Mortal Men (The Lakeland Murders Book 7)

by J. J. Salkeld

  ‘Agreed. And if Tyson nicked those guns with the intention of shooting Foster, then why not do the deed straight after? It’s not like we’d forget the link between him and the shotguns, is it? No matter how long he held off, we’d still be all over him like a cheap suit when Foster got shot with one of them. And of course if he’d just taken the weapon away and hidden it again we’d never have tied the shooting back to that particular weapon. So it’s perfectly possible that it was left with the intention of implicating Tyson.’

  ‘Agreed. But I still fancy him for it, though. I’m not sure why.’

  ‘Oh, aye? Why’s that then, Jane? The old DI’s instinct, is it?’

  ‘Not so much of the old.’

  Mann laughed. ‘It’s the instinct that’s old, not the DI.’

  ‘Christ, Ian, you’re even starting to split hairs like Andy does. He only ended up in the job by mistake, you know.’’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘He thought he was joining the grammar police. Didn’t you know?’

  All three officers laughed, and turned as one when a spotty-faced probationer stuck his head round the door.

  ‘Custody Sergeant asked me to tell you, ma’am. John Winder is ready for interview. He’s in room 1.’

  Jane didn’t compare the two men’s hands, because there was no need. Everything from his haircut downwards told Jane what she already knew: that Winder’s luck had been a great deal better than Tyson’s in the years since they’d both been released from prison. He looked prosperous and confident, even in the clothes that the forensic team had given him. And that was a difficult look to pull off.

  ‘You know why you’re here?’ she asked, when the tape was running.

  ‘Frankie Foster’s dead. Aye, I’d heard.’

  ‘And did you kill him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you want to kill him?’

  Coe opened his mouth to speak, but Winder held up a well-manicured hand. Coe closed his mouth. He who pays the piper, calls the tune, thought Jane.

  ‘I didn’t kill him. I didn’t like him, of course I didn’t, but I didn’t kill him. So what I thought about him doesn’t matter much to anyone, does it?’

  Jane nodded. It seemed that John Winder didn’t too much help from the smooth and svelte Mr. Coe.

  ‘And where were you earlier today, between ten in the morning and three in the afternoon?’

  ‘I went fishing in the morning, and then I was at home later on. Oh, and I popped into the supermarket on the way home.’

  ‘What times were these?’

  ‘I went fishing at about nine, maybe half past, and I must have left around one, half past. I don’t worry too much about the time. No need, really.’

  ‘And where were you fishing?’

  ‘Brotherswater.’

  ‘I didn’t know there were any fish in there,’ Iredale interrupted.

  ‘Just a few brownies. Small ones, too. But I fish for sport, not for the table. A good thing too, I dare say.’

  ‘Did you catch any?’

  ‘Couple of fry. Put ‘em straight back, like.’

  ‘And did you see anyone else while you were there?’

  ‘Fishing? No. You hardly ever do. That’s why I go there, like.’

  ‘So this is a regular haunt, is it?’ asked Jane quickly, glancing across at Iredale. She’d let him know when the floor was his. And it certainly wasn’t yet.

  ‘Oh, aye. Pretty regular, this last year or two. I’m semi-retired now, see. So I can do as I please.’

  ‘And what is it you do?’

  ‘Online entrepreneur, I suppose you’d call it.’

  ‘Impressive.’

  ‘Not really. When I was in prison I took a few courses, like, and I had this idea to sell farm supplies online. It just took off, I don’t know why. Just blind luck, I suppose.’

  ‘And where did the seed capital come from?’

  ‘DI Francis’ said Coe, ‘Much as I’m sure that we’d all benefit from Mr. Winder’s expertise and experience in the field of entrepreneurship I fail to see how that is relevant to the matter in hand.’

  ‘But you’re a success? Financially, I mean.’

  ‘I can afford to go fishing. And I can afford not to catch anything. So yes, I’m well off. Twenty years ago if I went out with the rod it was strictly to catch for my own table, or for someone else’s, if you get my drift.’

  ‘I do. But historic poaching offences aren’t of any interest today, I’m afraid. So you were absolutely alone? Did you not see anyone while you were fishing?’

  ‘No. But that’s one of the reasons I go, like I said. I fished there when I was a lad, and we’re talking about a lot of years ago now. The place has hardly changed at all. It’s a small lake, is Brotherswater, not flashy or famous, but it’s still my favourite. Magical, it is. If I was a religious man, well…. And the fact that there’s hardly any fish worth catching means there’s hardly ever anyone there. Not today, anyway.’

  ‘And you drove from your farmhouse at Troutbeck to Brotherswater and back?’

  ‘Aye, well I wasn’t going to walk right over bloody Kirkstone, was I?’

  ‘Was anyone at home when you left, or when you returned?’

  ‘No, neither. I’m divorced, like. My marriage didn’t last. Not my whole bloody sentence, anyway.’

  Jane glanced at Iredale, but he didn’t ask a follow up. So Jane carried on.

  ‘And when did you last see Frankie Foster?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I saw him around, like. In Troutbeck or Ambleside. Windermere maybe, the odd time.’

  ‘Did you talk to him?’

  ‘No, never. Why should I? We had nowt to say to each other.’

  ‘And how about John Tyson?’

  ‘John? Much the same, really. It’s a small village, is Troutbeck. So you see everyone going about, like.’

  ‘But you’re not close?’

  ‘What, because we both went to prison we have to be best mates after? It doesn’t work like that, love. When we got out I got onto the internet job, like I told you, and John went back to his old life. That’s all there is to it, really. What is it that wives say when they’ve been shagging someone else? Oh aye, we drifted apart. That’s it, isn’t it?’

  ‘So you’ve never been to Mr. Foster’s cottage?’

  ‘Not since I came out of prison, no.’

  ‘So we won’t find your fingerprints or DNA in his cottage?’

  ‘That all depends on exactly how shit he was at cleaning the place up, doesn’t it?’

  Jane smiled, and so did Keith Iredale.

  ‘How about guns, Mr. Winder? When did you last handle one?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know, years ago. Before I went in inside. Strangely enough if you get convicted of armed robbery people aren’t too keen to let you have a certificate. I can’t bloody imagine why.’

  ‘So you haven’t handled or fired a gun today?’

  ‘Of course not. I used a gold-ribbed hare’s ear to try to tempt the trout, not a bloody twelve bore.’

  ‘A gold-ribbed what?’

  ‘Hare’s ear. It’s a fly, fools the trout into having a go, like. That’s the theory, anyway. I’d probably have had more luck with a gun, come to think of it, or maybe some dynamite.’

  Jane turned again to Iredale, who took the hint this time.

  ‘So if you didn’t kill Frankie Foster, then who did?’ he asked.

  ‘Is that how it works now? It’s like a bloody quiz, is it?’

  ‘Do you know of anyone who night want to do him harm? Other than you, I mean.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How about John Tyson?’

  ‘Like I told you, I don’t see John these days. I’ve no bloody idea what he’s thinking, if anything. Never did.’

  ‘Not the brightest then?’

  ‘That’s not for me to say.’

  ‘But you just did.’

  ‘DC Iredale, is it?,’ Coe began, and Iredale held up his hand.
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  ‘It’s all right, don’t bother. You can go, Mr. Winder. But make sure you stick around in the county. There’s lots of detailed analysis work to do yet. So the chances are that we’ll want to talk to you again, and soon.’

  ‘I’ve got no intention of going anywhere. Like one of your colleagues said to me a lot of years ago I’m hefted to Troutbeck, so I’ll not roam far. Not for a good while yet, anyway.’

  Wednesday, 23rd July

  DC Keith Iredale wasn’t sure whether or not he should be pleased to be the one parking up outside the little rectangular bungalow on one of Kendal’s modern housing estates. Under normal circumstances he would be, because being asked to lead on a nasty little case like this, especially one that had come to the bosses’ notice the way it had, would have been a nice little feather in his cap. A sure sign that Ian Mann trusted him, and that the DI did too, come to that.

  But these weren’t normal circumstances, because there was a busy incident room back at the station, and right now he wasn’t in it. Was it really only because he’d puked his guts up at the sight of all that pulverised flesh and bone? It wasn’t fair, if it was. Because the DI had chucked up too, and no-one had taken the piss because of her, had they? When Mann had phoned that morning, before the start of Iredale’s shift, he’d said that Keith would be doing him a favour, doing this follow-up, because no-one at the nick wanted to let the old boy down. Not considering who he was, and what he’d done. And, on reflection, Iredale was inclined to believe DS Mann. Because there were few things that Ian Mann respected more than a lifetime of service. So Keith got out of the car, locked it, and made sure that he was smiling when he knocked on the door.

  Ronnie Roberts had watched the car arrive, but it still took him until Iredale was about to knock again before he reached the door. Keith introduced himself, and was about to produce his Warrant Card when the old man waved him away.

  ‘That’s all right, lad. I checked that lass’s ID, and look where it got me. Anyway, you come on in.’

  Iredale followed the old man into the living room.

  ‘Can I get you a brew?’

  ‘No, you’re all right, thanks.’

  ‘I’m having one.’

  ‘Go on then, cheers.’ Iredale knew that there was no point in hurrying, even though he wanted to.

  The old man shuffled towards the kitchen, his slippers barely leaving the carpet, and Iredale wondered if he could ask his questions while the tea was being made. He decided that he couldn’t, so he sat right on the edge of the chintz sofa, as if expecting to rise at any moment, until the old man eventually returned.

  It took another minute for biscuits to be offered and refused, and for a cup to be handed over. Iredale tried to keep smiling.

  ‘I spent most of my time at Kendal nick you know, right up until I retired.’

  ‘Yes, I heard.’ Iredale paused, and then gave in to the inevitable. ‘When did you finish?’

  ‘1985. So I’ve been retired the best part of thirty years. Would you believe it? When my dad finished he was dead within twelve months. I always assumed I’d be the same.’

  ‘Was he in the Police too, like?’

  ‘Aye, he was. Runs in families, does the job.’

  Iredale nodded as noncommittally as he could. He opened his notebook, and hoped that the old boy would get the hint.

  ‘Was your dad a copper, lad?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘But not round here?’

  ‘No, the west coast. Workington nick, mainly.’

  ‘They called it the wild west in my day. All those miners and steel workers. Those boys could drink, I expect. They could here too, mind, the farmer’s lads, when they came into Kendal on a Saturday night. You’d be amazed the number I did for drunk in charge of a tractor. The road outside the Roebuck, you couldn’t move for them lads. Drinking, fighting, all sorts.’

  ‘Happy days, eh?’

  ‘Aye, they were.’

  ‘People left their doors open, I expect.’

  The old man looked surprised.

  ‘Aye, they did, that’s right. And it kept us busy too, like, what with all the walk-in burglaries.’

  Iredale laughed, and for the first time he noticed the sparkle in the old man’s eyes.

  ‘So let’s talk about your robbery, shall we, Mr. Roberts?’

  ‘Ronnie, lad, Ronnie. She was clever, I’ll give her that. Her ID looked right, and she was well-informed.’

  ‘She knew your name?’

  ‘Oh, aye, and plenty more besides. She knew the name of my social worker, young Mike Lightfoot. She even knew that I was a copper for all those years. Made a joke about it, she did.’

  ‘And what was her story?’

  ‘She said that she had to measure the heat loss from rooms in the house, to see if I needed new windows. She said the Council would pay, like. Told me that she had to go into each room and close the doors. To stop draughts, like.’

  ‘And she said that she had to do this in summer?’

  ‘Aye, I asked about that. But she had this meter thing in her bag. She said it worked in any conditions.’

  Iredale reached into his pocket and pulled out his smartphone.

  ‘Did it look like this?’

  The old man gestured for Iredale to pass it over.

  ‘Aye, it did. Just like this. How did you know?’

  ‘Just a lucky guess. So what happened?’

  ‘I heard her walking around, opening and closing windows, so I just left her to it. She was gone about ten minutes, I’d say. Maybe a bit longer.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘She sat and chatted for a bit.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘My late wife, my children. That sort of thing. She was nice. Interested, like.’

  ‘So what made you suspicious?’

  ‘Just something she said. Something about me having things to remember her by. My wife, Rosie, I mean. She left straight after, did the young lass. She must have known she’d made a mistake, like. So as soon as she’d gone I checked, and sure enough my wife’s jewellery had gone. My dad’s silver watch and chain too. One or two other bits. I phoned the station straight away, and a car was here in five minutes, but she was long gone.’

  ‘Was she in a vehicle?’

  ‘Not that I saw.’

  ‘And you’re still confident about your description?’

  The old man smiled.

  ‘You’re checking my memory, aren’t you, son? Can’t say I blame you. But aye, I can describe her. About twenty five, medium height, slim, dark hair.’

  ‘And her clothes?’

  ‘Jeans, blue shirt, brown bag. Like a big handbag, you know. For the stuff she nicked, obviously.’

  ‘No distinguishing features?’

  ‘She was bonnie. Aye, she was that.’

  ‘Any accent?’

  ‘Local. Like mine, not like yours though. Westmorland, certainly.’

  ‘And how about her identification? You’re sure it was from the Council?’

  ‘Oh, aye, definitely.’

  ‘And it was her picture on it?’

  The old man hesitated.

  ‘I think so, aye. But I can’t be certain.’

  ‘Do you wear reading glass, Ronnie?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Were you wearing them at the time?’

  ‘I put them on. I’m sure I did.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  The old man looked round. ‘Just give me a minute. They’ll be about somewhere.’

  ‘That’s OK. I was only asking. Listen, Ronnie, I think I’m done, for now.’

  ‘If you’re sure. Did you get any prints off her mug then, lad?’

  ‘No, we didn’t. She must have wiped it clean before she left. It’s not that easy to do, apparently.’

  ‘Really? I didn’t notice. Must be getting old, I suppose.’

  ‘Not at all. She’s good at what she does, and you weren’t the first to fall for it.’
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br />   ‘But I should have known better. After all those years I should be able to spot a thief a bloody mile off.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Aye, of course I do. What does your old man say? I bet he can sniff out a wrong ‘un at twenty paces. More, I dare say.’

  ‘I don’t really listen to my old fella, not any more. And I try to be guided by evidence, not instinct.’

  ‘Do you now?’ There was that sparkle again.

  ‘Aye, I do.’ DC Iredale stood up, and he fully intended to just say his goodbyes and leave. But that isn’t what he actually said. ‘To tell you the truth I’ve come to the conclusion that a copper’s instinct is nothing more than prejudice, pure and simple. The rest is all utter bollocks. No offence, like.’

  The old man looked at him and smiled.

  ‘None taken, lad, none taken.’

  Ian Mann hadn’t wanted to detach Keith Iredale from the murder enquiry that morning, but Jane had been insistent.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ian. But I need a local DC to stay on our existing enquiries, and it’ll do him good. Otherwise he’ll just follow you round, like he usually does.’

  ‘He’s a good lad, is Keith.’

  ‘So you keep saying. And I don’t doubt it. He’s already a good detective, so let’s give him a bit of responsibility, OK?’

  ‘But he’s used to how I work, Jane.’

  ‘Well, you should work like any other DS, shouldn’t you? So those two likely lads from HQ should do the job for you every bit as well as Keith can. So let’s get Winder and Tyson’s movements checked out thoroughly. And I do mean thoroughly. Those two alibis were thinner than a supermodel’s stocking.’

  ‘All right. I’ll see what Batman and Robin can come up with.’

  ‘No, Ian, you do it, just use them for the leg work.’

  ‘Don’t you trust them either? I told you, Keith’s our boy.’

  ‘I don’t know them, that’s all. You know how important the details are. Anyone who saw them yesterday, before they were brought in here, needs to be questioned in detail. What were they wearing, what were they carrying, how did they seem? You know, not just the who, what, where and when stuff. We could do that by bloody text.’