What Will Be: Will Peters

By Linda Coles

A brutal murder. A friend in jeopardy. A steadfast sleuth.

 

When a new cold case initiative is launched, cab driver and gravedigger Will Peters has no idea how close he is to a crime committed nearly twenty years ago.

A man ferociously beaten to death in a derelict shoe factory.

Someone knows what went on that night. That someone needs to start talking.

With the help of ex-con Birdie Fox and elderly hard-nosed trade unionist Stanley Kipper, Will sets about finding them.

But it's bittersweet and Will soon finds himself with an impossible moral dilemma. Tell the police what he's uncovered or keep quiet and pray they don't arrive at the same conclusion?

Is he strong enough to decide?

If you enjoy rich characters and a little humour sprinkled through your British crime, then you'll love the Will Peters series. Perfect for fans of Richard Osman's The Thursday Murder Club and The Man Who Died Twice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linda Coles
• Release date: Aug 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9780473622022

Book preview

One

1998

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Borys loved a busy shift on a Saturday night. What he detested, though, was the lingering stench a beer-pickled individual left behind, a vapour trail that assaulted his nostrils and irritated his sinuses. Waiting outside the pub for his next fare, Borys spritzed the inside of his minicab with homemade herb air freshener. It was decidedly more pleasant than the chemical odour of fake pine trees and cheaper too. A woman caught his eye as she made her way across and Borys opened his window.

Aggie?

Yes, I’m Aggie, she said, opening the rear door and sliding along the back seat. Her skirt rode up a little and Borys tried not to notice via his rear-view mirror as he waited for her to fasten her seat belt. He’d observed far more intimate goings-on in the back of his cab in the past, some thinking he’d want to watch. Borys couldn’t think of anything more embarrassing. He pulled away from the kerb and headed in the direction of her ordered destination.

Good night? he ventured. Not every customer wanted to chat.

No, not tonight, not really. I like it a bit busier, it’s too quiet, she said, jabbing with her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the pub she’d just left. She busied herself searching for something in her bag and Borys took the hint that further conversation wasn’t required.

They drove in silence until they reached Dunster Street, where Borys pulled over. The old Hawkins factory loomed above them, dark and dank in its decrepit state, the lower-level windows boarded up, the other two floors’ peppered with gaping holes. Kids and stones will have obliged. The red brick looked depressing in the amber glow filtering off from a nearby street lamp. In its heyday, it and the other shoe and leather factories of Northampton would have employed almost half of the town’s population. Now it, and many others like it, stood abandoned, the sound of tools at work long gone. One day somebody would take it on, perhaps restore it, turn it into housing. Aggie handed over a handful of coins.

Thank you. I sit here until you are inside, Borys said, his Eastern European accent as strong as the first day he’d made England his home. It was the sensible thing to do and the delay of several seconds was not as important as her safety. The June evening was a warm one and Borys wound his window down fully to take in the night air as he waited.

A dull thump.

He waited until she’d stepped inside before preparing to move away. The odd noise caught his ear again and he listened.

Another thump followed by an oomph. Or was it? Borys couldn’t be sure and he glanced round to see if he could see where it was coming from. There was nothing obvious, nobody on the street and yet the oomph sounded again. He turned his engine off so he could listen better, and it thumped again, this time a little clearer. Borys glanced at the old factory and its broken lower windows. Was it coming from inside? He quietly stepped out of his car and moved towards the oppressive building. Being that bit closer, Borys could hear the thumping noise clearly but there was something else now. Footsteps, and it sounded like they belonged to more than one person. Unable to see through the boarded lower windows, he slipped quietly along the edge of the building to see if there was another way to look inside without actually going through the front door.

There wasn’t. Then the noises stopped, and all was quiet for a time. After a long moment or two, and with nothing else to see or hear, Borys gave up and made his way back to his waiting car. He was just about to reach out and turn the engine on when he noticed three people leave the factory via the main entrance. Their shadows moved closer. They were headed towards him. Glad his internal car light had gone off, he slithered down in his seat. Whoever they were, they didn’t appear to notice him parked up and carried on past. Borys repositioned his rear-view mirror so he could observe them without being seen himself. The three got into a vehicle parked a little further back and then pulled away. Borys thought it odd the driver hadn’t turned their headlights on as they drove off towards the town centre. What had they been doing inside the old factory so late? He’d got the feeling one was a female, the tinny sound of women’s heels on the pavement as they’d walked past giving her away. Perhaps the trio had been having some fun on their own, met up in a local pub nearby and knew of the empty place. He’d heard of stranger things than that.

Not your business, Borys said to himself, sitting up properly and starting the engine. Whoever they were, they’d left, and he still had a shift to finish. He pulled away, glancing at the main entrance way and the Royal Crest sitting proudly above the door as he drove past.

Had he gone with his instinct to look inside and spend a few extra seconds like he’d afforded Aggie, he might have been able to help the man lying there.

Before he died.

Two

Present day

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Will watched from the driver’s seat as Sanjeev headed inside without so much as a backward glance and closed his front door. While Will didn’t need a brazen and hearty wave goodbye, he had hoped for a nod or a raised hand at least. Once again, he was disappointed.

He’d been picking Sanjeev up every Monday morning and taking him to his counselling appointment at the general hospital for as long as he could remember. Each time, Will waited in his vehicle patiently for Sanjeev to feel confident enough the front door was locked exactly as he liked it to be and make his way to the car where he’d wipe the seat three times before sitting down. It took several minutes. The reverse journey, an hour later, was much the same. Will was keen to help the lad, and so on each occasion the two met, Will saw it as an opportunity to engage his passenger in conversation, even if his efforts were seldom reciprocated.

Sanjeev Kumar was a quiet man. Will was concerned about his mental health since he knew the lad led an almost hermitic existence with precious little interaction with other human beings. Will couldn’t interfere in his life, nor could he push his friendship on him, but he could be patient and slowly gain his passenger’s trust by attempting light conversation. Maybe one day he’d have the tiniest of breakthroughs, receive a smile even. As Will pulled away from the house, which had an impeccable view of Aldi’s car park, he vowed to up his efforts when he picked Sanjeev up next.

Right now, it was time for lunch and a couple of local fares before his next regular customer at two o’clock. He smiled at the thought of her. There was no one quite like Birdie Fox.

A few minutes later, he’d parked in a town centre spot and was making his way across to the food van in Market Square. In his view, they made the best rolls in town and his order would help support the local shelter Refresh at the same time. He made a point of visiting the van whenever he was close enough to do so. He did draw a line at buying their fancy coffees though, and generally drank filter from the flask he carried with him from home.

He added a packet of ready salted to his order and waited, spending the time watching people as they made their way through the square and on with the rest of their lives. A familiar head of hair caught his attention as it made its way towards him, the ever-present smile on full beam. With a smile to match, Will took a couple of steps forward and reached out to shake the older man’s hand.

Borys, good to see you, Will said as the two men shook vigorously.

You too, my friend, Borys said, sounding like he’d left Eastern Europe only days ago, his accent unchanged after living in the town for more than three decades. A fellow minicab driver, Will had known him for almost two of them.

Your lunch, Will, a woman’s voice called from the van. He took the brown paper bag, thanking her with a smile almost as generous as Borys’s.

Fancy joining me? Will asked as he pointed to an empty bench not far away. I can highly recommend the rolls, he added, not that Borys needed any encouragement in that department. He too had been eating at the van for almost as long as Will had.

You save bench, I’ll join you, Borys said, waving his hand in the direction of where they should sit. Will mock saluted and made his way over to wait while his old friend was served. Placing his lunch by his side, he retrieved a newspaper that had been discarded further along and checked the date. It was today’s. He scanned the front page then turned his attention to the stories inside. A headline caught his eye, and he began to read the short article. He was halfway through it when Borys sat down beside him and unwrapped his lunch. They looked like an odd couple, Will towering above the squat man, even while seated.

Anything of interest? the older man asked before taking a bite.

Perhaps, Will said thoughtfully. It says here that the police are adding extra resources to a new initiative and are to start work on a bunch of cold cases from 1990 to 2010. They’re calling it Operation Ginger.

Borys grunted as he ate.

It seems they’re looking back over them because technological advancements in recent years. Will folded the paper in half and turned his attention to his own brown bag. I bet they’ll catch a few that thought perhaps they’d got away with it, maybe even some serial offenders. With DNA, apparently they can find culprits via links to other family members now, Will went on. We share a bunch of the same markers and have a few unique ones of our own so they can see who’s a close match – like your brother, for instance. He tossed the paper to one side and took a bite of his own roll.

How do you know this? Borys asked.

"I just know. Radio, The Chase, all sorts. The newspaper, he said, pointing to the one he’d discarded a moment ago. How do you know anything?"

"A bit like movie, Slumdog Millionaire. Every question boy answered, they showed how he knew, what had happened. Clever."

I remember it well. I doubt I could do that in real life though – trace back how I know a particular thing. But the DNA thing? It happened to a friend of mine actually. Will took a moment to think about the young girl, and what the DNA result had done to her world some years ago. She’d be about the same age as him now. Chloe, she was called. I doubt my story would be as interesting as the boy’s in the movie was, he finished, his mind back to the present.

It was Borys’s turn to think for a moment. What years did you say? What years are they looking at?

From 1990 to 2010, I believe. Will opened his ready salted and turned to offer his friend the packet, but Borys had gazed off into the distance and didn’t appear to be paying attention.

Borys? He tried again. Are you okay, Borys?

The older man turned to face him. Will immediately saw something flicker across his friend’s face, something he couldn’t quite decipher. It wasn’t sadness, it was something else. Worry. The older man was visibly concerned about something. Borys stood and placed his half-eaten roll where he’d been sitting. Quietly, he said, Often, you regret what you don’t do, not what you do do.

Will stopped chewing as he watched the older man walk away without another word.

Three

As Will watched Borys head off into the distance, he reflected for a moment on what had just happened, but nothing sprang to mind. He glanced across at the discarded newspaper once again and pulled it close. Opening it, he found the article and read the dates out loud. Borys had asked him to repeat them. The two things had to be connected.

What makes the dates so upsetting? Will said to himself. 1990 to 2010, a twenty-year period… All he could think of was that Borys had arrived in the country during that time. Could it be something to do with that? Racial abuse, perhaps? He knew there’d been unrest back then, some locals not appreciative of so many ‘foreigners’ in their town, groups of men congregating on street corners, not an English word spoken between them. It had been intimidating at times and unsettling for some people.

Will finished his roll and glanced down at the remains of Borys’s half-eaten meal. While he hated to see food wasted, he didn’t want it himself and so broke it up into small pieces and tossed it to a group of sparrows waiting nearby. A grey-beige mass jumped onto it, tiny wings flapping furiously, and in an instant the sandwich was gone. Instinctively, they knew there would be no more, and the small flock left to find another human at lunch. He picked up the newspaper, placed it along with his food wrappers in a bin and then headed back to his car, which was parked up nearby.

His phone pinged with a fare request and he glanced at the address, Pavilion Drive on the Brackmills Industrial Estate. He’d better hurry if he was going to do the pick-up and still be in time for his two o’clock regular. He clicked accept and fastened his seat belt, Borys and his odd reaction firmly on his mind.

Navigating his way through shopping-trolley carts that filled the narrow town centre streets, he finally hit the A508 and pushed the accelerator, speeding towards his destination. He knew the address well – it was the offices of the Chronicle newspaper, the very same paper he’d been flicking through over lunch. Perhaps the article had been written by his next passenger? A journalist needing a ride? He could only ask, no harm in that. Maybe they could shed a little more light on Operation Ginger.

Will stopped outside the main entrance. It looked like any other three-storey unit on a modern business park, though Will doubted the newspaper occupied the whole building. Sales of physical newspapers were dwindling as readers moved to the more up-to-date version online, himself included. That was progress, the evolution of a product or service. As Darwin had once said, It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent that survives. It is the one that is the most adaptable to change. If industry didn’t change, dock workers would still be unloading wooden tea chests one at a time instead of using the containers of today and a forty-metre-high crane to shift them. Sure, it had put many out of a job, but progress created new jobs that hadn’t existed previously. Now someone had to upload the stories to the website, and it wouldn’t be the same person as the original typesetter from years gone by. Will smiled at the thought. Another of his regular customers, a man named Stanley, was a newspaper enthusiast if ever there was such a thing.

Will scanned the area to see if his fare was waiting nearby and noticed a man walking towards his vehicle. He jumped out and opened the rear door before his customer could put his hand on the handle.

Stuart McGregor? Will Peters, your driver, he announced then beamed, waiting beside the opened door. With any passenger, he introduced himself in the same slightly over-the-top way, figuring they’d remember him for it when they came to book their next cab ride. Generally, it worked. The man, formally dressed and in his late twenties, Will assumed, smiled back at the rather proper introduction, and climbed inside. Will could tell he was amused. A good start. He got back in the driver’s side and pulled away, destination the train station.

Off anywhere nice? he enquired. It was one of Will’s favourite and easiest conversation starters.

Manchester, actually, to a not-so-glamorous meeting at another newspaper, he said. To Will’s surprise, the man changed the subject almost immediately. "But tell me, you look familiar. Have you been a subject in the Chron perhaps? Only I’m pretty good with faces."

You’re a reporter then, I’m guessing?

One and the same. Stuart McGregor, at your service, he said, equally as formally as Will’s own introduction. What was the story you featured in? He wasn’t going to let it drop.

The homeless lads that were murdered recently. I volunteer at Refresh, and kind of got involved.

Ah, I thought I recognised you, you’re Will Peters! Of course. A bit of a local hero then.

I wouldn’t go so far as hero. Just wanted to make sure the lads’ deaths were taken seriously. Will never enjoyed talking about himself and was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. While three young men had lost their lives, he liked to think his part in solving the crime had prevented any more deaths. It wasn’t something he liked to discuss, the lads had been known to him. Thankfully, his passenger must have read the change in atmosphere and instead of pushing for more, chose to watch the town fly by as they sped down the A45 towards the roundabout and on towards the station itself.

Will was happy to change the subject to something else. I was reading only an hour or so ago about Operation Ginger and the police re-examining a bunch of cold cases. Do you know much more about it? Will glanced in his rear-view mirror, hoping to catch his passenger’s eye, but Stuart seemed intent on watching the town go by. Had he rudely cut him off earlier? He didn’t think so, and assumed the man was thinking about the upcoming meeting.

Eventually, Stuart spoke. I didn’t write the piece, sorry, a colleague of mine did. Are you interested in a particular crime, is it one being looked at?

No, just morbid curiosity on my part. You hear of cases going unsolved and forgotten about, and I’m sure there’ll be plenty of victims’ families still looking for answers over the years. It must be hard for them, plus the perpetrator gets away without punishment. Will navigated the building traffic; they were not far away from the station and the end of their conversation. He had an idea. Is there a list that you might be aware of, perhaps, of the cases up for review?

If there is, I’m not privy to it. I guess you’d have to talk to the police.

Will watched as his passenger scratched his chin thoughtfully.

Not a bad idea though, Stuart said. Could be some juicy ones on it, a story angle…

His passenger seemed to sit up straighter, enthused again. The man liked the theory.

I’m sure you’d have some sway getting hold of that particular list, in your line of work. Surely the police would appreciate the publicity.

Will could tell the young man was mulling the suggestion over, he knew the facial tells well. He waited a couple of beats before speaking again.

Imagine the stories you could uncover… Will pulled into the station forecourt and slowed to a standstill. Quickly, he jumped out to open the rear door, his business card ready. Look, I’d be interested to see the list when you get it, he said, handing the card over.

Who said I’ll be getting the list? There was a definite smirk on Stuart’s lips.

Your own face just did.

Stuart couldn’t help but smile, he’d been rumbled. You should be a detective, he shouted back over his shoulder as he walked off. Will raised his hand in reply and watched him enter the station.

Will needed that list. Whatever had bothered Borys earlier had to be on it.

Four

She wasn’t one to read the newspaper – not in its physical form, that is. Online suited her better. She preferred the more up-to-date headlines and not being dictated to by the paper’s layout. Still, the article had caught her eye, as it had others, the news of cold cases being looked at again. It wasn’t the type of news she wanted to hear; the story best laid buried, but now it appeared it could be resurrected.

Had she the power to steer them down a blind alley or, better yet, stall them completely, never let the case see the light of day? If the full story were ever revealed, everything would be ruined – lives would be plunged into turmoil, embarrassment and shame would burst like a storm cloud.

She sat back to think. With her connections, there’d be a way through, of that she felt sure. She searched her phone then tapped the number and waited for it to connect. As the detective answered, a smile spread itself wide across her face as she expertly danced around the question she needed an answer to. She was good at getting what she wanted, negotiating her way to something. So much so that those that gave up the information rarely knew they had done so until it was too late.

As what she needed to know filled her ears, she knew there was no point asking for the case to be ignored. What reason could she give? And on whose authority? Certainly not her own. No, she’d find a way to stop the crime being investigated again herself. For so many of their futures, it was imperative it never be scrutinised. What happened back then would never be uncovered while breath filled her lungs.

Armed with the confirmation, she set about forming a plan. There had to be a weak point – she’d enter there.

Five

Will was tempted to scoot over to the police station and ask for the list himself, but he had to get to Sainsbury’s for his next pick-up, and his favourite older woman. While Louise and his four young daughters were most certainly top of his list, Birdie Fox was top of his female ‘over seventy’ list. In fact, there was only the one name on it. A pleasure to be around without exception, she was the rare kind of person he always looked forward to driving.

He had ten minutes spare before he needed to be at their regular spot, so he pulled into a nearby parking space and headed into the grocery store. There was enough time to refill his thermos for his afternoon shift and the coffee in the café was pretty decent. As he waited behind an elderly couple to be served, he heard a female voice call his name, and it sounded familiar. Will turned to see a wrinkled hand wave lightly, beckoning him over. His eyes followed along the arm to see who it belonged to and he instantly broke into an easy smile. Birdie Fox was sitting nearby, and there was someone else at her table – a man. Will knew she lived alone, so assumed it was a friend. He made his way over and bent to peck her cheek.

Darling Will, she said, standing to give him a quick squeeze and plant red lipstick on him. She looked fit and trim in black cotton trousers and a plain white shirt. The sleeves were rolled to her elbows, and he noticed her badly scarred hand. Prison napalm, or boiled sugar water, a painful and enduring mix. She’d never told him why she’d been treated to such an attack during her stint inside and Will had never asked. All he knew was she’d stabbed her husband to death one afternoon many years ago. Perhaps the gravy had been lumpy that Sunday. She’d eventually confide in him, he felt sure, and not one to pry, he’d wait until then.

Afternoon, Birdie, he said, noticing the absence of bags and smiling at her table guest at the same time. The man stood, following Birdie’s lead no doubt. He offered an outstretched hand and Will took it.

"Peter Willow, but my close friends call me Windy – you know, after Wind in the Willows."

Will smiled. He’d heard the name before and instantly knew where Peter Willow fitted into Birdie’s life. Her arresting officer from years ago. They were now meeting socially.

Will Peters, another ‘Will’ in Birdie’s life, he said easily.

Peter cocked his head slightly, likely wondering how Will knew they were both in her life. Birdie did the honours.

Will knows all about my past and where you fit in, she explained, adding a mischievous grin.

Ah, I see. Good to know, and good to meet you too, he finished before taking his seat again. Birdie joined him and instructed Will to do the same.

Where’s your shopping? Or have you not done it yet? Will asked.

In the pick-up area. I did it online earlier, aren’t I clever!

Will knew she liked to browse the shelves but smiled in reply anyway. Maybe she’d preferred coffee with Peter instead, though no doubt she could have done both.

I was just telling Windy about you when you walked in. Birdie was obviously classed as a close friend of his.

I’m not sure there’s anything to tell, is there? Will said before smiling.

You underestimate yourself. But anyway, I don’t want to keep you from working, and I’m conscious of your time, so perhaps we should get a move on? Standing, she was ready to leave.

Always was the bossy one, Peter said as the two men stood to depart. Nice to meet you, Will. Perhaps our paths will cross again sometime. If we both know this one, he said, nodding not unkindly at Birdie, I suspect they might.

Did that mean they were spending more time together? Otherwise, what else could he mean? Will didn’t enquire. Will replied with, No doubt, I’ll look forward to it.

Toodle-pip then.

Birdie and Will watched him leave then Will caught her