Gareth Dawson Series Box Set

by Nathan Burrows

  ‘I’m fine, Just a bit sore.’

  ‘Here, sit down, would you? Let me help.’ As Jimmy sat heavily in one of the armchairs, Malcolm leaned forward and grasped the handles of two of the barrels. He stood, lifting them a few inches from the floor. ‘Bugger me, these are heavy,’ the policeman said, wincing with the effort of lifting them. Jimmy knew each of them weighed exactly twenty-five kilograms, one kilogram for each litre of water, but from the look on Malcolm’s face he wouldn’t be interested in that particular fact. ‘Where do you want them?’

  ‘Just by the back door would be magic, thanks,’ Jimmy replied, running his fingertips around the back of his head. ‘I’ll empty them later.’

  Malcolm struggled his way through the kitchen to the back door and put the barrels down with a resounding thud. When he returned to the lounge, the policeman sat back down, breathing heavily. Jimmy sat opposite him, waiting for him to recover.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said when Malcolm looked as if he’d recovered from the exertion. The policeman didn’t reply, but just flicked through his notebook, stopping occasionally to read his notes.

  ‘Jimmy,’ he said, closing the notebook. ‘I’ve got one last question for you. One that I’m really hoping you’ll be able to answer.’ Jimmy looked at Malcolm, and at the impassive expression on his face.

  ‘Fire away,’ he said.

  ‘Why are you lying to me?’

  Chapter 21

  ‘I’m not lying to you, Mr Griffiths,’ Jimmy whispered. ‘What makes you say that?’ Malcolm sighed and tucked the notebook away in his pocket.

  ‘Jimmy, I’m not a fool so don’t talk to me like one.’ The policeman sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. ‘I’ve been a copper all my life, and one thing that comes with the territory is people lying to us.’

  ‘I’m not lying to you, Malcolm,’ Jimmy replied. ‘I promise you, I’m not.’

  ‘Okay, so maybe you’re not lying,’ Malcolm said, looking at Jimmy through half-closed eyes. ‘But you’re not telling me the whole truth, are you?’

  ‘Truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?’

  ‘Very good. What happened to your face?’

  ‘Oh, that,’ Jimmy said, caught out by the sudden change in direction. ‘I fell over coming back from the pub.’

  ‘You fell over?’

  ‘Yeah, had way too much to drink.’ Jimmy managed a laugh. ‘Went arse over tit, so I did.’

  ‘How did you manage to hit both sides of your head on the way down?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You’ve got a badly glued wound on one side of your head, and an egg on the other.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Yes. So unless you’re a contortionist and hit both sides of your head as you went arse over tit, then I’d say you’ve taken a beating.’

  Jimmy smiled at the policeman, knowing he was cornered. ‘Very good. I did have a bit of a run in with one of the local scallys last night, you’re right.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I wish I knew. I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you if I did.’

  ‘Did he take anything, or was it just a bit of a shoeing?’ the policeman asked. Jimmy thought about Milly’s phone, but decided against telling the policeman.

  ‘My wallet.’

  ‘Have you called it in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘What’s the point? He’s nicked an out-of-date bus ticket, and some cards that I cancelled within about twenty minutes of him getting his hands on them. Can’t see your lot getting excited about that, really.’

  Jimmy watched as Malcolm looked at him with an inscrutable expression. The policeman sighed and took the notebook back out of his pocket, flicking through the pages until he found the one he wanted.

  ‘Fair point, unfortunately,’ Malcolm said as he ran his finger down the page. ‘Okay, I’ve got a question about Milly. Or more specifically, her clothes.’

  ‘Her clothes?’ Jimmy replied. ‘What about them?’

  ‘They’re rather expensive.’ Malcolm looked at the page and squinted. ‘According to Detective Constable Hunter, at least. You remember her?’

  ‘Kate, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s her. Now according to her notes, your Milly’s got several thousand pounds worth of designer clothes hanging in her wardrobe.’ He squinted again at his notebook. ‘One pair of Minori crocodile embossed leather boots, for example.’

  ‘Right,’ Jimmy replied, not sure what else to say.

  ‘Made by Jimmy Choo,’ Malcolm continued. ‘About eight hundred and fifty quid a pair, and a matching clutch bag. Whatever that is?’ He smiled at Jimmy, just two blokes chewing the fat about a subject neither of them knew much about.

  ‘Maybe the boots are fakes?’

  ‘That’s what Kate thought,’ the policeman replied. ‘But she took some photographs and sent them to a department we use in London that deals with that sort of thing. If they are fakes, they’re very good.’

  ‘Right,’ Jimmy said again.

  ‘Now assuming that the stuff isn’t snide, that piques my interest. I’m assuming you didn’t buy the clothes and other stuff for her?’

  ‘Not at eight hundred and fifty quid a pop, no.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Does she have any credit cards?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jimmy replied, realising his mistake a second after speaking. He thought back to the cards he’d found in Milly’s lock box.

  ‘Does she?’ Malcolm asked, his face hardening. Jimmy, caught in the lie, pressed on regardless.

  ‘Well, I assume she does. Most people that age do, don’t they?’

  ‘I guess. We couldn’t find any in her name, though.’

  ‘Oh, maybe she doesn’t, then,’ Jimmy said, glancing at the half empty fish tank. The police hadn’t been looking for “Appollonia”, whoever that was.

  The two men sat in silence for a moment. Jimmy was about to offer Malcolm another cup of tea, more to break the uncomfortable pause in the conversation, when the policeman spoke.

  ‘Jimmy, you crack on with your fish tank,’ he said, following Jimmy’s eyes. ‘I can hump and dump the barrels, if you want? Just show me where you want them emptying.’

  ‘Er, I’ll be okay,’ Jimmy replied. ‘I’ve got the rest of the day to empty it.’

  ‘Come on,’ Malcolm said. ‘Let me help.’

  After filling another two barrels with water from the tank, Jimmy let Malcolm carry them to the back door. As he emptied all four of them out onto the patio, Jimmy explained to Malcolm that the saltwater helped keep the weeds down.

  The two of them fell into an easy conversation about marine fish and how difficult they were to keep. Malcolm seemed genuinely interested at first, but it wasn’t long before he steered the conversation back to Milly.

  ’So where do you think your Milly got those clothes from, then?’ he asked Jimmy, who was busy filling another two barrels.

  ‘I honestly don’t know, Malcolm,’ Jimmy replied. He wasn’t lying. He really didn’t have any idea at all.

  ‘Kate reckons that there’s the best part of ten grand’s worth of clothes in that cupboard,’ Malcolm continued. ‘And that’s a conservative estimate.’ Jimmy thought back to the photographs he’d found on the thumb drive in Milly’s drawer.

  ‘I’m not one hundred per-cent sure, but I think she might have been doing some modelling work,’ he said. ‘Maybe she borrowed them for that or something?’

  ’She’s pretty enough to be a model,’ Malcolm replied. ‘Who was she working for, do you know?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Jimmy said, avoiding Malcolm’s eyes even though he was again telling the truth. He had every intention of finding out the answer to that question and wanted to speak to the photographer before the police did.

  ‘We didn’t find much in the way of payments into her bank account,’ Malcolm said, lifting one of the barrels with a grimace. ‘None from a modelling agency, anyway.’

  ‘Mayb
e she was being paid in cash?’ Jimmy offered, remembering the roll of money he’d found. ‘Keep it away from the taxman?’

  Malcolm smiled in response.

  ‘But that would be a crime,’ he said, his smile broadening.

  Half an hour later, the fish tank was empty, and any weeds on Jimmy’s patio had next to no chance of surviving.

  ‘Thanks for helping with that, Malcolm,’ Jimmy said as he put a cup of tea in front of the policeman. ‘I don’t think I could have managed it on my own, to be honest.’

  ‘No problem,’ the policeman replied. ‘So what happens to the tank now?’

  ‘I’ll sell it with the rest of the equipment,’ Jimmy said. ‘There’s a forum I go on. Worst case I can give it away on there.’ He paused, looking at the tank that had given him so much pleasure over the years. ‘It’ll be one less thing for Milly to deal with when…’ His voice trailed away, and Malcolm didn’t respond.

  ‘I should go,’ Malcolm said a few moments later when he had finished his tea. ‘Things to do, people to see. You know how it is.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jimmy replied, still looking at the fish tank.

  ‘Jimmy?’

  ‘What?’ Jimmy looked at Malcolm. The policeman was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, and looking earnestly at him.

  ‘Do you want to know what I think?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About Milly?’

  Jimmy sighed, not sure that he wanted Malcolm to continue but knowing that he had to listen to what the policeman had to say.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I can’t find out much about her at all,’ Malcolm said, ‘which is unusual. Not much in her bank accounts—either in terms of cash or activity—and no employment record. Almost no digital footprint at all in fact.’

  ‘Right,’ Jimmy replied, not sure what a digital footprint was. He thought about it for a second or two until he realised that it was things like Facebook and Twitter. ‘She’s on Facebook.’

  ‘Well, she is, and she isn’t,’ Malcolm said. ‘Most women her age fill up their timelines with memes, funny things they’ve found on the internet, weird selfies with pouts and halos. That sort of thing. All Milly’s got is a profile picture.’

  Jimmy closed his eyes and could see the photograph in his head. Milly, looking straight at the camera with an impassive expression. Perfectly plucked eyebrows, her button lips with the faintest hint of red on them not pouting in the slightest.

  ‘She’s quite a private girl,’ Jimmy said, opening his eyes and looking at Malcolm.

  ‘Like I said, that’s unusual. My gut feeling is that she’s hiding something, or from someone.’ Malcolm’s eyes bored into Jimmy. ‘The question is what, or who?’

  Jimmy could feel his heart thumping in his chest. Malcolm wasn’t telling him anything that he didn’t already know, but to hear it from a copper made it different. More real.

  ‘Now there’s only so much we can do when someone’s operating just under the surface, like Milly seems to be doing,’ Malcolm continued. ‘But there're places you can look that we can’t. People you can speak to that won’t talk to us.’ The policeman looked pointedly at Jimmy’s bruised face. ‘Maybe you’ve already spoken to one or two of them?’

  Jimmy was on the verge of telling Malcolm that his injuries were from a simple mugging, but decided against it. He ignored the thumping in his chest and waited for the policeman to continue. Jimmy wanted him to say what he needed to say and get out of his house.

  ‘If I’m right, and I’m pretty sure I am, she could be mixed up with some dangerous people. I’ve seen it before in a case with a girl down in Ipswich.’

  ‘Right,’ Jimmy replied with a glance toward the front door. ‘Thanks.’

  Malcolm shuffled toward the front of the chair until he and Jimmy were only a few inches away from each other. The policeman dropped his voice to a whisper.

  ‘Just be careful, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘You’ve got some leeway because of your, er, illness. But not much. If you find out anything—anything at all—you need to let me know. I don’t care how you get the information, but you need to let me have it. Do you understand?’

  ‘I’m a bin man, Malcolm,’ Jimmy replied. ‘Not Don Corleone.’

  Malcolm smiled as he got to his feet.

  ‘I’ll be leaving you to it, then,’ the policeman said as he crossed to the front door. ‘I hope you enjoy the rest of your Sunday.’ Jimmy followed him and unlatched the door.

  ‘You too, and thanks again for your help with the tank.’

  ‘Hey, no problem.’ Malcolm was still smiling as he stepped out into the watery sunshine. He glanced up at the sky for a second.

  ‘Malcolm, what happened to the girl?’

  ‘Sorry, which girl?’

  ‘The one down in Ipswich?’

  Malcolm’s smile disappeared in an instant, and he looked back up at the sky with a frown. Jimmy thought for a moment that he was about to make a comment about the weather.

  ‘I’ll be seeing you, Jimmy,’ the policeman replied as he turned and walked down the path.

  Chapter 22

  Jimmy lay in bed, listening to the birds singing outside his window. At least he didn’t have a splitting headache again like he did yesterday, but then he’d gone to bed sober which probably helped. He shifted in bed, wincing as he felt a dull pain in the small of his back. Jimmy swore under his breath. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.

  The backache—his latest ailment—was all down to the bloody fish tank. After Malcolm had left yesterday, Jimmy had posted on the “Sales & Wants” section of the marine fish keeping forum he used, and by the time he’d finished cleaning the tank and the equipment that went in it, he had a buyer. There was a young man he’d spoken to before—on the forum, not in real life—who only lived a few miles away and was desperate to get the tank. They’d spoken on the phone, and he had persuaded Jimmy to let him collect it the same day. The buyer brought money with him, but no-one to help him load the tank into his van. By the time Jimmy had helped manoeuvre the heavy glass tank into the back of the Transit, he was sweating profusely and had a sharp pain in the back of his head. Ignoring the buyer’s concerned questions, he’d got rid of the man by giving him most of the equipment that went with the tank for nothing. The only thing Jimmy still had from the hobby he’d had since he was a youngster himself were the large plastic barrels that he used for water changes, and they would be easy enough to get rid of.

  He lay quietly, wondering what he should do today. There was plenty to be done, but he wasn’t sure what order to do it in. Malcolm’s words from the previous day were ringing around his head. What could Jimmy do that the police couldn’t? Had Malcolm been trying to tell him something, and Jimmy just wasn’t realising it? Jimmy sighed, unsure if there even was an answer to either question. One thing he had that wouldn’t go away was a nagging thought in the back of his mind that he was missing something. Something important.

  As he thought about getting up and making himself a cup of tea, he heard a very familiar sound from the street outside. It was a lorry’s brakes, hissing and squealing, followed by the slamming of a couple of doors and muffled laughter. Jimmy smiled as he looked at his bedside clock. It was almost eight in the morning, and the bin men were just about to start their round. He thought for a moment about the barrels, and whether they were recyclable, when he realised that he wasn’t sure if it was the recycling lorry or the regular household waste lorry. Then the thought in his head suddenly came into sharp focus, and ignoring the pain in his back, he swung his legs out of the bed and looked around the floor for his slippers.

  ‘Rubbish,’ he said as he slipped his feet into them and stood up. ‘Bloody rubbish.’

  ‘Wait, wait!’ Jimmy called out as he half-walked, half-ran down the garden path. On the pavement outside his house, Robbie had his hands on the handle of Jimmy’s green household waste bin. ‘Robbie, hold up, mate!’

  ‘Hey, Jimmy,’ Robbie replied with an easy
smile. ‘Nice pyjamas, fella.’

  ‘Thanks, Robbie,’ Jimmy said, breathless from the exertion even though he’d only travelled about twenty yards. ‘I need that bin.’

  ‘What?’ Robbie asked, laughing. ‘What for?’

  ‘I just do,’ Jimmy replied. ‘I need some stuff out of it. Can you come back later?’ A male voice Jimmy didn’t recognise called down from the cab of the lorry.

  ‘We can come back for it next week, old man,’ the voice said. ‘But we need to get a move on, so make your mind up.’ Jimmy looked up at the cab, frowning.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he said with a frown to the driver. He didn’t look old enough to shave, let alone drive a bin lorry.

  ‘Robbie, sort it out would you?’ the driver replied, not even looking at Jimmy.

  ‘Sorry mate. He’s new, but he’s got a license, so the gaffer didn’t have a choice,’ Robbie said. Jimmy glanced across the road at the other members of the crew, realising that he didn’t recognise them either.

  ‘Where’s Marmite and Fat Alan?’ Jimmy asked. ‘Are they not on the crew any more?’

  ‘No, mate,’ Robbie replied, pushing Jimmy’s bin back to where it had been. ‘We all got split up after you went on the sick.’

  ‘Oh, bollocks. Can you tell them I’m sorry?’

  ‘You don’t need to be sorry, Jimmy,’ Robbie said with a quick look at the side of Jimmy’s head. ‘That’s looking okay. How are you doing?’

  ‘I’ve been better,’ Jimmy replied. ‘But I’ve been worse.’

  Robbie looked at him with an expression somewhere between confusion and sympathy.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You know me, Robbie,’ Jimmy said as the driver put the lorry into gear and inched the vehicle forwards a few feet before stamping on the brakes. ‘Can’t keep a good man down.’

  Twenty minutes later, Jimmy was sitting in his kitchen, hands clasped around a mug of tea. It had been colder than he’d realised outside, and by the time he’d got the bin back down the path, he was freezing. Robbie had promised to make sure that the new driver swung back down Jimmy’s road when they finished their round on the estate, but Jimmy doubted the new driver would say yes. It was an unwritten rule that whoever was driving was in charge, mostly because he—or occasionally she—would be earning more than the others because they had a license. Jimmy couldn’t see the miserable bastard of a driver giving in to Robbie.