The Maggie Murders

by J P Lomas

  He estimated there had probably been about fifty people in the garden when the party was at its height. Delia’s rule for socialising was always that they arrived half an hour after the start and left half an hour before the end. When the end was reached became a moot point; it always appeared to be when Delia had run out of people to gossip with and before they were easily identifiable as the last of the freeloaders. There had certainly been enough food for at least a hundred people and enough booze to float a battleship – which given the amount the retired Commodore had been knocking back was probably fortunate. Their ‘turn’ on the August Bank holiday weekend was looking like it was going to be more expensive than he’d bargained for, especially as Delia was always finding yet more names to add to their address book, or Filofax as she insisted on calling it.

  Perhaps if he called in a favour he could have all the guests breathalysed when they left? That would certainly cut down on their reciprocal entertaining duties…

  He pulled ineffectually at the sleeve of the polo shirt his wife had made him wear; he hated baring his arms almost as much as he hated baring his legs. It just made him turn as pink as one of the slightly underdone steaks which kept being circulated, with almost as little enthusiasm as professional waiting staff, by their hosts’ home grown waiters. At least he’d managed to detach himself from Delia’s introductions and avoided the other circles of hell dotted around the garden in the forms of middle aged men and women who seemed far more secure in their smart casual wear than he was in his. He was grateful he’d put his foot down about the Bermuda shorts.

  At least Clive wore a blazer and whilst he may not have agreed with Roy’s choice of open necked pastel shirt, he knew no-one with any sense would launch a first strike against any of the Big O’s opinions for fear of an apocalyptically scathing put down. He’d never in fact asked why Roy Harrison was known as the Big O, but had simply accepted this self-description three years ago when they’d met at the Club. Typically, Roy had positioned himself at a trestle table below the patio which served as the beer tent. The Big O was not a man to trust to amateur catering arrangements when it came to servicing his need for a constant supply of alcohol at social events. Although he’d have wagered Roy would never fail the breathe test, he just seemed to be one of those people for whom wine was the equivalent of water – or Hofmeister in Roy’s case.

  If Delia wanted him to ‘network’, then he would happily share a chat about sport or work over a Pimms with Clive and Roy, but he was damned if he was going to make polite conversation to every solicitor and dentist this side of Exeter. Delia could be the networking whore if she wanted, he was determined to try and get through the afternoon with the minimum of effort. Moving out of the direct sunlight into the shade cast by the green and white striped awning, he watched as Roy’s podgy finger gesticulated at the barbecue, positioned centre stage in the Newsomes’ large garden whose immaculate lawn complemented the immaculate neo-Georgian mansion they’d bought on the outskirts of Exeter.

  ‘Wonder if he’s got any faggots burning on the grill, eh George?’

  Dent knew when he ought to smile and obliged Roy with an appreciative grin.

  ‘Or any black pudding for that new lad of yours!‘ added Clive, trying to top the joke.

  Dent’s smile for Clive was slightly less appreciative, less out of any sense of having his sensibilities put out, more down to the fact that it was more important to flatter Roy. The former was simply a small town estate agent who shared a mutual interest in fishing, whereas Roy was probably the richest man at the party having made millions (Delia’s informed guess) from setting up one of the largest chains of video rental shops in the South-West. An outgoing man, who had previously made his money in the TV rental market, Dent liked to keep on his right side. Although literally on Roy’s right side was his near grown up son Terry; little to his dad’s large – as tall as his father, but of a much slimmer frame.

  ‘You hear about the queer who got AIDS?’ demanded Roy, virtually shoving his beer glass into Dent’s face.

  Nearly backing into the herbaceous border behind him, as he tried to avoid being borne down by the beefy man’s imposing bulk, the slighter Dent wondered for a moment if Roy was in fact asking a genuine question, or setting up another joke. Failing to realise Dent’s momentary puzzlement, the bullish Roy cast all doubts aside –

  ‘Asked the Doc if there was a cure. The quack tells him to eat a plate of chopped liver, drink a pint of sour cream and swallow a dozen chillies. “But will it cure my AIDS?” asks the poof?‘

  Dent and Clive keyed themselves up for the punch line, which they would laugh at even if they didn’t get it. This was usually communicated by the fact that Roy always telegraphed the climax of any joke he told through his own booming laughter.

  “No, but it’ll teach you what to use your arsehole for!” boomed the rubicund Roy, spraying them with beery saliva.

  Dent found the sentiment to his taste, though not the crass way it was expressed. It seemed that the volume it had been delivered at had punctured the sedateness of the afternoon; he could see at least one matronly head turned disapprovingly in their direction and he knew that Delia would want an explanation for the sudden eruption of vulgarity. Then again, where better to utter common or garden terms, than in a garden?

  He liked Roy, being in his ambit was often useful at the club, but sometimes he despaired of his coarseness. He wondered if that was why Roy’s college bound son had kept quiet throughout. He sipped at his Pimms and tried to think of any jokes he might tell which hadn’t come off ‘The Two Ronnies.’ He was sure DS Jordan had told him a good Irish joke the other week, something about a Patrick Fitzmurphy?

  Chapter 6

  Neither Sobers, nor Hawkins would have placed the pub given as one of their suspect’s usual haunts in their all-time top hundreds, even if either of them had been partial to keeping such lists. It certainly didn’t look like the type of place that needed to be open on Monday lunchtime, even in high season. It wasn’t just the lack of a beer garden, or any chairs outside on the pavement which had given Sobers that conclusion, the weary looking exterior and grubby porch (which made Jane think of The Black Hole of Calcutta – although she had no clear idea what this was) made him think that even if the tavern was more aimed at the working man it would surely fail to have much trade, even at the weekends.

  ‘The King’s Arms’ was housed at the end of an indeterminate brick terrace, at the bottom of a hill which sloped down to Exmouth’s new pedestrian shopping precinct. The hostelry was at the edge of the area cleared for this new development and had more in keeping with the buildings considered tired and tawdry by the town planners, than the chain store Mecca they were designing.

  Unlike Exeter, Exmouth hadn’t been redeveloped by the Luftwaffe. Just two stray bombs had hit the town, whilst the Cathedral City had blazed during the Baedeker raids of 1942. Yet some still felt that the town, like its larger sibling had suffered more at the hands of the post-war developers. Those who shared that opinion might have cared to cast a longer look at ‘The King’s Arms’ and some of the other buildings which had survived and perhaps reconsider the idea that the old was always better.

  If tradition meant a heavy smell of chemicals coming from the toilets, a carpet with enough stains to keep the forensics boys happy for a century and windows which suggested the pub was in the midst of an industrial city, then the pub was certainly traditional. Apart from the almost obligatory old man and a dog, there was only one other customer and he fitted the description of their suspect.

  Paul Francis Reed was propping up the dingy saloon bar. His most recent photo on file showed a still healthy looking man in his mid to late thirties. This was taken after he’d been charged with dealing cannabis at the tail end of the 70s. Either the three years he’d served hadn’t been kind to him, or else the unhealthy habits of a misspent youth had caught up with him, but the cadaver chain smoking on the bar stool and nursing a lager had coffin dodger written
all over it.

  ‘It weren’t me.’

  ‘What weren’t you?’ Sobers settled himself at a neighbouring table as Hawkins put the barman through the difficulty of finding any soft drink which wasn’t orange juice, coke or lemonade.

  ‘Whatever you think I’ve done, copper!’

  ‘You’ve seen a lot of films haven’t you, Mr Reed?’

  ‘Wot you goin’ on about?’

  ‘Are you sure this pub is big enough for the both of us?’ teased Sobers.

  ‘I want my brief before I talk to you.’

  ‘Firstly, Mr Reed, I don’t think you have a brief, but I’m sure we can provide legal aid for you once again, should it come to that. Secondly, I’m sure you don’t want to have to rush your lager and come with me to answer a lot of questions you’ve probably answered before in the incident room.’

  Sobers watched the bluster go out of the wiry man at the bar. He guessed from Reed’s file that he was dealing with a small time bully who having served a total of 5½ years during the course of three custodial sentences was probably averse to returning for a fourth too quickly.

  Jane brought over two glasses of iced tap water, as Reed reluctantly parked his wiry carcase on the peeling, faux leather seat of the red banquette – below one tear the spongy yellow padding was already poking through.

  ‘Where were you on the night of 9th May, 1983?’

  ‘Probably in here.’

  ‘Until what time?’

  Reed looked uneasily in the direction of the landlord.

  ‘We’re not interested in breaches of the licensing law, ‘Sobers pressed.

  ‘About one.’

  ‘Any witnesses?’ asked Jane.

  ‘None who want to come forward, ‘offered Reed.

  ‘Check it with the barman, Jane, tell him we’re not interested if there was a lock-in that night – emphasise this is a murder enquiry.’

  Relieved at the chance to peel herself off the sticky seat and cursing herself for wearing a linen skirt to such a grotty dive as this, Jane went to verify Reed’s alibi.

  ‘It’s about that there queer butcher, isn’t it? I seen your face in the paper. Coloureds, women and homos – that’s who runs the country today!’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll find many black or gay faces in Parliament Mr Reed and apart from the obvious, very few women.’

  ‘I got in a little bit of bother over 20 years ago and it changed my life. Lost my job at the shoe factory when they found out I had a criminal record and all I did was break a window, ‘snarled Reed, as he angrily downed the last of his Stella.

  ‘You were part of a mob that launched a cowardly attack on a war hero!’

  ‘If people like that were heroes, then it’s a pity we won.’

  Out of the corner of his eye Sobers could see Hawkins giving him the signal it was time to go. Reed had been here when Kellow died.

  At least the fresh air outside was a relief from the poisonous atmosphere inside. The nicotine fug, stained walls and reeking jakes were the least of the pub’s problems; a better clientele was what it needed in Sobers’ opinion.

  ‘That’s why the locals have another name for the pub,’ Jane said as she dabbed at her skirt with a damp tissue.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The King’s arse. It really is the pits. It’s only ever used by those with chronic cirrhosis or students who need to score. I think it must have been last cleaned during the reign of Ethelred…’

  Sobers smiled wryly.

  ‘So, can we rule him out, sir? The landlord might be lying.’

  ‘He could be lying, but I doubt it. I think he’d rather lose a customer than his licence. Even if he doesn’t have that many. Check out the other names he gave you anyway – we can’t afford to leave it to chance.’

  Sometimes he so wanted people to be guilty. Of course he had known officers back in The Met who‘d fitted people up and gained convictions that way. He’d had to look away a few times himself when only a D.C. Yet he hoped he was better than those people. Reed might be an unpleasant little bully; however he hadn’t become a policeman to fabricate cases against such losers. Even with nothing else to go on, Sobers knew he didn’t have it in him to try and pin the case on Reed, especially if the man’s alibi checked out.

  ****

  The Lady Nelson, just down the hill from the incident room and standing next to the narrow bridge at the centre of the village, had become the pub of choice for the uniforms attached to the investigation; even though it was a typical tourist trap filled with horse brasses and homemade pickles packed in Holland. Most of its business was done during the season, when Scampi and Chips style lunches on the trestle tables outside gave holidaymakers from the camp a taste of traditional Devonian fayre. The takings in July and August far exceeded the amount taken in the rest of the year put together.

  In early July the holiday season had yet to reach the heights generated by the school summer holidays and so the pub, after an initial flurry over the Whitsun weekend, had relapsed into its standby mode of waiting for a combination of good weather and the weekend to coincide. A dry, yet breezy Wednesday evening had encouraged few takers for the outside tables. A couple of more elderly holidaymakers, taking advantage of the pre-school holiday rates had braved one of the outside tables where the only purpose of the sun umbrellas was to advertise a brand of continental lager no longer served behind the bar. At least they were finding it fractionally warmer than Wolverhampton…

  In the snug bar, a couple of farm labourers with pints of Stella loured over one table, while a trio of local underage teens drinking halves of snakebite and black tried to look older than they were at another. The five of them made a fairly large crowd for the time of year and nearly justified the landlord’s employment of his niece as a second bar-maid.

  It was in the saloon bar where the real profits lay. The presence of the nearby police incident room was as welcome to the pub, as an unexpected coach party turning up for lunch in early October. The prospect of overtime had already caused one of the off-duty officers present that evening to splash out on the three tunes for a pound offer on the jukebox. Eddy Grant had already declared to anyone that cared that he didn’t wanna dance and now 10cc were being similarly moody buggers by hymning the fact they weren’t in love. Tight Fit would at least be able to positively state that the lion was asleep that night with their hit 60s cover version coming on next. There’d already been an informal agreement among the uniforms that anyone who put on The Police would have to pay a £5 forfeit.

  Grouped around two small round tables they’d moved together and slouching on a worn leather green sofa and several reproduction Windsor chairs they’d commandeered in what they saw as their part of the bar were PCs Mark Salmons, Tony Rundle, Lee Graham and Mike Arthur. Changed into their civvies, they now wore their casual uniform of moccasins, jeans and Fred Perry shirts and they’d become like juniors the world over in trying to outdo each other in making denigrating comments about their superiors. Most casual observers would have wondered why these men hadn’t been appointed to run the case, given they seemed certain of their ability to do it so much better.

  Their comments had become more vociferous with the arrival of two casually dressed ladies in optimistically bought summer dresses. WPCs Sandy Clark and Fiona Walker were the only non-male uniforms working the case and their debut at the pub was an unexpected bonus for their male colleagues. To be honest, at least three of them were acting up for the sole benefit of Sexy Sandy Clark, a young and attractive leggy brunette who was only too aware of the soubriquet bestowed on her by the men. She’d persuaded Fiona to come along as much needed insurance. In fact only Mike Arthur was especially pleased by the presence of the older and fuller figured Fiona Walker as he’d calculated he might have a better chance with her.

  Salmons, by far the least intelligent of anyone in the pub and who lacked the crueller, but sharper wit of Tony Rundle had resorted to doing an exaggerated impersonation of a gorilla giving the
morning briefing. This was in the instinctive belief that physical clowning and casual racism might be the best way of getting into Sandy’s knickers. Well, given Cheryl was pregnant he had to be getting it somewhere. Sandy’s half-hearted- smile-to-fit-in-with-the-crowd reaction was not what he had been looking for.

  ‘C’mon Sandy, crack a smile!’ he implored.

  ‘Oh sit down Mark, it’s not that funny – let’s just have a drink and relax.’

  He moved in front of her, gyrating his stocky frame in the way no gorilla had ever managed in nature.

  ‘C’mon Sandy, have a suck on my monkey nuts!’ he leered – the Stella having had the desired effect of loosening his few inhibitions.

  ‘Look just sit down and let me listen to the music. And for crying out loud, stop staring at my tits!’

  Moodily, Salmons sat down on one of the chairs and sulked over his pint as he watched both Tony and Lee have much greater success in engaging Sandy’s attention by steering the conversation to music and entertainment – two of his least favourite questions when it came to playing Trivial Pursuits. Spitefully, he tried to put his oar into Mike’s conversation with Fiona (a splinter group which his younger, male colleague had successfully engineered during the aforementioned King Kong impression) by hijacking their election topic. It was either that or an early night with Cheryl and after her constant whining about his need to earn more money so they could have a home of their own, he was in no mood for another evening of arguments in the house she shared with her parents.