Cobweb

by Margaret Duffy

  ‘Peckish?’ I enquired of Patrick afterwards as we went back through the twilight to the car park.

  ‘That means you’re hungry,’ he replied.

  ‘I didn’t have half a bullock for lunch.’

  ‘What do you fancy?’

  ‘I know where there’s a fish-and-chip shop.’

  It was, as Tom – the man I had met during Hicks’s round-up of vagrants – had told me, almost right opposite the entrance to the park where Jason Giddings had been murdered.

  ‘We can sit over there,’ I said when we had bought a fish supper to share, gesturing to where several seats were situated, just inside the park gates.

  ‘It’s not exactly salubrious,’ he demurred.

  I snorted, ‘Considering the places where men are prepared to drink beer, some of which are so insanitary, so insalubrious, both in matters of—’

  ‘OK,’ he butted in, ‘there’s no need to pontificate all over me. The park it is.’ He added, darkly, ‘I might just sell you to the highest bidder.’

  I did not laugh and we crossed the road, eating chips.

  We soon saw that, following the park’s recent notoriety, the authorities seemed to have made a real effort to improve it. Flower beds were freshly planted and a whole corner had been redesigned with new trees and shrubs. A sign warned that a warden now patrolled regularly, while another notice announced the setting up of a Friends of West Woodhill Park Association, with a view to improving the facilities and providing a children’s play area.

  It was still very warm; people, young families, strolled – proof that progress was already being made. As the light gradually faded, they began to file past us in the direction of the gateway.

  ‘Why have you brought me here, Ingrid?’ Patrick asked, screwing up the fish-and-chip paper and tossing it into a nearby waste bin.

  ‘You know why,’ I answered quietly: ‘to try to find Tom.’

  ‘People like that won’t come here now.’

  I rounded on him. ‘People like what? He’s timid and getting on in years and has nowhere to go. Obviously, something awful’s happened to him to mean that he can’t even start to sort himself out. I want to talk to him. We might even be able to help him.’ Into the silence that followed I said, ‘Sorry, that’s the second time I’ve bitten your head off this evening.’

  ‘Don’t apologize. I think Greenway was right insofar as we both need another week off. I shouldn’t be railroading your concerns about Tom or turning my face away from the fact that a dying junkie is being dragged through the courts for a murder he probably didn’t commit.’

  ‘But Tom could have imagined the ghost-like figure.’

  ‘Yes, he could. Scrumpy tastes wonderful but is really easy to get dead drunk on. I stopped drinking it years ago, even though they practically give the stuff away around Hinton Littlemoor.’

  This is the village in Somerset where Patrick’s parents live: his father is rector there.

  ‘But let’s really think about it without the distractions we’ve had lately,’ Patrick continued. ‘What could the man have seen? A white figure that seemed to bob about. Someone in ski gear? No, that’s usually brightly coloured. Some kind of plastic mack? A white leather biker’s outfit?’

  An idea sort of blazed into my mind. ‘An anti-contamination suit?’ I said.

  In the gathering gloom our eyes met.

  ‘The sort Scenes of Crime personnel wear?’ Patrick whispered. ‘The things you have to put on when you watch a post mortem? Bloody hell!’

  ‘Honor Giddings is a pathologist,’ I reminded him.

  He waggled a finger at me. ‘So are thousands of other people. And that kind of protective clothing can be bought anywhere.’

  ‘It’s too early for Tom and the others to turn up,’ I replied, quite determined this was not going to be head-bite number three. ‘Shall we have a quick look at the murder scene?’

  ‘If you like.’

  There was nothing to see: this section of the park had been completely reorganized, the dell with its dreary Victorian-style shrubbery where the body had been found completely swept away. At present the whole area was little more than a building site, but there were, to my mind, very promising piles of attractive rocks and coloured gravel waiting to be incorporated into a new design.

  ‘This might be the bin Giddings’s head was found in,’ I said.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Patrick replied. ‘I came here with Erin. It’s that one over there. And the one where his wallet was found, minus the money but still holding his credit cards and driving licence, is right on the other, southern, side of the park.’

  ‘So one assumes his killer went that way and disposed of the things he, or she, didn’t want as they passed it. According to Tom, the man who he thought might be Giddings went very purposefully in a northerly direction towards a small gate that leads out to a residential area where there are a few shops.’ I remembered something else. ‘Tom himself didn’t think it was Giddings’s head anyway, as the hair looked different from the man he’d seen earlier. As he said, there are any number of men around this area during the early evening wearing smart overcoats and carrying briefcases. They’re all coming home from working in the City.’

  ‘Had he been for a haircut?’

  ‘You genius!’ I said. ‘Follow me.’

  We went back towards the gateway and then turned sharp left on to a wide walkway that disappeared through the twilight into a copse. As Tom had told me, there were a few lamps. These were beginning to switch themselves on, attracting moths. I was glad Patrick was with me as, despite the fact that work was beginning on improving this place, it still had a dark, brooding atmosphere. Perhaps, on the other hand, this was no more than the figment of an author’s overactive imagination.

  We seemed to walk rather a long way, seeing no one, the hum of traffic on the main road behind us becoming muted so we could hear leaves on the branches above our heads rustling in the breeze. Then, ahead, we saw a group of lights which formed a pool of illumination by a gateway. Going through the rusting wrought-iron gates, we found ourselves in a quiet street lined with terraced Edwardian houses. Fifty yards or so away to the left, where there was a junction with another road, was a group of small shops. Even from where we stood we could see that one was a barber’s.

  ‘Can’t be open at this time of night,’ Patrick muttered.

  This proved to be perfectly true, but someone was within – a man slapping emulsion paint on the walls. Patrick tapped politely on the door, placing his ID card against the glass so it was visible from within. He got a dismissive look in return. ‘Police!’ he then shouted, causing a few nearby windows to tremble. ‘Open the door!’

  ‘All right, all right,’ grumbled the man, letting us in with alacrity. ‘No need to bring the house down.’

  ‘We won’t waste your time,’ he was assured, the introductions having been made. ‘Are you the proprietor?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ the man replied. ‘Ken Dailey. This was my granddad’s business – been in the family all this time.’

  Patrick gazed about the interior. ‘It’s very smart,’ he commented – no empty remark as indeed it was immaculate. ‘You probably know that Jason Giddings, an MP, was murdered nearby recently. Was he a client of yours?’

  ‘Yes, he was, poor chap.’

  ‘Did you cut his hair on the evening he was killed?’

  Dailey pondered. ‘Not personally. It was a Friday, wasn’t it? We have a late opening on Fridays for those customers who don’t want to waste Saturdays having their hair cut. There are quite a lot of them. There’s three of us working flat out then.’

  ‘So one of the others could have done his hair?’

  ‘It’s possible. I mean, we’re all good at what we do – I only employ the right people and the blokes don’t tend to pick and choose; they’re only too keen to get it done and go home for their dinner. There are a few, mind, who have a favourite operative. Mostly the old gents. They look forward to it, a cha
nce for a chat – lonely old souls, likely.’

  ‘Have Woodhill police or any other police department interviewed you?’

  Dailey shook his head.

  ‘Did you contact them to report that Giddings might have been here?’

  ‘No, because it didn’t really cross my mind that he had! You should come in here on a Friday evening. It’s manic!’

  Patrick put a hand on the other’s arm. ‘Look, this is absolutely vital. Would you please contact your employees and ask them.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘This is a murder inquiry,’ Patrick responded gravely.

  ‘I thought you’d arrested somebody already.’

  ‘It might be the wrong somebody.’

  ‘One question before you phone,’ I said. ‘Please don’t be offended, but was there any particular reason – other than the late opening – why an MP would walk quite a long way across a park after he’d got off a train, take a taxi to the Green Man and then go all the way back again afterwards just to have his hair cut here? There are a couple of upmarket gents’ hairdressers in Woodhill High Street.’

  ‘Oh, it was because of something that happened quite a while ago. He was cycling to get fit around the country lanes near his house – getting it in the neck from his doc, apparently, about being overweight. He fell off and bashed his head – blood everywhere. I just happened to be close by, taking the dog for a walk, and phoned for an ambulance. A lady brought out a blanket from a nearby cottage and we covered him up. We didn’t know if he’d fractured his skull, you see, so didn’t dare touch his head other than gently trying to staunch the bleeding with some kitchen paper. Then, when he’d been taken off to Romford hospital, I took his bike home and told his wife. That’s all. Anyone would have done the same. He’d asked my name and where I lived and a week or so later he came in the shop with a couple of bottles of bubbly and said he’d have his hair done here from then on. I think he enjoyed the walk through the park, but if it was raining he’d get a taxi.’

  ‘This was all on a very regular basis?’ Patrick enquired.

  ‘Every three or four weeks. He hated his hair starting to look untidy.’

  ‘Say what you like,’ I whispered to Patrick when Dailey had disappeared to somewhere in the back of the shop to phone, ‘but Honor Giddings must have known he was planning to get his hair cut before going home. That was why he was late.’

  ‘What – and she popped out, ostensibly to look for him, ambushed him on his way across the park, indulged in a bloodbath and then went calmly home and entertained people to dinner? That’s straight out of a crime novel.’

  ‘Shall we carry on and find Tom?’ I suggested smoothly. ‘Then it might be a good idea to talk to Fiona, Honor’s sister.’

  ‘Honor loathes her.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Hit the jackpot first time,’ Ken Dailey called a minute or so later, his head around a door. ‘Bob cut his hair. D’you want to talk to him?’

  Patrick did so but learned little more – only that the MP had been one of Bob’s clients some time after the normal closing time of six. When pressed to try to remember more exactly, the man could only say that he thought it might have been at around seven but could not be sure as they had been so busy. Giddings had not wanted a taxi, commenting that the fresh air and exercise would do him good if he walked across the park, but he would get one from the Green Man to take him home.

  ‘I’ve asked him to call in at the nick and make a short statement,’ Patrick said when he rejoined us. He then thanked Dailey and we left.

  While this conversation had been taking place I had leafed back through my notebook and now paused under a street lamp to get my facts right before speaking. ‘A taxi driver dropped Giddings at the Green Man at five forty-five. That means that if he didn’t get to the barber’s until sevenish, he must have gone in the pub for a drink, or three, before crossing the park. We’ve just done it and it’s about a fifteen-minute walk, perhaps twenty from the pub. But Honor said she expected him between six and six thirty. I reckon that would have been his normal, non-haircut-day time. Dinner parties are usually timed at something like arrival at seven thirty for eight, so if he hadn’t been waylaid he would have still got home in time to have a quick wash and brush-up and change – that is, provided he got a taxi fairly quickly.’

  ‘You’re wooing me on this theory,’ Patrick murmured.

  By the time we got back to the main entrance of the park there were indeed a few hunched figures on the seat farthest away from the lights, but opposite to the fish-and-chip shop. I placed a hand on Patrick’s arm to signal to him that I wanted to go on alone.

  ‘Is Tom here?’ I asked the group of four quietly as I approached.

  ‘Tom who?’ grunted a man.

  ‘I don’t know his surname. We met when the police were rounding people up recently. I want to thank him for helping me.’

  ‘And what the ’ell were you doin’ gettin’ trapped by the filth then, lady?’ This was spoken in tones of utter disgust and disbelief.

  ‘I was living rough to look for my husband, who I thought was doing the same thing.’

  Another figure shuffled out of the darkness. ‘Yes, it is Ingrid,’ he said. ‘But I only know from your voice.’

  I said, ‘I want you to know that the policemen who was in charge of rounding you all up that night was arrested.’

  ‘Yes, I heard someone turned up,’ Tom said. ‘We’d all made ourselves scarce.’

  ‘He was arrested by that man over there. He’s my husband and we’re trying to ensure that the right person goes on trial for killing the MP. Tom, will you talk to him – tell him what you told me?’

  ‘I – I can’t.’

  ‘Look, he was in the army too. He’ll understand and you can talk to him man to man. I’ll go away.’

  ‘You tell her where to go!’ shouted the man who had first spoken. ‘We don’t need you to go crawling to the filth.’

  Tom painfully drew himself up to his modest height. ‘I shall decide what I do, thank you, Lanny.’

  ‘Pathetic old git!’ the other jumped up to bawl in his face, ‘with your fancy talk and posh airs!’

  ‘It’s called an education,’ Tom retorted doggedly.

  ‘Go on, then! Sod off! But take one step over there and ya don’t come back. They’re both filth and you’ll be filth and we won’t want ya!’

  ‘In that case,’ Tom sighed, ‘I don’t think I want you people either.’ And he began to walk over to where Patrick stood, about thirty yards away.

  Lanny moved to go after him.

  I said, ‘I’ve kicked you in the goolies once already. Don’t make me do it again.’

  I too walked away, knowing that I was as safe as houses.

  ‘Well, I’m sunk now,’ Tom was saying, half to himself, when I caught up with him. ‘They only really tolerated me because I was the brains.’ He glanced at me sideways. ‘Not that I would want you to think I’m boasting.’

  ‘Come and talk to Patrick,’ I said.

  ‘That was my father’s name. Is your Patrick Irish too?’

  ‘Only sometimes.’

  I kept my word and sat on another seat out of earshot, aware that I was probably in for a long wait, old soldiers tending to witter on endlessly nothwithstanding. Half an hour later I was still there. The homeless men had drifted off, coarse laughter following a remark of Lanny’s as he had leered in my direction.

  And, of course, Tom was now our responsibility.

  I need not have worried; there was no dilemma and the solution was nothing to do with the police, SOCA, or anything of that ilk. Patrick pulled strings: a phone call to a retired very senior officer in his own regiment, the one-time Devon and Dorsets, who was closely involved with a charity ensured that Tom could be taken to a hostel run by the charity and the Royal British Legion, there to be helped in every way possible. But he had had to give an undertaking that he would remain there for the present, as he might have to appear in
court as a witness.

  ‘I can’t give you money,’ Patrick told Tom as they got out of the car at an address near Tower Bridge, ‘because if I do and the defence lawyers get to hear of it, they’ll make it look as though I bribed you to tell a tall story. But you won’t need cash – you’ll be looked after.’

  They went into the building, Tom by this time quite bemused and almost speechless with what was happening to him.

  ‘I feel we’ve sort of filed him,’ I said when Patrick returned, ‘– used him and parcelled him off, pigeon-holed him.’

  Patrick turned on the fan of the air-con to maximum in an effort to clear the car of reminders of our passenger and said, ‘Right now that’s exactly what he needs: to be able to switch off in a secure environment. He’s lived on his wits for over fifteen years after coming out of prison – something to do with drink-driving, after which his wife threw him out and the house was repossessed – is at the end of his tether and almost broke down as he begged me to help him. He has lice, thinks he has some kind of VD and has been having severe pains in his chest. Next winter would have been the death of him. Anyway, thank God for those who are prepared to help ex-servicemen like Tom, for I’m damned if the Ministry of Defence does.’

  There had been a choke of anger in his voice as he had uttered these last words.

  ‘What was he able to tell you?’

  ‘Nothing much more than he told you: a white figure bobbing about. But quite slim, so it could have been a woman.’ He smiled at me in the semi-darkness. ‘So how do we find Fiona? We don’t even know her surname.’

  ‘We can’t ask Honor, as she’d realize we were checking on things.’

  Patrick turned the key in the ignition. ‘Woodhill nick must know the whereabouts of du Norde by now. Let’s ask them.’

  ‘He might tell his mother.’

  ‘It’s a risk we’ll have to take. But I can’t imagine she’ll be on speaking terms with him after the trouble he’s been in lately.’

  But mud was thicker than water.