I thought this response pretty feeble but said, to Patrick, ‘Do you have that list?’
With the air of a man who has forgotten something important Patrick took the sheet of A4 from his inside jacket pocket and placed it on the table.
‘In answer to your question,’ I said to Greenway, ‘I think that a verdict of accidental death on Derek Harmsworth is shaky. That is a list of his most serious and important cases that was compiled by John Gray. He didn’t think Harmsworth’s death was an accident either. Of the twenty-six names seven are dead, ten still in prison and the remaining nine have been released. Of those one is in a home suffering from dementia, another in Australia, where he’s living with his daughter, and the rest are at large. Out of those seven, three have been released fairly recently – in other words, could be burning for revenge and in time to have killed Harmsworth. They include a man who once fell though a skylight when being chased across a factory roof by Harmsworth and his team and who prior to his fall had taunted and sworn at them. All keepers of the peace thought his untimely exit a huge joke and laughed like drains. I suggest we check up on this character without delay.’
Greenway looked at me and I looked at him. Then he dropped his gaze with a soft chuckle. ‘Richard Daws did warn me that you didn’t just decorate your husband’s arm. OK, but I suggest that you check up on all seven. I have an idea it’ll be a waste of time, but it needs to be done to clear it out of the way. I’ll have to think long and hard about the exhumation and get back to you. But look’ – and here his manner hardened as his attention re-focused on Patrick – ‘stay away from Hicks. I don’t want to hear that he’s had any run-ins with a member of SOCA, not even an exchange of opinions. Is that understood?’
‘And if he really does shove a spy camera up my arse?’ Patrick enquired like something exceedingly holy depicted on a Michelangelo ceiling.
‘Tell me. I don’t want you even to breathe too hard on him.’
‘Tell teacher,’ Patrick muttered a little later when Greenway had gone.
‘It’s mostly your own fault,’ I countered. ‘In other words, your reputation.’ Before he could say anything else I went on, ‘It might be what Brinkley’s banking on. Hicks is too stupid to see he’s being used as cannon fodder and Brinkley’s hoping you’ll lose your temper and do him real harm.’ Here I bent a frown in his direction. ‘As you have been known to do sometimes. And that’ll be it – OUT!’
‘I simply can’t explain why he took my turning down the offer of the job so badly.’
‘I can. I realize that you were furious with him about something else at the time, but among other remarks, which I won’t repeat, you commented on his rather well-groomed person by saying he smelt like an Albanian knocking-shop. That might have offended him just the smidgiest bit.’
Patrick sort of grunted. ‘Well, he did.’
‘I hope you’re not speaking from experience,’ I commented archly.
He gave me a filthy wink. ‘OK. Frinton’ – and ducked as I aimed a pretend cuff at his ear.
I had no worries about Patrick’s working relationship with Greenway. At the conclusion of the meeting both had risen, the latter a good two inches taller and one and a half times as wide, and there had been the smallest of smiles exchanged. But genuine smiles; an understanding. Neither would waste time in trying to score points off the other.
The man who had fallen through the skylight was now calling himself Kevin Beardshaw – possibly the latest in a series of aliases he had used during a long and distasteful criminal career – and the last address police records had for him was in north Woodhill. Our luck really was in that afternoon, for not only did he still live there but he was in and actually opened the front door of the small terraced house himself.
‘Serious and Organized Crime Agency,’ Patrick said, holding up his ID card. ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.’
Beardshaw, thin to the point of emaciation, pallid of hue and a little stooped even though his records intimated that he was only fifty-one years of age, shrugged, not meeting our gaze, and turned to shuffle off down a narrow hallway, leaving us to follow. One did not have to be very clever to realize that he was ill.
‘As you do, once in a while,’ said Beardshaw in a weak, hoarse voice when everyone was standing in a dingy living room, ‘if there’s a crime you think I might have had a hand in. I’ve only been outside for a few weeks but it’s easy pickings, isn’t it, calling on me? I keep telling you I’m not the man I was, but no one believes me.’
‘They must do,’ Patrick said, ‘or you’d never have been let out at all.’
The other threw up his arms in a gesture of defeat and half-sat, half-fell into an armchair. ‘All right. What is it this time?’
We also seated ourselves and a faint cloud of dust arose as we did so, setting Beardshaw coughing, a horrible rasping sound.
‘Tell me about the time you fell through a factory roof,’ Patrick requested.
The man tried to laugh but coughed again instead. Then, recovering, he said, ‘Days of glory those. Young and fit and running rings round you lot. What a laugh.’
‘But it wasn’t funny when you fell though the skylight,’ I said.
‘Not at the time,’ Beardshaw conceded. ‘A broken leg and arm hurts a hell of a lot, I can tell you. Don’t ever try it, lady. The cops what had been chasing me all stood round that bloody roof window looking down at me with grins all over their faces. I’d been giving them a load of lip, mind. But when they saw I’d really hurt myself they called an ambulance and then broke into the factory to find where I was and made me as comfortable as they could. A real surprise that was after the treatment I’d had from cops before. But I was only a kid then, I suppose.’
‘It didn’t put you off breaking the law, though,’ Patrick said dryly.
‘Nah. What else was there to do in them days if you’d bunked off school and the army told you you were too weedy to join up? So why d’you want to know about that then?’
Patrick said, ‘The sergeant in charge was a bloke called Derek Harmsworth. You and he have bumped into one another quite a few times since and, as you must well know, he ended up as DCI at Woodhill. You were responsible for countless burglaries, robbery with violence, supplying muscle and driving getaway cars for East End gangs, receiving stolen property, conning old ladies out of money by pretending to be homeless, social-security fraud – quite a long list, eh? Ever carried weapons?’
Beardshaw shook his head emphatically. ‘No.’ And when Patrick continued to stare at him, ‘Well …’
‘Something like this?’
Patrick had taken the knife from his pocket and now sprang the blade. How could I ever forget that ghastly slicing click?
‘No!’ Beardshaw was staring at the weapon in horror. ‘No! I was going to say I’d used a pickaxe handle once or twice when we did over a mobster and his oppos, or something like that, but no, nothing like that, ever. I swear it!’
The knife went back out of sight. ‘OK.’ Patrick stood up to leave.
‘So what’s it all about then?’ Beardshaw asked. ‘Is that it?’
By the doorway Patrick turned. ‘Harmsworth’s dead. It was in all the local papers. But now it looks as though someone might have knifed him and then made his death look like an accident by shoving him and his car off a bridge.’
‘I didn’t know he was dead,’ Beardshaw said. ‘I’ve been in hospital. Lung cancer. There’s nothing else they can do for me.’
‘I’m sorry. You wouldn’t happen to know who hated Harmsworth that much, would you?’
‘Everyone I know hates the Bill.’ Then, avoiding our gaze, he muttered, ‘I don’t personally hold with killing coppers. I mean, who else would catch the shits who mess with little kids? You could try a bloke who sometimes works behind the bar at Jo-Jo’s. By all accounts he knows everything what goes on.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘No one asks – you don’t.’
‘It would
be helpful to know whom to approach – I’m new on this patch.’
After a short silence Beardshaw said, ‘Word is that he is Jo-Jo, the owner of the place, and likes to keep his hand in. An oldish bloke, Italian-looking, eyes like one of them snakes what swaller things.’
‘I take it you didn’t mention the possibility of a police snout being on the premises at Jo-Jo’s when you were in there,’ I said to Patrick when we were sitting in the car perusing the list of names.
‘Not to the bloke who said he was the manager, no,’ he replied. ‘Just as well after what we’ve just been told. He did seem to be rather nervous, though.’
The saying about being caught between a rock and a hard place crossed my mind. I said, ‘What did you make of Beardshaw?’
‘He’s a devious so-and-so and I haven’t completely ruled him out of being a possible suspect. But I do have to say he genuinely didn’t seem to bear any grudges against the police.’
‘I’m wondering if he’s as ill as he says he is.’
‘Obviously, neither of us is happy about writing him out of the picture.’
‘It’s funny how Jo-Jo’s seems to keep being mentioned. The barman who was in there the other night was quite young. We could eat there this evening, see if the owner’s on the premises and and watch out for boa constrictors.’
Patrick glanced at his watch. ‘Good idea. But there’s plenty of time yet to call on a man called Peter Forbes. He’s the only one on this list with an address in the immediate locality.’
But the terrace of houses where the house had been located – the whole road, for that matter – had been demolished and, according to a large notice board, was part of an ‘urban improvement scheme’.
We seemed to be getting nowhere.
I sensed, when we entered Jo-Jo’s that evening, that things were about to improve – that is, if the man standing behind the bar was indeed our quarry. Beardshaw had had a point: there was something distinctly reptilian about him, although I would have said more lizard than snake. I went to the bar with Patrick and perched on a stool because I wanted to hear what was being said.
‘I know who you are,’ said lizard-face, Jo-Jo, whoever, with a strong Italian accent as he fixed two glasses of wine for us. ‘You were asking questions in here the other day.’
‘It’s my job,’ Patrick replied sadly.
‘And you,’ he said to me, pointing with a gnarled forefinger, ‘threw water over one of my customers.’
‘He’s a cop too,’ I said, ‘and out to rubbish this man in my life.’
The slit eyes momentarily opened wider. ‘I like loyalty in a woman.’
Patrick said, ‘We’re trying to discover whether another cop, who died, was murdered.’
‘The one called Gray?’ said the man in surprise. ‘I thought everyone knew he was murdered.’
‘No, DCI Derek Harmsworth. His car went off a bridge before Gray was killed.’ Patrick added, after a short silence, ‘Were you his snout?’
‘Such a horrible word,’ retorted the other, seeming to be really offended.
‘My apologies,’ said Patrick gracefully. ‘English idiom can be cruel. Let me say, then, that whoever it was gave him certain information. You were offended, so I’m guessing that it was you.’
‘It might have been,’ the other conceded.
‘In return he might have turned a blind eye to some of your staff being illegal immigrants and the club you run being a bit – well – iffy.’
‘I will have no criminals here!’
‘I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Now, do you know anything about Harmsworth’s death?’
The old man seemed to wither a little into himself. ‘It was bad, very bad,’ he muttered. ‘I saw him that night, you know. He came in here, just popped in, as you say. He sometimes did, not for any reason, just to say hello, Jo-Jo, how are you? We had a good understanding.’
‘What time was this?’ Patrick asked.
‘At just before seven, I think. He was on his way home.’
‘Was there any particular reason why he came here that evening?’
‘He asked me if I knew anything about the Giddings man. But no, nothing. I know nothing about politicians.’
‘And he made no comment about any other calls he planned to make on the way home?’
‘Nothing that I can remember. We were very busy.’
‘I hear what you say about no criminals being permitted here, but did you notice anyone who might have been a stranger standing near to you when you were talking? Was anyone taking a furtive interest in Harmsworth?’
Jo-Jo now appeared to go into a state of suspended animation, presumably thinking. It occurred to me that he more closely resembled one of those unfortunates who had been ritually murdered back in the mists of time and whose remarkably preserved remains are sometimes found in peat bogs. For some reason I then shivered: there was something very unnerving about this man and I would have hated to get on the wrong side of him.
At last, Jo-Jo said, ‘As I said, we were busy. I cannot remember anyone of the sort you are after. The place was full of businessmen, bank people, professional types. Most of my customers are like that – the rough ones are not welcome here. But’ – and here his thin shoulders rose in an elaborate shrug – ‘this person might be like – what is it called? – a creature that changes colour?’
‘A chameleon,’ I said.
The wizened features split into a ghastly smile. ‘On the menu tonight, perhaps? You want some?’ And he wheezed with laughter.
Patrick was not to be diverted. ‘I’m also interested in a man by the name of Theodore du Norde. I understand he belongs to your club.’
‘The club is not part of the restaurant.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘And none of the business of the police.’
‘So it was a no-go area with Harmsworth, was it? OK, we’ll forget it’s actual set-up for now – just tell me about du Norde.’
‘It’s confidential,’ said Jo-Jo. ‘Now, that is enough. I’m busy.’
He went from sight through a door marked ‘PRIVATE’.
We stayed to eat, a smiling waiter appearing as abruptly as his boss had disappeared to show us to a table. I took this to mean that there was no real enmity towards us, which I suppose was a relief, as I had a strong suspicion that Jo-Jo might be behind a lot of illegal goings-on in the Woodhill area.
‘The local godfather?’ I whispered to Patrick when we had placed our order.
‘I reckon he must be. But who knows? The DCI might have tolerated him and those who work for him because his presence, and muscle, keep out far worse hoodlums from, say, central Europe. As he said, he and Harmsworth had an understanding – but that isn’t going to prevent me from having a rummage around in his club.’
‘How, though?’
‘I’ll think of something.’
We left the restaurant at a little after nine thirty and, not having brought the car set off to walk back to our lodgings. It was a murky night, drizzling lightly but eventually soakingly, the pavements having a greasy sheen to them.
‘What do you suggest we do next?’ I asked as we left the side lane and turned into the main road.
Patrick was silent for a moment or two and then said, ‘As we’re all too aware, there’s no actual evidence yet that would point to Harmsworth having been murdered. There are no real leads with regard to the Gray inquiry either – I checked up on that while you were in the shower earlier. No one yet questioned saw anyone suspicious near his house around that time and none of the forensic evidence has so far been useful. No fingerprints, DNA samples other than Gray’s, nothing useful at all. I think we’re looking for a pro for that killing, who wore gloves and took other precautions. The same might even apply to Harmsworth’s death, if he really was stabbed. It might be time to make something happen.’
And with that something did: a man came at us from an alleyway at the run, on us instantly to grab me around the neck
to haul me back from whence he had come. I took him unawares by collapsing, deadweight, getting him off balance so that he almost fell. I curled up in a protective ball and other than a desultory kick in my general direction that landed on my left shin he abandoned me only to run straight into Patrick. I was just in time, jumping to my feet, to see what happened next – a knife flashing as the blade caught the light from a street lamp. It was wrung from his grasp and clattered to the ground. In the next second Patrick had gone headlong into the road, a foot slipping off the kerb. A car screamed to a standstill, stopping just short of him.
Footsteps pounded off into the distance.
Patrick was swearing inventively when I got to him, a passenger having got out of the car to assist him.
‘You OK, mate?’ he asked.
‘Don’t touch it!’ Patrick said as the man moved towards the knife. ‘Yes, thanks, I’m fine.’ I saw his teeth gleam as he grinned fiercely. ‘Just dented pride.’
‘No, that wasn’t an attempted mugging,’ Patrick agreed when we were having the inevitable debriefing in our room. ‘And for the record I don’t think it was anything to do with Hicks either – unless he’s even more stupid than I thought.’
‘Just a random attack by a crazy sort of person who goes in for such things?’ I hazarded, rubbing my bruised shin. Patrick was, I knew, furious with himself for not having grabbed our attacker, especially as, lately, he has worked hard to get himself back to the same standard of fitness as he had when we worked for D12, our MI5 department.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think, no, it wasn’t a random attack.’
We’d taken the knife to the nick and made a report before heading for our digs – quite a long walk, as the former was in the opposite direction; Patrick had insisted we needed the exercise. I had actually wondered if he was half-hoping that whoever it was would have a second attempt, but nothing had happened.
‘In other words, then, it’s another attack on the police, or those connected with them?’
‘Based on shaky info,’ I replied, ‘that the new boy at the nick’s a semi-retired army bod who must have been driving a desk for years so will be a pushover – literally. Whoever it was probably meant to kill or badly injure you, though.’
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