by JOHN STANLEY
‘Preposterous!’ said de Vere, regaining his composure and sitting down. ‘Absolutely preposterous. Besides, if people do not like what we have done, they can vote us out at the next local elections.’
‘By which time their homes will have gone, of course.’
De Vere shrugged.
‘Tell me about Gerald Hedges,’ said Radford.
‘He retired as chief planning officer two years ago.’
‘I understand Robert Garnett felt Hedges got the top job because of his political connections.’
‘Garnett was a bitter man, Chief Inspector. Besides, I have already told you that it was before my time.’
‘Isn’t that abrogating responsibility?’
‘I think it is fair to say,’ and de Vere paused, choosing his words with the care of a lawyer, ‘that certain elements of what we shall call the ‘old guard’ were less than rigorous in applying the procedures. We pride ourselves on a more considered approach. The best man, or woman, of course, gets the job.’
‘And would Robert Garnett have been the best man?’
‘What does it matter now?’
‘That’s what I would like to know. Did you know Des Creeley?’
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘Two dead men, same street, both former council employees.’
‘We employ four and a half thousand people.’
‘Nevertheless, I have to pursue a possible link.’
‘Then go and pursue it. Frankly, I am not impressed with the police performance on this one. Time and time again, we have asked for you to move the unsavoury types drawn to those houses on, and time and time…’
‘Nothing to do with me. That’s down to uniform.’
‘Now who is abrogating responsibility?’
‘My job is to investigate murders,’ said Radford evenly.
Don‘t try to rile me, Jason my boy. After two months of Gainesy, you‘re nothing.
‘And right now, I need to know if anyone has showed undue resentment about the demolition,’ said Radford.
‘Where do you start?’ said de Vere sardonically. ‘You’ve seen the protestors.’
‘Yes, but are any of them angry enough to kill Robert Garnett?’
‘I really cannot see how.’
‘I can see why you would want to think that. It would not look very good on your next manifesto, would it? Vote Labour and get a spike shoved into your chest. Not desperately catchy.’
De Vere glared at him but said nothing.
‘So is there someone angry enough to kill?’
‘He’s certainly a bit tapped,’ said de Vere guardedly, adding hurriedly, ‘but I’m not saying he would kill anyone.’
‘Who?’
‘Brian Chambers.’
‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’
‘One of those who had to move out of Alma Street.’
‘So he isn’t at home thanks to you.’
‘For God’s sake!’ exclaimed de Vere angrily, ‘that is just the kind of old-fashioned thinking that is holding back this city! Green Trees will provide 1,000 jobs, that‘s what is important here. And why the hell do you care about what happens to Alma Street, anyway?’
‘Tell me about Chambers,’ said Radford, ignoring the question.
‘Won’t accept the decision was taken democratically. Keeps writing letters to the newspaper and to me at city hall. He’s called me everything from a crook to a banana republic dictator.’
‘He knows you then, does he?’ said Radford slyly.
De Vere’s eyes flashed anger but he controlled it.
‘The man is obsessed,’ he said. ‘He has sent me three hundred and fifty letters in six months. All in red ink.’
Radford raised an eyebrow.
‘Exactly,’ said de Vere, ‘And a couple of times, I’ve seen him staring at my house…’
‘At least you’ve got one.’
De Vere ignored the comment.
Chapter five
Gerry Perlow stared down at the depressing sight before him and sighed. It was shortly after 8.30 that night and he was supposed to be going out for a drink with the barmaid’s sister at his favourite little east end boozer. Instead, he was standing in the sanitised surroundings of the council’s homelessness hostel. Sited on the edge of the city centre, the red-brick, flat-roofed building had been the council’s response to Leyton’s growing homelessness problem. It rarely had spare beds and those who arrived too late had to find somewhere else to sleep as best they could - shop doorways, pieces of waste ground, derelict houses. That was why the empty houses in Alma Street had proved such a draw.
Slumped on the chair in the foyer was a scruffy man, with long dark straggly hair, which was thinning and greying rapidly, an unkempt beard, glazed eyes and crooked and browning teeth. Harry Caygill, who wore the remnants of a tattered green jumper and jeans with holes in the knees and all manner of stains down the legs, was desperately trying to focus on the detective constable.
‘I thought you ought to talk to him before he passed out,’ said the young man standing next to the officer. ‘That’s what he normally does about this time in the evening.’
Dressed casually in a black polo-neck top and pale grey slacks, Ernest Kemley was in his early twenties. Ernest by name, earnest by nature, an image strengthened by his owlish spectacles, he had worked as an assistant manager at the hostel for six months, trying as best he could to bring some humanity into the brutal lives of his residents. Each evening, they straggled into the hostel, most of them drunk or high on drugs, most of them having not eaten properly all day, and Ernest Kemley cooked them a meal then tried to persuade them to take a shower. After which, fuelled by the missionary zeal of a born-again Christian, he lectured them on reforming their sad lives. As Perlow stood there, acutely conscious of the rank odour of sweat and alcohol fumes emanating from the drop-out, he could hear the whirr of the washing machine in the next room; Kemley was putting some of the residents’ clothes through the spin cycle. It was part of the nightly ritual.
Perlow glanced at the assistant manager and scowled; the detective constable’s world had never allowed much space for idealists, particularly religious ones, and Kemley was a young man who saw good in everyone and believed that what he was doing would one day convert his wards back to useful lives. He was forever trying to persuade them to seek employment but instead they sought only the bottle and the syringe.
Harry Caygill was typical. One of the hostel’s regulars and aged fifty-three but looking much older, he had been a wino for the best part of a decade. Pressed to describe his life before the streets, he had dredged up a recollection of a factory but no one knew what kind of a factory and the booze had long since washed the details into the dark abyss of Harry Caygill’s unremembered past. Every day, he left the hostel and lurched out into the city centre, purchased cheap bottles of cider with money gleaned from begging and petty crime and drank himself into oblivion. Every day, the police moved Harry Caygill on and every night he returned to the hostel. It was a cycle that would only end with Caygill’s death and even Kemley, in his more honest moments, realised that.
‘And why exactly do you think I should talk to him?’ asked Perlow doubtfully. ‘I really should be somewhere else.’
‘I appreciate that but last night,’ said Kemley, lowering his voice even though Harry showed little interest in their conversation. ‘He seemed very emotional.’
‘Tired and emotional, more like.’
‘Mr Perlow,’ remonstrated Kemley, ‘you really must show more understanding. Alcoholism is an illness that preys on the weak. It is a slippery slope. That is why I do not drink.’
‘There’s a surprise,’ murmured the constable.
‘So what did Harry say?’
‘He was very upset because Robert Garnett had been murdered.’
‘How did Harry know him?’
‘Best ask him yourself,’ said Kemley, nodding at Caygill, who had briefly stirred at the mention of Garnett�
�s name and was desperately trying to marshal what few thoughts he had left intact.
‘Poor Bob,’ he mumbled, ‘poor Bob.’
He started to cry and Kemley placed an arm round his scrawny shoulder.
‘It’s OK, Harry,’ said the young man. ‘I’ll serve you up a nice meal when you have talked to the policeman.’
‘Poor Bob,’ mumbled Caygill, clasping one of Kemley’s hands gratefully and turning moist eyes on the constable. ‘Poor Bob.’
The emotion appearing to be genuine and Perlow softened his tone of voice a little, sensing that a bit of sensitivity might be more effective.
‘Were you good friends?’ he asked.
Caygill nodded again but the constable noticed he had started to slump lower in his chair and that his eyes had started to glaze over. Perlow decided to press him before he was gone altogether into the dark place he inhabited when the alcohol finally overwhelmed him.
‘Did you know Des Creeley as well?’ he asked loudly.
‘Arshehole,’ mumbled Caygill.
‘Des or me?’ asked the constable with a slight smile.
‘Des,’ slurred Caygill. ‘Arshehole.’
‘Why was he an arsehole?’
‘Never offered me a drink,’ muttered Caygill. ‘Bob always let me have shome.’
‘Mr Kemley says you might have some information for me.’
Caygill looked blank.
‘Shall I tell him, Harry?’ said Kemley.
The drunk nodded dumbly.
‘There has been a guy in Alma Street. No one had seen him before.’
‘What did he look like?’ asked the constable, looking at Caygill.
Harry seemed confused by the question.
‘This is a waste of my bleeding time,’ said Perlow, turning to go.
‘I can tell you,’ said Kemley quickly. ‘I am afraid you don’t get much sense out of Harry at this time of day.’
‘Or any bloody time of day.’
‘Please, Constable, these people deserve respect. How can they be rehabilitated into society if we do not give them at least that? If we can shine the light of the Lord…’
‘Whatever,’ said Perlow, who was not a great believer in rehabilitation. ‘And don’t bring God into this.’
‘Ok,’ he sighed, ‘what did this bloke look like?’
‘Harry said he was tall and dark-haired. Didn’t talk to anyone, just stood and looked.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Not much, I am afraid.’
Caygill suddenly slumped sideways and slid off his chair to lie motionless on the floor, eyes closed.
‘It happens every time,’ said Kemley sadly. ‘Always misses his dinner, and it was fish-fingers tonight.’
‘I don’t know why you bother. They’re lost causes.’
‘No, they are not,’ said the hostel worker earnestly. ‘They are decent people fallen on hard times and it is my job to help them find their place in society again. You should learn more about their lives, Constable. Hey, with Harry asleep, that means there’s a spare place for tea. Would you like to stay? It might give you a better insight into their lives.’
‘Somehow,’ said the constable, heading for the door, an image of the barmaid’s naked sister popping into his mind, ‘I think not. Besides, I have another investigation to conduct.’
And he walked out into the night. When, shortly before 3am, he finally arrived home to his flat close to the city centre, he glanced along the terraced street and could have sworn that he saw someone watching him from the shadows. But when he looked again, the figure had gone - if it was there at all. Like Harry Caygill, the constable had imbibed rather deeply of the hop and could not be sure of anything.
Chapter six
‘It’s a bleeding disgrace!’ exclaimed the site foreman, a meaty character in a white hard hat and a yellow reflective jacket, as he jabbed an accusatory finger at Radford.
Standing in Alma Street, the chief inspector steadily met his furious gaze.
‘These buggers,’ said the foreman, gesturing at the empty houses, ‘have to come down and you’re in the way, pal.’
‘Well, there’s nothing I can do about that. Pal.’
‘Yeah, well we lose money if we’re late with the demolition! Wait til the boys hear that!’
‘I am sure that is not a threat,’ replied Radford coolly. ‘Besides, don’t blame me, it wasn’t me that killed the winos.’
‘Bleeding cheek!’ exclaimed the foreman, looking at the man next to him. ‘Ain’t it a bleeding cheek, Mr Jeavons?’
Gaines, standing behind the chief inspector, eyed Colin Jeavons with interest. The development company director was in his early fifties, a wiry bespectacled character whose slight frame was encased in a pale brown overcoat that seemed two sizes too large for him and who had listened to the discussion with a slightly uncertain look on his face.
‘I am afraid,’ said Jeavons, wiping his spectacles as the drizzle started to fall, ‘that I really do have to agree with George’s somewhat forcefully expressed sentiments, and I must also reiterate the company’s dissatisfaction at this unfortunate disruption to the construction process.’
‘Unfortunate disruption!’ exclaimed Radford. ‘We’re not talking about someone delivering the wrong sodding bricks here!’
‘I appreciate that,’ said Jeavons, ‘but I have to consider the best interests of what is a £120 million project.’
‘I am sure you do,’ replied the chief inspector scornfully. ‘After all, that’s more important than people, eh?’
‘I have no intention of going over the discussion you had with Councillor de Vere last night. I understand you were very rude to him.’
‘And who told you about that?’
My, word does travel fast.
Gaines looked at the DCI with renewed interest. He had always assumed Radford to be incapable of such acts.
‘Who told me is not important,’ said Jeavons.
‘Well, let me give you another “unfortunate disruption to the construction process”,’ said Radford. ‘You can’t flatten these houses until I say so.’
‘The thing is,’ said Jeavons, attempting to strike a more conciliatory tone, ‘my company really does need these houses to come down. Perhaps we could negotiate some kind of agreement?’
‘Yeah, let’s. This is my street now. There, that’s that done.’
Ironic really. The only copper who wants to see the street saved is the only one who can prevent it. For now anyway. Mum would have been proud of me.
‘I was thinking of something a little more mutual,’ said Jeavons, a slight edge in his voice. ‘How about if we started at the other end from where the bodies were found, down by the barriers, and worked our way up? That would give you an extra day or two to conduct your inquiries.’
‘As long as I am charge of this murder inquiry…’
Which could be minutes once they find out I spent last night talking to that reporter.
‘…I will not let your men back on site.’
‘But, every day these houses remain standing delays the project even further. With winter upon us, we really do need…’
‘I know all that but…’ began Radford.
‘And I do feel,’ continued Jeavons, surprising Radford with the steel in his voice, ‘that Councillor de Vere and his colleagues will agree when I report back to them about this meeting.’
‘Now that is a threat.’
‘Of course it is not,’ said the director without sounding genuine, ‘but we do need to get this impasse resolved as soon as possible and I will use whatever channels are available. Frankly, Mr Radford, you are all that is standing in the way of my boys and their bulldozers. You are being most obstructive.’
‘Well, I’ll ask the winos to kill each other elsewhere, shall I? I’m sure they’ll oblige once I explain it to them.’
‘Cheeky get,’ muttered the foreman.
Gaines smiled. It was the first time he had ever smiled at one of
Radford’s comments.
‘Had the police given the street as much attention when we requested it,’ said Jeavons icily, ‘then perhaps none of this would have happened.’
‘And if you had taught your workmen how to nail a sodding board across a window, no one would have been able to get in,’ riposted Radford.
‘Cheeky get,’ spluttered the foreman again.
‘Doesn’t he know any other phrase?’ asked Radford. ‘I always feel a little variety is so refreshing when insulting someone.’
Not sure what to say, the foreman moved threateningly forward but halted when Jeavons held up a hand. Gaines, who had himself taken a step forward, relaxed again, surprised that he should have been prepared to protect his boss.
‘Leave it, George,’ said the director, starting to walk down the street, ‘It is no use trying to talk to Mr Radford. It is clear that Councillor de Vere was right about him. This meeting is at an end. Good day, gentlemen.’
Radford watched Jeavons, smiling sweetly at the glowering foreman as he lumbered obediently after his boss.
‘Well,’ said the chief inspector when they had gone, ‘I thought that went well.’
‘You’ve landed yourself well and truly in it,’ said the sergeant. ‘I mean, on this of all days, guv.’
Bloody hell, he’s never called me guv before.
‘You sound like Connor. Anyway, remind me where we got with checks into the Alma Street protestors.’
‘Most of them seem fairly straight but there’s this one crackerjack. He’s not part of the official group, mind, bit of a lone wolf, everyone reckons.’
‘Not Brian Chambers, by any chance?’
‘Yeah, where did you hear about…?’
But Gaines got no further because their attention was distracted by a shout and they turned to see a stout woman striding purposefully up the street towards them. Aged in her mid-sixties, she was dressed in an ill-fitting red dress which allowed the officers to see her swollen and slightly discoloured ankles through wrinkled brown tights. As she neared, they could see that her hair, poking out from beneath a bright green headscarf, was black and lank with an oily appearance, as if it had not been washed for days, and was streaked with grey.