Cobweb (11 page)

‘There will be paperwork for you to sign if I'm successful,' Patrick informed her. He took the list of cases and names we had found in the allotment shed from his document case. ‘While I'm here, I'd be very grateful if you'd cast your gaze over this. All I'd like to know is if your husband ever mentioned any of these cases to you or the people involved with them.'

Dubiously she took it from him. ‘This looks like John Gray's handwriting.'

‘It is.'

‘He did mention to me that he was digging around in the past, quietly, not officially, so I wasn't to say a word to anyone.'

‘Was Erin Melrose in the know?' I asked in offhand fashion.

‘Yes, I think he said he'd given her a copy of a list of names or something – perhaps it was this.'

Patrick looked at me and his eyes blazed.

‘No, sorry, none of this means anything to me,' Mrs Harmsworth was saying, shaking her head. ‘As I said the other day, Derek didn't really talk about his work, as he knew I didn't like the awful details, and if he did say anything I didn't retain it unless it was something funny that had happened to him.' She smiled broadly, the first time I had seen her do so. ‘Like the occasion years ago when Derek was only a sergeant and they were chasing someone across a factory roof. The man stopped and danced about, taunting and swearing at them – he was a horrible character, apparently – only to slip and go right through a skylight. I know it's not really funny, because he was quite badly injured, but Derek and his colleagues thought it a real hoot. Being a policeman is a terrible tough life when you think about it.'

We had just left Mrs Harmsworth when Patrick's mobile rang and it was Michael Greenway, his boss in SOCA, asking him to make himself available for a briefing at eleven thirty. Relating this message to me afterwards, Patrick's face was sober: had Hicks sent the photo off after all?

This question was immediately answered when Greenway threw the offending item down on the table between us – we had met him at an hotel for a late coffee as he was ‘just passing through' – and sat back staring at Patrick in not-amused fashion.

‘You know all about me,' Patrick reminded him quietly. ‘That's phoney.'

‘I'm aware that it's a put-up job,' Greenway replied. ‘What I really want to know is why police resources are being squandered on such crap.'

Patrick told him about Hicks's apparent role as Brinkley's hit man and, as he spoke, Greenway's anger grew.

‘I seem to have been left in the dark with regard to your issues with the commander,' he said when Patrick had finished speaking.

Patrick said, ‘I can only apologize and say in mitigation that until two days ago I wasn't aware that I
had
any issues with Brinkley.'

Greenway's manner did not change. ‘I don't like it when my staff have excess baggage.'

Except for a curt nod, he had so far ignored me. The author was frankly finding this flawlessly dressed individual fascinating, tucking away on her own personal hard drive his massive height – at least six feet five – broad build and mane of sandy-coloured hair. A somewhat battered, albeit good-looking, countenance suggested time spent on the rugby field. He was, I guessed, between forty and fifty years of age.

There was nothing Patrick could really say in response to this comment and duly remained silent, just politely waiting for the other to proceed.

‘I'm in rather a hurry, so a verbal report will do,' Greenway said, finally.

Without referring to any notes Patrick said, ‘The brief you gave me was to discover whether there were any connections between the Giddings case and the death of DI John Gray. Well, as you know the only
obvious
similarities are the manner of their deaths and the fact that Gray was involved with the Giddings inquiry. Post-mortem findings have thrown up a couple of interesting points in that Giddings was dealt with in much more surgical fashion, if that's the correct description, while Gray was merely butchered. It appears that the weapons were probably different. That alone casts doubt on the murderer being one and the same person. Tentatively, I think Gray's was a copycat killing for reasons unknown or because Gray was close to the perpetrator of another, serious, crime. Gray might even have questioned Giddings's killer without knowing how close he was.'

‘Other than the latter, why Gray, for God's sake?'

‘Quite. Other than being somewhat impulsive and hot-headed the man appears to have been blameless in both his public and private life, although there might be things that no one knows about. So until anything else comes to light it might have to be tackled from the point of view of revenge on the part of someone he shoved in the slammer – or helped to. And if you were about to ask me if I think any more police personnel might be at risk, the answer has to be yes, possibly.'

‘Evidence?' Greenway snapped.

‘Nothing concrete. But you could authorize a request for the exhumation of DCI Derek Harmsworth and then I might have some.'

Greenway's face screwed up into a ball of incredulity. ‘Harmsworth? But he drove himself off a bridge.'

Patrick shook his head. ‘No. His car went through a hole in a bridge on a quiet road that had been made by a heavy lorry two days before. In my view that's too much of a coincidence and his vehicle was too lightweight to have done the same thing if it had hit somewhere else nearby. It would have merely bounced off, admittedly doing serious damage to everything. The railings are designed like that. Harmsworth's body reeked of whisky, he didn't drink spirits, he always rang his wife if there was a change of plan, and he hadn't. Besides which—'

Greenway butted in with, ‘It's got to be dead in the water. Leave it.'

‘May I finish what I was going to say?' Patrick requested.

‘If you think it's important.'

Patrick told him what Boles had said and Greenway became annoyed again.

‘So why didn't this pin-brained sergeant open his mouth before?'

Patrick shrugged, Gallic-style. ‘Naturally timid? Hospitalized recently after half his face became infected with a huge abscess? Bullied by higher authority? Post-traumatic stress disorder brought on by his boss dying horribly right in front of his eyes? Take your pick – they're all true.'

‘W
hat about Harmsworth's family?' Greenway asked, looking a little sheepish. ‘What are their views?'

‘His wife's never thought his death an accident.'

This appeared to remind Greenway that there were three of us. Turning to me, he said, ‘What do you think about this?'

‘It was Ingrid who pointed me in Harmsworth's direction,' Patrick informed him before indicating that the stage was mine.

I said, ‘I'd like to mention something else first and that is that you both seem to be forgetting that Hicks's shabby little scam involved DS Erin Melrose as well. Her career could so easily have been ruined.'

Greenway had another look at the photo. ‘Is that who it's supposed to be? God, I thought it was made to look as though Patrick had hauled a hooker off the street. Thank you, Ingrid. I shall bear that in mind.'

I thought this response pretty feeble but said, to Patrick, ‘Do you have that list?'

With the air of a man who has forgotten something important Patrick took the sheet of A4 from his inside jacket pocket and placed it on the table.

‘In answer to your question,' I said to Greenway, ‘I think that a verdict of accidental death on Derek Harmsworth is shaky. That is a list of his most serious and important cases that was compiled by John Gray. He didn't think Harmsworth's death was an accident either. Of the twenty-six names seven are dead, ten still in prison and the remaining nine have been released. Of those one is in a home suffering from dementia, another in Australia, where he's living with his daughter, and the rest are at large. Out of those seven, three have been released fairly recently – in other words, could be burning for revenge and in time to have killed Harmsworth. They include a man who once fell though a skylight when being chased across a factory roof by Harmsworth and his team and who prior to his fall had taunted and sworn at them. All keepers of the peace thought his untimely exit a huge joke and laughed like drains. I suggest we check up on this character without delay.'

Greenway looked at me and I looked at him. Then he dropped his gaze with a soft chuckle. ‘Richard Daws did warn me that you didn't just decorate your husband's arm. OK, but I suggest that you check up on all seven. I have an idea it'll be a waste of time, but it needs to be done to clear it out of the way. I'll have to think long and hard about the exhumation and get back to you. But look' – and here his manner hardened as his attention re-focused on Patrick – ‘stay away from Hicks. I don't want to hear that he's had any run-ins with a member of SOCA, not even an exchange of opinions. Is that understood?'

‘And if he really does shove a spy camera up my arse?' Patrick enquired like something exceedingly holy depicted on a Michelangelo ceiling.

‘Tell me. I don't want you even to breathe too hard on him.'

‘Tell teacher,' Patrick muttered a little later when Greenway had gone.

‘It's mostly your own fault,' I countered. ‘In other words, your reputation.' Before he could say anything else I went on, ‘It might be what Brinkley's banking on. Hicks is too stupid to see he's being used as cannon fodder and Brinkley's hoping you'll lose your temper and do him real harm.' Here I bent a frown in his direction. ‘As you have been known to do sometimes. And that'll be it – OUT!'

‘I simply can't explain why he took my turning down the offer of the job so badly.'

‘I can. I realize that you were furious with him about something else at the time, but among other remarks, which I won't repeat, you commented on his rather well-groomed person by saying he smelt like an Albanian knocking-shop. That might have offended him just the smidgiest bit.'

Patrick sort of grunted. ‘Well, he did.'

‘I hope you're not speaking from experience,' I commented archly.

He gave me a filthy wink. ‘OK. Frinton' – and ducked as I aimed a pretend cuff at his ear.

I had no worries about Patrick's working relationship with Greenway. At the conclusion of the meeting both had risen, the latter a good two inches taller and one and a half times as wide, and there had been the smallest of smiles exchanged. But genuine smiles; an understanding. Neither would waste time in trying to score points off the other.

The man who had fallen through the skylight was now calling himself Kevin Beardshaw – possibly the latest in a series of aliases he had used during a long and distasteful criminal career – and the last address police records had for him was in north Woodhill. Our luck really was in that afternoon, for not only did he still live there but he was in and actually opened the front door of the small terraced house himself.

‘Serious and Organized Crime Agency,' Patrick said, holding up his ID card. ‘We'd like to ask you a few questions.'

Beardshaw, thin to the point of emaciation, pallid of hue and a little stooped even though his records intimated that he was only fifty-one years of age, shrugged, not meeting our gaze, and turned to shuffle off down a narrow hallway, leaving us to follow. One did not have to be very clever to realize that he was ill.

‘As you do, once in a while,' said Beardshaw in a weak, hoarse voice when everyone was standing in a dingy living room, ‘if there's a crime you think I might have had a hand in. I've only been outside for a few weeks but it's easy pickings, isn't it, calling on me? I keep telling you I'm not the man I was, but no one believes me.'

‘They must do,' Patrick said, ‘or you'd never have been let out at all.'

The other threw up his arms in a gesture of defeat and half-sat, half-fell into an armchair. ‘All right. What is it this time?'

We also seated ourselves and a faint cloud of dust arose as we did so, setting Beardshaw coughing, a horrible rasping sound.

‘Tell me about the time you fell through a factory roof,' Patrick requested.

The man tried to laugh but coughed again instead. Then, recovering, he said, ‘Days of glory those. Young and fit and running rings round you lot. What a laugh.'

‘But it wasn't funny when you fell though the skylight,' I said.

‘Not at the time,' Beardshaw conceded. ‘A broken leg and arm hurts a hell of a lot, I can tell you. Don't ever try it, lady. The cops what had been chasing me all stood round that bloody roof window looking down at me with grins all over their faces. I'd been giving them a load of lip, mind. But when they saw I'd really hurt myself they called an ambulance and then broke into the factory to find where I was and made me as comfortable as they could. A real surprise that was after the treatment I'd had from cops before. But I was only a kid then, I suppose.'

‘It didn't put you off breaking the law, though,' Patrick said dryly.

‘Nah. What else was there to do in them days if you'd bunked off school and the army told you you were too weedy to join up? So why d'you want to know about that then?'

Patrick said, ‘The sergeant in charge was a bloke called Derek Harmsworth. You and he have bumped into one another quite a few times since and, as you must well know, he ended up as DCI at Woodhill. You were responsible for countless burglaries, robbery with violence, supplying muscle and driving getaway cars for East End gangs, receiving stolen property, conning old ladies out of money by pretending to be homeless, social-security fraud – quite a long list, eh? Ever carried weapons?'

Beardshaw shook his head emphatically. ‘No.' And when Patrick continued to stare at him, ‘Well …'

‘Something like this?'

Patrick had taken the knife from his pocket and now sprang the blade. How could I ever forget that ghastly slicing click?