It was cold outside. Cal strode swiftly along the street to the pub on the corner. It was usually quiet on a Monday evening. The bar was almost empty. The only other customer was the old git who was always in there, hunched over a pint. Occasionally Ray took pity on the old bloke and bought him a half. Cal wasn’t a soft touch.
The old man touched his cap as Cal strode in. ‘Evening, gov.’ Cal walked straight past him to the bar without acknowledging the greeting.
The landlord didn’t lift his eyes from his paper. ‘Cold out there,’ he said without looking up. ‘What’ll you have?’
‘Pint.’ Cal paid for his drink out of Ray’s money, and sat down. He swore softly when the old man shuffled over to his table a few moments later.
‘Much obliged, gov,’ the old man said. His old eyes were rheumy with age, his skin drooped repulsively under his chin. Cal turned away. The old man stood his ground. ‘Stand us a pint, gov,’ he begged. He leaned forward supporting himself on the edge of the table. ‘I’m skint, see.’
‘Jesus,’ Cal fumed. ‘It makes me sick to look at you.’
Catching sight of Cal’s face, the old man scuttled back to his corner.
Bert hadn’t been exaggerating when he said he was broke. It wasn’t even nine o’clock but he knew he couldn’t coax another drink from the landlord. He certainly wasn’t going to get anything out of Ray’s mate. Bert had come across his type before. Nasty little sod made Bert feel uneasy. He decided not to hang around.
It was cold outside. Bert walked as quickly as he could. He didn’t have far to go. Without his glasses the air around the street lamps looked misty. A car drove past. As the whine of its engine faded, he heard footsteps. Bert hobbled faster.
A hand gripped him by the shoulder. Breath tickled his ear. ‘Keep walking.’
‘What do you want?’
‘We’re going for a walk. Just the two of us.’
With a thrill of fear, Bert recognised the voice. ‘What do you want with me?’ he quavered. No answer. ‘That’s my house.’ Holding Bert firmly by the arm, Cal shoved him forward, propelling him in the direction of the canal. ‘Where are you taking me?’ Bert swivelled his head round. Under the street lamp he could see Cal grinning.
‘A little bird told me you’ve got a big mouth, old son.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You’ve been opening your gobshite mouth to the filth.’
‘Not me. I never.’ They had reached the narrow strip of woods that sloped down to the canal. ‘My shoes are getting wet,’ Bert grumbled. Cal laughed. His grip on Bert’s arm tightened as they reached the canal path.
‘See this?’ Cal held up a carrier bag. ‘Guess what’s inside.’
‘Don’t tell me, we’re going on a picnic.’
Cal laughed again. ‘Bricks.’
‘Bricks?’
‘What I can’t decide is, shall I swing it at your head before I tie it round your neck, or are you going to go quietly?’
Bert ducked his head. Adrenaline jolted through his aching limbs. He squirmed out of Cal’s grasp. Panting with fear, he grabbed at the woody stem of a bush and scrambled back up the incline. He didn’t get far. Hands grasped him by the ankles so he couldn’t kick out. As he slid backwards, Bert scrabbled in his pocket. He only had a few seconds. ‘You won’t get away with this,’ he mumbled furiously as his stiff fingers closed on his glasses case.
Bert crashed onto the path where he lay at Cal’s feet, groaning.
‘No point yelling,’ Cal pointed out cheerfully. ‘No one’s going to hear you.’ With a last desperate effort, Bert clambered to his feet. With a sob, he launched himself at his adversary. Cal yelled. Beads of blood oozed down his left cheek from four deep scratches. ‘You could’ve had my eye out, you bastard!’ Cal yelled as he swung the weighted bag. Smiled at the crunch of bone. It only took a few seconds for him to tie the bag around the groaning man’s neck.
A splash. The scummy surface of the canal rippled gently. Callum glanced up and down the deserted path before he loped away, smiling.
40
Curry House
‘But could a woman have done that, do you think?’ Peterson asked as they drove into the centre of town. Geraldine shrugged. ‘Ray Barker’s a strong guy,’ he went on. ‘Is it likely a woman could’ve overpowered him?’
‘If it wasn’t a woman, Barker’s lying.’
‘Or mistaken. Although he did seem genuinely embarrassed.’ Peterson laughed. ‘You’d think a guy like Ray Barker would want to be sure before admitting he was beaten up by a woman.’
‘Unless he deliberately wanted to lead us off on the wrong tack.’
‘You think he’s protecting someone?’
‘By someone you mean Callum Martin,’ Geraldine said irritably. They were going round in circles. ‘But Martin’s got an alibi.’
They set about tracing John Squires’ movements on Saturday evening. First on the scene, and drunk, with injuries to his face and hands, he had to be a suspect. They hadn’t established a motive for him, but it was possible the attack had been a random drunken brawl between Barker and Squires. The police hadn’t yet been able to contact the friend with whom John Squires claimed to have spent the evening.
John Squires said he and his friend had begun their evening in a pub in the centre of Harchester so Geraldine and Peterson began their enquiries there. No one in the pub remembered seeing Squires and his friend. The barmaid thought the photograph of John Squires might look familiar, but she wasn’t sure.
Their next stop was The Curry House further along the High Street, where Squires claimed to have gone after the pub. The Indian restaurant was empty apart from a young woman waiting for a take away.
‘Good evening, sir. Table for two?’
‘No, thank you. We’re looking for the manager.’ Geraldine walked past the waiter to the bar. Peterson followed. He picked up a menu and studied it while they waited.
‘Yes? Can I be of assistance?’
‘Detective Inspector Steel and Detective Sergeant Peterson.’ Geraldine held out her identity card. Peterson was still studying the menu. A young waiter brought out a tray of cutlery and started laying tables. Above the rattling, the manager told them he couldn’t remember anyone coming to the restaurant on Saturday evening with cuts on his face. Nor could he specifically remember two men, possibly rather the worse for drink.
‘We’re always busy,’ he apologised, glancing around the empty room. ‘That is, the weekends are always busy.’ He checked his records and confirmed that John Squires had paid for two dinners by credit card at ten twenty five on Saturday night. They were able to identify him on the CCTV footage. His face was unscathed, as far as they could tell from the smudgy image.
‘The time fits,’ Peterson said as they left, ‘and the manager doesn’t recall Squires being injured when he came in here, so it looks like he got himself into a fight after he left.’ John Squires had definitely been in the area of the assault some time after it had taken place. He could have been there when it happened. They needed to be more precise about the time he arrived on the scene if they were to eliminate him as a suspect.
They traced the cab driver who had picked up two men near the Indian restaurant on Saturday evening. He had dropped one of them round the corner from Squires’ house before taking the other one on to the station.
He remembered the two men well. ‘They were a bit pissed,’ he said. ‘Get a lot like that on a weekend. But they weren’t kids so I took the fare. And the second geezer left a generous tip. Told me his firm were paying.’
‘How would you describe them?’
‘Just blokes, you know. Ordinary. I didn’t look too closely but I remember they laughed so much I thought they were going to throw up.’
‘Did one of them have cuts on his face?’
‘I don’t take punters who’ve been fighting. They’re the worst. Blood in my cab, no thank you,’ he shuddered.
‘And you’re positive neither of
them had cut his face or grazed his knuckles? It’s very important.’ Peterson asked. The cabbie was sure. Any injuries must have been incurred later, after Squires had left the taxi.
‘Do you know the exact time you dropped the first man off?’ Geraldine asked.
The driver scratched his head. ‘It was about ten forty five when I picked them up. I dropped the first fare off about ten minutes later. That was a long ten minutes, I can tell you. They were laughing fit to bust. I thought they were going to throw up. You don’t expect that from people their age. Then I took the second one to the station. It must’ve been around five to eleven. He said his train was due just after eleven. So it must’ve been before eleven, but not long before. He was in a hurry, kept asking me to step on it. Is that it or was there anything else?’
Geraldine paused, thinking. ‘You said you didn’t see any injuries when they entered the cab?’ The cabbie nodded. ‘What about when they left it? They weren’t scrapping in the back were they? Or maybe one of them fell off his seat?’
‘Funny you should mention that because one of them did fall over. The one I dropped off first. He was so pissed, he fell right out of the cab, tripped over his feet and slammed straight into a gate post. He must’ve given himself a bit of a bash.’
‘Was he badly hurt?’
The driver shrugged. ‘I didn’t hang around to see. He was out of the cab by the time he tripped, nothing to do with me. Time’s money and the other geezer was in a hurry. I only clocked it in my mirror. But he got up all right,’ he added, suddenly anxious. ‘He wasn’t badly hurt.’
They ran over the times as they drove back to the station.
‘The landlord said Barker left the pub around ten,’ Peterson said. ‘If he’s right, Squires was still in the Indian when Barker was attacked.’
Geraldine frowned, wondering if they were wasting time on a random street crime fuelled by alcohol or drugs. ‘If it was a mugging, why didn’t they rob him?’
‘Do you think someone was waiting for him?’ the sergeant asked. ‘Like Callum Martin?’
‘I’ll try and speak to Martin’s girlfriend alone,’ Geraldine said. She had the impression Peterson would be as pleased as her if they could pin Barker’s injuries on Callum Martin.
He nodded. ‘She’s more likely to talk to you. I don’t suppose she’s got a very positive opinion of men. Martin’s a brute if ever I saw one.’
41
Visitor
Behind the television, the curtain rippled as a chill draught blew across the room. Cal hadn’t closed the sitting room door when he left. Ray swore. He picked up the remote control from the arm of his chair, knocking an empty beer can to the floor. It oozed a trickle of pale liquid on to the carpet.
Ray shivered. He wished Brenda would come down. She was never around when he wanted anything. A blanket would be nice, and another beer. He wriggled on his chair. If he shifted to the sofa he would be able to spread out, but he knew better than to move there. Cal had gone to the pub but his presence lingered. His BO hung in the air, mingled with Brenda’s cheap perfume and the faint stink of vomit. Ray flicked through the channels, listened to a few minutes of a football game, caught the end of Top Gear and dozed off.
Ray jolted awake from an uneasy dream of bottles smashing and winced as his injured leg gave an involuntary twitch. With every breath his ribs stabbed at his chest. His eyes burned. Swearing, he fumbled for his pain killers. He remembered putting them on the arm of his chair but couldn’t find them. He leaned forward, groaning softly, and felt on the seat of his chair. It would be typical of Cal to have moved them before he went out. He was a sick bastard. Or it could have been Brenda. Show her a packet of pills and she’d swallow the lot, no questions asked, and then lie about it. Messed up cow. He couldn’t understand why Cal put up with her, how he could bring himself to touch her. Ray shuddered at the thought.
Cal was a vicious bastard, but Ray knew where he stood with him. In a way he was almost relieved when Cal lost his temper because, after that, he would be nice as pie for a while. It was worse looking over his shoulder all the time, waiting for Cal to blow up. Not that Ray ever fought back. Cal wasn’t the sort of guy you’d want to hit. But there were ways of taking a beating. Unable to move, Ray would be a sitting duck right now, powerless to defend himself.
The filth were itching to give Cal a hard time. It had crossed Ray’s mind he could drop Cal in it by accusing him of assault, but he didn’t dare. If Cal found out, he would make Ray’s life hell. And that was one thing Cal knew how to do. In the meantime all Ray could do was sit and stew. But one thing was sure, as soon as his eyes were sorted and his leg was better he would be off. It was driving him nuts living with Cal and his crazy girlfriend. When he had first moved in it had seemed like a brilliant idea. Together they were going to be rich. That optimism had soon faded. Cal wasn’t going to lead Ray to untold wealth. He was more likely to knife him on a dark night. You just never knew with Cal.
He heard the door open.
‘Is that you, Cal?’ Ray asked. ‘Thank God you’re here. I’m in agony and I can’t find my pills.’ The figure in the doorway didn’t move. Ray shifted awkwardly in his seat. ‘Tell you what, I’m bursting. Give us a hand upstairs?’ He held out his arm. There was no reply. ‘What are you waiting for? I’m telling you, I need to go. I’m desperate.’ Ray struggled to his feet. He gasped, more in surprise than pain, when someone pushed him back roughly on to the chair.
‘Is that you, Cal?’ Ray asked, licking his lips nervously. ‘What are you doing?’
Hands grabbed Ray’s arms. He felt rough rope looped around his wrists. The rope jerked tight. Ray yelped in surprise. He should have kicked out with his good leg, but he was too slow. He screamed as his ankles were secured with another length of rope, twisting his injured leg horribly.
‘What are you playing at?’ he demanded. Silence. ‘What are you doing? This isn’t funny.’
The stench of petrol hit him.
‘What are you doing?’ Ray cried out again. His voice rose in panic. He heard the rattle of a box of matches. Ray started forward in his chair, petrified. He couldn’t stand up without falling. His ankles were tied together. He strained against the rope that bound his wrists. It cut into his flesh when he tried to move his hands.
‘You can’t do this. It’s insane,’ he protested hoarsely. ‘What have I done to you? What about Bren? The house? You’ll bust the TV.’
No one answered. The match box rattled.
‘What the fuck are you doing? Stop it, mate. You’ve scared me good and proper.’ Ray tried to laugh. ‘Come and untie me before I wet myself.’
He heard the sound of a match being struck.
‘Stop it, just stop it. You’ve had your fun. You’ve given me a fright. And this rope bloody hurts. Take it off. Now!’ Ray was shouting, any vestige of self control gone, his jeans warm and wet between his legs. ‘You’re insane,’ he whispered, sinking back on the chair.
‘You’ll never get away with it. Stop it right now. Stop it and we’ll have a drink. Laugh about you giving me a good scare. Let me go now. Untie me. You’ve had your laugh.’
He heard another match being struck.
‘I know who you are,’ Ray was babbling in his terror. ‘I know who you are. You won’t get away with it.’
He heard a grunt. Feet thudded on the carpet. There was a rush of air. The front door slammed.
Then he heard hissing and crackling, and felt intense heat.
42
Supper
‘You coming for a drink, gov?’ Peterson asked as they left the car in the station car park.
‘OK. I’ll see you over there.’ First Geraldine wanted to call in to bring the duty sergeant up to date and find out if there had been any developments. There was nothing new.
The pub over the road was humid, packed with police officers and people calling in for a quick pint after work. The DCI was at the bar, talking to Bennett. The young constable, Polly, was standing very
close to Peterson, laughing loudly. Feeling excluded, Geraldine wished she had gone straight home. She still had a report only half typed and she wanted to check through Bronxy’s statement. She joined Ryder and Bennett. As she finished her half pint, the DCI announced he was off. Geraldine took the opportunity to leave.
‘You want to watch him,’ Bennett warned her with a sly grin as she passed by. Geraldine didn’t reply. She already suspected there was gossip at the station about her and James Ryder. He often slipped into her office to mull things over. She had noticed curious glances once or twice when the two of them had left her office together. Dismissing the thought of James Ryder, she stepped outside, into the cold and dark.
When she arrived home, there were several missed calls and a terse message from Hannah on her answerphone. ‘Geraldine, call me.’ She pulled her laptop out of her bag, switched it on and went into the kitchen to make herself a pot of coffee before she phoned her friend.
‘Hi Han, it’s me.’ Ready to voice her concerns about Craig, Geraldine was determined to avoid any reference to her mother. She wasn’t ready to discuss that with anyone. She couldn’t even think about it. Not yet.
Hannah interrupted her. ‘Geraldine, at last. Where have you been? I need to see you.’
‘OK, when do you want to meet up?’
‘Now. I need to see you now.’
Fear struck Geraldine. ‘What’s wrong, Hannah? You’re not ill?’
‘No, nothing like that. I just need to see you.’
‘Look, it’s nearly eight o’clock. I do want to speak to you, but can’t we talk on the phone? It can wait –’
‘This isn’t about you, for once,’ Hannah butted in. Geraldine was taken aback. ‘I need to see you now.’
‘Is everything all right? Has something happened?’
‘I don’t want to talk on the phone,’ Hannah insisted. She sounded as though she was crying. ‘Just come over, please.’
Geraldine glanced helplessly at the file lying on the table beside her laptop. ‘OK, I’m on my way.’ This had better be important, she thought irritably as she closed her laptop down.
Road Closed Page 18
