Crooked Street

by Priscilla Masters

  The other two shrugged.

  ‘Where’s he gone off to?’

  Again this drew no answer.

  Leroy’s face changed. ‘How much money did he have on him?’

  ‘Depends.’ Scott was a big guy and a man of few words.

  ‘Yeah, depends on what?’ Jeff’s sour character had distorted his features years ago so his face was fixed in a permanently asymmetrical sneer.

  Scott was undeterred by the challenge. Of the three of them, although his thought processes were slow, he was actually the most intelligent. Jadon had been their smarmy front-line man. Good with the clients. Convincing. Suited and booted, in designer shades, his bullying Mitsubishi with heavily tinted windows and bull bar, he had acted the part of a New York heavy when really he’d been nothing like it. Inside Jadon was a wimp and the others had known it.

  Scott was the one who could work out the exact finances down to the last percentage, the last penny. ‘I’ll tell you what it depends on, Jeff,’ he said. ‘It depends on how far he’d got with his round. If he’d finished maybe eight, nine hundred quid?’

  He spent a moment calculating, his head nodding as he totted up the numbers and revised his estimate. ‘It wouldn’t have been more than a thousand. Not enough to justify doing a runner unless he’d been salting stuff away for a bit, or else he had bigger plans,’ he finished slowly. Scott was the one with the brains. He was also the most suspicious. A product of a violent home and youthful abuse, he had no faith in human nature. Absolutely none. Zero to minus.

  Jeff spoke next, his eyes narrowed. ‘Did you talk to Eve, Leroy?’

  ‘Yeah, I did.’ Leroy Wilson spoke quickly, jerkily. ‘As soon as the detective got off the line. I rang her. Asked her what the fuck was going on.’

  Scott showed curiosity. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Nothing. She just burst into tears.’ Far from being sympathetic, his expression was one of disgust.

  Neither of his two colleagues had anything like an appropriate response to this either so after a pause Leroy held his hands up. ‘I tell her, you go out shoppin’ for a bit.’ He looked at his two mates. ‘Well, that’s what works for women, innit?’

  Jeff and Scott rolled their eyes. They didn’t think much of this plan.

  It was Jeff who started to move forward. He gritted his teeth. A small man with a naturally sour and paranoiac nature, he trusted no one. And that, in this business, was a virtue.

  ‘We need to find him, don’t we?’

  Scott laughed, tipping back in his chair. ‘We can let the police do that. They’re on the job.’

  The other two simply shrugged and Scott continued, ‘Let’s be practical. One of us has got to take up the round,’ he pointed out reasonably. ‘We can’t let them get away with it. It’s our living. We can’t afford to lose money ourselves.’

  ‘So, what’s happened to him?’ Jeff Armitage looked at each of his buddies in turn. Leroy’s response was typically confrontational. ‘What do you think’s happened to him?’

  They looked at one another.

  ‘He has to have done a runner,’ Jeff said, but with hesitation.

  Scott was scornful. ‘You think? You really think?’

  Jeff dropped his eyes and looked uncomfortable.

  They took the ring road round Hanley. Mike was fishing. ‘So what’s she like?’

  ‘Who?’ Inwardly she was smirking. She knew perfectly well who her sergeant was referring to.

  ‘Eve. Mrs Glover.’

  ‘You’d like her,’ she said, meeting his dark eyes. ‘She’s glamorous, an ex-beautician. Petite. Very pretty, actually. Perma-tan and pearly white teeth.’

  Korpanski played up to the role. ‘Oh. So when do I get to meet her?’

  Joanna turned to look at him. ‘Soon,’ she said, ‘unless her devoted husband turns up.’ She was silent for a moment, her mind working through the sparse facts she knew about their missing man.

  ‘Mike,’ she said, ‘which gym do you go to?’

  ‘The Fit Factory. I thought you knew that. Why?’

  ‘Our missing husband was a member of Pecs.’

  ‘That place?’ Korpanski snorted. ‘Full of psychopaths pumped up on anabolic steroids.’ He was chortling to himself. ‘The only reason it hasn’t been raided is if it was it’d be closed down and then you’d have a load of psychos at a loose end five nights a week.’

  ‘I see.’

  Joanna wondered whether that described their missing man. Not a perfect husband but a psycho?

  But she had no time to ponder that point. They’d arrived.

  Johnston and Pickles was a smart, square, modern and characterless building on the edge of Hanley. Purpose built and easy to find with plenty of free parking all around for clients and the threat of an expensive wheel clamp for anyone misusing the privilege. The board announced its business modestly with a small and unobtrusive sign advertising ‘Accountancy and Financial Management’. Everything about the building and its ambience was uninspiring, as anonymously beige as the house in Disraeli Place. But then, Joanna supposed, maybe it was better if accountants and financial managers weren’t too flashy but merged into the background without attracting attention from HMRC or anyone else for that matter. She pushed open the door.

  Surprisingly the person behind the front desk was not a glamorous young woman but a youth – maybe aged twenty – in a chain-store suit with Justin Bieber hair who rose as they approached. ‘Can I help?’ His manner was guarded. He’d already sussed out they were police.

  Joanna flashed the Open Sesame ID card and he flushed. Instinct confirmed.

  ‘Can we speak to your CEO?’ Korpanski asked bluntly. ‘Just for a minute.’

  Joanna was watching him carefully. His fingers on the telephone keypad were not so much shaking as vibrating. He was either pumped up on too much caffeine or he was nervous about something. Just the presence of the police?

  But Joanna had met this before – people who had a guilty conscience even though they were innocent. It didn’t necessarily mean anything. But still …

  The youth spoke quietly into the phone, hand over his mouth, eyes fixed on them both as though they were likely to nick the vase of flowers that sat on the desk. ‘It’s Simon, sir. Front desk. The police are here.’ Well, at least the lad was brief. He flicked his glance over Joanna and Mike. ‘Couple of detectives,’ he added. ‘They’re asking to see you, sir.’

  Something was barked down the phone and the youth responded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  They noticed the CEO had not asked what a couple of detectives wanted to see him about. A lack of curiosity or did he already know?

  ‘He’ll be down in a minute.’ His training must have kicked in then. He smiled at them, the charm switched on to max. ‘Can I make you a drink or something?’

  ‘A coffee would be lovely,’ Joanna said. Give the kid something to do. Mike merely nodded.

  The next few minutes were taken up with the supplying and drinking of coffee from a machine served in Styrofoam cups. But the flavour wasn’t bad.

  The CEO of Johnston and Pickles was much as expected, plump but brisk, in a smarter suit than his office boy, with thinning hair, a wide smile and anxious eyes.

  ‘Karl Robertson,’ he said, holding his hand out for a firm handshake. ‘Do you want to come to my office?’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Joanna answered politely. No point antagonizing him.

  Like the CEO himself, Robertson’s office was much as expected. Top-of-the-range computer and an abstract painting on the wall – a blur of greens, blues and reds. A phone, cream walls, beige carpet and a lovely view over the hilltop centre of Hanley on the horizon completed the picture. Joanna crossed to the window, picking out two stumpy bottle kilns. Robertson picked up on her appreciation of the view. ‘Shame there aren’t more of those left,’ he said. ‘Would give the city a bit more of a unique identity.’

  She turned back to face him. ‘Yes. It would.’ For the briefest of moments there was a co
nnection. They were not police officer and potential informant but two people who could appreciate the city’s heritage.

  Then abruptly the atmosphere cooled. Robertson settled behind his desk and Mike and Joanna perched on two black leather armchairs opposite. Now there was no mistaking their roles. They were CEO and police. Robertson leaned forward ever so slightly, conspiratorially, almost indulgently. ‘Now what is all this about?’

  ‘Do you know a Mr Jadon Glover?’

  Robertson looked annoyed. ‘No, I don’t,’ he said. ‘I’ve already been asked that. I don’t know the man.’

  Korpanski shifted slightly in his chair and Joanna flipped the photograph on to the desk. ‘This is Mr Glover,’ Joanna said. ‘Do you recognize him?’

  Robertson did her the courtesy of looking carefully at the photograph before shaking his head. ‘Nope,’ he said with certainty, looking up now. ‘I don’t recognize him.’

  ‘He claimed to work here.’

  There was a pause before Robertson asked the obvious question. ‘Why would he pretend that?’ His frown could have been interpreted as puzzlement or it could simply be an affectation. It gave Joanna time to provide some alternative answers to herself.

  To hide what he really did? Why would he do that? And why pick on this little mouse of a business? Purely because it was geographically near to his real base? Or was there some other reason?

  She studied Robertson and wondered. Was there a connection between the two?

  Not having received an explanation, Robertson was frowning. ‘I know all my employees,’ he said, a crisp challenge in his voice. ‘This isn’t a big firm.’ He couldn’t resist tacking on a small plug. ‘Although we do handle a great deal of important business. This man,’ he jabbed at the picture with an aggressive forefinger, ‘does not work here, I can tell you. He is not on the firm’s payroll.’ Then something else struck him. ‘What is your interest in him?’

  ‘He appears to have gone missing,’ Joanna said.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry,’ Robertson said tightly, ‘but I can’t help you.’

  Joanna was about to get up, thank the man and take their leave but surprisingly Mike spoke up. ‘Do you know Eve Glover?’

  ‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘Should I?’

  ‘She’s this man’s wife.’

  Robertson shifted in his chair, hinting that it was time for them to go. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘This seems to have been a bit of …’

  Joanna anticipated. ‘Not a bit of it,’ she said. ‘We just thought we’d check up, you know.’

  ‘Quite, quite. Well, I’m sorry I can’t help you but …’

  His face changed. Froze. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Eve Glover wouldn’t be Eve Sutherland, would she?’

  Korpanski spoke out of turn. ‘I don’t know her maiden name. Why?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Joanna said, caution in her voice.

  ‘If it is her she used to have a hairdressing salon and beauty parlour in Russell Street, Leek,’ he said. ‘A few years ago now. She used to do my hair.’ He looked a little sheepish. ‘When I had a little more. And she did my nails. I think she sold up just about the time she got married.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘So you mean that this’ – slight pause – ‘Jadon is Eve’s husband?’

  ‘It’s possible, sir.’

  Joanna shifted in her seat. The long arm of coincidence? The short arm of something else or the beginnings of a sticky snail-trail?

  She gave Mike a swift, grateful glance. They had established a connection between Mr Jadon Glover and the firm of Johnston and Pickles. Admittedly through his wife and it was a pretty tenuous one – hair and nails … she must have had lots of clients – but it was a definite connection and it interested her.

  ‘You haven’t seen her since her marriage?’

  ‘No. I’ve had to go somewhere else …’ another embarrassed smile, ‘… for my beauty treatments.’

  Joanna resisted the temptation to smile at the image. ‘Right.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can think of that might help us find the missing husband?’

  Robertson shook his head.

  As they were leaving the accountants Joanna touched Mike’s shoulder. ‘So where did that bit of inspiration come from?’

  He looked sheepish. ‘His nails.’

  She stared at him, astonished. ‘And since when have you made a study of men’s manicures?’

  His response was a loud, slightly embarrassed guffaw. ‘You’re not the only one who notices things, puts two and two together and makes five, you know, Jo. I put his tidy appearance together with what you told me about Mrs Glover. Anyway, I hit gold, didn’t I?’

  ‘You certainly did,’ she said. ‘Well done, you. But the thing is, Mike, who is Jadon Glover? What’s his real job? Why has he gone missing? Where is he?’

  ‘Oh, just a few questions, Jo,’ he mocked. ‘Nothing too much, eh?’

  For answer she gave him a wicked grin. ‘Shall we take a look at Jadon’s real offices, Sergeant?’

  But they proved hard to find. They cruised along the street, past closely packed terraced houses, a few foreign food shops and a newsagents, but nothing proclaimed any business premises. It was invisible.

  Joanna rang Leroy from the car. This time he picked up straight away and recognized her number. ‘Inspector.’ His tone was polite. Wary.

  ‘I’m in your street.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Where exactly are you?’

  ‘In my office.’

  ‘Which is?’

  He gave a little chuckle. ‘Park by the Chinese food shop. Turn to your right and walk back down the street a hundred yards. Do you see a doorway painted black?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then come straight up the stairs. We’ll see you in a minute.’

  They walked and found it. Unobtrusive, almost furtive, painted black as Leroy had described, set back from the street, hidden from view. Nothing on the door to advertise what was inside.

  It led to a steep, narrow staircase, poorly lit. The door at the top had frosted glass and a light was visible beyond. Again, no business title. She knocked and pushed it open without waiting for an answer, Mike right behind her.

  They were in a surprisingly spacious office, a big dormer window at the end with, like Johnston and Pickles’ offices, a panoramic view over the untidy city: rows of steely roofed terraced houses, a couple of stumpy bottle kilns and the spire of St Martin’s Church recently saved from demolition. Hanley rose up in front of them. Three pairs of eyes regarded them.

  Leroy was a handsome big black guy with dreadlocks. Obviously Afro-Caribbean – very striking and memorable. He had a beautiful wide grin stuffed full of big white teeth, set in a face full of fun and merriment. It was hard not to like him. Not so hard not to trust him. Behind the giggles was a formidable scowl and a hard stare. Something cruel lay behind the laughter. He was the sort of guy who would laugh all the time he was kicking or punching.

  Joanna turned her attention to the other two. Jeff Armitage proved to be less charismatic: a skinny, mean-lipped and shifty-eyed guy with a suspicious manner and a twist to his mouth while Scott – well, Scott was just big and beefy with a large pot belly and surprisingly perceptive eyes. All were superficially polite, standing as they entered the room. Joanna wondered where exactly Jadon had fitted into this bunch of ne’er-do-wells.

  Leroy seemed to take the lead initially. ‘Inspector Piercy,’ he said, holding out his hand and with a quick glance to the other two. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  Korpanski took up his usual stance, arms akimbo by the door as though he was expecting trouble: one of them trying to escape. He looked like the genie of the lamp, waiting for it to be rubbed and given his instruction. Joanna communicated with a swift look. DS Korpanski looked uncompromising. No one was going to get past him.

  ‘OK,’ Joanna perched on the desk, crossed her legs and addressed them collectively. ‘I don’t know quite where to start,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘W
hat is all this about? Where’s your colleague? Why have you hidden your business behind Johnston and Pickles? Why is there no name on the door? Why did Jadon lie to his wife about his place of work and his job? Why conceal your address and what is your true business?’

  The three looked at each other as though wondering who was to answer the flurry of questions. After a minute or two Leroy sucked in a deep breath. ‘We ain’t done nothing illegal,’ he protested.

  ‘We’ll be the judge of that.’

  In the end it was Scott Dooley who started answering in a surprisingly cultured accent. ‘Jay didn’t want to tell Eve what he really did.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘He thought saying he was an accountant would give him a bit more status.’

  ‘Than?’

  Scott drew in a deep, wheezy breath. ‘You could say,’ he said pleasantly, ‘that we’re sort of financial managers.’

  Joanna didn’t have time for this. ‘What are you?’

  ‘Sort of payday lending,’ Leroy said with a broad grin.

  ‘Doorstep lending?’ It was Korpanski who’d spoken with a hint of anger and accusation in his voice.

  Leroy stared him out. ‘It’s all perfectly legal, Sergeant.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Korpanski took a threatening step towards them. None of them backed off. They were a tough load of old chickens.

  Joanna continued, ‘So you have clients who owe you money and whom you charge exorbitant interest rates. Where was Jadon off to on Wednesday night?’

  ‘He would have been doing his regular round, collecting from the clients.’

  ‘The same ones every Wednesday?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’d like a list.’

  Scott shuffled his feet. ‘Uuumm.’

  Joanna was not in the mood for playing games. ‘Is there a problem with that?’

  ‘No. No. I’ll sort it.’ For a big guy, his movement was quick and agile.

  ‘How many clients do you have round Leek?’

  ‘Forty, fifty – somewhere round there.’

  ‘And altogether?’

  ‘Phooph.’ Leroy blew his cheeks out. ‘Thousands, Inspector, love. Leek, Hanley, Burslem, Stoke, Fenton, Longton and all the areas round about. The Potteries and Leek are not exactly Mayfair, you know. People need money.’ He spread out his big hands. ‘Things are expensive and wages aren’t exactly high round here. You’re lucky if you get the bloody minimum.’