Chapter 11

He pulled the old flowers from the pot, replacing them with the newer, more colorful ones. They weren't special flowers; she hadn't been that picky. Any old flower would do.

"Happy birthday, bonny lass."

He stared at the grave for a moment longer. He wasn't sure why he still came here. She had never appeared to him here. He probably should have just brought flowers home, kept them in a vase there. Standing he stared out at the water, perhaps he would do that as well.

"Single stab wound to the heart."

"With?"

She looked at him, trying to determine if he was joking. "A very sharp knife. According to the 12-year old stage manager, it's the one they used in the play."

He looked at her, socked. "They use a real knife?"

"Well, only to threaten. Nobody gets murdered." She paused for a moment, "It's The Merchant of Venice."

He met her odd look, "That's the one with the pound of flesh?"

Fighting a smile, she nodded, "Uh-huh."

Smugly, he nodded, "Got it."

She took a half step closer, whispering, "You can pretend not to know all of this, but you don't fool me."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Dr. Hobson." He smiled slyly, "Laura."

She laughed, "Don't worry, your secret is safe with me."

Robbie looked at James' drink, "What is that?"

James studied the glass, "Tonic water on the rocks with a slice of lemon."

"Tonic water?"

"Hmm, I'm detoxing. And tonic water on the rocks is one of the preferred drinks of recovering alcoholics. Plus, it gives one a sort of spurious glamour."

"I'll bear that in mind, in case I ever need any spurious glamour."

"Mr. Lewis, good to see you again."

Robbie took the man's hand, "And you."

Pointing at the third chair, "May I?"

"Of course." Motioning toward James, "This is my sergeant, James Hathaway."

"Graham Wilkinson."

"Are you still second in command here?"

"Yes. Waiting patiently for the big job."

James watched the man carefully, "I know the feeling."

"I was wondering whether I could pick your brains."

Robbie lifted his glass in a silent toast, "If you can find them. It's been a long day."

"We might have been the victims of a scam."

"What sort of scam?"

"A man leaves his luggage with a porter, says it's to be collected later. While he's away a woman claiming to be his wife turns up, does a sort of scatty woman performance, says hubby's been called away on business and he's got the ticket and can she collect the cases for him? About an hour later, the man turns up, denies having a wife and generally hits the roof."

Robbie pursed his lips, "It could all be true."

"Except I've heard of two or three similar cases on the grapevine. You report it to the police, and the victim, so called, files a claim for the contents of the cases and the hotel's insurances pays him off."

James asks the obvious question, "How much money are we talking about?"

"Three, four thousand pounds."

Robbie nodded, "Does he have a name this man?"

Graham nodded, "Simon Monkford." He pulled some papers from his inside pocket, "Those are his contact details."

James reached for the papers, "I know Simon Monkford."

"You do?"

"Is he mid-40s? Well-dressed?"

"Yes."

"He was at the theatre this afternoon. He gave me his ticket."

"Very nice of him."

"No, he gave me his ticket and said, 'That's my alibi.' It was almost as if… Well, not the first time in his life he'd needed an alibi."

They were climbing the stairs, Robbie looked over his shoulder at James. "The Royal Canadian Mounted Police?"

"Yeah, about Simon Monkford."

"He of the suitcase?"

"He's got a record as long as your arm and he spent five years on the run in Toronto, so I thought it might be worth checking."

"We've got a double murder on our hands and you're messing about with some two-bit con man."

"Yeah, but I feel there's something more…by the pricking of my thumbs."

"Don't tell me Shakespeare?"

"Bravo."

Shaking his head, "I'm getting sick of bloody Shakespeare."

She let him in, a somewhat resigned look on her face as she invited him in. He followed her into the house, instantly peppering her with questions.

"Five years ago your brother went to Canada."

She nodded, "Yes."

"He says he was on the run."

"Well, he's been on the run all his life."

"Canada's a long way to run; he could have come here."

She took a deep breath, then sat. "He…he had some sort of breakdown."

"A nervous breakdown?"

"Are they still called that? Or is it post-traumatic stress? Anyway, it was something like that."

"So there was a trauma?"

She nodded, "He was a bit vague about it, but it was some sort of car accident. He was driving and I think he might have hit somebody. That made it worse, because he was proud of his driving. Wanted to drive racing cars for a living at one point."

"Where did this happen?"

"In London. Somewhere in the West End, I think."

James paused, "Do you remember the date?"

Nodding, "Oh yes, easily. It was my birthday. December 19th. The phone rang and I heard his voice and I assumed it was a happy birthday call, but then it was obvious something was wrong."

James turned back to her, cutting her off. "Sorry, thank you very much, you've been very helpful." He left without another word. The knowledge of what he'd learned spinning in his head.

Robbie answered the phone, "Inspector Lewis." He listened to the man on the other end. "Yes, he's here. All right, hang on." Looking across the office at James, Metropolitan Police want a word."

Fear gripped at James as he looked across the office at Robbie. He answered the phone, "Hi." He listened as the other man spoke, "Did you find out anything?"

He glanced at Robbie, trying to formulate the vaguest words he could. "Well, it's the answer I expected. I'm just not sure whether it's the answer I wanted. Thank you."

"What's all that about?"

Not able to look at Robbie, "Simon Monkford, con man, the early years."

"Is that all?"

Finally, he looked up, "Yeah, for now. There are complications."

James entered the room, a sense of dread filling him. Simon Monkford looked up, smiling unctuously. "Afternoon."

Closing the door behind the PC, not wanting anyone else to hear. He stuck his hands in his pockets, "Five years ago, on December the 19th, you were driving a car along Oxford Street in London. The car was being used as a getaway vehicle following a robbery on the premises of a building society. The car did indeed get away, but not before it mounted the pavement, hitting a woman, who died later." James paused, letting his words sink in. "It was you driving, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever wonder about the identity of the woman that you killed?"

Shaking his head, "Honest answer, no, I didn't. Maybe I thought it would be easier for me to deal with if she remained anonymous."

Turning to the door, "Well, her name was Mrs. Valerie Lewis and she was married to Inspector Robert Lewis, my boss. So maybe you'd like to deal with that."

He left the room, walking angrily through the station. He was angry about a crime which had occurred before he'd ever considered becoming a police office. A murder of a woman he didn't even know. But the anger was real, none the less.

Tapping once on the office door, he opened it, stepping inside. Motioning with his head, toward the second closed door, "I need to see her."

The woman stood, knocked on the closed door and they both heard the voice beckon. "Come in."

Seeing James, Innocent smiled, "Oh, what's this? Hot news from High Wycombe?"

"In a sense, yes. I need to ask your advice."

"Isn't that Inspector Lewis's responsibility?"

"It's about Inspector Lewis."

Looking up, she motioned to the chair opposite her. "Tell me."

He moved the chair, centering it in front of her desk, then sat. "Simon Monkford, the con man that we have in custody, he was driving the car that killed Mrs. Lewis."

Surprise overwhelmed Innocent, "Oh my God." She took a deep breath, "You're absolutely sure about this?"

"Mm-hmm."

Exhaling deeply, "Well the only legal question is whether it's murder or manslaughter."

Shaking his head, "That's not the only question. The question is should I tell him when he's halfway through a murder inquiry?"

"Why not?"

"Well, the last time I mention his wife, he jumped down my throat. He's made it very clear that his marriage is a total no-go area; he doesn't talk to anybody about it."

"Well I think it all depends on the state of your personal and professional relationship with him."

"Mmm."

"Are you not sure what that is?"

James shook his head, "Well not always, no."

"Why is that, do you think?"

Pausing, he cocked his head to one side, "Well, he's a lovely guy. Everyone likes him. He's just very private, and you get the feeling there's a lot going on in his head which he doesn't want to share."

She nodded, "And you're not exactly a breezy extrovert, are you?"

Slightly annoyed with her tone, "No."

"Maybe the two of you should join some encounter group and get in touch with your true feelings." James was horrified at her suggestion. "That was a joke." James exhaled as she continued, "Serious answer…There's only one reliable way to find out about any relationship: test it to destruction."

James pulled his ringing mobile from his pocket, "Oh it's him."

"Could be your moment."

James grew increasingly more uncomfortable as they walked along, Robbie hypothesizing about the case. When Robbie turned to him for an opinion, he found he couldn't hold back any longer.

"Sir, there's something else you need to know."

"Sounds exciting. You're not getting married?"

"No, sir, it's about Simon Monkford."

"What about him?"

He told him, didn't mince words. Anger stormed across Robbie's face. Without another word, he turned all but running from the building. They were halfway to the car before he finally spoke.

"How long have you know?"

"Since the call from the Met."

"Is that what that was?"

"The final confirmation, date, place and time."

Robbie's voice escalated, "Why the hell didn't you tell me then?"

"Because the last time I mentioned your wife you made it very clear to me that I wasn't to mention the subject again."

Anger seethed from Robbie, "This is different. This is purely professional."

"How can that be?"

Turning back to James, "What were you frightened of? That I might go barging into the interview room and batter the living daylights out of the man?"

"I think I'd be tempted under the circumstances."

Walking away, "Well, maybe I'd be tempted too. But it wouldn't happen. Shall I tell you why?"

"Why?"

"Because you're a good cop and you'd stop me. As it is, all you've proved is you don't really know me, and you don't know yourself, either."

James looked away, Robbie's words cutting too close to home.

They drove back in increasingly sullen silence. As they rounded the corner to their office, James finally broke the silence. "Do you want to speak to him?"

"No, I just want to look at him."

James opened the door, leading Robbie into the observation room. Robbie gaped at the man. This ordinary, somewhat mousy looking man who had destroyed his life. "That's him?"

"Hm-hmm."

"I don't know what I expected to see. He's so bloody ordinary. She deserved better." He stared for a moment longer then inhaled deeply, "Come on, let's do some proper work."

He walked down the hall. His brain torn between the reality of the case and the heartbreak of finally knowing who is wife's killer was. It was taking everything in him to put one foot in front of the other.

Despite it all, he wasn't surprised when Innocent "bumped" into him. "Oh, Robbie, um…did he tell you about Monkford?"

Looking around, not wanting his personal business spread any further around the station. "Eventually. Did you know all the time?"

She shook her head, "He consulted me about whether to tell you and when."

Taking a sip of his water, "That was thoughtful."

"So, you two still friends?"

"Interesting question. We're colleagues. Workmates, they'd say in the Northeast. We don't swap comics every week and he listens to weird music, but he's a damn good cop. He's just a bit young and I suppose enigmatic. He's private, you know?"

Watching him walk away, "He says much the same about you."

Robbie turned back to her, "Well, that's ridiculous. There's nothing enigmatic about me."

"So, tell me honestly, are you okay?"

"Honest answer, I don't know." He chucked his cup into the bin, "So I'll just throw myself into my work and see if that makes it okay.

They sat in the courtroom, listened as Simon Monkford pled guilty. The judge passed sentence and just like that it was all over. Val's killer was found, sentenced to prison. A quest he hadn't even known he was on was complete.

He'd been surprised when James had shown up outside the courtyard that morning. But he hadn't questioned the gesture. Had simply nodded his head and smiled as the younger man fell into step beside him.

As they walked out, it finally occurred to him the debt of gratitude he owed James. If not for his extraordinary instinct Simon Monkford would have walked away, again. James had done what the Met hadn't been able to do, what he'd been unable to do. He found justice for Val.

"Thank you for coming with me."

Touching Robbie lightly on the back, "That's okay."

As they crossed the street, James looked back. "Can I buy you a pint, sir?"

Robbie shook his head, "Not today, Jim. I have something I need to do."

James nodded, couldn't hide the sense of hurt at the rejection. "I understand, sir."

"Jim, I'm not angry. I'm grateful. But right now, I need to call my kids. Tell them the news."

"Of course, sir."

"And I'm going to tell them all about my impressive sergeant who solved the case."

James smiled, looking away from Robbie. "No need, sir. I expect they will be happy just to hear the news."

"Yes, it is necessary. They need to know who gave us closure. Maybe now, we can all start to heal." Robbie's hand dropped onto James' shoulder, squeezing firmly. "Thank you, son."

James inhaled deeply, looked up to stop the tears threatening. As he exhaled, he met Robbie's gentle gaze. The only words going through his mind were thank you. What came out of his mouth was a simple, "You're welcome, sir."