He was American, with an accent that could have lured a gopher out of its hole. I hated him from the start. ‘I’ll be in my office at Shenandoah Incorporated from eleven a.m.,’ he drawled into the phone, ‘but I have an important meeting straight after lunch. If you can make it any time before, say, one o’clock, Inspector, you’d be mighty welcome. It’s a nasty business and I’ll help in any way I can. Harold’s death has been a shock to everyone at Shenandoah.’
It wasn’t until I found the factory, on a new trading estate at Halewood, that I realised that Shenandoah made Red Wing cigarettes. Norris had thoughtfully informed Security of my impending arrival, and I was soon being ushered into his office.
His handshake was like being caught in a car-crusher, reinforced by his free hand on my elbow. For an uneasy moment I thought he was about to drop on one knee and flying-mare me over his shoulder. Not that he’d have far to drop, as he stood barely five-and-a-half feet tall. His hair was a silver mop, highlighting his tan, and the suit was immaculate.
‘Inspector,’ he said with practised warmth.
‘Good morning, Mr Norris.’ I flexed my fingers and was relieved to find they still worked. ‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.’
‘No problem. Please, take a seat.’ He asked the woman who’d brought me in to rustle up some coffee and cookies.
His desk was the ugliest piece of furniture I’ve ever seen. It looked as if it had been carved out of a solid tree-trunk using Stone Age implements. Primitive. No, that wasn’t it. Pioneer. He barely peered over it, six feet away from me. Apart from an ashtray, a cigarette box and a lighter it was bare. It’s my ambition to have a desk like that.
‘So how can I help you, Inspector?’
‘First of all, when did you learn of Harold Hurst’s death?’ I asked.
‘Just this morning. My secretary rang me at home. Don’t ask me where the information came from.’
‘So how long had he worked for you?’
He pursed his lips in thought for a moment. ‘Best part of a year, I guess.’
‘And what was his typical working day?’
‘Pick me up in the morning, bring me here and take me home when I finished. In between he might ferry my wife, Marina, about. Just general chauffeuring duties, nothing hard and fast.’
‘So when did you last see him?’
‘Friday morning. He brought me here – we live at Lymm, in Cheshire – and continued on to Town & County department store, in the town centre.’
‘Liverpool?’
‘Yeah. Marina does consultancy work for them, calls in every Friday. Actually, I’m the major shareholder; as good as own the joint. They left there about half an hour later. That’d make it about eleven. After that, nothing.’
‘What does Mrs Norris say?’
He lifted the lid on the cigarette box and leant across with it. ‘Cigarette?’
I shook my head.
‘Mind if I do?’
‘Of course not.’
He lit up with the big gold lighter. ‘Fact, is, Inspector, Marina hasn’t been home since. I don’t know where she is.’
I was taken aback, knocked out of my stride. The coffee had arrived so I took a mouthful. It was strong and satisfying. Good stuff. After a few moments I said: ‘You realise the implications of what you are saying, Mr Norris? This puts our investigation on a different course altogether.’
He shook his head, disagreeing with me. ‘No, sir,’ he insisted. ‘The two events are not linked.’ He nipped the cigarette into the ashtray and left it there. He’d only had one puff. I sat waiting for him to find the words, to expand on his last statement.
‘Marina and I … we … the fact is,’ he began, ‘we are on the rocks. She has a boyfriend; meets him every Wednesday afternoon at the Royal Cheshire Hotel, near Northwich. Friday evening I decided I’d had enough. I was sitting here about seven o’clock, wondering where the hell Harold was, and I rang this number for a private investigator that someone gave me. Left a message on his ansaphone. Then I had to send for a taxi. To say I was annoyed is like saying the Pope is a Catholic. A goddamn Rolls-Royce and a chauffeur, and I had to send for a taxi.’
I could see his point. I think I’d have been pretty miffed myself, but I’d never know. ‘So how can you be certain that she made it to the department store, and left when she did?’
‘I dropped in there, Saturday morning. Unexpectedly. I like to do it now and again. The manager had his usual gripe to me about her interference.’
‘I see. And you didn’t report your wife missing,’ I stated.
He shook his head. That’s not a crime here, is it?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘I thought not. She’s not missing, just gone.’
‘Have you reported the car stolen?’
‘I’m coming to that. I was waiting for Security to tell me my taxi had arrived when the phone rang again. Someone very politely informed me that my Rolls-Royce was at the Burtonwood services, on the M62. Eastbound. Would I please collect it? I was relieved. I thought there must have been an accident or something, and everything could be explained. I collected my spare keys, in the taxi, then had him take me to the services. The Rolls was there, as promised.’
‘And you have no idea who it was on the phone?’
‘I assumed it was you guys – the police.’
‘What was his accent like?’
‘Bit like yours, I guess.’
Husky, but with a hint of sophistication. ‘There was nothing in the car – no message?’ I asked.
‘No, sir.’
‘And nobody has contacted you since?’
‘Uh uh.’
‘OK. Do you mind, Mr Norris, if I ask a local SOCO – that’s a Scenes of Crime Officer – to give the Rolls a thorough going over; see if we can find some evidence of who’s been in it lately?’
‘I’m afraid there could be a problem with that, Inspector.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Well, you see, I was wondering the same thing myself. I felt uncomfortable in it, and it was covered in mud. So after I left Town & County on Saturday I took it to the garage and had them give it a full valet service.’ He said g’rarge and v’lay. ‘Now it’s as spick and span as a West Point cadet’s boots on graduation day.’
Fantastic, but I still needed some plaster casts from the tyres, to prove it was in the lane where Hurst’s body was found. ‘Pity,’ I said. ‘I’d still like him to have a go, though, if you don’t mind.’
‘You’re welcome, Inspector. The car will be in the garage here all afternoon.’
I asked him a few questions about his wife and her friends and quizzed him some more about Harold. He gave me various names and numbers and I thanked him for his cooperation. As I was about to leave I said: ‘Mr Norris, can you be absolutely sure that nothing was going off between your wife and Hurst? That they weren’t having an affair?’
He shook his head and gave a little smile. ‘Out of the question, Inspector. Marina liked her men either rich or built like Sylvester Stallone, but preferably taller.’ The last bit made the smile a full one. ‘Harold was neither.’
‘What was he like?’
He pursed his lips in his thoughtful mannerism, and I wondered if he was about to give me a description of the back of his chauffeur’s head. ‘Hard to say. Not the type of person you’d notice in a crowd. Kinda … faceless.’ I already knew that.
This was the kind of enquiry I like. It was out of the ordinary – something was going off that was difficult to fathom. Rich man’s wife missing, his driver found dead. What was the link? It was easier when you didn’t know the people, didn’t feel sorry for them. I called at the local police station and told the Superintendent why I was on his patch. I also used their telephone and had a look at the street plan.
The PI that Norris said he’d tried to contact had received the message, so I advised him against following it up. Then I visited Town & County department store.
The m
anager was early middle-aged, about ten years younger than me. He smiled a lot and pumped my hand eagerly. At a guess he was worried about his job, being too young to be one of the old school, yet too old to be a whizzkid. I knew the feeling.
I refused a coffee and thanked him for seeing me without an appointment. ‘You must be very busy,’ I crawled, and he told me all about the tribulations of sales and stock-taking. He’d last seen Hurst on the previous Friday, when Mrs Norris left the store. The manager had walked out with Mrs Norris, carrying her purchases, and had seen her into the car.
‘I don’t suppose she told you where they were going next?’ I asked.
‘I’m afraid not, Inspector.’
‘But everything appeared perfectly normal?’
He thought about it. ‘Well, yes. Harold was asleep, or deep in thought, and didn’t see her coming. That annoyed her, but it wasn’t unusual. We shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but he was a bit of a doylem.’
We shouldn’t, but we usually do. He told me that Harold had been happily married, with a seven-year-old daughter. Maybe he wasn’t too bright, but somebody loved him, was mourning for him. I thanked the manager for his assistance and headed south, out of the revitalised city and into the leafy towns and villages of Cheshire. Except that they’re not very leafy in January.
Mrs Norris wasn’t officially missing, so I hadn’t mentioned it at Town & County. At the Royal Cheshire Hotel I said that I was trying to piece together Harold Hurst’s last movements. ‘I understand he brought a lady called Mrs Norris here every Wednesday afternoon?’ I said. Faces turned hunting pink and eyebrows shot up like flushed grouse. The register was sent for.
A Mr Smith had a regular booking, with a table for two at lunchtime. ‘We do not let rooms by the afternoon,’ I was assured. ‘We are not that sort of establishment.’
‘Yes, you are,’ I replied. ‘You just charge overnight prices.’
The staff were more forthcoming, and knew exactly who I meant. She wasn’t brought in a Rolls, they told me; she drove herself there in a smart little Honda. The bloke came in a Daimler and gave good tips. I bet he did. Nobody could put a name to him other than Smith, and he paid in cash. Somebody’s got to be called Smith, and no doubt a few of them are having affairs. I promised to send someone round for a fuller description and headed home. It had been a long day.
Somewhere on the Tops, up near Scammonden dam, I wondered if the Town & County security cameras had captured Mrs Norris’s last visit. The Archers finished and a programme about gamelan music came on Radio Four. I hit the off button so hard I nearly pushed it through the dashboard. The local traffic police had been asked to examine their films for shots of the Roller, but I couldn’t imagine what we could learn from a few frames of grainy videotape showing her in the store, and decided it wasn’t worth pursuing. That was my first big mistake of the day.
The choices were wide and cosmopolitan: was it to be fish and chips, pizza, curry or Chinky? Or maybe a few slices off one of those big lumps of reconstituted meat that rotate perpetually, so the grease never quite makes it to the bottom, like the base of some horrific 1960s table lamp? I decided to stay with the faith and pulled up outside the chippy. They also sold floury bread-cakes there, so I stocked up with half a dozen of those, plus a Special and chips and a portion of mushy peas.
I dashed through the house, turning on lights, kettle and gasfire, and within five minutes was tucking in, a large steaming teapot before me. It had been a good day, but I hadn’t come to any conclusions. Strictly speaking, that’s how it should be. First of all, we gather the evidence. Then we form theories and put them to the test, just like scientists do. Non-judgemental. Personally, I’d rather have a confession, or a gun with fingerprints on it. Failing that, it’s useful if there’s someone in the frame that you’ve taken a dislike to. Norris, for instance.
I placed the teapot within easy reach and telephoned Gilbert, to give him an update. When we’d finished he said: ‘So Doc Evans said it’s OK for you to start work?’
‘Er, no. I haven’t had time to see him.’
‘Bloody hell, Charlie, you’re out of order working when you’re supposed to be off sick.’
‘I’ll get him to backdate it.’
I flicked my radio over to Classic FM and caught the end of the Enigma Variations. I was just wondering whether to type my report before or after I showered when the phone rang. It was Annabelle.
‘Hello, Annabelle,’ I said brightly. ‘This is a pleasant surprise.’
‘Oh,’ I heard, followed by silence.
‘Er, hello. Are you still there?’
After a moment she said: ‘Yes, I’m still here, Charles. I was expecting you over for supper.’
Oh God! I’d clean forgotten. I fumbled for words. ‘I … I’m sorry. I thought we said Tuesday.’ It was a lie, and it pierced me like a corkscrew as I heard myself saying it.
‘No, I’m sure we said Monday.’
‘Oh, I am sorry, Annabelle. I must be confused. You know how easily that happens.’
‘Yes. Well, it won’t spoil for a few minutes – unless you have already eaten?’
I rubbed my stomach and ran a hand over my bristly chin. ‘Er, no, I haven’t.’
‘Good, so are you coming over?’
‘Yes, please, if I’m still welcome.’
‘Mmm. We will have to consider that.’
‘Turn the flame down low and give me twenty minutes.’
I put the phone down and dashed upstairs. That made it two mistakes so far today.
Bradley Norris had some thinking to do. He eased back a cuff to look at his gold Vacheron Constantin and drummed his fingers on the red oak desk that had belonged to his grandfather. They should be ringing any time. The visit from the detective wasn’t a surprise, but he was a cautious man and the stakes were high. He hadn’t lied about the call on Friday night that told him where the Rolls-Royce was parked, just been rather selective about the content of the message.
He always worked late on a Friday. It was his habit to call a progress meeting for four p.m. That way he stopped his managers sneaking off early for the weekend. ‘Poets’ day’, he’d once heard one of them call it. ‘Piss of early, tomorrow’s Saturday,’ the manager had candidly replied when asked what he meant. Well, that attitude wasn’t good enough for anyone who wanted to keep working for Bradley T. Norris. The meeting usually ended around five, but Norris liked to stay behind; wander around the production lines; create the illusion among the workers that he was a twenty-four-hours-a-day man. If he was so keen, they should be, too.
It had been a good week for Shenandoah Inc. (UK). The new factory had exceeded production targets for the first time and was on course to go into the black, proving that the move to Britain from America had been a shrewd one. The anti-smoking lobby was almost as rabid here as in the States, and sales would be in decline were it not for aggressive marketing, but attractive incentives and a compliant labour force made this a good place to build a new plant. Eastern Europe, where sales were burgeoning, was barely the flick of a butt away, and the vast market of the Third World was yawning just over the horizon. There were no Surgeon General’s warnings there, and Made in England was often more acceptable than Made in USA. The only cloud in the sky was a zealous politician on the campaign trail, but there might be ways to deal with him.
He’d wondered where Marina could be. She was good for his image and for the company’s. She was young – more than twenty years younger than him – was glamorous and fashionable, and she smoked like a New England kipper factory. But when you said that, you’d said it all. He’d met her when she was a model, used by Shenandoah in a highly successful advertising campaign. They’d had to come to England to find her because there was nobody similar back home who could draw on a cigarette and make it look as if they were having a multiple orgasm. Her American counterparts were heavily into half-marathons and born-again virginity. Marina’s pouting lips, wreathed in blue smoke, said volumes more than:
‘My, this is a good cigarette.’ The young and trendy fell for it, and so did the President of the company.
Norris had looked up the number of the private investigator someone had recommended, and left a message. Marina would take him to the cleaners, but it would be worth it. He’d sent for a taxi, and when the phone rang he’d assumed it was Security at the front gate, to say it was waiting for him, but it wasn’t.
‘Mr Norris?’ the strange voice had enquired.
‘That’s right. What can I do for you?’
‘I’m just ringing to tell you that your Rolls-Royce is at Burtonwood services, eastbound, on the M62. Could you collect it from there, please?’
‘Why, sure. What’s happened? Who is this?’
The voice had droned on, ignoring his questions. ‘There’ll be no charge for the Roller. You also have a wife, Marina. A good-looking lady, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
Norris realised it wasn’t the public services informing him of some inconvenience with his car. It was something far more sinister. ‘Y-yes?’ he stuttered.
‘She, unfortunately, won’t be in the Roller. If you want her back it’ll cost you a hundred thousand pounds, cash. Cheap for a bird like that, I’d say, but we’re not greedy. You get the money together, we’ll be in touch on Monday. Oh, and don’t call the police. If you do, I can’t guarantee she’ll stay in one piece.’ Click.
Norris had stared at the silent instrument for a few seconds before replacing it. He’d taken a Red Wing from the ivory box on his desk and lit it with the solid gold, gas-fuelled reproduction Zippo lighter. He’d sunk back into his Texan leather chair, inhaled deeply for the first time in ten years and sent three perfect smoke rings spinning towards the ceiling.
Nothing had changed, he decided. His wife had disappeared, but there was no way that the police could link her with Harold. His plans were half-formed, and a lot depended on the people he would have to deal with, but there was no need to abandon those plans.
Norris busied himself with balance sheets and private accounts and wrote several cheques, the largest of which were to pay off Marina’s credit cards. Then there was her bill from Town & County. He’d picked it up from the manager, Saturday morning, when he’d called in and surprised Security by asking to see the tapes from the twenty-four-hour surveillance cameras. He didn’t have as long to wait as he’d expected. At two thirty-five the phone was ringing. ‘Norris,’ he said quietly.
The Judas Sheep Page 3