Echoes of the Dead (16 page)

He was the sort of man who really liked to be liked, Paniatowski decided – the sort who would do almost anything, even something he didn't particularly want to do, rather than cause offence.

Paniatowski produced her warrant card. ‘We're police officers. We'd like you to come down to the station with us, Mr Clegg,' she said.

Clegg's smile melted away like rendered-down fat.

‘Why?' he asked. ‘What have I done?'

‘We don't
know
you've done
anything
,' Paniatowski told him. ‘But there is a little matter we think you could help us to clear up.'

‘
What
little matter?'

‘I'd rather not discuss that here.'

‘But . . . but this is my busy time,' Clegg protested. ‘Ten minutes from now, I'll be swamped with women wantin' to buy sausages for their husbands' teas.'

‘Your lad should be able to handle that,' Hall said.

‘What?'

‘We've been watching the way he works. He'll have no trouble dealing with the rush.'

‘You've been
watchin'
him?' Clegg asked worriedly.

‘We've been watching
both of you
– very carefully,' Hall said. ‘And we've noticed at least three breaches of the Health and Safety Act that we could arrest you for right now, were we of a mind to.'

‘I . . . I . . .' Clegg spluttered.

‘It really would be much easier if you came with us voluntarily,' Paniatowski said.

‘All right, I'll come,' Clegg said, defeated.

They left the market through the main exit – Paniatowski and Hall pointedly flanking Clegg – and headed towards the multi-storey car.

‘Look, I really need to know what this all about,' the butcher protested, as they crossed the street.

He was nervous, Paniatowski thought.

And that was a good thing, because – though they rarely realized it themselves – nervous men were already doing part of their interrogators' job for them.

‘I mean, I'm a law-abiding citizen,' Clegg babbled.

‘Are you really?' Paniatowski asked. ‘Have you
never
done anything wrong, Mr Clegg?

‘No, I . . .'

‘Not even in the distant past? Not even in
1951
?'

‘1951?' Clegg croaked.

‘Would it help you if I was more specific?' Paniatowski wondered. ‘All right then, let's say, you didn't do anything wrong in
April
1951.'

They had reached the lower floor of the car park, and Hall broke rank to open the back door of the vehicle. Then, with his hand already on the handle, he seemed to change his mind.

‘What's the point of going all the way down to the station when we can do the interview here?' he asked.

‘Here?' Paniatowski repeated, puzzled.

‘Well, not
right
here,' Hall said. ‘But somewhere close. We could go up the steps to the top of the car park. I should think you get a lovely view of the whole of Whitebridge from there.'

What the bloody hell did he think he was doing? Paniatowski wondered. If he wanted to change their plans – and she couldn't see why he
should
want to change them – then he should have discussed it with her first.

But she couldn't argue with him – not in front of Clegg – so she said, ‘I suppose the top of the car park is as good a place as any.'

As they climbed the stairs, Tom Hall maintained an almost breathless monologue.

‘Do you like going to the pictures when you have a bit of spare time on your hands, Mr Clegg?' he asked, as they passed the first floor.

Clegg said nothing, but that did not seem to deter Hall in the slightest.

‘I love it myself,' the chief inspector continued, as they reached for the second floor. ‘I saw this film with Michael Caine in it. What was it called, now?
Get Carter
! That's it! It was marvellous. Have you seen that one, Mr Clegg?'

Clegg grunted, non-committally.

‘Of course,' Hall cautioned, as they arrived at the third floor, ‘you have to do what they call “suspend disbelief” when you're watching a film like that, because it isn't very realistic. I mean to say – there isn't any way that the police would have allowed a criminal like Carter to go on the rampage like he did. Still, it's only a bit of fun, isn't it?'

What was this? Paniatowski asked herself. What the sodding hell was he playing at?

Hall knew, as well as she did, that the only way they'd get Clegg to reveal whether or not he had been harbouring a guilty secret for twenty-years was by maintaining a united front – by signalling, through that unity, that they knew they were the ones in charge, and they would get their way in the end. And what that meant, from her viewpoint, was that she had to seem to be going along with whatever Hall was doing, because once Clegg sensed disagreement – once he could see a crack in the united front – they were finished.

They had reached the top floor of the car park.

‘A wonderful view – just like I promised,' Hall enthused. ‘That'll be the cathedral, won't it? And look, there's the bus station.' He lit up a cigarette. ‘The only thing that put me off in the film was Michael Caine's accent,' he continued, when he'd inhaled. ‘He was supposed to be a Geordie – born and bred – yet every time he opened his mouth, it was obvious he was a cockney.'

‘What's all this about?' Clegg asked nervously.

This was about as good an opportunity as she was likely to get to take back control, Paniatowski told herself.

‘It's about Fred Howerd,' she said.

‘Fred Howerd?' Clegg licked his lips nervously. ‘I don't know the man.'

‘You've heard that he's dead, haven't you?'

‘Like I said, I don't know the man.'

‘Everybody in Whitebridge has heard of Fred Howerd,' Paniatowski said. ‘He was all over the newspapers back in 1951. Besides, your stall is in spitting distance of where Fred's used to be.'

‘All right, I might have known him,' Clegg admitted. ‘But just – you know – to say hello to when we happened to pass each other.'

‘That's not what
he
said.
He
said you were the best of mates.
He
said you could give him an alibi for the afternoon that little Lilly Dawson was abducted.'

‘He was lyin',' Clegg mumbled.

Tom Hall stepped forward, put his arm around Clegg's shoulder, and steered the butcher across the car park to the very edge of the parapet.

What the hell was he doing
now
? Paniatowski wondered.

‘It's a long way down, isn't it?' Hall said, looking over the edge. ‘Look at the cars on the street. They could be toys.'

Clegg twisted his head round, and gazed frantically at Paniatowski. ‘Help me!' he pleaded.

She had to intervene, Paniatowski told herself. However much that might upset the delicate balance she had been trying to establish, there was no choice
but to
intervene.

‘That's enough, Tom,' she said.

But instead of releasing Clegg, Hall tightened his grip on the other man's shoulder.

‘Do you know what my favourite part of
Get Carter
is, Terry?' he asked. ‘It's when Carter is questioning one the local villains – Bunbury, I think his name is – at the top of a multi-storey car park, which, now I come to think about it, is rather like this one.'

Clegg had both his hands on the edge of the parapet, and was gripping it as tightly as he could.

‘Get away from him, Chief Inspector!' Paniatowski said firmly.

‘And what do you think happens when Carter gets an answer he doesn't like, Terry?' Hall ploughed on. ‘He throws Bunbury over the bloody edge!'

Another few seconds and she was going to have to do more than intervene with just words, Paniatowski thought desperately – another few seconds and she was going to have to get physical.

‘I told you to get away from him, Chief Inspector!' she said, giving Hall one last chance.

Hall removed his arm from around Clegg's shoulder, and took several steps backwards.

‘Is that far enough for you?' he asked.

Ignoring him, Paniatowski turned her attention back to Clegg. The pork butcher's ruddy face had turned white with fear, and he was still holding tightly on to the parapet, as if he was frightened that Hall had not yet finished with him.

‘Tell me about Fred Howerd's alibi, Mr Clegg,' she said.

‘Look, you've got to understand my position,' the butcher moaned. ‘It wasn't easy for me at the time. I was engaged to be married and . . .'

‘Tell me about the alibi!' Paniatowski repeated.

‘We . . . we went to Bolton that day, to see this girl that Fred knew.'

‘A girl?' Paniatowski echoed.

‘I . . . I don't mean a girl like Lilly Dawson. Nothin' like that. This one was a prostitute.'

‘So the
two
of you went to see
one
prostitute?'

‘Yes.'

‘How did you arrange things? Did you take
turns
with her?'

‘No, we . . . we both did her at the same time. She . . . she didn't mind. She said she liked it that way.'

You really sicken me, you loathsome piece of dog shit! Paniatowski thought.

‘How long were you in Bolton?' she asked, in as level a tone as she could muster.

‘We set off as soon as the market closed. We didn't get back to Whitebridge until ten o'clock at night.'

‘If that's what really happened, why didn't you inform the police as soon as you'd heard that Howerd had been arrested?'

‘I . . . I was going to,' Clegg gabbled. ‘I swear I was. But then Dyson Trypp came see me.'

‘Who's Dyson Trypp?' Hall asked Paniatowski.

‘He's dead now, but he
was
a local solicitor,' Paniatowski told him. ‘A very
bent
local solicitor. So Trypp came to see you, did he, Terry?'

‘Yes.'

‘And what did he have to say for himself?'

Besides, he needs time to prepare the story he will feed to his fiancée. His current plan is to tell her that he'd had no idea why he and Fred were going to Bolton that day, that once he realized it was to see the girl, he'd wanted to back out, and that the only reason he
didn't
back out was because he was afraid that Fred would make fun of him.

It's not a good story. It wouldn't fool even the most naive of girls – and Edith is anything but that. Yet he still clings to the hope that – given time – he'll come up with something better. Because he knows he
has to
come up with something better!

‘But what you
also
know is that Fred was with you all Saturday afternoon and most of the evening.'

‘She was
fifteen,
Mr Clegg. You could go to prison for merely touching her – never mind all the disgusting things you probably
actually
did during your sordid little session.'

‘In the eyes of the law, ignorance is no excuse at all,' Trypp says harshly. ‘But it
is
an excuse in the eyes of my client,' he continues, in a much softer tone. ‘Fred didn't tell you how old the girl was . . .'