‘Of course there is, Mr Reardon,’ said Bateman, smiling. ‘Hold on a moment.’ He picked up his phone pressed Sue’s extension. ‘Miss Cater, could you come down and make a couple of cups of coffee. Do you take sugar, Mr Reardon?’ Reardon nodded.
‘I’ll be right down,’ whispered Sue.
‘You see, Mr Reardon, our problem is one of resources. Ten years ago I could have put a reporter on the story and sent him to each of the towns mentioned in the leaflets to check the truth of the matter. Unfortunately, these days, I only have three staff, and two of them are juniors.’
‘What sort of newspaper is this?’
‘By today’s standards it’s pretty good. But I can’t help you in the way you want. I can’t print they’re untrue unless I can prove they’re untrue.’
‘This is fucking insane! I’m an innocent man. These things have appeared out of nowhere and everyone believes them. There must be something you can do. Do you know how much I spend on advertising with your paper every year?’
‘No, I don’t. But I’m sure it’s significant. But this is the editorial department, and as you say, we’re interested more in truth than capital. Mind you, you could put up the money for a freelance reporter. If it was someone I nominated I would accept his findings.’
Sue Cater entered with three cups of coffee and sat down behind Reardon. ‘This is Miss Cater, one of our journalists. Do you mind if she sits in?’
‘I couldn’t give a monkey’s if you brought the Dagenham Girl Pipers in. What freelance could I use?’
‘I’ll contact him for you. It’ll cost around a hundred pounds a day and expenses. And be warned Mr Reardon, it’s going to take some time.’
Reardon put down his coffee. ‘I really don’t believe this. How can this happen? How can somebody just print a load of lies?’
‘Yes, it must be dreadfully upsetting for you,’ agreed Bateman.
‘I got a medal in Northern Ireland. I was honourably discharged. You could check that, couldn’t you?’
‘Of course, but people would only say you’d fixed it, or that someone was lying to protect you.’
‘So, until your man comes home with the goods I’ve just got to take it? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘I’ll find out who’s printing these. I’ll bloody find out.’
‘I hope you do. While you’re here, Mr Reardon, do you mind if I ask a couple of questions?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Do you have any enemies?’
‘All businessmen have enemies. Successful businessmen anyway. You think one of them is behind the leaflets?’
‘It’s unlikely to be one of your friends,’ observed Bateman. ‘What sort of enemies are they? Business rivals?’
Reardon shrugged. ‘There are a lot of people who feel hard done by. Losers most of them. That’s how the world’s split, isn’t it? Winners and losers. The losers whine and moan, the winners just get out and do.’
‘And you are a winner?’
‘I got a six-hundred-and-fifty thousand pound house and a yacht moored in Malta. Do I look like a loser?’
‘In fairness, no, you don’t. I’ll get my man to call you, Mr Reardon. Will you be at home this evening?’
‘Yeah. After nine.’
‘He will require ten days’ fee in advance, and one hundred pounds travelling expenses. But he’s good. If the stories are false he should find out in the next week or so.’
‘Thanks for your time. And you’ll print the story when he comes up with it?’
‘I guarantee it.’
‘That’s good,’ said Reardon. ‘Look, you’ll have to come out to the house one of these days. I have lots of parties. You know, show-biz folk, local celebrities. You’d enjoy yourself. Bring the young lady here.’
‘That’s very kind of you. I’ll look forward to it.’
Reardon shook hands and left. Sue and Bateman watched from the window as he climbed into a silver Mercedes parked on double yellow lines outside the office.
‘I thought I was going to die when he walked in,’ said Bateman. ‘I was convinced he knew about the story.’
‘He will next Tuesday when we publish.’
‘Oh, well, bang goes the invitation to meet the showbiz crowd.’
‘We will publish won’t we, Don?’
‘Of course. Why shouldn’t we?’
‘He is a major advertiser. Eighty grand last year for his clubs and property holdings.’
‘l know we’re sliding, kid, but I don’t think we’ve slid quite that far yet.’
‘You say that, but Mark’s feature on bad car servicing last year was dropped like a hot brick.’
‘I know. That hurt. And not only because he quit over it. But this is different.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘Trust me,’ he said, but the seeds of doubt had been sown.
Bimbo was standing in the porch at Mortlake Crematorium when the hearse drew up. It was a large, sleek motor with glass sides, and a single wreath could be seen on the oak veneer coffin.
Four men lifted it clear and carried it into the building, their footsteps echoing in the empty hall. Richard Kilbey smiled at Bimbo and climbed to the lectern. Bimbo watched as the pall bearers walked to the back of the chapel and sat down.
Kilbey cleared his throat and began to speak, his voice soft, but resonant.
‘We are gathered here to witness the passing from life to death of a friend. Not my friend – or yours,’ said the vicar, gesturing towards the pall bearers, ‘but a friend to Bimbo Jardine. Henry Stepney lived among us for many years. He lived peacefully, quietly, and regretfully.
‘As a young man he had another name, and he lived in another country. He grew with a burning dream, and, as with so many burning desires, it led him to forsake all that civilised men hold dear. And the flames blazed brightly for a while, until, at last – as they always will – they consumed the young man. His dreams became ashes, his life grey and void of flame.
‘He committed great evils, and they returned to haunt him.
‘But he found a friend and, perhaps, rediscovered a little of the young man who once cared. And let us hope that a new flame caught in his long-cold soul. A true flame, not of ambition, or lust for glory, but of love. For that is the flame that enriches, and burns without burning.
‘I would like to think that Heinrich Stolz has gone to meet his maker with just such a flame. I cannot say that his crimes will be washed away, but I believe he has already suffered his own personal purgatory, and the Lord is all forgiving.
‘Let us pray’
Bimbo eased himself to his knees and closed his eyes. After the service he shook Kilbey’s hand warmly.
‘Thanks, Rev. Nice words. He’d a liked them. By the way,’ he added, fishing in his pocket, ‘here’s the twenty notes for the refuge.’
‘You’re a good man, Bimbo. Try not to fall down any more stairs. How are the bruises?’
‘I heal quick. Don’t you worry about me.’
An elderly man in a heavy black woollen overcoat approached Bimbo at the gates.
‘Mr Jardine?’ he said, his voice clipped and sibilant.
‘Yeah?’
He handed Bimbo a card. ‘My name is Muntford. Cyril Muntford. I was Mr Stepney’s solicitor.’
‘You shoulda bin in the chapel.’
‘He was a client, Mr Jardine, not a friend. Could you call on me on Monday at four?’
‘Why?’
‘For the reading of the will, Mr Jardine. Surely you know you were his sole beneficiary?’
‘No. What’s that mean, exactly?’
‘It means that he has left you his estate. At four on Monday then?’
‘Sure.’
Stan Jarvis was waiting beyond
the gates, listening to a Dire Straits album on his car’s cassette player. Bimbo slid in beside him.
‘Good service?’ asked Stan.
‘Yeah. Empty though. Wish you’d come in.’
‘I never knew him. And I don’t like funerals. Morbid. Where do you fancy goin’?’
‘Drop me back in the High Street. I wanna get some bread for me swan. Then you better get back to the shop.’
‘You didn’t oughta be wanderin’ about on yer own, son. It aint healthy.’
‘I don’t need no minder. Anyway, what with these scandal sheets goin’ around Reardon’s got other things on his mind. They true, you reckon?’
‘Dunno,’ said Stan. ‘Can’t read, can I?’
‘Any idea who’s behind it?’
‘No. And I don’t wanna know,’ said Stan. The car pulled away, and Stan turned up the volume of the stereo.
The walk to the park helped Bimbo stretch his aching muscles, and he was pleased there was no one at the pond. The black swan saw him and glided gracefully from the island. Normally she swept back and forth, approaching hesitantly. But today she came straight to the land and waddled ponderously on to the grass. Bimbo groaned as he lowered himself to sit on the ground. He broke some bread and threw it to her, but she ignored it, and spread her wings before settling down some five feet from him. ‘Just want a chat, do ya, princess?’ he said, softly. Bimbo’s injured eye was partly open now, but the bird’s blind eye would never heal. The thought hit him, adding to the heavy sadness the service had induced in him. His throat tightened and tears welled in his eyes.
‘What a bloody Jessie,’ he said, but he could not stem the sobs that tore from his throat. Strangely the bird was untroubled, and she sat close, head tilted, her good eye fixed on the friendly animal before her.
Sgt Don Dodds stood unnoticed at the bench some thirty feet away, watching the two lonely creatures. He had wanted to speak to Bimbo, but now was not the time. He walked silently away, up the short hill to the car where D.C. Sunley was waiting. Retirement was only four weeks away for the veteran sergeant. It would begin with a winter cruise in the Caribbean, which Edna had been longing for. Dodds thought about the cruise, and realised, not for the first time, that he would sell his soul for another five years on the force.
Sunley started the engine. ‘That was quick. How did he take it?’
‘I must have missed him,’ said Dodds.
‘There’s a call just come in, Sarge. There’s a tramp who saw a man running from Reilly’s place. He’s at the nick now.’
‘What you waiting for, son?’
The interview was going badly when the two arrived. The tramp, an ancient black man named Hezedekiah, was just emerging from a nine day drunk. He admitted he was smashed at the time he saw the man; and hadn’t realised it was the day of the murder until another tramp had told him about the killing yesterday. He had been walking along by the church graveyard when a huge white man crashed into him. Hezedekiah had fallen back and hit his head on the wall. He remembered the man had blood on him, because some of that blood smeared his own coat. A good coat. Had it for years. Never got no blood on it before. No way. ’Ceptin’ the nose bleed. But that was different. Yes sir. That was his own blood. That had a right to be on his coat. But not no other blood. And not, as it turned out, no dead man’s blood.
D.I. Eric Lynch was deeply unimpressed. ‘Would you recognise the man if you saw him again?’
‘No, sir. No way. Big as a house, though. And it wouldn’t do to recognise no man as big as a house.’
‘But you saw that he was white?’
‘I seen that, all right. Face shone in the moonlight.’
Dodds left the room for a cup of tea and returned some quarter of an hour later. The questioning was still in progress, but Hezedekiah was growing increasingly agitated.
‘Don’ wanna be here no more. I had my say. You dig that? These walls is shiverin’. Gonna smother me.’
‘One last time, Hezedekiah,’ said Lynch. ‘What happened after you fell?’
‘He kep’ on runnin’. I done tol’ you that.’
‘Did he run to a car?’
‘I didn’t see nothin’. I was looking for my bottle. I didn’t hear it break.’
‘Never mind the bottle.’
‘Goddamn easy for you to say. But he had no right. I never done nothin’ to him.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Dodds. ‘May I ask a question?’
Lynch was annoyed, but he nodded. Dodds sat on the desk, looming over Hezedekiah. ‘What did he do to you, sir?’
‘He lost me my bottle.’
‘How?’
‘He done threw it away.’
‘How?’
‘When we collided I was carryin’ my bottle. Still had the goddamn cork in it. You know how long it is since I had a bottle with a cork? Picked it up Kensin’ton.’
‘And how did you lose it, sir?’
‘It was in my hand. Then crash. I grabbed him to stop myself fallin’ but he pushed me. I let go the bottle. And it was up against him, sort of. Anyways he just grabbed it and threw it over the churchyard. I never heard it break, and I went to look. I never found nothin’. Goddamn!’
‘And whereabouts were you at the time?’
‘I was comin’ round de corner.’
‘Was the man wearing gloves? Did you see that?’
‘No gloves,’ said Hezedekiah. ‘I wanna go now.’
Ten officers were organised to search the site, and Dodds accompanied them. Lynch and Sunley got there first and the elder man seemed anxious to get started.
‘Let’s wait for the others, sir,’ said Sunley.
‘You can wait, son,’ said Lynch. ‘I’ll have a look around.’
‘I’ll come with you then, sir.’
‘There’s no need for that, laddie. You stay by the car.’
‘With respect, sir, I’ll come with you. Less chance of anyone saying we planted the evidence.’
‘There won’t be any evidence,’ snapped Lynch. ‘You think that old drunk could remember what day it was? He just wanted a free meal.’
‘I’ll come anyway, sir,’ said Sunley. Lynch reddened, but as he was about to speak the other cars drew up.
They quartered the ground and searched inch by inch through the long grass and the overgrown graves. Finally Lynch called the search to a halt. ‘Even Daley Thompson couldn’t have thrown it this far,’ he said.
‘One last time, lads,’ said Dodds. ‘Back to the wall.’ Dodds got one of the men to give him a hand, and climbed on to the six foot wall. From here he tried to judge the possible trajectories. The killer was large and strong. He was also angry, or panicking, at the time. It wouldn’t have been tossed, but hurled. There was a tree close by. Dodds stared at it. A piece of bark was dislodged about seven feet up the trunk. He clambered down from the wall and examined it. It could have been anything from squirrel tearings to a thrown stone. But it could also have been caused by a bottle striking it. He looked around. There was no sign of broken glass. On the point of giving up he spotted a broken gravestone that had snapped and fallen forward, creating an upturned V. He walked to it and knelt. There, hidden from sight and safe from harm, lay the wine bottle. Remarkably it was unbroken, and, better still, dried blood was smeared on the label.
‘Over here!’ called Dodds. ‘And bring a bag.’ Carefully he lifted the bottle clear, holding it at the cork and under the base. The white label was damp, but the blood stain showed a clear print.
‘By God,’ said Sunley, ‘that’s beautiful.’ Dodds placed the bottle inside the bag, and glanced up to see Lynch hurrying over.
‘You remember what I told you, son,’ he whispered to Sunley.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ said the young officer.
‘You found it?’ asked Lynch.
‘Y
es, sir,’ said Sunley. ‘And there’s a clear print. I’ll get it back for the lab.’
‘Good work,’ said Lynch, forcing a smile.
Knowing Bimbo would no longer be in the park, Dodds drove to Maple Road. He was about to get out of the car when he saw a movement at Bimbo’s window, and recognised Sue Cater drawing the curtains.
‘You really believe in doing your research, young lady,’ he whispered.
Susan turned from the window.
‘What ya doin’?’ asked Bimbo.
‘Take your shirt and trousers off and lie down by the fire.’
‘I don’t think I’m up to this,’ said Bimbo. ‘Give me another few days.’
‘You’re up to what I’ve got in mind, cowboy. Now do as you’re told.’
Bimbo groaned as he pulled the T-shirt clear. The bruises were fading, but they were still unpleasant to the eye: deep purple, yellow or angry red. Sue opened a earner bag and removed a large plastic bottle of scented massage oil. Then she took off her own blouse.
‘Is that necessary?’ he asked.
‘You complaining? I just don’t want oil on my clothes.’
‘I aint complainin’. Honest to God.’
She warmed the oil in her hands and smeared it across his back and shoulders in smooth, circular motions. Bimbo closed his eyes. The warmth from the fire and the massage made him drowsy. Skilfully her fingers found the knots in his muscles, easing them clear with a minimum of discomfort.
When she had finished she leaned back. He turned to his side and grinned at her.
‘Maybe I don’t need a few more days after all,’ he said.
At that moment there was a knock at the door. Sue swore. Bimbo rose and walked to the door while Sue gathered her clothes and made her way to the bedroom.
‘Who is it?’
‘Sgt Dodds. Get your arse alight and open this bloody door.’
He stepped inside and removed his cap. Glancing at Bimbo’s wounds, he grinned. ‘I’ve seen horses put down with less injuries than those.’
‘Look, could we make this quick? I got things to do.’ Dodds’ smile faded, replaced by an expression of regret. ‘Put the kettle on, son. We’re both going to need a cup of tea.’
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