They had arranged to meet at a pub called the Pig and Whistle, mainly because neither of them was known there.
The newly promoted Inspector Walker arrived first, and thus had ample opportunity to study Mike Traynor as the journalist crossed the bar.
And the man didn’t look happy, Walker thought. He definitely didn’t look happy.
Traynor dropped down into the chair opposite Walker with all the grace of a dumped sack of potatoes.
‘The bitch!’ he said. ‘The bloody bitch!’
Walker, who never failed to draw pleasure from others’ discomfort – even if the ‘other’, in this case, was an ally of his – couldn’t resist grinning.
‘I take it that you’re talking about our dear Detective Chief Inspector Paniatowski,’ he said.
‘She’s getting better at giving these press conferences, you know,’ Traynor complained.
‘Some people might think that was a good thing,’ Walker said, still extracting as much fun out of the moment as he could.
‘Some people might think it, but I’m not one of them,’ Traynor said. ‘The thing is, she’s developed this trick of sounding as if she’s being frank and open. And she’s got so good at it that most of the morons who pass themselves off as journalists are taken in. But not me. Not Mike Traynor.’
‘So she didn’t tell you anything useful?’ Walker asked.
‘No,’ Traynor agreed. His eyes narrowed. ‘And neither have you.’
It was Walker’s turn to start feeling uncomfortable. ‘That’s because there’s nothing to tell at the moment. Whatever happened out in the woods, Ma’am’s keeping a tight lid on it.’
‘I pay you for information, not excuses,’ Traynor said tartly.
How things had changed, Walker thought. Only a few weeks earlier, when the journalist had been unsure of him, their relationship had been like a courtship, with Traynor making all of the running.
‘If DCI Paniatowski’s not doing her job properly, then it’s your duty as a member of the police force – and the well-being of that force is where your loyalty truly lies – to make the general public aware of that failing. And, of course – though I know this wouldn’t sway you one way or the other – there might be a bit of money in it for you.’
That was what Traynor had said back then.
But now the journalist was like a man who, having coaxed his bride to the altar, no longer saw the need to make any effort. Now, in Traynor’s eyes, his police source was no more than a drudge – bought and paid for.
Many a man would have been hurt by such a change in attitude, Walker thought, but the truth was that it didn’t really bother him what Traynor thought of him, as long as the money kept coming in.
Besides, he told himself, whatever the journalist might think, he was still the one in control, because if Traynor really started to annoy him, he could always arrest the bastard on some trumped-up charge. If he did that, of course, Traynor would try to drag him down, too, based on the bribes he’d paid out. But without the money as evidence, it would just sound like sour grapes – and they’d never find the money, however hard they looked!
‘I’ll try and get you something with a bit more meat to it,’ the inspector told the journalist, ‘but since it’s going to be harder work and more risk for me, it will naturally cost you a little more than usual.’
‘Don’t push it,’ Traynor threatened.
‘And don’t you try bullying me,’ Walker said. ‘Or bullshitting me, either. You’d sell your own granny to raise the money you needed to bring Ma’am down – and we both know it.’
‘I’ll pay well for good information,’ Traynor conceded. ‘But you’d better make sure it is good.’
‘Like I said, I’ll do what I can,’ Walker replied. ‘Are you stopping for a drink?’
Traynor shook his head, and clouds of dandruff fell to his collar like a gentle early snow.
‘There’s no time for boozing today,’ his lips said. ‘I’ve got to get back to the office.’
But what his eyes said was, ‘The way I feel about you at this minute, I’d rather cut my own arm off than have a drink with you.’
Walker watched Traynor walk to the door, then was suddenly aware that someone else was standing next to the chair that the journalist had just vacated. He turned, and saw that the new arrival was a man who had silver hair and was wearing an expensive-looking herringbone suit.
‘Would you mind if I joined you, Inspector Walker?’ the new arrival asked mildly.
‘Yes, I bloody well would mind,’ Walker growled.
‘Really?’ the man with the silver hair said.
‘Really!’ Walker repeated.
‘I’m sorry you feel like that,’ the silver-haired man replied.
And then he sat down anyway.
NINE
The cafe was a greasy spoon, located just off the market square. The moment he entered the door, DI Beresford had it tagged. It was the sort of place that only invested in a single teaspoon, and even that was kept chained to the counter – an establishment in which the dishcloths were rinsed out once a week, whether they needed it or not. It was not, in other words, somewhere he would normally have considered going in to – except when leading a police raid – but it was where Sid Eccleston had insisted they meet, and so there he was.
‘I use this place as my office,’ Eccleston said, as he rolled himself a wafer-thin cigarette on the grimy Formica tabletop. ‘Yes, surprising as it might seem to you, I run my entire business empire from a humble little place like this.’ He winked at Beresford, as if he were about to teach him a valuable lesson. ‘It helps cut down on the expenses, you see, Inspector.’
And any cockroach you can catch is probably yours to keep, Beresford thought.
Eccleston was around forty-five years old, the inspector guessed, and was one of those men who took little pride in their personal appearance – the state of his teeth was ample evidence of that – but who were wildly impressed with what they thought they’d accomplished in life.
‘When the Calcutta Mill closed down, most of the lads I’d worked with blew their redundancy payments in the first few months,’ Eccleston said, in a self-satisfied manner. ‘They just pissed it away! They bought new cars, and big television sets. They had fitted carpets laid in their front rooms, and took their families off to Spain for their holidays.’
‘But not you,’ Beresford said, as he knew he was expected to.
‘But not me,’ Eccleston agreed emphatically. ‘Them old workmates of mine thought they’d soon get new jobs in new mills, but I knew that kind of job was never coming back to Whitebridge.’ He paused, and looked down at the mug in front of him. ‘You’re not expecting me to pay for these teas, are you? I mean, when all’s said and done, I am giving up my valuable time to assist you in your inquiries, so it wouldn’t be unreasonable to expect the police force to provide the liquid refreshment.’
‘Well, our expenses are very tightly controlled, and don’t normally run as far as providing cups of tea for witnesses,’ Beresford said, deadpan, ‘but since your time is so valuable, I think we can make an exception to the rule on this occasion.’
‘That’s all right, then,’ Eccleston said. ‘Now where was I? Oh yes, I knew the jobs were never coming back, so I invested my redundancy money in a couple of terraced houses, and started renting them out immediately.’
‘It was that easy, was it?’
‘Simplicity itself, if you’re smart enough to grasp an opportunity when it’s presented to you. See, there’s plenty of newly-married couples living in the in-laws’ back bedroom, and desperate to get out. But they don’t have the capital for it, do they? Then I come along and offer them an escape – and if the place I rent them is a bit old-fashioned, or has a touch of damp, they’re not going to complain as long as I’m not charging more than they can afford to pay.’
‘You make yourself sound almost philanthropic,’ Beresford said.
‘Here, there’s nothing bent about me,
’ Eccleston, as if he’d just been insulted. ‘I’m a simple, honest Whitebridge man, born and bred.’
‘Of course you are,’ Beresford agreed. ‘I certainly never meant to suggest otherwise.’
‘Anyway, when them first two properties started turning a profit, I bought a couple more,’ Eccleston continued, somewhat mollified. ‘And ask me how many I’ve got now.’
‘How many have you got now?’ Beresford asked.
‘Fifteen! All of them occupied, and all of them bringing me in a regular income.’
‘And one of them was occupied by Andy Adair,’ Beresford said, getting to the real point of this meeting.
‘That’s right, it was,’ Eccleston agreed. He frowned. ‘That place could be a bit of a problem to me, now, couldn’t it?’
‘Could it?’
‘Well, yes. I mean, my tenant’s been murdered. Admittedly, it could have been worse – he could have been killed on the actual property – but even so, some people are a bit squeamish about renting a house that was once occupied by a man who met a violent death.’
‘Some people are over-fussy,’ Beresford said.
‘You’ve hit the nail right on the head,’ Eccleston agreed enthusiastically. ‘Some people are over-fussy. Still, knowing that doesn’t really help matters, does it?’ He sighed. ‘If I want to get anybody in that house soon, I’m going to have to lower the rent, you know.’
‘You’d have thought, wouldn’t you, that before Adair allowed himself to get killed, he’d have considered the inconvenience that he would be causing you?’ Beresford said dryly.
‘What?’ Eccleston asked, obviously puzzled. Then he gave a thin laugh. ‘Oh, I see. It’s a joke.’
‘That’s certainly one way of looking at it,’ Beresford agreed. ‘How did Adair happen to rent the house from you?’
‘He came recommended.’
‘Who by?’
‘By a lad called Harry Quinn, who I’ve known for years. They’d done a bit of soldiering together. Harry said Adair was a good sort, and I was prepared to take his word for it.’
‘And was he a good tenant, as well as a good sort?’
‘A perfect one. Always paid his rent on time, and if there were any repairs needed doing round the house, he’d do them himself, instead of bothering me – like most of my bloody tenants do.’
‘Where did he work?’ Beresford asked.
‘Work?’ Eccleston repeated.
‘Work,’ Beresford agreed.
‘Do you know, now you mention it, I’ve absolutely no idea.’
‘So as far as you’re aware, he might have had no job at all?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Then weren’t you taking a bit of a chance by renting the house to him in the first place?’
Eccleston grinned. ‘No chance at all. Taking chances is not the way I operate. He paid me three months’ deposit in advance. In cash!’ Eccleston suddenly looked a little concerned. ‘That needn’t go down in your report, need it?’
‘Why? Because you haven’t declared the money he gave you?’
‘Look, lad, I’ll buy the teas,’ Eccleston said hastily.
Beresford smiled. ‘That’s very generous of you.’
‘Think nothing of it. And as to that other matter . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I meant to declare the income, but I somehow haven’t quite got round to it. So if you could just give me a couple of days to get my records up to date . . .’
Beresford frowned. ‘I don’t know,’ he said dubiously. ‘That’s asking a lot, that is.’
‘And if there’s anything I can do in return . . .’
‘How many of your houses have young children living in them?’ Beresford asked.
Eccleston shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Seven or eight.’
‘And how many of those houses with young children in them have had damp-proof courses installed?’
‘That’s hard to say, off-hand.’
‘Take a guess,’ Beresford suggested.
‘Well, none, I suppose,’ Eccleston admitted.
‘So you knowingly house children in damp dwellings, do you?’
‘Doesn’t do them any real harm,’ Eccleston protested.
‘Bollocks!’ Beresford said. ‘Look, I’ll make a deal with you.’
‘What kind of deal?’
‘Get damp-proof courses installed in all your houses within the week, and you’ll hear no more from me about undeclared income.’
‘Do you know how much a bloody damp-proof course costs, Inspector?’ Eccleston asked, outraged.
‘No, I don’t,’ Beresford admitted. ‘But do you know how thorough the Inland Revenue can be, once they start going over your books? And do you know that if they do find evidence of tax fraud, you could actually go to prison?’
‘I’ll get them damp courses installed,’ Eccleston promised.
‘You’d better, Mr Eccleston,’ Beresford replied, ‘because I’ll be checking up on you.’
The man with the silver hair had been sitting opposite Inspector Walker, in what appeared to be comfortable silence, for at least five minutes.
Walker himself was sipping moodily at his beer, and wondering why he was tolerating the man’s presence. There was, he supposed, no reason at all why he hadn’t told him to just sod off – except that he didn’t look like the kind of man you could tell to sod off.
‘Have you got a name?’ he asked finally.
‘Of course. How rude of me not to have introduced myself before,’ the silver-haired man said. ‘My name’s Forsyth.’
Walker grimaced at his accent. ‘Foreigner, are you?’ he asked.
‘No, as a matter of fact, I’m from London.’
‘That’s what I said – a foreigner,’ Walker replied, feeling a little better for having scored a point. ‘So what can I do for you, Mr Forsyth?’
‘I couldn’t help noticing that you were just in earnest conversation with Mr Traynor of the Lancashire Evening Chronicle,’ Forsyth said.
‘In earnest conversation? I was talking to him, if that’s what you mean. Not that that’s any of your business.’
‘Ah, but it is my business,’ Forsyth said mildly. ‘You see, I work for the government.’
‘So what? I can talk to whoever I like, whenever I like. It’s still a free country, isn’t it?’
Forsyth laughed, dismissively. ‘A free country?’ he repeated. ‘You’re surely not still naive enough to believe that fairy tale, are you, Inspector?’
Enough was enough, Walker decided. Though his instincts were screaming against it, it was time to show this man just whose patch this was.
‘I believe it enough to believe that I’ve got the right to tell you to bugger off,’ he said.
A bit clumsy, that, he thought, but at least he’d got his message across.
Except that, apparently, he hadn’t. Because instead of getting up and leaving, as he was supposed to, Forsyth was doing no more than shaking his head slowly from side to side.
‘I could go,’ the Londoner said. ‘And I will – if you insist. But you’d be making a big mistake to let me.’
‘Would I? Why?’
‘Because I know a great deal about you, and what I know can be used either against you or for your benefit.’
‘That’s a load of bollocks,’ Walker said.
Forsyth sighed. ‘Really? Tell me, Inspector Walker, do you know where your wife is living at the moment?’
‘Leave my wife out of this,’ Walker said aggressively.
‘Which means, I take it, that you have absolutely no idea at all where she is,’ Forsyth replied. ‘But, you see, I have. Mrs Walker, née Horrocks, is living in sin with a door-to-door insurance salesman . . .’
‘Everybody knows that!’
‘. . . in Plymouth. Last night the two of them went out for a Chinese meal. He had safe old steak and chips, but she, being of a more adventurous nature, chose sweet and sour pork. They went to bed at a quarter past eleven, and
were hammering away at the bedsprings until a quarter to twelve, which is quite an impressive performance for a couple in middle age.’
‘You’re making all that up,’ Walker said.
‘Don’t you believe any of it?’ Forsyth asked with a smile. ‘Or is it just the last part you find hard to accept?’
‘I don’t believe any of it. I could make up stories about your wife, and you’d have no way of knowing whether or not I was telling the truth.’
‘Then let’s talk about something which you can verify,’ Forsyth suggested. ‘You did your national service in Korea, where you were commended once for bravery and twice hauled before a disciplinary board for breaching standing orders. You drive a Ford Escort, which is now so battered that it is worth considerably less than the payments you still owe on it. You have two hundred and thirty-two pounds in your deposit account at the Linen Bank, and forty-one pounds sixty-three pence in your current account.’ Forsyth paused. ‘Need I go on?’
‘He did that all without notes,’ Walker thought, with amazement. ‘He’s probably got half my life story in his head.’
‘How long have you been collecting information on me?’ he demanded, angrily.
‘Only since this morning,’ Forsyth replied. ‘So imagine what I could come up with if I really started digging.’
‘What exactly do you want?’ Walker asked, defeated.
‘Since the Linda Szymborska murder investigation, you have been feeding information on police activities to Mr Traynor . . .’
‘If I have told him anything – and I’m not admitting I have – then it’s only been in the interest of the Force and—’
‘For which you have been paid, the money going into a bank account you opened in the name of Charles Hudson, especially for that purpose. Would you like me to quote the account number?’
‘So that’s it then, is it?’ Walker asked. ‘You take what you know to the chief constable, and I get the chop?’
‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ Forsyth assured him. ‘Far be it from me to nip the promising career of an outstanding policeman like you in the bud.’
The Ring of Death Page 7
