A Question of Identity (18 page)

‘
Scrabble
, sir?’

‘Euphemism,’ Simon said.

‘
MUM, YOU CAN’T
stay here by yourself. I’ll be worried out of my mind.’

‘I’ll be perfectly all right. Of course I will. You heard what the policewoman said – they’ll be keeping a close eye on us.’

‘Yes, and what does that mean? Swanning past in a patrol car twice a night instead of once.’

‘It’ll be more than that, I’m sure it will.’

‘You’ve had a terrible shock.’

‘I have. But I’m better now. And I think I should stay because I owe it to her – to Elinor.’

‘How do you make that out?’

Rosemary shook her head.

‘And a couple of other people have moved out – I overheard –’

‘Yes, well, that’s up to them, but you can’t live your life running away.’

‘Well, if you’re determined, why don’t I come and stay with you for a few nights?’

‘No thank you, Karen.’

‘Mum . . .’

‘Your place is with Harry and the boys. I’ve got a phone, the police have given us all a special number, and you’re not far away for goodness’ sake. I don’t want to talk about it any more. Now, I’d like to go into the town, maybe have a sandwich lunch? I need to buy some more hooks from Frobisher’s – can you see
where these curtains are sagging? I thought at the time I hadn’t got enough.’

‘Do you feel up to that?’

‘Of course I feel up to it. Cheer us both up. You don’t have to fetch the boys until half three, you can drop me back here just before.’

Karen still hesitated. Harry had said before going off on a job that she should leave the decision to her mother. ‘She’s not a child, she’s perfectly capable of deciding what she thinks is best for her. She knows if she wants to stop here for a night or so she’ll be welcome, but personally I think she’s best facing it right away. It’ll be much harder if she leaves it. Only don’t tell her that, let her make up her own mind.’

She looked at her mother. It was still on her face – horror, disbelief, sadness. The flesh seemed to have sunk down and there was a deadness in her eyes. Karen wanted simply to pick her up and carry her home, settle her on the sofa in front of the fire, with a cup of tea and a magazine, shelter her from the rest of life. She felt as if their roles had been suddenly reversed and Rosemary was the child now.

Her mother stood up. ‘I’ll go and powder my nose and get my coat. Then we can be off. All right, Karen?’

‘If you’re really sure?’

‘I am.’

SOMETIMES HE JUST
wandered, but tonight he knew which way he’d go. He couldn’t keep away. He had no feelings about any of it, just curiosity and a sort of disbelief. A woman had been in bed, safe as houses, fast asleep. Dead of night. Next thing, someone had got in, dragged her out of her bed, put her in a chair and strangled her.

Not in a story, not on the telly or at the pictures, not in a magazine. In Lafferton. His own place. On his beat.

Nobby shook his head.

He’d found a leather jerkin in a skip, together with a thick fleece and a wooden bench. He left the bench in a ditch to pick up on the way back but the leather jerkin was practically new and he could wear the fleece and then put the jerkin over it. Warm as toast. Not that he worried about the cold. Summer bothered him a whole lot more. Plus it was light till nine or half past in summer, not so easy to hide.

He slipped alongside the hedge and through it onto the path. Quiet. Cold. Starry sky. He liked skies. He tried to work out the star names. He could do the Bear. But then there was so much stuff in the way now, satellites and that, confusing you.

Quiet. Cold.

He went along the path to the back where the fence began. Couldn’t climb that, no chance.

Quiet. Cold.

He walked a bit further then between the houses. A shadow. No one. No lights. No cars. Not even a cat racing in front of him. But there was the red-and-white tape all round the one bungalow and a couple of lamps on, big moon-faced battery jobs.

Nobby stopped very still.

There’d be a copper on duty.

He inched his way round until he had a good view of the garden, the path, the front door, the windows. No, no copper. Just the tape. Probably done with the place by now, crawled all over it, got everything. What else was there? No point a copper standing there all night.

And then a light was shining right into his eyes.

‘Stand there, don’t move.’

He wasn’t moving.

A shout. ‘Here.’ Feet pounding towards them.

‘I said, don’t move.’

Hands on him, bending his arm behind his back.

‘Hey, you –’

‘Save it. Now walk.’

Nobby walked because he had no choice. He said nothing because what was there to say? He’d been stopped and questioned enough times. They just didn’t like him, though a few were all right, gave him a lift home, told him to mind himself, sometimes even bought him a cup of tea from the van. Once, they’d bought him fish and chips. But, usually they saw him, didn’t like him being where he was, pulled him in, told him off, sent him home.

So he wasn’t bothered.

They opened the patrol-car door and pushed his head down, as if he didn’t know the form.

‘All right . . .’ Nobby said.

But they said nothing. One drove. The other sat.

‘Where are we going? I don’t live this way.’

‘You’ll have a chance to say all that.’

‘All what?’

‘Details.’

‘What details?’

But they shot through the empty streets at a hundred miles an hour and he got no answer.

‘Out you get.’

Hand on him again.

‘What am I at the police station for?’

‘Stand there.’

Nobby stood. They weren’t any of the cops he knew.

The desk sergeant was a hundred feet tall.

‘What’ve we got?’

‘Brought in for questioning. Loitering in Duchess of Cornwall Close. You’ll need to get someone down.’

‘Name?’

‘Have I been arrested?’

‘You have not. Brought in for questioning, you heard the constable. Name?’

‘Nobby.’

‘Full and proper name?’

‘Norman Parks.’

‘Address?’

‘By the canal.’

‘Don’t mess me about please.’

‘The shack by the canal.’

‘And the postman calls there, does he?’

‘I don’t get post.’

‘Postcode then?’

‘No.’

They got no further because of the noise made by two half-naked young men brought in, handcuffed, fighting, shouting, singing, swearing.

‘All right, Mr Parks. Someone’ll be down in a bit. Room 3.’

‘Can I have a cup of tea?’

The PC didn’t answer, just stood by the door. Nobby sat at the scabby metal table and looked at the scratch marks. Room 3 smelled of something.

He had no real idea why he was here but maybe it was to do
with where they’d picked him up, in which case he didn’t blame them and he could see it hadn’t been the best idea he’d ever had. Going there, hanging about. So, no, he didn’t blame them. He’d sit here and wait, someone’d come and ask questions, he’d answer and then with luck they’d take him home.

‘RIGHT, ANYTHING?’

The team looked tired and low-spirited.

‘One lead – sort of. Patrol brought in Norman Parks – Nobby Parks, lives in a glorified shed down by the canal, near the old warehouses. Bit of a weirdo. Patrol found him skulking around the sheltered bungalows, near to number 12, just after midnight. Got nothing out of him at all. Seen nothing, heard nothing, no idea why he was where he was. Says he just likes being about at night.’

‘Wasn’t he a witness to the ram raid couple of weeks back? Obviously likes hanging about at night.’

‘Nobby Parks has been hanging about Lafferton at night for years,’ Serrailler said. ‘Harmless loner, one sandwich short of a picnic. He shouldn’t have been up at the sheltered housing but he wouldn’t have been able to resist. Nobby wouldn’t kill anyone. No motive, no history of violence. Just a pity he wasn’t hanging about there the night before, he might have seen something important, but don’t waste any more time on Nobby Parks. Joanne?’

‘Guv. We’ve interviewed all the workmen who were finishing off at the Duchess of Cornwall Close bungalows in the past three weeks. None of any interest except the electrician, Matt Williams.’

‘Yes, odd this. Have we found out if the electricity was actually faulty? Did he have a bona fide reason for going back to the bungalows, and Elinor Sanders’s in particular?’

‘Been checked. It’s true there was a general power blip which tripped everyone’s electricity. Williams went to three houses, checked everything, apparently found the fault which our boys have confirmed. But they couldn’t understand why he went back again to number 12. Nothing particular there and it wasn’t the source of the outage – that was number 1. Fault in the original installation . . . the full report’s in the file.’

‘And why was he working so late? What do we know about Williams? What’s he have to say for himself?’

‘We haven’t got hold of him yet.’

‘Why the hell not?’

‘Hasn’t turned up for work since the night Elinor Sanders was killed, no reply at his flat and his phone is off. Been trying all day.’

‘Car?’

‘Van – all kosher, insured and so on, but it wasn’t at the house and no one’s seen it. The number’s out there.’

‘CCTV on the bypass and the motorway service stations? When was he last seen?’

‘Bloke who lives in the flat below says he didn’t hear Williams come home that night, and apparently he usually gets back around six or so, unless he goes to the pub. His local’s the Garter’s Arms and they haven’t seen him for a couple of nights, maybe more.’

‘Done a runner then. Anything on file?’

‘No. He’s self-employed like a lot of them but the building contractors have his details, payslips, bank and so on and that’s all in order – he’s worked for them on and off the last three years. Before that he was employed by a Bevham firm, Bickerstaff’s – they’re checking. They have to dig out past employment details and their office is one down today but we’re pushing.’

‘Married? Previous addresses?’

‘Not married so far as we’ve found.’

‘Get round to his place again. Keep ringing the phone. Check vehicle reports. If he isn’t back by tomorrow afternoon we’ll get a warrant to search his rooms. I want to know where he’s worked before the Bevham firm, going back as far as we can, and any
serious violent crimes while he was in those areas, particularly attacks on elderly women, robberies, assaults . . . nice bit of delving.

‘OK, forensics – not a thing, crime scene clean as a whistle . . . no prints, no hairs, fibres, skin cells, blood, saliva . . . This is Mr Disembodied.’

‘
I NEED A
few details, Mrs Stewart. Your name and address please? It’s only for our files, don’t worry.’

‘Hilary Stewart, 30 Cumberland Avenue.’

And so on, through date of birth and the rest, while she twisted her fingers together and bit her lip and then told herself to stop, because she was behaving as if she had done something wrong, and she’d done absolutely nothing wrong, not a thing.

But the policewoman was pleasant-faced, though not pretty, had neat hair, nice jacket. But bitten-down fingernails. You can get stuff for that, Hilary wanted to say. Tastes disgusting but it works.

‘Thank you, Mrs Stewart, that’s all. Now, tell me what I can do for you?’

‘This may seem rude, but can I ask how long you’ve been been here – at this police station?’

‘Two and a half years. Why?’

‘Then you won’t know. I’ll have to tell you. It’s my sister . . . Lynne, Lynne Keyes. Have you heard of Alan Keyes?’

‘Nooo . . . no, I can’t say I have.’

Hilary sighed. ‘Right. I’d better start right back then.’

It didn’t take long and everything she said was noted quickly down.

‘I’m sorry,’ the DC said when she’d finished. ‘So is your sister Lynne living with you now?’

‘No, she’s in a grotty bedsit. But I’ve sorted it with my husband
that she can – she should come and stay with us. They didn’t use to get on that well but it was a lot better after Alan was off the scene. Once we knew Alan wasn’t ever coming back we all felt . . . well, relieved for a start. He’s a nasty piece of work, Miss . . . Mrs . . .’

‘Rose is fine.’

‘Rose. Right. Thanks. The thing is, read it all up in the newspapers and you’ll see. He killed those three old people as sure as I’m sitting here, everybody knew it, your lot knew it, the lawyers knew it . . . we knew it. Nobody was more sure of anything, it was cut and dried, he was going down for life. And then there was something wrong with some bit of evidence . . . some mix-up, someone forgetting what they’d seen – all rubbish, none of it was very important, we knew he was guilty. And then he wasn’t.’

‘You mean he was found not guilty?’

‘It was – what do they call it? – a travesty, a travesty of justice if ever anybody saw one. Only it happened, that was that, and he just vanished. Nobody ever saw him again.’

‘I’ll have to look all this up and check with my boss obviously. I don’t know anything about it, and to be honest I’ve never had to deal with this sort of case before. Someone being given a new identity is very unusual. It would have been for his own protection, given that the acquittal was so controversial.’

‘If he’d have shown his face, he’d have been torn apart. He wouldn’t have walked away alive.’

‘Which is why he was whisked off.’

‘How do they do it?’

‘I’m afraid it’s something I can’t tell you much about, Hilary. One thing I am pretty sure about is that no one – not you or anyone in your family – will be able to make any sort of contact with Mr Keyes. Of course he won’t be called Alan Keyes now. He probably won’t look the same as he did either.’

‘What, you mean glasses and a big black beard?’

‘Bit obvious.’

‘They were divorced, him and Lynne. She didn’t ask for that, though I know she’d have got round to it sooner or later – she just got a letter telling her it would happen and then not long
after she got the decree thing through the post. So she isn’t his wife now but she was his wife for thirteen years and I just think it’s human decency to let him know. Not that Alan knows what human decency is himself. But it is.’