Death Dues (6 page)

‘One for all and all for one?’

Moran frowned at this rare example of Rafferty’s limited literary references but nodded. ‘Yeah. That’s right.’

Poor innocent, thought Rafferty. They’d drop him in it when it suited them. The naïve Moran would be a perfect patsy to the others. It was probably why they’d let him join their gang.

‘OK. Now we’ve got that sorted out. Tell me, Tony, have you remembered anyone else you saw leaving the street, other than the three women you’ve already told us about?’

‘I dunno.’

‘Think about it. For instance, did you see Mr Eric Lewis enter the alley with a hedge trimmer?’

‘I saw some old bloke. I don’t know his name. He had some gadget or other with him.’

‘And what time was this?’

‘I dunno. I don’t wear a watch.’

Time mused Rafferty. Keeping track of it was such an inessential to so many modern youths. He often wished it wasn’t such an imperative in his own life. ‘Just roughly.’

Moran’s forehead puckered in thought. ‘It must have been sometime around three-ish, I suppose, or a bit later. Perhaps it was half past.’

‘Do you recall seeing anyone else?’

Moran’s forehead did some more puckering. Rafferty, while he was waiting, amused himself by changing one of the vowels in the youth’s name on his notepad till he had a surname that was singularly appropriate. Unkind, Rafferty, smote his strict Catholic conscience. But it was clear that deep or even not so deep, thought, wasn’t one of Tony Moran’s strong suits.

‘I dunno,’ he eventually volunteered.

Rafferty swallowed a sigh.

‘There were some kids out when I arrived. Playing like.’

Somehow, Rafferty doubted young kids were responsible for Jaws Harrison’s murder. But such were the times they lived in, he couldn’t totally discount the possibility. ‘Do you know their names?’

Perhaps himself feeling his previous responses had lacked variety, this time Moran just shook his head.

To Rafferty’s surprise, Tony Moran then volunteered something. ‘Now that I think about it, I remember seeing another bloke on the street this afternoon. I know the faces of everyone in the street.’

He should, thought Rafferty, when he spent most of his time hanging around its corner watching his bolder mates causing trouble.

‘But this man was a stranger. I’d never seen him before. He carried a briefcase and knocked at number nine.’

Number nine was Tracey Stubbs’s home. ‘Was he let in?’

Moran nodded. ‘Eventually. He was there quite a while.’ He grinned. ‘According to the lads, that Tracey’s a bit of a goer. I wondered if they might be having it off.’

No one else had mentioned seeing this man. Strange that it should be “I dunno” Moran who supplied the information.

‘What did he look like?’ Rafferty asked, expecting another “I dunno” answer. But Moran surprised him again.

‘My mum would call him very smart. Suited and booted. But he was actually a bit flash. I noticed the wind didn’t ruffle his hair. It stayed put as if it had been glued to his head. And his suit had a peacock blue lining. I saw it when the wind blew his jacket open. Flash git, I thought.’

A brief memory stirred in Rafferty’s head, but was as swiftly gone. ‘Anything else you recall about this man?’

Tony Moran’s mother seemed to be something of a walking reference book for her son because he again called on her opinion. ‘I suppose my mum would have called him a looker. He certainly seemed to fancy himself as he fairly strutted up the street like a cock of the walk. Reckon Tracey must have fancied him as well as he was in her place for ages.’

Eventually, by dint of further tortuous questioning, between them, he and Llewellyn had extracted several pieces of information. Rafferty was as interested in the identities of those who had left the street as in those who had remained. The team had yet to find the murder weapon, so, unless it turned up during the remaining hours of searching, someone had disposed of it. And although Moran was shaky on names and times, he had been able to give them rough descriptions of the women — all of those who had left the street that afternoon had been women – so they had made some progress.

He told the youth and the tapes that the interview was suspended and added the time.

Rafferty, reluctant to let such a cooperative witness go before they had squeezed him dry of information, glanced at Llewellyn with raised eyebrows. Any more questions? the gesture asked.

Llewellyn nodded. ‘Did either you or the other members of your gang enter the alley, before or after the body was found?’

‘No.’ Moran’s answer this time was sharper.

‘Did you hear anything? Any cries or arguments, for instance?’

‘No. I heard nothing. We were larking about, like. I didn’t see or hear nothin’. Neither did the others. They’d have said, like.’

As to whether any of the gang of four had entered the alley, either to follow Harrison with robbery in mind or later, on hearing him cry out, neither Moran nor any of the other three would be likely to admit it. Even Moran wasn’t so stupid as to say so if one of them had. Though, unless Jaws’ killer had taken the wallet, it seemed the likeliest possibility. Unless Eric Lewis, seeing the dead body, had decided to help himself, concluding that Forbes’s collector would have no more use for it or its contents.

It didn’t seem they would get anything further from their witness. According to him, no one other than the victim and Eric Lewis had entered the alley. Lewis had gone in some five or ten minutes after Jaws Harrison, so although well placed to commit murder, he hadn’t left the street with the purpose of getting rid of the weapon.

By now, it was eight-thirty. In spite of Primrose Avenue, the alley and the surrounding streets and gardens being thoroughly searched, the murder weapon still hadn’t turned up. The team had found a number of hammers in the sheds and toolboxes of the street, but although they would all be subject to forensic tests, none, so far, showed evidence of having been used in any way other than that which their manufacturers had intended.

Rafferty suggested they call it a night.

On his way home, Rafferty stopped off at his Ma’s house. She welcomed him with as much hot sweet tea as he could drink. Settled comfortably in her over furnished living room, he made swift inroads into the ham sandwiches she also provided. Ma loved to feed people. Now she lived alone she had only herself to cater for; her other five children, like Rafferty himself, were all in relationships and had homes of their own.

Ma settled her rounded body back in her own well-worn tweed-effect armchair and, the requirements of hospitality over, she said, ‘I heard you’ve got a murder a couple of streets away. The whole neighbourhood’s agog.’

‘Thought it might be.’ Rafferty paused, then asked, ‘So who’s the favourite for the murder suspect?’ He didn’t usually go by local gossip in murder investigations, but sometimes the view on the street could be helpful and at least he’d get the low-down on most of the residents of Primrose Avenue.

‘Jake and Jason Sterling seem top of the list. Closely followed by their father, though I’d have thought him too idle to bestir himself to commit murder.’

It was an interesting point of view, particularly as the two youths and their friends had been best placed to spot Jaws Harrison’s arrival.

‘What do you know about the family?’

‘Bunch of wasters.’ Ma was always forthright in her views. ‘The boys haven’t had a job since they left school, but they’ve had plenty of those ASBO things. They’ve been tagged and been in youth prison — you must know that as it was your lot who arrested them, but nothing makes any difference. Should have had a short, sharp shock from the start when they began to go off the rails. It might have done some good then. It’s all too little too late now.’

‘What about the rest of the residents? I’m particularly interested in those on the odd-numbered side of the street. I imagine you know most of the women from your visits to the local shops. Let’s start with the lodger at number one, Samantha Dicker.’

‘She’s a student, studying one of those ologies that old telly advert used to go on about. A nice girl on the whole. Up to her eyes in debt, of course, like most students nowadays, though the Smiths are good to her. Treat her like one of the family. They’re away in Spain at present, though I suppose you know that?’

Rafferty nodded. ‘What about Josie McBride at number three? I gather her and Anthony Clifford are getting married?’

‘Yes. Saving like mad according to Josie’s mother. She wants a big wedding. I hear it’s going to cost over seventeen thousand pounds at the last count.’ Ma tutted at such extravagance. ‘Stupid lot of nonsense. We didn’t spend such ridiculous sums in my day. Didn’t have the money, of course. Not that we’d have been so daft as to waste such sums on just one day even if we did have it. It’s what comes after that counts. It’s my experience that the more money spent on a wedding the shorter the marriage.’

Rafferty nodded. It was his experience, too. Perhaps he could get his Ma to put that point of view to Abra?

‘Talking of weddings—’ his Ma began.

‘Not now, Ma. Later.’ If we must. Get Ma on the subject of weddings, particularly his, and they’d be here till midnight with him no further forward in getting a deeper knowledge of his suspects. ‘Let’s move on to Mr and Mrs Jones at number five and their lodger, Peter Allbright.’

Ma sniffed at being fobbed off from her current favourite topic of conversation, but, for once, she obeyed his stricture.

‘Harry Jones was made redundant. Must be two years ago now. Hasn’t been able to get a job since. Suffers from depression. He’s on medication. If it wasn’t for the money their youngest boy brings in I don’t know how they’d manage.’

‘I gather Mrs Jones doesn’t work, either?’

‘Never has to my knowledge. One of those obsessive housewives and with a husband, the lodger and one of her boys at home all day making a mess, she’s got her work cut out. I like a clean house myself, but I don’t make myself a martyr to it.’

‘But decent people, would you say?’

‘They’re all right. Not my sort. She always says hello when we meet in the street, though he’s got a bit distant lately. It’s the depression, I suppose. It’s not easy getting another job at his age and it’s not as if he’s got the skills to go self-employed. No trade, you see. He was only a line worker at one of the factories on the industrial estate.’

‘What about the lodger, Peter Allbright?’

‘He used to work at the same factory as Harry. That’s how he came to lodge with them. Lost his job at the same time as Harry. He’s on Jobseeker’s Allowance. So was Harry, but I think he’s on Incapacity Benefit now.’

‘Nice enough bloke, the lodger?’

Ma shrugged. ‘Keeps himself to himself. Spends most of his time in his room according to Maggie Jones. No trouble though. He still manages to pay his rent anyway. So that’s one blessing. Can’t have anything left to live on after that, though. Must be a miserable existence for the lad. He’s only around  twenty-five or so.’

‘And Mrs Parker and Mr Jenkins, at numbers thirteen and eleven?’ These were the two pensioners. Their frailty alone lessened the likelihood of either being strong suspects. But, as he had told Timothy Smales, appearances could be deceptive, so, as they were both at home at the time of the murder, though only Mrs Parker had a loan with Malcolm Forbes, either had had the opportunity to kill John “Jaws” Harrison.

‘I know Emily Parker from bingo. Nosey sort.’ And Ma should know. Like recognising like and all that. ‘I’m surprised she hasn’t solved your murder for you. She’s always in and out of the neighbour’s houses and is the first to know what’s going on in the street.’ Rafferty had heard this complaint about Emily Parker from his Ma before, he recalled. ‘Though she wasn’t so quick off the mark with
this
news,’ Ma said with satisfaction.

Rafferty smiled to himself. Ma had always seemed of the opinion that knowing everybody’s business was
her
job. Clearly, she had a strong challenger in Emily Parker.

‘I think the men get fed up with her always in and out. Some of the women, too. And as for Jim Jenkins, he’s a bit reserved and not inclined to chat, though I suppose the pain of his arthritis would make anyone miserable. I don’t suppose it helps that he lives next door to Tracey Stubbs and her unruly brood. Always kicking footballs into his garden and damaging his vegetables. Rarely stops for a chat, Mr Jenkins. I suppose it makes his legs ache, though he always acknowledged you by doffing his hat. Don’t see much of that nowadays.’

‘Tracey Stubbs at number nine. What do you know about her?’

Ma gave her second sniff of the evening. ‘She’s got three kids under ten and another due imminently. All from different fathers. Must do nicely on the Child Allowance, though not enough to keep them in those fancy trainers she manages to kit them out in.’

‘I take it she doesn’t work?’

‘She’s got a little part-time job. But most of the work that Tracey does is done on her back.’

‘Are you saying she’s some sort of prostitute to be able to afford the expensive trainers?’

His Ma pursed her lips, then told him tartly, ‘I’m saying nothing of the sort. That’d be slander. You’re meant to be the policeman of the family — why don’t
you
ask her? All I’m saying is that the girl should learn to keep her legs together. Always had poor taste in men, right from a youngster. She was forever hanging round the streets, flirting with the boys.

‘Could see where she was heading even then, even though she was quite bright. Didn’t apply herself. Her mum lives around the corner. Nice a woman as you’d find. Tracey’s been a trial to her. Too soft with the girl. I mean, look how Tracey turned out. Though to give the girl her due, she does work part time and the children are always well turned out. Does an evening job at the supermarket. Her mother looks after the kids.’

Rafferty, recalling his own deprived youth and his widowed Ma’s endless struggles to make ends meet, thought he’d ask her what she knew about Malcolm ‘The Enforcer’ Forbes.

‘Did you ever borrow money from him, Ma? Or from his father before him?’