Brief Cases Box Set
Page 10
‘That’s right, Mrs Manners. Just before midday.’
‘I was asleep,’ she stated baldly. ‘Is that what you were trying to wake me up and tell me about, Mark?’
While they were speaking, Falconer had been thinking, and decided that, for now, they were wasting their time here. They could always call again and, if necessary, bring them down to the station for further questioning. If their noise nuisance had been persistent, and they were worried they might lose their tenancy, this might prove sufficient motive for doing away with the complainer.
After all, the owner probably wasn’t on duty for the same number of hours that Sylvia Beeton was. What was the use of having a dog, and barking yourself? Maybe this very young couple had decided to take matters into their own hands before things came to a head, and Sylvia told the owner how often she had to go upstairs to tell them to turn the volume down. It was food for thought, at least.
Frank Carrington lived just a few streets away in Crescent Road, a pleasant curved development of detached 1930s houses, his being number nineteen. The garden was positively manicured, a car less than a year old stood on the drive, and pristine white net curtains showed at all the front windows.
‘Very tidy!’ commented Falconer, as they drew up at the kerb. ‘Can’t be too much of a hardship, serving fish and chips to the sort of rabble that buy them after chucking-out time, but I wouldn’t fancy it on a Friday or Saturday night.’
‘Me neither, but I wouldn’t mind a couple of portions of his produce after work,’ was Carmichael’s reply, showing that he had obviously recovered from his unpleasant little outburst of Technicolor conceptual art.
‘He did rather give the impression that he had employed Mrs Beeton for her strong personality, shall we say. Anyway, let’s see what he can remember about who was in last night, shall we?’
Carrington answered the door almost before Falconer had taken his finger from the bell, and invited them into a house as immaculately kept as the garden. ‘I’ll just put the kettle on, then we can sit down with a cup of tea or coffee, and I’ll tell you everything I know. I want whoever did this caught. Sylvia’s been working part-time for me for as long as I can remember, and I want whoever did this locked away for a very long time.
‘She started when her husband left her and she still had the kids at home, and when they left, she just carried on. Oh, but she was a good one with handling trouble. I’ve seen her pick some troublesome lad up by the scruff of the neck and hurl him out of the door without batting an eyelid. I won’t be a minute. Go in and make yourselves comfortable,’ he concluded, disappearing off into what they could see was the kitchen, another room that sparkled with loving buffing and cleaning.
The two detectives went through a door that evidently led to the sitting room, and found it furnished with plush leather furniture at one end, and an antique dining table and chairs at the other. Settling, each of them, into an armchair, and almost disappearing into its feather-filled cushions, they waited in silence until Carrington returned, a large tray in his hands.
‘I didn’t ask you what you wanted, but I thought tea would be all right? I can make coffee if you prefer, though,’ he declared, setting down the tray on a marble coffee table.
‘Tea’s fine,’ confirmed Carmichael.
‘Just the ticket,’ agreed Falconer, and Carrington began to dispense the fragrant liquid.
‘Milk? Yes? Right. Help yourselves to sugar,’ he suggested, as he handed them their cups, then stared on in disbelief as Carmichael added six spoonfuls of sugar to his cup, nearly emptying the little sugar bowl.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ Falconer hastily stated. ‘I don’t take sugar,’ as if this would be consolation enough to their host. He was used by now to Carmichael’s preference for sticky tea that could almost, but not quite, be sliced.
‘Me neither,’ muttered Carrington. ‘Now,’ at a more normal volume, ‘How can I be of assistance? I’ve made a note of anyone I saw or heard misbehaving yesterday evening, and of any Sylvia mentioned when we were chatting, clearing up. It’s the usual suspects, I’m afraid, and she actually had to take the unusual step of barring one of them, ‘Dogger’ Ferguson, last night. I don’t think I’ve known her ever do that before, but I don’t know whether I can back that up, now she’s gone.’
So, Sylvia Beeton had been employed to be the chip shop ‘heavy’, and Mr Carrington was one of those weak men whom he would like to advise to ‘grow a backbone’. Hiding behind the stronger personality of a woman was despicable, in his opinion.
Suddenly, Carrington looked woebegone and lost, and Falconer realised how much he would miss the woman, if she had worked for him for as long as he said she had. ‘Let’s have those names then, sir,’ he requested, and Carmichael extracted his notebook, after having made short work of the plate of biscuits that had also sat on the tray, and was now sadly decorated with only a few crumbs.
Noticing this for the first time, Falconer exclaimed, ‘Carmichael! You’ve eaten all the biscuits!’
‘Oh, sorry Mr Carrington, but I lost my breakfast,’ he shuddered as he remembered, ‘and I didn’t feel like any lunch.’
‘Don’t worry, Sergeant. A few biscuits isn’t going to bankrupt me. I’ve got a little list here: ‘Spike’ Ellis, ‘Dogger’ Ferguson, ‘Troll’ Norman, ‘Darkie’ Collins, ‘Chalky’ White, and ‘Curry’ Khan. They were the main offenders. I’ve known them all since their mums used to bring them along in their prams and pushchairs to get a bag of chips for their tea.
‘And nice kids they were, too, but you know what happens to them these days, once they get to a certain age. Once the acne gets them, they discover fags, booze, joints, and girls, and suddenly they’re all like Jekyll and Hyde, especially on Friday and Saturday nights. They’ve got really mouthy over the last year or so.’
‘But Mrs Beeton kept them in line, did she?’ asked Falconer.
‘As best she could, but they were getting worse. She wouldn’t stand for any nonsense when she was serving, and she gave as good as she got. Her father was a sailor, and, boy, could he cuss! She learnt well from him.’
‘Anyone else you can think of who might bear her a grudge?’ was his final question.
‘No one. She was a fine specimen of her kind, and she’ll be sorely missed in the shop.’
Back in the car, Falconer turned a suddenly optimistic face to Carmichael, and said, ‘I recognise most of those names. They’ve all been in trouble at some time or other over the last eighteen months or so, so we’ll have no problem with their addresses, and the ones not known to the police will be easy to find, because we’ll make sure we get their addresses from the others.’
‘That’ll save a lot of time. We can just look them up on the computer, and we’ll be able to go there knowing what they’ve already been up to.’
‘Just so! Forewarned is forearmed!’
Chapter Four
Saturday 17th April, – later
Back at the station, they looked up the records of the names of the four youths that both of them were familiar with, and it was the usual story of the times, for between them they had been brought in for: taking a motor vehicle without the owner’s consent, being drunk and disorderly, breach of the peace, brawling, possession of cannabis, and a bit of shop-lifting, just to add spice to the mix.
Dogger Ferguson had narrowly missed being prosecuted for assaulting a police officer, but as the officer was PC Merv Green, who was soft-hearted underneath his gruff exterior, he had not pressed charges, and the incident merely remained on file.
The two names currently unknown to the police were Darkie Collins and Curry Khan, but Falconer had every confidence that they would pick up their addresses from their mates. The other four all lived on an estate consisting mostly of blocks of flats; not high-rises – only four floors – but even these were a blot on the Market Darley/Upper Darley landscape, and a source of much of the trouble caused by teenagers and tearaways in the town and in the surrounding area.
‘Don’t touch the bannister rail,’ warned Falconer, who had been caught like this before. Some clever individuals, in their cups, found it hilarious to smear bannister rails with faeces, and others, of a more pathological bent, liked to embed bits of broken glass in them, or even razor blades.
The top landing had four doors, all desperately in need of a coat of paint and, from the door with the number sixteen on it, (in drunken brass numerals, their original quota of fixing screws now reduced to one each) blared loud music, the sound of a baby yelling, and a female voice shouting abuse at one of the other occupants.
Falconer left it for Carmichael to use his mighty fist to knock, and when that produced no reaction from within, shouted himself, ‘Open up. Police!’
There was a sudden silence within, with the exception of the wails of the baby, and a woman with dyed blonde hair, her roots almost half its length, and last night’s heavy make-up making an artist’s palette of her face, opened the door and grunted, ‘Wotcher want? My Spike ain’t done nuffink! Whenever it was, ’e was ’ere wiv me. Gottit?’
‘Good morning Mrs Ellis,’ Falconer opened for his side, and immediately had the legs cut from under him.
‘That’s Miss Ellis. Spike’s old man did a runner when ’e found out I was up the duff, and I ain’t seen ’im since, if yer must know.’
Falconer tried again. ‘Good morning Miss Ellis. I wonder if we could have a word with your son – er – Spike, if it’s not too much trouble. It won’t take a minute, if we could just step inside.’
Miss Ellis turned, and bellowed, ‘Spike, you get your arse out ’ere this minute. Wot you been up to now, yer little bastard?’
As they entered the flat, Carmichael wishing he could use his handkerchief here, too, a spindly, spotty youth with his hair dyed orange came out of one of the doors and stared at the visitors, perplexed.
Falconer took a moment to adjust to the smell and, surreptitiously looking round what he could see of the flat, took in overflowing ashtrays, empty beer and lager cans, and at least three rolled-up and very used disposable nappies just lying on the floor, un-regarded. The curtains were still drawn, there were newspapers and baby toys scattered across the floor and the furniture, and a collection of mugs and plates, unwashed and discarded after use.
‘’E’s only seventeen. You’ve gotta ’ave me present, cos I’m what they call an appropriate adult,’ Miss Ellis informed them, picking up the baby and lighting a cigarette at the same time.
How well their social workers taught them these days, thought Falconer, before turning his full attention to Spike, who looked very wary now, and beat him to it, by announcing, ‘I ain’t done nuffink! You can’t pin anyfink on me, cos I ain’t done nuffink.’
‘I only want to know where you were first thing this morning, Spike, and to confirm where you were yesterday evening.’
‘D’yer wanna sit down?’ interrupted Miss Ellis, intent on being as much of a nuisance as she could. She might have been yelling her head off at Spike just a few minutes before, but he was her baby, and she would protect him fiercely to the end.
‘No, thank you,’ squeaked Carmichael, determined not to draw a deep breath in this flat.
‘Spike?’ Falconer encouraged the youth.
‘I’ve only just woke up,’ Spike mumbled. ‘That’s what me mum was yellin’ about when you come knockin’ on the door just now.’
‘’E’s a real lazy little sod sometimes,’ added his mother, as an aside, then added, ‘’e didn’t come in till Gawd knows what time last night, then ’e can’t get up in the mornin’. Just like ’is dad, ’e’ll turn out. Never ’old down a job, nor nuffink like that. Waste o’ space, ’e is at the moment.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t interrupt during questioning, if you don’t mind, Miss Ellis. It’s Spike I would like to give me information,’ said Falconer, his temper rising.
‘Sorry for breavin’,’ Spike’s mother snapped back at him, and sat down in a filthy, food-stained armchair and stubbed out her cigarette on a ketchup-stained plate.
‘Where did you get up to yesterday evening, Spike?’ Falconer asked, mentally keeping his fingers crossed that the youth’s mother would butt out of the conversation and let him get on with his job in peace.
‘Not a lot,’ Spike answered. ‘We got Dogger to blag some extra-strong cider from the ‘offie’, and some real head-bangin’ lagers. We drunk a few, then went round the old car ports and smoked a joint or two’ – this young man knew about the changes in the law that no longer made smoking a little cannabis a prosecutable offence – ’then o’ course, we got the munchies, so we stashed the booze, and went down the chippie on the parade.
‘After that, we went back to the car ports, and finished off the booze. I was wasted when I got in, and I’ve just woke up, like I told yer.’
‘And who was with you?’
‘Dogger, like I said, Troll, Chalky, Darkie, and old Curry. That’s us. The cool dudes!’
‘So, let me get this straight. You got one of your friends to buy alcohol from the off-licence, for under-age drinkers, then you smoked some drugs, then went to the chip shop, came back to the estate, and continued to drink until you came home.’
‘That’s it. Wot else d’yer wanna know?’
‘Did you wake up earlier than just now, and go to the parade to visit the chip shop again, possibly because of something that happened when you were there yesterday evening?’
‘Shit! I told yer. I dinn’t wake up till just now. ’Ow could I ’ave gone out, when I never woke up?’
‘Thank you very much. We’ll be on our way, then. Goodbye.’
‘So much for family life in the enlightened twenty-first century,’ Falconer commented to Carmichael as they finally reached the blessed fresh air again, and headed for the car.
‘How can they live like that?’ asked Carmichael. ‘No wonder we have so much trouble with the kids today, if they come from places like that. And she’s got a baby. Imagine having to get a pram or pushchair up and down all those stairs, when the lifts are out of order!’
‘Which is always,’ said Falconer, concluding the conversation.
Four more of the names they had been given came from similar blocks on the same estate, and the interviews began with either a youth only just risen, or, in two cases, not even out of bed yet, and the day was getting on. Their trail led them variously to Blackbird House, Starling House, Goldfinch House, and Jackdaw House, and each block was as depressing as the first had been.
The only positive information that they received were the addresses of Darkie Collins and Curry Khan, neither of whom lived on the Wild Birds, and which they decided to visit after they had had a look at Sylvia Beeton’s house and spoken to her neighbours.
They had obtained the keys of her house from her handbag at the chip shop, and set off now for Meadow Road which, now that they thought about it, wasn’t too far from Crescent Road, so they should, logically, have gone there first, before taking themselves off to the Wild Birds Estate.
Meadow Road was a little less up-market than Crescent Road, but was comprised of tidy pairs of thirties semis. Sylvia’s was a left-handed one, as one looked at the pair, and was in stark contrast to the condition of its mirror twin.
In fact, the gardens all along that side of the road were well-kept, with flower beds, displays of roses and shrubs, and lawns green and rich. Sylvia’s was the exception. The beds that existed had only shrubs in them, although they were not overgrown and neglected, and the lawn, though neatly trimmed, was more weeds and moss than grass. It was perfectly tidy; just not planted and pandered to with the obsessiveness
evident in the neighbouring gardens.
To the right of the boundary with the right-hand semi rose a veritable Everest of Leylandii hedging, beautifully trimmed right up to the edge of the path next door, but sprawling right over the path leading to the door of Sylvia’s house, and even infringing on the lawn in the middle of its length.
‘Definitely not an avid gardener, then, like her neighbours,’ commented Falconer, picking his way to the door. ‘More ‘just keeping it tidy’, like the average mortal.’
‘Surprised she could get her bike up the path,’ added Carmichael, thinking of the bicycle that still resided in the area at the back of the chip shop.
‘You can see the tracks of her tyres on the lawn from where it was wet earlier in the week,’ Falconer pointed out, removing her door key from his pocket and opening the door. ‘I don’t know what we expect to find in here, but we’d better have a look around, in case she had any threatening letters or anything like that.’
‘Wouldn’t she have confided in Mr Carrington?’ asked Carmichael. ‘They’d worked together for years.’
‘You’re probably right, but let’s just take a quick look round, then we can pay a call on the neighbours and find out what they have to say about her.’
The inside of the property was in much better order than the garden, and it appeared that Sylvia Beeton had led a clean and tidy life behind closed doors. Even the cup and bowl that she had presumably used for her breakfast this morning were standing, rinsed, and upside down on the draining board, the dish-cloth hung over the mixer tap to dry.
After less than half an hour of poking and prying, Falconer called it a day. ‘Come on, Carmichael,’ he said, summoning the sergeant from working his way through the sideboard. ‘We’ll go next door and find out what sort of a neighbour she was.’
A cold welcome awaited them at the property to the right of Sylvia’s house; the one with the regimented garden that looked like it had had its lawn trimmed with a manicure set. Its owner, David Mortimer, was a man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties, his grey hair close-trimmed, rather like his grass. He had a small toothbrush moustache and wore a cardigan and slippers, highlighting, thought Falconer, the fact that this was a Saturday and, for him, at least, a day of leisure.