‘I can’t see what it’s got to do with me,’ complained the woman, nervously pecking at her cigarette.
‘No? Well, it’s Ron, really. You know what these youngsters are like. False sense of loyalty, not really knowing their friends’ best interests, that sort of thing. There’s a chance he may know more than he’s letting on. I wondered if you could help.’
‘No. I don’t know anything. He’s said nothing to me.’
‘Are you sure? Throw your mind right back. Back to that night when the three of you were sitting here watching telly together.’
‘Well, he wouldn’t be likely to say much then, would he, as nothing had happened yet,’ said Janey with the pride of one stumbling on an oasis of logic in a wasteland of feminine intuition.
‘Of course, he wouldn’t. You’re right,’ said Wield. ‘Unless he said something about Tommy’s state of mind when he left him in the Bay Tree.’
The woman looked at him in alarm.
‘You don’t think Tommy’s got anything to do with killing that lass, do you? It was the Choker, everyone knows that.’
‘But who’s the Choker, Janey? Who knows that? You’ve met Tommy?’
‘Couple of times. Ron brought him round to the house.’
‘Nice lad.’
‘He seemed very nice. Very decent,’ she said emphatically. A scrap of tobacco had got stuck to her tongue. She picked at it with a scarlet fingernail. The effect was much sexier now that she wasn’t trying.
‘And Brenda, did you meet her?’
‘Just the once. She was in the car when Tommy called, so I made him bring her in. Nice girl too. Well spoken.’
‘Bit posh for Tommy, you thought?’
‘No. Just well spoken.’
‘Frankie, did he meet her?’
‘Yes. He said hello.’
‘And what did he think of her?’
Now alarms were ringing in her mind.
‘What’s that mean? He didn’t think anything of her. Just for a minute they spoke. What the hell are you driving at?’
Wield looked at her with a blankness not altogether affected. He had stumbled on this line of questioning by chance just as he was about ready to give up and go. There was no way that Frankie was going to let hints about his brief acquaintance with Brenda Sorby scare him into admitting the Spinks’s warehouse job. But Janey might let something slip out of sheer indignation.
‘We’re interested in anyone who knew Brenda,’ he said, suddenly very stiff, very official. ‘There’s a strong possibility that she was picked up by a car after she left Tommy that night. And for her to get willingly into a car at that time of night, she would almost certainly need to know the driver.’
She was on her feet leaning over him, so close and so angry that he felt little specks of spittle hit his face as she spoke.
‘Are you pigs so hard up you want to pin this one on any poor sod who’s handy? Well, you’ve come to the wrong shop if it’s my Frankie you’re after. He was here with me all that night, and I mean all that night, from when he got home till next morning when he went to work. And nothing’s going to make me say different, not even if they send a whole battalion looking like you do!’
‘What time did you go to bed?’ asked Wield calmly.
‘What?’
‘Bed. You did go to bed? What time.’
‘I don’t know. Half eleven, midnight.’
She was confused as people often are by a lack of reaction to an emotional outburst.
‘What about Ron?’
‘What about Ron?’
‘Did he go first? Or was he still up when you and Frankie went to bed?’
‘I don’t know. First I think.’
‘So there was a period when you and Frankie were downstairs by yourselves between eleven and midnight.’
‘I don’t know! What’s it matter? Mebbe we went first.’
‘Leaving Ron by himself?’
‘No! I mean, most likely we all went up together.’
‘I didn’t know you were that close a family,’ said Wield.
She slapped at his face, a full round-arm blow. Wield parried unhurriedly, the chopping edge of his left hand held palm forward at head height like a gesture of peace.
‘Jesus!’ she swore as she nursed her wrist.
‘Pick someone your own size,’ said Wield.
He rose, put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her down on to the chair he had just vacated.
There was something here, he was sure. But it was probably something for Chief Inspector Headingley, and he had already spent too much Choker time on it.
Casting bread on waters was a good exit ploy for a policeman. Leave them worrying. It was often very effective. It was also often very unpleasant but, as any Rider Haggard fan knew, duty must be done.
‘Janey,’ he said sternly. ‘If your Frankie’s relying on Ron for an alibi, he shouldn’t sleep too well at nights.’
‘What the hell do you mean?’ she said sullenly, still rubbing her wrist.
‘Come on, Janey! Don’t be naïve. You must know your brother well enough by now. When Frankie got done for the whisky, did you never wonder how we got on to him?’
She was with him so quickly he knew he must have touched some deep hidden suspicion.
‘You’re lying,’ she said. ‘Prove it.’
‘Oh Janey,’ he said sadly. ‘That’s the one thing people like you and people like me have in common. We know when each other’s lying or telling the truth. It’s only juries that need proof.’
He made for the door. There was nothing else for him here just now. Later, perhaps …
Wield knew he’d taken a risk. It was one thing to threaten Ludlam, quite another to blow the gaff to Janey. But Wield had his intuitions too. It crossed his mind that the last time he had followed one was when he sat in on the seance with a cassette recorder in his pocket.
He shuddered at the memory and drove to Brenda Sorby’s bank.
Millhill was a typically ‘mixed’ suburb, middle-class, owner-occupied on the side nearest the river moderating to council house and commercial towards the neighbouring industrial estate. The Northern Bank was in a smallish shopping precinct at about the midway point. The previous weekend after the discovery of Brenda Sorby’s body, Pascoe had interviewed the bank staff while Wield had checked round the shops. Only the hairdressing salon a quarter of a mile along the road had provided any witness. Brenda had kept her appointment, been bright and chatty and left just after six-fifteen. Indeed, as they knew that she had met Tommy in the Bay Tree at eight, anything the bank staff or shopkeepers could tell them hardly seemed likely to be significant, but Dalziel wanted the ground turned over again, and Dalziel was Ayesha.
Wield checked his notebook. A couple of the smaller shops had been closed for the annual holidays. It was surprising how many people still stuck to the old tradition of taking their vacation during the High Fair.
The first one he tried, M. Conrad, Jeweller and Watch-Repairer, was locked. The second, Durdons Confectioners, was open. Mr and Mrs Durdon had just got back from a week in Spain that very morning, and were clearly bent on recouping their expenses as rapidly as possible.
Yes, they had read about the killing, they always bought the English papers on holiday. Yes, they had been here that Thursday, they didn’t go till early Friday morning. Yes, they remembered the lass vaguely.
But no, they didn’t recall seeing her that day, and no, there was nothing they could tell Wield though he got a distinct impression they had lorded it at their Costa Brava hotel on the strength of their intimate connection with the case.
In the bank he was greeted with less enthusiasm. Mulgan, the acting manager, had (according to Pascoe’s notes) been genuinely distressed at Brenda’s death, but also perhaps a little too concerned that somehow it would reflect on him.
Now, a week later, this personal concern seemed to dominate. About five nine, with brown hair, thick, luxuriant and anointed, he was a good-looking ma
n in a fleshy kind of way. His full cheeks were razored to a roseate glow and gave off strong emanations of one of the more macho aftershaves. Wield’s memory was stirred. Maurice had given him a bottle last Christmas, but he had never used it.
He took Wield into his office, an act, so the sergeant felt, more of concealment than courtesy.
‘This is very nice, sir,’ said Wield, looking appreciatively round the well-proportioned office. ‘It’s a pretty large establishment. I mean, for a suburban bank.’
‘Yes. It was built as the Avro Industrial Estate developed,’ said Mulgan. ‘Head Office anticipated a lot of business.’
‘But didn’t get it?’
‘Pardon?’
‘I meant, you sounded as if things didn’t quite work out.’
‘Oh no,’ said Mulgan with loyal indignation. ‘It’s very flourishing. Very flourishing.’
Then, relaxing a little, he said, ‘Mind you, they’re a very conservative lot, your Yorkshire businessmen. You’d be surprised how many of them insist on maintaining their accounts at the main office in the town centre. Not that they couldn’t have been persuaded with a little more dynamism perhaps. Well, perhaps it’s not too late.’
Wield glanced at his notebook. Mulgan was the acting manager, he saw. They were clearly touching the world of his ambitious dreams.
‘So you don’t carry many local business accounts?’ he said, probing a little further, though for no particular reason.
‘Oh yes,’ said Mulgan, bridling again. ‘Nearly all the local shops.’
‘But from the estate?’
‘One or two.’
Suddenly seeing a glimmer of a connection, Wield asked, ‘Would those include the Eden Park Canning Plant?’
But he was disappointed.
Mulgan shook his head and fiddled impatiently with the blotter on his desk.
‘How can I help you, Sergeant?’ he asked.
‘We’re just going over the ground again, sir,’ said Wield. ‘Routine. Often things come to mind after a few days that get forgotten when everyone’s shocked and upset to start with.’
There was a knock at the door and a young girl’s head appeared.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ she said. ‘But Mrs Mulgan’s here and would like a word.’
‘What?’ said Mulgan irritably. ‘Oh very well, I’ll come out. Excuse me.’
‘No,’ said Wield, getting up. ‘You see your wife in here, it’s all right. I’ll just have a quick chat with any of your staff that aren’t too busy.’
Outside the door he saw the girl talking to a thin-faced, rather defeated-looking woman who appeared a good ten years older than Mulgan.
‘Thank you, dear,’ she said in a fairly broad rural Derbyshire accent. ‘You take care of yourself, won’t you? I’ll go in now, shall I?’
‘Excuse me, Miss,’ said Wield to the girl before she could move away. He introduced himself and discovered she was Mary Brighouse. She was not bad-looking with a good figure and big brown eyes which moistened as he began to talk about Brenda.
‘You were good friends,’ said Wield sympathetically.
‘We didn’t see much of each other outside,’ said Mary. ‘But I liked her a lot. I was so upset when we heard what had happened, I had to go home. I didn’t come back in till Wednesday.’
Wield glanced at his notes from Pascoe’s report. The girl had been no help at all and had broken down very early on during questioning. From the look of it, he doubted if he was going to get any further this time. He took her arm and gently led her as far to the back of the bank as they could go.
‘That was Mrs Mulgan, was it?’ he said lightly. ‘Bit of a surprise after meeting your boss.’
‘She’s very nice,’ said the girl defensively.
‘Yes, I’m sure she is,’ said Wield. ‘I only meant …’
‘Yes. I know,’ she helped him out. ‘They were born in the same village.’
‘But he’s moved on while in a manner of speaking she hasn’t, you mean?’ said Wield. ‘It’s always sad, that.’
He was very good at gossip. A right old woman, Dalziel had called him once. Wield had smiled bleakly.
‘Yes, and it’s not just the job either,’ Mary replied, eyes clear again, voice confidentially lowered.
‘It never stops there,’ agreed Wield without much idea what he was agreeing to.
‘No. There’s some men think a bit of power gives them all sorts of rights. And he’s only acting, after all.’
‘I know,’ said Wield, suddenly with her. ‘It can be very embarrassing, that kind of thing. I mean, what’s a bit of a giggle at the office party can cause a lot of unpleasantness when it’s out of place. Has it bothered you a lot?’
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Well, it wasn’t really me, just sometimes he’d say something. It was more …’
Her eyes filled again.
The door of Mulgan’s office opened and Wield had no time for sympathy now.
‘You mean, it was more Brenda?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said with fast-fading coherence. ‘I think he asked her out a couple of times and he was always calling her into the office or standing behind her, really close, like. She said that now she had an engagement ring, perhaps it would …’ The memory was too much for her.
‘Sergeant Wield!’ called Mulgan.
‘Blow your nose, love,’ said Wield. ‘Then go and wash your face. You’re a good girl.’
He patted her on the arm and returned to the manager’s office where he studied his digest of Pascoe’s interview notes once more. He felt disappointed. The inspector hadn’t got on to Mulgan’s lech for Brenda, but his customary thoroughness had led him to check the acting manager’s whereabouts between ten and midnight that night. He had been at home. Confirmed by his wife. Wield frowned.
‘I hope you haven’t been upsetting Miss Brighouse again,’ said Mulgan. ‘We’ve had to do without her for half the week already.’
‘She seems a very sensitive sort of girl,’ said Wield.
‘Yes. Now what else can I do for you, Sergeant? We are extremely busy.’
‘I’m sorry. I should have called outside banking hours,’ said Wield.
‘We do work then also,’ said Mulgan acidly.
‘I’m sure you do.’
Wield closed his notebook with a snap.
‘I’ll tell you what you can do for us, sir,’ he said. ‘Is it possible to check back and see what business Brenda dealt with that day, when she was at the counter, I mean?’
‘It’s possible. But why on earth should you want that?’ wondered Mulgan.
Wield looked mysterious. It wasn’t difficult. It was a mystery to him. But he wanted a bit of time to think things over.
Mulgan gave him more.
‘I’d need to get authority from Head Office,’ he said. ‘It would mean revealing banking information, you see.’
‘That’s all right, sir. No rush. I’ll call back later, if I may. Or if I don’t get back in working hours, stick it in your briefcase and someone can pick it up from your home.’
He rose and took his leave before the man could raise an objection.
Outside in the car he tried to consider possible burgeonings of the seeds he had sown that morning, but all he could think of was the bittersweet tang of Mulgan’s aftershave.
Chapter 12
Dr Pottle and the two linguists sat and listened to the tapes of the four telephone messages which had followed Pauline Stanhope’s murder.
Pascoe had provided them with a typed transcript with the Hamlet references for good measure.
(A) Now get you to my lady’s chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come. (Act 5, Scene 1)
(B) One may smile, and smile, and be a villain. (Act 1, Scene 3)
(C) To be, or not to be, that is the question. (Act 3, Scene 1)
(D) The time is out of joint: – O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right. (Act 1, Scene 3)
&nbs
p; This was the order in which they had been received. Sammy Locke, the Evening Post news editor, felt that (A) and (D) came nearest to his memory of the voice which he had heard on the first two occasions. But which of the two (if there were two, they sounded very alike to Pascoe) it was, he couldn’t say. Pascoe had not felt it necessary to pass this information on to the linguistic experts.
After the tape had been played for the fifth time, there was a long silence. Pottle lit another cigarette and scribbled some notes. Pascoe looked interrogatively at the linguists who were looking interrogatively at each other.
They were an ill-assorted pair. Dicky Gladmann was a small dapper man, fortyish, with bright blue eyes and demi-mutton-chop whiskers, dressed in an old tweed jacket with a red bandanna trailing from his breast pocket and a spoor of gravy running down his old something-or-other tie. The other, Drew Urquhart, was much younger. A small, round, rosy-cheeked face showed fitfully through a dark tangle of beard like a robin in a holly bush. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, he seemed to have little liking for his surroundings.
‘Well, we’ll see what we can do, shall we?’ said Gladmann in a self-parodyingly fruity upper-class voice.
‘I suppose so,’ said Urquhart, broad Scots, not Glasgow but somewhere close.
They rose. Gladmann took the cassette from the player and slipped it into his pocket.
‘Aren’t you going to work here?’ said Pascoe, taken aback.
‘My dear chap, you must be joking!’ said Gladmann. ‘Not that it isn’t nice. You can hardly see the blood on the walls, can you, Drew, my son? But your equipment’s hardly space-age, is it? No, the language lab at the college is the place. And if it seems worthwhile we can even drive across to the university and run it through their sonograph.’
‘Well, all right,’ said Pascoe. There were, after all, several copies of the tape.
Urquhart said, ‘Inspector, I’d like to be sure what you intend. How do you propose to use whatever we tell you?’
‘Sceptically, I dare say,’ replied Pascoe.
Gladmann hooted, but Urquhart did not smile behind his tangle.
‘So long as it’s clear I’m not interested in helping the polis find a scapegoat,’ he continued.
A Killing Kindness Page 10