The Club of Death by Ben Westerham

Author:Ben Westerham
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Close9 Publishing

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Banbury police station was bathed in warm early evening sunlight as Shapes turned into the rear entrance to the car park. Inside, it wasn’t half so bright and welcoming, thought Dykeman, but at least it was quiet. He wanted to compare notes with Shapes before the day was done. See what his sergeant reckoned to the conversations they’d had with Plenty and the Louches.

The small office they shared was, by comparison with the outside world, a dark, dank cave. Shapes flicked on the light switch and they both squinted in the resulting glare.

“Hello,” announced Dykeman, as he stepped across the room to his desk. “We’ve had some calls.”

He picked up two pieces of paper the duty sergeant had sent round from the front desk. One was a piece of news he’d been expecting, the other was not.

“Why don’t people call us when we’re in, instead of waiting until we’ve gone out?” asked Shapes.

Dykeman looked at Shapes but chose to ignore his sergeant’s deeply philosophical observation.

“The Graballs’s solicitor called. Mrs Graball gets all her husband’s loot. He’s left sweet Fanny Adams to charity or anyone else, come to that.”

“Surprised?”

“Would be less surprised if the Pope announced she’s a woman.”

“What d’you reckon she’ll do with all those shares in her husband’s companies? Can’t see her taking on things.”

Shapes pulled a hankie out of a pocket and blew his nose. The sound echoed in the small room, causing glass panels to vibrate. Dykeman had already put his hands over his ears.

“Maybe one of their children will.”

“If I was her, I’d flog the lot and move to the Caribbean. Get myself a bleeding great boat to go with my whacking great big house and move in a couple of the local girls. You’d never see me back here again.”

“You trying to say you can live without me, Shapes? I’m hurt.”

“Sorry, sir. I was forgetting about you. You could have a shed at the bottom of the garden. Suppose I could pay you a few quid to be my handyman.”

“All heart, you are Shapes. Now then, this other message is a whole different kettle of fish. Seems Daphne Graball has found out about Wendy Slip.”

“There’ll be trouble now.”

“Already has been. That student who let us in when we went to see Wendy Slip phoned in a report to say Daphne Graball’s been round on the war path. Right old shouting match, by all accounts. Called each other some choice names and Miss Slip was told to clear off out of that flat tout suite. Very risky move by that student. Apparently he stepped in before they came to blows. No one hurt, just a few tears from Wendy Slip.”

“Wonder who spilled the beans?”

“Some well-meaning friend, no doubt.”

The look on Dykeman’s face made it clear to Shapes that his boss thought otherwise.

“Bloody troublemaker, you mean.”

“Indeed I do, Shapes.”

Dykeman dropped the two slips of paper on to his desk, then sat down.

“So, what have we got then? Who had a reason to do in Graball?”

“Half the county, by the sound of things,” replied Shapes, sitting on the edge of his own desk.

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