Killings on Jubilee Terrace

by Robert Barnard

  ‘OK,’ said Charlie, nodding to Rani to take notes. ‘What time did they arrive?’

  The landlord sighed.

  ‘Bloody hell – oh all right. Hold your horses. It was ten past nine, maybe a bit after: quarter past, let’s say. Business pretty slow, so I served them straightaway, and they went and sat over there.’ He pointed to the remotest part of the bar.

  ‘Did you see where they parked their car?’

  ‘Fer Christ’s sake…I’m behind this bar when I’m not collecting glasses. I don’t care where they park their…cars.’

  ‘Did you get any impression about Garrett’s frame of mind?’

  ‘Yes, I did. I got the impression that he was thirsty after a long filming session.’

  Charlie sighed. A humorist.

  ‘So he and his lady-friend started talking.’

  ‘’Course they did. It’s what they came for, isn’t it? They sat, bent forward, talking in low voices. Doesn’t mean they were planning to murder anybody. If you ask me—’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Charlie, losing his patience.

  ‘It was the British National Party or some of the other racist groups. It’s what they do, set fire to houses. They just got the wrong house.’

  ‘Nobody from the minorities lives in those houses in Bridge Street,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Then they got the wrong bloody street, didn’t they?’

  ‘Now, while they were here, did Bill Garrett leave the bar for a while?’

  The landlord gave one of his sighs.

  ‘I’m here to serve drinks. Most people in this bar drink beer of some sort. It means they often go to the loos. I’ve got better things to think about than “oh my, Bill Garrett has gone to the gents” or “why, now Liza Croome has gone to the ladies”. I just don’t notice things like that… One of the customers said he did, though.’

  ‘Oh.’ The three men were immediately alert. ‘Who?’

  ‘Pete Savage. Comes Monday and Thursday evenings, regular as clockwork.’

  ‘Where did he see Bill Garrett?’

  ‘In the car park.’

  ‘Was he getting into or out of his car?’

  ‘Neither. He was just standing some way away.’

  ‘Smoking? On his mobile? Talking to anyone?’

  ‘You’d have to talk to him. People do go out there to have a smoke now and then, what with these new regulations and so on. But I don’t remember Garrett as a smoker, even when it was legal.’

  ‘Nobody else saw him out there?’

  ‘Not so far as I know. As you can guess, all the Red Deer regulars know that Bob Worseley, licensee of the Duke of York’s pub in Jubilee Terrace, drops in here for a pint from time to time. But it was a fairly slow evening was that night, so probably nobody parked there and came in here. All I know is that when they left, they left together, him and Liza. Now, if you’ve got what you came for—’

  There was no point in keeping him longer from his life’s vocation.

  ‘Happy?’ Rani asked, when they stood in the parking area.

  ‘Not entirely,’ said Charlie. ‘We’ve got him at the pub, and we’ve got him out here. Where we haven’t got him is at number 9, Bridge Street. But it’ll have to do for the moment.’

  They looked at each other, resisted the thought of having a pint, then went about their business.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Those Responsible

  Charlie Peace saw the figure of a teenage girl disappearing round the end of the road in the St Catherine’s School uniform of green check blouse and dark green worsted skirt. He was well up in the names and identities of the remaining members of the Garrett household, and he congratulated himself on arriving just at the right time. Hargreaves had been called out to a domestic, but Rani was still with him. They got on well together, with a similar approach to knotty problems: theoretic without being cold. They usually found they were thinking along the same lines, without needing to put into words what those lines were.

  Bill Garrett was welcoming when he opened the door, without being positively friendly. Exactly calculated and just right, Charlie thought. Trust an actor.

  ‘I’ve been expecting you,’ said Bill, refraining from adding: ‘What took you so long?’

  ‘I like to clear away the little by-ways and irrelevancies first,’ said Charlie, sensing the query. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that you’re fairly central to our enquiry, or seem to be, considering your bad relationship with your wife and her recent taking-up with Hamish Fawley.’

  Bill gestured towards the threadbare armchair and sofa, but made no offer of coffee or tea.

  ‘My relationship, as you call it, with Bet has improved a lot since she gave up her claims to the children. And nobody ever believed the marriage to Fawley was going to come off.’

  ‘Mr Garrett,’ said Charlie gently, ‘you’re talking about the present. What we know, or think we know, now is that both were playing a sort of sadistic game with you and the children. But I don’t think that’s what anyone knew then, four days ago, when the fire was started. And I don’t think it’s what you thought then either.’

  The actor’s confident taking up of positions which Charlie had noticed seemed already to be shaking, he did not know why. Bill thought for several seconds, then all he could come up with was: ‘Yes. Well – I don’t know – was it different then?’

  ‘You must know it was. Everything I’ve heard from other members of the cast of Jubilee Terrace suggests that you believed in the engagement, believed in the claim to custody of the children. Probably you thought the two went together; the engagement was designed to strengthen the custody bid.’

  ‘You’re exaggerating,’ said Bill, inclining towards bluster. ‘I don’t think I took it that seriously. We none of us did. Why would Bet genuinely want custody when she bitterly resented ever having to put herself out for the girls? She knew how demanding custody of the girls would be if she took her duties seriously.’

  Charlie was silent for a moment, digesting his words.

  ‘I think you more than most have reason to know the answer to your question why she would want this custody. She is an emotional sadist. The marriage had collapsed long ago, but since she could no longer torment you with her flagrant unfaithfulness she could use the children to get at you. Your weak point was that you loved them, where she was totally indifferent if not actually hostile. They made wonderful tools to hurt you, and she had no scruples or tender feelings to stop her using them.’

  ‘Maybe. I suppose so. She is a terrible woman.’

  ‘You see, we have to be interested in what the situation was at the time of the double murder. You thought the engagement was still on.’

  ‘I think everybody did,’ said Bill, changing his story much too rapidly.

  ‘I agree. I heard her say that it had been broken off days before the murder, but she and Hamish decided to say nothing about it. That being so, it was a fair bet that your wife and Hamish would still be sharing the house in Bridge Street on the night of the murder. You’d kill two birds with one stone.’

  ‘Nasty image. I’d nothing against Hamish Fawley.’

  ‘Everyone had something against Hamish Fawley.’

  ‘Nothing particular. Just that he was a nastytongued troublemaker.’

  ‘I bet the last thing you’d want was him as stepfather to your children, with constant access to them.’

  There was silence. Then Bill said with some dignity: ‘I would have hated it. But I didn’t think there was any chance it would happen.’ He then, to Charlie’s surprise, added: ‘And by the way I had nothing against Vernon Watts either.’

  Charlie shrugged.

  ‘Oh, I think we can say that Watts is an irrelevancy. I’ve always thought so. He fell in front of a bus, after a heart attack, but since he was disliked people amused themselves by talking about murder. This was taken up when another murder – a real murder – was being planned, to make it look as if Terrace actors were being targeted. A real r
ed herring, but with one interesting aspect.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘That the arson was decided and prepared for well in advance. Because of the anonymous letter that was sent to the police.’

  ‘I see.’ Bill’s voice sounded glum. His early access of confidence was now largely evaporated.

  ‘Now,’ said Charlie, ‘after the filming on the night in question you and Liza Croome went for a drink in the Red Deer, is that right?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m not criticising. But it is nowhere near the Northern TV studios.’

  ‘Have you tried the pubs that are?’

  ‘Fair enough. But you chose one within easy driving distance of Bridge Street.’

  ‘Practically all the pubs in Leeds centre are that.’

  ‘Not the ones in the pedestrianised parts. And the Red Deer has a small Council parking area just above it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It was easy for you to go outside for a cigarette, or to make a phone call, then to jump into your car, go and do the necessary, then be back within ten minutes.’

  ‘Except that I never thought of it. Ask Liza if the car was in a different position when we left the park to go to our various homes.’

  ‘No reason why it should be. There is usually very little doing up there before people come out of the theatres and clubs and plenty of parking space.’

  ‘Setting fire to a house needs preparation.’

  ‘Not much. You probably keep old newspapers in the boot till you go to a recycling skip. You may be one of the people who keep a bit of petrol in the boot, against emergencies.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘So you say. Easy enough to buy a can on the way to the studios to film. Then all you have to do is say “I’m going to the loo”, nip outside and jump into the car.’

  ‘So have you got someone who saw me “jump” into the car?’

  ‘We have someone who saw you in the parking area.’

  ‘Doing what? Standing around or making a phone call, I bet.’

  ‘He saw you standing around, yes.’

  ‘Seems like I wasn’t in much of a hurry, doesn’t it? I think if I was going to do it at all I’d have “jumped” straight into the car and driven off to do it.’

  Charlie felt he had been trumped on one of his best cards. Worse, he felt that Bill, by getting these points across, was gaining a new source of confidence.

  ‘You mentioned phoning,’ he said.

  ‘Because that’s what I did. I phoned my daughters to see if they were all right.’

  ‘And were they?’

  ‘Yes. I spoke to the eldest. She was waiting in the pizza takeaway we go to. She’d been too busy to cook anything for their tea, so she thought they needed something more substantial.’

  ‘And what time was this?’

  ‘Twenty past nine? Half past, twenty to ten? It’s not the sort of thing you remember. Angela will vouch for me.’

  ‘But she can’t vouch for where you were, can she? You and your mobile could have been anywhere.’

  ‘We weren’t. We were in the little car park, where your witness doubtless saw me.’

  Charlie was beginning to feel not so much trumped as checkmated. Luckily at this point Rani made one of his occasional forays.

  ‘How long have you and your wife been married, Mr Garrett?’

  ‘Longer than I care to remember. Say fifteen years.’

  ‘You would know her habits, then?’

  ‘I suppose you mean her sexual habits, don’t you?’ Bill countered. ‘They’re a distant memory.’

  ‘I just wondered why the murderer assumed they would be in bed at half past nine.’

  ‘That’s a matter for the police. I don’t need to explain why I was no expert in Hamish and Bet’s habits. I wasn’t interested, and I have no ambitions to play Peeping Tom.’

  ‘Any cases of arson I’ve been on – racial ones usually, admittedly – the fire has been set when everyone in the house is asleep.’

  ‘And this one wasn’t. As I say, it’s a matter for the police. Could it be that the arsonist saw the downstairs lights were turned off and one of the upstairs ones was on?’

  Rani also retired hurt.

  ‘What were you wearing on the night in question, sir?’

  ‘Wearing? Good Lord, I don’t know.’

  ‘You’d just been filming, sir.’

  ‘Then it would be…’ Bill had to think hard…‘it would have been one of Bob Worseley’s standard outfits. Bartending clobber, from the Wardrobe. I think it was a shirt – big check, rough looking – flannels, loud socks.’

  ‘What did you do with them after filming finished?’

  ‘Nothing. I went home in them. That’s usual with evening filming. Then I took back the whole outfit next day, or the next time I went to the studios.’

  ‘Which was?’ Bill frowned in concentration.

  ‘Yesterday, actually.’

  ‘It was a cold night, the night of the fire. Didn’t you wear something else to go home in?’

  ‘Oh, I had my usual old mac in the dressing room. I think I had that on.’

  ‘I see.’ Charlie looked at his watch and went over to the window. ‘Ah, the team is arriving.’

  ‘Team? What team?’

  ‘Mr Garrett, I have a warrant to search this house. I asked the team to be here at three o’clock, and they will conduct it, supervised by me.’

  ‘And what are you looking for?’

  ‘You won’t expect me to answer that, sir. We may have to take items for further investigation. If so I will give you a receipt.’

  ‘Big of you,’ said Bill. Charlie was surprised that by now the man was very relaxed, or apparently so. Much more so than when the interview seemed to be going against him. It was almost as if the new stage in the investigations was in the nature of a relief for Bill. As if he wanted to be deemed guilty.

  Bill Garrett listened to the noises from around the living room, where he had been left in the company of a uniformed constable, and also from upstairs, where he could sense big footsteps in the various children’s bedrooms, and also in the one that until recently had been nominally Bet’s. Not much left there to interest anybody. He nodded when the footsteps there ceased. He had vetoed attempts by Debbie to move into the room, saying it was ‘too soon’, so there was only stuff that Bet did not think it worth taking with her.

  On the ground floor he registered the opening of the door of the clothes cupboard. Macs, overcoats, some school clothing, umbrellas and heavy boots – he wished them well of all of them. He was not surprised when Inspector Peace came in, obviously having just smelt at the old mac he was holding in his hand.

  ‘Is this yours, sir?’

  ‘Of course it is. It’s a man’s mac. I’m the only man in the house.’

  ‘These things are often unisex these days.’

  ‘Maybe. That mac’s at least fifteen years old. I’ve done everything you can imagine in it, and a great deal besides. I’ve even made love in it, long, long ago. If you smell anything interesting on it, the smell could have been there for a decade and more.’

  Charlie smiled noncommittally and left the room again.

  Bill looked at the constable, who looked back, his eyes in neutral.

  ‘All right if I write a note to my kids?’

  ‘Why would you want to do that, sir.’

  ‘In case you take me in for questioning.’

  ‘Nobody’s said anything about that yet.’

  ‘If they don’t, I’ll tear it up.’

  ‘There’s nothing against it, provided we can read it as well.’

  ‘Oh, you can read it.’

  He sat down at the desk. Outside he heard the metal doors of his garage scraping over the concreted driveway. He took out a sheet of notepaper and wrote.

  Darlings,

  I’m going to the police station to answer questions. It’s only a matter of routine. I’ve been expecting this, as it’s po
ssible whoever did this was aiming at your mother. Don’t worry – I’m sure I’ll see you soon. If I have to stay in overnight I know you can rely on Angela, as always. Remember, anything I do I do for you all.

  Love you all so much.

  Your Dad.

  He beckoned the constable over and handed it to him. The young man read, then read it again, apparently memorising it. Then he handed it back without comment. Bill remained sitting at the desk, lost in thought.

  Traces of petrol on the mac were not much in the way of proof. Still, they’d probably be able to prove they were recent. The petrol would probably have got on to other items of clothing – shirt, trousers. Bill remained deep in thought on that question. Again he was interrupted by Charlie.

  ‘We have only found one mobile phone, sir.’

  ‘We only have one telly – so what? We’re a modest family, Inspector.’

  ‘You phoned your daughter from outside the Red Deer.’

  ‘Oh yes, the children have one. What child doesn’t? I should think Angela has got it on her – the eldest.’

  ‘Taken it with her to school, sir?’

  ‘Precisely. It’s called a mobile phone. That’s its appeal.’

  ‘Thank you for pointing that out, sir.’

  Bill sat on. He was remembering his boxing days, when he punched his way through drama school. In his mind he’d always had a series of positions – possible outcomes of fights. Position One, the optimum outcome, was an early KO of his opposition. This was a result he very rarely accomplished. He was rather afraid he was vacating Position One already in the fight with Inspector Peace. He’d scored points, but that was a sign foreshadowing longer fights. There was no sign of Peace giving up the struggle or declaring him free from suspicion. Positions Two and Three were a late KO and a victory on points, and both possibilities, less desirable than the first, were becoming the ones to aim for. Position Four, his own defeat, had been a frequent result in his boxing matches, suffered with equanimity and good humour, but they were not something he could bear to contemplate in this contest.