“I’d not say no.”
“Start up a brewery in Fortrow and brew the real stuff, instead of mixing chemicals. I’m telling you, in two years you’d be riding around in a Rolls.” The bar had been cleaned the night before and everything was ready. The landlord drew two pints of beer. “There you are. See what you think of that.”
Kerr drank and said with true appreciation: “It’s nectar.”
“Near forgot what real beer tastes like, I’ll wager. Two of them and life gets fun.” He leaned his ample form against the counter. “Where are you going after here? The Victory? Gnat’s pee, that’s what they serve.”
“I’m just from there.” Kerr took the list from his pocket. “In fact I’ve done near all the pubs this side, so I’ll have to move south.”
“You’ve a job and a half. You know you said this bloke might have been objectionable since it’s like as not he had a skinful under his belt? I had a bloke the other night…”
Kerr ceased to listen as he looked up at the clock on the wall and decided that there was still a chance of his finishing by half past twelve, which would leave him his weekend free. He drained the glass and put it down on the bar. “I suppose I’d better be on my way.”
“You’ll have the other half first, won’t you?”
“There’s nothing I’d like more, but I’d better move on… Can you think of anywhere round here other than a pub that would serve drinks at night?”
“What about the golf course. The clubhouse must do a good trade with all the money there is in the area.”
“I’ve had a word with the couple there.”
“Then there’s the new disco along Tamesworth Road.”
“Someone told me it hasn’t got a licence.”
“Nor has it… Just thought you might be interested, that’s all.”
Kerr looked quickly at him. “Drugs?”
“You hear things in my job. Most of ’em are a load of right old cobblers, but now and then there’s something…” He jerked himself upright. “Sorry you won’t have the other half now. Come back and have it some other time.”
“That’s a definite date. And I’ll bring the wife along: she knows a good beer when she tastes one.”
Kerr returned to his car, parked under the shade of a large oak tree, and drove out of the carpark. Beyond the crossroads was a small shopping centre and towards one end of this, its entrance sandwiched between a greengrocer and a men’s dress shop, was the gaudily painted entrance to Angel’s Discothèque.
The large, basement room was in a state of sluttish undress. Chairs were piled on top of tables and there was a load of rubbish under the central multi-faceted, ceiling-hung globe. Two women were sweeping the floor and a third one was wiping down one wall. He asked them where the manager was and swore under his breath when they said the other was still at home, two miles away.
The manager, prematurely bald, his thin, concave face looking as if it hadn’t seen the sun in years, rubbed his eyes. “Couldn’t you’ve waited until I’d finished sleeping?”
“I’m sorry, but it’s important.” Kerr wondered why the window was shut: the small sitting room smelled. “Have a look at this photo, will you, and tell me if you’ve ever clapped eyes on the bloke.”
The manager yawned as he took the cutting. “Who is he?”
“His name’s Jones.”
“Well, I’ve never seen him at the disco.”
“Have another look, will you? Like I said, it’s important.”
The manager shrugged his shoulders. “I could look a dozen times and the answer’d be the same. I get fifty blokes who look like him in every night.” He glanced down at the photograph once more, shook his head, and handed it back.
“What do they come for?”
“What the hell d’you think?”
“From what I’ve been hearing, I could think a lot.”
The manager sat down on the nearest chair. He rubbed his right eye. “Listen. I run everything regular. They wouldn’t give me a licence so there’s only soft drinks. When the law says I’m to close, I close. If anyone tries to get funny, they’re out.”
“Sounds a bit like Sunday school to me.”
“All right, let’s know what you’ve heard?” His voice rose. “I do my best. But I can’t be everywhere. You get a hundred youngsters together these days and there’s no knowing how many of ’em will be doing what. But no one does it with me knowing.”
“That sounds fair enough… So now we know each other’s problems, have another look at the photo and try a bit harder to remember.” Kerr handed back the photo.
The manager stared up at him with resentment, then examined the photograph for a third time. He shook his head. “It’s no good me saying anything. I haven’t seen him at the disco.”
“If this bloke got high on booze or drugs, it’s likely he became objectionable.”
“He wouldn’t be the first.”
“Still can’t place him? …Do you have a bouncer?”
“Sure, only we call him a doorman. Even in a place like South Flecton you need someone with muscle who can cut a row short.”
“What’s the name of your bloke?”
“Sid Streeter. He used to be a professional wrestler. I’ve seen him handle three blokes at once and still have room for more.”
Kerr grinned. “I’ll be polite.”
“He sees more of the act than I do, so he could maybe tell you something about the bloke you’re interested in.”
“Give me his address, will you?”
It was eleven-thirty when Kerr returned to the Hillman. If he didn’t hurry things up, he thought, he wouldn’t be back at the station in time to knock off for the weekend…
Streeter lived in a terrace house in Bratby Cross, in a neighbourhood where the inhabitants had plenty of pride but not much money. He was a large man with exceptionally broad shoulders and a battered face that, despite all its irregularities, was basically good-natured in appearance. His wife, almost as large as he, was very darkly featured, suggesting she came from the Mediterranean.
After the introductions, Kerr said: “I’ve just been talking to your boss. He suggested coming to see you.”
“Now there’s a sad old bastard,” said Streeter, with undiminished cheerfulness. “He’s so miserable that if he won the pools he’d start weeping because of all the taxes he’d have to pay.”
Kerr passed over the cutting. “Have a butchers at this bloke and then tell me if you’ve seen him recently.”
Mrs Streeter said: “How would you like a cuppa, Mr Kerr?”
“Give over, Ma,” said Streeter. “Tea at this time of day? Isn’t there any wallop left?”
“You don’t think I’d dare run out of beer, do you, not with you living here?” She chuckled and her powerful bosom surged upwards and downwards. She left, still chuckling.
“Always drinking tea,” said Streeter, jerking his thick thumb in the direction of the door. “I tell her, she’ll turn even browner if she ain’t careful.” He looked down at the photograph and then held it further away from himself. “No,” he said, “it ain’t no good, I need me glasses. Getting old, that’s the trouble.” He crossed the room to the television set, on the top of which was a spectacle case. He opened the case and took out a pair of steel-framed glasses which he put on.
“The bloke could well have been causing trouble,” said Kerr.
“Never had to chuck him out,” said Streeter definitely.
“Or seen him flying?”
“There ain’t nothing like that goes on…” began Streeter.
“Let’s get the record straight. I’m not here to drop the book on you because a bloke or two flies in the disco. These days there’s always someone fool enough to be sniffing, smoking, swallowing, or injecting something. All I’m after is information. Have you ever noticed that bloke who’s in the photo?” Streeter took off his spectacles, stared questioningly at Kerr, then made up his mind. He tapped the cutting with his folded spectac
les. “I’ll give it straight. I had my eyes on a bloke what looked like him one night. Flying, he was. Only he wasn’t causing trouble enough for me to do anything.”
“Any idea what he was lifted on?”
“I wouldn’t know, mister.”
“How certain can you be that the bloke you’re talking about is the bloke in this photo?”
“I said it could’ve been. I ain’t saying it was.”
“How was he behaving? What sort of manner would you say he had?”
“Cocky.”
“Can you remember how he was dressed?”
Streeter thought back. “Seems like he dressed casual, but it was expensive casual.”
“Was he with a bird?”
“I can’t remember.”
“What d’you do if you see a bloke coming into the disco who’s flying?”
“Send him off.”
“So this bloke was probably level when he arrived?”
“Could be.”
“If he arrived level and left flying, someone in the disco was maybe selling?”
Streeter’s expression became sullen. “I didn’t say he was level, did I? I just said he could’ve been. Maybe I didn’t notice him.”
Mrs Streeter entered the room with a tray on which were two pewter mugs. “Here we are, then.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Kerr, as she handed him a mug. He raised it. “The first today and all the more welcome for that,” he said, and made it sound as if that really were his first drink of the day.
She handed the second mug to her husband. Then, after a moment’s hesitation during which she looked enquiringly at him, she left the room.
Since he had been in the C.I.D., Kerr had learned the value of silence: there were times when it was far more effective than a whole string of searching questions. He drank slowly and settled back in the chair.
Streeter began to fidget. He cleared his throat. “You’ve got to understand something, mister. Apart from the girls at the desk and behind the drinks counter, there’s only me, the manager, and the deejay around. The girls are busy and the manager and the deejay don’t add up to one bloke between ’em.”
“So?”
“So I can’t be everywhere.”
“But you’ll manage to get a very good idea of what’s going on.” Kerr spoke thoughtfully. “Let’s say the bloke in the photo arrived level and left flying. Then either he brought it with him, was given it there, or bought it there… You don’t know which for sure?”
“That’s right. I don’t.”
“But I’d guess you’ve half an idea what the answer is?”
Streeter again fidgeted with his knuckles. “I saw this bloke with several others and then there was another bloke who joined in who didn’t fit. He was older and wasn’t all hair and… Well, I ain’t no good at explaining things, but he just wasn’t their scene. I said to myself, watch out. Then they all moved off to the gents’ and so I thought… It don’t matter what I thought. Later on there was two or three blokes looked like they was flying and they’d been some of those I’d noticed… You’ve got to understand, I didn’t know nothing for certain and so I couldn’t start shouting and no one was flying high enough for me to chuck ’em out.”
“When was this?”
Streeter shook his massive shoulders. “Two, three weeks ago.”
“Can’t you be more specific?”
“Not a hope, mister. All I know for sure is. it wasn’t a Sunday ’cause we’re closed then.”
“Who was this pusher?”
“I didn’t say there was a pusher…”
“Relax. I’m just calling him that so as we both know who I’m talking about. Who was he?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“At least you can describe him.”
Streeter screwed up his face. “Well, he was older than the rest of ’em. Like thirtyish. And he was dressed more normal, and his clothes didn’t look expensive. We get money down in the disco: some of the gear they wear would keep you and me for weeks.”
“What kind of a face had he?”
“Just normal. All I remember for sure is there was a scar on one of his cheeks.”
“Now we’re moving. A large scar?”
“Wouldn’t think it was more ’n a couple of inches long.”
“What shape?”
“Kind of crescent.” Streeter stared up at the ceiling. “It was in the middle of the cheek.”
It seemed unlikely he was going to learn anything more of any importance. Kerr looked at his watch. Half past twelve already.
*
Fusil, seated at his desk, pulled the plastic cover free from a ham sandwich. He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Stale,” he muttered. “Yet that woman in the canteen swore it was made no later than last night.”
“Their sandwiches usually are stale,” said Kerr, not very sympathetically, since Helen would have cooked him a hot lunch. “If it’s all right with you now, sir, I’ll go…”
“D’you remember how the Parsons talked about the driver of the car acting as if he were tight?” Fusil ate some more sandwich. “Marijuana can distort distance and time. See a bloke in a car who’s high and you can easily reckon he’s tight. I don’t suppose they smoked joints at the disco because of the smell: but resin in a spice stick or some kind of sweetmeat… The route’s right.” If Duncan had been at the discothèque, the natural route to have taken to get to his home would have included the stretch of road in which the accident had happened. “But look at it closely and it’s a thin identification, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, but it’s the only possible lead I came across.”
“What have Records on pushers with crescent shaped scars on their cheeks?”
“I haven’t been on to them as I’ve only just returned. Perry’s on duty now so shall I ask him…”
“What’s wrong with you doing the phoning?”
“As a matter of fact, sir, I haven’t eaten yet and Helen will be…”
“Have a ham sandwich.” Fusil pushed a second plastic-wrapped sandwich across his desk. “And when you’ve had your lunch, get on to Records.”
Chapter 9
Chetsworth House in east Pendleton Bray had been built in the past twenty years yet it possessed all the immediate visual appeal of a small Queen Anne mansion. The garden was over an acre in size — an expensive luxury in Pendleton Bray — and this had been landscaped with such skill and imagination that to walk round it was to be constantly surprised and delighted.
The furniture was antique and unmistakably of finest quality and the furnishings were discreetly luxurious. There were two sitting rooms, the blue room and the gold room, yet here this was charming and not an affectation. It was a house in which there was no snobbery, only good taste.
James Middleton, chairman of the watch committee, was tall, in his late fifties, and his body had the well-muscled compactness which came from regular physical exercise. His face was long and narrow and might have looked austere had it not been for his mouth which was humorous.
He leaned against the mantelpiece of the blue room and stared at Grant. “You’ve taken the wind out of my sails, Tom. This was the last thing I expected.”
Grant, who sat very upright in one of the armchairs, brushed his moustache with crooked forefinger.
Middleton jerked himself upright and put his hands in his trouser pockets. “D’you know, I’d have said that you were as fit as I am.”
Grant said nothing.
“Which specialist did you see?”
“I’m not doing it on specific medical advice. But the job calls for someone who’s capable of being on top of it for twenty-four hours of the day.”
“In my opinion you were and are.” Middleton took his hands out of his pockets and walked over to an inlaid cabinet. “What will you drink — the usual?”
“Thanks.”
Middleton poured out two Scotches, added water, then said, “I’ll just get some ice.” He picked up a silv
er ice bowl and left the room.
Grant brushed his moustache again, stared blindly at the sun-ray mirror above the fireplace. He wished he was the kind of man who could get drunk to drown his thoughts.
When Middleton returned, he put two cubes of ice in each glass and then handed one glass to Grant. He sat opposite Grant. “We’d be very happy for you to continue in office, fully accepting the fact that you may not be able to do quite as much work as you have in the past. You know, Tom, you’ve been a damn good chief constable for Fortrow and I’m certain the rest of the committee would be behind me when I say that we’d rather have you, not so active, than anyone else, however active… I know you’re so conscientious that you get worried if you begin to fall behind in anything, but what’s to stop you bringing in one of your senior officers as a deputy who can take over the more routine work?”
“I’ve thought all round the matter and there’s no workable alternative,” said Grant flatly.
Middleton brought a slim gold cigarette case from his coat pocket and opened it. He stood up and crossed the Santa Barbara carpet, magically alive with colour in flower patterns and geometrical designs. Grant accepted a cigarette. Middleton returned to his seat. “There’s another aspect to your resignation, and I’m going to put this bluntly. If you resign on the grounds of ill health but can’t quote specific medical advice, some people are going to wonder, most especially the faction who wouldn’t be sorry to see the borough force vanish and are always looking for trouble.”
“I doubt they’ll get any ammunition out of me.”
“On the contrary. They’re going to say that no man resigns from an important, well-paid position without very good reason. If you’re not seriously ill, what’s the reason?”
Grant drank.
“It’s certainly not going to help the name of the force to have rumours floating around.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t see that I can be held responsible for what others choose to think.”
Middleton said, “Um!” and pressed his lips together so that briefly the lines about them hardened and were no longer humorous, “I’m wondering if you appreciate quite how sensitive the reputation of the force has become and quite how many people today wish the force ill?”
Murder is Suspected (C.I.D. Room Book 10) Page 6
