The Paderborn Connection (2 page)

Later that morning, Mick called them together and they all sat down around his desk.

“Bob, anything from mini cabs to or from restaurants?”

“Nothing yet boss but I've got some calls to make this afternoon.”

“Emma, restaurants?”

“Nothing, nobody remembers a man fitting the description, again I've got some return visits.”

“Matt any joy with parked cars?”

“Nothing yet but no tickets are issued after six on Saturday or on Sunday in some parts of the town. I've left a message downstairs to pass on details of all cars issued with tickets in the town centre, I'll also finish checking the clamping companies.”

“Emma can you check the whereabouts of the other key holders at the supermarket including the warehouse manager.”

Emma asked if you had to climb over the security barrier to get into the yard if it was locked.

“Good point Emma. No you don't actually, there is a gap wide enough to walk through between the barrier and the wall,” replied Mick.

*

On Monday afternoon Mick went down to the front desk and asked if there had been any reports of a missing person matching the description of the murdered man, the answer was no not yet.

Emma returned from the supermarket and reported to Mick.

“I spoke to the store manager about the other key holders, one of the security guards was in the middle of his holiday in Majorca, the other one was in Southend with his girlfriend who happens to be a till supervisor and several members of staff confirmed that she had shown them photos of themselves taken on the beach in swimming costumes. I suppose the photos could have been taken last weekend but last weekend was very wet and windy. The warehouse manager says he was at home with his wife and kids – do you want me to check that out boss?”

“We might need to later but we have more important things to do at the moment.”

“OK everybody,” said Mick “we must find out who the victim is as a matter of priority otherwise we'll get nowhere.”

*

That evening Emma and Bob went to the two or three restaurants that were closed earlier. The first call was to the Peking Palace, about two hundred yards from where the body was found, they asked to speak to the waiters who were on duty on Saturday night. No joy with the first one but when they described the victim to the second one, tall thick set man, dark hair cut short, grey suit, light blue shirt, red tie with navy blue diagonal stripes, he said he thought he remembered him.

“Was he with anybody or did he eat alone?” asked Bob.

“We don't get many people eating alone on a Saturday night, or men wearing a suit and tie. If it's who I think it is there were two of them, sitting at table six, over there near the picture of the dragon,” said the waiter.

“Can you remember who paid the bill?”

“Yes, the man you are asking about.”

“Did he pay cash or by plastic?” asked Emma, hardly able to contain her excitement.

“Card I think.”

“Well can you check please,” said Bob.

The waiter called the manager out from the kitchen and Bob asked him to check anybody who paid by card from table six on Saturday night. There were three in all, one for fifty nine pounds seventy, one for twenty eight pounds eighty and the third for thirty six pound fifty five.

“Can you remember which one was theirs?” he asked the waiter.

“Not the fifty nine pounds, that was a young couple celebrating a birthday or anniversary, they had starters and a bottle of Cava. The woman was giggling and said the bubbles were going up her nose. It was one of the other two.”

“Well can you check which?”

The manager went to his office in the back and came back a few minutes later. The thirty six pounds bill was for beef in black bean sauce, chicken in pineapple and a bottle of red wine. The twenty eight pounds bill was for crispy sea bass, prawns and two glasses of white wine.

Bob took copies of all three bills together with the credit card details and drew a large asterisk on the copy of the thirty six pounds bill.

“And you're sure the man we have described, the man in the grey suit, is the one who paid the bill?”

“Yes,” said the waiter, “definitely.”

“Can you describe the other one?” Emma asked.

“Light coloured hair, collar length, very smart expensive looking clothes.”

“Can you remember anything else about them?”

“Yes, when I heard them talking your man called the other one major.”

*

They went back to Hatfield and Emma got on the phone to the credit card issuing banks, and after going through the usual security performance got the names and addresses of the three card holders.

The one she wanted was the man who paid the thirty six pounds bill – a name Phillip Austen. The only problem was there was no proper address.

“There must be an address,” said Mick, “you can't have a credit card without giving an address.”

Emma said, “the card is registered to Phillip Austen – 63812755 P. G. Austen 1
^st
Regiment RMP BFPO22.”

Mick explained that BFPO stands for British Forces Post Office, the number is where the barracks, airbase or whatever is.

Bob, who was at his laptop, announced that “BFPO22 is an army base in Paderborn, Germany.”

Mick asked if the copy of the credit card slip the manager at the restaurant had given them showed the time that the bill was paid. Emma looked at it carefully and said 20.08.2011 and 22.19.34.

“Right then,” said Mick “we know that Phillip Austen was alive and well at twenty past ten so was probably killed between then and eleven o'clock.”

“Emma have you got an address for the couple who were eating at that table before Mr Austen and his guest, we need to speak to them , we better make absolutely sure that the dead man is Phillip Austen. You can forget about the first couple. Can you get onto Phillip Austen's bank and request copies of his bank and credit card statements for the last twelve months. Also ask if they have on file any other address, he may have opened the account in the UK and merely gave a change of address when he was posted to Germany.”

Emma produced the address of the couple, a Mr & Mrs Mason, who ate at table six before the victim and his guest and Matt Witherley went there immediately. It was Mrs Mason, a tiny woman in jeans and a red jumper, who answered the door.

“Mrs Mason? Sorry to trouble you, I'm Detective Constable Witherley. We're investigating an incident that happened in Stevenage town centre on Saturday night. We understand from the manager at the Peking Palace that you ate there.”

“That's right,” said Mrs Mason,

“All I need to ask you is did you see the couple who sat at the table after you, were they waiting for a seat as you were leaving?”

“No I don't think so, but I could ring my husband at the bus depot where he works.”

“No, that's OK Mrs Mason, it was a bit of a long shot but we have to explore every avenue so to speak.”

Matt returned to the incident room and reported that the Masons couldn't help but at least Mr Mason was alive and well and at work.

“Any joy with mini cabs,” said Mick

“No nothing at all,” replied Bob.

“Matt, any luck yet with parking tickets or the clamping firms, we're looking for a car registered to or hired by Phillip Austen. Chase it up will you, we need to know how he got to the restaurant which might tell us where he was living and then we can search for something to explain motive. I'd better warn the Chief Superintendent that we might have to contact the military if the victim is in the army. Didn't the waiter say that he called the person dining with him major?”

“True,” said Bob

“So was it two soldiers meeting socially, was the major the killer or just the last person to see him before he was killed.”

“If the major was the killer, are we looking for someone from the gay community?” said Matt.

“Haven't you been on the equality course yet?” said Emma, much to the amusement of Mick and Bob.

“Sorry?” said a bemused looking Matt.

“Things have changed since the battle of Waterloo, I do believe they allow females to become officers nowadays,” said Mick.

“Emma, your notes on the interview with the manager and waiter at the Peking Palace describe the major as having light coloured hair wearing expensive clothes but it doesn't say if it was a man or a woman.”

“Well I assumed he was describing a woman,” said Emma.

“Never, ever assume DC Stavely, always ask.”

“Sorry boss I'll go back later tonight and ask him.”

“While you're about it try and get an idea of age.”

Mick motioned to Bob to follow him out to the gent's toilet,

“Bob, Emma only transferred to CID a few weeks ago and has a lot to learn but for Christ's sake you've got ten years in. I can't believe you got a description of a person of interest but didn't establish whether it was a man or a woman.”

“Sorry Boss I was looking at the three credit card slips the manager had just given me, bollocking received and accepted.”

“Well keep an eye on Emma, we can't have cock-ups like this again.”

Emma was first in the next morning and as Mick came in she immediately reported that the major was definitely a woman, aged between thirty and forty. The waiter thought she was British but he couldn't be sure.

At nine o'clock Mick knocked on the door of D.C.S Bonds office.

“Come in,” she called “Ah, come in Michael and take a seat. How are we doing with this murder?”

Mick outlined the progress so far. “We know where and how he was killed. We know where he was in the hours before he died and we have a possible name, Phillip Austen of the Royal Military Police. We have no idea of motive.”

“What about suspects?” asked D.C.S Bond.

“One possible,” replied Mick “He may have been dining with a major and our probable victim was serving in the army, based in Germany at some time as that was where his credit card was registered to BFPO22 which apparently is in a place called Paderborn in Germany.”

“My problem,” said Mick “is that to confirm that the victim is Phillip Austen I will have to go to the military and request a photograph of him pending formal identification by his next of kin. Also, he has been murdered, possibly even by a serving officer who may or may not be British, I'm not sure about the procedure in such things. I don't want to go in asking questions only to find that the Chief Constable has had a call from somebody at the MOD.”

“Quite,” said D.C.S Bond “leave it with me but carry on with your other lines of enquiry. I'll talk to my contacts at the press and ask them to give the story low priority, we don't know what we are dealing with here. A Saturday night stabbing could be for any number of reasons.”

“With respect Ma'am I've told my team not to describe it as a stabbing,” and he described in detail how he was killed.

“Charming, said D.C.S Bond. “Fair enough though, it's always important to get people in the right mind-set.”

When he returned to the incident room he was met by Matt Witherley,

“I think I might have something on his car boss. PK Clamping rang back a few minutes ago. They clamped a silver Mondeo parked on the staff car park of Harrisons the accountants just around the corner from the Peking Palace. It's a hire car. I've been on to the rental company and it was rented for one week from last Thursday by a P. Austen who paid by credit card – the same one that he used in the Peking Palace. The address he gave was c/o the Ivy Hotel, Cambridge. He picked the car up from Stansted Airport on the Thursday morning at ten forty, mileage reading was four thousand three hundred and thirty six.”

“Get the car in to our compound for a thorough examination, Bob and I are off to Cambridge.”

*

They pulled into the car park of the Ivy Hotel, a four star hotel on the edge of town and went to reception. The cleaners had obviously just finished, the place smelt very strongly of polish. After showing their warrant cards and introducing themselves to the receptionist, she called for the manager who took them into his office.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“You have a guest staying here a Mr P Austen. Checked in last Thursday?”

The manager turned to his computer and confirmed that was the case.

“We believe he booked a room some time in advance as he gave this as his address when hiring a car at Stansted.”

“That's correct the booking was made on the Tuesday.”

“What address did he give?”

“A BFPO number, it was booked through an agent in Germany.”

“Do you have the address of this agency?”

“No, not to hand, it's done on the internet and we have taken bookings from them on numerous occasions without any problems What I can tell you is that they deal almost exclusively with large organisations rather than individuals as long as the credit card details as given are approved that's all we really need.”

“Has Mr Austen had any visitors?”

“Not that I know about but then the bar and restaurant are public rooms, visitors wouldn't have to sign in.”

“Has he had any meals charged to his room?”

Again the manager turned to his computer,

“Yes, on Thursday and Friday but nothing since.”

“Can you tell if the meals were for one or more people?”

“Thursday and Friday he seems to have dined alone but no meals since then.”

“No there wouldn't be,” said Mick “I'm afraid Mr Austen was found dead on Saturday night, that's why we are here.”

“Good God,” said the manager.

“We need to see his room and take away anything of relevance to our investigation.”

“What about his Bill?” said the manager.

“I'm sorry that's not our concern, now if we can see the room please.”

The manger rang reception, “Kathy, I need a key card to room three one six please.”

The manager took them up to the third floor and along the corridor, where he inserted the key card into the slot on the door handle.

“Thanks,” said Mick “we can manage now.”

Mick and Bob went into the room and immediately went through the wardrobe – two suits, four shirts, three ties, socks and pants, a pair of highly polished brown shoes.

“Check the pockets for anything useful, receipts or anything to indicate his movements.”

“Nothing of interest,” said Bob. The cupboard drawers were more rewarding, his passport, return ticket to Dusseldorf for Thursday, his security pass, which also included a photo, in the name of Captain P G Austen for the Military police in Paderborn and a small loose leaf folder with several pages of numerals and letters.

“It must be some sort of code,” said Mick. “When we get back can you get on to Stansted and see if you can get the passenger list for that flight from Dusseldorf.”

They then turned to the bedside cupboard where there was a photo of Captain Austen with a middle aged woman and two teenage boys.

“We'll take that Bob.”

*

They went into the bathroom, there was nothing out of the ordinary, just a toothbrush and toothpaste, razor and shaving gel, aftershave and deodorant.

They put it all into the Samsonite case on top of the wardrobe and went down to reception, asking for the manager.

“We've put everything into his suitcase and will take it away with us. We shan't need to go in the room again so I think that's all we can do here. Oh, by the way do you have records of phone calls in or out?”

“Nothing booked to the room but that's not unusual, most calls are from mobiles now,” said the manager.

*

They set off back to Hatfield, Mick was very quiet and Bob asked him if there was a problem.

“Sorry,” said Mick. “My father is in the hospice in Stevenage, I should have gone to see him on Sunday.”

“Well if you drop me off in the town centre I'll make myself useful checking any CCTV camera locations between the Service Yard and where he parked his car.”

“OK Bob, but extend your search to anywhere the major may have parked. I'll give you a call when I'm leaving the hospice and you can tell me where to pick you up.”

Mick dropped Bob off and carried on to the hospice, deep in thought. His relationship with his father had never been close. His mother had died when he was thirteen and his father had brought him up in on his own, well sort of. His father had a friend, Sandra, who often spent the night when they had been out together, either dancing or down the Trumpet Major, a local pub that stayed open until the early hours for the regular customers. As a teenager, Mick could never understand how a woman could look so different on a Sunday morning to how she had looked on the previous Saturday night. As he grew older he learnt their secrets, the tricks they employed. That was one of the things he loved about Sue, she might have looked a bit bleary eyed on a Sunday morning but she was still good to look at it.

He pulled into the hospice car-park and parked under the chestnut tree. Walking towards the entrance door he became aware of the smells and sounds around him, the wet grass underfoot, the white roses looking somewhat bedraggled, their petals curling at the edges. A Landrover with a trailer was parked at the end of the drive, a women dressed in jodhpurs and an old jumper was shovelling out horse manure. Apparently she ran a riding school and her husband had died in the hospice, this was her way of giving something practical to them, the gardener certainly appreciated it.

He went into the lobby, wiped his feet and approached the desk.

“Good morning Mr Joyce, if you want to go straight up, the doctor has finished his rounds although I don't if your father is awake or not,” said Mrs Carmichael, the lady at the front desk. Mrs Carmichael was the perfect receptionist for the hospice, an attractive fifty something, smartly dressed and friendly but very efficient at the same time.

Mick walked up the stairs and along the corridor, past the watercolour pictures on the walls, mostly scenes of the Lake District. The carpets were fairly new and had that distinctive smell that new carpets have. He reached the room where his father was spending the last days of his life and slowly opened the door, looking into the room when it was opened far enough. The room was nicely decorated in neutral colours, a beige carpet and flowered curtains and two upholstered armchairs for visitors.

He could see his father, asleep in his bed near the window, and quietly went in.

“Hello dad,” he said but there was no answer of course. He sat down in the armchair and leaned back, looking around the room.

“Is this what it's like for everybody,” he thought to himself, “the last days of your life sleeping a drug induced sleep until the inevitable moment arrived.”

He thought about how Phillip Austen had died, bleeding to death in a supermarket service yard. Just a different way to die he thought to himself. He sat there for about an hour, then stood up, said “bye dad,” and left.