‘And Sir William Langley left the school in which year?’ another was saying. ‘Yes, I do realize that would make you the oldest school secretary in the business if you’d actually been there at the time, but I assume there are records you can check . . . Yes, thank you. Did he apply to go to university? . . . Oh, you wouldn’t have a record of that, even if he did.’
‘Did Stockwell ever come into your pub with a big man who walked like he might have been a soldier? . . . No, I didn’t specifically say Andy Adair! Will you answer the question as I phrased it, Mr Simpson.’
‘I can assure you, sir, we are not conducting an investigation into your friend Sir William. It’s merely that his name came up in the investigation we are conducting . . . No, I’m afraid I can’t give you any details of that investigation.’
Beresford returned to his desk. The brief the boss had given him had been to try and establish a link between Simon Stockwell and Sir William Langley, and so far he’d been singularly unsuccessful. In fact, he admitted to himself, the more his team discovered about the two men, the wider the gap between them grew.
He glanced down at the team’s findings so far:
Langley and Stockwell had been born at different ends of the town, twenty years apart.
Langley had gone to the local grammar school, Stockwell had attended a secondary modern.
Young Langley had been a Cub, and then a Boy Scout, the Scouting Association had confirmed. Young Stockwell had belonged to several gangs of tearaways, his probation officer had noted in his record.
Stockwell never bought a car from the other man in Langley’s motor-business days, and it went without saying that now Langley had moved on to bigger and better things, Simon Stockwell was most definitely not one of the investors in his merchant bank.
Langley was a big wheel in the Whitebridge Golf and Country Club, Stockwell spent most of his free time in the Clog and Billycock.
Langley usually went to Italy for a month in the summer, Stockwell’s family were lucky if they got the occasional day trip to Blackpool.
Langley was a staunch Conservative, Stockwell voted Labour when he could be bothered.
Neither of them seemed to have ever been to Northern Ireland, or to have had any significant connection with anybody Irish.
And last – but not bloody least – the Inland Revenue was adamant that Stockwell had never done any paid work for Langley as a decorator, or in any other capacity.
Beresford ran his glance over the horseshoe of desks, and once again felt the yearning to be back out pounding the streets.
He wouldn’t be missed in headquarters if he slipped away for an hour or so, he managed to persuade himself, so perhaps he’d go and see how DS Cousins was getting on at Ashton Court.
FOURTEEN
‘I think we’ve found what you were looking for, Sarge,’ one of the uniformed constables said, pointing to the foot of the wall which surrounded Sir William Langley’s estate.
Cousins bent down and examined the two rectangular indentations – both four inches long and two inches broad – which had been made in the earth.
‘What would you say they indicate, Constable Pickering?’ he asked.
‘A ladder,’ Pickering said dutifully.
‘Couldn’t be anything else, could it?’ Cousins agreed. ‘So this is where the bastard gained access.’
Pickering knelt and ran his finger across the dip. ‘Do you think so, Sarge?’ he asked dubiously.
‘Don’t you?’ Cousins replied.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ Pickering admitted. ‘There’s no chance he could have brought the body in some time before last night, is there?’
‘No, there isn’t,’ Cousins said. ‘Stockwell was seen alive as late as yesterday afternoon. What makes you ask that?’
‘Well, I do a bit of gardening, you see – on an allotment,’ Pickering said, in a low voice, as if he didn’t want the other constable to hear him.
‘So?’
‘So you can tell when earth’s been turned over by the state it’s in. Its texture, and that. I think it’s something to do with oxidation.’
‘Possibly it is,’ Cousins said, impatiently, ‘but what’s your point, lad?’
‘I think these indentations are more than a few hours old.’
‘Do you, by God?’ Cousins asked. ‘Then let’s go and see if we can find any more.’
They found a second set of indentations half a dozen yards further along the wall.
‘Now do you see why I thought it would be useful to bring a second pair of eyes along?’ Cousins said.
The constable nodded. ‘Yes, Sarge.’
‘And are these indentations more recent than the others?’
‘Definitely.’
‘They’re deeper, too,’ Cousins mused. ‘What does that tell us?’
‘That there was more pressure on the ladder.’
‘And why was that?’
‘Because a different man – a heavier one climbed up it. Or maybe . . . maybe it was the same man, but he was carrying something!’
‘Like a corpse,’ Cousins said grimly. ‘God, he’s a cold-blooded bastard, this killer.’
‘You can say that again,’ Pickering agreed. ‘To have ripped somebody’s throat out like he did, and then take the body and—’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ Cousins interrupted. ‘I’m talking about the fact that there are two sets of ladder impressions, instead of just one – and that according to you, the first one’s older.’
‘So . . . so he didn’t just dump the body last night . . .’ Pickering gasped.
‘That’s right,’ Cousins agreed. ‘He’d been here before, to do a dry run.’
When Colin Beresford saw the two men kneeling at the base of the wall – and examining something they obviously regarded as significant – he felt a twinge of envy which he recognized as both unworthy of him and as almost inevitable.
He coughed, partly through embarrassment, partly to let them know he was there.
Cousins looked up. ‘Something wrong, sir?’
‘No,’ Beresford replied, realizing he was sounding defensive. ‘Why should there be?’
‘No reason at all,’ Cousins replied reasonably. ‘I just didn’t expect to see you here, that’s all.’
‘Meaning I should be back at HQ,’ Beresford thought. ‘Meaning I have no business abandoning my post and gallivanting about the countryside!’
‘So what have you found?’ he asked aloud.
‘We think this is where he got in, sir – and that’s mainly down to Constable Pickering’s smart thinking, because if it had been left up to me, I’d still have been looking somewhere else.’
‘How did he manage it?’ Beresford asked, trying to sound inspectorial.
‘The way we have it figured, he rested the first ladder against the wall, then climbed up it, carrying the second ladder. When he reached the top of the wall, he lowered the second ladder down on to the other side. Once he’d done that, he climbed back down again to pick up the body.’
‘Why would he have done it that way,’ Beresford wondered. ‘Why not just use one ladder and drop the body over the wall?’
‘We think he didn’t want to run the risk of damaging it, sir. We think he wanted it to look exactly as it did look when Langley found it.’
That made sense, Beresford thought.
‘Have you checked for ladder impressions on the other side of the wall?’ he asked.
‘Not yet, sir, but it’s our next step. I’ll also have the lads look for tyre tracks on this side of the wall, and for anything the killer might have inadvertently dropped while he was carrying the body.’
‘He’s got it all under control,’ Beresford thought, disappointedly. ‘There’s absolutely nothing here for me to do.’
‘Have you questioned the staff?’ he asked.
‘Not yet,’ Cousins said. ‘But it’s down on what my wife used to call my “to do” list.’
‘I might as well que
stion them, since I’m here,’ Beresford said, and when he saw the puzzled look come to Cousins’ face, he said, ‘It’ll save you a job.’
‘I suppose it will, sir,’ Cousins agreed.
The public bar of the Drum and Monkey was the haunt of men who made their living with their sheer muscle power – men who dug ditches and carried builder’s hods weighed down with bricks. The Clog and Billycock, on the other hand, seemed to cater for men who were one step up the job ladder, and surveying the car park, Paniatowski counted eight tradesman’s vans.
She entered the pub and went straight over to the bar, where she found the landlord half-heartedly polishing a pint glass.
‘Yes?’ he said, the tone of his voice suggesting that he regarded customers as an unnecessary intrusion on his privacy.
Paniatowski showed him her warrant card. ‘I’m looking for anyone who might know Simon Stockwell.’
The landlord sniffed. ‘Then you’ll want to talk to that lot over there,’ he said, pointing.
There were four men sitting around the table that he’d indicated. Two of them were wearing blue overalls, which said on them that they worked for Speedy Plumbers. The other two, in brown, were employed by Hanson Electrical.
‘Just look at them,’ the landlord said sourly. ‘God’s gift to home improvements.’
‘He drinks with them regularly, does he?’
‘Regular enough. Most dinnertimes and most evenings.’ the landlord said. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked, belatedly remembering what he was there for.
‘What brands of vodka do you stock?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Vodka?’ the landlord repeated, as if the word were as alien to him as it would be to a Himalayan goat herder. ‘I don’t think we stock any. There’s no call for it.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Thank you for your time.’
The four men were already deep in conversation as Paniatowski crossed the room, and it was the elder of the plumbers who was holding the floor.
‘So I says to her,’ he was telling the others, ‘I says, “Look, lady, I can do it cheap if you like, but cheap can work out very expensive in the long run.” An’ she says to me, “Well, if you’re convinced that these copper-cryptic pipes are the best, I’d better have them, hadn’t I?” So copper-cryptic pipes it was.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard of copper-cryptic pipes,’ one of the electricians said.
The plumber chuckled. ‘That’s hardly surprisin’, considerin’ I’d just made the name up.’
The four men became aware of Paniatowski’s arrival simultaneously, though their reactions to her were all different. The better-looking of the electricians gave her a broad smile, suggesting that, if she played her cards right, she could have him. His spotty partner, on the other hand, was already reconciled to failure, and contented himself with staring at her breasts. The younger plumber looked to his mate for guidance about the nature of the fun which was bound to follow. And the older plumber sucked in his gut – as if he thought that by this one act he could hide all the evidence of twenty years’ over-indulgence in ale and fry-ups.
She knew them all, Paniatowski thought. They were the lads who had hung around on street corners and shouted obscenities after the twelve-year-old Monika. They were the callow – and callous – police cadets, who had covered their own feelings of inadequacy by picking on another cadet, simply because she had the nerve to be a woman.
On their own, they were nothing. But put them in a group, and it wouldn’t take them long to persuade each other that the girl who had drunk too much – and passed out in the corner of the bar – really wanted all of them to have sex with her.
It was the older plumber who fired the opening salvo, just as she’d expected it would be.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said, with a lasciviousness which would have been insulting if he hadn’t been pathetic. ‘Just look what we’ve got here. And what can we do for you, Sweetie?’
‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about Simon Stockwell,’ Paniatowski said.
‘Got you up the duff, has he?’ the older plumber chortled. ‘I didn’t know he had it in him.’
‘Must have had it in her, though, hey, Brian?’ asked the younger plumber, nudging his partner in the ribs.
‘Bit of a ladies’ man, was he?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Well, you know what us lads are like when we’re offered the chance of a bit of loose,’ the older plumber replied. Then, as the last two words that Paniatowski had spoken began to sink into his underemployed brain, he frowned. ‘Did you just say, “Bit of a ladies’ man, was he”?’
‘That’s right,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘He didn’t look like much of a ladies’ man the last time I saw him, but then most men don’t when they’ve had their throats ripped out.’
‘Was he . . . was he dead?’ the older plumber asked, incredulously.
‘Either that, or he was doing the best bloody impression I’ve ever seen in my life,’ Paniatowski replied.
‘But he was only in here last night,’ the good-looking electrician said.
‘No, he wasn’t,’ the spotty one disagreed. ‘I remember you sayin’ that you wondered what had happened to him.’
‘And now you know,’ Paniatowski said.
‘Was he . . . I mean, do you know if . . .?’ the older plumber began.
‘If you can remember back as far as two minutes ago, you’ll recall that I told you I’d be the one who’d be asking the questions,’ Paniatowski said sharply, producing her warrant card.
‘Of course, Sergeant,’ the older plumber said shakily.
‘That’s Chief Inspector!’ Paniatowski barked.
‘Of course, Chief Inspector,’ the older plumber said.
Well, that was the softening-up process over and done with, Paniatowski thought.
‘The man who you all spent so much time boozing with used to go home and knock his wife about,’ she said. ‘You were aware of that, weren’t you?’
The four tradesmen bowed their heads like guilty schoolboys.
‘We knew they didn’t always get on well together, but we never really talked about what went on at home,’ the spotty electrician said.
Which was about as close to an admission that they did know about it as any of them was likely to make.
‘You hinted that he had an eye for the ladies,’ Paniatowski said.
‘That was just our bit of fun,’ the older plumber replied, back-tracking furiously. ‘Fellers like us don’t go chasin’ skirt. All we want after a hard day’s work is a few pints.’
‘So no girlfriends?’
‘None he ever told us about.’
‘What about enemies?’
‘Enemies? Simon didn’t have any of them. Everybody thought he was a good lad.’
‘Really?’ Paniatowski asked sceptically. ‘Well, let me tell you, I’ve just been talking to his wife, and she’s not exactly his biggest fan.’
‘Ah, but she’s a woman, you see,’ the older plumber explained. ‘Simon was more of a man’s man.’
‘So he wasn’t in here last night,’ Paniatowski said. ‘But he was never in here on Thursday nights, was he?’
‘No, he wasn’t,’ the spotty electrician said. ‘We all miss the occasional night, but now I come to think about it, it was always Thursday that Simon missed.’
‘So maybe he did have a bit on the side, after all,’ the younger plumber suggested. ‘Maybe a married lass, whose husband was always away on Thursday nights.’
‘Do you really think that if Simon had been getting a bit of married nooky he’d have been able to keep quiet about it – especially after a few pints?’ the older plumber asked scornfully.
‘No, I don’t suppose he would,’ the younger plumber admitted.
‘And I’m bloody sure he wouldn’t,’ Paniatowski thought.
The butler had announced that his name was Mr Lennox.
Not Sam Lennox or Jack Lennox, but Mr Lennox.
Beresford considered that affectation ridiculous. After all, this was the 1970s, for God’s sake. The Beatles, with their mould-breaking informality, had been and gone. Now, kids who would once have called their parents’ adult friends Uncle Sid and Auntie Elsie referred to them quite openly as just Sid and Elsie. And yet, as far as this man was concerned, nothing seemed to have changed.
There were other things about the butler which were anachronisms, too. Though it was a warm summer day, he was wearing both a jacket and a waistcoat. And though Beresford was a police inspector, and he was – when all was said and done – no more than a domestic servant – he gave the impression that in deigning to grant the other man an interview at all, he was being gracious well beyond the bounds of necessity.
‘How many people work at Ashton Court?’ Beresford asked.
‘Sir William has a staff of twelve in his service,’ the butler replied.
‘And do they all live here?’
Lennox wrinkled his nose in what might have been contempt at the question or merely contempt at the situation.
‘Oh, dear me, no,’ he said. ‘With the exception of myself and my lady wife, who is the housekeeper, all the staff are provided by an agency, and come in on a daily basis.’
‘Why does Langley use agency staff?’ Beresford wondered.
‘Sir William has no choice in the matter,’ the butler told him. ‘There was a belief in service in this country before the War, but that is now quite gone, and I shall never forgive Adolf Hitler for destroying it.’
‘I’m sure he’d be mortified to hear that, if he was still alive,’ Beresford thought.
‘So what hours do the agency staff work?’ he asked aloud.
‘That depends on the circumstances. If Sir William has a dinner party – and is prepared to pay out ruinous amounts of money in overtime – they will condescend to stay quite late. Otherwise, the agency minibus picks them up at six o’clock in the evening, leaving myself and Mrs Lennox to run the whole establishment alone.’
‘What about last night?’
‘Last night, they left at six, as usual,’
‘Leaving who, exactly, in the house?’
The Ring of Death Page 12