A Good Death

by Chris Collett

  ‘That sounds like a commitment,’ said Mariner.

  ‘I know, but it would be tremendously exciting to work with him, not to mention the kudos.’ She frowned. ‘I’m just not sure if I’d be up to it.’

  ‘Of course you would,’ said Mariner. ‘Don’t undersell yourself.’

  On Sunday morning they returned to Coventry and packed up Mariner’s car to drive Suzy’s things over from the university accommodation to Y Worry. Overnight, Rosalind had added some homely touches to make Suzy feel welcome; flowers from the garden, a bottle of wine and from somewhere she’d got hold of a child’s hard-hat, to which she’d added a Post-it: For Tom – only thinking about public liability!

  ‘Nice sense of humour,’ said Mariner.

  ‘That’s why I took to her so quickly,’ said Suzy. ‘She’s such a good mimic too; she takes the piss out of the students something rotten.’

  Mariner deposited Suzy and her belongings at Y Worry, and, leaving her to empty boxes, went across to the self-storage facility where she had left the rest of her library. By the time he’d returned and unloaded the car, most of the little spare bedroom was taken over by books. ‘This is a complete fire hazard,’ said Mariner, thinking of that ground-floor room in Wellington Road. ‘Don’t go dropping any lit matches anywhere here, will you?’ He stood up. ‘Fuck!’ And for the third time, banged his head on the beam.

  ‘There’s a good idea,’ said Suzy, coming up behind him and slipping her arms around his waist. ‘What do you think, shall we commemorate my first day here?’

  In truth, Mariner thought he might be pushing his luck, but, as it turned out, he was gratifyingly wrong. That evening they christened the Aga too, and Suzy cooked while Mariner reassembled some of her furniture.

  ‘Now that I’m a bit settled, I’ll ask Mum and Dad to come and stay,’ said Suzy, as they sat at the rickety little kitchen table to eat. ‘And it’s about time you met each other. They’ve known about you for ages and I’m sure they’re starting to think you’re avoiding them.’

  It was jokingly said, but Mariner recognised that meeting Suzy’s parents was long overdue. It was meant to have happened at Christmas, but then his work had got in the way, and for some reason he’d been happy to defer it. The whole idea of family had been so alien to him for such a long time now that the prospect of it made him feel slightly claustrophobic. ‘It’s a pity I won’t be able to reciprocate,’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘Not your fault if both your parents are gone, is it?’ Mariner had told her all about his mother, who had been a formidable and unique individual, but he’d played down what little he knew of his father, a public figure, whose identity Mariner had only discovered quite recently, and after his death.

  SIXTEEN

  On Monday morning Mariner returned to Granville Lane, knowing that with Millie off now until Wednesday, they’d be more stretched than ever trying to pursue two separate enquiries. What would make things simple, and allow them to focus on the fire investigation, would be if Sam Fleetwood’s bank account had seen some activity over the weekend, putting an end to the uncertainty.

  ‘It hasn’t,’ said Bingley, his disappointment reflecting Mariner’s own. ‘According to the bank, he’s been financially inactive since the Friday before he went missing.’

  ‘Crap,’ said Mariner. ‘It might not mean anything, of course. If he is off with some rich, married woman somewhere, she might be paying all the bills for him. Have we made any progress with his phone?’

  ‘I’ve used the number to retrieve his calls from the provider,’ said Bingley. ‘There are no numbers showing up that can’t be accounted for.’

  ‘But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t got another pay-as-you-go phone,’ said Mariner. ‘What about social media?’

  ‘Fleetwood doesn’t seem to be that into it,’ Bingley told him. ‘He’s got a Facebook page but there’s hardly anything on it, and it hasn’t been looked at for months. But I know DC Khatoon has looked at Gaby’s page, which is covered with pictures, mostly of her and Sam. Neither of them do Twitter, unless they’re using really obscure account names. I even did a quick search for “Little Bear”. That threw up some weird stuff, but nothing I could see that was relevant for us.’

  Mariner had been reluctant to believe that this was as simple as Fleetwood going off with another woman. It didn’t seem to fit the profile of the man he had built. But he couldn’t deny the evidence, or Fleetwood’s reported history. ‘That’s how we nail it,’ he said to Bingley. ‘If we can find this unknown woman, we’ll find Fleetwood.’ And, thanks to Suzy, he now had a good idea of where to start. ‘That old flame Nathan Dornham described, it was while he was at university, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bingley. ‘An older lady, probably married, according to Dornham.’

  ‘So how about one of his lecturers?’

  ‘That could work,’ said Bingley.

  ‘Do we know where Fleetwood studied?’ asked Mariner, hoping it didn’t turn out to be Canterbury or Aberdeen.

  ‘I can find out,’ said Bingley. ‘Gaby or his sister will know that.’

  ‘While you’re doing that, I’m going out to Fleetwood’s flat to see if there’s any indication that anyone’s been there over the weekend,’ said Mariner.

  Vicky Jesson had gone to talk to Mustafa Shah, in the hope of finding out who, if anyone, might want to attack his family. He was not at his sister’s house, but already back at work, so that was where she sought him out. The Yemeni Advice Centre was a religious and welfare centre and inhabited a small building, once a shop, that had been converted into two small offices on the Ladypool Road running through Sparkhill. Although Jesson arrived only minutes after the doors opened, the room was already half full, with men, women and children, and there seemed to be no organisation. The walls of the waiting room were plastered with posters, some in English, some in Arabic, but all of which advertised assistance of all kinds, drawing attention to people’s rights and entitlements. A closed door to one side bore Mustafa Shah’s name, and when Jesson asked one of those waiting, she was told that he was inside, in conference with clients. So she took a vacant seat beside a shabby desk covered with neat stacks of paperwork and picked up a magazine while she waited.

  Shortly after Jesson’s arrival, the door from the street opened again, and a young woman came in, unwinding a scarf from around her neck. Like a flock of birds disturbed, all those waiting surged towards her, clamouring for attention, each pleading his or her case loudly and vocally. She deftly side-stepped each of them, and, removing her coat, hung it on a hook behind the desk and sat down, only then responding to the demands, calmly and firmly. Gradually order was restored. At an opportune moment Jesson laid down the magazine and discreetly passed the woman her warrant card, saying: ‘I need to speak to Mr Shah as soon as possible.’ The woman studied the card and Jesson, before nodding acquiescence. ‘Busy place,’ said Jesson sympathetically.

  ‘It’s always like this,’ said the PA, starting to address the papers on her desk. ‘Especially first thing in the morning.’

  ‘And are you the only assistant?’ asked Jesson.

  ‘Yes, although I don’t think Mr Shah really wanted me; he’s not very good at delegating. The pay’s not bad, and I get to drop the kids at school before I come in. But then it’s always chaos when I get here. I’ve tried telling him that we should open at ten, but he won’t listen to me.’

  ‘How many people do you see each day?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve given up counting,’ the PA said. ‘In theory there’s an appointment system, but of course people come in when there’s an emergency and Mr Shah insists on trying to fit everybody in. A lot of the people who come over here are hoping to make a better life, so they have very little in the way of resources. They rely on us.’

  ‘Mr Shah and his family must be popular,’ said Jesson.

  ‘Yes, although there’s always someone who isn’t satisfied with the help they get.’ As she spoke the door to Mustafa Shah’s
office opened and he ushered out a young couple, shaking them each by the hand as he did so. The woman was tearful. Glancing towards the desk, Mustafa Shah caught sight of Jesson, whose clothing and skin colour made her conspicuous. He smiled: ‘Please, come in.’

  It was probably for the best that Jesson couldn’t understand Arabic, but she caught the mood of the room in the facial expressions as she jumped the queue and followed Mustafa Shah into his office. ‘I didn’t expect to find you back at work so soon,’ she said, taking one of several chairs arranged in front of Shah’s desk.

  ‘People don’t stop needing help because of our misfortunes,’ said Shah. He waited until Jesson was seated before sitting down. ‘And it helps me to stay busy. My sister’s house is rather a crowded place just now. To be honest it is a relief to get away.’

  ‘You must miss your father-in-law too,’ said Jesson.

  ‘Yes, although Soltan only worked here part-time, usually in the evening for an hour or two.’

  ‘So what exactly is it that you help people with?’

  Shah waved a hand across all the papers on his desk, and a stack of overflowing in-trays. ‘Whatever they are having issues with: finance, housing, employment, family issues. Anything and everything can walk through that door and does so on a daily basis.’ But he clearly didn’t mind. His relaxed, easy manner said that everything was under control. Jesson imagined that he was good at his job; people would find it easy to trust him.

  ‘Anyone you fall out with in the course of your work?’ she asked.

  ‘Ha! Where would you like me to start?’ Shah sat back. ‘My job is to try and secure for people what they are entitled to. There are many people who want to stop that from happening, because it costs them. I spend a good proportion of my time on the phone, harassing local councillors and private landlords.’

  ‘Do any of them take that harassment personally?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ He was suddenly wary.

  ‘Despite what we first thought, it’s looking increasingly likely that your wife was right, and that the fire at your house was started deliberately. It could have been a random attack, but the odds are that it was started by someone you know.’

  Shah sighed. ‘You’re aware that it has happened before?’

  ‘The Wright family.’

  ‘The son is a thug. He spat at my wife while she was walking in the street, pretending that it was just an accident, and he argued with my father-in-law. It was very upsetting.’

  ‘We have spoken to Jordan Wright regarding this latest incident,’ Jesson said. ‘But it looks as if he has an alibi. For the record, what exactly was the argument about with your wife’s father?’

  ‘Soltan was proud to live in this country. He thought it was important to look after the environment and to keep things neat and tidy. This boy used to clean his car on the street, which involved tipping out all the rubbish from it – tin cans and crisp packets – and leaving it lying there for others to dispose of for him. Soltan took issue with him about that.’ It hardly sounded like grounds for murder.

  ‘How many people knew that you were going to be out of the country last weekend?’ Jesson asked.

  ‘Not many; Aisha here, my wife, of course. I may have mentioned it to a couple of clients, to explain why I wouldn’t be able to see them for a week or so.’

  ‘So it could reasonably have been assumed by anyone else that you would be in the house too?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Shah. ‘The trip was arranged quite suddenly. It’s not always easy to get flights at a good price.’

  ‘It’s likely that any arson attack would be directed at you or your father-in-law,’ said Jesson. ‘Is there anyone you think would want to harm you or your family?’

  Shah was affronted. ‘Enough to set fire to my house with my wife and children inside? Enough to kill members of my family? No. No one I know would do that.’

  ‘Not even some of the people you rub up against here?’ Jesson pressed.

  Shah was pensive. ‘We have instigated court proceedings against a couple of private landlords on behalf of clients,’ he said. ‘But I really don’t think they would go to such lengths.’

  ‘All the same, it would help to have details of those cases.’

  The outfit wasn’t sophisticated enough for an intercom, so Shah got up and went out to the waiting room, where Vicky heard him in conversation with his assistant. ‘I’ve asked Aisha to print off some of the correspondence,’ he said, coming back into the office. ‘But I would ask that our clients’ details remain confidential.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jesson. ‘And there is no one else you can think of? You must come across some unsavoury individuals at times.’

  Shah snorted with disbelief. ‘There are of course people we challenge, but I can’t imagine that they would resort to—’ He paused. ‘Except …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The couple that just left here – they are in trouble with their finances and their debts are spiralling out of control because they have taken out a loan with an outfit called Going for Gold; it’s a place on Bethel Street.’ Turning towards the window he gestured to the right. ‘We have had trouble with them in the past.’

  ‘Loan sharks?’ Jesson speculated.

  ‘From the outside the business is a legitimate pawnbroker’s cash-for-jewellery kind of thing,’ said Shah. ‘But it’s become apparent in the last few months that they also offer short-term loans with punishing interest rates. It’s not a service they advertise; instead they just take advantage of the desperate customers who go into their shop. The problem is that as far as I can work out they are not doing anything illegal, simply preying on already vulnerable people in the way that’s become so commonplace. My strategy has been to publicise what they are up to and discourage our clients from doing any kind of business with them. And I know they’re aware of this, because a couple of months ago we had a nasty note put through the door.’

  ‘Did you keep it?’

  ‘No,’ said Shah. ‘I barely even looked at it. The tone was threatening but I didn’t take it seriously.’

  ‘Who runs the outfit?’ asked Jesson.

  ‘It’s a couple of white Englishmen. I don’t know their names, though I think they might be brothers.’

  ‘Well, that’s a good start,’ said Jesson. ‘But it would help if you and your staff could—’

  Shah smiled again. ‘My staff? It’s just Aisha and me.’

  ‘Well, it would be useful if you could think back over the last months, or even years, in case there’s anyone else you remember who might have sufficient grounds for carrying out an attack like this,’ said Jesson. ‘What was the purpose of the visit to Sana’a?’

  ‘I was meeting with business associates. We have donors there who support our work.’ He smiled. ‘I went to sweet-talk them.’

  On her way out, Aisha presented Jesson with a slim folder containing details of the cases against the landlords. ‘Good luck,’ she said.

  Exiting the Advice Centre Jesson turned right and walked along to Bethel Street. This was a thriving community of businesses that reflected the diversity of a city with no majority population, and the pavements were busy with mothers and their children and elderly people. Some way along the street she found Going for Gold. The windows were protected by permanent mesh grilles, the door was locked and the premises looked empty and dark inside. She went into the sweet shop next door to ask about it.

  ‘It’s been closed for at least a week and we haven’t seen the men who worked there,’ the girl serving behind the counter told her.

  When Mariner got to Sam Fleetwood’s flat, everything looked pretty much as Millie had described it, although in the last few days a substantial amount of post, much of it junk, had built up in the mail box. Mariner took out the pile and sorted through it. He found two items of interest. The first was an invitation from Oxfordshire police to a Speed Awareness course, as an alternative to paying the speeding fine that Sam Fleetwood had incurred three
weeks ago, on a stretch of the A3400. Mariner knew that road. Unless a driver was familiar with the section that ran through a series of small villages, it was easy to get caught out by the sudden drop to thirty miles per hour. Sam Fleetwood had been clocked, late on a Sunday evening, doing thirty-seven mph.

  Then, further down, Mariner came to a printed postcard advertising special weekend deals at a Cotswold hotel. Although addressed only to ‘the occupier’ at Fleetwood’s address, the message on the reverse began ‘To all our valued customers … ’ The two items were not incompatible with one another.

  Walking back to his car, Mariner phoned Bingley. ‘If anyone needs me I’m on my way down to north Oxfordshire,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a lead on where Sam Fleetwood might have spent some of his weekends away.’ It even crossed his mind that Fleetwood might be there right now. If he was, Mariner would be having sharp words with him.

  It took Mariner an hour to drive down to the Rookery Hotel at Eccrinton, but it wasn’t quite the typical Cotswold boutique hotel he’d expected. Instead, it was a former country house, set in its own grounds, and now run by a national chain known for its themed holiday-camp-style activity weekends. It wasn’t at all the kind of place he could imagine Gaby wanting to stay for a little romantic getaway, but perhaps it was suitably anonymous for an illicit assignation of the kind that Sam seemed to be leaning towards. One of the regular weekends featured on the programme in the lobby was a ‘singles weekend’. Mariner couldn’t help glancing around, in the hope that Fleetwood might suddenly materialise before his eyes, but most of the clientele on this weekday morning looked like retired couples. Identifying himself, Mariner showed the Eastern European receptionist Sam’s photograph. The man took it and studied it for a minute or two. ‘Yes, I think I have seen him,’ he said, eventually.

  ‘His name is Sam Fleetwood,’ said Mariner. ‘We are keen to speak to him. Is he staying here now?’ He half expected to meet some resistance on the grounds of guest privacy, but his warrant card apparently overruled such concerns. After a search of the registers, however, he was told that Sam Fleetwood wasn’t on the system, either for today or going back over the last six months, which was as far as records went.