The woman who now addressed the police officers had come in to refresh the arrangements for the midweek service.
"She was that," the voice repeated firmly.
Amos and Swift turned to see a middle aged woman, dressed in tweedy clothing, carrying a jug full of water. Her attire was past its best, though by no means threadbare.
"You were here on the Sunday night," Amos said as an assertion rather than a question.
"I was that," came the reply. "Are you reporters? I can tell you plenty. How much do you pay?"
"We're not reporters, we're police," Swift responded as she produced her warrant card. "And we don't pay."
The woman looked disappointed.
"As you can tell us plenty, perhaps you would like to make a start," Swift suggested firmly.
The deflated flower lady hummed and ha-ed quite a bit until she got going: "Sarah Miles was a man chaser. She never caught one because she always scared them off. Ray Jones was her last chance and she certainly went for it."
"I understood the relationship had cooled a little," Amos remarked casually, allowing the hope of provoking her to further comments to override a strict adherence to the truth.
"You wouldn't have thought so on Sunday night," came the hoped-for retort. "You should have heard the way she played the Hallelujah Chorus."
"What about the Hallelujah Chorus?" Swift prompted.
"You can always tell when she wants to get away after a service. She switches the organ on full blast and belts it out so we can't stand the deafening racket. Well, she doesn't drive me out of my church. Then she had the nerve to have a go at the vicar."
"The vicar? It was hardly his fault," Amos said in a conciliatory tone.
"Of course it wasn't," snapped the flower arranger. "But she still went on at him about how Mr Jones had told her he would be there for evensong as usual and how concerned she was at his absence. I think she wanted Mr Thornley to go round to his flat with her but the vicar likes to get home to relax after the service. He's very dedicated, you know. He works very hard and he's just as much right to go home after work as anyone else."
"Quite so," agreed Amos, attempting to extricate himself and Swift.
However, as they hustled out of the church Amos took the precaution of checking the flower duty list pinned up at the entrance and made a note of the name against that week's date.
As the officers returned to the car Amos remarked: "You know what bothers me most about this inquiry? Everyone is so keen to talk. Usually people clamp up the more serious the crime is. They're scared to get involved. But everyone we've talked to seems keen to implicate someone else. They can't all be innocent."
Swift was already unlocking the car before she realised that her superior remained standing on the pavement, making no attempt to walk round to the passenger door. Mistaking his intentions, she held the driver’s door open and stood back to allow him to get in.
However, Amos told her: “Lock up again. It’s easier to walk from here.”
Five minutes later the two police officers found themselves back in the hamster’s cage.
Amos came straight to the point: “Why didn’t you tell us that you visited Killiney Court on Friday evening?”
Sarah Miles remained silent, though she looked Amos steadily in the eye.
“You went to Killiney Court on Friday evening,” Amos repeated. “Why did you not tell us? You did not sign out again. How long did you stay? All night?”
Again, Miles stared and kept her silence.
“You were caught out by the security guard’s signing in book, weren’t you? It wasn’t there the last time you visited Killiney Court. So you signed the first name that came into your head, which was the vicar’s wife, except that half way through you had the presence of mind to alter the surname. And you just stuck in a flat number on a different floor from the one you were really visiting.”
The two protagonists held their steady gaze. Amos paused again. Miles maintained her steadfast silence.
Finally, Amos spoke in quiet, deliberate tones: “You went to see Ray Jones on the night he died.”
Silently he said to himself: “You can outstare anyone else as long as you tell yourself you can do it. Just like you can always outstare an animal. Because you know you can do it. They don’t. They don’t. They don’t. They don’t.”
At last, Miles broke first: “So what? So I went round on Friday. He wouldn’t answer the door. I know he was in. The lights were on. So was the television. He wouldn’t answer. I rang and knocked. So I left. That guard wasn’t there when I came out so I just drove back home.”
“Or perhaps he let you in and you stayed long enough to kill him. Did you go straight home? What did you do when you got home?”
But that was as far as Miles was going. She sank back into a sulky silence. Finally Amos said wearily: “OK, we’re going.”
Chapter 18
"Fancy a pint, Sir?"
Constable Jane Wyman always called Sgt Swift "Sir" on duty. They were personal friends outside The Job but Wyman felt a bit of respect was called for, with Swift being a sergeant, and in the CID at that.
“Sarge” sounded too informal and "Ma'am" too formal, and neither were right for Swift. So "Sir" it was.
They were school chums who had joined the force together but in other ways they were quite different. Swift was plain, flat chested and with an ambition to compensate for her physical shortcomings. Wyman was stunningly beautiful, curvaceous but lacked application.
That Swift had made the effort and achieved her well-deserved promotion provoked no envy in the constable.
What did irk her somewhat was that Swift had a longstanding boyfriend whom she now lived with. Wyman, for all her obvious attractions plus the name of a film star, had moved from one shortlived relationship to another, rarely getting past the front door, let alone into bed.
"I feel like a drink and I notice there is a pub just up the road," Wyman remarked.
Swift nodded assent. It was still a bit early to be boozing but it seemed to have been a long day. In fact, it seemed to have been a long week. She would have to get back to Jason but one pint would do no harm.
Swift and Wyman strolled down the driveway from Killiney Court and across the road. The Killiney Arms public house stood on the opposite side and about 30 yards up a slight incline.
It was still early evening after a round of interviewing those residents who had been missed in the initial inquiries. Only a solitary figure sat hunched in a corner of the saloon bar where he could look out of the window. The man's eyes followed the two women police officers as they approached the door of the pub.
As Swift and Wyman leant against the bar ready to order, the lone man slipped out behind them.
The landlord watched him go in some surprise.
"Well, I've never seen that before," he commented.
"Never seen what?" asked a bemused Wyman.
Swift's eyes were on the half empty pint glass left standing on the table by the window.
"I've never known Jim Berry leave a single drop in his glass before. Nor have I known him leave the pub when two pretty girls walked in. He fancies himself as a ladies man, though heaven knows who'd fancy him. Anyone would think he was scared of you.
"Anyway, what can I get you?"
"Bitter?" asked Wyman, turning away from the landlord in her annoyance at being referred to by a complete stranger as a pretty girl. Swift nodded.
"Two pints of bitter, please."
Wyman had turned her mind to the matter in hand - getting the drinks in - but Swift wandered casually over to the window and watched Berry's progress.
The landlord was patently unaware of his new customers' occupation but Berry surely was not. What else could account for him fleeing behind their backs?
He was walking up the hill at a fast pace. Seeing which way Swift was looking, the landlord paused in the middle of pulling the first pint.
“Went up the hill, did he? Something else he
never does."
The landlord went back to pulling the first pint, and picked up a second glass.
"A man of habit, is he?" Swift prompted innocently.
"It's simple enough," the landlord went on, allowing the beer to settle. Apart from Berry's drink, it was the first pull of the evening and the beer was on the lively side.
“Berry lives down the hill." Then enigmatically: "The only other place he goes to is across the road and that’s downhill as well."
"Killiney Court?" asked Swift innocently. “Isn't that where the murder took place?"
The landlord topped up the second pint, poured a little more into the first one that had now settled, and placed them both on the bar in front of the officers.
“That's £2.50, please."
Don't be hasty, Swift told herself. Don't look too eager. He doesn't know who we are.
An older man, probably into his seventies, grey and badly shaven, walked through the door and limped up to the bar.
"You're not from round here, I take it." The landlord directed his remark to Swift but he was half looking at the newcomer, whom he evidently recognised.
"Evening, Bert. These two ladies were asking if that building across the road was where the murder took place."
He half chuckled with the air of one of superior knowledge.
“Bad do," Bert muttered his opinion with a shake of his head. “I know some folks couldn't abide Ray Jones but you don't wish that on anyone. Beaten over the head with an iron bar. And in his own bed. It isn’t right."
The matter had patently been thrashed out at some length in this neighbourhood hostelry in the evenings since the discovery of Jones's body. You can't stop information getting out, Swift thought.
The landlord was not best pleased at having the attention of these two personable young ladies snatched away from him by an old codger. He lifted up the flap on the bar and came out from behind it.
“But what does Jim Berry know about it?" he asked with an overdone air of mystery as he walked across to the window, drawing attention away from Bert.
“He listens plenty and says little - and only then when he is asked. But I reckon he knows more than he lets on."
"You mean the chap who was in the corner and who sneaked off at the sight of a couple of strangers?" Swift asked. "It sounds fascinating."
She was succeeding in massaging the landlord’s ego. How does she manage to string them along like that, Wyman wondered with a mixture of envy and admiration.
"He was in here on the night of the murder, that Friday night," the landlord picked up. “You know they didn't find the body until the Tuesday," he went on in a conspiratorial tone, “but they reckon he was killed on the Friday night. Jim Berry was sitting in that very chair by the window on the night of the murder."
“Lots of people were in here that tonight," interrupted the older man at the bar. “The place was full. Why pick on him?"
The landlord’s reasons for singling out Jim Berry were not, however, to be divulged, for at that moment a waspish woman in her forties appeared through a door marked "private".
“Fred," she said abruptly, “we need some pale ales up from the cellar. Why don't you do your job and leave the police to do theirs."
The landlord did not immediately grasp the implication in his wife’s statement but she glanced at the two officers and the penny dropped. The landlord tottered off obediently and somewhat crestfallen to the lower regions of his hostelry.
Chapter 19
Amos’s meandering, aimless train of thought was broken as he entered County Headquarters next morning. It was difficult to think straight in a murder inquiry, when your wits need to be at their sharpest: long hours and events churning over in the mind conspired against adequate sleep.
Amos had known murder inquiries before, but this one was particularly frustrating. Most murderers he had encountered were very close to the victim.
The commotion in the reception area was therefore particularly unwelcome. Amos veered abruptly right and was half way through the pair of double swing doors that led round to the back of the building and, circuitously, to his own office when he heard his name mentioned. He recognised the voice above the hubbub and his heart sank.
It was tempting to slink away but Amos felt that he owed it to his colleagues in the front office to rescue them so he turned back reluctantly.
"All right, Sgt Jenkins," he said to the figure who was attempting to take charge of the fracas. "Come along, Jason," he added wearily. "In my office."
Jason was an imposing figure, six feet plus tall, blond, handsome and well built. In another age he could have been a young Viking warrior.
It seemed, though, that he had left home hurriedly that morning. A light stubble, slightly darker than his hair, adorned the lower part of his face. He had slipped on a fairly old pair of jeans and thrust his feet into a pair of brown moccasins without wasting time on socks. His shirt proclaimed allegiance to a local Rugby Union club known for its uncompromising play.
This fine specimen of manhood collapsed in tears over the inspector’s desk.
"I love her so much," he gasped between uncontrollable sobs. It would have seemed unreal to Amos - indeed, it had done so the first time it happened - but this was at least the third such performance and the officer knew it was only too real.
Jason controlled himself with difficulty. Amos was aware from past experience that it was best to let nature take its course. Then the torrent began.
"She wasn’t back until gone 11 last night it’s the third time this week I don’t know where she is or what she’s doing or when she’s coming home there’s no food in the place I can’t manage without her."
The words tumbled out as if in one sentence. Jason took his first pause for breath. A moment later he was on to the earnest pleading.
"Why does she have to be on this case? Why can’t she just do burglaries and come home at a proper time? It isn’t safe for a woman. You work her too hard. You expect too much of her."
It was time to pause for a second breath. Amos wished the young man was less fit so that he would have to breathe more often. The momentum was building again.
"She had left already when I woke up this morning. I can’t live without her, I can’t sleep without her, I can’t eat without her."
Not much more to go, thought Amos.
Jason slumped over the desk again and shook violently. More sobs, this time without tears, emitted from his body. After a few moments he was still and drained.
Amos walked found the desk and helped him to his feet. Then he gently escorted the young man out through the back entrance in silence and watched him shuffle forlornly out though the gate that the police cars used.
The inspector had not been in his office long before Det. Sgt Swift, who had been out interviewing a couple of possible, though not particularly promising, leads burst into his office without knocking. She looked flustered.
“He’s gone,” Amos said simply.
“They told me at the front desk he was here,” Swift said with embarrassment. “I’m terribly sorry, sir.”
Chapter 20
If the owners of the Killiney Arms hoped that they were off the hook, they were disabused of the notion at 10.45 that morning. Swift had informed Amos of the suspicious behaviour of Jim Berry and the allusion of the landlord to his knowing about the murder.
“It isn’t much to go on,” Swift confessed at the regular morning meeting of the murder team, “but I really did feel there was something going on there. And Berry did figure in all the Jones files we looked at.”
Amos was equally frank: “We haven't got very far in any other direction so we might as well give it a try.”
Amos was now hammering on the closed, solid front door of the pub. A vacuum cleaner was buzzing away in the background.
Amos knocked again, louder.
“We’re not open until 11,” came the reply. The face of the landlord’s wife appeared at the lounge window. Amos swiftly f
lashed his warrant card in front of her face. She grimaced.
A few moments later heavy bolts could be heard being withdrawn behind the barricades and the door was opened to reveal the figure of the landlord.
“Thanks,” said Amos perfunctorily as he pushed his way past the startled figure and into the pub. Swift followed, leaving the landlord to close the door and follow them.
This time the landlord's wife was in close attendance to protect her husband from over-indulgence in providing unguarded information.
“I understand you have reason to believe that one of your customers knows something about the murder at Killiney Court,” Amos said without embroidery. There was a pause. It was the woman who replied.
“All our customers claim to know something about everything,” she said tartly. “Not many of them know anything about anything, but it is our job to humour them.”
“But Jim Berry seems to know something the others don't,” Amos persisted.
The landlord's wife stuck stubbornly to her line. “We don’t talk about our customers to strangers. We talk to them, not about them.”
“Would you like a drink… or a coffee,” the landlord butted in, hoping to defuse the increasingly frosty atmosphere.
"The coffee’s not on yet,” responded his better half. “And I'm sure the officers don't drink on duty.”
“I would prefer to complete this conversation before your first customers of the day arrive,” Amos ventured. “No doubt you would prefer not to have police spoiling the congenial atmosphere, either,” he added.
The landlord shot a glance at his wife, who went “hmmph,” threw her head back and walked out through the door to the private quarters. A moment later the vacuum cleaner could be heard in the drawing room.
Dead Money (A Detective Inspector Paul Amos Lincolnshire Mystery) Page 8
