‘Tony Krabbe,’ he reminded me, as he returned carrying a steaming mug. ‘A terrible tragedy, don’t you think? Ironic. All the dangers he’s faced in his career, and then some punk with an ice axe murders him on his own doorstep. Yes, I knew him. Fact is, we did his accounts for him, but Desmond handled them, not me.’
He’d had a think, decided that he’d better own up to doing Krabbe’s accounts, because we could have discovered it via other sources.
‘Did you handle Wallenberg’s affairs?’ I asked.
The same logic applied. He thought about it for a second before admitting that they did. ‘Well, some of them,’ he added, defensively. ‘Mr Wallenberg’s affairs cover a wide spectrum of activities. We’ve handled some of his property transactions.’
‘Do you meet him socially?’
‘No, not if I can help it.’
That came from the heart, I thought. ‘You don’t like him?’
‘Well, let’s just say that we don’t see eye-to-eye about certain things.’
‘What things?’
‘I’ve said too much.’
‘So tell me more.’
He shook his head, but added: ‘Have you spoken to his wife?’
‘The lovely Selina? No.’
‘Perhaps you should.’
I made the short drive to the Royal Armouries car park and walked along the embankment towards the Waterside Heights block where Joe had lived, where we believe he was dumped in the river. It used to be the gay quarter along there, long before most cities had a gay quarter. It wasn’t a pleasant way to go but I didn’t feel sorry for him. Joe Crozier didn’t become the owner of a nightclub and a string of betting shops by driving a tram or standing alongside a lathe for ten hours a day. More than a few old men, and one or two widows, will have settled in their armchairs a little more comfortably after they read about his body being dragged from the river.
I walked back to the car and pointed it towards Heckley, wondering how I’d get to Selina without her husband knowing.
Sunday I visited Rosie’s house and had a good look around. One bedroom was lined with bookshelves, and there still wasn’t room for them all. I let my eyes run along the spines, hardly taking in the titles or authors. One section was on geology and there was a whole series of travel books, from Bill Bryson to Eric Newby and Paul Theroux. Then there were dozens of English classics: what must have been complete sets of Jane Austen; the Brontes; Trollope and so on; but in varying editions. She’d gone through various phases: Tolstoy; Dostoevsky and Pasternak sat comfortably alongside Fitzgerald, Hemingway and Steinbeck. As I looked I realised how much cleverer than me she was; how much of a waste her death had been. Two complete shelves were filled with feminist literature: Germaine Greer; Naomi Wolf; Helena Kennedy’s Eve Was Framed.
We shared similar tastes in music so her CD collection was less humbling. I even found a couple of Dylans down at the bottom, just above the freebies from the Sunday papers and the lemons we all have that we’ve bought, played once, and abandoned.
Her bed was made and all her clothes put away. I wanted to open a drawer, take up a handful of her clothes and bury my face in them, but I didn’t. I tiptoed through the other rooms, feeling like an intruder, carefully turning the door handles as I closed them, as if not to disturb somebody sleeping in one of the rooms.
I shouldn’t have been there, but I was, and I wasn’t stealing anything. I had a quick look round the garden and then drove to B&Q. I came back with an incinerator in the back of the car and a couple of big plastic boxes. The incinerator was really a galvanised dustbin with holes in the bottom, but it would do.
Rosie had masses of photographs. I sat at the kitchen table and went through them all. One in a silver frame was of her with the man I presume to be her husband, sitting on some rocks in what could have been Scotland. I put it in one of the plastic boxes, together with one of Rosie posing with two schoolgirls. The sun was shining and they looked as if they were sharing a joke. Hubby might turn up one day, and I’d be able to give him the photo in the frame. The other one was for me. I stuffed all the others in a bin liner and left it standing by the kitchen door.
Her bank statements and salary slips were in the drawer of a writing desk. I put them in envelopes with her latest utility bills and her chequebook stubs. For some reason I wasn’t sure of I read the gas and electricity meters and wrote the figures on one of the envelopes. Her address book was in the same drawer, and I wondered if I ought to write to everybody in it. It was full of names and addresses, telephone numbers and email addresses, all in her precise handwriting. I found my entry, probably the last one she’d made, and saw that she’d put a little smiley face next to my name.
Rosie’s car wasn’t in the garage – she’d left it parked in front of the boarding house in Scarborough – but hanging on a hook I found her geologist’s hammer. That would do as my memento of her. I carefully took it down and ran my fingertips along the rubber shaft and over the chrome-plated head. And two of her roses. She grew roses, old-fashioned varieties. Those with floppy heads that smelt nice but lost all their petals overnight. Irresponsible and ephemeral, I thought, like her. I unhooked a spade and went round the front to dig two up.
It was well dark when I finished in the house. I carried the bin liners into the back garden and lit a fire in the incinerator, and for the next hour I fed the remnants of Rosie’s life into it. The sparks spiralled out of chimney and up towards the sky, back towards the stars whence we all came, and I smiled at that thought, content that Rosie would have liked it. Before I left, I turned the central heating down low and locked the door.
My hands smelt of perfume and ashes. At home I had a bowl of cornflakes and a can of lager, and fell asleep on the settee with the lights out, watching the gas fire cast patterns of light on the ceiling in an endless, tedious pavan.
Gilbert was growing annoyed with the lack of progress in the Krabbe case and I wasn’t too pleased about it myself. Questions were coming down the chain of command and the newspapers weren’t slow to ask where our enquiries were leading. Monday morning I told him about my interview with the Lloyd twins and their suggestion that we talk to Selina Wallenberg.
‘Haven’t you spoken to her before now?’ he demanded.
‘Well, no.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because we haven’t had reason to.’
‘Well get on with it, then.’
I went back to my office and spent a couple of minutes talking to directory enquiries. Then I rang the vicar of Uley. Uley is a picture postcard village in the county of Gloucestershire, in an area more familiarly known as the Cotswolds. It’s a beautiful place, on a hillside facing the sun, overlooked by the church and surrounded by ancient woodland. When the sun is low the walls of the houses glow like buttermilk. There are two graveyards in Uley. The churchyard filled up a hundred years ago, so since then the corpses of deceased villagers have been buried over the road, in a field that once grazed cattle. But in the deepest corner of the old graveyard, lost beneath giant yew trees where the sun never shines, is the burial place of Abraham Barraclough, Rosie’s father.
I introduced myself to the vicar, reminded him about Rosie, and asked if it would be possible for her ashes to be buried next to her father.
‘Of course it will be,’ he replied.
And that was that. All that remained was to have the house and its contents valued, sell her car to a garage in Scarborough and arrange the cremation that she’d asked for. Her books could go to the school and her clothes to a charity shop. Then I’d take her remains on the long drive south and pick up the pieces of my own life.
Dave came in bearing two mugs of tea. ‘How’s it going, Squire?’ he asked.
‘Gilbert’s getting a bit ratty,’ I replied. ‘We need some action,’ and told him about my meeting with Paul Lloyd.
‘Selina Wallenberg,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘What’s she like?’
‘Glamorous,’ I told him. ‘Dark haired,
good figure, likes to flaunt it.’
‘And she’s had a conviction for running a house of ill-repute.’
‘Yep.’
‘Sounds like your type. Want me to fix something up?’
‘Let me try. Go listen on your phone.’
Dave went to his own desk and set us up for a three-way conversation. I nodded to him through the window and dialled Wallenberg’s mansion.
The man’s secretary answered the phone. ‘Could I speak to Peter, please?’ I said.
‘I’m afraid Mr Wallenberg isn’t in today.’
‘Oh. In that case, could I speak to Selina?’
‘Who wants her?’
‘My name’s Choulianskovitch; I’m an old friend.’
‘Oh, um, I’ll put you through.’
I winked at Dave through the glass that surrounds my little enclave.
‘Hello,’ a female voice said.
‘Is that Mrs Wallenberg?’
‘Yes it is. Who’s calling?’
‘My name’s Priest,’ I told her. ‘Detective Inspector Priest from Heckley CID. I was wondering if I could have a word with your husband, but I understand he’s not available.’
‘No, I’m afraid he’s not.’
‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’
‘No.’
‘In that case, could I come and have a word with you?’
‘I don’t see how I can help you with anything, Inspector.’
‘Oh, you never know. Shall we say in half an hour?’
‘Um, no, that’s not possible. I’m seeing a friend in town at ten. Will it wait until this afternoon?’
‘I suppose so. Will two o’clock be convenient?’
Two o’clock was fine. I put the phone down and relaxed.
Dave came back and took a sip of coffee. ‘I suppose you’ll want to handle this one yourself,’ he said.
‘Nah,’ I replied. ‘We’ll both go. Two heads are better than one, even if they’re sheep’s heads.’
‘There is an alternative,’ he suggested. Goon.
‘We could see who the mystery friend is she’s meeting.’
‘Your deviousness never ceases to amaze me,’ I remarked. ‘Get your coat.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
We went in Dave’s car and parked about 50 yards from Wallenberg’s security gates. The house was on the outskirts of Huddersfield, heading up on to the moors, and had once probably been the home of a mill owner or slave dealer, or both. There was a wall all round the small estate so we couldn’t see much other than the roof, but a couple of the lads had taken a peak over the wall, strictly off the record, and reported that it had been extensively modernised and extended. The stable block was now garages, and an indoor swimming pool was appended on the side.
‘I bet those chimneys are a bugger to sweep,’ Dave commented, nodding towards the roof.
‘They probably send a small boy up,’ I said.
‘There’s smoke coming out of one of them. Is this a clean air zone?’
‘I don’t know, but I’ll check. The yanks did Al Capone for tax evasion, so I don’t see why we shouldn’t do Wallenberg for having a coal fire.’
‘That would please Gilbert.’
‘True.’
‘He’s an ugly little toad, isn’t he.’
‘Who? Gilbert?’
‘Nooah! Wallenberg.’
‘Mmm, but I’ve heard women describe men like him as being ugly in a handsome sort of way. There’s no accounting for taste, or the pulling power of money.’
‘It certainly worked on Selina.’
‘I suspect that was the money.’
‘I suppose so. I sometimes wish that I’d been born rich instead of handsome.’
I turned to look at him and he wasn’t smiling.
A red Mazda MX5 poked its nose out of the gateway like a rat seeing if the coast was clear, then emerged on to the road and accelerated away. Dave spun the engine and followed her, all the way back to Heckley. She parked in the pay-and-display and headed towards the town centre, her high heels clacking on the block paving. I felt sure she’d go to L’Autre Place, but she turned off and entered an Italian restaurant in the pedestrianised quarter.
We followed her in. She didn’t wait to be seated but walked straight past the desk towards a table where another woman was sitting.
‘Table for two, gentlemen?’ a waiter was asking.
‘Yes please,’ Dave replied.
The two women exchanged big smiles and brief kisses and sat facing each other. I said: ‘On second thoughts, I don’t think we’ll bother, thank you.’
The waiter shrugged and replaced the manhole-cover sized menus back on his pile and we left.
We had a cup of coffee in another place but it wasn’t possible to see the restaurant door, so we didn’t stay too long. Then we sat in the car for an hour but she didn’t come back to hers. First Dave went for a walk and confirmed that they were still in the restaurant, and I did the same.
‘Whose crackpot idea was this?’ I complained.
‘Did you know that there’s a club called the Three Hour Lunch club,’ he said.
‘Is there? Looks as if we’ve stumbled upon the founder members.’
We were standing in a doorway over the road when they came out. They exchanged air kisses again and wandered off in opposite directions. As I didn’t have a car I followed the mystery friend.
She was looking in the window of a jewellers shop when I caught up with her. ‘Excuse me,’ I said, showing her my ID card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Priest. I couldn’t help noticing that you were just talking to Selina Wallenberg. I wonder if I could have a word with you?’
She was dark haired, like Selina, wearing a woollen coat with a fur collar. Perhaps a few pounds overweight, according to the standards set by the fashion victims, but nothing that a normal man would complain about. She turned to face me and I looked straight into two huge brown eyes framed by what could have been a pair of crushed tarantulas.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, making it sound like an accusation.
I held the ID in front of her nose. ‘I’d like a word.’ We were standing across the road from Sainbury’s, and I could see people in their cafeteria. ‘Let’s go in there,’ I said, ‘where we can sit down.’
I gestured for her to lead the way and she looked around as we entered the café. Whether she was taking in the unfamiliar surroundings or hoping none of her friends was watching I had no way of knowing.
‘Did you say you know Selina?’ she asked when we were seated just inside, after I’d asked her name.
‘I’m seeing her this afternoon,’ I said. ‘Didn’t she mention it?’
‘Well, yes, she did. She said she’d had this mystery call from a policeman and he’d been ever-so assertive.’ She giggled and I caught a whiff of her scent.
‘How long have you known her?’
‘About, oh, ten or fifteen years.’ She looked downcast, as if the memory of all that time passed by was a shock to her.
‘Where did you meet?’
‘Hm, Holland, I think. Yes, we met in Holland.’
I didn’t push it. They probably went over there as teenagers, looking to break into something or other. They’d survived, and that was all that mattered. If it doesn’t kill us it makes us stronger, as my dad used to say before he threw me out of the rowing boat. Getting out of the sack was the hardest bit.
‘So you go back a long way.’
‘Thanks for reminding me, Inspector. What exactly is it you want to know?’
‘Tell me about Peter Wallenberg.’
‘Hopalong? What’s to tell?’
‘Where did they meet?’
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Selina.’
She’d gone on the defensive, and I sensed her hackles rise at the mention of his name. ‘Do you like him?’ I asked.
A couple of workmen from the building site next door sat down near us, their plates heaped high with cholesterol-bearing goodi
es; all the tasty stuff we’re told not to eat. They were wearing thick woollen shirts, torn jeans and riggers’ boots. She stared at them as they poured ketchup over the piled-up plates.
‘Peter,’ I reminded her.
‘Um, er, no, I don’t like him.’
‘Why not?’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘Yes, once or twice.’
‘Then you know why.’
‘Appearance isn’t everything,’ I said, ‘which is fortunate for some of us. Beneath that unprepossessing exterior there might beat a heart of pure gold.’
‘Beneath that unprepossessing exterior, as you call it, there beats a vicious, scheming animal. Why she stays with him I’ll never know. Well…well, never mind.’
But I did mind. ‘He claims they have an open marriage,’ I said. ‘Is that true?’
‘Uh!’ she snorted. ‘By open, he means that he can do what he likes. Go with his…his girl friends. It’s different for Selina.’
‘But she did have a boyfriend,’ I stated. She looked at me warily, wondering how much I knew. I went on: ‘Wasn’t he killed in a car crash?’
‘You know about that?’
‘Yes. Did you know him?’
‘No, it was her big secret. She called him her bit of rough, her toyboy.’ She glanced across at the workmen again, wondering if he’d been like them.
‘And Peter never knew about him?’
‘Good heavens, no. He’d have killed her if he’d found out. He was insanely jealous. They had a big row about six months ago and he beat her up. He accused her of having a boyfriend and went berserk. She’s his property, and nobody touches his property.’
‘Right. I’ll have to have another talk with Mr Wallenberg. Can I walk you back to your car? I’m not in mine so I can’t offer you a lift.’
‘That’s all right, Inspector. I’ve some shopping to do.’
It was a ten-minute walk back to the office, and Dave’s car was back in its place when I arrived. ‘Thanks for coming to collect me,’ I said. ‘I didn’t get very wet.’
‘It’s stopped raining. How did it go?’
Over the Edge Page 19
