A Killing Kindness (10 page)

But he was certain about his pint in the Cheshire  Cheese and that he'd been back at the aerodrome no later than one-fifteen which all present would  confirm.

Wield didn't doubt it, but turned to the landlord  of the Cheshire Cheese for less partisan confirmation of Lee's timetable. Wally Furniss was a  round, rubicund man who, had he been an actor,  would have made a large fortune playing jovial  English landlords in costume dramas. Instead, he  made a small fortune playing the same role in  real life. Death seemed to be his friend. Recently  widowed, he had emerged from the ordeal redder  and jollier than ever. And the awful fate of Mary Dinwoodie behind his pub had crowded his bars  and broadened his smile in the weeks since.

Wield, used to landlords who were surlily resentful or distastefully sycophantic, found himself  greeted with what felt like genuine pleasure and  a large vodka and tonic.

'You remembered,' he said. It sounded a foolish thing to say but Furniss grinned delightedly,  tapped his brow, and said,’Trick of the trade.'

His memory was equally good when it came  to Lee.

'The gyppo? About twenty-five past twelve.  A pint of mild and a pastie. Said it was stale,  and I asked him how
he'd
know! He ate it up,  though. Yes, we have one or two of his lot in  when they're camping on the 'drome. It's just the  other side of the by-pass. No, I don't mind 'em,  as long as they stick to the taproom, which they  mostly do.'

'The night Mrs Dinwoodie was killed, were there  any of them in then?'

Furniss pursed his lips. 'Not that I can say definite, else I would've done, wouldn't I?'

Wield had to agree.

'Mind you, they were about,' added Furniss. 'I  remember saying, just a bit before, that some of  'em were back early this year. It's usually just the week before the Fair that they start congregating.  Poor sods probably got turfed out of their last spot a bit unexpected.'

'That's interesting,' said Wield. 'Dave Lee, now,  the fellow I was asking about, was he one of  them?'

'Couldn't say for sure,' said Furnis regretfully.  'Are they mixed up in this Choker business, you  reckon?'

'Just enquiries, Mr Furniss,' said Wield heavily. 'And I'd appreciate it if they stayed between you  and me.'

'My lips is sealed,' said Furniss with a contradictory breadth of smile.

'And you're sure they were around before Mrs  Dinwoodie's death?'

'Oh yes. Ask at the Aero Club if you want to  find out just when. They keep a close eye on them  down there. Lots of valuable stuff around that  place, not to mention the bar! If I catch any of them  hanging around outside here, I send them packing  pretty quick. Paying customers are one thing, light  fingers another! Same again, Sergeant?'

Wield shook his head and put his glass down.

'Work to do,' he said. 'Thanks all the same.'

'Any time you're passing. Watch how you go  now.'

Furniss accompanied him to the door and saw  him out into the eye-blinding sunshine. Returning to the cool shades of his taproom he said to  his barmaid who was checking the bottled beer,  'Bloody cops. Drink you out of business if you let  'em! And, Elsie, keep an eye open for those gyppos  who sometimes get in here. The coppers reckon  they had summat to do with that Dinwoodie tart's  death.'

Wield meanwhile was taking a circuitous route  back to the centre of town. The old aerodrome  was barely a half-mile away across the by-pass.  Roughly rectangular, it was flanked by the river  and open country on one side, the by-pass itself  on another, and by the Avro Industrial Estate and  the suburb of Millhill on the other two. During  the war when Wellingtons and Lancasters took  off from here nightly, the 'drome had been well  outside the city limits, though too close for the  comfort of those who unpatriotically wanted to  keep the war as far away from themselves as  possible. Now the city had caught up with it,  industry and suburbia had nibbled into it, and  increasingly there were voices raised in council  meetings pointing out what a valuable piece of  real estate it was. The Aero Club's lease ran out  in three years and Wield guessed that with the squeeze on local authority finances getting even  tighter, the speculators would be invited in to do  their worst.

Wield felt as indifferent to this possibility as he  had done during the recent battle between the  motorway planners and the city's premier golf  club. His ideas of recreation were oriental in every  sense. Judo, kung-fu, karate - his fondness for  these martial arts had the official seal of approval.  Every good policeman should be able to take care  of himself.

And every good policeman should be able to  make connections too. He thought of the coincidence of Lee's use of the Cheshire Cheese. Could  it be significant?

He pulled the car to a halt by the side of the  road. From here he could see the open expanse  of the old airfield. A bright orange windsock hung  flaccid from its pole.

Wield took out his map of the city and its environs and studied it for a while. Then he carefully  drew circles round the Cheshire Cheese, Charter  Park and the Pump Street allotment. Next he put  a cross against the north-east corner of the airfield  where the gypsies had their encampment.

Apart from its comparative proximity to the  Cheshire Cheese, it had no apparent significance.  Now he put squares round the murdered women's  homes. Again nothing. They were widely scattered.  Only June McCarthy had been killed near her  home.

Wield frowned. Much more of this and he'd run  out of shapes. He began to set triangles round the  victims' places of employment.

That was better. That was what had been niggling away.

Two of the triangles, McCarthy's factory and  Sorby's bank, were situated not too far from  the airfield, in the Avro Industrial Estate and the  adjacent Millhill residential suburb respectively.  Mrs Dinwoodie's Garden Centre was several miles  out of town and, for the purpose of the enquiry,  Pauline Stanhope's place of work would have to go  down as Charter Park. But a fifty per cent statistic  might be significant.

Though, he thought gloomily, gypsies were hardly  famed for using banks or indeed seeking employment in the factories.

He started his engine again. As he did so, his  radio crackled into life with his call sign. He replied  and was told to contact Inspector Pascoe as soon  as possible. There was a call-box only a hundred  yards ahead.

'Sergeant, where are you?'

Wield explained and also gave a brief run-down  of his talk with Furniss and his subsequent geographical musings.

Pascoe said doubtfully, 'It might mean something. I'll toss it around. Meanwhile, on your way  in, call at the Wheatsheaf Garage. You probably  heard Tommy Maggs is still missing. He didn't  arrive home yesterday and he's not at work this morning. See if anybody can give us a line, particularly that lad, Ludlam. Watch him. If he's covering  up for Tommy, he can be slippery. You know about  Ludlam, don't you.'

'Oh yes,' said Wield gravely. 'I know.'

Ludlam, like Maggs, had had some juvenile  problems with the police, but a little more serious  - shop-lifting, robbing a phone-box, taking and  driving a car without permission. Since his mother  died when he was seventeen, he had lived with  his married sister, Janey, who had been glad of  his company two years ago when her husband,  Frankie Pickersgill, had been jailed for his part in  an off-licence robbery. Frankie was a careful, clever  and previously unconvicted criminal. The police  had been delighted to get him at last, disappointed  that his clean sheet got him off so lightly as a 'first  offender'.

What few people knew, especially not Frankie  and his wife, was that a few days before his arrest,  Ron Ludlam had been picked up trying to flog  some cheap Scotch round the pubs and after a  couple of hours alone with Dalziel he had been  ready to co-operate fully in return for a guarantee  of anonymity.

Dalziel's guarantees usually made the South Sea  Bubble look firm and substantial, but this time  enough evidence materialized to convict without  Ron's appearance in the box.

'On the other hand, if he knows anything about  Tommy, a bit of pressure and he'll give. We know that,' continued Pascoe. 'Now, to kill two birds  with one stone. We've got so many of the lads  tied up on the Choker case that Mr Headingley's  finding himself a bit thin on the ground. He's going  down a list of possibles for the Spinks's warehouse  break-in. Frankie Pickersgill's on it, of course. He's  been out three months now, might be feeling  the pinch though it doesn't sound like his style.  Anyway he says he was home that night watching  telly with his wife and brother-in-law.'

'We know Ron was at the Bay Tree at half eight,'  interposed Wield.

'Yes, I know. This is after ten we're talking  about,' said Pascoe. 'Well, Janey and Ron, it's  not the best of alibis. And while Mr Headingley  doesn't really reckon Frankie, it might be worth  pressuring Ron ever so lightly at the same time as  you ask about Tommy.'

'Right,' said Wield.

When he got to the Wheatsheaf Garage, he  wandered around for a while chatting to all and  sundry and got confirmation of the story as told  before. Tommy had worked normally in the morning. He was not his old chipper self, but that  was only to be expected in the circumstances.  At midday he had cleaned himself up and driven  away.

Wield found Ludlam half in, half out of an  Austin Princess, working under the dashboard. He climbed into the passenger seat and said,  'Very nice.'

'You reckon? Me, I like something with a bit  more zip.'

Ludlam was a fresh-faced youth of about twenty with shoulder-length blond hair that obviously got  nothing but the best treatment, wide-set blue eyes  and good teeth. There was a smudge of oil on  his cheek. Wield, looking down on him with an  undetectable pleasure, was tempted to erase the smudge, but resisted easily.

'You still living at your sister's place, Ron?'  he asked.

'That's right.'

'Frankie's out now, isn't he?'

'Yeah. He's working as a driver. He only did  sixteen months with the remission.'

'Only sixteen months? I expect it seemed long  enough to him. You're good mates, are you?'

Ludlam wriggled out of the car then climbed  back into the driver's seat.

'Yeah. Fine. Why not?'

'I can think of a reason, Ron,' said Wield gravely.  'Frankie never suspected though? That's good. But  you must feel you owe him a favour, like. I mean  even though it was
only
sixteen months, you must  feel you owe him a favour. And your sister too. You owe Janey a lot, I should think.'

'What do you mean?'

'The night Brenda disappeared. What were you  doing. Ron?'

'Nothing. I went home early. Sat and watched  a bit of telly with Janey and Frankie.

‘You left the Bay Tree, didn't go into the disco,  didn't pull yourself a bird, just went home for a  quiet night? Not your style.'

'I just felt like it,' insisted Ludlam. He sounded  agitated.

'Tell you what, Ron. We're going to be asking  questions down at the Bay Tree. We get one sniff  that you were having your usual knee-tremble in  the back lane at the time you say you were home,  you'll be in real trouble, son. You knew Brenda  pretty well?'

The change of direction disconcerted Ludlam.

'Yeah.'

'She'd been round to your place?'

'Yeah, but with Tommy, I mean. And Janey  was there!'

'But you fancied her? I mean, you wouldn't  have said no.'

'What do you mean? She was Tommy's bird. We  were friends!'

'Friends.
So if you'd been driving along and you  saw her walking, you'd stop and give her a lift?'

'Yes. I mean no. I mean, I told you, how could  I, I was home that night and anyway I haven't got  any wheels!'

Wield gave what Pascoe had once described as  his Ozymandias sneer and made a gesture which  took in the car-packed garage.

'We're worried about Tommy,' he said abruptly.  'It's not like him, his mam says, just going off  like this.

‘I’m worried too,’ said Ludlam. He sounded as if  he meant it, though whether he was referring simply to Tommy's disappearance was another matter.

'If you know anything, better tell us,' said Wield.  'He seemed really cut up about Brenda. He's in no  fit state to be off by himself.'

'He wouldn't do anything like that.'

'Like what?'

'Like hurting himself.'

'I'm glad to hear it. You should know. You're  his mate. How'd he seem yesterday morning?'

'Quiet, like. He'd just come back to work. The  boss said he could have longer off, but he seemed  to want to be occupied. When he didn't turn up  after dinner, we just thought he'd taken the boss  up on his offer.'

'Don't you usually have your eats with him?'

'Yeah. We usually have a pie in the Wheatsheaf  across the road. But it got to midday and he just  took off.'

Wield got out of the car and walked round to  the driver's side.

'You hear anything, you tell us now, Ron. You  remember anything, you tell us. All right?'

'Sure, yeah. I will.'

He couldn't keep the look of relief off his young fresh open face. It seemed a pity to do anything to  spoil that beauty but Wield knew his job was not  to bear comfort but a sword.

'Be sure you do, Ron,' he said, his face close  to the boy's. 'We helped you once. We reckon you still owe us. And we like to keep the books  balanced. One way or another.'

Worry put five years on Ludlam's face at a stroke. At least, thought Wield as he walked away,  features like his own could take the hobnailed  march of time and trouble with scarcely a trace.

He felt troubled now, without knowing why.  Pascoe would have approved the obliquity of his  interrogation, Dalziel the threat, but he did not feel  satisfied. He glanced at his watch and wondered if he'd get away early enough that evening to drive  up to Newcastle. It was his friend's birthday and  he'd promised. But he knew that in the police  the strongest oaths were often straw to the fires  of duty. He glanced at his notebook. One more  call to make, on Mrs Sorby, and then he should  be done. He crossed his fingers.