Blood on the Cowley Road

by Tickler, Peter

  It was only when they were both settled down to their drinks – Susan had poured herself a double on the rocks, while for her mother she had poured a bare single and then drowned it with soda – that Susan returned to the subject that was preoccupying all their thoughts.

  ‘The intruder, the killer in fact, must have been concerned that Mace and Arnold might have had something in their possession that would have linked them to him or her.’

  ‘You mean like a diary, or an appointments calendar?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you didn’t find one?’

  ‘No, but we’re pretty damn sure that there had been a calendar in Jake Arnold’s kitchen. There’s a nail there with nothing hanging on it.’

  ‘Let me guess!’ her mother said eagerly. ‘There was a square of lighter paint, and around it the wall was darker, from dust.’

  ‘Hey, you’ve missed you vocation!’ Susan said, genuinely impressed.

  ‘Well, I’m not a moron, you know,’ she replied firmly. ‘I’ve done enough cleaning in my time to know that!’

  ‘Of course you have,’ Susan replied, somewhat chastened.

  ‘But there was no such patch on any of Mace’s walls?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe he had a diary?’

  ‘Almost certainly, I’d say,’ her daughter agreed. ‘He was a self-employed lorry-driver, so he must have kept some record of what jobs he had when, but there was no sign of one so we are assuming it was found and taken by the intruder.’

  ‘Unless he kept it in his lorry?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. We found his lorry, parked in its usual place just off Meadow Lane, but there was no sign of a diary there. And there was no sign of one in his charred pockets either. So it looks like the killer found it.’

  The two women relapsed into silence. The older woman sipped daintily at her still three-quarters-full glass. ‘Maybe everything will be clearer in the morning,’ she said optimistically. ‘I bloody well hope so!’ the younger woman said vehemently. And with that she drained the rest of her whisky and got up to leave.

  ‘They’re playing tonight.’ Detective Constable Wilson and WPC Lawson were about to drive out of the Cowley Police Station car park again, only this time Wilson was signalling right. ‘I think I might go.’

  Lawson yawned theatrically, and pumped her hand in front of her mouth like a five-year-old auditioning for the role of Native American Indian in a multi-ethnic, non-nativity, Christmas show.

  ‘More of a rugby girl are you?’ Wilson continued cheerfully, his mood lifted by the prospect of visiting the Kassam Stadium in work time.

  ‘I prefer tennis actually,’ Lawson replied tartly. ‘And, in case you hadn’t noticed, I am a woman, not a girl!’

  ‘Sorry!’ said Wilson, the apology rising instantly to his lips.

  An awkard silence fell. Wilson pretended it hadn’t by concentrating extra hard on the traffic lights in front of him. Nevertheless, he was relieved when Lawson broke it.

  ‘The thing I most like about tennis is serving.’ She paused. ‘You get a pair of balls that you can squeeze and bounce as much as you like, and then you get to whack them over the net as hard as possible. I find that very satisfying.’

  Wilson looked across, expecting to see a grin on her face, but she was facing forward, apparently oblivious of him, her mouth and eyes (or at least the one eye he could see) expressionless. Not for the first time in his acquaintanceship with Lawson, he found himself at a loss to know what the hell to think.

  Silence descended again, and this time Wilson was happy that it had. It continued while he drove up the Watlington Road, then swung right along the Grenoble Road, which separates Greater Lees from a countryside whose most obvious features are a proliferation of power lines and the stench of the sewage works. At the fourth roundabout he took the second exit, which led into the car park that served the complex constructed by Firoz Kassam. To the left stood the barely complete Bowlplex and Ozone Cinema, and to the right the three-sided Kassam Stadium, home of Oxford United, a team who had once in the heady days of Robert Maxwell and Jim Smith risen to the very top league, but which now languished in the bottom one. For a few seconds, as he drove round to the front of the stadium and parked his car, Wilson was no longer a policeman, but only a wide-eyed boy at one with his football team.

  ‘Well, let’s get on with it!’ WPC Lawson was outside the car looking in, waiting for Wilson to emerge from his dream. ‘You’re the blooming football expert, not me.’

  Wilson smiled and clambered out. ‘I bet you know much more than you’re letting on. I can see you mixing it with the boys in the playground, sliding in with two-footed tackles just to show them who was boss.’

  She grinned back. ‘Maybe you’re smarter than you look, Wilson.’

  ‘I guess that wouldn’t be difficult,’ he replied.

  ‘Hi there, I’m Alan Wright.’ The greeting came from a man who had appeared from a door to the left of the ticket office windows. He was short, wore glasses and was dressed in jogging bottoms and a bright yellow open-neck shirt which said more about his football allegiance than his sense of sartorial style. They exchanged introductions, and then he took them inside.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘No thanks. We just need some information. As I mentioned on the phone, we need to get a handle on the habits of two men. We know they are both fans. We want to know if they had a habit of sitting together. One is Jake Arnold and the other Martin Mace.’

  ‘Well, if they booked by phone, or used a card to pay, we’ll have a record. What sort of time frame are we looking at?’

  ‘Last season and this,’ Wilson replied.

  Wright’s fingers flew confidently across the computer keyboard on his desk. ‘Yes!’ he said triumphantly. ‘Here we are. Jake Arnold. Been to a couple of home games this season. Rochdale and Rushden. Sat in the South Stand Upper the first time, and the South Stand Lower the second time. Do you want me to print the details?’

  ‘Yes,’ Wilson said. ‘But what about last season?’

  Again the fingers got to work. ‘Hm! Interesting. Only four games. The first was in January, against Wrexham, then one in February, none in March, and two in April.’

  ‘How many tickets did he buy?’ Lawson said, her first words since they had entered the building.

  ‘Just one in the first two games, then two in the next two.’

  ‘Really?’ Wilson said.

  ‘And always in the South Stand,’ Wright added. ‘Though not in the same place. He obviously didn’t have a favourite seat.’

  Lawson had moved over to the printer and was scrutinizing the sheet of paper she had picked up from it. ‘He bought two tickets for the Rochdale and Rushden games too.’

  ‘So the question is: who was the other person?’

  Wright looked up. ‘Sorry, who was the other person you were interested in?’

  ‘Martin Mace.’

  Again the fingers tapped into the keyboard. ‘Sorry. No sign of him. Not this season or last.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Wilson said in surprise.

  ‘Of course I’m sure. Maybe he paid by cash. Turned up on the day.’

  Lawson produced a photograph and placed it next to the keyboard. ‘Ring any bells?’

  Wright looked briefly at the picture and looked up with a grin. ‘Oh him. Oh yes, I know him. He nearly always cycles here, usually late in the afternoon, and pays cash. He nearly always buys three tickets. And always for the Oxford Mail Stand. Always on his bike no matter what the weather. I asked him about it once and he told me he needed the exercise. Well he sits in a lorry most of the day, so I guess he didn’t want to put on too much weight.’ Wright paused, and then laughed. ‘Not that he was entirely successful. He obviously liked his beer.’

  ‘Can I ask a stupid question?’ Lawson said, flashing her dumb-blonde smile at Alan Wright.

  Inevitably the approach worked. Wright smiled eagerly back, a puppy dog eager to please. ‘Of course!’
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  ‘We’re just talking home games aren’t we? What about away games?’

  ‘Yes, home games. Away games is different. Often people just buy them at the gate on the day. Unless it’s a local derby and they make it all ticket. Then they have to buy them here in advance.’

  The dumb-blonde smile flashed again, followed by a look of puzzlement. ‘And when they are away, can they sit anywhere they like?’

  ‘No,’ he explained benevolently, ‘all the away fans are put in one place. To avoid trouble. You’re police. You must know that?’

  Lawson smiled again her smile. ‘I suppose I must. But I am only a woman.’

  Wright looked at her suspiciously, suddenly aware that perhaps she wasn’t being straight with him. ‘Is that all?’ he said tersely.

  Lawson appeared not to be aware of this change of attitude. ‘You’ve been so kind,’ she purred, her smile even wider. ‘Some men’ – and as she said this she glanced pointedly across towards Wilson – ‘some men just don’t want to talk about football to women. They behave as if we can’t possibly understand it. But anyway, we’ll leave you to it. But if anything occurs to you, perhaps you could give me a ring?’

  She looked across at Wilson, and he nodded and they turned as one to go. They had hardly taken two steps, however, before Wilson stopped and spun round. ‘One more thing!’ he said, in a tone of such abruptness that both Lawson and Wright looked at him like horses startled by a backfiring car. ‘Did he buy tickets for tonight’s game?’

  Wright dragged his hand through his hair as he tried to recall. ‘I think so,’ he said uncertainly. ‘I seem to remember his coming over Thursday or Friday.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know which seats?’ Wilson said.

  Wright shrugged. ‘Sorry. If he paid cash—’ His voice trailed away. Wilson stood there unmoving, reluctant to bring the meeting to an end. ‘Still,’ said Wright, ‘I guess you’ll recognize him now, if you want to arrest him.’

  ‘He won’t be coming tonight’ Wilson said brutally. ‘Didn’t we mention it? He’s dead. Burnt to a cinder. It’s his friends we are interested in.’

  ‘Oh!’ Wright said. ‘Well, if we can be of any help—’

  ‘You’ve already been a great help,’ Lawson said, intervening. Wilson’s boorish aggression was beginning to irritate her. Couldn’t he bloody see that a bit of flattery and thanks was going to work a lot better with Wright than his we’re-in-bloody-charge approach? ‘But I was wondering if there wasn’t another area in which you could help us even more? I know you must be very busy, but—’

  ‘Just ask’ he said, anxious again to please the really rather attractive WPC.

  Lawson smile again. She could almost see his tail wagging like a windmill. ‘Well, I was thinking about how we might identify these friends of Martin Mace, and then it suddenly occurred to me that you must have got closed circuit TV. So if you could help us locate Mace from a previous game, we should be able to identify his friends.’

  ‘I’d be delighted,’ Wright said.

  It took Fox three prolonged rings on the bell before he and Holden were rewarded by the sound of something falling, and then by the appearance of a figure at the back of the gallery. As Les Whiting walked towards them and then fiddled at the locks and bolts which secured Bare Canvas from the outer world, Holden looked again at her watch. ‘How does he make any money if he’s not open at this hour?’

  ‘How does he make any money at all,’ Fox responded sourly. ‘Who the hell wants to pay hard earned cash for rubbish like this,’ and his hand gestured towards the stark primary-coloured canvases which hung on his walls.

  The door opened. ‘Not come to buy something to cheer your living spaces up, have you?’ If Les Whiting had heard Fox’s comments, he wasn’t showing it. Holden briefly thanked God that she didn’t have to be perpetually cheerful in order to do her job.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ she replied. ‘But perhaps another time.’

  ‘Police business then,’ Whiting said, holding the door open so that they could enter. ‘Is it OK with you if I open up?’ he asked. ‘I’m not expecting a flood of visitors, but a single buyer is all one needs sometimes. ’

  ‘Best not,’ said Holden firmly. ‘Sorry, but this is serious police business, and if all goes well it’ll only take a few minutes.’

  Whiting locked and bolted the door. ‘Well in that case,’ he said rather petulantly, ‘I won’t risk delaying you by offering you a coffee.’

  ‘Good,’ Fox said uncompromisingly, ‘because all we are interested in are some straight answers to some questions. Then, as the Inspector said, if we are satisfied with the answers we’ll go.’

  ‘And if you’re not?’

  ‘Where were you on Monday night?’

  Whiting frowned. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Would you rather we did this down at the police station?’ Fox asked belligerently. ‘Because if you don’t bloody well answer our questions, that’s where you’ll be going, and your precious gallery will be staying shut for a lot longer.’

  Whiting looked across at Holden, but if he hoped to gain comfort there he was disappointed. The woman’s face was hard, stripped bare of emotion, and her eyes met his unflinchingly. He turned back towards Fox. ‘I was here,’ he said. ‘We had a private showing, to open this exhibition. It started at 6.00, though I had been here most of the day getting ready for it with Kim. Kim Carpenter. The exhibitionist.’ He gestured towards the walls. ‘It finished about 8.00 p.m.’

  ‘Did you leave immediately?’ Fox pressed.

  ‘Not immediately. I had to clear up, but I probably left about 8.30.’

  ‘Can anyone verify this?’

  ‘Well Kim offered to stay behind, but her son and daughter had come up from London, so I told her to go and I finished off on my own.’

  ‘We’ll need to get her to verify this.’

  ‘Look, what exactly is all this about?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ Fox asked.

  ‘Well, of course I don’t. I mean, you come here and start asking—’

  ‘Mr Whiting!’ Holden spat the words out like an archetypal sergeant major bringing a new recruit to order. Whiting stopped, and for three or four seconds silence fell. When Holden continued, her voice was quieter, but equally as firm. ‘Tell us about your break-up with Jake. If I recall correctly, you said he had an affair with another man, but I don’t think you told us who this man was.’

  ‘I think you recall incorrectly,’ Whiting replied. ‘I am certain I told you he had a one night stand with someone. And the reason I never told you his name was because I never knew what it was.’

  Holden chewed at her lip, while her brain apparently lost itself in puzzled thought.

  ‘So how did you find out about this, this er …one night stand. Did Jake confess it over his cornflakes the next morning?’

  ‘What the hell does it matter?’

  ‘It matters,’ Holden said, reverting to her sergeant major tones, ‘because I want to find Jake Arnold’s killer.’ Even as she said this, Holden was undecided as to what to say next – if anything. Whiting, she was sure, had not been entirely truthful about the end of his relationship with Jake, but that merely made it all the more important to choose her line of attack with care. There seemed to be two possible approaches: one softly, softly, probing with questions gently, remorselessly; or there was the opposite approach.

  ‘You must have hated Martin.’ Holden said this in a matter-of-fact, doesn’t-really-matter tone. She tried to look as if she was uninterested in the answer, merely going through the motions for the sake of it, but she was watching intently for Whiting’s reaction, conscious that it was that first second of time, that first unguarded expression to flick across his face, maybe – if she was lucky – his first utterance that would tell her that her suspicions were well founded. Or not.

  Whiting opened his mouth as if to speak, but then shut it again. He smiled, and then opened his mouth again, this time to speak. ‘Martin? Martin who
?’

  ‘I think you know.’

  He scratched his head theatrically. ‘Hm!’ he continued. ‘I think I know at least three Martins, and then of course there’s also Mr Martin who runs the corner shop. I find him perfectly pleasant.’

  Holden changed tack abruptly, switching back to her original line of enquiry.

  ‘You haven’t yet told me how you found out about Jake Arnold’s one night stand.’

  ‘Haven’t I? Is that a crime.’

  ‘Christ!’ Fox broke in angrily. ‘Let’s just take him down to the station. If he wants to play silly buggers with us, then we’ll fucking well do it properly. We could start by sticking him in a cell for a few hours while we search his flat, and then we could question him for half the night, and then maybe he’ll stop pissing us about.’ Fox stepped forward as he stopped talking, causing Whiting to step back. Then, pleased with the effect of his outburst, he produced a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. ‘Do you want to tell him his rights, or shall I?’

  ‘I saw a text message on his mobile,’ Whiting blurted out. He was unsure whether the hulking great sergeant was serious or not, but he found him frightening nevertheless, and suddenly his own appetite for playing games was gone.

  ‘What message?’ Holden asked quickly.

  ‘A suspicious one.’

  ‘That’s not good enough,’ Fox said bluntly.

  ‘You want chapter and verse? Word for word? Well, let me think. “When can we do it again?” I think that was pretty much it.’

  ‘Did you often check his mobile messages?’ Holden said flatly.

  Whiting shrugged. ‘No. But the fact is he had been behaving pretty suspiciously, so I took my opportunity.’

  ‘So you asked him about the message?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he admitted it. That he’d met this guy.’

  ‘What was this guy’s name?’

  Whiting gave another shrug. ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘You’re lying,’ Fox snarled.