She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure about that. I’m not sure anyone knew James well.’
‘When we first met, you said that he had been helping with a problem the fishermen were having. The future of the huts, presumably?’
‘That’s right. I went to see him. We were all very worried about the rumours flying around.’
‘Was there more to it than that?’
‘We weren’t in a relationship, if that’s what you mean. We just became friends.’ She shrugged and added, ‘James was far too busy to have a relationship with anyone outside politics. His job, his work, was his life.’
That sounded right to me, from what I had learned of the man. He was a full-time Member of Parliament who seemed to work his socks off.
‘How much time did he spend in his constituency?’ I asked.
‘He was here most weekends. During the week he was in London. That’s pretty normal, I think.’
‘So he lived here? I mean, he had a home to come back to?’
She chuckled. ‘A home? I don’t think so. You couldn’t really say that. James lived out of his suitcase.’
‘A place to stay, then. He had to have a place in the constituency, surely? If he came back every. . .’
‘Oh, yes. He had a little house here. Pretty basic, but adequate.’
‘You’ve been there?’
She nodded. ‘Of course.’
Of course, I thought ironically. Of course she had. She’d been everywhere and knew everything.
‘Right, then. That’s what we’ll do next,’ I announced. ‘Tomorrow morning we’ll go and have a look at James’ house. OK?’
‘OK,’ she said with a shrug.
Getting information out of her was like pulling teeth, but at least I’d done it. I had found out something else I hadn’t known. That was enough for one day.
Campbell’s house was on the edge of Ormesby, once a quiet, historic village, now little more than a distant suburb of Middlesbrough. Green fields were still close, though. Nancy parked on the cobbles outside the house and we sat for a few moments while I sized it up.
Built of local sandstone, with Welsh slate for the roof. Bow windows. Entered direct from the street, no doubt with a garden at the back. A couple of hundred years old, and not mucked about. Simple, but attractive and no doubt pricey. A good investment.
‘Nice,’ I said. ‘A little old country cottage.’
Nancy nodded.
‘He didn’t fancy living in the industrial heartland of his constituency?’
She shook her head. ‘That’s where all the problems are, and I never blamed him for wanting to have a break from them.’
I could understand that. In a way, I had wanted much the same for myself.
‘I wouldn’t mind a look inside,’ I said wistfully.
I still didn’t have much of a feel for what the man had been like. Listening to what other people thought didn’t tell me everything.
‘We can go inside if you want to,’ Nancy said.
‘Better not. Breaking into a murdered person’s home doesn’t go down very well with the law.’
‘I’m not talking about breaking in,’ she said patiently.
I just looked at her.
‘I know where there’s a key.’
I didn’t bother asking how or why she knew.
‘Let’s go, then,’ I said.
Campbell had kept a bunch of spare keys under a flowerpot in the back garden. Nancy knew that. I was no longer surprised by the things she knew and said, and could do; I accepted her knowledge and capabilities as I would have accepted any other windfall.
The cottage was small. It had a couple of rooms plus a kitchen downstairs, and two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. The furnishings were basic, adequate, no more. They were all a man needed in a weekend retreat.
In fact, the best thing about it for me was the three pictures of Old Middlesbrough hanging on the north-facing wall in the main living room. They were stunning, two of them big as well as colourful. The big ones were awash with dreamy light, as coal poured from staithes into waiting colliers, and men sweated and worked in the light from the flames of a blast furnace. The third picture was different, and done by a different hand. Detailed, meticulous and equally atmospheric, it showed a late-Victorian evening scene of rain-wet streets shining beneath gas lamps near the Royal Exchange building.
I moved on and checked the bookcase. Nothing special there: a collection of political memoirs and recent history. A framed photograph held an image of a younger James Campbell and two older people who I took to be his parents. Nancy confirmed it.
The dining room contained table and chairs, and not much else. Upstairs, there were a few clothes in a wardrobe and in a chest of drawers in one of the bedrooms. They included a business suit and some casual, weekend-type stuff. Campbell hadn’t been a fancy dresser.
I stood with my back to the bedroom window and glanced round. I didn’t think I had missed anything.
‘He didn’t spend a lot of time here,’ Nancy said, as if divining my surprise at how little there was in the house, and how basic it was.
I nodded. ‘Too busy, I suppose.’
‘He was just here for weekends, and by the time he’d done his surgeries and met his agent to discuss constituency affairs – not to mention attending a couple of fundraisers – it was time to get back to London. He didn’t even have time to read the Sunday papers until he got back on the train.’
I gave her a wry smile.
‘I suppose,’ she qualified.
‘You don’t have to pretend with me, Nancy,’ I said with a chuckle. ‘I realize you must have known James a lot better than you’ve been letting on.’
She coloured and looked indignant for a moment. ‘It’s not true!’ she said. ‘Well, only partly.’
I nodded and started for the stairs.
‘James was gay,’ she said after me. ‘We simply weren’t interested in each other in the way you obviously mean.’
I stopped and turned back to her.
‘We were just friends,’ she said flatly.
‘Oh?’ I nodded then. ‘I understand.’
‘Do you really?’
‘I think so. I’m sorry I misjudged the situation. Let’s go back downstairs. You can tell me about those pictures.’
‘Oh, them!’ she said with a sigh. ‘Terrible, aren’t they?’
Well, they were too much, perhaps, for the living room wall of a simple country cottage, but I certainly wouldn’t have called them terrible. Not at all. If nothing else, they were interesting scenes from a Middlesbrough that no longer existed.
The two big ones were romantic essays in industrial history. Very Turner-ish. Billowing clouds, the sun breaking through the half-light while men went about their hard labour. The romance of industry, as eminent Victorians used to say.
‘Family heirlooms,’ Nancy said dismissively, with a yawn.
‘Really?’
Staring at them, I wondered if they were originals.
‘James told me they had been in the family home in Africa for years and years. As a boy, he stared at them so much there was only one place he wanted to come to when he left Africa. He just had to see the place that had inspired the pictures.’
‘And he brought them with him?’
She nodded.
‘How had they got out to Africa in the first place?’
‘Some relative had emigrated from here, and taken them with him or bought them later. I’m not sure exactly.’
‘Presumably the relative got sick of looking at lions and giraffes, and things?’
Nancy smiled. ‘I’m sure you’re right. Now, I suppose, I’ll get them.’
‘Oh?’
‘James said I could have them. He’d got bored with them.’
‘They’ll look good in your hut.’
She laughed. ‘I’ll have to build an extension for them!’
She would indeed. A gallery even! I shook my head and smiled at the thought.
‘Come on, then. Let’s get going.’
I took a last look at the paintings. They were impressive. More than that, I liked them, all three of them. If they did pass down to Nancy, and if she really didn’t like them, I might offer her a few quid for them. I had plenty of bare walls needing adornment.
I followed Nancy back outside, and let her lock up and return the keys to their resting place. It looked to me as if she had done that often enough before, and I wondered if she had told the truth about her relationship with James Campbell.
Mystery girl! I’d been lucky to find her. Or was it she who had found me?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Nancy wanted to get back to the South Gare, and her boat and hut, and I was feeling much better. So I dropped her off there and headed home, having agreed to keep her informed of progress, if any. Nothing much had happened between us but I think we knew by then that we would see each other again very soon, progress or not. The vibes between us said so.
I appreciated the help Nancy had given me. But I needed to sort my head out and get things straight. I needed to stand back from her, as well, and think about things she had said – and not said. There were some pretty big questions still to be answered, much as I liked her. Such as how well had she really known James Campbell – and was he really gay? Also: what did she know about Donovan McCardle – and mining in Africa?
There were still plenty of questions that had nothing to do with Nancy, of course. Who were the three guys who had kicked my ribs in, for instance? And who were they working for? PortPlus – even though it didn’t seem to exist? McCardle?
So I was all set to get home and give it a rest. Talk to Jimmy Mack about other things, or have a lie on the bed while my bones did some more knitting together. Then I thought to hell with it, and turned round and ran back to Middlesbrough to see Henry.
‘Come on in, Frank.’
I shut the door behind me.
‘Am I glad to see you,’ he said.
‘Why? Do you want some money off me?’
‘Not yet.’ He peered at his computer screen a moment longer and then turned round to engage with me.
‘How are you getting on?’ I asked him.
‘That McCardle feller is, or was, big in mining in Africa – very big.’
‘Was he? So Nancy gave us a good clue.’
He nodded. ‘Was is the operative word, though. He’s not big now. He’s got nowt now, in fact.’
‘Go on.’
‘Chrome mining. That’s what it was. A big chrome mine. But Mugabe took it off him. Returned it to the people, I should say.’
‘So McCardle was in Zimbabwe?’
‘Mostly.’
Henry shrugged and added, ‘I almost feel sorry for him. He was chairman of the company that had developed a major mine there. Very valuable it was, too. But it was taken over by the Government and he was kicked out.
‘Some of Mugabe’s cronies have it now, not that they’ll know what to do with it. It will probably return to bush, like a lot of farms and industry in Zimbabwe.’
I thought about the implications. One very obvious one was that if McCardle was skint, he had had to find a new way of making a living. So he’d come to England. But how could someone in his position plan to take over Teesport? How could he assemble the money?
I had no idea. I know plenty about small business, but the mega corporations and global investment funds are way out of my league. And they were what was involved here.
‘He has a sidekick,’ Henry added. ‘A Mike Rogers. Do you know him, as well?’
‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘The Chief Executive. I know the pair of them. The famous PortPlus duo.’
‘Well, the two of them exist,’ Henry said with satisfaction, ‘if nothing else does. But they have no money.’
I left Henry’s place having convinced myself it was all a con trick. I didn’t know how it would work, but that was what it was. No way in the world could you take PortPlus seriously now. In a way, it was a relief. There was nothing for anyone to worry about. It was just fluff. Smoke and mirrors. We could all get on with our lives and forget about the whole damned thing. Nancy was going to be pleased to hear it, and she wouldn’t be the only one.
There remained the murder of James Campbell, of course. That hadn’t gone away.
As I was passing the railway station a newspaper hoarding caught my eye. I stopped and looked at it. Then I bought a copy of the evening paper.
I waited till I was in a coffee shop before I unfolded the paper and looked at the front page. Then I collected my Americano and shuffled off to a quiet corner with it. I sat down, poured milk into the coffee, glowered at a ridiculous modern artwork on the wall, and finally smoothed out the paper on the tabletop to read.
I’d been wrong again. PortPlus were still a player.
It was all there, on the front page of the Evening Gazette. The offer to shareholders, and the terse advice from Teesport to their shareholders to reject the offer. So it was genuine, after all. A hostile takeover bid had been launched. The wraps were off. A smiling McCardle was out in the open now, along with Mike Rogers. The pair of them photographed standing on the front steps of their new corporate home, a castle in the Cleveland Hills.
Also on the front page was a summary of all the good things PortPlus would bring to the area. The riverside would be tidied up. New industrial areas would be created, along with a new nuclear power station on the south side, not far from the steelworks. Executive houses with their own riverside access and marina would be created. No end of stuff. Most of all, of course, there would be new jobs, jobs by the tens of thousands.
It was too much. I was stunned. I jammed the folded paper in my pocket and got up to leave the café. Could they really pull it off? I didn’t know now.
I could see the attraction of what was proposed. Who couldn’t? But was the proposal real, or just a flight of fantasy? There had to be something solid there. There just had to be. Otherwise, what was in it for McCardle?
These were big questions, too big for me. I clung to the thought that the main actors were dirty, and played very dirty. It was more than likely that they had commissioned the murder of James Campbell when he had got in their way, and now I was in their way. It was a worrying thought.
Something had to be done about them. I was in no doubt about that. Somehow they had to be exposed. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see anyone else but me – and Henry and Nancy – trying to do anything about that.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Back at Risky Point, I did ordinary things for a while as I tried to settle down and work out a sensible approach to the problems confronting me. There were things to do in the house, the routine, domestic things that are easy to neglect when you’re solving murders and world problems – not to mention talking to the likes of Bill Peart and Jimmy Mack, and chasing around with strange women like Nancy Peters.
I’m the kind of single fellow who likes to live in a clean house and sleep between laundered sheets. When it comes to food and cooking I go for the easy stuff that I can get together quickly, but I do wear clean clothes and ironed shirts. I probably wouldn’t get much business if I didn’t. Not every potential client is looking for a beach bum.
So I did some catching up that evening, and then had a good night’s sleep. I was feeling optimistic, and my injuries were mending. I would have liked to invite Nancy back to Risky Point, but as far as I knew she had no vehicle. Coming here by boat was not something I could ever have recommended. So I would wait to see her again.
The next morning, I took advantage of low tide to walk on the beach. It was a raw sort of day, with threatening dark cloud and a cold wind off the sea, but it was good to be out. I felt better in the open air. I even did some stretches and jogged a short distance. I was on recovery road.
The climb back up the track had me breathing hard and thinking of a hot shower before I went to meet Nancy again. A man seemed to be waiting for me near the top of the track. He watch
ed me labour up the slope, waiting patiently.
‘Good morning!’ he called as I drew near. ‘Mr Doy?’
‘Yes. How can I help you?’
I was only ten yards from him by then. I wondered what he wanted. It was unusual to meet anyone here. He knew my name. So he hadn’t lost his way, which was the first thought that had come to mind.
‘I needed to make sure,’ he replied.
I tripped and stumbled slightly. As I straightened up, my eyes met his and I realized instantly this was not a friendly encounter.
Then I caught a glimpse of a hand dipping beneath his jacket. As it emerged again, I could see the hand was not empty.
There wasn’t time to register the make of gun. Instinctively, I hurled myself forward and dived at his legs. He was still upslope from me and I reached out and swung an arm, catching him behind the knees. His legs buckled and he lurched back to avoid falling forwards.
I hit the ground hard and pain screamed through my damaged ribs. Ignoring it, I bounced up and threw myself forward desperately. Somehow I caught him before he’d recovered his balance and knocked him backwards again. It was my chance. I went with him, clawing at the hand holding the gun.
He wasn’t big. More lean and wiry. But he was strong. I was heavier than him, though, and sensed that I had an edge at close quarters. But, God, he was strong!
He fought like a fury. We both did. He kneed me in the groin, hurting but not paralyzing. I smashed an elbow into his face and blood spurted from his broken nose. I hung onto the hand holding the gun with both of my hands and ground it against the rock, enduring the blows to my head that came from his free hand.
The punching stopped. The fingers locked onto the gun weakened. I tore the gun out of his hand, but failed to hold onto it. The gun fell out of reach.
Sensing a diversionary tactic I turned quickly. His free hand now held a knife. He jabbed it at my belly. I parried the movement with my forearm and turned him, pushing him away.
It was a mistake. I had given him space to swing at me. I pulled back frantically and kicked out, trying to win distance from the knife.
He came forward, weaving, the knife flashing. I was higher than him now and managed to kick out and stamp him in the chest. He grunted and stumbled backwards, struggling to keep his balance.
A Death at South Gare Page 10