Duggie pressed the bell and the door opened immediately. A grey-haired man was standing there, in a jacket and tie. ‘C’m in, my dear,’ he said in a soft, sibilant voice, taking her by the arm and nodding to Duggie. He closed the door, with Duggie on the outside, and turned the lock. ‘My, you’re a bright young thing,’ the man told her. ‘And you’re wet through. Let’s get you out of those damp clothes. Would you like a glass of wine?’ As the door closed Duggie had said: ‘Don’t forget,’ and made the pssst pssst noise through his teeth.
* * *
Rosie rang me to ask what she should wear, and I’d been a big help. Well, that’s what she’d said: ‘You’re a big help, Charlie.’ She’d decided on a pinstripe suit – ‘My interview outfit’ – with the inevitable red blouse, and looked terrific. I gave her a kiss on the cheek and told her so.
Heckley Town played their hearts out and only lost by one goal. Everybody agreed that the result flattered the other side, and that if Heckley played like that every week then success would surely follow. Rosie, knowing nothing about football, suggested that if the other side scored more goals every week, wouldn’t all the results be defeats? I began to explain, then abandoned the task.
The hospitality suite ran the full length of the ground’s new grandstand, behind where the crowd sat, and looked out over their heads. It had a glass wall facing the pitch with rows of tables and chairs. All the women wore dresses or suits, but the men were in everything from jeans to dinner jackets. Twenty minutes after the final whistle the players filtered into the function, freshly showered and powdered, identifiable by the huge knots in their ties and the silly hairstyles.
Young ladies in short skirts wandered amongst us with trays laden with wine, and a substantial buffet was laid out near the middle of the room. We stacked our plates – Rosie’s modestly, mine to the gunnels – and shared a table with a couple from Tintwistle who manufactured rustic garden furniture.
‘For rustic read splinters in your bum’ Rosie told me as we moved on. I’d seen Wallenberg circulating, exhorting everybody to give generously, but steered out of his way. Once we’d met, I’d have no excuse for staying longer, and would have to take Rosie home. Work and pleasure are not always mutually exclusive. At one end of the room was what could only be called a shrine to Grace Wallenberg, whom I assumed to be Peter’s mother. A table covered in blue velvet bore a series of framed photographs taken throughout what looked like an active, prosperous life, with a portrait in oils hanging behind them. In her later years she was an elegant lady who wouldn’t have looked out of place on the balcony of Buck house, flapping an indifferent hand at the adoring multitude. Earlier, she’d been an adventurer, but her adventures and hardships were of the type that usually had a flunky or two not far to the rear, bringing along the Harrods’ hamper. There were photos of her standing alongside cars bedecked with Monte Carlo rally plates, smiling from the cockpit of a Tiger Moth, and posing in shorts on the deck of a yacht. There was just one picture of her with the man I presumed to be her husband. She was wearing ski goggles and it said Chamonix, 1958 in a bottom corner. We were there, a glossy plaque told us, to support the Grace Wallenberg Trust in its fight against cancer.
‘A noble cause,’ Rosie said.
‘Yep,’ I agreed.
‘She certainly moved around in high circles.’
I leant closer to her. ‘All paid for by ill-gotten gains,’ I whispered. ‘Can’t help wondering how much she knew about it.’
‘Sometimes, it’s easier just to lie back and not ask questions.’
‘Mmm, but that doesn’t make her any less culpable.’
‘The portrait’s good,’ Rosie said.
‘Do you think so?’
‘Mmm. Don’t you?’
‘It’s a bit amateurish,’ I said. ‘The eyes don’t follow you round the room. That’s how you tell a good portrait.’
Rosie smiled at me. ‘Can you do portraits?’ she asked.
‘Yes. They’re my speciality. Mainly for Wanted posters.’
‘Will you do one of me? I’d love to have my portrait painted.’
Instantly I knew how I would do it. She’d be curled up in her favourite chair, barefooted with painted toenails. ‘If you like,’ I replied. I reached forward and took hold of a wisp of her hair between my thumb and forefinger. ‘I’ll go to Halfords in the morning,’ I said, ‘and buy a tin of aluminium paint.’
When she’d forgiven me I gave her ten pounds to buy raffle tickets and bought another ten pounds-worth for myself, which earned me a tut and a headshake from her. We wandered back into the throng and I positioned us where a collision with the ever-networking Peter Wallenberg and his wife was inevitable.
A girl in overloaded fishnet tights alongside and I lifted two orange juices from her tray. Wallenberg was talking to the couple standing next to us, holding the man’s arm and occasionally laughing out loud. His wife was as tall as he was, dark and Mediterranean-looking, wearing a blue sleeveless dress that came high around her neck. A strategically placed keyhole displayed her cleavage to anybody who might be interested in that sort of thing, and around her shoulders was a shawl in muted colours that she held together with her left hand. The sparklers on her wedding finger would have bought my house.
‘So how did Peter make his money?’ Rosie asked, very softly, turning to me.
‘You name it,’ I replied, stooping to place my lips close to her ear. ‘He was a gangster. Everything up to murder, at a guess.’
Wallenberg shook the man’s hand yet again and turned towards us, but his wife said something to him and moved off.
‘The ladies,’ Rosie stated. ‘I think I’ll join her. See what I can find out.’
‘Rosie!’ I hissed, but she slipped away and I watched her vanish behind the door into the secret world of the ladies’ loo.
‘Good evening,’ Wallenberg boomed, with all the confidence of a man who was paying for the booze and food but could afford it. This was his party. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’
‘Charlie Priest,’ I said, taking the extended hand and shaking it. ‘As in Roman Catholic. I’m with Heckley CID. Thanks for the invitation.’
‘A policeman! Wonderful. If the evening descends into a fight I’ll be depending on you, Charlie.’
‘I’d say it was unlikely. They look a docile lot. I understand you’ve bought the club.’
‘That’s right. It’s a wonderful institution and I’d like to keep it alive. We try to put something back into the community; that’s what it’s all about, don’t you think? Are you a supporter?’
‘Lapsed is probably the word,’ I said. ‘I come when I can.’ No point in hurting the man’s feelings, but I’d rather watch the sink overflow. ‘I played for them, briefly,’ I boasted, ‘when I was a teenager.’
‘Really?’
‘I was a goalkeeper. We had a weak defence. That’s my excuse.’
He looked around, conspiratorially, and placed a hand at one side of his mouth. ‘You wouldn’t like to turn out next Saturday, would you?’ he whispered.
‘Ah! I think you’ll be better off without me.’
‘Perhaps so. I envy you, though, Charlie. I envy all sportsmen. I love sport, but I have a slight handicap.’ He glanced briefly down at his leg, then continued: ‘I was hopeless at games. Had a rough time at school. Ironic, really, that I now own a football club, don’t you think?’
‘That’s life, Mr Wallenberg.’
‘Peter, please. Have you bought some raffle tickets?’
I placed a hand on my top pocket. ‘Right here,’ I said, then went on: ‘Actually, I need to talk to you sometime.’
‘Oh? What about?’
‘Tony Krabbe’s murder. I’m the investigating detective. I believe you knew him.’
‘An unfortunate business but I don’t see how I can help. I hardly ever met the fellow, as I’ve already told a police officer.’
‘We do follow-up interviews, especially when we’re totally baffled. How abo
ut Monday morning?’
He looked thoughtful. ‘I’m not sure. You’d better ring my office.’
‘I’ll do that.’
Before we could continue the conversation his mobile phone rang. He apologised for the interruption and retrieved it from a jacket pocket.
‘Yes, this is Peter,’ I heard him say. He listened for a few moments, then added: ‘Hi! How are you? Yes thanks, it’s going well. I appreciate that it’s not quite your scene…Listen, though. I’m glad you rang. It just happens that I might have something that interests you. My latest import. Guaranteed top quality. You won’t be disappointed…Money back? Ha Ha! You drive a hard bargain…Yes, we have immediate availability…Same price as before, let’s call it an introductory offer…Shall I have a word with my man? Good. Good. Give me the address and I’ll get on to it.’
He remembered I was there and turned to me, saying: ‘Will you excuse me, please, Charlie? Give the office a ring. Business never ends I’m afraid,’ and moved out of earshot, so I never discovered what the mysterious import was.
Duggie came to collect Ludmilla two hours later. She sat in the back of the car without speaking and shrank into a corner. Duggie said: ‘Not too bad, don’t yer fink?’ but she ignored him. All she wanted was to go back to her room and have a bath. They were nearly there when Duggie’s mobile phone rang.
‘Hi, boss,’ she heard him say. ‘Yeah, she done fine. No problems. Hang on, I’ll pull over.’ He parked the car, listened for a while, then turned on the interior light and wrote something on the back of his hand. When he’d finished the call he switched the light off and turned to her. ‘Your reputation is spreading, girl. You have another client,’ he said.
It was an apartment in a block near the city centre. Duggie parked right outside the entrance and spoke into a grille on the wall. Something buzzed, the door opened and they were inside. They rode up in a lift but Ludmilla couldn’t read the floor number where they alighted. The instant Duggie touched the bell push a dog started barking, and they both flinched at its ferocity and took a step backwards. His fingers tightened around her arm, and she gave him a pleading glance, but he wasn’t looking. A light came on, a security chain scraped and the door opened. Ludmilla’s second client stood before her.
He was wearing leather jeans and a startling white T-shirt that struggled to contain his bulging physique. The head was shaven, as she expected, but the leather collar and wristbands, with their silver spikes, were a chilling novelty. He glanced briefly at Duggie and turned his gaze upon the girl. She felt his eyes strip her naked then crawl all over her body like maggots over a carcass.
When he’d seen enough for the moment he turned his head and called over his shoulder. ‘Hey Todd. Come and look at this.’
Todd appeared a second later, one fist grasping the chain around the neck of a Doberman that tugged and strained to be free. Todd was even bigger than his friend, clad in a leather singlet to best display his body art. Fabulous beasts – dragons and serpents – squirmed around his arms and shoulders and writhed up his neck, their forked tongues reaching towards his eyes. Because of the dog he was stooped forward, displaying the swastika tattooed on his head. Ludmilla’s knees gave way and only Duggie s firm grip prevented her falling to the ground.
Todd took a long look at her until his wet lips parted and one corner of them curled into a smile. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, his voice hoarse with anticipation. ‘We’ll have some of that. We’ll certainly have some of that.’
Duggie propelled the terrified girl towards them with as much concern as if he were delivering wet fish. ‘An hour,’ he said.
‘That should be plenty of time,’ one of them replied, closing the door in his face.
It didn’t take an hour. When they’d finished they pushed her out and slammed the door. Ludmilla leant against the wall and sobbed.
The lift took her down and when she peered through the glass door she could see the car, with Duggie dozing in the driver’s seat. She turned and saw a corridor leading off, with a sign that said Emergency Exit.
There was a door at the end of the corridor, with a bar across it and a notice about a fire alarm. Ludmilla pushed at the bar, the door swung open and a bell somewhere rang out its warning. She flung the door wide and started running, out into the night, towards the lights.
Her shoes came off in three strides and the pavement felt cold and clean beneath her feet. She ran like the wind, the dress riding up over her thighs, down a dark street with a high stone wall on either side. There were dead leaves under her feet now, like there’d been before, when they ran for their lives through the pine forest. Across the end she could see the warm glow of lights, with cars and buses passing by. Her chest was bursting and now her feet hurt, but the hurt was a small price to pay. She slowed as she reached the end and jogged round the corner, into the brightness of the city.
Duggie’s arms clamped around her and he laughed in her face, his breath smelling of beer. ‘Where do you fink you’re going, eh?’ He lifted her off her feet and carried her back round the corner. When they were in the darkness again he dropped her, slammed her against the wall and grabbed a fistful of her hair. ‘I fink you and me had better have a little talk,’ he hissed, pulling her head back, his face an inch from hers. ‘Old Hopalong has told me not to lay a finger on you. No fingering the goods, he sez, or else. But he’s also told me that if you misbehave or don’t give satisfaction, I’ve to tell ’im, and then he’ll give you a taste of his little ’lectric friend. Pssst pssst. So I fink we can come to a deal, don’t you? Now, let’s go back to the flat and work out the details, eh?’
I watched Wallenberg write the address on a napkin and make the call, repeating what he’d written to the person at the other end. I was behind him now, about five yards away, but couldn’t read it. When he’d finished the call he folded the napkin into small squares and put it in his pocket with the cell phone.
He glanced around, choosing his target, then headed for an elderly couple who looked as if they’d be more at home on a cruise ship than at a football match. They smiled at him and the mental backslapping started all over again.
I turned to find a table to put my glass on and a napkin to wipe my fingers, and bumped into Rosie.
‘Oh, I’ve missed him,’ she complained.
‘Where’ve you been?’ I demanded.
‘To the loo. You know where I’ve been.’
‘I mean…what did you say to her?’
‘I asked her about her shawl.’
‘Her shawl?’
‘Yes. It’s rather nice, if you haven’t noticed.’
Women’s talk. I sighed with relief. ‘As a matter of fact, I did notice.’
‘I said to her: ‘Is that what they call a pashmina?’ and she said: ‘Well, actually, this is the real thing,’ and I said: ‘It’s lovely,’ She thanked me and that was that.’
‘A…pashmina?’
‘Yes. They make them in Kashmir and they’re the finest wool in the world. They say you can pull one through a wedding ring. There’s another sort…even rarer. They cost a fortune. Thousands of pounds. I can’t think of the name but I read about them somewhere. In National Geographic at a guess. That’s what she probably meant by the real thing.’ Her brow creased with puzzlement, but the name wouldn’t come.
‘You had me worried,’ I confessed. ‘I thought you were going to ask her if she knew her husband was a crook.’
Rosie looked up into my face and smiled, and my heart skipped a few beats. ‘I meant to,’ she said, ‘but somebody was using one of the cubicles, so I couldn’t.’
‘Thank the Lord for that. C’mon, let’s go.’
‘I walked down them all, pushing the doors open with the toe of my shoe, like cops do on TV.’ She stood on one leg and demonstrated. ‘It’s fun, isn’t it?’
‘We don’t do that. C’mon.’
‘Not just yet; they’re drawing the raffle.’
CHAPTER NINE
Guess who won a team shi
rt, signed by all the players? I wanted to give it back but Rosie wouldn’t let me. Monday morning I dumped it on Dave’s desk, saying: ‘Give that to Danny.’
He held it up and tried to read the names. ‘Where’d you get this?’
‘Saturday night’s charity bash. If you wash it the writing might come out. They wouldn’t have the brains to use indelible ink.’
‘Danny wouldn’t be seen dead in it, but Sophie might like it.’
‘There you are then. A present from Uncle Charlie. What have we got?’
The investigation had concentrated on identifying the people associated with Krabbe and interviewing them. Trace, Interview, Eliminate. Slowly, we were working our way through all the people in the albums, all his sponsors, neighbours and acquaintances. His climbing friends were scattered around the world, but if somebody was halfway up the highest peak in Mongolia there was little point in asking: ‘Where were you last Saturday night?’
‘One thing strikes me, though, Charlie,’ the statement reader told me after we’d discussed his notes. ‘Everybody says what a brilliant climber he was. You get the impression that he’s one of the best ever. There’s tremendous respect for him as a climber. He’s done all the big mountains, and nobody can take that away from him, but…but nobody says they miss him. Nobody expresses any regrets for his passing.’
‘Jealousy?’ I suggested.
‘Could be.’
‘And it’s a high-risk activity,’ I added. ‘They’re used to dealing with death.’
‘This is more than that. With the possible exception of his parents, I don’t think a single tear has been shed for Tony Krabbe.’
We had a meeting with Mr Wood and the SIO. ‘How did the charity bash go?’ Gilbert asked.
‘Great. I won the raffle,’ I told them. ‘Only thing of interest that I picked up was that Wallenberg’s parents holidayed in Chamonix in 1958. They were the type of people who would toddle off to the outfitters and buy the complete wardrobe, so I’ve no doubt they owned a couple of ice axes. I’d love to find them.’
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