Easy Meat (22 page)

The river police had two divers working off their launch, searching the Trent either side of the bridge for a possible weapon or weapons. So far they had come up with two stools of the type frequently used by fishermen, several discarded rods, the rusted frame of a Raleigh bicycle, one picnic hamper, four nasty-looking knives, one of which had several triangular sections chipped out of the blade, a child’s tricycle, roller skates, assorted pots and pans, a filing cabinet still containing fifty or so manila files, most likely rolled down the slope from County Hall by a disgruntled clerk, and a sawn-off double-barreled shotgun, which was proving of great interest to the detectives investigating a three-month-old robbery at a bank on Gregory Boulevard. Nothing that might have been used in the attack on Bill Aston.

Forensic had recovered sufficient splintered fragments from the dead man’s skull and face to be certain that the weapon involved had been a varnished implement, most likely a baseball bat of some kind. Even in this country where the game was comparatively rarely played, that was more and more the norm.

And blood: quite minute, difficult at first to detect, there were small samples of a second type, mixed in with Aston’s. As soon as it was properly isolated, it could be checked against the recently established, steadily growing national DNA bank for comparisons.

Support Department had gone over the ground with a fine-tooth comb. Dog turds, cigarette ends and discarded cigarette packets, fast-food containers, used condoms and the like notwithstanding, they had come up with only two items which held potential interest: a D90 TDK audio cassette tape, unlabeled, which seemed to hold a fairly arbitrary selection of home-taped heavy metal, and a large-sized left-hand leather glove, well-worn, scuffed around the fingers’ ends and smooth in the palm. Both of these items were undergoing further tests.

Scene of Crime had presented Naylor with evidence, mostly partial, of twenty-seven sets of footprints within the immediate vicinity of the attack. A chart showing the positioning of these was still in the later stages of completion, but seemed to suggest that of this twenty-seven, nine were strongly present close to where the body had fallen; of that nine, five seemed to have partly circled around it. The impressions of three of these had been made by some kind of running shoe; one by a heavy work boot, the last, most likely, came from a regular, rubber-soled walking shoe.

After being successfully stalled by Phyllis Parmenter’s secretary for the best part of a day, Khan had installed himself in the outer offices of the local authority inspectorate, and settled himself down with a copy of Vikram Seth’s one-thousand-and-five-hundred-odd-page novel, intent upon a long wait.

The WPC walking away from Cossall had an arse on her like a pregnant duck. Cossall’s words, though he kept them to himself and supped his pint; all this questioning—publicans and bar staff—it gave a man a thirst. And besides, where women on the force were concerned, nowadays it paid to keep your mouth closed.

He knew a sergeant at one of the out stations, not so much above a month back, who had chanced to make some innocuous remark about a female officer within her hearing and, within an hour of her lodging an official complaint, the poor sod had been suspended from duty, pending an investigation. A sure sign of the way it was going, Cossall thought, the writing on the menstrual bloody calendar.

Only that morning, he had read in the paper, the first ever woman chief constable had been appointed in Lancashire. A few years shy of fifty and, wouldn’t you know it, a graduate from the Open University. And what was her degree in? Psychology. Cossall had read she’d be bringing in over seventy thousand a year salary. Seventy thousand. And a budget of close to a hundred and fifty million to dispose of. How much of that was going to go on setting up crèches, that’s what he’d like to know? Counseling sessions? Hiring some poncey interior designer to put in soft furnishings and curtains in the interview rooms, create a more trusting atmosphere.

Still, what had she been quoted as saying? It’s never been a man’s world, they only think it is. Yes, well, that’s where she was wrong: Cossall didn’t think, he knew. At least until he chucked it all in, threw in his hand with one of them home security firms, it was his world still.

And if that WPC ever made it to the top they’d have to buy her a specially reinforced chair. Not that, he reflected, he’d say no to charvering it from behind. Nice tits, too, sort of stretch Dunlopillo, wouldn’t mind spreading himself over those. He’d thought that when she had first walked in looking for him ten minutes before, Cossall lubricating his tonsils between visiting the pubs along London Road, spaced out between Trent Bridge and the city. Football pubs, most of them; big trade of a Saturday whichever side was at home, Forest or County.

“So what are you telling me, love,” Cossall had asked, “the landlord won’t talk to you, is that it?”

“He’ll talk, right enough. Talk the hind legs off that donkey. It’s what he won’t say bothers me.” No hesitation, coming right back to him, giving as good as she got, Cossall liked her for that. Local, too. That accent. Mansfield, somewhere roundabout. “Take, for instance, there’s a couple of windows broken, right? Stuck together with tape, like he’s waiting for them to be properly fixed. Well, that’s recent, right? And when I had a shufti round back, there’s a couple of chairs there, broken, slung out. But when I tried to ask him about them, any of that, he wasn’t having any, just wasn’t saying. I thought you might get more out of him.”

Cossall nodded. “Right, thanks. I’ll get right along.” And winked. “I’d get you a drink, love, only you’re on duty.”

She lowered her voice so no one along the bar would hear. “If I weren’t, I’d buy one for myself. But thanks, love, all the same.”

Cossall held back his grin until she had turned away and then watched her all the way to the door, an arse on her like a pregnant duck.

He walked off the street into the main bar of the pub; two men in working clothes were sitting off by the back window, Irish, Cossall could tell without knowing them, something about their complexion, broad, high brows, the natural wave at the front of the hair. An Irish pub, is that what this was?

He eased one of the high stools far enough out from the bar to sit down. Through in the side room, he could see a black youth in white T-shirt and dreadlocks, long baggy shorts and hi-top trainers, playing himself at pool. No, an equal opportunity pub, that’s what it was.

“What’ll you have?” the landlord asked, appearing at the end of the bar and coming slowly towards him. He was a tall man, rangy, with a flattened face that was more like a child’s drawing than the real thing.

Cossall told him and watched the man draw a pint, showing him his warrant card when he set the glass before him. With a generous movement of his hand, the landlord waved Cossall’s money away.

“I had one of your lot in here earlier,” the landlord said. Cossall nodded. “Tell me about Saturday night.” He could see the windows the officer had spoken of down towards where the two men were sitting, glass cobwebbed over with brown tape.

“I told her.”

Cossall tasted the beer, grimaced, and shook his head. “If you’d told her, you wouldn’t be standing there looking at me. If you don’t tell me, tonight you’ll be looking at two others like me; and tomorrow there’ll be four, and so it goes.” He set the glass back down. “That’s not what you want.”

The landlord forced a laugh. “All this over a pane of broken glass and a few lousy chairs?”

Cossall leaned far enough forward for the man to feel his breath on his face. “We had an officer killed, not a few hundred yards from here. Saturday night.”

“But that was nothing to do with this.”

“Why don’t you,” Cossall said, “let me be the judge of that?”

The landlord pushed a glass against the optic and gave himself a large Jameson; sipped at it before, elbow leaning on the bar, he spoke. “These youths come in sometimes, you know, match days. Skinheads, mostly. Lot of noise, swearing and that, but they spend well, so most times I let it go. But this week, one of them gets into an argument with one of the Paddies that use the place all the time. Regulars, like. Well, one thing these lads can’t stand, more than the blacks, even, it’s the Irish. Just hate them. IRA truce or no truce, it doesn’t matter a damn. And this gives them an excuse. One minute these two are squaring up to one another, a bit of pushing and shoving, you know how it goes; next thing, this skinhead’s mates start in and before you know it the whole pub’s like the last round of a Frank Bruno fight with no holds barred.” He drank a little more of the whisky and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I doubt if it lasted more than ten minutes at most.”

“You called it in? Called the police?”

“And risk my license? It’s not worth it. That’s why I didn’t want to say anything before.”

“You’ve been warned, then?”

“Once or twice.”

Cossall nodded. “These youths, know them well enough to know any names?”

Slowly, the landlord shook his head.

“D’you notice where they went from here?”

“No. But if I was to guess, I’d say on down towards the Trent.”

“And that’s all it is, a guess?”

“Afraid so, yes.”

Cossall took a final swallow at his pint and pushed the glass away unfinished. “Here.” He took a card from his top pocket and set it down on the bar. “If you do hear a name, or if one comes to mind, give us a call.” He winked. “It’ll count for you, not against. Won’t do any harm, someone in your corner, eh?”

The landlord watched Cossall till he was through the door, swallowed down what remained of his whisky, and allowed himself another. He’d as soon count on a copper like Cossall, he thought, as back himself to win the lottery without buying a ticket.

Twenty-seven

Resnick was on his way back from the superintendent’s office when Lynn intercepted him with her analysis of Bill Aston’s movements and contacts during the last twenty-four hours of his life.

“It’s pretty much all there,” she said, business-like, not quite looking Resnick in the eye. “One or two gaps I still have to fill.”

Resnick gave the first sheet a quick glance. “Anything that looks helpful?”

“Afraid not. Trips to the supermarket and the garden center, that’s about it. The pool. Walking the dogs.”

Resnick nodded, skimming the remainder. A day in the life of a quite ordinary, not especially interesting man. What was interesting about Aston was that he was dead: the manner of his dying.

“Okay, thanks.”

“There’s one more thing,” Lynn said. “You remember you asked me to track down that call Aston made the day of his death? The one that was unaccounted for.”

Resnick looked at her expectantly and she pushed a folded piece of paper into his hand. He opened it, looked thoughtfully at the name, then folded it again before pushing it down into his breast pocket.

“There were two other calls, too. Unanswered, but logged in Aston’s office.”

“Right. Good.” And then, as Lynn turned away, “Are you okay?”

She nodded, still not directly looking at him. “I’d like to take an hour later, personal time?”

“Fine.”

They continued their separate ways, Resnick along the corridor towards the CID room, Lynn making for the stairs. Whatever else, Resnick was thinking, she’s right about one thing—all this stuff that’s troubling her, it doesn’t seem to be interfering with her work.

The meeting with Skelton had not been encouraging. One of his best hopes had been that the second blood sample taken from Aston’s clothes, the blood which wasn’t Aston’s own, would prove to have come from someone who was known. But Jane Prescott had checked the records available to Intelligence, made comparisons with all known and processed samples. Nothing. No match. Which left the shoe prints, the cassette, and—most outside of all outside chances—the bat. After that, they were down to information received, unearthing a witness who had seen or heard more than anyone had so far come forward to say. The media appeals had brought in replies, of course, and these were being processed through the computer and the more promising laboriously checked out. But so far …

Sheer accident, Bill Aston’s murder? An unfortunate victim who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or was there a more specific motive? Resnick thought again about the name Lynn had given him and was glad he had already arranged to meet Khan and discuss the Snape inquiry. If there was a connection there, he had to tease it out.

Reg Cossall was waiting for him in his office, using an empty coffee mug as an ashtray. With a degree of show, Resnick unfastened the window catch and lifted the lower frame high, before sitting down and gesturing with a hand to indicate Cossall should do the same.

“This could be nothing, Charlie …”

“I doubt that, Reg. If you thought that, you’d not be here.”

Cossall smiled his quick, lopsided smile and retold the story of his meeting with the publican on London Road, gracing it with not a few embellishments of the scatological kind. A canny copper, Reg, Resnick was thinking, a man content to wear his prejudices on his sleeve, a glint in his eye like steel as if daring rebuke. Someone like Aston—similar age, equal seniority—they had been able virtually to discard, lost in the shuffle. But Cossall was too valuable, his experience too wide and his arrest rate too high.