‘What did you do with it?’ Brunnie asked.
‘Put it all in plastic bags, kept it for a couple of months and when it seemed plain they were not going to come back for it I left it in the doorway of the nearest charity shop. Yes, I did.’
‘Fair enough.’ Swannell glanced round the room; he found it neat and well ordered. ‘Can you remember anything about them, the two men, Convers and Tyrell?’
‘Not a lot. They didn’t say much . . . they came, they went, but they were definitely iffy; a right iffy pair of toerags if you ask me.’ Violet Mayfield breathed shallowly then took a single deep breath.
‘You thought so?’ Brunnie asked. ‘You thought they were dodgy?’
‘Well, it’s the way of it.’ Violet Mayfield seemed to relax once again. ‘You get a nose for it, don’t you? It must be the same in your old line of work; get a nose for the bad ones. But they were low-down iffies, well low-down; not high-up iffies. I mean, what high-up villain would live in my basement?’
Swannell thought that Violet Mayfield had made a valid point. Her basement, he thought, would be the sort of accommodation sought by bottom feeders in London’s underworld, the very lowest in the food chain.
‘They didn’t work,’ Violet Mayfield added, ‘they didn’t have no proper job. Claimed dole and did a bit here and there. They had more spare cash than most doleys, enough to go down the boozer for the hour before last orders is called, so they had that bit of extra spending money coming in. So they were duckin’ and divin’. Then they left as if going somewhere and never came back, no they didn’t, never came back. Not at all.’
‘Did they have any visitors?’ Brunnie asked. ‘Any that you remember?’
‘None.’ Violet Mayfield shook her head vigorously. ‘I wouldn’t ever allow visitors, not ever.’
‘Do you think that we were a little unfair there?’ Penny Yewdall squinted against the glare of the sun as she and Tom Ainsclough walked casually away from the castle-like edifice of Brixton Prison towards Brixton Hill Road. ‘A bit out of order? Misleading him perhaps?’
Tom Ainsclough half glanced at her. ‘You mean that we let him believe that he could negotiate commuting a plea of guilty to involuntary manslaughter in return for a reduced sentence when we both knew such was never going to happen? I mean, not after the mess he made of “Stepney” Stevenson’s face and head?’
‘Yes, that’s what I mean.’
‘No, I think we greased the wheels of the interview and nothing more.’ Tom Ainsclough’s eye was caught by the blue-shirted bus driver of a red double-decker bus as it whirred along Brixton Hill. There was, he thought, something East European in the man’s appearance, as though the man was Polish or Czech, something he could not put his finger on as he received the image for a second or two. He was, Ainsclough thought, less relaxed-looking and more serious-minded than is usual for drivers of buses in London, as if more eager to please. Neater also, with a perfectly ironed shirt, a sober-minded manner which betrayed no sense of humour; definitely, Ainsclough felt, not a home-grown bus driver. ‘I wouldn’t worry,’ he continued, ‘Charlie Magg has been round the block often enough to know how the CPS works. He knows he won’t be able to negotiate anything at all unless he signs a statement or two and then climbs into the witness box. He’s got to sign and climb and he knows it. What we did, if anything, was to take him on a little journey into cloud cuckoo land and I think he allowed us to take him there.’
‘Signs and climbs,’ Penny Yewdall echoed.
‘And frankly,’ Tom Ainsclough continued, ‘after what he did to “Stepney” Stevenson, turning him into a vegetable for five thousand pounds, prior to the plug being pulled on the wretched man’s life-support system, and then implicating himself in the murder of another man by pushing him off a twelve storey block of flats, and being party to tying another felon across a railway line . . .’
‘You think he was there?’ Penny Yewdall looked at Tom Ainsclough.
‘Certain of it,’ Ainsclough replied. ‘The details were too numerous, too precise . . . the sound of the rails singing and the man pleading. He was there all right. So that is two cold cases we can warm up. We can cross-reference them to this inquiry, especially if those two blokes were murdered on Arnie Rainbird’s behest.’ Ainsclough paused. ‘No, we didn’t do anything back there to compromise ourselves. No way, no way at all . . . Charlie Magg is going where he belongs and he is going there for a long, long time. I promise you, you and I will be pensioners before he walks into a pub for a pint of beer again. If ever.’
‘If ever . . .’ Penny Yewdall opened her handbag and rummaged for her car keys.
Harry Vicary sat behind his desk and leaned slowly backwards in his chair. Frankie Brunnie, Penny Yewdall, Tom Ainsclough and Vic Swannell sat silently in a semicircle in front of Vicary’s desk.
‘So what do we know about Convers and Tyrell?’ Vicary glanced out of his office window at the buildings of central London and the expanse of blue sky above. ‘Anything?’
‘Petty crooks, sir.’ Swannell consulted a computer printout. ‘Very petty. Enough to get accepted by organized crime as gofers. They both appear to have living relatives so we should be able to get a DNA match on the bones very speedily, but I think we can assume that the bones are those of Convers and Tyrell.’
‘Yes, it seems a safe assumption, but it remains an assumption. We must try and link them to Arnie Rainbird.’ Vicary paused. ‘Now, that party up in Bedfordshire . . . some seven years ago . . . you say.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Penny Yewdall responded in an alert manner, ‘seven years ago this summer.’
‘That sounds interesting. We really need to know more about that party. It seems that it was Desmond Holst who wrote the note and drove the bus load of girls up from London on the pretext of good money for one evening’s work . . . and Convers and Tyrell disappeared before the party?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Swannell again consulted the computer printout. ‘A few weeks prior to the party.’
‘All right . . . all right . . . So what do we know about the house?’
‘New build property, sir,’ Yewdall responded, ‘fairly remote. According to Charlie Magg it is guarded like the Tower of London, at least it was when he was running with Arnie Rainbird’s team. He seems to have fallen out of favour but he remains loyal. He gave enough information but nothing specific.’
‘More background information really,’ Tom Ainsclough added. ‘He wasn’t interested in going into witness protection but he gave a clear indication that something very heavy went down at that party.’
‘Again, interesting, and people who guard their homes like that always intrigue me. Do we know who owns the house?’
‘Johnny “Snakebite” Herron, he’s got form for armed robbery but is also a known associate of Arnie Rainbird,’ Penny Yewdall explained. ‘Like Arnie Rainbird, he’s adept at keeping himself off the radar, but Charlie Magg told us he was very likely to be making his money through a people-smuggling racket. It’s very appealing to the likes of Arnie Rainbird, apparently, good profits to be made and penalties they laugh at.’
‘Especially if they don’t get their hands dirty,’ Tom Ainsclough added, ‘which they allegedly do not.’
‘All right.’ Vicary reached for his pen and notepad. ‘Let’s see if we can draw up a timeline. So, seventeen years ago Arnie Rainbird goes down for twenty years and comes out after doing ten. About the time he comes out, Convers and Tyrell go missing. Then a few weeks after he comes out, as if waiting for the summer weather, a party is thrown to celebrate his release, wherein something of interest happens, enough to intimidate a bus load of cheated but hard-nosed women into silence. Then some years after the party a geezer who appeared to have been a gofer for Arnie Rainbird’s mob leaves a note in a wall he is rebuilding, which he knows will be found some day; it would probably still be hidden had it not been for a drunken driver who rammed and demolished said wall with his motor vehicle.’ Vicary tapped his pen on his notepad. ‘Ther
e’s an awful lot of smoke here. We need to find the fire.’ He paused. ‘So, what’s for action?’
‘We need to know about Arnie Rainbird, sir,’ Swannell offered, ‘why he went down for twenty years. We need to know where he is now . . . what he’s up to.’
‘Yes.’ Vicary nodded in agreement. ‘We must pay a call on him, set the cat among the pigeons; let him know we are developing a keen interest in him.’
‘We have to find the house in Bedfordshire, sir,’ Frankie Brunnie suggested.
‘Yes, we’ll contact the Bedfordshire Constabulary; a little local knowledge will be useful. They probably know of the house if “Snakebite” Herron has a record, which he does have. So, Frankie and Victor, I’d like you two to stay teamed up together. Call on Arnie Rainbird and say hello from the Metropolitan Police, then find out all you can about the house in Bedfordshire and all about “Snakebite” Herron.’
‘Got it, sir,’ Frankie Brunnie replied.
‘Penny.’
‘Sir?’
‘Find out all you can about the school teacher Charlie Magg mentioned, then take a trip up to Chesterfield. That’s a one-hander, no need to partner up for that.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That leaves you with the task of confirming the ID of Convers and Tyrell, Tom. OK with you?’
‘OK with me.’ Tom Ainsclough nodded. ‘OK with me.’
Harry Vicary took the tube to Leytonstone. From Leytonstone Underground Station he walked casually up Church Lane, which was lined with small shops and which had flats above them. When at the top of the lane, outside the church itself, he chose to extend his walk by turning down Leytonstone High Street, despite always finding it fume filled, being too narrow in his view to accommodate the volume of traffic which it now carried. He looked calmly into the shops as he walked past them and, crossing the road, he walked up Michael Road and thus into suburbia. He crossed over Mornington Road, being a quiet street of owner-occupied housing, and then joined Bushwood, and thus enjoyed the expanse of green that was Wanstead Flats, and which, he believed, allowed Leytonstone to breathe. Without the Flats or the park beyond the Flats, he reasoned, there would be little breathable air in the borough. He turned left into Hartley Road, being a neat terrace of late nineteenth-century terraced housing, with small gardens in front of the houses to separate them slightly from the pavement and larger gardens to the rear. As he opened the front door his wife stepped forward and embraced him warmly.
Later that evening, after he and his wife had shared a perfectly cooked shepherd’s pie, helped down by a jug of chilled water, they walked out arm in arm, both by then clothed in casual wear. They walked to the centre of Leytonstone and entered the Assembly Rooms, wherein they sat with a number of other people, a few of whom they recognized and acknowledged in a quiet, friendly manner. At the appointed time the visiting speaker stood and addressed the group, saying, ‘Hello, I am Mary Jane and I am an alcoholic,’ whereupon Harry and Kathleen Vicary, along with all the other persons in the room, replied, ‘Hello, Mary Jane.’
After the conclusion of that evening meeting, Harry and Kathleen Vicary walked into a pub and each had a glass of fruit juice and nibbled their way through a packet of dry roasted peanuts. Just because one is an alcoholic, they would often explain, does not mean that one cannot continue to enjoy pub culture, such as quiz nights, and use pubs to escape from the house once in a while. Later still, they folded into each other’s arms and both slept a nourishing, trouble-free sleep.
FOUR
‘It really wasn’t so very difficult.’ Penny Yewdall sipped the very welcome cup of tea which had been warmly pressed into her hand by Sandra Barnes. ‘Not very difficult; quite easy in fact. We just had to follow procedure and be . . . well, a bit persuasive, but I must say the Department of Education of Tower Hamlets, London Borough of, were most fiercely protective of you and of your forwarding address. We had to go right up the top of the management mountain, encountering obstacles as we progressed. It was like climbing Mount Everest by the most difficult route, and when we did get to the top they insisted on phoning us back with the information to ensure that they really were talking to the Metropolitan Police. If they had still refused to let us have your address we would have had to obtain a court order and that would have been quite time-consuming. Even then they could only provide us with your parents’ address and phone number.’
‘Yes.’ Sandra Barnes showed herself to be the raven-haired woman who had been described, accurately so, thought Penny Yewdall, by Charlie Magg in the agent’s room at Brixton Prison. Sandra Barnes had aged little and was still a slender-figured woman of pleasing appearance whose South African accent had not completely vanished. ‘Yes, my mother phoned me this morning and I phoned you immediately. I must say that you have made good time.’
‘I jumped straight on a train; underground to St Pancras, then to Chesterfield . . . taxi here, to your door. I don’t think the taxi driver was particularly impressed; it wasn’t a long journey.’
‘I can imagine. My husband was a taxi driver before he joined the fire service . . . it was one among the many jobs he had before he settled, and he told me that taxi owners make the good money only on the long journeys. Your driver must have been an owner-operator. An employed driver wouldn’t be bothered about the length of any journey; he lifts the same money at the end of the week, no matter what.’
‘Dare say that’s true.’ Penny Yewdall glanced round Sandra Barnes’ home. It was, she noted, a new-build detached house, with three bedrooms overlooking Eastwood Park in Chesterfield, Derbyshire. Within, the house was kept in a neat and tidy and clean manner, though children’s toys were heaped in a corner and children’s drawings had been attached to the wall. Light was allowed into the living room courtesy of a large front window, and the sense of airiness was heightened by the Barneses clearly favouring light colours for their wallpaper and furnishings. A compact hi-fi system stood on a low table beside the fireplace, upon which stood a small, bronze carriage clock. On the other side of the fireplace stood a modestly sized television set. The room itself smelled of air freshener.
‘So, tell me, I am burning up with curiosity.’ Sandra Barnes raised her eyebrows. ‘Why me? What can I do to help the Metropolitan Police?’
‘Well . . .’ Penny Yewdall sat forward and placed the cup and saucer she was holding on her lap. ‘How can I explain this? I think they sent me because I am a woman. At least I was when I was under the shower this morning,’ Yewdall added with forced good humour.
‘You certainly seem to be one . . . lucky you.’ Sandra Barnes smiled. ‘I wouldn’t want to be a man and I am so pleased I’ve got girls, though my husband aches for a son. Being a firefighter he’s a very manly man and wants a son to go to rugby matches and cricket matches with. He wants a son to take to the National Railway Museum, the very mention of which makes the girls go “yuk”! So you seem to be the real deal. Mind you, I have met some men who can make a passable woman in a dim light, and I can’t help but feel sorry for them. The effort that must go into the disguise, even training their voice, but that’s what goes on in those nightclubs in London; heavens, they’d be lynched if they got dressed up like that round here! This part of England can be very intolerant of that sort of thing.’
‘North, Midlands, South . . . small towns are all the same in my experience. Intolerant as you say, but . . .’ Penny Yewdall relaxed backwards into the sofa on which she sat. ‘I’m pleased you see me as another woman. I am the genuine article.’
‘So.’ Sandra Barnes also relaxed in the armchair which she occupied, ‘So, this is girl talk, is that what you’re saying to me?’
‘Probably.’ Penny Yewdall once again glanced discreetly round the room. ‘But it’s probably more grown-woman talk . . . but, yes, that’s what I am saying, and you are not under suspicion, because if you were then there would be two of us, but, yes, it’s woman to woman time . . . if you don’t mind.’
‘Do you know, I think that I know why
you are here. I think that I can guess why you have travelled such a distance to see me, and have done so out of the blue like this.’ Sandra Barnes looked up at her ceiling.
‘Oh?’ Penny Yewdall queried. ‘Being what?’
‘The garden party,’ Sandra Barnes replied after a pause, ‘it can only be about that, about a garden party once held in a fairly isolated part of rural Bedfordshire; it has to be about that. Is it?’ Sandra Barnes lowered her eyes and looked at Penny Yewdall. ‘Is it about that so-called party?’
‘Yes.’ Penny Yewdall nodded her head slowly. ‘Yes, it’s about that . . . as you say, the “so-called” garden party. It did not sound to be much of a party.’
‘I knew people would start talking, eventually, and I knew it would return to haunt me. I just knew it wouldn’t go away and stay away. I mean, it couldn’t. How could it stay buried?’ Sandra Barnes leaned forward and placed her cup of tea on the glass top of the coffee table which stood in front of the chairs and settee. ‘That sort of thing just cannot remain buried.’
‘So, tell me about the party,’ Penny Yewdall pressed gently. ‘I have to tell you that it’s important that you tell me, Sandra. I can call you Sandra?’
‘Yes.’ Sandra Barnes nodded and smiled. ‘Please do.’
‘I am Penny.’
‘Penny . . . nice name.’
‘Penelope on my birth certificate, but I have been Penny for so long that Penelope would seem strange.’ She paused. ‘But you have to tell me. I cannot lead you by my questions.’
‘I see. I dare say you must not, cannot put words in my mouth.’
‘And I will not do so,’ Yewdall added. ‘So, Sandra, in your own time . . .’
‘How to begin . . .’ Sandra Barnes seemed to scan the cream-coloured carpet for the answer. ‘Well, what I can say in the first instance is that it wasn’t what I would call a party, not a garden party in the real sense of the term. If my daughters ever come home and say that they have been invited to a garden party, I promise you that I will feel very uneasy; the term has that resonance with me now. I dare say it always will.’
The Garden Party Page 12
