Haggard Hawk: A Nathan Hawk Crime Mystery (The Nathan Hawk Crtime Mysteries)

by Douglas Watkinson

  “Well, I did sort of...”

  He swung round at me.

  “You didn't tell us there was a third person up on The Ridge, night of the murder. On a fucking motor-bike!” He threw his cigarette down on the pavement as if trying to spark a firecracker. He yelled at Quilter: “Can't you lot smoke ordinary fags, for God's sake?”

  Quilter turned away, as if he might cry and didn't want us to see. I shrugged as apologetically as I thought my oversight warranted.

  “I didn't tell you because your boss doesn't believe what I say. For example, guns on the loft.”

  “I believed you. I checked it out. Isn't that enough?”

  “Have you found them yet?”

  There was a silence, hopeless rather than embarrassed. I'd reminded them of their biggest problem.

  “They're my department,” said Quilter, “and we reckon they won't be found.”

  He had a soft, pleasant voice, the sort which goes with a man who does five years in the job and gives up for want of being heard.

  “Of the two men who fired the shots,” he went on, “at least one of them was Irish, according to Julie Ryder. Maybe that's where they've gone: back home and taken the weapons with 'em.”

  “So their names aren't Jackson and Evans, then,” I said. “Good old Irish names though they be?”

  “No,” said Faraday. “They've been released.”

  “And this car that was nicked, night of the shooting, from ... Wheatley, was it?”

  Faraday nodded. “It was found in Wendover Woods. Burnt out. Joyriders.”

  “And the third person biker, any ideas?”

  “No,” said Faraday, growing weary of me pointing out that the case was unravelling before his eyes. “Have you, and you're just not telling?”

  “I know he - or she - followed me last night.”

  “Christ Almighty! Now it's a bloody woman. Followed you where?”

  “Around. Pulled up, right beside me, quiet country lane. Same description Petra Wyeth will have given you. I rammed the bike, you can see it's the clean dent on the bumper.”

  Quilter went to examine it. I said to Faraday:

  “Any news on my neighbour, Stefan Merriman?”

  “Only that I wasted two or three hours digging into his past. The guy was done for possession of cannabis when the law thought it mattered. He also used his house-master's credit card to buy a computer with. Jesus, if you're going to help us, guvnor, don't waste your time on crap like him.”

  “He has a motor-cycle.”

  “Him and two million others.” He placed a foot on the front tyre of the Landrover, leaned forward into a stretch. “Where you off to, anyway?”

  “To find Tom Templeman's alibi before Charnley persuades him to confess. He'll find Gizzy a bit tougher, but it's only a matter of time.”

  Faraday stretched the other leg and said, touchily: “Come off it, guvnor. He may be a bull in a china shop but he's nothing if not professional.”

  “He puts the fear of God into you, John. Think what he’ll do to Beanpole Tommy. All that 'give it up of your own free will, lad, don't make me come looking for it.'“

  Faraday nodded, slightly. There was truth in what I'd said.

  “How's the stomach, sir?” asked Quilter, as I climbed back into the Landrover.

  It was a genuine enquiry, not a wind-up.

  “Fine,” I said, starting the engine. “How's McKinnon's fist?”

  

  Ashenham Place, Freddie and Stella Taplin's house, was a square-built Queen Anne mansion, ten times the size of mine with only twice the number of people living in it. The figures assumed that Hideki was just passing through, albeit very slowly.

  I guess Ashenham had another purpose than as a dwelling, though. It told people that its owner had been successful, that he'd sold so many packets of frozen fish he could afford a house he couldn't walk round in a single day. It sat in a long, shallow valley and was defended by sycamore, beech and horse chestnut trees, so old and tall they must've been planted the same day the builders took their leave. Behind the house, the terrain rose gently to The Ridge. The hillside to the front was the last wrinkle in the landscape before the Vale of Oxford.

  As I approached the house, down the long gravel drive, two Great Danes came loping towards the Landrover and tried to corral it into submission with barking and feinting. The Landrover wouldn't be bullied and came to a halt beside the powder-blue Jag. The dogs conceded their defeat and greeted me with cautious approaches and retreats. One of them brought me a rubber toy to throw and friendship was declared.

  Freddie Taplin called to me from a gap in the yew hedge to the West of the house.

  “Must've read my mind, Mr. Hawk. Just taking a breather. Beer by the fountain.”

  He was dressed for organising other people to do the real job of gardening: old jeans, waistcoat over a thick shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He descended, via stone steps, to a sunken garden, the Great Danes and I followed him.

  Dead centre of a lawn you could play billiards on, never mind croquet, was a large, stone-built pool with a fountain playing out of the mouth of some vaguely mythological creature. The breeze occasionally whipped the spray towards flowerbeds, where dahlias and delphiniums were fading in the seasonal decline.

  Two men who'd been working on the enclosing hedge, father and son by the look of them, had taken their boss's cue and settled on the edge of the lawn. The old man took a flask from a rucksack and poured tea into two plastic cups.

  At the pool, Taplin reached into the water and took out a can of beer, wiped it on his waistcoat and handed it to me.

  “Been warm today,” he said. “Indian summer, but winter's on its way. You like the winter, Mr. Hawk?”

  “I can take it or leave it.”

  “Why not head for the sun, or somewhere? Isn't that where coppers retire to?”

  “Retirement’s been getting me into trouble recently,” I said.

  He opened his own beer and started to drink.

  “Doesn't suit you?”

  “We don't suit each other.”

  He turned to the pool where a flotilla of Koi carp had approached. He indulged them with food pellets from a waistcoat pocket.

  “In The Imperial Palace, Tokyo,” he said. “These guys grow to two, three feet long.”

  “I know. I've seen them.”

  “You've been there?”

  “Daughter. Lives there.”

  The Great Danes had come over for their share of the bounty. Taplin had dog biscuits in another pocket, threw a couple in the air and the dogs leaped for them.

  “You know, if you're looking for a challenge with good money attached, why not come and work for me? We're expanding, going East. We'll need someone in there, right from the start, organising security.”

  “I've handled security for many things, Freddie. I've body-guarded royalty, politicians, even the Pope on one occasion. I never thought I'd be asked to mind frozen fish.”

  He laughed. “Fish have been good to me. They could be good to you.”

  “They already have been,” I said. “My father was in fish...”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “...and chips.”

  He smiled. “You know the rewards it can bring, then. Think about my offer. I'm serious.”

  I'm sure he was. However, not only was his hair colour out of a bottle, the hair itself had been around the block. It was a transplant and sprouted from the tanned forehead in clumps, much as the bristles on a toothbrush do. I wouldn't work for a man like that for all the fish in China.

  “Is your wife not at home?” I asked.

  “No ... no. Stella only spends two, three days a week here.”

  “And the rest of the time?”

  He tried to make it sound normal. “We have a flat in London, easier to reach her various charities from there. Was it her you wanted, then?”

  “I wanted to know why she was at Jim Ryder's funeral.”

  “Well, I can tell you tha
t,” he said, dragging an orange forearm across his mouth. “When Jim worked for me, Stella was his secretary. They were close.”

  “So close that she was crying?”

  He looked away. “She's a very emotional person. There was never anything between them, if that's what you mean. Stella spent most of her time weaning him off his addictions. I'd say she was crying at the waste of it all.”

  He'd mentioned the addictions in hushed tones, so I guessed we weren't talking about caffeine or tobacco.

  “What was he on?” I asked.

  “For at least three years before he went inside Jim was pissed at ten o'clock in the morning and coked up by seven in the evening. God knows what else he did in between.”

  Maybe this is what Julie had wanted to tell me in The Plough, after the funeral.

  “When did you marry Stella, Freddie?”

  He had to think about it. “Eight years ago? Just after Jim joined the company?”

  “And as the boss's wife she didn't mind being a secretary?”

  “Not at all. She rather enjoyed the counterpoint. Living here, working in an Aylesbury office. Look, I know why you're asking these questions...”

  “Jack Langan.”

  “What about him?”

  “You mean his wife didn't tell you? I think he was killed by the same person who shot Jim. If you want me to explain in detail...”

  As I did so, he rose from the fountain-side, put his back to the mid-morning sun and in doing so became the God of the fish fillet, dark in general form with his outline burning at the edges. I raised a hand to shield my eyes and, courteously, he moved and became mortal again. He'd been rattled, though. He'd offered me the job of Fishminder General and I'd added him to my list of possibles for Jim's murder. For lots of reason. Revenge against Jim was the obvious one. As for getting rid of Jack, well, it didn't look as though there was much of a marriage going on here at Ashenham Place.

  After brief thought he said: “Look, if I'd wanted to kill Jim I'd have done the job myself and with a great deal more finesse than was the case.” He gestured up to The Ridge. “I know this much: I wouldn't have shot him on my own doorstep.”

  “How did Jim steal the money from the company?”

  Taplin shrugged. “Very simply, I'm afraid. He signed a hundred and twenty-three cheques to cash, over a period of five years.”

  “Even though he was pissed by ten in the morning?”

  “Maybe the booze gave him extra courage or blinded him to the danger.”

  “And the Fraud Squad never found the cash. You know, in your shoes, if I wanted my money back, I'd be thinking Julie Ryder, Julie Ryder, Julie Ryder.”

  He chuckled. “So I shot her as well?”

  “Someone did.”

  He sat down on the edge of the pool again and turned to one of the carp. He dipped a hand in the water, the fish came up to head-butt it. He said, quietly:

  “Two million? Look around. Has it made a great deal of difference to me?”

  I hate people who talk like that. I hate people who can afford to talk like that.

  “Tell me about you and Jean Langan.”

  “Well, as you know, it's none of your business. Then again I don't want you to make a bigger fool of yourself than you've already done.”

  I set the can of beer down on the stone rim beside me. He spoke like he was addressing a shed full of fish-gutters, clipped and precise. And The Map was in the Landrover.

  “Jean Langan and I are old friends. And all that that implies. In your copper's mind. So, yes we did have a relationship. More years ago now than I care to remember. She was married. So was I.”

  “Which made it all the more fun, I suppose? How did you meet?”

  He softened a little, at the recollection of time spent with Jean.

  “She came to work for us as a transport fixer, soon worked her way up to boss of the department. She's a fabulous organiser. If we'd met sooner there's absolutely no doubt that I'd have asked her to marry me. Yesterday, though, at six-thirty, just after she'd heard that Giselle had been arrested, she rang me for help. I said I'd pick her up within the hour. She wanted a solicitor for the kids, to replace the one the police had offered them. She wanted the best. I got her two, a his and hers. David and Belinda Barclay.”

  I'd heard of them. They were young, sharp and responsible for a lot of people who should've been locked up forever, still walking the streets.

  “Have they given an opinion?”

  “They're seeing the kids this morning but, off the top of their heads, they say the police'll have a tough job without the murder weapons.”

  “Police have given up looking for them. I haven't.”

  When he smiled, his mouth twisted all the way up to his right ear. “I see. You're on both sides, are you? Police and ours?”

  “No, but I agree with the Barclays. Without the guns no one goes to court.”

  I drained the rest of the beer and thought I could taste fish pool. I told myself it was my imagination. I rose and said:

  “When you speak to the Barclays again, tell 'em I've gone in search of the kids' alibi. Kate Whitely. Fingers crossed that I find her.”

  He shrugged. “Don't let me keep you.”

  -14-

  I got to Oxford roughly at noon, parked at Westgate and walked down to Foley Bridge. You can't really tell, unless you're on foot, but the bridge itself, while straddling the Isis, arcs over an island. You reach this via a gap in the balustraded stonework and descend to a gaggle of buildings clinging to the water's edge with Venetian conceit.

  Blenheim Stalk was a newish, tower-like development, five or six stories high. At bridge level there was an art gallery, trading in stuff by artists whose only talent was for taking the piss. Below the gallery, at river level and reached by a narrow flight of steps, was an Italian restaurant. The upper levels of the tower were so-called studios and Studio 5, so a brass plate beside the gallery entrance declared, was the home of Foley Bridge Intros.

  I pressed the buzzer and a young, female voice sang out, cheerfully:

  “Hi! Come on up, we're on the third floor.”

  The door gave a long, electronic groan and I entered.

  Studio 5 overlooked the uptown side of the river and, beyond that, had a view right up to Carfax. The girl who welcomed me was in her late twenties, with rolling, reddish hair and a great deal of make-up which she really didn't need. I guess she didn't like the pale complexion, and maybe the freckles which came with her God-given colouring. I did. Her smile was automatic, like one of those security lights which floods the area whenever you walk under it. She gestured for me to sit in one of the steel and black leather chairs.

  “So, you're Mr...?”

  “Waterman,” I said. “Will Waterman.”

  God knows why I chose Will’s name, rather than make one up. Maybe I fancied that here was a chance to get back at him.

  “I'm Claudia Merton,” she said. “Coffee?”

  “Thanks. White, no sugar.”

  She went to the Cona and poured two cups. I said:

  “Actually, I was told to ask for Kate.”

  There was a momentary lapse in her composure.

  “Who told you to do that?”

  I hesitated. I guessed that Claudia was a girl who didn’t like silence and would do most of my talking for me, if I played it right.

  “Another client?” she suggested, to cover the silence.

  She handed me my coffee and I nodded.

  “Who was that, then?”

  I hesitated again. “Well, he...”

  I looked away. There were two identical desks in the room. The vacant one had a wooden pencil holder on it in the shape of a K. No work had been done at the desk for a week or more. It was pin neat but a film of dust had settled on the surface and caught the light which came in from the all-window south.

  “He asked you to keep it under you hat? Yes, well, we're very big on discretion here. Kate's away at the moment but I can help you, Mr. Wate
rman. May I call you Will?”

  “By all means.”

  “What exactly are you looking for, Will?”

  “I'm not really sure...”

  And, God knows, that was the truth. Kate being 'away at the moment' didn't really confirm that she was alive and kicking, anymore than it told me where I might find her. Nor could I tell, at that point, what Claudia and K, presumably Kate, did for a living. The word Intros on the brass plate had given me a few hints and now Claudia was developing them.

  “Well, let's take a few details, shall we, then we can try matching them to a Target Profile. Are you wanting the gay or the straight database?”

  If she’d she asked the question of most coppers of my generation they'd have thrown her against the opposite wall.

  “Straight,” I managed to say without incident.

  “Are you married?”

  “Yes.”

  She ticked a box on a form in front of her.

  “How old are you, Will?”

  “Forty-nine.”

  “Late forties. And what do you do for a living?”

  “I'm the Security Officer for a company. We deal in frozen fish.”

  “That sounds very interesting,” she said without a flicker of irony.

  “Takes me all over the world,” I said. “Wherever fish go, there go I. Where's Kate gone, by the way? For her holiday?”

  “Abroad,” she said. “Where do you live?”

  I hesitated again.

  “If you prefer,” she said, “you can give us a mobile phone number as a contact point but it does mean you'll have to pay us with a credit card. Is that acceptable to you?”

  “Highly.”

  “So, are you looking for a platonic relationship beyond your marriage, or would you be looking for a sexual one as well?”

  For some reason, not entirely mysterious, my eldest daughter appeared to enter the room and regarded me from beneath the arched eyebrows people said she'd inherited from me. Ellie was right behind her, about to mouth off. Clearly the Enrique thing had been sorted out between them and they'd decided to turn their attention to me.

  “Mr. Waterman?” said Claudia.

  “Sorry, drifted off. Platonic. To begin with.” I glanced at the girls. They were leaving, though I had a feeling that they might return. When they were safely out of earshot I added quietly: “I'm not saying that's how it would stay.”