With No One As Witness

by Elizabeth George

  “Andy Crickleworth,” Max put in. “Little sod’s trying to sort Davey out and set himself up as head of the crew Davey runs with.”

  “Not a gang,” Bev added hastily. “Just boys. They been mates for ages.”

  “But this Crickleworth’s new. When Davey said he wanted to see the tae kwon do, I thought…” Max had been standing, but now he went to the sofa to join his wife. He dropped down onto it and scrubbed his hands across his face. The smaller children reacted to this evidence of their dad’s upset by huddling together at the knees of one of their sisters, who put her hands on their shoulders as if to comfort them. Max brought himself under control, saying, “Tae kwon do people? They never heard of Davey. Never seen him. Didn’t know him. So I phoned the school to see had he been going truant without them telling us, only he hadn’t, see. Today’s the only day he didn’t show up. All term.”

  “Has he been in trouble with the police before?” Havers asked. “Ever face the magistrates? Ever been assigned to a young people’s group for straightening him out?”

  “Our Davey doesn’t need straightening out,” Bev Benton said. “He never even misses school. And he’s that good in his classes, he is.”

  “Doesn’t like anyone to know that, Mum,” Sherry murmured, as if believing her mother had betrayed a confidence in her final remark.

  Max added to this. “He was meant to be tough. Tough louts don’t care much for school.”

  “So Davey acted the part,” Bev explained. “But he wasn’t like that.”

  “And he’s never been in trouble with the police? Never had a social worker?”

  “Why d’you keep asking that? Max…” Bev turned to her husband as if for explanation.

  Lynley intervened. “Have you phoned his friends? The boys you mentioned?”

  “No one’s seen him,” Bev replied.

  “And this other boy? This Andy Crickleworth?”

  No one in the family had met him. No one in the family even knew where to find him.

  “Any chance Davey might’ve made him up?” Havers asked, looking up from her notebook. “Covering for something else he was up to?”

  There was a little silence at this. Either no one knew or no one wanted to answer. Lynley waited, curious, and saw Bev Benton glance at her husband. She seemed reluctant to say anything else. Lynley let the silence continue till Max Benton broke it.

  “Bullies di’n’t ever go after him, did they. They knew our Davey’d sort them if they picked a fight. He was small and…” Benton seemed to realise he’d slipped into the past tense and he stopped himself, looking shaken. His daughter Sherry supplied the conclusion to his thought.

  “Pretty,” she said. “Our Davey’s dead pretty.”

  They all were that, Lynley thought: pretty and small, very nearly doll-like. The boys especially would have to do something to compensate for that. Like fight back furiously if someone tried to harm them. Like end up getting bruised and banged about before they were throttled, sliced, and discarded in the woods.

  Lynley said, “May we see your son’s bedroom, Mr. Benton?”

  “Why?”

  “There might be some indication where he’s gone off to,” Havers said. “Sometimes kids don’t tell their parents everything. If there’s a mate you don’t know about…”

  Max exchanged a look with his wife. It was the first time he’d seemed anything but master of the family. Bev nodded encouragingly. Max told Lynley and Havers to come with him, then.

  He took them upstairs where three bedrooms opened onto a simple square landing. In one of the rooms, two sets of bunk beds stood against opposite walls, a chest of drawers between them. Over one of the bed sets a shelf high on the wall held a collection of CDs and a small, neat stack of baseball caps. Beneath the upper bed, the lower one had been removed altogether and in its place a private lair had been fashioned. Part of it was given over to clothes: baggy trousers, trainers, jumpers, and T-shirts featuring graphics of the American rap artists Bev Benton had spoken about. Part of it contained a set of cheap metal bookshelves that, upon inspection, held all fantasy novels. At the far end of the lair stood a small chest of drawers. All of this, Max Benton told them, was Davey’s.

  As Lynley and Havers ducked within, each of them making for a different part, Max said in a voice no longer authoritarian but instead desperate and very much afraid, “You got to tell me. Wouldn’t be here, would you, unless there was something more. Course I see why you di’n’t want to say in front of the wife and the little ones. But now…They would’ve sent uniforms, not you lot.”

  Lynley had slid his hands into the pockets of the first pair of trousers as Max Benton was speaking. He stopped, though, and came back out of the lair as Havers continued searching within it. He said, “You’re right. We have a body, Mr. Benton. It was found in Queen’s Wood, not far from Highgate station.”

  Max Benton sagged a little, but he waved Lynley off when Lynley would have taken his arm and led him to the lower of the two beds across the room. He said, “Davey?”

  “We’re going to ask you to look at the body. It’s the only way to be absolutely sure. I’m terribly sorry.”

  He said again, “Davey?”

  “Mr. Benton, it may not be Davey.”

  “But you think…Else why would you be troubling to come up here wanting to see his things?”

  “Sir…” From within the lair, Havers spoke. Lynley turned to see that she was holding out something for his inspection. It was a set of handcuffs, but not ordinary ones. They were not metal but formed from heavy plastic and in the dim light beneath the upper mattress, the handcuffs glowed. Havers said, “Could be—” But she was cut off by Max Benton, who said harshly, “I told him to return them things. He said he did. Swore to me because he di’n’t want me taking him along to make sure he handed them over.”

  “To who?” Havers asked.

  “He got ’em off a stall in the Stables Market, di’n’t he. Over by Camden Lock. He said they were a present from a vendor there, but what vendor hands out goods to kids hanging about, you tell me. So I reckoned he nicked them and I told him to take them back straightaway. Little bugger must’ve hid them instead.”

  “What stall in the market? Did he tell you?” Lynley asked.

  “Magic stall, he said. I don’t know the bloke’s name. He never said and I di’n’t ask. I just told him to take the handcuffs back and to bloody well stop pinching clobber not belonging to him.”

  “Magic stall?” Barbara Havers asked. “Are you sure about that, Mr. Benton?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  Havers came out of the lair then. She said to Lynley, “Could I have a word, sir?” She didn’t wait for him to reply. She left the bedroom and went onto the landing.

  She said to Lynley in a quiet, terse voice, “Bloody hell. I may’ve been wrong. Tunnel vision. Whatever you want to call it.”

  “Havers, this isn’t the moment for sharing your epiphanies,” Lynley said.

  “Wait. I’ve been thinking all along of Colossus. But I never thought of magic. What kid fifteen and under doesn’t like magic? No. Sir. Wait—” as Lynley was about to leave her to her stream-of-consciousness monologue. “Wendy’s Cloud is in Camden Lock Market, right next door to the Stables. Now, she’s hopped up on something much of the time and she can’t say what she’s selling or when she’s selling it. But she’s carried ambergris oil in the past—we know that—and when I finished talking to her the other day and was hiking back to my car, I saw this bloke at the Stables…”

  “What bloke?”

  “He was unloading boxes. He was taking them into a magic stall or something like a magic stall and he was a magician. That’s what he said. There can’t be more than one of them at the Stables, can there? And listen to this, sir. He was driving a van.”

  “Red?”

  “Purple. But in the light of a streetlamp at three A.M. or whenever…You’re at your window. You catch a glimpse. You don’t even think about it becau
se, after all, this is a huge city we’re talking about and why would you think you were meant to notice everything about it if a van’s on the street at three A.M.?”

  “Lettering on the van?”

  “Yeah. It was a magician advert.”

  “That’s not what we’re looking for, Havers. That’s not what we saw on the CCTV tape from St. George’s Gardens.”

  “But we don’t know what that van was, the St. George’s Gardens one. It could have been the warden opening up. Or someone there to make a repair.”

  “At three in the morning? Carrying a suspicious-looking tool that very well could have cut the lock from the gate? Havers—”

  “Just hang on. Please. For all we know that could have a logical explanation that’ll be sorted out in another hour. Bloody hell, the bloke could’ve had legitimate business in the garden and what you thought was a tool was something to do with that business. He could have been doing anything: making a repair, taking a piss, making an early newspaper delivery, testing out a new sort of milk float. Anything. My point is…”

  “All right. Yes. I see.”

  She went on as if Lynley were still not onboard. “And I talked to this bloke. This magician. I saw him. So if this body in Queen’s Wood is Davey and if this bloke I saw is the one who had the handcuffs nicked by Davey…” She let him finish her thought.

  Which he did, in short order. “He damn well better have an alibi for last night. Yes, all right, Barbara. I see how you’re putting it together.”

  “And it’s him, sir. Davey. You know it.”

  “The body? Yes. I think it is. But we can’t go further without the formality. I’ll deal with that.”

  “And sh’ll I…?”

  “Get on to the Stables Market. Make the connection between Davey and this magician if you can. Once you do that, get him in for questioning.”

  “I think we’ve got our first real break, sir.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Lynley replied.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  BARBARA HAVERS TOOK THE GLOW-IN-THE-DARK HANDCUFFS with her to the Stables Market, which was, as suggested by its name, an enormous old artillery stable of grimy brick. It ran along a section of Chalk Farm Road, but she entered by means of Camden Lock Place, and began asking the whereabouts of the magic stall at the very first shop. This was an establishment selling furniture and fabrics from the subcontinent. The air was acrid with the scent of patchouli, and sitar music blared forth from speakers insufficient to handle the volume.

  The shop assistant didn’t know anything about a magic stall, but she reckoned Tara Powell over at body piercing could direct Barbara wherever she needed to go. “Does fine work, Tara,” the shop assistant said. She herself had a silver stud beneath her lower lip.

  Barbara found the body-piercing stall without any trouble. Tara Powell turned out to be a cheerful twentysomething girl with appalling teeth. Her bow to her employment consisted of half a dozen holes from the lobe to the top of her right ear as well as a thin gold ring through her left eyebrow. She was in the middle of driving a needle through the septum of an adolescent girl’s nose while her boyfriend stood by with the chosen piece of jewellery in his palm. It was a thick ring not unlike those used on cows. That, Barbara thought, was going to be attractive.

  Tara was nattering on about—of all things—the Prime Minister’s hairline. She apparently had done some considerable research into the subject of the burden of power and responsibility and its effect on hair loss. She could not, however, apparently apply much of her theory to Lady Thatcher.

  It turned out that Tara did indeed know where the magic stall was. She said that Barbara would find it in the alley. When Barbara asked what alley, she said the alley and rolled her eyes in such a way as to communicate that the information ought to be sufficient. Then she turned to her customer and said, “This’ll pinch a bit, luv,” and with one deft thrust she drove the needle through the girl’s nose.

  Barbara beat a hasty retreat as the girl screamed, slumped over, and Tara cried, “Smelling salts! Quick!” to someone. It was, Barbara thought, an edgy kind of employment.

  Although Barbara lived not far from Camden High Street and its markets and although she’d been in the Stables many times, she hadn’t known that the narrow passage in which she finally found the magic stall had a name. It wasn’t so much an actual alley as it was a gap, lined on one side by the brick wall of one of the old artillery buildings and on the other by a long row of holdings from which vendors sold their wares: everything from books to boots.

  The place was dimly lit by bare bulbs dangling from a cord that ran the length of the alley. They broke into a gloom that was accentuated by the sooty stable wall and the darkly stained stalls opposite. Not all of them were open, this being a weekday. But the magic stall was. As Barbara approached it, she could see the same oddly dressed man she’d earlier seen unloading his van in the street. He was doing a rope trick to entertain a group of enthralled young boys who, instead of being at school, were gathered round his stall. They were just about the size—and the age—of the dead boy in Queen’s Wood, Barbara noted.

  She stood at the side of the group, watching the magician interact with the boys at the same time as she studied his stall. It wasn’t large—about the size of a wardrobe—but he’d managed to cram it with magic tricks, with practical jokes along the lines of artificial vomit suitable for laying on mum’s new carpet, with videos of magic acts, books on illusions, and old magazines. Among the items for sale were handcuffs identical to those Barbara had in her pocket. They were part of a sideline in saucy bedroom toys that were on offer as well.

  Barbara worked her way round to the back of the group, to have a better look at the magician. He was dressed as he’d been when she’d last seen him, and she noted that his red stocking cap not only covered his head completely but also came down over his eyebrows as well. With the addition of his dark glasses to complete the ensemble, the magician had successfully obscured the upper half of his face and head. Under normal circumstances, Barbara wouldn’t have thought too much about this detail. Under the conditions of a murder inquiry, however, a quirky costume going along with a pair of handcuffs, a dead boy, and a van made the bloke doubly suspicious. Barbara wanted to get him alone.

  She eased her way round to the front of the group and began to look over the magic tricks for sale. The goods here seemed suitable for kids: magic colouring books, linking rings, flying coins and the like. This put Barbara in mind of Hadiyyah and Hadiyyah’s solemn little face and sorrowful wave behind the French windows whenever Barbara passed the ground-floor flat in Eton Villas. And that put Barbara in mind of Azhar, of the unpleasant words they’d exchanged the last time they’d seen each other. They’d been scrupulously avoiding each other ever since. A peace offering was called for, but Barbara wasn’t sure which one of them ought to be offering it.

  She picked up the pencil-penetration kit and read the scanty directions (borrow a five-pound note from someone in your audience, push the pencil into its centre, rip it sideways and ta-duh! the five-pound note remained intact). She was reflecting on its suitability as a peace offering when she heard the magician say, “That’ll be all for now. Run along, you lot. I’ve work to do.” A few of the children protested, asking for just one more trick, but he was adamant. “Next time,” he said and shooed them off. He wore, Barbara saw, fingerless gloves on his pasty hands.

  The kids departed—although not before Mr. Magic separated one boy from the flying coin trick he’d attempted to pinch as he drifted away—and then the magician was all Barbara’s. Was there something he could help her with? he asked.

  Barbara purchased the pencil-penetration kit, an investment of less than two quid in the cause of neighbourly peace. She said, “You’re good with the kids. You must have them hanging round all the time.”

  “Magic,” he said with a shrug as he put the kit neatly into a small plastic bag. “Magic and boys. They seem to go together.”

 
“Just like Marmite and toast.”

  His lips curved in an I-can’t-help-my-own-popularity smile.

  Barbara said, “They must get on your nerves after a time, all these little blokes hanging about and wanting you to perform for them.”

  “It’s good for business,” he said. “They go home, talk to Mum and Dad about what they’ve seen, and when a birthday party comes up, they know what they want for the entertainment.”

  “A magic show?”

  He swept off the stocking cap and bowed. “Mr. Magic, at their service. Or yours. Birthday parties, bar mitzvahs, the odd christening, New Year’s Eve. Et cetera.”

  Barbara blinked, then made a quick recovery as the man drew his cap back over his head. He was using it, she saw, for the same reason he was probably also using the dark glasses and the gloves. He appeared to be an albino. Dressed as he was at the moment, he would garner the occasional look in the street. Dressed otherwise—with the colourless hair revealed and the eyes unshaded—he’d have been gawped at, not to mention tormented by the very kids who admired him now.

  He handed his business card over to Barbara. She did him the same courtesy and watched what she could see of his face to note a reaction. He said, “Police?”

  “New Scotland Yard. At your service.”

  “Ah. Well. They can’t be wanting a magic show there.”

  Good recovery, Barbara thought. She brought the glow-in-the-dark handcuffs out of her shoulder bag. They were encased in a plastic evidence bag, on their way to be fingerprinted.

  “These came from your stall, I understand,” Barbara said. “Recognise them?”

  “I sell something like,” the magician replied. “You can see for yourself. I keep them over with the saucy items.”

  “A kid called Davey Benton had these off you, according to his dad when we called at his house. Pinched them, he did. He was meant to bring them back and turn them over to you.”

  The dark glasses prevented Barbara from reading any reaction in the magician’s eyes. She was reliant on the tone of his voice, which was perfectly even as he said pleasantly, “Obviously, he dropped the ball on that.”