‘Is O’Connor still likely to be in this rented pad?’ I enquired.
‘I asked Gibbs about that but he didn’t know. The rental agreement could have expired by now.’
‘Any hints as to what this big job might be that Marlene Judd mentioned?’
‘He wasn’t sure about that either but had an idea it involved her murder.’
‘With the added bonus of another corpse to play with.’
‘Sick, isn’t it?’
‘There’s one thing I need to get straight in my mind,’ I said on impulse. ‘Although she had the jewellery that her brother had stolen, I think we’ve decided that there’s no connection between Sarah Dutton and Judd’s or O’Connor’s criminal empires. Therefore, why did Will Gibbs and the two others grab Joanna when she was investigating her family in Leytonstone? Do they live there and were just hanging around outside the pub?’
‘Good point.’ Patrick grabbed his laptop, the only thing I had left where it was.
‘Look, please don’t bother to look up all the case notes now,’ I hastened to add. ‘It’s your weekend break.’
‘Yes, but it’s something I’ve overlooked and need to know.’
‘When we turned up at the derelict estate where we found Joanna, they said they didn’t want anyone to interfere with what they regarded as their patch.’
‘They were drunk.’
‘Did the Met actually search that ghastly place?’
‘For heaven’s sake, woman, you’re throwing all this stuff at me …’
‘Sorry.’ I battened down the oracle and subsided into a chair with my wine glass.
A couple of minutes later, Patrick said, ‘Dougie Baker lived in Leytonstone, so they could have just been hanging around outside the pub. Will Gibbs lives on a council estate in West Ham, which is not far away; Joe Hurley, the one who was shot by what we’re calling friendly fire and is still in hospital, is of no fixed address and refuses to answer all questions.’ He looked up. ‘It could have been a complete coincidence.’
‘You’re not supposed to have coincidences in crime stories and I don’t like them in real life.’
He tossed down the remainder of his tot and then said, ‘We must be careful here. Joanna had dressed smartly for a trip to London. She was carrying a designer bag that was big enough to hold documents plus a laptop although, as we know, she hadn’t actually taken things like that with her. She looked like someone who was acting in some kind of official capacity. I really must have a word with her about working undercover as when a woman on her own, a stranger, goes to sink estates it can be dangerous. In this case it was dangerous and men, scum, like those three who apprehended her, would regard her as fair game.’
‘Phone her,’ I urged. ‘Ask her how many houses she called at. Someone might have slipped out and tipped them off. And, don’t forget, Sarah Dutton’s brother’s involved with gangs.’
Just then Justin burst into the room, followed by Vicky and then Katie, who was very carefully carrying Mark, Carrie hovering watchfully nearby. Matthew brought up the rear, brandishing what looked like a homework file, all five children heading in Patrick’s direction. I left him sorting out the inevitable argument over priority for attention and went to phone Joanna and see to the dinner. When I returned, the two eldest children had gone into the annexe to have their evening meal with John and Elspeth, the usual Friday routine. Carrie had taken Mark off to bed and Justin was proclaiming how hungry he was. Vicky, half asleep on Patrick’s lap, had only recently been deemed old enough to stay up a little longer and have her dinner with whoever was at home, but I was having second thoughts as she tended to nod off in her dessert.
Just over an hour and a half later, having cleared away and when both youngsters were in bed – her father’s quick reflexes having prevented Vicky from doing a header into her rice pudding – we both could finally relax in the sitting room. Not for the first time, I asked myself if mine was a bizarre lifestyle: one minute popping cute kids under their quilts – on this occasion Vicky – the next acting like something out of a RoboCop movie.
Patrick had been out in the garden sitting in the last of the evening sun while he smoked one of the small cigars of which he is particularly fond. ‘Did you have time to phone Joanna?’ he asked, flopping into a chair.
‘I did. She went to three addresses, the last known one in records for Sarah Dutton’s father, Harold Fletcher, and the houses on either side. She thought the man in the second house was evasive and suspicious, but because of the nature of the area put that down as normal. There were children in the house who she thought at the time ought to have been at school, but as there were quite a few others running wild on the estate it went through her mind that they were still on their school holidays.’
‘A runner? Send a kid to tell the three invariably hanging around by the pub that a woman was nosing around asking questions?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘You mentioned the brother, Guy Fletcher,’ Patrick reflected. ‘If he ever worked for O’Connor, which I think is unlikely as he appears to be a burglar by trade, what would be the advantage of involving his sister and, possibly, Robin Williams? Blackmail?’
‘It’s not a crime to have an affair with your secretary,’ I pointed out.
‘OK, let’s think of it from another angle. There were several coffins in the shed. Perhaps the idea was to gain some kind of hold over Williams in order to repeat the Archie scenario.’
‘Yet Will Gibbs said O’Connor never repeated a method of disposing of corpses.’
‘But if he’d hit on something really useful …’
‘If Fletcher’s still inside why don’t you talk to him?’
There was a thought-filled silence, then Patrick said, ‘We’re going round in circles, aren’t we? Big, big zeros. I should have been content to stay where I was – on the shop floor.’
‘When have you ever been on the shop floor?’ I countered crossly. ‘O’Connor’s hiding away, on the run. He’s been flushed out from just about everywhere he’s tried to hide since you took the case on.’
Still unhappy, Patrick got to his feet. ‘I quite fancy a pint. Coming?’
‘No, you go.’
‘I’ll see if anyone in the pub wants their grass cut.’
He went out, leaving me wondering if he had been serious.
I switched on my computer to access the NCA websites that are restricted to personnel only. I discovered, ironically, that Guy Fletcher, another who was listed as of no fixed address, had been released from prison the previous week. Surely by now he would have disappeared into the labyrinth that is London.
Unless he was staying with his sister and her husband in Larkhall, that is.
The following morning, as on the first occasion, Paul Dutton answered the door. Again, he looked peevish when he saw us and snapped, ‘It’s the weekend and not remotely convenient.’
‘I just want to ask you a couple of questions,’ Patrick said urbanely.
I wondered if he had been sorely tempted to express surprise that the man was still living here.
Dutton had opened his mouth to answer when a woman’s voice called, ‘Who is it, Paul?’
‘The police – again.’
Sarah Dutton came into view. ‘Why can’t you leave us alone?’
‘Have you heard from your brother?’ Patrick enquired.
‘Guy? No. He’s in prison – as you well know.’
‘He was released last week.’
‘Was he?’ she said stonily.
‘Mrs Dutton, I’ll ask you again. Have you seen or heard from your brother?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘He’s listed as being of no fixed address. Can you update me on that?’
‘No, I’ve absolutely no idea where he might be. We’ve never been close.’
‘OK, sorry to have bothered you.’
The front door slammed shut almost on our heels. But I remained where I was as Patrick had grabbed my elbow. T
hen he ducked beneath the adjacent window and went around the corner of the house, where there was a sideway. Feeling extremely conspicuous – there were people walking by, one of whom stared at me – I followed, having to brake hard as I almost ran into my partner, who was standing motionless. Like an animal, he was sniffing the air and then moved extremely quickly, going from my sight. Then I smelled it too.
Cigarette smoke.
‘Police!’ I heard Patrick shout. ‘Stand still!’
I arrived just as a man bolted towards me, and he would probably have knocked me down if he hadn’t been checked by a stranglehold on the collar of his sweatshirt. As it was, I sidestepped smartly as the pair’s momentum meant they carried on for a short distance, the would-be fugitive ending up slammed face first against the house wall.
Holding him by the shoulders, Patrick turned him around so that he faced us and said, ‘When a cop asks you to stand still he means what he says, and if you even think of trying to get the better of me I shall, first, be forced to act in self-defence, which you won’t like at all, and, second, arrest you. Is that understood?’
The man, medium height, sallow complexion, pale bue eyes, thin, sandy-coloured hair, nodded sullenly and Patrick released his grip.
‘You’re Guy Fletcher?’
Another nod.
‘We can talk here or down at the nick.’
‘I’ve done my time,’ Fletcher muttered. ‘I don’t want to go to no more nicks.’
‘OK, but this isn’t about you. I want to talk to you about Fred Judd and Jinty O’Conner.’
‘Judd’s dead!’
‘So he is. Were you around when that took place?’
‘No! I didn’t work for him! He was raving mad! And the word was he never paid no one.’
‘Or around, on the side of those killing him?’
‘No!’
‘You worked for O’Connor?’
‘No! Never!’
‘Freelance burglar then?’
‘Most of the time.’
‘And the rest?’
Fletcher merely shook his head. Then, having been on the receiving end of one of Patrick’s stares, he stammered. ‘Well, I – I was inside quite a lot of the time, wasn’t I?’
‘D’you know where O’Connor is now?’
‘No, how could I?’
‘Because you’ve been inside.’
‘I don’t know where he is. I don’t get involved with people like that. I didn’t do time with people like that.’ It seemed as though he might burst into tears. ‘Look, this time I’ve been trying to turn myself around, right? Been learning to decorate people’s houses, wallpapering, painting, that kind of stuff. I – I’m actually quite good at it … going to get a job.’
The outer door of a small conservatory to one side of where we were standing opened and Fletcher’s sister emerged. ‘Why don’t you go and bully someone your own size?’ she yelled at Patrick.
There was no constructive answer to that and we left. Patrick does not have to justify his actions to common criminals.
We were no further.
FIFTEEN
‘I can only suggest that you outthink this mobster,’ I said that evening after dinner.
‘So he presents himself to me on a plate with an apple in his mouth?’ Patrick said sarcastically, pouring himself a drink. He seemed to be drinking rather a lot of whisky.
‘What would you have done in MI5 days?’
‘I didn’t have to deal with mobsters in MI5 days.’
‘You know what I mean. Methods.’
‘I had any number of people I could call on to stake out possible places where he might be, twenty-four hours a day for as long as it took. I don’t have that now.’
‘“Involving whichever police forces I think necessary,”’ I quoted.
‘But you have to have some idea where to start. I’ve absolutely no idea. That’s what we’ve been trying to find out: where to start. Dead ends all the way.’
‘This is the final offering from the oracle before you take me for a glass of wine over at the pub, where I suggest you only have one more drink.’
He just looked at me, negative, miserable.
‘I’ve already mentioned the place this weekend – the hell-on-earth estate where we found Joanna.’ I rose to my feet. ‘I’m ready to go out.’
He made no move so I set off on my own, crossing the road to walk on the smooth grass of the village green. It was a fine evening, the sun having set, the sky a deep azure with a hint of crimson flushed with pink on the western horizon. Swallows dipped and dived, hunting for the last flies of the day to feed their broods of young.
Not wishing to enter the Ring o’ Bells on my own and start tongues wagging – ‘They’ve had a row, you can tell’ – I sat on one of the seats on the green. Hardly anyone was around and it was very peaceful, just a little birdsong and the distant sound of a certain amount of roistering going on in the pub. A lot of cars were parked in the narrow lane around the green, which always annoys the residents of the cottages that front on to it, denoting that the car park at the rear of the inn was full. Perhaps a darts or skittles match was taking place.
My mind wandered. Patrick is so good at darts that he now refrains from competing with the locals as they always play for money and he invariably wins, which embarrasses him. When there is an inter-village competition, however, or even a match against a team from Bath, the captain of the Ring o’ Bells team comes knocking on the rectory door.
We have known one another since we were at school in Plymouth, but not being particularly interested in boys, I only really noticed Patrick when he was sent to help me with my physics homework. Our fathers were close friends at a time when the Gillards lived in that area and all I knew about their eldest son was that he sang in a church choir and went fishing in the River Tamar with a boy called George.
Having said a grudging hello, Patrick had seated himself at the kitchen table and glowered at me, no doubt plans for his morning having been ruined. I had stared back, knowing that if I dropped my gaze and giggled, I was finished. For here, right in front of me, was the man I wanted for ever and ever.
Good manners had surfaced and he had explained the physics, but I had hardly heard a word, mesmerized by those wonderful grey eyes. Finally, he had worked it all out for me but made a couple of small, deliberate mistakes so the teacher would not think I had had assistance. This I had not found out until much later.
We had walked the dogs, picnicked on Dartmoor and I had discovered his main attraction was his ability to make me laugh. We laughed a lot and I suppose fell in love a little but both of us had been very strictly brought up and were naive, to say the least, regarding sex. Then, one hot sunny afternoon somewhere on the moor we laughed until we cried, hugging one another with the sheer joy of being alive. I had felt the way his sinewy body had rippled beneath his thin shirt and that was that.
There had been quite a few such picnics during that uncharacteristically hot, dry summer, and it had been a miracle that I hadn’t got pregnant. For some reason we’d still thought of ourselves as children, and had an idea that kids couldn’t make babies. Then Patrick had had a crisis of conscience and asked me to marry him, and I’d been forced to reveal that I was only fifteen. He had gone so pale I’d thought he was about to faint. But he had repeated the offer and I had accepted, on the condition that it would have to happen when I was old enough.
We married when we were in our early twenties. He was a junior army officer by then; there was a whole world to explore and he didn’t want to be tied down. We were still children, frankly, and there were bitter arguments after my resentment at his absences had surfaced. Oddly under the circumstances, he had wanted children, while I hadn’t. Then one night, there had been a final awful row and I had thrown his classical guitar down the stairs, smashing it – I still burn with shame about that, even though I offered to buy him a new one when we met up again – and then thrown him out into the rain for good measure. It w
as my cottage, bought with money my father had left me and early royalties. We were divorced.
In an accident with a hand grenade during service with Special Forces, Patrick was very seriously, injured. When he was recovering, Colonel Daws, as we then knew him, had offered him a job with MI5. One of the conditions was that he find himself a working partner as, initially, socializing would be involved, and the view was that a lone, slightly saturnine man would be too conspicuous. Remembering that we had always got on famously in public, Patrick had approached me, limping, still in severe pain and convinced that of all the women on the planet I would not want to go to bed with him, his injuries having left him with a crushing lack of self-confidence.
Having probably grown up by then, miserable – yes, subconsciously missing him – and finding the pitiful state he was now in utterly unbearable, how could I have refused? The old magic had worked again and we had soon sorted out the sex bit.
And now, glancing at my watch on Hinton Littlemore’s village green, far more time had elapsed than I would have thought possible.
No, to hell with this, I decided – a lone glass of wine it would have to be.
The public bar was busy, someone’s birthday party by the look of the pink balloons everywhere – oh yes, it must be the shrieking, semi-inebriated blonde on the point of bursting out everywhere from her too-tight pink satin dress – so I went into the lounge, which was relatively quiet, several tables unoccupied, more people in the restaurant beyond through an archway. I bought my drink and sat at a table for two in a corner, feeling a mixture of annoyance and anxiety.
I forced myself to relax.
Writers, always hungry for material, tend to surreptitiously scrutinize those around them. The young couple, not saying much to each other, both in a world of their own: a relationship falling apart? The elderly man, a regular, on his own; were all his friends dead? The retired foursome, the men in earnest conversation yarning about the old days in the Royal Navy, the women staring into space, bored out of their skulls – were they wishing they were at home watching soaps? The man sitting quite close to me on my right, part of his left ear missing …
Ashes to Ashes Page 19
