The Scaffold: The sensational legal thriller everyone's talking about (Alistar Duncan Series Book 3)

by Douglas Stewart

  “Delighted.”

  “Charlie Wilkinson, my enquiry agent, has found Dwight Riley.” Duncan opened his file and, with great care, took a note from within. “And I’m satisfied, from what I’ve heard, that we’re dealing with a case of murder.” Duncan looked across the desk at the two men.

  “Murder!” queried Trask. “I knew you had some doubts but I never realised . . .”

  “Me neither. What do the police say about it?”

  “Not a lot,” replied Duncan. “I spoke to Dacombe. He was interested. Said he’d made a note on his file. He wants something conclusive but I wasn’t able to give him that. Not yet.” Duncan pushed the chocolate biscuits across the desk, preferring to light his pipe.

  “Wilkinson’s done well for a change,” said Trask.

  “Yes. But I wouldn’t say for a change. He’s served me well for years.”

  “Drinking too much these days,” said Trask. “Getting unreliable. Still, he’s got some useful contacts.”

  “He tells me that this blighter Riley is scared out of his wits. If Charlie’s right, then Riley’s almost incoherent. But he has said that he saw exactly what happened.”

  With a sudden jerk of his arm, Trask poked his ear vigorously. “So, who did it?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ll tell you tomorrow.” Duncan found it hard not to look smug. He was savouring the moment. “I’m getting a full statement from Riley tomorrow morning. I’m taking Lucy with me and we’re going to record his statement verbatim. A lot will turn on it. Though he was confused, Charlie seemed positive that what he was trying to say made sense.” Duncan turned to Cowle. “And that’s where you come in.”

  “Well, if I can help in some way?”

  “Yes, you can. I’ll want you to listen to the tape. You can help assess whether Riley’s telling the truth. I mean, is he a man to fantasise?”

  “I can’t say. I always found him simple, thick if you like.” He tapped some ash from his cigar and looked about for a moment. “But I think he could be devious. You are asking whether or not one could believe a word he says? Right?”

  “Yes. Give him his due, Riley’s not asking for money. I was tempted to go and see him at once but felt I must know more about him before I interview him. Make sure I ask the right questions.”

  “But why’s he so upset? Why did he leave?”

  “He’s in hiding because somebody tried to hang him the other night. Or so he says. That’s why I asked if he were reliable. Charlie thinks it’s true. There’s a nasty weal round his neck. What he says is that he had a long conversation with Hillyer, just before he died. It seems Hillyer was expecting something to happen. Said Riley was to blow the gaff if anything happened.”

  “Sounds a load of balls to me,” said Trask.

  “I’m not sure,” said Cowle. “But Riley is a funny person to confide in. Hardly the sympathetic father confessor type.”

  Duncan relit his pipe. “What I was thinking is — he’s not a big man. If two men wanted to hang him, then why didn’t they. But who were the two men?”

  “Robertson and Arnold?” suggested Trask.

  “Maybe.” Cowle shook his head slowly. “I don’t see why but, with their strength, killing him would have been easy.”

  “Well, something made him leave home. And he’s hardly living in the Ritz now.”

  “Where is he, then?” enquired Trask, hoping that no one would notice him slip his fifth chocolate biscuit from the plate.

  Duncan looked at his pad. “Bristol. 37a Albion Street. It’s a glorified bedsitter. Eight pounds a week, and you don’t get much for that.”

  “So what’s he doing?”

  “Nothing. Gazing at an evil gas fire by the sound of it. Wondering what the hell life’s all about, I should think.”

  “Now we know young Robertson was knocking off June Hillyer, it hangs together.”

  “I agree, Mr. Cowle,” said Trask. “Good taste, that Robertson, by the sound of it. She’s a bit of a raver, isn’t she? I saw her photo in the paper.” He turned to Alistair Duncan. “Do you think she knows that her husband was murdered?”

  “I don’t know. If it were Robertson, then I suppose she does. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Something about Arnold. What about him, Mr. Cowle?” Duncan’s frown momentarily aged him several years.

  “Steady. Sensible chap. Keeps himself to himself. Likes a drink, likes a flutter. Wife died of cancer a few years back. No children.”

  “What about shooting?”

  “Never mentioned that to me.” Cowle exhaled noisily.

  “He’s got a gun. A shotgun. Charlie Wilkinson’s discovered that he hasn’t got a licence for it.”

  There was silence as each man considered the implication. It was Trask who spoke first. Twenty-seven years dealing with claims had made him essentially practical. “Hillyer wasn’t shot. I think the gun’s nothing to do with it. You don’t suppose Dwight Riley . . .”

  “Was the murderer?” Duncan shook his head. “Unlikely. No. The whole murder theory is based on what he saw. Without his evidence, there’s nothing.”

  “I’d like to be there tomorrow, when you interview Riley,” said Cowle.

  “Do you expect me to agree, or were you simply wishing?”

  “Wishing. You don’t want me there, do you? Otherwise you’d have asked, I suppose.”

  “I don’t want to crowd the man. If Charlie hasn’t exaggerated, then the man’s almost a jibbering wreck. Tearful. Mumbling. It’ll take a while to unravel what he says. It’ll be a mixture of what he knows, what he thinks he knows, what he thinks he ought to have forgotten and things which he’s been told he ought to say. I’m sure of that.”

  “But you’ll let us know?” enquired Trask.

  “Of course.”

  16

  Monday, 4th February

  SHEPTON MALLET

  With easy strides Kenny Robertson mounted the stairs. Three steps ahead of him was June Hillyer, the tops of her thighs beckoning fleetingly beneath the swirl of her black négligé. She adjusted the dimmer switch by the water-bed, bathing the room in luxurious half-light. The air was scented, the curtains heavy velvet and the carpet thick.

  Seated at the dressing-table, June watched in the mirror as her lover undressed. She admired the rippling youthfulness of his body as he raised his arms to remove his shirt. His head reappeared, hair all tousled, accentuating the unsubtle youthfulness of his looks. But that was where the boyishness ended. Everything else about him throbbed with a masculinity beyond his years.

  “Still in mourning, then?” he commented as he climbed, naked, between the sheets.

  “The black négligé?” She laughed. “Respect for the dead, that’s what I do say.” She turned to face him, her long eyelashes emphasising the wink which she gave. Then she rose and stood at the foot of the bed, her legs apart, one hand on hip, one finger of her other hand playing with her lips. It was a signal, part of a ritual which they’d shared on many occasions. He leant across the bed and pressed a button on the cassette player and, from two corners of the room, came the vintage sound of Mick Jagger singing ‘Satisfaction’. Immediately, the young girl’s hair broke in a hundred different directions, as she started to gyrate and grind her way around the bed in time to the music, her four-month pregnancy ignored. Every movement brought a flickering glimpse of raised nipples and firm buttocks, thrusting in the lacy bikini pants.

  Like a tide of passion, she ebbed and flowed, sometimes forward, sometimes back, teasing and tantalising the watcher until, as the record climaxed, she knelt, legs spread-eagled, gyrating her hips with a beseeching look in her eyes. Kenny Robertson leant across and a strong arm pulled her towards the bed.

  “No, no!” she murmured, acting her part to the last.

  But throughout the writhing ecstasy which followed, Kenny could sense that, unusually, June was preoccupied, far from her usual rampant self. But it was good enough and he was well satisfied as he lay back on th
e bed, blowing smoke-rings into the hot air. June lay close beside him, skin aflame, eyes dilated, cheeks flushed by waves of contentment.

  “But what about those documents?” June resumed a conversation from an hour before and Kenny realised now what had been on her mind throughout.

  “I don’t know. Mark must have been keeping them for something. Has your solicitor seen them?”

  “No. Didn’t see no cause to. Don’t trust them solicitors an inch anyway. No, this is best kept to us. Whatever it is.”

  “Does your solicitor know . . . about us?”

  “Hell, no! He don’t know nothing. No more do that clever Duncan sod from Bristol, neither. He don’t know nothing. So all right. So we knew each other before I met Mark. But no more. No more.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Kenny stubbed out the cigarette and circled his arms round her once again, squeezing her breasts against the golden hair of his chest.

  “Well, who’s telling? Not me, that’s for sure.”

  “Me neither.” Kenny agreed. “But what about these private eyes? I’ve read about them in the papers. Suppose somebody were watching.”

  “Nobody’s going to bother about us. That’s Sunday paper talk. We’re for real. Unless you want to stop coming? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Not unless that’s what you want. Is it?”

  June answered by turning her face upwards towards him, kissing at length, twisting her body on top of his as she did so. “Oh, no, Kenny. I’m not saying that at all.”

  “But what about them damages, whatever they are?” Kenny was stroking her back as she sprawled across him.

  “I dunno. The solicitor do say there could be lots of money. If I keep my nose clean. Them was his words.”

  Kenny tapped her on the nose. “And you are.”

  “But, Kenny?” She pulled away from and looked down at the fresh, open face, her own hair hanging down, so that it almost brushed against his cheeks on either side of him. “What do you reckon? About us, I mean.”

  His words came slowly. “We can’t rightly get married yet. Not for a long time. Not after what happened to Mark. People are going to talk. We’ll keep it dark. Anyway, by the sound of what your solicitor says, you’ll get more money if you don’t marry.”

  “No. I don’t think he said that.” Her face frowned, her lips puckered. “He were more concerned about whether I were having an affair when Mark died. Not whether I remarried. But, about them documents. I wish I knew what to do. Can’t you think of something, Kenny?”

  “No. Keep’em. That’s what I do say. If they mean what I think . . . then maybe we could use them. But not yet. He were a bit of a bastard, weren’t he, your Mark? Had it coming to him. I’m not sorry.”

  She giggled. “But no bloody good in bed.”

  “Can’t understand why you married him. Not when you knew me. Big dick, had he?”

  “Big money. Big money and a small dick. That’s what he had.”

  “And I’m going to be foreman. Probably. Not yet awhile. But I will. Anyway, I’m not short of a bob or two.”

  “What about Dwight?”

  “He’s gone. Anyway, don’t let’s talk about all that now. I’ve got to meet Ronnie in three-quarters of an hour and us’ve better things to do.”

  He switched on the cassette once again. “Oh, no, Kenny.” She protested as if she meant it. “I don’t want to dance again.”

  “Dance! Dance!”

  Reluctantly she climbed out of bed, naked this time. ‘Another Brick in the Wall’ boomed from the speakers and suddenly the rhythm took her and she was once again into her go-go routine.

  “That’s more like it, June! Flash it about a bit. I like girls what do what they’re told.”

  17

  Monday, 4th February

  SHEPTON MALLET

  Dressed in army surplus flak-jacket and faded green trousers, Ronnie Arnold answered the knock at his door. Outside, it was a typical Shepton Mallet night. The rain was ricocheting from the path. “Ready, then?” He watched the new arrival nod his head before continuing. “Let’s go, then.” Even as he said it Arnold was withdrawing the twelve-bore from the roll of carpet. Without even bothering to lock up, he walked quickly down the path, gun invisibly close to his side, spare ammunition zipped into his pocket.

  “We’ll take my car, if you like.”

  “No.” Ronnie shook his head. “We’ll take mine.”

  Obediently the younger man climbed into Ronnie’s car and slammed the door with a bang, as the driver fumbled for the ignition and lights. Though neither man could see the other, there was however an unmistakable air of tension passing between them, Even after the lights illuminated the cruelly cut-back hedges and the car sped northwards, the atmosphere remained the same. Action had changed nothing; reactions were the same, the driver thinking ahead, the younger man saying nothing, just staring ahead at the cats’ eyes, anxious, even in the darkness, not to show his feelings but showing them none the less.

  They pulled on to the Bristol road and Kenny Robertson broke the silence. “You’re sure it’s going to be all right?”

  “Of course I am. There’ll be no trouble. I’ve got it all planned.” Ronnie’s voice was confident but the knuckles, gripped tight on the steering-wheel, were a clue to his own inner doubts and concern.

  “But how did you find out?”

  “Don’t ask. I just heard, that’ all.”

  “And no risk?”

  “None.” But not even Ronnie Arnold could pretend that to be true and, after a moment or two of chilling silence, he continued, his voice dry, his accent rural. “No real risk. You’ll see . . . I’ve got it all planned.”

  “Just so long as you don’t expect me to use that thing. That’ all.” Kenny’s voice was sullen, resentful.

  “No. I’ll use it. You keep a look out. I’ll shoot. In an hour’s time it’ll all be over and we’ll be in the pub.”

  “I hope you’re right. I don’t want no trouble.”

  “It’ll be a cinch.”

  18

  Monday, 4th February

  BRISTOL

  Looking more than ever like a man thrown together on a Friday afternoon, Dwight Riley sat alone in a chair without springs, staring at his feet, head forward, eyes down. At the same time, his former workmates were just turning into the Bristol road but Riley’s thoughts were not of them. His mind was elsewhere, recalling the porno film which he had seen that afternoon down the road. He was thinking about the splutter of the gas fire; thinking about when his money would run out; thinking about having no job; thinking about the mark round his neck. But the thoughts were neither as logical nor as progressive as that. They were an unpalatable mishmash of eroticism and harsh reality.

  But he’d been lucky to get accommodation at all. God knows, his money wasn’t going to last for ever! I mean, the room was dry. The furniture would have looked old in a junk-shop. But no worse than his home. But the ceilings were too high. It was cold. Specially after the low-slung cottage. But he had another room. With a bed and, in the hall, he could do a bit of cooking. But such luxury could only last another two or three weeks. The money was disappearing.

  He flicked the knob of the transistor radio, picking up the fag-end of a news bulletin about unemployment. The fat cats were getting fatter. But what was he doing? He didn’t know. Hadn’t known since he’d left Shepton. Could he go back? Tomorrow? Next week? Never? What about his things? Perhaps he’d know tomorrow. He walked flat-footedly to the window. Nothing to look at. Just an endless line of cars, bumper to bumper. Bastards! Driving him out of his house. But he could fix them. If anyone believed him. His word against theirs. He scratched his head with sudden, jerky movements, betraying the inner nervousness.

  From somewhere came the sound of TV blare. There was nothing else for it. Sit it out. He slumped back into the chair, his bottom almost bumping the floor, as it met no resistance. He lit another cigarette and, flinging an ungainly leg over the arm of the chair, pu
ffed away with increasing agitation.

  In a quarter of an hour he had nodded off, the lack of sleep suddenly catching up with him unexpectedly. In his old maroon pullover and threadbare flannels, he looked like the leftovers from the penny stall at the jumble sale. He didn’t notice the temperature in the room fall, didn’t notice the meter run out. Least of all did he notice that the handle on the door to his room was being turned, turned slowly, yet deliberately.

  19

  Monday, 4th February

  BRISTOL

  Courtesy of the estate agents who managed the block of flats opposite Number 37a, Charlie Wilkinson was seated on a box in the bay window. The flat was devoid of furniture, awaiting its next tenant, but, from where he sat in the unlit room, Charlie had a panoramic view up and down Albion Street. More particularly, from where he sat, his long body hunched forward, angular chin in one hand, Guinness in the other, Charlie could see the first-floor light across the road. He looked at his watch. It was just past 9.00 p.m. Behind him a blower heater whirred, busily churning out a steady stream of hot, dusty air, which had at last turned the morbid dank of the room into a stuffily bearable temperature. Even so, Charlie was glad of his extra pullover and long johns.

  He yawned loudly, acutely aware of three hours of non-stop observation; of three hours sitting in this most uncomfortable position, in this most uncomfortable room and in circumstances where he expected to see nothing. But orders were orders. Alistair Duncan had said to keep an eye on the flat. With his police discipline, Charlie Wilkinson was not one to disobey. But it was a bore.