I stared at the wall behind his head, hoping the feeling of nausea would pass. Dave Johnson had once taken me out to a freshly dug grave in an attempt to frighten me. Maybe I’d had a lucky escape.
Palmer spoke. ‘Bancroft lost it. He fell to the ground, shouting out for his mam. I couldn’t look at the kid.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’ve done some bad things in my life, and that’s the truth, but I’ve never seen anything like that. Frank was possessed, shouting and laughing manically that Bancroft had to choose either the pigs or the grave. I can’t tell you how horrible listening to someone beg for their life is.’
We sat in silence for a few moments. Unburdening the details had shaken Palmer. I waited until he pulled himself back together. I needed the time, too. My heart was beating a little faster. ‘What had Bancroft done?’
‘Skimming on the cash he was picking up.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Frank wouldn’t stand for it. If he let it go, others would do the same.’
The punishment wasn’t in line with the crime, but Salford wasn’t a rational man. It was genuinely shocking to me. ‘Which did Bancroft choose?’
Palmer lowered his voice. ‘The grave.’
There was a tear in the corner of his eye. I turned away, not wanting to embarrass him. I gave him a moment before pressing on. I didn’t want to hear it, but I couldn’t afford to let it go. ‘Was Dave Johnson there?’
Palmer shook his head. ‘Not that time.’
‘Why not?’
‘Couldn’t tell you.’
‘Was George Sutherland there?’
‘He was definitely there.’
I thought about the photographs I’d seen. Sutherland must have taken them. And now Dave Johnson had them. There was another face in them that I recognised. ‘Why was Roger Millfield there?’
Palmer looked puzzled. ‘Who’s he?’
‘He’s an accountant.’
Palmer thought about it before nodding. ‘A warning I suppose. Frank worked that way.’
That was what I was thinking. It was the only thing that made sense. I had one more question, maybe the key one. ‘Was Reg Holborn there?’
Palmer said he was. ‘He was the one who authorised it.’
I closed my eyes and my stomach lurched again. Millfield would have known he couldn’t go to the police. He had no option but to keep his mouth firmly shut.
‘Not even Frank would do something like that without permission,’ Palmer added.
It made sense. Salford wouldn’t have been able to exercise such a grip on the city if he didn’t have powerful allies.
Palmer stared at me. ‘What do we do now?’
I didn’t know what to say. All I could think of to say was that I knew Bancroft’s mother.
I threw my coat on to the back of the settee and walked into the kitchen of my flat. I rinsed out a dirty glass and filled it with water before sitting down. If there had been anything stronger in the flat, I would have tried to blot the conversation with Alan Palamer out of my mind, even if it would only be a temporary fix.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Connor said to me. ‘I want to help.’
‘What with?’
‘The ferry.’
I cursed myself. I’d left the tickets in the flat. I put the glass down and shook my head. ‘It’s in hand. It’s going to get sorted.’
‘I should help.’
‘Don’t even go there.’
Connor continued. ‘It’s my mess. I should go on the ferry with you, Dad shouldn’t have to.’
‘I appreciate the thought, I really do, but it’s not that simple.’
‘I need to do it.’
I tried to explain. ‘I have no idea what we’re going to walk into over there. It might be dangerous. It’s certainly stupid. There’s every chance it could go wrong. I’m not putting you in that position.’
‘I’m not scared of going to prison.’
‘You should be.’ We sat in silence until I spoke. ‘Your dad wouldn’t want you doing it. I know that much.’ He was about to protest, so I continued. ‘The way to put it right is to take your second chance. You made a mistake and that’s fair enough. We’ve all made mistakes.’ I thought about Alan Palmer. He’d made serious mistakes and they’d ruined his life. Connor wasn’t going to do the same. He didn’t really want to get on the ferry with me, I could tell that much. He was a boy. There was no way I could let him do it. I rubbed my face and swallowed the water. It was another complication I could do without.
Connor changed the subject. ‘Milo’s found us a nightclub we can put our night on at. We’re going to check it out in a bit.’
‘Reckon it’s suitable?’
‘Sounds it.’
‘Good.’
We lapsed into silence and watched television together until he was ready to leave. I told him to take my bed tonight. I knew I was going to fall asleep on the settee again. I made myself comfortable and fumbled around for the hi-fi controller. I flicked to the radio and turned it down low, wanting the background noise. Aside from Palmer’s confession, it was like I’d closed the book properly on something tonight and said goodbye to Don. And Don Ridley & Son. There was no going back now. Things had shifted and it wasn’t reversible. I lifted the glass and offered a toast to my previous life.
It couldn’t be avoided. I reached for a writing pad and started to make notes, hoping things would look clearer that way. Andrew Bancroft had been murdered. It had been a punishment so others would think twice before stealing from Frank Salford. Salford didn’t need to explicitly say he’d killed him, either. Bancroft’s disappearance and the building up of a myth would be enough.
I threw the writing pad to one side. It wasn’t doing any good. The only fact that mattered to me was that George Sutherland wasn’t going to loosen his grip on me. Knowing he was involved in Bancroft’s death was one thing, proving it was another. Coleman would laugh me out of the room if I suggested arresting him in connection with Andrew Bancroft’s murder. I was going to need more.
My eyes were drawn to the photograph of Debbie on the mantelpiece. I hoped she would understand why I was doing this. She’d always said you had to look forward, whatever happened. What was done was in the past. I hoped she’d agree that putting things right for Niall and Connor was a price worth paying, even if the price was Dave Johnson’s freedom.
I found the envelope Coleman had given me and looked at the photographs again. Coleman had made copies for me to take away. Andrew Bancroft’s scared eyes stared back at me. I turned it over, not wanting to look at it any more. I took out the photograph of Roger Millfield that Coleman had surprised me with and tapped it with a finger. Millfield was stood next to the pig pen, looking every bit as scared as Bancroft must have been. I wondered what Millfield had done, the decisions he’d made that had taken him to such a place.
My mobile started to ring. The display said it was Sarah calling me. I stared at it for a moment before deciding to answer.
‘What’s my dad doing in my house?’ she said, her voice low.
‘I asked him to.’ The line went quiet and I listened as she walked through her house. I heard a door being opened. I could picture her standing in the back garden.
‘You asked him to?’ she said.
I took a breath. ‘I’m getting on a ferry tomorrow night with Sutherland.’
‘Why?’
‘We’re bringing some replacement cigarettes back with us.’
‘Are you mad?’
‘It’s the only way of getting him off my family’s back.’
‘Are you out of your mind, Joe?’
I assured her I wasn’t. ‘I’m doing it so Connor doesn’t have to.’
She went silent. I knew I was right. There was no other way unless I could come up with a plan. Sarah eventually broke the silence. ‘It’s still wrong.’
‘It’s got to be put right.’ I told her it wasn’t even the worst of it. ‘I visited Dave Johnson today.’
I heard he
r draw breath. ‘You went to the prison?’
‘Coleman took me.’
‘Why would you want to speak to him?’
‘He knows about Andrew Bancroft.’ I repeated what Alan Palmer had told me. ‘Sutherland was involved.’
‘Isn’t that enough to have him arrested?’
I found myself shaking my head. ‘There’s not enough there yet.’ I told Sarah I had to go and finished the call. I turned to the envelope Coleman had given me and looked again at the photographs of the murder scene. It was getting late, but I decided to call Roger Millfield. There was no answer. I left him a message, saying we needed to talk about Andrew Bancroft. I knew what had happened to him. I needed him to put George Sutherland in the frame for Bancroft’s murder. Otherwise, I was getting on a ferry tomorrow night. Going back to Millfield was the only option I had left. He was my last roll of the dice. I put my mobile down and made myself comfortable. I switched the radio off and closed my eyes.
Hull, September 1990
The boxing hall was full of people talking and laughing. Don Ridley made his way back from the toilet and sat down at the table. The lights went down and two young boxers stepped into the ring. In one corner, the taller boxer stood in red shorts, the shorter man in the other wearing blue. Two young women in tight T-shirts and shorts circled the canvas with numbered boards held above their heads to signal the first round. The crowd roared their approval. The boxer in red took control of the fight, working his opponent into a corner with a succession of quick and accurate jabs. Ridley’s seat was close enough to hear each blow land. The youngster in blue was showing enough courage to stay in the fight as the bell went to signal the end of the round. Ridley watched as the man sitting next to Holborn collected their empty glasses and made for the bar.
Ridley moved quickly across into the empty seat. ‘Bet you didn’t expect me to be here tonight?’
Holborn smiled, clearly pissed. ‘Not really, Don.’ He leaned in so he could be heard above the crowd. ‘People enjoy my company. I’m a people person. You, on the other hand, are known for being a bit of a cunt.’
Ridley smiled. ‘An honest cunt, maybe.’
‘Truth be told, I won’t miss you all that much.’
‘Looking forward to a long and prosperous retirement?’
‘Too fucking right I am.’
‘You won’t be looking over your shoulder at all?’
‘I sleep like a baby.’
The bell sounded the start of the second round.
‘No regrets?’ Ridley asked.
Holborn shook his head. ‘Not a single one.’ A pint of lager was placed in front of him. Ridley ignored the man standing over his shoulder. He wasn’t ready to move yet.
‘You must have regrets, though, Don? Loads of them, I should think.’
‘Just the one, really.’
Holborn lit a cigar and inhaled deeply. ‘You shouldn’t live that way, Don. No regrets. That’s the only way to do it. I’m retiring as a DCI. You’ll never hit the same heights.’
Ridley concentrated on the boxing. The boxer in red shorts carried on where he’d left off in the first round. He had his opponent in the corner and was peppering him with vicious blows to the head and the body. The crowd roared him on.
Holborn leaned in to speak to Ridley. ‘You can go on about teamwork as much as like, and all that noble bullshit about a higher calling when you join up, but you have to make it happen for yourself. That’s the bottom line.’
‘At any cost?’
Holborn picked up his drink. ‘At any fucking cost.’
‘I’m surprised you didn’t invite Frank Salford along tonight.’
Holborn offered a toast. ‘You always had a sense of humour, Don. I’ll give you that much.’
‘I’ll find him, you know.’
‘Find who?’
‘Andrew Bancroft.’
A roar from the crowd went up. Both men turned their attention back to the ring. Another powerful right hook from the fighter in red and it was all over. The referee stood over the boxer in blue and counted to ten before moving to the red corner and holding the boxer’s arm in aloft. Holborn stood and led the applause.
Ridley waited for him to sit back down and repeated that he’d find Andrew Bancroft. ‘I know Frank Salford had him killed, so that means you knew about it as well.’
Holborn drank a mouthful of lager before putting his glass down. ‘You always get winners and losers in life, don’t you? People like me and Frank are the winners. Now, if you don’t mind, Don, do me a favour and fuck off.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
My sleep was broken by the ringtone of my mobile. I fumbled around, finding it underneath a cushion. It was Coleman calling.
I sat up and answered. ‘Bit early, isn’t it?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Home.’
‘You might want to get yourself to Roger Millfield’s office.’ It went quiet as he spoke to whoever was standing alongside him. I waited for him to return. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said when came back on the line. ‘There’s no easy way of saying this, Joe. Millfield’s killed himself.’
Coleman finished the call, saying he had to go. I sat in shock on my settee for a moment. My head was filled with questions, but I had to focus. I needed to get myself into the city centre as soon as possible. It was only as I was about to leave that the thought struck me. I’d left Roger Millfield a message late last night, telling him I knew all about Andrew Bancroft’s murder. I was to blame.
I joined the steady stream of cars and buses ferrying workers into the city centre. It was a slow drive down Princes Avenue and Spring Bank. Once I was in the city centre loop, I headed straight to Millfield’s office on High Street. From the outside, there was no sign of activity. I called Coleman. He answered and told me to wait where I was. He eventually appeared and said we should go somewhere else to talk. He suggested the cafe in Hepworth Arcade on the other side of Lowgate.
The place was empty other than an old man in the far corner with a pot of tea. Coleman ordered two coffees and two bacon sandwiches.
‘You can’t have eaten, the time it took you to get here,’ he said.
He wasn’t wrong, but I had questions to ask first. Coleman explained that they’d received a call and he’d been alerted to it by someone at the station. I watched as he bit into his sandwich. I pushed mine away and wondered if I’d ever grow as immune to death as he had. I asked who’d found Millfield.
‘The receptionist. She comes in early to open up and sort things out. She saw the light in his office was on and went in to ask if he wanted a coffee.’
‘Poor woman.’
Coleman agreed with me.
‘Did he leave a note?’ I asked.
‘I’m told there was one, but I haven’t seen it.’ Coleman pointed to my bacon sandwich. ‘Don’t you want that?’
I pushed the plate towards him. ‘Go for it.’
He did, wiping away the grease from the side of his mouth.
‘I left Millfield a message last night,’ I said.
Coleman put what remained of the sandwich down. ‘Why?’
‘I wanted to speak to him about Andrew Bancroft.’ I’d probably never know why Millfield had been forced to witness his death, or what he knew. It didn’t feel so important now.
I watched as Coleman processed what I’d told him. He shook his head. ‘You can’t blame yourself.’
‘Easier said than done.’ I picked up my coffee and thought about the contents of the letter. I wondered if it mentioned his daughter. Or more accurately, Don’s daughter.
Coleman leaned in closer to me, not that anyone was listening. ‘He got involved in something way over his head. This thing goes back years. It was bound to be a difficult load for him to carry.’
But he’d done it when I’d been pushing him. I’d been willing to use him to get George Sutherland off my back. What made me think he would have been willing to help me? I’d asked him to open himself up to a wo
rld of trouble. My problems had blinkered me to the difficulties he had been facing. But another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. I suspected Roger Millfield hadn’t been truthful when he’d hired me. It wasn’t his wife’s potential affair he was bothered about. He was worried about himself and what might come out and damage his own reputation.
Coleman finished the sandwich and wiped his hands on a serviette. ‘So what do you know?’
‘Nothing I can prove.’
‘Still got your problem with Sutherland?’
‘Without doubt.’
‘Want to share?’
‘Not at the moment.’
Coleman picked up his coffee and shrugged. ‘Your call.’
We both knew something had changed, that there had been a shift. A man had died. A man with a family, however fragmented it appeared to be. I watched as Coleman took an envelope out of his pocket. He held it out to me.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘One of Holborn’s neighbours reckoned she saw a man hanging around the area just before the fire.’
I looked at the e-fit. It could be any number of men, but one name immediately came to mind.
‘Recognise him?’ Coleman asked me. ‘I could have a good guess who it is.’
‘Same here.’
Coleman nodded. ‘The old guy’s back from his holiday. Only just got in touch.’
I put it in my pocket. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Seems like we both need a result.’ He put his mug down. ‘And I can’t be the one asking the questions.’
I put the envelope into my pocket, understanding the point he was making.
The Crooked Beat Page 19