Weekend in Weighton Final Amazon version 12-12-12 (14 page)

‘Call it a hunch.’

‘14a Castle Towers. The key’s hidden under a large plant plot by the lift.’

‘Thanks.’ I stepped away from his York-stoned path. ‘If you think of anything else, call me?’

Clegg’s lower lip dropped, as if he had thought of something. Then it clamped closed. ‘I’ll think about it.’

I edged away with a pseudo bow. ‘Sayonara, Mayor.’

~

As the lift at Castle Towers rose, I felt my spirits heading the other way. I’d have to collect them at the ground floor on the way out. Not that I could blame them. My case was beginning to hum. Although Cleggy had confirmed Helen Porson
did
have a twin sister, the revelation that she was dead picked a large hole in the loose threads I’d begun to sew. I was pretty sure Clegg hadn’t lied to me, so it was back to the drawing board.

I’d been hitting more dead ends than a broken sat nav. And I had a bad feeling that 14a Castle Towers would be another. I wasn’t even sure why I’d made the trip. Other than, according to the logic sequence, it was the next best place to look.

A shrill ping sounded my arrival at the fifth floor, and the lift doors pulled back to reveal 14a directly ahead. The key was in situ as described.

After the lock tumbled, I walked into the darkened love nest of the former Mrs P and our enamoured Mayor. A strange smell rushed past my nostrils: a mixture of stale air and even staler body odour. Eddie G’s famous Cherokee sensors went straight to DEF-CON one. And it wasn’t on account of the stale air. I had a feeling I wasn’t alone.

I gently pushed the front door closed behind me and stood still, trying desperately to adjust my eyes to the blackness. I could feel hard wooden floors beneath my soles, but fortunately they didn’t squeak. I deliberated whether to switch on the lights, deciding against it. If someone was in the flat there was a fair chance they’d been working in the light, which meant darkness was on my side. Not such a bad thing; I was good in the dark.

Holding my breath, I listened for the tiniest sound until my ears ached. Nothing stirred. It was quieter than Jeremy Clarkson at a caravan convention. I took two slow paces forward until I was alongside a lamp shade, then reached over and touched the light bulb. It was still hot. Now there’s a coincidence.

Whoever was lurking in the flat was probably in a position where they would see me before I saw them. Basically a sneaky shit. With a slow swivel, I tracked my line of sight around the narrow hall. It was about seven yards long, with two doors off to the left and one to the right. The first door on the left was closed, the others open. I moved to the first door and slowly pulled down the handle. After another glance around the hall, I stepped back and flung open the door, assuming the classic tiger strike position. Nothing moved. I peered in and managed to make out dark coloured bathroom units. Taking a half-step to the side, I looked through the hinge crack and could tell no one was behind the door. When you’re dealing with a sneaky shit, you had to figure all the moves.

Another check on the hall, then I shuffled half in to the bathroom for a proper look around. Nothin’ doin’.

Back in the hall I padded to the next door, this on the right and open, and took a peek inside. It looked like a bedroom. With an effort, I banished the image of our distinguished Mayor humping Mrs P on the bed and slowly pushed the door all the way until it hit the skirting board behind.

Just in time, I caught a movement over by the wardrobe. A large, pudgy figure charged at me, truck-like, but the game was up for fat boy. He had ground to make, and I was already loading my move. This would be a hippo shoot. But as I pump-primed my strike, I heard noisy footfalls behind me, forcing a desperate, late change of plan. Nice goin’, Ed. I never figured on
two
sneaky shits.

Shifting my balance, I swung a turning kick instinctively behind me, but it missed my rearward assailant and struck the bedroom door frame instead. My body swivelled all the way around on the follow through, and for a moment I stood toe to toe with the over-weight black guy who’d tailed me from the police station. His grinning face was the last thing I saw before a thundering whoosh came from behind my right ear. Something hard followed. As the daylights went out on Eddie G, the thought occurred to me that maybe I should have switched the main lights on in the first place. You learnt fast in this game – just not fast enough.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Saturday – 16:39

Something brought me round: either my head throbbing or the thumping of approaching footsteps on the solid wooden surface. Before the mists fully cleared, I tried to move, but didn’t get far. I was pinned to the floor by a large, warm weight across my chest and arms, pressing down at an odd angle. Without opening my eyes, I gingerly felt around the oppressing lump. It didn’t take a degree in biology to realise it was a body. Worse luck, it was too heavy to be Cheryl Cole.

With partial vision restored, I craned my neck to make out a shoulder and arm, high on my chest. There was a whiff of cedar after-shave that I recognised but couldn’t match to an identifiable chin. I moved my arms to get some leverage under the body, but as I braced myself for the push, a rush of weakness engulfed me. The footsteps now sounded almost upon me, three or four pairs of them and they had voices attached. My arms sagged, and I lay my head on the hard floor. Time out, Charlie Brown.

The voices now whirled inside my head. Men were all around me. And as if a stone had been rolled away, I suddenly felt light. The pressure having gone from my chest, a fit of coughing ensued. I opened my eyes, straining to focus and registered two faces: one near, one far, but with a positive ID on both. The face of the man standing over me, loaded with contempt, belonged to the one known as DS Bugg. He pointed at the face he held a foot away from mine, the face which obviously belonged to the body recently slumped across me. The eyes were closed and the tongue was out, but there was no mistaking the prominent features of His Right Worshipful Mayor, the Commander in Chief of all Weighton City.

‘He’s dead,’ blared Bugg with a trace of perverse delight. ‘Shall we add him to your account?’

I licked dry lips. ‘All circumstantial.’ I switched to one eye to cope with the blazing light. ‘My solicitor has moves you know.’

~

After a short ride back to the police station, sirens screeching all the way, I got bundled into a familiar interview room, the third time in as many days. Anywhere else and they’d have inscribed my name on the door: “The Greene Room”. Nice.

Several hours later, Hobbs and Bugg came to see me. If I was still looking groggy, they appeared worse. Maybe their case stank as much as mine, but they didn’t have the other excuses of a pounding from the Kingpin and a K.O. from persons unknown. Eat your heart out, boys.

‘What the fuck’s going on?’ asked Hobbs.

I opened my mouth to respond, but Bugg cut in.

‘You’re the detective,’ he parodied. ‘
You
tell me.’

It was a passable impersonation and it showed he had at least one talent. I hated being predictable, though.

‘If only you could impersonate a policeman that well.’

Hobbs’ irritation began to boil over. ‘That is enough from both of you.’ His finger pointed back and forth like a rev counter on the starting grid. ‘It stops here, understand? Now can we get on?’

I went to mumble something from the side of my mouth, but thought better of it after receiving a warning look from Hobbs. He held it for a good ten seconds.

‘Right,’ he continued. ‘Tell us what happened?’

‘What happened when?’

Hobbs rocked in his seat and gave an exasperated sigh. ‘It’s late, Eddie. We can do this in the morning if you’d prefer. I’ve got a nice cold cell lined up. That is if you continue to jerk us about. Do I make myself clear?’

I nodded.

‘Good. Take us from the top and don’t leave anything out.’

‘The top?’

‘Yes.’

‘The top when?’

Hobbs held up his hand. ‘Let me specify the timescale here for you. I understand you went to see Tony Porson this morning.’

‘Oh, that top.’

Hobbs gave a brief nod, a forced smile creasing his cheeks.

I sat back and rubbed my temples, trying to give myself time to think of a plausible story. Only implausibilities came to mind; half renditions of the understated truth. It was all I had, so it would have to do.

‘According to you,’ I said, ‘all roads lead to Eddie. And if I’m the only suspect, then somehow I don’t see you boy scouts out there collecting evidence on my behalf.’

‘We don’t work like that, and you know it,’ said Bugg indignantly, though probably untruthfully.

‘I don’t know what I don’t know,’ I said in Rumsfield-speak. ‘I’m out there protectin’ my interests. Getting my defence counsel some pre-trial angles.’

‘Why’d you go and see Tony Porson?’ asked Hobbs.

I leaned back on my chair. ‘If you can remember the reason you went to see him, well … it’s the same one.’

‘Always the smart guy, eh, Eddie?’

‘It pays in my line of work. But maybe you guys get by without it. Civil Service for you.’

‘That will do,’ said Hobbs, slamming down his hand. ‘Last chance or you’re in the cells. That’s it, okay? Now what did you talk to Tony Porson about?’

I drew a breath in slowly and let it go at roughly the same rate. In the pause I heard heavy cell doors clanging in the background. Something to focus the mind.

‘Come on, Hobbs,’ I said finally. ‘He told you I spoke to him, that’s obvious. In which case you’ll also know he told me nothing. Not even his favourite revel. Why don’t we move on?’

‘What’d you do after seeing Porson?’

‘Not a lot. I stayed in town.’

‘You left Tony Porson’s hotel at ten-forty this morning. We picked you up just before five this evening. We know you haven’t been home. Where
have
you been?’

‘I told you, I hung around town. Then I went over to Clegg’s place in the
Vale
.’

‘What time?’ enquired Hobbs.

‘Around one, one-thirty.’

‘Why there?’

I sat hunched on my seat, trying to work out what they already knew. ‘To see Clegg, for the same reason I’d gone to see Porson Junior. I was trying to build up a picture of Helen Porson. They knew her best.’

‘Why’d you hang around town so long before going to see him?’

He had that look on his face, like he was about to start humming “let’s get quizzical”. I sensed he knew I’d been up to no good, but he didn’t know what. Somehow I’d have to account for the time I’d been at Helen Porson’s house.

‘Clegg told me he always plays golf on a Saturday morning. Rain or shine. Networking he called it.’ Hobbs caught my eye, and I made sure I didn’t look away. We both knew he’d try and cross-check every detail of my story after the interview, but he had to play along for now. Lucky for me, “dead men tell no tales”, and they’re not in a position to contradict you, either.

‘Okay, you go to see Clegg. What did you talk about?’

‘I guess you could say he wasn’t too pleased to see me at first, but he lightened up a little. We talked about the deceased Mrs P, and I asked whether she had any family.’

Bugg interrupted: ‘Other than her son, you mean?’

‘Yeah.’