A Very Private Murder (10 page)

The youth climbed out and walked round the back of the car. He lifted the tailgate and a dog jumped down onto the road. It wasn’t just any dog. It was of the type sometimes referred to as a fighting dog: all teeth and aggression, with a pain threshold somewhere in the stratosphere. ‘Bingo,’ I said.

The dog’s stump of a tail was wagging like my windscreen wipers on full speed. The youth slipped a chain around its neck and led it into the garden of Chez Pickles, pausing only for it to relieve itself against the gatepost.

‘Are we going back?’ Serena asked, her voice shaky with nervousness and her big brown eyes wide with alarm.

‘Are you any good with dogs?’ I asked.

‘No.’

‘Neither am I. Do a PNC check on him; see if he’s legit.’

Two minutes later we knew that the owner of the Escort was called Terence Bratt, age
twenty-three
, and he lived on the Sylvan Fields estate.

I said: ‘That must be him. I can’t see how we’d learn anything from a heart-to-heart talk right now. Can you?’

‘Not a thing.’

‘OK, that settles it. Let’s go back to the nick.’

Monday morning, after the Pickles boys had been bailed and sent on their way, we had a big meeting. ‘Right,’ I began, when everybody was seated, plastic beakers of coffee balanced precariously on any handy level surface. ‘We’ve a lot to get through, so let’s stay with the facts and not go drifting off on flights of fancy.’ I looked at Brendan as I said the last bit. ‘We’ll deal with the pit bull robbers first.’ I told them about my interview of Carl Pickles and the fruitless search of his house, until Smokey and the Bandit came cruising into the street. There were groans of derision when I confessed to not going back to face the dog.

Jeff’s interview with Sean was a carbon copy of mine with Carl. ‘They both have extensive but relatively minor criminal records,’ he told us. ‘Calling them career criminals is probably not an exaggeration. They’ve had plenty of experience at talking to the police and they are forensically aware enough to keep a firm divide between their home life and the criminal side. Somewhere, I suspect there’s a lock-up garage filled with all their robbery gear and proceeds. We need to find it.’

After a few questions I moved on. ‘The Curzon Centre incident,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a word with the chief constable, who just happens to be a mate of mine from the old days. In fact, I taught him all he knows …’

‘What did you do in the afternoon?’ somebody interrupted.

‘Um, well, let’s just say we’ve been firm friends ever since. As I was saying, I’ve had a word with the CC and he’s content to wind down the investigation to find the graffiti artist. The press have had other stories to bother about and they’ve given us a relatively easy life, for which we should be grateful. The Curzons aren’t bothered. It was just a minor embarrassment to them. However, it would be nice to find out who did it, and how, don’t you think?’

Their response suggested that they didn’t give a flying fart, but I persisted. ‘Brendan,’ I said. ‘Give us an update, leaving out anything about grassy knolls and book depositories.’

‘Right, boss. We’ve seized … well, not seized … borrowed is probably more accurate … nearly a hundred photographs taken by the onlookers when the incident occurred. So far we’ve identified about twenty per cent of the people in the background. Only one attracts any attention.’ He pulled an A4 printout from the pile in his briefcase and passed it towards me.

It showed Ghislaine out of focus in the foreground, her head turning away from the camera, and a smiling youth beyond her, his mouth open, as if speaking. ‘Go on, Brendan,’ I said, handing the photo to Maggie.

‘The woman who took the photo said there was a brief exchange between the two of them. She thought he said “Where’s Kevin?” and Miss Curzon said “He couldn’t come”, or something similar.’

‘Hmm. Any ideas who Kevin might be?’

‘Yes, boss. Apparently Miss Curzon and the prince have code names for each other. Let’s face it, everybody from GCHQ and MI6 down is trying to tap into their phone calls. She always calls him Kevin. One of the tabloids had spilt the beans a couple of days earlier.’

‘What does he call her?’

‘Sorry. Don’t know.’

‘It sounds harmless but he might be a stalker. Let’s have him in. Anything else?’

‘More CCTV stills of the culprit, that’s all. We know his movements but they don’t help much.’

‘Right. Show me them later. Keep on it but don’t spend any money. Is that everything? If so, off you go.’

One of the DCs raised a finger to attract my attention. ‘Just one thing, boss,’ he said. ‘The SmartWater kits have started to arrive. I’ve one here.’ He held up a small Ziplok bag and I gestured for him to toss it to me. It wasn’t as big as I expected, consisting of a tube of the magic liquid about the size of a fountain pen and a few stickers for windows, to frighten off would-be burglars.

‘How many do we have?’ I asked.

‘We’ve ten thousand on order, of which about a thousand are downstairs.’

‘How have other forces handled it?’ I asked.

‘I think the idea is to give it to vulnerable people – those who are burgled regularly – and the rest are on sale. We’ve had a few thou orders, at ten pounds a time, so we’ll have to fill those first.’

‘Tell us how it works, please.’

‘OK. It’s a bit like those marker pens that glowed under UV, except every kit has a unique DNA code, which is registered to a particular address. The liquid is put on any valuable items, or round windows, et cetera, and it stays there for years. If a villain handles the item, some of the liquid residue is transferred to him and can easily be seen under UV light and linked to the address that applied it.

‘Doesn’t it wash off?’

‘Not very easily.’

Someone said: ‘It’s a pity the houses robbed by the pit bull gang weren’t treated with it.’

‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘Thanks for that. I’ll have a word with Mr Adey about some help distributing it.’ Gareth Adey is my uniformed counterpart.

‘Like, them doing it.’

‘That’s a good idea. The important thing is that it isn’t left under the front desk gathering dust for evermore. So go to it, my fine young cannibals, and catch us some crooks.’

Dave followed me into my office and sat down in the spare chair. ‘How was the trip to East Yorkshire?’ he asked.

‘Fine,’ I replied. ‘Just fine.’

‘Will you be going again, this week?’

‘No. Why should I be?’

‘I just wondered.’

‘I went for the walking. It’s a nice place.’

‘Oh. So you didn’t see Miss Curzon at all?’

‘Well, actually, now you come to mention it, I did happen to bump into her, but it wasn’t intentional.’

‘And you were on holiday.’

‘Exactly.’

‘As was Threadneedle.’

‘So he was.’

‘And Miss McArdle.’

‘Mmm,’ I agreed. ‘That’s interesting. I wonder where
she
went.’

Serena poked her head around my door, saying: ‘Guess what.’

‘The Pope’s been done for OPL?’ Dave suggested. ‘He’d been hitting the green chartreuse a bit hard and ran a few friends home in the Popemobile after midnight mass.’

‘Not quite. Miss Audrey Pickles, aka Monique, has a record for soliciting, with a short custodial for non-payment of fines.’

I shook my head. ‘Monique! The desirable Audrey Pickles sounds to have hidden depths.’ I turned to Dave. ‘We suspected that she was probably having it away with her half-brothers or brothers – or whatever they are.’

‘Keep it in the family, Serena,’ he said. ‘An old Yorkshire tradition,’ and she tutted and rolled those big brown eyes.

‘I’m taking Dave to interview Terence Bratt,’ I told her. ‘He’s an expert with dogs, aren’t you, sunshine?’

‘Love ’em,’ he replied, unconvincingly.

We didn’t take a gun, or the high-pitched whistle device, relying on the hound being chained up or silly soft or something. Dave and I used to be in the same football team, and I could run faster than he could, but I didn’t remind him of that.

Terence Bratt lived in a one-up one-down
back-to
-back terrace in a part of town that is awaiting redevelopment. Knock three or four of them into one and you have a reasonable starting point for a desirable family town residence, providing the roof doesn’t cave in. They were built a century ago, for the millworkers who lived like rats in the maze of streets that once clung to the hillsides. Now there’s only a token few left alongside a cobbled street, like museum pieces. Bratt had lived there since the age of sixteen, when social services found and furnished it for him, to rescue him from an abusive father. All his neighbours are Asian. The Asians killed the industry with cheap imports, then moved in to fill the vacuum.

‘I’m Detective Constable Sparkington and this is Detective Inspector Priest,’ Dave began. ‘We have reason to believe you are in possession of a dangerous dog, namely a pit bull terrier, and may be in contravention of the Dangerous Dogs Act of 1991. Mind if we come in?’

‘Er, yeah,’ he replied. ‘It’s a pit bull cross. I always keep ’im on a chain and muzzled when we go out.’

‘Where is he now?’ I asked.

‘Down in the cellar. That’s where I keep ’im. Must be fast asleep or he’d be barking ’is ’ead off.’

‘What’s he called?’

‘Bruno.’

‘Can we come in?’

I’ve seen worse flats lived in by the brightest and best that the education system throws up, so I was mildly surprised by Bratt’s downstairs room. The difference, I thought, was that he was a
long-term
tenant, not just passing through. He sat on the settee, which he’d recently vacated if the copy of the
People
strewn across it was anything to go by, and Dave and I made ourselves comfortable on hard chairs that didn’t match. There was a faint odour of dog and cannabis in the room.

‘Do you have a job?’ I asked.

‘Not properly,’ he replied. ‘Barman at the Lamb … the Lamb and Flag. Three nights, that’s all.’

‘The Lamb and Flag,’ I echoed. ‘You may be able to help us there. Have you ever come across Andy? He drinks in the Lamb, we’re told.’

‘No. Never heard of ’im.’

‘He deals in the occasional motor, if that helps.’

‘No, sorry.’

‘Do you draw benefits?’ Dave asked.

Bratt coloured up and stared down at his knees. ‘Yeah, some. Is that what it’s all about?’

‘No, we’re not interested in your benefits. We’re here about the dog. Where was it at about six o’clock on Saturday evening?’

‘With me, I think. Yeah, with me.’

‘What were your movements?’

He’d driven over to the Sylvan Fields to see his Uncle Carl and taken Bruno along for the ride.

‘So who can corroborate that you were there?’

‘Audrey can.’

‘What relation is Audrey?’

‘Sean’s half-sister.’

‘And Sean is …?’

‘Carl’s half-brother.’

I grinned at him, asking: ‘Can you do us a chart with all these on?’

He grinned back. ‘Blame Sean and Carl’s mother. She has seven kids from six different dads, including one set of twins.’

‘Do you bother with birthdays?’ I asked.

‘No.’

‘So did you come straight home or did you stay?’

‘I stayed. She was … you know … upset.’

Yeah, I thought. Upset like the crew of Apollo 13 were when the ’chutes opened. So the caring Mr Bratt stayed to comfort her.

Dave said: ‘Is Bruno difficult to handle? Could anyone handle him?’

‘No. Just me. They’re OK, dogs like ’im, but you can’t trust ’im. You’ve got to let them know who’s t’boss.’

‘Why do you keep him?’

‘Protection. Nobody’s touched my car since I got Bruno. And he’s a good pet. I like dogs. You knowwhere you are with them.’

‘And you don’t with people?’

‘No.’

Dave said: ‘Do you ever lend him out?’

He looked puzzled, then said: ‘No, never.’

‘Not even to your Uncle Carl?’

‘No.’

‘Could he handle him?’

‘No. Well, only on a lead and muzzled.’

I wondered if it was the dog that wore the muzzle or Uncle Carl. I said: ‘So Bruno only goes out with you?’

‘That’s right.’ He looked awkward as he said it.

I turned to Dave, who pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. ‘Where were you on the morning of last Tuesday? That’s the fifteenth, if it helps.’

He shuffled his feet and hunched his shoulders. ‘No idea. Nowhere special.’

‘Try harder.’

‘In bed, I s’pose. I don’t get up until about ten on a Tuesday. I’m normally still a bit hung over.’

‘What about Thursday third of May?’

‘No idea. Well, here, I s’pose. I never go anywhere except to Uncle Carl’s and the Lamb. Walk in the park, sometimes, that’s all.’

Dave read out two more dates and got the same response each time. Terence Bratt’s world didn’t stretch beyond visits to the pub, a quiet joint and the occasional rumpty-tump with his uncle’s stepbrother’s half-sister, or something.

‘Is Bruno microchipped?’ I asked and was rewarded with a shake of the head. He’d grown paler and his eyes had glassed over. If he hadn’t recognised it at first he was beginning to realise that this wasn’t about his dog licence or his benefits; it was about the robberies. ‘So you won’t mind if DC Sparkington takes a few specimens of dog hair from your rug, just for elimination purposes?’

He shook his head again and Dave squatted on his heels to collect some samples. We had a quick look upstairs, with his permission, and drove back to the nick via the sandwich shop.  

Maggie had left me a note.