Cobweb (8 page)

As the man had lived on his own and no one could be traced who had visited him or knew him well enough to be able to say if anything had been stolen, it was impossible to discover if any of his possessions were missing other than the obvious; a new television, the receipt for which was discovered in a home file, and his computer. The case was being treated as a burglary that had gone wrong and, in the words of corny crime novels, the trail had gone cold.

I went out, mulling all this over. Then I found myself thinking about the allotment. Allotments nearly always have sheds and from what I know about men their shed is often a refuge, a place to escape from the world and especially any womenfolk – in short, a holy of holies. I might as well go and have a look at the DI's allotment on the grounds that probably no one else had thought to. Anyway, temporarily or not, I seemed to be condemned to tinkering and poking about on the edges of these investigations.

It took several phone calls, as I sat in the car, to find out that Gray's allotment was one of two dozen or so situated almost right in the centre of Woodhill. The land had apparently originally been part of an estate owned by an eccentric eighteenth-century industrialist with no family, who had left it in his will to be run as a charitable trust, the house as an education centre, the gardens open to the public and the meadow, walled vegetable garden and paddocks turned into allotments for artisans and their families. I was told that at one time the waiting list had been long, one had literally had to wait for people to die or move away from the district to get one, but now local people had apparently lost interest and quite a few of the plots were vacant, although plans were afoot to remedy this. The actual gardens were closed to the general public at the moment as they were being restored, but I could go and view the allotment area if I so wished.

Eventually, I found them, the directions having been somewhat vague. Now completely hemmed in by houses, the entrance was no more than a horse-drawn-carriage-width lane with a very small signboard directing the visitor to the Benfleet Centre, presumably referring to the house. I soon discovered there was a resident warden who kept a close and severe eye on things from a lodge just inside the gate. He was waiting for me.

‘I understand you're here on behalf of Woodhill CID,' said this custodian of the cabbages ponderously. ‘I was called just now by the council's allotment officer – whose responsibility this place isn't, of course, as it belongs to the Trust.'

I introduced myself, regretting the white lie, but if I had started explaining about SOCA it would have taken all morning.

‘I don't think poor Mr Gray had had a chance to do more than start to prepare the ground. So tragic. You'll have to leave your car here, I'm afraid, as there isn't room to park farther in. All available space is taken up by earth-moving machinery, as they're working on the gardens. You'll need the keys – just as well I have spares. You might ask for Inspector Gray's to be returned, by the way.'

Keys?

Wending my way between parked diggers in the narrow lane, I soon discovered why. These were very, very special allotments. Each was walled or fenced and had a gate, just like a private garden. Standing on tiptoe and peeping over the tops of a couple of the gates as I walked by, I saw that they had small summer houses painted in shades that are sometimes referred to as ‘heritage' colours: grey-blue and the palest of greens. Pretty tables and chairs were set outside these and there were spring flowers everywhere. Number 16 was right down at the end. The large key turned easily in the lock and I went in.

This, then, had been John Gray's little bit of private heaven. He had done more work than the warden had thought, the neat beds raked smoothly, not a stone in sight, lavender newly planted to border the paths. My eyes misted as I beheld the brand new canes erected to support runner beans that he would never sow, rows of peas and broad beans that he would never taste just emerging from the soil. A watering can stood full, ready to water them. I watered them.

There was no summer house, just an ordinary small shed in a far corner that was well maintained and had a large barrel on one side to collect rainwater. As I got closer I could see that repairs had been carried out to part of it and the roof had recently been refelted. The window had been replaced at some stage with an old leaded-glass one, the kind that was used in front doors during the thirties and forties, giving the whole structure a strange kind of charm. I unlocked the door with the other key on the ring and entered.

As neat as a new pin, the interior had shelves fitted to the rear wall that held plant pots, washed, a few seed trays, ditto, packets of seeds, small tools and gardening magazines, the other walls being devoted to a potting bench beneath the window and clips that held the shafts of larger tools. Just inside the door on the right-hand side was a metal cupboard, the sort that might have seen service in an office. This was secured by a sturdy padlock.

I reached for my mobile.

Twenty minutes later I met Patrick at the main entrance and it was obvious that he was not pleased with me.

‘I know, I know, you can't be expected to come rushing over at my every whim,' I said.

I got a long-suffering look.

‘I haven't whimmed in your direction for ages,' I pointed out.

‘What do I have to do?'

‘Open a padlock.'

He sighed and retraced the few paces he had walked from the car to rummage in the cubby box. I do possess a set of keys that will open some locks, but they're no match for modern padlocks. I don't know where Patrick acquired his – probably from a thoroughly modern safe-breaker.

The padlock surrendered after a couple of minutes of careful work, which was gratifying, as we are always reluctant to use bolt cutters and it would have meant finding some. The door seemed slightly ill-fitting but grated open.

A stainless-steel spade, fork and edging tool, a brush cutter, and a pair of new green wellington boots were arrayed before us. That was all.

‘Why on earth did he keep his wellies locked up in a cupboard?' I said to cover my disappointment and, it must be admitted, embarrassment.

Patrick shrugged. ‘They're incredibly posh and expensive ones, that's why. Can I go now?'

I lifted them out and looked at them. There was something rolled up in the right-hand one: papers. I pulled them out, uncoiled them and saw that it was several pages of handwritten notes stapled together.

‘It seems to be about cases that Derek Harmsworth had worked on,' I reported after quickly reading part of the top sheet. ‘Cases that resulted in trials and people being sent to prison.' I handed the bundle to Patrick. ‘Gray
must
have thought Harmsworth was murdered – by someone he'd put in jail, by the look of it.'

‘One must assume it is his work,' Patrick murmured. ‘It shouldn't be too difficult to find a sample of his handwriting at the nick.' He shot me a sideways glance. ‘This is a real stroke of luck. Sorry for being such a pain in the neck.'

‘What will you do with this?'

‘That's a good question. It doesn't actually have anything to do with Special Branch, as I've discovered this morning they're only officially interested in the Gidding's case. But this joker apparently relishes sticking his nose into everything. So I'll ignore him and mention it to my boss, Mike Greenway, before it goes to Knightly.'

Over lunch, seated in a quiet corner of the Green Man, we read through the notes. Gray's anger was imprinted on every word, literally, the ballpoint pen he had used having been pressed hard into the paper. The handwriting was small but easy to read, the work concise but giving every impression of having been done in a hurry. As I had already guessed, he had listed all of Derek Harmsworth's cases of a serious nature that had resulted in convictions, right through his police career. There were quite a few of them. The final page was devoted to his own thoughts and investigations. Obviously, he had only just started on the latter, having written a mere three or four paragraphs before he was killed.

‘He can't have wanted any of this on computer,' Patrick commented. ‘Possibly not even on his own at home. Which, as we know, was stolen. Was it taken because of information it might hold or did he merely disturb a thief and was killed because he recognized a local thug? And why was he so secretive about this anyway?'

‘He'd been carpeted for stirring things up,' I said. ‘Anything else apart, I do wonder if pressure of work caused those in charge to be quite happy to call Harmsworth's death an accident. I mean, there's been a PM, so let's get on with life, guys, and not worry about an old stager who was due to ride off into the sunset soon anyway.'

Patrick glanced up at me. ‘You're really angry about this, aren't you?'

‘So are you, really.'

He nodded. ‘Yes, but like you I can't think there's any
sinister
reason for his senior colleagues failing to follow up Gray's theories. He was, Erin admitted, rather prone sometimes to having wild ideas and had to be brought back down to earth.' He tapped the pages of notes. ‘We haven't the time to read all of this now, but it's well worth looking into. I'll check up on some of these characters on the database before I hand it over.'

A shadow fell across the table as someone came between us and the nearby window. In the same instant Patrick slapped his hand down on the paperwork between us, forestalling an attempt at its removal. Then he was on his feet.

‘Relax,' drawled a dark-haired man in dire need of a shave. He went on, ‘I thought I'd find you here.' Gaze drifting down to me, he said in offhand fashion, ‘Who's she?'

‘My wife,' Patrick said evenly.

‘You know who I am?'

‘You might just be the prat from Special Branch who hasn't actually bothered to introduce himself to anyone at Woodhill nick.'

Patrick had not used the word ‘prat', but a more vivid, much ruder, noun.

‘Just because you were MI5's blue-eyed boy it doesn't mean you can lord it over everyone now,' the other countered.

‘I'd like to see your warrant card.'

There were a few seconds' tense silence in which I thought we were only a few more from Patrick tossing our visitor through the aforementioned window and then he reached inside his jacket and produced what had been asked for. Patrick gave it a glance and handed it back.

‘So what can I do for you, Detective Chief Inspector Colin Robert Hicks?'

‘What's that?' Hicks wanted to know, gesturing towards the papers.

‘I think I'm safe in saying that it has nothing to do with Jason Giddings's murder – which is
your
brief.'

‘Why don't you both sit down before I get a crick in my neck?' I suggested into the leaden atmosphere.

This they did, but the change of level made no difference to the eyeball-to-eyeball state of affairs or the mood of the newcomer as, grimly, he continued, ‘The department I work for doesn't come under Special Branch, actually, but it saves explaining to these hicks in the sticks. I deal directly with Commander John Brinkley. The section's unique, independent. We troubleshoot.'

Patrick tut-tutted. ‘He's got above himself, has John. You might be interested to know that he offered me the job and I turned it down.'

‘So I understand. He asked me to keep an eye on you.'

‘That sounds to me as if our John's throwing his toys out of the pram over my refusal and wants you to rat up my new career.'

‘You'll save me the job and screw it up yourself from what he told me. You're a loose cannon. Just be aware that you're being watched. People have been told of your methods, how MI5 hushed up how many you killed and maimed in the course of your so-called duty.'

Patrick laughed. ‘It's bloody strange, then, how badly Brinkley wanted me.'

There was another short, brittle silence and then Hicks stood up and stalked away.

‘Funny eyes,' I said. ‘Like something alien and a bit bonkers in
Doctor Who
.'

We giggled in juvenile fashion.

It was a mistake not to have taken Hicks more seriously.

Patrick was staying at a bed and breakfast in a quiet close in Woodhill. Having been invited, nay lured, to accompany him back there that evening, seen the immaculate state of the house, his huge double room, and been told about the cooked breakfasts that were being lavished upon him, I decided to leave Maggie with her bare fridge and loaded wine rack and move in the next day. I did not actually mention this to Patrick until the next morning but went along with his plot and stayed the night, borrowing his toothbrush. In all fairness, I did not need any encouragement, nor nightwear, for that matter.

Still mostly ploughing through paperwork at the nick, Patrick left a message on my mobile when I was driving back from Maggie's late the following morning, having collected my things and left her a note, to tell me he had found out where Jo-Jo's, the nightclub, was and, together with making a couple of other calls, intended to give the place the once-over that evening. He was sorry but had to be vague over timings and I might have to make my own arrangements for an evening meal. He would see me ‘somewhen'.

OK, I would go and talk to Vera Harmsworth.

A very tired woman opened the door of the shabby-looking semi-detached house, shockingly looking much older than I had expected.

I introduced myself and requested an interview, explaining that SOCA had been brought in to investigate the recent deaths in the Woodhill area and that I was working on behalf of one of their operatives, naming him. I was expecting her to ask to see some kind of ID card, but she did not, inviting me in. Her mood seemed to change to something a little brighter and I wondered if she was glad of the chance to talk to another woman.

‘I was just going to put the kettle on,' said Mrs Harmsworth. ‘Tea?'