“A Mondeo? My associates drive Saabs.”
Bagley nods at Matthews. He reads through the cue sheet before asking, “Did you know Carl Brock?”
“No, sir.”
“You have never met Carl Brock?”
“I’m in business. I meet many people. One of my interests is the Dynamite Club. This is a very popular entertainment centre as I’m sure you know.”
“So are you saying that you might have known Brock?”
“I might have known the Prince of Wales if he ever came to the Dynamite.”
“Did you know him or didn’t you?” Bagley cuts in.
Saunders, the grey suit beside McKenzie, is suddenly awake. “I think what my client is saying is that he meets a variety of people in the course of his work and, like any night club owner, he cannot possibly recall everyone who has been to his club. Because my client aims to be truthful, he cannot say categorically whether he has or hasn’t met a man by the name of Carl Brock.”
“But you’ve certainly been in his car. We have your prints,” Bagley says, a note of triumph in her voice.
McKenzie beams again. “So it’s prints in a car now. Last time it was DNA in a house. What’s coming next: needles in a haystack?”
“As your solicitor will tell you, we no longer believe that the trace we found at the Brock’s house is yours,” Bagley says. “We know the fingerprints found in the Ford Mondeo belong to you. We’ve had yours on file for some time.”
McKenzie and the solicitor signal to one another as if they’ve been waiting for this.
“My client informs me that his fingerprints were taken as a juvenile. His last conviction dates back to that time.”
“Last conviction, yes, but we’ve had a few get-togethers since then.”
“The police are stalking me, if that’s what you mean.”
“We have investigated you for burglary, common assault, living off immoral earnings, extortion, illegal gambling.” Bagley reads from her notes.
“And there’s never been a shred of evidence. I’m a businessman and I’m black. That automatically makes me a thug, a pimp and a drug dealer.”
Bagley adjusts her chair. It seems to be her turn to react to something she’s been expecting. Her response to McKenzie playing the race card is simply to ignore it. “I was coming to the drug dealing. We’ve reason to believe Carl Brock was murdered by a drug dealer.” She speaks with a conviction that surprises me. I thought the case was still wide open but Bagley makes it sound certain. Is she just saying it for McKenzie’s benefit?
“So not only must I be a dealer, why not fit me up for murder too.”
Bagley still doesn’t bite. She passes the baton to Matthews.
He reads out his next question. “Have you ever seen drugs at the Dynamite Club?”
McKenzie rests his hands behind his head. “Sure, I’ve seen drugs there.”
The solicitor loosens his tie, looking suddenly thinner and greyer. Bagley and Matthews exchange a glance. This admission is better than they expected.
McKenzie waits until their attention is back at him. “There’s a drawer in my desk, full of drugs: paracetamol, ibuprofen, vitamin tablets.” He lets out a series of short, hollow laughs as his solicitor sighs and the two police officers shuffle in their seats. “I’ve no time to stop for illness. I dose myself up and keep going. Don’t you ever need a little help like that?”
“Stop playing games and answer the question: have you seen illegal drug-taking at the Dynamite Club?” Bagley says, leaning forward.
McKenzie stares at her, tossing his head slowly from side to side.
“For the benefit of the tape, Mr McKenzie is shaking his head,” Matthews says. He puts down Bagley’s script and asks a question of his own. “What do you do about under-age drinkers at the Dynamite?”
“My staff ask them to leave.”
“So why were there two pupils from Swan Academy in your club yesterday morning?”
I catch my breath. Matthews recognized Kirsty Ewell from the 10B interviews all along. I feel grudging admiration.
“They must have looked older. I will remind my staff to check for proof of age. I run a respectable business.”
“If we discover school children on your premises again, we’ll have your licence …”
Before Matthews can finish, Bagley butts in, “We’re prepared to overlook this lapse, if you cooperate about Carl Brock.” She stares across at Matthews, prompting him to resume his scripted questions.
“Mr McKenzie, please explain how your prints came to be in Carl Brock’s car.”
McKenzie shrugs his shoulders and spreads his huge hands, palms upwards, on the table.
“For the benefit of the tape, Mr McKenzie is indicating that he doesn’t know. Come on, McKenzie.” Bagley’s almost spitting. “Your prints have been found all over the inside of Brock’s car. It was found right next to Brock’s dead body. Carl Brock was abducted by two men fitting your description. You’re in the frame.”
McKenzie turns his palms downwards and leans forward. Even through the speaker I pick up the menace in his voice. “Detective Inspector Bagley, do you know how many black men live in Penbury?”
Bagley doesn’t answer.
“I’ll make it easier for you. What about the whole of Brigghamshire?”
Bagley looks hastily at DS Matthews who says: “About five thousand.”
“Not bad, sergeant, you’re still in touch with your roots. Now Mr Saunders, tell the officers how many are subjected to their bully-boy stop and search tactics.”
The solicitor speaks as if reading from an encyclopedia entry. “Ethnic minorities in the county of Brigghamshire are exposed to police stop and searches at a rate of twenty per thousand population, compared with seven per thousand for white people.”
“So aren’t I just another black statistic for you?” McKenzie asks, triumphantly.
Bagley busies herself with her notes.
Matthews covers her indecision. “We have your prints. I think that you met Carl Brock in his car. He wanted to confront you about selling drugs to some of his pupils and you didn’t like it, so later you went to his home in the middle of the night with one of your henchmen.”
McKenzie laughs. “The big black demon kills the great white knight. Things are not always black and white, brother.” The full force of his menacing glare turns on Matthews.
“Tell us again where you were on Monday morning,” Bagley says, regaining her composure.
The solicitor jumps in. “As the murder occurred in the small hours, it is not surprising that Mr McKenzie was at home in bed at the time. His partner, Estelle Gittens, and her tenyearold son have confirmed this. The boy felt unwell in the night and went into their room, where Mr McKenzie helped to comfort him. As you know, Inspector, it is difficult to prove an alibi when someone is at home sleeping, but I think in this case it’s pretty watertight.”
“And our fingerprint evidence connecting your client to Carl Brock is water-tight. We can keep him here on those grounds alone.” Bagley leans back in her chair, folding her arms. The gesture seems smug even though I only have a back view.
“They link my client to the car, not to its owner,” Saunders says, with smugness of his own. “Fingerprints don’t have a date on them. Are you sure that Mr McKenzie wasn’t a guest of the previous owner? How long had Mr Brock owned the car?”
“Well, I …” Bagley turns to her sergeant. “DS Matthews?”
“I’ll make enquiries,” Matthews mumbles.
Bagley thumps her pen onto the table, clearly nothing in her notes to help her and at a loss to ad-lib. She addresses the solicitor as if he’s the only other person in the room. “Your client is free to leave for the moment, but rest assured our investigations into his activities will continue.”
“Of course,” McKenzie says. “I didn’t expect this latest incident of police incompetence to bring your harassment to an end.”
Chapter 17
Bartholomew Hedges
applies the last strokes of undercoat to the final window frame, savouring the sun’s warmth on his bare forearm. He climbs down the ladder, whistling along to an old Supremes’ song on the radio. The house owner offered him her portable before she went out. He knows it wasn’t an act of kindness. She was less than impressed when he turned up late again, but she must have thought there was more chance of his making up for lost time with music in the background. And, indeed, he is making swift progress. But is it because of the sound of the radio or the beat in his heart?
He woke early this morning, as he does every morning when the spiteful dawn streams into the bedroom. It began as a day like all the others, under the familiar, looming cloud that doesn’t so much hang over him as invade him. Sonia was lying wide awake, too, so he got straight out of bed to avoid having to speak to her.
Less than an hour later they were in the van with Saul, still not speaking, without an inkling of the mood change to come. When they got to Alderley Lodge, he silently handed Saul’s suitcase to the Scottish man in charge. He knew he was being weak and cowardly to let his poor wife comfort Saul and answer the man’s questions, but he didn’t have the courage to even look the man in the eye, let alone his son. He stared at the floor of the entrance hall, counting the lines of symmetry in the parquet as the Scottish man’s words washed over him: Long haul … steady progress … eventual positive outcome.
They returned home later than he expected, because it took the man some time to persuade Sonia to leave Saul. Back outside the flats, Sonia got out of the van but Bartholomew didn’t move. He felt odd – like an obese man who’d rapidly slimmed, or an invalid suddenly recovered – as if his body didn’t know how to lift itself now it had been stripped of its daily burden. As he watched Sonia walk away from the van, he noticed a change in her, too. Her gait was faster than of late, more confident, lighter. Then he realized. Hope. The minute speck, the seed, the grain of hope that Saul’s admittance brought them.
A voice on the radio cuts into his thoughts, “Time for one more golden oldie before the news. Anyone remember this one by The Drifters?”
Bartholomew resumes his whistling as he climbs the ladder to check the paintwork on the eaves. He taps it in a few places – touch-dry and ready for the topcoat. Parsonage Cream – the owners have excellent taste. A fine colour: elegant, traditional, Christian. Bartholomew’s enjoying his work.
It will be the first of many joyous working days. The spring in Sonia’s step will be the first of many happy strides. And Saul’s first day in Alderley Lodge will be the first on the road to his salvation.
Yes, all will be well. Bartholomew beseeched God and He listened. Bartholomew will throw himself wholeheartedly into his business; Hedges House Painting Services can claim back its reputation for excellence; with the profits he’ll replace the television for Sonia. Never again will she wear a face of greyness. And Saul – the old Saul, his real son – will come home.
“Good to hear that one again. Now here’s a reminder that after the news, John Castle, our gardening expert, will be here with tips on container gardening. So if you want wonderful window boxes or tantalizing tubs, give John a call on …”
Window boxes. Sonia hasn’t done anything with theirs this year. Her mind on other things, but perhaps now … He starts down the ladder. If he makes a few notes from the radio programme, he could help her. They’ll work on the flowers together.
“Now the news at noon on Radio Brigghamshire. Good afternoon. Police have issued more details of Sunday night’s Martle Top stabbing …”
Bartholomew picks his receipt book out of his toolbox to write on the back and roots through his brushes to find a pen. A small flurry of cloud drifts through his mind as he climbs back up to the roof. A murder in Penbury – such wickedness. It’s one of the mercies of no longer having a television; he and Sonia rarely hear such news.
“Police have named the victim as Carl Edward Brock, a teacher at Swan Academy …”
The receipt book slips from his hand. It flutters slowly through the air. He watches it spin to the ground as the leaden cloud wraps around him.
Chapter 18
DS Mike Matthews retreats to the general office. He groans inwardly when he sees DS Danny Johnson there too, pulling up a blind in front of an open window.
Johnson calls out of the window, waving an arm. “Come this way a bit, mate.” Tucked under the other arm is a pair of New Balance trainers. “You’re still too far over.”
Mike curbs his curiosity. He never speaks to Johnson unless he has to and now isn’t the time. The conversation would get round to the McKenzie interview. He’d rather leave it to Bagley to fill him in on that later, in the back of his sports car – as she surely will; everyone knows about the special favours DI Bagley gives DS Johnson.
Mike sits with his back to Johnson and busies himself with his briefcase. The sun floods in through the opened blind and hits his desk with its full intensity.
“Right, that will do. Now lie down,” Johnson shouts. He waves the trainers in his hand in a downward direction.
“On my back or my front?” The disembodied voice of DC Martin Connors wafts up to the window.
“On your side. Not like that; you’ve got to be able to keep still when she looks out.”
She? Mike takes his briefcase over to Darren Holtom’s empty chair. He brushes aside the empty plastic cups that litter the desk. He’s out of the sun here and facing Johnson. If he’s pulling a prank on Bagley, Mike wants a good view. She’ll eat Johnson alive afterwards, special favours suspended. Mike might even buy him a pint. Might.
“I’ve got them.” Darren Holtom bursts into the office and stops dead when he sees Mike in his chair. “Hi, sarge,” he mutters, his face approaching the same shade as his hair.
“Darren,” Mike says. The junior officer has nothing to fear on his account. It can be open season on DI Bagley for all he cares. Besides they’ll all be for a roasting when she finds out that Sergeant Johnson and two of her constables are still hanging around the station during a murder inquiry.
Holtom holds out a handful of plastic sachets to Johnson. “The canteen would only let me have four.”
“Some bloodbath then.” Johnson takes the sachets and chucks them out of the window. “Catch these, mate. She’ll be here in a minute.”
An uneasy thought creeps into Mike’s mind. Bagley won’t be there in a minute. She’s more than likely holed up in her office, sticking pins in his effigy. She won’t venture down the CID corridor again today.
Johnson throws more orders out of the window. “Smear two on your head and squirt the other two on the ground.”
“I don’t want ketchup in my hair, sarge.” Connors shouts back.
“Stop being a poof and get on with it,” Johnson yells. “Even she won’t fall for it otherwise.” He brings his head back into the room and instructs Holtom to stand guard by the office door.
Realization dawns. Bagley isn’t the target. Mike clenches his fists as he tries to crush his fury. Danny Johnson and his crass cruelty.
Holtom closes the office door and gives Johnson a thumbs-up sign.
Johnson takes the New Balances, soles upward, in each hand and bends over the windowsill. “Help! Somebody, help! I can’t hold him!”
His timing’s perfect. He looks back into the room just as his victim enters. “DC Adams, thank God you’re here. Quick, girl, I can’t hold him any longer. Help me pull him in … Oh, no. Oh, no!” He holds up the empty shoes and then crouches over in staged agony. “Oh, God. Don’t look!”
Mike’s timing’s also perfect. In an instant, he places himself between the writhing Johnson and the pink-faced Agatha. “You’re late,” he snarls at her. “We’ve got witness statements to go through.”
“But what about …?” she begins.
“Don’t bother with that. It’s DS Johnson’s idea of a joke. Come and sit down,” he says, iron in his voice.
He feels a glow of satisfaction as Johnson tosses out a two-fi
ngered salute and quits the room.
We sit at our desks opposite each other in total silence. The general office lacks its usual background noises of phones ringing and computers printing. Darren Holtom has followed Danny Johnson out of the room.
Once or twice I resolve to speak to Matthews, but whenever I glance across, he bends lower over his files.
“Thanks,” I say eventually.
His jaw tightens and he says nothing.
“I thought it might be a prank.”
“Yeah, right,” he mutters.
“Really I did. I noticed he’d used his own trainers. He was standing there in stocking feet.”
Matthews stares into my face. I wait for the customary rebuke but, instead, the corners of his mouth lift into a magnificent smile and he begins to laugh. It’s a rich, infectious sound that takes me with it. It’s several minutes before we get back to the paperwork.
Chapter 19
Dark for the time of year when I walk to the studio. The sky’s heavy with rain clouds and the atmosphere sticky. I stayed late to type up the school interviews, such as they were, and missed the group lesson with Zelda, much to my disappointment. I already feel part of that family, even though I’ve only just rejoined. Zelda and I have reached an unspoken understanding that I won’t perform in public again and everything’s easy once more.
After I’ve laced my tap shoes, I select a high-speed rock and roll number and leap into a routine, the twenty-minute walk from my flat having warmed my muscles. I grapevine across the floor, throw my arms forward and cause my bruise to ache.
I think about the way DI Bagley dismissed me from the McKenzie interview in front of Matthews. As if he hasn’t witnessed enough of my embarrassments in the three days we’ve worked together. In a way I’m glad she removed me from the interview. I couldn’t have fielded McKenzie’s questions any better than she did. I’d no idea about the ethnic make-up of Brigghamshire. One of the tutors at police college used to throw statistics at us, but I never really tried to catch them.
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