‘Why are you telling me this, Lorraine?’ asked Ellie.
‘Telling you what? I’m just talking. My life’s in such a turmoil, I don’t know what I’m doing half the time,’ said Lorraine. ‘That’s why I’m so glad you can take over this job. You’ll let me know if there’s anything you don’t understand.’
‘That’s very likely,’ said Ellie.
‘OK.’
Outside a horn blew. One short, two long blasts.
‘Qu’il est triste, le son du cor, au fond du bois,’ said Lorraine. ‘That girl Brenda Sorby. She went to the Crump Comprehensive, you know.’
Now the car had started up, the engine revving noisily.
‘Ciao,’ said Lorraine. ‘Don’t forget, ring if there’s anything I can do.’
‘I will,’ promised Ellie. ‘I will.’
When she returned to the sofa, for a long while she found her romantic thriller unpickupable.
Chapter 9
Sergeant Wield had had another unsatisfactory session with Dave Lee. The gypsy stuck to his story that he had driven Rosetta Stanhope up north on a visit to friends ‘to take her out of herself’.
When pressed for detail he said vaguely, ‘Teesdale, somewhere near Barnard Castle,’ adding that as they were on the move, he couldn’t say where they’d be now. Thereafter all that he would add to his story was a mounting degree of exasperated profanity.
He was equally vague and equally profane when the topic changed to his movements earlier in the day. He couldn’t remember when last he’d seen Pauline. Early. Nine o’clock perhaps. Nor what they’d talked about. The other cop, the good-looking one, had just gone, so mebbe it was about him. Nor when precisely he’d left the fairground. Dinner-time, somewhere about then.
But he was certain about his pint in the Cheshire Cheese and that he’d been back at the aerodrome no later than one-fifteen which all present would confirm.
Wield didn’t doubt it, but turned to the landlord of the Cheshire Cheese for less partisan confirmation of Lee’s timetable. Wally Furniss was a round, rubicund man who, had he been an actor, would have made a large fortune playing jovial English landlords in costume dramas. Instead, he made a small fortune playing the same role in real life. Death seemed to be his friend. Recently widowed, he had emerged from the ordeal redder and jollier than ever. And the awful fate of Mary Dinwoodie behind his pub had crowded his bars and broadened his smile in the weeks since.
Wield, used to landlords who were surlily resentful or distastefully sycophantic, found himself greeted with what felt like genuine pleasure and a large vodka and tonic.
‘You remembered,’ he said. It sounded a foolish thing to say but Furniss grinned delightedly, tapped his brow, and said, ‘Trick of the trade.’
His memory was equally good when it came to Lee.
‘The gyppo? About twenty-five past twelve. A pint of mild and a pastie. Said it was stale, and I asked him how he’d know! He ate it up, though. Yes, we have one or two of his lot in when they’re camping on the ’drome. It’s just the other side of the by-pass. No, I don’t mind ’em, as long as they stick to the taproom, which they mostly do.’
‘The night Mrs Dinwoodie was killed, were there any of them in then?’
Furniss pursed his lips. ‘Not that I can say definite, else I would’ve done, wouldn’t I?’
Wield had to agree.
‘Mind you, they were about,’ added Furniss. ‘I remember saying, just a bit before, that some of ’em were back early this year. It’s usually just the week before the Fair that they start congregating. Poor sods probably got turfed out of their last spot a bit unexpected.’
‘That’s interesting,’ said Wield. ‘Dave Lee, now, the fellow I was asking about, was he one of them?’
‘Couldn’t say for sure,’ said Furnis regretfully. ‘Are they mixed up in this Choker business, you reckon?’
‘Just enquiries, Mr Furniss,’ said Wield heavily. ‘And I’d appreciate it if they stayed between you and me.’
‘My lips is sealed,’ said Furniss with a contradictory breadth of smile.
‘And you’re sure they were around before Mrs Dinwoodie’s death?’
‘Oh yes. Ask at the Aero Club if you want to find out just when. They keep a close eye on them down there. Lots of valuable stuff around that place, not to mention the bar! If I catch any of them hanging around outside here, I send them packing pretty quick. Paying customers are one thing, light fingers another! Same again, Sergeant?’
Wield shook his head and put his glass down.
‘Work to do,’ he said. ‘Thanks all the same.’
‘Any time you’re passing. Watch how you go now.’
Furniss accompanied him to the door and saw him out into the eye-blinding sunshine. Returning to the cool shades of his taproom he said to his barmaid who was checking the bottled beer, ‘Bloody cops. Drink you out of business if you let ’em! And, Elsie, keep an eye open for those gyppos who sometimes get in here. The coppers reckon they had summat to do with that Dinwoodie tart’s death.’
Wield meanwhile was taking a circuitous route back to the centre of town. The old aerodrome was barely a half-mile away across the by-pass. Roughly rectangular, it was flanked by the river and open country on one side, the by-pass itself on another, and by the Avro Industrial Estate and the suburb of Millhill on the other two. During the war when Wellingtons and Lancasters took off from here nightly, the ’drome had been well outside the city limits, though too close for the comfort of those who unpatriotically wanted to keep the war as far away from themselves as possible. Now the city had caught up with it, industry and suburbia had nibbled into it, and increasingly there were voices raised in council meetings pointing out what a valuable piece of real estate it was. The Aero Club’s lease ran out in three years and Wield guessed that with the squeeze on local authority finances getting even tighter, the speculators would be invited in to do their worst.
Wield felt as indifferent to this possibility as he had done during the recent battle between the motorway planners and the city’s premier golf club. His ideas of recreation were oriental in every sense. Judo, kung-fu, karate – his fondness for these martial arts had the official seal of approval. Every good policeman should be able to take care of himself.
And every good policeman should be able to make connections too. He thought of the coincidence of Lee’s use of the Cheshire Cheese. Could it be significant?
He pulled the car to a halt by the side of the road. From here he could see the open expanse of the old airfield. A bright orange windsock hung flaccid from its pole.
Wield took out his map of the city and its environs and studied it for a while. Then he carefully drew circles round the Cheshire Cheese, Charter Park and the Pump Street allotment. Next he put a cross against the north-east corner of the airfield where the gypsies had their encampment.
Apart from its comparative proximity to the Cheshire Cheese, it had no apparent significance. Now he put squares round the murdered women’s homes. Again nothing. They were widely scattered. Only June McCarthy had been killed near her home.
Wield frowned. Much more of this and he’d run out of shapes. He began to set triangles round the victims’ places of employment.
That was better. That was what had been niggling away.
Two of the triangles, McCarthy’s factory and Sorby’s bank, were situated not too far from the airfield, in the Avro Industrial Estate and the adjacent Millhill residential suburb respectively. Mrs Dinwoodie’s Garden Centre was several miles out of town and, for the purpose of the enquiry, Pauline Stanhope’s place of work would have to go down as Charter Park. But a fifty per cent statistic might be significant.
Though, he thought gloomily, gypsies were hardly famed for using banks or indeed seeking employment in the factories.
He started his engine again. As he did so, his radio crackled into life with his call sign. He replied and was told to contact Inspector Pascoe as soon as possible. There was a call-box only a
hundred yards ahead.
‘Sergeant, where are you?’
Wield explained and also gave a brief run-down of his talk with Furniss and his subsequent geographical musings.
Pascoe said doubtfully, ‘It might mean something. I’ll toss it around. Meanwhile, on your way in, call at the Wheatsheaf Garage. You probably heard Tommy Maggs is still missing. He didn’t arrive home yesterday and he’s not at work this morning. See if anybody can give us a line, particularly that lad, Ludlam. Watch him. If he’s covering up for Tommy, he can be slippery. You know about Ludlam, don’t you.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Wield gravely. ‘I know.’
Ludlam, like Maggs, had had some juvenile problems with the police, but a little more serious – shop-lifting, robbing a phone-box, taking and driving a car without permission. Since his mother died when he was seventeen, he had lived with his married sister, Janey, who had been glad of his company two years ago when her husband, Frankie Pickersgill, had been jailed for his part in an off-licence robbery. Frankie was a careful, clever and previously unconvicted criminal. The police had been delighted to get him at last, disappointed that his clean sheet got him off so lightly as a ‘first offender’.
What few people knew, especially not Frankie and his wife, was that a few days before his arrest, Ron Ludlam had been picked up trying to flog some cheap Scotch round the pubs and after a couple of hours alone with Dalziel he had been ready to co-operate fully in return for a guarantee of anonymity.
Dalziel’s guarantees usually made the South Sea Bubble look firm and substantial, but this time enough evidence materialized to convict without Ron’s appearance in the box.
‘On the other hand, if he knows anything about Tommy, a bit of pressure and he’ll give. We know that,’ continued Pascoe. ‘Now, to kill two birds with one stone. We’ve got so many of the lads tied up on the Choker case that Mr Headingley’s finding himself a bit thin on the ground. He’s going down a list of possibles for the Spinks’s warehouse break-in. Frankie Pickersgill’s on it, of course. He’s been out three months now, might be feeling the pinch though it doesn’t sound like his style. Anyway he says he was home that night watching telly with his wife and brother-in-law.’
‘We know Ron was at the Bay Tree at half eight,’ interposed Wield.
‘Yes, I know. This is after ten we’re talking about,’ said Pascoe. ‘Well, Janey and Ron, it’s not the best of alibis. And while Mr Headingley doesn’t really reckon Frankie, it might be worth pressuring Ron ever so lightly at the same time as you ask about Tommy.’
‘Right,’ said Wield.
When he got to the Wheatsheaf Garage, he wandered around for a while chatting to all and sundry and got confirmation of the story as told before. Tommy had worked normally in the morning. He was not his old chipper self, but that was only to be expected in the circumstances. At midday he had cleaned himself up and driven away.
Wield found Ludlam half in, half out of an Austin Princess, working under the dashboard. He climbed into the passenger seat and said, ‘Very nice.’
‘You reckon? Me, I like something with a bit more zip.’
Ludlam was a fresh-faced youth of about twenty with shoulder-length blond hair that obviously got nothing but the best treatment, wide-set blue eyes and good teeth. There was a smudge of oil on his cheek. Wield, looking down on him with an undetectable pleasure, was tempted to erase the smudge, but resisted easily.
‘You still living at your sister’s place, Ron?’ he asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘Frankie’s out now, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah. He’s working as a driver. He only did sixteen months with the remission.’
‘Only sixteen months? I expect it seemed long enough to him. You’re good mates, are you?’
Ludlam wriggled out of the car then climbed back into the driver’s seat.
‘Yeah. Fine. Why not?’
‘I can think of a reason, Ron,’ said Wield gravely. ‘Frankie never suspected though? That’s good. But you must feel you owe him a favour, like. I mean even though it was only sixteen months, you must feel you owe him a favour. And your sister too. You owe Janey a lot, I should think.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The night Brenda disappeared. What were you doing. Ron?’
‘Nothing. I went home early. Sat and watched a bit of telly with Janey and Frankie.’
‘You left the Bay Tree, didn’t go into the disco, didn’t pull yourself a bird, just went home for a quiet night? Not your style.’
‘I just felt like it,’ insisted Ludlam. He sounded agitated.
‘Tell you what, Ron. We’re going to be asking questions down at the Bay Tree. We get one sniff that you were having your usual knee-tremble in the back lane at the time you say you were home, you’ll be in real trouble, son. You knew Brenda pretty well?’
The change of direction disconcerted Ludlam.
‘Yeah.’
‘She’d been round to your place?’
‘Yeah, but with Tommy, I mean. And Janey was there!’
‘But you fancied her? I mean, you wouldn’t have said no.’
‘What do you mean? She was Tommy’s bird. We were friends!’
‘Friends. So if you’d been driving along and you saw her walking, you’d stop and give her a lift?’
‘Yes. I mean no. I mean, I told you, how could I, I was home that night and anyway I haven’t got any wheels!’
Wield gave what Pascoe had once described as his Ozymandias sneer and made a gesture which took in the car-packed garage.
‘We’re worried about Tommy,’ he said abruptly. ‘It’s not like him, his mam says, just going off like this.’
‘I’m worried too,’ said Ludlam. He sounded as if he meant it, though whether he was referring simply to Tommy’s disappearance was another matter.
‘If you know anything, better tell us,’ said Wield. ‘He seemed really cut up about Brenda. He’s in no fit state to be off by himself.’
‘He wouldn’t do anything like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like hurting himself.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. You should know. You’re his mate. How’d he seem yesterday morning?’
‘Quiet, like. He’d just come back to work. The boss said he could have longer off, but he seemed to want to be occupied. When he didn’t turn up after dinner, we just thought he’d taken the boss up on his offer.’
‘Don’t you usually have your eats with him?’
‘Yeah. We usually have a pie in the Wheatsheaf across the road. But it got to midday and he just took off.’
Wield got out of the car and walked round to the driver’s side.
‘You hear anything, you tell us now, Ron. You remember anything, you tell us. All right?’
‘Sure, yeah. I will.’
He couldn’t keep the look of relief off his young fresh open face. It seemed a pity to do anything to spoil that beauty but Wield knew his job was not to bear comfort but a sword.
‘Be sure you do, Ron,’ he said, his face close to the boy’s. ‘We helped you once. We reckon you still owe us. And we like to keep the books balanced. One way or another.’
Worry put five years on Ludlam’s face at a stroke. At least, thought Wield as he walked away, features like his own could take the hobnailed march of time and trouble with scarcely a trace.
He felt troubled now, without knowing why. Pascoe would have approved the obliquity of his interrogation, Dalziel the threat, but he did not feel satisfied. He glanced at his watch and wondered if he’d get away early enough that evening to drive up to Newcastle. It was his friend’s birthday and he’d promised. But he knew that in the police the strongest oaths were often straw to the fires of duty. He glanced at his notebook. One more call to make, on Mrs Sorby, and then he should be done. He crossed his fingers.
As it turned out, everyone got away early that evening. Nothing was happening, the investigation was in the doldrums, and Dalziel, who had no qu
alms about dragging his men on holiday out of their hotel beds at midnight if a case required it, said, ‘That’s it. Everyone sod off, get a bit of rest while you can.’
Wield headed up the A1 at seventy mph, Dalziel opened a bottle of Glen Grant and grimly settled down to read all those reports and statements which he had hitherto ignored, while Pascoe went home to a quiet non-constabulary evening and found his wife much concerned with murder.
‘She was practically telling me she thought he’d done it!’ she said excitedly. ‘Honestly, Peter, she came as close as damn it to saying, “You want the Choker? He’s outside in the car with the kids!”’
‘Wildgoose,’ mused Pascoe. ‘I knew I’d seen the name. Sergeant Brady did the interviews with the allotment holders. Just a formality to check if they’d noticed anyone hanging around in the past few days.’
‘He’s a teacher. English and Drama!’ said Ellie triumphantly.
‘So?’
‘So, Hamlet!’
‘Well, yes. But it is the most famous play in the language. Even Andy Dalziel had heard of it.’
‘And he’s gone odd.’
‘Who? Dalziel?’
‘No, you twit. Mark Wildgoose. Lorraine says she thinks he hates her. She’s frightened of him.’
‘She sounds a bit odd to me,’ grunted Pascoe, looking at the Radio Times. ‘Hey, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance is on tonight. Didn’t we go to see that in our distant student days?’
‘Did we?’ said Ellie. ‘I sometimes forget we were once young together.’
‘What are we now?’
‘You are showing many of the symptoms of senility. Such as deafness. Mark Wildgoose I’m telling you about. He’s going to Saudi Arabia in a mini-bus. He wears a T-shirt saying I’m the Greatest, and God knows when he last had a bath.’
‘For Christ’s sake, love,’ said Pascoe. ‘What’s that you’ve got in your belly? Tory twins?’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Well, suddenly you’re sounding like a large Conservative majority.’
‘Ha ha. Well, how about this? Do you know which school Brenda Sorby went to?’
A Killing Kindness Page 8