Beaumont left the squad car halfway down the alley. Overhead there was a distinct line of grey cloud moving in from the west. Little warm flurries plucked at discarded food wrappers dropped in the gutters. A white plastic carrier escaped to go cartwheeling down towards the river, frisky as a Jack Russell pup. Rain on the wind. The cold spell was finally breaking up. Now they'd be in for days of drenching Atlantic weather.
He walked back up the cobbled way to where the fence slats hung loose, moved three aside and squeezed through into the wasteland of rubble. By daylight the place looked even more derelict. And the same went for its human life.
Among the collection of cardboard cartons huddled in the corner by the shack, one or two still had lumpy figures curled in them under old blankets and waterproofs. The others had lost their owners to pavement corners where they'd staked out their begging territory. He doubted that any of these here were fit to recognize him as their drop-in of last night. The stolen watchman's brazier they'd sat around held cold embers now, the scent of wood smoke no longer covering the stench of unwashed bodies and the aftermath of raw spirits.
He pulled aside the double sacking curtain of the shack and went in, stepping gingerly between the three bodies and their stacked possessions. âWakey, wakey!' he shouted and kicked at a zinc bucket to get his message across.
A stream of curses came from one corner.
âOh, steady on,' quavered an older voice. âNo need to get unpleasant.'
That would be the old queen they called Fanny. Beaumont crouched beside him. âThought you might be on for breakfast, mate,' he told him. âBangers and beans and sunny-side eggs with slabs of bacon and crisp, fried bread. How about it then?'
âBubble and squeak,' said the old man wistfully. âThey don't seem to make that any more.'
âMight do, if they've got the right leftovers. How about we try?'
The white-whiskered man struggled to sit up. âWho are you, friend? Sally Army, is it?'
âNuh. Just another empty belly. Only there's this place I know, see? They'll let me bring one mate in.'
He was being regarded by faded blue eyes with faint memory stirring behind them. âDo I know you?' And then dawning suspicion. âI've nothing worth taking.'
Beaumont placed a hand on his bony old shoulder. âPass up the offer if you want. I was here last night, remember?'
âThought I knew your voice. Can't see a lot, though.'
âSo, hungry enough to believe me?'
âAh, there's some good people left in the world. Help me up, eh?' The old man dragged on his arm and they rose together. There was muttering from the far corner. Beaumont caaught the tail end â â â¦to bad rubbish. Sodding old queer.'
They went out into the muted light of day. âGonna rain soon,' Beaumont offered. âLet's get inside before it does.'
As they emerged into the alley a uniform officer fell in to either side of them.
âNicked?' quavered the old man.
âJust a few questions.'
âBut
breakfast?'
âDefinitely,' Beaumont promised, âwith all the trimmings. Only talk to me first.'
Â
Ramón finished dressing and looked at himself in the long mirror behind the door. He was wearing the new (new to him) outfit from the charity shop and wasn't displeased with what he saw. He wasn't on duty until after lunch but he knocked on Emily's door and looked in to wish her good morning. Alyson was bent over her, wiping some slop off the old lady's chin with a napkin and smiled back at him. Emily's smile was slower and lasted longer. She gurgled something throatily. Her voice hadn't yet got going for the day.
âYou'll see him later, Emily,' the girl promised. âLet him go and have breakfast now.'
He made fresh toast and helped himself from the cafetière, waiting for Alyson to reappear. He had made up his mind he
must tell her, wasn't sure how much would have to come out, but knew the coat had to be produced. Sooner or later she would come across it, and nobody would ever imagine such a fashion item had belonged to Sheena.
When Alyson sat down to her own breakfast, across the bar from him, he asked, âI show you something, yes?'
She looked up from sorting the post he'd brought up earlier. âShow me what, Ramón?'
He rose. âI get it.'
She heard his trainers squeak across the polished wood of the hall floor, and then a sharp click as he opened the airing cupboard used for a cloakroom. When he came back he laid a bundle of supple black leather and fox fur on the bench beside her. Puzzled, she opened it out.
âRamón, where did you get this? It's beautiful.'
âBelonging,' he said, âto lady visit Emily. I remember.'
âYes, of course. Emily's granddaughter, Rachel Howard. She wore it on the following day when she came to see me. But I don't understand. She certainly had it on when I saw her out.'
âPerhaps she come again, leave coat.'
âAnd went off without it? In all that cold? I don't think so.' He left it to her to work out.
âHas this something to do with Sheena? Did Rachel give her â no, surely not. And then Sheena disappearing. Was that when â¦?'
It was really weird. The coat must have cost an awful lot. Designer label, beautifully cut, lined with pure silk. If she put it on it would reach almost to the floor. But then Rachel Howard had been taller than herself. It was undoubtedly hers. So why was it here, and why hadn't she sent for it?
âI think,' Alyson said, âsomething's very wrong.' She didn't want to call Fitt and burden him further when he was already worried over Emily's affairs. Perhaps it was a police matter, if only as found lost-property. She recalled the woman detective who'd been interested in the OD boy in hospital. Sergeant Rosemary Zyczynski. She would certainly know what to do. She'd actually been here when Rachel Howard called that second time. Her card with a phone number was still tucked into
Alyson's daybook.
Â
âWho's Beaumont's fragrant friend?' DC Silver asked, passing Z as she burst from the CID office.
âWho? Where?'
âIn the canteen, glugging tea by the bucketful. He didn't tell you? Seems some old tramp he's brought in.'
Tramp? And last time she'd seen Beaumont he was grinning like the Cheshire cat over going to visit derelicts down past the Odeon. So he was on to something. She was torn between following that up and passing on the puzzle that Alyson Orme had just dropped on her: the fashionable, arrogant Rachel Howard from Edinburgh turning up again at the penthouse, then going out into freezing wind with no coat on? And while Z hung on at the phone, Alyson had checked that no other outdoor clothes were missing.
You could almost suspect the woman was still there in the apartment, hidden away somewhere.
DI Salmon was in one of the interview rooms and couldn't be approached. He wouldn't welcome any interruption to what he so clearly saw as man's work.
Just suppose â¦a striking, thin, dark-haired woman unaccountably gone missing. Then the unidentified body Beaumont had been called to at the college ⦠Similar age and appearance, according to him. So, the same woman?
As Z weighed the connection Yeadings turned the corner in the corridor and was ambling towards her. âSir,' she called, âI think I've got a name for the murdered woman.'
Â
âLost your little lad, wasn't it?' The queer they'd called Fanny raised his beaky nose from the mug of hot tea. Fascinated, Beaumont watched the transparent drop of liquid hang on its sharp end, wobble an instant, fall and become unidentifiable in the dark, steaming brew.
âName of Micky. Thirteen years old.'
âDon't know what they called him.' He raised the mug in both hands, warming them through, and drank thirstily.
âThey.
Who'd that be then?'
âTwo men. None of us.'
âThey didn't doss down at your camp? Had you seen them before?'
âNo. On the street. Separate. Selling stuff.'
Hanging around near the banks, Beaumont guessed; watching who used the cash dispensers. Looking for custom. That's when one of them had seen Micky Kane flush with Allbright's handout, and on a sudden fancy he'd handed some over for a final kick. âThese guys were dealing?'
âI don't know what you mean.' He managed to sound offended.
âOh yes you do, you old fraud. What was it they gave Micky? You saw.'
Fanny looked wildly around, decided there was no way out, and hung on to the promise of breakfast. The delectable smells escaping through the kitchen hatch confirmed everything the detective had promised.
The old tramp sniffed. âLittle packets. Could have been anything.'
âAnd then what?
âThen they went away.'
âTaking the boy?'
Fanny looked uncomfortable. âThere were two of them. Young, tough.' His voice was plaintive. He had guessed what they wanted of the boy. It was a world he'd grown up and grown old in, and he'd no illusions. He'd seen it all before: kids snatched to make into call-boys, child prostitutes, street dealers.
âI'm not blaming you,' Beaumont told him. âThere was little you could do. But the boy had spirit, at some point must have tried to get away. So he ended up dead, with his head bashed in and thrown into the river. You could have been quicker telling me what happened.'
The old man stared down into his empty mug. âYou're a copper,' he excused himself.
âYeah. I get to clean up the messes. Can you write? Because you haven't quite finished yet. I want it all down on paper before you get a bite to eat.'
Of course he could write. The man had obviously been educated and had a career of sorts at some time. Beaumont had come across his kind before, inadequates who finally couldn't face up to being rubbished by others walking a straighter route. So they gave up and joined the garbage they were condemned as.
âLet's get upstairs and find you a pen,' he offered.
âYou'll discover I'm a bit shaky. I'd do better with a typewriter.' He was clinging to remnants of dignity.
âEver tried a computer keyboard?' Beaumont asked, almost matily. âNo? Well, now's the time to try. Then I'll print it out and you can sign it.'
Fanny got shakily to his feet. âIt's some time since I did that. Let's hope I can remember who I am.' But he was weakly smiling.
Â
Zyczynski and Beaumont had joined the Boss in his office for coffee. âThe DI has reported a negative interview with Mr Allbright,' he told them. âAnd Beaumont's statement from Arthur Goodenough, aka “Fanny”, has confirmed that we've little enough to hold our Harley biker on. Encouraging a minor to skip school, and failing to report a runaway aren't major crimes. It's well short of abduction, and Crown Prosecution would never look at it. The disruption at the warehouse and blame arising from it are probably punishment enough to make Allbright wiser in the future.'
âThe DI â¦?' Beaumont ventured.
Yeadings busied himself over the filter to hide an appearance of smiling. âIs far from gruntled. He'd had high hopes of putting Allbright in the dock for the Micky Kane murder. He's with uniform branch at present, organizing a sweep to pick up the dealers, if they haven't fled the scene. Mr Goodenough, despite claiming poor eyesight, gave a very useful description of the two who took Micky away. As local distributors they'll have more important connections, which Drugs branch have doubtless been surveying. This may signal the end of their Nelson's eye policy on the small fry involved.'
He switched on the coffeemaker and returned to his desk while it began to burble. âAs for Miss Rachel Howard, I've been in touch with her brother Martin in Edinburgh. He confirmed
that she has been absent from her own apartment in the family home for over a week. He is flying down, due in at Heathrow this afternoon, to identify our body. Which, in the circumstances will be difficult visually. Dental information will be needed as well, until they've processed the DNA sample.'
He waited until they were sipping his special-blend Mocha before he dropped his bombshell.
âProfessor Littlejohn has given me a rundown of his final deliberations on the post mortem findings. He is now satisfied, from further analysis of the trauma, that although the cause of death was manual strangulation, the fall from the college roof was by no means a simple event. Like the ladies' fractures, it was, in fact, compound.'
Beaumont suddenly sat up straight. âSir, d'you mean â¦?'