Laughing Boy

by Stuart Pawson

  “This is Acting Chief Inspector Charlie Priest, speaking from England,” I told her. “Could you possibly put me through to Agent Mike Kaprowski, please?”

  She checked the name with me, consulted her lists and made the connection. Got him first time, surely a world record. “Charlie!” he boomed in my ear. “How’re ya doin? Don’t tell me – you’re comin’ over.”

  “I’m fine, Mike,” I told him, “but far too busy for a holiday.” We joshed with each other like old pals, which felt completely natural even though our friendship was based solely on a few telephone calls. It was impossible not to compare the ease with which I talked with him against the stiffness of my conversations with Natrass and Martin. After a couple of minutes on generalities I told him about the murders.

  “Four, possibly seven, you reckon?” he said.

  “That’s right. He’s written to us twice to confirm he’s the killer, but nothing very enlightening. However, he quotes from old song lyrics, and we’ve traced them to someone called Tim Roper. Ever heard of him?”

  “Tim Roper? New one on me, Charlie. What era are we talking about?”

  “Ours, Mike. Roper was born in 1944 and died of gunshot wounds in 1969. In California. He was under investigation for un-American activities and rumour is that the CIA killed him, so there’s a good chance you have a file on him.”

  “Charlie,” he interjected, “we’ve got a file on the Partridge Family. Jee-sus, we’ve got a file on Billy Graham. They were heady times, back then.”

  “I’d appreciate anything you can find for me.” We exchanged email addresses and then I spent five minutes assuring him that England wasn’t sinking under a mountain of rotting animal carcasses and that the average citizen wouldn’t know anything about foot-and-mouth and BSE if it wasn’t for the sensationalist newspapers. It was a lie, but it helped redress the balance.

  At home I poured a can of Sam Smith’s into my best pint glass and put on the Tim Roper tape:

  She’s eighteen an’ he’s forty-four

  His gown is hangin’ at the back o’ the door

  He peels a bill from the wad on his hip

  Who is the judge an’ who is the whore?

  You’re at the bottom an’ he’s at the top

  He’ll take his cut an’ he’ll never stop

  The only thing he won’t take is lip

  Who is the thief an’ who is the cop?

  Another deal is going down

  Just sign a cheque to buy renown

  To those who have it shall be given

  ’Cos all is well in Tinsel Town.

  So much for the American Dream, I thought, but at least no one had ever called Tim Roper the New Dylan. I went to bed early and thought about Annette in the hope that I’d dream about her, but it didn’t work. It never does.

  “Suspects,” the assistant chief constable said. “Do we have any suspects?”

  Mr Wood’s secretary came in carrying a tray with three coffees on it, giving me a few precious seconds to think of a number. I saw Gilbert glance towards his drawer where he keeps the chocolate digestives, but he decided that this was not the time.

  As the door closed behind her I said: “We have a list of one hundred and four possibles, namely resulting from vehicle sightings and comparison with lists of known offenders. Unfortunately psychiatric evidence says that our man is a first timer, so he could be totally unknown to us. At the moment I have two officers studying video tapes of the last victim’s usual territory, and hopefully they’ll find something.”

  “Hopefully’s not good enough, Charlie. We need something more positive than that.”

  “I’m open to suggestions,” I said.

  The ACC flung a copy of the Gazette on Gilbert’s desk. The headline read: Latest Victim Named, and the page was divided into two linked stories. One was about Norma Holborn and her bleak life, the other was an assertion from Madame LeStrang that she could help find the killer. “What about her?” he demanded. “What have you done about her?”

  “Madame LeStrang?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s complete bloody balderdash, that’s why not.”

  Gilbert said: “Charlie…” and reached a restraining hand towards me. The ACC, his face white, tapped his fingertips together several times, composing his argument.

  “My wife,” he began, “once attended a seminar held by Madame LeStrang. She heard things there, things about herself, that were beyond belief. Personal things that Madame LeStrang could not possibly have known about. There are stranger things in heaven and earth, Charlie, than you or I ever dreamed of.”

  “She’s a clever lady, Sir,” I said. “That I’ve never doubted, but she does not have supernatural powers.”

  “Give her a try, eh. We’ve nothing to lose, have we?”

  Only our marbles, I thought. “Right, Sir,” I said, rising to my feet. “Is that everything?”

  “No. Sit down, please.”

  I sat down.

  “There’s been a lot in the papers lately about institutionalised racism in the service,” he said.

  “Resulting from the Macpherson report,” I replied.

  “That’s right. And the situation is tense in Heckley, I hear. This case involving the young man stabbed by the gang of Pakistanis hasn’t helped. It isn’t enough to be fair, Charlie, we’ve got to be seen to be fair, applying the law without fear or favour. Know what I mean?”

  “No.”

  Gilbert rolled his eyes and looked away.

  “What I mean, Charlie, is this: any form of racism will not be tolerated, and anyone who doesn’t like it can get out.”

  I said: “That’s exactly my attitude, Sir.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, but it works both ways, y’know. I want this stabbing case cleared up, no matter what the outcome. Black offences against white are just as intolerable as white on black.”

  “We tend to just regard them as offences, Sir,” I replied.

  “Good. Good. So let’s have some results, eh?”

  I unwound slowly from the chair, in case he told me to sit down again, but he didn’t. I turned to go, then turned back to face him. “There’s this group in Heckley,” I began. “Fascists. Nazis. Call them what you will. Their sworn aim is to deport all the Blacks, all the Asians and, believe it or not, all the plumbers.”

  He looked at me, puzzled. “Plumbers, did you say?”

  “That’s right. Plumbers.”

  “Why on earth do they want to deport all the plumbers?”

  “No idea,” I replied, shaking my head and turning towards the door again. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Gilbert bury his face in his hands.

  Nigel Newley was sitting in the main office, with one or two of the others. He was wearing a pair of lightweight headphones plugged into a Walkman and had a silly grin on his face.

  Dave looked at me and said: “Blimey, you look grim. I take it he wasn’t handing out medals.”

  “No,” I replied. “I think I’ve just had a bollocking. He wants an arrest, soon, and he wants the Paul Usher stabbing clearing up – without fear or favour.”

  “I’ve offered to sort it,” Dave replied.

  I thought about things for a few seconds, then asked: “If his wife withdrew her statement how would she explain it to him?”

  “She’s a resourceful girl,” he told me. “She’d think of something, and according to Jeff he’s scared stiff of her family so he wouldn’t dare lay a finger on her.”

  “It sounds as if you’ve already discussed it.”

  “Um, maybe.”

  “No comebacks?”

  “None at all.”

  “OK, when you get the time, but don’t do anything silly.” I turned to Nigel and shouted in his face: “What are you listening to!”

  He pulled the headphones off with a grimace and poked a finger in an ear. “This,” he replied, shoving an empty cassette case
towards me. It was from the Tim Roper tape.

  “I thought you were more into string quartets,” I told him.

  “Baroque. It’s just this one track, it brings back memories.”

  “You mean – you’ve heard one? Nobody else has. Which is it?”

  He rewound the tape and transferred the cassette to the portable stereo on Pete Goodfellow’s desk. “This one,” he replied. “We had an American teacher for a year and she taught us this. She was over on an exchange, or something. A Fulbright, perhaps. Platinum blonde, looked like something out of Baywatch. We had to stand up and do all the actions. I think that was the first time I fell in love.”

  “How old were you?” Pete asked.

  “Thirty-three,” Dave interjected.

  “Six or seven,” Nigel told him. He pressed the button and the combined voices of Tim’s band, The LHO, filled the room:

  One two, buckle my shoe

  Uncle Joe is stuck in the glue

  Two three, he’ll never get free

  As long as he sits there in that tree

  Call the fireman, call the vet

  Call the doctor but not just yet.

  “C’mon then, Nigel,” I urged, “let’s see the actions.” He blushed and shook his head.

  Three four, lock the door

  Sister Mary just ate the floor

  Four five, saints alive!

  Sister Mary is learning to jive

  Dave jumped up and started twisting, standing on one leg, fists pumping to the beat. Pete clapped his hands in time with him.

  Five six, take big licks

  Uncle Joe is practising tricks

  Seven eight, cats in a crate

  He’ll make them vanish if you can wait

  Some are dancers and some play ball

  And all the others are much too tall.

  Eight nine, fish in a line

  Each one dressed in a coat so fine

  Nine ten, I’ll tell you when

  You can bring your apricot hen

  Come on an elephant, ride on a donkey

  Come in a buggy with a wheel that’s wonky.

  None of us was quite sure at which point the ACC came into the office. I saw Pete’s eyes going round like a fruit machine and twisted in my seat to look behind me. Nigel clicked the off button and Dave sat down again, colour rising from under his collar. Maggie had been watching and listening with amused tolerance. “That’s not listed as Tim and The LHO,” she said, still unaware of the presence of God’s first lieutenant, “but it sounds like them. It’s called ‘Theo’s Tune’ on the album and credited to Blue Coyote, whoever they are.”

  “Hello, Mr Pritchard,” I said, too loudly, rising to my feet. “This is the music that we think inspires the killer. The letters he’s written to us contain quotes from it. Maybe there’s something in there that will lead us to him. We’re just familiarising ourselves with the lyrics.”

  “Right,” he said. “Right. I’m a James Last man, myself. You can’t beat a good melody, I always say. I thought I’d pop in to say how much we appreciate all the hard work you’re all putting in during these difficult times. I know it’s not easy and family life suffers, but we wouldn’t have joined the force if we thought it would be easy, would we? So good luck, and let’s hope we soon have a change in fortune.”

  Everybody mumbled a thank you and I saw him out of the door. When I rejoined them Pete said: “Shit.”

  “Sorry, Chas,” Dave added.

  “He’ll get over it,” I said. “So where were we?”

  Pete looked at Nigel, asking: “Did Miss Texas 1949 tell you who played it, Nigel? We had a teacher in junior school, Miss Kesteven, who used to bring records in, but nothing like that. It was stuff like The Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra, or Peter and the Wolf. She was nice, Miss Kesteven, used to come and sit next to me when we did…”

  “Yes, Peter,” Maggie interrupted. “We’re talking about the case, not regressing into childhood, and we’d rather not know what you and Miss Kesteven got up to.”

  Nigel shook his head. “No, she never said who it was by.”

  “It’s a bit different to all the others,” I said. “Catchy. It’s a children’s tune. Maybe they released it under another name because they thought it would destroy their credibility.”

  “Like Paul McCartney and ‘Mull of Kintyre’,” Pete suggested.

  “Something like that.”

  I saw the latest copy of the Gazette on a nearby desk so I retrieved it and spread it in front of Pete. “We’ve got to consult her,” I said, tapping the photograph of Julia LeStrang, resplendent in a flowing cloak and enough gold ornamentation to plate an aircraft carrier. “It’s a major new initiative inspired by the ACC’s wife.”

  “You’re joking!” was their collective response.

  “’Fraid not. Drop her a line, please, Pete, from the ACC’s office. Make a list of precise map references of the places where the bodies of our victims were found and say that you hope this will be useful. It might keep her quiet for a day or two. Apologise for being unable to supply any belongings of the deceased’s because they are all held under our connected property rules, then slam it to HQ for him to sign.”

  “If you say so,” Pete replied.

  “I do.” Turning to Dave and Maggie I said: “OK, now tell me all about the breakthroughs you’ve had from the videos. How many white pickups have you seen?”

  Checking the tapes from the CCTV cameras was a tedious job. There were thirty hours of them, taken in the Manningham area on the night of Norma’s death. Maggie and Dave had watched about a quarter, fast forwarding through the blank bits, stopping to make a note of every vehicle or person who wandered into focus. All the descriptions and any registration numbers would go into the computer and we’d finish with a list that included punters and local people, possible suspects and the totally innocent, with equal conviction. So far they hadn’t seen any white pickups and there’d been no sign of Norma.

  I drove over to the posh side of town, where Graham Allen’s parents retreated when the tourists became intolerable on the Costa. They weren’t home, as I expected, so I had a good look round the outside of the house.

  The magnolia in the conservatory was wilting and the lawn needed cutting. A bricked-off area near the fence marked the place where the famous barbecues were held, although there wasn’t a trace of ash or smoke staining. No doubt the contraption itself was one of those great hibatchi things with gas bottles and variable settings – an Aga on wheels – and would be parked securely in the garage. I was just nosey-parkering, not looking for anything in particular, wondering how the other half lived.

  When I’d seen enough I moved next door. I gave a single push of the doorbell then wandered down the side of the house and round the back. There was a double garage and the stripes on the lawn were even more distinct than when I’d last seen them. I’d love a double garage. I peered through the window and saw his car standing there. It was a blue Rover 75. Between me and it, in the space designed for number two car, were all those things that accumulate in the best regulated households: step ladders, wheelbarrow, an old bookcase that was too good for the dump and several plastic boxes filled with magazines. Under the window was a chest freezer and by shielding my eyes with my hand I could just make out the lawnmower alongside it, the handles pointing towards me. One had a chrome lever that probably operated the throttle, and the pull-cord for starting the engine terminated on the other in a yellow grip, moulded to fit the fingers.

  Behind the garage was a solid-looking shed that I hadn’t noticed on my previous visit. It was about ten by eight, in the natural colour of the wood, and I suspected I’d seen similar ones advertised in the colour supplements. I was heading towards it when a voice said: “Where do you think you’re going?” in an accusatory tone.

  He had a black eye and a plaster across his nose, but I managed to keep a straight face. “Hello Mr Ferriby,” I said. “I was looking for you. DI Priest, Heckley CID. We h
ave met before. I tried the doorbell several times and wondered if you were out here.” I nodded towards the shed, which I now recognised as being intended to contain a Swedish sauna. “Is that where you keep your fish?”

  “Yeth,” he replied. “DI Prietht, did you thay?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You came about that thad buthineth with Colinette, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, and I’d like to ask you one or two more questions, if you don’t mind. I heard about the assault on you by Graham.”

  “Ith he thtill in jail?”

  “No, the magistrate will have bailed him, this morning.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Don’t worry, he won’t be back. What sort of fish do you keep?”

  “Dithcuth.”

  “Discus?”

  “Yeth. Do you want to thee them?”

  “I’d love to.”

  He unhooked a bunch of keys from his belt and led the way to the shed. I stooped as he held the door open for me and stepped straight into a different world. The only light was from the tanks, and the room was filled with the sounds of air and water, as if we were on a scuba dive. The fish were deep-bodied, almost circular, coloured in muted shades of lilac, green and pink. They cruised with a lordly air, serene and sedate, turning at the end of their beat to do it all again, as if showing off at a stately ball for the benefit of prospective suitors.

  There was one comfortable chair, facing the aquaria that covered one wall of the shed. I sat down and felt instantly at peace, more so than I’ve ever felt in a church. “This is wonderful,” I said. “It should be available on the National Health. Do you ever take photographs of them?”

  “Thometimeth,” he replied.

  “I’m told you’re a keen photographer.”

  “I jutht dabble a bit.”

  “Mrs Jones gave us a video tape that you’d taken of Colinette at a barbecue. It was very useful but we were wondering if you had any more.” I turned to look up at him, but in the light cast by the tanks it wasn’t possible to judge his expression.

  “No,” he replied. “I juth took that bit.”