“Yes, I suppose so.” McLaren smiled, warming to the young man.
“Besides the obvious suspect, you mean.”
McLaren glanced at the Millington house. Herb had carried the hose into his garage and was now walking back to the front door. He waved at Chad and McLaren before calling, “Good luck,” and going inside.
“Slimy bastard.” Chad’s face flooded with color.
McLaren wanted to agree but instead asked why Chad thought that. “Do you suspect Mr. Millington of killing your mother?”
“Yeah.”
Herb came back outside with a broom and began sweeping the front path, whistling.
McLaren watched Herb make his way down the flagstones. “Why do you think it’s him?”
“Because it’s his style.”
“What, murder?”
“Not intentionally, no. But he’s a hooligan.”
“And you say this because…”
“I got into it with Mr. Millington shortly before my mum died.”
“A fight?”
“Yeah. He’d made some indecent remarks about her and I couldn’t take it any more. I went after him. A bit later, my mum was dead. I think he came after her.”
Chapter Fourteen
“You don’t know how I’ve blamed myself.” Chad blotted his eyes with the side of his hand. It was a large hand, as befitted his tall, powerful build. The skin, tanned and roughened from yard work, contrasted greatly with the paler, smoother skin that played around the edges of his tee-shirt sleeves and neckline. Chad tilted his head back, looking skyward, and his voice matched his inner anguish. “God, if I’d just kept quiet. If I’d just ignored it, Mum would still be alive.”
“Perhaps not.” McLaren paused as Chad lowered his head and looked at him with tear-moistened eyes. “Not if someone else killed her.” He spoke low, choosing his words carefully, aware of the pain deep within the teenager’s eyes.
“What? Like, who?” Chad’s voice was hopeful, yet challenging, as if defying McLaren to produce a more likely suspect, or to relieve him of his guilt.
“I’ve just begun investigating, Chad. I don’t know yet.”
“At least you’re honest.” He ran the back of his hand across his nose, then pressed it against his khaki shorts.
“I try to be.”
Chad stared at McLaren, trying to make him out, then smiled. “I think you are. You wouldn’t admit it if you weren’t. You’d be all bluff and swagger, coming on like some of those super tough telly cops.”
“I never was a Dirty Harry.”
Again Chad smiled. He leaned against the corner of the house, near the front door. “Mr. Millington was always making cracks about Mum. It got to the point where I just couldn’t stand it anymore so one day I punched his lights out.”
“And this was over what?”
“He always did hint stuff. But this time he flat came out and said it.”
“Hint stuff like what? Sexual innuendoes?”
Chad avoided McLaren’s eyes, as though embarrassed by the subject. “Yeah. He always made remarks about how smashing Mum looked. Well, ‘always’ being several months, I guess. At least it was several months that I knew about it so I guess it went on for a while.” He paused, his face reddening.
“I’ve found that those types of people are usually all talk, Chad. It takes two to tango.”
“Sure, I realize he was probably all mouth and no trousers, just acting macho, but it hurt. My mum never did a thing to deserve it. She never flirted back, she never dressed indecently. She never went over to his house alone. She was a lady and I got sick and tired of him suggesting improper stuff.”
“Like what?”
“You know. Like, sleeping together.” Chad mumbled this last statement so softly that McLaren could barely hear it.
“And that’s what caused the fight?”
“Yeah. Mum and I were outside and as she started to go in the house, Mr. M calls after her that he had a few minutes free, and since both of their spouses weren’t home….well, you get the idea.” Again he blushed, but he doubled his hand into a fist and slammed it into the door.
“That’s when the fight started.”
“I couldn’t let that go, could I?” He searched McLaren’s eyes for a sign of approval or exoneration.
“I don’t think most sons, brothers or husbands would.”
“He’s had it coming to him for ages. This was just the last straw. He’s got a dirty mind and a dirty mouth, and I had to stop his abuse of my mum.”
McLaren nodded, his eyes on the Millington house. Was Millington’s wife the target of Herb’s verbal abuse? Worse yet, was it also physical abuse? “Did your father know about this?”
“About Millington’s talk, you mean?”
“That or how she felt about it?”
“I guess he would have done. That’s hard to keep quiet, isn’t it? I mean, Mr. M wasn’t exactly secretive about it. He’d stand in his front garden and sometimes yell stuff at Mum. I guess Dad could’ve heard it.”
“Had your father ever said anything to Millington or to your mother? Did you ever see your father mad?”
“I think I would’ve heard if Dad had known. Dad’s a pretty quiet guy on the whole, though he does explode if he’s pushed too far. But really, nothing much rattles him. Good bank material, if you know what I mean.”
“Steady in a crisis.” But maybe not in his personal life.
“Yeah. I think if Dad had known about all this he would’ve said something to Mr. Millington ’cause he’d be madder than hell at the berk. Dad wouldn’t have let it go on so that Mum was continually harassed like that.”
Or let his son play the husband’s part by telling Millington to leg it. “So you think that Herb Millington got back at your mother because you defended her.”
“I know it probably sounds far fetched, Mr. McLaren, and I don’t think he planned it. I mean, he didn’t sit at the table plotting to kill her. Well, he wouldn’t, would he? That’s a bit over the top! But if he got mad at her, like when he’s in one of his violent moods, well, that’s not so out of the question.”
“I’ve heard of his outbursts, yes.”
“One night he came up to her and mentioned me and him getting into a fight, and he was mad at me because I knocked him out flat and he was mad at Mum for all the stuff that happened”
“He shot her accidentally?”
Chad looked ill. “Yeah. Something like that. You’ve seen him. He’s a mass of muscles, even if he’s not so young. He could easily have knocked her down if he wanted.” He kicked the bottom of the door. “I don’t think he hid in the bushes and ambushed her. But he’s got that bloody temper. He might’ve got into a shouting match with her and things got out of hand, like you said.”
“What about his mate?”
“Danny Mercer?” He rubbed the end of his nose, as though it had an itch he couldn’t reach. “That piece of trash? He could have done, sure. He’s got a temper.”
McLaren glanced at Herb, who was walking into his garage. “I understand Danny is quite a bit younger than Herb. How’d they become friends, do you know?”
Perhaps because the topic had shifted from Marta to Danny, Chad relaxed, sagging against the door. “You’re right, Mr. McLaren. I think Danny’s about thirty. Maybe a year or two younger than that. Doesn’t really matter. There’s twenty years or so difference between them.”
“Did they know each other when Danny was a kid? Is that why they’re friends now?”
“I don’t think they did. I’ve had the impression it’s a fairly recent friendship. Well, I’m not sure how recent, but not going back thirty years, at least.”
“What’s he do for a living? Are he and Herb connected that way, in the same business?”
“You’d have to ask someone else, but I think Danny is a kind of odd jobs man and a messenger boy. Well, boy isn’t exactly right, but you know what I mean. I heard my dad talking to Mum once about they weren’t sure who inf
luenced whom in that relationship. I heard that Danny’s a bit slow mentally, but I think he plays that up. I think he’s just basically lazy and looking for an easy quid. He’s had a string of jobs. Mr. Millington’s fairly intelligent, I think, but he doesn’t leave home at regular times on the weekdays.”
“He has no set working hours at an office?”
“I guess. Oh, he leaves the house most days, but sometimes not until the evening. I guess they’re doing okay financially, ’cause Mrs. Millington has nice looking clothes and they both drive expensive cars. But I think Mr. Millington and Danny want the same things from life, which may have thrown them together.”
“Do you think Danny does the odd jobs and messenger service for Mr. Millington? Could they have become friends through work?”
“I don’t know. Mainly I just see them sitting on the front porch, smoking and laughing and drinking beer.”
“Do they have any shared hobbies?”
Chad exhaled slowly, as though he sifted through his mind for some recollection. “They like to hunt. Mr. Millington’s got a friend who’s a farmer. They go out there every so often and shoot rabbits with shotguns. I’ve never seen them come back with anything, though they could drop them off some place, I guess. They also like to race cars.”
“Professionally?” McLaren couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.
“No. Places like Donington Park. Mr. Millington brings his car and they race over the National Circuit. Danny’s more of a motorcycle nut, but he goes along and they switch off driving their car.”
“The one that’s in his garage right now?”
“Are you talking about that orange and blue thing?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the one. It’s kind of hard to miss, isn’t it? Especially their racing name emblazed on the sides.”
“Each to his own hobby, I suppose.”
“I think they use that car at Donington. They have a Mini, but I don’t see it garaged at Mr. M’s, so I guess Danny must keep it at his place. But I know they like the Autograss racing.” He paused and glanced at the Millington’s driveway. “He must be pretty good. I know for a fact that he and Danny race in the modified saloons class.”
“The so-called Supersaloons?”
“Yeah.”
“That takes a bit of money, doesn’t it?”
“I looked it up online one day ’cause I wondered how he could afford it if he didn’t have a regular job. The website said the guideline for that class budget is £4,000 to £20,000.”
McLaren glanced at his Peugeot. It fit that class, but it lacked the bright paint and profusion of graphics, club number, and advertisements smothering the car body. “Well, it might be a good way for Mr. Millington to let off steam, if his temper is threatening to bust loose. Though it’s not the best idea to drive when you’re explosively angry.”
“I guess it can’t do any real harm. That’s what they’re there for, isn’t it? To race around and bang into each other?”
“Sure. Well, I hope he hasn’t got into altercations with other drivers.”
Chad mumbled that if he did, he felt sorry for the people Herb came in contact with.
“Is he a bully?”
“If he were younger I’d say he is. But since he’s an adult…I don’t know. He’d probably be termed a criminal if he were ever caught in something bent. A criminal or a plain ole thug. But he’s not above lying in wait for someone if the bloke is bigger than he is. That’s how he works, Mr. McLaren. He slinks around, planning how to get even. But yeah, I think he could’ve attacked my mum if he ambushed her one night.”
“So it wouldn’t take much to overpower a woman as tiny as your mother if her attacker was as big and sly as Herb Millington. If he was mad enough.”
“That’s the gist of it.”
McLaren got the gist of Alan Hughes’ temper thirty minutes later. They were in Alan’s office, a wood-paneled room with large windows that looked onto the bank’s lobby. The Venetian blinds had been drawn uppresumably so Alan could keep an eye on the morning’s activities, or the employees could see he also worked part of his weekendand Alan was standing behind his desk, facing McLaren. Perhaps the blinds should have been down; Alan’s crimson face wouldn’t be visible to customer and clerk alike.
“You’ve got a nerve even suggesting that.” Alan’s fist hit the top of his desk as his anger exploded. “My wife was killed. Her body was dumped by the roadside like she was a bag of rubbish. And you ask if I knew about Herb Millington and her.”
“I’m not saying they had an affair, Mr. Hughes.” McLaren kept his voice low. He was all too conscious of a few looks they were getting from curious customers and employees. “I just wanted to know if you think Millington could have actually forced your wife”
“To do what? Have the affair?”
“I was thinking more of him accosting her one afternoon or evening.”
“God, this sounds like some Victorian melodrama. No, I don’t think so.”
“You knew about the harassment, however.”
“Yes.”
“Did you do anything about it?”
“Like what? Go over there with a gun and threaten him to stop it?”
“I hope not. Maybe talk to him, tell him that his advances weren’t appreciated.”
“Yeah, I talked to him. Once. When Marta came into the house with her face all red from crying. She didn’t want to tell me what had happened but she eventually did.”
“And you went outside then to confront Millington?”
“You’re damned right I did. He was in his garage, working on his damned racing car, and I told him he had better stop his foul suggestions or I’d beat him to within an inch of his life.”
“Is that all?”
“Is that all? What the hell more do you want me to do? Choke him? Punch him in the stomach? Kick him in the groin? Yes, that was all.”
“And that stopped the harassment?”
Alan opened his mouth, took a breath, then blushed. He grabbed the back of his leather chair and said more quietly, “Well, no. At least, not right away.”
McLaren frowned. “Oh? When did it stop, then?”
“Well, it didn’t.” His voice had dropped to barely more than a whisper and his face suddenly drained of color. “I-it went on right up to her death.”
“How long was this? From the time of your confrontation to the night of your wife’s disappearance?”
“About that long. I didn’t mark if off on the calendar. But yes, maybe a month. I talked to Millington in May.”
“Why didn’t you say anything more to him if his attentions continued? Didn’t you know what was happening? Did your wife not tell you Millington was still bothering her?”
“I She didn’t tell me. I didn’t hear anything more from her after I talked to Millington, so I assumed it was a thing of the past—until I overheard one of his remarks some weeks later. The evening before she and Linnet went to the casino.” He turned the swivel chair toward him and slowly sat down.
“When you heard him talking to your wife, did you confront him again, tell him to leave Marta alone?”
Alan riffled the corner pages of his appointment diary, staring at the desktop. A tea trolley rumbled past the office door and into the open reception area. “I was going to, but I didn’t have time that night. Marta and I met some friends for dinner and went to see a play at the theater. The Twisted Plot, if you need to check up on my whereabouts. It was past midnight when we got home. I promised myself I’d talk to Millington the following day.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No. Marta left work that next day, Friday, at noon, went to her brother-in-law’s, and then met Linnet at the casino.”
“Why did that stop you from talking to Millington? You were home that evening, weren’t you?”
“Later I was. Chad and I went out to eat, then I helped him with his homework. By the time I thought of Millington again, it was late and I figur
ed it would wait until Saturday morning. Then, that night, when she didn’t come home, I forgot about it.”
What kind of husband would forget about speaking to his wife’s tormentor, McLaren wondered as he left the office. A coward? A man no longer in love? A man suspicious that his wife and neighbor actually had the affair? McLaren crossed the spacious lobby, aware of Alan’s stare and the whispered conjectures of the cashiers, aware of his hard-soled shoes clacking on the terrazzo floor. Aware of the suspicions and questions shouting in his brain, reminding him that Alan had no alibi for that questionable period of time. Had there come a point when Herb Millington’s innuendoes became actuality or imagined actuality, and Alan finally snapped, taking out his anger on Marta in one gunshot to her head?
The casino in Nottingham wasn’t particularly busy, but it was only late Saturday morning. It would see its bulk of customers later that night. He parked away from the majority of cars clustered as near to the entrance as they could get, and walked up to the canopied main entrance. The lights declaring the casino name were blaringly bright even in the daylight, and McLaren wondered how much of their profit went to pay for the electricity bill. About as much as they spent on their landscaping maintenance, he thought, watching several gardeners weeding a perennial border. Clumps of ornamental evergreens, pruned into a smooth geometric form belying their realness, created a backdrop for terracotta pots overflowing with annuals and signs proudly proclaiming the casino’s round-the-clock accessibility. No leaf littered the grass; no cigarette butt marred the pavement. The entire place was immaculate and artificial.
The interior was too. He nodded to the doorman stationed at the large glass and brass double door and walked into the gaming room. It was a blaze of red, gold, and white, with chrome furniture and recessed ceiling lighting that pinpointed specific areas: blackjack, craps, baccarat, and roulette. The slot machines, with their lights and noise, lined the perimeter of the room like pagan gods that the players placated with coins and prayers. The poker tables were isolated from the commotion, probably in that next room, he thought, giving the players quiet in which to think.
Cold Revenge Page 14
