Swift cut in, hopeful to avoid a lecture on the morals of MPs. ‘Will you allow me to make a guess at what happens next in your story?’
Sir David grinned. ‘Carry on, Chief Inspector.’
‘The so-called rich and powerful lobby got wind that this young man was in trouble. Maybe he was the first suspect to be charged … before Brunswick came into the line of fire?’
‘Correct. However once the people back home – his parents and their powerful friends – got to hear of it, pressures were exerted, the sharp end of them falling on us chaps at the embassy in Algiers and also the local police. As a result of all that, the young man was released. But the police were still hungry for a conviction so young Brunswick was selected to be put in the frame, on the grounds that he had no alibi for the time of the murder, and that he was a mouthy, headstrong young colt.’
Swift smiled to himself. Brunswick hadn’t changed much.
‘Fortunately for Brunswick, his own parents were not without influence. They immediately liaised with us, and following some discussion a very sharp lawyer was flown out to Algiers. The Ambassador sent for me, told me that I was one of his shrewdest diplomats, and promptly despatched me to the scene of the action with Mr Smart Lawyer. And the next day Brunswick was free.’ He relaxed in his chair, his face lit with a small smile of satisfaction.
‘And the name of the young heir to his father’s millions?’
‘Julian Roseborough, the son of the owner of the Roseborough supermarket chain.’ He levelled a glance at Swift. ‘And let me tell you this, Julian is dangerous. Plenty of money and influence and very little humanity. When his father inherited the business from his own father, he set about expanding it. He then bought and refurbished Graysham Abbey in Wiltshire, married a minor aristocrat’s daughter and did his best to ape the life of a country gentleman. Julian Roseborough was brought up accordingly, mixing with the hunting, shooting, county set and given to believe he had an innate superiority over the rest of us poor peasants.’ He stretched his legs out in front of him. ‘Was all that of any help?’
‘Very much so,’ said Swift. ‘Thank you for your candour. I have another question.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Do you have a personal opinion on who killed Hugh Moss?’
‘I’m around one hundred per cent sure it was Julian Roseborough. However, I have to say that young British people with their expensive equipment, and their appearance of having endless leisure, do not endear themselves to the poorer Arabs with their vastly different culture and moral stance. They set themselves up to run into hostility and trouble.’
Swift could appreciate the ambassador’s point of view.
‘Anything else?’ Sir David enquired.
Swift considered, making a quick mental review of the interview.
‘I did consider contacting you people when I read about Hartwell’s death,’ Sir David said. ‘It took me a while to place the name and match it up with the Hugh Ross murder case, but after that I was able to recall what had happened quite readily. I simply didn’t think there could be any connection between what happened then, out there in the desert, and what has happened now. Moreover, I had not yet had my Damascene moment of deciding to reveal a diplomatic secret which has been buried for years. So all in all I’m jolly glad you gave me a call.’
‘So am I,’ Swift said. ‘You’ve given me some food for thought.’
‘Splendid. Pleased to hear it. I don’t suppose I can tempt you to join me in a whisky before you go. Just a single, I know you have to work. Not that work ever interfered with a drink back in the good old days.’ He got up and made for the drinks table. ‘I think I deserve another, at any rate.’
Swift smiled and nodded an acceptance. How could one reject an invitation as gracious and genuinely meant as that?
Craig arrived in Thirsk, tired out, sticky, sweaty and, he feared, smelly, despite his attempts to spruce up a bit in the gents’ public toilets in the square. He found the location of the police station and stared it for some time from a safe distance. Various chatting police officers walked in and out, laughing and joking like the end of the world was not about to arrive. He waited, his heart beating a fierce tattoo in his chest. Just do it, he told himself, locked in conflict.
And then his body jerked in shock as he felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘Hello, there.’
He swivelled around. The hand belonged to the young woman who had served him in the pub the previous evening. She was carrying some bulky parcels and looked rather careworn, but she was smiling at him, as though pleased to see him again.
‘Hi.’ He smiled at her uncertainly, trying to think of something else to say to her. ‘How are you doing?’ he asked.
She shook her head and sighed. ‘Not too brilliantly. My dishwasher has flooded the kitchen. I should be opening up in an hour, and my usual helper has rung to say she’s sick and can’t come in to work.’ She put up a hand to smooth her hair, and he saw that her fingers were trembling.
‘I’ll come and help you clear up,’ he said.
She looked at him. ‘Are you sure? I’ll pay you.’
‘You’re all right,’ he said. ‘I’d like to help.’
They fell into step together, making their way around the square. ‘I’ll carry your bags,’ he said.
‘You’re like a gift from heaven,’ she said, handing him the roughly wrapped parcels, which turned out to be a mop and bucket.
‘Have you been sleeping rough?’ she said, suddenly, noticing the state of him.
‘Aye.’
‘Have you nowhere to go?’
‘Not really.’
They walked on in silence. Craig kept glancing at her. She was small and round like a teddy bear, with plump arms and legs. Her skin was very white and her hair shiny and black like a bird’s wing. She was lovely.
Back at the pub he followed her into the kitchen. She gave him the new mop and bucket to use and armed herself with some old towels. Paddling through the lukewarm water spewed out by the dishwasher, they got busy. ‘My old bucket’s gone missing,’ she told him. ‘I think my helper might have borrowed it. She does that sometimes.’
‘Oh, aye,’ said Craig. ‘You could do without that.’
She laughed. ‘True. She’s a nice girl though … but a bit of a lazy cow!’
They both laughed. ‘I’m Josie,’ she told him.
‘Craig,’ he said.
‘And where do you come from, Craig?’ she asked.
He squeezed the wet mop in the strainer above the bucket. Squeezed really hard. ‘Prison,’ he said.
She didn’t stop, simply went on soaking up the water in the towel she was holding. ‘Were you there long?’
‘Eight years. I killed someone.’
A short, echoing silence. ‘That’s some confession,’ she said.
‘I wanted you to know.’
‘Good. That’s good,’ she told him. She looked at him, her eyes faintly troubled.
‘I’ll go if you like,’ he said.
‘No. Don’t go.’ She said it as though she meant it.
When the floor was dry again, she put on the kettle. ‘What would you like to eat?’ she said. ‘I’ve got eggs, bacon, sausages. Meat pies to heat up in the microwave. Lasagne, chicken Kiev, garlic mushrooms. And chips, of course.’
He plumped for lasagne and chips. She made thick, strong tea to wash it down with, then sat down at the kitchen table opposite him. ‘I took over this pub three years ago,’ she told him. ‘Me and my partner, Seb. We built it up so we had a good regular clientele, and we were thinking of advertising to do catering for weddings and funerals. And then Seb met someone else and went off to Australia with her.’
Craig looked at her and shook his head in disbelief. How could anyone walk away from a lovely woman like her?
‘Well, at least he didn’t put his hand in the till. He left me in quite a good position, but all on my own. It hasn’t been easy, but I’m still afloat.’
‘That’s
the main thing,’ said Craig solemnly, breaking off from wolfing down his food.
She rested her cheek on her hand. ‘Yes, it is.’ She waited for him to clear up his chips. ‘Right! That’s a bit of my story. Would you like to tell me a little of yours?’
He dipped his head. ‘I dunno.’
‘Only if you want to,’ she said. ‘Finish your grub first.’
They sat without speaking whilst Craig hoovered up his chips. Josie sat quietly watching him and her gaze seemed curiously comforting.
He laid down his cutlery and wiped his mouth on the thick paper napkin Josie had given him. ‘I haven’t spoken about it for years,’ he said.
‘Go on,’ she urged. ‘It’ll be all right.’
‘It was the day I was twelve when it happened,’ he started. ‘I was living with my mum in a little terraced house in Bradford. She wasn’t very well. She used to stay in bed a lot, and she kept running out of money. I used to stay at home and look after her instead of going to school. We both used to hide when the Education Welfare people called. She had this boyfriend called Barry Jackson. He was right tall and full of himself, driving up to the door in his big Ford Granada and honking the horn to let us know he’d arrived. He’d bought me a great big showy-off birthday card and a model of a Ford Granada. Big deal! My mum was still in bed and she’d forgotten to get me a card, but I didn’t mind, because it wasn’t really her fault.’ He stopped. ‘I loved her so much,’ he exclaimed. ‘I just wanted to stay at home and look after her, and do her shopping and watch telly with her.’ He started to chew on his fingers. ‘I suppose I was a bit of a wet.’
Josie was very still and quiet. He could tell she was really listening, not just pretending.
‘It’s special, how you love your mum, isn’t it?’ Josie said, softly.
‘Aye. Anyway Jackson went to get her out of bed, and she came down and sat on the sofa. He showed her the things he’d bought for me, and she said to him, “That’s lovely, pet”. And for a while things were OK. And then Barry started asking about having some food, like a birthday tea, and mum said she’d got nothing in, and he said she should have made an effort on my birthday, and that the place was a mess and she should be ashamed of herself and pull her socks up.’ He took in a shaky breath. ‘I could hardly bear it,’ he said.
‘She got up to go to the kitchen. And then she started crying, and he went to put his arms round her. And then he put his hands inside her dressing gown and started pawing her. He used to do this quite a lot, and he’d look around at me to see how much he was winding me up. My mum started whimpering, pulling away from him and telling him to stop, but he just carried on. And all at once I heard my voice, really loud in the room, like when you turn the telly volume right up. “GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY MUM!” And he turned around and laughed at me, showing all his big yellow teeth. “I’ll have my hands on your mum, whenever I like sonny-boy”, he said.’
Craig stopped, looking towards Josie, breathing hard, his eyes blazing with the memory. ‘I went into the kitchen and took out a knife my mum had bought from her catalogue, thinking she might do some cooking one day. It was called a kitchen devil, really sharp. I went back into the living room and I stuck it in Jackson’s back.’
Josie nodded, calm and unperturbed. ‘What happened then?’
‘He made a sort of gurgling noise and fell on the floor. And then I don’t really remember much after that, until the police were there, and someone from the Social. My mum had passed out on the sofa. I told the police I’d stuck a knife in Jackson and that I wasn’t sorry. And I hoped he was dead. Which he was.’ He stopped. ‘That’s it, really. And I was glad I killed him,’ he said fiercely.
Josie spent a few moments considering all this. ‘That’s what you told yourself,’ she said, ‘when you were twelve. Because you’d got rid of the man making your mum’s life a misery. But later on you’d feel rotten about killing someone. And maybe you still tried to tell yourself you were glad. But deep down you weren’t. That’s my guess.’
‘How do you know that?’ he demanded, amazed. ‘No one else ever told me that.’
‘It’s just one of those life things you sort of know, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’
‘My mum died when I was twelve,’ she told him. ‘I was the eldest, so I became the little mother … at least that was what my dad used to call me. I started looking after my kid brother and my dad as well. I knew what the suffering of her loss was like for them and I missed her simply desperately myself, so I grew up pretty fast. And, you see, Craig, when you were twelve you did something for your mum which you thought was a good thing to do for her at the time. I can understand that. And you had to grow up all of a sudden too because of what happened after that.’
‘But it was wrong,’ he insisted.
‘Oh yes. But you didn’t mean it to be like that. You didn’t plan it. It happened, like a wave rolling over you.’ She drummed her hands on the table. ‘Where’s your mum now?’
‘Dunno. She doesn’t want to see me.’
‘You don’t know that, Craig. She might have changed. She might be longing to see you. You need to think about that. I lost my mum for ever, and I’d do anything to get her back. But I can’t … I can never have her back. And if your mum is still alive, I think you should do anything to get her back. What have you to lose?’
Craig felt suddenly exhausted. He let out a long breath.
‘Would you like to stay on and help out here?’ Josie asked. ‘I really need a good reliable worker. Helping out at the bar, a bit of cleaning work. You could learn to cook if you wanted.’
He stared at her. ‘Do you mean that? You don’t know anything about me, except I’m a murderer.’
She smiled. ‘You can learn quite a lot about a person when you’re working as a team mopping up a floor with them. Why don’t you give it a go for a few weeks? If you don’t like it, you can move on. I pay a pound more an hour than the most of the pubs round here.’
He stared at her, not knowing quite what to say. Longing to stay here and work for her. Not daring to believe he’d been offered the chance.
‘I can’t start right now,’ he said, suddenly remembering. ‘I’ve been on the run. I’ve got to give myself up to the police.’
Josie’s mouth fell open. ‘Hey, you’re certainly full of surprises.’
‘I haven’t done nowt wrong again. I promise. Do you believe me?’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Yes, thousands wouldn’t!’
‘Will you go to the station with me?’ he asked. ‘Walk in with me? That’s all. I’ll be all right then, and you can come back here.’
‘Well, thanks,’ she said, grinning. ‘Yes, of course I’ll come with you.’ She got up. ‘Go and have a wash and comb your hair. I’ll be waiting for you. And look sharp, I’ve opening time coming up.’
She was as good as her word. She walked him to the station and up the steps, pushing him gently forwards. And then she turned around and left.
There was a female officer on the front desk. She looked business-like and brisk. She was dealing with an anxious woman who had lost her purse containing all her credit cards. Craig licked around his lips as he waited to be attended to, standing patiently behind the worried woman as though he were in the bus queue. His heart was thumping so hard he was surprised no one had looked around to see where the noise was coming from.
The woman eventually went away, having repeatedly asked for reassurances that her purse would be found. Craig thought this was a pointless exercise. It either would or wouldn’t be found whether she kept on nagging the policewoman or not. His heart was galloping like a racehorse now, the tension within building steadily with the waiting and frustration.
He stepped forward. ‘Yes,’ the police woman said, her tone crisp.
‘I’m Craig Titmus. I’m an ex-con and I’ve come to—’
‘Yes?’
‘I think there’ll be an alert out. I’ve not seen my probation officer when I should. I thin
k it’s today.’
He half expected an army of strong men to burst forth from the innards of the station, push him to the ground and handcuff him.
‘Can I have your name again?’ she asked, unperturbed, as though he were Mr Ordinary.
He spoke it very slowly and she was tapping it into the computer as he did so. Her eyebrows moved slightly. ‘Now then, Craig. You’re quite right. There is an alert out for you.’ She looked him over, with impartial assessment. ‘Well done for coming in. I’m going to ask another officer to come and speak to you. In the meantime, maybe you could turn out your pockets for me. I’ll make a note of everything and give it back to you.’ She was going on to explain that what she was asking was a safety precaution, but Craig was already doing what she asked. He had been well schooled in obedience to authority. He knew it was invariably the best way to save your skin. He took out his loose change, and then Ruth’s wad of twenty-pound notes, followed by the mobile and a half empty packet of crisps he had bought at the pub the previous night. Also the paper napkin Josie had brought him with his plate of food, now grubby and crumpled.
‘Any weapons?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘OK. We’ll check further on that later. How come you’ve got all this money?’
‘I borrowed it from my friend, Mrs Hartwell. I got it to keep safe for her. I’m going to give it back.’
‘I see. And the mobile, is that yours?’
‘No.’
She looked hard at him.
‘That’s Mrs Hartwell’s and all.’
‘Really.’
Rebellion stirred within. He leaned slightly towards the woman, looming over her, letting her feel the full force of his big physical presence. ‘I’m a murderer,’ he told her. ‘I’m not a thief.’
She stood her ground bravely. ‘OK, just keep calm, Craig.’
The Killing Club Page 20