Cobweb (19 page)

‘Did he ever use a knife?' Patrick enquired in an offhand tone.

‘He bragged that he could kill anyone, anyhow, in his younger days. I wasn't here then but the boss was.'

‘Would Clem have any
particular
reason for wanting to murder Harmsworth?'

I was glad that Patrick was adopting a feather-light touch, not even looking at the sergeant as he spoke, apparently giving all his attention to the peeling paint on a window frame.

‘Not that I know of,' answered Boles stolidly, ‘unless he's gone off his rocker.'

‘And killed two policemen plus tried to blow up anyone who entered his flat. Yes, that would figure. You know, Sergeant, what makes me really angry about this is that it could have been just some poor sod from the council who was investigating why no one's paid any rent on this place since God knows when.'

I remembered then how I had thought I had seen Erin Melrose here. What if she had tried to get into this flat?

‘So he's got a bolt hole somewhere,' Patrick was saying to Boles. ‘Any ideas on that one?'

‘No,' Boles replied. ‘He's kept his head down recently.' After a slightly awkward pause he added, ‘I – er – actually need you to make a short statement about what happened last night, if you don't mind.'

‘The paperwork – the paperwork,' Patrick groaned but with a grin. ‘Yes, sorry. I should have done that first thing. Tell you what: come next door and have a cup of tea with Esme and you can soak up all she wants to say as well.'

‘He's a dirty nobody up to no good,' said Esme, presiding regally over two teapots, an assortment of colourful mugs and a plate piled high with biscuits. ‘And a crook,' she added, flourishing a teaspoon before whirling it around in the pots.

‘You
know
he was up to no good?' Patrick said.

‘When he's here he throws bags of rubbish outside instead of putting it down the chutes. And I've even seen him chuck it over into the area below. Once a television set, when he was drunk. He could have killed someone, but I dared not say anything after he called me a black cow one day when I complained about the rubbish. I'm frightened of him and I don't have a man here to help me with things like that now – he left years ago and good riddance.'

Standing nervously by the door of the room was Esme's son, Evian, tongue-tied by the presence of so many upholders of the law, even though two of them had just thanked him profusely for his prompt action the night before last. I rather felt that young Evian might have had his collar felt by the police for much less noble deeds, but was soon to be proved wrong.

‘There's always folk knocking on my door asking if I know where this Brocklebank is,' Esme said. ‘Housing people, other policeman, men from the electricity and gas. And I have to say no, I haven't seen him for months except when he sometimes sneaks home at night. I hear the door close. It does not fit properly and has to be pushed hard. I hear him go away again and that is all. Only rats sneak about in the dark and have good people looking for them. Yes, he's a crook all right.'

This pronouncement was followed by the serving of the tea and Esme became even more delighted with Patrick when he took two biscuits.

‘Have you any idea at all where he might be living?' he asked her.

‘Rough,' she replied. ‘For surely a man like that would not have another home.'

‘Did you notice other people coming to see him when he did live here?'

‘Hundreds of people live here, man.'

‘Yes, but you'd notice comings and goings next door, wouldn't you? – because of the dodgy front door,' Patrick wheedled.

Esme gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘I'm not one of those curtain-peeping people, you know.'

‘No, but you're a law-abiding lady who hates to have unpleasant neighbours who give the place a bad name.'

Mother and son exchanged somewhat nervous sideways looks and then Esme said, ‘No, I haven't seen other folk go in there.'

I think none of us had missed that glance. Smiling disarmingly, Patrick said, ‘Did he by any chance try to involve your son in criminal activities?' He turned his gaze upon Evian – perhaps thinking that there was the germ of an idea in that young man's mind that he would depart – whereupon he remained riveted to the spot.

Mother and son gave each other another worried look.

‘This was bound to come out,' she snapped. ‘Well, shall I tell him or will you?' And when no response appeared to be readily forthcoming, she bellowed in stentorian tones, ‘You answer now or even though you helped to save this man's life he will take you down to the nick and give you hell!'

Evian looked wretched as we all stared at him and then said to the floor, ‘There was this other bloke – and him and the bloke next door, Clem, was talking outside one day when they saw me coming along. Clem says, all sarky like, “Here's a bright young bloke who'll help us out.” I really thought he was taking the mick, but then he said I'd get twenty quid if I'd take a parcel to a bloke in Woodhill. I had an idea it was drugs and they wanted someone who hadn't shown their face around there before as the Drugs Squad was watching the place.'

‘He did it,' said Esme in disgust. ‘But not again, I'll tell you, after the talking-to I gave him when he came back with his wretched twenty-pound note.'

‘What did the man he was talking to outside look like?' Boles wanted to know, taking out his notebook.

‘He was a real mess,' said Evian, ‘like a man who sleeps in his clothes and never combs his hair. But not someone from round here. I've never been there but I reckon this guy lived somewhere out in the sticks. He stank in a strange sort of way – like animals.'

‘Did Clem call him by name?'

‘I don't think so – I can't really remember.'

Patrick said, ‘I'm not going to take you down to the nick and give you hell, Evian, but I would like you to tell me about anything else you've done for this man. He's wanted in connection with a very serious crime.' He rose to his feet and went over to where the youth stood. ‘And I shall want your word that you'll stay right away from people like him in future. Otherwise you will get into trouble with the police.'

Evian looked at him desperately. ‘No one'll give me any other kind of job.'

‘
I'll
find you something to do.' On an apparent afterthought he asked, ‘D'you have mates here? Belong to a gang – that kind of thing?'

Evian shook his head. ‘No, they do stupid things – just for the hell of it. The big boys steal cars and drive them round and round. I hate that, but it means I have to stay in most of the time. They call me names and throw stones because I won't go with them.'

‘There's nothing for good boys to do here,' Esme lamented. ‘The place we lived before had some grass where they could play football. There was even a little garden and we – me and my friends – put plants in for people to enjoy. We used to joke that we would grow vegetables there one day. Here everything has been destroyed.'

To Evian, Patrick said, ‘Do these boys go to your school? Do they bully you at school?'

‘I don't think any of them go to school.'

‘OK, come and sit down and tell us everything you can remember about what Brocklebank and the other man said while you were with them.' To Boles he said, ‘Sergeant, please do me a favour and see if you can get hold of a picture of Daniel Smith to show him.'

‘That was it!' Evian exclaimed. ‘Danny! That's what he called him!'

‘He's a clever boy when he really, really tries,' Esme said proudly.

In actual fact, Evian could supply little further useful information although it was established, thankfully, that he had never been to Smith's caravan and had done mostly innocent errands for Brocklebank along the lines of buying him cigarettes, payment being a can of lager, although, strictly speaking, he was under age for both. Patrick and I get very angry about shops that sell cigarettes to children and there was a short detour on the way back to Woodhill when my husband delivered a severe verbal strafing to the establishment in question, getting back into the car with a contented smile on his face.

‘You told Evian you'd find him something to do,' I reminded him. ‘But surely he's still at school – or should be.'

‘Yes, when he feels like turning up,' Patrick agreed. ‘I'm not going to lose sight of this. I shall – with his mother's permission, of course – do something, and it'll have to be soon.'

Michael Greenway gazed at us soberly. ‘Well, I'm bloody glad I'm not having to attend your funerals.'

‘I should have carried out a better surveillance,' Patrick said.

‘But for God's sake this isn't a terrorism case!' Greenway exclaimed. ‘I'm sure the worst you were expecting was that he'd be waiting for you with a firearm or knife behind a door.'

‘I was trained never to assume anything. But at least we now know to expect anything – which might save someone else's life.'

‘In my view the case will be really sewn up when we get the DNA results on that clothing. If you're on the right track, they'll find it was Harmsworth's and there'll be traces of that of a person unknown, matey with a handiness in setting explosive devices: Brocklebank. D'you reckon any of his might have survived that blast?'

‘I'm no expert on that,' Patrick replied, ‘but probably. Sergeant Boles is working on that side of things.'

‘Until Brocklebank's found there'll be a continued risk to police personnel. Any idea as to where he might be?'

‘None,' Patrick said. ‘But obviously, he's not at Smith's caravan.'

‘Just about every other form of life on the planet was, according to what I was told. What does Central Records have to say about Brocklebank?'

‘Hardly anything really useful. He's fifty-five years old, five feet nine inches tall and of stocky build. Sandy-coloured thinning hair, brown eyes, slightly pockmarked complexion. There's no record of his ever having had a permanent job. He originally came from the North-East and is not known to have any relatives in the South.'

‘So did I. Tough as nails, then.' Greenway gave us an appraising glance. ‘Where do you two hail from?'

‘I was born in the West Country,' Patrick said. ‘My father's a Devon man, my mother's Cornish. She was appalled to discover only very recently that her forebears were wreckers.'

So that's where he got it from.

‘I'm a southern softie,' I said.

For some reason the men laughed.

‘With this latest development I think you've fulfilled your brief on this case,' Greenway went on to say. ‘Would you like to hit home base until something else comes up?'

‘But you told us to go and get the bastard,' Patrick countered.

‘You have. We know exactly who he is now and it's just a matter of putting out a full description and photo of him. If the DNA tests throw up something else we'll have to go back to the drawing board.'

‘I haven't actually got him in my
fist
,' Patrick pointed out softly.

‘SOCA don't have to get involved like that,' he was told.

‘With respect—'

Greenway interrupted with, ‘Richard Daws told me you had a way with words – while the expression on your face said something else, usually the opposite. He said you always argue. Give me one good reason why I should listen to you.'

‘Because you're a good leader and value the opinions of those working for you.'

‘OK, you're flattering me, but I do value your opinion so I'll buy it.'

‘We already know the reason why I should go after him. You need someone with experience of special operations. He's far more of a risk to police personnel than to me, now we know what he's capable of. He doesn't know my face – not unless he's been carrying out some kind of surveillance of his own. I shall go undercover and take myself off to the kind of places where he might be known.'

‘I hope this isn't a revenge thing.'

‘No, it isn't.'

Greenway pondered for a few moments and then said, ‘I know that Ingrid used to partner you in MI5 days, but not this time, not now. If you go, she spends time at home, or somewhere else that's at a safe distance, on the end of a phone should you need help.'

‘Ingrid is of far more help to me when we work together than you could possibly imagine.'

‘That's the deal. I can't risk anything happening to her. Take it or leave it.'

‘I'd rather like a few days at home,' I said wistfully, having an idea that the Jo-Jo's business, as far as I was concerned, had unnerved him. ‘To see the children, spend time in the garden, hear the cuckoos.'

Patrick and I have our codewords, ‘cuckoo' being one of them. Somewhat ridiculously, it can mean absolutely anything and relies heavily on who's doing the talking and who's listening. He knew exactly what I meant.

‘OK,' he said.

‘You have one week,' Greenway declared.

Despite my indication to Patrick that I had no intention of sticking rigidly to the directive, I did have a sense that some kind of full stop had occurred, the news that Hicks had made an arrest in connection with the Giddings murder adding to the feeling. He had, we were told shortly after talking to Greenway, turned over a squat and found the MP's wedding ring – it was engraved and had been identified by his wife – in a bundle of possessions belonging to a drug addict who hung about the area and who had been previously imprisoned for violent muggings. This individual had been duly hunted down and arrested and, when questioned, his story of having found the ring in the park where Giddings was murdered had, understandably, not been believed. He could give no reason for not having sold it other than saying it was a good ring, and, like Gollum, had snivelled that it was precious to him. ‘So why wasn't it on your finger instead of being hidden in an old knapsack under floorboards?' his interviewers had gone on to enquire. There had been no answer forthcoming to this, the man being too far gone on drugs, or drink, and not fit, just then, to be questioned further. Nevertheless, after another interview during which he had refused to speak at all, he had been charged with murder.