Cobweb (28 page)

Mad? Yes, raving mad.

A
week later, after we had both ‘got our breath back', as Patrick put it, at home and spent time with the children, we returned to Woodhill, as we felt it was important to visit Vera Harmsworth. At this stage it was not possible to return her husband's watch as it was a court exhibit, but at least we could show her a photograph of it and promise eventual restitution. We would not mention the hoard of other possessions of murder victims or the find of the clothing that had been dumped by Daniel Smith in the garden where he had worked at Buckton Manor, the bloodstains on which DNA testing had proved to be the DCI's.

Although aware that Mrs Harmsworth would learn these more distressing details when the case came to court, we also kept to ourselves the circumstances of his death. Brocklebank had confessed to the killing and was taunting those questioning him with his skill in outwitting the police, bragging how he had told Jo-Jo to lure ‘the old fool' to his restaurant early one evening with promises of information. It had been simple, he bragged, to get him into a back room, overpower him and force a lot of whisky down his throat. He had then been rendered unconscious and a few hours later been driven in his own car by Brocklebank to the bridge over the motorway, where he had killed the DCI with a single stab to the neck in a manner that he had thought would remain undetected. In doing so he had bungled it slightly and been covered in blood when the knife had punctured a vein. Then, with Daniel Smith's help – he and Brocklebank went back many years, apparently, but Smith remained in ignorance of the other's new identity – he had pushed the car through the gap in the railings.

It was eventually discovered that Brocklebank had lived a double life for almost ten years and had not even told his brother how he had been squirrelling money away from various ventures, mostly illegal, but also from buying and selling property and dealing in stocks and shares. It transpired that he had then gone on to win a stake in the hotel playing poker and subsequently had gradually bought out the other stakeholders, most of whom, one imagines, saw the cut of Brocklebank's jib and were glad to take the cash and run before they became enmired in questionable dealings.

On the way to Woodhill we met Michael Greenway in London for lunch. As we might have predicted, this proved to be not a sushi restaurant, or somewhere serving miniscule works of edible art, but a pub off Wardour Street where what was on offer was home-made, the choices being steak-and-kidney pie or chicken-and-ham pie, both with heaps of freshly cooked vegetables and gallons of gravy. Patrick also can tuck into this kind of fare even when the temperature is eighty in the shade, which it was, but at least they did children's portions.

‘My treat,' said Greenway expansively, going on to say, before we could thank him, ‘Fred Knightly's retiring – did you know that?'

We said we did not.

‘I think they call it plea-bargaining in the States,' he said with a laugh. ‘OK, I'll sod off for good if you don't take me to the cleaners for my sheer ineptitude and bad practice.'

‘Good,' Patrick commented.

‘Are you mended?' he was asked.

‘The burns have almost healed.'

‘Have another week off. No, don't argue; I don't use people badly and I never have.'

I said, ‘Any more news on the Giddings investigation? – although I know it's not really your case.'

‘Brinkley's lot are still going ahead with the guy they've charged. He's not a well man, though; drugs have caught up with him. He's in hospital – might not even make it to the dock.'

‘Better and better for John, then,' Patrick said. ‘Case closed all nice and neat.'

‘You really can't stand him, can you?'

‘The feeling would appear to be mutual, but we used to get on fine. Starting to have his hair blow-dried seems to have affected what goes on inside his head. At one time he'd never have tolerated someone like Hicks working for him.'

‘Who's soon facing a disciplinary inquiry, and that's all I know. But the man's finished in the police – especially after the business of the photo. I can't think Brinkley's going to love you any more for that.'

‘I want to know what happened to Erin Melrose,' I said.

Greenway grinned. ‘She got the kind of carpeting from on high that's both a reprimand and a commendation for good work. It wouldn't have looked too good in the media either, would it, if it had got out she'd been hauled over the coals? And …' Here, amazingly, he went a little pink. ‘We're moving in together, actually.'

We offered them both our best wishes.

‘I got a rocket from my mother,' Patrick went on to say. ‘She wanted to know how I'd managed to get myself pictured on the front of the gutter press without my shirt and looking as mazed as though I'd come straight from an orgy. It took a bit of explaining.'

Fortunately, the burns had not been visible in the photograph and Patrick had had no desire to tell her of torture.

It was quite late by the time we had been to see Vera Harmsworth, stayed for a cup of tea, undertaken a little shopping and then, at my suggestion, attended a concert given in Woodhill Town Hall.

‘Peckish?' I enquired of Patrick afterwards as we went back through the twilight to the car park.

‘That means you're hungry,' he replied.

‘I didn't have half a bullock for lunch.'

‘What do you fancy?'

‘I know where there's a fish-and-chip shop.'

It was, as Tom – the man I had met during Hicks's round-up of vagrants – had told me, almost right opposite the entrance to the park where Jason Giddings had been murdered.

‘We can sit over there,' I said when we had bought a fish supper to share, gesturing to where several seats were situated, just inside the park gates.

‘It's not exactly salubrious,' he demurred.

I snorted, ‘Considering the places where men are prepared to drink beer, some of which are so insanitary, so
insalubrious
, both in matters of—'

‘OK,' he butted in, ‘there's no need to pontificate all over me. The park it is.' He added, darkly, ‘I might just sell you to the highest bidder.'

I did not laugh and we crossed the road, eating chips.

We soon saw that, following the park's recent notoriety, the authorities seemed to have made a real effort to improve it. Flower beds were freshly planted and a whole corner had been redesigned with new trees and shrubs. A sign warned that a warden now patrolled regularly, while another notice announced the setting up of a Friends of West Woodhill Park Association, with a view to improving the facilities and providing a children's play area.

It was still very warm; people, young families, strolled – proof that progress was already being made. As the light gradually faded, they began to file past us in the direction of the gateway.

‘Why have you brought me here, Ingrid?' Patrick asked, screwing up the fish-and-chip paper and tossing it into a nearby waste bin.

‘You know why,' I answered quietly: ‘to try to find Tom.'

‘People like that won't come here now.'

I rounded on him. ‘People like
what
? He's timid and getting on in years and has nowhere to go. Obviously, something awful's happened to him to mean that he can't even start to sort himself out. I want to talk to him. We might even be able to help him.' Into the silence that followed I said, ‘Sorry, that's the second time I've bitten your head off this evening.'

‘Don't apologize. I think Greenway was right insofar as we both need another week off. I shouldn't be railroading your concerns about Tom or turning my face away from the fact that a dying junkie is being dragged through the courts for a murder he probably didn't commit.'

‘But Tom could have imagined the ghost-like figure.'

‘Yes, he could. Scrumpy tastes wonderful but is really easy to get dead drunk on. I stopped drinking it years ago, even though they practically give the stuff away around Hinton Littlemoor.'

This is the village in Somerset where Patrick's parents live: his father is rector there.

‘But let's really think about it without the distractions we've had lately,' Patrick continued. ‘What
could
the man have seen? A white figure that seemed to bob about. Someone in ski gear? No, that's usually brightly coloured. Some kind of plastic mack? A white leather biker's outfit?'

An idea sort of blazed into my mind. ‘An anti-contamination suit?' I said.

In the gathering gloom our eyes met.

‘The sort Scenes of Crime personnel wear?' Patrick whispered. ‘The things you have to put on when you watch a post mortem? Bloody hell!'

‘Honor Giddings is a pathologist,' I reminded him.

He waggled a finger at me. ‘So are thousands of other people. And that kind of protective clothing can be bought anywhere.'

‘It's too early for Tom and the others to turn up,' I replied, quite determined this was not going to be head-bite number three. ‘Shall we have a quick look at the murder scene?'

‘If you like.'

There was nothing to see: this section of the park had been completely reorganized, the dell with its dreary Victorian-style shrubbery where the body had been found completely swept away. At present the whole area was little more than a building site, but there were, to my mind, very promising piles of attractive rocks and coloured gravel waiting to be incorporated into a new design.

‘This might be the bin Giddings's head was found in,' I said.

‘No, it's not,' Patrick replied. ‘I came here with Erin. It's that one over there. And the one where his wallet was found, minus the money but still holding his credit cards and driving licence, is right on the other, southern, side of the park.'

‘So one assumes his killer went that way and disposed of the things he, or she, didn't want as they passed it. According to Tom, the man who he thought might be Giddings went very purposefully in a northerly direction towards a small gate that leads out to a residential area where there are a few shops.' I remembered something else. ‘Tom himself didn't think it was Giddings's head anyway, as the hair looked different from the man he'd seen earlier. As he said, there are any number of men around this area during the early evening wearing smart overcoats and carrying briefcases. They're all coming home from working in the City.'

‘Had he been for a haircut?'

‘You genius!' I said. ‘Follow me.'

We went back towards the gateway and then turned sharp left on to a wide walkway that disappeared through the twilight into a copse. As Tom had told me, there were a few lamps. These were beginning to switch themselves on, attracting moths. I was glad Patrick was with me as, despite the fact that work was beginning on improving this place, it still had a dark, brooding atmosphere. Perhaps, on the other hand, this was no more than the figment of an author's overactive imagination.

We seemed to walk rather a long way, seeing no one, the hum of traffic on the main road behind us becoming muted so we could hear leaves on the branches above our heads rustling in the breeze. Then, ahead, we saw a group of lights which formed a pool of illumination by a gateway. Going through the rusting wrought-iron gates, we found ourselves in a quiet street lined with terraced Edwardian houses. Fifty yards or so away to the left, where there was a junction with another road, was a group of small shops. Even from where we stood we could see that one was a barber's.

‘Can't be open at this time of night,' Patrick muttered.

This proved to be perfectly true, but someone was within – a man slapping emulsion paint on the walls. Patrick tapped politely on the door, placing his ID card against the glass so it was visible from within. He got a dismissive look in return. ‘Police!' he then shouted, causing a few nearby windows to tremble. ‘Open the door!'

‘All right, all right,' grumbled the man, letting us in with alacrity. ‘No need to bring the house down.'

‘We won't waste your time,' he was assured, the introductions having been made. ‘Are you the proprietor?'

‘Yes, I am,' the man replied. ‘Ken Dailey. This was my granddad's business – been in the family all this time.'

Patrick gazed about the interior. ‘It's very smart,' he commented – no empty remark as indeed it was immaculate. ‘You probably know that Jason Giddings, an MP, was murdered nearby recently. Was he a client of yours?'

‘Yes, he was, poor chap.'

‘Did you cut his hair on the evening he was killed?'

Dailey pondered. ‘Not personally. It was a Friday, wasn't it? We have a late opening on Fridays for those customers who don't want to waste Saturdays having their hair cut. There are quite a lot of them. There's three of us working flat out then.'

‘So one of the others could have done his hair?'

‘It's possible. I mean, we're all good at what we do – I only employ the right people and the blokes don't tend to pick and choose; they're only too keen to get it done and go home for their dinner. There are a few, mind, who have a favourite operative. Mostly the old gents. They look forward to it, a chance for a chat – lonely old souls, likely.'

‘Have Woodhill police or any other police department interviewed you?'

Dailey shook his head.

‘Did you contact them to report that Giddings might have been here?'

‘No, because it didn't really cross my mind that he had! You should come in here on a Friday evening. It's manic!'

Patrick put a hand on the other's arm. ‘Look, this is absolutely vital. Would you please contact your employees and ask them.'

‘What, now?'

‘This is a murder inquiry,' Patrick responded gravely.

‘I thought you'd arrested somebody already.'