A Question of Identity (29 page)

He turned to look for their waitress and give his nephew a chance to wipe his eyes and take hold of himself.

‘Last word on this, Sambo, and then I’m done. Please say you’re sorry. To your mum, to Hannah. I don’t know how you’ll choose to do that – leave it to you. But do it. And mean it.’

The brownie and his own espresso came.

‘Right. I’m always here. I’m always available to you, to listen, to talk, to help out if I can. We get along, we had that great week in Norfolk. I want us to go climbing next time. I’d like to take you up to the island too. You’re good company and you don’t rabbit on.’

Sam smiled slightly.

‘But wherever, whenever, I’m here. Got that?’

After a moment, Sam nodded. ‘Got it.’

THE THAW HAD
set in the previous day and the canal towpath was thick with mud, in which pools of dark water were concealed as a trap for the unwary. The unwary included Gus Norwald, who had not thought to put on boots or even heavy shoes and whose feet were now soaking. But if he got what he was determined to get it would be worth it. Anything would be worth it.

Local papers were dying, one of the old guard on the
Gazette
had said to him gloomily the previous day, just as he had said it on the day before that, and the previous week and at any time he could get someone to be bored to death by his sermon on the end of everything, in the Royal Ensign on the corner by the paper’s offices. Soon, the
BG
would go weekly. After that, it would go online only, and who wanted to bother with a local paper like the
Bevham Gazette
online? Not even the classified would survive.

Which was why Gus Norwald, looking to number one, was constantly in search of the story he could pitch to one of the nationals. He had had two good ones already this year, picked up by the
Mail
and
The Times
. With luck, this might be his third. He’d had a tip from a mate in the police. He knew what he could make of this one.

The towpath got muddier, and the canal was high. All around Lafferton streams and brooks were filling and cascading down into the canal and the river from the hills. If it started to rain as well, as they had forecast, Lafferton would be in for another flood.

By the time he saw Nobby Parks’s shack, Gus was chilled and wet and the black smoke coming from the tin chimney was actually a cheering sight.

It took several attempts at knocking and banging before there was any response from inside, and when Nobby did come to the door, he was in two thick sweaters, his cap and a pair of greying long johns.

‘Morning, Nobby.’

The two knew one another. Nobby had given Gus a tip-off here and there, though only one had ever amounted to anything. He’d also given him a racing tip or two, both of which had come in. Gus wondered if Nobby had a sack of gold hidden underneath his frowsty mattress.

‘Not sorry to see you. Feel like company. You want a roll-up?’

‘No thanks. I’d like a cuppa though.’

Nobby shifted a stack of old telephone directories from the only chair other than his own, sacred wicker one. Gus flipped through them.

‘These are from the 1960s and 70s.’

‘I know that. I can read, don’t think I can’t.’

‘What do you do with them?’

‘Might come in useful.’

‘Some day.’

‘That’s right.’ Nobby dropped two tea bags into mugs, one of which was from the coronation of 1953, the other commemorating Lafferton 4th Cub Pack Jubilee, 1988.

‘You ever buy anything, Nobby?’

‘Not if I can help it. No shortage of free mugs if you know where to look. Builders’ yards, construction sites . . . they move on, dump their mugs and their tea-bag tins. Shocking waste.’

‘Not while you’re around to field them.’

Nobby laughed. ‘Glad it’s you,’ he said. ‘Could tell you a thing or two about these murders.’

Gus put his mug down. ‘Now listen . . . if you’ve seen or heard anything on your night prowling, you have to go to the cops, Nobby. Cops first. You know that.’

‘I know that, I know that. Only they got to me first. They’re always harassing me, stopping me when I’m walking about
doing no one any harm, bringing me back here. Only last time they had me in the station. Wrongful arrest. I could go to the papers, I said, destroying my good name. Good character. Whatever you call it.’

‘Are you really telling me they arrested you? And charged you?’

‘Obstructing the police in the course of . . . Let me go though. Had to. Nothing on me. But anyone might have seen me get taken in there, get brought out. It’s my reputation.’

‘Sue them.’ Gus meant it as a joke but that was not how Nobby took it.

‘You think I could? I reckon I’ve got a case. You want to write about it then?’

‘I doubt you could sue. I don’t know – have to check. You could try asking for compensation, say it’s meant you can’t sleep properly, had to see the doctor.’

‘I haven’t seen a doctor for thirty-six years. Wouldn’t go near them. And hospitals – forget it. Go in a hospital you come out with worse than you started. Or dead. You want one of these?’

The packet of Bourbon creams was almost full. ‘Picked them up in the car park behind the Tesco. Dropped off a trolley so they’re a bit broken. But they’re all right.’

They sat and munched for a moment. Gus looked at Nobby. Nobby looked suddenly sly.

‘I had a personal visit here,’ he said. ‘From the police.’

‘Well, I’d keep that quiet.’

‘No, no. This was the Chief Super. Mr Serrailler. Known Mr Serrailler since he was a plod. Well . . . near enough.’

‘The DCS came here to see you? Get on.’

‘Oh yes. Wanted to ask for my help.’

Gus went still. Nobby’s stories grew stories on them but he wasn’t a liar.

‘Wants me to keep my eyes and ears open when I’m out and about. They don’t have enough cops, you see, money being money, so they want my help. Sort of undercover.’

‘Right.’

‘You can smirk. There’s plenty I see and hear. I’m quiet as a cat, me.’

‘So the idea is, you hang about and tell them if you see anything suspicious?’

‘Not anything. I’m not doing their dirty for them looking for girls and rutters and reporting kids having a joint. Just to do with these murders. I’m up there a lot, round the sheltereds. I could see anything . . . cars, people slipping down alleyways. I’ve already been a great help to them. Mr Serrailler told me as much. Said it could provide vital evidence.’

‘What could?’

‘Mobile phone,’ Nobby said.

‘You’ve got a mobile?’ Gus just stopped himself from saying ‘but you don’t know anyone to ring’.

‘I have. Or I had. He took it.’

‘Serrailler?’

‘Said it could prove very helpful.’

‘Yeah, you told me. I don’t see how. Who’s been ringing you then?’

‘Nobody. Nor me ringing them. Don’t have no use for it. But I took a lot of photos, see? And they could have anything on them.’ He took down his tobacco tin and Rizlas.

‘Vital evidence.’

SERRAILLER ARRIVED AT
the mortuary of Bevham General just after ten. He parked up, beside de Silva’s ancient Citroën DS, which in his police view was unroadworthy but which presumably must have passed its tests. Beautiful car though, he thought, touching the long sloping bonnet. He loved classic cars but he needed one that had every sort of latest aid to driving and safety, not one that would let him down at the roadside. But after this case, he decided now, time to look for something a bit more fun.

Nick de Silva was in the middle of an autopsy on an RTA victim and began pointing out various interesting spinal fractures. Simon was hardened but felt no wish to spend too long looking closely at the body of a human being which was now barely recognisable as such. He wandered off into the waiting area, got a coffee from the machine and leafed through back copies of
Modern Pathology
until Nick came through, gown untied, face mask down.

‘I know you’ve sent in your report but I’m going to nag you about something . . . try and pin you down.’

‘I’m pretty careful never to let that happen.’ Nick brought his own coffee to the standard-issue foam-filled hospital sofa, model name ‘Uncomfortable’. ‘But you can always try. This is our strangulations?’

‘Is there any way you can say if the women were strangled first, then put down in the chairs in front of the mirror, or whether they were placed there, under duress, then strangled?’

‘No. No way I can tell. There’s just a chance your forensics might though.’ He was silent for a moment, thinking. ‘Both of them were fairly close to the mirrors, as I remember.’

‘About where any woman would sit if they were doing their hair.’

‘Well, if that’s near enough, and they were not dead when they were placed there, then they could have exhaled sharply enough for saliva to have gone out from the mouth on the breath, and been sprayed very finely on the mirror, or even on the dressing-table surface. If it’s there, your guys can find it – should have found it by now actually. Have you had forensics’ full reports yet?’

‘Yes. Nothing on either of the mirrors.’

‘Get them to go over the surfaces again. Dressing table, drawers, glass. Kick arse. Forensics aren’t what they were; not since they stopped being done in-house. Next thing, they’ll be privatising us. I’ve got to get back.’

‘How long before you decide your RTA victim is dead?’

‘Oh, I’ve done that one – I’ve got two more from the same crash now. The bypass pile-up.’

‘Shit, yes. I’ve clearly been too tied up in CID trivia.’

Half a dozen emails and messages had come through to his mobile but the signal on this side of the hospital was too weak to pick anything up. Simon walked round to the busy front entrance, the usual main highway of ambulances, patients in wheelchairs, paramedics, nurses and lost visitors. He would go to the League of Friends café, get a sandwich and another coffee, call that lunch, and answer his messages before he headed back. But then, down the long corridor, he saw Rachel, unmistakable to him even though he only glimpsed her back.

When he caught her up in a few strides and touched her arm, she spun round with shock.

‘Darling? What’s happened?’

She was pale and looked stricken with anxiety and confusion, almost uncertain even where she was or who he was.

She leaned against him with relief, but then pulled back. ‘No.’

He understood. ‘I’m going to get coffee – come with me.’

‘I . . . I couldn’t drink anything . . .’

‘Just sit with me then.’ He guided her gently forwards, his hand firm on her shoulder. The place was as busy as usual, but as usual, too, someone was always just leaving and they got a table.

‘It’s been the worst twelve hours of my life. Kenneth woke up hardly able to breathe and the oxygen didn’t seem to help him. The doctor came out – he’s pretty good, though I know it’s what we pay for, and he rang for an ambulance within a minute. He’s in intensive care – it’s pneumonia and he’s very ill but I came out because they were intubating him and it’s terrible to watch.’

‘They don’t want you to watch – it’s a tricky procedure.’

‘I was just wandering round wondering where to go or what I should do. I was going to get a paper or something but . . . I couldn’t even find my way to the shop.’

‘Do they know how to reach you?’

She looked appalled.

‘Right. I’ll take you back.’

He took her to the bank of lifts and put her into one for the intensive care floor. He did not touch her, just watched the doors close. Rachel could not look at him.

THERE WAS A
message from the press officer to call her, but as her lines were busy Serrailler drove back to the station and went down to her office instead.

‘Thought you might have been on my tail never mind me on yours,’ she said.

‘When do I get time to read newspapers? I look to you.’

‘Download the apps onto your iPad.’

‘Still wouldn’t have time. Besides, I’m old-fashioned, I like the nice crackle of newspaper between my hands.’

‘I bet you like the nice feel of a hardback book as well.’

‘Don’t start me.’

‘Yes, well, I wouldn’t read half the books I do, and I read a lot –’

‘– if you didn’t have a Kindle. Heard it all from my sister. Right, what’ve you got?’

‘You’re going to love this.’

The daily papers were all on a big table. Anything of particular interest Simon could mark and it would be on his computer in electronic version within seconds. The
Daily Mail
was on top of the pile, opened at a large photograph of Nobby Parks.

The interview with Nobby was colourful, rich in elaborate detail about his shack and its contents, outraged in tone, and implying that the Lafferton force was so cash-strapped it had to borrow Nobby’s phone, disregarding the fact that they knew it was stolen, and so undermanned and incompetent that they had to use him as an undercover night-time investigator. Simon imagined only too well what fun Nobby had had enriching the story of his own visit to the shack. How much had they paid him? Fifty? A fiver more like.

Actually, more like zilch, except for a pack of his tobacco.

‘Fun, isn’t it? What do you want me to do?’

‘I’m assuming they’ve rung to get a comment.’

‘Phones haven’t stopped. That and “When can Lafferton’s old people sleep safe in their beds?”’

‘Do nothing. I’m not available for comment. This is all rubbish except the phone stuff and I was well within my rights to take that.’

‘He’s popped in as well, by the way.’

‘Nobby? What, asking when’s he taking delivery of his Queen’s Police Medal?’

‘When’s he getting a receipt for his mobile phone.’

‘Shit. I’ll do one and get someone round with it or that’ll be in the papers.’

‘It already is.’

SIMON SHUT HIS
door and asked for no calls. He then sat down and reread the summary of the files Nathan had supplied, including every detail of the Yorkshire murders, and of the last day of Alan Keyes’s trial, until he was doubly sure. Then he picked up the phone to the National Fingerprint Board. He was not going to delegate any of this.