Текст книги "Death in Dark Waters"

Автор книги: Patricia Hall

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter Fifteen

When Laura had driven Joyce away, the two men sat in Mower’s car for a moment watching the men in overalls board up the windows of Joyce’s tiny home. Along the row of old-people’s dwellings, an occasional curtain twitched and a pale, frightened face peeped out.

“I’m not having this,” Mower said suddenly, swinging himself out of the car again. Sanderson followed reluctantly. But when they began knocking at the doors of Joyce Ackroyd’s neighbours they met the same frozen stares and shaken heads that they had already encountered on the walkways of Priestley House. It was as if mental doors had been slammed, bolted and barred, and nothing Mower suggested in the way of encouragement persuaded any of them to open again. The elderly neighbours had seen nothing, and he knew that even if they had they would not tell him. They were too afraid.

“Jesus wept,” Mower said, banging his fists on the steering wheel and watching the rain run in rivers down the windscreen.

“You’ll not crack this,” Dizzy B offered. “I’ve seen it before. Usually, the dealers only need to threaten violence. Here it’s got very real. If you’re going to find anyone to tell you they even saw their auntie going to the shop to buy the evening paper or the milkman dropping off a pint on a neighbour’s doorstep, you’re going to have to offer protection, and on our own we’ve none to offer. Talk to your guv’nor. That’s my advice. If all this stuff’s really connected you need an army up here to sort it out.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Mower said. “But there’s one more thing it might be worth checking out, if only because it’s something only I know about. It was never reported officially. Come on, Dizzy. I need back-up here.”

The DJ shrugged massively but followed Mower back out into the rain-lashed parking area to Priestley House. This time when Mower knocked on Kiley Hatherley’s front door it opened quickly and a different girl peered out. She had the same blank frightened eyes as Kiley herself but mascara lined and she was dressed in a mini-skirt and sleeveless top which showed off barely budding breasts. Under the make-up Mower guessed there lurked a child not much older than Kiley herself, but dressed for a night out clubbing on the town.

“You must be Kiley’s sister,” Mower suggested. The girl looked at the two men speculatively before nodding faintly.

“I’m Sharon,” she said shortly. “Are you the fuzz?”

“Sort of,” he said.

“I wondered if you’d come back. Someone’s done him in, haven’t they? I saw it in t’paper.”

“What?” Mower said sharply.

“The bloke that gave our Kiley t’booze. And that snotty little Emma Maitland.”

“Can we come in, Sharon?” Mower asked, bemused by this apparently random stream of consciousness. Sharon looked up and down the walkway, her eyes narrow with suspicion, but evidently seeing nothing to cause her any alarm she nodded.

“Me mam and dad’s gone to Leeds for t’day,” the girl said. “I’m minding our Kiley after school. They won’t be back till right late.”

Mower and Sanderson followed her into the living room of the flat, a cluttered space littered with overflowing ashtrays and empty beer cans and several days’ copies of the Bradfield Gazette. Kiley was curled on the sofa, her thumb in her mouth and her eyes glued to the television.

“How old are you Sharon?” Mower asked, knowing that he would not like the answer. Sharon’s eyes flickered momentarily.

“Fourteen,” she said firmly. Mower did not believe her but he guessed she thought that was a safe age to be allowed to babysit.

“Last time I came your mother wouldn’t let me talk to Kiley about the man at the shops who gave her and Emma alcopops. Do you think she’ll mind now?”

“They didn’t know who he were till I told them,” Sharon said.

“And who was he?” Mower asked. Kiley still stared steadfastly at the TV.

“He were this bloke who’s been murdered. I saw his picture in t’paper. I told you.”

“Right,” Mower said. “You’re quite sure about that?”

“Course I am,” Sharon said. “He were always hanging around, weren’t he, when we went for us dinner up the chippie. And outside t’ school sometimes. He never did owt. He weren’t dangerous or owt like that. He were just there, sometimes, talking to t’bigger lads. And that day he were in’t shop buying stuff and when he come out he just gave Kiley and Emma t’bottles.”

“He didn’t want anything in exchange? Didn’t ask them to go with him?” Sanderson asked angrily.

“He never does. He just chats to folk, mostly the lads, not the girls. Any road, I were there. I were watching Kiley. I bought her t‘chips and I were going to teck her back to school wi’me when it were time.”

“What class are you in, Sharon?” Sanderson broke in again.

“Year Six …” The girl stopped, realising she had been tricked.

“She’s eleven,” Dizzy B said flatly. “You need help here, Kevin. Parents, social workers, your guv’nor, the whole shebang. We’re up a creek without a paddle.”

Mower shrugged tiredly.

“Never mind,” he said. “At least we’ve found someone on this bloody estate who saw something sometime. The rest of the bastards go round like the three wise monkeys.” He pulled out his mobile and called police HQ.

“We’ve got two young kids here on their own who need to talk to DCI Thackeray,” he said. “Can you deal?”

Martin Harman had slipped into police hands almost by chance when he walked into the Devonshire Arms, Bradfield’s only gay pub, at the precise moment that DC Mohammed Sharif was asking the barman about Stanley Wilson’s friends and acquaintances.

“Here’s the lad you want to talk to,” the barman said, not bothering to disguise his relief. “Martin’s a good mate of Stanley’s. Best mate maybe.”

Sharif turned towards the newcomer to the almost empty bar and smiled the smile of a hungry tiger. The young man who had just come in did not smile in response. Instead his already pasty face acquired a greenish tinge and his pale blue eyes flickered this way and that, like a small animal seeking some burrow down which to dive in the face of the predator which Sharif undoubtedly believed himself to be. Harman was a skinny youth, spotty as well as pale, with unfashionably long fair hair straggling down his back in greasy strands onto a scuffed leather jacket. He glanced at the warrant card which Sharif flashed in his direction and flashed the tip of his tongue over dry lips.

“Best mate, is it?” Sharif said, his dark gaze never leaving Harman’s.

“Not really,” Harman muttered, glancing wildly round for the barman who had taken himself to the far end of the bar where he was busy polishing glasses and avoiding anyone’s eye.

“You know Stanley’s dead, I take it?”

“Yeah, someone showed me his picture in t’evening paper,” Harman said.

“But you didn’t think we might want to talk to you?” Sharif asked.

“I didn’t think,” Harman said. “I ain’t seen Stanley for weeks.”

“Well, I have a boss who’s been thinking a lot about you.”

“How has he?” Harman said wildly. “He doesn’t know I exist.”

“Ah, but he guessed you might,” Sharif said. “Stanley Wilson being what he was. My boss just guessed there might be someone like you we’d need to talk to. So if you’ll just come down to police HQ with me you can meet my boss and he’ll tell you everything he’s been thinking since we found Stanley. That OK with you?”

And just in case it wasn’t he took hold of Martin Harman’s arm with just a little too fierce a grip and turned him on his heel and marched him towards the door.

“Thanks mate,” he called over his shoulder to the barman, knowing this would cause him maximum embarrassment with the handful of other customers who had been watching the proceedings anxiously. Outside in the gusting rain he thrust Harman into the front seat of his car, wiped his hands ostentatiously on his trousers after he had slammed the door, got in the driver’s side and opened all the windows in spite of the weather.

Harman glanced at him fearfully but said nothing.

“One of my clients must have left something unpleasant under the seat,” Sharif said, face as frozen as an Egyptian god, as he crashed the car into gear and swung out of his parking space at a furious pace. “Left a nasty smell.” By the time he pulled into the car park at police HQ Martin Harman was shaking, although not another word had been spoken.

Harman was still looking terrified when Michael Thackeray himself came into the interview room where Sharif and Val Ridley were facing him across the bare and scratched table.

“Mr. Harman,” Thackeray said mildly. If there was going to be a good cop, bad cop routine here it was clear that Thackeray had been cast in the kindlier role. “I’m glad we traced you. And I’m pleased you agreed to come in and talk to us.” Harman shrugged his thin shoulders and glanced at Sharif with undisguised hatred.

“I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”

“I understand you knew Stanley Wilson quite well?” Thackeray ignored the tension which made the air in the enclosed space tingle. “You must have expected that we’d want to talk to you. Now, tell me how you met him, would you? Where and when?”

“I met him at the Devonshire, the way you do,” Harman said. “It were ages ago. I can’t remember exactly when, can I?”

“Bought you a drink, did he?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“And the relationship developed from there?” Thackeray offered Harman a cigarette which he lit with trembling fingers. Given the contempt radiating from “Omar” Sharif he felt more sorry for Harman than he might normally have done. After all, there was no reason yet to suppose that Harman had strangled Wilson after some lovers’ quarrel.

“I suppose,” Harman said, his eyes shifting uneasily now.

“And it became physical?” Thackeray insisted.

“Well, yeah, it did, as it goes. Now and then. It weren’t a great love affair or owt.”

“But Stanley was quite a lot older than you, wasn’t he?”

“A bit. A few years.”

“So how old were you when you met him?” Thackeray guessed his Asian DC would not like the answer, at least if it was even marginally truthful. Harman glanced down at the table while Sharif simply glared.

“Sixteen,” he said and Thackeray thought that was close enough not to argue with. He knew Wilson preferred young men but as far as he knew he had never been accused of being a paedophile, in Britain at least. He seemed to prefer to play on the very edge of legality claiming, as no doubt he would have claimed in this case, that his partners knew their own sexuality and were willing.

“So you became his boyfriend,” Thackeray went on, carefully keeping his tone neutral although he could sense the young Muslim DC seething beside him. “How long ago was this? Months? Years?”

“Three, four years ago,” Harman said. “I don’t remember exactly. It’s always been a bit on and off. Stanley weren’t the faithful kind, if you know what I mean. He was always on the lookout for summat new.”

“Did he pay you?” Sharif said suddenly, his voice thick with emotion. Thackeray glared at him and Harman flushed uncomfortably.

“No, he bloody didn’t,” Harman said passionately. “It weren’t like that. I’m not a bloody rentboy.”

“I take it you were a regular visitor to Stanley’s house?” Thackeray asked, the question apparently as innocuous as the rest.

“Yeah, course,” Harman said. “He couldn’t come to mine, could he? I still live at ’ome, don’t I?”

“With your parents?”

“My mam. My dad did a bunk years back.”

“The reason it’s important, Martin, is that your fingerprints will be around the place at Stanley’s house so we’ll need to eliminate you. You’ve no objection to us taking your prints, have you?” Thackeray’s tone left no doubt that a negative reply was not an option. Harman shook his head miserably.

“When were you last there, do you reckon?” Thackeray pressed him.

“Last week,” Harman muttered. “Thursday or Friday maybe.”

“And not since?”

“I’ve not seen him since.”

“Not quarrelled, have you?” Thackeray asked quickly and saw Harman flinch.

“No, he were busy, that’s all,” Harman said. He hesitated for a moment, glancing at all three officers in turn before evidently making up his mind to continue. “Well if you must know he were in a right funny mood. Excited, like.”

“Any idea what he was excited about?”

“He didn’t say much, but he had a lot of holiday brochures in t‘front room so I guessed he were planning a trip. I thought maybe he’d come into a bit extra, like. Most o’t’time he were skint, but now and again he’d be flush and that were when he went away to one of his exotic spots. Course I knew what he went for …”

“He didn’t take you with him?” Thackeray asked.

Harman laughed thinly.

“Fat chance. It weren’t me he were going to Thailand for, or wherever. Get real.”

“But you didn’t see him again?”

“Well, when I thought about it I reckoned maybe he were all worked up because he’d found someone new. I were going round there about a week ago and I saw this black lad coming out. Right good-looking, he were, nice gear an’all. I just knew Stanley would go for him if he got half a chance. So I thought I’d bugger off for a bit, didn’t I? Chances were he’d not last long and then Stanley would come crawling back to me.”

“That had happened before?” Thackeray pressed.

“One or twice, yes,” Harman admitted. “I told you. He were always on the pull, was Stanley.”

“But there were other reasons why men might call on Stanley, weren’t there?” Sharif asked. “You knew he was carrying on some filthy pornographic trade there.”

“If you’ve been crawling all over his house you must know he had a little business going,” Harman said, apparently unperturbed. “It were nowt to do wi’ me, that. I’m not into all that stuff, pictures of kids an’ that. Nor were Stanley, as it goes, but he reckoned he could make a few bob out of them that were. He were good wi’computers, were Stanley. You must have seen all the stuff he had upstairs in the back room.”

“Are you saying you didn’t help him? Come on,” Sharif sneered, with fierce scepticism.

“I never,” Harman said. “I don’t know owt about computers. I’m not into all that technology stuff.”

“It must have cost him to set all that up, though,” Thackeray observed. “How did he fund all that on his wages?”

“I don’t know,” Harman said. “He had some of it before I met him. He did once say that someone loaned him some money, but I’ve no idea who. It’s not summat you could ask the bank for a loan for, is it?”

“And you didn’t raise any objection to the nature of this … business?” Thackeray asked.

“It were nowt heavy,” Harman said. “Just pictures of kids on beaches, in the park, family snaps, that sort of stuff. Not hardcore. At least that’s what he said.”

“And you believed him?” Sharif’s intervention was scornful. “You expect us to believe that?”

“It’s the truth. I had nowt to do wi’it.”

“So we won’t find your fingerprints all over the computers?” Thackeray asked.

“No, you won’t,” Harman said. “I told you, I know nowt about computers. Never learned. And Stanley used to say that the beauty of the thing was that nothing important ever came off those machines. It were all stashed away there with passwords and codes – what is it? Encryption? All his contacts, customers, everything was in there.”

“But he copied videotapes. Surely you know that?”

“He had a few customers for tapes,” Harman said. “But mostly it went out over the internet. He said that were much safer. He didn’t like doing the tapes but a few customers who couldn’t use a computer liked them. He said if he ever got caught they’d be the ones who got done because he had their addresses, road names an’that. A lot of the others he only had computer addresses and he said that were much safer. Anonymous, like.”

“Anyone you know take the tapes?” Thackeray asked.

Harmon shrugged.

“Special customers, Stanley said. Did it as a favour. I got the feeling there was someone important though – the person who bankrolled him, maybe. He talked once about his insurance being in that machine.”

“His insurance? What did he mean by that?” Thackeray asked sharply.

“I’m not sure,” Harman said slowly. “But I reckon there was stuff in there someone didn’t want let out.”

“You think he was into blackmail?”

“He had plenty to go on, didn’t he?” Harman said easily. “But I don’t know who so it’s no good asking. I took care to keep well out of Stanley’s business affairs. Too clever by half, I reckoned he might be. I wanted nowt to do with it.”

“So you say you haven’t seen Stanley this week,” Thackeray changed tack sharply. “So you can tell me where you were on Wednesday.”

“What time Wednesday?” Harman asked sulkily. “I were at work most o’t day, till six any road.”

“And where’s that?”

“Dale’s Engineering up Manchester Road. I work in t’finishing shop.”

“But not today?” Sharif asked. “Or was that your dinner-hour when you came into the bar?”

“That’s right,” Harman said. “I saw the Gazette earlier and bloody well needed a stiff drink.”

“And later on Wednesday. What did you do after work?”

“Went home, had my tea, watched a bit of telly and went to bed,” Harman said flatly. “If you think I killed Stanley you must be barmy. I were actually fond of the old bugger, though I sometimes wondered why.”

Thackeray got home late and tired. They had let Harman go, as they had to, having no evidence at all to link him to Wilson on the day he died. He had been about to call it a day when the uniformed duty inspector had called him downstairs where he found Kevin Mower, Kiley and Sharon Hatherley and a social worker crowded into an interview room waiting for him.

“We couldn’t find their parents,” Mower said. “But I think they’ve got something to tell you which might be useful to your murder investigation.”

Thackeray had listened in astonishment as the girls repeated what they had already told Mower.

“How often did you see this man on the Heights,” he asked when they had finished. “Every day? Once a week? Can you remember?”

“Not every day,” Sharon said. “Once or twice a week maybe. He were usually talkin’ to t’older lads. He took no notice of girls, did ’e?” Kiley nodded solemnly but suddenly the huge blue eyes which had been gazing guilelessly at the assembled adults lit up as a new thought struck her.

“He were always there Tuesday,” Kiley said.

“How do you know that?” Thackeray asked, surprised.

“Because it’s PE after us dinner on Tuesdays and when we go to t‘chippie we have to hurry back. The day Emma got sick it should have been PE and I missed it ’cause Sharon an’ me waited for her mam to come down from t’Project, didn’t we? And I like PE.”

“And once he gave us a lift back to school in his car, and that were a Tuesday an’all because Kiley were going on about getting changed for PE,” Sharon said.

“You took a lift with this man?” Thackeray had said, glancing at Mower in scarcely veiled horror.

“You must never -” the social worker had begun, until Thackeray stopped her with a wave of his hand. He did not want the children distracted.

“Tell me about his car,” he said. “Was it a big one?”

“It were red, not very big.”

“Anything else you can remember about it?” The two girls shook blonde heads in unison: as far as they were concerned, a car was just a car and the main memory of that Tuesday was of sailing down the hill back to the primary school while most of their contemporaries trudged through the rain on foot.

“So when this man gave you and Emma a drink you already knew him? He wasn’t really a stranger?” Thackeray pressed the younger girl. Kiley nodded, frightened now.

“Did you tell Emma’s mum who it was?”

Mower shook his head angrily at that.

“I went round there to ask,” he said. “Their mother wouldn’t let me talk to Kiley.”

“My dad said to keep out of it,” Sharon said on her younger sister’s behalf. “Said if Emma wanted to get pissed it were nowt to do wi’us.”

“Your parents and Mrs Maitland didn’t get on?” Thackeray asked.

“My mam said Donna were a stuck up cow,” Sharon said. “I’m sorry for Emma now, mind,” she added quickly. “Now her mam’s dead.”

Thackeray had led Mower up to his office after the social worker had taken the two girls home to wait for their parents.

“Love thy neighbour?” Mower said angrily, flinging himself into a chair.

“Come on, Kevin, you know what it’s like up there,” Thackeray had said. He looked at the sergeant critically, taking in the still unshaven beard and dark circles under the eyes. If Mower was on the way back to normality he was disguising it well, he thought.

“If there are links between Wilson and what been going on up on the Heights you may get what you want after all,” Thackeray said.

“Was he propositioning these lads he was talking to, or was he delivering something for someone?” Mower asked.

“Something else to talk to the drug squad about,” Thackeray had said. “It’s quite possible they know the answer.” He looked at Mower again thoughtfully.

“Do you still think Donna Maitland’s suicide was a fake?” he asked.

“Amos Atherton said …”

“You’re pushing your luck, Kevin,” Thackeray had interrupted angrily. “Amos shouldn’t be saying anything to you.”

“One of the slashes on her wrists was very deep,” Mower said, his face closed and remote. “Too deep, maybe, more like a knife than a razor blade. There was no knife in that bathroom when I got there. He’s waiting for the results on the toxicology tests.”

“I’ll have a close look at the PM report,” Thackeray had conceded. “And I’ll have to talk seriously to Ray Walter now. We can’t make any major moves up there without them on board.”

“If you ask me they’ve not got a clue what’s going on,” Mower said. “And if Donna did kill herself, it’s bloody well down to them anyway. They were out of order raiding the Project like that.”

When Thackeray had finally got home he found Laura and her grandmother eating risotto at the table in the window which overlooked the long luxuriant garden which as much as anything had persuaded Laura to buy the flat. But tonight the curtains were drawn tight against the gusting rain outside, and the softly lit room seemed like an oasis of warmth in a cruel world.

Thackeray kissed Laura on the cheek and put a hand lightly on Joyce’s shoulder. She had barely touched her food, he noticed.

“I heard you’d been vandalised,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ll ask Jack Longley to kick uniform into putting some extra effort into finding the little toe-rags.”

“I don’t want any special treatment,” Joyce said tetchily. “I’m not the only one being bullied up there, you know.”

“She needs to stay here for a bit,” Laura said, looking up at Thackeray doubtfully.

“Of course she does,” Thackeray said quickly.

“Not long, I don’t,” Joyce said. “I’ll not be in your way long. I’m not giving the developers the satisfaction of finding my place empty. Or the vandals for that matter. I’m going home as soon as the repairs are done.”

Laura raised her eyes skyward for a second and Thackeray allowed himself a faint smile.

“I see the famous Ackroyd bloody-mindedness hasn’t been dented too badly,” he said.

“Anyway, you must know I’m a major drug suspect these days,” Joyce said with satisfaction. “I’m sure it’s not good for your reputation to be living with the likes of me for long, Michael.”

“If I told you I thought the drug squad was misguided, Joyce, I don’t suppose you’d believe me, would you?” Thackeray said carefully.

“Aye, well, they turned out to be a sight too misguided for poor Donna,” Joyce snapped back, for once letting her bitterness show.

“The whole situation on the Heights is turning into a bloody tragedy,” Laura said suddenly, glaring at Thackeray. “It’s time the left hand told the right hand what it’s doing. The bad guys seem to be running rings round you all.”

“Which is why I’d like you both to keep away from the place,” Thackeray said.

“We all have our jobs to do,” Joyce said sharply. “And now I’ll get to bed, if you don’t mind. It’s been a long day.”

When she had closed the door of the spare bedroom firmly behind her, Laura glanced at Thackeray, who had slumped into a chair and closed his eyes. She slipped onto the chair arm beside him and put an arm round him.

“This is getting to you,” she said. “What is it? Have you been talking to Kevin Mower? Do you really think Donna was murdered?”

Thackeray shrugged wearily.

“I don’t know. But yes, in general terms you’re right. There’s a reign of terror going on up there and the drug squad seems to be compounding it rather than making it any better.”

“And then there’s Karen and the missing babies,” Laura said. “No progress there, I take it?”

“I’ve put their mother on the missing persons’ list,” Thackeray said. “Mother and babies, as it goes. And asked social security to find out if she’s picking up her child benefit and if so, where. Jack Longley would go spare if he knew how I was wasting police time but I still think there’s something deeply suspicious there. But no one I’ve mentioned it to has come up with anything concrete. She just went, without a word, and no one seems to think it even slightly odd.”

“You don’t sound very hopeful of finding them.”

“I’m not really. I’ve never underestimated Barry Foreman’s intelligence. What I got wrong was the ease with which he could take other people in, whether it’s Karen’s mum or the local establishment. He’s going to end up running this town if someone doesn’t stop him buying friends and influencing people.”

Laura ran her fingers through Thackeray’s hair gently.

“Don’t you think you’re maybe getting a bit obsessive about Foreman,” she said carefully. “You’ve got enough problems without taking on the whole of Bradfield’s great and good. You say he’s a bastard, so perhaps his girlfriend just got fed up and bunked off with her twins. If he’s as bad as you say, she’ll have taken care he won’t be able to find her, maybe.”

“I thought this sort of thing was meat and drink to journalists,” Thackeray teased her, although his heart was not in it.

“If he’s getting involved in the regeneration scheme I think that’s interesting. I’d dearly like to find out what Councillor Spencer and the rest of that committee are getting out of this project. They’ve even got Ted Grant on board now, and the only reason I can think of for inviting him in is to make sure the Gazette doesn’t ask too many questions when the contracts are handed out.”

“Jack Longley goes to those meetings too,” Thackeray said gloomily. “He doesn’t seem to have picked up anything dodgy and he’s got a nose like a ferret.”

“Well, I expect they’d make sure they kept anything dubious away from him. I get the feeling that some of that committee are in the know and others are there as window-dressing.”

“Or could it just be that this is a pot and kettle job?” Thackeray asked. “You don’t like Spencer any more than I like Foreman. Maybe we’re both letting our emotions cloud our judgement.”

“Maybe,” Laura said, getting to her feet and stretching lazily. “Anyway, with the Beck about to flood the town and your murder case, plus the mayhem on the Heights, a little bit of council corruption’ll have to go on the back burner for now, won’t it? It’s getting to the stage where Ted’s going to have us in the office twenty-four-seven. I’m going to bed. I’m whacked.”

A short time later, when Thackeray slipped into bed beside, as he thought, a sleeping Laura, she turned towards him and slid her arms around him, running her hands down to his hips and pressing her body into his, with predictable effects.

“Don’t let all this stuff get between us,” she murmured.

“It’d be difficult just now,” he said, kissing her neck and ears. “I just want to keep you safe. You know that.”

“Life’s an unsafe enterprise, or else it’s very, very dull.”

“Keep Joyce here where we can keep an eye on her is all I’m saying,” he said, cupping her left breast so that he could kiss that next. “And let’s hope she sleeps soundly because this bloody bed creaks.”