The Needle House

by Robin Leslie Roughley

  'Not me personally, Hopkins is in charge of the murders.'

  'Murders?'

  Fossey heard the sigh floating from the in-car speaker.

  'You heard about the old guy they found in the woods?'

  'Thomas Kitts?'

  'How do you know his name?'

  Fossey explained about meeting Jim Woodman in the woods.

  'I see. Well, it turns out he didn't die of natural causes, someone strangled him.' Fossey heard the blare from a car horn. 'Get out of the way, you daft bastard!'

  It sounded as if Lasser was sitting in the passenger seat.

  'I should let you go before you have an accident.'

  'No problem and if I hear anything about Michael I'll let you know.'

  'I'd appreciate that.'

  He clicked off the handset and swept down the slip road.

  When he arrived at the farm, there was one TV van parked on the lane, and as Fossey pulled up onto the long drive and switched off the engine Jenna appeared at the front door and sprinted towards the car, her hair flowing out behind her.

  'Morning.'

  'Wow, I wasn't expecting you,' she replied, a broad smile fixed onto her face.

  Fossey nodded towards the van. 'I see you're down to one van?'

  'Oh yeah, I'm sorry about the email, I don't know what I was thinking,' her hand went to her face, covering the blush.

  Fossey smiled. 'Don't worry about it.'

  Ronnie appeared at the door peering out into the yard. 'You two coming in, or what?' he asked before disappearing back inside.

  The inside of the house was a cool oasis against the persistent heat.

  'Are you on your own, Ronnie?' Fossey asked.

  'Our Susan should be home any minute,' then they heard the sound of a car on gravel, crunching to a stop. 'That sounds like her now.'

  A moment later, she came into the kitchen with a carrier bag in her hand.

  'Hello, Patrick, I thought it was your car on the drive.'

  'Hello, Susan.'

  'I've just been listening to the news on the radio; they're saying that Lord Radfield was found dead last night.'

  'You bloody what!' Ronnie looked flustered; he snatched the cap from his head and headed for the living room, a couple of seconds later he vanished.

  Susan shook her head, a wry smile on her face. 'He'll be ringing his friends; nobody can gossip like an old farmer. Anyway, what can we do for you, Patrick?'

  'I'd like to say I was just passing but I've got a couple of things I need to discuss with you.'

  She placed the bag on the table. 'That sounds ominous,' she smiled.

  He didn't smile back.

  43

  When he'd gone in to see Simms it had been grudgingly, Lasser was half-expecting to be shot down in flames but the big boss had surprised him.

  'So, you think there could be a link between Jones and Radfield?'

  He had to be careful with his response; too keen and there was a chance that Simms would hand the whole thing over to Hopkins, just to spite him.

  'Well, nothing's definite, sir, but according to forensics the button came off a Barbour jacket and it seems a bit of a coincidence that Radfield was found wearing an identical jacket with a missing button.'

  Simms nodded his grey head. 'Right, get back up there and see what the son has to say on the subject.'

  Lasser didn't need telling twice, he virtually ran from the office before Simms could change his mind.

  The traffic began to move through the town centre, ten minutes later and the shitty houses and vandalised shops had vanished like a filthy mirage. It always amazed him how quickly the shabby streets gave way to fields of golden corn and yellow rapeseed. After a couple of miles, large houses began to appear dotted along the side of the road. Properties with long drives and double garages, manicured lawns and landscaped gardens. It may as well have been a million miles from Hindley, where the kids roamed around in packs and the houses resembled squats.

  He slowed and turned right at the cenotaph, the country lanes began to narrow, the trees became older, larger. The heavy scent of vegetation wafted in through the open window, like the lettuce he often bought and then forgot about until it rotted away at the bottom of the fridge. He passed the house where they'd found the entrails of Billy Jones, he could see a couple of uniforms at the gate standing guard in case any reporters tried to storm the place.

  Five minutes later, he was pulling up the drive of Radfield Manor. In daylight the house appeared less foreboding, the yellowing sandstone made the place look like a giant slab of Madeira cake. Lasser pulled up at the front door and climbed out, placing his fists into the small of his back and stretching before heading around the side of the house. He stopped and looked towards the greenhouse; the sensible thing would be to take another look, just to be on the safe side, you never knew what could be missed when searching by torchlight. Eyeing the lawn, he took great pleasure in cutting across the grass instead of sticking to the path, he ducked under the large elm and strode towards the dilapidated glasshouse.

  Last night with all the commotion, he'd not really taken notice of the state of the place, now with the sunlight shafting down through the trees he could see the wear and tear; it looked as if a strong wind could send the lot crashing to the ground. The thin slats of wrought iron that made the frame, were rotting and missing panes of glass gave the greenhouse a patchwork appearance. Hardly the sort of thing you would expect to find on a country estate. He frowned, thinking back to the conversation he had with Radfield in the large shabby kitchen, shabby being the key word. Knackered greenhouse, tatty kitchen, maybe the whole wealth thing was a lie. However, was that reason enough for Malcolm to chew on the barrel of his own shotgun?

  'Can I help you, Sergeant?' Ashley Radfield stood about ten feet away, one hand thrust into his coat pocket as if concealing a gun.

  'Ah, Mr Radfield, good morning, I just thought I'd take another look around while the sun was shining.'

  'Are you looking for anything in particular?'

  'As a matter of fact, I am.'

  'And what might that be?' Ashley asked, slipping his hands into the pockets of his tweed jacket.

  'Ah now, that would be telling,' he saw the angry expression flit across Radfield's face as he turned and walked into the greenhouse.

  There was nothing remarkable about the space where Malcolm Radfield had ended his life, just a small stretch of dirt littered with weeds.

  Ashley followed, but halfway along the aisle he stopped as if reluctant to go any further.

  'Look, I don't know what all this is about but if you tell me what you're looking for I might be able to help.'

  Lasser ignored him, reaching out he moved a few plant pots to one side, holding his breath as he scanned the ground, if the button turned up then he was knackered, it would be back to watching Hopkins strutting around while he sunk back into the shit.

  'Sergeant?'

  Lasser held up a hand and smiled to himself, he could hear the annoyance in Radfield's voice. He would be used to people jumping to his beck and call, yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir. Ignoring the question, he began to scrabble around amongst the weeds; of course, the button could be anywhere, lost in a million places. Lasser just hoped that Radfield had lost his while he was butchering poor Billy Jones.

  'Sergeant Lasser!' Annoyance had slipped out of the window and fury had sneaked in to take its place, it was all there in the voice.

  Lasser turned, surprised when he saw the look on his Lordship's face. Going solely off the voice, he had expected to see anger, fury even, but Ashley Radfield returned his smile, white teeth flashing.

  'If you must know, I'm looking for a button,' Lasser said.

  'A button?'

  'That's right, when you called us in last night I happened to notice that your father had one missing from his jacket.'

  'And you've come all the way out here to look for it.'

  'Tell me something, Mr Radfield, do you have a
ny idea where your father might have been two nights ago?'

  'I seem to remember telling you that my father was normally at home by seven o'clock.'

  'So, he was here then?'

  'I also recall informing you that my father and I didn't really get along. But I know he was a man of routine, so although I can't swear to the fact, it's more than likely he was tucked up in his room emptying another bottle of scotch.'

  'You're saying he had a problem with alcohol?'

  Radfield sighed. 'My father was well into his seventies; he'd been a drinker all his life. Now if I get to that age and my only vice is having a little too much scotch then I wouldn't consider it a ''problem'' would you?'

  Smarmy tosser, Lasser thought. 'But he could have been out of the house and you wouldn't necessarily have been aware?'

  'It's possible I suppose, though…'

  'It's just that I don't know if you're aware but two nights ago a young boy was murdered not far from here.'

  'Of course I'm aware, though I fail to see what that has to do with my father.'

  Lasser pulled out his cigarettes and lit one before sliding the packet back into his pocket; he blew smoke towards one of the missing panes of glass, watching as it trailed through the open space. 'You see, the thing is when we were searching the murder scene, we came across a button that had originally been attached to a Barbour jacket and when I arrived here last night I happened to notice that your father was wearing the same sort of coat and that it was shy one button.'

  It was like watching one of those cartoons on the television where some character's face turns puce as the anvil is dropped onto their big toe.

  'I certainly hope you're not suggesting my father had anything to do with that?'

  Lasser gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. 'It's a possible clue and I'm sure that if the boot was on the other foot then you'd want us to look into it?'

  'This is preposterous.'

  'Well, you've already stated that you can't account for his movements on the night of the murder.'

  Radfield spun on his heels and began to walk towards the exit.

  'Where are you going, sir?'

  'To ring my solicitor.'

  Lasser frowned. 'Is that really necessary?'

  'Oh, I rather think so. I mean, I may not have seen eye to eye with my father, but I knew him well enough to know that he wasn't capable of murdering anyone.'

  'You'll forgive me but that isn't the first time I've heard that particular nugget.'

  Radfield stopped and turned. 'Oh, I am quite sure that's true, but you see the thing is my father was a coward, a weak ineffectual man.'

  Lasser raised an eyebrow, so was Adolf Hitler, he thought.

  'All he was interested in was shirking his responsibilities and drinking the finest single malt he could get his hands on.'

  'People can do the strangest things when they've had too much to drink.'

  Radfield laughed out loud, a mocking, bitter bark.

  'Sergeant, my father was an old drunk. Tell me, if this had happened in some inner-city slum, would you be shaking up the derelicts that sleep in the shop doorways,' Radfield pointed into the corner of the greenhouse and Lasser resisted the urge to look just in case his Lordship had a spare wino just for such an occasion. 'Would they be your prime suspects, because that's what my father was. Oh, he might have lived in a large house and driven around in a Jag, but that was only an accident of birth.'

  'You don't tend to find many inner-city winos that'd have access to shotguns though do you, sir.' Lasser added petulantly, this bastard was starting to enjoy himself, starting to take the piss.

  Radfield shook his head as if he suddenly had the measure of the man standing in front of him. 'I'm afraid I'll have to take your word for that. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a telephone call to make,' he spun on his heels and marched out of the greenhouse.

  Lasser rubbed both hands across his face, as much as he hated the idea, the more he thought about it the more ridiculous it seemed. Before coming up to the house, he'd spoken with Carl from forensics who'd told him that the old man was basically on his last legs and even if he hadn't topped himself then he would have been dead within the next few months. Bad heart, high cholesterol, Christ he'd even had bloody gout. An image reeled through his head. Malcolm Radfield hobbling over rough moorland in pitch darkness. His dickey heart hammering, the blood trying to make its way through veins that resembled the waste pipe attached to a kitchen sink. Tackling a scrote like Billy Jones, the kind of kid who never left the house unless he had a kitchen knife in his pocket. In addition, there was Thomas Kitts to consider, he tried to picture two elderly men fighting to the death beneath the trees.

  Snarling, he hurried out of the greenhouse as if trying to escape his own stupidity.

  44

  It took Michael the best part of two hours to walk back to town. Two hours with the early morning sun stoking his anger. Once he got back to Hindley, he made his way to the local Tesco and drew out the forty quid that amounted to his life savings from the cash dispenser. Walking into the store, he ignored the guard who eyed him from behind the monitor, buying twenty cigarettes from the kiosk before headed for the drinks section, his head throbbing, his mouth bone dry.

  When he saw his mother on the TV screens, he thought he had finally cracked, the last few hours of stress and anger tipping him into a strange world of unreality. Yet no matter where he looked her image glared back at him, she was on every television screen in the electronics department. Her fat lips set in a grimace, her eyes leaking tears, the image of a woman in anguish. He moved closer and then simply stopped and stared, the camera panned around the room then back to her. She was sitting on the sofa in their living room, a handkerchief clasped in her nicotine-stained fingers, yet the place looked unfamiliar, the stack of magazines that usually littered the room were nowhere to be seen, the cushions were straight, the curtains open. Even the television in the corner of the room was off. Michael shook his head, a bizarre thought came into his head, he was eighteen and he couldn't remember a time in his life when the television had been silent. It was a constant, like the earth orbiting the sun – and now it was blank. This one simple fact made his hatred reach a new level, it was a game for her, an act, and he knew the only reason she ever did anything was to make money. Billy was dead, and she didn't care. The image on the screen vanished and was replaced by a farmhouse that looked derelict, the camera swept in over the field revealing a close up of half a dozen coppers in white paper suits milling around. Michael moved forward until he was standing in front of the screens.

  'Can I help you?' The woman smiled at him, she was small and frumpy with a sprinkling of dandruff on the shoulders of her uniform, a smiley badge, stating that she was happy to help, pinned to her chest.

  'No,' he turned away, the television showed a reporter talking directly to the camera, the house now a backdrop in the corner of the screen, a police car swept past, the driver slowing as he bumped across the field.

  'It's terrible isn't it?'

  Michael frowned at the woman. 'What is?'

  'This business on the television, I go walking up there with my husband, it's a lovely spot. You just never imagine something like this will happen. I mean, not locally.'

  Michael thrust his hands into the pocket of his jacket.

  'What that poor woman must be going through, I can't even begin to imagine,' she shook her head. 'Apparently she shops in here,' she spoke in a whisper as if passing on classified information. Michael almost laughed aloud in disbelief, the thought of his mother doing anything as arduous as pushing a trolley was laughable.

  'Is everything OK?'

  The security guard had appeared from nowhere, he stood at the side of the woman with hands on hips, his hair shaved short, a line of tattooed stars ran from behind his left ear before disappearing below the collar of his pale-blue shirt.

  'Oh, everything's fine, Tommy, we were just talking about this poor woman.'

 
The guard glanced at the shop assistant and shook his head. 'Are you after buying a television, son?'

  Michael threw him a sour look, 'No.'

  'I see.'

  'But there's no law against looking, is there?'

  'That depends on if you actually intend to purchase anything.'

  'I've already bought some cigs.'

  'Got proof of that have you?'

  Michael frowned. 'What are you talking about?'

  'Listen, Tommy, he's not doing any harm,' the woman looked at the security guard and tried to smile.

  Tommy held out his hand. 'Receipt?'

  Michael looked at the man in disbelief. 'I don't see you giving any other fucker grief!'

  'Watch your language.' Tommy glanced around, people were beginning to stop and stare, a woman with an empty buggy hurried past as if she was looking for a child to fill it.

  'I think you'd better come with me.'

  Michael shook his head. 'No chance, I've done nothing.'

  The shop assistant shook her head as if she couldn't believe what was happening. 'But, Tommy, he was just watching the television.'

  'Look, Laura, I've been watching him on the monitors.'

  'Fucking weirdo.' Michael felt his hands bunch into fists.

  Tommy took a step forward, the colour flushing up from his shirt collar, anger flaring in his eyes.

  'Hang on, pal, I followed this lad into the store, I was behind him when he bought the cigarettes.'

  Tommy spun around, a thickset man in a check shirt and paint-splattered jeans was looking directly at him.

  For the first time the guard looked unsure of himself, a kid in a baseball cap muttered the word 'wanker,' as he strolled past.

  'So, unless you got proof that he's actually nicked anything, I think you owe him an apology,' check shirt said.

  'Don't bother, pal, I'm used to tossers like him.' Michael spat.

  The guard glared but stayed rooted to the spot, Michael headed for the doors.

  Once outside, he ripped the wrapper off the cigarettes and lit up, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs, before blowing it out into the hot summer air. First stop was Connelly's house; he just hoped he would find him at home. Michael set off walking, images of his dead brother rolling around his head like a washing machine on slow spin.