Dry Bones That Dream, page 23
THREE
The other shops were not much different from the first: usually with the windows barred or covered in mesh, and usually close to dilapidated, graffiti-scarred corporation estates or surviving pre-war terraces of back-to-backs in areas like Hunslet, Holbeck, Beeston and Kirkstall. One moment the sun was out, the next it looked like rain. Around and around they drove, Hatchley flipping through the A to Z, which had now become so well thumbed that the pages were falling out, missing turnings, looking for obscure streets. It was all depressing enough to Susan, and a far cry from the nice big semi at the top of the hill in Sheffield where she grew up.
But Hatchley, she noticed, seemed to relish the task, even though after another three visits they had got nowhere. His reputation for laziness, she was beginning to realize, might be unfounded. He certainly didn’t like to waste energy, and usually took the line of least resistance, but he was hardly alone in that.
Susan had known truly lazy policemen – some of them had even made detective sergeant – but none of them were like Hatchley. They simply put in the time until the end of their shift, generally trying to stay out of the way of any situation that might generate paperwork. Hatchley was determined. When he was after something, he didn’t let go until he got it.
The fifth shop was larger and more modern than the others, a kind of mini-market cum off-licence that sold milk, tinned foods, bread and all sorts of odds and ends as well as booze, newspapers and magazines. It was on Beeston Road, not far from Elland Road, where Leeds United played, and it was run, Hatchley said, by a man called Mario Nelson, who, as his name suggested, had an Italian mother and an English father.
It was immediately clear to Susan that Mario took after his father. She knew there were blond-haired Italians in the north of the country, but they didn’t look as downright Nordic as Mario. Tall, slim, wearing a white smock, he looked far too elegant to be running a shop. In his early fifties, Susan guessed, he was handsome in a Robert Redford sort of way, and he looked as if he would be more comfortable being interviewed on a film set than unpacking a box of mushroom soup, which is what he was doing when they entered. When he saw Hatchley, a look of caution came to his ice-blue eyes. There was nobody else in the shop.
‘Mario, old mate,’ said Hatchley. ‘Long time no see.’
‘Not long enough for me,’ muttered Mario, putting the box aside. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘No need to be so surly. How’s business?’ Hatchley took out a cigarette and lit up.
‘There’s no smoking in here.’
Hatchley ignored him. ‘I asked how’s business?’
Mario stared at him for a moment, then broke off eye contact. ‘Fair to middling.’
‘Doing much special trade?’
‘Don’t know what you mean. Look, if you’ve just come to chat, I’m a busy man.’
Hatchley looked exaggeratedly around the shop. ‘Doesn’t look that way to me, Mario.’
‘There’s more to running a shop than serving customers.’
‘Well, soon as you’ve answered our questions, you can get back to it.’ He described the man in the balaclava. ‘Ever seen anyone like that in here? Is he on your list?’
‘It’s a bit of a vague description.’
‘True, but concentrate on the eyes. They’d just about come up to your chin. Poor misguided bloke has an appetite for shaved pussy magazines, and I know you supply them.’
‘You’ve never proved that.’
‘Come off it! The only reason you’re still in business is that you’ve done me a few favours over the years. Remember that. You’re a filth-peddler. You know I don’t like filth-peddlers, Mario. You know I rank them a bit below a dollop of dog-shit on my shoe.’
Hatchley made some very interesting distinctions, Susan thought, some delicate moral judgments. Simple display of naked flesh was fine with him, obviously, but anything more was pornographic. Bit of a puritan, really, when it came down to it.
She watched Mario shift from foot to foot, and she saw something in his eyes other than wariness; she saw that he recognized Hatchley’s description, or thought he did. Hatchley noticed it, too. And she saw fear.
Hatchley dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground it out. ‘Susan,’ he said, ‘would you go put up the “Closed” sign, please?’
‘You can’t do that,’ said Mario, coming out from behind the counter and moving to stop Susan. Hatchley got in the way. He was about the same height and two stones heavier. Mario stopped. Susan went to the door and turned the sign over.
‘Might as well drop the latch and pull the blinds down, too,’ said Hatchley, ‘seeing as it’s such a quiet time.’
Susan did as he said.
‘Right.’ Hatchley turned to face Mario. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Whose name? I don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘We’re not gormless, Susan and I. We’re detectives. That means we detect. And I detect that you’re lying. What’s his name?’
Mario looked pale. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. Susan almost felt sorry for him. Almost. ‘Honest, Mr Hatchley, I don’t know what you mean,’ he said. ‘I run an honest business here. I—’
But before he could finish, Hatchley had grabbed him by the lapels of his shop-coat and pushed him against the shelves. A jar of instant coffee fell to the floor and smashed; tins dropped and rolled all over; a packet of spaghetti noodles burst open.
‘Watch what you’re doing!’ Mario cried. ‘That stuff costs money.’
Hatchley pushed him up harder against the shelving, twisting the lapels. Mario’s face turned red. Susan was worried he was going to have a heart attack or something. She wished she hadn’t become part of this. Gristhorpe would find out, she knew, and she would be thrown off the force in shame. Outside, she heard somebody rattle the door. Do something, her inner voice screamed. ‘Sir,’ she said levelly. ‘Maybe Mr Nelson wants to tell us something, and he’s having difficulty speaking.’
Hatchley looked at Nelson and relaxed his grasp. ‘Is that so, Mario?’
Mario nodded as best he could under the circumstances. Hatchley let him go. A jar of pickled onions rolled off the shelf and smashed, infusing the air with the acrid smell of vinegar.
‘Who is he?’ asked Hatchley.
Mario massaged his throat and gasped for breath. ‘You . . . shouldn’t . . . have done . . .’ he wheezed. ‘Could have k-k-killed me. Weak heart. I c-c-could report you.’
‘But we both know you won’t, don’t we? Imagine trying to run an honest business with the local police breathing down your neck day and night. Come on, give us the name, Mario.’
‘I . . . I don’t know his name. J-just that he’s been in occasionally.’
‘For your under-the-counter stuff? Shaved pussies?’
Mario nodded.
Hatchley shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,’ he said, ‘but you’re lying again. After all this.’ He reached out for Mario’s lapels.
‘No!’ Mario jumped back, dislodging a few more tins from the shelf. A bottle of gin fell and smashed. He put his hands out. ‘No!’
‘Come on, then,’ said Hatchley. ‘Give.’
‘Jameson. Mr Jameson. That’s all I know,’ said Mario, still rubbing his throat.
‘I want his address, too. He’s on one of your paper routes, isn’t he? I’ll bet one of your lads delivers his papers, maybe with a special colour supplement on Sundays, eh? Come on.’
‘No. I don’t know.’
‘Be reasonable, Mario. It’s no skin off your nose, is it? And it’ll put you in good stead with the local bobbies. What’s his address?’
Mario paused a moment, then went behind the counter and looked in the ledger where he kept the addresses for newspaper deliveries. ‘Forty-seven Bridgeport Road,’ he said. ‘But you won’t find him there.’
‘Oh?’
‘Cancelled his papers.’
‘How long for?’
‘Three weeks.’
‘Since when?’
‘Last Friday.’
‘Where’s he gone?’
‘I’ve no idea, have I? Off on his holidays, maybe.’
‘Don’t come the clever bugger with me.’
‘I’m not. Honest.’
‘Is that all you know?’ Hatchley moved forward and Mario backed off.
‘I swear it. We’re not mates or anything. He’s just a customer. And do me a favour – when you do find him, don’t tell him you found out from me.’
‘Scared of him?’
‘He’s got a bit of a reputation for scrapping, that’s all. When he’s had a few, like. I don’t think he’d take kindly.’
‘Aye, all right, then,’ said Hatchley. ‘Susan, would you do the honours?’
Susan went over and unlocked the door. A red-faced old woman bustled in. ‘What’s going on here? I’ve been waiting five minutes. My poor Marmaduke is going to starve to death if you—’ She stopped talking, looked at the mess on the floor, then back at the three of them.
‘Slight accident, Mrs Bagshot,’ said Mario, straightening his tie and smiling. ‘Nothing serious.’
Hatchley bent down and grabbed a pickled onion. After a cursory check to make sure there was no broken glass clinging to it, he popped it in his mouth, smiled at Mrs Bagshot and left.
FOUR
After a light lunch in the police canteen with Ken Blackstone – a toasted cheese sandwich and a plastic container of orange juice – Banks set off back to the hotel. The weather was the same, fast-moving cloud on the wind, sun in and out casting shadows over the streets and buildings. He would have to do something about his jacket, he realized, as he walked past the Corn Exchange. Maybe he could get it fixed this afternoon. The hotel should be able to help. Or maybe he should buy a new one.
He wasn’t looking forward to explaining his adventures to Sandra, either. He hadn’t phoned her last night, and she would probably be out until this evening. He could phone the gallery, he knew, but she would be busy. Besides, it would only worry her if he told her about the fight over the telephone. He might get his jacket fixed, but there would be no hiding the skinned knuckles and bruised cheekbone from Sandra, let alone the bruises that would soon show up on his side.
All he had to say was that two kids had tried to mug him, simple as that. It might not be the complete truth, but it certainly wasn’t a lie. On the other hand, he wondered who he was trying to fool. If he couldn’t talk to Sandra about what had happened, who could he talk to? Right now, he just didn’t know.
A local train must have just come in, judging from the hordes issuing from the station and heading for the bus stops around City Square and Boar Lane. Banks picked up a Yorkshire Evening Post from the aged vendor, who was shouting out a headline that sounded like ‘TURKLE AN HONEST LIAR’ but which, on reading, turned out to be ‘TWO KILLED IN HUNSLET FIRE.’ Banks refused the free packet of Old El Paso Taco Shells he was offered with his newspaper.
At the hotel, he found three messages: one to call Melissa Clegg at the wine shop; one to meet Sergeant Hatchley and Susan Gay at The Victoria, behind the Town Hall, as soon as possible; and one to call Ken Blackstone at Millgarth. First, he went to his room and phoned Melissa Clegg.
‘Oh, Mr Banks,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to get your hopes up, but I’ve remembered his name, the man Daniel met in the pub.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I knew there was something funny about it. After I left you I just couldn’t get it out of my mind. Then I was filling some orders and I saw it written down. It came to me, just like that.’
‘Yes?’
‘Irish whiskey. Funny how the mind works, isn’t it?’
‘Irish whiskey?’
‘His name. It was Jameson. I’m sure of it.’
Banks thanked her and called Ken Blackstone.
‘Alan, we’ve got some names for you,’ Blackstone said. ‘Quite a lot, I’m afraid.’
‘Never mind,’ said Banks. ‘Is Jameson among them?’
Banks heard Blackstone muttering to himself as he went through the list. ‘Yes. Yes, there he is. Bloke called Arthur Jameson. Alan, what—’
‘I can’t talk now, Ken. Can you pull his file and meet me at The Victoria in about fifteen minutes? I assume you know where it is?’
‘The Vic? Sure. But—’
‘Fifteen minutes, then.’ Banks hung up.
13
ONE
It was foolish, Susan knew, but she couldn’t help feeling butterflies in her stomach as she turned the corner where Courtney Terrace intersected Bridgeport Road at number thirty-five. It was mid-afternoon; there was no one about. She felt completely alone, and the click of her heels, which seemed to echo from every building, was the only sound breaking the blanket of silence. Her instructions were simple: find out what you can about Arthur Jameson and his whereabouts.
In her blue jacket and matching skirt, carrying a briefcase and clipboard, she looked like a market researcher. A light breeze ruffled her tight blonde curls and a sudden burst of sun through the clouds dazzled her. She could smell rain in the air.
We know he’s not at home, she repeated to herself. He has cancelled his papers for three weeks and gone on a long holiday on the proceeds earned from killing Keith Rothwell. He doesn’t answer his telephone, and the two men observing the house over the past hour or so have seen no signs of occupation. So there’s nothing to worry about.
But still she worried. She remembered Keith Rothwell kneeling there on the garage floor in his suit, his head blown to a pulp. She remembered the tattered pieces of the girlie magazine, ripped images of women’s bodies, as if the killer had intended some kind of sick joke.
And she remembered what Ken Blackstone had told her about Jameson at the makeshift briefing in The Victoria. He had been kicked out of the army for rushing half-cocked, against orders, into an ambush that had killed two innocent teenage girls as well as one suspected IRA trigger-man. After that, he had drifted around Africa and South America as a mercenary. Then, back home, he had beaten an Irishman senseless in a pub because the man’s Belfast accent hit a raw nerve. Since the GBH, he hadn’t done much except work on building sites and, perhaps, the occasional hit, though there was no evidence of this. He had four A-levels and an incomplete degree in Engineering from the University of Birmingham.
Susan looked around her as she walked. Bridgeport Road was a drab street of dirty terrace houses with no front gardens. From each house, two small steps led right on to the worn pavement, and the tarmac road surface was in poor repair. At the back, she knew, each house had a small bricked-in backyard, complete with privy, full of weeds, and each row faced an identical row across an alley. A peculiar smell hung in the air, a mix of raw sewage and brewery malt, Susan thought, wrinkling her nose.
Outside one or two houses, lines of washing propped up by high poles hung out to dry right across the street. A woman came out of her house with a bucket and knelt on the pavement to scour her front steps. She glanced at Susan without much interest, then started scrubbing. If Jameson really is our man, Susan thought, he’ll probably be looking for somewhere a bit more upmarket to live after he has laid low for a while.
There was nobody at home in the first two houses; the timid woman at number thirty-nine said she knew nothing about anyone else in the street; the man at number forty-one didn’t speak English; the West Indian couple at number forty-three had just moved into the area and didn’t know anyone. Number forty-five was out. Susan felt her heart beat faster as she lifted the brass lion’s head knocker of number forty-seven, Jameson’s house. She was sure the whole street could hear her heart and the knocker thumping in concert, echoing from the walls.
She had it all rehearsed. If the man with the puppy-dog eyes answered the door, she was going to lift up her clipboard and tell him she was doing market research on neighbourhood shopping habits: how often did he use the local supermarket, that kind of thing. Under no circumstances, Banks had said, was she to enter the house. As if she would. As her mother used to say, she wasn’t as green as she was cabbage-looking.
But the heavy knocks just echoed in the silence. She listened. Nothing stirred inside. All her instincts told her the house was empty. She relaxed and moved on to number forty-nine.
‘Yes?’ An old lady with dry, wrinkled skin opened the door, but kept it on the chain.
Susan kept her voice down, even though she was sure Jameson wasn’t home. She showed her card. ‘DC Susan Gay, North Yorkshire Police. I’d like to talk to you about your neighbour Mr Jameson, if I may.’
‘He’s not at home.’
‘I know. Do you know where he is?’
The face looked at Susan for some time. She couldn’t help but be reminded of reptile skin with slit lizard eyes peeping out of the dry folds.
The door shut, the chain rattled, and the door opened again. ‘Come in,’ the woman said.
Susan walked straight into the small living room, which smelled of mothballs and peppermint tea. Everything was in shades of dark brown: the wallpaper, the wood around the fireplace, the three-piece suite. And in the fireplace stood an electric fire with fake coals lit by red bulbs. All three elements blazed away. There might be a chilly breeze outside, but the temperature was still in the mid-teens. The room was stifling, worse than Pratt’s office. As the door closed, Susan suddenly felt claustrophobic panic, though she had never suffered from claustrophobia in her life. A heavy brown curtain hung from a brass rail at the top of the door; it swept along the floor with a long hissing sound as the door closed.
‘What’s Arthur been up to now?’ the woman asked.
‘Will you tell me your name first?’
‘Gardiner. Martha Gardiner. What’s he been up to? Here, sit down. Can I get you a cup of tea?’
Susan remained by the door. ‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘I can’t stop. It’s very important we find out where Mr Jameson is.’
‘He’s gone on his holidays, that’s where. Has he done anything wrong?’
