The Bad Samaritan (21 page)

“How?”

“Details are never given in these papers, or almost never. They're revealing in every other way, but not that one. Probably the arrangements were all made by phone. The reason I think this man is Stanko is that he's been in contact with him recently—about six weeks ago—when he was then said to be in Scarborough.”

“Promising. What was the contact about?”

“About getting three of his cousins into the country.”

“Ah. Again no details given, I suppose?”

“Not about method, not even about the sums of money involved, though there is something about the method of payment. Mills and Vico had met to sort out the details of the operation, but payment was to be handed to someone outside the Scarborough Town Hall. The description fits Brian Ferrett.”

Charlie nodded, instinct confirmed.

“Good to have him tied to this side of the business. There might have been difficulties otherwise. I'm beginning to get a picture here. If I'm right, this boy's grievance against Mills could be not some long-ago crime or double-cross, but something very recent indeed.”

“Yes—it's beginning to sound rather horrible. But of course it could be just what you call a double-cross: Mills taking the money and then not delivering the goods on the cousins.”

“That doesn't sound like the way Mills built up his business. Delivering the goods is precisely what you would have to do to be as successful as he was. And the description of Stanko's reaction to him doesn't really square with that.”

The door opened and a uniformed constable came in and handed Charlie a package.

“That came for you from BBC North. Are they giving you the token black part in
The Bill
?”

“That's ITV, you ignorant sod. The best I can hope for is a thirty-second slot on
Crimewatch UK
.”

He took out a tape, slotted it into the video, and the two men drew up chairs and began watching. By judicious use of the fast forward button Charlie avoided stories about the dire economic statistics just announced and the government's latest U-turns on education and crime. The item they were waiting for came sixth on the BBC's order of priorities.

“Customs officials and police were called to Southampton this morning when suspicious sounds were heard from a freight container being unloaded from a Liberian-registered merchant ship. When the container was opened they found two men dead from dehydration and starvation, and a third in a very weak state. He has since died in hospital. Police say they believe the men were from Eastern Europe, possibly Yugoslavia. In the fourth round of the F.A. Cup . . .”

Charlie pushed the rewind, and for a moment the men looked at the stark picture of the reddish-brown container on the wharf in Southampton.

“Poor buggers,” said Charlie. “What a way to go.”

“There we have it,” said Oddie sombrely. “The motive.”

There was silence as they both considered this.

“Yes,” said Charlie at last. “But the motive for what? For the beating-up or the murder?”

Oddie shifted in irritation in his seat.

“Both, surely. You're not saying it's insufficient motive for murder, are you? It doesn't look that way to me. The fight becomes nasty and it leads to murder.”

“Maybe. What do the forensic people say?”

Mike Oddie shuffled through his papers.

“Blah, blah . . . There's not much more than in the preliminary report we had earlier . . . . Cutting through the jargon we come to . . . Oh here it is. Evidence of a fight of some duration, leading to bruising and cuts. The cuts were the source of the bleeding we found some distance away from the body, so the fight had gone on over a considerable area, as Mills tried desperately to get away. Just as we thought.”

“Who needs forensics? Exactly. What then?”

“At some stage Mills collapsed, probably unconscious. Then at some subsequent point of time his throat was cut—source of the considerable amount of blood found under the upper part of his body—surprise, surprise.”

“Any indication of the time difference between the end of the attack and the murder?”

“Not directly. To be fair, how could they know? But they do seem to think there could well be one—I think from the bleeding from the
other
wounds under the body.”

“Nothing to indicate, then, that the attacker was the murderer?”

“No,” said Oddie, irritation in his voice. “Why should we look elsewhere? You enjoy playing devil's advocate I know, but you seem to be placing an awful lot of weight on Yussef's statement that Stanko—Vico—wasn't the type to be a murderer. But he was his friend. He would say that.”

“I don't like the idea of his going away from the body—or even just standing there thinking—then suddenly deciding to murder him.”

“But that could be
exactly
how it happened,” said Oddie, banging a fist on the desk. “He waited for him to come out from the church party, then attacked him in his rage at what he had done to his cousins. When he went away and thought about it he
realised that Mills was likely to shop him and that it would be better if he finished him off.”

“So he went back, having conveniently a knife in his pocket, and slit his throat? I suspect that when you think about it, Mike, you're not going to like that any more than I do. For a start, it's almost inconceivable Mills would shop him, because it would draw attention to why he was attacked. Stanko said precisely that to Yussef when he went back to Pizza Pronto. If he left him alive, one option would have been to lie low for a few days to see if the police were brought in. By killing him he would make sure he had to disappear, because the police were in with a vengeance. It's a case a defence lawyer could find any number of holes in.”

“Either way, we've got to get our hands on the boy. You'd agree about that?”

“Of course.”

“We've got some descriptions, but we need a more detailed one. And it would be good if we could find someone who'd cooperate with an artist on an Identi-Kit picture. Would your Mrs Sheffield, do you think?”

“She's not mine, and I don't know her all that well, but no—I don't think she would.”

“Then maybe our best bet is the woman who runs the guesthouse in Scarborough. There's every reason for her to be helpful. Or Gabrielli at Pizza Pronto.”

Charlie said thoughtfully: “We keep coming back to Mrs Sheffield. I wonder if Stanko has communicated with her. If only we could have put a bug on her telephone.”

“You know damned well we couldn't. Do you think they were so close that he would have?”

“I got the impression that they feel very affectionately towards each other, in a nonsexual sort of way. That's how the daughter
saw it too. Yes, I think he might have contacted her. And if she felt pretty confident he'd got away, there's a chance she might open up a bit on the subject.”

Oddie looked dubious.

“Not to incriminate him, surely?”

“I'm not wanting to incriminate him. I just want to get at the truth.”

“Christ, you sound a prig. Like someone in a very old-fashioned TV police series.”

Charlie smiled wryly.

“Thanks. I'll remember you said that the next time you get on your moral high horse. Getting back to Mrs Sheffield. We've got to remember that she has other connections with Mills. She'd always disliked him and distrusted him, and according to Selena Meadowes she'd done something that Mills took so seriously that he wanted to get back at her. She's been very quiet about that.”

“Well, I suppose she would, wouldn't she? But she's not going to be able to stay quiet about it.”

“I wouldn't bet on that. I think she'd be very good at staying quiet if she dug her heels in. Anyway, it's probably nothing to do with the murder.”

“You are on her side, aren't you? You've got no grounds for saying that. At the very least it's one little piece in the puzzle. And it could be a very important piece indeed. She left the party early, didn't she?”

“Yes.”

“On her own?”

Charlie tried to remember her words.

“I don't think she said so specifically, but I think all the rest of her family stayed till later.”

“There you are then. Now, before we go, let's review the evidence, and let's go by your scenario. At some stage towards the
end of the party Mills leaves and walks home, as he was likely to do, living close and having been drinking. Stanko (let's call him that) is waiting for him, probably surprises him, and beats him up—the beating going on for some time, Mills trying to get away, but eventually being left unconscious. After Stanko goes back to Pizza Pronto and prepares to disappear again, someone comes along, sees who it is lying there, and, having the wherewithal to do it, cuts his throat. Is that it?”

“Pretty much so,” admitted Charlie.

“Well, if you don't like my scenario, I sure as hell don't like yours.”

•   •   •

They split up again, Charlie to pressure Rosemary Sheffield on the question of her past relationship with Stephen Mills, Oddie to prepare a detailed description and if possible an Identi-Kit portrait of Milan Vico.

“But press Mrs Sheffield for a good description too,” he said to Charlie.

“I'll come the heavy,” said Charlie, with no intention of doing so.

When he got to the vicarage it was Rosemary who answered the door. But as he stepped into the shabby hall her son appeared from the kitchen.

“
Again
?” he said, in his prematurely plummy voice. “You're not persecuting my mother, are you?”

“I wasn't intending to,” said Charlie amiably. “Are you?”

“Oh Mark, don't be absurd,” said Rosemary. The young man opened his mouth, stood there with it open for a second, then thought better of it and turned back to the kitchen.

“I've been perfectly beastly to poor Mark,” Rosemary said, leading Charlie into the sitting room. “The other day I called him a pompous little prat.”

“He
is
a pompous little prat, isn't he?”

Rosemary giggled, then obviously felt bad about giggling.

“Oh yes, he is. But whether calling him that is the best way of curing him is another matter.”

“If it doesn't work I can't think what will.”

“Anyway, he's now very wary of me. I'm glad you've called, as a matter of fact. I've heard from Stanko, you see.”

“I thought you might have.”

“Now that I know he's got right away I can talk about him more freely.”

“Does that include giving me a good description of him?”

She looked at him steadily.

“No it doesn't,” she said, without hesitation.

“You're determined to hinder the police in their investigations?”

“Now
you
sound like a pompous prat. I'm simply not going to help them.”

“Even if I tell you that he beat up Mills very severely and left him for dead?”

“I know he did—though actually he was far from dead when he left him. I also know the reason for the fight.”

“Three dead or dying illegal immigrants in Southampton.”

“Ah—you've got there. I suppose you were bound to . . . . It's too horrible. I hadn't looked at the Sunday papers, and I've only just read the story.”

“Nevertheless—”

Rosemary shook her head vigorously.

“As far as I'm concerned there is no ‘nevertheless.' What he did is quite understandable.”

“I suppose it was Stanko himself who told you he didn't kill him?”

“Yes, it was. And I believe him.”

Charlie thought for a moment, then said: “I don't know that I disbelieve him myself.”

“Good. But I suppose you'll be going after him and trying to send him back to Yugoslavia?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn't that worry you?”

Charlie nodded.

“Some aspects of my job worry me. I expect some aspects of your husband's job worry him. I'd guess it's true of most people who do difficult work.”

“That's sophistry. Sending him back would be cruel and wrong. Anyway, you'll do it without any help from me.”

“I guessed I would. But you're willing to talk about him? I heard a bit from your daughter, but I'd rather hear it from you. How did the relationship develop in Scarborough?”

“I've thought about that.” She looked down, trying to find words, then straight at him again. “You've seen Mark—poor Mark. I'm afraid I've got to the point, without realising it, where I thoroughly dislike my own son. Awful, isn't it? I can only hope it passes, but that will probably happen only if Mark gets out of the phase he's going through. Anyway I think that Stanko—such a nice boy, so quiet and pleasant, and such a sad background—I think he was suddenly there as some sort of substitute son. Certainly I felt motherly towards him.”

“Did he tell you about his background?”

“A little, yes. He showed me photographs of his wife and their baby. It seemed so sad, so pathetic, so unnecessary in this day and age. He said that his family was all intermarried, and it was like fighting against a part of yourself. One night he broke down and was sobbing on my shoulder. That sounds like a May-October
romance, doesn't it? That's what they tried to spread around the parish, but it wasn't true. It was me in need of a son, if anything, not me in need of a lover.”

“Then what happened? He suddenly turned up here?”

“Yes—literally on the doorstep.”

“You had no doubts about helping him?”

“No. Why should I?”

“You knew he had no papers?”

“Yes, he told us that on the first evening.”

“It made no difference?”

“No,” said Rosemary. “Not for either of us.”