Rina waved it and him aside. ‘I don’t imagine it would have made much difference anyway,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t as if she could have used it and I don’t suppose it would have stopped them doing … what did they do to her?’
‘She’s dead,’ Mac said shortly.
‘How?’ Rina wasn’t letting him off that easy.
Mac sighed, seeing in his mind’s eye the bloody mess that had once been a face. ‘Someone beat her around the head and face,’ he said. ‘There’s no way she could have defended herself.’
Rina absorbed that silently and Mac wondered what it was about this woman that encouraged him to tell her so much.
‘So, what now?’ Rina asked finally. She got up from the chair and poured bottled water into an electric kettle. She set it to boil, glancing at him to ask if he’d prefer tea or coffee.
‘Coffee, please.’
‘I’m afraid it’s only instant. Will that do?’
‘Just now, anything will do,’ Mac said. He watched as she unscrewed the jar, spooned the granules into two mugs, added sugar. He heard someone go past in the hall, pause by the door and then move on.
‘They don’t disturb me when the door is closed,’ she said. She poured the water, added milk which she took from a tiny fridge beneath the shelf that supported the kettle and mugs, and set their drinks on a little table between the chairs.
‘This is your sanctuary, then?’ Mac smiled at his own choice of words. It sounded a little pretentious, but Rina nodded.
‘We all need a space to call our own,’ she said. ‘I’m very fond of my curious little family and I’ve known most of them for more years than I care to count, but we all need a place to think and sit and ignore the world.’
Mac thought about his lonely little flat. He understood what she meant but his problem was that he had little else but space to think. He leaned forward to collect his coffee mug. ‘You think of your residents as family, then.’
‘In a manner of speaking.’ Rina’s mouth twitched. ‘And as with all families, I am often irritated and affectionate in equal measure.’
Mac laughed but it occurred to him that he really wouldn’t know. He didn’t have what you’d call family, just people he was distantly related to. ‘You all worked together?’ he asked.
‘At one time or another. We all performed on the same circuit. All except Tim, of course. He’s far too young to remember our glory days.’
‘So how come …?’
‘He’s living here with all the old codgers? Oh, Tim is old in spirit if not in years, though, given time and the right breaks, he might rejuvenate.’
Mac frowned, puzzled. ‘Is he any good?’ he asked.
‘As Marvello or Stupendo?’ Rina laughed. ‘Oh, very good, technically. The trouble is he hasn’t a clue when it comes to performance, at least not with the audience he usually gets. I’ve told him many a time to sack his agent, sign up for the cruise liners where at least he’ll get to do an adult show.’
‘Adult?’ Mac was momentarily flummoxed. Was there such a thing as pornographic magic?
Rina peered at him over the rim of her mug. ‘As opposed to children,’ she said sternly as she lowered it. ‘He makes a bloody awful clown.’
‘Ah,’ Mac said, feeling himself firmly put in his place.
‘And so, what now? Are you likely to catch this bastard?’
Mac blinked. Mrs Martin coming that close to swearing somehow disturbed him. He nodded. ‘We’ll catch him. Or them.’
‘Them? Any reason to believe it was a “them”?’
‘Mrs Martin …’
‘Rina.’
‘Rina, this is an active investigation and I can’t …’
‘Come off it, man. I’m hardly going to talk about it outside of this room, am I? Oh, I might discuss things with Tim, but not the others. Is there any reason to believe it was more than one person?’
Mac hesitated, then sighed. ‘The night of the attempted burglary,’ he began. ‘When I talked to Mrs Freer, she was sure that the intruders were only young – thirteen, fourteen, not older. Do you think—?’
‘That she had enough marbles to make that sort of judgement? What do you think?’
‘She seemed lucid. Mostly,’ Mac said.
‘And you think these two came back?’
‘I’ve no way of knowing.’
Rina sighed. ‘I didn’t ask you what you knew; I asked you what you thought. What I think is that it’s unlikely. She’d scared them off once; why would they come back?’
Mac nodded. ‘It’s possible they bought a new batch of courage at the local off-licence,’ he said. ‘Or rather, that they got someone else to buy it for them.’
‘It’s possible. And if not?’
‘Kids talk,’ Mac said. ‘They boast or they tell tales, or they drop hints – to other kids, not to parents or anyone who might do anything about it but …’
‘And this would be too good a story to keep stumm about.’ Rina sounded as though she approved of his reasoning and Mac felt unaccountably pleased. Mentally, he shook himself.
‘And the “more than one” aspect?’
‘I don’t know. The downstairs room was torn about, the search was untidy and … violent. Whoever it was, they slashed the cushions, hacked at the sofa. Upstairs, whoever had gone into the bedroom had been almost careful. Disturbed stuff as little as possible. There were still layers of dust with not so much as a handprint.’
‘So, two then. A thug and a follower. You’ll find a fair few of those round here and not just among the younger generation.’
‘I think you’ll find them anywhere,’ Mac said. ‘It’s a fairly common formation.’
‘Leaders, followers and those that get out of the way,’ Rina declared.
‘Sorry?’ She had lost Mac now.
‘Society,’ Rina said. ‘It’s made up of leaders, followers and most of the rest of us, those that get out of the way and keep their heads down.’
Mac didn’t think whoever invented the saying had quite that interpretation in mind.
‘Who was it said that all it took for evil to prosper was for good men to stay silent?’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t recall the exact quote, but you get my meaning.’
‘I think so, yes.’ He smiled. ‘But I don’t see you as a woman who gets out of the way.’
‘Never have,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose I ever will. Not till the day they put me in my box.’ She smiled wryly. ‘I don’t suppose I’ve even been much of a follower either, but that’s another story. What do you do now?’
‘House to house, further interviews with the neighbours; we pull in anyone with a record for violence or burglary, we sift what we’ve got and hope something emerges.’
‘And forensics?’
‘SOCO are still at the scene, though Mrs Freer has been taken away. With luck there’ll be prints.’
‘And, of course, there will have been transfer.’
Mac raised an eyebrow.
‘Locard’s theory. I did my research, remember? The notion that we always take something away and leave something behind. If the search was as untidy and the attack as violent as you say, then there’ll be blood and fibres. It’s possible she even managed to mark the bastard.’
‘It’s possible. We’ll know more after the post-mortem.’ Mac was suddenly weary. ‘My sergeant sees you as a major repository of local knowledge. Did Mrs Freer mention anyone or anything she might have had trouble with?’
Rina shook her head. ‘She didn’t see anyone to have trouble with them. Never went out, never opened her door to anyone unless she knew them. Kept her doors and windows locked. I managed to coax her out into that bit of a garden when the weather was warm enough, but she’d only sit out if I was there. “Outside” had become a frightful and frightening place but the fear was general, not specific. You should try the neighbours, though. The Robinsons, three doors down. I know they had some trouble with kids on motorbikes, she told me about it – Mrs Freer, that was, not N
ora Robinson. She wouldn’t give me the time of day, never mind engage in conversation.’
‘But she talked to Mrs Freer?’
Rina’s head shake was rapid and assertive. ‘No, no, Mrs Robinson was part of the great “outside”. No, she heard them in the street, arguing with the kids. They ride their bikes over on that wasteland by the sheds. There’s a footpath comes through just down from the Robinsons and the kids used it to get back on to the road. Dangerous, of course – we all complained – but the Robinsons took it personally.’
‘Thanks,’ Mac said. It was the second time he’d heard about kids and bikes by the sheds. Reluctantly he hauled himself out of the rather too comfortable chair. ‘I’d best be off.’
‘I’ll see you out.’
‘Oh, one other thing, nothing to do with Mrs Freer. A couple of nights now I’ve seen lights round by Marlborough Head. Would that be fishermen?’
Rina frowned. ‘Not close in by the head, no. Boats do go out late, but the rocks round by the point … not a good place to be at night.’
‘Thanks again.’ Mac nodded. ‘Probably nothing.’ Probably just a man with too much time on his hands, staring out of the window when he should be finding something better to do. Like looking for a more permanent place to live.
Eight
George Parker hated the school bus. He hated the barging and the pushing and the shouts of the other kids. He loathed the way the driver yelled at them all from behind his protective screen and clearly thought they were all tarred with the same brush, as George’s Nan would have said. George wanted to tell him he was different, not a trouble maker, but he figured the driver wouldn’t really care anyhow. Most of all George hated the fact that his best friend Paul was off school and that someone else was bound to make a point of sitting down beside him.
‘Kissed any girls lately, Georgie Porgie?’ Dwayne Regis’s taunt was a usual one and one of the milder that George had to endure.
Heard it before, Dwayne, George thought, but he said nothing. He pulled his bag from the seat just before Dwayne crashed down upon it. It could have been worse, George reflected. On his own Dwayne was mostly harmless. Dwayne liked to hang out with the older kids on the Jubilee. George and the others on the bus were just a passing amusement.
‘So, have you?’ Dwayne persisted.
‘Have I what?’
‘Kissed any girls?’
George glanced sidelong at him. Dwayne was grinning. No change there; Dwayne was always grinning. He grinned inanely in response to the teacher’s questions, triumphantly when he managed to scare one of the younger kids, and stubbornly when hauled up in front of the Head, which for Dwayne was a far too common occurrence for it to be a threat any longer.
‘I heard that’s not all you bin doin’.’ Dwayne’s grin stretched even wider.
George shrugged. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’
A burst of laughter this time. Cruel, harsh. ‘That ain’t what I hear.’
‘And what do you hear?’ George tried to keep it casual but his heart seemed to have other ideas and was beating like a hammer.
‘I hear you took to scaring old ladies.’
George shrugged as carelessly as he could. He turned to look fully at Dwayne, trying to ignore the stupid grin which, broad as it was, was never reflected in the cold, ice-blue eyes. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’
‘She wet herself, did she? The old bird. Wet herself when she saw you and that other plonker? Where’s he at today anyway? Stopped at home with his mummy, has he?’
‘Paul’s sick,’ George said.
‘Anyway, I hear she scared you off.’
‘Still don’t know what you mean.’ The hammering in George’s chest had grown so loud he was sure it could be heard.
Dwayne sat back in his seat and howled a mirthless laugh. ‘Scared off by an old lady. Georgie Porgie ickle scaredy baby.’
George turned away and stared steadfastly out of the bus window. He could feel the colour rising to his cheeks, knew it would soon be a close match to his shock of scarlet hair. He blushed like a girl, his dad said, and somehow that thought calmed him down if only because it reminded him that he hated his dad even more than he hated Dwayne and the rest. Hated him, but managed to survive him. George drew strength from that thought.
They were only a few minutes from home now and Dwayne would get off first when they passed the Jubilee Estate. Or at least he ought to. Occasionally he’d stay on the bus for another stop, just so he could torment George for that little bit longer.
Dwayne shifted on the seat and leaned in close, so close that George could feel his breath on the back of his neck. Smell that he’d been eating those cheese crisp things that George hated. ‘I know how she scared you off anyway,’ Dwayne said. ‘I hear Paul told Mark Dowling all about it.’
George spun to face the other boy. Dwayne was so close they were almost nose to nose. Paul would never tell anything to Mark Dowling.
‘I hear she had a gun,’ Dwayne whispered. ‘True, was it, she threatened to shoot, did she, Georgie?’
The bus shuddered to a halt and Dwayne, still grinning, pushed off from his seat and barged his way along the aisle to the front of the bus. George watched him go. His heart had enlarged now, big enough to fill his chest and block his throat. The bus moved off and Dwayne waved at him from the pavement, the grin fixed and rigid.
Paul and Mark Dowling? George was chilled now. Shivering despite the bus heater that blasted hot air beneath his seat. His stop arrived a few minutes later and George stumbled to his feet, joined the queue of those getting off, as usual one of the last to leave.
Mark Dowling, George thought. The colour had drained from his face now. He could feel it slipping down from his cheeks and his neck, leaving behind his usual white, pasty skin speckled with an overgenerous spattering of freckles.
He waited until the bus moved off and then started to cross the road, his route home taking him past Mrs Freer’s house. He glanced up and then stopped dead.
Police cars, tape, white-clad figures moving inside the front room. For a wild second or two, George convinced himself that this wasn’t real. Someone was shooting a film, that was it. He’d see it on TV sometime and be able to say, ‘Oh yeah, I saw them filming on my street.’ This wasn’t the old woman’s house; it couldn’t be.
But it was.
George felt the pavement shift beneath his feet. The world grew fuzzy round the edges. He swallowed hard to fight the sickness rising in his throat. What was happening here?
One of the policemen looked his way, his gaze quizzical and accusing. George turned and walked on down the road, crossing only when he was opposite his own house.
They know, he thought. They must know. The way that policeman had looked at him. Worse still, Dwayne knew and worse even than that, Mark Dowling knew.
He fumbled in his pocket for his key and stumbled inside, slamming the front door hard. It would be another hour at least before his mum got home and his sister probably wouldn’t be in till after that, if she bothered coming home at all. These days she stayed over at her boyfriend’s place more often than she came back here. For a brief moment George thought about phoning her. He and Karen got on better than most siblings he knew, probably because they’d both been through so much. Probably because of what had happened with their dad. Karen would go mad at him but she’d listen, try to help. George knew better than even to try and talk to his mum. Too ground down by the troubles she’d already encountered in her life, George and Karen were both careful of anything that might rub yet another hole in the thin foil she had become. Not that she’d ever been that reliable, he thought bitterly. She’d been the one to name him George.
George dropped his bag and sat down on the bottom step, reached through between the spindles to grab the phone from the hall table. He dialled Paul’s number and waited impatiently, staring at the front door, half afraid the policeman who had looked at him would have followed him home.
‘Yeah?’ Paul didn
’t have the best telephone technique.
‘You weren’t at school.’
‘Quick that, you noticing.’
‘What’s up with you?’
‘I … er … I fell down the stairs. Mum thought I’d busted my arm, dragged me to casualty.’
Someone’s there, George thought. Listening.
‘Fell down the stairs?’ he repeated
‘Yeah,’ Paul told him. ‘You know, like you do.’
‘Yeah, I know how you do.’ He closed his eyes. His mother had ‘fallen down the stairs’ more times than George could count. Paul knew that. The difference was, Paul’s dad didn’t beat him up. So who had?
‘Mark Dowling?’ he asked softly, scared that whoever was listening would catch the name and ask what it meant.
‘Y’know.’ George could hear the shrug in his friend’s voice. ‘These things happen. At least it’s not bust.’ He paused. George heard a woman’s voice in the background. ‘Mum says you can come round. Stop for tea. You coming?’
George breathed relief, realizing how much he didn’t want to be alone.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Be right there.’
He reached back through the stair rails and dropped the phone back on the cradle. He peered cautiously out through the front-room window before opening the door and then ran full pelt to where, three doors down, Paul was waiting for him.
Nine
Tea at Paul’s house had been a stilted affair. George wolfed the sausage, egg and chips with extra bread and butter that Paul’s mother served up for them and drank down two mugs of the strong, sweet tea. She gave them both a can of Coke and a chocolate bar and watched anxiously from the kitchen door while the boys headed upstairs to Paul’s room.
Paul had eaten almost nothing, just played with his meal and finally, reluctantly, ploughed his way through just enough to satisfy his mum before asking if they could leave the table.
‘Your dad won’t be home till late,’ she told him. ‘I’ll be getting his dinner for when he comes in. You want me to do you something? You might feel more like it later.’
Paul shook his head and grunted something unintelligible. His mother sighed. ‘OK, get along with the pair of you, but just you watch that arm.’
A Reason to Kill Page 5
