The Judas Sheep (25 page)

Saturday morning DCI Peacock rang to say they had a hard copy for me, and I told him I would collect it on Monday. He had no objections to me coming on to his patch to track her down, but he sounded as if his teeth were gritted. On the way home I called in at the Electricity Board showrooms and picked up a few leaflets on dishwashers. One wall was covered with TV sets, all showing the same picture. A bomb had exploded inside
an Army recruiting centre, damaging the furniture and ruining a scale-model of a Centurion tank. The group calling themselves TSC had claimed responsibility.

I was growing used to the drive to Liverpool, over the tops of the Pennines, backbone of England. It was a change from the flat drive to Hull. They may not be high hills, but the weather up there is extreme and variable. Thick fog, a gale and driving snow – all at the same time – are not unusual. Today it was sunny, but you still needed the car heater on. It’s the fast lane up the hill, overtaking all the lorries grinding their way westwards. Down the other side it’s every man for himself as they make up time, freewheeling at eighty miles per hour until you hit the roadworks.

The motorways on a map of England look like the veins in the back of your hand. The lorries and vans and salesmen’s cars are the red corpuscles, carrying the nation’s oxygen – trade – in a ceaseless merry-go-round, twenty-four hours per day. The leucocytes are white and fast, with coloured stripes down the sides and blue lights on top. They clean up the damaged cells, or any that are behaving abnormally. They can’t see viruses, though, or spot the ones who lie in wait, ready to spread cancer when the opportunity arises. That’s my job.

The picture of the old lady was built up from the lines of the video screen, with very little detail. It showed a stooped figure in women’s clothes, pulling a shopping basket on wheels. Her coat was brown and the basket
may have been green, but you couldn’t make out any patterns on the material of either. She had almost escaped off the left-hand edge of the frame when the camera caught her, and was facing the wrong way, but the picture showed her essential characteristics, like a Lowry painting, and that’s what I wanted.

DCI Peacock granted me the freedom of Liverpool. A couple of nasty racial attacks over the weekend were stretching his manpower beyond the limits of elasticity. A search of doubtful value, for a bag lady of uncertain reliability, was the last thing he needed. ‘You find her, Charlie,’ he suggested with strained resignation. ‘Be my guest. You have quite a way with old ladies, I’m told.’

Fifty yards downwind of Town & County was a newsagent’s kiosk. The proprietress had seen the old lady many times – she went thataway. A busker, a hairdresser and a waitress in a bistro had all seen her go by in recent months, but not lately. By now I was getting away from the shopping area. A greengrocer told me she sometimes bought oranges from him and a window cleaner had seen her around. He pointed me towards a residential area; rows and rows of terraced houses. I was growing warm.

Several people shook their heads and asked what she’d done. I told them she might have witnessed a crime. ‘It’s a long shot, but we have to take it,’ I explained, over and over again. A man pushing a buggy with a little boy in it told me to get stuffed, wack, he wouldn’t help the filth if we paid him. He was wearing a ring
in one ear and had a mural of Walt Disney characters tattooed around his midriff. His dad looked a nasty piece of work.

I knocked at the first door at the end of every row of houses, without luck. About fifty per cent of the time nobody answered, in which case I knocked at the next door until I raised someone.

I was growing depressed by the time I climbed the three steps up to the front door of Number 11, Ladysmith Grove. The little yard was littered with plastic toys, and a big pile of fresh steaming dogshit decorated the iron lid that led down into the coal cellar. The hound started barking before I knocked.

A female voice shouted at the dog, and its barking grew even more frantic, but muffled, as it was evidently shut in a room where it couldn’t savage unexpected callers. Bolts were slid back, a lock turned, and a skinny girl with bleached hair, wearing a pink quilted housecoat, opened the door. She had a snotty-nosed infant in her arms.

‘Sorry to trouble you, ma’am,’ I said, holding my ID towards her. ‘DI Priest. I’m conducting a few investigations, and would like to know if you have ever seen this woman. We believe she lives near here.’ I showed her the picture.

She took it from me and inspected it for about two seconds. ‘It’s old Missis Crowther,’ she said, in an accent – that sounded as if she had a jar of Vick up each nostril. ‘Lives over there, where the windowboxes are.’

I followed her pointing arm. At the other side of the street, about fifty yards further along, were the only surviving plants within half a mile. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You’ve been a big help.’

She closed the door without another word, and went to try to stop the dog giving the furniture rabies.

The plants were geraniums, just breaking into bud. The paintwork on Mrs Crowther’s house was just as dilapidated as all the others in the street, but the windows and curtains were clean, and her stone steps were freshly painted white at the edges. Tubs of wallflowers were scattered around, ready to give a colourful show in a few weeks, if the frost or the vandals didn’t get them first. I knocked at the door.

There was a light on in the kitchen, so I was fairly sure that she was home. After a couple more knocks I heard some shuffling and the door opened as far as a safety chain would allow it.

‘Mrs Crowther?’ I asked the left half of the face that appeared in. the gap.

‘Vat do you vant?’

‘I’d like a word with you.’

‘Who are you?’ She sounded frightened.

‘I’m a police officer. My name is Charlie Priest.’ I passed my ID through the gap and a surprisingly large hand took it from me. If she’d run off with it I’d have been in big trouble. I put my face close to the door so everyone in the street couldn’t hear what I was saying. ‘Last January, just after New Year’s Day, you were seen
walking past the Town & County department store. Do you know where I mean?’

Her hand emerged, offering my warrant card back to me, and the half-face nodded. ‘A car drew up,’ I went on, ‘a Rolls-Royce, and a woman got out. Do you remember?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, I remember. He sploshed me.’

‘I’d like you to tell me all about it. May I come in, please?’

She closed the door. I heard the scrape of the chain and the door opened wide. ‘I do not know vat I can tell you,’ she said, nervously.

We went through into a heavily furnished sitting room, all dark wood and maroons. Some of the furniture looked expensive, but it was gloomy in there and I’m no expert. Her accent sounded East European, maybe German, but I’m about as good with accents as I am with furniture. Several watercolours adorned the walls, and they were excellent. I do know a bit about paintings. The one over the fireplace was of a young girl, playing a violin. The expression on her face was of profound concentration mixed with pleasure, and you felt that somewhere, sometime, you had met her, heard the music. She was a figure from your past.

When I approached the painting and peered at it, Mrs Crowther put the light on so I could see it better. That’s a beautiful picture,’ I told her, hoping that she had never been visited by a double-glazing salesperson. I meant it, dammit, I meant it. Is it my fault if they’ve
usurped sincerity for the sake of a sale? The signature on the bottom said O. Crowther.

‘She vos a beautiful girl,’ she replied, gravely.

I sank into an easy chair and let the ‘vos’ register. ‘You say the Rolls-Royce splashed you,’ I said.

‘Yes. I told the madam, but she just rushed by me. So I told the driver. “You sploshed me,” I said, and he apologised.’

That was big of him.’

‘It vos more than I expected.’

At a guess she was about seventy, maybe a little older. I suppose I could have asked her, but it wasn’t important. She was an intelligent lady, and that mattered more than her age. I remembered the overweight teenager who’d witnessed poor Nicola’s last movements and couldn’t describe the simplest detail, and vowed to fight ageism until I crumbled to dust.

I said: ‘Another man was seen approaching the car, a few seconds later. Did you see this man?’

I could tell from her reaction that she had. Her hands began to tremble and she bit her lip.

‘Tell me what you saw, Mrs Crowther,’ I said.

‘He scared me,’ she mumbled.

‘You’ve no need to be scared. Nobody is going to hurt you.’

‘If they find I am here, they vill come round, paint things, evil things, on my valls. Break my vindows.’

‘Who will?’

‘The skinheads. The … the Nazis.’ She spat the word
out as if it were a draught from a poisoned chalice.

‘So you think this man was a Nazi?’

‘He haf the badges on his jacket. The SS. He vos a cruel man, I haf seen men like him before.’

‘So you saw his face?’

‘Yes, and I haf seen it many times since.’

‘Where?’ I demanded, sitting up.

‘In my dreams.’

‘Oh. What else did you see, Mrs Crowther?’

‘They gave him a lift. Later, down by the traffic lights. The big car stopped vere he vos valking and he get in the back.’

‘You saw him get in the car? The same Rolls-Royce that dropped the lady off?’ I couldn’t believe my luck.

‘Yes, it vos like I say.’

‘Who else was in it?’

‘I don’t know. It is impossible to see inside.’

I glanced round at the other pictures. They were done with a confidence that showed in the brushwork, or, more accurately, the lack of it. Each time the brush touched the surface of the paper it made a statement, then never went back. The artist was a professional.

‘Who is the girl in the painting?’ I asked gently.

She was silent for a while, before saying: ‘She vos called Katrina Rosenberg.’

‘Was she very talented?’

‘Yes, fery.’

‘Was she more talented than her sister, the one who paints?’

She looked at me, taken aback, and her glance fell to the carpet. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘She vos much more talented than her big sister, the von who paints.’

I stood up and wandered to the back of the room, examining the other pictures. Some were of landscapes, others of still-lifes and flower arrangements. I was trying to decide how much I could screw my expenses for.

‘I’d like to buy one of your paintings,’ I said. ‘I can’t afford to pay much, say, fifty pounds. Will you do one for me?’

She smiled for the first time and joined me, examining a basket of spring flowers. ‘You are fery kind. These are just daubings. The hands, the eyes, they are not as good as they vere. Today I hardly paint at all. You are velcome to take von, for no charge.’

‘No, it’s fifty pounds, that’s only fair. But I don’t want one of these. I want a portrait – a portrait of the man you saw getting into the Rolls-Royce, the skinhead. Is it a deal?’

She raised a hand to her mouth. ‘I … I don’t know.’

‘Paint him!’ I urged, my face close to hers. ‘Paint him for me. I know all about men like him. Not like you do, of course, but I can feel for you. Paint me his portrait, Mrs Crowther – Fraulein Rosenberg. Maybe then you won’t dream about him any more. But I will. I’ll dream about him until I put my hand on his neck and throw him behind bars, where he belongs, for the rest of his natural life. Help me do that to him.’ 

‘Oh God! What do you want, Charlie?’ DCI Trevor Peacock didn’t seem pleased to see me, but at least we were still on first-name terms.

It was two days after my first meeting with Mrs Crowther, and I’d just been to visit her again. ‘The bag lady, Mrs Crowther. She’s come up with the goods,’ I told him.

‘You’ve seen her again?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, we stayed away from her, just like you said. You certainly have a way with old ladies. How are you with the younger ones?’

‘Just the same. They fall over themselves for me.’

‘Lucky you. So what did she give you – his name and address and inside-leg measurements?’

‘Almost as good as.’ I unrolled a coloured photocopy of the portrait Mrs Crowther had done for me and placed it in front of the DCL. It tried to roll itself up again, so I pinioned it with his coffee mug and an ashtray filled with paper clips. ‘That’s the man you’re looking for,’ I said.

Mrs Crowther had done an excellent job. She was sure about the shape of the head, the eyes and the boxer’s nose, and had portrayed them with all the flair she was capable of. The ears, mouth and chin she had hinted at, leaving them vague. It was a good painting, of an evil face. When you saw it you could understand her fear.

Trevor Peacock studied it in silence, nibbling at his fingernails. I noticed that they were eaten down to the quick. After a few seconds he said: ‘He’s a
wicked-looking
bastard. Usually, you wouldn’t pick one out in a crowd, but this one looks capable of anything.’ He realised what he was doing and put his hands under the desk. ‘How accurate do you think it is?’

‘I’ve shown it to Sylvia at Town & County. She says it’s the man she saw on the video. It’s him all right.’

A female DC came in and placed some papers in his tray. He asked her to fetch two coffees. ‘You’ve done it again, Charlie,’ he said, after she’d left. ‘Made us look like a set of wassocks.’

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘You have no reason to know anything has happened to Mrs Norris,’ I said. ‘Plus, due to circumstances, I have the freedom and time to move around a bit; follow my hunches.’

‘Don’t patronise me, Charlie – you’ve made us look like prats.’

‘Oh, all right, if you insist.’

‘So, are you going to leave it with me?’

‘Be my guest, as long as he’s behind bars as quickly as possible.’

‘Behind bars is too good for him. I’d like to see him turning in the wind.’

The coffee came and we talked about the job as we sipped it. His problems were just the same as ours, but magnified. I was about to leave when I remembered something else. ‘Oh, by the way,’ I said. ‘Mrs Crowther told me that he walks with a limp, but she didn’t know how to paint one.’

I lunched on the motorway and listened to the one o’clock news as I drove the last few miles home. The writ had been moved for the by-election to fill Tom Noon’s seat at Westminster. It would be held on the last Thursday in May, four weeks away.

The house where Nicola’s overweight friend lived stank of chip fat. I’d decided to call there first, then write my reports at home. ‘Have you ever seen this man?’ I asked her, holding up one of the photocopies.

She raised her head from the butty she was constructing from the huge pile of chips on the plate in front of her. ‘Dunno,’ she said.

‘Try to think if you have,’ I urged.

‘Dunno.’

I held it there, waiting for a better answer.

‘Is it that feller that Nicola went with?’

That was more like it. ‘That Nicola went with when?’

‘When she was murdered.’ She said it as if it were as consequential as going to the lavatory.

‘Does it look like him?’

‘Yeah, I suppose it does. A bit.’

‘Did you notice anything else about him?’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, for instance, how he walked.’

‘How he walked?’ Her voice rose as she spoke, implying that he walked by putting one foot in front of the other, as any cretin ought to know.

‘Did he walk with a limp?’ It’s called leading the witness, but this one needed dragging by the hair.

‘I never noticed.’

‘Thanks, love. You’ve been a big help.’ I pinched one of the chips off her plate – she could afford it.

There was a letter lying on my doormat written in a strange hand. I picked it up, together with the electricity bill and one from a life assurance company touting for business, and walked through into the lounge. It was from the man who had sold the Jaguar back to me, and included an invitation to a rally at Chatsworth House, in Derbyshire, for all owners of E-types. There would be a procession of cars round the local villages, followed by a picnic; and the Duke of Devonshire had been invited to judge the concours d’elegance. His note said that it was no use to him now, so why didn’t I go? He sounded cheerful, so maybe he’d turned the corner. I hoped so.

I placed the invite in my pocket, to show Annabelle. It might be fun. Then I took it out and looked at the date again. It was for the first weekend in June, straight after the Tom Noon by-election. No problem there.

The walking club had folded due to the pressures of the Nicola investigation. When you spend sixteen hours a day with your colleagues you don’t feel like climbing a real mountain with them on your day off. I didn’t mind. Annabelle and I discovered a bed-and-breakfast in the Lake District, Keswick, with a self-contained annexe that they let for weekends during the low season. We squeezed one in, between the May Bank Holidays, and enjoyed a blustery day on Skiddaw.

Annabelle was delighted with the invitation to Chatsworth House. She thought we should enter the concours, and insisted on us spending a whole Sunday polishing the Jaguar. I was back working full-time, poor Nigel being relegated to a humble DS again. He’d proved he could do the job, not that I had any doubts, so I piled most of the work on to him, reducing my own hours considerably. I was learning how to delegate. Liverpool had taken over the Nicola enquiry, as it was obviously part of the bigger scene they were investigating. We handed the files over to them and wound down our incident room and HOLMES terminal. Trevor Peacock rang me from time to time to update me, partly out of courtesy but also, I like to think, to bounce ideas around. They were making slow but consistent progress.

Norris was spending a lot of time back in the States, flying over there every week for about three days, dodging out of the way. That was OK by DCI Peacock – it made it easier for him to interview staff without having to go through their chief all the time. Norris’s habit of being unpredictable, dropping in on every corner of his empire without warning, might be good management, but it could also be his undoing. Peacock discovered that Norris had visited the bonded warehouse adjoining the factory, where the lorries are loaded, just before Christmas. While he was there, a lorry driver arrived for work on his Harley Davidson motorbike and Norris had a long and cheerful chat with him. Six weeks later the same driver was murdered and his load stolen.

But the best was still to come. I was bogged down by a wave of burglaries and muggings, brought on by the shortage, and subsequent high price, of street drugs. Sometimes, legalising them makes a lot of sense. I went up to see Gilbert, for a moan and a decent cup of coffee.

‘Just the man,’ Gilbert greeted me.

That usually means an unpleasant job that you want rid of,’ I grumbled.

‘Nonsense. I’ve just had a request from Region for as many men as we can spare. It’s the by-election in a fortnight and they’re in a bit of a panic. Apparently Special Branch have tipped them off that this TSC organisation might try something spectacular, so it’s saturation policing for the Wednesday and Thursday. All the party bigwigs will be in town. Bear in mind
that there’s no paid overtime, unless they can screw the contingency kitty, so they’ll have to come from the strength. Who’ve we got?’

I realised that my mouth was hanging open. ‘It’s, er, it’s all my fault,’ I said.

‘Your fault? What’s your fault?’

‘The panic. You remember Commander Fearnside?’

‘Your friend in high places? Of course I remember him.’

‘Well, I told him that this by-election might be a good opportunity for TSC to assassinate the Prime Minister. It looks like he believed me.’

Gilbert put his hands to his head. ‘Oh God, Charlie. What have you done now?’

‘I’m not sure. Maybe I was drunk. It seemed like a good idea at the time.’

‘I’m sure it was. You might be right. So why didn’t you just keep your mouth shut?’

We were saved from a long discussion on impartiality in modern policing by the telephone. Gilbert listened for a few seconds before saying: ‘He’s here,’ and handing it to me. ‘DCI Peacock,’ he added.

‘Hello, Trevor, Charlie Priest. What can I do for you?’

‘Shawn … Parrott,’ he said, drawing the words out and enunciating the consonants, like a wine taster sampling a decent claret.

Had I known him better I’d probably have countered with: ‘Seamus Sparrow,’ or somesuch, but I didn’t, and
I hadn’t observed any sign of a sense of humour in my dealings with him. ‘Who’s he?’ is what I said.

‘The man in the painting that Mrs Crowther did for you. He’s been identified as one Shawn Parrott, late of Her Majesty’s Parachute Regiment and various other of Her establishments.’

‘Gerraway! Well done! Tell me all about it.’

It was a complicated story. Shawn Parrott was Liverpool-Irish and had been a regular soldier, in the Paras. He’d done several tours in Northern Ireland, and while his bravery was never in doubt, his loyalties were. Helped by his Irish connections he’d played one side against the other, and the Army against everyone. He hadn’t always been ugly, but a massage with a baseball bat changed that. Peacock told me that whichever side it was, they were quite gentle with him, really, considering what they were capable of. They drilled a kneecap, too, but only used a small drill – just as a warning. While he was in hospital it was discovered that he was a drugs dealer, and suspicion about some stolen ammunition also fell on him. He served a year in the Army’s prison at Colchester and three in ours at Walton. A retired Major had recognised him from the painting, and a couple of prison warders confirmed it.

‘Sounds like your man,’ I said.

‘You bet. And we have another name. Parrott was buddies with a Captain called Frank Bell – always called him “the Skipper”. No record, but he was implicated in the drugs and cashiered, all hush-hush to avoid bad
publicity. He was born in Huddersfield – your neck of the woods.’

‘So they both have reasons to be disaffected with society and the world in general,’ I suggested.

‘That’s putting it mildly. Bell is said to be of above average intelligence. Parrott was described as a BFN.’

‘A big … fine … newt?’

‘No. A brainless fucking nutter.’

Every cop in the country had seen a picture of Parrott, and the original was framed and hung behind my desk. Pity I didn’t insist on royalties for Mrs Crowther. Peacock’s DS had tracked him down via the Ministry of Defence, following his hunch that he might be
ex-Army
. After a lot of thought they had decided not to go public with his identity. That would only serve to warn him, but if he killed again we’d be in big trouble. If our deductions were right they had about seven million cigarettes to off-load on the black market, so we concentrated on asking around for information about any shady salesmen offering big discounts, but nobody came forward. The next step would be to give his ID to the tabloids and see if a reward produced the goods, but that was a last resort. We have our pride. Being detectives, we like to detect, but it was a gamble – with someone else’s life.

Annabelle was happier, and more beautiful, than I’d ever seen her. I was working reasonably regular hours and we spent most of our spare time together. We did
all the usual things, like cinemas, restaurants and the theatre, but were quite content to sit and talk, or listen to music. She tried to convert me to Mozart but, with one or two exceptions, I still found him overfussy. Too many notes. She tolerated my Dylan collection, and wept at his tortured tones. I shook my head sadly and accused her of having no soul.

We were on our way to a concert at the Civic Hall when Nigel caught up with me on my portable. Some of the Opera North cast were giving a selection from their repertoire for one of Annabelle’s charities. By way of a contrast I was playing Blonde On Blonde on the car’s cassette system.

‘It’s Nigel, boss,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you.’

‘Pardon?’ I shouted, holding the phone near a speaker and turning up the volume.

‘I said it’s Nigel, boss!’

‘Nigel Moss? I don’t know a Nigel Moss.’

‘Nigel! DC Newley!’

‘Hello, Nigel. Why didn’t you say?’ I steered into the side of the road and stopped. Dylan was at full blast, well into Just Like A Woman.

‘Where are you?’ Nigel bawled.

‘I’m very well, thanks. How are you?’

‘No, WHERE are you?’

‘I’m at a rock concert, with Annabelle.’

‘A rock concert, where’s that?’

‘It’s a concert, with rock groups.’

‘No, WHERE is it?’

‘Oh sorry, they’re a bit loud. It’s in the park. What can I do for you?’

‘I’ve had Fearnside on the phone. Wants you to ring him, as soon as you have the chance.’

‘As soon as I’ve had a dance?’

‘A CHANCE! As soon as you have the CHANCE!’

‘Hang on, Nigel, I can’t hear a thing. I’ll just pull this big plug out …’ I hit the eject button, and silence invaded the car like a winter fog. ‘That’s better. What were you saying?’

‘Phew! Now I can hear you. Commander Fearnside rang. Wants you to contact him as soon as possible. He said it was important.’

‘OK, Nigel, thanks. I’ll ring him straight away. Look, I’d better put this plug back in, I’m getting some ugly looks.’

‘Say hello to Annabelle.’

‘Will do. Adios.’

I switched the phone off and placed it in the glove box. ‘Nigel says hello,’ I told Annabelle, steering out into the traffic.