by Bud Craig
“Yeah, knew him when I was a kid, but we lost touch until recently.”
I took a bite from my cheese and ham toasty.
“Top man, Tony,” said Clive, “one of the best.”
“Did Yarla tell you I was trying to find him,” I said.
“She did mention some such thing.”
That sounded like the sort of thing Major would say. I could have imagined him taking up running a pub on retirement like footballers used to. He might even have suited the blue sweatshirt with George and Dragon stitched across the left breast.
“I was wondering if you might be able to help me,” I said, trying not to imagine all the prime ministers of my lifetime in the role of mine host.
“In what way?”
Tell me where he is so I can go home, Clive. What about that?
“Have you any idea where he might be?”
He picked up a pint glass as I heard a door open at the back of the room.
“Well, he could be anywhere.”
Anybody could be anywhere, I muttered to myself.
“He’s a bit of a law unto himself,” said the landlord. “A great character, of course, but one learned not to ask too many questions.”
The sound of a door opening interrupted these not very illuminating remarks. Turning to the right, I saw a man in his fifties coming in. His paunch, encased in a waistcoat, seemed to lead the way. His pinstripe suit was as crumpled as his face, his grey hair flopped across his forehead.
“Evenin’, Clive,” he called with a smile as a second man followed in his wake.
“Quentin, Ollie,” said Clive, “what can I get you?”
Both made a mime of careful consideration before making their choice.
“Do you know,” said Quentin, the pinstriped one, “for a change I think I’ll have my usual.”
“So will I,” said Ollie, who wore a check sports jacket of the type I thought they’d stopped making years ago.
Clive chortled dutifully at the top notch wit and repartee.
“Large G & T and a pint of special it is,” said Clive and set about getting the drinks. “Gentleman here’s a private detective.”
Quentin clapped his hands lightly together before responding in a fruity baritone, reminiscent of Test Match Special.
“Oh, I say. Really?”
The landlord turned back from the optic and placed the gin and a bottle of Schweppes on the counter.
“He’s looking for my friend and yours, Mr Murphy.”
Both men at the bar looked at me with renewed interest and respect.
“One of the best, old Tony,” said Ollie.
His voice was pitched higher than his friend’s, with a hint of cockney. Clive poured tonic into the glass, watching the bubbles rise.
“You’re not wrong, Ollie, you’re not wrong.”
Clive began pulling Ollie’s pint, looking at me with polite interest, obviously expecting me to say something. I drank again, wondering whether the two newcomers would be of any more use than anybody else.
“I don’t suppose you know where he is?”
Both men let out little chuckles and looked at one another with raised eyebrows.
“Does anybody know where the elusive Tony is at any given moment in time?” asked Ollie.
“Mmm,” said Quentin, as if such words of wisdom needed no other response.
“I suppose you’ve been to APM?” asked Ollie.
I drank some more, thinking this job could turn me into an alcoholic.
“Yes, but I didn’t find the people there very forthcoming to say the least.”
Another meaningful look greeted this innocuous remark. Both men smirked knowingly.
“Well trained,” said Quentin, taking a hefty draught of gin and tonic, “Tony’s always kept his cards close to his chest. The, er, merchandise for sale at APM...now what can one say about it diplomatically?”
He looked at the barman for an answer, but he just passed Ollie his beer.
“Let’s just say one shouldn’t look too closely into the provenance.”
“Provenance?”
I thought of that TV series with Ian McShane. What was it called?
“I should say,” chipped in Clive, “that these two reprobates are in the antique trade.”
Lovejoy, that was it.
“I see,” I said. “Do you mean Tony’s cars fell off the back of a lorry?”
Maybe it should have been the back of a car transporter, I thought, as eyebrows were raised once more.
“Draw your own conclusions,” suggested Quentin. “Tony walked a fine line.”
Ollie took a mouthful of beer and rolled it around his mouth like a wine taster.
“He had an unconventional way of raising capital for his business,” I said.
Quentin agreed with me.
“He did indeed. Asked all his friends to chip in with a modest investment, ten or twenty K perhaps. I turned him down flat, I’m afraid.”
“Why was that?” I asked.
“Well,” he rumbled, “I knew I’d be better off putting my money in antiques, something I knew about.”
I scratched my nose.
“What puzzles me,” I said after a pause for thought, “is what he did before APM Motors.”
“What didn’t he do, more like,” said Ollie.
“How do you mean?”
Ollie placed his glass carefully on the bar as if to prepare himself for some athletic feat.
“Well, old Tone was hard to pin down, do you know what I’m saying?”
“Yes.”
“He never said anything too specific about his background. We knew he was born up North but not much else.”
Presumably thinking his friend would never get to the point. Quentin took over.
“Tony likes to make an impression, that’s what Ollie is trying to say. He’s a ‘been there, done that’ kind of chap.”
“Yes,” said Ollie, taking up the story, “widely travelled, tried his hand at everything, girl in every port type of thing.”
Apart from confirming my view of Tony this told me next to nothing. With Tony the impression, as Quentin called it, was all you got. As far as hard information was concerned, you were only entitled to what he wanted you to know.
The two antique dealers left soon afterwards. I could not see myself finding Tony any time soon, if at all. Having got into some sort of trouble, maybe he had decided to cut his losses. He wouldn’t have been bothered about anyone he left behind – look at the way he had treated his mother. He had acquaintances, sure, would have a pint and a laugh in the local, but nobody touched him at a deeper level. Unless something unexpected happened, I would soon have to give up on the search and tell Yarla I’d been unsuccessful.
* * *
Back in the house, I decided to see what I could find, starting with the bedrooms. It took a matter of minutes to find nothing of any significance up there. The living room was equally lacking in interest, unless you counted The Complete Fawlty Towers. I might watch some of that tonight. It was probably still funny and I could do with a laugh.
I went into the room next door, which was done out like an office. All the furniture was in that pale wood that was fashionable a few years ago. I’d always hated it and absence hadn’t made the heart grow fonder. Even a pleb like me could tell it was unsuitable for this old house. I sat at a swivel chair at the computer desk. On the top was an iPod with speakers. The next space down held a laptop. On the left were four shelves (all empty); on the right a small cupboard with a drawer above it.
I searched in the drawer, reaching right to the back. There was nothing there. As I pulled my hand out, it touched the side of the drawer, causing a small panel to spring open. Out dropped a white envelope addressed to Mr AP Murphy. It had already been opened. I pulled out a passport in the name of Conor Whelan, born in Chester. The envelope also contained a wad of twenty pound notes: five hundred quid in all. Hmmm. Opening out the passport, I looked at the photograph for several
seconds. Reading from left to right, Conor Whelan was Tony Murphy. Interesting to say the least. I closed the panel then replaced the passport and money in the envelope and put it in the drawer.
A search of the rest of the house revealed nothing relevant. I needed some fresh air so put my coat on and went out. The walk along Richmond Hill gave me time to think. Something was bothering me about my search for Tony Murphy, but I wasn’t sure what it was. I went through Tony’s known movements since I had last seen him. He had been to Sheffield. And then what? From the moment he left Brenda nobody had seen him. Nobody knew where he was. More to the point, nobody knew if he was dead or alive.
As I tried to work things out, I admired the views of the Thames. Past the Royal Star and Garter I approached the gate of Richmond Park, watching the deer wandering through the bare trees. Through a kissing gate, I walked onto the Petersham road, thinking about Tony. Where was he? I walked past Ham Polo Club on my right. Not a game for the likes of me, I thought, mulling over what Tony had done over the years. It was possible to construct a valid argument that Tony Murphy had in effect robbed Brenda McDonald of her only child.
She had admitted nursing a grievance since he had walked out on her. The fact it was a long time ago was irrelevant. Tony had only got in touch with her to please his mother. He’d told his mam he didn’t know where the lad was. Supposing Tony, far from saying he’d be in touch with Brenda, had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with his son. I thought about an alternative scenario: Tony sees the woman who has hated him for decades and is never seen again. Going towards the garden of Ham House, I decided to turn back. It was an impressive building, but Louise had dragged me through enough old houses to last a life time.
Tony’s world was a different one from mine, I thought, as I retraced my footsteps. He was a wheeler dealer, on the lookout for a fast buck, always up to something. What had he been up to with Yarla? I went over in my mind what I had discovered in London. I tried to piece together things Yarla had said, bits of conversation in the George and Dragon and what I had found in the Lekeren Grove house.
Don’t forget the Baz Prince angle, I told myself. This gangster, as Steve had called him, was after Tony. Therefore, Tony was in danger. What Prince and his henchmen might do to him if they caught him didn’t bear thinking about. So that was two people who might want him dead. A third was Vic Kennelly, a man with a grievance if ever there was one. And he stood to lose as long as Tony stayed alive. Even Simon Natchow had reason to do Tony harm after being diddled out of twenty thousand quid.
Had one of the four made sure Tony was never seen again? What did the fake passport mean? It was no use to him in the house, was it? If he had buggered off again, surely he would have taken it with him. And all that money. Give over, Gus, I admonished myself, you’ve spent too long thinking about murder and being told lies. But the idea that Tony really was dead this time wouldn’t go away.
I went into the town and mooched around for a bit, picking up a couple of bottles of red wine from Richmond Wine. On the way back to the house I bought ham, cheese, salad and French bread from a delicatessen. Later, having eaten, I watched a repeat of New Tricks followed by the first two episodes of Fawlty Towers. I’d been right: it was still funny. I went to bed in a better mood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The following morning around ten o’clock I rang the front door bell of a large house overlooking Barnes Common. I now had to switch my mind away from Tony Murphy to something more important. I knew the coming interview would be tough, for all the reasons I had found social work difficult over the years. Dealing with other people’s misery could be disabling, but I told myself they were the ones going through it. Whatever I felt would be a pale imitation of their suffering. I also had a job to do so I had to be objective. Otherwise I would end up letting the Finches down. A fair-haired woman answered. Casually dressed in jeans and jumper, she looked younger than I’d expected.
“Good morning,” I said, “I’m Gus Keane...”
“Oh, Gus,” she said with what sounded like relief. “Linda Finch. Come in.”
We shook hands, then I followed her down a hall lined with pictures.
“Good of you to come all this way,” she said, turning slightly.
“That’s OK,” I said.
In the living room a man in a check shirt and cavalry twills was perched tentatively on the edge of a sofa. It was as though he were visiting this house for the first time.
“Darling, Gus is here,” said Linda.
He scratched his grey hair before getting up. He held out a hand as his wife introduced him.
“My husband, Robert.”
Greetings done with, Robert sat down again. I sat with my briefcase on my lap on an antique looking armchair, wondering if it came from Quentin’s place.
“I’m really sorry about Josie,” I said.
They looked at one another. Linda tried to smile.
“I expect you’d love a coffee,” she said.
“Tea, please, if that’s all right.”
Not that it matters, I said to myself, but maybe normal exchanges like that help keep things together.
“You know, I think I’ll join you. What about you, Darling?”
He looked at her in wonderment.
“What?”
“Tea of coffee?”
He shook his head.
“Nothing, nothing.”
Smiling at me apologetically, she went off to get the tea. I had expected to have to sit in uncomfortable silence so the sound of Robert’s voice startled me.
“You’re the private investigator, are you?”
“That’s right.”
He muttered quietly to himself, pursing his lips.
“Larry’s idea of course,” he said.
Was there a hint of disapproval in his voice?
“Was it?”
“Always full of ideas, always was, always will be.”
He stared into space.
“It won’t bring her back, will it?”
“No.”
The monosyllable seemed like the safest answer. There was no point in elaborating. Robert shrugged.
“Still, it won’t do any actual harm, I suppose. If it makes Linda feel 0.0001% better...”
He breathed in audibly as if it were all a great effort. No doubt he found everything a struggle now. Linda came back with two mugs, one of which she put on the coffee table in front of me. She sat on the other armchair, hugging her tea, looking expectantly towards me.
“Now,” she said.
I took my notebook and pen from the briefcase.
“Well, first of all I wondered if you’d heard any more from the police.”
I decided to edge gently into the details of the murder.
“Well,” Linda began, looking towards her husband, who had switched off for the moment, “we have a family liaison person, a very nice, young lady. She keeps in touch from time to time.”
“What about the details of their investigation? Anything on that?”
Again she looked to her husband for support.
“They know who did it, can’t prove it,” he said. “Now it’s some nonsense about mistaken identity.”
He got up from his seat.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said as he left the room.
Linda turned to watch him go, a look of longing on her face as if she wanted to go after him and say, ‘it’s all right, darling’. Only she knew it wasn’t all right. She’d lost her daughter; now her husband was drifting away.
“Sorry about that. Robert’s reacted very badly to all this.”
“No need to apologise,” I said.
Anyone would have reacted badly, I thought. He’d probably reacted in the only way he knew how. Just as she was trying to cope by keeping up the conventions. Larry’s way was to bring me in to solve his sister’s murder.
“What he was referring to was some idea that Josie looked like a woman who was convicted for helping a man who...”
>
She couldn’t bring herself to say the words.
“It’s all right,” I said, “I know about it.”
I explained about Steve thinking Josie looked like Michelle Adams and ringing DI Ellerton.
“But don’t you see,” she said, a touch of hopelessness in her voice, “that makes it more complicated and therefore more difficult to...”
She sniffed and grabbed a tissue from a box on the table.
“Sorry, I promised myself I wouldn’t cry...”
Cry all you want, love, I wanted to say.
“Larry seemed convinced Simon Natchow killed your daughter.”
She nodded, still fighting the tears.
“I know he’s the obvious suspect,” I said, “but there’s no evidence to link him directly to the crime.”
“I know but that means it could go on for years without a resolution.”
Bloody hell, she was right.
“Let’s try and think how we might make some progress,” I said, more in hope than expectation. “When did you last see Josie?”
I was on safer ground with factual matters.
“In Tenerife a couple of weeks ago. We’d been there four or five days when she arrived.”
That was something I didn’t know at least.
“How did she seem?”
“Much the same. She looked different.”
I remembered what Larry had told me.
“She’d had her hair cut, I understand.”
“Yes and gone back to glasses. She told me some of her friends didn’t recognise her.”
I wrote that down.
“Did she say anything about being mistaken for somebody else?”
She sighed with impatience.
“No, nothing like that.”
“If there is anything in this mistaken identity theory the change in appearance might be important.”
“Perhaps.”
“Well, one could argue that Josie could only have been mistaken for this Michelle Adams just before or just after the Tenerife trip.”