by LJ Ross
“Can I help you?” He took a full appraisal, from the top of her red head, to the tips of her boots.
Denise smiled in what she hoped was an unthreatening way.
“Mr Hart?” she even hammed up her accent, relying on its natural charm to soften him up. “My name is Detective Inspector Denise MacKenzie. I was hoping I could ask you a few follow-up questions regarding the body you found the other morning?”
She drew out her warrant card, which he examined.
“I’m not really sure what else I can tell you,” he began, hesitantly. “But feel free to come in, anyway. I’m afraid I must ask you to be quiet; my mother is asleep in her room upstairs.”
“Of course.”
She passed through the hallway with its highly-polished floorboards and lingering scent of lavender, which she guessed came from the excessive number of dried flower arrangements which topped every available surface. She thought briefly of a funeral parlour.
“Can I offer you some tea?”
“No, thank you, I’ve just had some,” MacKenzie lied easily and took a seat on one of the sofas he indicated. Glancing around, she saw a large room decorated in varying shades of cream and white. Shelves were stacked with books, arranged in what appeared to be militant alphabetical order. There were no trinkets or ornaments, no dust catchers of any kind. Her eye fell on several large textbooks of criminology and an extensive collection of small paperback books detailing the lives of famous criminals. She told herself not to draw conclusions from it; after all, she had several copies of the same books on her shelves at home.
On the other hand, she was a police detective. It was her business to investigate murder and she had completed a masters’ degree in Criminology. As far as she knew, Colin Hart worked in finance and, before that, in research. She had done her homework.
Colin noticed the direction of her stare and fiddled with the cuff of his shirt.
“I find it so fascinating, don’t you? That’s probably a stupid question,” he carried on inanely. “Of course you do, you’re a detective.”
MacKenzie gave him another empty smile, which didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“The reality of murder can be very different from the reports you read in those books,” she murmured.
“Oh, I’m sure,” he agreed eagerly, perching on the sofa beside her. Ordinary social graces would have led many people to take the chair on the other side of the coffee table, leaving a healthy gap between them. As it was, MacKenzie was now seated uncomfortably close to him, almost able to count the freckles on his nose.
She made a conscious effort to appear unaffected.
“I’m sure that your experience yesterday morning was quite sobering,” she said conversationally.
“Mmm.” He drummed his fingers against his thighs. “I, ah, I don’t need a solicitor or anything, do I?”
MacKenzie adopted a surprised expression.
“You are always entitled to have one present, but I’m not conducting an interview with you under caution, Mr Hart. I’m merely here to ask some follow-up questions.”
She should have consulted his statement, before barging in gung-ho, she thought with a sinking heart. Her mistake was becoming more and more obvious.
“That’s all right, then,” Colin said, leaning even further towards her.
MacKenzie’s spine was now painfully straight and the inclination to lean away from him was palpable. She cleared her throat.
“How did you feel, when you found the body?”
Colin looked momentarily confused.
“I suppose I felt intrigued. It was really quite a spectacle,” he answered. “More than I imagined it would be.”
Denise frowned.
“When you say, ‘more than you imagined’, what do you mean by that?”
“Oh, you know, when you read about true crime, you think it’s going to be a real fright,” he said. “But it was only an initial shock, the kind you might feel with someone jumping out at you and shouting ‘boo!’”
He smiled, displaying yellowish teeth with a pronounced overbite. She sensed that he had enjoyed something spicy for lunch.
“I see. Do you know a woman called Claire Burns?”
Colin’s facial expression remained neutral but his eyelids flickered. His fingers began to fiddle with the cuff of his shirt, tugging at the tiny threads until one of them began to run.
“Yes, I believe I do. She’s one of my neighbours.”
MacKenzie shifted in her seat so that she angled away from him.
“Not quite a neighbour,” she commented lightly. “She lives a bit further down your street, on the other side of the road.”
“It’s a friendly neighbourhood,” Colin said defensively.
“I understand that you are quite friendly with Claire,” MacKenzie returned, watching his face closely.
“I try to be,” he said carefully, but his fingers stopped picking at his shirt and began tap-tap-tapping against the material of his jeans instead.
“Would you like to have had a relationship with Ms Burns?”
Colin picked up on the nuance immediately.
“What do you mean, ‘had’?”
“I’d be grateful if you would answer the question,” MacKenzie reiterated.
“Claire is a lovely woman. I might have asked her once or twice to dinner, which she politely declined.”
“I see. Can you tell me when you last saw Ms Burns?”
Colin’s colour was up, sweat pearling on his top lip.
“I would like to know why you’re asking me about Claire. I thought you were here to ask about the other morning?”
“Claire Burns was found dead this morning.”
Colin froze, the muscles of his face contorting into something grotesque. MacKenzie took that as her cue to leave. Every fibre of her being was screaming for her to go and now she obeyed.
She rose quickly from her chair and Colin followed her.
“You’re absolutely right, Mr Hart. I’ve taken up enough of your valuable time and I’m expected back at the office,” she glanced at her watch for effect. “Thank you once again for being so helpful.”
She turned quickly and exited without a backward glance. Only when she had returned to her car and locked the doors, did she realise that her hands were shaking.
* * *
After MacKenzie’s departure, Colin watched her walk quickly over to her bright red Fiesta parked a little way down the street.
Why had she asked him about Claire?
He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. What was more, he knew that his mother wouldn’t like it, either. He must make sure that the police never had any reason to visit him again, he thought quickly, turning towards his computer.
He began to delete the files.
“Colin!” His mother’s whining voice wafted down the stairs and his jaw clenched tightly against the hot fury, which sprang so easily to the surface.
“Colin, where are you? I’m hungry. Did you hear me? I said I’m hungry, Colin!”
His fingers poised above the keyboard, he warred with himself. He could ignore her for a few more minutes, just long enough to finish the job, but years of training had him pushing away from the desk again.
“Coming, Mother.”
CHAPTER 10
The All American Diner occupied a popular slot on Newcastle’s ‘Golden Mile’ of bars and clubs, which ran like an artery through the heart of the city. Rent on that commercial space should have been high, but the Diner had two things going for it: constant clientele and wealthy owners.
When DI MacKenzie and DS Phillips walked through the silver double doors, it was like being assaulted by noise and colour. Young women in pink candy-striper uniforms and men dressed like Danny Zucko served dinner and drinks to people lounging in wide booths decorated in a bright, cherry red. In one corner, there was a full-sized pink Cadillac and a giant jukebox pumping out classic tunes while couples boogied on the flashing dance floor.
&n
bsp; “It’s still Monday, isn’t it?” Phillips asked. The place was bustling and it was hard to believe this was just an after-work crowd.
“Last time I checked,” MacKenzie muttered.
Bravely, they stepped across the threshold and made directly for the long aluminium bar on the far side. Sliding onto a couple of red bar stools, Phillips tried to signal one of the Brylcreemed waiters.
After a few minutes passed without any success, MacKenzie stepped in. With a flick of her hair, she craned her neck forward, stuck an arm out and was gratified to find that one of the serving staff hurried over. Apparently, she still had it.
Phillips pursed his lips and decided to say nothing about gender stereotyping.
“What can I get you, pet?”
The waiter flashed a bright white grin, which stood out against his perma-tanned skin.
“We’re from CID,” MacKenzie flashed her warrant card discreetly. “We’d like to talk to you about Claire Burns.”
The young man shook his head in confusion.
“Claire hasn’t turned up for work today. Jimmy’s going mad about it,” he added.
“Who’s Jimmy?”
“He’s the owner.”
Phillips leaned across and grabbed a handful of salted peanuts from a dish on the bar in front of him.
“Listen,” the waiter carried on. “Is something up with Claire?”
“When was the last time you saw her?” MacKenzie decided it was best to be vague, for now.
“Um, it would have been last night, closing time. Has something happened to her?”
“You could say that,” Phillips wiped his fingers on a white paper napkin. “I’m sorry to tell you that Claire was found dead this morning. It would be helpful if you would answer some questions for us.”
The waiter, who turned out to be Barry Denham, aged twenty, paled beneath his tan.
“You’re – you’re joking?”
His eyes watered.
“You must have made a mistake. Claire always took the bus home and she never got in any trouble. She wasn’t like that.”
“Tell us about her usual routine,” MacKenzie advised, taking advantage of a brief lull at the bar.
“She worked as many shifts as she could. She’s usually here more than she would be at home,” he ran a hand over his slick hair and tapped it absently into place as he thought. “She wasn’t into all of this, though.”
He gestured widely to encompass the Diner.
“She was a quiet person.”
They both nodded.
“Some of us go out for drinks or a dance after work, but she isn’t – I mean, that is, she wasn’t interested.”
“She kept herself to herself?”
“Yeah, sort of. She was friendly, like. I think she just had her heart set on being a nurse.”
“Pretty girl,” Phillips commented idly, his laidback attitude giving the impression that he wasn’t beadily watching and listening to every answer the man gave him. Over eighty per cent of killers were known to their victims, after all.
“Aye, she is … was.” Sadness washed over the young waiter with the ridiculous quiff.
“What was her shift like yesterday?”
“She was on from about two p.m. until eleven. It took a while clearing up after closing, but I think she gave us a wave goodbye at around eleven-thirty, maybe quarter-to-twelve at the latest.”
“How do you know?”
“She was making a bit of a song and dance about the fact she might miss her bus home,” he replied. “She always got the same bus after a late shift, from the corner outside, at half past eleven.”
“Nobody went with her?”
“Nah, although Jimmy headed out around the same time, so I assumed he gave her a lift or made sure she got on the bus.” He looked like he was about to say more, but he fell silent.
“Thanks,” MacKenzie nodded. “One of our PCs will be in touch to take a statement from you tomorrow, but in the meantime you’ve been very helpful. Can you point us in Jimmy’s direction?”
“His office is through there,” he indicated a silver door marked ‘PRIVATE’. As they turned to leave, he spoke up again. “If – if I wanted to send some flowers … who … can you tell me where to send them?”
“We’ll let you know.”
Phillips and MacKenzie slid off their stools and with a peremptory knock, walked through the door in question.
Inside, there was a short corridor and a heavily muscled man rose from where he had been sitting reading a smutty tabloid newspaper with dog-eared edges. He wore a dark suit that didn’t sit comfortably across his shoulders and the skin across his face bore the unmistakeable puffy and spotted signs of long-term alcohol abuse.
“Can I help you?”
“We’re looking for Jimmy.”
“He’s busy. Who’re you?”
The question was abrupt and Phillips noticed that the man – clearly some sort of bodyguard – kept one hand in his trouser pocket. He was surprised there was only one such person to protect the likes of Jimmy “The Manc” Moffa, but perhaps his reputation was enough to ward off potential threats.
Jimmy Moffa was one of three brothers who operated a known crime syndicate in and around Newcastle. After one bad deal too many, Moffa Senior had received a swift knife to the belly, in lieu of payment for services rendered. His boys had taken over the family business and moved from Manchester to set up shop in a new city. Jimmy was the youngest, charged with running several of the brothers’ legitimate enterprises. Phillips understood now why the restaurant that had previously occupied the space here had suddenly gone out of business. He may have been the youngest of the Moffa brothers, but Jimmy had packed a lot into his thirty years on Earth, certainly enough for people to run in the opposite direction. From fraud to arson, to assault and GBH, Jimmy had been there. That didn’t count his juvenile history, or the family interests in gambling, prostitution and, of course, drugs.
However, he had never been tried for any of those crimes. Evidence mysteriously disappeared and witnesses went missing or developed a sudden case of amnesia.
“We need to speak to him about one of his waitresses, Claire Burns. Could you please ask him if he has ten minutes to spare?”
Denise was giving a master class in authority tempered with charm. The bodyguard assessed her with bloodshot eyes, glanced at the warrant card she held out and then spoke quietly into a mouthpiece on the lapel of his blazer.
“Mr Moffa can give you ten minutes,” he barked, then knocked and opened the door behind him.
The inner sanctum was lavishly decorated in shades of grey, black and silver, in a minimalist style. White leather armchairs were arranged in a seating area around a glossy black coffee table. There were wide photographic prints on the wall of various scenes around the UK in dramatic black-and-white. The floor at their feet was a similar glossy black tile.
Easy to clean, MacKenzie thought.
An enormous desk dominated the room, behind which sat the man himself. He was still young, but his pale blue eyes told tales of the things he had seen and gave an edginess to his appearance. He was dressed in clothes which he thought made him look like a successful businessman, inspired by his sixties idols, the Krays – a crisp white shirt, skinny black tie and a fat Omega watch weighed down one of his wrists. His hair was shaven, which drew attention to the sharp bones of his face and did little to detract from the general sense of danger one was inclined to feel in his presence.
That was just how he liked it.
He stood and gestured graciously to the armchairs opposite.
“Please, take a seat. I understand you’re from CID?” He let his eyes roam freely over MacKenzie and he thought that there was something to be said for an older woman.
MacKenzie perched on the edge of one of the spotless leather chairs and Phillips remained standing at her shoulder.
“We would like to ask you some questions about one of your waiting staff, Claire Burns.”
> Jimmy leaned back in his chair, very much at ease.
“Claire? Well, this is a surprise. I wouldn’t have thought she’d be the type to get herself mixed up in anything,” he said, the words laced with a Midlands accent he hadn’t quite lost.
“Claire Burns was found dead, early this morning.”
MacKenzie and Phillips both watched the man closely for a reaction, but all they saw was a hint of genuine surprise. No remorse, no particular sadness. But then, this surely wouldn’t have been the first time that he had held similar conversations with the police.
“I’m sorry to hear that. We will be sure to send some flowers to her mother.”
He probably had a running account with the local florist, Phillips thought.
“We understand that you may have been the last person to see Claire, after she finished her shift here last night,” MacKenzie continued.
He shrugged one shoulder and picked up a thick gold fountain pen, rolling it back and forth between thumb and forefinger as he spoke.
“I said ‘goodnight’ to her at about half past eleven. I offered her a lift home, but she was happy to wait for the bus.”
“Was that all? She headed for the bus stop while you went home yourself?”
“That’s all,” his voice grew firmer, brooking no argument.
“Did you happen to notice anyone else at the bus stop?”
“It’s the centre of town, so, of course there were one or two other people about.”
“We noticed a CCTV camera outside the main entrance to the building. Would you be willing to give us a copy of the recording?”
He licked his bottom lip before answering.
“Anything to help our officers in blue.”
By the time MacKenzie and Phillips took their leave, they were both feeling highly claustrophobic. Stepping out onto the pavement, they breathed the free air again.
“Gives me the creeps,” MacKenzie said, after a moment.
“Me an’ all, love,” Phillips muttered, thinking of those eyes that had watched her with an unwavering stare.
