Die Happy (16 page)

Her little Citroen seemed to have a will of its own, however. Every traffic light she slowed for changed obligingly in her favour, every heavy vehicle that might have slowed her pulled obligingly into a parking lay-by to facilitate her progress. All too soon, she was turning into the wide avenue with its tall trees that she had liked so much when they had moved in sixteen years ago.

It was because of the trees that she did not see the policeman until she swung into the drive. He looked very young and quite disconcerted as she indicated and turned. He held up his hand before her like an old-fashioned traffic cop. ‘Mrs Preston?'

‘I am she, yes.' She cursed herself for adopting the phrase her pedantic husband had always insisted upon.

The young policeman looked even more disturbed. ‘I'm afraid I have bad news for you, Mrs Preston.' He looked behind him desperately and she glimpsed blue and white plastic ribbons between hastily erected stakes. His uniform was very new and beautifully pressed; she wondered how long he had been wearing it. He called towards the open door of the big house, ‘Would you ask PC Jeffries to come out here, please? Tell her it's urgent.'

Edwina said dully, ‘What is going on here? Why are these people in my house?'

He said nothing, but the relief on his face was palpable as a woman police officer, who was only a little older than he was, came reluctantly down the drive. She smiled nervously at Edwina and said, ‘I am PC Alison Jeffries. Would you switch your engine off please?' She looked back at the big house and decided that there was no way in which she could allow the woman who was now a widow to breach the scene of crime barriers. ‘I'm afraid I'm the bearer of bad news, Mrs Preston. Could you let me into your car for a few minutes, please?'

When you're nineteen, you may not have a clear view of reality. The distinction between the possible and the impossible may be clear to you, but the line between the possible and the unlikely is much less clear. Cloudy judgement leads to bad decisions. Bad decisions can have all kinds of unforeseen repercussions.

Wayne Johnson was nineteen. Last night he had made a bad decision. He was now at Oldford police station, enduring the unforeseen repercussions.

Wayne was one of the young petty criminals who loomed larger by the year in the crime statistics. His school career had been dominated by truancy. He had been designated an under-achiever until he was twelve; from then on his continual absences had determined he should be reclassified as a non-achiever. He had acquired a certain grudging admiration from his peers as a successful shoplifter, the most experienced and gifted amongst his group. He had been absent far more than present in his last year at school, so that the end of his educational career was welcomed by his teachers almost as heartily as it was received by the young man himself.

There was no employment for him, of course. He joined the swelling ranks of those ‘on the social' with a weary resignation which should have been alien to a sixteen-year-old. He graduated from shoplifting to petty burglary. Like many adolescents of his background, Wayne had no very clear idea of right and wrong. It was definitely not done to torture babies and old ladies, and young men shouldn't hit women – well, not unless they'd done something really bad to deserve it, anyway. Beyond that, moral distinctions were very hazy. If people were foolish enough to leave things lying around, then they were really very silly; it was only sensible that you should remove such things. It would teach them a lesson; you were rendering them a service, really.

It was a short step from removing things left lying around to searching for such things, and another short step to making your own opportunities. That was the initiative they'd said he didn't have at school, wasn't it? And with the recession deepening and these bloody Poles taking all the jobs round here, you had to do something to survive, didn't you? He had always been quite a nimble lad – could have been a good gymnast, the PE teachers said, if he'd only been at school more often. If people left windows open, they deserved to suffer and Wayne was just the man to ensure they did.

Success made him bolder. He moved on to better streets and bigger houses. He learned what to take and what to ignore. Money was the best, and after that jewellery. Then silver, particularly if it was fairly portable; he learned to distinguish at a glance between the hallmarked article and the EPNS versions which were hardly worth removing. He knew where to dispose of stuff quickly and profitably; you didn't get anything like the retail value, but you had to extract a realistic price from crooked dealers for stolen goods.

Boldness can be a valuable quality for felons. It can also be highly dangerous, if it leads them to overreach themselves. Wayne Johnson had passed his driving test at the first attempt. It was the only examination success he had ever had and for a full day it lifted his spirits. He acquired an old van to carry away his booty and moved on to fresh fields and richer pickings. He could go miles from home now, out to the rich suburbs and the last roads before town finally gave way to country.

The road where he had been last night was simply and grandly called The Avenue. Big gardens, with lots of cover for people doing what he did; big houses, with lots of lovely loot for the deserving and resourceful man like him. But possessions made people suspicious, and success had made Wayne careless.

He had watched the elderly couple leave the first big house at the end of the road. There was no burglar alarm visible on the outside of the house and no bell blared when Wayne gained access. The downstairs windows were the original leaded lights from the thirties. They were certainly picturesque, but no match for a strong young man with the heavy old chisel he had found so effective a tool. You had to force entry without much noise. He was into the room at the rear of the house within three minutes, scarcely able to believe his luck that there should be no effective security in a place this size. No need to hurry; the big Merc had plainly been on its way out for the evening.

He took his time assessing this Aladdin's cave of trophies. His eyes gleamed when his torch flicked over a display cabinet. The silver tea service was solid and a good weight. Regency, probably, his now experienced eye told him. He didn't bother with the china. It was too fragile to travel easily, and you got disappointingly little for it. But there was a collection of gold and silver snuff boxes on the top shelf. Twelve in all; he put them carefully into the shopping bag he had found behind the kitchen door.

The bottom drawer in the bedroom was where he found the money. Tens and twenties, maybe with the odd fifty among them – there must be hundreds here – all beneath several pairs of neatly folded knickers. The woman must have been concealing this from her husband. Naughty old bag! He resisted the urge to count the notes and moved up the drawers to the top one.

That was where he had his real windfall. A jewellery box, with everything neatly assembled for the discriminating intruder to remove. How very obliging! Diamonds, emeralds, what looked to his experienced but uneducated eye like rubies and sapphires. Genuine stones, he was pretty sure of that. Rings and earrings and three or four brooches. Silly old trout! Some people only learned a lesson the hard way, didn't they?

There weren't many dog walkers in the tight little houses in the centre of the town where Wayne Johnson lived. That was probably what made him omit them from his calculations. But The Avenue was a very different place. It was a man walking his Labrador through the scented spring darkness that saw the battered white van in the drive of the solicitor's house. An odd thing, that, as the house itself seemed to be in darkness. When he heard the sound of the rear door of the van being stealthily opened, the dog walker didn't intervene; he was observant, not foolhardy. He stilled the soft growl of the Labrador and hastened homewards as fast as his ageing legs would carry him.

He was lucky. And Wayne was unlucky. When the 999 call came through to the police at Oldford, there was a patrol car within half a mile. They arrested Johnson as he eased the van out of the driveway of the big detached house. Caught red-handed, with the evidence neatly stowed behind him in the back of van. Charged, relieved of his laces and his belt and the contents of his pockets, and given a night in the cells to meditate upon the error of his ways. A result, in police terms. Something to throw in the faces of those who said burglary wasn't taken seriously, in these days of drugs and terrorism.

Wayne Johnson didn't sleep much. The face of the mother who had warned him against his descent into crime ever since his last days at school kept swimming before him, and his scornful dismissal of her fears kept ringing in his ears. They'd be round to tell her he was in the nick for the night and why. He felt an odd emotion he had not endured since childhood. It took him a little while to recognize it as guilt. In the morning, he managed to down half a piece of bread and most of the mug of strong tea that was brought to him.

The two uniformed cops who interviewed him were truculent. The case was sewn up, whatever attitude this suddenly pitiful creature chose to adopt. Even the cautious boys of the Crown Prosecution Service couldn't reject this. Plead guilty and throw yourself on the magistrate's mercy, lad, there's no other course open to you.

Offer them nothing, Wayne's previous brushes with the law told him. He couldn't see any way out of this, but he'd make it as difficult for them as he could, on principle. He knew he was entitled to a brief, and was disappointed when they announced that. No chance of claiming that he'd been deprived of his rights, then. He knew he was going to plead guilty, but told himself stubbornly that a brief might turn up some mitigating circumstance which he couldn't see for himself. These bloody lawyers cost enough, didn't they? If the state was stupid enough to pay their exorbitant bills, let them earn their bloody money.

They couldn't find a lawyer for him, not immediately. One should be available in a couple of hours. He was returned to his cell until then, wondering darkly about some cunning police ploy. The delay was genuine enough, but it was this chance occurrence that delivered him into the hands of the CID.

When he was taken back to the interview room, a keen-looking dark-haired pig said he was Detective Inspector Rushton. He introduced the burly PC Plod-type beside him as Detective Sergeant Hook. After this, they both looked at Wayne for several seconds without words, as though he were a specimen under a microscope that might reward careful study. It was quite unnerving, especially as he was also wondering why simple burglary should interest top brass like this.

Rushton's opening words did nothing to slow his racing pulses. ‘We're not interested in the breaking and entering; that's an open and shut case. You're going to plead guilty once your brief arrives. We're interested in you for something much more serious.' He paused to study Wayne again with that unsmiling, unblinking stare, as if he expected some guilty start to reward him for his attention.

Wayne found it difficult to summon up resistance. ‘You might think you have me banged to rights for breaking and entering. Remains to be seen, that. And you'll get me to admit to bugger-all else, so don't think you can build up your clearance figures by pinning some other thing on me.'

‘Which you'll claim you know nothing about.'

‘Which I've already told you I know nothing about.'

‘Correction, Mr Johnson. You denied responsibility for this major crime. You didn't say you knew nothing about it.'

‘Well, I'm saying it now.' Again they studied him without comment, letting the silence stretch until he found himself compelled to break it. ‘What is this crime you're trying to pin on me, anyway?'

‘We're talking about the biggest one of all, Mr Johnson. Capital murder.'

The words had a ring he couldn't escape in this increasingly claustrophobic place. His throat felt very dry as he said, ‘I know nothing about that.'

Rushton raised his eyebrows and turned his face towards the older man next to him. DS Hook didn't take his eyes off their subject of study, but took up the questioning. ‘Two houses away from the place where you were apprehended last night, on the same side of the road, a man was shot dead. As far as we can tell at the moment, at about the time you were in the area, Mr Johnson. You can see why we're interested in what you have to say about it.'

It was suddenly vitally important to Wayne that he should convince them of his innocence. The pigs would frame you for anything they could. But surely the law wouldn't allow them to pin something like this on him? ‘I didn't do it. It's not my style.' He wanted his denial to carry more conviction, but his voice sounded thin and frail. ‘I'm a breaker and enterer, if you want, but not a murderer. I wouldn't do that.'

Hook studied the thin, frightened face. ‘Do you know, Wayne, I'm almost inclined to believe you about that? Not your style, murder. But as you're a known criminal in the vicinity at the time, you can see why we have to question you about it. You wouldn't be the first young fool to panic when interrupted and resort to violence he never intended.'

‘Well I didn't.' As he sought frantically to convince them, a thought that might bring salvation flashed like an exploding firework into his brain. ‘I've never carried a weapon. And I wasn't carrying one last night. You can search my van, if you like.'

Hook smiled at his naivety. ‘That's already been done, son. Lots of interesting stuff, which will become evidence in due course.'

‘But no gun.'

‘No firearm, as you say. Which reinforces my view that it probably wasn't you who dispatched the victim. And you've no previous history of violence. The question is, are you able to help us and thereby help yourself?'