The Judas Sheep (3 page)

‘Oh. How long would it be for?’

‘Initially, four weeks.’

‘When?’

‘Quite soon.’

‘Sounds right up your street. You said “initially”. What happens after four weeks?’

She was fiddling with her glass, turning it in circles on the bar. ‘That would depend on what we found. If necessary, it could turn into a permanent posting.’

I felt as if I’d woken from an anaesthetic to find they’d amputated the wrong leg. I said: ‘Oh,’ again. A couple vacated two stools amongst the throng near the fire. I sipped my beer and went on: ‘So, do you think you’ll accept?’ I could hear that my voice was an octave gruffer than normal.

‘I don’t know what to do, Charles.’

After a long silence I said: ‘If someone goes for a month and decides that it ought to be a permanent position, does it have to be the same person who gets the job?’

‘No, I don’t suppose so.’

‘Then I think you should go, if that’s what you want.’

‘Is that what you really think?’

I shook my head. ‘No, but—’

A hand touched my arm. It was Jeff. ‘Excuse me, Annabelle,’ he said, ‘but there are two seats over here.’

We joined the rest of them until it was time to get back on the coach for the journey home. It was dark soon after four, so we couldn’t see anything through the windows. After a while Annabelle went to sit with Sophie and they had a long and earnest conversation. Sophie will probably go to a decent university in a couple of years, so I imagine Annabelle was explaining her options to her. Annabelle was accepted for Oxford
when she was seventeen, but went to Africa instead. I like women who are brainier than me.

Young Daniel came to sit with me. We discussed England’s prospects in the World Cup and then had a serious talk on the chances of Martians landing in Trafalgar Square and paying off the national debt for us. There was no community singing on that trip, so I had plenty of time to wonder how the murder enquiry was going.

Nine-thirty Monday morning I was drinking the first cup of tea of the day and reading my mail when Gilbert rang. My only letter was a not-to-be-missed offer of a decorative plate that would enhance any room, as well as becoming a sought-after collector’s item. It depicted a wooden bald eagle hovering over a lake. The blurb said that if you looked carefully at the mountain in the background you might see the spirits of the timber wolf, the elk and various other creatures of the West, skilfully portrayed by the artist. I hadn’t realised it was a mountain. I thought it was a pile of dead creatures waiting to be skinned. I projected Call of the Wild into the waste bin and answered the phone at the same time.

‘Good morning, Charlie. How are you?’ Gilbert asked.

‘Sleepy. And hungry, I also appear to be out of milk
and what’s left of the loaf has mould growing on it. But thank you for asking.’

‘Don’t mention it. The Assistant Chief Constable has just had me on the phone and—’

‘That sounds precarious.’

‘What does?’

‘The Assis … Oh never mind. What did he want?’

‘He wants you on this murder enquiry. Seems to think the moon and the stars shine out of your backside. Otherwise he’s going to take it off us.’

‘Recognition at last. Why can’t Nigel handle it?’

Too inexperienced. And it’s looking as if it could develop into something interesting. Plus we had three ram raids last night and I’m expecting to catch hell from the Chamber of Commerce. It’s the fourth time Binks’s Hi-Fi has been hit.’

‘He could always call it a crash-and-carry.’

‘Don’t you know when to give up, Charlie?’ He sounded exasperated.

‘Sorry, Gilbert, but I’m supposed to be off sick.’

‘I realise that,’ he replied, ‘but it’s not proper sick, is it? It isn’t as if you’ve broken your leg or got appendicitis. It’s just this stress thing, isn’t it?’

‘That’s what I keep saying. It’s you that keeps telling me to resign!’

‘Right, but this is important.’

‘I thought you wanted me to go down to the cottage?’

‘I do – so how about coming back here for a few
days, just until the pressure dies down, then throwing off again?’

‘Doc Evans won’t wear it.’

‘He’ll do it for you. Maybe just part-time, to begin with.’

‘Mm, we’ll see. So bring me up to date.’ I popped the used tea bag back into my mug and re-filled it with hot water.

‘Good lad. I want you to nip over to Liverpool and talk to a man called Norris. He’s a multi-millionaire; right up your street.’

When did all the millionaires suddenly become
multi-millionaires
? I stirred two sugars into my tea and took a sip. ‘Tell me all about him.’

‘Coming up. First of all, we’ve identified the body as a man called Harold Hurst. He had Wendy tattooed on his arm, in a rather tasteful hearts and flowers design, and a lady of that name walked into a nick in Liverpool on Saturday morning and filed a Missing From Home report. She’s described his clothing and we’re checking the fingerprints, but it looks like poor Harold. He’d been shot from close range in the back of the head by a single shot from a seven-point-six-two millimetre. That’s Kalashnikov calibre. It exited through his face, hence the lack of a visual ID.’

‘But you found the bullet?’

‘Yes.’

‘It sounds like an execution. What else?’

‘It does, doesn’t it? Tyre tracks. The last three vehicles
up the lane into the wood were a Vauxhall Astra with a blue light on top – they’re in for a bollocking, a
mid-range
vehicle with a popular tyre size, and something big and expensive.’

‘Any ideas what?’ I asked.

‘Possibly a Rolls-Royce. Hurst was employed as chauffeur to the aforementioned Mr Norris, who owns a Roller. That’s why I’d like you to demonstrate your undeniable charm and rapier-like interviewing technique on him.’

‘How could I refuse? Where do I find him?’

‘Are you coming in to look at the file?’

‘No. Since when did I let the facts influence me? Where does he live?’

He was American, with an accent that could have lured a gopher out of its hole. I hated him from the start. ‘I’ll be in my office at Shenandoah Incorporated from eleven a.m.,’ he drawled into the phone, ‘but I have an important meeting straight after lunch. If you can make it any time before, say, one o’clock, Inspector, you’d be mighty welcome. It’s a nasty business and I’ll help in any way I can. Harold’s death has been a shock to everyone at Shenandoah.’

It wasn’t until I found the factory, on a new trading estate at Halewood, that I realised that Shenandoah made Red Wing cigarettes. Norris had thoughtfully informed Security of my impending arrival, and I was soon being ushered into his office.

His handshake was like being caught in a car-crusher, reinforced by his free hand on my elbow. For an uneasy moment I thought he was about to drop on one knee and flying-mare me over his shoulder. Not that he’d have far to drop, as he stood barely five-and-a-half feet tall. His hair was a silver mop, highlighting his tan, and the suit was immaculate.

‘Inspector,’ he said with practised warmth.

‘Good morning, Mr Norris.’ I flexed my fingers and was relieved to find they still worked. ‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.’

‘No problem. Please, take a seat.’ He asked the woman who’d brought me in to rustle up some coffee and cookies.

His desk was the ugliest piece of furniture I’ve ever seen. It looked as if it had been carved out of a solid tree-trunk using Stone Age implements. Primitive. No, that wasn’t it. Pioneer. He barely peered over it, six feet away from me. Apart from an ashtray, a cigarette box and a lighter it was bare. It’s my ambition to have a desk like that.

‘So how can I help you, Inspector?’

‘First of all, when did you learn of Harold Hurst’s death?’ I asked.

‘Just this morning. My secretary rang me at home. Don’t ask me where the information came from.’

‘So how long had he worked for you?’

He pursed his lips in thought for a moment. ‘Best part of a year, I guess.’

‘And what was his typical working day?’

‘Pick me up in the morning, bring me here and take me home when I finished. In between he might ferry my wife, Marina, about. Just general chauffeuring duties, nothing hard and fast.’

‘So when did you last see him?’

‘Friday morning. He brought me here – we live at Lymm, in Cheshire – and continued on to Town & County department store, in the town centre.’

‘Liverpool?’

‘Yeah. Marina does consultancy work for them, calls in every Friday. Actually, I’m the major shareholder; as good as own the joint. They left there about half an hour later. That’d make it about eleven. After that, nothing.’

‘What does Mrs Norris say?’

He lifted the lid on the cigarette box and leant across with it. ‘Cigarette?’

I shook my head.

‘Mind if I do?’

‘Of course not.’

He lit up with the big gold lighter. ‘Fact, is, Inspector, Marina hasn’t been home since. I don’t know where she is.’

I was taken aback, knocked out of my stride. The coffee had arrived so I took a mouthful. It was strong and satisfying. Good stuff. After a few moments I said: ‘You realise the implications of what you are saying, Mr Norris? This puts our investigation on a different course altogether.’

He shook his head, disagreeing with me. ‘No, sir,’ he insisted. ‘The two events are not linked.’ He nipped the cigarette into the ashtray and left it there. He’d only had one puff. I sat waiting for him to find the words, to expand on his last statement.

‘Marina and I … we … the fact is,’ he began, ‘we are on the rocks. She has a boyfriend; meets him every Wednesday afternoon at the Royal Cheshire Hotel, near Northwich. Friday evening I decided I’d had enough. I was sitting here about seven o’clock, wondering where the hell Harold was, and I rang this number for a private investigator that someone gave me. Left a message on his ansaphone. Then I had to send for a taxi. To say I was annoyed is like saying the Pope is a Catholic. A goddamn Rolls-Royce and a chauffeur, and I had to send for a taxi.’

I could see his point. I think I’d have been pretty miffed myself, but I’d never know. ‘So how can you be certain that she made it to the department store, and left when she did?’

‘I dropped in there, Saturday morning. Unexpectedly. I like to do it now and again. The manager had his usual gripe to me about her interference.’

‘I see. And you didn’t report your wife missing,’ I stated.

He shook his head. That’s not a crime here, is it?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘I thought not. She’s not missing, just gone.’

‘Have you reported the car stolen?’

‘I’m coming to that. I was waiting for Security to tell me my taxi had arrived when the phone rang again. Someone very politely informed me that my
Rolls-Royce
was at the Burtonwood services, on the M62. Eastbound. Would I please collect it? I was relieved. I thought there must have been an accident or something, and everything could be explained. I collected my spare keys, in the taxi, then had him take me to the services. The Rolls was there, as promised.’

‘And you have no idea who it was on the phone?’

‘I assumed it was you guys – the police.’

‘What was his accent like?’

‘Bit like yours, I guess.’

Husky, but with a hint of sophistication. ‘There was nothing in the car – no message?’ I asked.

‘No, sir.’

‘And nobody has contacted you since?’

‘Uh uh.’

‘OK. Do you mind, Mr Norris, if I ask a local SOCO – that’s a Scenes of Crime Officer – to give the Rolls a thorough going over; see if we can find some evidence of who’s been in it lately?’

‘I’m afraid there could be a problem with that, Inspector.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Well, you see, I was wondering the same thing myself. I felt uncomfortable in it, and it was covered in mud. So after I left Town & County on Saturday I took
it to the garage and had them give it a full valet service.’ He said g’rarge and v’lay. ‘Now it’s as spick and span as a West Point cadet’s boots on graduation day.’

Fantastic, but I still needed some plaster casts from the tyres, to prove it was in the lane where Hurst’s body was found. ‘Pity,’ I said. ‘I’d still like him to have a go, though, if you don’t mind.’

‘You’re welcome, Inspector. The car will be in the garage here all afternoon.’

I asked him a few questions about his wife and her friends and quizzed him some more about Harold. He gave me various names and numbers and I thanked him for his cooperation. As I was about to leave I said: ‘Mr Norris, can you be absolutely sure that nothing was going off between your wife and Hurst? That they weren’t having an affair?’

He shook his head and gave a little smile. ‘Out of the question, Inspector. Marina liked her men either rich or built like Sylvester Stallone, but preferably taller.’ The last bit made the smile a full one. ‘Harold was neither.’

‘What was he like?’

He pursed his lips in his thoughtful mannerism, and I wondered if he was about to give me a description of the back of his chauffeur’s head. ‘Hard to say. Not the type of person you’d notice in a crowd. Kinda … faceless.’ I already knew that.

This was the kind of enquiry I like. It was out of the ordinary – something was going off that was difficult to
fathom. Rich man’s wife missing, his driver found dead. What was the link? It was easier when you didn’t know the people, didn’t feel sorry for them. I called at the local police station and told the Superintendent why I was on his patch. I also used their telephone and had a look at the street plan.

The PI that Norris said he’d tried to contact had received the message, so I advised him against following it up. Then I visited Town & County department store.

The manager was early middle-aged, about ten years younger than me. He smiled a lot and pumped my hand eagerly. At a guess he was worried about his job, being too young to be one of the old school, yet too old to be a whizzkid. I knew the feeling.

I refused a coffee and thanked him for seeing me without an appointment. ‘You must be very busy,’ I crawled, and he told me all about the tribulations of sales and stock-taking. He’d last seen Hurst on the previous Friday, when Mrs Norris left the store. The manager had walked out with Mrs Norris, carrying her purchases, and had seen her into the car.

‘I don’t suppose she told you where they were going next?’ I asked.

‘I’m afraid not, Inspector.’

‘But everything appeared perfectly normal?’

He thought about it. ‘Well, yes. Harold was asleep, or deep in thought, and didn’t see her coming. That annoyed her, but it wasn’t unusual. We shouldn’t
speak ill of the dead, but he was a bit of a doylem.’

We shouldn’t, but we usually do. He told me that Harold had been happily married, with a seven-year-old daughter. Maybe he wasn’t too bright, but somebody loved him, was mourning for him. I thanked the manager for his assistance and headed south, out of the revitalised city and into the leafy towns and villages of Cheshire. Except that they’re not very leafy in January.

Mrs Norris wasn’t officially missing, so I hadn’t mentioned it at Town & County. At the Royal Cheshire Hotel I said that I was trying to piece together Harold Hurst’s last movements. ‘I understand he brought a lady called Mrs Norris here every Wednesday afternoon?’ I said. Faces turned hunting pink and eyebrows shot up like flushed grouse. The register was sent for.

A Mr Smith had a regular booking, with a table for two at lunchtime. ‘We do not let rooms by the afternoon,’ I was assured. ‘We are not that sort of establishment.’

‘Yes, you are,’ I replied. ‘You just charge overnight prices.’

The staff were more forthcoming, and knew exactly who I meant. She wasn’t brought in a Rolls, they told me; she drove herself there in a smart little Honda. The bloke came in a Daimler and gave good tips. I bet he did. Nobody could put a name to him other than Smith, and he paid in cash. Somebody’s got to be called Smith, and no doubt a few of them are having affairs. I promised to send someone round for a fuller description and headed home. It had been a long day.