Dead Reckoning

by Patricia Hall

  Thackeray listened to Mower’s report with a deepening anger of his own.

  “This one will make it into the Gazette,” he said. “Laura was complaining that Ted Grant seems to be ignoring the attacks and harassment that have been going on, but he won’t be able to ignore this. So we need our facts straight. I’ll talk to the Super and he’ll want to brief the Press Office, so can you get the family’s complaint clear by lunchtime. Where was she going, this kid?”

  “To school,” Mower said. “She’s at that Muslim girls’ school near Aysgarth Lane.”

  “On her own, was she?”

  “With her two younger sisters. It’s not far from where she lives, but she says that there was no one around in that little alleyway that goes up between the Lane and Alma Street at the back of Earnshaws mill. They take that route every day, apparently. Then these lads appeared, hoods up, running, and as they went past she felt this liquid hit her. It was acid of some sort, the hospital’s analysing it. Burnt her scalp and cheek badly and splashed into one eye.”

  “What do the doctors say?”

  “Bloody equivocal, as usual, but the burns will probably leave scars and the eye damage could go either way. Too soon to tell.”

  “Is the girl sure her attackers were white?”

  Mower shrugged.

  “She says she didn’t get a good look. It’s a bit of a bastard this one.”

  “And one we need to sort out sharpish,” Thackeray said. “It’s not what we needed with the Broadley murder investigation set to go now we’ve got an identification, but of the two it could be the more tricky to handle. So watch it.”

  “I’m taking Omar with me to see the family,” Mower said.

  “Makes sense,” Thackeray said. “Make sure he doesn’t get too emotionally involved.”

  “I’ll watch him, guv,” Mower said, his smile grim. “Like his guardian angel.”

  Thackeray got to his feet slowly and made his way upstairs to Superintendent Longley’s office. His boss was leaning back in his swivel chair, his fingers tented in front of him and his usually jovial features sombre.

  “This is a beggar we could have done without, Michael,” he said, without preamble. “Who’ve you put in charge?”

  “Mower,” Thackeray said. “With Sharif in tow. They’ll not put size ten boots where they shouldn’t, with the family at least.”

  “We’re sure it’s racist, are we?”

  “No, not yet,” Thackeray said. “But I’d put money on it. And Mower knows the local Nazis as well as anyone. He knows which stones to turn over and which slimy bastards’ tails to salt.”

  “Are they getting any reinforcements from outside, d’you reckon?” Longley asked. Thackeray shrugged.

  “We’ll check that out when Mower’s made sure that there aren’t any other reasons why this girl might have been attacked …”

  “Family reasons, you mean?”

  “Exactly. We’ll check that out first — carefully — and then consult Special Branch about extremist movements. We’ve not had serious attacks on women before but this may not be the first. There’s been a lot of low-level harassment going on in the streets for a while, and a few gangs of lads facing off. But it’s not as if people always rush to report things to us. I’d like to think they did but …” He shrugged. They both knew that some of the Asian community were as suspicious of the police force as they were of the extreme right wing youths who stoked up violence on the streets from day to day.

  “Right, keep me up to speed on this one. It could turn nasty. And what about the Earnshaw murder? As if one politically sensitive case isn’t enough we get landed with two. I take it you’ve told the Press who the victim is?”

  “The Press Office have issued a statement,” Thackeray said.

  “I used to play golf with Frank Eamshaw until he transferred his affections to that new country club out at Arnedale. Along with the bloody Assistant Chief Constable, no less. We could do without that beggar Ellison watching our every move in a murder investigation. How the hell did this lad come to get pushed off a cliff?”

  “Amos Atherton says that’s not the way it happened,” Thackeray said mildly. He was determined not to let the Earnshaw family’s local status cloud his judgement now or later. “We were supposed to think he slipped over the crag, but Amos says he was already dead when he fell or, more accurately, his body was dropped over the edge. He died somewhere else. God knows where. Given the time scale it could be anywhere in the county, or even further away. He’d been dead at least twelve hours by the time he was found and the cold is making an accurate timing difficult.”

  “Leads?” Longley asked.

  “Not yet, it’s early days. I’ve got a team searching his flat. There’s supposed to be a girlfriend, but apart from messages on the answerphone there’s no sign of her yet. The victim’s car is missing, so we’ve got a call out for that. His university colleagues aren’t due back in Bradfield until tomorrow but we’ve located his tutor and will interview him later today and then chase up his mates. And I’m going to talk to the family myself this afternoon, parents and brother — and there’s a grandfather still around too.”

  “Old George Earnshaw, aye, I remember him,” Longley said. “I didn’t know he was still alive. A big noise, he was, in the wool trade, when there was a wool trade. Still, give him his due, he kept that mill alive when most of them were going spectacularly bust. This could be something as simple as a robbery that went wrong, presumably? Someone mugged him and chucked his body somewhere they hoped it wouldn’t be found for a while?”

  “He was dressed in jogging gear. It’s unlikely he’d be carrying anything of value, except perhaps a Walkman or a mobile phone,” Thackeray said.

  “Or his car keys,” Longley said. “Perhaps he was mugged for his car keys, he was hit too hard, his body dumped and chummie escaped in the car? A car-jacking? Feasible?”

  “Certainly feasible,” Thackeray said evenly, refusing to allow himself to be irritated by Longley’s persistence which he knew only too well arose from the fact that the superintendent already felt assistant chief constable Peter Ellison’s hot breath down his neck. “I’ve got the lads looking for tyre tracks right across the top of the crag. It’s been out of bounds for months so if there’s anything fresh up there they’ll certainly find it. I’m ruling nothing in and nothing out at this stage.”

  “Of course not,” Longley said quickly. “There’s the trouble at the mill to bear in mind, too. I suppose it’s feasible someone there’s got it in for the family. Worth a look, maybe?”

  “As I understand it Simon Earnshaw has nothing to do with the business any more. He bailed out some time ago.”

  “Could be a way of getting at his father,” Longley suggested.

  “I gather industrial relations are pretty ropey there but surely not bad enough to provoke murder,” Thackeray said, trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice. Longley, he thought, was letting his anxieties get to him. “I’ll bear it in mind as another lead anyway.”

  “Aye, do that,” Longley said heavily. “It looks like we’re in for a messy few weeks one way and another. Keep me up to date, Michael. I don’t want to be caught on the wrong foot and end up in the sticky stuff with either of these cases.”

  “Sir,” Thackeray said.

  It was mid-morning before DCI Thackeray and DC Val Ridley parked on the gravel drive outside the Earnshaw family’s substantial house on the outskirts of Broadley.

  “Not short of a bob or two, then, boss,” Val said, pulling a wry face as she glanced at a gleaming Jag and a muddy Range Rover parked outside and gazed up at the dark stone façade and tall windows each side of the heavy front door. As they stared, a thick curtain at one of the downstairs bays swayed slightly as if someone had been pulling it aside to look out and had then let it fall again.

  “One of the great wool families, when that meant anything,” Thackeray said. “But from what I hear that mill is a white elephant now. One of the t
hings I want to get out of this is some idea of just how much financial trouble the Earnshaws are in. But I guess they won’t be keen to tell us.”

  The front door was opened almost as soon as Thackeray touched the bell and the small plump housekeeper showed them into the main sitting room at the front of the house: a large, opulently furnished, immaculately tidy room where the only items that appeared out of place were the three people who inhabited it. Matthew Earnshaw, dressed in navy tracksuit bottoms and a green polo shirt, was sprawled on a pale cream sofa with a glass of what looked like whisky in his hand. He looked pale and drawn. His father and mother were sitting in armchairs, one on each side of the fireplace like a pair of porcelain ornaments, both dressed in black, both pale-faced and red-eyed, both apparently uninterested in the visitors who hovered for a moment awkwardly by the double doors from the hall.

  “I’m sorry to intrude,” Thackeray said. “But you do understand that we need to talk to you about Simon’s death?”

  This elicited a flicker of reaction from Frank Earnshaw who turned his head slowly in Thackeray’s direction. Matthew Earnshaw ignored them, taking another gulp of his drink and turning his head away while his mother did not stir at all.

  “Mr. Earnshaw?” Thackeray persisted. “This is DC Val Ridley. Today we merely need to establish some of the basic facts about Simon so that we can start the investigation into his death as quickly as possible. The first twenty-four hours of an inquiry is reckoned to be vital and a lot of time has already been wasted in this case because we didn’t know who our victim was.”

  With what appeared to be an enormous effort Frank Earnshaw forced himself to sit up and take notice and waved the two officers to sit down, Thackeray taking the end of the sofa on which the surviving Earnshaw son was slumped and Val Ridley selecting a seat close to the door from which she could observe everyone else in the room. As she pulled out her notebook she felt she could almost touch the brittle tension which surrounded the bereaved family. Any of them might shatter, she thought, at the slightest touch.

  “We’ve had the Press and TV onto us already, bloody vultures,” Earnshaw complained.

  “We need their help to trace witnesses, find Simon’s car, all of that,” Thackeray said quietly. “These first hours of an inquiry are vital.”

  “Aye, I suppose so,” Earnshaw conceded. “So what do you want to know, Chief Inspector? I thought we dealt with a lot of this last night.”

  “Only in outline, Mr.. Earnshaw,” Thackeray said. “You and your son were too shocked last night for a lengthy interview.” He glanced at Matthew Earnshaw who had also been far too drunk to be coherent when he had recovered from his brief collapse at the mortuary but who did not appear to be in much better condition this morning. He wondered whether he had slept at all or whether he had kept on drinking all night. It was impossible to tell. It was odd, he thought, how deep his revulsion was these days for the weakness which had once threatened to destroy his own life. There’s no one so fierce as a convert, he thought.

  “Let’s start with your son Simon’s recent activities, shall we?” Thackeray said. “And then work as far back as seems sensible. You said he was studying for a post-graduate degree. Do you know the names of any of his friends at the university? Or enemies, for that matter? We will need to talk to as many people he was in contact with as possible.”

  “He kept his new life very separate,” the dead man’s father said. “He’s brought nobody here from the university on the odd occasions he’s come up to Broadley since. Never talked about it much, to me, anyway. Knew I didn’t approve, I suppose. Thought it was all a bloody waste of time. What about you, Christine? I know you have sneaky lunches with Simon when you think I won’t notice. Was he any more forthcoming with you?”

  Christine Earnshaw turned her gaze very slowly from the elaborate flower arrangement in the stone fireplace and looked at her husband and then at Thackeray with heavy, dazed blue eyes, puffy with crying.

  “He talked about his new life to me,” she said, so quietly that Val Ridley, on the other side of the room, had to strain to catch what she was saying. “He loved his course. It was what he had decided to do, decided for himself I mean, not something Frank pushed him into.” She flashed another glance at her husband and Thackeray was surprised at the venom in it. There was some history there, he thought, and it might be necessary to tease it out.

  “Did he mention friends and fellow students at the university, Mrs. Earnshaw?” he asked quietly. “A lot of them are still on vacation and we need to trace them as quickly as we can.”

  “He talked a lot about someone called Steve. He was working on some project with Steve, something about regeneration? Would that be right? I never totally understood what his course was all about. It seemed to cover so much.”

  A snort of derision from the other end of the sofa distracted them briefly, in time to notice Matthew Earnshaw refilling his glass from a bottle which he had evidently tucked out of sight into the cushions of the sofa behind him.

  “No other name? Just Steve?” Thackeray persisted.

  “Just Steve,” Simon’s mother said. “I’m not sure whether he was another student or a teacher.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be able to trace him,” Thackeray said reassuringly. “Any other names?” But Christine Earnshaw shook her head.

  “Now the other point Matthew raised last night was Simon’s girlfriend. Did you know anything about her?”

  “He had a lovely girlfriend called Julie before he gave up work at the mill,” Mrs. Earnshaw said. “They’d been going out for years but he broke up with her. I don’t think she understood what he was doing going back to college.”

  “Did any of us?” Matthew Earnshaw asked the room at large.

  “But a current girlfriend? You said last night, Mr. Earnshaw, that there were messages on the answerphone. Do any of you know who those could be from?”

  “She rang here an’all,” Frank Earnshaw said. “Said she was supposed to be meeting him. But she didn’t say who she was. It wasn’t Julie. I’d have recognised her voice.”

  “Do you know, sir?” Thackeray asked, turning to the semi-recumbent figure at the other end of the sofa. The younger man looked at him with something close to contempt in his eyes.

  “I know nothing about Simon’s hippy friends,” he said. “I never met any and he certainly never told me about any of them. As far as I can see they want us all back in the bloody stone age, growing veg on the back lawn and walking everywhere. It’s all bollocks, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “He did have a new girlfriend,” his mother said suddenly. “I could tell someone was making him happy. But he never told me her name. And I never asked. This falling out with his father and his grandfather has made us all suspicious. I hated it, every minute of it.” And Christine Earnshaw began to cry quietly.

  The husband and son exchanged glances, half embarrassed and half guilty.

  “It must be the girl who called here,” Frank Earnshaw said. “But she wouldn’t leave her name, or a message. It was the same one on the answerphone at the flat. The voices were the same.”

  “There was a woman he was involved with,” his son added sulkily. “Something serious was going on. Last time I spoke to him on the phone he said something about not asking me to be his best man. I never thought any more about it. It was just a crack about my divorce I thought. Him being as snotty as he always is …was …these days. Oh, hell, I don’t know who killed him. If I had any idea I’d tell you. We fell out lately but he was my brother, for God’s sake. I still cared about him in spite of the bloody hippies he was hanging out with at the uni.”

  “Let’s move on, then, from friends to enemies,” Thackeray said carefully. “Do any of you know anyone who disliked Simon, hated him, even — enough to want him dead?”

  But the three members of the family looked horrified at the idea and shook their heads.

  “Simon was a popular lad,” his father said eventually. “Always had lots
of friends at school and at college the first time he went. I’ve never heard anyone say a harsh word about Simon. Of course I was disappointed when he decided to leave the business and we had rows about that, but in the end we accepted it. If anyone bore a grudge it was him. He stayed away from us, not the other way round.”

  “What about the difficulties your business is having, Mr. Earnshaw,” Thackeray persisted. “Could that have impinged on Simon in any way, even though he’d stopped working for the company?”

  “It’s two years, nearly, since Simon walked out, resigned, whatever you want to call it,” Earnshaw said, angry now. “He’s not been involved since. I don’t think he’s been near the place even. What’s going off there now is nothing to do with him.”

  “He has no financial interest? I thought from what Mr. Matthew Earnshaw here said that’s what he was meeting him to discuss?”

  Earnshaw hesitated.

  “He has a shareholding,” he said reluctantly. “We did talk to him about the future of the company. We needed to make sure he knew what was going on and agreed with it, that’s all, with redundancies and strike threats and everything else that’s blowing up. And that’s why Matthew was expecting to see him on Wednesday evening. Simon’s not given up his shares, or sold them, I’d know if he had, so he’s still involved in that sense but I don’t see what that’s got to do with someone mugging him.”

  “It’s not an obvious motive,” Thackeray said mildly. “Was Simon’s shareholding a large one? Could it interfere with any plans you might have to sell out.”

  “What plans to sell out? We don’t intend to sell out,” Earnshaw said angrily. “We’re talking a rescue plan here.”

  “But the shares will come back to you now?”

  “As far as I know, yes. Unless Simon’s left them elsewhere. But I don’t see where this line of questioning is taking us, Inspector. I really don’t.”