Cobweb (24 page)

I recollected that the DS had said Brocklebank had boasted that he could kill anyone, anyhow, in his younger days.

The signal was poor so Patrick went outside to make the call. ‘No, he can't think of anything that might be of use right now,' he reported when he returned.

‘Brocklebank used to brag a lot and must be feeling very full of himself right now,' I said. ‘He's literally got away with murder and the police haven't a clue where to start looking for him. But there's no brother Ernie now he can tell what a big man he is. If he has a family, they might not have a clue what he gets up to in his other life, so he has to keep quiet about it to them too. What he needs is a chum he can yarn with, drink with, pose around in front of, fool himself into thinking he's recovered his lost youth – someone with form, someone
dangerous
.'

‘I can do dangerous,' Patrick muttered.

Was the man kidding? He's positively lethal.

‘He might have someone like that already,' Patrick observed.

‘Do a better someone.'

‘Where will you be in all this?'

‘Your somewhat sleazy bag of a wife – what else?'

In the end I ditched the ‘somewhat' and went for the whole bling thing, hitting the charity shop again for a couple of tight miniskirts and tops, high-heeled shoes, phoney gold chains and a teddy-style bra (freshly laundered, I was assured) that pushed up my modest bust until it threatened to escape from the aforementioned tops. Patrick's reaction was a sight to behold when we had a dress rehearsal and I had added full make-up, including false eyelashes, bright-red lipstick, and scragged back my hair into the tight ponytail that I believe is referred to as ‘a Staines facelift'.

‘Overdone?' I queried.

He tore his gaze from my bosom and found his voice. ‘God, no. But I hardly know it's you.'

‘Good. I got a chain bracelet and a medallion for you too.'

He donned his black jeans and matching shirt, leaving several of the top buttons undone, and by the time he had added the jewellery and an amazingly naff belt I have never been able to prise away from him that has a buckle decorated with a brass skull with red-glass eyes, the picture was almost complete. Flattening down his normally wavy and slightly unruly hair with gel – something he learned to do when taking part in a film not so long ago – and switching on a sullen scowl resulted in someone I hardly recognized either.

‘This look is a bit dated, you know,' he said, looking at himself in the mirror.

‘The ignorant lawless often are.'

Neither of us was saying the obvious: that it was an extremely long shot. But we had Greenway on board and this was manifested when we went out as it was getting dark and bought a local evening paper.

‘Woodhill police are concerned that big-time criminals are moving out of London into the wider surrounding area,' Patrick read aloud from the bottom of the front page as we stood beneath a lamp post. ‘The Home Office has admitted that gangs from central Europe are arriving here and, in some cases, have forced established hoodlums from their “manors”, a fact borne out by the recent spate of shootings and knife attacks in the East End. One such dispossessed “godfather” is Vernon Studley, one of several aliases used by a man on the Metropolitan Police's ‘most wanted' list. He is described as tall, dark-haired and of wiry build and a man answering this description was seen with several others shortly before a disturbance at a public house in Ilford a few days ago when three people were admitted to hospital with stab wounds. Off the record the police are saying that this man and his associates are trying to remove any local opposition with a view to moving in. There is no need for undue alarm but under no circumstances are members of the public to approach anyone of whom they are suspicious, but call the police.'

‘Vernon Studley?' I said. ‘I seem to have heard that name before.'

‘One of the incumbents of our church at home in the seventeenth century, if I remember correctly. The name sort of' – his eyes went back to my chest – ‘popped into my head. Most of this article is true – even the fracas in Ilford, which, of course, lends authenticity.'

‘Someone may well call the police and we'll be arrested.'

‘Greenway thought of that. But we'll escape and go to ground. Knightly knows about the ruse so the law will be slow to react. Poor ol' Fred's good at that.' He dropped the paper in a rubbish bin and, with a raffish leer, crooked an arm. ‘Fancy a drink, babe?'

Despite the get-up we had no intention of flashing ourselves around and sidled into a pub in an old part of Woodhill, the kind of place that still had etched windows advertising stout and locally brewed beer, those companies no doubt long gone. A few people were playing darts in the public bar, a couple of others propped up the bar, but it was otherwise quiet. Subjected to a few sideways glances we found a table in a corner and Patrick went over to order our drinks.

I saw to my glee that one of the women playing darts was dressed very similarly to me. We exchanged the obligatory glares and I tried to guess who she was with – the short, fat one, the short, thin one or the taller, hairy man wearing cowboy boots and, yes, a medallion. The whole lot, I guessed, were market traders.

‘Wot are you starin' at?' the woman shrieked at me all at once.

This was quite unwanted and shook me. Perhaps I had overdosed on the mascara and eyeshadow. ‘Not
you
,' I retorted, as though she was blocking what would otherwise have been a perfectly stunning view.

Heaven preserve me, she came over. ‘I know 'oo you are!' she hollered. ‘You're that Sharon Bigtits wot Kev at the paper shop slung out of 'is place for messin' around wiv uvver blokes.' She drew herself up with a toss of her head. ‘Kev's my bruvver, I'll 'ave you know.'

‘It's your turn, Chantelle,' one of the men called across to her, his tone weary.

‘I am not Sharon,' I said heavily. ‘That's my man over there and if I messed around with other blokes he'd wring my neck. Now, go back to your bleedin' arrers.'

Pausing to take a mouthful from his brimming pint, Patrick came over. He gave my antagonist a dismissive glance, she opened her mouth to bandy more words and he bellowed ‘Cool it!' at the pair of us, making us jump out of our skins.

Cut, I said to myself. Take One in the can.

That was the trouble with being in films.

‘
Low-
key,' Patrick admonished in a whisper as he seated himself.

‘I didn't do anything,' I whispered back.

‘Yes, you did. I know more about the language of womankind than you imagine.'

For the rest of that night we loafed about in pubs and clubs, spending a small fortune in crossing palms with silver to gain admittance to the latter, almost certainly drank too much and saw no one who remotely resembled the mugshot of Brocklebank. It was unrealistic to expect success on the first night, but we told ourselves that we had made our faces known and went back to our digs. There, half undressed, I was taken in a fervent embrace.

‘It's either the photo or that bra,' Patrick said before lifting me up on to the edge of a chest of drawers and deftly removing it together with the other small garment. ‘We've never done it like this before,' he went on, and then his mouth was on mine, my legs around his hips and I found myself penetrated with huge and urgent enthusiasm, paradise commencing.

Never let it be said that buying things in charity shops is boring.

For the next three nights we changed the type of venues we visited, going both up- and downmarket, but had no success in finding anyone who looked remotely like the man in the photograph.

‘I saw you come in at two thirty this morning,' said our landlady as she brought in our breakfast on the day after this, her tone making any further comment unnecessary.

Patrick, who had a slight hangover, said, ‘I'm with the Serious and—'

She interrupted with, ‘Yes, I know you said you were with the police, but how can I believe that now? I made a point of staying up, actually, as my neighbour told me how you creep in in the early hours looking like the cast of
Eastenders
. She thinks you're up to no good and –' She broke off, probably on account of the gestures of peace Patrick was making with his hands and the beatific smile he was beaming in her direction. He produced his ID card.

‘We're undercover, looking for someone,' he said. ‘But please don't tell your neighbour, or anyone else for that matter.' He showed her the photo of Brocklebank. ‘We're looking for him.'

‘Well, that's a relief.' She picked up the photo, took it over to the window and studied it. ‘I've a good memory for faces and I've seen someone who looks like this somewhere. But not recently, by any means.'

‘Where?'

‘I'm not sure. Yes, how stupid of me: he must have been one of my patients before I retired.'

‘How long have you been retired?'

‘About six years. Do you have a name for this man?'

‘Brocklebank. But he may use others.'

‘That would be difficult with a medical card. Although he might have said he'd lost it. Records weren't on computers in those days, you see.'

‘We need to know where he's living now. Officially he has a council flat on an estate in Romford but hardly ever goes there. It would appear that he lives a double life.'

‘I could ring around a few colleagues,' she offered.

‘We're more than grateful for anything you could do to help.'

‘Do we go for a change of plan, then?' I asked Patrick later. ‘We've had no luck so far. We haven't even had any run-ins with local godfathers.'

‘Well, don't forget Jo-Jo's still helping the police with their enquiries and he's probably number one round here. I suggest we give it one more night and if there are still no developments then have a rethink.'

‘How about giving that country-manor hotel, or whatever it was, a try tonight? You said yourself it might be a lead and there's still no trace of Erin. Not only that – we've only two more days before Greenway's time limit runs out.'

Patrick agreed, admitting that finding the letter had slipped his mind.

T
he hotel was situated on the edge of a village near the northern boundary of Epping Forest. We had changed our attire and gone upmarket for the occasion, definitely leaving all the bling behind. Patrick was wearing a suit, his partner in a little black dress
sans
the exaggerated cleavage, which was, I gather, one distraction, or rather two, less for him. With our personal security in mind we had not used our own vehicle but hired one.

Before leaving, Patrick had left a message for Greenway telling him of our intentions and contacted Paul Boles. The DS had set our hearts racing with the information that monied criminals were sometimes, when not detained at Her Majesty's pleasure, to be found at this particular converted and extended sixteenth-century manor house, complete with its casino, conference suite, three heated swimming pools, tanning and fitness studios and woodland all-terrain bike-racing track.

‘A lovely house ruined – it's going to be horribly brash,' I lamented as I swung the car into the driveway and glimpsed illuminated fountains and flickering neon signs through the trees that flanked the entrance.

‘It sounds spot on to find our man then.'

‘I take it one doesn't have to be a member, or anything like that.'

‘No, the hotel's open to non-residents. I booked a table for dinner. We could even stay the night if they've a room and things get interesting.'

One of the neon signs, the one right above the entrance doors, was pink and included flashing silver stars that formed the words ‘
HAPPY BIRTHDAY ROXANNE
'.

‘Blue for a boy?' I muttered as we walked beneath it.

‘I gather this place was originally built by a favourite of Henry the Eighth,' Patrick said.

‘Probably always been tacky, then.'

He chuckled. ‘Smile, babe, the security cameras are on yer' – and proceeded to swagger into a lounge bar, his face wearing what I can only call a ratty smirk. It occurred to me that with his hair smarmed down and loud tie, another of my charity-shop trophies, even his own mother, Elspeth, would not have recognized him.

The place went in for elaborate cocktails and I was duly and ceremoniously presented with an edifice of fruit, greenery and little parasols that presumably had a drink inside it somewhere. I noted that Patrick's whisky was a double, but he then, uncharacteristically, put a lot of water into it.

‘Look at them,' he said, back against the bar, facing the room. ‘All phoney and bloody miserable and wondering what to buy next to try to cheer themselves up.'

The large room, with a conservatory extension to one side which right now was housing the birthday party – raucous, a flock of balloons, girls all bursting out of their dresses – was decorated mostly in gold and crimson and had had any traces of olden days ruthlessly obliterated. The lighting was bright and harsh and, as Patrick had just intimated, most of the people in animated conversation in it – botoxed, breast-implanted, face-lifted, bronzed – looked unhappy. As my glance fell on her, one woman gulped down her drink of what looked like pink gin and tonic and smacked the empty glass down on the table in front of the man she was with. Without even looking at her he rose and darkly came over to the bar to get her another.

I grazed my way carefully into my own personal tropical jungle, taking my time. ‘Are you going to show the photo of Brocklebank to the barman?' I enquired quietly.

Patrick took a sip of his drink. ‘No, I think I've already seen him.'

‘Where?'

‘There's a notice board just inside the entrance with photos of senior members of staff and head chefs on it. He's the man at the top, the manager. He might even be the owner.'