The door opened again and he noticed that Millie came in alone. She was frowning, worried.
“Mr Croft –”
Her formality confirmed his worst fears. “Trish. She’s dead, isn’t she? While we were –”
“No.” Millie hastened to reassure him. “No. It’s not your girlfriend. However, I will have to ask you to remain here for a while yet. Until Superintendent Shannon gets back.”
He checked his watch. It was 9:30 already. “What do you mean until Shannon gets back? How long will he be? I have a job to go to, you know, and I have to get out there, look for Trish.”
“No, sir, not at the moment.” Millie became vague. “There have been some, er, developments out on Winridge Estate, at the Lumbs’ place. Shannon is on his way out there now, and I’ll have to ask you to wait until he returns.”
“But I’ve told you virtually all I know,” Croft protested.
“Yes, sir,” she agreed, “but you may be able to help with further inquiries.”
Croft began to fume. “And what about Trish? Or had you forgotten that she’s out there, missing, and the note I brought you tells us so?”
“No. I hadn’t forgotten, but it makes no difference. Mr Croft, Felix,” Millie softened her approach, “you’re from a legal background, so you must understand our position. Ms Sinclair is missing, you say the note you received this morning mentions her and that may well be, but right now I have a tangible crime to investigate, and Shannon will want to speak to you about it. I cannot let you leave.”
She was determined. He could see that. She looked down on him with a mixture of apology and pity.
“Felix,” she suggested, “once forensic have done with the note, I’ll arrange for you to get a copy and you can be working on it until Shannon gets back. All right?”
Croft conceded defeat. “I suppose it will have to be.”
24
Turning off Pennine Road onto Winridge Estate, with the time at just after nine, Shannon had been in a grim mood.
A 25-year man, a Scarbeck local, as far as he was concerned Winridge was aptly named. The highest and the last place in Scarbeck, a windswept plateau on the edge of town, it stood 1000 feet above sea level and its eastern limit lay just three hundred yards from the official town boundary and the start of the moors.
It was a recognised deprived area and many of the residents were jobless. For those who were employed, getting to and from their place of work during the winter months was often impossible. When Scarbeck had a light dusting of snow, Winridge was usually a foot deep.
Crime was rife on the estate and there were the usual rumours that police considered it a no-go area. They were untrue; largely the invention of Carol Russell, crime correspondent for the Scarbeck Reporter and Radio Scarbeck. On the other hand, there were standing orders at the station that no officer should answer a call to Winridge Estate alone, and for the frequent disturbances at the Winridge Inn, the social focal point of the estate, the rule was never less than half a dozen officers in the van.
It was one of several such areas in Scarbeck and warranted no particular attention, but it was a fact that some of the town’s most notorious, if small time, villains lived there, including Alf Lumb.
Turning along Sussex Crescent, noting the flurry of activity up ahead, it seemed to Shannon that for most of his career, he had been dealing with Alf Lumb. As a teenager, he had been a tearaway and bully, as an adult, he was a vicious, bad tempered thief and a bully, and it did not matter how many good hidings were meted out, many of them by police officers, Alf never changed.
The superintendent had been enjoying a full English breakfast at home when Simpson rang from the station. “Dave Thurrock and Bob Grindley are out at the Lumbs’ place, sir, and they’ve found Alf dead. Stabbed in the stomach and neck.”
“Why are you ringing me?” Shannon wanted to know. “Millie’s on early shift.”
“She’s busy, sir,” Simpson replied. “Interviewing, er, someone.”
It did occur to Shannon that Simpson was being deliberately evasive, but he did not press the matter. “Tell Thurrock to get the SOCOs out and hold the fort, make sure Millie is informed and tell her I’m on my way there.”
Alf Lumb knifed to death came as no surprise to the superintendent, and he guessed he wouldn’t have far to look for a suspect. Sandra. She had been the butt of Alf’s cruelty for many years and like any other worm, it was inevitable that one day she would turn.
The SOCOs and Scientific Support were already there when he arrived, their vehicles blocking the pavements outside number 46, while PCs Grindley and Jameson kept a small crowd of ghoulish onlookers, mainly neighbours supplemented by one or two early bird reporters, back. As Shannon climbed out of his car, a mortuary van came from the opposite direction and stopped with its nearside wheels on the pavement
Marching to the house, nodding a brief greeting to Grindley as he passed through the door, he noticed the obese frame of Carol Russell amongst the clutch of reporters. A woman turned on by murder, he thought grimly.
He found Dave Thurrock in the living room, with his feet up, smoking and flipping through TV channels. He crushed out his cigarette in an ashtray and got hurriedly to his feet as Shannon entered.
“You know the rules about smoking at a crime scene, Thurrock.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Thurrock switched off the TV.
“And you wonder why Rob Fletcher was promoted ahead of you.” Shannon gave a rueful shake of the head. “All right, what’s the score?”
“It’s not pretty, guv,” said Thurrock, leading the way to the kitchen.
“Murder never is,” the superintendent replied, following his younger subordinate.
When he entered the kitchen, the sight made Shannon feel queasy. Alf Lumb, so large in life, was a ghastly grey with two deep wounds in his gut and neck, with a large pool of blood collected around him
Pathologist, Kelvin Leeman was selecting a syringe and sample bottles from his case, a SOCO took photographs from various angles while over on the far side, other officers were dusting furniture and fittings for prints.
“Well,” said the pathologist, jabbing the needle into Alf’s dormant jugular, “no prizes for guessing how he died.” He withdrew a syringe full of blood and squirted it into the bottle, before taking another sample from the carotid artery. “At least he won’t worry about using clean needles.”
“Do you have to be so flippant, Doc?” Shannon demanded.
“Defence mechanism, old chum,” Leeman explained. “Daren’t take the job too seriously. Besides, the local authority doesn’t pay me a fraction the amount they pay consultants like McGregor, so what do you expect? Tears?” The rotund doctor grimaced. “Can I have him?”
Shannon nodded. “As soon as the SOCOs have done with him.” He signalled to Thurrock and they stepped back, away from the body, the superintendent leaning on the fridge. He purposely lowered his voice so as not to disturb the work of the pathologist and Scientific Support officers. “Who found him?”
“Me and Bob Grindley, sir,” Thurrock replied.
Shannon was puzzled. “What were you doing out here?”
“We came to tell him about Sandra, sir.”
Shannon’s frowned deepened. “What about Sandra?”
Thurrock’s usual insouciance was gone, buried under a blush. “Sorry, sir, I, er, I thought you knew.”
Shannon restrained his rising temper. “I’ve come from home. I know bugger all. Bring me up to speed. Right now.”
He listened patiently to Thurrock’s account of events, occasionally asking questions to clarify odd points in the confused tale.
“Millie – I mean Inspector Matthews is at the station talking to Croft right now.”
So that was what Simpson had kept from him. Ronnie Simpson was a miserable old sod, but a clever one, too, and he had noticed Shannon’s antipathy for the millionaire hypnotist the previous day. Forgetting the desk sergeant’s taciturnity, he said to Thurrock,
“I don’t understand where Croft fits into this.”
“Neither do I, sir,” the other admitted. Shannon laid suspicious eyes on the DC, who went on the defensive. “Honestly, guv. Begum brought Croft in from Spinners just as me and Bob were coming out.”
“All right. I’ll speak to Millie when I get back to Scarbeck.” Shannon cast an eye about the kitchen again. His eyes fell on the block of kitchen knives and a space where one was missing. “Well, that tells me all I need to know. It’s obvious what happened. Alf laid hands on Sandra again, it got out of hand, she knifed him, then buggered off to Scarbeck and chucked herself off the top deck of Spinners. You spoke to any of the neighbours yet?”
“No, sir. I was waiting for you.”
Shannon tutted. “Fletcher would have that done by now. Any sergeant would have had it done by now. If you want to move on, lad, you’re gonna have to shape up.” He shrugged his overcoat closer to him. “Come on. We’ll try next door. See if there’s anyone in.”
He led the way back across the kitchen, stepped gingerly round the body and its attendants, and out to the rear of the house.
“We beat the press hawks coming this way,” he explained to a disinterested Thurrock. “What’s the word on Sandra, do you know?”
“Paramedics reckon she won’t recover,” the young detective said. “Or at least, that’s the version I’ve heard.”
Behind the two joined houses were large gardens. The Lumbs’ was unkempt, untidy, the hedgerows ragged and untended, and the fence no more than a line of wooden pallets propped upright and wired together. By contrast, the neighbour’s garden had one or two well cared for flowerbeds, neatly trimmed hedges and a bit of a lawn in the centre. It reminded Shannon that his own garden was in need of some attention before the onset of winter … if the rain would hold off … if he could find the time.
Knocking on the door, he dug into the inside pocket of his jacket and brought out his warrant card as the door opened.
“Yes?”
Shannon judged the man answering to door to be about 50 and standing over six feet tall. A lean, wiry frame, with little in the way of portliness about it, topped with agile eyes and a distinguished head of grey hair. A man who had been in one of the Guards regiments, Shannon would bet.
“Good morning, sir. I’m Detective Superintendent Shannon, Scarbeck CID.” He flashed his warrant card.
“Gerald Humphries,” replied the householder.
“I wonder if we might have a word with you.”
Humphries looked slightly shocked. “What about?”
“If we could come in, sir,” Shannon insisted. “We won’t keep you long.”
Humphries hesitated a moment, then with a nod stood back to admit them, and led them through the kitchen into the living room.
Following him, Shannon was struck by further dissimilarities between the neighbours. Apart from a modern computer set on a workstation in one corner, walking into Humphries’ living room was like stepping through a time warp, or looking through Croft’s website as detailed by Millie.
In the centre was an old fashioned tiled fireplace on which stood a wind-up carriage clock, one or two china ornaments and a couple of photographs of Humphries with an older woman, who Shannon took to be his mother. In the hearth was a gas fire with a wooden surround, its ceramic radiants stained a dark brown with age: the kind of domestic appliance Shannon had only ever seen in old episodes of dramas like Coronation Street. Under the window, hemmed in by mahogany dining chairs, its leaves lowered, was a polished dining table, with a lace tablecloth covering it. On the table, the pieces set in their opening positions, sat an old fashioned, hand carved chess set. The three-piece suite was a cottage affair, with broad teak arms and legs, while at the rear of the room stood a large, mahogany display cabinet filled with ornaments and photographs, mostly theatrical publicity stills; Coco The Clown, Ronnie Hilton, The Great Zepelli & Georgina, Max Miller.
Humphries took a fireside chair and Shannon perched himself on the settee while Thurrock loomed in the background, notebook out, pen poised.
“As you may have guessed, sir, there’s been an incident next door,” Shannon explained. “I wondered if you may be able to throw any light on the matter?”
“Not really.” Humphries voice was soft, educated, almost inaudible.
Shannon persisted. “You didn’t hear the sounds of an argument at all?”
“No.”
The man’s reticence began to irritate Shannon. This guy needed something to kick him out of his time warp and bring him into the 21st century. “Look, Mr Humphries, you may as well know, if you don’t already, that Alf Lumb is dead. He’s been stabbed.”
The shock tactics worked. Humphries’ face paled. “Oh dear god.”
“And not long after he died,” Shannon pressed on, “Sandra threw herself off the top floor of Spinners. She’s unlikely to survive.”
“Good grief.” Humphries looked as if he were about to burst into tears.
“The way we see it,” Shannon continued, “Sandra killed Alf after one of their famous fights, and then committed suicide. We need to know what went on in there this morning, and lacking first hand witnesses, we’re going to need their neighbours’ help. You’re the nearest neighbour.”
Humphries stared at the fire, almost hypnotised by the flicker of the gas flame behind the stained radiants. He sighed. “I’ve lived next door to the Lumbs ever since I moved here about five years ago, and arguments between Alf and Sandra were quite common as you’re obviously aware.”
Shannon confirmed it with a nod.
“But I heard nothing this morning. However, I did bump into Sandra out on the street. She was dressed in a housecoat type of thing under her topcoat, and she was wearing slippers, not shoes. The furry kind. Mules, I think they’re called. I asked her if everything was all right, and she said – er –” Humphries blushed. “I’m sorry, I can’t repeat it. The language was awful.”
“Street vernacular?”
Humphries nodded and blushed. “She told me to mind my own effing business.”
Shannon reappraised his assessment of Humphries. Not an army man after all. Anyone unable to deal with the modern lack of manners could never have seen military service. Humphries had obviously led the soft life and never seen anything more shocking than pictures from the Middle East.
Shannon allowed Humphries a moment. “I think most of us would have dodged Sandra, especially as we know she was carrying a large knife.”
Again Humphries was shocked. “I never saw a knife.”
“Trust me, sir, she was carrying one,” Shannon asserted. Modulating his brusqueness, he asked, “You obviously knew them well?”
“I told you, I’ve lived next door to them for about five years now,” Humphries reiterated. “Since she fell out of work, Sandra and I developed a good, er, relationship. I use the word advisedly. There was nothing intimate in it. I called round for tea in the mornings and we’d chat about things. Life on the estate. You know.”
“You don’t work then, sir?” Thurrock asked from the rear of the room.
“No. No, I don’t,” said Humphries. “I’m retired. I was a local government officer for many years. Bristol. Treasurer’s department. Senior administrator. I retired five years ago when my mother fell terminally ill. I sold the house to keep her out of hospital and we moved here, to Scarbeck. She, er, had relatives who came from this area. Mother passed away soon after, and I was left with a lot of time on my hands. I put two days a week in at a charity shop in Scarbeck, and I passed an hour or two, a couple of days a week with Sandra. Just gossip really. And I used to chaperone her appointments with Felix Croft.”
Shannon had been about to ask if Humphries could add anything else but at the mention of the hypnotist, he exchanged a surprised glance with Thurrock. “Felix Croft?”
“Yes,” said Humphries. “If you check the kitchen cupboard, Sandra keeps the appointment card in there. In a little milk jug. She suffered from depression
you know. I recommended she call that Croft fellow. He’s well known at the university and he had this spot on Radio Scarbeck some time ago, appealing for volunteers for some research program. I –”
The superintendent cut him off. “Yes, thank you, Mr Humphries. We know Croft.”
“Who doesn’t?” said Humphries. “A nice enough chap you know, but when he works with a female client, especially when he’s in their houses rather than at the university, he has this rule about there being a third party in the house to make sure there’s no, er, funny business. You know what I mean. Sandra asked me if I’d chaperone her appointments and I was quite happy to do so.”
“You attended all her sessions?”
“Not all of them, no. Sometimes she would go to the university, but when he was here, so was I. For most of them, anyway.” Humphries suddenly looked worried. “Now look here, I don’t want to imply that there was anything untoward… I mean, Croft is a famous man, a professional man, and highly respected at the university. I’m sure he wouldn’t...” He trailed off lamely. After a moment when he appeared to gather himself together, he went on more speculatively. “Mind you, he did have a few arguments with Alf.”
“So did half the town.” Shannon stood up. “Well, thank you for your help, Mr Humphries. I’ll get an officer to take a formal statement from you, and if we need to ask you anything else, we’ll be in touch.”
They came out into the cold, rainy day, and Shannon asked, “Well, young Thurrock, what do you make of all this?”
The other shrugged. “Mummy’s little boy. Never grew up. I’ll bet he still tucks a handkerchief up his sleeve.” Abruptly, he changed the subject. “Croft. Again.”
“My thoughts precisely, and where is our friendly neighbourhood pain in the arse? At the station.” Shannon fished his car keys from his pocket. “Come on. I need a word with him.”
25
Croft was left alone in the interview room for the better part of an hour, disturbed only by officers occasionally popping in to offer him tea. Somewhere along the line one of them brought a copy of the note he had received.
The Handshaker Page 13