The Maggie Murders (6 page)

 Perhaps if he called in a favour
he could have all the guests breathalysed when they left? That would certainly
cut down on their reciprocal entertaining duties…

He pulled ineffectually at the
sleeve of the polo shirt his wife had made him wear; he hated baring his arms
almost as much as he hated baring his legs. It just made him turn as pink as
one of the slightly underdone steaks which kept being circulated, with almost
as little enthusiasm as professional waiting staff, by their hosts’ home grown
waiters. At least he’d managed to detach himself from Delia’s introductions and
avoided the other circles of hell dotted around the garden in the forms of
middle aged men and women who seemed far more secure in their smart casual wear
than he was in his. He was grateful he’d put his foot down about the Bermuda
shorts.

At least Clive wore a blazer and
whilst he may not have agreed with Roy’s choice of open necked pastel shirt, he
knew no-one with any sense would launch a first strike against any of the Big
O’s opinions for fear of an apocalyptically scathing put down. He’d never in
fact asked why Roy Harrison was known as the Big O, but had simply accepted
this self-description three years ago when they’d met at the Club. Typically,
Roy had positioned himself at a trestle table below the patio which served as
the beer tent. The Big O was not a man to trust to amateur catering
arrangements when it came to servicing his need for a constant supply of
alcohol at social events. Although he’d have wagered Roy would never fail the
breathe test, he just seemed to be one of those people for whom wine was the
equivalent of water – or Hofmeister in Roy’s case.

 If Delia wanted him to ‘network’,
then he would happily share a chat about sport or work over a Pimms with Clive
and Roy, but he was damned if he was going to make polite conversation to every
solicitor and dentist this side of Exeter.  Delia could be the networking whore
if she wanted, he was determined to try and get through the afternoon with the
minimum of effort. Moving out of the direct sunlight into the shade cast by the
green and white striped awning, he watched as Roy’s podgy finger gesticulated
at the barbecue, positioned centre stage in the Newsomes’ large garden whose
immaculate lawn complemented the immaculate neo-Georgian mansion they’d bought
on the outskirts of Exeter.

‘Wonder if he’s got any faggots
burning on the grill, eh George?’

Dent knew when he ought to smile
and obliged Roy with an appreciative grin.

‘Or any black pudding for that
new lad of yours!‘ added Clive, trying to top the joke.

Dent’s smile for Clive was
slightly less appreciative, less out of any sense of having his sensibilities
put out, more down to the fact that it was more important to flatter Roy. The
former was simply a small town estate agent who shared a mutual interest in
fishing, whereas Roy was probably the richest man at the party having made
millions (Delia’s informed guess) from setting up one of the largest chains of
video rental shops in the South-West. An outgoing man, who had previously made
his money in the TV rental market, Dent liked to keep on his right side.
Although literally on Roy’s right side was his near grown up son Terry; little
to his dad’s large – as tall as his father, but of a much slimmer frame.

‘You hear about the queer who got
AIDS?’ demanded Roy, virtually shoving his beer glass into Dent’s face.

Nearly backing into the
herbaceous border behind him, as he tried to avoid being borne down by the
beefy man’s imposing bulk, the slighter Dent wondered for a moment if Roy was
in fact asking a genuine question, or setting up another joke. Failing to
realise Dent’s momentary puzzlement, the bullish Roy cast all doubts aside –

‘Asked the Doc if there was a
cure. The quack tells him to eat a plate of chopped liver, drink a pint of sour
cream and swallow a dozen chillies. “But will it cure my AIDS?” asks the poof?‘

Dent and Clive keyed themselves
up for the punch line, which they would laugh at even if they didn’t get it.
This was usually communicated by the fact that Roy always telegraphed the
climax of any joke he told through his own booming laughter.

“No, but it’ll teach you what to
use your arsehole for!” boomed the rubicund Roy, spraying them with beery
saliva.

Dent found the sentiment to his
taste, though not the crass way it was expressed. It seemed that the volume it
had been delivered at had punctured the sedateness of the afternoon; he could
see at least one matronly head turned disapprovingly in their direction and he
knew that Delia would want an explanation for the sudden eruption of vulgarity.
Then again, where better to utter common or garden terms, than in a garden?

 He liked Roy, being in his ambit
was often useful at the club, but sometimes he despaired of his coarseness. He
wondered if that was why Roy’s college bound son had kept quiet throughout. He
sipped at his Pimms and tried to think of any jokes he might tell which hadn’t
come off ‘The Two Ronnies.’ He was sure DS Jordan had told him a good Irish
joke the other week, something about a Patrick Fitzmurphy?

Neither Sobers, nor Hawkins would
have placed the pub given as one of their suspect’s usual haunts in their
all-time top hundreds, even if either of them had been partial to keeping such
lists. It certainly didn’t look like the type of place that needed to be open
on Monday lunchtime, even in high season.  It wasn’t just the lack of a beer
garden, or any chairs outside on the pavement which had given Sobers that
conclusion, the weary looking exterior and grubby porch (which made Jane think
of The Black Hole of Calcutta – although she had no clear idea what this was)
made him think that even if the tavern was more aimed at the working man it
would surely fail to have much trade, even at the weekends.

 ‘The King’s Arms’ was housed at
the end of an indeterminate brick terrace, at the bottom of a hill which sloped
down to Exmouth’s new pedestrian shopping precinct. The hostelry was at the
edge of the area cleared for this new development and had more in keeping with
the buildings considered tired and tawdry by the town planners, than the chain
store Mecca they were designing.

Unlike Exeter, Exmouth hadn’t
been redeveloped by the Luftwaffe. Just two stray bombs had hit the town,
whilst the Cathedral City had blazed during the Baedeker raids of 1942. Yet
some still felt that the town, like its larger sibling had suffered more at the
hands of the post-war developers. Those who shared that opinion might have cared
to cast a longer look at ‘The King’s Arms’ and some of the other buildings
which had survived and perhaps reconsider the idea that the old was always
better.

If tradition meant a heavy smell
of chemicals coming from the toilets, a carpet with enough stains to keep the
forensics boys happy for a century and windows which suggested the pub was in
the midst of an industrial city, then the pub was certainly traditional. Apart
from the almost obligatory old man and a dog, there was only one other customer
and he fitted the description of their suspect.

Paul Francis Reed was propping up
the dingy saloon bar. His most recent photo on file showed a still healthy
looking man in his mid to late thirties. This was taken after he’d been charged
with dealing cannabis at the tail end of the 70s. Either the three years he’d
served hadn’t been kind to him, or else the unhealthy habits of a misspent
youth had caught up with him, but the cadaver chain smoking on the bar stool
and nursing a lager had coffin dodger written all over it.

 ‘It weren’t me.’

‘What weren’t you?’ Sobers
settled himself at a neighbouring table as Hawkins put the barman through the
difficulty of finding any soft drink which wasn’t orange juice, coke or
lemonade.

‘Whatever you think I’ve done, copper!’

‘You’ve seen a lot of films
haven’t you, Mr Reed?’

‘Wot you goin’ on about?’

‘Are you sure this pub is big
enough for the both of us?’ teased Sobers.

‘I want my brief before I talk to
you.’

‘Firstly, Mr Reed, I don’t think
you have a brief, but I’m sure we can provide legal aid for you once again,
should it come to that. Secondly, I’m sure you don’t want to have to rush your
lager and come with me to answer a lot of questions you’ve probably answered
before in the incident room.’

Sobers watched the bluster go out
of the wiry man at the bar. He guessed from Reed’s file that he was dealing
with a small time bully who having served a total of 5½ years during the course
of three custodial sentences was probably averse to returning for a fourth too
quickly.

Jane brought over two glasses of
iced tap water, as Reed reluctantly parked his wiry carcase on the peeling,
faux leather seat of the red banquette – below one tear the spongy yellow
padding was already poking through.

‘Where were you on the night of 9th
May, 1983?’

‘Probably in here.’

‘Until what time?’

Reed looked uneasily in the
direction of the landlord.

‘We’re not interested in breaches
of the licensing law, ‘Sobers pressed.

‘About one.’

‘Any witnesses?’ asked Jane.

‘None who want to come forward, ‘offered
Reed.

‘Check it with the barman, Jane,
tell him we’re not interested if there was a lock-in that night – emphasise
this is a murder enquiry.’

Relieved at the chance to peel
herself off the sticky seat and cursing herself for wearing a linen skirt to
such a grotty dive as this, Jane went to verify Reed’s alibi.

‘It’s about that there queer
butcher, isn’t it? I seen your face in the paper. Coloureds, women and homos –
that’s who runs the country today!’

‘I don’t think you’ll find many
black or gay faces in Parliament Mr Reed and apart from the obvious, very few
women.’

‘I got in a little bit of bother
over 20 years ago and it changed my life. Lost my job at the shoe factory when
they found out I had a criminal record and all I did was break a window, ‘snarled
Reed, as he angrily downed the last of his Stella.

‘You were part of a mob that
launched a cowardly attack on a war hero!’

‘If people like that were heroes,
then it’s a pity we won.’

Out of the corner of his eye
Sobers could see Hawkins giving him the signal it was time to go. Reed had been
here when Kellow died.

At least the fresh air outside
was a relief from the poisonous atmosphere inside. The nicotine fug, stained
walls and reeking jakes were the least of the pub’s problems; a better
clientele was what it needed in Sobers’ opinion.

‘That’s why the locals have
another name for the pub,’ Jane said as she dabbed at her skirt with a damp
tissue.

‘What?’

‘The King’s arse. It really is
the pits. It’s only ever used by those with chronic cirrhosis or students who
need to score. I think it must have been last cleaned during the reign of
Ethelred…’

Sobers smiled wryly.

‘So, can we rule him out, sir?
The landlord might be lying.’

‘He could be lying, but I doubt
it. I think he’d rather lose a customer than his licence. Even if he doesn’t
have that many.  Check out the other names he gave you anyway – we can’t afford
to leave it to chance.’

 Sometimes he so wanted people to
be guilty. Of course he had known officers back in The Met who‘d fitted people
up and gained convictions that way.  He’d had to look away a few times himself
when only a D.C. Yet he hoped he was better than those people. Reed might be an
unpleasant little bully; however he hadn’t become a policeman to fabricate
cases against such losers. Even with nothing else to go on, Sobers knew he
didn’t have it in him to try and pin the case on Reed, especially if the man’s
alibi checked out.

****

The Lady Nelson, just down the
hill from the incident room and standing next to the narrow bridge at the
centre of the village, had become the pub of choice for the uniforms attached
to the investigation; even though it was a typical tourist trap filled with
horse brasses and homemade pickles packed in Holland.  Most of its business was
done during the season, when Scampi and Chips style lunches on the trestle
tables outside gave holidaymakers from the camp a taste of traditional Devonian
fayre. The takings in July and August far exceeded the amount taken in the rest
of the year put together.

In early July the holiday season
had yet to reach the heights generated by the school summer holidays and so the
pub, after an initial flurry over the Whitsun weekend, had relapsed into its
standby mode of waiting for a combination of good weather and the weekend to
coincide. A dry, yet breezy Wednesday evening had encouraged few takers for the
outside tables.  A couple of more elderly holidaymakers, taking advantage of
the pre-school holiday rates had braved one of the outside tables where the
only purpose of the sun umbrellas was to advertise a brand of continental lager
no longer served behind the bar. At least they were finding it fractionally
warmer than Wolverhampton…

 In the snug bar, a couple of
farm labourers with pints of Stella loured over one table, while a trio of
local underage teens drinking halves of snakebite and black tried to look older
than they were at another. The five of them made a fairly large crowd for the
time of year and nearly justified the landlord’s employment of his niece as a
second bar-maid.

It was in the saloon bar where
the real profits lay. The presence of the nearby police incident room was as
welcome to the pub, as an unexpected coach party turning up for lunch in early
October. The prospect of overtime had already caused one of the off-duty
officers present that evening to splash out on the three tunes for a pound
offer on the jukebox.  Eddy Grant had already declared to anyone that cared
that he didn’t wanna dance and now 10cc were being similarly moody buggers by
hymning the fact they weren’t in love. Tight Fit would at least be able to
positively state that the lion was asleep that night with their hit 60s cover
version coming on next. There’d already been an informal agreement among the
uniforms that anyone who put on The Police would have to pay a £5 forfeit.

 Grouped around two small round
tables they’d moved together and slouching on a worn leather green sofa and
several reproduction Windsor chairs they’d commandeered in what they saw as
their part of the bar were PCs Mark Salmons, Tony Rundle, Lee Graham and Mike
Arthur.  Changed into their civvies, they now wore their casual uniform of
moccasins, jeans and Fred Perry shirts and they’d become like juniors the world
over in trying to outdo each other in making denigrating comments about their
superiors. Most casual observers would have wondered why these men hadn’t been
appointed to run the case, given they seemed certain of their ability to do it
so much better.

Their comments had become more
vociferous with the arrival of two casually dressed ladies in optimistically
bought summer dresses.  WPCs Sandy Clark and Fiona Walker were the only
non-male uniforms working the case and their debut at the pub was an unexpected
bonus for their male colleagues.  To be honest, at least three of them were
acting up for the sole benefit of Sexy Sandy Clark, a young and attractive
leggy brunette who was only too aware of the soubriquet bestowed on her by the
men. She’d persuaded Fiona to come along as much needed insurance. In fact only
Mike Arthur was especially pleased by the presence of the older and fuller
figured Fiona Walker as he’d calculated he might have a better chance with her.

Salmons, by far the least
intelligent of anyone in the pub and who lacked the crueller, but sharper wit
of Tony Rundle had resorted to doing an exaggerated impersonation of a gorilla
giving the morning briefing. This was in the instinctive belief that physical
clowning and casual racism might be the best way of getting into Sandy’s
knickers. Well, given Cheryl was pregnant he had to be getting it somewhere.
Sandy’s half-hearted- smile-to-fit-in-with-the-crowd reaction was not what he
had been looking for.

‘C’mon Sandy, crack a smile!’ he
implored.

‘Oh sit down Mark, it’s not that
funny – let’s just have a drink and relax.’

He moved in front of her,
gyrating his stocky frame in the way no gorilla had ever managed in nature.

‘C’mon Sandy, have a suck on my
monkey nuts!’ he leered – the Stella having had the desired effect of loosening
his few inhibitions.

‘Look just sit down and let me
listen to the music. And for crying out loud, stop staring at my tits!’

Moodily, Salmons sat down on one
of the chairs and sulked over his pint as he watched both Tony and Lee have
much greater success in engaging Sandy’s attention by steering the conversation
to music and entertainment – two of his least favourite questions when it came
to playing Trivial Pursuits. Spitefully, he tried to put his oar into Mike’s
conversation with Fiona (a splinter group which his younger, male colleague had
successfully engineered during the aforementioned King Kong impression) by
hijacking their election topic. It was either that or an early night with
Cheryl and after her constant whining about his need to earn more money so they
could have a home of their own, he was in no mood for another evening of
arguments in the house she shared with her parents.

‘Well I suppose Maggie deserved
to win – couldn’t have a bloody Argyle supporter as Prime Minister.’

It was left to Mike to inform
Fiona of the defeated Labour leader’s footballing allegiance, not one of the
qualities either of them had been discussing.

‘I wanted The Alliance to do
better, ‘interjected Fiona, ‘I’m surprised they didn’t get more support.’

‘Just the bloody Liberals under
another name, ‘countered Mike.

‘And they’re all bloody murdering
poofs!’ added Salmons.

‘I think you’ll find Jeremy
Thorpe was cleared of murdering his lover, ‘smiled Fiona sweetly.

‘I think it was the fact no-one
knew who was leading them this time, what with the two Davids,’ was Mike’s more
constructive comment.

‘Two bloody Ronnies more like!’
snorted Salmons.

‘I thought David Steel was rather
lovely and talked a lot of sense, ‘answered Fiona with a subtle glance in
Mike’s direction.

‘And it often takes two opposites
to make progress,’ Mike replied, albeit with a subtle undertone that he
intended only for Fiona’s ears.

He needn’t have worried as
Salmons had been keeping an ear out for the other, more important Sandy-centric
badinage rallying across the other table and had been shocked to hear her
describing Sobers as ’rather attractive’ and ‘suave and sophisticated  like
Lionel Richie.’ Walking over to the jukebox he covered his disappointment with
Survivor’s ‘Eye of the Tiger’.