A Bleeding of Innocents (8 page)

‘Well, it's no great leap of the imagination from protection to drugs. Bouncers are always in the right place at the right time, unless they're dead straight they're an ideal outlet. You catch the odd one but Carney pays him to say he was moonlighting and when he comes out he's got a new car and a time-share in Spain.

‘Another thing bouncers are useful for is reminding gamblers of their moral obligations. Illegal gambling's a big money-spinner' – Donovan acknowledged the pun with a grim smile – ‘so he's into that too. Ah, but he's clever. Nothing as simple as a room above the pub we could raid from time to time. He's used a boat on the canal, a caravan in a field, and a removal van in a layby before now. We get to hear about it afterwards, of course, when it's too damn late.'

‘Has he ever been charged?'

‘Sure,' said Donovan. ‘Careless driving. Keeping a dangerous dog. Possession of an unlicensed firearm – it was a war souvenir, general concensus at Forensics was that it'd have blown the hand off anyone who tried to fire it. But for the real stuff, the protection, the drugs, the gambling, the hookers – did I mention them? – never. Had him in for questioning more times than I can remember but we never came up with evidence a pricey brief couldn't overturn. Except—' He didn't go on.

‘Except?'

‘Except we'd been working hard on him these last few weeks, shaking a lot of trees and watching what fell out. Maybe we'd have got him this time. Only then – well, it was Alan's operation.' He said no more.

‘When this current mess is sorted out,' said Liz, ‘someone'll take over where Inspector Clarke left off. Make sure of Carney then. Alan would appreciate that.'

It was the middle of the day but they descended through darkness. Liz turned her headlamps on. Then sunlight blinked ahead and they emerged into a magical place, a man-made cavern deep in the bowels of a man-made earth. Brown water glinted, and on the water boats painted like bathtub toys.

All around black warehouses soared to six storeys, their roofs framing a square of sky. Windows rose in ranks up the face of them, glazed and framed in cheery red brick which was the planners' compromise between dour authenticity and the sort of environment where people might want to live and work. Some of the windows were curtained, some had blinds. It was still impossible to gaze up at those looming heights without a sense of claustrophobia.

At ground-floor level, enclosing the pretty cobbled wharfs, the warehouses had been hollowed out to provide parking. The wall was scalloped into a colonnade and vehicles faded from view as they passed through it. Standing in front of the colonnade were the white furniture and gaily striped umbrellas of a pavement café, but none of the seats was occupied.

Mere Basin was the confluence of four canals. Each arrived under a masonry cliff, the buildings drawing up their skirts in a quartet of low-roofed tunnels. The water was peaty brown, glinting weed green where its surface was ruffled. Tied to the wharf by great shaggy ropes or chugging in and out under the black buildings were long thin boats with black hulls and gaily painted upperworks. Men in oily sweaters tinkered with engines or plied the long swan's-neck tillers; girls in peaked caps stood on the foredecks coiling rope. It was an extraordinary sight, charming and eccentric and quintessentially English, about as sinister as a conclave of bell-ringers.

Parking under one of the warehouses, between a primrose BMW and a Volvo estate with an outboard engine in the back, Liz was about to say as much when she saw that they were being watched. A well-built man of about thirty was perched on a bollard, looking not at the activity on the water but into the shadows where she'd driven. She might have dismissed it as the curiosity of a regular spotting a strange car but for the fact that he was wearing a suit. It was Sunday afternoon, everyone else here was in jeans and jumpers, but this well-built young man was perched on a mooring bollard in a well-cut charcoal-grey suit.

Donovan had seen him too. ‘Terry McMeekin,' he growled. ‘Carney's muscle. He'll follow us inside. He'll crowd us but he won't start anything. But when you decide to lift Carney, he's the one to watch.'

‘It's a bit early to think of arresting him!' exclaimed Liz. ‘Can I talk to him before you send for the Black Maria?'

Donovan sniffed. ‘Just looking ahead.'

Access to the flats and offices above was via lifts and stairways also parked discreetly out of sight behind the colonnade. The business users were on the lower storeys; a phone controlled the residents' lift.

Carney Enterprises had offices on the first floor: a red arrow directed Liz to a staircase. The glass door at the foot of the stairs was locked. ‘I don't think there's anyone here.'

She turned and caught Donovan breathing heavily. ‘The BMW's here, McMeekin's here, therefore Carney's here. Tell you what, I'll go outside and throw stones at his window.'

The offer had the desired effect. As he turned back to the basin the man in the suit came to meet him, taking keys from his pocket. ‘Sergeant Donovan? Looking for Mr Carney, are you?' Liz could not see his face for the shadows but heard the lilt of mischief in his voice.

‘However did you guess?' Donovan said flatly.

‘He's upstairs. We're sorting through some paperwork – the only time you can do it's when the office is closed, there's too much going on during the week. I just stepped out to check on the motor. It's a new one, do you like the colour?' He rubbed a sleeve appreciatively across the primrose bonnet. ‘I locked the door. You don't want all sorts wandering round up there, do you?'

Liz smiled at him. ‘How very security-conscious of you, Mr McMeekin. I'm sure Mr Carney appreciates the care you take of him.'

McMeekin's eyes warmed on her. He knew who she was, had known about her before Donovan did, was confident enough to engage in a little banter. ‘I like to think so, Inspector. I like to think I do a good job.'

‘Don't we all? Would you tell Mr Carney I'd like a word?'

‘He'll be pleased to meet you.' He unlocked the glass door, fastening it again behind them. ‘That was a bad business about Inspector Clarke, by the way. We were all very shocked.'

‘I just bet you were,' Donovan said in his teeth.

The broader man turned to him with every appearance of concern. ‘That's right, you were involved in that too, weren't you, Sergeant? How are you feeling now? I hope you get the stupid sod. The way some people drive, nobody's safe.'

Donovan's lips were tight as he and Liz followed McMeekin up the stairs.

If they'd had an appointment Carney could not have received them more courteously. He ushered them into his office, helped Liz to a chair and cleared files off another for Donovan who studiously ignored it. Folding his hands together on his desk and leaning over them he enquired, solemn as an undertaker's clerk, ‘And how may I help you, Mrs Graham?'

Liz had long ago learned not to judge by appearances, so she was not disturbed by the fact that Jack Carney was a small, plump man in late middle age with the faintly rosy complexion associated with good diet, good health, and a clear conscience: more grandfather than Godfather. She knew that no conscience at all is even better for the digestion. Still she had to make a small effort to remember that this neat man with his glowing skin and silver hair and caring eyes, and the suggestion of an all-embracing
bonhomie
was certainly a criminal and possibly a murderer.

She said, ‘I'm investigating the murder of Mrs Kerry Page early this morning in a car park on the Castlemere Levels.' And she said nothing more, waiting, watching him, hoping to learn something from his reaction.

He blinked. He looked surprised, then perplexed. ‘And you think I can help?' The puzzlement in his voice could have been genuine or a skilful forgery. He didn't deny anything; but then she hadn't accused him of anything yet.

‘I hope so,' said Liz. ‘You knew Mrs Page, didn't you?'

‘Did I?' Carney seemed to be searching his memory without success.

‘You certainly know her husband.'

So far as she could tell the man was genuinely confused. He wasn't rattled, not yet, but he didn't like being at a disadvantage. ‘I'm sorry, Inspector, I don't think I know either of them. Page? What does he do?'

‘He's a pilot.'

The penny dropped. Carney beamed with relief. ‘Oh yes. Page – he's one of Tulliver's men, out at the airfield.' He shook his head. ‘I couldn't honestly say I know him. He's flown me, only the once I think: last Saturday, to Cartmel. A horse I have a little interest in was running. I'd know him to see but I couldn't have told you his name.'

‘David Page.'

He nodded slowly. ‘And his wife's been murdered, you say? What a terrible thing. Just last night?' Understanding dawned. ‘My God, you think it was Page! You want to know – what? – if he said anything on the flight?'

‘Yes, all right,' said Liz. ‘What did you talk about?'

Carney shrugged. ‘We didn't really. I mean, he was civil enough, we didn't fly two hundred miles in silence. But I don't think he was interested in racing. We talked mostly between ourselves, didn't we, Terry?' This to the man who was standing to one side of the door as Donovan was standing to the other.

McMeekin nodded. ‘Pretty much, Mr Carney.'

‘He certainly didn't talk about his wife.'

‘No, I suppose not.' Liz gave a solemn smile. ‘If he'd been planning to murder her he'd hardly have discussed it with clients he'd never met before.'

Carney was looking puzzled again. ‘Then how
do
you think I can help you?'

‘Were you in town yourself last night, Mr Carney?'

The caring eyes in the cheery face recoiled as if she'd hit him. ‘Me? You want to know where
I
was last night? You want to know where
I
was while Mrs Page was being murdered?'

‘Yes, please,' Liz said calmly.

Then the sheer effrontery of it seemed to disarm him, whittling away at his sense of outrage. He blew out his cheeks in a huff of mild indignation. He looked at McMeekin, glanced at Donovan, then looked back at Liz. ‘I was at home.'

‘With your wife?'

‘With my wife.'

‘And?'

‘And Terry here.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes. He's a useful chap to have about the place when you're throwing a party.'

Liz tried to keep the reaction out of her face and voice, doubted if she'd been successful. ‘A party?'

Carney made no effort to disguise the fact that he was now enjoying himself. ‘Yes, it's something we do a couple of times a year. I see a lot of people in the way of business – councillors, professional men, even the odd policeman – it isn't always easy to thank them properly as individuals so we throw a bit of a do every six months. A buffet and a band. It's not exactly Saturday Night at the London Palladium but I think everyone enjoyed it.' He couldn't keep from beaming. ‘It was damn near breakfast time before we wound it up.'

Liz nodded steadily, waiting for her mind to process the information, made herself smile. ‘And Mr McMeekin was helping.'

‘Oh yes. Master of Ceremonies, that's Terry. Filling a glass here, passing a canapé there; dancing with the Mayoress while I interest the Mayor in an idea or two … Oh yes, Terry's the life and soul of these things. Everybody'd miss him if he wasn't there.'

Liz was a realist. Short of getting themselves arrested for streaking in Castlemere High Street at the relevant time the two men could hardly have a better alibi. Either Donovan was wrong or Carney had timed the attack precisely so that he was covered. It didn't make him fireproof, but before she could tie him to the murder she'd need concrete evidence. It would mean finding the mechanic first. If there was a mechanic. If this wasn't all a figment of Donovan's bruised imagination.

‘Not everyone,' Donovan said, not quite under his breath.

McMeekin squared up to him, the broad shoulders of his suit swinging like the yards of a sailing ship. There was a braced note in his voice like the twang of straining cordage. ‘It was a good night, Sergeant, you should have been there.' He snapped his fingers. ‘Sorry, I'd forgotten – you were busy yesterday.'

Donovan showed his teeth in a wolfish travesty of a grin. ‘Your turn'll come, McMeekin. I'll not only go to your funeral, I'll dance at it.'

‘Unless you take more care crossing roads, Donovan, your dancing days are numbered.'

‘Saturday night at Wormwood Scrubs is nothing to write home about either.'

They were like a couple of pitbull terriers straining their leashes to get at one another. Liz sighed, turned to Carney. ‘If I call off mine will you call off yours?'

The small man chuckled, tapped his knuckles on the desk. ‘Terry, leave the policeman alone. He's had a hard week.'

‘And you,' Liz said, spearing Donovan with her gaze as she stood up, ‘and I have some things to discuss, so we'll be on our way now.' She looked at Carney, who had also risen. ‘Thank you for your time. I'm sure we'll meet again.'

‘I do hope so, Mrs Graham.' The little gangster smiled, for all the world as if he meant it.

Shapiro had been out of the office when Liz called for someone to baby-sit Page but he was back now and wanting to see her as a matter of urgency. The pointed discussion she wanted with Donovan would have to wait. She left him in her office with strict instructions not to leave it, not even for help if he was dying.

The Chief Inspector started up at her entry with a fraught expression that drove from her head the things she'd intended to say to him. ‘You've been to the basin? You've seen Carney? Whatever possessed you?'

She didn't understand, either the reproach or the worried look in his eyes. ‘We found a link between him and David Page. I wanted to ask him about it, that's all. What's the problem?'