Chosen (5 page)

‘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.'

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.'

‘Fetch 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.'

The regulars had been enjoying Joe's verbal sparring with authority. This was more fun than Match of the Day. At Nash's last sentence, however, they stirred uneasily.

‘You wouldn't do that.'

‘Don't try me.'

Nash and the landlord stood eye to eye, optical arm wrestling. ‘Okay, okay; follow me.'

Nash turned to Mironova. ‘Stay here. Make sure none of these characters does a runner. Get on the radio, tell Tom what's happened. We need Pearce and SOCO here, PDQ.'

The yard was piled high with beer kegs and crates of empty bottles. A second officer was standing by the back gate. The woman was lying in the middle of the concrete. The cause of death was easy enough to establish. The long-handled knife sticking out of her chest gave it away.

The paramedics had checked for signs of life, shook their heads sorrowfully and departed. ‘Who is she, Rawlings?'

‘Name's Lizzie Barton; off the Westlea estate.' Rawlings, it appeared, had decided to cooperate.

‘Known to us, do you reckon?'

For the first time, Nash saw a glint of genuine humour in Rawlings's eyes. ‘Isn't everyone from that estate?'

‘It isn't compulsory, but most of them are.'

‘Listen, Inspector—?'

‘My name's Nash.'

‘Oh yes. I heard about you on the radio yesterday, about the missing girl. Have you found her yet?'

‘No, we haven't. Anyway, about this one, Lizzie Barton, you said her name is. Was she married?'

This time there was no doubt the laughter was genuine. ‘Not formally, at least not that I know of. She's half a dozen kids, all by different blokes. They used to tease her in there,' he jerked his thumb in the direction of the pub. ‘Said she was after her own football team and every player would have a different name on his shirt. She won't make it now.' Rawlings's humour turned mordant. ‘Ah well, there's always six-a-side.'

Nash turned to look at the dead woman. Lizzie Barton looked probably just the wrong side of forty, or maybe that was a result of her lifestyle. She was attractive enough in a bold, slightly second-hand way. It looked as if she'd been around a bit and the journey hadn't been an easy one. She was dressed in jeans, sweat shirt and trainers, almost a uniform for those frequenting the pub. Her handbag lay alongside the body. It had tipped over on its side and her purse had spilled out. Even without touching it, Nash could see the purse contained a quantity of notes. That in itself was a minor miracle. ‘Who found the body?'

‘The barman. He had to change a keg and there's not much room in the cellar, so we bring the empties straight out here.'

Looking closer, Nash noticed the ankle bracelet. He could never remember the significance of which ankle the bracelet was worn on. ‘Was she a pro?'

‘On the game? If she got short of money, I reckon she wouldn't have minded charging for it. She never touted it in the pub, though.'

‘Naturally, because you'd have to tell her it was against the licensing laws and you'd have to ban her, wouldn't you?'

‘Of course I would, Inspector,' Rawlings replied solemnly, acknowledging Nash's sarcasm.

‘Did you ever—?' Nash let the question hang in the air.

Rawlings smiled. ‘If I admit that, am I a suspect?'

‘You've just as good as admitted it. You're already a suspect, but by the sound of it you'll not be short of company.'

Rawlings said resignedly, ‘We did slip upstairs to my flat some
afternoons. Lizzie was good in bed and enjoyed it too. A genuine enthusiast.'

‘Presumably only when there was no racing on telly?'

There was a touch of pride in Rawlings's voice when he replied. ‘Exactly; business before pleasure. I let everyone in the pub think I lose a lot, but in fact I make more money from gambling than I do from running this place. Last year I cleared £70,000 after tax.'

‘So you'd be in a position to pay Lizzie, if she charged for it?'

‘Lizzie, and a few more besides. I may not be good looking but that doesn't stop me wanting it, Mr Nash, and if there are women prepared to go to bed with me, why not?' He shrugged. ‘And if they need money, again, why not? We've all got to make our way in this life the best we can.'

‘Was Lizzie in the pub at lunchtime?'

‘If she was, I didn't see her, and I didn't go upstairs until about two o'clock. The first race was at 2.15 and I'd a fair amount riding on it.'

‘How did it go?'

‘I backed the favourite. It won in a canter at 6/4. I cleared three thousand pounds.'

‘So Lizzie might have been on her way here and got waylaid?'

‘Could be,' the landlord looked down at the dead woman. ‘Lizzie didn't deserve this, I reckon.'

‘Was the pub busy at lunchtime?'

‘On a Tuesday, you must be joking. Just those you saw and half a dozen more. It's hardly worth opening.'

‘Then you'll have no trouble remembering the names of the others then, the ones who scarpered before we arrived.'

Rawlings shifted uneasily. ‘My regulars wouldn't be happy me giving their names to the … police.'

‘Perhaps they'd be happier having a couple of my officers sitting at the bar every night for a week or two, until I'm sure we've interviewed everyone?' Nash suggested mildly.

Rawlings looked horrified. ‘You drive a hard bargain.' He raised his hands in mock surrender.

‘Did Lizzie have any enemies you knew of?'

‘If she did, she never told me. She was popular in the pub. Mind you, she'd been through most of the blokes at one time or another,
but it wasn't serious with Lizzie, just recreational. I don't think any of them bore her a grudge or would harm her.'

‘What about their wives or girlfriends? Had she made anyone in particular jealous enough to want to hurt her?'

Rawlings hesitated. ‘I couldn't say for sure.'

He was lying, Nash was sure of it. What was more, Rawlings knew he was aware of the fact. Nash detailed the officer to remain with the body and led Rawlings back inside. There, he found Pearce had joined Mironova and the two of them were taking details from the customers. ‘I'll need you to come into the station and make a formal statement, but that can wait. You can go back to your racing if you want.'

Rawlings glanced at his watch. ‘It's okay; the last televized race is over.'

‘We're going to have to close the pub until the forensics people have finished,' Nash warned him.

Rawlings nodded resignedly. ‘I expected that. Thank God it isn't Friday or Saturday.'

‘You should be able to re-open tomorrow lunchtime. One thing I would advise, though. Get on the phone to a signwriter. Have that sign over the door repainted. If I noticed it, others will.'

Nash walked over to talk to the superintendent, who'd just entered. He briefed Pratt and took him into the yard to view the body. ‘We need to clear this up ASAP,' Pratt said. ‘We're stretched enough as it is.'

‘Tell me about it. One thing does puzzle me, given the reputation this place has. Why have we never objected to the licence?'

‘Because sometimes it's an advantage knowing exactly where to find certain people.'

‘You mean, keep all the villains in one place?'

‘Makes life simpler for us.'

‘I'll finish up here as fast as I can. The landlord's giving us the names of everyone who was in here at lunchtime. I'll send Mironova and Pearce off to talk to them. There won't be that many.' A thought occurred to Nash and he waved the landlord across.

‘Would the back gate have been unlocked?'

Rawlings nodded. ‘Some of the regulars use it as a short cut. Besides which, we have deliveries twice a week, so I leave it open.'

‘So, whoever stabbed Lizzie needn't have come into the pub at all?'

‘Not if they knew the gate was open.'

Nash waited until the landlord was out of earshot. ‘I'm going to have a word with the barman. I've a notion he might have something to contribute, and I think I know how to make him spill it.'

At first it seemed Nash's confidence was unjustified. In face of the barman's sullen defiance Nash merely smiled and said, ‘I hope you're going to tell us all you know without me making it difficult for you?'

‘I don't know anything.'

‘You found the body, for one thing. You know more than anyone else. Tell me about it.'

The barman shrugged. ‘I'd to change a barrel. I took the empty keg out and there she was.'

‘That's a load of rubbish. I'll tell you why, shall I? The reason is, I already know what you're not telling me.'

‘Don't know what you're talking about.'

‘You know exactly what I'm talking about. It wasn't only an empty keg you took outside, was it?'

The young barman's face lost what little colour it had, but he managed to reply. ‘Course it was.'

‘I see, and did you dial 999 as soon as you came back inside?'

‘Why wouldn't I?'

‘You didn't by any chance make another quick phone call first, from your mobile?'

‘Why should I?'

‘Maybe to tell your pal not to come for the crate of lager? The one you'd put out for him? Nice little scam that. A busy pub like this, who's going to miss the odd crate now and again? You pile the empties high then put a full one on top of the stack. Rawlings can't see it because he's only a short-arse, and besides, it's not out there long. Your pal drives up, collects the crate, sells it on and you split the difference. It must have shocked the living daylights out of you, finding the body. With us about to crawl all over the spot, it would only have been a matter of time before somebody found the crate and put two and two together,' Nash's smile was wolf-like as he concluded, ‘and now, your worst fears have come true.'