He had worked hard to become a detective sergeant at thirty four, and was hoping for promotion to inspector by the time he was forty. Anyone would be proud of his achievement. Anyone but Bev. He earned good money, and could expect a decent pension at the end of it. He loved his job. Trouble was, he loved Bev too. She had always been the girl for him, ever since they met at school, although he hadn’t realised it back then. He had fancied her, of course. All the boys did. Love had taken longer. They had been seeing each other for years, on and off, before she agreed to move in with him. Ian thought life couldn’t get any better. But once she had moved in, things had gone from bad to worse. He had never known such disappointment. It gnawed at him like a permanent toothache.
‘I wouldn’t mind if I knew,’ she had complained that morning, ‘but I can never tell when you’ll be home.’
Ian had turned away frowning. He could easily be more regular in his hours but, when he was on a case, he couldn’t focus on anything else. Overtime became routine. It wasn’t about the money. He earned well enough, more than a lot of his mates, and job security was worth a lot in times when so many people were coping with redundancy.
He had done his best to explain. ‘If I don’t throw myself into it a hundred per cent, I might as well not do the job at all. I don’t want to lie awake at night thinking that, if only I’d done more, we could’ve nailed some bastard sooner. You could try to understand, Bev. It’s not an easy job at the best of times.’ He had struggled to find the right words. ‘It’s more than a job. It’s a commitment.’
‘What about your commitment to me?’
‘That’s not an easy job either,’ Ian had thought. Usually he caved in at the sight of her in tears. This time he was irritated. ‘If you cared about me, you wouldn’t do this. You’d at least try to understand.’
‘I understand you care more about your bloody job than you do about me. You’ve made that clear.’
‘It’s not a competition,’ he had answered wearily. She ought to find herself a bank manager if she wanted someone with set hours. ‘I can’t be what you want me to be.’ He had turned away, fiercely sad.
‘Where are you going? We’re not finished,’ Bev had called after him. He hadn’t turned back. If Bev wanted to leave him, there was nothing he could do to stop her. He loved her, but it would be a relief to put an end to her nagging.
38
Ray
‘Wonder if they do food?’ Peterson said as they went in, but it wasn’t that sort of pub. Dimly lit and smelling of sour beer and sweat, the bar was unpleasantly warm after the brisk air outside. It was almost deserted. One old man sat in a corner nursing an empty pint glass.
‘What can I get you?’ The landlord didn’t look surprised when Geraldine held out her identity card.
‘Detective Inspector Steel, and this is Detective Sergeant Peterson.’ The landlord leaned his elbows on the bar and waited. ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions about yesterday evening.’
‘Oh yes.’
Peterson showed him a photo of Raymond Barker. ‘Do you recognise this man?’
‘Should do,’ the barman replied. ‘That’s Ray. He’s in here most nights, him and his mate. Sometimes there’s a woman with them. I don’t know what it is, but…’ He shook his head. ‘She doesn’t look right, if you know what I mean.’ He made a gesture, rotating one finger by his temple. ‘More than a bit cuckoo, if you ask me.’
‘Is this the friend?’ Peterson slapped a picture of Callum Martin on the bar.
‘Yes, that’s the one. They were in here last night. The short bloke left early – Colin, is it? Ray stayed on for a bit.’
‘What time did Ray leave?’
‘It must’ve been about ten. I gave it another half hour then closed up at ten thirty.’
‘Did they usually leave separately?’
‘No, but it sounded to me as though they were having words last night.’
‘Words?’
‘I couldn’t hear what they were saying. They just looked like they were…’ The landlord glanced round the room as though casting about for inspiration. ‘The short bloke seemed pretty angry, anyway.’
‘Was that unusual?’ Geraldine asked. ‘Did they often argue?’
The landlord shrugged. ‘They drink together. I don’t hear much, standing here. You could ask Bert Cartwright. He might have something to say.’
Geraldine turned to glance at the old man in the corner. ‘Was he here yesterday evening?’
‘Bert’s always here.’
Bowed over the table, mumbling into his glass, the old man didn’t stir when Geraldine sat down.
‘Bert, I need your help.’ He nodded without raising his eyes. ‘Bert?’ She waved her warrant card in front of his face.
He muttered something. It sounded like ‘Not any more.’
She nodded at Peterson who went up to the bar for a half. He put it down in front of Bert who lifted the drink in an arthritic hand. He looked at Geraldine over his dirty glasses. She stared back at his filmy eyes and felt a jab of pity. Everything about him spoke of a lack of care, from his long fingernails to his unwashed hair. Close up she could see he was very old. He took a long draught, smacked his loose lips together and grinned, displaying a few yellow teeth.
His voice grated as though he wasn’t used to talking. ‘Hello, darling.’
Geraldine pushed two pictures across the sticky table: Raymond Barker and Callum Martin. ‘Do you recognise either of these two men?’ she asked. Bert glanced down at the table before raising the glass again. She waited while he drank.
‘That’s Ray,’ he said. ‘He’s all right, is Ray. Stands me a pint, sometimes.’
‘What about this one?’
Bert scowled at Cal’s picture. ‘He’s a mean bastard, that one,’ he said. Geraldine waited but he didn’t say anything else.
‘Were they in here yesterday evening?’ she asked eventually.
The old man inclined his head. ‘That one didn’t stay long,’ he said, tapping Cal’s picture with a long dirty finger nail. ‘Left before he finished his pint.’ He drank again.
‘Why do you think that was?’ The old man shrugged. ‘Did you notice anything unusual about the way he was behaving before he left?’
‘Not unusual, no. He’s always a stroppy little sod. And he’s a bastard to the girl.’ He closed his eyes and threw his head back, thinking. ‘She wasn’t here yesterday, so he had a go at Ray instead. They were having a bit of a barney.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘I thought the little swine was going to hit him.’ He cackled and rocked in his seat. ‘Ray’s twice his size. Ought to punch his lights out. Serve him right.’ He turned his attention to his glass. ‘A half doesn’t go far, does it?’
‘What were they arguing about?’ No answer. The old man raised his empty glass and gazed at her mournfully. She nodded at Peterson who brought another half over. The old man smacked his lips.
‘Ray was assaulted on his way home –’ Geraldine began.
‘Vicious little swine,’ Bert interrupted her. ‘You lot going to lock him up then?’ His eyes gleamed wetly at her across the table. It was Geraldine’s turn to shrug. ‘He’s a nasty little sod, that one.’ He tapped Cal’s picture again. ‘You’ve got to do something about him before he kills someone.’
Geraldine stared into the old man’s eyes. ‘If you have any information on Callum Martin, you need to tell us.’ The old man was silent. Geraldine stood up. ‘We’ll talk to you again, Bert,’ she said.
They walked back down Garden Street, past houses uniformly grey in the fading daylight. Streetlamps were already on, casting a dim orange glow. A car rattled past, along an otherwise deserted street.
‘Time was there would’ve been children playing out in the street,’ Geraldine remarked. ‘Kicking a football, riding their bikes.’
‘And women sitting on doorsteps.’
‘Bit cold for that.’
Brenda opened the door. She started when she saw Geraldine and Peterson and
closed her mouth tightly, compressing a cold sore at the corner of her bottom lip. She didn’t speak. As she made to close the door, Peterson stepped forward.
‘Let’s not make this any more difficult than it has to be,’ he said, pushing past her into the hall. Brenda backed away from him, still holding on to the edge of the door. The skin on the back of her hand was chapped, her nails bitten to the quick.
‘Is Raymond Barker here?’ Geraldine asked. Before the frightened woman could reply, Callum Martin appeared at the far end of the hall. Brenda ducked her head and darted up the stairs without looking round.
‘She’s got nothing to say to you,’ Martin told them as the sound of her footsteps faded. ‘You’ve got no business coming round here bothering her. Now you’ve gone and upset her. So why don’t you just –’
‘We’re here to see Mr Barker,’ Peterson interrupted him. ‘We don’t want to talk to Brenda. Or you. For the moment.’
‘What do you want with him?’
‘That’s not really your business, is it?’
The two men glared at one another. Martin’s unshaven chin jutted forward. He clenched his fists. For a second he looked as though he was going to hit the sergeant. Instead he turned and led the way along the narrow hallway into the front room where Barker sat hunched in an armchair. One leg was in plaster. His eyes were bandaged.
Martin spun round to face the sergeant, blocking the doorway. ‘You can see for yourself he’s in no state to talk to anyone.’
Peterson met Martin’s gaze. ‘We won’t keep you, Mr Martin. We’re here to speak to Mr Barker. Alone.’
‘I can’t go anywhere. Can’t walk. Can’t see.’
‘You heard what he said.’ Martin made no move to leave.
‘I heard what he said, and you heard what I said,’ Peterson replied evenly. He stepped to one side and held the door open for Martin who left the room, swearing loudly.
Barker groaned when Geraldine began to speak. Note book in hand, Peterson closed the door and stood with his back against it as Geraldine questioned Barker.
‘Don’t know,’ was his dogged reply to every question. Geraldine strode across the room and turned the television off. ‘Let’s start again, Mr Barker,’ she said quietly.
‘Jumped me from behind.’ His voice was slurred. ‘Didn’t know what hit me. Never had a chance. Put the telly back on. I’m in agony here. I need another pain killer. Get Cal. He knows where they are.’
‘You weren’t robbed during the course of the attack, Mr Barker.’
‘Yeah. That’s something at least.’ The injured man tried to nod and groaned again.
‘Let’s go through your movements yesterday evening. You went to the pub.’
‘I need a pain killer.’
‘Last night, Mr Barker,’ Geraldine persisted. ‘We know you went to the pub.’
‘Me and Cal. We went down there together.’
‘What time was that?’
‘After tea.’
‘Which was what time?’
‘Dunno.’
‘So you and Callum Martin went for a drink,’ Geraldine paused, waiting for a response. Barker sat silent. ‘And then he left the pub before you did.’
‘He left when he was ready.’
‘But you stayed on by yourself.’
‘I hadn’t finished my drink.’
‘What did you argue about?’ Geraldine asked suddenly.
‘We never argued.’ Barker growled.
‘We have a witness who says you did.’
‘What witness?’ Geraldine didn’t answer. ‘Maybe a few words, that’s all.’ Barker was struggling to keep his temper. Or perhaps he was afraid. His voice quivered. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘Were you and Mr Martin in the habit of quarrelling then?’
Barker began to shake his head and flinched. ‘I’m telling you, we never quarrelled. We were – We’re mates.’
‘We have a witness who says you and Martin had an argument just before Martin left.’
‘We never quarrelled.’ Peterson held up his hand. Geraldine paused. With a swift movement, the sergeant flung the door open. The dimly lit hallway was empty.
‘Thought I heard something,’ he said as he closed the door. Geraldine resumed. ‘Now why don’t you tell us what happened last night on your way home from the pub.’
‘Some bastard jumped on me. Took me by surprise.’
‘Was it Callum Martin?’
‘No. It wasn’t him.’
‘It was Martin, wasn’t it? What did you argue about, at the pub? About your share of the proceeds from stolen goods, was it? Or did you have a row about Brenda?’ Barker’s hands twitched but he didn’t say anything. ‘Or perhaps you’ve been ripping him off. So you had a row and he decided to teach you a lesson.’
‘No. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t Cal. I know it wasn’t him.’
‘If you didn’t see your attacker, you couldn’t know that, could you?’
‘I know it wasn’t him,’ he insisted. ‘I know it wasn’t Cal because it was a woman. I was beaten up by a woman. Are you happy now?’
39
Victims
Cal paced up and down the bedroom, rubbing his hand over his stubbly cheeks while downstairs the police questioned Ray. It seemed to be taking forever.
‘Why the fuck is it taking so long?’ Cal frowned down at Brenda who lay fidgeting on the bed. He resumed his pacing. ‘Why are they taking so long?’ He spun round. ‘And what’re you so jittery for?’ Her hands fluttered restlessly at her sides, her legs refused to stay still. ‘What are you jumpy about? Don’t I look after you?’
Brenda stared up at him, trembling more violently. ‘I know you look after me, Cal,’ she wheedled. ‘It’s good gear.’
‘Only the best for my girl.’
Brenda nodded with sudden energy. ‘That’s what I said, Cal.’
‘What’s wrong then? You’ve been like a cat on heat for days.’
‘Nothing.’ She shrugged one shoulder, unable to meet his eye.
‘Well stop your bloody twitching,’ he snapped suddenly. Brenda rolled to one side. Not fast enough. He didn’t hit hard – he only used force when he was angry. He looked at her lying on the bed, and clenched his fists again.
‘You go around provoking people, you’re going to end up with a fist in your face, stands to reason. Put a smile on your face, you miserable bitch.’
‘I’m not miserable. Not miserable with you, Cal.’ She pulled herself into a sitting position and smiled at him.
‘Should think not, stupid cow. What have you got to be miserable about?’
‘I’m not miserable, Cal. I’m scared.’
‘You scared of me?’ He started forward.
‘No! Not scared of you,’ she stuttered rapidly. ‘You look after me, Cal.’ She hovered on her knees on the bed, uncertain whether to scramble out of his way.
‘What then?’ he asked.
‘Was it you?’
‘What are you on about?’
‘Was it you did that to Ray? Someone did.’ She looked slyly at him. ‘I don’t mind if it was you, Cal. He deserves it. We don’t need him here. If he gets hurt badly enough, maybe he’ll go away and it’ll be just you and me again. I’d like that Cal, wouldn’t you?’
Scowling, Cal seized her by the arm and flung her back on the bed. She hit her head on the wall. For a second she was dazed. A sharp ache began pounding inside her skull.
‘You’re not still on about Ray, you stupid cow?’ He leaned over her, red-faced.
‘You and me, Cal,’ she repeated, over and over. Cal smacked her once, hard.
Brenda bit her lip. ‘I’m not scared of you,’ she whined. ‘You take care of me. I’m not scared of you. It’s them.’
Cal sat down on the bed. Brenda sat up and shuffled back until she was propped up against her pillow, ready to slip off the bed and out of reach of his fists. ‘What’s on your mind, Bren? You got nothing to be scared of. What’s bothering yo
u?’ He turned and studied her face closely, her swollen brow, the bruise emerging under her pale skin. ‘Don’t I take care of you?’
Brenda nodded, staring at him. ‘You take care of me.’
They heard a distant hum of voices. Cal leaped to his feet and ran lightly downstairs. Brenda waited. A few moments later he reappeared and began pacing the narrow room. Brenda sat on the bed, watching him. At last they heard footsteps. The front door closed. Cal looked out of the window. He turned and gave Brenda one last shove on the shoulder before he stormed out of the room. Brenda lay completely still. All she wanted was to hide away in darkness, under the bed covers.
Ray was snoring. Lazy sod.
‘Oy,’ Cal called to him. Ray groaned.
‘What did they want?’
‘Dunno.’
‘What did they ask you?’
‘Dunno. I wasn’t listening.’
Cal leaned forward, put one hand on Ray’s injured leg and squeezed. ‘What did you tell them, retard?’
‘Nothing. I didn’t say anything.’
Cal grunted. ‘I’m going for a drink.’
‘Where’s Brenda?’ Ray asked.
‘Upstairs.’
‘Do us a favour, take her with you. She’s getting on my nerves. The doctor said I need to rest after what I’ve been through but how can I rest with her mumbling and crying all the time?’ Cal leaned over Ray and began rummaging through his pockets. ‘Here, what are you doing?’
Cal pulled out a worn leather wallet with a flourish. ‘Your round.’
‘You put that back.’
Cal laughed. ‘I’ll have one for you,’ he grinned.
Ray swore. Cal shrugged indifferently. He stuffed Ray’s cash into his own pocket and dropped the empty wallet on the floor. ‘See you later.’
Brenda heard the front door slam. She buried her bruised cheek in the duvet and began to cry. Her biggest fear was that Cal would go away and never return. She stuffed the corner of the duvet between her teeth. It tasted salty. She spat it out and pressed her lips together trying to think, but she couldn’t stop crying.
Road Closed Page 17
