by Bill Kitson
‘Was it Friday? Did you follow her home from work? Admiring her figure? Walking behind her? Getting excited, aroused even? Is that what happened?’
No, it wasn’t! I didn’t see her on Friday at all, definitely not on Friday.’ This time there was alarm.
‘You’d see her on Friday evening as she went out. She’d have to pass your house on her way down Ash Grove, wouldn’t she?’
‘I suppose so. But I didn’t see her.’
‘Why was that? I don’t think you’d miss the chance to look out for her.’
‘I didn’t see her, I tell you. I wasn’t home on Friday night.’ The admission was torn from him. For a moment Nash thought Bailey was about to add more.
‘Where were you?’
The question remained unanswered so long Nash was about to repeat it, when Bailey said, ‘Netherdale.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘I went to the pictures.’ The words were no more than a mumble.
‘You’re going to have to speak up. Where did you say?’
There was definite colour in his face as Bailey snapped, ‘At the pictures.’
Mironova spoke for the first time. ‘But the Netherdale cinema’s closed for renovation, Mr Bailey.’
The glance Bailey shot Clara reminded Nash of a rabbit confronted by a fox. ‘So, where did you go?’ Nash asked.
‘I went to a club.’ All trace of colour had gone. Now he looked ashen.
‘The Gaiety Club, by any chance?’ Mironova asked.
Bailey returned to monosyllables. ‘Yes.’
Nash pressed him. ‘What was the title of the film?’
‘I don’t remember.’ The unspoken message was clear.
‘Perhaps it’s one you’d prefer not to say in front of my sergeant?’ The riot of colour in Bailey’s cheeks spoke volumes. ‘Is that the case?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Could anyone vouch for you being there? Another member? Someone who works there?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘What time did you leave? In time to see Sarah on her way home? Get a bit confused by what you’d just been watching? Wonder if Sarah might do the sort of things the girls in the movie did? Try to get her to do the same with you?’
‘I’ve told you. I never saw her. Not on Friday. I didn’t, I swear it. I was in Netherdale all night.’
Bailey’s tone was a mixture of nervousness bordering on alarm, but with something added. Something Nash could not pinpoint. All he could be certain of was that somewhere in Bailey’s vehement denial there was a lie.
The interview had taken far longer than the others and Nash judged it time to bring it to a close, before Bailey became cause for gossip. ‘That’s all for now. I may want to speak to you again. Send the next man in.’
Bailey rose shakily and walked towards the door. He looked back. Nash saw him stare, not at him but at Clara. The expression on his face was fleeting, but it made Nash shudder.
Their interviews were concluded by one o’clock. During the short drive to Helmsdale police station, Clara asked Mike his opinion of Bailey. ‘He’s everything you said and a lot more besides. For my money, if anything’s happened to Sarah, Bailey has to be the prime candidate. The Gaiety Club’s a porn house, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. They show some of the hardest stuff on the market. They were raided by Vice a couple of years back, just before you arrived here. It was rumoured they were showing snuff movies, but they didn’t find anything. The only reason they get away with it is because it’s a members-only club.’
Nash grinned. ‘Your choice of words could be better, but I get the point. I’m willing to place a small bet with you that Bailey’s name appears on the Sex Offenders Register when we eventually get it.’
‘That’s a bet I’m not prepared to take.’
‘If he’s not, then it’s only a matter of time. I reckon he’s capable of almost anything evil. Unfortunately, we can’t arrest someone for the look in their eyes.’
‘If I never see him again, I’ll not lose sleep over it.’
‘There’s another thing about Roland Bailey that worries me. For all he got a bit agitated, beneath it he was well in control of himself. That may be down to a clear conscience. Then again, it might be because he has no conscience.’
‘What do we do next?’
‘We’ll see what the search parties have found, if anything. I suspect the answer’s nothing, because your squawk-box hasn’t gone off. Then I want to look through the evidence we have so far. I’m going to let you and Pearce come back here and interview the workers on the other shift. After that, I’d like you to call on Mrs Kelly and update her. It’s going to be a long day, but we should get a bit of relief tomorrow.’
Nash swung the car into the police station car park. ‘We might as well see if they’ve had any results at the desk.’
Mironova frowned. ‘You’re not expecting much, I hope. It’s usually a collection of nutters, cranks and well intentioned no-hopers.’
‘You never know your luck in a big city.’
Inside reception, it seemed Mironova was going to be proved right. A young, harassed-looking constable was attempting to placate an elderly man intent on telling his story to ‘someone in charge’.
The visitor was in that condition referred to locally as ‘market fresh’.
‘Listen,’ the man demanded, with only the slightest slur in his voice, ‘I’ve got news. Summat important to tell. Might be very important.’
‘Yes, Mr Turner, you’ve told me that already. Several times, in fact. Why not tell me what this important information is?’
He wasn’t about to divulge so priceless a pearl to just anyone. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know,’ he told the constable, wagging a finger at him. ‘Bur ’am not tellin’. Not tellin’ you. I’m only tellin’ someone important, in charge like! Somebody who’s in charge of all this.’ He gestured round the room.
‘That’ll be me then,’ Nash said from behind him. ‘How can I help?’
The constable looked up, his relief obvious.
Startled by this unexpected assault from the rear, Turner wheeled round, with near calamitous results. They watched in amusement as he staggered in a Zorba-like dance down the length of the room. He steadied himself, grinned a trifle sheepishly, and walked with elaborately cautious steps back. ‘Who’re you?’
Nash took an involuntary half pace backwards. He liked Theakston’s bitter but not second-hand. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Nash; I’m leading this enquiry. Is that important enough?’
‘An’ who’s this,’ he leered at Clara. ‘She yer girlfriend then?’
‘This is Detective Sergeant Mironova. She’s also involved in the investigation,’ Mike’s severe tone disguised his desire to burst out laughing.
Turner inspected Mironova. ‘Well, say what y’ like, I reckon yer a bit of alright, lass. Y’ can lock me up any time you like, day or night.’
‘Thank you. That’s very kind,’ Clara told him politely.
‘So what is it you have to tell us?’
‘What? Oh yes, ’ave summat to tell yer. How the devil did you find out? You must be a bloody good detective.’
‘You told us so, Mr Turner,’ Nash reminded him patiently.
‘Did I? Well, after all, that’s why ’am ’ere. Well now we’ve got that settled, I’ll be off. Pleased to meet you, Sergeant Min … in … Mini … Miniver.’
‘Mironova,’ Clara corrected him.
‘You still haven’t said why you’re here, Mr Turner,’ Nash reminded him.
‘What? Oh no, yer right, silly me. Well, it were like this, see. Last Friday, Friday night, I went fer a pint or two at T’ Horse and Jockey, at end of High Street, tha’ knows. Ah were there until Barry told me it were time to bugger off home to t’ wife,’ Turner paused and shook his head sorrowfully. ‘I told him, it’s nivver time to go home to her, but he insisted. So ah had to walk home.’
‘What time was this?’ Nash asked.
‘You set off to walk home,’ Nash prompted him.
‘Aye, you’re right, ah did, but ah ’ad to stop for a Jimmy. Barry threw me out before I’d a chance. So ah walked round the relief road,’ Turner giggled. ‘Looking for somewhere to relieve myself. That’s when I saw it,’ he told them triumphantly.
‘What did you see?’
‘The car, of course,’ Turner said impatiently. ‘Ah remember thinking, that’s bloody funny, that is. What’s yon bloke up to? Only by then I was busting so I had to have a Jimmy and forgot about it.’
‘And what do you think he was up to?’ Nash’s interest sharpened noticeably.
‘That’s the point. It was what he weren’t up to. He weren’t doing owt. Just sitting there wit’ engine off, windows open an’ no lights showing.’
‘Where was the car?’
‘Ah well, when ah need a Jimmy, an’ I usually do, I go in that yard. Where t’ car were parked I mean.’
‘Which yard was it?’
‘The one agin t’ snicket. By t’ nightclub. Where yer poster says.’
‘Now, Mr Turner, I want you to think very carefully, because it might be very important. You saw a car parked next to that alleyway, no lights on, engine switched off and the windows open. You’re certain there was somebody in the car?’
‘Aye, that I am.’
‘Could you describe them? Do you know whether it was a man or a woman?’
Turner thought about it before replying. ‘Ah thought it were a man. Never entered me head it were a woman, but it might ha’ been.’
‘What about the car? Make, size, shape, colour, anything that might help us?’
‘It were very dark. In t’ yard, I mean, not car. It were a big un, not one of them Land Rovery things, but big. Aye it were big, right enough. A saloon bar,’ Turner giggled again. ‘I mean a saloon car. It were light coloured. Not white though, mebbes silver.’
‘Were it parked, I mean, was it parked nose into the yard or facing you?’
‘It were towards me. That’s how I knew there were somebody inside. I could see t’ shape through t’ windscreen.’
‘Is there anything else you can tell us? Is it a regular parking spot?’
‘No, that yard’s allus empty.’ Turner thought for a moment. ‘No, hang on. There were a car in there a couple of weeks back.’ He studied a little longer. ‘Come to think of it, that were a Friday night an’ all.’
‘In that case, I’d like you to pop back tomorrow morning and set down everything you’ve told us in a formal statement. Before then, I’d like you to give the constable here your full name, address and phone number, in case we need to contact you. Okay?’
Turner smiled. ‘Right then. Al do that. Will Sergeant Miniver take me statement?’ he asked hopefully. ‘I like Sergeant Miniver,’ he winked at Clara.
‘I’ll see what can be arranged. Thanks for coming in, Mr Turner.’
They headed for the incident room, where they saw Tom Pratt was about to leave. ‘How’s it going?’ Nash asked him.
‘No joy so far. I’ve got one group concentrating on the river banks. The other groups are doing a sweep through open ground on the east of town. That’s all we’ll get done today. It’s going to be a long job. How did you get on at Rushton’s?’
‘Nothing startling to report, although we met a neighbour of Sarah’s; guy name of Bailey. Remember Clara mentioned him? I’m not at all happy about him. He’s a member of the Gaiety Club in Netherdale. Said he was there on Friday.’
‘I understand your interest. Has he got an alibi?’
‘Not really, at least not one we can verify.’
‘He must have been pretty scared to admit being there. It isn’t the sort of club where the members meet for a social drink during the interval. As for someone noticing him, it’s not easy telling one dirty raincoat from another.’
‘Just to be sure, we’ll ask around at this Gaiety Club, but I’d be more interested to see if his name comes up on our computer search.’
‘That reminds me, the info from the PNC’s been e-mailed through to you.’
‘Good, I’ll look through it and see if anything jumps out at me. Clara and I had a very interesting chat with a drunk as we came in,’ Nash explained. ‘As Turner appears to be either pissed, half pissed or on his way to getting pissed all the time, I can’t see his evidence standing up in court. Come to think of it, I can’t imagine Turner standing up in court. However, it does seem significant there was a car lurking so close to where Sarah disappeared on two occasions.’
‘You don’t think he might have got the wrong night? He sounds as if he’s easily confused.’
‘It’s possible, but somehow I don’t think so. Clara, you’ve got half an hour to spare. Nip along to The Horse and Jockey and have a word with the landlord. With a bit of luck he’ll confirm at least part of Turner’s story and he might also give us an idea of the time Turner staggered off home.’
Mironova groaned. ‘I get all the worst jobs.’
‘If you’d prefer it, I’ll send someone else and you can spend the next couple of hours crawling through the undergrowth in the woods, “Sergeant Miniver”,’ Nash said pointedly.
‘Okay, you’ve convinced me. Anyway, you never know your luck. Mr Turner might be in the pub. He could buy me a drink.’
With every available officer drafted into the search parties, the station was quiet. Nash spoke to forensics about the CCTV tapes. They promised to get the enhancement done as quickly as they could. When he’d finished, Nash decided to study the files culled from the PNC.
He printed them off and began reading. The phone rang. Nash listened for a few seconds then spoke tersely, ‘Right, I’m on my way.’
He disconnected, then pressed a button on the phone’s base unit. ‘Clara? Your afternoon’s just turned into a pub crawl. Meet me in The Cock and Bottle as fast as you can get there. There’s been a stabbing; it’s fatal.’
chapter five
The Cock and Bottle might have been a smart, respectable town-centre pub once, but that must have been a long time ago. It hadn’t stood the test of time well. It had a dilapidated, neglected air. The paintwork round the doors and windows was cracked and peeling. One window had been boarded over. The uniformed officer standing at the door informed Nash, ‘In the yard at the back, Sir.’
The interior mirrored the rundown exterior perfectly. The ceilings, once white, were now a dark unpleasant caramel shade. Nash wondered how many thousand cigarettes it had taken to achieve that effect.
The carpet felt slightly tacky beneath his feet. The bar rail and the wood beneath his fingers was sticky to the touch. There were half a dozen customers in the bar, all men. He presumed the others had been scared away by news of a corpse in the back yard, or that police would be sniffing round. The seedy appearance of those that hadn’t left suited their surroundings. A barman, who looked only just over the legal age to be serving alcohol, slouched towards him. He was tall and lean, wearing a grubby football shirt and ragged jeans. Dispensing with formalities, the youth jerked a thumb towards the rear of the building. ‘She’s out there.’
‘Who is?’
‘The stiff, the one you’re here about.’
‘Is she a customer?’
‘Not anymore,’ the humour, if such was intended, was deadpan.
‘Was she, then?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind showing me the way?’
‘Sorry, can’t leave the bar unattended.’
Nash looked round at the punters and nodded. ‘I see your point. Where’s the landlord?’
The barman’s face twisted into a sneer. ‘Upstairs, glued to the telly, watching his money coming in seventh at Kempton Park.’
‘F
etch him down.’
‘More than my job’s worth.’
Nash leaned towards the barman and smiled humourlessly. ‘When this place closes, which will be in about ten minutes time, I can make sure it never re-opens again. How much would your job be worth then?’
The barman turned away disappointed, accepting defeat.
Clara arrived. ‘What’s going on?’
‘A woman’s been stabbed, body’s in the back yard apparently. I’m waiting for the barman to fetch the landlord. If he can drag him away from watching racing on television.’
‘Obviously the caring sort.’
‘Grieving takes many forms, Clara.’
They heard sirens wailing and an ambulance pulled up outside; two paramedics hurried in. Their entrance coinciding with the return of the barman, accompanied by another man. Nash signalled the paramedics towards the door indicated by the barman. ‘Be right with you. You know the drill.’
Nash surveyed the newcomer. The man was in his mid fifties, and like the pub hadn’t aged well. He was no more than five feet six inches tall and would probably once have been described as strongly built. All the muscle had long since run to fat. His T-shirt strained to cover his belly, leaving an unattractive bulging strip of flesh hanging over the waistband of his jeans.
His facial features were equally unprepossessing. A stubble of black whiskers studded with grey would have been better shaved off. His nose had been broken, obviously on more than one occasion, and had set crookedly. A jagged white scar ran down one cheek giving him a permanently sinister leer. His hair, streaked with grey like his beard, hung in lank, greasy profusion down to the grimy collar of his T-shirt.
‘Mr Parkinson?’
‘No,’ the man smirked.
‘You’re not the landlord, then?’
‘Course I’m the bloody landlord.’
‘So what’s your name?’
‘Rawlings, Joe Rawlings,’ the man’s attitude was immediately beginning to irritate Nash.
‘Are you aware, Mr Rawlings, that it’s an offence under The Licensing Act for the licensee to fail to display their name over the door to the premises?’
‘So what?’
‘So I’d be within my rights to shut you down, and apply to the licensing magistrates to have your licence revoked.’
