And my name was? One moment please, sir. There was a delay – it didn’t help with the sweating – before I was asked to step through into an interview room. A small, bare and totally soulless square contained by four walls, no windows. I sweated some more. It wasn’t the same inspector I’d been interviewed by before but the officer seemed well appraised of all the details from my background as a most unwilling amateur detective.
‘I was told by Mr Samuel Simpson that you had been to interview him and his daughter, Chloe, regarding the deaths of the two men involved in the Leicester racecourse murder.’
‘And what else were you told?’
‘Er … nothing. But since I was unwillingly involved, I wondered if you had been trying to contact me? I’ve been in hospital for a few days, you see, and away from home since.’
‘I see, sir. Have you any relevant information that might help?’
I shook my head, regretted it immediately. I was still suffering fall-out from Jake’s ill-tempered attack. ‘No.’
‘Hmmm …’ He pursed his lips. ‘Is there any reason why you thought we wanted to speak with you?’
‘I thought it likely you might, because of the circumstances.’
‘Is there anything you want to tell us? Something you know that we don’t?’
‘Er … no, nothing. I’m sorry the men have …’ I so nearly dropped myself in the sticky stuff and said ‘been murdered’ but caught the words back at the very last moment, ‘… have died. It would have been satisfying if they had been brought to court instead.’
‘Quite so, sir.’ The officer was watching me closely. ‘Have you any theories as to why they died?’
I perjured myself. ‘None.’
‘Very good, sir. Well, thank you for coming in. If we do need to speak to you again, we’ll be in touch.’ He nodded in dismissal.
‘Thank you, Officer …’ I tried not to break into a trot in my eagerness to get out. I was weak with relief that I wasn’t in their sights. Whenever threatened, both animals and humans headed for a place of safety. And, despite the dodgy state of the road surface, I floored it back home.
A black-strength coffee restored my equilibrium and I took it through to my office to check what mail or emails, if any, needed my attention. When my quivering nerves quit quivering, I relaxed into the knowledge that having taken the initiative and gone to see the police, I could confidently draw a red line under the constant anxiety of expecting a call from them. It would negate the power that Jake had wielded over me.
How unpleasant it had been to feel my home had become a possible trap instead of my bolthole from the world. Now everything was back to normal. It was satisfying to take back control. Complacently, I settled down to write my weekly racing column for the newspaper.
It was a full half-hour later I realized the police station in Newark hadn’t been the only glee club I’d been going to visit. I’d completely forgotten the second delight – Jake’s dad.
Swearing at my stupidity, I closed down my desktop computer and locked up the cottage for the second time.
Shock rocked me backwards. Fred Smith opened the door a full foot. His head poked round the gap like a tortoise peeking out from the shelter of its shell. I’d parked outside. I wasn’t bothered about being seen. The residents, it seemed, minded their own business. It was not far from where Alice had lived – and died. Nobody had seen anything. Of course they hadn’t. They didn’t want to get involved, attract possible trouble.
Fred’s face was fleshless, a pasty white skin covering a skull. And he appeared to have shrunk. His eyes were on a level with my sternum. When he saw who it was, he eased open the door another six inches.
‘Can I come in?’
An economical nod.
I stepped inside and fought to keep from gagging – the smell was nauseating. From the look of him, he’d stopped washing or shaving a long time ago and most likely was becoming incontinent. The rags he was dressed in hung from bony shoulders like a shroud. The inevitable cigarette dangled from thin lips that chewed constantly, causing the cigarette to jerk and dance, knocking off ash as fast as it formed.
‘Jake asked me to come, Fred. He’s concerned about you.’ By God, if Jake could see the state his father was in he’d go raving mad.
‘Ar,’ he croaked, ‘he’s a good son an’ all.’
‘He wants to know how you are.’
‘I’m … not so good … not so good …’
‘I can see. When did you last have a meal?’
He shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
‘Have you any food in the house?’
‘Dunno.’
He shuffled very slowly through to the living room and sank into an old armchair covered in cigarette burns. I followed him, repulsed by the state of the place. He took a drag on the cigarette. A big mistake. The smoke made him start coughing. A full three minutes later he was still hacking, coughing up phlegm into a length of toilet paper torn from the conveniently placed roll that adorned the edge of the mantelpiece. The paper had started out white but it was rapidly turning a dirty pink.
‘Fred, can I fetch you a drink of water?’
No reply, just a shuddering shake of his head. He was beyond speaking.
‘Look, you need to see a doctor.’ He made a sharp negative movement with his hand. ‘OK, OK …’ I backed off.
It was obvious he’d been nowhere near a health centre, doctor or even a pharmacy for months, if not years. Which left me in a quandary. It was painfully clear he was a very sick man. Whether he’d gone beyond the point of pulling back was an unknown but I wouldn’t put money on it. Eventually the spasm eased and he sank back totally spent, one hand pressed to his chest. Lifting just an index finger, he pointed in the direction of the battered sideboard. One hoarse word issued from his lips.
‘Whisky.’
I crossed the threadbare sticky carpet and dug out a bottle of spirits. It was already half-empty – there was no sign of a glass. I offered him the bottle. Fred took it from me with a shaking hand.
‘Ta.’
‘Does anybody give you a hand? Get you any grub?’
‘Who do I have?’ he quavered. ‘Lost all m’family, ain’t I – bar Jake – an’ I don’t know where he’s gone.’
I could feel responsibility settling itself on my shoulders.
‘Would you see the district nurse if I called her?’
‘Can she tek pain off?’
‘You got a lot of pain, Fred?’
His lips twisted in a sour grimace. ‘Treble it …’
I fished in my inner pocket and drew out a packet of painkillers. ‘Here you are. I’ll get you some water to help get them down. They’ll help.’
He reached out with pin-thin fingers and took them from me. Without waiting for the drink, he tore open the packaging and crammed four into his mouth.
‘Hey, wait a minute, they’re strong … Don’t take all these in one go …’
It was too late. He’d lifted the whisky bottle and taken a swig.
‘Don’t take them with booze, Fred. You’ll be knocked out, or worse.’
He mumbled something that sounded surprisingly like ‘good job’, closed his eyes and lost any further interest in anything. Within a couple of minutes, he was snoring louder than a foghorn in a sea fog.
I went into the kitchen, expecting to be confronted by a pigsty. It wasn’t. The floor was filthy with ingrained dirt but the sink was empty – no pile of dirty mouldering plates and mugs – nothing. Except for one smeary glass with a crusted rim of dried milk. That told the story. I opened the fridge – half a pint of milk, just this side of going off but, apart from that, nothing. Could be Fred was keeping going on just the milk left by the milkman.
I washed out the glass and poured three-quarters of the milk into it. Fred’s snores led me back into the living room and I placed the glass of milk next to the whisky bottle. Both were within reach.
Feeling inside my pocket, I debated whether or not to leave any furth
er painkillers. I didn’t want to be the one to see him off. Depending on how bad the pain really was, of course, I decided pain was preferable to death. Or maybe not …
I compromised and left a couple of pills beside the milk. No doubt Fred would sleep for several hours now his pain was eased. He’d certainly been exhausted by the coughing fit. And the milk plus more painkillers would see him right for a while after that, which gave me breathing space to think what was the best thing to do – considering all the circumstances.
Needing to distance myself from Fred’s immediate presence so I could think clearly – not to mention breathe some fresh air – I took the remains of his straggly, matchstick-thin roll-up of a cigarette from between his lips and stubbed it out safely. What the hell he’d put in it was questionable. But I suppose he wasn’t able to walk out to the corner shop for a replacement. He ought not to be smoking at all with the state of his lungs.
There being nothing else I could do at that moment, I let myself out and drove the car down the new bypass road, swung left at the Saxondale roundabout and headed for Bingham. The time was now well after one o’clock. I knew of a very good pub, The White Lion, situated on the first crossroads in the village. White lions are rare, so are very good pubs. I parked up and went into the bar. A lot of people had discovered just how reasonably priced and excellent the food available was. The place was almost full.
I bought a drink and glanced down the menu, settling for plaice goujons and salad, light, nourishing. Every day that went past now brought me a day closer to getting back on the racecourse. It was a familiar battle known only too well to jockeys: the need to maintain a fit, strong body without adding weight. An ongoing balancing act. I’d compromise and forego the tasty coating.
While I waited for the food, I sat on a comfortable padded bench seat and mulled over what to do. Telling Jake came first – or did it? What would be his immediate reaction? A thundering stampede to his father’s house, almost certainly. And that would blow all of us out of the water. So, should I seek out some medical help? Without Fred’s permission, nothing could be done. He’d vetoed using a doctor, albeit had agreed to seeing the district nurse. Question was, how did I go about that?
My seafood lunch arrived. It was beautifully presented and tasted excellent. Conscience pricked as I ate the first delicious mouthful. Here was I enjoying my food while poor old Fred was on the point of starving. Not for long, I subdued the guilt. I’d sort something out this afternoon. Before or after I told Jake? I wasn’t sure. Probably before, because if he knew there’d be hell to pay. And there was something else to be attended to – someone else I needed to speak with face-to-face so I could assess their immediate reaction.
Mike had supplied me with enough information to suss out the address I needed to visit. Jim Matthews of Bingham was, apparently, a saddler of sorts. He repaired leather goods, mostly tack restitching, and had a workshop tucked away behind a takeaway down a back street. When I finished eating, I intended to seek him out, follow up on the information Edward Frame had disclosed. I didn’t think it would produce any worthwhile leads but there was precious little to go on and even a slim chance was better than none. I ate the last of the succulent fish, thanked Alison behind the bar with compliments to Martin, the excellent chef, and went out to find my car.
Bingham wasn’t very large and I tracked down Matthews’ workshop without trouble. In the small yard was an old, dark green, much-battered Land Rover of the type usually favoured by farmers. I parked upsides and walked across to the door to the workshop. It was propped open by a breezeblock and a man was sitting at the bench, mending a bridle.
He was a good deal bigger in stature than myself, as I saw when he noticed me and stood up. At least six foot four and probably two hundred pounds – not someone you’d care to antagonize.
And I sure as hell was going to antagonize him with my out-of-order questions. Perhaps he enjoyed an equable temperament.
I sincerely hoped so.
TWENTY-THREE
‘Hi, can I help?’
‘Could I ask if you’re Jim Matthews?’
‘Yes, that’s me.’
‘Got the right man, then.’ I sought for the best words to use without provoking him. He was waiting, arms loosely by his side, puzzlement now spreading across his face.
‘I, er, I went to see a Mr Edward Frame a few days ago.’
‘He’s a friend of mine, out Wilsford way.’
‘That’s right. I went to his house. It’s a bit delicate what I need to ask you … Edward told me you knew a lady friend of his, Alice Goode.’
‘Knew? That’s hardly the word. Alice was a prostitute.’
‘I know.’
We eyed each other, neither sure where this conversation was heading.
‘Edward used to invite Alice for the weekend, he told me.’
‘So?’
‘They were a bit closer than the usual, er … client and—’
‘Look, what is it you want to say?’
‘When was the last time you visited Alice, because you did visit her, didn’t you?’
‘You cheeky sod!’
I spread my hands to placate him. ‘I’m trying to piece together what happened, that’s all. You did visit her, didn’t you?’
‘Why the bloody hell should I tell you?’
‘Because I know you were a client. Right now, the Newark police don’t.’
‘Are you trying some sort of blackmail here?’ His face had reddened with anger.
‘No. But if I don’t track down Alice’s killer, you, along with all the other punters, will be under suspicion. Do you fancy that?’
‘No,’ he said sullenly.
‘So if you level with me, it gives me half a chance of finding out who did murder her.’
‘Are you a private ’tec?’
‘Well …’ I didn’t finish the sentence but let it drift.
He hesitated. ‘Yes, OK, yes, I did visit Alice. She wasn’t your usual sort of prossie.’
‘I know. Alice was a caring person, very respectful and discreet with her clients.’
‘You were one of hers as well, then?’
‘No. Not in the way you mean. She helped me out with some information.’
‘Really?’ he sneered. ‘How likely is that? Did you kill her, you bastard?’
‘Me! Good God, man, I’m trying my damnedest to find out who did. Alice didn’t deserve what she got.’
‘You expect me to believe you? I know Alice was alive the day I spoke to her. She wasn’t taking clients that morning. Said she’d been working all night, needed some rest.’
My pulse went into overdrive. Alice had been talking about the night spent with Jake. He’d been telling the truth, it seemed, and Alice had been alive when he left her.
‘I didn’t kill her, right? OK, yes, the first time I was a bit narked – you would be, driving over to Newark, expecting a good roll … But don’t try hanging her death on me.’
He grabbed my shoulders, bringing his face unpleasantly close to mine. I had an unwelcome, crystal-clear view of his nasal hairs. Breathing hard, he shook me roughly.
‘I spoke to Alice on the doorstep. I never went into the kitchen. Wasn’t me that killed her, d’you hear? I’m in the clear.’
I pursed my lips and nodded. ‘Do you want to take your hands off me?’
Realization that he’d crossed the line and could be done for assault made him instantly drop me like a grenade with the pin pulled.
‘Thank you.’
‘I was just emphasizing my point, that’s all.’
I wasn’t bothered. His action had left me on the high ground and I could ask for an answer and get it. As it stood, I could drop him in it with the police as one of Alice’s punters and also threaten him with court action. Neither of which I had any intention of doing, but Jim didn’t know that. At the moment, he was sweating. Ideal for me to get more information if, of course, he knew anything more.
‘Run it past me agai
n, right from when you drove up to Alice’s.’
He sighed heavily. ‘Come inside the workshop. I don’t want anybody earwigging.’
He closed the door behind us and indicated a chair near the bench. Warily, I moved it into the corner. The wall was now an effective bodyguard on two sides. At least I wouldn’t get an unexpected bash over the back of my head. There were plenty of hefty tools lying around that would have easily seen me off if wielded in anger.
Jim went over to a kettle sitting on a narrow shelf and dug out two mugs.
‘Tea?’
‘Why not?’
While the kettle was boiling, he began talking.
‘I drove up about three houses short of where Alice lived. A vehicle was already parked outside.’
‘Just a sec, what type, can you describe it?’
‘A Range Rover, white one.’
I immediately thought of Victor; he’d got one of those. Probably a high percentage of drivers favoured that motor, too.
‘I cut my engine,’ he went on, ‘and sat there waiting.’ The kettle sang and he made tea and handed me a mug. ‘I’d only been there two or three minutes when the door opened and this well-to-do chap came out. He was still talking to Alice on the doorstep. I saw her wave to him as he walked off towards his car.’
‘Then?’
‘I let him drive away and went and knocked. Alice answered it. She didn’t ask me in, said she’d been working all night and needed some sleep.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘Like I said, I felt a bit narked, but women call the shots.’ He shrugged. ‘Unless you want to face a charge of rape. I wasn’t that desperate.’
‘Go on.’
‘Went back home. All I could do. I did say could I come back later and she said yes, after lunch.’
‘Right. When you spoke to me to start with you said you were narked the first time. What happened the second time?’
‘Haven’t finished telling you yet, have I?’ he growled. ‘As I was driving off, I got to the corner and looked in my rear view. Couldn’t believe it, and I don’t know where he’d popped up from, but there was another bloke, an older one again, a bit rough looking, walking up to Alice’s door. I wasn’t bothered, I knew she’d turn him back, but that was three of us in less than half an hour. Popular woman or what?’
Dead Reckoning Page 16
