A City of Strangers

by Robert Barnard

  “Awful to say this, about children,” said Mrs. Thornton, “but they always remind me of slugs—slugs when they lie there on the path, all fattened up.”

  “They look sort of . . . corrupt,” said Selena at last.

  “That’s it! That’s the word! It was the same with Kevin, only there it was more open. . . . And the silly bitch next door looks at those two out there and says: ‘Poor little mite, isn’t it wonderful she can still laugh and play when she’s lost her Daddy?’ Some people seem to have lost all their sense of . . . ”

  “Evil?”

  “Yes. Something like that. Yes, I suppose that’s the word.”

  Chapter

  TWELVE

  Superintendent Oddie had thoroughly researched the background of Kevin Phelan before he went along to talk to him: He knew his record, he knew his associates, and he even knew a bit about the house in which he lived. This was a decaying Victorian property in the Kirkby district of Sleate, whose landlord lived next door. He was an elderly and unsavory right-wing fanatic who had lived much of his life on the windy side of the law, profiting by the ambiguities of that gray area where free speech shades off into downright intimidation. Two years previously he had acquired the house next to his own, when the owners had defaulted on their mortgage repayments, and he had turned it into a collection of bedsitters and flatlets ranging from the dingy to the downright squalid. He had let them mainly to young sympathizers with his own views, hence Kevin Phelan’s surprising independence from his family. The landlord did not let politics interfere with his right to collect rents from his tenants, so presumably Kevin Phelan and his flatmate, Jason Mattingley, had somehow the means of paying it. Whether these means had been acquired by exploiting loopholes in the Social Security rules, in the approved Phelan tradition, or by some less legal means Oddie had not yet discovered.

  Kevin Phelan’s record could have been used as a textbook example of the early career of the archetypal criminal thug. His schooldays had been as spectacular as his father’s: No fewer than five of his teachers had called for police protection from him. He had been charged with maliciously wounding a fellow pupil—an Indian boy two years younger than himself. His persecution of this boy had been so vicious and so long-lasting that it had created its own reaction: The boy had acquired a whole army of protectors from among his own schoolfellows, so that he seldom had to go anywhere alone. Kevin Phelan had been frustrated, for he preferred attacking the weak and solitary.

  Since leaving school he had been prominent in football thuggery (the Sleate football ground was a notorious recruiting shop for the National Front, and black players were barbarously treated by the parts of the stands where the thugs congregated, a fact to which the management board of Sleate United turned a decorous blind eye). The Saturday night fracas, the concerted racial intimidation, and one suspected grievous bodily harm charge were the main components of Kevin’s adult form. It was fairly clear, however, that he was an accomplished shoplifter and a specialist in the quick theft of salable items like TVs and videos from people’s homes, though such lightning burglaries were so commonplace in a crime-ridden Britain that the police could give them little attention, so they had never got a case against him which they thought they could make stick. These were the bare bones of his record. Comments by policemen who had interviewed him were unprintable.

  Oddie took two men with him to Kirkby, on the principle of safety in numbers. They left their car a street away and walked to Kevin’s abode, 14 Market Street. There was no market now, though on the main road just down from the house there was a fish and chip shop, a newsagent’s, and a bookmaker’s. Kirkby had always been a working-class rising to lower-middle-class area of Sleate. In its time Market Street had been one of the “better” areas: There were patches of green and a church which looked as if it had once seen substantial congregations and fair pickings in the collection box. The area had started going downhill, though, long before the advent of Kevin Phelan and Jason Mattingley had set the seal on the process. They were below the present social mix, presages of some future rock bottom.

  The three men approached the house slowly, casually. Oddie spoke under his breath to Sergeant Stokes and Detective P. C. Bramley, who were on either side of him.

  “Nice house, once. Built around 1890, I’d say. No garage, of course. But there is a path from the front round to the back. There may be some kind of garden shed back there. Will you take that, Bramley? Especially keep an eye out for any petrol or paraffin there may be there, or signs that anything like that has been there until recently. Get down on your bloody hands and knees and sniff like a beagle if necessary. We’ll take Prince Charming himself, Stokes.”

  The main door to the house could be opened from outside, and inside each room had been fitted with a Yale lock. None of the residents, probably, had much to lose. In the hallway the two men paused and got their bearings: The place was predictably fusty, and there hung about it lodging-house smells of baked beans cooked on gas rings, stale sleep, and horsehair armchairs. The stairs were uncarpeted, so their approach to the first-floor flatlet could not be kept quiet. There were two names on the door, but no doorbell. When they banged there was an interval before it opened, but no sound of footsteps. The boy who opened it was not Kevin Phelan, but his friend Jason Mattingley.

  “Hello,” he said. “Come on in.”

  It was friendly, or at least it attempted to be ingratiating. He was a heavier version of Kevin—fleshier, with better shoulders. His hair was cropped, his hands and neck tattooed, and though his face wore habitually an aggressive expression, it battled with a contrary expression of vacancy. Oddie immediately had a strong sense of the boy having been taken over, used.

  The two policemen went into the room. Oddie had heard about this room from the constable who had brought the news in the middle of the night to Kevin Phelan. It would be too much to say that it had been transformed, but it certainly had been inexpertly cleaned up. There were no stray garments, no unwashed cups or plates; the bedclothes from the ancient sofa had been put away, and the poster of triumphant Nazi troops had been taken down. The room had been comprehensively aired, so that only faint traces of its unwholesome smells lingered. Oddie had a strong sense of unreality.

  He also had a strong sense of being expected, of this encounter being staged, at least in intention. As they came in through the door Jason Mattingley had looked out, expecting a third policeman; Kevin Phelan was seated at the little dining table over by the wall, and nodded at their entrance with a feint at amiability; the old sofa and armchair were arranged in a sort of group for interview purposes, though Oddie noted that from none of them could one get a very good view of Kevin Phelan. They were expected, had been seen coming—that was understandable. The boys were concerned to make as good an impression as possible—that was not. Making a good impression was as foreign as it could possibly be to Kevin Phelan, or for that matter most of his family. Nor was he an obvious suspect for an attempt on the lives of his own family. So why were the pair trying to put on a show?

  Oddie pushed the heavy armchair round to where he could get a better view of Kevin Phelan behind the table. He sat down and decided not to waste time expressing sympathy. It would be as difficult for Kevin to receive as it would be for him to give. He adopted a businesslike tone short on resonances.

  “It’s the business of your father’s death.”

  “Aye.”

  “We’re pretty sure that the fire was started deliberately.”

  “Bastards.”

  It was said without passion, routinely. Oddie looked at Kevin, curious.

  “Whom are you referring to?”

  “The bastards who done it.”

  “Who do you think they would be?”

  “Those bastards in Wynton Lane.”

  “Yes, we . . . got your message about them.”

  An evil smile of self-satisfaction forced its way forward onto Kevin’s face.

  “The bastards asked for it!”r />
  “Well, we’ll say nothing for the moment about the malicious damage aspect of it. What interests me is this: We send a man here in the middle of the night to tell you that your father has died. By daybreak you’ve announced to the world that one of the people in Wynton Lane did it.”

  “Well?” More aggressively now.

  “You assumed it was deliberate, and you assumed it was one of them who did it.”

  “People hated my Dad.” This was said with real relish.

  “Then why assume it was them?”

  “He was going to move in there. They’d do anything to stop him. Toffee-nosed gits.”

  “I still think those are two pretty breathtaking assumptions to make.”

  Kevin thought. He had trouble with words of over two syllables.

  “I told you why.”

  “Well—let’s let that pass for the moment. We gather your Dad had had a win on the football pools.”

  “That’s right.”

  “A big win?”

  “S’pose so.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “That seems odd. Why not?”

  “Wouldn’t tell me. He bought me a drink at the Railway King, but he wouldn’t tell me. Crafty old bugger, me Dad.” Once again this was said with relish: Kevin admired craftiness and villainy wherever it was to be found.

  “Who would have known how big it was?”

  “Me Mam. . . . Maybe me Mam. You never knew wi’ me Dad. He could have not told her either.”

  “But so far as you know your father was intending to buy the house in Wynton Lane?”

  “ ’Course he was. Been to a s’licitor an’ all.”

  “Yes. . . . Getting back to the night of the fire. Where were you during the evening?”

  “Here.” It came a fraction too fast and too loud. It was followed up glibly. “Jason and me was both here. Watching the telly. We was skint.”

  “I see. Any independent confirmation of this?”

  “What?”

  “Anyone visit you? You talk to anyone?”

  “Don’t think so. What’s it matter? Jason was here wi’ me the whole time.”

  Oddie merely raised his eyebrows. He would soon make it clear, if necessary, how much it mattered.

  “So you went to bed—when?”

  “About half past ten.”

  “Right. And you slept until you were woken up by one of our policemen?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then you went to find and tell your sister June.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How long did that take?”

  “We went to Carrock on Jason’s motorbike his mother give him for his eighteenth, lucky git.”

  “How long did it take you to find her?”

  “We never did.”

  “So you went on to Burtle and did your spray job?”

  “That’s right. Back here and got the spray gun, then out and done it. Bet that set people talking.”

  His tongue flicked round his lips in pleasure.

  “Where had your sister June been that night?”

  “I dunno, do I?”

  “You didn’t ask her?”

  “I ain’t seen her, have I?”

  “What?” The truth struck Oddie suddenly. “You mean she doesn’t know about the fire, about her father’s death?”

  “I dunno. Not as far as I know.”

  Oddie swore, and turned to Sergeant Stokes.

  “We’ve been bloody fools. Get on to HQ. I want her found, told, and questioned. How could we have forgotten her?” Stokes got up, but they were interrupted by a knock at the door. Jason Mattingley had been lurking in the background during Kevin’s questioning, and now he went to open the door. Detective Constable Bramley came in and leaned over to whisper in Oddie’s ear.

  “There’s been a can of petrol in the shed round the back. You can see the outline on the floor, and there are recent spillages that still smell strongly. It’s been got rid of.”

  Oddie sat back in his chair. The room was very quiet. He was being watched by the two boys, who nevertheless were quiet, tense. They had tried to stage this meeting, and it had not worked. He looked at Kevin, sitting on the other side of the table. . . . Why in their staging had Kevin sat at table?

  Because on the sofa, in the armchairs, he would be too exposed—was that it? What was he trying to hide?

  An idea struck him.

  “Let me see your hands.”

  “What?”

  “I want to see your hands.”

  Slowly, his lips tightened, Kevin drew up his hands from their position under the table. The right hand was puffy, shiny, unnaturally red. At some time, though not recently, Oddie felt sure that that right hand had been badly burned.

  “So that’s what you’ve been trying to hide.”

  “I never tried to hide it. I went to Pickering with it.”

  “I’m going to have to ask you to come with us—” he began. But only began. Now Kevin had done with playacting and restraint, and he launched himself on them, abetted by his mate, with a vicious frenzy that made Oddie grateful for his foresight in bringing two other men with him.

  It was good to have them behind bars. Both of them behind bars, and separately. Magistrates always took a serious view of assaults on police officers. When they were both on remand he could probably get Jason Mattingley holed up in Apsely Jail with a sympathetic old lag who would give him good advice about shopping a mate who was obviously nothing but bad news.

  Even without Jason’s help Oddie thought he would be a match for Kevin Phelan, but with Jason he could nail him much more quickly.

  When the formalities were over, and with his ears ringing with a more concentrated dose of obscenities than even he could remember, Oddie went to his office and found a message waiting for him from the Sleate Infirmary: Mrs. Phelan was through the worst and could be interviewed, though the session would have to be brief and not confrontational. Good. Just the thing, to let Kevin Phelan cool his heels alone for a few hours. He put Sergeant Stokes in charge of the search for June Phelan. “That was a bad mistake we made,” he said, “assuming Kevin had got in touch with her. Concentrate on Carrock, then on any of the other red light districts.”

  Just before setting off an idea hit him. He phoned through to the Chief Superintendent for authorization to use a member of uniformed branch, then got a message through to Malcolm Cray, who was on the beat in the University area to meet him outside the Sleate Infirmary. Having her rescuer in on the interview might help soften Mrs. Phelan’s view of the police. Well, it might. It was worth trying. Oddie was not too hopeful.

  The Infirmary was a warren writ large, a squat pile which had been built in Victorian times and had expanded to meet needs with little regard for architectural niceties, and precious little for convenience either. The corridors were pretty much the same as they had been when Tom Makepeace wheeled patients from the wards to the operating theatres or the mortuary—indeed, they were pretty much as they had been when the old queen was on the throne. Bright new equipment that could do everything except abolish death stood in solid, shabby rooms which told of a Victorian propensity to do good, and to feel good about doing it. Colored lines on the floor in the corridors led you to where you wanted to go, supposing you were in on the secret of the colors. Oddie and Malcolm Cray lost their way twice before they found themselves outside Mary Phelan’s room—a single-bed ward, with intensive care. Two nurses, one brown and one white, were fiddling with a collection of bowls and unpleasant-looking probing instruments on a trolley outside the door.

  “I’ve come to talk to Mrs. Phelan,” said Oddie in a low voice. “I’m a police officer—it’s been arranged.”

  One of the nurses nodded and pointed to the door.

  “How is she mentally?” asked Oddie. The two looked at each other and suppressed giggles.

  “It’s difficult to say,” said the white one.

  “You’ll see,” said the
other, and they wheeled their trolley away down the corridor, talking in a whisper and giggling.

  Mike Oddie raised his eyebrows at Cray and walked in.

  Mary Phelan’s room was in half light, but her heavy figure could be made out on the bed, more rock than jelly. She was wearing a hospital nightdress, but nothing could have softened the square shoulders, the breasts like boulders on the Icelandic tundra. She was gazing ahead of her—not blankly, but with a kind of purposiveness that did not include her visitors. She made no acknowledgment of their arrival beyond a glance at them as they came through the door.

  “Mrs. Phelan? I’m Superintendent Oddie and this is P. C. Cray. You’ll know him, of course—your neighbor. It was P. C. Cray who got you out the other night.”

  He waited. Several seconds of silence.

  “Oh, yes?”

  He waited again. She added no thanks. Malcolm Cray thought: They’re not in her repertoire either. The two men sat down on either side of the bed. Mary Phelan continued to look straight ahead.

  “Mrs. Phelan, you probably know that we think the fire was started deliberately. Tell me, do you have a clear memory of the evening before the fire?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you tell me what happened?”

  She had obviously realized she was going to be questioned, was used to police questioning. She spoke in short bursts, as if she had other, more important things on her mind.

  “Jack was down the King. Kids went to bed about half past nine. I went down to have a light ale with Jack. Come back about quarter past ten. Went straight to bed.”

  “And you don’t remember anything after that?”

  “No.”

  “Did your husband come home with you?”

  “No. Mean bugger—he’d only buy me one. Stayed on to have a last one himself.”

  “Did you hear him come in?”

  “No. I was right off. Knew he’d stay downstairs anyway, front of the telly.”

  “You say your husband wouldn’t buy you a second drink, Mrs. Phelan. But he did, in fact, have plenty of money, didn’t he?”

  Something happened on her face that was not a smile, more like the slow cracking of the rockface.