by Ian Simpson
Baggo was finishing off covering his traces as best he could when Flick and Peters returned.
‘Did you find your tom?’ Baggo asked, as casually as he could.
Flick said, ‘No. Her flat was a bloodbath, but with no body. A neighbour who peeped out of her door said she left last night with a man. There had been a fight. There was more activity later, but quieter the second time. SOCOs are there now. Patrycja’s disappeared. No one at the hostel knew anything. That’s what they said, anyway. I’m going to get a warrant for her arrest.’
After trying to look surprised, Baggo hid his face behind his computer screen, breathing deeply.
‘What about you? Anything to report from the dagger entries?’ He looked up. Flick stood over him, a quizzical expression on her face.
He kept his hands under his desk. ‘Well, Sarge, there’s a man who writes about medieval torture. He has a lot of imagination, and his motive is revenge.’
‘Doesn’t ring a bell. Have I seen that one?’
‘No. I’ll print it out for you. It was in the latest batch to come in. This one may be short-listed.’ Baggo was grateful for the dagger time he had put in the previous Friday. The morning had gone better than expected. But if the police caught up with Patrycja before the gangmaster, what would she tell them?
* * *
‘Honest, Noelly, I ’ad no idea you and he ’ad ’istory. It must have happened during my five stretch.’ Weasel did his best to look honest as Osborne glared at him.
They sat on rickety chairs upholstered in cracked vinyl at the rear of a spit and sawdust pub in Roman Road, all battered metal grilles and indestructible dark-stained wood. It was Weasel’s choice, as he thought a regular in the Mile End Road pub had recognised him. Weasel had arrived first and in the few minutes since Osborne had joined him, three men had swallowed their drinks and left. The barman shot black looks in their direction.
‘Bloody sore thumbs, you lot. Aren’t you going to buy me a drink?’ Weasel asked.
‘What have you got for me?’
‘Something you need. It’s worth a lot.’
Osborne put a five pound note on the table. The movement made his chair creak ominously. ‘Get me a coke,’ he growled.
Weasel returned and set the drinks down. He raised his double Bells. ‘Sludge, or whatever the Sweaties say.’
‘Get on with it.’
‘All in good time, Noelly. I need this.’
Osborne suspected that Weasel was playing him like a fish, but he had to find out what he knew. He wanted to report some progress to Palfrey and Jumbo, specially if it came from old-fashioned methods.
Weasel rolled the whisky round his mouth then began. ‘Willie Johnson, “Johnny” to you, will be getting out on parole very soon, and he’s not happy with you. He hasn’t been happy with you for years. He heard you’re in charge of the agent murders, and thought you might fit him up for them. So he’s taken precautions. You with me?’
Osborne nodded.
A big man with a huge belly came in and ordered a drink. Weasel looked carefully at him then relaxed. ‘Johnny’s got alibis for all three murders.’
Osborne shrugged. He did not know about the third alibi.
‘They’re crap,’ Weasel said.
‘The records say he was in the prison.’
‘The records are crap.’
‘How do you know?’
Weasel banged his empty glass on the table and looked at it. Osborne slid a second five pound note across to him.
When he returned from the bar, Weasel took a drink then put his face near Osborne’s. ‘A mate of mine got out of Littlepool recently. He could tell me a lot. I’ll have to pay him.’
Osborne winced. ‘He’s told you already. Fifty.’
‘Don’t make me laugh, Noelly. A grand. This is serious grassing, and, well, you know Johnny.’
‘A hundred.’
‘Eight hundred.’
‘A hundred today. The rest if you give me evidence I can use.’
‘I’m not covering my expenses, Noelly. Three hundred today, then five hundred when you get evidence. Or I walk out.’
Osborne could see he meant it. Concealed by the table, he took six fifty pound notes from his wallet, but held on to them. ‘Spill,’ he said.
‘Johnny bosses that jail. Everyone’s scared of him, from the governor down. If prisoners cross him, they get their legs broke. One guy got a big pot of soup poured over him. He was a month in hospital.’
‘How does he control the officers?’
‘That’s the key. Johnny has contacts outside. He used them to threaten an officer’s wife and kids. Photos of them on mobiles, that sort of thing. So the officer agrees to bring drugs into the jail. He does it once, but that’s not enough. He does it a few times. They film him so they can blackmail him. They make him tell them all the other officers’ dirty little secrets. Then they start all over again with another officer’s kids. And so on. Johnny’s the spider in the middle of all this. He’s bright, and he don’t take no prisoners, no pun intended. No one dares go against him. He’s out of the jail far longer than he’s supposed to be, and they write crap in the records. The governor learned all this far too late to do anything about it. If half of this came out, there would be such a bloody fuss. The governor would be out on ’is ear. So he wants Johnny to get parole because then he might get his jail back.’
Osborne was shocked. He stretched the hand holding the cash under the table and Weasel took it. ‘Keep in touch,’ he said quietly, and left the pub. He had a lot to think about.
* * *
‘He’s not St Francis of Assisi.’ Flick looked up from the A4 pages she had been reading. ‘You sense he really enjoys writing this stuff.’ Sidney Francis opened his competition entry with a widow dying of the plague. He followed, a few pages later, with a graphic description of an English knight being hung, drawn and quartered. As his story progressed, a knight with a vicious tongue was ducked in a sewer until he drowned. Another had a red-hot poker thrust into his rectum, the same fate as befell Edward II, Flick thought. The final victim had his hands tied to a tree and his feet to a horse, which literally tore him apart. All these things were done by a man to pay back those who had prevented him from leading a religious order of chivalry.
‘This Francis lives in Tooting, Sarge,’ Baggo said. ‘Do you think he’s worth a visit?’
‘No time like the present. Let’s go.’ Flick was curious to see what this author was like. Probably short and weedy, with a furtive air, she guessed.
The man who opened the door was tall and thin. He had the premature stoop of the physically lazy academic. Dark eyes were sunk deep behind black-framed glasses. His nose was like a great white beak; and his mouth, narrow and straight, could have been cut by a scalpel.
It had taken time to find the ground floor flat with ‘Francis’ on a tarnished brass plate, fixed slightly askew on the warped door. The sixties block was typical of the down-at-heel area which, in more prosperous times, would have been ripe for redevelopment.
Francis registered as much irritation as surprise at the detectives’ visit. He led them through a nondescript hall into a room where a boy of about ten lay on the floor, doing homework. He scrambled to his feet and stood to attention. Brusquely, his father ordered him to his room. He bent to pick up his books, bowed his head to the visitors, and left. Francis waved towards the scuffed leather sofa and sat on the upright chair beside the window. On the table in front of him, a black laptop was surrounded by a mess of papers and books. Baggo sat down but Flick inspected the bookcase which filled most of one wall. In this investigation, it was becoming second nature. Francis clearly admired Dorothy L Sayers; he had several Wimsey books. The only modern crime writers were Barbara Cleverly and David Roberts. But history, particularly the medieval period, dominated the shelves. Flick spotted a worn copy of Rosemary Sutcliff’s Dawn Wind. The adventures of the youth, Owain, had made post-Roman Brit
ain come alive for her as a child. She suspected that, like her, Francis had his copy passed down from a parent. She pulled it from the shelf.
‘I loved this when I was a girl.’ She beamed at Francis.
‘Put it back, please,’ he said stiffly, his accent patrician.
Carefully, Flick slid the old book into its space then turned. ‘You have written an historical crime novel, I believe?’ she said.
‘I have.’
‘Do you have an agent?’
‘What business of yours is that?’
‘We are investigating a series of murders, and we have reason to ask questions of a number of people. The sooner these questions are answered, the sooner people can be eliminated from the inquiry. We would be grateful for your assistance.’
‘I am a busy man.’ He gestured towards the papers in front of him.
‘Did you try to get Lorraine McNeill to represent you?’
‘I do not need to answer that.’
‘What about Jessica Stanhope?’
‘The same.’
‘Denzil Burke?’
He shook his head.
‘Do you realise that we have certain powers? Do you want us to take you down to the police station?’
‘You may have powers, but no grounds, I fancy. So, unless you welcome complaints about police harassment, I would advise you to ask any other questions you might have, then leave.’
Flick stared at him, wondering what she should do. She knew she did not have grounds for detaining him.
‘Possessing an offensive weapon in a public place is a crime, sir.’ Baggo stood by a framed photograph of Francis surrounded by a group of open-mouthed children. He wore chain mail and waved an evil-looking mace. His spectacles added to the absurdity of the scene, which had been pictured in a street.
It was Francis’ turn to stare. His lips twitched with indecision.
‘Daddy, please say my time’s up!’ A child’s tearful voice called from another room.
Flick moved sharply to see what was happening. Another plea came from behind a closed door at the end of the hall. Ignoring Francis’ bluster, Flick threw the door open and, closely followed by Baggo, went in. The room was a bedroom containing a double bed. At the foot of the bed, a boy rather younger than the other one, sat in a Heath Robinson contraption made of wood. Roughly put together, it secured the boy’s feet straight in front of him as he sat on the narrow edge of a plank of wood placed vertically on runners. There were notches along the runners, suggesting that the appliance could be adapted for victims of different height. Flick pulled up the plank securing the boy’s feet. Gingerly, he set them on the ground then stood, rubbing his bottom.
‘Go to your room, Rufus,’ Francis commanded. Hanging his head, the boy slunk out.
‘Mr Francis, this is no way to treat a child,’ Flick said, then was conscious of Baggo’s hand on her elbow.
‘May I, Sarge?’ he asked.
Before she could say no, Baggo addressed Francis. ‘Now, Mr Francis, you have put us in a dilemma. If we were to contact Social Services over you putting your son in the stocks, he is your son I take it, there would be a very great deal of embarrassing attention paid to you and your family.’
Francis glared at him.
‘It is a most unusual case,’ Baggo carried on. ‘It may be that we will decide we do not need to use a sledgehammer to crack a nut, but we shall have to be satisfied that you are a cooperative sort of gentleman. So I suggest that we return to the sitting room where you can answer my sergeant’s questions, after which we might put the whole situation under review.’
Flick asked, ‘How long has he been sitting there?’
Francis blinked. ‘Five minutes.’
‘I think they might prosecute,’ Flick said to Baggo.
Baggo brought out his i-Phone and took photographs of the stocks from different angles.
‘This was the boys’ idea,’ Francis spat. ‘All boys need discipline. They know where they stand and are happy with it. They asked me to build this, so I did.’
‘Why did you put Rufus in the stocks?’ Flick asked.
‘He had spilled some tea this morning and hadn’t wiped it up, so when he came home from school, he faced the consequences.’
‘When did he return from school?’ Flick asked.
Francis’ eyes blinked again. ‘Ten minutes ago, maybe.’
‘Or maybe longer, perhaps?’ Baggo asked.
Francis looked from one to the other. He focused on Baggo’s knuckles and looked thoughtful. ‘I fail to see why my writing could be of the slightest interest to you, but I have nothing to hide,’ he said.
They returned to the sitting room and took their seats. Baggo prepared to write down what Francis said.
He began, ‘Until just under two years ago, I was a lecturer at the University of London, but their short-sighted attitude to the teaching of medieval history forced me to resign. I had always wanted to be an author, to share my enthusiasm for the medieval period as widely as possible. During those centuries, the basics of today’s society were hammered out. Human nature took on a purer form, more primitive perhaps, but more honest. Life was cheaper and men acted on their instincts.’ He sat forward eagerly, his voice full of excitement. Flick cleared her throat. ‘Anyway, I decided to use crime novels as a vehicle for teaching history. My protagonist is a Franciscan friar. Yes, the name attracted me. During the fourteenth century, the friars went round England, living among the poor and helping them. They were decimated by the Black Death, and then, in the fifteenth century, became decadent; they stayed safely in convents, living off rich, gullible men who were desperate for salvation. My hero, Friar Alfred, maintains the Franciscan traditions of poverty and repentance. But he is an educated man. The Wars of the Roses have started, and …’
‘We believe you asked Jessica Stanhope to be your agent,’ Flick cut in.
Francis pursed his lips. ‘Yes,’ he snapped.
‘And she rejected you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you approach Lorraine McNeill?’
‘The one who wanted a murder on the first page? Yes.’
‘And she rejected you?’
‘Yes. Someone dying of the plague wasn’t good enough for her. There had to be a “proper murder”, her assistant said.’ He snorted.
‘What about Denzil Burke?’
‘Yes, yes, and several others. How did you get my name, by the way?’
‘I don’t need to tell you that,’ Flick said.
‘I’ll find out, and if there has been improper conduct, I’ll …’
‘You should do nothing, sir,’ Baggo said.
‘There has been no improper conduct,’ Flick said firmly. ‘Do you live alone with the boys?’
Francis shook his head. ‘My wife, Matilda, will be back soon. Because the publishing industry has yet to wake up to my worth, she has taken a cleaning job.’
‘Do you have access to a car?’ Flick asked.
‘No.’
‘Can you tell me what you were doing last Friday evening?’
‘I was doing research.’
‘Where?’
‘The streets of London. Among the poor. Trying to help them.’
‘Like a …?’
‘Exactly. Much has changed over the centuries, but the emotions of the suffering poor are the same as they have always been. And no, no one can vouch for me.’
‘What about the evening of seventh December? It was a Monday.’
‘I have no idea. As a writer, one day merges with another, and I don’t keep a diary.’
‘What about Monday eighteenth January?’
‘I can’t help you. I did go off into the hills round the Welsh border about that time, to experience the harshness of winter in the countryside.’
‘Alone?’
‘Of course. I want to make my readers believe they are looking over Friar Alfred’s shoulder, feeling the pain o
f frostbite as he does.’
Baggo said, ‘He sounds quite like Brother Cadfael.’
Francis became animated, bouncing on his chair and clenching his fists. ‘But with attitude. He’s a good man, not a nice man. Russell Crowe, not Derek Jacobi.’
‘How long were you away from home when you went to the countryside?’ Flick brought him back to the inquiry.
‘A few days. Three or four. I can’t remember.’
‘Where did you stay?’
‘Stay? In a tent.’ He paused. ‘One night I cheated and went to a bed and breakfast place, but I can’t remember what it was called or even where it was. There was a blizzard that night. I paid cash,’ he added, anticipating Flick’s next question.
Flick glanced at Baggo, who shrugged. She said, ‘Well, thank you, Mr Francis. That will be all, for now. We will be back at some time in the future, and if these stocks are still in the house, we will start a full criminal investigation. They are not to be used ever again, do you understand?’
‘How am I supposed to discipline my sons? My sons.’ He emphasised the ‘my’.
‘You are an intelligent man, Mr Francis, so you are well able to explain why the boys should do or not do particular things. You can dock their pocket money, send them to their rooms, ground them.’
‘But not smack them?’
‘You must never behave cruelly towards them.’ She stood. ‘Before we go, I think we should check that there is no other inappropriate punishment appliance here.’ As Francis spluttered protests, Flick carried on, ‘or do you want us to get a warrant and come back with social workers?’
He slumped back in his chair. ‘On you go,’ he said weakly.
The flat was poorly maintained, with shabby furniture. When they entered the elder boy’s bedroom, his face was pressed against the window pane. He turned and Baggo asked him what he was doing.
‘Science. I’m trying to work out how water comes from my breath. Mr Runciman doesn’t explain very well.’
Baggo joined him at the window, noticing the boy move away slightly. ‘I’m Baggo. What’s your name?’ he asked.