by Ted Tayler
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it would have been awkward for her; I suppose, given the circumstances. But she could have made me a coffee, and I would have stayed until she was ready to close.”
“Why would she be closing the parlour?”
“The opening times on Sundays were displayed on a board in Reception. Six pm to nine pm.”
“Where did you move to when you realised the parlour had closed for good?”
“The new parlour on Cricklade Road. Heaven knows what her real name is, but a girl called Janina sees to me now. She’s not a patch on Gem, but I can’t afford to retire, not yet.”
“What work is it you do, Mr Naylor?” asked Gus.
“I work for a firm of funeral directors,” replied Jeff Naylor.
Gus heard a cough from the back of the office as Neil tried to stifle a laugh.
“I want you to think carefully now, Mr Naylor. You arrived at eight. Did you see or hear anything as you approached the parlour? What about when you left thirty minutes later, did you notice anyone singing or whistling?”
“I heard a mechanical sound. Wait. That would have been upstairs. There was a utility room. They always kept the door closed. It was further along the corridor. Next to the small room where the girls had their lockers and made themselves drinks. There was a constant need for fresh towels. One of the girls must have started a washing machine.”
“Nothing more you could hear?”
“When I came out of the alleyway, I turned left to walk home. As I passed the shop window, I realised there someone was inside.”
“In the barber’s shop?” asked Gus. This was new.
This revelation alerted Alex Hardy. He checked the murder file they had inherited from Gablecross. There was no mention of Ahmet Tekin, the Turkish barber who leased the ground floor unit.
According to the statement he had given to DS Latimer he had closed at half-past five on Saturday afternoon. The shop opened at nine o’clock on Monday mornings, but the police wouldn’t allow him inside until they had completed their investigations. Alex noticed Jake Latimer had added that Tekin was annoyed at having to turn customers away.
When Alex looked up, Gus had finished his questioning of Jeff Naylor. Neil was taking him downstairs to the car park. Gus had asked Neil to photograph the damage to Naylor’s new car. It was the least they could do. Knowing Gus, he would pass it on to the right department and then forget it. It wasn’t their problem.
“Did you hear that, Alex?” asked Gus.
“Yes, guv. The owner Ahmet Tekin is a Muslim, as the vast majority of Turks. He attends the mosque in Manchester Road. Tekin may have needed to attend to something on his way home. However, he didn’t tell Latimer when interviewed.”
“What time would he have been at the mosque for prayers?”
“Isha is the last prayer of the day, guv, between sunset at around a quarter past nine that day and midnight. Which suggests he worked at something before he visited the mosque. We need to speak to him.”
“I agree, get in touch with him. We can interview him on his premises. I stopped across the road with Theo Hickerton the other day, but I haven’t stepped inside to check the layout of the building. We need to rectify that.”
Gus checked his watch. They had over an hour to wait before Ian Hewson arrived. He had time to dig into the Culverhouse and Plunkett link. What should the others be doing?
Neil was still outside in the car park. Alex was phoning the Turkish barber.
“Lydia, can you do something for me?”
“If I can, guv. What do you need?”
“Laura Mallinder was an attractive girl. In her teens and early twenties, she had a series of boyfriends. Then, for at least six years, Laura worked in massage parlours. When we spoke to her family, there was no mention of a relationship after she split up with Ian Hewson. Maggie Monk didn’t allow sex on her premises…”
“You want to know why a sexually active teenager suddenly becomes celibate?”
“Laura must have had urges, surely?”
“We can’t profile the poor girl based on the details we’ve learned since her death. From a distance, it seems strange she helped hundreds of men gain sexual release and yet apparently denied herself the pleasure. We don’t know Laura’s mental state during that period. Nor did her family by the sound of it. The interviews with the girls she worked alongside tomorrow might offer better insight. We need to seek emotional causes, such as stress, relationship problems, depression or anxiety. There could have been a memory of sexual abuse or rape, unhappiness with her body. We can’t rule out physical causes, such as hormone problems, or pain from an injury either.”
“Everything we’ve learned of Laura so far suggests she was caring, compassionate and not a nervous, troubled individual. What are we missing?”
“Perhaps, we’ll soon find out,” said Lydia, “Ian Hewson has a wild streak according to his football persona. It would be unusual for that to stay within the confines of the pitch. It’s bound to spill over into his relationships.”
Gus agreed. He was keen to question Hewson over his relationship with Laura. Donna had given him an idea that Hewson may have been among the crowd that visited parlours splashing the cash.
Neil had returned to the office.
“Did Mr Naylor leave us in a happier frame of mind, Neil?” asked Gus.
“He’d done a grand’s worth of damage, guv. I saw him out of his parking space, so he didn’t make matters worse. He had a point. When they made room for our vehicles, the remaining spaces must have got squeezed to ensure they didn’t lose revenue.”
“He might win a claim against the Council. Pigs might fly,” said Gus.
“That comment about the barber being in the shop, guv,” said Neil, “one girl told me he fancied Laura Mallinder, but she knocked him back. He didn’t annoy her according to her.”
“We’re following up on that, Neil,” said Gus, “it might be something.”
Gus tried to recall what had struck him about the barber’s shop when he’d sat across the road from it with Theo Hickerton. It would come to him.
CHAPTER 12
Ian Hewson arrived at two o’clock. He was a fit-looking thirty-four-year-old who looked after his body. His hair was cut short and his face, arms and legs were tanned. Lydia thought he was a poser, wearing a club t-shirt and shorts to a police interview, but typical of the sporting jocks she had known at university.
Hewson’s trainers were top-of-the-range, the designer sunglasses tucked into his shorts would have set him back several hundred pounds. The Ferrari keyring he twirled on his forefinger wasn’t a nervous tic. It was to let them know what car he drove. Lydia revised her opinion. Not a poser. A dickhead.
“Good afternoon, Mr Hewson,” said Gus, “you’re a difficult man to find. Please sit.”
Hewson looked around, then realised the only unoccupied seat meant he had the three younger people behind him. He sat and inspected the old face opposite him.
“My name is Freeman,” said Gus, “a consultant with Wiltshire Police. My Crime Review Team and I are eager to solve the brutal murder of Laura Mallinder seven years ago.”
“Why do you think I could help?” asked Hewson. He had relaxed in the chair, spread his legs. He looked bored.
“You were in a relationship with Laura, were you not?”
“We met at a nightclub and saw one another for a few months. So what? That ended years before she died.”
“Who ended the relationship?”
“Laura. She messed me around.”
“In what way?”
“Laura knew I was serious. I wanted to get engaged. I hoped she would settle down. Her mates, Mo and JoJo messed with her head. They turned her against me. I thought she was seeing someone behind my back.”
“You followed Laura, waited outside the place where she worked. We have laws against that these days. Mr Hewson. You stalked her, didn’t you?”
“Laura wouldn’t se
e sense. She thought me too intense. We parted company. I tried to get back with her but then I got a big break. I moved away.”
“You transferred to a bigger club and secured a well-paid contract?”
Hewson sat up in his chair. Gus had mentioned something that allowed him to brag.
“I got paid way more than I earned at the City. With winning bonuses, I could take home sixty, even seventy grand a week.”
“You are keen to display the trappings we associate with the wealthy young footballers of today,” said Gus, “yet we struggled to find a permanent address. You move from house to house, and that made finding you difficult. Ferrari or no Ferrari your high-earning years are behind you. The National League South is one step from whatever life you have planned after you retire.”
Hewson’s right leg began to bounce. Gus knew he was getting under his skin. Just a few more barbed comments and he would be a prime candidate for a red card.
“When did you last see Laura?” asked Gus.
“Before I left for West Bromwich.”
“You never had cause to return here, to visit family or friends, perhaps? Or to try your luck with Laura again? After all, you were earning big money.”
“I came back to visit my mother, but I never went near the Mallinder family. I didn’t want any more trouble.”
“Ah yes, they had a word with you, didn’t they? Sam and Tyrone told us about that. Gary was a friend of yours though, wouldn’t you say?”
“We met up from time to time in the old days, when I played with the Academy.”
“Did Gary tell you what his sister did for a living?”
“Who says I knew until it appeared in the papers. Whoever it was, they’re a liar.”
“You seem agitated, Mr Hewson. You have a temper. There’s plenty of evidence of that in televised games in which you made brief appearances. You got sent off on various occasions. Your disciplinary record contributed to the decline in your fortunes. The bigger clubs off-loaded you because they prefer players who can be relied upon to stay in control of their emotions for ninety minutes.”
Hewson’s leg bounce became even more rapid.
“I was quick and skilful. I scored eleven goals in my first season. Defenders targeted me. They were jealous.”
“It’s only a game. Mr Hewson. If you don’t get your way, you lash out with your fists. Is that what happened with Laura? Did you attack her when she refused to have anything more to do with you?”
“I never hit her. Laura wouldn’t see sense.”
“I’ll ask you again. When was the last time you saw Laura?”
“In 2004, on October the twenty-third, I took her a bunch of roses. She never even came to the door.”
“Do you spend much time in Swindon?” asked Gus.
“I’ve played there. I’ve been to watch the team once or twice when I was injured. If you’re not playing it helps to travel to the local clubs to feel the buzz. I’ve watched City and Rovers more often.”
“Well, that would only be natural since you came from the city and now live in Bradley Stoke. When did you move there?”
“I moved back five years ago. It’s where I lived as a boy. My mother still lives there.”
“Ah, so you visited her while Laura worked in the massage parlours. You only moved back after her death.”
Hewson did not comment.
“Did you ever spend an evening in Swindon with your teammates between 2006 and 2011?”
“Never,”
“What about in Bristol in the eighteen months before that?”
“I would have been on the town in Birmingham, Manchester or London,”
“Was that where your money went, Mr Hewson? You have told me you earned obscene amounts every week. Surely you spent it on items other than clothing, sunglasses and sports cars?”
“I got cheated,” said Hewson, “I made poor investments. My mother promised to help, but that never happened. I couldn’t move in with her. I’m still earning reasonable money, and I’m getting back on my feet, but I can’t afford to buy a place yet.”
“Are there many of your old colleagues from the Bristol Academy still living in Bradley Stoke?”
“Only three or four. Lads who still play for local teams but never made the grade. Not to the level I did.”
“Is that where you heard about Laura and the men she entertained in the massage parlours?”
“You keep asking me whether I knew. I told you. I didn’t know.”
“We find it hard to believe, Mr Hewson. Footballers mix in the same circles, you play one another with different clubs; there are rivalries. You have a temper, and the opposition knows how to push the right buttons. Hey, Hewson, your bird has got a gentle touch, hasn’t she? I bet you miss that?”
Hewson flipped. He sprang from his chair and slammed the palms of his hands on Gus’s desk. Neil moved forward to intervene. Gus raised a hand to tell him to wait.
“Time to tell us the truth, Ian,”
“I was there, okay. I was there that night, but I didn’t kill her.”
“Sit down, Mr Hewson. Start from the beginning. When did you find out what Laura did for a living?”
“March 2010 - I was injured. I wanted to watch a fellow ex-trainee playing for Rovers, and we drove to Swindon. In town after the game, we spotted Laura in Broadgreen enter the alley.”
“By we, you mean you and Gary Mallinder?”
“Yes,”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing much, Gary was upset; I was mad as hell. We had a haircut and then we went for a meal. We found a club, got drunk and spent the night in my car.”
“So, you both knew for over a year. Are you saying you never visited Gentle Touch to try to talk to her?”
“You were right. Several West Country teams play in the National League South. Laura must have seen players in Bristol or Bath before she moved to Swindon. They started taunting me, making snide comments. I didn’t believe them. Gary didn’t know; he thought they had mistaken her for someone else.”
“What caused you to visit the parlour that night?”
“I’d had enough. I’d been transferred yet again in the summer. The injury I had picked up that put me on the sidelines in 2010 left the club wondering whether I was worth the risk. The only way from there is down into the lower leagues. My money dropped, the side I joined wasn’t successful, so the bonuses disappeared. In the spring of 2011, I made one last attempt to get the money. When that failed, I was angry at the world. If we’d married, I wouldn’t have been on the verge of bankruptcy. Gary wanted his sister to stop what she was doing before Sam found out. The knowledge was already killing his mother.”
“Who came up with the idea of the phone call?”
“How do you find out about that?”
“He’s a detective,” said Neil, placing two cups of coffee on the desk between Hewson and Gus.
“I did. I met Gary in our usual pub. Gary phoned the owner as he walked from pub to pub. I drove to Swindon to confront Laura. He rang to confirm I had thirty minutes before anyone would be there,”
“How did you know Laura would be alone?”
“Ryan told us,”
“Ryan Black?”
“He went in there often, so he overheard things — especially weekdays when five girls are available. In a slack period, the girls gather in the locker room and drink coffee and chat. Ryan overheard the Thai girl saying she had asked the owner to cover for her when she left early on Sunday.”
“So, you created a window where you could talk to Laura to persuade her to give up the work she did. How did you know Ryan Black?”
“I didn’t. Gary did. They worked together from time to time.”
“Did Gary tell Ryan why he needed to see her alone?”
“Gary told him it was a surprise. They hadn’t seen one another for ages. He didn’t tell Ryan I was going instead of Gary.”
It dawned on Gus why Ryan Black had been the second person to ask if that
was it when they interviewed them.
“Laura wasn’t concerned when you rang the bell?”
“Laura opened the door and asked what the hell I was doing there. I followed her upstairs. OK, I dragged her upstairs. We argued for five, maybe ten minutes. She was screaming and shouting. I lost my temper and picked up the nearest thing to me and threw it at her.”
“You missed and smashed the mirror?”
“Yes, that was me. I realised I was wasting my time. Laura was happy with the way her life had turned out. I couldn’t believe what I heard. She kept shouting at me to get the hell out. I ran downstairs, slammed the door behind me and drove back to Bristol. She was alive when I left her. You’ve got to believe me.”
Gus sat back and thought for a while.
“Did you see anyone outside when you left? Did you hear voices?” asked Gus.
“Not that I remember. I was angry and upset. It was probably just as well I didn’t run into anyone.”
“Stay close to Bradley Stoke. Don’t leave the country, Ian. We need to check your story. I’m sure we’ll be in touch with further questions. DS Davis will escort you.”
Ian Hewson left the office with Neil. His coffee cup sat half-empty on the desk.
“We can’t use it, can we, guv?” asked Lydia.
“We didn’t even caution him,” said Alex.
“It doesn’t prevent us from checking whether he lied about being in the parlour,” said Gus. “get his prints tested against the ones found at the scene.”
“Who’s next, guv? We can visit Ahmet Tekin’s shop this afternoon.”
“If you feel up to it, Alex, we’ll take a spin out to Castle Combe first.”
“I thought we finished this,” said Maggie Monk, as she opened the door.
There it was again, thought Gus. What had he missed?
“Why? Was there something we forgot?” asked Gus.
“You didn’t ask me about Charles the other times you came here.”
“We knew you were a widow, and that you moved here in 2010. Difficult to see how your late husband could have been relevant to the case. You had already been running the massage parlour business for four years. You told us last time that the sale of your husband’s business provided the capital. We wondered where the money came from, but it was a logical assumption that you inherited enough money to launch your enterprise. We never suspected you came by it illegally.”
