The Front (30 page)

Tucking Linda into bed – in a motherly fashion that surprised even herself – Marie left her to her dreams of wealth and went to call The Man.

       
He was pleased to hear that things were going so well, especially when Marie told him how enthusiastic Linda was to get started.

       
‘I knew you’d sort it out,’ he said, his voice thick with admiration. ‘You’re a star! We’ll be raking it in soon. I’ll have to find you some more to train up!’

       
‘No, thanks,’ she said. ‘This one’s enough for the time being. And while we’re on the subject of this one,’ she went on, ‘I’ve a few concerns about her.’

       
‘Oh yeah?’ he asked guardedly.

       
‘Yeah. More to do with your choice of clients, actually.’

       
This was something she’d been considering all day, and it needed saying before it was too late.

       
‘I’m not too happy about dropping her in at the deep end. She’s just a kid, and I think we’d do better to let her start off easy. No point scaring her off before we make anything out of her, is there? And I’m not sure Jake was right about her liking it rough. I think it’s a front, if you want my honest opinion. Anyway, there’ll be plenty of time for that later on, if that’s what she wants. And she’ll be a lot more cooperative if she’s allowed to find her own way, won’t she?’

       
The Man listened to Marie’s speech in silence and decided she was probably right. When she asked him what he thought a moment later, he gave her the go-ahead to deal with it in whichever way she felt fit.

       
‘I’m sure you’ll get the best out of her, but keep me up to date, yeah? Oh, and by the way,’ he said before hanging up, ‘I’ve decided to give you a lickle cut of whatever she makes. So don’t take too long, eh?’

       
Marie was a lot happier when she hung up. She’d guessed right away that Linda was no angel – she could tell that just by looking at the clothes and make-up she’d arrived in. But she was certainly not the slut Simeon and Jake had made her out to be, either. Just as she was no natural junkie. If she were, she’d have been in a terrible state by now. Given this, Marie had had her doubts about Simeon’s plan to train her up. But, in the end, the kid had been so enthusiastic that she’d decided to keep her for the time being. She’d certainly be safer here than abandoned to Jake’s mercies.

       
And there was still time for the kid to change her mind – which she probably would. If Marie was right, and she usually was, Linda was just a screwed-up little girl desperately looking for love.

17

Paul Dalton was in the incident room when the call came in on Wednesday morning. He wasn’t too amused when the Duty Sergeant handed him the memo to take along to DCI Jackson.

       
‘Thanks a bundle!’ he moaned.

       
‘Think nothing of it, kid,’ Sergeant Booth replied sarcastically, folding his arms over his belly and leaning back on his chair, grinning. ‘It’s a caring, sharing team we’ve got here.’

       
Paul rolled his eyes. ‘Well, I would have preferred if you’d shared this with someone else!’

       
‘Perks of my rank, delegation,’ Sergeant Booth winked. ‘Now bugger off before I do you for insubordination!’

       
Pushing his way out of the door, grimacing, Paul made his way to Jackson’s office. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing the DCI again. Every time he laid eyes on him he blushed, and it was beginning to get him down.

       
‘Yes?’ Jackson’s gruff voice barked from the other side of the door when Paul knocked.

       
Paul swallowed hard and went in.

       
Jackson was at his desk, surrounded by a mess of paperwork. Three untouched plastic cups of tea sat precariously close to the edge – one of which was very likely to go over should Jackson move a single sheet of paper an inch to the right.

       
‘What is it?’ Jackson asked, without looking up.

       
Paul stepped forward hesitantly. ‘Em, there’s been a call, sir. Sergeant Booth said I should bring you this.’ He held the memo out.

       
Jackson sat back wearily. Taking the glasses from the end of his nose he rubbed a hand slowly over his eyes before pushing them back on. ‘Let’s have a gander, then.’ He held his hand out.

       
Paul passed him the memo and waited while he read it, taking the chance to have a look around the office – the think-tank of the formidable DCI. It was a mess. Dead plants lined the window-sill, their forlorn tendrils snaking out of the pots in stringy fibres; a multitude of overflowing ashtrays covered every surface, vying for space with the thousand or so full, half-full or spilled-over plastic cups – some of which sported plant life much healthier than the potted variety. And everywhere, there was paper. Official paper covered in jottings, plain paper complete with diagrams and scribbles, and rolled-up balls of the stuff all over the floor. Paul wondered how it had got into such a state. The cleaners were usually very thorough – had they missed this room?

       
‘What is this?’ Jackson asked, interrupting his thoughts.

       
‘It’s got the basic details right there, sir.’ Paul leaned across the desk to point it out.

       
‘I can read!’ Jackson snapped. ‘But as you said, they’re basic. I want you to fill in the missing bits!’

       
‘Er, the call came from Iggy’s, sir,’ Paul explained. ‘St Ignatius’s, that is. The old folks’ home opposite the supermarket. One of the residents reckons she’s got information about the murder, sir. The sarge said you’d want to be told.’

       
‘Name?’

       
‘Dalton, Sir. PC Paul Dalton. 926.’

       
‘Not
yours
.’ Jackson’s voice was pained. ‘The resident – what’s
her
name?’

       
‘Oh! Sorry, sir. It’s a Mrs Ivy Lilley, I believe.’

       
Jackson jotted the name down in his notepad and pushed his chair away from the desk. ‘So what’s she saying?’

       
‘Just that she might know something about the murder, sir. The sarge reckoned you’d want to have a chat with her – see if there’s anything to it, I suppose.’

       
‘First rule, lad.’ Jackson stood and came around the desk, grabbing his jacket from the back of the door. ‘Don’t suppose!’

       
‘No, sir?’ Paul was puzzled.

       
Jackson explained. ‘Don’t suppose this is a load of bollocks just because the informant happens to be old. That’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it?’

       
‘No, sir! Of course not!’

       
‘And don’t suppose I don’t know what you’re thinking,’ Jackson continued. ‘Because I do. Lads your age assume anyone over the age of thirty is a bit iffy in the old mental stakes. Am I right?’

       
Paul blushed.

       
Opening the door, Jackson stepped aside and ushered Paul out. Then he followed, locking the door behind him.

       
‘Can you drive?’ he asked as he strode away down the corridor towards the main desk.

       
‘Yes, sir. But—’

       
‘No buts. You can take me over to St Iggy’s. Never could stand driving, myself.’

       
Stopping briefly at the desk, Jackson got a set of keys and flipped them to Paul, telling Sergeant Booth as he motioned Paul out: ‘He’s with me, if anyone asks.’

Ten minutes later, Paul turned onto Cornbrook Road and pulled up outside the front doors of the home – into the space Jackson pointed him towards. The space that specifically stated: ‘No Parking. Ambulances only’. He didn’t protest. By now he was realizing that Jackson was a law unto himself – the three red lights he’d ordered Paul through on the way being a perfect testament to that fact.

       
After gaining entry to the foyer, they had to wait a full five minutes before Jacqueline Fenton, the live-in warden, put in an appearance. She was a shocking sight: overly pancaked and blushered, with mascara-caked eyelashes and a fresh blast of Rive Gauche so strong that it preceded her down the stairs.

       
Jackson cast an amused glance Paul’s way as she came towards them with her hand extended, gushing: ‘I’m so sorry I kept you. If you’d like to come through to my office  . . .’

       
‘If you don’t mind,’ Jackson said, ‘we’ll get straight along to Mrs Lilley.’

       
‘Of course,’ said Ms Fenton, nose firmly out of joint. ‘If you’d like to follow me  . . .?’

       
As they followed the perfume cloud down the corridor, Jackson whispered to Paul out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Sees herself on the news telling the world how she was the vital link in solving this case. Nothing else would explain that trowel job! Probably thought we’d have a camera crew in tow!’

Ivy Lilley was eighty-nine years old, and in no way, shape or form senile, dotty or incapacitated mentally. She was a straight-backed, immaculately dressed lady, with a neat halo of powder-white hair, and the keenest pale blue eyes Paul had ever seen. He was more than a little surprised.

       
Jackson shot him a look that plainly said ‘Never suppose’ as they followed Mrs Lilley into her neat apartment.

       
‘Won’t you sit down?’ she offered in a smooth, cultured voice. ‘Maybe you’d like a drink? Coffee? Tea?’

       
‘No, thank you,’ Jackson replied, smiling and sitting down. ‘We don’t want to trouble you, and we shan’t keep you any longer than necessary.’

       
‘It’s no trouble at all,’ she replied.

       
‘Very kind of you. Now if I may, I’d like to ask you a few questions?’

       
Mrs Lilley nodded, then held up her hand in an unmistakable ‘wait’ motion. Standing, she turned to the hovering warden and gestured her towards the door.

       
‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said when she came back moments later minus the warden. ‘But Ms Fenton is an unashamed gossip, and I don’t much relish being her latest topic.’

       
Jackson and Paul both smiled at this.

       
Mrs Lilley smoothed her skirt over her knees, considering her words carefully before speaking.

       
‘I’m aware that I’m in a very precarious position, having witnessed the shooting,’ she began after a moment.

       
Jackson shot a glance at Paul to see if he’d picked up on what she’d said. Seeing the lad looking visibly more alert, he was pleased.

       
‘As I’m sure you’ll appreciate,’ she continued, ‘I have not taken the decision to inform you lightly. I sincerely hope you won’t jeopardize my safety in any way?’

       
Jackson looked her straight in the eye. ‘I give you my personal assurance that I won’t.’

       
Mrs Lilley regarded him closely for a second, then nodded.

       
Jackson smiled, then took his notepad from his pocket and flipped it open. ‘I’ll just take a few details, if I may, and then you can tell us what you saw.’

       
Mrs Lilley related her account of the events of the night of the murder in a clear, precise manner, with no embellishment whatsoever. And Jackson wrote down every word – without, at any time, even thinking about ‘filing it under miscellaneous’ back at the station. This was a statement he intended to take very seriously indeed.

‘That,’ he told Paul when they left an hour later, ‘is going to be a dynamite witness when we get this to court.’

       
‘If she’s still alive,’ Paul murmured.

       
It was an obvious dig at the grinding, tedious legal processes that lay ahead, and Jackson nodded sadly, only too aware of the meaning. At Ivy Lilley’s age every waking morning must be a bonus. He shuddered involuntarily, remembering that he was well on the way to a ripe old age himself. Letting out a sigh, he shook the thought away.

       
‘See you’ve sorted your problem with those dodgy gears,’ he said, referring to Paul’s crunching, grinding efforts on the way to the home.

       
Paul grinned. He’d been nervous as hell earlier but, having seen Jackson in action, he’d settled down. The fear had been replaced by respect.

       
‘Pull in at a shop, will you?’ Jackson said then. ‘I’m dying for a fag – don’t suppose you smoke?’

       
Paul shook his head. ‘Sorry.’

       
Jackson tutted. ‘Didn’t think so. You kids are all on health kicks nowadays. Still, each to his own vice, I say. Mine’s fags and booze, and I’m not apologizing.’

       
As Paul waited for Jackson to get his cigarettes, he went over what they’d learned from Mrs Lilley. First and foremost, she’d obviously been telling the truth. She wouldn’t have known it was a shooting otherwise. That detail hadn’t been released to the press, and, as the ‘eyewitness’ had claimed to see men wielding baseball bats, this was the weapon people believed had been used. Only someone with intimate knowledge would know the truth.

       
‘Well, that was a turn-up, wasn’t it?’ Jackson remarked when he slipped back into his seat moments later. Tearing the cellophane from his cigarettes, he rolled the window down and tossed it out. Lighting himself one, he sucked deeply on it, filling the car with noxious fumes.