Weekend in Weighton Final Amazon version 12-12-12 (8 page)

~

With the thumb of my right hand hooked under her bra cup, I gently stroked Debbie’s breast. Her nipple began to respond, growing until it stood out like Weighton’s only skyscraper.

‘Cut it out, Ed. It’s all you think about!’

Sadly, she wasn’t playing hard to get. Her blue eyes were bitter cold. She sat forward, shook her head, then grabbed her long, straight blonde hair and tied it back. The resulting ponytail flounced around her shoulders. With Debbie, “no” didn’t just mean no, it meant “get lost before I cut your dick off”. To be honest, it didn’t much matter. As my lack of libido would confirm, all I could really think about was the case. Well, that and my new favourite solicitor. Although I swear I made every reasonable effort to desist, especially when I’d been attempting my “love” moves on Deb. In fact, the attempt at foreplay had been for her benefit. Women, eh? Can’t live with ‘em, can’t use ‘em as surf boards.

I leaned back on the sofa in Debbie’s tiny front room and placed my hands in my now-neutered lap. ‘Sorry, I was just looking for the DAB dial. See how Weighton Wanderers got on.’

‘Very funny.’ She pulled a face that indicated otherwise. ‘You used to make me laugh, remember? You’re not funny anymore.’ She looked away. ‘You’re not anything anymore. It’s like I don’t exist. What is the point, Ed? Where are we going?’

‘I think you’re confusing me with a travel agent.’

She looked away and swore under her breath. I had been going out with Debbie for nearly a year but the “future” thing had – until now – never been raised.

‘Just go,’ she said. ‘You’ve been an arsehole all night.’

‘You’re getting funnier by the day, too, you know.’

She crossed her arms and fixed her look on a far-off horizon, the tell-tale sign of a lecture about to begin. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet and unemotional.

‘Your mum told me what happened today. All night I’ve been waiting for you to tell me. Not a thing. The dead woman’s even been mentioned on the local news, and what have you got to say? Sorry, Debs, the police almost charged me with murder today, but I didn’t think it worth bothering your pretty head.’

She stood up and smoothed down her top. But the break in sound was only the intermission. Once comfortably adjusted, she seated herself on the arm of the sofa and raised the curtain on Act II.

‘What am I to you? Just a body to fiddle with? Is that it? I’m telling you, Ed, I’ve just about had enough. I preferred it when you didn’t have a job. At least then we talked.’ She pushed a finger into my shoulder blade. ‘Your mum’s right. You need to stop wasting your time on this private investigation nonsense.’ She stared at me for a whole minute, and then looked away. ‘What’s it to be?’

As tirades went it was pretty tiring. But she did have a point.

~

I couldn’t sleep. My mind was full, bulging with big, unhappy thoughts; like logs barging into each other on a congested river.

For some reason I felt sad. If Dad were alive he’d know what to do. He’d put me right. We’d solve the case together. I missed him badly. And Mum missed him a far sight more. She hadn’t been the same since it happened. Deep down, I wanted her to be proud of me, like she was of him. A distance had grown between us, and I wasn’t sure how to put things right.

Debbie felt far away, too. She was already standing on the platform, waiting for that midnight train to Single town. It’s what I deserved.

Trouble is, I don’t do the emotion thing too well. It’s not like I don’t try. If there was a course, I would put my name down for it.

I was on a journey, and I couldn’t go back. In truth it had started in the weeks and months after Dad died. Back then it had been more of a holding pattern. Now a path was stretching out, illuminated by flares. Where it was bound there was no telling. And there was no guarantee I’d come back the same. Was that what I was afraid of?

And then there was Kate.

Relationships, eh? Who needed them?

I did. Ain’t that the truth.

It was time for sleep. Tomorrow, like most days, would be announcing itself soon. The Friday type in this case. The weekend was in sight. But first I’d have to wait for the darkness to rescue me.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Friday – 10:00

I was in the groove and back on the case, an appointment with the Right Worshipful Mayor Clegg beckoned. Not that he knew I was coming, of course.

It was early Friday morning and once again I’d switched buses more often than a fare dodger to throw those Cartwright hounds off my trail. Or any persons unknown, for that matter. It was a list that kept on listing. But for the time being at least, my Cherokee sensors were stood down to DEF-CON 3.

After a soothing text to Bob Jones, a few web clicks on the iPhone, and a quick call to the delightful receptionist at Moss & Clarke, Kate’s work number was mine, safely listed under “x” for exalted. It was going to be a good, good day.

Mayor Michael Clegg was the first order of business. Most people in Weighton knew all about him. He was an average looking guy in his mid-fifties, his grey-white hair making him craggy rather than handsome. He was tall, and some said intimidating. He’d been Mayor for two years. In contrast to previous chain wallahs, it had been a high profile stay in office. Since becoming a directly-elected post, the role still hadn’t progressed far beyond the ceremonial, the chief requirement still being a face shaped like a rubber stamp. But “Old Cleggy” had thrown himself about a bit. No small-time politico he. The heavyweight issues in Weighton had not been ignored by the new grey-white hope. In a town full of curve balls he’d become a straight hitter.

He spoke out loud to the good folk of Weighton, usually from the front page of the
Post,
and his unrelenting theme was crime. Or the proliferation of it, more like. In the last decade, Weighton had usurped even Gotham City in crime’s “League of Shame”. But Clegg had become the town’s sharp-suited crusader. Muggers, thieves and drug pushers weren’t exactly on the run, but at least they were keeping their heads down. It was a lone but amped voice that boomed above the broken boulevards of Weighton.

Not everyone was enjoying Clegg’s crusade, though. Some thought it only a matter of time before the infidels opted for an uprising. Because when you run on a ticket like that, you’re bound to cause a reflux, and there’s a belly-full of bile out there. It just needs direction.

And when two tribes go to war, best not be in the middle.

Without looking up, Clegg’s PA asked, ‘Can I help you?’

She was busy scribbling a note from a preceding telephone call. I endured the silence, waiting for her to look up and gaze deeply into my charm-laden eyes. This she did, but I only drew a microwaved smile, rather than the melting type I’d hoped for. Too bad. She was cute.

‘Yes, help you can,’ I said. ‘Help is always helpful. If I could see the Mayor, that would, indeed, be a big help.’

Her eyebrows converged until they resembled a chenille tapestry. ‘You mean … now?’

‘Yes. Now would be good.’

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘Miss – I assume it’s Miss – investigative journalists work in a world where appointments have little place. The people like their news today,
not ten thirty the day after. That is why I was so pleased when you mentioned now, just now. If, indeed, now means now. Am I knocking on the door here?’ I gave her the main beam.

Missy didn’t let a smile stray from her bureaucratic face. ‘Can I take your name, please? I’ll ask the Mayor if he’ll see you.’

 I took out a crumpled card and passed it to her. It actually belonged to a friend of mine who worked on the
Post
. It’s all about authenticity in this game.

While she studied the card, I smiled, thinking how it would teach that smug git Mike “Newsround” Wells a lesson for showing-off in The George. I’d heard that his nickname arose from the time he’d had a paper round, rather than him being a closet John Craven fan. But you’d be foolish to rule it out.

She placed the card in front of her and looked up, an unimpressed face in tow.

Before she could speak, I darted in. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but I just want to talk to our crusading Mayor about crime in this city. Especially in view of the dreadful murder that took place yesterday.’

How could our Commander-in-Chief resist that for a hook?

She looked at me sceptically. ‘He gave a quote to the
Post
yesterday.’

‘I know. A fine one, too. But I’m from features. This is an in-depth, follow-on piece.’ I projected my best smile.

She nodded, then went off to cast a juicy maggot to the big fish in the back office.

~

Clegg sat across the desk from me, looking greyer than normal. The funereal style suit didn’t help. He looked like he’d swallowed not just the bait, but the line, rod, and reel. Clearly, a boatload of bad news had caused the sickness to rise in his gills. One dead mistress and a delicate interview with the Chief Constable of Weighton police could do that to a person. The melancholy of the man was apparent. His face looked like it had been soaked overnight in sadness, though he maintained a dignified façade. Maybe he’d really loved her. If he was acting the part, he had me fooled. And Eddie G was nobody’s fool.

A small voice inside my head told me to “go easy” on him, but it was difficult to hear above the god-awful din. Truth was, I needed a result.

I took out a notepad and pen from my bag – brought as props for the purpose – and retrieved my phone from my jacket. Making great play of switching it to silent, I tapped the voice recorder app instead. It’s all about preparation in this game.

Clegg turned my borrowed business card up to his line of sight and churned out a bogus smile.

‘Mr Wells, good to see you. My friends at the
Post
know I’m always available for comment on matters such as these.’

‘Yes, Mayor, and we’re always grateful for that.’

‘Have you interviewed me before?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘I didn’t think so.’

“Newsround” Mike was a doozer. They weren’t likely to let him cover a Weighton Weightwatchers meeting, let alone interview the Worshipful One.

‘You’re obviously upset about the murder in Weighton yesterday,’ I opened, ‘but after a day’s reflection, could you comment on the record for us?’

Visibly moved, he couldn’t seem to get his words out at first. He had to take a deep breath to compose himself.

‘I am deeply upset and saddened,’ he intoned, ‘at the senseless taking of a life in our city. Mrs Porson was a fine, upstanding member of the community, someone who I had the pleasure to meet at a charity function last year.’

I shuffled in my seat and applied the pensive look. ‘I understand the police are baffled as to motive?’

‘That is correct. They can establish no reason for the killing. As I said earlier, it seems quite senseless.’

‘I understand from my sources that Mrs Porson had hired the services of a private detective. I’m told it was he, in fact, who found the body, and that he’s been interviewed by police. Can you comment on this development?’

Clegg’s eyebrows wriggled like caterpillars on acid, making it clear that Fuzz Inc. hadn’t mentioned this minor detail.

‘It’s a police matter,’ he said quickly. ‘But I am being kept up to date on all developments which pertain to the case. What is clear is that there are no concrete leads as yet.’