by JOHN STANLEY
‘No contest, Mr Radford.’
The chief inspector pursed his lips: it was a ploy that worked more times than it failed.
‘Listen,’ said Perlow, leaning forward, ‘do yourself a favour. We need to get…’
‘I ain’t helping yer. Like I said…’
‘Who’s Ronny?’ asked Radford suddenly.
‘I ain’t ever heard of him,’ said Ginch but he seemed startled by the question. ‘Why?’
‘His name is spray-painted across the old pub in Alma Street.’
Ginch relaxed. ‘Oh, is that all…’
‘I don’t know, is that all?’
‘I don’t know no Ronny.’
As they watched, they could see the shutters go up and after a few more similarly fruitless minutes of questioning, the detectives called a halt. Perlow led the grateful Ginch back to reception before returning to the interview room where Radford was still sitting, deep in thought. Together the officers walked down the corridor.
‘What do you reckon, guv?’ asked the constable.
‘What do you reckon, you know him better than me,’ said Radford, smiling at one of the young secretaries as he held open the swing door for her.
‘Ginch is nothing. He spends half his life out of his mind on drugs.’
‘Do some more digging, will you?’ said Radford as they approached his office. ‘Oh, and he seemed worried when I asked about this Ronny character. Find out who he is. Anything on Brian Chambers?’
‘Not so far. Neighbours reckon he said something about going away for a day or two. He has a daughter in Framley, apparently, stays with her sometimes.’
‘OK, keep me posted.’
Radford watched his constable leave the office, glanced round the room he thought he might never see again and allowed himself the thinnest of smiles.
Bring it on. Bring it all on.
Chapter sixteen
What Perlow brought on was Ronny Gallagher. The constable had discovered within hours the identity of the graffiti artist who had scrawled his name across the old pub in Alma Street and arrested him behind the railway station after a struggle. There was, thought Radford, as he and Perlow sat in the stuffy interview room that evening and eyed him across the table, something unnerving about the youth. Ronny was in his late teens, a well-built, muscular man whose body nevertheless was beginning to show the ague that came with sustained drug abuse. It seemed to the officers that beneath the ragged blue T-shirt, the biceps were beginning to atrophy and the jeans hung loosely around his waist. His head was shaved, the scalp, like the face, pitted and greasy, more unmistakable signs of someone who had neglected their well-being for too long.
But it was not the body that caused the unease among the officers, it was the mindless expression on the face. Ronny Gallagher’s eyes always seemed to be making fun of them, taunting the officers, challenging them, defying them but look deeper and behind the defiance, they were soulless pools, taken hostage by the drugs he had been consuming for years. The mouth was similarly disturbing, lips curled up at each end as if always on the brink of a mocking smile and, behind it all lurked a sense of latent violence, the sense that Ronny Gallagher was unpredictable and potentially explosive, a young man who held nothing sacred, even his own life. They knew that made a person as dangerous as they came and Radford had taken the unusual precaution of having two uniformed officers in the interview room.
Ronny had been hostile throughout the interview, refusing even to confirm his name. Radford glanced at Perlow, who shrugged.
‘Look, Ronny,’ said Radford, the irritation clear in his voice, ‘this is stupid. All I need is the answers to some questions.’
‘Well, I ain’t answering no questions.’
‘Ginch…’ began the chief inspector.
‘Ginch what?’ and Gallagher’s eyes flashed.
‘Ginch refused to tell us anything about you when we asked him.’
‘Attaboy,’ grinned Ronny through crooked and yellowed teeth then scowled. ‘And why were you talking to him anyway?’
‘He was arrested in Alma Street last night.’
‘So?’
‘So your name was spray-painted over the pub,’ said Radford.
‘So lots of people are called Ronny. Hey, did they only let you back so long as you only investigated crappy crimes like graffiti?’
‘How did you know about my suspension?’
‘Everyone knows,’ said Ronny and grinned. ‘We had a party when we heard.’
‘Well I’m back,’ said Radford, refusing to rise to the bait, ‘and I want to know what the hell has been happening in Alma Street. You were the one who sprayed your name on the pub and that makes you very interesting to me, Ronny my boy.’
‘So I did a bit of graffiti, so what?’ shrugged Ronny.
Radford sighed. It had been the same with Ginch, who was even now sitting in a nearby cell not far away, having been re-arrested just hours after his release after trying to rob an elderly lady in a shopping precinct. Radford looked at Ronny gloomily; it was young people like him and Ginch who gave him most reason for despair. Once drugs took hold, they changed young people, robbed them of hope, robbed them of decency, robbed them of everything, cut them free to drift through life until, like JT, they died pointless deaths. It was tragic and senseless and Radford despaired that, despite the best efforts of Heron, there were still dozens, probably hundreds, of them out there on the city’s streets and in its squalid bedsits.
‘OK, Ronny,’ said the chief inspector wearily, ‘let’s talk about something else, shall we? The new gang selling the drugs, got any names?’
‘What do you think? These guys are bad news.’
‘We’d keep any information confidential,’ said Perlow.
‘Like hell you would,’ and Ronny shook his head firmly. ‘I mean, it did not take your blabbermouth chief inspector long to tell me you had been talking to Ginch, did it? That’s enough to get someone killed.’
Radford pursed his lips, inwardly cursing his mistake.
‘Ginch said nothing to us,’ said Perlow quickly. ‘The chief inspector told you that. All we want is some names.’
‘No deal. Besides, I can handle my own problems.’
‘Meaning?’ asked Radford.
‘Meaning nowt,’ said Ronny.
‘I can make your life very miserable indeed, Ronny,’ said the chief inspector. ‘All I need is some information.’
Ronny considered the prospect for a moment then a wicked gleam came into his eye as his natural cunning presented him with a way to settle some old scores.
‘There is something that might interest you,’ he said. ‘But I don’t want him finding out this came from me.’
‘Who?’
‘Ray Gerrard.’
‘The security guard in Alma Street? What about him?’
‘Just ask yourself why all them winos were turning up in the street. Ray Gerrard is on a nice little earner, selling booze on the cheap and just lately he’s been flogging smack as well.’
‘I think,’ said Radford, sitting back with a satisfied look on his face, ‘that our Mr Gerrard is worth a closer look, Constable.’
‘Can I go now?’ asked Ronny hopefully.
‘Just one more thing,’ said Radford. ‘There have been reports of a stranger in Alma Street. The chap over at the hostel reckons…’
‘Ernest Kemley,’ exclaimed Ronny. ‘He’s a fucking tosser!’
‘Tosser or not, do you know what he is on about?’
‘I never know what the little prick is on about. The bloke lives in a fucking world of his own. So, are you going to let me go?’
Radford nodded wearily and the constable led the teenager from the room. Deep in thought, the chief inspector headed along the dimly-lit corridor towards his office, where he found Gaines and Connor waiting for him.
‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, noticing their solemn looks, ‘you’ve come up on the Premium Bonds and you want to give it all to me as a welcome ba
ck present? It’s a touching gesture but I can’t take your money, lads.’
‘If I had come up on the Premium Bonds,’ said Gaines, ‘you wouldn’t see me for dust. I’d be on that plane that quick. No, we’ve just had a call from the security guard at Alma Street. Bloke called…’
‘Ray Gerrard,’ nodded Radford. ‘Funny how he keeps cropping up. What did he want?’
‘Says he was checking the houses after the demolition crew knocked off for the day and found another body.’
‘What!’
‘That’s not all,’ said Connor. ‘It’s your mate Colin Jeavons.’
‘Brilliant,’ sighed Radford, then looked at Connor with a crooked smile. ‘Hey, do you think the chief would like to suspend me again? Life would be so much easier.’
‘I’m sure he’d love to oblige,’ said Connor as he walked out of the room.
Chapter seventeen
A few minutes later, Radford and the two detectives were edging through busy city centre streets, the chief inspector at the wheel.
‘What are you thinking?’ asked Radford, looking at Gaines in the passenger seat.
‘I’m thinking that Ray Gerrard is getting tastier by the minute,’ said Gaines, glancing back at Perlow, who was in the back seat. ‘Am I right?’
‘Yeah. If he was flogging booze and smack to the down-and-outs, that opens up all sorts of possibilities, I would have said.’
‘Aye,’ said Gaines. ‘For a start, what if Colin Jeavons rumbled him? Found him at it? Maybe Jeavons went off on one, threatened to get Gerrard sacked. Maybe Gerrard lost his temper.’
‘He’s certainly got one of those,’ said Perlow, recalling their previous confrontation in Alma Street. ‘Mind, I’m not entirely sure that Gerrard is our best bet. I still reckon we should be looking at Brian Chambers as well.’
‘His name certainly does keep cropping up,’ nodded Radford, turning left into a dark side street.
‘Aye, but surely he’s just some loony letter writer?’ protested Gaines.
‘Whoever it is, I’m kinda glad Ginch is in the clear,’ said Perlow. ‘He’s sort of likeable, in his own way.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ grunted Radford. ‘Not sure I like that mate of his, though. Too much going on behind Ronny Gallagher’s eyes. That lad knows more than he is letting on. And I’m not ruling out his involvement in the murders.’
‘Too right,’ said Perlow. ‘Bit of a psycho, if you ask me.’
Silence settled on the car until, turning another corner, they saw the flashing blue lights at the bottom of Alma Street. Radford edged the vehicle through the crowd by the barriers and cut the engine.
‘I want Chambers and Gerrard lifted,’ he said.
‘I‘ll take Chambers,’ said Perlow, scanning the crowd through the car window. ‘I bet he’s here. He’ll love this kind of thing. Won’t be able to resist a golden opportunity to say he told us so.’
Radford was about to get out when he paused with his hand on the door handle and gestured in amazement at placards hurriedly scrawled with the slogan ‘Three dead. How many more?’
‘How the hell did they know about Jeavons?’ asked the chief inspector. ‘I mean, he was only found an hour ago, wasn’t he?’
‘If that,’ said Gaines.
Radford noticed that Marjorie Pretty was standing at the front of the crowd, wielding one of the offending placards. She waved cheerily. The chief inspector sighed then scowled when he saw that the demolition crew had already knocked down the outer walls of the gable end houses nearest the barrier, exposing their ruined living rooms and bedrooms.
It’s obscene, like they’ve exposed something that was never meant to be exposed. The houses are supposed to keep their own secrets and now someone has revealed them to the world.
‘They didn’t hang around,’ said Gaines.
‘Yeah, well it’ll have to stop,’ said Radford grimly then looked again at the crowd and repeated his question, ‘So how did they know about Jeavons?’
Gaines shrugged. ‘Word gets round,’ he said.
‘Well, finding out who put it round can be your first job,’ and with a glare at the crowd, and ignoring Marjorie Pretty, the chief inspector got out of the car, ducked under the barrier and walked purposefully up Alma Street.
Nodding at the uniformed officer standing guard outside the house, on the same side and three doors down from where Des Creeley had died, the chief inspector entered the darkened hallway alone and, flashing his torch ahead of him, mounted the creaking stairs and entered the back bedroom. Just like the other corpses, the body of Colin Jeavons lay sprawled in the corner of the room, spike thrust into his chest, blood welling from the wound and staining crimson his white shirt and grey suit jacket. Radford stood and looked at him in silence for a few moments, straining his eyes in a gloom broken only by the flash of his torch and the faint orange glow of distant street lights seeping its way in through cracks in the boards covering the window.
Instinctively, Radford walked over to the window and flashed his torch at the wall. There, clearly marked in red chalk and inscribed in a crabby hand, was the number 54 in a crudely drawn circle. The chief inspector felt a shiver pick its way down his spine.
Someone is playing a game, dictating the rules and using those close to Alma Street as playthings. And sacrificing them when the need arises.
‘The numbers game,’ he murmured.
The thought disturbed him deeply and he turned to leave, determined to keep his mind focused on less prosaic considerations. As he did so, a shadowy figure filled the doorway and the chief inspector gave a startled shout.
‘Sorry, guv,’ said Perlow. ‘Didn’t mean to frighten you.’
‘You daft bastard,’ gasped Radford, clutching his chest and crouching over. ‘You nearly gave me a sodding heart attack.’
It was from his low vantage point as he caught his breath that his attention was caught by something on the floor behind the door. The chief inspector straightened up and walked over to take a closer look, flashing his torchlight on the objects.
‘Maybe it is actually quite simple, after all,’ he said with a grunt of satisfaction.
‘Guv?’ asked the constable.
‘Let’s go and get some answers,’ said Radford and seconds later he was clattering down the stairs with a renewed sense of purpose.
Out in the street, all was activity with uniformed officers searching the other houses and, down by the barriers, Gaines questioning members of the crowd, who jostled round him, eager to find out what had happened and to have their say. Radford walked over and noticed that the sergeant was talking to Marjorie Pretty, struggling manfully to get a word in. The chief inspector could hear that the detective’s tone was somewhat weary and allowed himself a smile; Marjorie Pretty could do that to you.
‘So, are you really telling me that you know nothing about the latest body?’ asked Gaines, unable to conceal the incredulity in his voice as he looked at the placards.
‘Certainly not and I resent the implication in the question,’ said Marjorie, prompting a general murmur of agreement from the crowd.
‘I’m just saying…’
‘So it is Colin Jeavons then?’ asked Marjorie.
‘And what makes you ask that?’ said the sergeant sharply.
‘Everyone knows it is.’
‘And how exactly do they know? He was only found an hour ago.’
‘Jungle drums. So is it Colin Jeavons or not?’
‘I am not at liberty to…’
‘Not that I will mourn the little toerag’s passing if it is. He destroyed our lives with his act of vandalism,’ and she pointed to the wrecked gable ends, ‘so who cares if he‘s dead?’
‘Marjorie,’ said Radford, moving to stand next to his sergeant, ‘I have warned you about your inflammatory public comments before. They are far from helpful and could even be construed as incitement in the…’
‘Incitement, my arse. Your chief constable may try to sack people
for speaking their mind but out here it is a free country and I can say what I want.’
Radford opened his mouth to reply but she did not give him chance.
‘Colin Jeavons was a weasel,’ she said contemptuously. ‘He steamrollered over people. He and his nasty little company have a lot to answer for as does Jason de Vere, and I don’t mind who hears me say it. You should be investigating all the backhanders that were paid, that’s what I say.’
There was another general murmuring of agreement from the crowd. Radford surveyed them, concerned that the situation should not be allowed to get out of hand but also noting her allegation. For a few moments, he was uncertain about how to proceed. Instinct told him to lock the lot of them up but the last thing he wanted was a public confrontation at the scene of a murder. His concern heightened when he saw a car pull up behind them and a reporter and photographer from the local newspaper get out. Radford scowled.
‘All I am saying,’ he said, eager to end the conversation quickly, ‘is that with three men dead in this street - your old street, might I add - you would all be well advised to take more care with what you say.’
‘Why should we?’ said a middle-aged man, pushing his way to the front. ‘The council and the developers kicked us out of our homes without as much as a by your leave and nobody punished them for that.’
Radford looked at him sharply. ‘Punished?’ he said.
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ said the man, nodding up the street. ‘But you can’t say he didn’t deserve it.’
‘Yeah, so did that Garnett chap,’ said another man. ‘It was his damned fool idea in the first place. We are just standing up for what we believe in.’
‘And does that include killing people who disagree with you?’ asked Radford, noticing that the reporter and photographer were now approaching at a run, sensing an added twist to their story.
‘No,’ said the man, moderating his tone, ‘I am just saying that these people paid no attention to our views and we should be prepared to assert our democratic right to…’
‘Talk, talk, talk, talk,’ interrupted a scathing voice and everyone turned to see a man approaching the barrier. ‘That is all you lot ever do, talk through your well-upholstered backsides.’
