Shooting Elvis (4 page)

‘Did Mr Newbold still work there?’

‘No. Not after about, oh, 1993 or 4, something like that. He went to live in Spain and we didn’t see much of him after that. He still owned the company, I think, but his son managed it for him. If you can call it managing. That’s when it started going downhill.’

‘What happened to the son?’

‘He wasn’t interested. He had a degree in biology or something and went to work in California. DNA and all that stuff. Do you reckon Alf was murdered, then? The paper made it sound like suicide.’

‘I don’t know. The coroner will have to decide
that; I’m just the gatherer of evidence. Can you make me a list of everybody you remember from Ellis and Newbold’s, please?’

‘What, now?’ he replied, somewhat disconcerted. He’d been looking forward to cleaning the gutters, not racking his brain and making lists.

‘Oh, tomorrow will do. But you can give me a head start. Off the top of your head, who would you recommend I see first?’

He thought about it, long and hard, then said, ‘Eric Smallwood. He was the secretary-stroke-
accountant-stroke
-wages clerk. He just about ran the company towards the end. Mr Smallwood was the only other person who had free rein to enter Alf’s little empire.’

‘How’d it go, sunshine?’ I asked Sparky later that afternoon when we were in my office. Maggie Madison joined us, carrying three mugs of tea.

Sparky took a long sip. ‘Ah, that’s good,’ he said, adding, ‘I know we’re not supposed to say these things, but you’ve got to admit that women make better tea than men do.’

‘It’s years of practice,’ Maggie told him. ‘The famous glass ceiling that’s holding us down has a lot to answer for.’

‘But Maggie,’ Dave countered, ‘if you got through the glass ceiling you’d only complain that we were looking up your skirts.’

‘That’s why I wear trousers.’

‘Does anybody know anything about this
suspicious death we’re supposed to be investigating?’ I asked.

‘Sorry, boss,’ Dave replied. ‘I’ve turned up a couple of things in the pubs. Apparently Alfred had made a new friend recently. None of the regulars bothered much with him, but suddenly this chap appeared on the scene and they were like old buddies. The new bloke did all the paying, apparently, so they thought that Alf was just sponging off him. I have a description. Also a strange white van was seen in a couple of the car parks, which may have belonged to him. They don’t get much motorised trade in these estate pubs.’

‘A Transit type?’

‘No, a small one. Five hundredweight.’

‘Wasn’t a small white van seen in the road outside his house on the day he died?’

‘One report of it, that’s all.’

‘One’s enough.’

‘Have you found anything?’

I told them about my meeting with
green-fingered
Simon. ‘Tomorrow I’m seeing this Eric Smallwood,’ I said. ‘Which of you fancies working a Saturday morning?’

They both volunteered but I gave Dave the job. Maggie’s husband can be a bit touchy about the hours she works, and Dave would be more amenable for a lunchtime drink. Then I remembered that I was down for a training spin with Sonia in the afternoon, so the drink was out.

‘How’s the family?’ I asked Dave as we drove out of the nick car park. His daughter, Sophie, was the first member of the family to go to university – Cambridge – which earned her hoggings of Brownie points in her father’s eyes. Then, in her final year, she became the first member of the family to get pregnant out of wedlock, which redressed the balance somewhat. She’s my goddaughter, so I have always taken a godfatherly interest in her welfare. All part of my duty, of course, and nothing to do with her being a real stunner.

‘They’re all fine,’ he replied. ‘Sophie sends her love, as always.’

‘And how’s young Splodge?’

I felt the warmth of Dave’s grin without having to turn my head. Sophie was living with her boyfriend, whose family owned half of Shropshire or Shrewsbury or somewhere, and had redeemed herself by making Dave granddad to a healthy bouncing boy.

‘He’s brilliant,’ he told me. ‘Just brilliant.’

‘Have you bought him his first football boots, yet?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘I’ll get him some, then.’

‘It’s a bit early, at eight weeks.’

‘Is it?’

‘So I’m told.’

‘Right. What’s the address again?’

The man with shiny shoes glanced at the computer display on the dashboard as he turned into the multi-storey car park. He’d covered 78 miles in 95 minutes, giving him an average speed of 49.3 miles per hour. Not bad for that journey. He took a ticket from the machine, the barrier lifted and he followed the arrows up the ramps, all the way to the top floor.

There were only five cars there, out in the open, and three of them had been parked all night, by the look of the condensation on the windows. None of them was a blue Rover 75. He drove back down a floor and manoeuvred into a spot where he could see the Up ramp. He was early but that was OK. He’d leave as soon as the job was done and have an all-day breakfast at the Truckstop café, back in Heckley.

Brian Bousfield followed the instructions he’d been given to the letter. It was only a fifteen-minute drive for him, and he swung into the car park at one minute before nine. He parked on the top floor near the stairs, checked for the tenth time that the package was safe in the glovebox and swung his legs out onto the concrete floor.

It was chilly up at this height and he wasn’t wearing a coat, just his normal T-shirt and shell suit bottoms. The elderly Rover had central locking but not remote control. He locked the car doors with the key then unlocked them again. He tried a door to confirm it was unlocked and turned his back on the vehicle, heading downstairs.

The man with shiny shoes saw him arrive. When another five minutes had passed he pulled a Burberry tartan baseball cap low onto his head, turned up his coat collar and headed for the staircase. As always, it stank of Friday night’s piss and vomit in there. He almost puked with disgust as he strode up one floor and gratefully found himself out in the open, in the fresh air. The Rover was right where he expected it to be. Keeping his head down so as not to present a full facial to any handy CCTV camera he slipped into the driver’s seat, reached across to the glovebox and extricated the manila envelope. A rare smile flickered across his face as he weighed the package in his hand. He didn’t bother opening it. He’d asked for
£
500, that’s all, and had no reason to believe he’d be short-changed. Three minutes later he handed his ticket and a pound coin to the attendant, the barrier lifted and he turned into the traffic, heading home. Before he reached the motorway he stopped in a lay-by and counted the money. It was all there, the notes were used and their numbers random. He wound down his window, flung the Burberry cap into the ditch and continued on his journey. All in all, it had been a good morning’s work. For both of us, he thought.

Brian Bousfield had left the car park and walked to the shopping mall, as instructed. There had been an awkward moment when he ordered a coffee and the schoolgirl behind the counter had asked him
what sort. He’d blustered something about white and the girl, taking in the bulging biceps with their obligatory tattoos, gave him a regular latte. He drank it slowly and thought about things.

In February 1992 he’d jumped to his feet in a Court of Law and sworn to kill a man. ‘You’re dead!’ he’d screamed, his voice echoing between the panelled walls and over the polished rails and upturned faces. ‘You’re dead. You’re dead meat. I swear it. I’ll kill you if it’s the last thing I ever do.’

He was twenty-two years old at the time, and seventeen months earlier he’d been to a disco at a local pub which had acquired a reputation for good music, cheap drinks and easy availability of drugs, for those who wanted them. Brian’s sister, Julie, three years his junior, had begged to be allowed to go with him.

It had been a good night. The weather was warm and the pub had opened its french windows so the party could spill out into the beer garden. They’d danced in a crowd, the drinks flowed freely and there was no trouble. At fifteen minutes past eleven the DJ started to wind things down and the dancers split into couples, holding each other close, stroking, nibbling and kissing. ‘Baby I’m A Want You’, by Bread was playing, he remembered, followed by the Hollies’ ‘All I Need Is The Air That I Breathe’.

He was dancing – although that was hardly the word for what they were doing – with a girl called
Bernadette who worked at the local egg-packing factory. She had the biggest tits in the village and, according to her reputation, only did it with friends. Although, his workmates were quick to assure him, she had no enemies. He felt her pressing her loins against his, rotating them to the music, and looked around for his sister. Julie was dancing, not too closely, with an older man he’d seen before but didn’t know. They were talking, not smooching, and she looked happy. He gratefully turned away and explored Bernadette’s ear with his tongue.

Thirty minutes later he was having sex with her in the shadow of the cemetery wall. The grass was dry, the moon was high and Bernadette was a willing, enthusiastic partner. What he learned much later was that 150 yards away his sister, Julie, was having reluctant sex with the older man. Next morning he learned that he’d strangled her and the next day the tabloids proclaimed that the Midnight Strangler had claimed his third victim.

Terence Paul Hutchinson was arrested and charged within days. He pleaded Not Guilty and the trial lasted two weeks, during which he claimed that his victims were willing sexual partners with reputations for being good-time girls. The evidence against him was overwhelming and he was sentenced to life imprisonment with a thirty-year tariff, but that wasn’t good enough for Brian Bousfield. Their father had been diagnosed with
terminal cancer shortly before Julie’s murder, and he didn’t live to see the trial. Along with the death of his sister, Brian blamed Hutchinson for his father’s rapid decline and death, too. When Hutchinson had grinned and waved at the jury as he was being led away, like the main attraction at the end of a concert, Brian had been unable to hold back his feelings.

It was bravado, of course, but for twelve years he’d thought of Julie every day. Ten times a day. Some of it was hatred of the man who killed her, some of it despair at a legal system that allowed murderers to live in luxury until they were released, and some of it sorrow for the way his own life had been blighted since then. Not once did he feel any guilt, or recognise that his own driving force that night had not been too dissimilar to that of the man he hated.

And then the telephone call came. Hutchinson was out of jail, it told him, and living under an assumed name at a secret address in Heckley, Yorkshire.

‘What about the thirty-year tariff?’ he’d asked.

‘Good behaviour,’ he’d been told, ‘or perhaps he’d appealed to the Home Secretary. He may even have been deemed “cured”. Nobody serves full term these days.’

The man on the phone wouldn’t say who he was, but he had reasons of his own for wanting Hutchinson dead. He was related to one of the
other victims. He perfectly understood if Brian didn’t want to be involved with the actual execution, but he himself would be going ahead with it. He knew people who did this sort of thing, and
£
500 would help towards their expenses.

Brian pondered on what he’d been told, and thought of things that people had said to him about closure and getting on with his own life. Julie’s death had ruined every relationship he’d had. Maybe they were right. Maybe, with Terence Paul Hutchinson dead, he’d be able to move on.

‘Five hundred?’ he’d queried.

‘Yeah, that’s all. Payable after the deed’s done.’

‘How will I know you’ve done it?’

‘It will be in the papers,’ he was told.

‘We don’t get the Yorkshire papers.’

‘Then I’ll have to make sure it gets reported in the nationals, won’t I?’

The man with shiny shoes parked his car on the drive in front of his detached house and checked the computer. He’d averaged 41.2 miles per hour at an average fuel consumption of 34.5 miles per gallon. Slightly worse than usual, he thought. Perhaps the car needed a service. He belched and tasted the egg and sausage he’d eaten a few minutes earlier. Up in the spare bedroom-cum-office he found the scrapbook dated 1990–1994 and leafed through the pages until the long, asinine face of Terence Paul Hutchinson was staring at him. He held a
picture of Alfred Armitage next to it and began to laugh. Allowing for the age difference, the passage of time and the ravages of prison life, the similarity between the two men was remarkable.

‘Sorted,’ he said, triumphantly, and closed the book.

Eric Smallwood lived in a neat Sixties-style bungalow with long views across the Calder valley. Its main feature was the external chimney built in random stone, acting like a buttress for the rest of the building. The garden was neat and a six-foot lapboard fence shut out the neighbours on each side. One of the neighbours’ gardens boasted a For Sale sign, with the name of a local estate agent.

‘Just a sec,’ Dave said as I parked the car in the road, across the front of Smallwood’s drive. He tapped a number into his mobile and I listened to his half of the conversation.

‘Oh, hello. You’re acting for a bungalow that’s for sale on the Hebden Bridge road, just outside Heckley. How much is it please?’ He pulled a face and asked how many bedrooms it had. ‘OK, thanks a lot. No, I’ll call into your office for the details. Thanks. Bye.’

He switched the phone off, saying, ‘
£
349,995 for a quick sale. Cheap at half the price, I’d say.’

‘And vital information. C’mon, let’s see what the man has to say.’

The drive was block-paved with no weeds or
moss growing in the cracks. I wondered how he managed it. Block paving is not as labour saving as I’d hoped it would be. The garage door was closed and no car stood on the drive. Dave pressed the button on the white PVC doorframe and within seconds the front door opened. Even his bell worked. This man was too good to be true.