I did my best Goofy impression. ‘Well, er, like, er, how should I know, Sarge?’ I faded out the voice effects and resumed. ‘You’re the detective. You tell me? How come I’m doin’ all the heavy lifting around here? Anyone can see it’s a freakin’ set-up.’
‘Are you sure it was her voice?’ asked Hobbs.
‘Look, it sounded like her. I’m hardly likely to say, “What the hell are you doing yakking down the phone when you died three hours ago”.’
‘You said three hours?’ Bugg stared hard.
‘So?’
‘Why three?’
‘Why do you think?’
There was silence. It wasn’t meant to have sounded rhetorical, but I pushed on all the same. ‘I opened her up, performed a quick autopsy, did some calculations based on the contents of her stomach and rounded it to three.’
From Bugg’s expression I could tell he didn’t believe the rounding up part. ‘It was a guess, okay?’
Bugg shook his head. ‘It sounded specific.’
‘Oh it did, did it? Well there you go. You got me. I confess. But I swear it was self-defence.’
Bugg shot off his chair, and I assumed the classic Tae Kwon Do defence stance, but this time I was only required to avert his accusing finger.
‘The routine doesn’t fool me,’ said Bugg, his voice a full octave higher. ‘You’re up to your armpits in this, and I’ll get the goods.’ He took a deep breath, let it go slowly, and then sat back down.
With a look, Hobbs gave Bugg a second warning. Then he turned his stare on me. ‘Why didn’t you call us after you found her?’
‘She was dead and only getting deader. I needed time to think. Something wasn’t right about the whole thing. I could feel it. The longer I was there, the more I thought I’d know.’
‘Okay, Eddie, we get the picture.’
‘Yeah, and I can see the frame.’
Hobbs sighed. ‘Eddie, you’re involved whether you like it or not. Get used to it.’ He shuffled some papers in front of him and leaned forward. ‘There’s something you didn’t cover. Why did Mrs Porson hire you?’
‘Reasonable rates, discretion assured.’
Exasperation cleared Hobbs’ throat. ‘I meant, what did she want you to do for her?’
‘That would be breaking a deceased client’s confidentiality, which isn’t entirely ethical. Is it? Check out number three in my ops manual.’
Hobbs leaned over the table, holding up his index finger. ‘What about looking after number one, Eddie? Where does that come?’
‘That’s in there. But I’m big on ethics. It’s not all about self-interest.’
‘So how about co-operating with us?’
‘Different manual. I adhere to the “Good Citizens Charter” like anyone else. But I do have a good lady’s name to protect.’
Hobbs sat back in his chair and sighed again. ‘Here’s the position. You don’t leave here until we get everything. You tell us now, or we’ll leave you to think about it. If you’re lucky we might even get back to this today.’
I pressed my fingers to the side of my head. In a perfect world there would have been a dilemma. Agonise briefly before giving in to the inevitable, or agonise a while and give in later. It was just a game to them. But if I had even one talent in this shitty world, it was that I could see a way out of a tight spot and grab it. There was a deal to be done. Part of it was to find Helen Porson’s killer, whatever it took. But I could only do that on the outside. In the meantime I had to pay the piper. And he wasn’t just looking for loose change.
I mouthed a silent apology to Mrs Porson, and then continued. ‘She was being blackmailed. Asked me to look into it.’ I shrugged. ‘That’s it.’
‘That isn’t it at all, Eddie,’ screeched Hobbs. ‘What was she being blackmailed about?’
A bad feeling bubbled up in my stomach. ‘She was having an affair.’
‘She was a widow, no ties. What’s to blackmail?’
‘Sleeping with the Right Worshipful Mayor for Weighton, that’s what.’
‘Clegg?’
I nodded, holding off a nervous smile. ‘Our happily married, sleaze-free, colourfully-robed, crusading Mayor.’
Hobbs looked shocked. You could practically hear levers and gears clanking in his head. ‘Why wasn’t Clegg being blackmailed?’
‘They both were, but it was being done through her. She got left a small fortune when her husband died. Suivez la dosh, hey.’
‘How did they contact her?’
‘She showed me two notes. Both done using newspaper cut-outs. A criminal mastermind working overtime on this caper, yeah? Anyway, the first note said they knew about her and Clegg. That was it, no demands. The second said they wanted a lump sum to help them forget. Told her to get fifty thousand together within a week and there’d be another note to arrange a drop. That’s when she made her first smart move and called me.’
‘Have you got the notes?’
‘No. I asked to keep ‘em, but she wasn’t feeling too trusting. Not even with the noble Eddie G. I checked out the envelopes, though. Typed address and Weighton postmark, if that helps. Your boys should find them in her stuff.’
Hobbs made a note and pressed on. ‘Did she give you anything else to go on?’
‘Nil, nada, and nothing, basically. She said no one else knew. Not her friends or family.’ I blew out my cheeks. ‘Family wise, she’s only got a son, married, lives in Manchester. She and Clegg were never together in public. They only met at an apartment in town. Rented. Wouldn’t say where.’
‘How did they first meet?’ asked Bugg.
‘Some charity bash she helped organise. He was the guest of honour. He asked her out for dinner afterwards as a thank-you. Nothing in it. Then they met in London, he for a conference, she visiting friends, same hotel. Coincidence, she told me. Anyway what d’you know? Cupid was already stringing his bow.’
‘With nothing to go on,’ jabbered Bugg, ‘what were you doing to find the blackmailer?’
I smiled and lifted my hands. ‘That’s a pro secret. One day I’ll let you check out my Procedures Manual. When I’m retired maybe.’
‘Had you found anything?’ asked Hobbs, impatiently.
‘Bo Diddly and Dick Squat were the sum total of my investigations. But I’d only just started, you know?’
‘The phone call from Mrs Porson, did she say what the development was?’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe the development was she was dead?’
I hadn’t meant to sound irreverent, but that’s sometimes difficult to tell with me. Truth is, I knew that was the real purpose of the call. It just didn’t come out that way.
Bugg hit the table with his fist. ‘This is not a pissing joke.’
Hobbs pushed his number two’s hand from the table. ‘Okay. How did her voice sound?’
‘I don’t know. Normal, I guess. She called on the moby and sometimes the reception ain’t too good on the i4. Those Apple boffins, hey? Music player, check. GPS, check. Camera, check. Alarm, check. Games arcade, check. Shit, we forgot about the phone! That’s real innovation, right there.’ Before they could stick up for Apple, I raised a finger. ‘One thing, though, she was very quick, didn’t let me speak. It could’ve been a recording.’
Hobbs seemed lost in thought for a while. After a pause, he spoke again. ‘I’ve got some other enquiries to make, so I’ll leave DS Bugg to finish. You think of anything else, Eddie, I want to hear about it straight away. Okay?’
‘Sure, Chief.’
‘Detective Chief Inspector to you. Got it?’
CHAPTER FIVE
Thursday – 15:05 (still the day before)
Bugg sat back, linked his fingers behind his head and placed his feet on the table. He smiled for what seemed like an hour, but was probably a lot less. Then the smile disappeared.
‘How old are you, Eddie?’
‘Gettin’ older by the second.’
‘No, seriously. How old are you? I’ll need a date of birth to
put on your statement.’ He chewed his pen top.
‘Twenty-six.’
‘Married or single?’
‘Single.’
He nodded, then chuckled quietly. ‘That’ll be the only bit of your statement that rings true.’ He winked at the uniform on door duty. The door stopper risked a glance in my direction, so I held his eye.
‘Am I missing something? Or is this “bring a kid to work day”?’
‘Nice line in insults, Eddie,’ said Bugg. ‘I expect you make ‘em up as you go along. A bit like that story just now.’
‘Any more questions? Or can I go?’
‘Oh, plenty more.’
I slowly crossed my arms. ‘Let’s get it done.’
‘Where’d you live?’
‘Fifteen Meanwood Avenue.’
Bugg took his feet off the table. ‘That’s a posh part of town for a loser like you.’
‘This town’s full of ‘em. Ain’t it the truth.’
‘You rent?’
‘I live there with my mum.’
Bugg whooped with laughter and kept it up for longer than was natural. ‘Isn’t that sweet. Does your dad play house, too? One big happy family, eh?’
‘No.’
‘Where’s Daddy, then? Did he leave when you were young? Is that it?’
I glanced over at the uniform and shrugged. ‘What would he know about fathers?’
The door minder looked straight ahead, his impassive face undone by a small cheek bulge.
Bugg’s right hand twitched, but then he brushed imaginary crumbs off the table and smiled. ‘Am I getting to you?’
‘Nah. But I can see why people confess. Save ‘em from being bored to death.’
‘You ever thought about therapy, Eddie?’
‘Why, want to share?’
Bugg looked to the ceiling and blew his breath straight up. ‘I think you should. I can picture the scene.’ He lowered his head and stared at me. ‘"What’s the problem, Mr Greene?" he’d say. And you’d say, "Help me, Doc, I keep thinking I’m in a detective film, set in New York". It’s a common personality disorder.’
‘You’re the one having imaginary conversations.’
Bugg’s tone softened. ‘Look, maybe no one’s told you this recently, but you’re twenty-six and you live with your mummy in Weighton, not New York. You’re not tough, you don’t know anything about detective work, and you don’t have to spout jive talk. You’re not fooling anyone.’ His voice tightened. ‘What you are is in deep shit. Very deep shit and we’ve got enough to send you down. But I tell you what. Tell me what really happened and I’ll help you. I promise. What do you say?’
‘When do I get a phone call?’
~
As I was leaving the police station, I saw her. Kate Connolly. I was trying to sneak past Bob “The Desk” Jones at the time – I didn’t want him ratting me out again – and the fragrant Ms Connolly was gliding the other way. I’d often thought a reunion would come. Not that Weighton Police Station had figured large as the romantic setting, but that’s karma. And me on the cusp of a murder charge. Outstanding! Of all the cop joints in all the world …
At Northside Comp, Kate Connolly had always been in my top ten. Not that it did me any favours at the weekly chart meeting. The other guys were mystified. Despite my best rabble rousing, she failed to collect another vote. I couldn’t even cite her magnetic personality. They knew I’d never spoken to her. Mixing with girls was considered overrated back then. For some of them, it wouldn’t be classed as a favourite pastime now either.
But I never wavered in my dedication, even when they threatened to de-select me. There was something different about her. As if she deserved a whole indie chart to herself.
It took two years before we exchanged a word. Our first contact was brief and unexpected, but to me it felt like a glorious mid-term parley. After that she went straight to number one and stayed put. It might never have happened, but she sat next to me by chance one morning in assembly.
When my name was called out, she smirked, then leaned over and whispered, ‘Where’s Mr Brown and Mr Pink?’
I replied, ‘Looting the school safe.’
After that we riffed whenever we saw each other. It wasn’t a relationship, just a battle of hormonal wits. Now and then we agreed to a kind of truce and talked about normal stuff. Engaging, normal stuff. In truth, the normal stuff was what I’d enjoyed most – not that I ever let on. But at the beginning of year five she moved schools, and I never saw her again. Not until now: ground zero as it were. You want to know how it felt when she never showed at school that day? What can I tell you; my heart was a wound.
She looked to be in a rush as she walked purposefully towards me, her hair swirling but still immaculate. Her hair was one of the first things I’d noticed about her back then. Now its deep mahogany brown was beautifully cut in a slightly shorter, shoulder-length bob, and the framing effect was a seduction all by itself. With a heart-stopping blend of light and darker tones, her hair was a perfect match to those large, chocolate eyes. Eyes worthy of a pilgrimage. A pilgrimage so enlightening that you’d never come back. Not even to check the full-time scores.
She looked all grown up in her white, fitted blouse and caramel skirt. It fell to just above the knee, and the matching tailored jacket was carefully draped over one alluring shoulder. She’d always seemed on the petite side, but now, for the first time I noticed she had legs. Long, elegant legs. It was “shock and awe” made woman.
Even within Desk Sergeant range, I was stuck fast to the spot. I couldn’t look away. Then she saw me. I anticipated a hurried look-away, but instead she stopped and smiled: a genuine, warm smile that almost pushed me backwards.
‘Mr Greene,’ she said, ‘you here bailing out Mr Brown or Mr Pink?’
I paused, held my guns. ‘Just beating a murder rap, if you want the actuality. But so as we’re clear, I’m more “Nice Guy Eddie” than Mr Greene now.’
‘If you say so. But you’ll always be Mr Greene to me.’
I kept to a polite smile. ‘So what brings you to Weighton PD?’
She paused and tilted her head, as if wondering how much to say. ‘I’m a junior solicitor,’ she said finally. ‘I’ve brought some papers for one of the partners.’
My polite smile wavered. ‘Where were you three hours ago when I needed you?’ I glanced from side to side, making a point of not looking her up and down. That would have to wait.
She curled some stubborn strands of hair behind her ear. ‘Timing is everything. Remember?’
I nodded. ‘Yeah. I brought you an apple that day.’
‘Leftover lemons, hey? Go make lemonade. Dale Carnegie.’
‘May the force be with you. Yoda.’
Her delicate mouth widened into an extravagant smile. Then she waggled her brief case. ‘Sorry. I have a deadline.’
‘You almost had me at “deadline”.’
‘Seriously.’
I frowned. ‘Wow. That’s a first.’
Her body tilted towards the custody suite, but her feet seemed sticky. She said, ‘You know the Blue Café? Prospect Street?’
‘Sure. I’m like a celebrity diner down there.’
‘Good. I’ll see you there in fifteen minutes.’ She lightened her tone. ‘I’m thinking an Americano and a blueberry muffin would be a shrewd investment.’
‘I’m thinking you may have to work on my appeal?’
‘We’ll see.’
We smiled at each other. Then she agitated her briefcase again. ‘I do have to go.’
‘Then do go.’
We moved past each other whilst curving in the same direction. She flicked her hair. And that, my friends … was the “tell”.
I held her eye-line and spoke in a hush. ‘Promise me something?’
‘I may take it under advisement,’ she said, peering down her lovely nose.
‘Stay out of trouble and don’t be late.’
She edged past. ‘I’ll keep you guessing on b
oth.’
CHAPTER SIX
Thursday – 15:38 (still the day before)
I didn’t spot him at first. I was too busy thinking about Kate, and the case … then more about Kate. But that nagging sixth sense couldn’t be suppressed for long.
Having crossed from Police Central, I walked down Bath Road onto Prospect Way, hoping the street name alone would bring a change in fortune. It didn’t. With my brain approaching overload, I went straight past the Blue Café. Luckily, the glorious pastry aromas turned me back. And that’s when I spotted the tail. He was heavily built, late twenties, black, with a shaved head.
After I’d executed my slick about-turn, it was difficult to miss him. My shadow pulled up abruptly, hesitated, steered his gaze away from mine and then continued walking at the only tangent the pavement width would allow. He stopped a few feet away by a litter bin and plunged his hands in his pockets, searching for a wrapper that clearly didn’t want to be found. As he went through the charade, I sneaked a closer look. His nose was bent like a boomerang and his eyeballs were the colour of a snow storm in Alaska. From under a dark T-shirt, the curve of his belly hung over grey cargo pants. Somehow I didn’t figure him as po-leece. But whoever, whatever, I aimed to find out.
After a brief, forlorn gaze at the doughnuts, I continued past the café and turned left into the High Street, quickening my pace. Up ahead was a right turn into Cathedral Street and the traffic was busy, which suited my plan. When a small gap opened up, I sprinted across the road, somehow avoiding the usual blaring car horns. Once I was safe on the other side, I slowed a little and then turned down the quiet stretch of Cathedral Street. Twenty paces down I saw the narrow courtyard entrance that would provide the perfect place to launch “Operation Turntable”. I nipped through the opening, swung onto a cobbled path and stopped, pressing my back against the courtyard wall.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and concentrated on slowing my pulse. I needed to sense the precise moment I would spring the trap. Sure enough, my failsafe instincts picked out the heavy footsteps as they approached. I stepped confidently into my foil’s path as he came past the wall, shoved out my left leg and dropped my shoulder. The man cried out on contact, tumbled heavily to the floor, and flipped over. Except it wasn’t a man. It was a plump, grey haired woman, probably in her sixties. She shrieked like a banshee.
Weekend in Weighton Final Amazon version 12-12-12 Page 3
