Death Dues (19 page)

‘Clearly, they’d forgotten about the CCTV cameras when they told their father they’d been the victims of an assault on the High Street. Should have invented a different location for the attack as their tale puts us in with a chance of proving they’re liars.’

Llewellyn nodded. ‘Did you see the mud on their trainers? They’ve been somewhere with soil underfoot recently.’

‘Yeah. And last time I looked the High Street wasn’t ankle deep in mud. I’ve a feeling we’re about to get lucky on this one. Let’s hope they don’t have the nous to get rid of their trainers in the meantime.’

‘Don’t forget we’ve still to check what Arnott and Moran have to say.’

‘I haven’t forgotten. But first I want another word with Eric Lewis, the man who found Jaws Harrison’s body, seeing as we’re in the Avenue. I've been meaning to have another chat with him but haven't managed to get round to it. I'll be interested to see if he's come up with another reason why he left it so late after finding Harrison's body to ring it in.’

But when he and Llewellyn turned up at number four, it was to find that Eric Lewis still clung to his claim that shock alone had caused the delay.

He was in the family living room. It was a
living
room in every sense, with newspapers and magazines piled on the floor around Lewis's chair. Lewis himself appeared to be starting a cold and seemed pretty sorry for himself. Not wanting to catch his germs. Rafferty sat as far away from him as the furniture in the small living room allowed.

‘So why didn’t you get someone else to ring it in?’ asked Llewellyn reasonably once they were seated. ‘Your wife, perhaps, or one of the neighbours.’

‘I don’t know.’ Lewis waved the question away with a pudgy hand. ‘It’s all a bit vague now.’ He sneezed loudly several times. Groaning, he stretched out a hand to a box of tissues and pulled out a bunch. 'Should you be questioning me when I'm so unwell? I thought there was a law against it.'

'You've only got a cold, Mr Lewis. It's hardly the bubonic plague.'

'Feels like it. My head's thumping something awful. Pass me those painkillers, would you?' He pointed to the mantelpiece, which was decorated with assorted cold remedies.

Llewellyn got up and passed them to him. Lewis shook out three and threw them down his throat, followed by a tot of what looked like hot whisky.

‘Besides, it’s only been a matter of days,’ Rafferty pointed out. ‘I’d have thought such a horrifying discovery would tend to stick in the mind and concentrate one’s thoughts.’

‘Your mind, maybe, but not mine. Shock’s wiped the memory clean away. And this cold doesn't help. Brain feels all foggy. I'm going to go to bed when you've gone. I feel like death.’

Rafferty rather wished his own memory could be so obliging. But even though he pressed the man, Lewis refused to abandon shock as the cause of his memory blockage.

‘Bloody man must remember,’ Rafferty complained as he and Llewellyn left the house, slamming the door with unnecessary force behind them, Rafferty hoping it caused Lewis's head to thump even harder. ‘He’s being wilfully obstructive. I’ve a good mind to—’

‘And what good would that do?’ Llewellyn interposed quietly as he correctly guessed Rafferty’s thoughts. ‘Arresting the man is only likely to make him dig his heels in. He strikes me as the obstinate sort.’

‘I know. It’s just that sometimes I’d like to break a few rules, go against the restriction on our actions for once and deliver some creative retribution.’

‘Just not this evening.’

Rafferty sighed. ‘No, not this evening. Though I reckon his convenient memory lapse has been concocted for a reason. Wonder what he’s hiding? Come on. Let’s get round to Moran’s and Arnott’s. I wonder if all four concocted their tale together or whether we’re going to get a different version of events from these two.’

As they came out of Eric Lewis’s home, they saw Emily Parker leaning on her gate chatting to Jim Jenkins. The weather had improved in the short time since they had left the Sterlings’ and now, with the sun escaped from its heavy cloud shackles, it had turned quite warm. Mrs Parker, freed from the confines of her home by the brightening weather, looked like she was there for the duration.

Rafferty grinned at the expression of resignation Mr Jenkins wore; he’d been button-holed against his will by an expert and was getting the full flow of her rhetoric by the look of things. Jenkins was leaning heavily on his stick, the odd nod or shake of his head was his only contribution to the proceedings.

Rafferty hurried to the car and got in before Mrs Parker saw them and buttonholed them in place of the hapless Jim Jenkins.

As it turned out, the four youths had had the nous to agree their stories before they shared them, as both Des Arnott and Tony Moran told them the same tale as the Sterling boys. And while Arnott displayed an aggrieved aggression which hinted at impressive acting skills when explaining where and when they’d been ‘attacked’, Tony Moran seemed shamefaced and reticent, so much so that Rafferty gave him the opportunity to get what had really happened off his chest.

‘We have reason to believe your tale’s a cock and bull story, Tony,’ he told Moran after the youth had repeated the tale of himself and the other three being attacked in the High Street. ‘That’s not what happened at all, is it?’

‘I–I don’t know what you mean,’ Moran replied, his voice high pitched and nervous, but seemingly determined not to be the one who blew their alibi for the Izzy Barber assault.

‘I think you know very well,’ Rafferty told him. ‘You weren’t anywhere near the High Street, were you? You and your nasty little friends were several hundred yards away, in an alley off Boadicea Drive assaulting one of the debt collectors of a new rival to Forbes. Did Forbes put you up to it?’ Moran said nothing more, so Rafferty told him, ‘We’re currently getting some forensics from the scene of the Boadicea Drive assault as well as CCTV footage from the High Street where the attack on you and your friends is supposed to have taken place. I imagine the latter, at least, will be revealing.’

Moran shot him a worried look, then he burst out, ‘It wasn’t my idea. I just sort of tagged along with the others.’

‘They being?’ Rafferty was keen to be clear on his facts on this one. Although the recent spate of muggings had been carried out on similar low lifes to the perpetrators, they had been nasty and he would be delighted to see that the perps went down for them. More to the point, so would the superintendent. Things were becoming quite pressing from that quarter.

‘You know who,’ Moran muttered. ‘I can’t say. They’ll kill me if I do.’

‘Like they killed Jaws Harrison?’ Rafferty thought it worth a try to see if Moran admitted to the murder as well.

‘No,’ he replied sharply. ‘We didn’t do that one.’

‘But you must have a good idea who did. The four of you were there on the spot when Harrison was killed.’

‘We saw nothing. None of us had anything to do with that.’

‘You’re sure?’

Moran nodded.

Rafferty thought he was speaking the truth. ‘So tell me about the attack in Boadicea Drive.’

‘Jak— my friends,’ he hastily corrected himself, ‘have been trailing this big bloke for a week or so now. My friend had discovered he was a debt collector. I don’t know how, he wouldn’t tell me. My friends decided to target him and rob him of his takings. I tried to talk them out of it, but they didn’t listen to me. Just called me chicken. They took the piss out of me so much I felt I had to prove myself to them and go along with their plans.’

‘Go on. So you followed your victim. What then?’

 ‘Jak— one of my friends, said we had to wait till nearly the end of the man’s round before we struck so we could be sure of getting a decent haul.’

‘So how much did you get?’

‘I dunno. Jake – I mean one of my friends — took the money. I never saw it. I never even got a penny of it. They said it was my initiation, like and I had to help in the attack for no more reward than the doing of it.’

‘Did you personally assault the victim?’

Moran nodded dejectedly. ‘I had to put the boot in once or twice for appearances, like, though I didn’t kick him very hard.’

‘Somebody did,’ Rafferty told him. ‘The victim’s in Elmhurst General with cracked ribs and a broken jaw as well as internal injuries to his spleen.’

Moran looked even more hangdog at this than he did when Rafferty issued the formal caution. But he still refused to confirm the names of his accomplices.

The youth was more sad than bad in Rafferty’s opinion. It was his hard luck that he’d fallen in with the Sterlings and Des Arnott and hadn’t the gumption to extract himself from their evil influence. He just hoped Moran admitted the full names of the others involved in the attack for the record; he didn’t like to see Moran, a born patsy, going down while the real culprits got off scot free.

They drove the boy to the station, got his statement – as far as it went – and handed him over to the Custody Sergeant. And while Rafferty hoped that a stint in the cells would persuade Moran to come clean about his accomplices’ identities, he had more urgent matters to deal with than hanging about waiting for the lad to see sense.

Most of those on the latest list of debtors they’d obtained from Malcolm Forbes lived in Elmhurst or the surrounding villages. Forbes apparently liked to be a big fish in a small pond and hadn’t done much to extend his loan-sharking operation farther afield. He had a nice little earner locally, so why risk having to mix it with even bigger fish outside his usual area?

The officers assigned to checking out those on the debtor’s list were making fair headway. Those of the debtors they had so far checked had alibis that stood up to basic scrutiny, though there were a couple on the list who had relatives on Primrose Avenue. One was a Paul Dicker, the little brother of Samantha and the other was the unmarried daughter of Mr and Mrs Jones. There might yet be others, but the checking was still continuing and would doubtless go on for some time yet.

As luck would have it, Paul Dicker and Alison Jones lived just around the corner from one another in Abbot’s Walk and Cymbeline Way respectively, to the south of the High Street.

Paul Dicker lived in a bedsit and worked at the DIY store on the industrial estate. Fortunately, Forbes’s list included telephone numbers. One of the other tenants answered the phone and told Llewellyn that Dicker was at home, though he would be going to work shortly, so they went round there before they missed him, not wanting to cause him any unnecessary embarrassment at his place of work.

Paul Dicker turned out to be a weedy young man in his late teens. As soon as Llewellyn introduced them Dicker seemed to become agitated and a nervous tick started up under his right eye. He put an unsteady hand up to try to still it and explained he was worried he’d be late for work.

‘We won’t keep you long, Mr Dicker,’ Rafferty assured him. A quick check on the computer before they left the station had elicited the information that Dicker had a conviction for assault. It had happened a year ago when he, like Tony Moran, had been hanging around with a rough crowd. He hadn’t been in any trouble since and seemed to have turned over a new leaf since his one and only court appearance.

Dicker’s bedsit was untidy like the rooms of most teenagers. Discarded clothes lay around in heaps and a bag of clean laundry sat by the door as though its owner expected it to empty itself into the shabby chest of drawers. There were posters of footballers and bands decorating the drab walls; they added a much needed splash of colour in the otherwise beige room.

Rafferty repeated Llewellyn’s telephone explanation for their visit. ‘We’re checking with all Mr Forbes’s debtors so that we can narrow down the suspects in our murder investigation. Can you tell me where you were last Friday between say two forty-five and three-thirty?’

‘I was at work. I was on the day shift last week. You can check with my supervisor if you like, Dave Blandford.’

‘We’ll do that. Thank you. Tell me, Mr Dicker, how are you coping with your debt to Mr Forbes? Managing to pay it off OK?’

Dicker fidgeted on the unmade bed. His baby face looked pink. ‘I’ve missed a few payments,’ he admitted. ‘I find it hard to manage since I left home.’ He pulled a face. ‘My parents split and my mum’s married again. I don’t get on with her new bloke so I moved out. Sam—Samantha, my sister, tried to persuade me to stay put. She said I wouldn’t be able to manage financially on my own.’

It seemed like his big sister had been right, given the loan and the lad’s failure to make regular payments.

‘Have any threats been made to you regarding your failure to meet your payments regularly?’ Rafferty asked.

Dicker went even pinker. ‘The collector wasn’t very pleasant last time he called. He made it clear he expected me to find the money in future. There was a distinct whiff of “or else” about it. I admit he had me scared. I told my sister what he said.’

‘Your sister’s in debt to the same firm of moneylenders,’ Llewellyn said. ‘Do you share the same collector?’

‘Yeah. The dead bloke. John Harrison. I was round at my sister’s lodgings one day when he called.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘I thought I’d managed to dodge him at my place, but no such luck. My sister had to make my payment for me. It was good of her as she hasn’t much money either. She’s a student and she’s rarely got any spare cash, so I felt bad about it. She keeps telling me not to worry about paying her back.’

‘It must be good to have such a helpful big sister,’ said Rafferty, the eldest of six siblings. He wished he had one. He could do with a big sister helping him pay the wedding bills. ‘Makes a habit of getting you out of trouble, does she?’

Dicker nodded. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without her, especially when it’s the end of the month and before I get paid. She always says I ought to live according to my income. That’s what she tries to do.’ Not with any great success given her association with Forbes. ‘She’s very frugal. Practically lives on rice and lentils and buys her clothes from charity shops. She says it’ll all be worth it when she’s qualified and can get a good job.’