by Ruth Sutton
‘Those kinds of things matter to people,’ she said, taking a casserole out of the oven. ‘Do something useful for me and get some plates out. Are you hungry?’
❖ ❖ ❖
Sam spent most of the next day checking and re-checking the several reports about the Upgill estate trouble, written up by the local bobby over the past few weeks. It looked as if only one person, or maybe two, might be responsible for all of them. The same M.O., same prints in those places where Forensics had managed to find any. They even had his blood type from a smear on the light switch inside a shed that had been burgled.
‘You know this estate,’ Sam said later to Constable Farrell in the tiny office that passed as the Upgill police station. ‘You’ve worked here, how long?’
‘Upgill born and bred,’ said Farrell, proudly. ‘Worked here all me life. They offered me a panda car, but they said I’d ’ave to wear a flat cap not me ’elmet, so I turned it down. Need to be on the street in a place like this, not sitting in a car. People need to see you.’
‘So you must have some idea who did all these jobs?’ said Sam.
‘No evidence, not yet,’ said Farrell, ‘but look at this’. He pulled a fat file out of the top drawer of the rusty filing cabinet, and put it down carefully on the old plastic table. Sam opened it up and skimmed through.
‘William Neil Noakes (aka Nocky) born 13.5.48, living in Winchester Crescent, when he wasn’t inside one institution or another. 1957 Montgomery House Boys’ Home, well, well, 1964 Boreham Green Borstal, 1967 HMP Lancaster.’
‘What’s the “well, well” about?’ asked PC Farrell.
‘Montgomery House,’ said Sam. ‘I was there the other day, on a case. That kid who we found in the mud, a week or two back.’
‘Aye, I saw that,’ said Farrell. ‘Trying to run away, across the sands back to his mam, I heard. What did you make of the place?’
‘Looks all right to me,’ said Sam. ‘Talked to the matron, Mrs Robinson. Probably too late by the time she gets them, but she cares about those lads.’
‘Her man was killed in the war,’ said Farrell. ‘He were a good ’un too.’
‘What do we need to do, to bring this idiot in?’ asked Sam.
‘He has a lock-up, down Stanley Street,’ said Farrell. ‘I reckon some of the stuff must be in there, but last time we had a look, it were empty, as if someone ’ad tipped him off. That were two months gone, so maybe we need to have another go.’
‘What about the cars?’
‘Some of them sold for parts, likely, but a couple turned up miles out of town, burned out. No prints, but I reckon he took ’em just to drive. The lad’s nuts about cars.’
‘Just him?’
‘His mates come and go, but this last lot of jobs have been since he came out of Lancaster six months ago. God knows what he learned in there.’
‘Right. Let’s pay another visit to the lock-up then, as soon as possible.’ said Sam. ‘I’ll sort it out back at the station, and let you know.’
When Sam arrived back in Barrow CID room, Morrison was there, looking at the papers on Sam’s desk. ‘Are you on with the Upgill estate stuff I left for you?’ he asked.
‘Well on with it, sarge. Farrell knows his patch all right.’
‘Old school,’ said Morrison. ‘Straight as they come and going nowhere. He’s worked up there as a PC for nearly twenty years. No ambition.’
‘Nothing wrong with that is there?’ said Sam.
Morrison sneered. ‘Mug’s game,’ he said. ‘If you need a warrant, go ahead. Clear up as much as you can while you’re at it. Good for the figures and I’ve got Chief Inspector God Almighty Cardine breathing down me neck. Proper police work this is, not trying to prove some loony theory about a nonce who topped himself.’
Sam said nothing, and Morrison was gone again, leaving another pile of unanswered messages on his desk.
❖ ❖ ❖
Twenty-four hours later Sam was sitting across a table from Bill Noakes, aka Nocky, in an interview room in Barrow police station. An overflowing ashtray lay between them, and the table and chair were both screwed into the concrete floor.
‘You might as well give it up, Mr Noakes,’ said Sam patiently, after the suspect had sworn yet again that he knew nothing about the assorted electrical goods that had been found at his lock-up at seven o’clock that morning. ‘We’ve got your prints all over the stuff, your blood type on the switch in the shed on Palatine Street, not to mention the prints in the car on the shore at Askam.’
Bill Noakes sat forward. ‘There were no prints in that car,’ he said.
The man in a suit sitting next to him lowered his head, and Sam turned to him.
‘I think you need to talk to your client, Mr Althorpe,’ he said. ‘He hasn’t got the sense he was born with, but you might persuade him that pleading guilty to the nine counts we have, and any more he’d like to tell us about, will save a lot of our time and make the court more well-disposed towards him. You may have to explain what that means. I’ll be outside.’
The deal took longer than Sam expected. Either Mr Althorpe’s powers of persuasion were fading with his advancing years, or Noakes was more confident than he should have been about his chances at trial.
‘My client has agreed to plead guilty to the theft of goods found this morning, but he still denies knowing anything about the car in Askam.’
‘Or the one in Ulverston,’ said Noakes.
Sam sighed. ‘Thank you Mr Althorpe. I have some more questions for Mr Noakes if you can stay a little longer.’
The solicitor looked disgruntled but he opened up his bag again and took the pen from his pocket.
‘Now then, Mr Noakes. I’m going to give you another chance to tell some more of your story. I see you were in Montgomery House for quite a long time.’
‘Six bleeding years,’ said Noakes.
‘And how was it?’
‘What d’ye mean, how was it? Like a bloody ’oliday camp, compared to Borstal. Got your meals, went to school, did a lot of digging. Other lads were OK.’
‘What about the staff?’
‘Ma Robinson, she were good to us.’
‘And the others?’
‘What you after, copper?’ said Noakes. ‘What’s he after, Mr Althorpe?’
‘Just answer the questions, Bill.’
‘Well, old peg leg, he started me on cars, gave me driving lessons and that.’
‘You mean Captain Edwards. What did you do to deserve that?’ asked Sam.
Bill Noakes coloured. He tried to push the chair away but it stuck fast. Sam stayed quiet, watching the young man’s discomfort.
‘Bill,’ said Sam, leaning across the table. ‘I’m trying to help you. You’ve obviously got a thing about cars.’ Bill wriggled again, but Sam continued, his voice quiet.
‘If we can say that this obsession of yours was caused by something that happened when you were very young, the court might be more sympathetic. You took the cars, Bill, we know that, and so do you. Do yourself a favour. Just answer the question.’
Bill Noakes looked desperately across at his brief, who stared fixedly at the cracked ceiling.
‘I were just a lad,’ he said. ‘Edwards ’ad mates who came to the house. They said I ’ad to be nice to them.’
‘How nice?’ asked Sam. His heart was beating. He knew what was coming.
‘You know, nothing much like, just a bit of, you know.’
‘You mean sex?’ said Sam.
Noakes stood up, gripping the table. ‘Never,’ he said. ‘Not proper sex, just, you know, fooling around.’
‘Do you want to tell me the details?’ asked Sam. ‘Mr Althorpe, perhaps you could help Mr Noakes explain what he means by “fooling around”. If he could make a statement, it might help his case.’
Althorpe looked at Noakes, who had sat down again. ‘Give me a few minutes, constable,’ he said. ‘And I think my client needs a drink.’
For twenty long minutes, Sam paced up and
down the corridor outside. He heard raised voices. The interview room door opened and Mr Althorpe’s tired face looked out. He beckoned to Sam. Inside the room, Noakes was sitting, staring at the small window high up on the wall.
‘I’m afraid that my client has decided not to make a statement after all.’
Sam started to speak, but Althorpe raised his hand. ‘Mr Noakes is not prepared to say anything about his stay at Montgomery House. He says it was a long time ago and it doesn’t matter. He understands that this might not help his case, but he tells me he couldn’t care less, or words to that effect.’
Sam was bitterly disappointed. For a moment he could see things that had been bothering him falling into place. They’d been just fragments, but a statement from Noakes would have given him something to work with. And now there was nothing except a lock-up full of TVs and a couple of burned out cars. He looked at Mr Althorpe. ‘Are there any other offences Mr Noakes would like us to include in the charges we bring against him, just to clear the decks, so to speak?’
They both looked at Noakes, who shook his head.
‘Not for you, copper,’ he said. ‘You’re all the same, you bastards.’ He spat at Sam, and missed. Spittle winked on the table between them.
Outside in the corridor, Althorpe said, ‘What was all that about? Most people round here think Edwards should have a gong for what he does for those lads. What on earth made you start that line?’
Sam looked away. ‘Nothing that was said in there will go any further,’ he said, ‘from me or you. I have good reason to ask those questions, and I’m not giving up yet.’
‘Bad mistake,’ said Althorpe. ‘Leave it alone, constable, or you won’t get very far in this town. Good afternoon to you.’
❖ ❖ ❖
Morrison was delighted. Nine robberies and a guilty plea. Just the news he needed to take to his boss. Missed out on the two cars but they would probably be proven anyway, and the lad would go back to Lancaster or wherever, so long as it was miles away from their patch. ‘Good man, Nelly,’ he said. ‘I owe you a pint.’
‘Give it to Farrell,’ said Sam. ‘He did all the work.’
Morrison didn’t like that idea one bit.
Before he went home, Sam sat in the quiet CID room and began to doodle on a piece of paper. Something was beginning to take shape in his mind. He wanted to look again at the beginnings of Montgomery House, who actually ran it, and who were these ‘mates’ who seemed to frequent the place? Who were the trustees, and what did their ‘annual checks’ consist of? Was Mrs Robinson really so confident that everything was fine? And what did any of this have to do with Steven Stringer, or even Anthony Lennon? Sam ran his hand down his face, noticing that he needed a shave. Bloody Anthony. Where the hell was he?
❖ ❖ ❖
That evening Sam supervised Tommy in the bath and put him to bed. It was Elspeth’s night off at the keep fit class she went to, which seemed to consist of half an hour’s exercise followed by an hour in the pub. Tommy was nearly seven years old, thought Sam. Older than some of the boys at Montgomery House. Older than Bill Noakes was when he was taken from his home and family and placed in care, for his own good. And what good had it done him, or Anthony? Sam wanted to blame someone but didn’t know who. He thought about what Bill had said about Edwards and the driving lessons. Could that really happen? Could a kid be persuaded to ‘fool around’ with strange men, just for a reward? What would have happened if Bill had refused, spat at Edwards’ friends, whoever they were, like he’d spat at Sam? A beating?
One of the fragments circling slowly in Sam’s head was something Judith had told him, from her conversation with the lad at Monty House. He had told her about Stevie getting into trouble with a visitor and all the lads getting blamed. Sam wondered if there was more that Judith had kept to herself or had just forgotten. Eight o’clock, Elspeth would be back in half an hour. Judith might be home at the flat, or at the Feathers close to the Furness News offices where they often went after work. He searched for the number of the house in Cannon Street. The phone rang for a long time and he was just giving up when he heard her voice.
‘Judith?’
‘Who else, Sam?’ she said. ‘There’s no one else here, thank heaven.’
‘Not missing the delights of the Thornills’ palace?’
‘It was pretty good there, I can tell you. Big bed, all my washing done, far too much wine. but being around Irene and my boss all the time I could do without.’
‘You all right, back in the flat?’
She hesitated. ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘Why? Have you found Anthony?’
‘No. But I want to talk to you about something. Can I come over, or you come here?’
‘I’ll come to you,’ she said. ‘I’d got used to having a TV and it’s a bit quiet without it.’
‘You can watch it here if you like, but after I’ve asked you a few things. Can you bring your notebook?’
❖ ❖ ❖
Judith and Elspeth saw each other approach the house from opposite directions.
‘I thought it was you,’ said Elspeth. ‘Lucky you caught me, I’ve been out since six.’
‘Sam rang me,’ said Judith. ‘Said he wanted to talk about something private.’ Elspeth smiled. ‘Is there something I should know?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said Judith. ‘Your brother’s fingers got well and truly burned with wifey Christine, I reckon. And anyway, he’s not my type.’
‘And what type’s that?’ asked Elspeth. She had her key in her hand but wanted an answer before they went in.
‘Taller,’ said Judith, ‘and more fun. Sam just thinks about work, all the time.’
The house was warm and smelled of food. Judith realised instantly that she was hungry. It must have showed in her face.
‘Have you eaten?’ asked Elspeth. ‘We had supper early, but there’s plenty left.’
When she’d loaded a plate for Judith, Elspeth discovered a sudden interest in something on the TV, leaving the other two sitting at the kitchen table, and Judith tucking into a sizeable portion of hotpot.
‘Go on,’ she said to Sam. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Just after Steven was found, you talked to the lad at Monty House, didn’t you?’
‘It was next door, by the field actually. I was hiding in a rhododendron bush and Mikey pretended to be cropping sprouts. It was ludicrous.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘I told you before. Stevie was a nuisance, got them all into trouble.’
‘Did he say why, or how?’
‘Hang on,’ said Judith. She fished her notebook out of her bag and leafed through it.
‘What a mess,’ he said. Even upside down, he could see bits of writing at different angles, arrows, crossings out. ‘How do you make sense of it?’
‘We all have our own ways of doing things,’ she said. ‘My ways happen to be organic, not like yours.’
‘Organic? Who told you that?’
‘See, I’ve found it. Conversation with Mikey, and the date. Didn’t write it at the time, in the bushes, so I might have missed something. I might have forgotten it by the time I wrote it up. Here it is. Mikey said that Stevie spat at a visitor and didn’t own up. They all lost their trips and comics and things.’
‘Any more about the visitor, or any other visitors?’
Judith turned the page. ‘Thought I remembered something,’ she said. ‘I asked whether they ever had any alcohol, and he said something about the captain having his old army mates over and they all got a bit noisy. I assume he meant they were drinking.’ She looked up at Sam. ‘Why are you asking about this?’
For a moment Sam wanted to tell her everything he was thinking, to share the burden. ‘Just something I got from a suspect,’ he said, ‘who was at Attercliff when he was a lad. It started me wondering, but it’s all guesswork. Just a theory, nothing I can prove.’
‘Do you want to tell me?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but o
nly some suspicions, nothing I can prove.’
CHAPTER 21
Elspeth looked at her watch. It was late and she wanted to stay out of their way until the steady sound of conversation had stopped. It was all work, she was sure of that. She wondered about Sam. Judith was a bit wild-looking, as unlike Sam’s ex-wife Christine as could be, but he didn’t seem to see her as anything but a work colleague. There was the occasional blush, but he could do that about anything. From what Judith had told her in their earlier conversations, she hadn’t had a serious relationship with anyone since that bastard tutor. Both of them had been burned and scarred by other people – and herself too, she realised, but at least she had Tommy, not just a job, to absorb her love and her energy.
The kitchen door opened and Judith came out, putting on her coat, with Sam close behind. ‘I’m going to walk back with Judith,’ he said. ‘Won’t be long.’
‘I’ve told him there’s no need,’ said Judith. ‘Fog’s so thick no one will see me anyway.’
‘Well, take care, both of you. I’ll leave the outside light on, Sam.’ Elspeth hugged Judith, opened the front door and pushed them both out to close the door against the wisps of fog that threatened to invade the house.
Judith and Sam walked in silence. ‘You can’t be right about what’s going on at Montgomery House,’ she said.
‘I hope I’m not. I wasn’t right about Harries’s suicide.’
She looked across at him. ‘What about it?’
‘I thought the note in Harries’s pocket might be a fake, but his mother sent some of his handwriting and it matches, as far as I can see. I’ve sent it to Forensics to check. God knows how long that’ll take.’ Sam kicked at a half brick lying in the middle of the pavement. Lorries passed along this road constantly taking the remnants old demolished buildings to be dumped elsewhere. Fragments of Barrow’s past fell off. The town was permanently covered in brick dust: it needed some real rain to sluice everything clean, and wind to blow away the fog.