A Good Way to Go

by Peter Helton

  ‘Apart from his life.’

  ‘Precisely. Our killer has an agenda and nothing beyond that agenda. He took the boat because he needed it for his plan but he didn’t want to destroy it. He had just borrowed it.’

  ‘Should have returned it then.’

  ‘Too risky.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is that this is a decent man with a good sense of right and wrong?’

  ‘Yes. Apart from being a psychotic killer and a sadistic swine, of course.’

  The kettle boiled and Austin splashed water into a couple of mugs. ‘That man you saw at both sites, did you get any idea how old he was?’

  ‘From his shape and the way he moved I’d say he was between eighteen and forty, but it’s just a feeling, he could equally be a fifty-five year old who keeps fit. And there’s still a possibility that he’s a she. Is there nothing at all to connect the boat chap? What’s his name?’

  ‘Timothy Burr.’

  ‘Timber!’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Austin, brightening up. ‘Here.’ He handed McLusky a mug of instant. ‘Absolutely nothing we can find. And he was at home with the missus at the time.’

  ‘That, as ever, is not an alibi. But it’s not him. Not a plumber.’

  ‘There’s that radiator. He’d have easy access to those.’

  ‘It’s not a plumber,’ McLusky insisted as they left the room with their coffees.

  Sorbie lent back in his chair and threw his plastic biro on his desk in disgust. ‘There you have it: the killer is not a plumber because McLusky says so.’

  ‘Let it go, Jack.’

  ‘Have you seen his new car, Kat?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’ She really didn’t want to think about McLusky and that drunken evening. It had haunted her. She remembered telling him some things she’d never told anyone. How did that happen? She only had a hazy memory of how she had got home. What else had she told him?

  ‘It’s a five litre Merc, for God’s sake. And have you seen his watch?’

  ‘What’s wrong with his watch?’

  ‘It’s a Rolex.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s hardly going to be a real one. You can buy those for fifty quid on holiday.’

  ‘That’s a real Rolex, trust me. It’s a 1940s perpetual motion gold Rolex, you can’t get fakes of those.’

  Fairfield was getting tired of this. ‘What are you saying, Jack?’ she murmured. ‘That he’s on the take? Perhaps he inherited it. Leave it alone, Jack.’

  ‘And have you heard about our chocolate bar thief?’ Sorbie continued undeterred. ‘A girl from the canteen told me they are setting a trap for him. It wouldn’t surprise me if that was him as well.’

  Back in his office McLusky had only just sat down opposite Austin when his phone went. He snatched it up. At the other end was Lynn Tiery. ‘DSI Denkhaus wants to see you in his office for a progress report.’

  Upstairs Tiery never met his eyes, simply announced his arrival on the intercom and returned to her work at her computer. He stood and waited while the secretary hammered at her noisy grey keyboard with unnecessary force, as McLusky thought. After a long while he heard the superintendent’s voice squawk on the intercom and Tiery motioned him into the office, which he entered with the usual feeling of foreboding.

  For once his feelings were unjustified. Denkhaus distracted face travelled from grave via neutral to benign. ‘Take a seat, McLusky. Any progress on the Steadman murder?’

  ‘The boat he used has been found but you’re aware of that. I’ve had a couple of thoughts about that …’

  While he enlarged on his theory on what kind of man – if a man at all – the killer was, Denkhaus swivelled in his chair and played with his gold fountain pen, then cut across him. ‘Interesting,’ he said, now inexplicably in a good mood. ‘You are of course aware of the fact that usually about fifty per cent of your hunches are way off the mark?’

  McLusky shrugged. ‘Fifty-fifty isn’t that bad a ratio.’

  ‘Nonsense. It’s no better than flipping a coin.’

  ‘I shall try and improve my odds, sir.’

  ‘Yes, it’s called police work. All right, good work, carry on. Oh, there is one more thing. That new car of yours …’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  Denkhaus hesitated. ‘How can I put it politely? It’s monstrous.’

  McLusky was already standing. ‘It is quite big, yes.’

  ‘It’s not really the kind of car people expect a DI to arrive in.’

  ‘But unlike my last one, it won’t bring the force into disrepute.’

  ‘I expect not.’ Denkhaus knitted his brow. ‘Is that what you spent your compensation money on?’

  ‘Oh no. The car’s twenty years old, it was really quite cheap, considering. Of course if it ever needs a new set of brakes or, God forbid, the tank needs filling, it will probably bankrupt me.’

  Back downstairs McLusky slammed into his office. Three things needed his immediate attention. The mug of instant on his desk had gone cold, he had a definite chocolate craving and he needed a cigarette. He ignored the cold coffee, turned around and clattered downstairs to the canteen where he bought a real coffee and filled his jacket pockets with his favourite chocolate bars. He was definitely becoming too much of a connoisseur, he thought, three weeks ago he wouldn’t have been able to name more than three, now he was an expert. He covered the cup with the saucer and climbed up the stairs. Back in his office he squeezed behind his desk, uncovered the cup, and sniffed at a dark chocolate Bounty bar before devouring half of it. ‘You’ll get fat,’ he told himself aloud. ‘And you’ll fail the next fitness test, too,’ he added as he lit a cigarette. A knock on the door. McLusky sighed, opened the window behind his chair a crack and balanced his cigarette out of sight on the windowsill before admitting his visitor.

  It was DC French. ‘Just to say Jane has—’ she consulted the yellow Post-it note in her hand – ‘Lisa Burns in IR One.’

  ‘Ta muchly. I’ll look in on them in a minute.’ French stuck the Post-it note on the light switch and left. ‘Cheeky!’ he called after her. When he turned to fetch his cigarette he was just in time to watch the wind twirl it off the windowsill and carry it away. He lit a fresh one and smoked it while trying to convince himself that the canteen coffee was a definite improvement on instant. Then he popped the other half of the chocolate bar in his mouth and went to find Austin in Interview Room One.

  ‘DI McLusky entering the room,’ Austin said for the benefit of the tape. ‘No, you are not under arrest, Ms Burns,’ he continued.

  Lisa Burns looked defiant. ‘I don’t see what the big deal is. Everyone tells lies once in a while.’

  ‘You know, we’ve long suspected that,’ McLusky said as he sat down. ‘That’s why we are taking time off from a hectic schedule in this murder investigation to try and explain to you that when a suspect lies to us and we find out about it the judge will take that into consideration when he passes sentence.’

  ‘But I’m not a suspect, am I?’ Burns objected.

  ‘When a witness lies to us however,’ McLusky said, continuing with audibly strained patience, ‘that constitutes “obstructing a police investigation” and the judge doesn’t like that at all. If as a result of a false witness statement the wrong person gets convicted or the perpetrator goes free it is called “perverting the course of justice” and that carries a mandatory custodial sentence.’

  ‘Prison?’ Burns’ eyes and mouth were round.

  ‘How much money did Marcus Catlin pay you to say you had never heard of him?’

  ‘Five hundred.’

  ‘Generous.’

  ‘Well, actually, no. He started by offering me two hundred.’

  ‘I see. But you haggled.’

  ‘Too right, two hundred is nothing. I’d just lost a good job.’

  McLusky folded his hands and tilted his head in a dearly beloved pose and smiled thinly. ‘You see, again, if he offers you two hundred and you take it, that’s bribery and since you are
not in public office and he is not on trial yet that is not an offence. On his part. But if you say: “I won’t do it unless you give me five hundred”, that turns it into blackmail. And guess what, Ms Burns.’

  Burns swallowed. ‘Prison?’ McLusky nodded with exaggerated slowness. Her hand shot to her mouth. ‘But I honestly had no idea.’

  ‘It appears not. Have you heard the phrase ignorance of the law is not an excuse?’ He was interrupted by a text alert on his mobile, which he had set to vibrate. He glanced at it. It was from DC French and looked more interesting than greedy Ms Burns. He stood up. ‘OK. Today, Ms Burns, you find us full of the milk of human kindness and since there are never enough cabs in the city anyway DS Austin will arrange for you to receive an official police caution which will go on your record.’

  ‘DI McLusky leaving the room,’ Austin said for the tape as McLusky swept through the door.

  Standing in the bleak corridor outside the interview room McLusky admitted to himself that he had reached a state of permanent, growling short temper, which no amount of cigarettes or chocolate bars was likely to alleviate. He called French on his mobile. ‘What’s this about an abandoned Jag?’

  DI Fairfield had managed it at last: to get home at a reasonable time, with all her shopping done, without feeling drained and down and in a foul mood. She had bought a carton of wine and rented the box set of Downton Abbey, for the telly and DVD player she had the previous night freed from their prison in the cupboard under the stairs and restored to pride of place in the sitting room. It was time to do some catching up. Could her good mood really be that easily explained? A couple of supermarket Finest ready meals, a box set of slushy stuff and all the wine you could want to drink while watching it. ‘You’re a simple soul, really,’ she told herself cheerfully. She even managed to get into the house without putting her shopping down. As she gratefully pushed the door shut with her behind she spotted it. Across the threshold of her front door lay a single red rose. She unlocked the door to her maisonette and stepped across without picking it up. ‘Oh no, Dr Rennie, you’ll have to do a lot better than that.’

  Norton Malreward. At first McLusky had thought French had made the place up. It sounded more like the name of a villain in a tacky period drama than that of a village. There were several Nortons around but this one was new to him. The Jaguar had been found in a lane leading up to the village, blocking it completely, and had turned out to be abandoned. A driver who had come across it blocking his way had called the police. Had he reversed away and used an alternative route he would have been home twenty minutes later. As it was he was still there two hours after making the call and was bitterly regretting his helpfulness. Now the road was truly blocked, choked with police cars and a large forensics van. Uniformed police were at last arranging for the civilian to leave, which involved a lot of reversing which the man was very bad at; McLusky shook his head as he watched him zigzag away.

  ‘Keys in the ignition,’ said the SOCO team leader with the walrus moustache. ‘Nothing in the boot apart from the spare and an empty wine crate. No sign of a struggle.’

  ‘What does that remind you of?’ McLusky muttered.

  ‘Thinking of having a look in the canal for him?’ the SOCO asked.

  ‘Let’s not go there.’ He turned to a uniformed police sergeant with very pale skin and almost white eyebrows under his cap. ‘And we’re looking for …?’

  The sergeant read from his notebook. ‘The car is registered to a Richard Leslie, fifty-nine years of age. He lives less than a mile from here if our information is correct, in Norton Malreward. But actually Richard Leslie isn’t missing. It’s his brother who borrowed the car. Borrowed it this morning, apparently. Didn’t show up when he was expected to.’

  ‘Right. And presumably we’ve already been all over these fields?’ McLusky stretched out his arms to encompass the surroundings.

  ‘Yes. I still have a few of my officers out there, you can see their torches moving over there.’

  ‘It’s unlikely, isn’t it? Unless he’s got dementia or fought his way through one of these hedgerows. The next access to these fields is nowhere near the car. No, this smells of abduction.’

  ‘No sign of a struggle again,’ the SOCO offered.

  ‘Any marks on the car?’

  ‘Not to the naked eye.’

  McLusky called Austin at Albany Road and forty minutes later the DS joined him.

  ‘I was about to clock off,’ Austin said matter-of-factly. He looked up and down the lane which was now crowded but he could imagine it empty, with only the lone Jaguar, driver door open. ‘It’s spooky somehow, abandoned cars, don’t you think?’ Austin said. ‘If this one turns up floating in the canal we’ll wait for the water boys to pull her out. I still get the shivers thinking about pulling on that chain.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ McLusky promised.

  It turned out McLusky had driven past the Leslie residence on the way to the abandoned car; it was a very large post-war house set in acres of gardens just outside the village proper. To McLusky’s eyes it managed to look ostentatious and bland at the same time. Lights showed at every window but the drive and the outside of the house lay in darkness. The bright red convertible parked outside was dwarfed by the dark Range Rover beside it.

  The door was opened by a man in his late-fifties, his immaculate grooming marred only by a braided gold chain, gold bracelet, watch and signet ring. He was tall but stood with a stoop as though offering his receding grey hair for inspection. He introduced himself as Richard Leslie. ‘Any news of my brother?’

  ‘Not yet, I’m afraid,’ McLusky admitted.

  The man grunted and led the way into a vast reception room. Three enormous cream leather sofas were grouped around a square glass and wrought-iron coffee table. Everything in the room looked oversized. One wall was given over to a monstrous fireplace that appeared to be built of local freestone. There was a four-foot-tall white-and-gold porcelain Buddha sitting on the floor, being kept company by a multicoloured three-foot statue of the Hindu elephant god, on a carved wooden pedestal. Almost dwarfed by the religious icons was the slender woman in one corner of the furthest sofa, wearing a pink dress and white glasses with her straw-coloured hair in a ponytail. She looked to be of the same age as Richard Leslie and was clutching a cut-glass tumbler of amber liquid. ‘My wife, Pauline. Police inspectors,’ he added for her benefit. Introductions made, she nodded at them and set her glass on the table.

  Richard Leslie motioned them to sit and McLusky and Austin took possession of one sofa while husband and wife occupied a sofa each. McLusky thought that now all three parties, wife, husband and police, were as far from each other as was possible without standing in the far corners of the room. Leslie sipped from a stemmed glass of German lager. ‘I won’t offer you a drink since you are on duty but I’m sure we could stretch to tea or coffee.’

  ‘We’re fine,’ McLusky said without consulting Austin who would have welcomed a cup of tea. ‘We understand that your brother was driving the Jaguar.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You lent it to him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did he borrow the car for? To go where?’

  ‘Well …’ Leslie took a swig from his glass. McLusky got the impression that Leslie had drunk a few glasses already. ‘He didn’t want to borrow the car. That’s just it.’

  ‘Please explain.’

  Pauline Leslie reached for her glass and without looking at anyone said: ‘Michael’s a Luddite.’

  ‘My brother,’ Leslie continued, ‘is not anti-car per se, I think, although he rides a bicycle. It was really about money, a stupid argument we had.’

  Pauline Leslie inclined her head towards McLusky and Austin but without actually looking at them. ‘One of many stupid arguments Michael started, attacking my husband’s life-style choices. And by extension, mine, naturally. If Michael has decided to leave the car and walk to Africa to help the starving then let us al
l be grateful.’

  ‘Please, Pauline,’ Leslie said. ‘You have to understand, Inspector, my brother is a very religious person. To him even the simplest things have a moral dimension. And he disapproves of luxury.’

  ‘He doesn’t mind living off our generosity though, does he?’ his wife interjected.

  He shook his head. ‘He has suffered some kind of breakdown. He converted to Catholicism and became very active in the Catholic church. We grew up C of E. He said he wanted to go to Africa as a missionary. But he became a bit hyper. He’s not been so bad these last few days, I thought he was calming down. I was hoping he would make new plans. More worldly plans.’

  ‘And he lives here with you?’

  ‘Only for the last two weeks or so.’

  ‘Sixteen long days,’ supplied his wife.

  ‘He was up in Bradford before that but he lost his job and got thrown out of his flat and turned up here. He cycled all the way, too. Was half starved when he found us.’ He shrugged, looking at McLusky as though for support. ‘You can’t turn your own brother away from your door, can you? However much he annoys you. And this morning we had this argument again about possessions and money and I got so pissed off with him I threw my car keys at him, the ones for the Jag, and told him to take that for a spin and then come back and say that money is not important, that money doesn’t make a difference to your happiness. Because it does. And I deserve it. It’s not as if I didn’t work hard for my money.’

  ‘What is it you do, Mr Leslie?’ Austin asked.

  ‘I own an independent supermarket, with six branches, all of which I built up from nothing, I might add. I’m doing good business and I enjoy what the money buys.’

  ‘We’re supposed to give all of it to the poor,’ Pauline Leslie said. ‘It’s not like we’re giving nothing to charity.’