by Ann Cleeves
“Who was the businessman?” Claire asked. “What was his name?”
“Barnes,” Rolfe said with disgust, and there had been so many other coincidences in the case that it came as no surprise. It could be no one else. “ Brian Barnes. He runs a company called Squirrel.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know. I’ve heard of it.”
“He’s a bloody millionaire,” Rolfe said. “ If it’s the last thing I do, I want him behind bars. I can’t stand him.” He nodded towards the smartly painted pavilion, where most of the spectators of the match were sitting in the shade. “Barnes gave a donation to the club to build that place,” he said. “That’s why I’m sitting out here with the sun in my eyes and why the wife makes me a flask and sandwiches for my dinner. I’ll not set foot in it.”
“Do you think Barnes still sees Rosco as a threat?”
“I do. It would suit him fine if Rosco was locked up again. While he’s out, there’s always a risk of him talking.”
“Tell me about Barnes,” she said. “Everything you know about him.”
“It’ll take a while,” he said. “I’ve been studying him for years.” She realised then that his dislike of Barnes was unreasonable, unbalanced, an obsession.
“Why do you bother?” she asked. “ You’re out of it now.”
“I needn’t be,” he said suddenly. “They threw me out because of Barnes. I’ll never prove it, but I know all the same. The deputy chief constable has been a friend of Barnes’ for years. He and the family go every year to stay in Barnes’ villa in the Algarve, and now he’s a member of that posh country club at Rashwood Hall.
They called it early retirement on health grounds, but it was the sack just the same. I was a good policeman.”
“Go on,” she said. “Tell me about him.”
When he started speaking, she was amazed by the detail of his information and the fact that he could remember it all. He had stored up the story of the man’s life, fueling his bitterness by recalling the number of Barnes’ houses, the extent of his business empire, his wealth, and his influence.
She took notes in shorthand and listened, astounded, as he painted a picture of the man he was convinced had lost him his job.
“He’s a single man,” Rolfe said. “Never seemed to need the company of women, as far as I can see. Only money. He needs money as you and I need to breathe. He started off with a couple of betting shops here in Bedminster. I don’t know how he got the finance for those. It’s a long time ago. The big break came for him with his deal with Sinclair. When the boat yard went up in flames, he had the insurance and the land. Everyone at that time knew of the plans to develop the docks. He held on to the land, bought out Sinclair, and when the development corporation was formed with their plans for all those expensive houses, he was in a prime position. It’s impossible to guess how much he made in that deal. Enough to buy more land in the middle of town and put up a load of houses and a hotel. Now he seems to have shares in every successful business in the city. There’s that country club out at Rashwood in Somerset, and I heard last week that he’s offered for a chain of local travel agents.”
“Where does he live?” she asked.
“I don’t think there’s anything he calls home,” Rolfe said. “Not really. There’s a suite in the hotel in the city, and he spends a lot of time at the place at Rashwood. He has land in Scotland where he and his cronies go shooting grouse in the autumn, and a cottage in Cornwall for the sailing.”
“Where in Cornwall?” she asked, and he looked at her sharply, excited, realizing the implication of the question.
“Near Heanor,” he said. “Fremington Creek. Like I said, he goes there for the sailing.”
“Rosco sails out of Heanor,” she said. “It could be coincidence.”
“Pigs might fly,” he said.
“Barnes wouldn’t have killed an innocent boy just to put Rosco in prison again,” she said. “ There’d be no need. Rosco’s been out for four years, and he’s caused Barnes no trouble. He got the Jessie Ellen out of the deal. As you said, that would be enough for him. Besides, how could Barnes have done it? He wasn’t there.”
“You could find out if Barnes was involved,” Rolfe said, and he spoke so quickly that she realised he had been hatching such a plot for years, brooding about it. The details would be revised to meet this situation, but the general thrust of this means of revenge would be well known to him. To carry it out was the dream which had replaced the dream of sailing round the world. It had kept him going, kept him active and prepared.
“How?” she asked despite herself. She knew she should not encourage him.
“Release Rosco from custody,” he said. “Then I’ll start some rumours that Rosco’s talked to the police about the Sinclair fire, and you’re considering reopening the case. I’ll say he had to give you information about the arson to persuade you that he had nothing to do with the Franks murder. That’ll scare Barnes. That will flush him out for you. He’ll want to shut Rosco up before the case comes to court.”
“I can’t do that,” she said, shocked. “ I can’t put Rosco in that sort of danger.”
“Why not?” Rolfe said, and she knew then that bitterness had made him insane. “If Barnes finishes off Rosco, you can do him for murder.”
“I won’t do it,” she said, but she was fascinated all the same with the details of his plan. “How would you start the rumours?”
He shrugged. “I’ve still got informants,” he said. “People who work for Barnes. They worked for me when I was in the force, and they still do. The money’s just the same to them, whether it comes from my pocket or petty cash.
“Barnes would never believe them,” she said.
“He might. If he’s scared enough.”
And he’s scared already, Claire thought, with George Palmer-Jones’ turning up at Rashwood Hall. For a moment she was tempted to go along with the idea. There was some attraction in having a quick, if dangerous, end to the case, but she knew it would not do.
“No,” she said. “ I can’t allow it. It’s far too risky.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, and lay back on the bench, his eyes narrowed against the sun, watching the smooth underarm action of the bowler. She was surprised by his compliance. She had expected him to put up more of a fight.
“Well,” she said, standing, “thanks for the information anyway.” But he seemed not to hear her and did not answer.
It was only when she was on her way past the pavilion that he spoke, and by then she was well out of earshot.
“It’s not up to you to allow me anything, lady. I’m not a policeman now. I can do what I bloody well choose.”
Chapter Twelve
When Molly left the hospital, she went to White Heath. The name had recurred throughout the investigation. Roger Pym taught games at White Heath Comprehensive School. Jane Pym worked from an office there. Louis Rosco had stayed with friends on the White Heath Estate when he was first released from prison and reported to a probation officer based there under the terms of his parole. More recently, with Claire Bingham’s help, Molly had traced the woman who had been in charge of the bail hostel to White Heath. It seemed that she had been promoted and the year before had been appointed senior to the team of probation officers. Molly thought that the place was worth a visit. It was a sign of Claire Bingham’s new attitude to the case that she allowed the older woman to go alone.
The bus Molly caught was almost empty. The smart shops in the city centre would have little to offer the residents of White Heath. There were a few listless youths who had been in town to sign on the dole. They stared out of the window and had little to say even to each other. The bus dropped her at the edge of the estate by a primary school that looked like a prison. There were half a dozen tower blocks surrounded by a crescent of low level terraces. As she stepped out into the street, she felt suddenly chill, although the day was still fine. The weather was already starting to change. There were feathers of cloud which occasi
onally blocked the sun and a westerly breeze which blew litter across the streets and around the flats.
Molly found the probation office in the centre of the estate, in a concrete arcade of shops which had been the planners’ only concession to providing for the residents. Most of the shops had been boarded up or were encased behind bars and grilles. The probation office was reached through a door defaced by graffiti, up some malodorous concrete steps. It was over a fish-and-chips shop. The waiting room was empty except for one fat old lady who drank cider from a dirty brown bottle, and who was dressed despite the sun in layers of clothing. Three middle-aged typists sat on the other side of a strengthened glass window and talked about their holidays.
The senior probation officer was named Joanna and was, it seemed, willing to talk to Molly. No approach had yet been made to her by the police about Greg and Rosco. Claire Bingham had decided that she might talk more freely to a retired social worker than to a policeman about her former clients. Joanna was capable, friendly, in her mid-thirties. Molly thought she would be supportive, accessible, but a little weak. Her staff would take advantage of her. She greeted Molly with something approaching relief. It was pleasant to have a visitor who did not demand money, who spoke in a soft, well-educated voice, whose first enquiries were vague, almost academic. The office was at the back of the building and looked out not over the shopping arcade but over an asphalt children’s play area with one vandalised swing. It was similar to many Molly had visited before she retired. There was the same scratched green filing cabinet, the old Snoopy poster, the shrivelled pot plants.
Molly explained that she had been a social worker and that she was there on behalf of the Franks. She was vague about her actual relationship with Greg’s parents but stressed their shock and confusion over their son’s death.
“I’m sorry,” Joanna said. “I’m not sure I can help.” She gave an automatic reassuring smile.
“After such a violent and sudden death,” Molly said, “I’m sure you can see that it would help the grieving process if they knew more about his life. It would give them something to hang on to.”
The probation officer nodded sympathetically. They were professionals together sharing the same jargon, the same detached quality of professional understanding.
“When did Greg Franks appear in court?” the senior asked.
Molly told her.
“We’ve had a big turn round in staff since then. You might find someone who remembers him, but I doubt it. We wouldn’t have anything here in writing. You say that he pleaded not guilty to the burglary charge. It’s not this office’s policy to do social enquiry reports on not-guilty pleas. Besides, I’d not be able to show you anything official like that anyway.”
“No,” Molly said. “ Of course not.” She paused. “ Don’t you remember him?” she asked. “ He was in the probation hostel for a couple of months while he was on bail. I know you were on maternity leave for most of the time, but you must have been back at work, I think, before he went to trial. You were back at work, weren’t you, before the fire?”
“How did you know about that?” Joanna was a little suspicious but not too concerned.
“Oh,” Molly said absently, “ Greg must have mentioned it to his parents.”
Yes, the senior said. She was back by then. But she hardly had time to get to know all the residents before they were all dispersed. The fire had left the hostel uninhabitable. It had been a dreadful time. There had been an enquiry, a lot of media fuss about safety standards. Luckily the enquiry had found that none of the probation officers had been to blame, but it had been a worrying time.
“You were in the hostel on the night of the fire?” Molly asked.
“Yes,” she said rather sharply, “though I don’t know what that has to do with the business now. It was my sleeping-in duty.”
“And you really don’t remember Greg Franks?” Molly said. “ He would have been young, rather cocky. His parents claim he was something of a hero at the fire.”
Joanna shook her head. “ I’m sorry,” she said. “ I don’t remember.”
“What about Louis Rosco?” Molly asked. “ He was in the hostel at the same time as Greg.”
But the senior seemed to have lost her enthusiasm for the conversation.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It was a difficult time for me. A new baby. Not much sleep. It all seems rather a blur now.”
Suddenly she seemed very eager to have the office to herself. She looked at her watch.
“The rest of the team will be having their tea break soon. Why don’t you join them? You might find someone who remembers the men you’re asking about and be prepared to talk to you informally.”
She lifted the telephone and asked the receptionist to take Mrs. Palmer-Jones to the tearoom.
“Make her welcome and give her all the help she needs,” Joanna said, and the automatic smile returned.
The tearoom was small and cramped, with a selection of ancient armchairs marked by cigarette burns and coffee stains. The window was tiny and protected by a metal grille, so an electric light burned continually. The room filled quickly with men and women. None, it seemed, had any qualms about helping her, but no one had any recollection of Greg Franks or Louis Rosco. They told her that if Rosco had been on parole, there must be a record somewhere of his probation officer. And one of them would have prepared a social enquiry report before he was sent away. Had she tried the office in Cornwall? If Louis was still on parole when he moved south, all his records would have been sent there. Molly began to think she had come on a wild-goose chase and settled just to recapture the pleasant memories of her life at work.
She sat in a lumpy old armchair, drinking tea, enjoying the familiar bitchiness of social work conversation. They had given all their energy and generosity to their clients and had no compassion left for their colleagues. They discussed divorce, adultery, and the office power games with relish.
“So you know Jane Pym?” one said to Molly. “She was my supervisor when I did a student placement here. She’s a brilliant officer. She taught me an amazing lot! But I can’t stand her husband. Talk about arrogant! Have you heard the way he talks to her?” She lowered her voice in an excited whisper. “I wouldn’t be surprised, you know, if he didn’t beat her up. When I was doing my training here, I’m sure she had a bruised face.”
“Nonsense,” said another, sensing immediately the opportunity for gossip. “He doesn’t beat her up. He might be a sadist with the kids at school, but he wouldn’t dare touch Jane. You probably caught her on one of her bad mornings. She’d have had a hangover. I don’t know any other woman who can drink like Jane. Don’t you remember that party at the Housing Office last New Year?”
Then Molly was entertained by all the old stories which must have been repeated every time there was an audience. She was told about the senior who was so drunk that he tripped down the witness stand steps on his way to give evidence in court, about the local police superintendent who dressed up in women’s clothes, about the parties they attended so they could at last forget clients and enjoy themselves.
She could have stayed all day listening to the warmth of their conversation, but they began slowly to drift away and back to work. She was thinking that she would have to admit defeat and leave, too, when the door was pushed open to reveal a probation officer who had been in court. His arms were full of files, and he stood for a moment helplessly, then tipped them in a heap on an empty chair. He was prematurely middle-aged, balding, with little round spectacles. His suit was crumpled and poorly fitting and was obviously only brought out for the days when he was on court duty. On his feet were brown suede desert boots.
By now only the typists were left in the tearoom. Three of them sat in a row, knitting. They wore almost identical blouses and cotton skirts. One looked up briefly as the man came in.
“Mike,” she said, “This is Mrs. Palmer-Jones. She’s looking for someone who remembers Greg Franks or Louis Rosco. Jo says we sho
uld help her.”
He poured stewed tea from a big brown pot, blinked, and looked at Molly.
“I remember Louis Rosco,” he said. “I did the original social enquiry report, visited him a couple of times in prison, and supervised him on parole for a couple of months when he first came out. I expect the papers were transferred to Cornwall. He came from there. He won’t be on parole now, though. It would have ended ages ago.”
In time with each other, like the chorus of a musical, the typists speared wool with knitting needles, sighed loudly, and stood up. They filed in a line out of the room. Molly almost expected them to return and curtsey.
“What was he like?” Molly asked.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Louis is being held by the police in Cornwall in connection with a murder. As far as I can see, the only reason for his arrest is that he met the victim, Greg Franks, at a probation hostel here. I’m not convinced Louis had anything to do with it.”
“He never meant to kill that security guard in the boat yard,” Mike said. “ I saw him in the remand centre before he went to court, and he was really shocked even then. He was angry, too.”
“Why was he angry?”
The man paused. “ I think there was more to the arson than the police would ever recognise,” he said. “ Officially, at least. I know one of the officers on the case had his suspicions about it, too, but he couldn’t persuade anyone else to take them seriously.” He looked at Molly through his thick spectacles. “I went into a lot of detail to prepare the original social enquiry report,” he explained. “ More than I’d have time for now. I was just out of college. He was the first report on a serious crime I’d ever done. That’s why I remember the case so well.”