Souvenirs of Murder (21 page)

I got back in the car, observing Daws being whisked by in a dark-green Jaguar, his own, I knew, and I recognized Jordan, the driver, who also acts as his bodyguard and part-time butler. For some reason seeing him started a chain of thoughts. A chauffeur-driven car, the privileged, royalty, the Queen.

Almost running, I went back to the corner shop.

‘Is there a lady round here who takes several corgies for walks?' I asked the surprised to see me again proprietor.

‘Oh, yes, that's Ma,' he told me happily. ‘We all call her Ma but don't ask me her name. She's always trotting about with her little dogs.' He mimed a woman trotting, holding leads.

‘Where does she live?'

He spread his arms expansively. ‘Somewhere not too far away. People complain to me that the dogs never stop yapping so perhaps it would be good to follow your ears.' He went on stacking shelves, chuckling to himself.

I then had an amazing piece of luck, spotting a postman coming out of the entrance to a block of flats.

‘Ma?' he echoed. ‘Yes, I know her. Mrs Goldstein, Flat 4, Albert Villas, Lilac Grove.' He pointed. ‘It's down that road off to the right there, third street on the left. Watch out for the dogs, they're killers.'

He was turning away when I registered that he was nearing retirement age and had a large and filthy sticking plaster on one hand. Only just preventing myself from grabbing him by the front of his jacket, I said, ‘You were the one who was thrown into a bush by a man on the morning of the murders!'

‘I did give a full statement to the police,' he said stiffly, moving to carry on with his round.

‘You can tell me about it too,' I declared, shoving my ID under his nose.

‘I've a job to do.'

‘Either here and now or down at the nearest nick,' I said, not at all sure if I had the authority. Hey, yes, I did.

‘It's still not properly healed,' said the postman, going into aggrieved mode and showing me his hand. ‘I'd sue him if I knew who he was.'

‘It might do if you keep it clean,' I countered. ‘And I happen to know that you were shifted out of the way to prevent you from stopping a bullet in the event of a shoot-out. Tell me exactly what happened.'

He slammed the bag of mail he was carrying down on the pavement. ‘All right, lady, all right. I was walking along that road, Park Road, when—'

‘Time?' I snapped.

‘Dunno, exactly. After ten some time. Anyway, I saw that the front door of that particular house was open. Someone was smashing glass. I thought it might be a break-in and people were trashing the place.'

‘Did the sound of breaking glass seem to be coming from inside the house or out the back somewhere?'

‘It was hard to tell but possibly outside if there was a back door open. So when this man happened along and looked as though he was going in I—'

Again, I interrupted. ‘Surely though, what you heard wouldn't have been that suspicious. A door open, the sound of glass breaking. That might merely have been someone having a disaster with some bottles they had been just off to the recycling place with.'

‘No, not bottles being
dropped,
smashed one at a time.'

‘People do have bad mornings.'

‘Well, anyway—'

‘No, sorry. There must have been something else. Did you have any post for the house?'

‘Yes, I'd gone in and—'

‘You went in?'

‘Folk don't like their post left in full view on the doormat where people can pinch it.'

‘You could have still pushed them through the letter box and they would have been out of sight behind the door. So you went in?'

‘And put them on the hall table.'

‘What did you see?'

‘Nothing. I just came straight out again.'

‘Tell me the
truth
!'

The man bit his lip. ‘Look . . .'

‘This is a murder inquiry!' I bellowed at him.

He gazed around nervously. ‘Look, if this gets about . . .'

‘It'll get about that I've arrested you if you don't tell me what happened.'

After a protracted silence during which he carried on biting his lip nervously, he said, ‘I shall lose my job and I've only got a few months to go so my pension'll probably go out of the window too.'

‘I don't think I can help but if it's possible I will,' I told him. ‘What happened?'

After another long pause he said, ‘I spotted a full bottle of whisky on the floor just inside the room nearest me. I know I shouldn't but I can't afford it any more so I . . .'

‘You took it?' I asked when he stopped speaking.

He nodded miserably. ‘I picked it up and then saw that there was a load of folk in the room all sprawled about stoned out of their minds. Some of them were even on the floor.'

‘Are you sure they were alive?'

‘Yes, some of them had their mouths open, snoring. I saw one guy twitch.'

‘But couldn't they have been just asleep?'

‘No, they were all of a heap, as though they'd just collapsed where they were.'

‘How many of them were there?'

‘It was difficult to see. There was a woman there too. Six or seven perhaps. I didn't want to stay, just beat it.'

‘With the whisky.'

‘Yes,' he muttered, shamefaced.

‘Then what?'

‘I ran straight into this bloke at the front gate. He didn't look too good either.'

‘And?'

The postman breathed out gustily. ‘Well, I'd been caught red-handed, hadn't I? He wasn't the sort you argue with so when I saw his gaze on the bottle I gave it to him and said I'd just picked it up off the path. He didn't believe me and chucked me in a bush.'

‘No, he said you were persistent.'

‘All
right
, I told him about the smashing of bottles to distract him from what I'd done.'

‘Did you tell him about the people in the front room?'

‘No, because I reckoned he was part of the same bash and had popped out to his car or something.'

‘What did he do then?'

‘Heaved me into the bush.'

‘Didn't he
say
anything?'

‘Get out of the bloody way . . . no, keep out of the bloody way.'

‘There's a big difference in meaning between the two, isn't there?'

‘Yes, I suppose there is.'

‘And then?'

‘Well, I'd badly cut my hand as I'd landed under the bush and when I'd sorted myself out and tried to stop the bleeding with my handkerchief he'd gone.'

‘D'you think he went in through the front door?'

‘No, I just saw him turning a corner into a side lane when I went back out into the street.'

‘He took the bottle of whisky with him then.'

‘No, he . . .'

Silence.

‘What?' I demanded to know.

‘He . . . he'd . . . chucked it into another bush. I'd heard the thump as it hit the ground. So I . . .'

‘You took it anyway?'

‘Er . . . yes.'

‘Was the seal broken?'

‘Yes, but only a little drop had been drunk.'

‘Have you drunk any of it?'

‘No . . . I . . . er . . . couldn't, not after I heard about the . . .'

‘Thank God for that! Where do you live?'

‘A couple of miles from here.'

‘We're going there right now and you'll give it to me. Later, when you've finished work, you're to report to your nearest police station and make a full, revised statement. Is that understood? They'll be expecting you and you'll receive a visit from the police if you don't. All I can do for you is say that you volunteered the information after I'd asked you if you knew where the lady with the dogs lives.'

Half an hour later, having spoken to Greenway, I contacted DCI Rundle and then took the evidence to Wood Green police station.

FOURTEEN

Mrs Goldstein was at home but, seemingly, just about to go ‘trotting' with her dogs. Keen canine ears had heard my approach up the stairs and by the time I rang the doorbell the barking had reached such a level that I was surprised she heard it.

‘Shuddup!' the short, matronly, silver-haired lady roared at the animals bounding around at her feet. Her bright, dark eyes peered up at me appraisingly. ‘You like dogs?'

‘They're fine when they're doing something useful,' I said.

‘You hear that, Misha?' she said to one of the dogs. And then to me, ‘She's never done anything useful in her life except try to eat the postman.' She wheezed with laughter. ‘What can I do for you?'

I explained and, again, produced my ID card.

‘You'd better come in.'

Thankfully, the Corgis – there were five of them – were sent off to a bed in one corner of the living room and stayed there.

‘You want me to remember a man who might have seen me on the morning of the murders? Is he the killer?' Mrs Goldstein said when we had seated ourselves and I had explained the purpose of my visit.

I was a bit disgusted with myself the way it came out so pat. ‘We're just trying to eliminate him from our enquiries.' I went on to describe Patrick.

‘Yes, I saw him. He was staggering all over the place. I asked him if he was all right – silly of me, as he obviously wasn't, but what the hell else do you say? – and he just smiled at me, rather a lovely smile actually, and said he was a policeman. All I could do was tell him he was doing a splendid job and off he went. He looked as though he knew where he was going so I didn't worry too much about it. Very odd though.'

‘Did you go anywhere near Park Road that morning?'

‘Oh, I go everywhere, dearie.'

‘Please try to remember.'

She stared into space for a few moments, then said, ‘No, I think we went round to the shops on the parade for a few bits and bobs. Yes, and to make an appointment at the dentist's – I'd lost a filling and couldn't get through on the phone to them for love nor money – always engaged.'

‘Where is your dentist?'

‘Over the Halifax Building Society next to the betting shop. He has the whole of the first floor.'

I knew where the parade of shops was – nowhere near the crime scene. I thanked Mrs Goldstein and left. At least another piece of Patrick's account of what had happened had been fitted into the puzzle.

Daws' presence in the house had utterly distracted me from my original errand. I went back and again stood in the hallway, the smell of putrefaction in my nostrils, the silence of this place of death seeming to press on me. I walked the few feet to the entrance to the living room and saw all over again the blood- and brain-streaked walls, the vomit stains, the overturned furniture. I stood there for quite a long time.

It was clear now from what the postman had said that the people in this room had been drugged in some way, probably from drinking doctored whisky, possibly the reason that someone was out the back smashing the bottles, hoping to destroy any evidence.

The first question I asked myself was had Patrick walked in and shot them all in the head and then smeared the resultant mess on the walls to make it look as though they had been shot while standing up?

No, he had not. For several very good reasons it made no sense.

Had a lunatic bent on revenge for some past grievance or keen to de-clutter his life of people who had become a nuisance murdered the lot and then indulged in a little wall-painting to declare his triumph and show what a clever boy he was?

Yes, he had.

I went closer to the wall and stared at it through half-closed eyes and then backed off a little, carefully avoiding the gaps where the floorboards had been removed, until I was standing in the space in front of the bay window. Even with the use of a little imagination I could make out nothing that looked like letters or a word. I put my head on one side to the left and shut my eyes even more, wondering if whoever it was had written something and was right-handed, inclining the writing. Nothing. And then I tilted my head to the right.

HILIK. Sort of.

Concluding that I had given Rundle enough evidence to be going on with for one day and not even sure that this little idea might even be classified as such I went back to SOCA's HQ. Greenway was out and I was shown into the large room, generally referred to as The Hole, where his team worked. They were, I knew, drawn from all the organizations that comprise the agency: the National Crime Squad, the National Intelligence Service and the investigations divisions of HM Customs and the Immigration Service.

‘Miss Langley,' said a dark-haired man with an acne-scarred face I knew to be Greenway's second-in-command by the name of Andrew Bayley. ‘How nice to see you.'

I was encouraged to be seated and asked if I would like coffee. It was actually well after my lunchtime by now so I refused with a smile.

He didn't know what to do with me either. I helped him along by giving him the report about my encounter with the postman and Mrs Goldstein I had hastily produced on a borrowed computer in an outer office. He read it and then said, ‘This is Mike's operation really but it's interesting and I'm glad we're beginning to build up a picture of your husband's movements that morning.'

‘And you might,' I said. ‘Ask Google about Hilik.'

I spelled it out, adding that I had no idea how it was pronounced and not adding that it might merely be the product of a writer's overenthusiastic imagination.