by Jan Toms
‘Here we are, Bertie. Get this down you and then you can go – after we’ve had a little chat.’
The little chat followed familiar lines, don’t sleep in the precinct, don’t beg, don’t nick anything and get yourself booked into St Rhadegund’s.
Bertie nodded as if taking all the advice on board. As he creaked to his feet, he said, ‘Guess who I saw last night, Mr Grimes.’
‘I don’t know, Bertie, who did you see?’
The old man hesitated. A longstanding nark, he wasn’t in the habit of giving information without some monetary reward.
‘Tell me who you saw and I might – I just might – find a few coins in my pocket.’
‘Probably worth a tenner at least, Mr Grimes.’
‘Well, I’ll be the judge of that.’
Bertie whetted his lips and leaned forward confidentially. ‘I was outside the bookies yesterday, just passing the time of day, and who should I see but,’ at this point he leaned forward, giving Alan the full benefit of his perfume, ‘Barry Hickman.’
‘Who?’
‘Barry Hickman. You know who I mean, Barry, Harry and Gary – sons of Larry Hickman?’
‘You mean the Pretty Boys?’
‘The very same.’
‘What would Barry Hickman be doing?’
‘That I don’t know Mr Grimes, but it might well be worth your while to find out.’
Alan stayed late at the station searching the files again for anything he could find about the Hickman brothers, aka the Pretty Boys.
Lawrence Hickman had been born along the coast into a respectable family but he was the traditional bad apple in the barrel and having left school barely able to read and write, he had miraculously discovered a talent for wheeling and dealing, launching himself into the petty underworld. Raised in this hothouse, his three sons, Harold, Garfield and Barton, alias Harry, Gary and Barry, had blossomed into a full-scale gang, providing dubious protection to south coast enterprises and importing an illegal, abused and unprotected workforce. Old man Hickman had retired to Spain, leaving Harry and Gary to run the show. Barry, the youngest, was generally thought to be missing a bit upstairs but he was a whiz kid with figures, useful if money laundering was part of your job description.
As he flicked through the dossiers, Alan noticed the name of Vincenzo Verdi. Now here was an interesting thought. There was some question as to whether or not Vincenzo Verdi actually existed. Some claimed that his name was a cover for an as yet unidentified hitman who, over the years, had taken out a whole range of people from bankers to East European spies to unfortunate witnesses who happened to have seen something and might be able to identify known criminals. He wasn’t averse to knocking off fellow crims either, if the situation demanded it. As far as Alan knew, no one had ever actually seen him.
He ran the name over his tongue and it had a poetic rhythm – Vincenzo Verdi. Alan had been on holiday to Tuscany the summer before and had dutifully attended language classes beforehand. As a result, he knew that the Italian word for green was verdi. In the report on Gruesome’s death there had been some mention of Vincent Green, the Clarion having misprinted the first name in mistake for Victor – could there just be some connection? If there was, he had no idea what it might be.
With little hope of finding anything, he looked in the telephone directory under Verdi but – as expected – found nothing. He consulted the electoral register just in case, but no one of that name was listed.
It was getting really late but before he left, Alan drew up a list of all the men he had identified.
The Blues Brothers The Pretty Boys
Alfonso Rodriguez (62) (Spain) Lawrence ‘Larry’ Hickman (72) (Spain)
Reginald ‘Reggie’ Rodriguez (34) (Parkhurst) Harold ‘Harry’ Hickman (41) (Where?)
Randolph ‘Randy’ Rodriguez (34) (Camp Hill) Garfield ‘Gary’ Hickman (37) (Where?)
Roger ‘Dodge’ Rodriguez (18) (London?) Barton ‘Barry’ Hickman (21) (Nearby?)
Known Associates
Tommy ‘Gruesome’ Hewson (42) (Dead) Bernard ‘Mauler’ Maguire (51) (Dead)
Joe ‘Groping’ Windsor (58) (Where?) Angus ‘Fingers’ Kilbride (48) (Where?)
Leon ‘Frenchie’ leFevre (38) Rupert ‘Gentleman’ Craven (37)
Suspected Hitman
Vincenzo Verdi (aka Vincent Green) (Where?)
Alan studied his list. Was there some significance in the fact that both Papa Rodriguez and Larry Hickman had retired to Spain? Did they have any contact? When were the Rodriguez boys due to be released from gaol? What were the Hickman boys mainly engaged in these days? And Vincenzo, also known as Vincent, where was he now and what was he doing? He had as many questions as you like, but very few answers.
Pushing the papers into his desk drawer, he set off for home and another of Charity’s curious culinary concoctions.
NINE
Her father was late so Charity had plenty of time to mull over the mystery of the two accidental deaths. As far as she could see there was no obvious link between Hewson and Maguire, other than that both men had been known criminals. The other thing that just might be significant was that on both occasions a white dog had been present at the scene of their deaths.
Charity felt understandably unnerved at the thought of a dog called the Angel of Death. As far as she could make out, it was a miniature poodle – and Victor had a miniature poodle. Miniature poodles were not exactly synonymous with acts of violence but even so… She must ascertain exactly how long Victor had had Fluffy and where the dog had really come from. She must also establish whether Victor might have been the sinister man lurking in the vicinity of Mauler Maguire’s drowning.
When Alan arrived home he seemed distracted.
‘Long day,’ she observed. ‘A lot going on at the nick?’
‘Yes and no. I’ve been on the desk but there were some facts I wanted to verify.’
Charity wondered whether to tell him about her trip to the Chine and the discovery of some strange marks and the white dog hairs, but decided to keep it to herself for the moment. Wouldn’t it be great if she could solve the mystery of Mauler’s drowning, discover a crime that the police had so far failed even to identify.
Meanwhile, still distracted, Alan packed back a second helping of lentil and pesto risotto without apparently even noticing.
The next morning, Alan found himself unexpectedly attending a post-mortem. It hardly ever fell to him to do so, largely because he was not technically a part of CID. Today, however, the actual detectives were otherwise engaged and he was told to report to the mortuary.
The victim turned out to be Mauler Maguire and the station had thought that, in view of his criminal tendencies, it might be wise for one of their number to be present in case of any later repercussions.
Alan was not very good with dead bodies. The living he could cope with pretty well, but the particular tainted smell and the waxy deadness of a cadaver invariably made him feel ill.
The pathologist was a pretty girl who looked as if she should still be in school. Alan thought that it was wrong that a woman should want to do such a job. He tried to imagine how he would feel if Charity had decided to go into forensics. As it was, he had been quite disappointed when she had settled for a job in retail, even in a managerial role. She was a bright girl, was Charity. She had been to university and studied economics. What was she doing working in a High Street chain?
Now that she had come home, he nursed the fragile hope that he might be able to persuade her to find something more rewarding – if he could persuade her to do anything at all. She seemed to have got it into her head that he needed looking after and, without wishing to hurt her feelings, he had yet to find a way of telling her that he quite enjoyed being on his own.
Alan’s marriage to Margaret had been happy enough. They had met when she came as a clerical assistant to the station, not a police role but a civilian one. He had liked her quiet manner, the way she smiled. He had asked her out, began
to date her and then they had quietly agreed to get married. It wasn’t a great romance, none of the nonsense talked about in films and novels, but it had been nice and comfortable and they had been blessed with their two daughters.
He wondered how the girls had turned out to be so alike and yet so unlike either of their parents. Both were assertive, opinionated and, to be honest, bossy.
It had been something of a relief when they finally left home and he and Margaret were left to muddle along together. Margaret had plenty to keep her busy. She helped in the hospice shop, she knitted and sewed garments for her grandchildren, she read an inordinate number of books, went to the WI and helped on their stall at fêtes. In their own quiet way they had been happy, until Margaret had made the fateful trip to London and fallen on the escalator. He still didn’t understand exactly what had happened later on, but a weak artery or something had suddenly ruptured and within minutes Margaret, apparently on the road to recovery, had died.
All these thoughts occupied Alan so that he didn’t have to concentrate on Mauler’s body, now sliced from throat to groin, the contents taken out one by one – like delving into a dressing up box – and stored in what reminded him of Margaret’s Tupperware collection.
The pathologist, Eunice, broadcast a low-voiced commentary. Mauler’s lungs showed signs of water inhalation and it was this that had killed him. In other words, he had drowned. His liver and kidneys were in a sorry state, he had varicose veins, his skin was plagued with psoriasis, he had suffered various broken bones over a number of years, and shortly before his death he appeared to have been bitten on the ankle by a small dog. Eunice carefully measured the space between the puncture marks, the depth of the wounds, and recorded it all as evidence.
Alan forced himself to listen. There were no signs of violence other than the bitten ankle. Was it not just an accident? Could the bite have caused Mauler to lose his balance and plunge into the weir? He was pretty certain that the coroner was going to introduce an open verdict.
He forced himself to look at Mauler’s face before his skull was sawed open and his brain extracted. Even in death he looked pugnacious, aggressive. It was hard to imagine that he ever had a mother, might even have had a girlfriend. Now, he was going to carry any secrets he had to the grave.
While Alan was in the mortuary, Charity decided to extend her field of enquiries. It was a fresh, bright morning and she guessed that Victor would be taking Fluffy for a constitutional so, using the local Co-op as an excuse, she set out to parade in its vicinity until she spotted them.
Victor came along the road dressed in lightweight flannel trousers and a green cardigan. Fluffy’s red lead clashed with the orange shopping basket that Victor carried. She noticed that on his feet he had open-toed sandals with black socks and at his neck, a blue-green cravat. This, she assumed, was Victor’s idea of casual wear for the summer. She was training herself to notice details. In fact, as she took up a position a yard or so behind Victor, she recited to herself a minute description, just in case she was called upon to give evidence.
‘Five feet four or five, about 120 pounds (she usually worked in stones but they used pounds in American detective novels), mousy brown hair worn a little long and parted on the side (left). Light brown eyes, rather myopic (she had noticed that he wore brown-framed glasses for reading). Slim build (very slim). A habit of licking his lips before he spoke. Slightly sticky-out ears.’ She recorded that he carried his shopping bag looped over his left arm – might this mean that he was left handed? – this was something she would need to identify.
At this point, Fluffy stopped suddenly for one of his routine sniffs and, nearly bumping into the back of her quarry, Charity made herself known.
‘Hello, going for a walk?’
Victor turned round, went pink and began to stutter. ‘J-j-just a tr-tr-ip to the sh-shops.’
Charity tried to put him at his ease by saying, ‘I like to come to the Co-op. I like their ethical trading. It’s the same with M&S – where I used to work – humanity isn’t sacrificed for the sake of profit.’
Victor looked a little surprised but he said, ‘I l-like the Co-op washing-up liquid.’
They had reached the shop and Victor went to tie Fluffy up to one of the rings thoughtfully set into the wall. Fluffy, realising that he was about to be abandoned, set up a castrati-like whimpering that was almost off the scale.
‘Would you like me to stay with him,’ Charity offered, ‘so that you can look around?’
‘That’s very kind. I – I hadn’t realised that having a dog could be such a tie.’
‘You haven’t had him long then?’
‘No, just this week.’
Aha, that was one piece of information cleverly extracted.
Charity untied Fluffy and picked him up and, pacified, he watched his new master go through the door of the Co-op. In an inspired moment, Charity tugged a small clump of wool from Fluffy’s coat and carefully secreted it in her pocket in case she ever needed to compare it with the dog’s hair from the bench.
Victor eventually emerged with his bag full of shopping. ‘Th-that’s very kind of you. I-I’ll be going home now. Th-thanks very much for looking after him.’
Charity saw her chance for further investigation slipping away so she said, ‘I’m going your way. I’ll walk back with you, that is if you don’t mind?’
‘No, of course not.’ She thought she detected a hint of pleasure around the eyes.
On the way back, Charity kept up a stream of conversation. She was wondering how to ask more significant questions but nothing useful came to her then, as they turned into Victor’s road, she said, ‘Well, this is a thirsty morning. I could really do with a cup of tea.’
For a moment she thought that Victor wasn’t going to take the bait but as they slowed down at his gate, he blurted out, ‘Would you like to c-come in for a c-cup of tea?’
‘That would be lovely.’
Victor took down his mother’s best china cups and saucers, and the floral china teapot instead of the brown one he normally used. There was a matching milk jug, a tiny sugar bowl, and he remembered to put out the slop basin and strainer, for he always used leaf tea instead of the teabags his mother had been so much against. There were a few Rich Tea biscuits in the tin and he found a pretty rosebud plate and a doily from the linen drawer.
Once it was all laid out he warmed the pot, spooned in the requisite amount of tea leaves and waited the appropriate time for the tea to brew.
Charity watched the proceedings with fascination. The only place she had witnessed something similar was in an old-fashioned teashop that her mother had occasionally taken her and Pru to when they went on shopping expeditions into town. She had rather liked the way the waitresses wore black dresses with little lace pinnies, and the tables had embroidered cloths.
Once Victor had poured out their tea, she began to think of ways to extract any useful information.
‘Are you enjoying your holiday?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes, it’s so nice not to go to work.’
‘You work at the tax office?’ She had picked this up either from her father or from the newspaper – she must be more careful and remember the sources of her information.
Finding her so easy to talk to, Victor admitted that he would really like to give up work and stay at home with Fluffy.
‘What would you like to do?’ she asked.
He thought for a while. ‘It would be very nice to go abroad, to Italy perhaps.’
‘Have you been abroad before?’
He shook his head, a little embarrassed by his lack of adventure.
‘Do you go out much here – in the evenings for example?’
‘Not very often – at least, now I have a dog I take him for a walk most evenings while the weather is nice.’
‘Where do you take him?’
‘Oh, just round about.’
This wasn’t getting Charity anywhere so she said, ‘I expect you’ve been to Shanklin
Chine?’
To her delight, Victor definitely looked rattled. Quickly she added, ‘I like walking along the path there, down towards the shore. I like the sound of rushing water, don’t you?’
He nodded, still looking troubled.
‘Have you taken Fluffy there at all?’ she pressed on. ‘Only if you have, I do urge you to keep him on the lead. If he fell into that water…’
‘Oh, I do – I will.’ Victor seemed grateful for her advice.
So he had been there. She was tempted to mention the drowning but she didn’t want to arouse Victor’s suspicion. Instead she asked, ‘How did you come to get a dog then?’
‘Well,’ clearly pleased to talk about it, Victor told her all about the accident when he had landed on Mr Smith – ‘only his name wasn’t Smith. He seems to have been some sort of criminal.’ He shook his head at the way things had turned out. ‘Fancy that, and him being in our road.’
Charity nodded and listened to the saga of Victor going to the RSPCA and being concerned for the orphaned Fluffy’s welfare.
‘It was the least I could do,’ he said. ‘Besides, I have always dreamed of owning a dog.’ He looked suddenly wistful.
It was at that moment that Charity noticed a movement in the corner, and from a blanket neatly folded against the skirting board, a small kitten suddenly woke up, stretched and came across to investigate. Seconds later a second one joined it.
‘Oh my goodness, you’ve got some cats too. Did you get them from the RSPCA?’
‘No. There was a terrible man, he was going to drown them. I – I said I’d take them home.’ He faltered as if perhaps he had said too much but Charity was already on her knees cuddling the kittens to her.
‘Aren’t they adorable?’
For a while she played with them, then she finished her tea and announced that she must be going.
Victor saw her to the door. Just as she was going through the gate he heard himself ask, ‘I say, I don’t suppose you would l-l-like to c-come to the cinema?’