first-floor apartments, above a shop on the opposite side of the narrow street, a woman’s voice whispered, Code Pirate. Calling all units. Code Pirate.

After a pause, a male voice answered, What’s up Bunny.

Code Pirate at McGee’s Traditional Butchers. I repeat. This is a Code Pirate.

That’s Alan’s place. What's the emergency?

It’s Alan himself. His body’s lying in the chill cabinet in the front window.

His body?

Yes, his body. And that Paddy Quirk man is standing in the street. He’s been there for at least an hour, but the police have only just turned up. At least I assume she’s police. She’s gone inside and turned on the lights so I can see poor Alan properly now. There’s no question he’s dead, and Quirk’s involved somehow.

Damn! Alan always reckoned we’d get Quirk one day, but it looks like Quirk has taken matters into his own hands and got him first.

Maybe Alan caught him in the shop stealing and Quirk had to shut him up.

Hmmm. That’s a possibility. I’ll call a meeting for midday.

Whereabouts.

In the deanery as usual. Can you tell as many of the others as you can contact?

CHAPTER ONE

Sarah stood aside as the police pathologist, Angela Cairns, arrived. Angela doubled as the senior scene of crime officer on the island, which was only thirty-five miles long and ten miles wide. She not only collected the evidence, she also headed up the forensic laboratory. But many people steered well away from her, particularly if she had been roused early for any reason. She was sharp-tongued at the best of times, and it was said that she sharpened it even more every morning after brushing her teeth.

What sort of bloody time is this to get a woman out of bed? she muttered as she brushed past Sarah.

Sarah glanced at her watch and grinned. It’s seven-twenty-three, Angela. And don’t look to me for sympathy. I’ve been up since quarter past five.

And what’s this fucking mess in the display cabinet?

It’s a body, Angela. You might have seen one or two before if you cast your mind back.

I know it’s a fucking body. I can see that. Christ, you’re a waste of valuable fucking oxygen, Sarah Flemons. You wouldn’t know what was good for you even if it came with a user manual. What I mean is, have you ever seen a body with a bloody meat cleaver parked in its skull before? Who is he?

He was Mister Alan McGee, owner of this fine meat emporium - McGee’s Traditional Butchers.

And he’s leaking stuff all over the product. No respect for his customers I’d say.

Sarah tutted. Black humour was Angela’s way of dealing with death each day. But few deaths were as messy as this one and Angela was already in fine form. Sarah planned to give the scene of crime officer a wide berth while she poked and prodded at what remained on Master Butcher McGee. She stepped outside and noted with satisfaction that, as requested, Detective Sergeant Josie Armstrong had arrived and was organising a couple of the local bobbies to block access to the street fifty metres away. Further along, the restaurants, antique shops and convenience stores stopped, and the houses began. A sudden change in tempo that looked and felt like another country.

Josie Armstrong was a reliable sergeant who would, one day soon, make inspector. She was average height, but the ‘average’ stopped there. At thirty-one, she had a small soft face with a dimple in the chin and no wrinkle lines. Delicate hands - full lips. Lush fair hair gathered in a loose bun at the back of her head. Slender figure with a graceful carriage. The lady had piercing, intelligent eyes and, when off duty, dressed in a way that only women who were confident and happy in their skin could get away with – silky blouses and tight skirts – making her look like the coolest copper in the world. Josie Armstrong was very easy to admire, and most men with a pulse did exactly that. Including the two older uniformed constables who were fixing blue and white police tape across the narrow street. They obeyed her every command without question, like slavering lapdogs.

Josie spotted Sarah and made her way up the slope towards her. Morning, Boss. What sort of way is this to start a day?

Sarah sighed. Don’t you start. I’ve just crossed swords with Angela who seems to think it’s all somehow my fault.

Josie laughed. She was especially attractive when she laughed, with her unusual eyes and her dimples. Hell, she was attractive any time. I saw her arrive, she said, so got as far away as possible. But I’d agree with her that it’s an ungodly hour to start work.

Don’t blame me, Josie. Blame whoever took a dislike to Alan McGee. Do you know anything about him?

Only what those two local bobbies told me. He liked a drink and he could be a miserable old fart, it seems. One of the luminaries in the local Civic Mission group.

Civic Mission?

Like Neighbourhood Watch, only more aggressive. Changed the face of Peel in more ways than one, they just told me.

Who told you? How do you mean?

Josie called out to one of the two policemen at the end of the street. Don, come up here a minute, will you? When he arrived, she introduced him to Sarah. Constable Don Bailey, this is Detective Inspector Sarah Flemons. She’s taken over the western division since Inspector Cartwright died.

The constable nodded. Mornin’ Ma’am.

Morning Constable. Sergeant Armstrong was just telling me that Mister McGee, the deceased, changed the face of Peel. Can you explain that to me?

Certainly, Ma’am. I gather you’re based in Douglas, so maybe you didn’t know that, just a few years ago, Peel used to be considered bandit country.

Sarah laughed. I live in St. John’s only a few miles away and, yes, I am aware of Peel’s past reputation. But it was hardly anything life-threatening. I’m not up to date because, as Josie just said, I’ve only recently taken over this area after the death of Des Cartwright. The last interesting thing I heard about Peel was those two brain-dead scrotes Elvis Kerruish and Ozzy Cheshire.

What happened there? Josie asked.

Don Bailey laughed. He was a solidly built man in his early forties, and his laugh sounded like a sonic boom. I remember it well. The pair of them got pissed, stole a van, drove the wrong way down a one-way street, damaging several parked cars. He chuckled to himself at the memory. Then they climbed over the rear gate of the pub, waving at the CCTV as they went. Stole some crates of Corona and Carlsberg but fell over and broke half the bottles. Took a pee in the marina, then turned up an hour later in Douglas. They’d rolled the stolen van on its side destroying the rest of their beer. Our lot turned up to find four wheelchairs, which they appear to have stolen from the old people’s home, gathering speed down the hill.

What the hell were they going to do with four wheelchairs? Josie asked with a grin on her face.

Plus seven garden gnomes. One of them got decapitated in the accident. And you know how newsagents stock newspapers on sale-and-return, then each night they bundle up the unsold papers for the delivery driver to take back?

She nodded.

Well, they had two bundles of day-old newspapers in the van. Plus half a dozen orange and white road cones removed from a building site a little way from where they crashed.

What the hell were they thinking?

Nothing from the sound of it. I don’t think that the ability to think was on their CVs. It also seems that when they rolled the van it hit two parked cars and shunted them into a Toyota which in turn hit a Vauxhall Astra.

Oh, for gawd’s sake, Josie said, laughing out loud.

"When our guys got there, idiot number