It took several journeys to transfer everything from Anna’s car to where the stall was being set up, and here, inevitably, Mariner came face to face with Simon. If he’d expected to be let off lightly with a caricature of a mincing queen, Mariner realised he was out of luck. Simon was bronzed, muscular and macho, and Mariner found it hard to believe that what Anna had said was true. He could see her watching him.
‘It’s not always the ones you expect,’ she said.
‘No.’ Progress: he could smile about it.
Anna was going to be busy arranging prizes until the festival opened and there were already enough volunteers on hand who seemed to know what they were doing. Mariner felt like a spare part, so he wandered off to see what else was on offer. There were stalls affiliated with every local organisation imaginable. Even the conservation group was represented, he noticed, seeing Eric Dwyer lurking behind a table of soft toys, wooden carved artefacts and the ubiquitous mugs, trying to encourage new recruits to the project.
Though the festival wouldn’t be officially open for another half hour, people were pouring in through the gates. At one end of the field was the West Midlands police trailer. Recognising Jim Watson, a sergeant from the OCU, Mariner made for the home security van. Alongside the advice posters on securing doors and windows was a display with photographs of Ricky and Yasmin, appealing again for any information anyone might have. Now that the heat was going out of the investigations it was essential to take any opportunity to maintain the profile of each case and keep the publicity going, but at the same time it felt gruesome and out of keeping with the atmosphere of the event — even to Mariner. Unsurprisingly, few people were giving the display much attention. Mariner spent several minutes chatting to Watson before heading towards the exhibitions tent.
Inside the marquee it was bright and oppressive, with a smell of warm canvas on grass that took Mariner back to childhood camping expeditions. Long trestle tables were covered with pristine white cloths and a series of displays that reflected every creative pastime open to man: from homemade cakes, flower arrangements and jam, to prize-winning pumpkins and marrows. There were art competitions for children and adults for which certificates would be awarded later that afternoon for different categories and age groups. The adults’ theme was ‘reflections of Birmingham’ and the one that most appealed to Mariner’s taste was literally that: an impressive pen and ink sketch of a bank of trees at sunset, mirrored onto what Mariner guessed was somewhere on one of the city’s canals. The view was familiar, not dissimilar to the one from his back door.
‘Inspector, I didn’t know you lived locally.’ It was the artist himself who approached Mariner.
‘My partner does,’ said Mariner, thinking that it was the first time he’d ever referred to Anna that way. ‘And I had no idea that you were so gifted. Congratulations, Mr Goodway, it’s a superb drawing.’
‘Thank you. I’m a bit rusty these days, but suddenly I find myself with some empty evenings to fill. And it can be very therapeutic. Helps to take my mind off things.’
‘Of course.’ An unwelcome reminder to Mariner that there was still unfinished business. ‘Good luck with the competition.’
‘Thank you.’
An announcement over the PA system heralded the opening ceremony and Mariner moved outside again in time for the arrival of the festival queen, attended by her flower girls, all of whom were selected from children born on the Cadbury estate. Mariner was swept along with the crowds towards the main arena where the maypole dancing would begin. Judging by the number of video cameras trained on the dancing, each child had a minimum of two sets of proud parents and grandparents there. Scanning the crowd, Mariner spotted another familiar face. It took him a moment or two to place Andy Pritchard, especially as today his ranger’s uniform had been replaced by jeans and T-shirt.
He was reaching up to position a digital camera and Mariner wondered if he had a daughter among the dancers, though he seemed to remember Pritchard as a single man. Perhaps a niece then, or goddaughter. At that moment Pritchard glanced up and saw Mariner watching him. Mariner smiled and nodded, but Pritchard didn’t reciprocate. Instead, lowering the camera, he turned and began walking away from Mariner into the crowd. Purely out of curiosity Mariner followed, just to see what he would do, and was interested to note that Pritchard quickened his pace. There were a number of possible explanations. The simplest was that the recognition hadn’t been mutual, or perhaps Pritchard just didn’t feel like talking to Mariner. Being a policeman could sometimes have that effect on people. Mariner gave it up.
Tired of the crowds, Mariner sought refreshment in the beer tent, but after standing in a motionless queue for ten minutes he abandoned that idea and decided to go and find a pub. Being on the Bournville Trust, and therefore Quaker and dry, the nearest was going to be a drive away. The incident with Andy Pritchard was niggling at him, too. The more he thought about it, the more he thought Pritchard’s behaviour odd. He glanced over to where the Manor Park stall was. Anna was in her element, hidden somewhere behind a heaving mass of people. She wouldn’t miss him for an hour or so.
* * *
Mariner’s first stop was Granville Lane. ‘Tony Knox in today?’ Mariner asked the duty sergeant.
‘He was here earlier, but the miserable sod’s done us all a favour and gone home,’ was the terse reply.
Even so, it didn’t take Mariner long to find what he was looking for up in CID: the information Knox had followed up on the indecent exposures. After plotting the incidents on a map Knox had rightly identified the pattern as being access to railway stations, but when he looked closely Mariner found another, more subtle pattern. Each of the attacks had also occurred close to a council park or open space; not on it, but close by. Andy Pritchard used his bike to get around and what better way of covering bigger distances across the city with a bike than on the train?
Mariner switched on his computer. While he was waiting for it to boot up he sorted through the phone messages in his in-tray. One was an urgent phone message to contact the forensic service. Mariner called back. Most of the scientists were off duty for the weekend, but the technician who was covering was expecting Mariner’s call.
‘The gaffer thought you might want to know that we’ve identified the type of wire that was used to strangle Yasmin Akram. It’s a kind of annealed wire, coated with a chemical rust inhibitor.’
‘Would it have a plastic coating?’
‘Wouldn’t need it.’
‘So not an electrical wire,’ said Mariner, disappointed.
‘Electrical wire isn’t normally left exposed like that,’ the technician told him. ‘It’s a fairly soft wire, easily pliable but strong enough to withstand quite a powerful force, so it would be an effective murder weapon.’
‘Any idea what it would be used for?’
‘The clue to that may be in the other substance we found at the joint where the wire had been twisted. In the crook there was a tiny residue of claydium.’
‘Which is what?’
‘A type of nylon-reinforced clay. Specifically used for modelling. Add that to the wire and I’d say you were looking for someone who’s a modelling enthusiast.’
Mariner thought about Pritchard. He could imagine him with his Airfix planes or battalions of model soldiers. Ringing off, he ran a check on Andy Pritchard but no criminal record appeared and there were no details on the database. Mariner thought about the man. How would he fare with women? Probably not that well. He wasn’t particularly good looking, the skin problem saw to that. Helen Greenwood had mentioned the flasher’s complexion. Sunburnt she’d said. Or could it have been acne? The way he’d looked at Yasmin’s partly clothed body had seemed a little off-kilter too. And why had he taken so long to phone it in? What had he been doing in the forty minutes after he found it?
Suddenly Mariner remembered Croghan’s remark about Yasmin’s missing underwear. Had it been removed at the time Yasmin was killed or afterwards? Because Pritchard had d
iscovered the body long after Yasmin disappeared and had no apparent connection with the disappearance, checking his alibi had been a formality. Yasmin’s body was discovered in an obscure area of the park. What had prompted Pritchard to even look there? And most importantly where had Andy Pritchard been on the afternoon of Tuesday, 3 July? Mariner wondered what Tony Knox was up to today. He couldn’t imagine that it was anything much. Drinking himself into a stupor probably. The man needed saving from himself.
CHAPTER 29
When there was no response on the phone, Mariner drove round to Knox’s house. He rang the doorbell at Knox’s house several times and then hammered on the door a couple of times. There was no response, despite the car on the drive and, looking through the window, he could see that the place was still a tip. Christ, Knox was hopeless on his own. Mariner went round to the back of the house. The garden was empty and despite the growing heat the house still shut up. He peered in through the patio doors and a chill ran through him.
Tony Knox was slumped lifelessly in an armchair. Mariner could see the bottle of spirits on the floor beside him and lying on the sofa within arm’s reach, another small, brown bottle. Mariner’s mind raced back over Knox’s behaviour over the past few weeks: the mood swings and the pent-up anger, along with that unprecedented reluctance to talk about anything, until his recent shame-faced revelation. Putting it all together with the scene before him, Mariner came to one unspeakable conclusion. He banged on the window, hard. Nothing. Being a policeman the house was like Fort Knox. How appropriate was that? The back door was the flimsiest and in the end Mariner smashed the glass to get in. He rushed in on Knox who hadn’t moved a muscle. This wasn’t good.
‘Tony!’ Mariner shook him, slapping his cheek with more force than he’d intended. Knox jolted back to life with a start. ‘What? What’s going on?’
Mariner sat back on his heels, weak with relief. ‘Nothing, I thought . . . nothing. It doesn’t matter.’ He’d explain the kitchen window later. His gaze skimmed the brown stubby beer bottle on the sofa and after a split-second delay, Knox’s face cracked into a smile.
‘You thought I’d topped myself, didn’t you?’
Mariner said nothing.
‘Aw, I didn’t know you cared, boss.’
‘Piss off,’ said Mariner.
‘Listen,’ said Knox. ‘If I take that way out, it won’t be quietly in my own living room. It will be off the roof of the Hyatt with the TV cameras rolling. And you’ll be among the first to know. Anyway, where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to contact you.’
‘I was at Anna’s last night.’
Knox raised an eyebrow. ‘You talked?’
‘We talked.’
‘About fucking time. Anyway I think I’ve found something.’
‘Me too.’
‘Really?’ Knox looked almost disappointed, but he listened patiently while Mariner ran through what he’d got. ‘Pritchard sounds like he could be our flasher, but did he kill Yasmin?’ he said, when Mariner had finished.
‘He had every reason to be in the area,’ said Knox. ‘The park is just across the road from the reservoir. And he’s definitely a bit weird. But it doesn’t necessarily make him a killer.’
He was right. ‘Okay,’ said Mariner. ‘So what have you got?’
‘Come and have a look.’ Knox took him back up to the little office and onto the Old Friends website.
‘Is this to do with Theresa?’
‘Not exactly.’ He logged back onto the website to show Mariner the message he’d found. Mariner was doubtful. ‘It’s not much.’
‘No. But then I started thinking: what would make a good teacher resign or get the sack?’
‘Stealing? Embezzling the school fund?’
‘—or having the wrong kind of relationship with the students.’
‘Goodway doesn’t fit the usual profile. He’s got three kids of his own. Happily married man.’
‘How happy though?’ said Knox. ‘Barbara Kincaid was pretty scathing to Shaun Pryce about her love life, which might indicate that her husband has other preferences.’
Mariner thought back to his visit to Brain Goodway’s home. ‘He made some comment about how young and glamorous Barbara had been when he met her. I thought then it seemed an odd way of putting it.’
‘Maybe “young” is the operative word. And if he went off her as she got older, it might have left both of them looking elsewhere for gratification. He gets his from ogling the kids at school—’
‘—and along comes Shaun Pryce, for her.’
‘He could easily have been lying about his relationship with her. Which makes me wonder about what really happened to Barbara Kincaid?’
‘We’ve no reason to believe she was murdered,’ Mariner pointed out.
‘It was a sudden, unexplained death.’
‘Yes, but the suicide verdict is unlikely to be challenged. She was taking powerful anti-depressant medication and her GP at the time has confirmed that she was under a lot of strain.’
‘Great cover for Goodway if he’s found out that she’s having an affair and decided to off her.’
‘You’ve been watching too much crappy TV,’ said Mariner. ‘Where would Yasmin come into all this?’
‘She could have seen Pryce with Barbara Kincaid and grassed on them to Goodway.’
‘But that must have all erupted months ago. Why leave it until now to do anything about Yasmin?’
Knox couldn’t provide the answer but luckily for him his phone trilled, temporarily letting him off the hook. He put it to his ear. ‘Great. Thanks for getting back to me. Stewart Blake,’ he hissed, over his hand, before embarking on a series of monosyllabic responses that left Mariner frustratingly in the dark as to what they were discussing. Ending the call Knox was smug and self-satisfied.
‘We’re on the right track, all right,’ Knox said. ‘Goodway’s departure from St Martin’s was sudden and unexpected. No official explanation was given, but rumour had it that he’d invited a sixth former to model privately for him — very privately. One thing led to another, until the kid blew the whistle on him. It didn’t go down too well with the parents.’
‘No shit.’
‘Perhaps with his wife safely out of the way, he offered Yasmin the same opportunity.’
‘And she threatened to tell someone. We need to ask Brian Goodway a few more questions.’
‘Let’s hope he’s at home.’
‘He isn’t,’ said Mariner. ‘He’s at the Bournville festival. He may be up for a prize. He’s—’ He broke off mid-sentence. ‘-the picture.’
‘What picture?’
But Mariner shook his head. ‘Goodway will be occupied all afternoon. Let’s take advantage of that and pay a visit to his house. I just need to do something else first.’
‘And what about Andy Pritchard?’ said Knox.
‘I agree with you. Pritchard is small fry. He’s up to something, but he can wait.’
Knox waited in the car at Granville Lane while Mariner went in and picked up a camera. After that their first stop was the reservoir, Knox following like an obedient hound at the heels of its master. They walked round to the patch of crushed down grass that Shaun Pryce frequented and Mariner looked out across the water. It was as he’d thought. Moving in an arc of 180 degrees he began taking snaps.
‘SOCO have already got all this,’ said Knox. ‘Now might not be the right time to be supplementing your photo album.’
‘Call it a comparative study,’ was all that Mariner would say.
* * *
From there they went to Brian Goodway’s house. The door was answered by a white-haired elderly lady, Goodway’s mother, and as Mariner had hoped, it seemed she was alone in the house.
‘Do you think we could come in, Mrs Goodway?’ Mariner asked, walking past her before she had time to protest.
‘Is this about Barbara?’
‘There are just a couple of things we wanted to look at again. We won’t take
up much of your time,’ he assured her.
‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Mariner. And keep her out of their hair for a few minutes while they checked over the downstairs rooms. The house comprised three floors of outsized rooms. This might take a while. ‘We’re looking for the wire and the modelling clay and anything else that might help,’ he reminded Knox.
Mrs Goodway was back sooner than he expected, brandishing the same mug he’d been given before: a well-worn version of those on Eric Dwyer’s stall.
‘Does your son belong to the conservation group?’ Mariner asked, wondering if she’d even know.
‘He used to,’ said the old lady. ‘But I don’t think he’s been for a long time.’
Climbing the stairs Mariner brushed past pictures hanging on the wall. One in particular stood out. It was almost identical to the one he’d seen this morning in the festival exhibition. At a different time of year, with no leaves on the trees and more rain in the lake, it was an exact copy of the view in Goodway’s picture.
‘Tony.’
Knox came and peered over his shoulder. ‘What have you got?’
‘This drawing is almost exactly the same as the pen and ink Brian Goodway has entered for the festival competition.’
‘So? It’s a view.’
Mariner took the camera out of his pocket and held one of the photos beside the sketch. ‘See any similarities?’
‘Christ.’
‘Strip the trees of their leaves and they’re exactly the same. When I came to talk to Goodway after his wife’s body was found, he denied even knowing about the reservoir’s existence.’
Innocent Lies (Reissue) Page 28