‘Go on,’ I invited.
‘It wasn’t aimed at anybody. If it had been, the wassock who did it would have put Fuck you, not just Fuck. It was some twelve-year-old kid who thinks painting that word is the most daring thing he’s ever done. It could have been any one of the kids from the high school.’
‘Sounds reasonable,’ I agreed. ‘Have a word with any graffiti artists we have on the books. One of them might know who it is, and he won’t be popular with them for drawing the heat their way. In fact, lean on them, hard. Meanwhile, let’s have a brainstorm. I reckon finding the paint is priority. Where do we start looking?’
The ideas came thick and fast. Our starting point was that the culprit remained on the premises after closing time and left whenever he could, probably abandoning the paint and any disguise he’d worn. The finger pointed at an inside job, meaning the security staff or the cleaners who came scrabbling into the place after hours, like the undead hiding from the light.
We went back to the factory and composed a leaflet to distribute to all the shops and businesses in the Centre. It asked them to look anywhere where our culprit could have hidden overnight, and to search for a tin or tube of paint and a brush concealed on their premises. We ran off five hundred copies and I sent the troops back there mob-handed to distribute them and suss out the security in general. While they were doing that I made appointments to see Councillor Arthur George Threadneedle, Mayor of Heckley, and Miss Ghislaine Curzon, Enslaver of Princes. I knew which one I was most looking forward to.
CHAPTER THREE
It was easier than we thought. At eight-fifteen Tuesday morning the manageress of Lucy’s Frock Shop rang to say that while putting out a rack of cheesecloth buy-one-get-one-free ra-ra skirts she’d noticed what looked like a tube of paint tucked away underneath one of the marble seats that were a feature of the Centre. I wondered at what stage in their careers manageresses became managers and hotfooted it round there. She was an avid watcher of all the scene of crime TV programmes that flood our late-evening schedules and had done exactly the right thing. She’d cordoned off the seat with a row of chairs and sent for me. The villains watch TV, too, and are becoming more forensically aware, so it’s a pleasant change when it works in our favour. She was probably hoping for George Clooney but didn’t look too disappointed with Charlie Priest.
It was a tube of WHSmith’s own-brand acrylic paint in rose madder, and was half empty. A toothbrush lay alongside of it, the head a blob of hard paint. I put both items in evidence bags and congratulated the manageress on her powers of observation.
The troops were up in the incident room, finishing cups of coffee and sharing out the tasks when I entered, holding the evidence bags high in the air like the executioner with Marie Antoinette’s severed head.
‘Ta-da!’ I called. ‘Charlie does it again.’
Jeff Caton was on the telephone and he waved a hand to tell us to make less noise. ‘How long ago?’ he asked, followed by: ‘Give me the address again.’
‘Robbery,’ he told us as he slipped his phone back in its holster. ‘The pit bull gang strikes again, but this time it’s on our turf.’
There’d been a spate of robberies in Lancashire by a two-man gang armed with a slavering pit bull terrier. They terrorised their victims, threatening to set the dog on any children present, and stealing jewellery, credit cards and cash. And now they were operating on our patch. Either that or we had a copycat.
‘Tell us more,’ I said.
‘Couple with two children. One of them took the wife to the nearest ATM machine and drew six hundred pounds on her two cards. Left them all tied to chairs but they managed to get loose.’
‘I’m supposed to be interviewing Threadneedle shortly, and the Curzons later. You wouldn’t prefer to see them, would you?’
He was already stuffing his notebook into his pocket and clicking the top on his pen. ‘I don’t think so, Chas. You’re the acceptable face of the force. I’ll stick with the common criminals.’
‘Then take Serena,’ I said. ‘She’s a dog lover.’
Serena’s our second female member and the youngest on the team. We give her all the jobs involving children and weeping women, and, it goes without saying, any involving denizens of the subcontinent. ‘Aw,’ she protested, ‘I wanted to come with you to meet Ghislaine.’
‘Boss’s perks,’ I said with a grin. ‘You get the pit bull.’
When they’d gone I said: ‘OK, where are we with it?’
‘I’ve spent the last two hours going through the dumpsters out the back,’ Maggie told us, ‘and you come breezing in with the evidence, smelling of roses. I smell of yesterday’s KFC skins. It’s not fair.’
‘So that’s you and Serena disgruntled. I must be losing my touch. And for the record, it’s He by Armani, not roses.’ I turned to Brendan. ‘What about you, my little leprechaun assistant? How gruntled are you, this bright morning?’
‘I’m perfectly gruntled, boss. Never been more gruntled.’
‘So what conspiracy theory have you come up with for this one?’
‘Nothing really. We’ve looked for the paint in all the litter bins and in every nook and granny we could find, but you beat us to it.’
‘Nook and granny?’ I queried.
‘Oops, did I say nook and granny? Freudian – it’d be more fun.’
‘Go on.’
‘This place closes for shoppers at ten but most are winding down before then. Every shop has some sort of grille that closes off the front. At the moment there are five security staff on through the night, including the one in the control room. The CCTV is digital, state of the art, with fully controllable recording, zoom and panning. We’ve asked for the disks. The cleaning staff come on at eleven and are done by three …’
He droned on and I nodded in what I hoped were appropriate places. It all sounded secure and well organised, except that the security men would do a quick patrol to satisfy themselves everything was as it should be, then crash out for the remainder of their shift, and the cleaning staff were not exactly Mensa material. Well, most of them weren’t.
‘It sounds like an inside job,’ I declared, feeling somewhat self-conscious at using the term. ‘Collate all the names and work out a schedule for interviewing everybody. If we lean hard enough someone will crack.’
Threadneedle’s house was in the part of town where the new money lived. He was two doors away from the manager of Heckley Town football club on one side and next door to the owner of a string of entertainment venues, like bingo halls and lap dancing clubs, on the other. The doors in question were about a decent nine-iron drive apart.
His driveway was block paved, the grass like velvet, and dwarf ornamental trees – weeping willows and acers – marked the curves of the approach to the front portico as if delineating a slalom course. No sign of a Rolls-Royce, just a Lexus, shining like a bowl of morello cherries, standing outside the house with its boot lid raised. As I parked behind it Threadneedle appeared carrying a bag of golf clubs which, after sparing a glance at his visitor, he unceremoniously dumped into the back of the Lexus. He brushed his hands together and turned towards me.
‘Mr Threadneedle,’ I said as I pushed the door of my humble Vauxhall closed. ‘DI Priest. Thanks for finding the time to see me.’ A collared dove landed on the lawn, looked at us and flew off.
‘My pleasure, Inspector,’ he replied expansively, arm extended. ‘It’s nice to see you in the flesh after hearing so much about you. I’m deputy chairman of the Police Authority, you know, and you get more mentions in the minutes than the chairman does. Heckley’s lucky to have you.’
‘Yeah, I think so too,’ I agreed, and he laughed out loud and slapped me on the shoulder.
His wife is a midget. Not a clinically defined midget but she’s a good head shorter than he is and he’s barely average height. You could tell that she’d been a looker in her youth, but the ravages of high office had taken their toll, and now she looked stressed out and ravag
ed. Her hairstyle was lopsided and her lipstick, which had been applied with a palette knife, was bleeding at the corners. Either high office or the booze, I thought, noting the well-stocked bar in the corner.
We were in what I suppose was a sitting room, surrounded by reproduction auction house furniture designed to prevent visitors becoming too comfortable, and photos and mementos of Threadneedle’s career in public life. He’d shaken hands with Freddie Trueman and stood next to Jimmy Savile at a fund-raising event. Big deal. I’d played in goal, one time only, for Halifax Town reserves, but I don’t have photographs of it all over the house.
‘Tea or coffee, Inspector?’ he was asking as I took in my surroundings.
I didn’t really need either, but he was wanting to be off golfing and I wanted to cultivate a chatty, man-to-man atmosphere. ‘A coffee, please,’ I replied. ‘It must be nearly an hour since my last one.’ He chuckled again, and I wished I had someone like him in all my audiences.
‘Do you mind, Janet?’ he said, gesturing towards the door.
His wife turned to me, saying: ‘Or would you prefer, you know, something a little stronger?’
‘Just a black coffee, please,’ I said, giving her my lopsided smile.
‘Janet, Janet,’ Threadneedle chided. ‘Mr Priest is on duty. Perhaps we’ll be able to offer him our hospitality some other time, in the future.’
‘So how is the investigation going?’ he asked when she’d left the room. ‘Are you any nearer catching the scum who did it? Flogging’s too good for them, if you ask me.’
‘We’ve found the tube of paint and it’s gone for fingerprint testing. Do you have any ideas who might have done it?’
‘Well, I’ve got enemies, if that’s what you mean. Nobody I could name, but I’ve trodden on a few toes, particularly with the Curzon Centre, and people bear grudges, don’t they? But … you know … I’d like to think my enemies were a bit more subtle. I’ve given it a lot of thought overnight and have concluded that someone was put up to it. Someone young, by somebody else who wouldn’t want to dirty their own hands, and we’ve plenty like that in the town.’
‘Anyone you’d like to name?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘You seem to have taken it personally. You think it was aimed at yourself rather than Miss Curzon?’
‘Oh, it was aimed at me, Inspector. Rest assured of that.’
Mrs Threadneedle came in bearing a tray with three coffees and a jug of cream. The cups rattled in their saucers as she tipped the tray and lowered it precariously towards the little table that her husband hastily produced. It landed like a Vulcan bomber on the deck of an aircraft carrier and coffee slopped over the sides of the cups. Neither of them seemed to notice.
We talked for another ten minutes or so without me learning anything of interest. The graffiti had hurt him, that was for sure, so perhaps his enemies were subtler than he believed. Next to money, Threadneedle’s guiding light was his standing in the community and his fear of ridicule.
Frankly, my dear, I didn’t give a toss. The tabloids would report the incident tomorrow with their usual decorum and by Thursday it would all be forgotten. Then I’d be back to the robberies. Except that the incident, as we’d started to call it, was an opening into another world. A world we only ever glimpsed the fringes of when we visited a stately home, or saw over a high wall as we drove by. A world that guarded its membership jealously. Old money and class struggling against the tide of new money and vulgarity, and I was as intrigued as any suburban housewife with her Aga boiler and Country Life magazines.
A big shaggy dog was having a pee against the front wheel of my car when we walked outside. ‘Shoo, Wolfgang, shoo,’ Threadneedle shouted at it, pointing into the distance, and the animal slinked off round the side of the house. ‘Looks like he’s staked his claim to your car, Inspector. Sorry about that.’
‘It’s had worse. Wolfgang?’
‘As in Mozart. Blame the wife.’
‘Right. He’s a weird-looking animal.’
‘Yeah. Got him from the rescue place to be company for Janet while I’m away, but he’s got a bit smelly in his old age.’
I nodded towards his car’s boot. ‘Where do you play?’
‘The golf? Oh, I’m going down to the Belfry for a couple of days; meeting up with some business associates. You know how it is.’
I didn’t, but I nodded sympathetically. It was a chore, but it had to be done. We shook hands … I made the usual noises about seeing him again … if he thought of anything else … please thank Mrs Threadneedle for the coffee … and that was that. Duty done and the sun was shining like fury. I hung my jacket behind my seat and pointed the car towards the motorway and East Yorkshire, abode of the Curzon dynasty. I was early, so for a relaxing hour or so I was just another anonymous rep driving his bog-standard fleet car between appointments. I flicked round the radio stations and caught Bonnie Tyler’s ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’, singing along with her for the few words I knew: ‘Turn around, bright eyes …’
I’d made enquiries and the best anybody could tell me was that the occupant of Curzon House was simply a mister. Mr James Sebastian Curzon. I didn’t know why – the British aristocratic hierarchy is a mystery to me. Perhaps an older brother inherited the family title, if there’d ever been one, and ran off to Tasmania with a chambermaid, taking the title with him. I saw the sign I was looking for and turned into a narrow lane. A mile further on it was left again past a raised barrier and through some open ornate gates. A painted board told me that I was at Curzon House and the tea shop and gardens were open every day except Monday, from Good Friday until October.
The house was a three-storey cube, made of yellow stone with raised pointing, topped off with a confusion of chimneys and dormer windows. The chimney pots were tall and crenellated, like the crowns worn by wise men in a Greek Orthodox nativity show. One of the roof windows was catching the sun and reflecting it into my eyes, as if some mad relative imprisoned up there was signalling for help. Beyond the house, round the back, I could see more buildings – glasshouses and what looked like the outside of a walled garden. Presumably the tearooms, plant sales and gift shop were round there, too. Gravel rattled against the underside of the car as I approached the front door and wondered where to park. I felt I ought to be driving a brougham drawn by four chestnut mares, or at least a Humber Super Snipe. I stopped right at the entrance, yanked the handbrake on and swung my legs out.
The door opened after the first push of the porcelain button and I found myself gazing into the gloomy interior of Curzon House. When I lowered my gaze I saw her. She was about the same height as Mrs Threadneedle and was wearing thick spectacles and an Adidas tracksuit. Estimated age: about twelve, but I’m no expert.
‘DI Priest,’ I said. ‘I’ve an appointment to see Miss Curzon.’
‘You’re the cop?’
‘I’m a police officer.’
‘I’m Miss Curzon.’
‘Oh. I was expecting you to be older.’
‘A common mistake. I’m Brains, she’s Looks. You want Looks. Actually, she’s got the brains, too, but I have to fight back, don’t I?’
‘I’m sure you’ve both got a fair share of each … either … both … whatever.’ For God’s sake, I thought, she’s a kid. Pull yourself together.
‘I think it’s each.’
‘Yes, I think so too. Is … Miss Curzon, um, senior … available?’
‘No. Her and Daddy have gone to see one of the dexters that’s just calved. Grizzly rang to say they’ll be about twenty minutes and I’ve to keep you entertained till then.’
‘She,’ I said. ‘She and Daddy.’
‘Is it?’
‘I think so.’
‘Oh.’ She beamed up at me and I saw that the plain Jane look was just a temporary phase. In a couple of years she’d shed a few feathers, polish those that remained and be pulling the ducks off the water as easily as skin off a rice pudding.
‘Who’s Grizzly?’ I asked as she stepped past me, into the sunlight, and sat on the balustrade.
‘Looks. Ghislaine. Everybody calls her Grizzly.’
‘Thank you. And what’s a dexter?’
‘It’s a cow. Daddy breeds them.’
‘Right. So how are you going to entertain me?’
I was hoping she’d offer to show me round, but she said: ‘Do you play tennis?’
‘I could, years ago.’
‘Would you like a game?’
‘Um, if you like.’
‘Or would you prefer to see the badger sett?’
‘Er, tennis, please.’
It was as if I’d wound up a clockwork doll and set it going. She jumped to her feet and brushed the hair off her eyes. ‘You would? Honest? I’ll get the rackets.’ She dashed into the house and reappeared in seconds, carrying two high-tech-looking rackets made of carbon fibre or some other spin-off from the space race. The last one I used was made of bamboo and catgut. ‘It’s round the back,’ she said, marching off, and I turned to follow her, wondering what I’d set in motion.
It was a proper court, laid in some sort of red composite material, with a high netting fence around it. Dozens of tennis balls were scattered all over, like windfalls in a Golden Delicious orchard. ‘Let’s get rid of some of these,’ I said, deciding it was time to assert my crumbling authority, and kicked the nearest ball into a corner. ‘You’d break your ankle if you stepped on one. Six is plenty. I don’t know your name,’ I said as she joined in the kicking.
‘Toby, and don’t say it’s a boy’s name.’
‘Is it?’
‘Everybody tells me it is. I didn’t like my original name so Daddy said I could change it. I chose Tobias, shortened to Toby. Loads of girls have boys’ names, don’t they?’
‘I know what you mean. I’m called Charlie. Now nearly every woman I meet is called Charlie.’
‘Ahah! There you go, then. Can I call you Charlie?’
‘When I’m off duty.’
‘Are you off duty when you’re playing tennis?’
A Very Private Murder Page 3