by P. F. Ford
‘Now that I don’t know,’ admitted Slater, ‘but just humour me for a minute. Let’s say there’s no escape and it’s not possible to sell them on, or Kenny would have done it. Maybe these diamonds, and the fact Scanlon wants them back, are so well known the only way to move them is one at a time, through a dealer who’s crazy enough to take the risk.’
‘I get it,’ said Norman. ‘Brian Harding thought he was going after the Holy Grail that would give him the freedom to do whatever he wanted, but when he actually got his hands on it, he found it was actually the opposite, and the only way to survive was to hide away.’
‘But why?’ asked Watson.
‘Maybe Scanlon was even more powerful than we thought,’ said Norman. ‘Maybe the price for being caught with those diamonds was so high, no one would even think about touching them.’
‘And, of course,’ added Slater, ‘when Brian put the word out he had some diamonds to sell, the news would have gone back to Scanlon.’
‘Making Brian Harding Scanlon’s new target,’ finished Watson. ‘So, to hide, he has to find a new identity. Yes, I see what you mean.’
‘Like I said, it’s probably just a hare-brained theory,’ said Slater, ‘but I think Joe Dalgetty was probably Brian Harding.’
‘Yeah, it makes sense,’ said Norman, ‘and it explains why Brian Harding disappeared at about the same time Joe Dalgetty rose from the dead.’
‘That still doesn’t help us find out who Kenny became,’ said Watson.
‘I have a theory about that too,’ said Slater. ‘I was thinking about where Brian got the idea to use the name Joe Dalgetty. If you look at the guy’s record, and the sort of crimes he’s committed, he doesn’t strike me as being particularly bright or imaginative. I mean, how would a guy like that come up with the idea of using the ID of a kid who died back in the sixties?’
‘He must know people who create fake IDs,’ said Norman. ‘People like that use those dead kid IDs all the time. Any one of them could have come up with it.’
‘True,’ said Slater. ‘But I have a feeling Brian was pretty much a loner as well as being a bit dim. You would think anyone in the criminal world would have known about those diamonds, and anyone with any sense would steer well clear, but apparently Brian didn’t know, or at least not until he was already in so deep there was no way out. Or he was too stupid to understand what he was getting into.’
‘Greed is a very powerful motivator,’ remarked Norman, ‘and it makes a great pair of blinkers.’
‘But if Brian’s as dim as I think,’ said Slater, ‘maybe there was something else that helped him choose that particular ID. What did you find when you searched for kids coming back from Germany, Watson?’
‘Six families,’ she said, and then it was like a light had been switched on inside her brain. ‘One of which was the Hardings!’
‘Right,’ said Slater. ‘The Harding family would have known about the two boys who were knocked down by a car, and that means Brian would have known too.’
‘So, he chose to use one of those names,’ said Norman.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Slater, ‘but why? What was the trigger that reminded him, and why that particular one? Why Joe Dalgetty and not the other one?’
Watson’s head jerked. ‘You think the other one had already been used?’ she asked. ‘You think Kenny Wingate had chosen it for himself?’
‘But Kenny didn’t choose it, did he?’ said Slater. ‘He was a protected witness. The new identity would have been prepared for him.’
‘Of course!’ said Watson. She turned back to her desk and began tapping away at her laptop.
‘So you think they gave Kenny the name of someone Brian would have known, and he recognised Kenny’s new name and decided he would become the other one?’ asked Norman. ‘That’s one hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘Yeah, I know, it’s a longshot,’ said Slater, sorting through their notes. ‘But, they have to get these new IDs from somewhere, don’t they? Don’t forget Harding was ten years older than the kid who died, so would anyone have considered him to be a contemporary? I don’t think so. Also, a protected witness is expected to keep his side of the deal and not go around telling people his new name.’ He finally found what he was looking for. ‘Here it is, Arthur Bradbury. What if Kenny was now called Arthur Bradbury and that triggered a memory? I know it’s a stretch, but what else have we got?’
‘Well, yeah, I suppose it works,’ said Norman, uncertainly.
‘Watson, see if you can find Arthur Bradbury,’ said Slater.
‘I’m already on it, sir. By the time you’ve made the coffee, I should have an answer.’ She kept her head down, but both Slater and Norman could see the edges of her mouth curling upwards in a cheeky grin.
***
‘Here we are,’ said Watson. ‘Arthur Bradbury. Killed in an RTA in 1959, suddenly came back to life in 1989, just at the time Kenny Wingate was disappearing into the ether. And then, just as suddenly, he disappeared seven years ago. There’s been no sign of him since.’
‘And that’s roughly when Joe Dalgetty appears,’ said Norman. ‘This all seems to add up so far, but I can’t help but wonder where this Arthur Bradbury is now.’
‘It’s also not long before William Harding vanished,’ said Slater, ‘and just three months after that, Joe Dalgetty, a.k.a. Brian Harding, moved into William’s house.’
‘Sounds to me like Brian Harding didn’t just change his name. When he became Joe, he moved up from petty crime to the big league,’ said Norman.
‘I wonder where the bodies are,’ said Slater.
Watson stared at him, looking perplexed. ‘Bodies?’
Slater nodded grimly. ‘There’s usually only one reason people drop completely off the radar like that.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Norman. Now it was his turn to sort through their notes.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s here somewhere,’ muttered Norman. ‘I know it is. Ah! Here we are. When I asked Rosie about William Harding, she said he took off without warning and he was building a patio outside his back door, but he never even finished it. Joe had to finish it when he moved in.’
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ asked Slater.
‘I remember Rosie saying how unfair it was that Joe had to finish the patio himself, in the cold, with his arthritis. Now, I think if my arthritis was that bad, I’d get someone else to do the work for me, or at the very least I’d leave it until the weather got a bit warmer.’
‘If I moved into a house and there was an unfinished patio, I’d be chasing the landlord,’ said Watson. ‘That’s the landlord’s responsibility, I certainly wouldn’t be doing it myself.’
‘Yeah,’ said Slater, ‘but what if you had a good reason to make sure no one else went anywhere near that patio.’
‘One or two dead bodies would be quite a good reason,’ said Norman.
‘How good are you with a spade and a pickaxe?’
‘Me? Oh no, this is your theory. There’s no way I’m doing that. There has to be a better way than that!’
‘Can I make a suggestion?’ said Watson. ‘Mr Bradshaw is very good at getting these things organised. Why don’t you call him?’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Much to Slater’s surprise, Bradshaw had been very receptive to his suggestion that they should dig up the patio at the rear of Joe Dalgetty’s house. True to his word, by lunchtime it was all organised.
‘Apparently, he’s getting a local team to do the digging,’ Slater told Norman.
‘Oh wow! Goodnews is gonna love that,’ said Norman. ‘She’ll go especially ape when she realises all her people have been seconded to an investigation we’re conducting!’
‘Yeah, well, she’ll just have to grow up and deal with it,’ said Slater. ‘I think Bradshaw’s going to have a word in her ear about interfering.’
‘Oh, great. He gets to light the blue touchpaper and stand well back, while we get caught in the
explosion.’
‘We’ll just have to deal with the fallout when it happens,’ said Slater. ‘I’m not going to spend the rest of my life tiptoeing around just because she’s a bit touchy.’
‘Surely she can’t be that bad,’ said Watson.
‘If only that were true,’ said Norman. ‘Let’s just hope you never have to deal with her. Since he dumped her’—he indicated Slater with his thumb—‘Detective Inspector Marion Goodnews is about as predictable as an active volcano. Eruptions can happen at any time, without any warning.’
Watson looked at Slater.
‘I made a mistake,’ he explained, ruefully. ‘It was just a fling, but she doesn’t seem to accept it’s over.’
‘Ah, I see. That can be a bit awkward.’
‘That’s something of an understatement, if ever I heard one,’ said Norman.
There was a knock on the door, and a young man opened it halfway and stuck his head in. ‘Are you the detective guys?’
‘We are,’ said Norman. ‘Why don’t you come inside? You’re letting all the cold air in.’
The young man shuffled in and swung the door closed.
‘What can we do for you?’ asked Norman.
‘I heard something about some diamonds being found and they belonged to some old bloke who died recently. Is that right?’
Slater and Norman exchanged a look.
‘What’s your name, son?’ asked Norman.
‘Kerry. Kerry Jones.’
‘Have a seat, Kerry,’ said Norman, pointing to a couple of chairs, ‘and then you can tell us what’s on your mind.’
Kerry Jones was a fresh-faced young man with brown hair and brown eyes. Standing an inch or two shorter than Slater and a little taller than Norman, he was dressed in baggy jeans and wore a dark blue fleece over a white t-shirt, which nearly reached his knees. He was obviously very nervous but was doing his best to look relaxed and casual. Unfortunately, his leg started to twitch as soon as he sat down, and it rather spoiled the illusion.
Norman dragged another chair over and did the introductions. Jones offered what Slater would have described as a flabby handshake, his hands clammy.
‘What can we do for you, Kerry?’ said Norman, once the three of them were settled. Norman had arranged the chairs so they were in a triangle and there were no desks or tables between them to act as barriers.
‘You’re not official, are you?’ asked Kerry
Norman looked puzzled. ‘How do you mean, official?’
‘Err, well—’
‘We’re not the police, if that’s what you mean,’ said Slater.
Jones swallowed loudly. ‘Right. Yeah, that’s what I meant.’ He looked down and studied his hands, which seemed to have taken on a life of their own, wringing first one way and then the other.
‘I can see you’re very nervous,’ said Norman. ‘Are you in some sort of trouble?’
‘Well, no, not yet, but I think it’s possible I’m going to be. That’s why I’ve come to you, rather than the police. I heard you’re like them but not sort of official.’
Norman exchanged another glance with Slater. ‘We can’t help you if you don’t tell us why you’re here.’
‘Yeah, right, course not. The thing is, I heard you were investigating that old man who died. The one who had the heart attack.’
‘You mean Joe Dalgetty?’ asked Slater. ‘D’you know something about his death?’
Now Jones looked like a frightened little boy. ‘I didn’t kill him!’
‘We know you didn’t kill him,’ said Norman. ‘He had a heart attack.’
‘Yeah, I know. I was there.’
‘You what?’ said Slater, his voice almost a shriek.
‘I was there in his house when he came home. He took one look at me, and it was like he’d seen a ghost or something.’
Slater looked at Norman. It sounded as if Watson had got the scenario right, but the wrong person as the intruder.
‘Before I could say or do anything, he just sort of grabbed at his chest and dropped dead, right there, on the spot. I swear I didn’t touch him.’
‘But you didn’t do anything to help him either, did you?’ asked Norman, accusingly.
The boy spread his hands appealingly. ‘Well, I couldn’t could I? Not without having to do a lot of explaining.’
Norman looked at him in disgust. ‘You could at least have the decency to look embarrassed!’
‘But he was dead. It’s not as if there was anything I could have done.’
Norman’s dismay was obvious. ‘How could you know for sure? You look a bit young to be a qualified doctor. Maybe a paramedic might have been able to save his life if you’d taken the trouble to call one.’
‘But like I said, I would have had to explain what I was doing there.’
‘You could have called one before you ran!’
‘What were you doing there?’ asked Slater, already guessing what the answer was going to be.
‘Looking for cash, of course,’ said Jones. ‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t think you’re in any position to get cocky, do you?’ said Slater. ‘If you’re saying you’re the guy who’s been going around robbing pensioners, you’re admitting to being one pretty sad specimen.’
‘Of course, he could just be some pathetic attention-seeker,’ said Norman to Slater.
‘Now there’s a thing,’ said Slater, deliberately ignoring Jones. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. You mean you think he’s just some sad loser trying to impress us?’
Jones was up out of his chair like a shot, pointing his finger at Norman and spitting out his words.
‘I don’t need to impress wankers like you two,’ he shouted. ‘I am the real robber, and I can prove it!’
‘Whoa!’ said Slater, jumping from his own chair, ready for action. ‘D’you really want a fight, Kerry? I’d back myself against you any time, and you really don’t want me holding you down while a big guy like Norm jumps on you.’
‘And now I know what you’ve been doing, I’d be happy to do it too,’ said Norman. He hadn’t changed his position, still sitting back in his chair, looking completely relaxed. ‘It’s the least you deserve.’
Now Jones wasn’t quite so confident. He looked from Norman to Slater. Slater was pleased to see the young man’s face made it clear he didn’t fancy a fight any time soon. This was good news, because if he was honest, Slater didn’t much fancy it either.
‘Sit down, Kerry,’ he said.
Jones looked at Slater nervously.
‘Come on now, Kerry, don’t make me flatten you. Just take it easy and sit down.’
‘Trust me, Kerry, you don’t wanna be fooled by his appearance. I’ve seen him in a fight,’ said Norman. ‘He’s beaten the crap out of guys twice your size. I think what he’s saying is if you sit down and calm down, we’re going to give you another chance. If I were you, I’d accept the offer and sit down.’
Jones edged slowly back to his seat, obviously not sure if he could trust Slater not to beat him up anyway. Eventually, he sat down, and then Slater sat down too.
‘Good choice, Kerry,’ said Norman, cheerfully. ‘We just decorated this place and, frankly, I’d be quite happy if I never see another paintbrush for the rest of my life, so I really don’t need your blood splattered everywhere.’ He smiled from Jones to Slater and back. ‘Now then, where were we? Oh, yeah, you were just telling us how you’re a screwed-up, low-life thief.’ The smile was gone from his face now, replaced by a much darker expression.
‘I’m not that bad,’ said Jones. ‘I never take anything that might have sentimental value or can’t be replaced. I only take cash.’
‘Can you hear yourself?’ said Norman. ‘Do you really think it’s easy for a pensioner to replace the cash you steal? You stupid piece of shit! That’s often all the money they have in the world, and you think it’s fine to just help yourself? Picking on people like that is the action of a coward.’
‘I am not a coward!’
‘Sure you are,’ said Slater. ‘That’s why you left an old man to die while you ran for it.’
‘I panicked!’
‘Like a true coward would. It doesn’t matter how you try and dress it up, the fact is you left a man to die.’
‘He was already dead!’
‘We’ve already established you’re not a doctor,’ said Norman. ‘You had no way of knowing he was dead.’
‘I would have had to explain why I was there. It would have been a confession,’ said Jones desperately.
‘What do you think this is?’ asked Norman. ‘You’re confessing now, aren’t you?’
‘Well, yeah, I suppose I am,’ said Kerry.
‘So how come you feel the need to confess now?’ asked Norman.
‘It was that old geezer. When he snuffed it, I did a runner, but I realised later that I should have helped him. I thought if I came in here and told you—’
‘You’d need a conscience to feel bad about that,’ said Norman. ‘And if you had one of them, you wouldn’t have been stealing in the first place.’
‘Why did you go back to the old man’s house after he was dead and buried?’ asked Slater.
‘What? I never did!’ said Jones. ‘I’m prepared to admit what I’ve done—’
‘And what?’ asked Norman. ‘You think by telling us it makes everything all right? And even if you think it’s going to get you a lighter sentence, I can tell you, you have no idea!’
‘What do you mean a lighter sentence? You can’t charge me with anything. You’re not the police! What I’ve told you is confidential.’
‘You’re right, we’re not the police, but we’re not priests either,’ said Norman, fishing his phone from his pocket. ‘What makes you think we have to keep this quiet? I don’t remember making any sort of deal, and I certainly didn’t sign any agreement.’ He found the number he wanted and pressed call.
‘But you can’t—’
‘Just watch me,’ said Norman, raising the phone to his ear.
‘I’m afraid we can,’ said Slater. ‘You don’t seriously think we’re going to hide your criminal activity, do you? That would make us as bad as you.’