“He’s busy, I’m afraid, and asked not to be disturbed. Can I give him a message?”
“Tell him Tom Manners didn’t murder Maryan Kashani. I did.”
He stood up, abandoning the sports page of the Sunday paper.
“Can I have your name, sir?”
“Why, are you fed up with your own?”
He wasn’t sure how to handle that, so he gave it a practised chuckle.
“You’ve committed a ... murder, you say. What exactly do you mean by that?”
“It’s when somebody kills somebody else, intentionally.” I nodded at the phone on the counter. “That should do it.”
Finchum soon responded to my confession and came through the swing fire door, smiling.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he said, holding out a hand.
“Well, I wasn’t expecting you with it being Sunday...”
“Yes, bit of a bugger, we’ve got a kids’ party this afternoon, but...” He pointed upwards to where all commands came from. “...three weeks maximum.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t string it out, let Special Ops take over.”
He smiled. “The evidence beat me to it. Come on through.”
He took me up to his office, a room the size of an average wardrobe. On the stairs we passed a young woman who recognised me and stopped to say hallo. It took four seconds before she asked how Jaikie was, what he was doing, who he was doing it with. She’d seen a photo of him in some celeb magazine, his arm round a girl called Jodie. Was she his girlfriend or was there still hope for a million other young women...? I told her there was none. Finchum asked her to bring him a coffee and whatever Mr Hawk wanted. Mr Hawk didn’t want anything.
He sat me down opposite him at a desk and moved his laptop to one side.
“So, evidence beat you to it...?” I said.
He rattled his piled high in-tray.
“The pathology report on Maryan Kashani is in there somewhere. She’s Syrian, we think...”
“It’s an improvement on ‘some sort of Arab’, I suppose.”
“A member of my team matched her to a list of missing girls from some unpronounceable university in Turkey. And I did say we only think. Ah!”
He’d found the pathology report and offered it to me but I declined.
“Fair enough. Surely you agree, though, every once in a while the evidence falls into your lap. We turned his house over. You were there when we did it, I emailed you a list of the stuff we took away...”
“Gmail must’ve thought it was spam.”
“Lo and behold the DNA was on that hammer in the airing cupboard, matched the victim’s. I mean he’d tried to wipe it off...”
“Like I said, then he left it for you to find?”
“It isn’t the only thing I’ve got. Guess what we found in the garden.”
“Lord Lucan hiding in the bushes?”
“The gold hunter. Manners had a bonfire at some point. Old clothes. The watch was found nearby, must’ve fallen out of a pocket.”
I stood up and edged a pace round the desk towards him. “And he didn’t notice?”
He was shrugging at almost everything I said. “He’s an old man.”
When I first met Finchum, the night I found Maryan’s body, I’d quite liked him which only proves the point I was about to make. Never jump too readily to conclusions, especially about evidence. Another shrug.
“Just because it’s there, doesn’t make it wrong,” he protested.
“So, you never checked out Terry Baines, the guy who phoned me, or Leonard Blake?”
“We’ll be getting round to them, yes...”
“And what about Hillside Farm or Jericho?”
“Same applies. Hillside Farm is a rather posh property development, out near Easington, by the way. Five houses, one million pounds plus.”
“Maybe she wanted to buy one. Have you charged him?”
“This afternoon.”
“And be back home in time for the kids’ party?”
He narrowed his eyes and asked calmly,
“Why does all this bother you so much? What is it with you and this bad tempered, ornery old bastard who hates the rest of the world?”
I’d been wondering that myself, but instead of admitting it I said, “It’s a very moving story. I was being raised by wolves in Estonia. Tom rescued me, brought me up as his own son. It wasn’t easy. For a start, every full moon I’d go out in the garden and start howling.”
“Okay, okay,” said Finchum.
“Can I see him?”
He shrugged, hands only. “Sure, I’ll take you down.”
***
Tom had been held overnight in a typical new-build police cell. He was sitting on the bunk bed, reading a Sunday paper when the custody officer unlocked the door. Tom looked up as I entered and started on me.
“See what you’ve done?”
Finchum entered behind me and leaned back against the wall, arms folded, ankles crossed, shoulders ready to rise and fall.
“If you’d found that watch when I asked you to...”
“They’ve shown it to you?” I asked.
“Taunting me.”
I glanced at Finchum who nodded. “Mr Manners identified it as the one he’d had stolen.”
“You’re sure about that?” I asked Tom
“How many watches did Heinrich Himmler have, do you reckon?”
Finchum laughed, spontaneously.
“What’s so funny?” Tom asked him.
“Where is it now?” I said.
“In the safe,” said Finchum. “Evidence. It’ll be returned if and when appropriate. And, no, you can’t see it.”
“Grub’s alright,” said Tom.
I rounded on him, spitting out the words. “What do you mean ‘the grub’s alright’? Nothing’s alright, you bloody old fool.”
“Well, if you’re going to get snotty...”
“I’m going to ask you one question. Look me in the face. Do it!” He turned his head and stared at me, coldly. “Did you find Maryan Kashani, take back your watch and then kill her?”
“Of course not.”
“Did you try and burn some clothes, along with the watch?”
He was horrified by that. “It’s worth a bloody fortune! And that was two questions.”
I took a deep breath but the only word I could think of to say was,
“Right.”
“Why don’t you make yourself useful for once,” Tom suggested. “Find who killed this girl, because these bastards don’t know arse from elbow.”
“Are you sure I can be trusted to do that, Tom, only knowing you as I do...”
“You're the lesser of two evils,” he said.
I turned to face Finchum who unfolded his arms and leaned off the wall.
“How many years have you got in?” I asked.
“Twenty-one. Eleven in CID.”
“And you still think this man killed her? You don’t reckon it’s possible that somebody...” I gasped, theatrically. “The killer, maybe, planted all that crap in Tom’s garden and set fire to it? We used to call it ‘fitting someone up’. What do you call it these days?”
“Same. And I’m not saying it isn’t possible...”
“But in order to make sure, either way, you’d have to do some fucking work for a change.”
He smiled, forcing it. The ski-mask was slipping itself over my head and any second now would tighten and all I’d be able to see through the slit would be Finchum’s lazy smile and I’d be tempted to put my fist right through it. I dug in my inside pocket for The Map. It was in the cotton jacket. In the kitchen bin.
“You alright?” Finchum asked.
“Yes ... yes, thanks.”
Somehow I pulled myself back to normal. If there was going to be any violence done it wouldn’t take place in a police station.
“Oh, well, that’s good,” said Tom, rising from the bed. “You’re alright, he’s alright, the only person who isn’t is the poor
sod who’s been accused of a crime he didn’t commit.”
“Sit down and shutup, Tom.”
“You might’ve been a hard man once...”
“You might’ve been reasonable once...”
Finchum stepped forward and scissored the air.
“Conversation’s over, gents. If you’ve anything to contribute in the coming days, Mr Hawk, I’ll be happy to hear it, though my advice would be to steer clear...”
Tom stared at me. “I’ve got you very wrong. A go getter with fire in his belly, that’s what they said up at The Crown...”
Maybe it was Tom I should’ve done violence to but, unsurprisingly, I found myself admiring his cantankerous belligerence, sympathising with his venomous mistrust. I just hoped it would see him through the next few weeks while I proved his innocence.
“You’ll need a solicitor,” I said. “They will get you one.”
“D’you know how much...?”
“I know how much they cost!”
He rocked his head, disgruntled by my generosity with his money. “Hobson’s choice round here. ‘If you cannot afford one, one will be provided’...”
Finchum and I exchanged a quick glance. Tom knew the patter, either from watching too much television or from personal experience.
“...on top of which they’ll be fished out from the bottom of the barrel.”
I closed my eyes. “Fuck. The shut. Up.”
I turned and walked out, Finchum following me. I heard the custody officer lock the door to the cell and then Tom asking him what was for lunch.
***
When I pulled up under the big beech, I slammed the Land Rover door and two red kites who’d take to perching on the top branch took off and wheeled round for a bit. Usually they don’t give a damn.
Laura was in the kitchen and although she didn’t say as much knew the slamming was a bad sign. I sat down at the table and locked every joint in my body.
“You’ll be pleasantly surprised," I said. “I held it together.”
“So, DCI Finchum can still walk?”
“He wasn’t the one in danger. Tom. If I ever get like that - ungracious, insensitive, bloody-minded...”
“We’ve had this conversation before.”
I finally vented my frustration on the map of Australia, a knot of wood in the shape of that country, and thumped it with the side of my fist.
“Finchum’s arrested him for the murder of Maryan Kashani. I say he’s been fitted up, hung out to dry.”
She sat down opposite me and we took refuge briefly in our sink hole of guilt, whining the ‘if onlys’ of the case going right back to if only Heinrich Himmler had kept his watch in his pocket none of this would’ve happened. If only Laura hadn’t indulged a bad tempered, awkward old patient, if only I hadn’t taken an instant dislike to Leonard Blake, if only, if only, if only, then a young woman would still be alive. When the self-flagellation was over I stood up.
“So, what am I going to do about it? Find whoever did kill her.”
It was pretty big talk on my part but Laura knew better than to stand in its way. The trouble was I hadn’t been in control of the case from day one, I said. Nobody had. And, come to think of it, when was day one? Consequently the leads, the evidence, the logic were all over the shop. Finchum thought he had a straight line that would end with Tom Manners dying in prison. I had loose bits of thread, not even joined together, screwed up in a ball.
I went over to the whiteboard which isn’t a whiteboard, it’s a piece of wall I use as such. In spite of Jean Langan’s attempts to clean them off it still bears ghostly details of other cases I’ve worked on. I took the black marker from the dresser and wrote a timeline down the left hand side. It began with Tom getting his watch nicked and worked its way down to his arrest. Beside it went the suspects, starting with Leonard Blake followed by Steve Bellamy the barista, and then Terry Baines.
“Why isn’t Tom there?” she asked.
I reached up again and added his name, but it still wasn’t enough for Laura.
“Please don’t think I’m making a case for Leonard Blake, but his wife’s wheelchair would explain the Siméon Deroy Robillard receipts. Medical equipment?”
I disagreed. Laura’s beloved NHS would’ve supplied Alicia with a chair. Free. And Leonard Blake wasn’t the sort to shell out if it came buckshee. She nodded and responded slowly. NHS wheelchairs were pretty basic and any trimmings that might be needed, like a softer seat, bags to hook over the rear strut, guards for the wheels...
She stopped and countered her own daft presumption.
“Buy them on the internet.” She smiled. “And you are determined to have his guts for something, aren’t you.”
“Yes, and I still don’t know why. Give me a hand with this, though. Leonard Blake invited by the Leveques to their garden party?”
She laughed. “Heavens above, you’re not trying to rope Jenny and Rollo in as well...”
“Blake, Rollo, they’re different people, from different worlds.”|
“But you heard Jenny say she and Alicia work at the same Oxfam shop.”
I said I didn’t believe that, it was too clean for me.
“We all saw the flap Jenny went into when the Blakes turned up. Why? She didn’t know her husband had invited them, any more than Rollo knew she’d invited us.”
She smiled. “That’s marriage for you. You stop talking to each other. What’s your point?”
“It’s all about me, as usual, but they didn’t want me to know Blake and Rollo are connected.”
“So they’re all going on your list of suspects?!”
I nodded and she turned away slightly.
“And it all stems from Leonard Blake claiming not to know the girl,” she said.
I gave a shrug, half the size of Finchum’s. “Who is now dead.”
I picked up the marker pen and drew another column on the whiteboard, places she’d wanted taking to. Hillside Farm, Jericho and a circus. Laura thought about them, I’ll give her that, but her comments weren’t exactly helpful.
“The first two are places,” she said, quietly. “Maybe the third is too. Piccadilly Circus, Finsbury Circus ... even Oxford Circus. What are you going to do next?”
“I think I’ll start by buying myself a new house. Before I do...”
I went over to the waste bin and rooted through the coffee grounds, the remains of a broken plate and a ton of superfluous wrapping and pulled out the suit jacket. To Laura’s indifference I felt the inside pocket, took out the imaginary Map and transferred it to the jacket I was wearing.
- 13 -
Easington was on the back road between Long Crendon and Brill and we knew it for a pub there which served decent food. You couldn’t have missed Hillside Farm if you tried. A placard the size of a ping-pong table, staked out at the junction and bearing a picture of the new development, pointed the way down a no-through road.
Heavy lorries had been using the lane recently and outsize tyres had rutted both verges. The downward slope turned once to the left, once to the right, the onward view obscured by un-cut hedges and after half a mile it opened out onto Hillside Farm. I parked in the chewed up turning space and walked onto the development.
It was a clever conversion of an old farmhouse and several outbuilding plus two brand new dwellings, all at angles to each other giving privacy. The newbuilds were at the roofing stage, with a tiler working on each of them. One of the dwellings was finished and being painted, by a man and a woman. Her presence there should’ve told me much of what I needed to know but I wasn’t listening to the inner voice. I was too busy rehearsing my role as a man wealthy enough to shell out a million quid on a new house for one of his children.
As I turned and walked across what used to be the farmyard I could hear Radio 2 blaring away, occasionally blotted out by the scream of a brick cutter. A man came out through the big main doors and headed towards a cement mixer. He spotted me, stopped and went back inside to tell his boss he had a vi
sitor.
Russell Taylor came to greet me, dressed in clothes which were stiffened by cement and coloured by brick dust, underneath which was a tall, athletic man in his early forties, physically fit but due to the nature of his work, a touch old before his time. The eyes were grey like flint, the smile professional.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
It’s always been too matey a greeting for me so I responded with a stiff nod and since we didn’t recognise each other I went ahead with my lie. I was looking for a house for my son who was coming back to England after 8 years, bringing his family with him. The son bit was a shrewd move. Taylor had already looked me up and down and formed the opinion that no way could I, jeans and T-shirt and needing a shave, afford one of his houses.
“Then my wife’s the person you need. She’ll give you the guided tour.”
He nodded towards a portakabin on a far side of the site and led me towards it.
“Another two months and we’ll be finished,” he said, and gestured round with justifiable pride. “Three sold already. The unsold two are that one there, and the barn, obviously.” He smiled. “How would your son fancy a barn?”
“The other’s the old farmhouse, I take it?”
He nodded. As we approached the portakabin he called out,
“Tina there’s a gentleman here to...”
Before he could finish the sentence the door opened and an attractive blonde woman, blue-eyed and brittle, also forty-ish, stepped down onto the flattened rubble. Jeans, trainers and a baggy sweater. Working clothes. She didn’t recognise me either.
“God, don’t tell me I’ve missed an appointment?” she asked, jokily. She knew damn well she hadn’t.
“No, I’ve just turned up on spec,” I said. “Been meaning to look round for weeks and during that time you’ve sold three, I gather. Congratulations!”
“Which still leaves two more, the pick of the bunch in my opinion. You are Mr...”
“Hawk.”
They hadn’t heard of me either which was ideal, of course, my vanity notwithstanding. Taylor asked his wife if he could leave me in her capable hands. They were a man short today. He’d had pressing family matters to deal with. Taylor was making up the numbers.
Jericho Road: A Nathan Hawk Mystery (The Nathan Hawk Mystery series Book 5) Page 9