Your people should have a better idea than me.’
‘Only when we’re young and on the beat. When we start working from an office we forget about the streets,’ Peter said.
‘Thank you for coming down, Sam.’ Bill went to the door. ‘I’ll see you out.’
After Bill and Sam left, Dan picked up the remote and pressed play. Tony drew on his cigarette again, his eyes darting uneasily in their sockets.
‘I’d give a night’s drinking to know what ghosts were chasing that man.’ Making the most of Bill’s absence, Peter lit his cigar.
‘My money’s still on a row between dossers over drink.’ Anna moved sideways to avoid Peter’s cigar smoke.
‘Why?’ Dan asked.
‘Sam said the old hands carry knives. Look at Tony in that second interview. He’s just the type to keep one hidden in his boot. Someone turned it and used it on him.’
‘No knife was found,’ Trevor reminded her.
‘Perhaps the killer ran down to the dock and dropped it in the water. I think we should search it.’
‘Two hundred foot of quayside so filthy a diver can’t see his hand in front of his face?’ Peter flicked his ash on the floor. ‘Remember that woman who drove into it? We didn’t find her car until a year later, and that was after five teams went down.’
‘They weren’t looking for it that far out,’ Anna remonstrated.
‘Even so, there’s a hell of a difference between a car and a knife. And if we couldn’t find a car, what chance a knife?’
‘So what do you suggest we do?’ Dan looked to Peter.
‘I’m more inclined to agree with Trevor. It was probably kids high on something looking for sick kicks.’
‘Any news on that bottle of whisky?’ Trevor asked.
‘Not that I’ve heard,’ Dan answered.
Peter stared thoughtfully at the disc Nigel Valance had left. ‘Tony wouldn’t have needed much of an excuse to lash out. It could well have been a fight over nothing in particular. You saw what he was like on that film. He could have simply taken an exception to the colour of another man’s socks. He attacked, but his victim was stronger and possibly sober. Turned the knife on him, it went into Tony’s face, gouged his cheek, sliced off his ear, and made a bloody awful mess that caused the second man to panic. He looked around, saw a car, siphoned off petrol –’
‘For which he just happened to have a can and a tube?’ Dan smiled.
‘He could have been breaking into parked cars.
Lot of charity workers like Sam carry spare cans in case of emergency.’
‘That’s right,’ Trevor concurred. ‘I ran out once down there, and Sam helped me out with a gallon.’
‘So our villain, whoever he is, tipped the petrol over Tony and tossed a match. Not bad considering you started with no evidence,’ Dan said sceptically.
‘Are we releasing that film, sir?’ Anna asked Dan. ‘There could be a witness out there.’
‘Too damned right.’ Peter ground the stub of his cigar beneath his shoe. ‘The murderer for one.’
‘We were too late for the early evening news, but we’ve booked a slot on the ten minute local at ten-thirty after the national news,’ Dan revealed.
‘Showing the film?’
‘Do you think the station would do anything else seeing as how it was made by one of their independent contractors?’ Dan said.
Bill returned and looked at Dan.
‘We’re sleeping on it for a couple of hours, sir.’
Dan rose stiffly to his feet. ‘If anything comes up after the film is shown on the news –’
‘We know,’ Peter said. ‘You’ll telephone us.’
‘Anna, Dan and Trevor will be telephoned, Peter. You’re on duty until midnight,’ Bill said.
‘What have I done to deserve it?’
‘Slept last night.’ Dan yawned and stretched.
‘See you in the morning.’
‘Can I beg a lift to my place?’ Anna asked Trevor.
‘Of course.’ He gave Peter a look of commiseration as he left.
In no hurry to go to his office, Peter poured himself another coffee from the jug that was standing on the hot-plate. He returned to his chair and forwarded the disc to Tony’s second scene.
“There are people out there who know us.
Don’t want to see us like this… ”
He scribbled a note on the back of Sam’s list.
There had to be a way of finding out just who Tony was keeping his whereabouts from.
Trevor went to his desk and picked up the telephone. Dialling nine for an outside line he rang home. He allowed it to ring eight times. Nothing –
Lyn had probably given up on him and gone out.
That’s if she’d come home at all. He debated whether to stop off and pick up a take-away, then remembered the party leftovers in the fridge.
‘You eaten?’ he asked Anna as she climbed into his car.
‘No, and I’m bloody ravenous.’
‘Ravenous enough to eat cold leftover party food?’
‘Take me to it.’
The telephone stopped ringing just as Lyn had come to enough to roll to the edge of the bed and pick up the receiver. Cursing, she slammed it down and looked around. She was still dressed in her uniform.
As soon as she’d reached the end of the street she’d known Trevor wouldn’t be home. There’d been no car in the drive, and when she’d opened the front door there were other unmistakeable signs of an empty house. No shoes kicked off in the hall, no coat thrown over the foot of the banisters. She’d checked the kitchen in case he’d been in and gone out again. But there were no dirty dishes on the work surface, and the dishwasher was full of clean dishes, just as she’d left it that morning. That’s when she’d climbed the stairs and lain on the bed –for a few minutes.
She rubbed her eyes and read the clock. Half past eight and she felt like hell. Tired, aching and hungry. She showered, and dressed for bed in silk pyjamas and dressing gown, the ones Trevor had given her for Christmas.
Perfumed, relaxed and comfortable, she went downstairs. Taking a clean plate from the dishwasher she foraged in the fridge, heaping liberal helpings of pasta and green and Mexican bean salad and coleslaw on to her plate. Healthy lot the police, she noted, realising that all the pork pies, gateau and crisps had gone. Two pieces of spiced chicken and half of a scotch egg completed her meal. She balked at the cold sausages and pasties. She couldn’t stand the greasy taste, but Trevor could, that’s if he came home while they were still edible.
There was half a bottle of Chardonnay with a cork rammed in the top in the fridge door. She picked it up and put it on a tray together with the food. Removing a glass from the top shelf of the dishwasher she carried her feast into the living room. Switching on the television she curled up on the sofa with the tray on her lap.
Flicking channels she settled for an old wartime black and white film. She’d seen it before, it had an unhappy ending. The hero died in a blazing plane, but it was preferable to the two channels of football and one of boxing she’d rejected. She was just about to take her first forkful of pasta when she heard the key in the door. Pushing the tray to one side she leaped to her feet, the smile dying on her lips when she saw Anna Bradley step into the hall ahead of Trevor.
‘I rang.’
She didn’t see the weariness, only the apologetic look on Trevor’s face as he brushed a comma of hair from his eyes.
‘I was sleeping. I didn’t get to the phone in time.’
‘If you two would rather be alone, I’ll call a taxi. I need a shower anyway.’
‘You can take one here,’ Lyn offered.
‘After we’ve eaten,’ Trevor said. ‘We’re both ravenous.’
‘I’ll get you something.’
‘The fridge is full. We’ll help ourselves.’
Lyn returned to the living room. The food on her plate tasted like sawdust and the film had lost what little attraction it had held.
‘You sure you don’t mind me barging in like this?’ Anna walked in carrying a plate heaped high with food.
‘Not at all,’ Lyn lied.
‘I know what it’s like not to have any time with the person you’re living with.’
Lyn felt like screaming, “Then why are you bloody well here?” but what she actually said was,
‘Have you finished for the day?’
‘Hopefully,’ Trevor answered as he laid his plate and the two beers he’d carried in for himself and Anna on the coffee table. Walking over to the sofa he pecked Lyn’s cheek, but sensing her mood he moved away to share the second sofa with Anna.
‘They’re putting photographs of the victim out after the ten o’clock news,’ Anna volunteered. ‘If something comes of it we may have to go back to the station.’
Lyn looked across at Trevor. ‘You working this weekend?’
‘Not if I can help it.’
‘This case –’
‘Is probably one vagrant killing another. It’s just a question of tracking down which one. With luck his clothes may be bloodstained.’
‘Still?’
‘They don’t have anywhere to change them?’
He picked up a forkful of salad and put it in his mouth, almost choking on the dry fronds of lettuce.
‘News is about due,’ Anna hinted.
Lyn switched channels. They ate mechanically through the horrors of Africa, the rowdy name-calling antics of MPs in Parliament, two celebrity deaths, including a film star. A clip of the film Lyn had been watching earlier came on the screen, and she realised why it had been repeated so soon after the last showing.
A woman walking alone on a beach. Planes flying overhead, dipping their wings. A superimposing of two ghostly figures embracing on the skyline,
“Darling, forever… ”
Lyn knew Trevor was watching her. She looked away. The weatherman stood in front of a chart covered with arrows and lines. Cold, rain turning to snow on high ground, music, the local station cutting in.
“Murder, Jubilee Street… ”
Lyn concentrated on her plate. The local news broadcast finished. An American detective series began. When the first advertisements flashed on to the screen the telephone rang.
Trevor picked up the receiver. ‘We’ll be right there.’
‘You’re going out again?’ Lyn glared at him with accusing eyes.
‘That was Peter.’ He wasn’t looking at Lyn, but Anna.
‘They’ve more of a handle on the victim than
“Tony?”’ she guessed.
‘He’s been identified as one Anthony George, a solicitor from Crawley Woods.’
‘A name and a place, we struck lucky.’ She wiped her mouth with a paper napkin.
‘Not quite. He died two years ago, in hospital.
Of a heart attack.’
‘Many calls come in after the broadcast?’
Trevor asked Constable Sarah Merchant as he passed by the switchboard on his way into the station.
She glanced at the notepad beside her. ‘Nine so far, one retired policeman, one doctor, seven general public.’
‘With different IDs?’
‘The same. It seems we have a mystery on our hands.’ Sarah had a soft spot for Trevor, who was more polite and considerate towards the constables than any of the other sergeants who worked out of the station, including Anna.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing Peter can’t handle.
Thanks for the information.’ Trevor pushed the door that divided reception from the inner sanctum of offices and headed for the room he shared with Anna. She caught up with him at the door, two polystyrene cups in her hands, one of which she gave to him.
‘Thanks,’ Trevor walked into the office and saw Peter sitting behind his desk, the swivel chair tilted back to its limit, his feet propped dangerously near the in-tray. ‘Comfortable?’ Trevor asked.
‘Chair could be softer. Where’s my coffee?’ he asked Anna.
‘Get your own.’ Anna dumped her handbag and coffee on her desk. ‘Where’s the fire?’
‘No fire. Boss wants to sort out work schedules in the light of information received.’
‘Speak English.’ Anna sipped her coffee.
Peter picked up a paper from the desk. ‘Our victim is one Anthony George, solicitor. The casualty doctor who treated him telephoned in and identified him, as did two people who worked with him in his office, his mother’s cleaner, three of his friends and the retired policeman who investigated the mutilation of his face in the mortuary of the hospital where he died.’
‘Mutilation?’ Anna sat on her chair and began to rummage in her desk drawers.
Peter referred to the notes he’d made.
‘According to our informants there’s no doubt as to the victim’s identity. Anthony George, twenty-eight years old at the time of his death, two years ago from a heart attack during a game of squash. No doubt about the death either. It was verified by the doctor in casualty, and two others. His body was identified by his boss and the family solicitor due to the ill-health of his mother who was his closest living relative. Inspector Edwards who investigated the case at the time was most helpful.’
‘Our victim has to be a close relative.’ Ousted from his desk, Trevor sat on the edge of Anna’s.
‘Anthony George was an only child.’
‘A cousin, a look-alike. We’re all supposed to have a double somewhere,’ Trevor sipped the coffee Anna had given him.
‘So close, nine people phone in to tell us our victim is a dead man?’
‘Couldn’t this have waited until tomorrow?’
Anna grumbled.
‘Where’s your dedication, Anna?’ Peter pulled out the inevitable cigar.
‘Trevor, Anna. Thanks for coming in.’ Dan strode into the office, a wad of paper in his hand. ‘I asked the Crawley Woods station to forward us their files on the George case.’ Pushing the clutter, and Peter’s feet, from Trevor’s desk he spread out the sheets. ‘Anthony George’s face was removed from his corpse shortly after death.’
‘Removed?’ Anna looked at Peter. ‘You said it was mutilated?’
‘According to the pathologist’s report it was skinned,’ Dan read.
‘As in rabbit?’
‘There was no question of a suspicious death.
Anthony George died in a casualty unit. After his death was certified his body was taken to the hospital mortuary. The attendant was halfway through laying it out when he was called away to pick up a corpse. Contrary to hospital regulations he didn’t lock the mortuary when he left. When he returned Anthony George was minus his face.’
‘Surely Tony and this Anthony George can’t be one and the same?’ Anna protested.