Grief Encounters

by Stuart Pawson

  There are squats and there are squats. Some are sordid, stinking houses with no facilities, lived in by society’s misfits who have no respect for anything and are happy to live in their own muck. They strip the plumbing out, burn the floorboards and live in conditions that the RSPCA would find intolerable for pigs. These are the lost generation, and the next fix is as far as their universe stretches.

  Some, a few, are more responsible, and for them squatting is a political statement, a defiant gesture against capitalism. They see big, fine buildings deserted and falling into decay because the absentee landlords want to develop the site some time in the future, and they move in.

  Primrose House was in-between. The intention of the original squatters may have had a touch of the noble about it, if living rent-free in somebody else’s property can be regarded as noble, but because of the location next to the red light district they were soon swamped by runaways and dropouts of both sexes, happy to sell their bodies for the price of a hamburger. Now, the goodies had retreated to the upper floors and abandoned the ground floor to the junkies. Ennis, an informer told us, dossed downstairs, and slept with his eyes open. He’d tried to move upstairs but they had children and didn’t want him near them.

  Because of the kids we decided against an early morning raid. We watched the house over the weekend and he was seen twice, going for a walk into the town centre, where he busked with a penny whistle. He performed in Forster Square on Saturday and in the cathedral precinct on Sunday, and barely made a couple of pounds each time. We knew he hadn’t signed on for the dole, and had presumed this was because he had access to the proceeds of the bank raid. It looked as if we were wrong.

  Monday morning we lifted him. It was all very civilised. The sun was shining and we were in our shirtsleeves, some wearing shades. We approached him from four directions, just as he was about to launch into Barbara Allen, his party piece, for the eleventh time.

  ‘Peter Ennis,’ I said. ‘I’m DI Priest from Heckley CID, and I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder.’

  He stood transfixed for several seconds, the flute halfway to his mouth, then said: ‘Thank God for that,’ and offered his hands for the cuffs.

  We fed Ennis, let him take a shower and found some clean clothes for him. Prison reduces a man. It takes him and wears him down, in his head and in his body. But Ennis had survived twenty-five years of it, kept going, we believed, by the knowledge that a fortune was waiting for him when he was released. But the money hadn’t been there. Gwen Rhodes told me that he was an authoritative figure, commanded respect from the other prisoners, but the twelve months or so that he’d been free had eroded all that. All I saw when we arrested him was a stooped old man whose clothes hung on him, with sunken cheeks and dark, darting eyes. He’d been living on his wits and it had scoured him to the bone.

  ‘You were released towards the end of August last year,’ I told him. ‘Where have you been living since then?’

  We were in interview room number one, the tapes were running and he’d adamantly refused a solicitor. Dave was sitting next to me.

  ‘Here and there,’ Ennis replied.

  ‘I believe you knew a woman called Magdalena Fischer.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Did you know she was dead? That she’d been murdered?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  He didn’t reply. Just sat there, his mind racing like a runaway engine, his eyes flicking from me to Dave and back to me.

  ‘Have you seen her since you were released?’

  No reply.

  ‘How did you learn of her death?’

  ‘Read it in a paper, didn’t I.’

  ‘Did it name her?’

  ‘No. There was a picture. A drawing, done when she was a lot younger.’

  ‘And you recognised her from it?’

  ‘Yeah. It was her all right.’

  ‘Memories play tricks sometimes. Especially to someone who’s locked up, I imagine.’

  ‘She came to visit me inside, didn’t she.’

  ‘Often?’

  ‘As often as she could. It wasn’t easy for her.’

  ‘Because she was living with someone?’

  ‘Maybe she was. I don’t know.’

  ‘Living with someone and spending all your money. Was that it?’

  ‘What money?’

  ‘You know what money. You didn’t spend twenty-five years in jail because you liked the food. You’re what? Fifty-four? That’s a good age to retire at, with a nice little nest egg to help you along. Except, there doesn’t appear to have been any nest egg, so what happened to it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, do I.’

  ‘Had she spent it all? Did she and her lover spend all your money? That’d be a disappointment for you, wouldn’t it? Twenty-five years in the slammer with nothing at the end of it, when you could have been out in ten with a bit of cooperation. If it were me I’d have been annoyed. Were you annoyed, Peter? Or were you raving mad?’

  He didn’t answer, picked up his coffee beaker, realised it was empty and put it down again.

  ‘Tell us about Magdalena,’ I said.

  ‘What’s to tell?’

  ‘Where did you meet her?’

  ‘In a pub in Leeds. The Coburg, I think.’

  ‘A good pub,’ I said. ‘Jazz nights, would it be?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’

  ‘Did you go for the jazz, or was it for the university talent?’

  ‘Bit of both, I s’pose. And the beer.’

  ‘She was there and it was love at first sight.’

  ‘Yeah, something like that.’

  ‘I’d have thought Magdalena was just a little too sophisticated for a piece of rough like yourself, Peter.’

  He gave a little ‘huh’ with a hint of a smile, and said: ‘Yeah, so would I.’

  ‘But she fell for you?’

  ‘Yeah, in a big way, didn’t she.’

  ‘Tell us about it.’

  ‘What’s to tell? We moved in together. A year later we had a little girl. Angela. Then I got banged up for…you know…the bank job. Magda came to see me for a while, with the kid, but I asked her to stop coming. It upset us both too much. I told her to tell Angela I was dead. She could wait for me, if she wanted, but to stop coming to the prison. So she did.’

  He stopped there, but for me that was only the beginning. I said: ‘What happened when you were released? You met up again, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he admitted.

  ‘Who contacted who?’

  ‘She wrote to me. She’d been counting the days until my ERD. I thought she’d gone for good but she was waiting for me, after all those years. She met me that first morning, and I moved straight in with her. They were the best days of my life, from last August until…until…’

  He couldn’t get the words out. ‘Until she was murdered,’ I prompted.

  ‘Yeah, until she was murdered.’

  ‘Tell me about that.’

  ‘What’s to tell? One morning, about six weeks ago, she told me she had to go to Leeds, on business, she said. A Saturday, it was. She never came home again. I hung about in the flat for as long as I could but I only had a few quid. Couldn’t afford the rent and the landlord wanted rid of us. Had to get out, didn’t I.

  ‘Where was this?’ I asked.

  ‘Beverley, East Yorkshire.’

  ‘She’d moved to Beverley?’

  ‘Yeah. Magda found this place. Said it would be a new start for us.’

  ‘And where was Angela during all this time?’ According to Len Atkins sixteen-year-old Angela had withdrawn the money held in trust for her and moved on.

  ‘She’d left,’ Ennis replied. ‘Didn’t get on with the bloke Magda was living with, did she. Magda lost touch with her.’

  ‘I’m told she had a substantial amount of money in the bank.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I sent her what I could. It all adds up.�
�

  Not long ago prisoners were on about five pounds per week. Magdalena had told Len Atkins that Angie had more money than he’d believe. It didn’t add up to me.

  ‘Where did you go?’ I asked.

  ‘Leeds.’

  ‘Why Leeds?’

  ‘To look for her. But it had all changed. I hardly recognised anywhere. The pubs had all changed, too. It was like being in a nightmare. Then I saw in a paper this picture of Magda. An artist’s impression, it said. She was dead. I drank myself stupid for two, maybe three days, didn’t I. Woke up among the dustbins at the back of that shopping place where Merrion Street used to be, without a penny in my pockets.’

  ‘Why didn’t you sign on the dole, or ask one of the prisoners’ aid societies for help?’ I asked.

  ‘Freedom,’ he replied. ‘Magda had filled my head with a load of cuckoo nonsense about freedom. I’d had twenty-five years of being a number, and now I wanted some freedom. It sounded good to me. When it all went down the pan I thought I might sign on, but then I saw you were after me, so I kept my head down.’

  ‘How did you get to Bradford? And why Bradford?’

  ‘I walked it, didn’t I. Took me two days. I was sleeping rough, stealing stuff from the bins behind bread shops and sandwich shops. There was this other prisoner came out same time as me. Lived in Bradford. He was the only person I could think of. We were big mates in prison. Thought I might find him. I couldn’t though. Then we had some bad weather and someone took me to the squat. It was terrible, full of dope heads, but warmer than a park bench in the rain. I’d had enough, was wondering what to do, when you arrested me.’

  I turned to Dave and asked if he had any questions. ‘Just a couple,’ he replied, and twisted in his chair to face Ennis more squarely.

  ‘It’s a good story, Peter,’ he began, ‘but it leaves out one important item. The money. What happened to your 370,000 smackeroos? Tell me that.’

  ‘There wasn’t any money. I didn’t do the job.’

  ‘Your mates grassed you up, Peter. One of them couldn’t hold his booze and took the easy way out when we arrested him. He turned informer and received a light sentence. All the others fingered you as the brains behind the raid. What’s the point in denying it? You served your time. We can’t touch you. Or do you still live in the hope that the money’s somewhere, waiting for you?’

  Ennis sat looking down at the Formica tabletop and didn’t reply. He’d probably lived so long denying the story that he really believed he hadn’t masterminded the job.

  ‘Perhaps Magdalena was looking after it for you,’ Dave went on. ‘Is that it? What would she do? Bury it in the garden or invest it somewhere? Or maybe her and her lover just slowly went through it. These days it’s not such a big sum. If you’re interested it works out at under £15,000 per year for the time you were inside. A reasonable salary, but not extravagant. Is that what happened, Peter? Did Magda let all your money slip away?’

  ‘No,’ he replied, his voice a croak.

  ‘Did you knock her around when you found out? Is that how it happened, Peter? Did you lose your temper, in the red mist we hear so much about?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t like that.’

  ‘So tell me how it was.’

  ‘I loved her. And she loved me. I told her to let me go, but she wouldn’t. I said she’d be better off without me, but she said we were soul mates. She used words like that all the time. Sometimes I didn’t know what she was on about.’

  ‘It all sounds lovey-dovey,’ Dave said.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ Ennis replied.

  ‘So tell me about the tattoo.’

  ‘What tattoo?’

  ‘The tattoo on Magdalena’s arse.’

  Ennis jolted upright. ‘You know about that?’

  ‘We’ve seen it, at the post-mortem. Tell me about it.’

  ‘It was a sort of present, that’s all. She came home one day and said she had a surprise for me. Led me upstairs and stripped off. I thought she wanted to make love – well, she did – but that wasn’t it. She slowly turned round and there it was. She’d had a tattoo. I asked her why she’d had it done and she said rings could be taken off, but a tattoo was forever.’

  ‘You’re saying she had “Property of the Pope” tattooed on her arse to please you?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s the sort of person she was.’

  ‘And you’re the Pope?’

  ‘That’s right. It started at school. I didn’t mind. It’s better than Pennis.’

  ‘Magdalena told her boyfriend a different story,’ Dave declared. ‘She said that you knocked her about, and had the tattoo done to her because you were jealous and possessive.’

  ‘Yeah, well she would, wouldn’t she,’ he replied. ‘To save his feelings. She couldn’t tell him that as soon as I was released she’d be off back to me, could she?’

  He had a point, I thought.

  Dave said: ‘I’m inclined to believe her story. I think you used to knock her about. We haven’t forgotten that you poured petrol over that poor bank clerk’s head and threatened to set her alight.’

  ‘It was…’ Ennis began, then closed his mouth.

  Dave pounced. ‘It was what?’ he demanded.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It was what? Come on; get it off your chest. We can’t touch you. You know that.’

  Ennis sighed and shrank even more. ‘I was going to say that it wasn’t petrol. It was carpet cleaner. It doesn’t burn, does it.’

  ‘Big deal. Try telling that to the girl you tied to the chair. She wouldn’t believe you and neither do I.’

  ‘Well it’s the truth.’

  ‘I think you’ve forgotten what truth means. Magdalena lost you your money, didn’t she? You turned violent towards her and there was a struggle. Your hands were around her throat and you were shaking her. She struggled, fought with you, and you kept pressing and shaking, until, suddenly, she went limp. You’d killed her. That’s what happened, isn’t it?’

  Ennis’s eyes darted between us and I saw his Adam’s apple jerk as he swallowed. ‘Yeah,’ he said, very quietly, after a long silence. ‘That’s about it. I killed her.’

  I adjourned the interview and Dave and I went over the road to a little café we use. We sent an egg and bacon butty in for Ennis and I had two hot jumbo sausage rolls with lashings of brown sauce and tea. Dave had a cheese salad in panini. Sometimes, he worries me. Gareth Adey, my uniformed counterpart, came in for a sandwich to take back to his office, but I encouraged him to join us and let the office look after itself.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he asked, pulling out the bentwood chair opposite Dave. ‘You’re interviewing someone for the Magdalena murder, aren’t you?’

  ‘We were,’ I said, ‘but old clever clogs here has sorted it all out.’

  ‘Really! How’s that?’

  ‘Tell him, Dave.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ he replied. ‘I just applied the skills I’ve honed after God-knows how many years in the job, plus remembered some of the techniques garnered on several training courses, usually centred around the policeman-villain relationship, and that was that. I manoeuvred him into a corner with faultless logic and finished him off with a sabre thrust of unanswerable argument. In the face of that he had no other option than to admit that he’d enclosed her delicate neck between his hands and throttled her. Bang to rights.’

  ‘Well done!’ Gareth proclaimed, his face glowing with approval. ‘Well done, David. You must be really pleased.’ He reached across the table and shook Dave’s hand.

  ‘Um, yes I am,’ Dave agreed, ‘but there is one small detail we need to clarify before we can take him to court.’

  ‘Oh, what’s that?’ Gareth asked.

  ‘Well, she wasn’t strangled, she was beaten to death. Our man is lying like a Tunisian camel dealer.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘He could be selling us a double bluff,’ I suggested as we walked back across the road.

  ‘I know,’ Dave
agreed.

  ‘Fancy a pint tonight?’

  ‘What a good idea.’

  Ennis had had a long time to ponder on things; spent a few thousand sleepless nights on his bunk, running his story through his mind; planning what he’d say or do when accosted; how he’d handle situations. Did he know that the money was lost before he came out and had he plotted what he’d hope was the perfect murder? Was confessing to the non-existent strangulation all part of that plot? Had he fallen into Dave’s trap or had we tumbled head first into his? Don’t ask me, I’m only the investigating officer.

  ‘OK, Peter,’ I began, after I’d reminded him that he was still under caution, ‘we don’t believe you, so it’s time you did some straight talking. Let’s start after breakfast on the day you were released. Where did you go and when did you meet up with Magdalena?’

  Dave had made us three mugs of proper coffee, not the gunge from the machine, and brought three chocolate biscuits from the café. Ennis wolfed the biscuit down, keeping the uneaten portion concealed in his hand between mouthfuls, as if hiding it from predators.

  He swallowed and took a sip of coffee, then said: ‘The probation officer took me and this other bloke into Halifax in his car. Magda had said she’d see me in the bus station, near the newsagent. He couldn’t park, so I jumped out and they both wished me the best of luck. It took me ten minutes to cross the road. Everything was so fast and noisy. I followed some people across. It was the scariest thing I’d ever done. I didn’t expect her to be there. I had an address of a prisoners’ aid society in my pocket, and a card from one called Blue Sky, just in case. The probation officer put me onto them.’

  ‘Weren’t you offered any away days before you were released?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, they offered me them, but I said no thanks. I couldn’t trust myself to go back. When that gate shut behind me it would be for the last time. I’d made up my mind.’

  ‘So was Magda there?’

  ‘Yeah. I heard her calling my name, Peter, Peter, and turned round and there she was. It was…It was…’

  It was all too much for him, or he was a good actor. He rocked forward, head in hands, and stared down at the table. After a minute he straightened up and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. During the silence Dave said, deadpan, for the tape: ‘Mr Ennis is overcome with emotion.’