Authors: Stuart Pawson
‘Was there any evidence that she’d leaked information?’ I asked.
‘There were six in the consortium,’ Tregellis continued. ‘Some businessmen, some from the bright side of the footlights. They all knew the size of the bid, of course, as did Miss Perigo. Then they had partners, wives and mistresses, not to mention pals at the club, accountants, bank managers and the girl who typed the letter. We looked, Charlie, believe me we looked, but anyone could have leaked that figure.’
‘Was she murdered?’
‘Cause of death was never established, but the car
had been torched deliberately.’
‘What did Rodger Wakefield have to say?’
‘We never found him. She’d told her friend his name, but otherwise was very coy about him. The friend had wondered if he was married. They were seen together at a charity “do” she’d helped organise, in Newbury, and she’d named him as her guest, but according to acquaintances Mr Wakefield was unusually camera-shy. The
Berkshire Life
photographer was there, snapping away, but Wakefield only appears in the background of someone else’s picture, a three-quarters rear view, I’m afraid. Several people saw him, however, and say they’d recognise him again.’
‘Did he have an accent?’
‘Public school northern, educated southern; take your pick.’
‘How hard have you looked for him?’
‘
We
haven’t. Met CID circulated an E-fit. The usual; he was a murder suspect.’
‘What’s the state of play at the moment?’
‘With Mary Perigo or JJ Fox?’
‘Fox.’
‘There isn’t one. What with bent pension funds and NHS scams and computer fraud we’re up to here.’ He waved a hand above his head. ‘We’ve nobody working on it. Now and again someone writes us a letter and we put it on the file. Crosby isn’t the only enemy that Fox has; five years ago the War Crimes Bureau
contacted us and asked if we had anything on him. That’s about it.’
‘Did you help them?’
He looked grim. ‘I suspect a copy of what we had may have fallen into their hands. Up to then we had never suspected that he wasn’t a Jew. Crosby’s story corroborates that.’
‘Maybe Crosby was the one who tipped them off,’ I suggested.
Tregellis pointed a finger at his head, as if shooting himself, and said: ‘Of course.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’ I asked.
‘Anything you can,’ he replied. ‘You’re the murder specialist, we’re only fraud. Find Wakefield for us. You’re nearer to Fox’s base than we are. See what you can dig up.’
‘Bring us Fox’s head on a plate, Priest,’ Forrester said. ‘That’s what we’d like you to do.’
I finished my coffee and scanned the two lines of notes I’d made. Looking at Tregellis I said: ‘So you reckon there’s something in Crosby’s story?’
He nodded.
‘I’ll be working on my own.’
‘We’re not expecting miracles.’
‘Expenses?’
‘Send them to me.’
‘Right,’ I said, nodding. ‘Right.’
Tregellis stood up, rotated his head and rubbed
his neck. ‘I’m sure you appreciate that we’re in shaky territory with this, Charlie, so the fewer people who know about it the better. I’ll have a word with your people and N-CIS, and your contacts down here will be Piers and Graham,’ he nodded at the others, ‘but feel free to come straight to me if necessary. Anything else you need to know?’
‘Not at the moment,’ I replied, then turning to Piers and Graham said: ‘But if I’m working with you two I’d better have your extension numbers.’ They rattled them at me. ‘Thank you. And your home numbers and mobiles.’
Forrester’s glare had been honed by a thousand years of superiority since the days when it meant a sentence of death to some poor serf. Graham, on the other hand, was beaming like the sunrise over Dublin Bay. ‘And I’d appreciate a copy of Rodger Wakefield’s photograph and the E-fit,’ I added, ‘as soon as possible.’
I’d done some digging about Duncan Roberts and discovered that he’d slashed his own throat with a Stanley knife and bled to death. The address was in Brixton, at the far end of the Victoria Line, which was convenient. Every town should have an underground system. I ticked off the stations, memorised the poem of the month and watched the people, grateful that this wasn’t my patch. I’d have arrested every one of them. As I came out of the station a gang of seriously cool youths swept by on rollerblades, swerving in and out of the parked cars, and a consumptive skinhead jerked the lead of what looked like a pitbull terrier as I passed him. Living in a city has certain attractions, even for a small-town boy like me, but I was damned if I could remember any of them as I strolled by the derelict tenements and corner shops with security grilles over the windows. Flyposters and takeaway
trays were a major industry round here. A wino, sitting on some steps with a rubbish bag for a back rest, watched me go by, wondering if he could tap a white man for a drink, deciding against it. I saw the street I wanted and crossed the road.
The house could have been the one in Chapeltown. The door was open and the soulless thump of a drum machine was coming from deep within. I hammered on the door in competition with it and smelt cooking. Spicy cooking. My stomach gurgled and sent a memo to my brain. It said: ‘feed me!’ I knocked again, but harder.
A giant West Indian ambled out of the gloom, a look of bewilderment on his face. He was grey-haired, wearing jeans and a vest the size of a marquee, and carrying a soup ladle. I decided to do it the proper way. ‘Detective Inspector Priest,’ I said, holding my ID out. ‘Are you the proprietor?’
‘What you want?’ he asked, his face immobile.
‘A word. Is this your place?’
‘I am the proprietor,’ he replied, and his expression developed a hint of pride. I’d given him a new title.
‘You do bed and breakfast for DSS clients,’ I said.
‘Full,’ he told me. ‘No room.’
I know I dress casual, but I’d never thought it was that casual. ‘I don’t want a room,’ I told him. ‘You had a man called Duncan Roberts staying here until about two months ago?’
‘No,’ he answered.
‘You did.’
‘No.’
‘He committed suicide.’
‘Nobody of that name stay here.’
I repeated the address to him and he agreed this was the place. ‘Well, he lived here,’ I insisted.
‘No.’
‘He killed himself. Bled to death.’
‘Nobody do that here.’
‘I want to see his room.’
‘He not live here.’
‘What happened to his belongings?’
‘He not live here.’
He was stubborn, unhelpful and pretending to be thick. I know the type; I’m from Yorkshire. I started again at the beginning, but it was a waste of breath. I thanked him for his time and headed back towards the station. The yob with the dog was coming the other way. He nodded a hello, I said: ‘Ow do.’
Gilbert greeted me with: ‘Ah! Just the man,’ when I called in his office for my morning cuppa and to discuss tactics. ‘What the devil did you volunteer us for at the SCOGs meeting?’ He rummaged through his papers for the minutes of the meeting I’d attended.
‘Er, nothing,’ I replied.
‘It says here…where is it? Oh, here we are, in
Any Other Business:
Examination of all outstanding murder cases going back thirty years,
with
Mr Priest
typed in the margin. I know you don’t like going to the meetings, Charlie, but if you think this’ll get you out of them you’re mistaken.’
I said: ‘Forget it, Gilbert. We were just discussing DNA testing in old cases, and I suggested it could be taken further.’
‘It looks as if you volunteered to do it.’
‘Well, I’ll un-volunteer.’
‘Right. How did you get on yesterday?’
He wasn’t too pleased when he learnt that I’d be spending a large proportion of my time working for the SFO, but relaxed when I told him that they were paying my expenses.
‘So where are you starting?’ he asked.
‘With the files. See what’s on them that I never knew about. I was a humble sergeant at the time, and not on the case.’
I drank my tea and went back downstairs to review the troops. Nigel was due in court, Jeff and Maggie had appointments with various people on the robbers’ circuit and Dave was hoping to talk to someone on the Sylvan Fields estate who had ambitions of becoming a paid informer. It’s heart-warming when you hear of one of them trying to better himself, restores your faith in the system.
The West Yorkshire archives are in the central registry in the cellars of the Force HQ, or the Centre, as it is more usually called. Grey steel industrial racks, row after row, are bulging with brown folders stuffed with papers and photographs. Every written page is a testimony to man’s indifference to the feelings of his fellows. There’s not much joy down there, little to uplift the spirit when you consider that these are the unsolved cases. The ones we crack are usually destroyed to save space.
‘1975, did you say?’ the civilian archivist asked as he led me between the lines of Dexion shelving.
‘July,’ I replied. ‘Possibly filed as Crosby.’
He turned down an aisle, read a label, went a bit further, read another, backtracked a few paces and looked up. ‘We need the steps,’ he said.
‘I’ll fetch them.’ He walked with a pronounced limp and I was impatient. Our movements had stirred up fifty years of dust and the place smelt of old paper and corruption. I rolled the steps into position and locked the wheels.
The file was about two feet thick, in four bundles tied with string. I lifted the first one out and climbed down. ‘I’ll leave you, then,’ he said.
‘Thanks, you’ve been a big help. I’ll put them back when I’ve finished.’
When he’d gone I scanned the letters and numbers on the next rack of shelves, looking for a name. I was
certain this one wouldn’t have been destroyed. There it was, next but one: a whole bank of shelves devoted to one villain, the biggest file we’d ever had. I ran my fingers over them, leaving a clean trail through the dust. In there were the names of thirteen women and fifty thousand men, and the contents had touched the lives of everyone in the country. One man’s name was printed within those pages nine times, but he wasn’t caught until a lucky copper found him with a prostitute in his car and a ball-peen hammer in his pocket, Peter Sutcliffe, better known as the Yorkshire Ripper.
I took the first bundle from the fire file to the desk near the door and untied the string. There were photos and a list of names and the coroner’s report. Sergeant Priest and PC Sparkington, first on the scene, weren’t mentioned. An hour and a half later I retied the string and fetched the next bundle. The prostitutes in the next street were convinced that they were the intended target and the CID went along with that. I broke off for something to wash the dust out of my larynx and some fresh air.
Bundle three was mainly interviews with the
ex-boyfriends
and minders of the girls. Their pimps, in other words. They all had alibis, which wasn’t a surprise, and plenty of witnesses to say they were visiting their moms at the time of the fire, whenever that might have been. I was gathering a good picture
of the investigation and where it might have gone wrong, but nothing that helped Crosby’s case. Maybe bundle four would hold the key.
It was more of the same. The usual suspects had been rounded up, informants consulted, gossip listened to. It had been a crime that aroused passions, it’s always the same when children are involved, and plenty of people had their pet theories. The local branch of the National Front denied any responsibility and expressed lukewarm regret, and the leaders of the Asian community demanded more protection.
I scanned the next statement briefly, turned it upside down on the pile I’d finished with and reached for another one. I was working on automatic. Something clicked inside my brain and I picked it up again. It was made by Paul Travis Carter to DC Jones, four weeks after the fire. Carter lived at number twenty-seven Leopold Avenue, just over the road. Two days before the fire he’d gone on an expedition to the Dolomites with a party of schoolkids and had just returned. About a week before leaving he went for his customary takeaway, and as he locked the door he noticed a young woman approaching number
thirty-two
. She hesitated on the top step for a few moments and left. He’d assumed she’d put something through the letter box, although her actions didn’t look like that. He followed her, because that was the way he was going, and she got into a posh car that was waiting
round the corner and was driven away. The car might have been a two-litre Rover and the driver looked like a man, although his hair was longish and Carter couldn’t be certain. ‘I don’t suppose it’s important,’ he’d told the DC, ‘but I thought I’d better tell you.’ The DC had obviously agreed with the
not important
bit; there wasn’t even a description of the woman.
‘Wait till I tell Sparky,’ I said to myself, and made a note of Carter’s details. He shouldn’t be too hard to find. I put everything back and slapped the dust off my hands. As I turned to leave I took a last look at the Ripper files. We’d been misled on that one, gone off at a tangent, wasted thousands of man hours. Someone had made a big mistake with the fire, too, and I didn’t think it was me.
Carter was a responsible citizen who conscientiously registered to vote. Two minutes on the computer upstairs in the HQ CID office and I had his latest address. Middleton, South Leeds. I thanked everyone for their help, flirted briefly with a rather attractive sergeant and left. Carter lived in a cottage along a dirt track near the golf course. It sounds nice, but a burnt-out shell of a Fiesta reminded me that just down the road was a rambling estate where
middle-class
meant having floorboards, and quiche was the plural of cosh.
He was in the garden, hacking at a grass jungle
with a bargain-store sickle. A golf club would have done more good. His hedges were overgrown, heavy with honeysuckle and wild roses. It was a cottage garden gone mad, and it reinforced my belief that there is no such thing as a labour-saving garden. He looked up and demanded: ‘Who are you?’ the sickle held handy to deliver a forearm volley. I told him.
I’d decided that his wife had left him long before he poured it out. The garden; the state of his front room; having to wash two cups before he could offer me a coffee; they were all clues. I lived like that, once, before I reformed. Carter was wearing grey slacks, a striped cream shirt with the cuffs and neck fastened, and black brogues. His only concession to the weather had been to remove his tie. He told me he’d retired early and spent his time working for a Third World charity and trying to write a textbook on Roman England. He believed that Roman values were lacking in certain elements of our present-day society, and a return to them would be for the good.
Crucifixion? I thought.
He’d missed the fire, of course. First he knew of it was when he saw the boarded-up holes and
smoke-streaked
brickwork. He’d been shocked to learn that they’d all been killed, and disturbed by the
matter-of-fact
acceptance of it by his neighbours. They’d had a month to get used to the idea, and it’s amazing
how the human mind can accommodate disaster when it happens to someone else.
‘It was twenty-three years ago,’ I reminded him. ‘Can you remember the girl you saw?’
‘Oh yes, Inspector. I’ve thought about it so many times.’
‘You said in your statement that she may have put something through the letter box?’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘I know I did. She walked to the front door so purposefully, paused for a few seconds – much longer than it would have taken to put a letter through – and turned and left, equally purposefully.’
‘Maybe she was checking the address on the envelope,’ I suggested.
‘I thought of that. It’s possible, but her actions weren’t right. I went through all this with the detective, you know.’
‘OK,’ I said, ‘how does this sound? The woman walked up to the front door with a piece of chalk in her hand. The house was number thirty-two but the painted number had weathered away. She wrote thirty-two on the wall and left. Could that have been it?’
His eyes widened slightly and he nodded. His skin was sallow and hung in folds around his neck. He wasn’t eating properly since she left. I didn’t get this bad, did I? ‘Do you know, Inspector, I believe you
could be right.’ He stood up and faced an imaginary door. ‘The numbers were painted about here,’ he said, raising his left hand to shoulder height. ‘At least, mine was.’ He went through the motions and said: ‘Did she write it at this side?’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case, she’d have to lean over if she were right-handed, which she didn’t. It would make more sense if she were left-handed.’
‘We’ll make a detective of you yet, Mr Carter,’ I said. ‘I’d come to that conclusion myself. Now what about her description? Do you think you can give me one?’
‘Wasn’t it on the file?’
‘No, I didn’t find it.’
‘Well, I told the detective who interviewed me. It’s a bit late, if you don’t mind me saying so. It’s lost its impact.’
‘We appreciate that she’ll be much older now,’ I said.
‘It’s not just that. Punk was just starting, and now every other young person you meet has purple hair, but up to then I’d only seen it on television.’
I was up six times through the night. My neck itched, my wrists itched and my ankles itched. Big lumps came up in all these places. Now I knew why Carter kept his shirt tightly buttoned; he wasn’t
as dumb as I’d thought. I searched the bathroom cabinet for soothing gels but all I could find was some body lotion
pour hommes
that Nigel had told me contained pheromones and drove women wild. It didn’t work, and wasn’t any better on midge bites. I showered, dressed, wrecked the spider’s web on the car door with great relish and went to work.
Sparky wanted to know all about it, and was as chuffed as a cock robin when I told him about the left-handed girl with purple hair.