Weekend in Weighton Final Amazon version 12-12-12 (9 page)

I nodded and then allowed a dramatic pause before putting the next question to him. ‘Are the police investigating the possibility that the matter on which the P.I. was working could also be the cause of her death?’

Impatience leapt to his face, but he didn’t take the bait. ‘You’re getting into the realms of speculation,’ he replied calmly, ‘something I won’t do. The police are obviously looking at all possibilities and we must leave it to them.’

The time had come to toss in a wrong ‘un.

I cleared my throat. ‘Mayor, this is a rather
delicate
question, but nevertheless one I must ask. You said you knew Mrs Porson, but is there any truth in the rumour that you had a more
personal
relationship with her and that–’

Clegg sprang at me from across the desk and grabbed my throat. Not such a politically correct thing to do you’d think? ‘Who told you that?’

I whistled a pitchy noise through my constricted throat, enough to make him let go.

Standing tall behind his desk, shaking with rage, he pushed his hands through neatly trimmed hair. ‘That is a preposterous suggestion,’ he seethed, ‘and I will sue the
Post
for every penny if they print a word. I play golf with your owner, you know. He’ll have your balls in his golf bag before you type a word. You understand me?’

‘I understand you,’ I said slowly, rubbing my throat. My turn. ‘Now you understand
me
.’ I leaned over his desk and looked straight at him. ‘The police know you’re involved, but they’ve said diddly. Am I right? They’re snowing you, and what’s more, Jimmy Cartwright’s got his knob-print doin’ tic-tac-toe all over this thing.’ I paused to recover air. ‘Right now, Eddie G is your only playmate.’

Clegg started to spit and spot, then came to an abrupt halt and sat down. A simple realisation crystallised on his wrinkled face. ‘You’re Eddie Greene?’

‘The very same, and at your service. Now why don’t you start downloading on the late Mrs Porson?’

He sat in silence, the lines on his forehead fighting the emotion. The voice, when it came, was quiet. ‘And this is off the record?’

‘Bollocks to the record!’ I spun my notepad off the desk.

‘I don’t know. There’s so much at stake.’

‘Yeah, my hundred per cent success rate to start with.’

He stared at Mike Well’s careworn card. ‘You really are Eddie Greene? The detective Hel– Mrs Porson hired.’

‘She told you, then?’

‘Yes. I begged her not to do it.’

His eyes darted to the side as he spoke. A giveaway, even for a politician.

I sat back and softened my tone. ‘She hired me anyway. And at the moment I’m the only guy you can trust. I know that’s like a major bummer for you. Karma’s not all sweet, yeah? But you want to know why you should trust me?’

He nodded, resigned.

‘Because we’re the only chumps in the frame for this. And we both know we didn’t do it.’

Clegg’s eyes seemed to regain focus. ‘You mentioned Jimmy Cartwright before. How’s he involved?’

The Mayor showed himself to be a good switch hitter.

I bit my lip. ‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, truth to tell, I haven’t figured that part out yet. But trust me, he don’t just got one log floating in this sewer. It’s a whole rotting raft.’

Clegg closed his eyes and stayed motionless for several seconds while I waited. Then he slowly opened them.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Greene, I can’t help you.’ He tried a benevolent smile, as close to an apology as he might get. ‘I think we should both let the police handle it.’

‘The police? You mean Jimmy’s reserve team?’

What sounded almost like a laugh popped out from Clegg. ‘Give me some credit. You don’t think I know?’

‘Sure you do, Mayor. But I don’t see you doing much about it.’

‘Please. Go home and let my police deal with it. You talk about trust … why don’t you trust me. There’s nothing you can do. This is out of your league.’ Clegg picked up the phoney calling card and handed it back to me. ‘Take this. You never know when you might need it.’

I re-pocketed Mike’s card and stood to go. Then I took out one of my own and flicked it onto his desk.

 ‘When you need a plan “B”,’ I said, ‘call me.’

~

I left the Town Hall by the side entrance and gave the near and far horizons a good once over. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, and everybody appeared to be going about their business as usual. I doubled back to the rear of the building, heading for the steps down to the river by the Old Bridge. On the top step I sat and made the call.

She answered on the third ring. ‘Hello. Kate Connolly.’ The buttery tones simply oozed through the phone.

‘Is that Moss, Campbell, Schiffer and McPherson?’

She paused. I could hear the smile. ‘Maybe. Is that “Nice-Guy-But-No-Show” Eddie?’

‘Yeah. Get over it.’

‘Like you did, hey.’

Ouch! From the recoil I lifted my head and did a quick three sixty; all quiet on the Weighton front.

I tried to picture Kate sat in the café on her own. ‘How long did you wait?’

‘Long enough, hot shot.’

‘Doesn’t mean we’re even.’

‘Really? What will that take?’

‘Dunno. I’ll think of something.’

She made a puffing noise like she didn’t believe me.

I took another long look around. I’m not saying I was paranoid or anything, but you can’t be too careful.

‘Ed?’

‘Yup?’

‘Remember cherry blossoms in the market square?’

‘You thought it was confetti in my hair.’

I heard her laugh and almost forgot about everything else.

‘Listen,’ I said, my voice quieter. ‘I’m sorry about yesterday. Would you believe me if I said I was abducted by hoodlums?’

‘Not aliens, then?’

‘Hard to tell.’ Friend Tommy was clearly from Planet Zarg.

‘I’m inclined to believe you,’ she said. ‘I’m hearing all sorts. Weighton’s overnight star-attraction, dontcha know?’

‘Told you I’d be big time.’

‘And you weren’t wrong. So this a social call? Or are you looking for representation.’ Her tone changed on the last word.

‘I love it when you talk legal.’

‘I’m billed at ninety pounds an hour, in case you’re wondering.’

‘Ohhhh yeah, right there baby, don’t stop …’

‘If it isn’t social, I have to turn on the meter.’

I gave a low whistle. ‘Who’s big time now?’

A noise from behind made me glance over my shoulder, but it was only Clegg’s PA coming through the Town Hall doors. I wondered if she’d been sent to find me, but she sauntered by without looking.

‘It would be a coup to get you as a client,’ Kate was saying. ‘You are quite the
zeitgeist
. Weighton’s first big murder trial and all that.’

‘We not making a plea, then?’

‘We could run an insanity defence. Lots of scope there.’

I let a deliberate pause play out. ‘Are you playing with your hair?’

‘Why?’

‘Just curious.’

‘Yes, seeing as you ask. Big fees are always a turn-on.’

I’d been in one place too long. It was time to wrap. I stood and took in another panoramic view.

‘What time you finish work, Kate?’

‘Six. Is this to discuss your case?’

‘No. I thought we could look at shooting stars in the park.’

‘Wonderful. And then we talk about the case, yes?’

I started down the steps; thirty eight to go.

‘Do you remember
,
Kate?’

‘I remember. Is it too late to say I’m sorry?’

I felt a terrible, stinging pain. ‘Not for me.’

‘I’ll be in the Punchbowl.’

‘Likewise.’

I put my phone away and was about to head for Bolton Street, off the Old Bridge, when all my Cherokee sensors went off at once. I had barely enough time to assume the crash position before a huge hammer fist struck my ribcage. Two lungs worth of air said a hasty goodbye, and I dropped to one knee, severely winded. Mini shooting stars flickered in front of my eyes, and the stark outline of the Town Hall seemed to waver over me, yo-yoing on the horizon. I tried to keep my balance. What I wouldn’t have forsaken, right then, for a whiff of fresh air. I gasped desperately through the pain, blackness soiling my eyes.

When I looked up, the light began to win through, but I wish I hadn’t bothered. Only Tommy’s snarling gnashers were there to greet me. I preferred the darkness.

CHAPTER NINE

Friday – 14:55

Huddled in the front seat of the rep’s silver Mondeo, myriad pains began aggregating to a warm throb. I still had the shakes from my Forley Forest excursion.

To drag my mind off its beaten track, I thought about the case. Jimmy had gone ballistic about my communion with Mayor Clegg, but he’d shown no trace of surprise that I’d gone to see him. More like pique in case I’d found something out. Going through a mock-shock execution in the forest was one hell of a “warning off”. Then again, judging by the side-splitting laughs, maybe that bit had just been for kicks.

Jimmy’s lack of surprise about my visit to the Mayor did prove one thing: he knew about the dalliance between Clegg and Porson. All the same, I couldn’t see Cartwright behind the extortion gig. That was minor league stuff, and Jimmy Kingpin was strictly big time. So where did Jimmy fit in?

The only angle I could figure was that Jimmy needed to play Clegg. He was using the blackmail scam as a cover story. So come the great day he’d have Clegg right where he wanted him: on the payroll along with the rest of Weighton plc.

If the original case was now marked “solved”, thanks to the mercurial insights of the amazing Eddie G, it left a bigger intrigue wide open. Who
did
kill Mrs P? If my analysis was correct, it kinda took Jimmy C out of frame. She was far more useful alive and adulterating than unbecoming and dead. Unless, that is, Jimmy had been trying to frame Clegg? In which case it didn’t look like such a great job. Getting his boys at “Police Academy” assigned to the case and planting fabbed evidence all over the show would have been easy. Clegg would have been in the penthouse custody suite by Thursday lunchtime. Plus, motive wasn’t in it. The
Post,
meantime, would be in headline heaven, ditching its “Ian Starr Ate My Ham Toastie” by-line for an altogether more lucrative, “Mayor Kills Lover in Blackmail Scandal”. You have to admit there’s a ring to it.

Yet Detective Chief Inspector Hobbs clearly didn’t have a lead on the case – other than yours truly – and the flatfoots weren’t exactly all over Town Hall Central. Even the pigeons were only marking time.