A Very Private Murder

by Stuart Pawson

  Dave explained about the party and told her about the desecration of the grave, saying that this had probably happened after Aspen had left. Mrs Smethick was shocked. She was a spiritual person, and the dead were to be revered, not mocked.

  The outside door opened and closed and a voice shouted: ‘I’m home, what’s for tea?’ to anybody in earshot. Then the room door opened and we saw Aspen for the first time and she saw us, likewise. Her mouth fell open and her gaze flicked from me to Dave and back again. Ours remained resolutely on her.

  She was wearing the school uniform of grey pleated skirt, white blouse, maroon jacket and school tie. With dyed black frizzy hair, white make-up, black lipstick and Moto-X boots, Aspen was a Goth, and this was as near normal as she ever conceded.

  Her mother broke the impasse. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said, ‘and the answer’s “no”. If she wants a tattoo or piercing job she can wait until she’s eighteen or I’m in my cardboard coffin, whichever comes first.’

  I jumped up, grinning, and held my hand out. ‘I’m Charlie Priest,’ I told her. ‘I’m a friend of Toby’s.’

  She’d heard about me, but I didn’t dwell on what Toby might have told her. Her immediate contact in the badger group was called Peter by his parents, Slug by his comrades, and he had direct contact with Newt, or Oscar as we now knew him. After a discussion Aspen rang Peter and said she was resigning from the group and wanted Newt’s mobile number so she could tell him personally and tear him off a strip about the party. Peter said he was upset about it, too, and gave her the number.

  The party had started about nine, she told us, but some of the older ones had been drinking from much earlier. It was OK to start with and they made a bonfire, which was cool, she said. I remembered the fun we had with fires when I was a kid, and realised that it was probably a novel experience for most of them.

  But then they started playing silly games and some of the girls went off into the bushes with the boys. She’d bought Newt a present – a jester’s hat with bells on the horns – which he started playing football with until it went on the fire. ‘It cost me eight pounds,’ she told us. That’s when she sent Toby a text, asking why she wasn’t there.

  ‘I heard you come home,’ her mother said. ‘It was about half past ten. Wasn’t expecting you for another half-hour.’

  ‘Were you there when the tree was uprooted?’ Dave asked.

  ‘No. Which tree?’

  ‘The silver birch in the middle of the circle.’

  ‘Oh no! That’s terrible. Toby will be heartbroken. And her dad. That was over her mother’s grave. Have they seen it?’

  ‘Yes, but they’re OK, now. Toby would probably appreciate a call from you. She regards you as a good friend.’

  ‘We are good friends.’ We sat in silence for a while until Aspen opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.

  ‘Go on, Aspen,’ I prompted.

  ‘I … I’m not sure. It might have been a toy. What are they called – replicas? – it might have been a replica.’

  I felt my heart stop and heard Dave adjust his position, leaning forward. ‘What might have been a replica, Aspen?’ I asked.

  ‘The gun. Newt had a gun, but it didn’t look like a proper gun. Everybody laughed at him, saying it was a toy. He said it was real, but it wasn’t loaded. He kept playing Russian roulette with it, putting it against his head and pulling the trigger. One of the girls was screaming, telling him to stop, but he only did it more. I was scared stiff. We all were. That’s when I came home.’

  How does it go? Hell hath no fury, and all that. Especially when she’s fifteen years old and wearing Moto-X boots.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘You drive,’ I said, dangling the keys under Dave’s nose when we were back at the car. ‘I’ll try to raise Special Branch.’

  ‘What do you reckon?’ he asked.

  ‘I reckon we could have found the gun,’ I said.

  ‘Shall we spin his flat and car?’

  ‘And what about his room at his mother’s?’

  ‘That too.’

  ‘I dunno. We’d look pretty stupid if we found nothing.’

  ‘Not as stupid as if someone else was shot.’

  ‘That’s true. I wonder how many bullets were with it. Not many. Two or three, I’d guess.’ I dialled the number I had for Special Branch at the Met. One of the advantages of being the longest-serving inspector in Yorkshire is that I know everybody who’s anybody and they all know me. Many of them have graduated through the Charlie Priest Detective Academy; some will do me a favour, if I ask; one or two wouldn’t dare refuse.

  ‘Shagnasty!’ I was greeted, after I’d identified myself and been put through. ‘How are things up in the sticks?’

  ‘Oh, you know: a bomb factory in every cellar; a skunk farm in every attic. We keep busy. What have you got for me?’

  ‘I hope you’re keeping your friendly neighbourhood SB officer informed.’

  ‘Of course. In fact she said exactly the same thing to me last night, in bed.’

  ‘Aha! OK, so what have we got? For a start, Barry Sidebottom is on our books. That in itself doesn’t mean much. The Archbishop of Canterbury is in there, too. We have a green tag on his file. That means that the man himself hasn’t transgressed, to our knowledge, but he has some dodgy associates.’

  ‘Um, I assume you mean Sidebottom?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. Not the archbishop.’

  ‘What sort of dodgy associates?’

  ‘The usual crew. First they sought sanctuary in the Spanish Costas, but when the Spanish government put the heat on them they moved to Portugal. Unfortunately for them there are language difficulties there and it’s not as anglicised as Spain. And, of course, they’re our oldest ally. We go back a long way. The villains like to be within driving distance of the Old Country, not dependent on airlines, so now they’re moving to the Eastern bloc countries. I’m told Bulgaria is highly desirable.’

  ‘The Russians will have something to say about that, I imagine.’

  ‘You’re dead right. Cross one of the old London gangs and they’ll break your legs as a warning. Offend the Ruskies and you’re toast, no messing.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I’ve hardly started. You say his ex-wife’s lover was shot dead on Monday, twenty-first of this month. Barry Sidebottom came into this country one week earlier, on Tuesday the fifteenth, via the Santander-to-Plymouth ferry. He was driving a leased Peugot 407 estate filled with cigs and booze, strictly for his personal use, of course. As far as we know he’s still here.’

  ‘Was he stopped?’

  ‘No. He was borderline, so they let him through. He’s done the trip before and Customs and Excise are watching him, but they’re after bigger fish. Someone bent but clean is useful to the underworld for setting up bank accounts, laundering money, hiring cars – that sort of everyday stuff that can be a pain if you have a record.’

  ‘Dare I ask for an address?’

  ‘No problem. He’s drawing disability allowance, so it was easy.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Is he at home?’

  ‘No idea. We thought we’d better leave something for you to do.’

  ‘You done good, boy. I’m grateful.’

  ‘Don’t come too often, Chas. How’s big Sparky keeping?’

  ‘He’s here next to me. We’re in the car. Want a word?’

  ‘No, my other phone’s ringing. Give him my regards. Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’ I switched the phone off and placed it in the glovebox. ‘He sends his regards.’

  ‘Thanks. Where are we going?’

  ‘Home. I’ve had enough.’

  Friday morning we had a big meeting in the Heckley incident room. Enquiries were ongoing, as we like to say, into Threadneedle’s business activities but nothing incriminating was coming to light. Jeff Caton was handling that side of the case, assisted by the fraud boys and girls, and I was hap
py to leave it with them. I told them that the graffiti was almost certainly done by Oscar Sidebottom, who had links with the Curzons through Toby and with Mrs Threadneedle through the piano lessons.

  ‘Is that “piano lessons” in quotation marks?’ Jeff asked.

  ‘That’s what Dave wanted to know,’ I replied. I’d been sceptical at first until I recalled my second meeting with Mrs T, after her husband had left for the Belfry. ‘I’ll bear it in mind when we talk to him. Or her.’ I turned to a uniformed sergeant who was sitting patiently, waiting to inform us of his contribution. ‘Yes, George,’ I said. ‘What have you got for us?’

  George was from the task force, and his men were scouring every roadside ditch, fly-tipping site, lay-by, dustbin and roadside litter bin within two miles of Heckley, with renewed emphasis on the road towards York and the students’ quarters there. ‘Not much,’ was the answer to my question, but I asked him to keep trying.

  ‘It’s been eleven days since the murder,’ I said, ‘so any dumpsters along the route will have been emptied at least once, possibly twice. But keep looking. We’re desperate for a forensic link. The murderer will have been sprayed with blood, so we need those clothes. Serena!’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Do me a chart plotting the possible ownership of the humane killer, starting with Jonty Hargrave. From him it went to Threadneedle, we believe. And so on. Do you follow me?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Talk to the manufacturer. They probably have records going back a hundred years. Ask how many bullets it came with.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Maggie!’

  ‘Yessir!’

  ‘Any luck with the photos?’

  ‘Sorry, but no. It’s a bit of a wild goose chase. We’ve identified most of the people there, but they’re all straightforward punters, out to ogle Miss Curzon.’

  ‘OK, but it’s got to be done.’ I was rushing through things because I knew that a few miles away a certain Superintendent Kent would be winding up her working breakfast, acclimatising her schedule, practising her Pilates and power breathing while sitting at the desk, and rehearsing what she’d say to her number one detective inspector if she should ever make contact with him again. ‘Go to it, my fine young Turks,’ I urged, lifting my jacket off the back of the chair and nodding to Dave.

  Barry Sidebottom’s address was a three-bedroomed detached house in a respectable estate on the edge of Leeds, north of the river. The garden was block-paved to cut down maintenance and a substantial fence gave a modicum of privacy. The Peugeot stood on the drive in front of the integral garage’s open door, with an elderly Focus alongside it. I parked across his gateway and we reached for our warrant cards. We found him round the back, fiddling with a gas-fired barbecue, watched by a brittle blonde in platform sandals and a cut-down toga, like an extra for Carry On Cleo. He looked up from the barbecue and his expression changed, as if he’d found a dead cicada in his pina colada.

  ‘A word,’ I said, and indicated for him to join us. He was wearing baggy Bermuda shorts with flip-flops, and a pale-blue Adidas singlet that showed off his perma-tanned biceps. Sun-bleached hair spilt out of his singlet and the gold chain and matching bracelet that graced his neck and wrist would have put a deposit on a modest yacht. He’d have walked an audition to play a Great Train Robber, no sweat. He took us into the kitchen and we sat on high stools around a breakfast bar.

  ‘What’s it about, gentlemen?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re investigating the murder of Arthur George Threadneedle,’ Dave told him. ‘Had you heard about his death?’

  ‘Yeah. It sounds a nasty business, but I’d never met the man.’

  ‘How did you learn about it?’

  ‘My son told me about it, didn’t he?’

  ‘Oscar?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You’re in contact with him?’

  ‘No, not really. He was confused, needed someone to talk to, so he rang me.’ Sidebottom paused, wondering how much false concern to inject into the conversation, then said: ‘I … I suppose you know about my ex-wife and what’s-his-name … Threadneedle.’

  ‘That they were having an affair? Yes we do.’

  ‘Well, Oscar had only just found out, hadn’t he? Up to then he thought I’d walked out on them; that I was the guilty party. I let him think that way because he was better off with his mum, I thought. I wanted him to get an education, and besides, I’m not really a family man. Playing happy families isn’t my style.’

  ‘How did he find out that you were the innocent party?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I said: ‘Where were you on the morning of Monday the twenty-first?’

  ‘Down at the gym, wasn’t I, working out. I try to go Monday, Wednesday and Friday, about nine o’clock.’

  ‘Can anybody verify that?’

  ‘I suppose so: they have a signing-in book.’

  ‘Are you here to stay or is it just a visit?’

  ‘This is my home.’

  ‘I thought your home was in Portugal.’

  ‘Then you were misinformed. My bolt-hole is in Portugal. I have a pal who has a bar there. He’s trying to talk me into becoming a partner, isn’t he, so he can expand. I came home to try and raise some money.’

  Dave said: ‘Are you acquainted in any way with James Curzon, who lives in Curzon House, East Yorkshire?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How about Jonty Hargrave, a racehorse trainer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you know Threadneedle at all, before your marriage broke up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you own a gun?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did anyone ever try to sell you shares in a racehorse syndicate?’

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant, but the answer’s “no” again.’

  ‘When are you going back to Portugal?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Can I ask you a question?’

  I said: ‘Of course.’

  ‘How did you know I was in England?’

  I had to be careful how I answered. Special Branch have no more authority than the humblest constable on the beat. Data protection, human rights, race relations, freedom of information. They’ve all to be followed to the letter. ‘Your satnav,’ I said. The sucker marks on the inside of his windscreen showed he had one. ‘The lady up in the sky told us you were home. She has to know where you are before she can give you directions.’ It wasn’t true, but we’re working on it, and it would give him something to think about.

  The phone records didn’t show that Oscar had been in contact with his father in Portugal. It wasn’t definitive but it was the best we could do. Back at the nick I emailed SB and spent some time filling the crime log and studying the summary that the report reader had prepared for me. Nothing sprang off the page and grabbed me by the throat. Dave brought sandwiches from over the road and we ate them in the incident room, our backs to the photos of Arthur George Threadneedle’s spilt brains, hoping Superintendent Kent was safely in a meeting somewhere. When the phone did ring it was Jeff Caton, and he was overflowing with excitement.

  I waved for Dave to join us on a party line and told Jeff to calm down. ‘Dave’s listening,’ I said. ‘Tell us again.’

  ‘Big dumpsters,’ he said. ‘Industrial-sized ones, at the university campus. They’re normally emptied on a Monday, but last Monday was a bank holiday, so they weren’t emptied. They’re full to overflowing. Task force have been going through them and have found a bin liner with some clothes inside. There’s like a jogging suit, made of some velvety material. Two-piece with a zip down the front. You wouldn’t go jogging in it. It’s a woman’s, I’d say, more for wearing inside. And there’s some socks in there and some cotton gloves.

  ‘What colour’s the suit?’ I asked, remembering the pea-pod outfit she’d worn that first day, with its wayward zip down the front.

  ‘Bright green.’

  ‘Any bloodstains?’

 
‘It’s a bit messy but can’t tell if it’s blood. I tried picking some up on a cotton bud and it’s the right colour.’

  ‘Any sign of a gun?’

  ‘No, sorry, but they’re still looking.’

  ‘Have you bagged it all?’

  ‘In paper bags, as per instructions. Shall I get them straight to the lab?’

  ‘Yes please, but tell them to keep it away from all the other Threadneedle stuff.’

  ‘Will do. Are you coming over?’

  ‘Try to stop us.’

  There was a disused filling station down the road from the dumpsters, which was just right for our purposes. It was a big, concreted area with a roof high enough to clear a sixteen-wheeler. We had the dumpsters brought there and the task force boys and girls started to methodically work their way through them.

  It was a smelly, nauseating job. Some of the stuff had been in there for nearly two weeks, and the weather was warm. As the level of garbage lowered rats were seen, unable to climb out, and a confiscated airgun was appropriated and put to good use, popping them off. I collected a crate of lager and one of mineral water from the nearest supermarket and distributed them amongst the sweating bodies. I was in for a roasting over my mileage expenses, so a bit more wouldn’t hurt. It took them the rest of Friday and most of Saturday before we could confidently conclude that there wasn’t a gun in there.

  Mrs Threadneedle had been back in her home for a week, so I decided a visit was overdue. I didn’t ring first; just turned up on her doorstep like a Jehovah’s Witness who happened to be passing. She made me welcome and invited me in.

  ‘Had we left the place in a mess?’ I asked when I was seated behind the compulsory coffee. She’d managed to keep it within the confines of the china cup and there was no sign of the gin bottle.

  ‘You had, a bit,’ she replied. ‘There was this … dull bloom … on everything, but I’ve given it all a good polish and I think we’ve topped it.’