Authors: Carola Dunn
All the shops they passed were boarded up until they came to the corner where
J. Bradshaw, licensed to sell tobacco,
eked out a meagre living. Megan stopped at the kerb right outside. There was no competition here for parking space. It was impossible to see inside through all the bits of paper pasted in the windows, offering everything from a bedsitter at a ridiculously low rent to “French lessons” for not much more.
Though Megan had seen sights just as dismal when she worked in London, the contrast with Launceston and Port Mabyn was shocking. There might be poverty in the country, but at least one had the scenery to take the edge off.
“I hate to leave the car unguarded,” she said. “Some yobbo’ll have the wheels off it in seconds.”
“We should have borrowed a marked car. You stay here. I’ll go in.”
“I’ll go in. I’m less likely to make him nervous, don’t you think? He’s bound to be doing
something
illegal, if it’s only fiddling his taxes.”
“You think the poor sod makes enough to owe taxes?”
Looking at the shop, Megan conceded, “No. Unless it’s immoral earnings off the adverts in his window. He can’t be too worried, or he wouldn’t have contacted us.”
“True.”
“Look, I saw the body. If he’s iffy about the photo, perhaps I can remember something that’ll help.”
“I suppose it’s possible. Okay, you go in. Leave the door open so you’ll hear me shout for help if I’m assaulted.”
Megan bit her lip, remembering why she had once been . . . fond of him. That self-deprecating sense of humour and his occasional kindness had—for a while—masked the innate arrogance and the roving eye.
For a while. She hurried across the littered pavement into the shop.
The man behind the counter of the tobacconist–newsagent–sweet shop was short, spare, and almost completely bald. A burly customer leant against the counter, holding the
Evening Standard
folded to the sports page. They stopped discussing football when Megan came in, and the burly man turned to look at her. His dungarees were well worn but not quite shabby. Still in work, Megan guessed.
“Born in a barn, was you, darlin’?” he enquired truculently, with a pointed glance at the open door. The shopman muttered something to him. “Huh! Right you are, Jim. No offence meant,” he said to Megan, ingratiating now, “and none taken, I ’ope. See you, Jim.” He went out, skirting Megan as though she had the plague, and leaving the door open.
“Mr Bradshaw?” she asked, going up to the counter. She knew she had been identified as a rozzer. Some people had a sixth sense about it, though it often failed when they were faced with a woman officer.
“That’s me.”
“DS Pencarrow, North Cornwall police.” She showed her warrant card. “You telephoned in response to our request for information about a murder victim.”
“ ’Sright. I couldn’t swear to ’im, mind.”
“Newspaper pictures aren’t too good. I have a proper print here, if you wouldn’t mind taking a look.”
“Gruesome, is it?” He put out his hand and regarded with disappointment the bloodless photo she put into it. “Not a mark on ’im, but you can tell ’e’s a goner, can’t you? That’s ’im, all right.”
“You know his name? Or where we can find someone who knew him?”
He shook his head. “Sorry, miss, or should I say officer? All I can say is I seen ’im in the shop maybe four or five times. ’E’s one of these squatters, see. Leastways, that’s what I reckon. He come in with a couple of kids just like ’im once. Never had a job, most of ’em. Dirty ’abits, drugs, long hair.” He smoothed a hand over his bare scalp. “They break into unoccupied houses, don’t care the water and electric’s been turned off. Doss there till it gets too smelly even for them, then they go find another one. So even if I knew where he’d been staying, which I don’t, them he was sharing with likely moved on by now.”
“But you’re sure he was in this area.”
“Got a good memory for faces, I ’ave. And I keep an eye on ’em seeing I’ve caught a couple nicking fags—or sweets. Wet behind the ears, some of ‘em. Ought to pack it in and go home to mummy.”
“Could you identify any of those you’ve seen with him?” She tapped the photo, which he’d laid down on the counter.
“You show me photos, or line ’em up in front of me, I could. But you got to catch ’em first, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” Megan agreed ruefully. “Can you by any chance put a date to the last time you saw him?” Again she tapped the picture.
“Last weekend,” Bradshaw said promptly. “He bought a paper. The
Mirror
, was it? No, I tell a lie, it was Sunday, the
News of the World
. And I never seen him buy a paper before. Which ain’t to say he never did, but I’m the only newsagent still open hereabouts.”
“It doesn’t sound as if he was a frequent reader.”
“Though the truth is, they don’t buy much of anything,” the newsagent went on. “Turning the place into a slum, they are. I’m not saying it was ever smart hereabouts, but it was a decent place, plenty of work and respectable people, mostly, ’cepting Sat’day nights when the pubs let out. Nowadays the ships are too big to come up the river. They’re going to clear the rest of us out when they get round to it, but the more run-down it is, the less compensation they’ll be paying. So if you lot was to clear out them squatters, there’s none would lift a finger to stop you.”
That explained his cooperation. “I’m afraid that’s up to the Bristol police,” Megan reminded him.
“Yeah, but if you tell ’em the squatters ’ve got themselves mixed up in murder now, maybe they’ll get up off their fat arses and do something. Pardon my French.”
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Megan said. “It’s possible someone may have to contact you again.”
“ ’S all right by me.” He waved at his deserted shop. “Ain’t got so much to do I can’t spare the time. Gets boring dusting the stock.”
Megan went out, closing the shop door behind her against the cold wind. In the back of the car, Ken was still lounging, reading reports by the light of a torch, but he had the window open in spite of the breeze, so she knew he’d been listening in case she ran into trouble. It was getting dark. Most of the street lamps were smashed, or simply not working.
He rolled up the window as, with a shiver, she returned to the driving seat.
“Well?”
“Positive identification. But no name, neither his nor his friends, and he doesn’t know where he’s been squatting.”
“Better than nothing. At least we know where to start looking. Anything else?”
She relayed her interview with Bradshaw, rant and all. “And that’s about it. It sounds as if he was checking for news of the robbery, doesn’t it? But how was he involved? He certainly doesn’t sound like—and didn’t looked like—the sort anyone in their right mind would entrust with the proceeds of a major heist.”
“My guess is he was the bully-boys’ get-away driver, and somehow he got-away with the loot.”
“But someone else had to be in it, too, someone who knew Aunt Nell’s car and the shop.”
“Who’s either the murderer, or told the bully-boys where to look for him.”
“He might have been forced to tell.”
“He might. And he could well be dead, too. Come on, let’s hit the pub.”
She reached for the keys, then paused. “Just a minute. Something Bradshaw said . . . No, it wasn’t
what
he said, it was the way he said it. ‘Go home to mummy,’ in a mincing voice.”
“Putting on an upper-class accent?”
“No, not exactly. Not as posh as yours, anyway. More middle-class.”
“A lot of these kids are not yobbos, they’re runaways.”
“What on earth do they live on?”
It was a rhetorical question, but he answered it. “The dole. Odd jobs, off the books. Begging, and a bit of theft, though most aren’t serious thieves. They don’t want to draw our attention. In London, the cleaner ones, those with any talent, do a bit of busking, but I don’t know if that’s on the cards down here. Then there’s often a few quid now and then from ‘mummy,’ that she’s saved from housekeeping on the sly. Some are just rebels, but some are escaping pretty nasty home situations. A lot of the girls end up on the game, and some of the boys, too.”
Megan wished she hadn’t asked. “You should be a social worker,” she said.
“Not bloody likely. But I don’t go out of my way to harass them. Come on, we’d better get over to the pub.”
The Sailors’ Rest was not far away but appeared slightly less run-down than the tobacconist’s. At least, a lively noise came from inside when they pulled up in front.
“Friday night. I don’t think you should go in here on your own,” Ken said, “but I don’t like to—”
“Look, there’s a car-park sign. Pointing round the back.”
The sign was faded almost to illegibility. “All right, we’ll give it a try,” he agreed, his voice full of doubt.
No car much wider than the Mini could have squeezed through along the side of the building. They emerged in a tiny yard, enclosed by the pub on one side and walls on the other three. Double gates in the back wall suggested an alley, no doubt used for lorries unloading. The headlights gleamed on a padlock. Theirs was the only vehicle present. The only light was a low-wattage bulb over a door with another faded sign reading BAR. Beside it an arrow pointed to GENTS.
“Looks safe enough. All the same, we don’t want some half-pissed lout looking for valuables mucking about with these reports. You’d better park in the darkest corner, farthest from the door and the loo.”
“None of it’s exactly floodlit.” Megan pulled the car into the far corner. They got out and locked the doors.
“We’ll walk round to the front,” Ken said. “Better not give anyone even a hint that there may be something worth nicking out here.”
Inside, they discovered that much of the noise came from a dart game in progress. Megan was relieved to see three women among the cheering onlookers. Even now, in this day and age, there were pubs where female intruders were bitterly resented. On the other hand, nor was it the sort of pub where strangers are welcomed. As the door clunked to behind them, everyone not totally absorbed in the game turned and looked at them.
Neither of them was dressed to fit into this milieu. Megan was certain a good proportion of the clientele guessed they were police. She didn’t exactly feel threatened, but she was glad Ken was with her.
Not turning a hair, he walked straight towards the bar, so she followed. A large man who was sitting on a stool, talking to the barman, stood up and moved as if to block Ken’s path. The barman leant over and put a hand on his arm, saying something in a soft voice. The man scowled, picked up his pint, and moved away. He was in fact no taller than Ken, broader but middle-aged and out of shape. Megan glanced around and noticed that almost everyone in the room was middle-aged or older . . . except for a group over in the far corner.
The light over there was dim in contrast to the brightness over the bar and the dart players, but they looked young. And unkempt. Very like the dead youth.
Megan turned to draw Ken’s attention to the young people. She touched his sleeve, but he was focussed on the barman.
“Mr Redditch?”
“That’s me.”
Ken put his hand in his breast pocket to retrieve his warrant card, but Redditch said in a fierce whisper, “No need to wave it around in here. You come about that lad that was murdered?”
“That’s right. I’ve got a much better photo than was in the paper to show you.”
“Order summat, and slip it to me with the cash.”
“Half of cider, Autumn Gold if you’ve got it, and a pint of bitter.”
Megan couldn’t decide whether she was pleased or annoyed that he’d remembered what she preferred to drink in pubs. In some odd way it felt like an intrusion. It was none of his business anymore.
“I’ll pay for my own.”
“Don’t be silly.” He had already laid a pound note and the photo on a dry spot on the bar. “Expenses.”
“Ken, those people over there . . .” She swung round as she spoke, to point them out to him. They were gone. “Hell! That’s where the back door is. Shall I go after them?”
“Who?”
“A bunch of scruffy kids. Just the sort we’re looking for.” She took a step in the direction of the back door.
“Out the front. You stay here.” As he spoke he was running to the street entrance.
“Hoy!” Redditch set two tankards on the counter with a thump that sloshed liquid over the side. “Your pal want the info or not?”
“Yes. He’ll be back shortly, but in the meantime you can tell me.”
“You a ’tec, too? No, don’t bother with that,” he added hastily as Megan reached for her card. “The boy came in here a couple of times, with friends.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Nah.”
“You didn’t check his age?”
The barman shrugged. “I ask. They tell me they don’t have a student card or a driving licence, what can I do? He said he was over eighteen, so I served him.”
Underage drinking in Bristol was none of her business, especially as she needed his cooperation. “Those young people who were over there when we came in, have you seen him with them?”
Another shrug. “Couldn’t say. They’re all much alike. Him I remember ’cause he was kind of cocky, full of himself.”
Ken returned. “Too late. It’s pitch dark out there.” He took a deep swig of his beer. “I think I saw a couple disappearing round a corner but there’s no sense following them. They’ll have gone to earth by now. This area is a warren and they know it. We don’t. What’s the story?”
“Mr Redditch recognises the victim but can’t tell us much about him. He says he was the cocky type.”
“Yeah, and he had a nasty look in his eye, like, when I asked his age. I wouldn’t’ve wanted to cross that one.”
“What about the rest of his crowd?” Ken asked.
“Mellow—isn’t that the word they use these days? It’s that muck they smoke does it, I reckon. No get-up-and-go.”
“Unfortunately,” Ken pointed out, “they got up and went. You have any idea where they’re hanging out at present?”
“Not a clue. They don’t come in here often, them just now or others like ’em, and when they do they’re not chatty. And that’s about all I can tell you,” he said pointedly, with a sweep of his cloth across the bar. “I got other customers to see to.”
Ken thanked him. They finished their drinks and went out the back way to the car. As far as they could tell by torchlight, it was undamaged by the departing young people.
They got in, Ken in the front passenger seat.
“A nasty look in his eye,” he reflected. “That’s something to think about.”
“I’m glad Aunt Nell wasn’t at home that evening. Where to now?”
“The hotel.” The Bristol police had booked them a couple of rooms at a modest place near the nick. Ken waited until Megan had negotiated the tricky exit from the so-called car park before he said casually, “You know, we could save your department some money by sharing a room.”
“Not bloody likely!” Megan was furious. It was typical of him to assume he could waltz into her bed after waltzing out of her life without a backward glance. If only he’d stop thinking with his gonads . . . But saying so would just provoke a lecture on her out-of-date ideas of morality. They were hers, and it would be a cold day in hell before she changed them to suit him, even if she could make herself believe he would thereafter cleave only to her. Which she couldn’t.
She drove in stony silence to the hotel.