Rose began to roll another cigarette. For all her bravado I sensed she was really upset but so far she hadn't managed to convince me of Nick's integrity.
‘Let's go back over what you've just said, Rose,’ I suggested, like a Relate counsellor coming to a sticky patch. ‘You say Nick isn't a violent type. What about girlfriends? Could he be staying with one of them?’
‘He's had a couple, but nothing serious and he treated them well. The Old Bill have already checked them out.’
At this point I was stumped. I sat back in my swivel chair and stayed silent. Another ploy – someone has to speak to break the uncomfortable silence. Rose watched me intently and then stared at the deceased cigarette in her fingers as if her life was already down to a fag end. She relit the end, took a drag and said, ‘If there was any blood he couldn't have coped. My Nick is ever so squeamish, he vomits and passes out at the sight of blood. And anyway, he's never been one to fight his way out of trouble. He's like his dad. If they catch him he'll – well, he'll just put his hands up, keep his mouth shut and do his bird. That's what a man does – or so his pillock of a father told him.’
There was another silence while I thought about what I was going to do.
‘I've got money,’ said Rose. ‘I've been told you charge two hundred a week plus expenses and another two hundred when you get him off.’
I raised my eyebrows slightly as she produced a wad of notes.
‘No need to look so surprised, love. My old man may be a stupid sod but he was quite successful in his own way. If that Dobermann hadn't cornered him he'd still be providing.’
I hesitated for only a moment. I liked Rose. She had a sense of humour. ‘I'll take the case on one condition.’
‘Yeah?’
‘If Nick contacts you, you have to tell me. He may have seen something that night and I'll need to know. Will you promise me?’
She smiled. ‘I trust you. He won't come near our house though, he knows the police will be keeping an eye on the place.’
‘But he'll ring you?’
‘He'll do that, all right.’
‘When he does, I want to arrange a meeting. I'll leave where and when to you.’
She looked undecided, then shrugged. ‘Yeah, OK. It's a deal.’
We shook hands. And then she pressed the wad of notes in my hand.
‘There's more where that came from, love, so don't worry about being paid.’
When she'd gone I did a little jig around my desk and then felt guilty that I should benefit from someone else's misfortune. Then I remembered Hubert and debt collectors and judges and bailiffs. Lots of jobs were based on that premiss. And now I could pay my rent, buy Hubert a round in the pub, even tax the car.
I stopped jigging. I hadn't won the pools. The first week's money was already spent. All I could hope was that finding Nick would take some time.
Chapter Five
Being comparatively rich now I put my car in for its MOT and unbeknown to Hubert persuaded one of his drivers to loan me his Mini.
The journey to Dunsmore the next day was somewhat blighted by the memory of the mechanic's face when he saw my car, the sort of face surgeons put on when telling someone devastating news.
I spent some time wandering round the Dunsmore council estate, trying to find out more about Nick ‘the Ace' Fenny. Local school children, I hoped, would be the most helpful. Especially those who weren't actually at school.
I met a group coming out of the fish and chip shop just after one thirty. I suppose they were thirteen or fourteen. My guess about them being helpful was incorrect. Perhaps interrupting boys with bags of chips and cans of Coke was a stupid move. I did say, ‘Excuse me – I'm enquiring about Nick Fenny,’ which I found didn't have the desired effect.
‘Get 'er! Want a chip?’ A bag of greasy-looking chips was thrust menacingly under my nose. ‘No thanks – but I'll buy you some more if you can tell me a bit about Nick.’
‘Take more than a bag of chips,’ said the tallest of the four boys. He had a quarter-inch of shaved fair hair, a gold earring and a round pugnacious face. ‘You from the papers?’ I nodded. ‘What's it worth, then? How much are you going to pay us?’
The other boys were now standing round me – waiting. ‘I don't expect you know anything,’ I said, adding, ‘and why aren't you at school?’
Pugnacious-face didn't even blink but continued eating his chips. ‘How much?’ he asked, bringing his face close to mine so that I could smell the vinegar on his breath. ‘Forget it,’ I said nonchalantly as I shrugged my shoulders and started to walk away. ‘Tell you what,’ said pug-face following me quickly and then standing splay-legged in front of me, ‘make it a fiver and we'll tell you what we know about Nick.’ I felt in my pocket and held out the fiver. He snatched it from my hand.
‘Ta,’ he said. ‘I'll tell you about Nick. He's a fucking good driver.’ Then he laughed. They all laughed. ‘See yer,’ he said. In a body they threw down their empty chip packets and ran off.
I put the fiver down to experience, thanked my lucky stars I wasn't involved in teaching them the National Curriculum and made for the post office which was further along a dismal row of five shops which the estate had the nerve to call ‘The Shopping Parade'.
I'd failed dismally with the young but perhaps the elderly could tell me more. On a metal bench near the post office sat two white-haired ladies, obviously waiting for it to open at two. One smiled and moved along the bench as I sat down. She had a wizened little face, thin wispy hair and sparkling white teeth. ‘Nice day today. Hasn't been a good start to the summer so far, has it?’ The woman beside her said, ‘We shouldn't complain, should we?’ She had a round face with purple veins on her cheeks and a gash of red lipstick that clashed. Both wore winter coats.
‘You just don't know what to wear this weather, do you,’ she asked looking straight ahead. It wasn't a question of course so I gave a non-committal little laugh and muttered, ‘That's true.’
There was silence for a moment as we all stared ahead at the post office door. Then I asked, ‘Do you both live round here?’
‘It's not what it used to be. It was quite nice once,’ said the lady with well-bleached teeth in a high squeaky voice. ‘I've been here ever since I got married. I lost my husband five years ago this Christmas. I'm glad he didn't live to see it. Terrible it is sometimes round here. Terrible—’ She broke off, as if I should know exactly what she meant.
‘In what way?’ I asked.
In unison they answered, ‘Yobbos.’
‘Fighting?’
‘No. Not down my way. It's stealing cars and racing up and down the roads. Betty's is worse.’
Betty laughed. ‘They don't start till late at night. I've called the police several times but they say they're just kids and there's not much they can do. In my day kids played kick the can and knock up ginger. I know we got up to mischief but we never did no one any harm. Nowadays some poor so and so gets killed every day by kids in cars. And the parents – well, they don't seem to care. Too busy, most of them, watching videos or drinking.’
‘What about Nick Fenny? I hear he's the ring-leader.’
‘I don't know about that. I know his mum. She's a nice woman. Always has the time of day for you. Not like some of them round here. Nick, I knew him when he was a toddler. Nice little chap, always liked cars. I blame his dad. His idea is pay for nothing and take what you want. That's why he's in prison now. Still, Nick's never given me any lip, not like some of them. What do you think, Maise?’
‘He likes cars but he can drive,’ she answered, ‘even when he was twelve he could drive. I don't think he's caused any accidents—’
‘He did, Maise,’ interrupted Betty. ‘Don't you remember, he hit that tree once?’
Maise nodded slowly. ‘I remember. That was the only time around here. At least he doesn't cause any problems on his own doorstep. He goes up Birmingham way. I don't think his mum would put up with him upsetting the neighbours.’
&nb
sp; ‘So you don't think he had anything to do with murdering that nurse?’
Betty laughed. ‘Nah. I don't think so. What do you think, Maise?’
Maise shook her head. ‘He's not a bad lad, really. He's just obsessed with cars. He's not one for fighting. I'm surprised he's run off like that. His mum was ever so upset.’
‘What about the police?’ I asked.
‘What about them, dear?’ asked Maise.
‘Would they … well, would they be fed up with him and want to charge him with it, just to get him off the streets?’
Betty answered me. ‘Dunno about that. When he did get caught he didn't give them any trouble. Believe you me, he's not as bad as some. The younger ones are the worst – little buggers, they are.’
The post office doors opened then and they both got up stiffly. I pressed a fiver in Betty's hand. ‘Get some chocs for yourselves,’ I said. She stared at the money in surprise.
‘You from the papers?’
‘Sort of,’ I said.
‘Well, much obliged, but don't put our names in, will you. We might get fire bombed.’
She smiled as she said it. I certainly hoped she was joking.
I went from there to 19 Cornwall Close, home of Rose Fenny. So far, in the realms of criminality Nick seemed somewhat of a paragon. There were a few things I still needed to find out. I knew the car had been stolen from the Dunsmore Adult Education Centre but I didn't know where the burnt-out car had been found or how the police had managed to identify the body so quickly.
Number 19 was easily the smartest terraced house in the close. Sparkling white loops of net curtains festooned the windows, the small front lawn had been recently mowed and a model stork sat staring into a square pond – at least I thought it was a square pond until I realized it was a mirror set in the lawn. Rose greeted me cheerfully at the door. ‘Come in, love. I'm having a tidy up but I expect I can find you a seat. Mind me carpet, I've just given it a scrub.’
Various bits of cloth had been arranged in ‘stepping stones' over the hall carpet and it felt distinctly squelchy underfoot. A strong smell of pine disinfectant mixed with tobacco filled the air.
‘Keep going love, turn left,’ urged Rose, who wore one of those thick plastic aprons over cut-off blue jeans so that for a moment I thought she wasn't wearing anything on her bottom half. I opened the door to the through lounge which was most definitely in the middle of a cleaning siege. The dining-room table had upturned chairs on it, the three-piece suite had been moved into the middle of the room, the vacuum cleaner round and black as a cartoon bomb was plugged in and obviously raring to go. A large plastic tub had been filled to the brim with baby toys and Rose picked up a feather duster from the coffee table and began fucking it seriously along the top edge of the door. So this was spring cleaning. Hubert would have been impressed.
‘I've come at the wrong time, Rose,’ I said. ‘I should have rung.’
‘Don't you worry. I'm a cleaning fanatic. Today's my day for downstairs.’
Day, I thought, day! ‘You're not spring cleaning, then?’
She laughed throatily. ‘I'm always fussy. We've been done over by the police so many times I have to keep everything under control.’
‘Done over?’
‘Yeah – you know. Searched. There's no way I'm going to have them going back to the station saying I'm filthy.’
I smiled and stood around while Rose finished vacuuming and dusting, then together we righted the furniture. She talked all the time. ‘He hasn't rung me yet. He will though. The police came round yesterday – they weren't too bad, the inspector said he didn't think he'd done it, although he could have been saying that to butter me up—’
‘I'm a bit confused, Rose,’ I interrupted.
‘Yeah?’
‘Where exactly was the car found? I know Nick was supposed to have taken the car from Dunsmore, perhaps from the adult education centre, but where did he go from there and why did he set it on fire? And how do the police know it was Nick who took the car?’
‘There's no mystery there – they clocked him driving it. I don't know what really happened, only what the Old Bill have told me. I do know he'd been on the lagers with his mates and I suppose he just thought he'd take it for a spin. A police patrol car clocked him going up the M1 towards Birmingham. They gave chase of course – they're as bad as the young lads, y'know. Just out for a thrill. Anyway they chased him, going bloody fast, but he out-drove them and then he came off the M1, drove the car into a field, set it alight and did a runner.’
‘Did the car burn out?’
‘No. The police were right behind him. They thought he was still in the car. They were ever so brave and managed to put out the fire. Then the boot shot open and they found the body of that woman – poor cow. Of course by this time Nick is well away.’
‘So the body wasn't burned?’
‘Not according to the Bill.’
By now the furniture was straight, the glass coffee table cleaned, the cushions plumped and a vase of dried flowers placed on the shiny black dining table. She gave a final dust over the television set and video which were secreted behind the doors of a TV cabinet. I was most impressed. Rose could have given lessons in housewifely skills. ‘Come on into the kitchen and we'll have a coffee,’ she said.
The kitchen was small but gleaming with white Formica, the sort that's more suitable for surgery than eating or cooking in, but she produced strong coffee and chocolate biscuits which I ate while she rolled herself a cigarette.
My first impression of Rose had been totally wrong. I'd assumed she was the Bingo and Pernod with blackcurrant type but she wasn't. She seemed more like the dusting and Domestos paragon of TV ads.
After eating a chocolate biscuit I asked, ‘You are sure Nick didn't know Jenny Martin?’
‘I couldn't swear to it on the Bible, love, but it's doubtful, isn't it? I mean he's only nineteen. Most of the girls he knows are from school days. They're like groupies. Some hang round bikers and joyriders. The bike girls are all gold earrings in funny places and black leathers with big flashy zips from kneecaps to tits. The joyriders' molls are all short skirts, legs and bum and skimpy tops – like tribes, they are.’
I got the picture, finished my coffee, thanked Rose and asked if she had any of his friends' addresses. She thought for a while and muttered something about not knowing most of them.
‘I know one though,’ she said as she wrote down the name and address. I glanced at the name, said I'd be in touch soon and left.
The name was Karen Toohey. She lived on the edge of the estate in a run-down house with a front garden that housed an old bike, a pram on its side, bits of a car engine at the edge of the front path and a snarling Alsatian dog. I sussed out the back gate first. It looked strong enough to hold the salivating dog behind it. As I knocked on the door I rather hoped no one would reply, but it opened almost immediately, the occupants obviously primed by the dog.
A burly man, middle aged with black hair almost everywhere but mostly sprouting from holes in his string vest, stood at the door eyeing me suspiciously. ‘Is Karen in?’ I asked. He turned his head and shouted loudly: ‘Karen!’
‘Who is it?’ came a voice from above.
‘How the fook should I know,’ he shouted back. From inside the house came the sound of squabbling and a steady thumpthump of heavy metal music.
‘Jasus!’ he shouted. ‘Turn that off, you little bleeders.’ Then turning to me he said, ‘You'd better come in, missus.’ I had one foot in the door when he thought better of it and raised one hairy arm to bar my way. ‘You're not a fooking bailiff, are you?’
‘Do I look like a bailiff?’ I asked. He didn't answer but he didn't look too sure. He muttered something then about devious bastards. ‘You're not from the poll tax office?’ I shook my head. ‘Every booger's on my back,’ he said. ‘Fooking last year's arrears.’
I put him out of his misery. ‘I just want to ask Karen about Nick Fenny. I'm trying to trace
him.’
He lowered his arm. ‘You're not the police?’
I shook my head. ‘My name's Kate Kinsella.’
He walked me through to the kitchen and as he walked he shouted ‘Get fooking out!’ to various children who scattered as requested, nearly knocking me over.
‘How many children do you have, Mr Toohey?’
‘Too fooking many,’ he said. ‘I've lost fooking count.’
In the kitchen it looked as if they had just been burgled but unconcerned he wiped his hairy hand over a plastic kitchen chair so that comics and pencils fell to the floor to join the odd bone, crust and screwed-up pieces of paper already there.
‘Karen!’ he shouted once more. ‘Jasus, I won't tell you again.’
I stared around me. A hologram of the Virgin Mary stared eerily at me from the kitchen wall. ‘Do ye want a drink?’ he asked as he opened himself a can of beer. I smiled and shook my head. There were several cracked tea-stained mugs on the table and I thought it best not to reduce my life chances by risking a drink from one of them.
Heavy thumping from the stairs preceded Karen's appearance. She stood at the kitchen door, the clink of chains coming to rest as she did so. Her black hair was close cropped, shaved into her neck. Her ears were a riot of piercing, a gold earring hung from her left nostril, she had a ring on every finger and chains hung from her black leather trousers. She was heavy breasted but wore a skimpy black tank top. Her face looked as if she had applied talcum powder with a heavy hand and her lips were a cyanotic blue.
‘Yeah?’ she said. ‘Who are you?’
I explained I was trying to trace Nick and hopefully prove his innocence. She laughed drily. ‘Innocent? Him! He's about as innocent as the Yorkshire Ripper on a night out with the boys.’ She sat down heavily on a chair with a wonky back and eyed me warily.
‘I've been told you and Nick were quite close,’ I said. ‘Surely you don't think he had anything to do with the murder of Jenny Martin?’ She shrugged and said nothing. ‘Well, do you?’ Her top lip curled. ‘Look. Nick is, well, he used to be a friend. Bikers and joyriders are like … they're different – they don't mix. It can be dangerous, starts fights, real gang warfare … I always preferred the bikers. Nick and I should never have been friends in the first place.’
Deadly Practice Page 4
