Deception on His Mind (38 page)

Trevor flicked a look at his brother, who'd squirmed to the edge of the upper bunk and was swinging his legs and watching Barbara uneasily. “Clear out,” he said to Charlie.

“I won't say nothing.”

“Bugger off,” Trevor said.

“Trev.” Charlie offered what appeared to be the family's signature whine: He turned the first syllable of his brother's name into two.

“I said.” Trevor shot him a look. Charlie said, “Shit,” managing it monosyllabically, and hopped from the bed. Boom box under his arm, he passed Barbara and left the room. He shut the door behind him.

This gave Barbara the opportunity to see what had been pressing against the top of the door when she entered. It
was
indeed an old fishing net, but it had been crafted into an enormous web upon which a collection of arachnids cavorted. Like the spider being assembled on the table, these were not garden-variety bugs: brown, black, multi-legged, and suitable for devouring flies, ticks, and centipedes. They were exotic in both colour and shape, featuring bodies of red, yellow, and green, prickly legs with speckles, and ferocious eyes.

“Nice work,” Barbara said. “Studying entomology, are you?”

Trevor made no reply. Barbara crossed the room to the table. There was a second chair to one side of it, stacked with books, newspapers, and magazines. She set these on the floor and sat. She said, “Mind?” and casting a glance at the cigarettes in her hand, he shook his head. She offered the pack, and he took one. He lit it with a match from a book. He left her to see to her own.

With the absence of rap music, the other sounds in the house gained amplification.
Coronation Street's
nymphs continued their gossip at a pitch that would have served for calling the score at a football match, and Stella began shrieking about the theft of a necklace, apparently having been perpetrated by Charlie, whose name she was managing to wail in three syllables.

“I understand you got the sack from Malik's Mustards three weeks ago,” Barbara said.

Trevor inhaled, eyes narrowed and fastened on Barbara. His fingers, she noted, bore angry-looking hangnails.

“So what?”

“Want to tell me about it?”

He exhaled a snort of smoke. “Like I got the option, you mean?”

“What's your side of the story? I've heard theirs. You couldn't deny pilfering the goods, I understand. You were caught with them. Red-handed, as it were.”

He reached for one of the pipe-cleaners and wound it round his index finger, the cigarette between his lips and his glance directed at the half-assembled spider on the table. He reached for a pair of wire cutters and snipped a second pipe-cleaner in half. Each half became a leg of the spider. Glue served to hold the leg to the body, and he meticulously applied this from a tube.

“Malik's make it sound like grand larceny or something? Jeez, it was less than two boxes of the stuff. Thirty-six jars in a box. It's not like I broke the bank. And anyways, I didn't take straight mustard or jelly or sauce, did I, which might've cocked up some major punter's big order. I mixed it all up.”

“Creating a variety pack. I get it.”

He shot Barbara a black look before giving his attention back to the spider. It had an authentic-looking segmented body created out of differing sizes of sponge. Glancing at it, Barbara wondered idly how the body segments were attached to one another. With glue? With staples? Or had young Mr. Ruddock used wire? She looked for a spool of it on the table, but in addition to the spider paraphernalia, the surface was a jumble of insect books, unfolded newspapers, half-melted candles, and tool boxes. She couldn't see how he managed to locate anything on it.

“I was told that Mr. Querashi sacked you. Is that the story?”

“I guess it is if that's what you've heard.”

“D'you have a different version, then?” Barbara looked for an ashtray but didn't see one. Trevor shoved an empty custard carton in her direction. Its insides were gritty with ash. She added to this.

“Whatever,” he said.

“Were you sacked unfairly? Did Querashi act too quickly?”

Trevor looked up from the spider. Barbara noticed for the first time that he had a tattoo beneath his left ear. It was a spider's web with an unpleasantly realistic-looking crawlie picking its way towards the centre. “Did I kill him because he gave me the sack? That what you're asking?” Trevor worked his fingers over the spider's pipe-cleaner legs, plucking at the covering until it resembled hairs. “I'm not stupid, you know. I seen the
Standard
today. I know the police are calling this a murder. I figgered you'd be round to poke at me, or someone like you. And here you are. I got a motive, don't I?”

“Why don't you tell me about your relationship with Mr. Querashi, Trevor?”

“I nicked some jars from the labelling and packing room. I worked in shipping, so it was dead easy. Querashi caught me and sacked me, he did. And that's the story of our relationship.” Trevor gave a sarcastic emphasis to the final word.

“Wasn't that risky, pinching jars from the packing room when you didn't work in the packing room?”

“I didn't nick them when anyone was there, did I? Just a jar here and a jar there during breaks and lunch. And just enough to have something to flog in Clacton.”

“You were selling them? Why? Did you need extra money? What for?”

Trevor pushed himself away from the table. He went to the window and thrust back the curtains. Lit by the day's pitiless sun, the room displayed cracked walls and hopelessly shabby furnishings. In spots, the rug on the floor was worn through to its backing. For some reason, a black line had been painted onto it, dividing the sleeping from the working areas.

“My dad can't work. And I got this stupid wish to keep the family off the streets. Charlie helps by doing odd jobs round the neighbourhood, and sometimes Stella gets hired to baby-sit. But there's eight of us here and we get hungry. So Mum and I sell what we can at the market square in Clacton.”

“And the jars from Malik's became part of what you could sell.”

“Tha's right. Just part of the lot and at a cut-rate price. I don't see that it did any harm anyways. It's not like Mr. Malik sells his jellies and stuffs round here. Just to posh shops and snooty hotels and restaurants.”

“So you were actually doing the consumer a favour?”

“Maybe I was.” He leaned his bum against the window sill and played with the cigarette in his mouth, turning it with his thumb and index finger. The window was wide open, but they may as well have been having their conversation inside an oven. “It seemed safe enough to flog them in Clacton anyways. I didn't expect Querashi to turn up there.”

“So you were caught trying to sell the jars in the market square? Querashi caught you there?”

“Right. Big as life, he was. ‘Course, he didn't expect to see me in Clacton any more'n I expected to see him there. And considering what he was up to, I figgered he'd turn an eye away from my little character lapse and forget all about it. Specially since he was having a little character lapse of his own.”

Barbara's fingertips tingled at this remark, the way they always tingled when a new direction was unpredictably unveiled. But she also felt wary. Trevor was watching her closely to gauge her reaction to the titbit he'd just dropped. And the very closeness of his scrutiny suggested he'd had more than this single run-in with the police. Most people were at least discomposed when answering official questions. But Trevor seemed completely at ease, as if he'd known in advance what she'd ask and what he'd say in reply.

“Where were you on the night that Mr. Querashi died, Trevor?”

A flicker in his eye told her she'd disappointed him in not nosing after the scent of Querashi's “little lapse of character.” That was good, she thought. Suspects weren't supposed to be the ones directing the investigation.

“At work,” Trevor said. “Clean-up on the pier. You c'n ask Mr. Shaw if you don't believe me.”

“I have done. Mr. Shaw says you report for work at half past eleven. Is that what you did on Friday night? D'you have a time card there, by the way?”

“I punched it when I always punch in.”

“At half past eleven?”

“Somewheres thereabouts, yeah. And I didn't leave, if you want to know. I work with a crew of blokes and they'll tell you that I didn't leave once all night.”

“What about before half past eleven?” Barbara asked him.

“What about it?”

“Where were you then?”

“When?”

“Before half past eleven, Trevor.”

“What time?”

“Just account for your movements, please.”

He took a final draw on his cigarette before he flipped it out of the window and into the street below. His forefinger took the cigarette's place. He gnawed at it thoughtfully before he replied. “I was home till nine. Then I went out.”

“Out where?”

“Nowheres special.” He spit a sliver of fingernail to the floor. He examined his handiwork as he continued. “I got this girl I sort of see off and on. I was with her.”

“She'll corroborate?”

“Huh?”

“She'll confirm that you were with her on Friday night?”

“Sure. But it's not like she was a date or anything. She's not my girlfriend. We just get together now and again. We talk. Have a smoke. See what's what with the world.”

Too right, Barbara thought. Why was it that she had trouble picturing Trevor Ruddock embroiled in deep philosophical colloquy with a female?

She wondered about the explanation he was giving, about why he found it necessary to give one in the first place. He'd either been with a woman or he hadn't been with a woman. She would either confirm his alibi or she wouldn't. Whether the two of them had been snogging, discussing politics, playing snap, or boffing each other like two hot monkeys made no difference to Barbara. She reached for her bag and brought out her notebook. “What's her name, then?”

“You mean this girl?”

“Right. This girl. I'll need to have a word with her. Who is she?”

He shuffled from one foot to the other. “Just a friend. We talk. It's no big-”

“Give me her name, okay?”

He sighed. “She's called Rachel Winfield. She works at the jewellery shop on the High Street.”

“Ah, Rachel. We've already met.”

He clasped his left hand round his right elbow. He said, “Yeah. Well, I was with her on Friday night. We're friends. She'll confirm.”

Barbara observed his discomfort and mentally toyed with the nature of it. Either he was embarrassed to have it known that he associated with the Winfield girl, or he was lying and hoping to get to her before Barbara checked his story out. “Where were the two of you?” she asked, seeing the need to establish a second source of corroboration. “A caff? A pub? The arcade? Where?”

“Uh … none of those, actually. We just went for a walk.”

“On the Nez maybe?”

“Hey, no way. We were on the beach all right, but nowheres near the Nez. We were off by the pier.”

“Anyone see you?”

“I don't think so.”

“But at night the pier's crowded. How could someone not have seen you?”

“Because … look, we weren't
on
the pier. I never said we were on it. We were at the beach huts. We were—” He raised his forefinger and gnawed again viciously. “We were
in
a beach hut. Got it? Okay?”

“In a beach hut?”

“Yeah. Like I said.” He dropped his hand from his mouth. His look was defiant. There was little doubt what he'd been up to with Rachel, and Barbara knew it probably had little to do with discussing what was what with the world.

“Tell me about Mr. Querashi and the market square,” she said. “Clacton's not that far from here. What are we talking about: twenty minutes in the car? It's not exactly a trip to the moon. So what was unusual about Haytham Querashi's being in the market square?”

“It's not him being there,” Trevor corrected Barbara. “It's a free country. He can go where he likes. It's what he was up to there. And with who.”

“All right. I'll go for it. What was he up to?”

Trevor returned to his seat at the table. He pulled an illustrated book from beneath a disorganised array of newspapers. It was open to a colour photograph. Barbara saw that the picture was of the spider that Trevor was in the process of creating. “Jumping spider,” he informed her. “It don't use a web like the others do, which is what makes it different to them. It hunts its prey. It goes out on the prowl, it finds a likely meal, and
fumph
—” His hand shot out and alighted on her arm. “He eats.” The young man grinned. He had odd eyeteeth, one long and one short. They made him look dangerous, and Barbara could tell that he knew and enjoyed this fact.

She disengaged her arm from his hand. “This is a metaphor, right? Querashi the spider? What was he hunting?”

“What a randy bloke gen'rally hunts when he goes someplace he doesn't think he'll be known. Only, I saw him. And he knew I saw him.”

“He was with someone?”

“Oh, they didn't make it look that way, but I saw them talking and I watched them afterwards. And sure enough, they trotted off to the toilets one at a time—real casual, you know—looking like cats with feathers in their teeth.”

Barbara observed the young man, and he observed her. She said carefully, “Trevor, are you telling me that Haytham Querashi was doing some cottaging in Clacton market square?”

“Looked that way to me,” Trevor said. “He's standing there giving some scarves the finger at a stall across the square from the toilets. Some bloke comes up and does his own bit with the scarves ‘bout five feet from him. They look at each other. They look away. This other bloke walks past and drops a line in his ear. Haytham heads for the gents straightaway. I watch. Two minutes later this bloke slides in there as well. Ten minutes after that, Haytham comes out. Alone. Looking the look. And that's when he sees me.”

“Who was this other bloke? Someone from Balford? Do you know him?”

Trevor shook his head. “He was just some poufter wanting to score. Some poufter with a fancy for a poke of a different colour.”

Barbara jumped on this. “He was white? The homosexual? He was English?”