Cruel as the Grave

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘And what time did he come back in?’

  ‘I don’t know, dear. I didn’t hear him come back. But I go to bed at half past ten, and once I take my hearing aids out I don’t hear much, so he could come in and I wouldn’t know.’

  NINE

  The Incredible Bulk

  The Britannia in Allen Street was a tiny Victorian pub that had undergone the better sort of gentrification. The outside was painted in a Heritage grey-green shade with a simple pub sign in gold; the inside was cosy with a real fire, real ales and traditional pub food. LaSalle noted that Allen Street was also within the area where Lingoss’s mobile had come to rest, but as the street was lined with blocks of flats and was thus home to hundreds of people, it was hardly what you’d call compelling evidence. And as Allen Street was only round two corners from Marloes Road, it was reasonable that Gallo should stop there for a drink on his way home.

  A tall, lean New Zealander was keeping the bar, and looked at the mugshot LaSalle offered with intelligent eyes. ‘Yeah, I’ve seen him in here. Really fit bloke. He comes in quite a bit.’

  ‘He’s a regular?’

  ‘Sort of. I suppose so.’

  ‘Ever any trouble?’

  ‘God, no. It’s not that sort of pub.’ He fiddled with a tap. ‘We get a lot of tourists in here. And people coming in for food. We’re famous for our British grub – sausage and mash and that kind of tackle – but done posh, you know? And Kensington’s a big place. You don’t know your customers in this sort of pub, but you get to recognize one or two faces when they come in every week. And this bloke – you couldn’t miss him, with the body on him.’

  ‘He’s a fitness trainer,’ LaSalle offered.

  ‘Yeah, well that makes sense. First time you see someone like that, you wonder are they going to be trouble. But I reckon a lot of these guys, they grow their bodies like prize marrows – not for using, just for display.’

  ‘Can you remember if he was in on Tuesday night?’

  He frowned in thought, and wiped a cloth over the bar top to help the process. ‘Honestly? It’s hard to remember one night from another. I mean, he could well have been. He’s been in this week, I’m pretty sure, but whether it was Tuesday …’

  ‘Who else was on on Tuesday?’

  ‘Oh, right – Maeve was on. That’s her, down there.’

  Maeve finished serving a customer and came to a beckoning summons. Despite her name, she was no Irish colleen, but a fit, bronze student from California working her way round the world. She looked at the mugshot and said at once, ‘Yeah, I know him. Not personally, just as a customer. Jack, that’s his name. We’ve chatted once or twice. He owns his own gym somewhere – Notting Hill, I think. What’s up, Pete?’

  ‘Copper here wants to know was he in Tuesday,’ said Pete.

  ‘Yeah, Tuesday. He was here.’

  ‘Are you sure it was Tuesday?’ Pete said. ‘I thought maybe it was Monday.’

  ‘I wasn’t in on Monday. Yeah, it was Tuesday. He was sitting at the bar. Then his buddy turned up – you remember, Pete – and they went and sat at a table.’ She looked impatiently at her colleague. ‘You must remember – his buddy was even bigger than he was. Big black guy, all muscles. We talked about it.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Pete. ‘I remember him. Muscles like bloody boa constrictors. That was Tuesday, was it?’

  ‘Course it was,’ Maeve said impatiently. She looked at LaSalle. ‘Why you asking? Is he in trouble?’

  ‘No, it’s just routine,’ he said automatically. ‘Purposes of elimination, that’s all. Do you remember what time he came in?’

  ‘He was already sitting at the bar when I got here,’ Maeve said. ‘I came on at seven.’

  ‘He hadn’t been here long then,’ Pete said. ‘He was still on his first pint.’

  ‘And the friend who joined him – was this him?’ Hopefully he showed them a mugshot of Dez Wilson.

  ‘Yeah – you can’t mistake him, can you?’ Pete said.

  ‘Did it seem like an arrangement, that they were meeting?’

  Pete scowled in thought. ‘No, he looked surprised, this one – Jack. He said something like, “What are you doing here?”’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Maeve, ‘and this one said something to Jack and they went and sat at a table over there, in the corner. They had their heads together talking. I went over to see if they wanted to order any food, and it looked like serious talk.’

  ‘What time did they leave?’ LaSalle asked.

  They looked at each other and slowly shook their heads. ‘Hard to say,’ said Maeve.

  ‘You don’t really notice the time,’ said Pete.

  ‘I guess they were talking for maybe an hour,’ said Maeve, ‘but don’t quote me on it. Coulda been less, coulda been more.’ Pete nodded in vague affirmation.

  ‘Did they leave together?’

  ‘No, the black guy left first. But only just. I went over to clear the table, and Jack finished his pint and got up and left just as I got there.’

  ‘How did he seem?’ She shrugged. ‘Did he say goodbye to you?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t make anything of it. I mean, we weren’t friends or anything. He was just a customer.’

  Pete was studying LaSalle’s face. ‘Are you sure he’s not in trouble? You’re asking a lot of questions.’

  ‘Like I said, we’re just trying to eliminate him from an enquiry,’ LaSalle said peaceably.

  And not doing it, he thought.

  Liverpool Road was a long one, lined on one side with tall Georgian terraced houses, and on the other with council flats. This being the London Borough of Islington, the road had vicious speed humps about every five yards, so that anyone being picked up by an ambulance would be jolted to death before they reached the hospital, thus saving the NHS the trouble of finding a bed.

  Hart found a parking space in the courtyard, and climbed the stairs to Mel’s mum’s flat. There was a lift, but she had a healthy horror of using a lift where the person who had to answer the alarm bell was not actually on the premises but somewhere in an office in Aylesbury.

  The lady who opened the door to her was unmistakeably a West Indian mum, and Hart felt immediately at home. Inside, the place was spotless. Everything that could be patterned was patterned, with jolly, cortex-curling results, and every surface was crowded with ornaments, keepsakes and framed photographs of the extended family. Mrs Hawkins was neat, trim and busy, with iron grey hair scraped back and held in place with savage-looking hair slides, and noticing eyes.

  ‘I’ve told her she’s got to go back,’ she said. ‘You don’t run out on a marriage the first minute something goes wrong. But you young people today – you are spoiled. You won’t put the work in. I said to Melanie, you fit enough to get a job now. If you want to get out of the flat, you got to do something about it, not wait for someone to rescue you. I’ll look after Ayesha. I’ve always said that. Get a job and get your self-respect back.’

  ‘Mu-u-um,’ Mel protested sulkily. ‘Don’t go on.’

  ‘So, what is all this about?’ Mrs Hawkins demanded briskly. ‘Is Desmond in trouble? Because I’ve a right to know if he is. Don’t be keeping tings from me. I’m Ayesha’s granny, and whatever he’s done, she has to come first.’

  ‘Cute kid,’ Hart said. Ayesha, in a red polka-dot dress and a red cardigan that looked home-knitted, was staring at her with big eyes. Her hair was tortured into two little bunches on top like Mickey Mouse ears. They’d been pulled so tight it gave her a slightly surprised look. Hart remembered that age, and could imagine the wails. Her mum used to rap her hand with the back of the hairbrush to make her stay still. Childhood, the best days of your life. ‘I’d just like to ask you a couple of questions,’ she said, addressing Mel.

  ‘What you say, you say in front of me,’ said Mrs Hawkins. She folded her arms across her bosom in the way that said, end of argument. ‘In my own house!’ she added in an outraged undertone.

  Hart shru
gged inwardly. ‘You left the flat with Ayesha on Tuesday morning, is that right? What time would that be?’

  ‘I dunno,’ Mel said indifferently. ‘About half-nine, ten.’

  ‘It was just after ten when she got here,’ said Mrs Hawkins, with an air of waiting to be angry about something. ‘In a taxi. With the cost of them these days!’

  ‘And did you go home again?’

  ‘No she did not!’ said Mrs Hawkins.

  Hart looked at her patiently but without much hope. ‘Please let her answer herself. If you don’t mind.’

  Mel shrugged. ‘No, I ain’t been back. What’s there to go for – a rat box like that? One bedroom! Ayesha has to sleep in the lounge. She ought to have a room of her own. I seen this lovely bed, with all Disney princesses painted all over it, and this mobile to match what you hang over it. And I picked out the wallpaper at Homebase. I mean,’ her voice rose indignantly, ‘that’s a bachelor flat, Dez’s. One bedroom!’

  ‘Is that what you had a fight about, Monday night?’

  ‘It wasn’t a fight,’ she retorted. ‘I just told him. I said, I’m not putting up with it any more. We could’ve been out of there if he didn’t waste so much money. I mean, all his stupid muscle magazines – and they’re not cheap – and his supplements. And new workout kit all the time. He says he has to have it for his job, but when do I get new clothes, answer me that?’

  ‘You had a new coat two weeks ago,’ Mrs Hawkins mentioned.

  ‘Mu-um! Don’t interfere! And he goes out drinking with his precious mates. I’m sick of it. It’s all he talks about – Jack this and Jack that. You think the sun shone out of his—’ She stopped herself just in time as her mother’s hand unfurled itself ready to slap. ‘He’s grateful to Jack for giving him the job, I get that, but he deserves it, and Jack knows that. He works his … socks off at that gym. It’s him the punters come for. They love him. If it wasn’t for Dez there’d be no Pex Gym, but still he talks like Jack’s done him some big favour.’

  Hart saw an opening. ‘And does he feel he has to do Jack favours in return?’

  She snorted. ‘He’s at his beck and bloody call!’

  ‘Language!’ Mrs Hawkins rebuked. ‘Not in front of Ayesha.’

  ‘Did Jack ask him for a favour recently?’ Hart asked. ‘Something in particular he wanted doing?’ She watched Mel’s face closely, and thought a slightly guarded look came over her.

  ‘I dunno what you mean,’ she said.

  ‘You mentioned Jack – do you know another friend of Dez’s, Erik?’

  Mel gave another snort and an eye-roll, but Mrs Hawkins smiled. ‘Oh, I like Erik. He’s got lovely manners. Always makin’ me laugh, that boy! And he’s so good with Ayesha.’

  ‘You’ve met him, then?’ Hart turned to her.

  ‘Couple of times, Desmond’s brought him here when he’s brought Melanie and the baby. But he talks about him a lot. They’re all good friends, Desmond, Jack and Erik.’

  ‘Wasn’t there some trouble recently, between Jack and Erik?’ Hart asked casually, dividing the question equally between them.

  Mrs Hawkins looked blank, but Mel scowled. ‘Yeah, about Jack’s lah-di-dah bloody sister. Jack thought she was too good to go out with Erik, and Dez agreed with him, the stupid prat. He was all, “Oh, Lucy’s so special, she’s so delicate” like she’s some, I dunno, some tropical flower. And I mean, I’ve seen her, and she’s nothing to write home about, just some bog standard white girl! But he was all, Erik mustn’t be allowed near her, and flexing his muscles, like he was some knight in shining armour and he was going to protect her. Went on and on about how wonderful she was and how poor Jack was so-o-o upset! Course, they mustn’t be upset. Doesn’t mind upsetting me, though, does he?’

  ‘Is that what you were rowing about Monday night?’ Hart asked. ‘When the pots got thrown about?’

  Mel was worked up now, and didn’t question how Hart knew these things. ‘I’d’ve cracked his stupid skull if it wasn’t so thick! Concrete for brains! She was already over Erik, Lucy was, weeks ago. Ask me, it was never more than a casual fling. And she can take care of herself – hard as nails, that one. But Dez was still on about how wonderful she was. I was sick of the sound of her name, if you want to know. I told him he’d better sort out his bloody priorities, because I wasn’t standing for it any more, and all he did was shout about friendship coming first. No, I said, your wife and kiddie come first, and you’d better bloody start acting like it! So I come home to Mum.’

  ‘Does he ever get violent? Has he ever hit you?’ Hart asked.

  It was Mrs Hawkins who answered, arms well folded again. ‘No he has not! I’d soon have someting to say about it if he lifted a hand to my daughter. He’s a good boy, Desmond. Comes from a good family. I knew his mummy, you know – Mrs Wilson. She lived in the flats here as well. He grew up round here – that’s how he met Melanie. And we would never have let her marry him, Daddy and me, if he hadn’t been a good boy. Melanie’s daddy was still alive then. We all look out for each other on this estate, we all know each other. Of course, Desmond wasn’t good enough for Melanie: she has GCSEs, you know—’

  ‘Mu-um!’

  ‘Two GCSEs,’ she went on stubbornly, ‘but he’s a good boy from a good family. He may have his faults, he may have had his troubles in the past, but he works hard, and he’d never hit a woman or a child. There’s wrong on both sides in any marriage. I love my children but I’m not blind to their little faults. Melanie had a hard time with little Ayesha, but she’s over it now. But she likes to keep thinking she’s not well. You a strong girl, Melanie, you can’t keep wrapping yourself up in cotton wool. Go out and get yourself a job. It’s no wonder Desmond gets impatient.’

  Mel looked about to argue, and Hart felt they were straying from the useful line. ‘So, can I just confirm, you were here Tuesday evening and Tuesday night? And you haven’t been back to the flat since?’

  ‘No – why? What’s he done? Has he trashed it?’

  ‘Have you seen Dez or heard from him since Tuesday morning?’

  ‘No, she has not,’ said Mrs Hawkins quickly. ‘And why you asking all these questions? Has someting happened to him?’

  Mel’s eyes widened. ‘Omigod, has he had an accident? Is that why you’re here? He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  Ayesha began to wail, and Mrs Hawkins stepped back and picked her up without ever taking her eyes from Hart’s face. The movement was as automatic as if she was the mother, not the grandmother, of the child.

  Hart felt it was time to come clean. ‘No, there’s been no accident. He’s fine as far as I know,’ she said. ‘But I have to tell you that Erik Lingoss is dead.’

  ‘Dead? What d’you mean, dead? He can’t be.’

  ‘He was killed on Tuesday night,’ Hart said.

  ‘Killed? You don’t mean …’ Melanie stared for a long moment, her brain obviously working. Then she said, ‘You think Dez did it, you think he killed him?’ She looked at her mother. ‘That’s why all these questions about Tuesday night.’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Hawkins robustly. ‘That’s rubbish. My granddaughter’s daddy is not a killer.’

  ‘Of course it’s rubbish, Mum,’ Mel said. ‘Dez wouldn’t hurt a fly. Ask anyone. And him and Erik were friends.’

  ‘I’m wondering, you see, why the subject of Lucy and Erik came up again on Monday night, when she’d broken off with him a month ago,’ queried Hart.

  ‘He was always talking about her,’ Mel said bitterly. ‘That wasn’t nothing unusual. But if it’s true what you say, and Erik was killed, you can forget about Dez. He had nothing to do with it.’

  She said it with great certitude, but there had been that moment when she had thought about it, and what Hart had seen in her face then was that she believed he could have. And neither she nor her mother had asked any of the usual astonished questions people generally threw about when informed of something as outrageous as murder. They had closed ranks – around Dez, yes, but also against
the police. They’d been indignant, but not indignant enough. Not nearly enough.

  ‘So what it comes down to,’ said Slider, ‘is that neither Jack nor Dez has an alibi for the crucial time on Tuesday night.’

  ‘And neither of them mentioned meeting the other at the pub,’ Atherton mused. ‘Strange, that. Almost as if they didn’t want to draw attention to the fact.’

  ‘But Dez actually lied about being at home with his wife and child,’ LaSalle pointed out. ‘That’s worse. And it looks from what the barmaid said as if he sought Jack out.’

  ‘“What are you doing here?” could mean anything,’ said Hart. ‘And the mobile phone ended up in Jack’s neighbourhood, not Dez’s.’

  ‘Suppose they were both in on it?’ said Atherton. ‘They’d got it all planned out, then Dez turns up at the pub with last-minute doubts or questions. Jack’s annoyed that he’s getting them seen together on the critical night. “What are you doing here?” he says. They have a private, sotto voce conversation, Jack soothes him down and off he goes. Later they meet and do the deed, and Jack takes the phone away to destroy it.’

  ‘If it was a planned thing, wouldn’t they have arranged alibis for themselves?’ Lœssop said.

  ‘It’s not that easy to do, set up a false alibi,’ said Hart. ‘Especially when you live alone. You’ve got to get someone to lie for you.’

  ‘Dez didn’t live alone,’ said Lœssop. ‘Surely if his wife was going to be his alibi, he wouldn’t have had a row with her the night before and risked turning her against him.’

  ‘You’re assuming these people think things out rationally,’ Hart said.

  ‘Or at all,’ said Atherton. ‘I’ve met Dez Wilson. He’s a big, goofy muscleman, so dumb he said he was at home with his wife when it was the easiest thing in the world to prove that he wasn’t. That kind lives hand to mouth, moment to moment.’

  ‘If they were in it together,’ said LaSalle, ‘they were probably expecting to be each other’s alibis. Work something out afterwards.’

  ‘What, and they forgot?’ Lœssop said.