‘Was that even around in our day Ed?’ Jill paused, thinking about it. ‘I never saw anything but whatever way you go...anyway I’m sure you didn’t come around here to talk about all our yesterdays.’
Ed felt a dart of sadness as he put the past away, the image of the schoolgirl he wanted to kiss suddenly gone.
‘No. I was just wondering when you last saw Curtis?’
She brought two mugs of tea and sat opposite Ed.
‘He came round wanting cash a few months back,’ Jill told him. ‘He normally surfaces when he wants money. I made him have a bath then took him into town. I bought him some new clothes and a mobile.’
‘Probably the one he rang us on when he found the body,’ Ed said. ‘You haven’t asked about it.’
Jill stared at her tea and then back at Ed, her face drawn.
‘I’m not sure I want to know. It could be him next Ed. Any day I think the police will be at the door telling me he’s gone, dead in the gutter or some squat.’
She sipped her tea and made no effort to dry the tears that began to flow.
‘This wasn’t an addict Jill,’ Ed said, a hand on her arm. ‘He found a dead body in a garage. It’ll be in the media soon enough. The body was burned.’
Jill’s eyes opened wide.
‘Oh my God and you think Curtis has something to do with it?’
‘I doubt it,’ Ed told her. ‘It’s just if he visits and mentions it he may tell you more than he told us. He may remember something.’
‘And you want me to tell you?’
‘Something like that.’
‘No problem. Do you know who it is?’
‘Not yet, not for sure,’ Ed said. ‘It might be a guy who lives in The Avenue though.’
Jill’s eyes snapped wide again.
‘Really? Small world.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I used to take Curtis there for his piano lessons.’
‘Private tutor?’
Ed remembered the shiny black piano in Scott’s house.
‘That’s right,’ Jill said. ‘Curtis was quite good. Not a prodigy or anything, but decent. He hated it though. Any excuse not to go. Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed him, but at the time...’
She turned away from Ed and finally wiped her eyes.
‘Can you remember his name?’ Ed asked. ‘The teacher?’
‘Why?’
‘You know me, ever the detective, asking questions just seems to be habit. No reason other than that.’
‘I can’t,’ Jill said. ‘It was years ago. Curtis would have been 11 or 12 and he only went for a few months. Seemed a nice enough chap from what I can remember.’
John Elgin ordered a pint of lager. Fuck the diet. Harry Pullman appeared as he took his first mouthful.
‘Councillor Elgin. To what do I owe this surprise?’
‘Drop the ‘councillor’ bit Harry,’ Elgin said, wiping the foam from his mouth. ‘I’ve got enough on my plate without your sarcasm.’
‘Hey, just having a laugh with an old mate. Two pints of whatever John’s drinking sweetheart.’
The dark haired barmaid nodded and went to the Peroni pump.
‘What’s up then?’ Harry Pullman said, leaning against the mahogany and resting his foot on the bar’s footrest. ‘More bother with the other half?
Elgin took a long pull on the Peroni already in his hand and closed his eyes as he drank.
‘Everything,’ he said. ‘Oscar, the grandbairn, and now Billy Skinner.’
‘Skinner?’ Harry spat out the name. ‘What’s he done now?’
John Elgin gulped more of his pint, hand shaking and the glass rattling lightly against his teeth.
‘I think I’m in the shit.’
Harry paused, picked up his own pint, sipped, and put the glass back on the bar.
‘Can’t be that bad can it?’
Elgin looked down, face slate grey and sallow.
‘Let’s sit down,’ Harry said and led the way to a quiet corner away from the bar, the seats against a wall and a view of anyone approaching.
Harry leaned in close. ‘What is it? You’ve obviously come in here to tell me.’
‘Skinner wants me to pull some strings to get his new planning applications and licences through,’ Elgin’s voice was barely there.
Harry shook his head. ‘And he’s got you in his pocket how exactly?’
‘Don’t use that phrase,’ Elgin said. ‘I’m not corrupt, I’ve just been a fool. He reckons he has a tape.’
Elgin drained his first pint and reached for the second. ‘Jesus, if this gets out Harry…’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about John.’
Elgin glugged his way through half of the lager.
‘He says he’s got me on tape having sex with two of his girls. Says he’ll put it on YouTube if I don’t play ball.’
‘And you obviously have had sex with two of his girls?’
Elgin nodded.
‘Where?’
‘One of his rooms. The Green Room.’
‘Have you seen the tape?’
‘No, but I’ve no doubt he’s got one. Why would he lie?’
‘People like Billy Skinner can’t lie straight in bed but I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re right,’ Harry said, keeping his voice low. ‘I’ve seen the cameras. He uses them for his homemade pornos then flogs them under the counter. Looks like with you he saw a chance for a little bit of blackmail.’
‘Jesus...’
‘So you don’t want to go to the police?’ Harry said.
‘What do you think?’ Elgin sounded broken. ‘I’d have to tell them about the tape. They’d go to see Skinner. He’d deny it, but upload it anyway, and who can trust the police not to leak it?’
‘So what’s your thinking?’ Harry asked. ‘I’m guessing you’ve got something in mind.’
Elgin drained his pint then watched Harry raise his arm and signal to the barmaid for another Peroni.
‘These applications are going to be approved,’ Elgin said. ‘I can approve them for Skinner in exchange for the tape but what’s to say he won’t be back wanting something else and telling me he’s got copies or…’
‘...Or?’ Harry waited.
‘Or I tell you his plans and you step in and seek planning permission.’
A small light blinked on in Harry’s head, not big or bright but an instant reaction, a chance acknowledged.
For now he kept the faint glow to himself.
‘And how do I do that exactly?’ Harry said now. ‘Billy Skinner’s not just going to let me take over.’
Elgin shrugged: ‘He’s your problem. But if a problem’s removed…’
Harry looked at the councillor and marvelled again at the human being’s inbuilt drive for self-preservation.
‘Finish your pint,’ he told Elgin. ‘The special’s lamb hotpot if you’re hungry.’
DC Bev Summers walked into Sam’s office.
‘I’ve traced Jeremy Scott’s nephew,’ she said. ‘I think he might be the only relative. Certainly he’s the only beneficiary in Jezza’s will.’
Sam laughed. She had a mental picture of Jeremy Scott and ‘Jezza’ couldn’t be further from the mark.
‘Where does he live, the nephew?’
‘Conifers,’ Bev said. ‘No answer on his home phone, but he’s at work in town. I’ve spoken briefly to him on his mobile.’
‘You have been busy.’
‘All hail the electronic age,’ Bev mock curtseyed. ‘We’re meeting him in twenty minutes. He’ll be on the pier. Said he would rather speak to us in the fresh air.’
‘Does he know?’
Bev shook her head.
‘He knows something’s up just from getting a police call out of the blue but nothing yet,’ Bev said. ‘We’re meeting him at quarter-past-one and it’s not fair to keep him waiting.’
Bev drove through the light traffic.
‘I saw Gone Girl last night, Ben Affleck and
the lucky Ms Rosamund Pike.’
‘Any good?’ Sam asked.
‘Yeah and there’s something about going to the pictures by yourself, especially when Mr Affleck’s up there.’
Sam swivelled to face her: ‘I thought you were seeing that Colin bloke?’
‘Not anymore,’ Bev said. ‘Nice lad but bored your tits off. Give me Ben anytime. Or Rosamund come to think of it. Or even both at the same time.’
Sam smiled. ‘Jesus Bev!’’
‘Ha you’d love it,’ Bev smiled back. ‘But maybe Ben wouldn’t quite make your dream team. Maybe it would have to be Rosamund and a more mature type, maybe a certain DS we both know...’
Sam still hadn’t thought of a comeback by the time they pulled up behind a Nissan Leaf and watched Alistair Scott climb from the driver’s seat.
Introductions over as they walked towards the pier, Sam judged the time was right.
‘Alistair I am sorry to have to tell you that your uncle, Jeremy Scott, is dead,’ she said. ‘We’ve launched a murder investigation.’
In Sam’s experience - and she had broken grim news many times - her words were often met with silent shock not weeping and wailing. The tears came later.
So Alistair Scott’s reaction, wordless and blank, wasn’t anything she hadn’t expected.
‘Fancy a coffee?’ she said. ‘The Surf Shack sells decent stuff.’
Alistair nodded and finally found a voice.
‘I suppose there’s no mistake? It’s definitely Jeremy?’
‘It is,’ Sam said. ‘Sorry.’
Bev walked ahead and ordered three coffees.
‘Were you close Alistair?’ Sam asked.
‘Not really. I saw him all the time when I was a kid, less so after my parents died. He was my dad’s younger brother. Murdered where? In his house?’
‘No, not at his house,’ Sam said. ‘I’ll get a Family Liaison Officer to sit down with you and tell you everything, but that will be better done in the comfort of your home. Do you have to go back to work?’
‘No that’s the beauty of being your own boss.’
‘What is it you do?’
‘Property developer,’ Alistair said. ‘Build houses, find estate pubs that are closing, buy them up and sell the land to supermarkets, you know Tesco Extra, Sainsbury’s Local, that type of thing.’
‘Okay,’ Sam told him. ‘In that case we’ll have this coffee and then Bev can go home with you. She can be your Family Liaison Officer. Do you have children?’
Alistair took the coffee from Bev.
‘Thanks. Not living with me. There’s just me at home; too many hours, too many temptations. Not sure why I’m telling you this.’
‘It’s okay,’ Bev told him. ‘We’re cops. See it all the time in the CID.’
‘What can you tell me about your uncle?’ Sam asked now.
‘Not a lot really. He wasn’t one of life’s loveable characters, bit of a misery in truth. My mother never liked him. Music teacher, retired and as I’m sure you know, a suspected child molester although he was acquitted at court.’
Chapter Eight
Pussycats was never at its best during the day...no light show, no music, no shadows to hide the stains on armchairs and carpets, no painted nails and slender legs caressing the golden poles, the only women in the place carrying mops and buckets.
Billy Skinner was sitting in the back office, a take-away cup of good quality coffee in his hand. He despised instant more than Marge’s spaghetti.
‘So what about Harry Pullman?’
He looked at the three of them over the rim of the cardboard as he sipped the black liquid.
Mat spoke. ‘We had a word. He shit it he did.’
Mark and Luke looked at the floor.
‘What do you mean, we had a word?’ Billy asked.
‘Said we thought he’d been skimming.’
Billy put the cup on his desk, sat up straight, and asked his next question like someone conducting a job interview.
‘Did you speak to the lads on the door?’
Mat puffed out his chest and glanced at his brothers.
‘Went straight to the organ grinder,’ he said. ‘No point speaking to the monkeys.’
Billy slammed his fist hard against the desk, the sudden impact sending the cup jumping and a river of coffee rolling across the surface.
‘I told you to speak to the doormen first,’ his voice was a blade. ‘See if they’d noticed a drop in punters. But oh no, you know fucking best, dive straight in like the Neanderthal you are. Fucking idiot. And what did he say?’
Mat opened his mouth.
‘Don’t bother answering.’ Skinner stood up and leaned across the desk, hands pressing into the black leather top. ‘Let me guess.’
He glared at Mat. ‘He said no.’
‘Well, yeah he did.’
‘So what’s your next move Einstein?’
Mat stared at his father.
Billy Skinner sat back down. ‘Luke, what do you reckon?’
The youngest son knew his father would push him for an answer; saying nothing wasn’t an option and besides if Mat had listened to him and Mark he wouldn’t be in this position.
‘Well?’
Mat turned his head and stared at his brother.
‘If he is skimming, he knows we’re onto him now,’ Luke said. ‘He can do one of three things - run, bluff it out or take us on.’
‘Don’t be fucking stupid,’ Mat said.
Billy was shouting again, his soaring blood pressure turning his face the colour of Ribena.
‘When I want your opinion I’ll ask for it.’
He pulled open the top drawer, picked a cigar from a box of Cubans and carefully trimmed the end with a metal cutter. Leaning his head against the back of the chair, he lit up and blew a plume of smoke towards the ceiling.
His eyes returned to his sons.
‘I’ve known Harry Pullman for forty years,’ he said. ‘We went to school together. He’s always been loyal, but do not underestimate him. That nephew of his is ambitious. You could learn from him Mat. He works for what he can get, not like you, expecting it all on a plate. Ambition is a good thing.’
He inhaled on the cigar and spoke as he let smoke drift with the words.
‘Uncontrolled ambition is not, it’s dangerous.’
His boxer’s neck and head were engulfed in thick, aromatic smoke. ‘So what do you reckon we do then Luke?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Are you stupid,’ Mat snapped.
‘Get out!’ Billy yelled, pointing at the door. ‘Make yourself useful. Go and help with the cleaning or something.’
Mat clamped his mouth, clenched his fists, and stormed out.
His father was losing it, going soft. There was no room for sentiment in this business even if you had known somebody for a lifetime.
‘Okay,’ Billy said once the door had stopped reverberating against the frame. ‘Carry on.’
‘As I said, do nothing,’ Luke said. ‘I’ll go and see Harry today. Apologise for Mat’s behaviour. Tell him that wasn’t why we were there. Mat just got it into his head.’
‘Mat won’t like that,’ Billy interrupted.
‘Tough,’ Luke went on. ‘He’s got us into this mess.’
Billy looked at his son and liked him.
‘Your mother always said I was successful because I never made decisions based on emotion,’ he said. ‘I always planned, always tried to think of every angle. Hotheads never win the day and your brother’s a hothead.’
‘We’re still looking into his background,’ Sam had said, trying to hide her shock.
She felt blindsided, stunned when Alistair told them how the sex allegations went back years to Scott’s time teaching at a boarding school he thought might have been in Hampshire.
‘He left under a cloud,’ Alistair was saying now, his gaze across the promenade and towards the sea. ‘In the end he was acquitted in court but his career was finished from the mo
ment he left that school. He moved back up north after the trial. I don’t think anybody knew about it up here. Certainly my parents never said anything. Well you wouldn’t would you?’
Alistair sipped his coffee, watching two gulls spiralling in a dog-fight high above the grey water.
‘He became a private tutor giving music lessons and lived off that and the money my aunt left him when she died,’ Alistair said. ‘She was from money.’
Scott’s wife had stood by him, convinced he was innocent and had felt vindicated when he was cleared.
‘She died not long after the trial and he sold up, pocketed a fortune,’ Alistair said.
Sam lit a cigarette, her mind racing with the possibilities the story had opened.
‘Can you think of anybody who would want to harm your uncle,’ Sam asked.
Alistair Scott finished his coffee and shook his head.
‘No idea,’ he said. ‘He was an old man but I haven’t exactly kept in touch.’
Dean Silvers watched the waves rolling liquid dark towards them, salt air on his lips and the lulling sound of water lapping against the pier legs below. He had loved the sea since he was a kid and still felt its call, an invisible force pulling him wide-eyed to something awesome and endless. The fact the Victorian pier was a good place to talk freely was a bonus. Police would struggle to keep any surveillance mission covert here, still less plant bugs that could conquer the winter roar of the North Sea.
He’d seen the two women detectives drinking their coffee but he was sure they hadn’t seen him. And if they had, so what? He had no idea who the man was they were talking to; probably another cop by the look of him.
He watched a white yacht with white sails rise and fall on the swell and imagined a couple on board, a chart laid out to their next destination. Were they only out for the day or at the start of a bigger adventure? Deacon Blue and their song Dignity flashed into his mind. He’d have a yacht one day. The only difference between him and the bloke in the song was he didn’t pick up litter and he wasn’t going to work for twenty years saving his money.
In the words of another song by a band he couldn’t quite remember, he was moving on up. Take over from Billy Skinner and he wouldn’t have to wait long.
Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set Page 69