Acid Row (34 page)

Tyler tugged out the handkerchief again and gave his face another wipe.

"That's pretty much what Townsend himself told me minus the bank details. All it proves is he's a bad businessman."

Butler returned to his notebook. "Ablett said there was no reason for Townsend to make the accusations. There was some minor thieving at the start of the project which Ablett solved with the CCTV cameras. Two men were sacked and they've had no problems since. His view was that Townsend just wanted to make a scene have a row with anyone he could find because he's furious about losing the business. Ablett was the safest target because creditors were hanging round the office all morning, threatening to floor Townsend if they found him."

“Mm.” Tyler stared along the corridor, brow furrowed in thought. "Does he know why Townsend went to Majorca? That's the bit I can't get my head around, Gary. Why go at all? And why not check that the half million was in the bank before he left?"

"I didn't ask but he was pretty colourful with his counter-accusations about thieving.“ He moved his finger down his notes. ”Townsend operates a load of fiddles to avoid VAT and tax. Plus he's a bad payer, so he's not too choosy about who he employs. A fair number are regular visitors to Winchester nick and they're all gunning for him on the basis that the company's about to go under and they want their money before it happens.“ He looked up. ”Perhaps he decided to make himself scarce till the new finance came through?"

Tyler frowned at him. "Ablett said this meeting was advanced by a week. Did he say why?"

“Because the bank refused to pay the wages.”

"How did Townsend know it was being advanced? His return flight was booked for next Saturday."

“I guess Martin Rogerson told him.”

“Mm.” A long pause. "Townsend used another name on the phone. He said John Finch told him what was in the wind."

Butler flicked to another page of his notebook. "There's a John Finch on the list for this meeting. Described as a shareholder. Do you want me to see if he's arrived yet?"

“Not yet.” Tyler clicked his tongue. "Townsend says he spent last night with a girlfriend. Claims he parked the camcorder and luggage at her place. Why would he do that? Why not just leave them in his boot?"

The sergeant tapped a knuckle against his teeth. "Because he was expecting to be questioned at some point?“ he suggested. ”Only an idiot would carry compromising tapes of Franny Gough looking like Amy Biddulph. He's probably got props in his luggage .. . wigs .. .

little-girl dresses .. . whatever."

"He wasn't fazed by questions about Franny Gough, so he must have guessed we'd talked to her .. . found out the sort of thing he'd been filming. Where did he hear about Amy anyway? If it was the radio or television, the earliest he could have known was around nine or ten last night. So why was he so ready with an alibi for lunch time?"

“Someone warned him. Rogerson called him on his mobile.”

“He said he tried and couldn't get through.”

“Assuming he was telling the truth.”

"He must have been. When I asked Townsend where he was, he said “England”. He wouldn't have done that if Roger-son already knew he was back."

The sergeant shrugged. "Then it was the radio. I don't see the problem."

"The radio said she'd been missing since ten o'clock. Yet this guy's covered from eleven thirty or thereabouts to a convenient “scene” at one thirty. He knew lunchtime was important.“ Tyler paused. ”After that, instead of going back to his house to prepare for this meeting today, he vanishes off to some mysterious girlfriend and parks his luggage. Why didn't he go home and leave it there?"

“Maybe he did. Our car wasn't there till nine o'clock.”

“Then why not say so?” Tyler didn't expect an answer because he went off into a private deliberation. "Did Ablett say if he gave a reason for turning up out of the blue?"

“No. Just that Townsend launched in with the accusations of theft.”

“Mm. Making a scene.” Another pause for thought. "Did he take anything? Documents? Architect's drawings? Tapes?"

“I didn't ask. Do you want me to call him again?”

Tyler nodded. "Just for the record. I don't want egg on my face if he went there to empty a filing cabinet. Ask him about Townsend's car as well. Did he see it? Was there any luggage inside?"

He waited while Butler re dialled and put the first question, listening for a couple of minutes before muting the mouthpiece against the cloth of his jacket. "He says the Portakabin's pretty much empty. Plans and files were removed to the Southampton office a week ago so they'd be available to prospective punters. He says the only reason Townsend was there was so he could take out his spleen on someone. He says he upended the table and smashed the workmen's mugs. That's when Ablett walked out."

“Ask him about the car.”

Another period of listening. "It was parked outside the Portakabin. He says a couple of holdalls were on the back seat."

Tyler's eyebrows corkscrewed up his forehead. "What sort of holdalls?"

“One black. One brown.”

"Franny Gough said he only had one and it was black. How much of the back seat did they cover?"

“Most of it.”

"So what was in the boot? No, don't ask Ablett .. . just double-check Townsend didn't open it in front of him." He pressed his lips together in concentration as Butler shook his head. "Did Townsend say where he was going afterwards?"

This time the answer was longer and more heated Tyler could hear the ire in the man's voice from where he was standing. Butler pressed the mobile to his jacket again. "He's still fired up about this row they had. There was a lot of argy-bargy, apparently, with each one calling the other a thief. Ablett says Townsend's about as trustworthy as a rattlesnake. You can't believe anything he says. Re: where he was going .. . well according to Ablett, it wasn't Southampton, because Townsend laughed when he heard that creditors were hanging around the office waiting to break his jaw. Townsend claimed he wasn't that stupid. He didn't plan to go to Southampton till tomorrow .. . i.e.

today. Ablett guessed he was talking about this meeting." He frowned suddenly as if something had occurred to him.

He spoke into the mouthpiece again. "Who's in charge? Who advanced the meeting when the bank pulled the plug?“ He looked surprised. ”Mr.

Rqgerson? The solicitor?" He stared at the inspector while he repeated what he was being told. "The office was closed on his instructions .. . staff were advised of a possible rescue package today." A prolonged pause before Butler muted the mouthpiece again.

"Rogerson owns a major share of the business. It's his money that set Townsend up ten years ago. The company should have been wound up two weeks ago, but he's been pulling strings to keep it afloat. Now the employees are shit-scared that, because of Amy's disappearance Rogerson's taken his eye off the ball .. . and he's the only one who can save their jobs .. ."

Saturday 28 July 2001 inside 6 Bassett Road

FRANEICS POWERS OF recovery were remarkable, thought Sophie, as she watched him struggle into a sitting position. He was bound hand and foot by assorted pairs of Clara Frensham's tights, but he still had the strength and agility to lever the top half of his body from the floor.

When Clara first opened her door to them, he had staggered across the threshold face dewy with sweat, mouth sucking for air and the woman's instinctive reaction was to reach out a hand to support him. The words 'poor man' were on her lips when Sophie's hurried shove knocked her out of the way.

“Stay away from him,” she said menacingly.

The woman quailed. "But he's in trouble. He'll die if he can't brea “Do as I say, Clara,” she hissed through her still-bleeding lips, 'if he dies, he dies. Just don't -go near him!"

As a parting shot, Jimmy had winded him with a knee to the groin to keep him quiescent long enough for Sophie to tie him up. "Use anything nylon,“ he'd said. ”The knots'll get tighter the harder he struggles."

Sophie was doing her best to bring Nicholas round, but it was like waking the dead. She wished Bob were there. He would know the triggers that would make a man feel safe enough to open his eyes. It had to be that, she thought, running her fingers around the back of his head. She could feel a lump where Franck had hit him with the chair but no other injuries. Perhaps, subconsciously, he could hear the noise from Bassett Road, warning him that danger still existed.

The telephone had rung twice in the front room, but Clara Frensham seemed too shocked to answer it. She was barely into her forties and had always been a shy woman, but the devastating effects of radical surgery had killed off every last remnant of self-esteem. She sat huddled in a chair, a hand covering the plastic prosthesis that masked her ravaged nose, staring from Sophie to Franck in frightened ignorance of why their faces were so bruised and bloodied. Sophie's attempts to reassure her had met with silence and, with a sigh, Sophie had concentrated her efforts on Nicholas. She didn't want to answer the phone herself for fear of what Franck might do or say to Clara in her absence.

“Come on, Nicholas,” she said loudly, smacking his cheeks 'everything's OK. We're out of the house and still in one piece. You can open your eyes now."

“Why not call police .. . tell them we need help?” demanded Franck.

“There is no help,” she answered curtly. “We're on our own.”

"Then call a different doctor. Find out what to do. I know Milosz. He stay like this for long time unless his dada cuddle him and talk to him."

“I'll stuff socks in your mouth if you don't shut up,” she warned him.

“He's more frightened of you than he is of anyone.”

The old man addressed himself directly to Clara, his tone soft and pleading. "You make phone call, lady. You talk to police. Tell them this doctor no good. Tell them she want Franck to die. You witness.

You hear what she say when you try to be kind. Tell them the nigger hit Franck. Tell them Franck can't breathe because he tied up, and Milosz unconscious because he frightened. Tell them to make Sophie untie Franck so he can help his son."

The woman stirred as if the gentle voice with its lyrical Polish accent was in some way alluring. “Maybe I should, Sophie?” she murmured behind her hand, using a pleading tone herself. "The police ought to know, don't you think? I mean .. . well ... it's not right to tie people up ... and that black man did hit him."

Sophie laughed hollowly as she sat back on her heels and looked at Franck. “You really are amazing,” she said with reluctant admiration.

"Is this your way of confusing the issue? Get Clara to allege brutality from me and Jimmy first in order to weaken my case against you."

There was a hint of admiration in his eyes, too a gleam of a smile or perhaps it was pleasure at her disfigurement. "What case you have against me?“ He tilted his chin to display his own disfigurement. ”You attack me first with broken glass. Franck frail old man. You strong young girl. Of course Franck defend himself. Milosz see it all. He tell exactly what happen when police ask."

She wondered if such a grotesque spin could work. "You're very sure of him,“ she said, lifting his son's wrist to check the pulse again. ”Has he told lies for you before?"

“I tell only the truth of what happen,” he said. "This lady my witness. She hear what you say .. . see what nigger do."

Sophie glanced at Clara. She didn't want to frighten the woman by telling her who the Zelowskis were, but neither did she want Franck's story to go unchallenged. “Is your phone a portable one, Clara?” The woman nodded. "Then why don't you bring it in here? I agree with you.

The police should know what's going on, but I'd like to be able to speak to them as well, and I can't leave my patient."

Franck nodded approvingly. "This is good. We all talk. This way the police learn the truth."

They both watched the woman leave the room.

“Why she hold her hand like this?” the old man demanded. "What wrong with her?"

“None of your fucking business,” said Sophie bluntly, 'and if you even mention it to her I'll stick so much Sellotape round your face it'll rip every cut wider when they peel it off you."

He chuckled. “Now who sadist?”

"You'd better believe it where you're concerned. I don't care how much pain anyone inflicts on you. It'll make me laugh."

“Hah!” he said with another delighted chuckle. "You so fierce when Franck tied up ... such little coward when he on top."

“And you were so brave tottering along in the gardens, I suppose,” she snapped, dropping into mimicry of his guttural consonants. "Vranek gan't breathe .. . Vranek avraid .. . Vranek vrightened."

“You worse.” He raised his voice to a falsetto. "Nicholas, help me ..

. nasty man touch me .. . please .. . please .. . Nicholas .. .

Nicholas."

It was on the tip of Sophie's tongue to wade in for another round, when it occurred to her that there was a terrible intimacy in what they were doing. It was like sparring with Bob. You said .. . I said .. . you did .. . I did ... It was as if this dreadful old man had released a side of her that had been locked in a box for years and years, a side that could hate with a passion -and, worse, enjoy the hating. What was wrong with her? He'd tried to rape her, for God's sake, and she was behaving as if she'd known him for years, talking to him in a way she couldn't talk to other people and feeling comfortable with it!

“You're confusing me with your wife,” she said unemotionally. "I imagine she called for Nicholas many times before you killed her."

His humour vanished like the sun behind a cloud. "You talk lies again."

"Then prove it to the police, Mr. Hollis, because I'm going to make sure they ask questions about her."

“Franck not the bad one,” he said angrily. "It's not me they question .. . not me they put on sex register .. . not me that causes all this trouble."

"The fact that your son's been convicted and you haven't doesn't make you innocent," she told him.

“You shut up now,” he said angrily.