A Killing Kindness (12 page)

'I doubt it. Frankie puts up with Ron for Janey's sake. He really thinks he's a bit of a halfwit and  Frankie doesn't suffer fools gladly.'

'No. That's what Mr Headingley reckons too. Well, see what you can do, but don't spend more time on it than necessary. The other thing, you didn't have much to do with Brenda Sorby's bank,  did you?'

'I was around, but Mr Pascoe did most of the  talking.'

'Right, Sergeant. I want you to go over all that  stuff again. Get pictures of everyone concerned in  the case, see if any of 'em mean anything to any of the girl's workmates. Peter, don't look so hurt. I  meant what I said just now. New eyes. I want you  to check through Mrs Dinwoodie's background  again, all right? And I did that in the first place.'

'Sir,' said Wield.

'You still here, Sergeant? You want a rest perhaps? Come to think of it, you look a bit knackered. You ought to try getting to bed at a decent time.'

'I was just wondering, sir. How far do I go with this business of putting the pressure on Ron  Ludlam?'

Dalziel looked surprised.

'Bluff's for con-men and card-sharps,' he said.  'My rule is, never threaten owt you won't perform.'

After Wield had left, he turned to Pascoe and  said, 'What's the background on this Wildgoose  stuff, Peter?'

Pascoe told him and he nodded sombrely.

'His wife, eh? Well, women can get pretty bitter  when there's a break-up. They don't see straight.'

He sighed deeply. His own wife had left him  many years ago and her reasons for doing so had  long since fossilized in his mind in the form of  hysterical female delusions.

'All the same, the bugger needs checking out.  Better go and see him.'

'Wouldn't Brady be better? After hearing me mentioned yesterday, it's going to alert him, me  turning up so soon.'

'If he's our man, the bugger'll be alert enough already,' said Dalziel. 'Which is more than I can  say for Brady. No, you go, Peter. Don't worry about  alerting him, as long as you bloody well terrify him  into the bargain!'

'Is that such a good idea? Perhaps we should  wait till Dr Pottle produces his profile first,' probed  Pascoe.

'That quack! Christ, I'd as lief sit through one of Rosetta Stanhope's seances,' said Dalziel disgustedly. 'It's the sodding ACC's idea, wouldn't you know it? I think that twerp's one of Pottle's best  patients.'

A phone rang on the table.

Dalziel picked it up and bellowed 'Yes?' as  though he wanted to make it obsolete. He listened  a moment.

'Talk of the devil,' he said. 'The sod's here.'

'Pottle?'

'Yes. And a pair of linguists. Peter, get them sorted, will you, or at least out of sight. We can't have the public coming into a respectable police station and finding it looking like a senior fucking  common room!'

'Sir, where will you be?' called Pascoe as Dalziel  headed for the door.

The lat man grinned, brown teeth bared like a  moon-touched churchyard.

'Out of touch,' he said. 'I'll practise what I  preach. There was a break-in at the Aero Club bar last night. Just a couple of bottles missing,  but there's any number of suspects. That gang of  gyppos just across the fence! Me, I don't know  any of these buggers yet, but they seem intent on getting in on the act. This gives me a nice excuse  to go visiting.'

Chapter 11

Sergeant Wield was no intellectual. The only books  he owned were the complete works of H. Rider Haggard which he read and re-read avidly. But he  knew a prick-teaser when he saw one.

Janey Pickersgill crossed and recrossed her long legs with maximum slither and maximum exposure. Her skirt had the fashionable side slit and  Wield observed that stockings had made a comeback after a decade of tights. She noticed him  noticing and stretched sensuously in her armchair,  arching her back to obtrude her tiny bust.

Wield yawned, it wasn't altogether an affectation. There had been a lot of talk, not much  sleep, the previous night. Maurice, his friend in Newcastle, had been ill at ease, not wholly welcoming. Their talk had not got to the heart of things  but Wield suspected the worst.

As he did now.

'Janey, if you're trying to take my mind off my  job, forget it,' he said pleasantly. 'I've seen better tits on a Turkish wrestler. Tell me again about that Thursday night.'

'You can't talk to me like that. I'll tell Frankie,’  she threatened. But she arranged her skirt into more decorous folds and lit a cigarette, holding it and puffing it like a beginner. There was something of the tyro about everything she did. Still in her  mid-twenties, she had not yet developed the patina  of hardness, or worse, of dreary resignation which  is worn by those whose contact with authority is invariably defensive or on visiting days. But it would  come, thought Wield. Meanwhile, though there was no chance of his being seduced by her charms, he  must be careful not to be charmed by her naiveté.

She had married Frankie Pickersgill knowing  what he was and had lied constantly and vehemently while he was being investigated for the  off-licence job.

'Didn't they tell you at the depot Frankie's driving a load across to Manchester? He won't be back  till late this afternoon.'

'Yes, I know,' said Wield, settling comfortably in his chair. 'What I don't know is what you're trying  to take my mind off with all this leg-waving, Janey.  I mean, all I'm interested in is Tommy Maggs. Now the three of you were here the night it happened.  Right?'

'The night what happened?' she said warily.

'Why, the night young Tommy Maggs's girlfriend got killed,' said Wield innocently. 'Did  anything else happen that night?'

'Yes, all right, we were all here, watching the  telly. We've told your lot already. What are you  bothering us again for?'

'You see, Janey, Tommy's disappeared,' said  Wield earnestly. 'We're worried about him. He's naturally very upset. A young lad like that, wandering around in a distressed state, anything could  happen. You can see that, can't you?'

'I can't see what it's got to do with me,' complained the woman, nervously pecking at her cigarette.

'No? Well, it's Ron, really. You know what these  youngsters are like. False sense of loyalty, not  really knowing their friends' best interests, that sort of thing. There's a chance he may know more than he's letting on. I wondered if you  could help.'

'No. I don't know anything. He's said nothing  to me.'

'Are you sure? Throw your mind right back. Back to that night when the three of you were  sitting here watching telly together.'

'Well, he wouldn't be likely to say much then, would he, as nothing had happened yet,' said Janey with the pride of one stumbling on an oasis  of logic in a wasteland of feminine intuition.

'Of course, he wouldn't. You're right,' said Wield. 'Unless he said something about Tommy's state of  mind when he left him in the Bay Tree.'

The woman looked at him in alarm.

'You don't think Tommy's got anything to do with killing that lass, do you? It was the Choker,  everyone knows that.'

'But who's the Choker, Janey? Who knows that? You've met Tommy?'

'Couple of times. Ron brought him round to the  house.'

'Nice lad.'

'He seemed very nice. Very decent,' she said emphatically. A scrap of tobacco had got stuck  to her tongue. She picked at it with a scarlet  fingernail. The effect was much sexier now that  she wasn't trying.

'And Brenda, did you meet her?'

'Just the once. She was in the car when Tommy called, so I made him bring her in. Nice girl too.  Well spoken.'

'Bit posh for Tommy, you thought?'

'No. Just well spoken.'

'Frankie, did he meet her?'

'Yes. He said hello.'

'And what did he think of her?'

Now alarms were ringing in her mind.

'What's that mean? He didn't think anything of  her. Just for a minute they spoke. What the hell  are you driving at?'

Wield looked at her with a blankness not altogether affected. He had stumbled on this line of  questioning by chance just as he was about ready to  give up and go. There was no way that Frankie was  going to let hints about his brief acquaintance with Brenda Sorby scare him into admitting the Spinks ‘warehouse job. But Janey might let something slip out of sheer indignation.

'We're interested in anyone who knew Brenda,' he said, suddenly very stiff, very official. 'There's a strong possibility that she was picked up by a car  after she left Tommy that night. And for her to get  willingly into a car at that time of night, she would  almost certainly need to know the driver.'

She was on her feet leaning over him, so close  and so angry that he felt little specks of spittle hit  his face as she spoke.

'Are you pigs so hard up you want to pin this one on any poor sod who's handy? Well, you've come to the wrong shop if it's my Frankie you're after.  He was here with me all that night, and I mean  all that night, from when he got home till next morning when he went to work. And nothing's going to make me say different, not even if they send a whole battalion looking like you do!'

'What time did you go to bed?' asked Wield  calmly.

'What?'

'Bed. You did go to bed? What time.'

'I don't know. Half eleven, midnight.'

She was confused as people often are by a lack  of reaction to an emotional outburst.

'What about Ron?'

'What
about Ron?'

'Did he go first? Or was he still up when you  and Frankie went to bed?'

'I don't know. First I think.'

'So there was a period when you and Frankie were downstairs by yourselves between eleven  and midnight.'

'I don't know! What's it matter? Mebbe we went first.'

'Leaving Ron by himself?'

'No! I mean, most likely we all went up together.'

'I didn't know you were that close a family,'  said Wield.

She slapped at his face, a full round-arm blow. Wield parried unhurriedly, the chopping edge of  his left hand held palm forward at head height like  a gesture of peace.

'Jesus!' she swore as she nursed her wrist.

'Pick someone your own size,' said Wield.

He rose, put his hands on her shoulders and  pushed her down on to the chair he had just  vacated.

There was something here, he was sure. But  it was probably something for Chief Inspector Headingley, and he had already spent too much  Choker time on it.

Casting bread on waters was a good exit ploy for  a policeman. Leave them worrying. It was often  very effective. It was also often very unpleasant  but, as any Rider Haggard fan knew, duty must  be done.

'Janey,' he said sternly. 'If your Frankie's relying  on Ron for an alibi, he shouldn't sleep too well at  nights.'

'What the hell do you mean?' she said sullenly,  still rubbing her wrist.

'Come on, Janey! Don't be naive. You must  know your brother well enough by now. When  Frankie got done for the whisky, did you never  wonder how we got on to him?'

She was with him so quickly he knew he must have touched some deep hidden suspicion.

'You're lying,' she said. 'Prove it.'

'Oh Janey,' he said sadly. 'That's the one thing people like you and people like me have in common. We know when each other's lying or telling  the truth. It's only juries that need proof.'

He made for the door. There was nothing else  for him here just now. Later, perhaps . . .

Wield knew he'd taken a risk. It was one thing to  threaten Ludlam, quite another to blow the gaff to  Janey. But Wield had his intuitions too. It crossed  his mind that the last time he had followed one  was when he sat in on the seance with a cassette  recorder in his pocket.

He shuddered at the memory and drove to  Brenda Sorby's bank.

Millhill was a typically 'mixed' suburb, middle-class, owner-occupied on the side nearest the  river moderating to council house and commercial  towards the neighbouring industrial estate. The  Northern Bank was in a smallish shopping precinct  at about the midway point. The previous weekend  after the discovery of Brenda Sorby's body, Pascoe had interviewed the bank staff while Wield had  checked round the shops. Only the hairdressing  salon a quarter of a mile along the road had provided any witness. Brenda had kept her appointment, been bright and chatty and left just after  six-fifteen. Indeed, as they knew that she had met Tommy in the Bay Tree at eight, anything the bank  staff or shopkeepers could tell them hardly seemed  likely to be significant, but Dalziel wanted the  ground turned over again, and Dalziel was Ayesha.

Wield checked his notebook. A couple of the  smaller shops had been closed for the annual holidays. It was surprising how many people still stuck  to the old tradition of taking their vacation during  the High Fair.

The first one he tried,
M. Conrad, Jeweller and  Watch-Repairer,
was locked. The second,
Durdons  Confectioners,
was open. Mr and Mrs Durdon had  just got back from a week in Spain that very  morning, and were clearly bent on recouping their  expenses as rapidly as possible.

Yes, they had read about the killing, they always  bought the English papers on holiday. Yes, they  had been here that Thursday, they didn't go till  early Friday morning. Yes, they remembered the  lass vaguely.

But no, they didn't recall seeing her that day,  and no, there was nothing they could tell Wield  though he got a distinct impression they had lorded  it at their Costa Brava hotel on the strength of their  intimate connection with the case.

In the bank he was greeted with less enthusiasm. Mulgan, the acting manager, had (according  to Pascoe's notes) been genuinely distressed at  Brenda's death, but also perhaps a little too concerned that somehow it would reflect on him.

Now, a week later, this personal concern seemed  to dominate. About five nine, with brown hair,  thick, luxuriant and anointed, he was a good-looking man in a fleshy kind of way. His full  cheeks were razored to a roseate glow and gave  off strong emanations of one of the more macho  aftershaves. Wield's memory was stirred. Maurice had given him a bottle last Christmas, but he had  never used it.