by Frank Lean
‘So Jones shot them,’ I said slowly. ‘I see. A detective inspector shot two men dead, nicked the money and no one suspected a thing.’
‘Exactly.’
‘You had a trial. Why did none of this come out then?’
King shut up for a moment. His guard was down. He stretched his hand across the table to Marti before speaking.
‘I had my reasons for keeping shtoom about bloody Jones at that time, didn’t I? But I never admitted the killings and I never will. Marti, love, I’ve told you before. It’s a waste of time trying to get me out of here. I’m not going until they admit that I was fitted up and that’s never going to happen.’
‘Oh Dad,’ she pleaded. ‘Other people have grassed.’
‘Not real people – just scum.’
‘You’d be free. You could come and live with me.’
‘Inside or out, I’ll never be free until they show that it was Jones fitted me up. Hey, Mr Detective Cunane! A sudden panic, that’s what the learned friends said it was. Tell me this, do you think I’d have needed a shooter to deal with one lone copper twenty odd years ago?’
‘You don’t look so hard,’ I murmured.
‘Hard enough to have kept my head above water in prison for twenty odd years.’
‘That doesn’t mean you have to spend the rest of your life here,’ Marti insisted.
‘Get used to it, love; you mean well, but I’ll die in here and to hell with the lot of them.’
‘Dave, say something to him.’
‘What can I say? He’s right. If he thinks he was fitted up why should he admit that he did the killings?’
King looked at me and laughed out loud. It wasn’t Marti’s hair-raising cackle, but a plain, honest laugh. ‘Are you sure you aren’t a Yorkshireman, son? They’re plain spoken in this nick, I’ll tell you. Plain as a kick in the lats, some of them. Or is it that you like the thought of me rotting away? Most of the filth love that.’
‘I’ve nothing against you. Maybe you killed those men or maybe it all went down as you say.’
‘It did.’
I looked at him. The eyes were just as inscrutable as before, the expression as determined. I could have hit him, he was so smug and self-satisfied in his proclaimed innocence.
As Marti had no doubt calculated, I felt a powerful urge to prove or disprove what he was saying. Stupid, but that’s me.
‘Help me prove it then,’ I said, fatal words.
‘Why should I bother? You said your old man couldn’t come up with anything against Jones and he had all the resources of the Old Bill behind him.’
‘Yes, but some of his colleagues weren’t too helpful . . . you know what I mean.’
‘Who should know better? I knew exactly what the market value of a policeman’s co-operation was at one time. Why do you think they’re all so happy to leave me in here for a crime I didn’t commit? The bastards never stood a chance of getting me for the ones I did do.’
‘It was a long time ago. People might be willing to talk now,’ I suggested.
‘Leave it, son. The geezers I’m up against don’t let things drop. They’ve got too much to lose. Get on with your life. Marti’s a lovely girl, she deserves better than that puff Carlyle. Maybe you’re the one, I don’t know.’
With that he turned away, conversation over. He was only down for an hour with us, and I was glad that he hadn’t requested two as he was entitled. It was like a hospital visit where you pass over the bunch of grapes, tell the patient that it’s raining outside and then find that you’ve run out of chat. Father and daughter talked stiltedly about her childhood for the rest of the hour.
At last a bell rang and we got up to leave. I went out on my own, leaving Marti to bid her father a fond farewell. The bracing air helped to clear my head.
We didn’t drive straight back. We stopped at Hartshead Moor Services on the M62. Visiting Vince hadn’t upset Marti’s appetite. I respectfully watched her devour a Kentucky Fried Chicken meal while I sipped my coffee.
‘What was all that about the geezers he’s up against?’ I asked. ‘Does he mean the Police Federation?’
‘Dad’s always claimed that there was a lot more involved than ever came out at the trial.’
‘And we’re not permitted to know what it was?’
‘I’ve begged and pleaded with him. You heard what he said.’
‘There’s not much chance of getting him out until he tells us the full story. Even if I believed that Jones killed those two men I’d have to know a lot more about what was behind it all. Why would a copper kill just to send Vince down for life? They had him at the scene of a robbery, and homicide’s quite a step up from adding a couple of extra lines to a suspect’s statement.’
‘You’re saying that because your father was a policeman.’
‘Not all coppers are bent.’
‘So you don’t think he’s innocent?’
‘I expect most of the men in that room would say that they’re innocent.’
‘I know Dad was a thief but he never would have shot anyone. Cool and collected, he’s noted for it.’
‘He didn’t exactly come over as the world’s greatest pacifist, did he? I don’t know what he’s capable of.’
‘Why would he have denied it all these years?’
‘I don’t know. Some people won’t admit things even to themselves.’
‘Wonderful, pop psychology! You’re saying that he’s been “in denial” for more than fifteen years? Dave, I came to you because I thought you were intelligent . . .’
‘And here’s me thinking it was my good looks.’
‘Stop it! You must know now that Dad’s not like that. Being inside all this time hasn’t curdled him. Whatever you think, I’ll never believe he did it.’
‘But you’re his daughter. I’m not related. And talking of relatives, what happened to your mother? She wasn’t convinced enough to stick around, was she?’
‘Sticking around is not my mother’s forte,’ she said. Her expression became closed, and I didn’t push it.
10
IT WAS A week before I heard from Marti again.
‘Have you still got a totally closed mind or is there something between your ears besides cotton wool?’ she asked when I picked up the phone.
‘And when did I last stop beating my wife?’ I replied. I almost blurted out then that I’d read the reports of her father’s trial and appeal but something made me keep my mouth shut.
‘Your performance last week was pretty limp considering you’re supposed to be the great private eye.’
‘You and Vince don’t need me, Marti. You need a priest.’
‘No, listen, something’s come up. I want to show it to you.’
‘Why didn’t you come round to the office? You found your way here last week.’
‘That friend of yours, Janine White, is she around?’
‘She’s still on holiday, back at the weekend.’
‘Oh, well, even so, it might be best if we met somewhere else.’
I got the impression that fear of Janine’s frowns was only part of her reason for staying clear of Pimpernel Investigations.
‘Just what was it you had in mind?’
‘Nothing romantic, if that’s the way your mind is going.’
‘Marti, just because you’ve got time on your hands, it doesn’t mean I have.’
‘I told you, I want to show you something.’
‘Is Charlie leaning on you?’ I asked.
‘No, no, nothing like that. Well, it’s just . . . Look, do you know Deansgate?’
‘Do I know Deansgate? Does the Pope have a balcony?’
‘You know the motorbike shop where they sell Harley-Davidsons? Right at the end of Deansgate? There’s a new little wine bar on the corner of a block just past there. I’ll meet you in half an hour.’
I was going to question the benefit of sipping over-priced Beaujolais in such an out-of-the-way spot but she hung up. Then I guessed its remotene
ss was what made the place attractive. Despite what she said, the heat must be on. I was glad of another excuse to hang the ‘Closed’ sign up. The weather was warm, but being Manchester there were big clouds sweeping in from the west and it might rain at any time. A walk with Marti at the end of it was just what I needed.
As I hiked away from town along Deansgate, away from the interesting shops selling pianos and pastrami and on past the old railway warehouses and accessory outlets, the afternoon crowds thinned to a trickle. I eyeballed the wine bar Marti had selected for our tryst. Situated at the bend in the road, it guarded Deansgate like a sentry box. I spotted an Asian woman scanning the street from a seat in the window. Then I realised the Asian woman was Marti in a headscarf and sunglasses. I quickened my pace.
She was seated at a table for two and there was a bottle of red plonk in front of her.
‘So, why all the mystery?’ I asked when I pulled up a chair.
Marti didn’t reply. Instead she poured me a glass of wine. ‘Sup that, Sherlock,’ she commanded.
‘You’ve got the wrong idea about me,’ I mumbled as I raised the glass. ‘Mastermind of detection I ain’t.’
‘Oh, don’t be so humble. I’ve heard things about you. They say that some who messed you around didn’t live to brag about it.’
I went hot and cold, then the wine went down the wrong side of my throat. I started choking and spluttering and I couldn’t stop. Heads turned, conversation stopped and a waiter bustled over, agog to use his Heimlich manoeuvre training. I managed to cram a handkerchief over my mouth and get some air into my lungs before he started bruising me.
‘Are you sure you’re all right? It wasn’t the wine, was it? I’ll bring you another bottle,’ the hovering waiter, a dark, Spanish-looking youth with black gelled hair and a single earring, said comfortingly. Maybe he was worried that customers choking to death in his window would be bad for trade.
‘No, no, I’m fine. It was just one of those things,’ I gasped while struggling for breath.
‘He likes to bolt his wine down,’ Marti added with a laugh, fortunately not one of her seismic efforts.
‘That’s a bit rough,’ I said. ‘Who have you been talking to? What have they said about me?’
‘I just heard that, well, you know . . . Certain criminals who went up against you . . . let’s just say they haven’t been answering their correspondence lately.’
I could feel myself starting to choke again.
‘I wish I’d never opened my mouth. I wouldn’t if I’d known you were going to have a seizure,’ Marti said quickly.
I grabbed her wrist.
‘Who’s been telling you all this rubbish?’ I demanded.
Her headscarf slipped, revealing a yellow bruise on her upper left cheek. I let her wrist go.
‘Take off the glasses,’ I said.
Reluctantly she did. Somebody had given her a beautiful black eye.
‘Charlie Carlyle, I presume,’ I said, ‘and don’t bother telling me that you walked into an open door. I’ve been involved in too many domestics to accept that excuse.’
‘It wasn’t Charlie. As a matter of fact, it was an accident.’
‘So that’s why you’re hiding in a remote wine bar and wondering if I do knock-off jobs on the side.’
She laughed. This time it was the full throated ear-clatterer, delivered with head well back and chest heaving. Discounting the aural effect, it was quite a spectacle. In Italy a crowd would have gathered round us. This being rainy Manchester, the other imbibers scanned us covertly but made no moves in our direction. I realised then that Marti needed the harsh glare of the Tropics rather than the dull diffuse light of Manchester. If she was a painting, she was a Gauguin not a Rembrandt. She was one of those rare birds which gets blown to these sunless shores by some chance storm.
‘Oh Dave! You’ve got a wonderful imagination. You’re wasted as a private detective. I’m here because I have something to show you and I chose this place because it’s one I happen to know. It’s handy for the Metro. Here, read this, before you crack up.’ She opened her handbag and pulled out a long envelope with a thick wad of paper inside.
‘Read it!’ she urged. ‘I got it yesterday and it might help to convince you that my father’s innocent.’
I was unwilling to do as I was bid. Had she really heard a whisper about me or did her speculations date from that day when Janine was sounding off about me being a killer? I had to know.
‘I’ll read it when you tell me where you heard all this rubbish about me.’
‘Listen, forget that. I was just teasing you.’ She focused those lovely green eyes on me before she put the dark glasses on again. A man could dive in those cool limpid pools and forget himself, which was exactly what she intended.
‘I need to know. If someone’s going round saying I’m a killer I want to know who it is.’
‘Don’t be so touchy. You were quick enough to believe that my dad’s a killer.’
‘I want to know. Was it Clyde Harrow?’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Clyde Harrow, he’s on local TV. You know, with the coloured shirts and all the ex-wives.’
‘Never heard of him. I don’t watch TV.’
‘Don’t pretend you just plucked the idea I’m a contract killer out of thin air.’
‘I told you. I made it up. Don’t be difficult. Read the letter, it’s from Dad’s solicitor.’
I looked at her for a long time before I opened the envelope. What could I do, short of blacking her other eye? She certainly knew which key to use to wind my clockwork up. I wondered why Charlie had bashed her this time.
‘I’ll read this but I’m not saying a word until you tell me what you know,’ I warned.
It was a long typed letter, produced on a manual typewriter, not a word processor. I read it carefully. It took me ten minutes.
Morton Devereaux-Almond apologised for not going to the prison, then in carefully chosen words he went over the events of Vince’s trial. He left the impression that James McMahon, the defence lawyer, had been incompetent. The gist seemed to be that if there were shortcomings in the defence they should be laid at McMahon’s door, not his. He implied that McMahon had allowed a material irregularity to pass unchallenged. As McMahon was now Home Secretary, and the third or fourth most important minister in the present government, it was possible to guess that a certain amount of political axe-grinding was going on.
I put the letter down and folded my arms.
‘Well?’ Marti queried.
I kept my mouth shut.
‘Oh, I haven’t heard anything. I was kicking off at you because you were so hard on Dad. Remember that day at Tarn when you sorted Charlie? It put the idea in my head that you’re a man who doesn’t go in for half measures.’
‘Like your father,’ I said nastily.
‘No, not at all. The whole point about Dad is that he was never violent.’
‘Except when he trained with the SAS.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Thousands of men have served in the Regiment.’
‘Yet according to this Devereaux-Almond,’ I said, waving the letter at her, ‘that was one of the points that weighed most heavily against him.’
‘That was just one of the unfair things. As if every man who’s had military training becomes a cold-blooded murderer.’
‘The victims were both shot between the eyes with pinpoint accuracy from a considerable distance, implying a trained marksman. Then each was given an additional bullet through the side of the head – the famous “double tap” of the SAS.’
‘I should have known better than to confide in you. A proper weather vane, aren’t you?’ she sniped, snatching the letter out of my fingers.
‘Sorry, but it’s only what a lawyer would say. How did you really get the black eye?’
She touched her bruised face gently. ‘That’s a long story. I didn’t come to you for help with my personal problems.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Certain! What do you think about what Devereaux-Almond says about the trial? Surely there’s doubt.’
‘I wouldn’t like to say,’ I murmured. I was still irritated and short of breath.
‘You must have some opinion.’
‘Must I? Forget about the double tap then. Nobody had heard about that twenty years ago, but it was stupid of the defence to bring your dad’s army record up. It allowed the prosecution to claim that the killings were military style.’
‘That’s what I’m saying. Dad’s brief was more anxious to prove the case against than to help him.’
‘OK, let’s accept that James McMahon MP was incompetent – or at least Devereaux-Almond is prepared to hint that he was, now he’s safely retired himself. Unfortunately, that isn’t grounds for an appeal. The trial judge is supposed to . . .’
‘Judges, ha!’
‘Listen, Marti, up to 1996, there were only three grounds for appeal, including material irregularity, but now appeal’s allowed if the conviction is considered “unsafe”. The court’s unlikely to think that your dad’s conviction is unsafe without new evidence, and where’s that going to come from when he won’t even discuss the case?’
‘Don’t you think I know all that? I’ve been over it a hundred times.’
‘Fair enough. This Devereaux-Almond says that he feels McMahon wasn’t very convincing when it came to cross-examining the police.’
‘Dad wanted to sack him. McMahon wanted Dad to plead guilty.’
‘How old were you when all this was going down?’
‘I was eight but I’ve had to live with it every day since. You don’t know what it’s like. We were well off one day and then down in the gutter the next. My mother abandoned me when he was found guilty. She just dumped me on social services and shot off back to her relatives in Germany.’
The wine bar didn’t boast a squad of gypsy violinists playing diminuendo chords but I knew when my heart strings were being plucked. As usual, it worked.
