Mirror Man

by McIntosh, Fiona

  She mouthed never in his direction before speaking aloud. ‘These are lovely homes around here,’ loud enough for the taxi driver to feel welcome to comment.

  ‘Oh yes, highly desirable around here,’ he replied, taking the cue. ‘Getting expensive, too. Lots of you London folk buying flats for a song and renovating them.’

  ‘You mean as weekenders?’

  ‘Yes, and to rent out as an investment. They’re a good buy around here. Not so much at Beaufort, where you’re headed, of course. That’s social housing, you know that, right?’

  ‘We do,’ Jack said.

  ‘Are you coppers?’ he asked, his London accent pushing through. Jack sighed. ‘Smell you lot a mile off. Someone been a naughty boy?’

  ‘No, the opposite,’ Kate replied. ‘Someone helping police with enquiries, although we’d be grateful if you’d not broadcast that, please.’

  ‘My lips are sealed. I don’t mind helping the boys and girls in blue . . . or even you suits.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it,’ Jack said. He leaned to look out from the window. ‘I’m guessing this is it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Six pounds fifty-five, please.’

  Jack gave him a ten-pound note. ‘Keep it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the driver said and winked at Kate as she looked back.

  ‘Let’s find the caretaker,’ Jack said, glancing across the hulking block of functional, sixties, brown brick accommodation, without any elegance or taste. They found the building manager smoking on a bench outside a tiny office on one of the wings.

  ‘Bernie Beaton? Yeah, flat sixty-three. Third level, towards that end.’ He pointed.

  ‘Thanks,’ Kate said. She’d not had to show her warrant card or explain herself – so much for security if the killer came hunting Bernie.

  The lift was out of order on this wing, so they took the stairs via stairwells that smelled like cooked cabbage. Arriving onto the third level, each door looked the same, once painted white but now quite shabbily off-white with cracked paint. Outside number 63 they paused and looked at each other before Jack knocked. He was sure they were sharing the same good-luck thought. They waited. He knocked again after a reasonable pause.

  ‘Coming, coming,’ said a man’s voice. Both blinked with relief. The door opened and in front of them stood a slightly stooped gentleman in corduroy trousers, a jumper with patches at the elbows, polished shoes and a beanie over hair in need of a trim. He was shaved though. Jack had expected someone less groomed.

  ‘Mr Beaton?’

  ‘It is,’ he said, his gaze sliding between them. ‘Good morning.’

  They both showed their warrant cards.

  He squinted at them. ‘Detective Inspector Carter and . . .’ He looked taken aback. ‘Detective Superintendent? Good gracious.’

  ‘Jack Hawksworth,’ he said, offering a handshake. ‘Sorry for the overkill.’

  Bernie laughed, shook Jack’s outstretched hand and nodded at Kate. ‘No, no, I’m honoured. Come on in. I’ve been hoping one day to hear from the police again.’

  They stepped into a home that didn’t smell of the alcohol or slothful living they’d braced for. His appearance was the clue to his small, extremely modest but tidy abode, which gave off the faint hum of a pleasant fragrance.

  ‘Your roses are lovely, Mr Beaton,’ Kate noted, finding the source.

  ‘You’re most welcome to call me Bernie, Inspector Carter. In a different life I used to have roses delivered to my mother every week. She passed away many years ago, so now I give myself roses each week . . . except they’re not long, perfect stems with impossibly beautiful blooms imported from the Netherlands,’ he said with a grin. ‘No, these days I grab them from Tesco and I take whatever they have. But they make me happy.’ He gestured to a small sofa, and they sat. ‘Anyway, I imagine you’re finally here to talk to me about Peggy Markham, am I right?’

  Jack was impressed by his directness. ‘Yes, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  He gave a cheerful shrug. ‘Not at all. Can I offer you both a drink?’ He laughed. ‘And I don’t mean scotch. I guess you’ve heard plenty about me and no one would blame either of you for leaping to that conclusion.’

  ‘We’re fine actually,’ Kate said, answering for both of them, ‘but it’s great that you’ve turned your life around, Bernie.’

  ‘Coming here was like . . .’ He smiled. ‘I don’t know, really it was like leaving one planet and entering another. I would probably be dead by now if those lovely nurses at the Whittington hadn’t put in a good word for me.’

  ‘And before I forget, Bernie, those same nurses send their love and best wishes to you,’ Jack said. ‘There was one, Jenny—’

  ‘Jenny’s a sweetheart,’ he said.

  ‘She said much the same about you,’ Jack said gently. ‘And DI Carter and I are here to apologise, too, for the somewhat careless way in which you were treated when you made your witness statement at Hornsey a while back.’

  Bernie gave a sympathetic shrug. ‘A very nice young detective constable – Lisa Farrow, I recall – served me a most welcome hot drink on a wintry night and she listened. She was kind and diligent. I don’t blame them. I was a homeless addict who suffered hallucinations when I was using.’

  Kate leaned forward. ‘To remember her name, your memory is exceptional. We’ve read your statement and we’d really appreciate it if you’d let us ask a few questions.’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll tell you what I remember – I’m surprised my memory has stuck with me, given the abuse I gave it,’ he said. ‘I do have an appointment to call bingo at the local senior citizens hall in about an hour and a half, so . . .’

  ‘We’ll keep this brief,’ Jack assured him.

  Bernie didn’t wait for them to start in with their questions. ‘Peggy’s death was considered suicide . . . has something changed?’

  He might have been a drug addict, delusional, psychotic, a tramp even . . . but Bernie Beaton’s mind was sound, and his question cut right to the heart of their visit. Only honesty would serve them now. ‘It has, Bernie,’ Jack confirmed. ‘There is an investigation into a series of inexplicable deaths of mostly convicted criminals, although to date Peggy is the exception.’

  ‘Why count her in, then?’

  ‘Because the suicide explanation doesn’t sit comfortably with us,’ Kate answered.

  ‘Not with me either, because I watched her murderer end her life, that’s why. She was a character, that one. And putting it down to suicide was easy, I imagine; who cared about a crim getting her deserts that the police thought were just, anyway?’

  Jack frowned. ‘So you knew her?’

  ‘Oh yes, Peggy and I went way back. I was having a wonderful time in the eighties and made very good use of her services.’

  ‘So what was she doing in Finsbury Park that night?’

  ‘Who can say? She and I had lost touch, and I was in no position or headspace to afford Peggy’s special kind of service. My feeling is that she was drugged before being brought to that place and killed. It was swift. It was ruthless. There was little conversation, and I doubt Peggy had any idea what was happening. And he didn’t look back . . . just stuck her and walked away.’

  ‘You’re sure it was a he?’ Kate checked.

  ‘No doubt at all.’

  ‘Now, Bernie, I’m not calling into question anything you’re saying, but I do have to ask how you had such a clear view of this scene. How come you weren’t noticed?’ Jack asked.

  He nodded. ‘Do you know the area where Peggy was found?’

  ‘I do,’ Kate confirmed. ‘I was there only yesterday.’

  ‘Okay, well, did you notice a timber shelter nearby?’

  ‘I did. But Bernie, you couldn’t be seated in that shelter and not be—’

  ‘I wasn’t seated. I wasn’t even intentionally hiding. I was living in it,’ he said, sounding faintly amused by his ingeniousness.

  They frowned back at him. ‘Can you explain
how?’ Kate asked. ‘Here, let me draw it so the Super knows what we’re both talking about here.’ She turned to a fresh page in her pad and made a good effort of sketching the structure. ‘It’s wonky, but do you agree it looked like this, Bernie?’

  Bernie glanced at it. ‘May I?’

  She nodded, handed over the pad.

  ‘The roof is taller, sloping higher like this,’ he said, adjusting her drawing with his own rendition, ‘but it had a proper ceiling. Like this, with timber slats . . . imagine narrow floorboards.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jack said, waiting, watching Kate nod along.

  Bernie grinned. ‘A few months before Peggy was killed, I knew I had to find somewhere safe to sleep through the winter months. If people bothered me, as they invariably did in that area, I could move on in summer, but in winter and at my age, I needed something less transient.’

  ‘Of course,’ Kate agreed.

  ‘So when I came across this shelter and slept on its bench, I worked out that perhaps I could remove a few of those ceiling slats.’

  Dawning hit Jack. ‘Aaah,’ he said, looking back at the sketch and then again to Bernie. ‘Clever you.’

  ‘It was rather inspired.’ Bernie smiled.

  ‘Hang on,’ Kate said, frowning. ‘So you took some of the ceiling boards out . . .?’

  ‘They were easy to remove. I think I could squeeze through once four were gone.’

  ‘And then you’d put them back?’ she said.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, sounding chuffed. ‘It became a private crawl space. No one knew I was there. I was silent. Had to be or the council workers would have found me. I kept it tidy. And there were vents cut into the side, but they had mesh on them to keep birds and rats out, I suppose. It was a handsome structure and really well made. I was happy in there and warm as toast.’ He grinned. ‘It also gave me a great vantage point – I could see all the way up and down the path, although my view north was better.’

  ‘And this is how you saw Peggy and her killer arrive?’

  He nodded. ‘It was a very cold night. The park was deserted. Not even the usual gang of ratbag teens out and making mischief. I was asleep but was woken by voices that didn’t sound like the usual hoodlums. I moved silently to peep out and saw them.’

  ‘Did he have a torch?’

  ‘No, and there were no park lamps around. But it was a full moon and my eyes were already well adjusted to the dark, so it made the scene relatively clear. Took me a few moments to make out that it was Peggy and, to be honest, it was her voice that convinced me; she had a uniquely deep, scratchy tone that was unmistakable and she always wore fur . . . prided herself on it. She was in a fur coat I recognised.’

  ‘How? Furs tend to look the same.’

  ‘Not this one. It was red, dyed to her colour of choice. She used to boast about it. No doubting who it was.’

  ‘How did she appear?’

  ‘She sounded drunk, needed help staying steady, but she kept asking questions. I heard fear in her voice as she kept asking him why.’

  ‘It says in your report that Peggy asked why four times?’

  He nodded. ‘From memory, yes. But she also said I didn’t do anything, and it wasn’t my fault. You were there, you knew.’

  ‘You were there?’ Kate frowned. ‘I have a copy here of your statement; it’s not noted.’

  Bernie shrugged. ‘We were interrupted. DC Farrow was taking me seriously, but the others weren’t. Coombs and Phil Brown, they already had their minds made up that I was a looney coming in from the cold.’

  Jack and Kate glanced at each other with collective guilt on behalf of those officers.

  ‘But Peggy was trying to explain through her slurring – that’s the only way I can describe it – that the girl’s death was not her fault. She had no idea – her words – that the Turk was going to give her cocaine or act as depraved as he did.’

  Jack gave a low whistle. ‘All right. What do you think “you were there” might mean?’

  ‘Ah, I took it to mean that the man who killed her was one of the men involved with the girl who died.’

  Jack frowned. ‘There was only one man mentioned. A Turkish gentleman.’

  Bernie shrugged. ‘The man who killed Peggy was not foreign, from what I could tell.’

  ‘What else can you recall about him?’

  ‘He was ordinary . . . what else can I say? He wore a parka – could have been grey – and trousers, an old-fashioned flat cap . . . you know, the sort of chequered thing a country gent might wear.’

  They nodded.

  ‘He had a scarf that was pulled up high around his mouth, but I could still hear him well enough, even when he made a call. I think he was cold, to be honest. He didn’t waste time. He put her against the tree, made her sit down.’

  ‘Was he rough?’

  ‘No. Gentle, polite even. He eased her back against the trunk, shooshing her anxiety until she sat in a terrified silence. He actually helped her into a seated position.

  ‘I heard her say, “Please Mr . . .” but she never finished, and then it was a quick movement I barely caught, and he was walking away. “Bye, Peggy” was all he said to her and he was gone, disappearing up the pathway into the darkness. I watched him leave before I looked back and realised there was a syringe in her neck.’

  ‘She called him Mr . . . as though she knew him?’

  Bernie nodded. ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Did she say anything after he’d gone?’ Jack asked.

  He shook his head. ‘She cried out once, at the shock of the needle perhaps, and then dissolved into tears, but they only lasted a moment because she choked a little and then she fell silent and still. I waited about five minutes – it felt like a lifetime. By the time I’d climbed down, she was already dead.’

  ‘How do you know? Did you check for a pulse?’

  ‘No,’ he said abruptly. ‘I didn’t have to. I also didn’t want to leave my prints or any clue that I had been there. Her eyes were staring open, her mouth was slack and she’d vomited. The syringe was still stuck into her neck and, as a user, I didn’t need a lot more information to know that heroin had been pumped into her. I took the risk of lighting a match and I was looking for that blueish colour to her skin.’

  They nodded.

  ‘Hard to tell, but I gauged that she was pale and blueish.’

  ‘Heroine and morphine,’ she qualified for him. ‘So then what happened?’

  ‘I was careful to put the match into my pocket and retreated to my hiding spot; I was terrified, so I waited it out until she was found and your people arrived. They put a tent around her as all the voyeurs were onto it quickly – and the media, of course. I watched them lift her body into a bag.’

  ‘And you waited a few days to report it, I see from the witness statement.’

  ‘Yes. I was scared. But my conscience got the better of me, especially when talk of suicide erupted. I heard it on the radio in the local café, so I chose a night when I wouldn’t be seen by many and decided I’d make a proper statement to the police, but . . .’ He shrugged.

  ‘Back to the killer, Bernie – is there anything else you can remember about him?’

  ‘Well, I suppose the only oddity was his shoes.’

  ‘What about them?’ Kate asked.

  ‘He was neatly enough dressed, typical for a middle-aged man, but he wore these strange trainers. I couldn’t be sure but they weren’t white . . . more a greenish colour in the moonlight. And he seemed to move oddly in them.’

  ‘Oddly? As in not used to walking in them?’ Jack wondered.

  ‘Er, no, more that he was uncomfortable.’

  ‘How could you tell?’

  ‘Well, it’s just a feeling I got,’ Bernie said, dismissing his thought. ‘I was worried they’d find my footprints and accuse me.’

  ‘How did he sound?’ Jack began the questions burning in the back of his mind, which would build a picture of the killer they hunted.

  ‘Almost
friendly, I’m embarrassed to admit. He wasn’t rough, as I said. He wasn’t aggressive, he didn’t shout, he spoke in an even tone when he made the call.’

  ‘Deep voice?’

  ‘Not especially, no.’

  ‘Language?’

  ‘Educated, I’d say. He was polite.’

  ‘Hair colour?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you other than not dark. His cap covered most of it – certainly fairish.’

  ‘Height?’

  Bernie shrugged an apology. ‘Average. Not tall, not small. He wore gloves.’ He suddenly fell silent, looking into space with an expression of puzzlement.

  ‘Bernie?’ Kate asked. They waited but he just sat there, frowning. ‘Mr Beaton, are you all right?’

  ‘Wow,’ he breathed. ‘Something just flashed into my mind; I’d completely forgotten it. I failed to mention it at Hornsey and this is the first time I’ve recalled more. Extraordinary! I’ve thought on that scene so many times, feeling guilty, wishing I could have done more.’

  ‘Bernie?’ Jack prodded gently, trying to bring him back to them.

  He refocused. ‘I’m sorry, it’s something but I don’t know if it’s important.’

  ‘Share it with us,’ Jack urged.

  ‘It’s because you got me talking about the shoes, but I’d completely lost this fact until now.’

  ‘Which is?’ Kate asked, her expression all but pleading.

  ‘He . . . er, the killer stepped quite deliberately away from Peggy, across the patch of grass. Just at the edge before he rejoined the path, he changed out of his trainers.’

  Jack did a double take. ‘Into what?’

  ‘Normal shoes, I suppose. I couldn’t describe them for you – they looked so ordinary from the distance I was watching from. I couldn’t tell you if they were black or brown either . . . but certainly dark.’

  ‘Normal shoes?’

  ‘Yes, leather, I presume, with a proper heel, rather than trainers.’

  Kate looked at Jack. ‘Covering his tracks?’ she murmured.

  ‘His Sulemein tracks.’ he replied.

  She wanted to smile, but schooled her features to remain grave.

  ‘It struck me as odd because he didn’t seem to bother about arriving in his trainers and moving about the tree, but he obviously planned to leave in his proper shoes.’