A Very Private Murder

by Stuart Pawson

  Jeff’s interview with Sean was a carbon copy of mine with Carl. ‘They both have extensive but relatively minor criminal records,’ he told us. ‘Calling them career criminals is probably not an exaggeration. They’ve had plenty of experience at talking to the police and they are forensically aware enough to keep a firm divide between their home life and the criminal side. Somewhere, I suspect there’s a lock-up garage filled with all their robbery gear and proceeds. We need to find it.’

  After a few questions I moved on. ‘The Curzon Centre incident,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a word with the chief constable, who just happens to be a mate of mine from the old days. In fact, I taught him all he knows …’

  ‘What did you do in the afternoon?’ somebody interrupted.

  ‘Um, well, let’s just say we’ve been firm friends ever since. As I was saying, I’ve had a word with the CC and he’s content to wind down the investigation to find the graffiti artist. The press have had other stories to bother about and they’ve given us a relatively easy life, for which we should be grateful. The Curzons aren’t bothered. It was just a minor embarrassment to them. However, it would be nice to find out who did it, and how, don’t you think?’

  Their response suggested that they didn’t give a flying fart, but I persisted. ‘Brendan,’ I said. ‘Give us an update, leaving out anything about grassy knolls and book depositories.’

  ‘Right, boss. We’ve seized … well, not seized … borrowed is probably more accurate … nearly a hundred photographs taken by the onlookers when the incident occurred. So far we’ve identified about twenty per cent of the people in the background. Only one attracts any attention.’ He pulled an A4 printout from the pile in his briefcase and passed it towards me.

  It showed Ghislaine out of focus in the foreground, her head turning away from the camera, and a smiling youth beyond her, his mouth open, as if speaking. ‘Go on, Brendan,’ I said, handing the photo to Maggie.

  ‘The woman who took the photo said there was a brief exchange between the two of them. She thought he said “Where’s Kevin?” and Miss Curzon said “He couldn’t come”, or something similar.’

  ‘Hmm. Any ideas who Kevin might be?’

  ‘Yes, boss. Apparently Miss Curzon and the prince have code names for each other. Let’s face it, everybody from GCHQ and MI6 down is trying to tap into their phone calls. She always calls him Kevin. One of the tabloids had spilt the beans a couple of days earlier.’

  ‘What does he call her?’

  ‘Sorry. Don’t know.’

  ‘It sounds harmless but he might be a stalker. Let’s have him in. Anything else?’

  ‘More CCTV stills of the culprit, that’s all. We know his movements but they don’t help much.’

  ‘Right. Show me them later. Keep on it but don’t spend any money. Is that everything? If so, off you go.’

  One of the DCs raised a finger to attract my attention. ‘Just one thing, boss,’ he said. ‘The SmartWater kits have started to arrive. I’ve one here.’ He held up a small Ziplok bag and I gestured for him to toss it to me. It wasn’t as big as I expected, consisting of a tube of the magic liquid about the size of a fountain pen and a few stickers for windows, to frighten off would-be burglars.

  ‘How many do we have?’ I asked.

  ‘We’ve ten thousand on order, of which about a thousand are downstairs.’

  ‘How have other forces handled it?’ I asked.

  ‘I think the idea is to give it to vulnerable people – those who are burgled regularly – and the rest are on sale. We’ve had a few thou orders, at ten pounds a time, so we’ll have to fill those first.’

  ‘Tell us how it works, please.’

  ‘OK. It’s a bit like those marker pens that glowed under UV, except every kit has a unique DNA code, which is registered to a particular address. The liquid is put on any valuable items, or round windows, et cetera, and it stays there for years. If a villain handles the item, some of the liquid residue is transferred to him and can easily be seen under UV light and linked to the address that applied it.

  ‘Doesn’t it wash off?’

  ‘Not very easily.’

  Someone said: ‘It’s a pity the houses robbed by the pit bull gang weren’t treated with it.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘Thanks for that. I’ll have a word with Mr Adey about some help distributing it.’ Gareth Adey is my uniformed counterpart.

  ‘Like, them doing it.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. The important thing is that it isn’t left under the front desk gathering dust for evermore. So go to it, my fine young cannibals, and catch us some crooks.’

  Dave followed me into my office and sat down in the spare chair. ‘How was the trip to East Yorkshire?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine,’ I replied. ‘Just fine.’

  ‘Will you be going again, this week?’

  ‘No. Why should I be?’

  ‘I just wondered.’

  ‘I went for the walking. It’s a nice place.’

  ‘Oh. So you didn’t see Miss Curzon at all?’

  ‘Well, actually, now you come to mention it, I did happen to bump into her, but it wasn’t intentional.’

  ‘And you were on holiday.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘As was Threadneedle.’

  ‘So he was.’

  ‘And Miss McArdle.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I agreed. ‘That’s interesting. I wonder where she went.’

  Serena poked her head around my door, saying: ‘Guess what.’

  ‘The Pope’s been done for OPL?’ Dave suggested. ‘He’d been hitting the green chartreuse a bit hard and ran a few friends home in the Popemobile after midnight mass.’

  ‘Not quite. Miss Audrey Pickles, aka Monique, has a record for soliciting, with a short custodial for non-payment of fines.’

  I shook my head. ‘Monique! The desirable Audrey Pickles sounds to have hidden depths.’ I turned to Dave. ‘We suspected that she was probably having it away with her half-brothers or brothers – or whatever they are.’

  ‘Keep it in the family, Serena,’ he said. ‘An old Yorkshire tradition,’ and she tutted and rolled those big brown eyes.

  ‘I’m taking Dave to interview Terence Bratt,’ I told her. ‘He’s an expert with dogs, aren’t you, sunshine?’

  ‘Love ’em,’ he replied, unconvincingly.

  We didn’t take a gun, or the high-pitched whistle device, relying on the hound being chained up or silly soft or something. Dave and I used to be in the same football team, and I could run faster than he could, but I didn’t remind him of that.

  Terence Bratt lived in a one-up one-down back-to-back terrace in a part of town that is awaiting redevelopment. Knock three or four of them into one and you have a reasonable starting point for a desirable family town residence, providing the roof doesn’t cave in. They were built a century ago, for the millworkers who lived like rats in the maze of streets that once clung to the hillsides. Now there’s only a token few left alongside a cobbled street, like museum pieces. Bratt had lived there since the age of sixteen, when social services found and furnished it for him, to rescue him from an abusive father. All his neighbours are Asian. The Asians killed the industry with cheap imports, then moved in to fill the vacuum.

  ‘I’m Detective Constable Sparkington and this is Detective Inspector Priest,’ Dave began. ‘We have reason to believe you are in possession of a dangerous dog, namely a pit bull terrier, and may be in contravention of the Dangerous Dogs Act of 1991. Mind if we come in?’

  ‘Er, yeah,’ he replied. ‘It’s a pit bull cross. I always keep ’im on a chain and muzzled when we go out.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ I asked.

  ‘Down in the cellar. That’s where I keep ’im. Must be fast asleep or he’d be barking ’is ’ead off.’

  ‘What’s he called?’

  ‘Bruno.’

  ‘Can we come in?’

  I’ve seen worse flats lived in by the brightest and best that the educatio
n system throws up, so I was mildly surprised by Bratt’s downstairs room. The difference, I thought, was that he was a long-term tenant, not just passing through. He sat on the settee, which he’d recently vacated if the copy of the People strewn across it was anything to go by, and Dave and I made ourselves comfortable on hard chairs that didn’t match. There was a faint odour of dog and cannabis in the room.

  ‘Do you have a job?’ I asked.

  ‘Not properly,’ he replied. ‘Barman at the Lamb … the Lamb and Flag. Three nights, that’s all.’

  ‘The Lamb and Flag,’ I echoed. ‘You may be able to help us there. Have you ever come across Andy? He drinks in the Lamb, we’re told.’

  ‘No. Never heard of ’im.’

  ‘He deals in the occasional motor, if that helps.’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Do you draw benefits?’ Dave asked.

  Bratt coloured up and stared down at his knees. ‘Yeah, some. Is that what it’s all about?’

  ‘No, we’re not interested in your benefits. We’re here about the dog. Where was it at about six o’clock on Saturday evening?’

  ‘With me, I think. Yeah, with me.’

  ‘What were your movements?’

  He’d driven over to the Sylvan Fields to see his Uncle Carl and taken Bruno along for the ride.

  ‘So who can corroborate that you were there?’

  ‘Audrey can.’

  ‘What relation is Audrey?’

  ‘Sean’s half-sister.’

  ‘And Sean is …?’

  ‘Carl’s half-brother.’

  I grinned at him, asking: ‘Can you do us a chart with all these on?’

  He grinned back. ‘Blame Sean and Carl’s mother. She has seven kids from six different dads, including one set of twins.’

  ‘Do you bother with birthdays?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So did you come straight home or did you stay?’

  ‘I stayed. She was … you know … upset.’

  Yeah, I thought. Upset like the crew of Apollo 13 were when the ’chutes opened. So the caring Mr Bratt stayed to comfort her.

  Dave said: ‘Is Bruno difficult to handle? Could anyone handle him?’

  ‘No. Just me. They’re OK, dogs like ’im, but you can’t trust ’im. You’ve got to let them know who’s t’boss.’

  ‘Why do you keep him?’

  ‘Protection. Nobody’s touched my car since I got Bruno. And he’s a good pet. I like dogs. You knowwhere you are with them.’

  ‘And you don’t with people?’

  ‘No.’

  Dave said: ‘Do you ever lend him out?’

  He looked puzzled, then said: ‘No, never.’

  ‘Not even to your Uncle Carl?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Could he handle him?’

  ‘No. Well, only on a lead and muzzled.’

  I wondered if it was the dog that wore the muzzle or Uncle Carl. I said: ‘So Bruno only goes out with you?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He looked awkward as he said it.

  I turned to Dave, who pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. ‘Where were you on the morning of last Tuesday? That’s the fifteenth, if it helps.’

  He shuffled his feet and hunched his shoulders. ‘No idea. Nowhere special.’

  ‘Try harder.’

  ‘In bed, I s’pose. I don’t get up until about ten on a Tuesday. I’m normally still a bit hung over.’

  ‘What about Thursday third of May?’

  ‘No idea. Well, here, I s’pose. I never go anywhere except to Uncle Carl’s and the Lamb. Walk in the park, sometimes, that’s all.’

  Dave read out two more dates and got the same response each time. Terence Bratt’s world didn’t stretch beyond visits to the pub, a quiet joint and the occasional rumpty-tump with his uncle’s stepbrother’s half-sister, or something.

  ‘Is Bruno microchipped?’ I asked and was rewarded with a shake of the head. He’d grown paler and his eyes had glassed over. If he hadn’t recognised it at first he was beginning to realise that this wasn’t about his dog licence or his benefits; it was about the robberies. ‘So you won’t mind if DC Sparkington takes a few specimens of dog hair from your rug, just for elimination purposes?’

  He shook his head again and Dave squatted on his heels to collect some samples. We had a quick look upstairs, with his permission, and drove back to the nick via the sandwich shop.

  Maggie had left me a note.

  Boss. I was looking down the lists of employees and contractors’ staff for the Curzon Centre to see if any name jumped out at me and I noticed that the shopfitters’ list ended with an unnamed student. I rang them and their human resources told me that he’s called Oscar Sidebottom and he’s Carol McArdle’s son, working weekends and holidays with them on job placement from college. Just thought you’d like to know. Maggie.

  I read it twice and passed it to Dave. ‘Poor sod,’ he said and gave it back to me.

  ‘Do you fancy having these in the square?’ I asked, holding up the sandwiches, ‘watching the girls, catching some sunshine?’

  ‘What a good idea,’ he replied, pulling his jacket back on.

  Dave bagged a seat while I fetched two large espressos from Starbucks. Several young women strolled past in various degrees of undress, mobile phones clamped to ear, and the inevitable pigeons came waddling by, looking for crumbs. Two teenagers eyed the end of our seat, then gave Dave and me the once-over before deciding they didn’t want to share it with two old fogies. I watched them retreat, midriffs bulging over jeans cut so low you could have parked a pair of unicycles in their bum cracks.

  ‘I think I’m growing old,’ I stated.

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘Whatever happened to sex appeal?’

  ‘Audrey Hepburn.’

  ‘Kim Novak.’

  ‘Eunice Williamson.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Eunice Williamson. Her parents owned the chippy on Silver Street. She used to serve in there when they were busy. The sweat used to come through her T-shirt in all sorts of interesting places.’

  ‘How do you know it was sweat? It might have been chip fat.’

  ‘You spoil everything. You know what your trouble is, don’t you?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘You’ve been moving in higher circles lately. Too high.’

  ‘Could be,’ I admitted.

  ‘So how far are we going to take it?’

  ‘Not much further. I’ll go see Threadneedle again, to tell him we’re winding the investigation down, but really just to … um … needle him.’

  ‘He might cotton on.’

  ‘Shush, or I’ll lose the thread. I’ll go over to make mischief, that’s all. And I wouldn’t mind knowing if Miss McArdle went away with him. That’s about it. Should be fun – I’ll enjoy it. Then we can … um … sew it up – no further action, not in the public’s interest.’ I looked at my watch. ‘The Pickles boys will be enjoying their third or fourth pints, about now, so we can concentrate on them. I’d say some surveillance was called for.’

  I’d eaten my sandwich and my coffee was just about cool enough to drink, so I took a precautionary sip. It tasted good. I was having a longer drink when Dave’s mobile burst into life. His son Danny is a wizard with all things electronic and he gives his father a different ringtone nearly every week. This week it was ‘Ride of the Valkyries’. Dave fumbled with the phone, which was almost lost in his big hands.

  ‘Front desk,’ he told me, with a flick of his eyes in my direction. He put the instrument to his ear, saying: ‘Mr Sparkington is at lunch. Please call again after three p.m.’ After a silence he glanced at me again. ‘Yes, he’s here. We’re over the road, keeping observation in the square.’ He listened for a while then emitted a long Jeeez.

  ‘OK, we’ll be back in a minute. Out.’

  He folded the phone and slowly returned it to his pocket. ‘Forget interviewing Threadneedle again,’ he said. ‘Someone’s
blown his brains out.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Serena was in the office. ‘Right person in the right place,’ I told her. ‘I have a job for you and it’s very important that you do it before the weather changes. Today if possible. I’ll try to find someone to go with you. Come and listen while I make this phone call, then I don’t have to repeat myself.’ I dialled a number from memory.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Serena asked.

  ‘Scene of crime.’ When I’d finished the conversation I dialled again. ‘It’s Charlie, Gareth,’ I said. ‘Can you lend me somebody to do some detective work, please? It’s important.’

  He could. Serena said: ‘If I catch rabies I’ll sue.’

  ‘You’ll catch bigger fish than rabies,’ I told her, giving her arm a squeeze. ‘Do your best.’ Dave was hovering, itching to be off, a bag of paper suits and other detective stuff over his shoulder. Actually, we don’t carry much with us these days, because we have an expert for about everything. His eyes and his brains are the good detective’s tools of the trade. Together, Dave and I can just about hack it. I led the way, Dave followed.

  One of our pandas was parked outside the Threadneedle residence and another one turned into the cul-de-sac behind me. A Day-Glo orange Ford Focus stood on the drive, close to the door, with its boot lid raised.

  ‘Who made the call?’ I asked the driver of the first panda.

  ‘Lady of the house, sir.’

  I guessed it was her car. I’d taken a quick peep in the boot as I passed it and seen it was full of shopping. ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘Inside.’

  ‘Anybody with her?’

  His female partner was babysitting her, which was a relief. Having the number one suspect all alone in there wouldn’t have been good news. The PC had been told that the body was upstairs. He’d taken a perfunctory look and decided it was murder and radioed for help. I needed to confirm his diagnosis before sending for the cavalry.