Backlash (16 page)

‘It’s not far from the stables,’ Joan said.

Anna was buzzing.

‘She turned up at four-fifteen,’ Barbara went on. ‘The woman who owned the premises said four women had applied to see the room and they viewed it on the same day. She recalled
Fidelis as being Irish, that she carried a small rucksack and said that if she took the room she would want to move in straight away.’

‘Never called back?’

‘Right. So we now have a sort of description of what she was wearing – we didn’t have anything to go on before: blue anorak, jeans, dark-coloured jumper and knee-high
boots.’

‘Hmmm . . . this girl who owns the lease has a very good memory. I mean, it was eighteen months ago.’

‘She said she pays particular attention to anyone coming in to see the room as they would obviously be sharing the kitchen and bathroom.’

‘She recognized her straight away,’ said a new voice.

Anna turned as Barolli walked in.

‘This is good work, Paul.’

‘Thank you. I needed to get my mind off sneezing from the bloody hay at the stables. As you can see, the Shepherd’s Bush flat is not far from Ladbroke Grove and within walking
distance of the Tube station and the stables.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ Joan said mournfully. ‘I’ve been on the phone for so long my ear lobes are ringing.’

‘Great work, all of you. Congratulations,’ said Anna, with feeling.

Anna went in to see Mike and filled him in on that morning’s conversation with Langton. She also suggested they send some flowers to Pete Jenkins’ home address for
his wife and new baby.

‘Anything more from Kumar?’ she asked.

‘Nope. He went over the disclosure stuff and left without saying a word. I spoke to the prison for an update on Oates. The governor says he’s stopped playing up and should be moved
to solitary in the next couple of days for his own protection and be closely monitored.’

‘Be good if we could crack either Fidelis’s or Rebekka’s disappearance. I’m not having much luck so far, nothing new, but it’s a big development on the Fidelis
Flynn case. I’m trying to contact two boxers that knew Oates way back, see if I can get more on his background. One of them lives in Hammersmith close to the Jordans’ place.’

Mike nodded and then opened out a large map, covering his desk. They had investigated building sites across West London, on the possibility that Oates had worked in the Shepherd’s Bush
area. They were now sifting through any likely building sites and companies that might have hired unskilled or cheap labour over the last six years. Parts of the map were circled with a highlighter
pen.

‘It’s not unusual to use Eastern European guys paid on a daily rate for less money than a skilled labourer. Day’s rate for a builder, carpenter, anyone with training, is around
a hundred and ninety quid, but these casual workers will accept a hundred.’

‘Cash?’

‘Yeah. The obvious site is the Westfield Shopping Centre, which was started in 2003 and took five years to complete, so it fits the time span for Rebekka, but not for Fidelis.’

‘The security on Westfield must have been massive?’

‘It was, so it doesn’t look likely he could have put Rebekka’s body there. Barolli’s spoken to the contractors to see if Oates ever worked on site but they’re being
very cagey. But here’s one Paul reckons we should look into.’

Mike pointed to a red-circled area just off Shepherd’s Bush Green.

‘What is it?’

‘Multi-storey car park built as an overflow for Westfield and the timing is right for Fidelis’s disappearance. Two years ago they had a big rebuild and put in footings and supporting
pillars going down twenty feet. They built lifts, used tons of concrete and heavy mixers, but they didn’t really need guys with qualifications.’

‘What was the security like?’

‘One night guard in a Portakabin.’

‘Terrific. Good luck.’

‘Thanks.’ Mike smiled and cocked his head to one side. ‘So how is he?’

‘Langton?’

Mike nodded.

‘Pain in the butt. He keeps on calling me to get in groceries for him, his place is a pigsty, and he looks worn-out, but he told me he’s getting a cleaner in today.’

‘Where’s his wife and kids?’

‘Apparently at his place in the country. You know how he keeps his private life close to his chest, so I have no idea where it is.’

‘I’ll call him and give an update about the Flynn girl.’

‘Don’t mention I said anything, will you?’

‘As if I would. I might even drop in to see him. I owe him a visit.’

Anna walked to the door and then grinned. ‘He likes his vodka!’

‘Listen, if it’ll keep him out of my hair I’ll get him a crate!’

By the time Anna was back at her desk, Joan had succeeded in tracking down Timmy Bradford. He had changed address, having been made redundant six months ago. Unemployed, he was
now living back with his mother on a council estate in Kingston.

‘Terrific. Thank you, Joan.’

‘My pleasure.’

The Kingsnympton estate was huge, with a warren of lanes, but very well maintained and it was apparent that a number of the flats were privately owned. Anna parked and walked
to the block where Mrs Bradford lived. It was unlike many of the council estates she had been to previously. This block was clean and the stairs were freshly painted; all the front doors looked as
if they had just been painted too.

The bell had a jingle like a nursery rhyme and the bright blue door was opened by a pleasant white-haired woman wearing a tracksuit and fluffy slippers.

‘Mrs Bradford?’

‘I was, dear. I remarried. I’m Mrs Douglas now and you are the detective lady, right?’

Anna showed her ID and introduced herself as Mrs Douglas led her across a floral-carpeted narrow hallway through frosted glass doors and into a sitting room. There was more floral carpet and a
velvet suite with a large footstool and in the corner of the room was a huge plasma TV. Glass-fronted cabinets were filled with china and ornaments, and there was an electric coal-effect fire
glowing against one wall.

‘Do sit down. Timmy’s just popped out for some fresh milk. I used to get it delivered, but bottles would go missing. Kids, you know . . .’

Anna almost disappeared into the deep cushions of the velvet chair. Mrs Douglas came closer to her, evidently anxious.

‘There’s nothing wrong, is there? He hasn’t done anything wrong, has he?’

‘I am just here to ask for his help in an enquiry. He knew the person we are investigating and nothing more.’

‘That’s a relief. Poor boy needs a job, but it’s been years on and off. Every time he stays with me he says it’s just for a few weeks, but this time it’s been over
six months. He lost his savings, you know, with that bank that closed down. He lost every penny he earned and he’d been saving to buy one of the flats here; there’s a lot coming up for
sale. It would mean we’re not on top of each other – not that I mind, he’s a good boy.’

‘Is your husband at home?’

‘Oh no, dear. He passed on two years ago. And that was another thing – they never got on. He called him a bit of a freeloader and maybe he was right, but he’s my only son. I
suppose I should be glad of the company, but to be honest, he’s very untidy and I like things to be just so. He says I’m obsessive, but I’m the sort that’s up and ready by
seven, always do the crossword in the paper, and nothing gets me more irritated than the newspaper all split up before I’ve even read it.’

She hardly drew breath, but thankfully Anna heard the front door opening and Mrs Douglas hurried out.

‘She’s in here, dear. Did you get the biscuits too?’

‘Yeah.’

Anna could see them through the frosted glass doors and waited. Eventually Timmy Bradford walked in. He was also wearing a tracksuit, with a black T-shirt and trainers, and he was obviously very
fit. He was blond, his hair cut in the odd new fashion, cropped and razored at the sides and floppy on top. He had a gold earring and a thick gold necklace. Similar in looks to his mother, he had a
very chiselled face and had at one time broken his nose. It was now crooked, which gave him an added toughness, even more so as he had a front tooth missing.

He moved over to Anna and shook her hand, asking if she would like a cup of tea.

‘Had me nipping out to get biscuits. I don’t eat them, but she insisted. She’ll be in in a minute with a tray and lace cloth.’

He grinned and sat opposite Anna on the edge of the other big velvet chair.‘She’s eighty-two, in her forties when she had me.’

‘Good heavens. She doesn’t look it.’

‘She’s busy doing nothing, but she’s on a diet, lost over a stone since I’ve been here. She’s a devil for sweet stuff, though – chocolate orange biscuits, she
can eat a whole pack of them.’

He smiled and then gave a sigh.

‘I dunno . . . grown man my age having to live off her pension. It’s driving me nuts. I keep active, down the gym every day working out, and if I’m not there, I’m at the
job centre. I hate being on the dole.’

Anna nodded then opened her briefcase and took out Henry Oates’s picture.

‘I need to talk to you about this man. Do you know him?’

Timmy jumped to his feet as his mother called to him from the doorway. He swung open the door and took the tray from her.

‘Thank you, Ma. Now just leave us for a minute, will you?’

He fussed around with the tray, which did have a lace-`edged cloth, with a silver teapot and matching milk jug, and a plate of plain biscuits. The cups and saucers matched and were covered in
roses.

He poured a cup for Anna and passed it to her and then offered the biscuits. He didn’t pour a cup for himself or take a biscuit, but reached over for the picture of Henry Oates.

‘Henry, yeah I know him, or I used to know him well. Long time ago now when I was boxing at the club in Bethnal Green. I’ve got a deviated septum, used to bleed like a stuck pig at
the smallest tap. Gave it up, had to, but I used to train and spar with him, even fought him in the London Boys Club Championships. He was a tough little bastard – excuse me – but Henry
was a good athlete, had a lot of potential.’

He handed the photographs back to Anna.

‘When did you last see him?’

Timmy shook his head and then leaned back.

‘Maybe seven years ago, bumped into him at York Hall watching the ABA championships. He still looked fucked-up – excuse me, sorry. I knew his last ever fight had been a real hard
one, but he was the type that wouldn’t go down. Even his corner man wanted to throw the towel in, but he boxed on, got smashed up badly.’

‘Was he still boxing when you last saw him?’

‘No, he’d given it up a good few years before, looked like he’d hit the bottom, drunk out of his skull. I was never close to him. To be honest I didn’t think anyone was
really. He’d got a chip on his shoulder the size of a boulder. Mind you, rumour had it that he’d got involved with a wrong ’un.’

‘Who do you mean?’

‘His wife.’

‘Eileen?’

‘I didn’t know her name, and this is all what was repeated to me. He married her because she said she was pregnant – you know, he done the decent thing.’

‘He was very abusive towards her, wasn’t he?’

‘I wouldn’t know, but what I was told was that he thought the kid wasn’t his. Had the look of a darkie.’

‘So you didn’t know that as a fact?’

‘She put it about a bit for cash, you know, on the game, they said, and again I’m only repeating what I heard, but apparently he only found out about her other job after he’d
married her. She denied it, said he was definitely the father, but he was never sure. I mean, it could have been anyone’s.’

‘Did he find out? Do a DNA test, anything like that?’

Timmy shrugged. He remembered that Henry had gone to Liverpool to find his mother so he could get a passport, but he had never caught up with the rest of the story.

‘Do you recall the man who trained Henry, perhaps an ex-boxer?’

‘Oh I know who you mean, old Mr Radcliff, yeah, yeah, he was a great character. He took Henry in to live with him. He’d been one of the best all-rounders forty years before, but got
busted for doing illegal fights.’

‘He died while the club was on tour?’

‘Florida, yeah, I was there, big heart attack ringside. The rest of the tour went ahead though, in his memory, like, and they shipped him back with us. I remember the funeral, big turnout,
Henry was there. I think it hit him very hard, especially not being with him when it happened. Radcliff was sort of like a surrogate dad to him, to all the kids, but after he was gone it meant
Henry had no place to live and he’d doss down anywhere he could. To be honest . . .’

Timmy frowned and then cracked his knuckles.

‘Remember that fight I told you about, when he took a lot of punishment? It was after, I think, after old Mr Radcliff had died. When I say he wouldn’t go down I mean it. Talk about a
“Raging Bull” episode. He was totally outclassed and was walking into the punches, leaning on the ropes and then holding on as the punches hammered into him; then he dropped his fists
and bam! Hard right and he was down and out for the count.’

‘Go on.’

Timmy made a broad gesture, and said that it had to have been a while after that he was told Henry had given up, but that more than that the boxing had done his head in by the time he was in his
late twenties.

‘Punch-drunk, they said, not that I believe in all that stuff. He was always a bit of a nutter. There was a fighter called Ira, heavyweight, lot of people in the business reckoned
he’d go all the way.’

‘Ira Zacks?’

‘Yeah, that’s right, Ira Zacks. We was all at the same club together in the East End. It was him that told me, said he’d seen Henry wandering around like a dosser.’

‘So Ira Zacks knew Henry Oates well?’

‘I dunno about that. I’m just telling you what he told me.’

Anna put her cup and saucer back onto the tray.

‘Would you like a refill?’

‘No, thank you, you have been really helpful.’

Anna stood up as Timmy jumped to his feet.

‘You mind me asking, what’s he done? Something bad?’