Murder of a Dead Man (24 page)

Blanche waited until Hannah’s bedroom door closed. ‘His firm also handled my brother-in-law’s defence. I’ve always found Mr Marks to be a man of the highest integrity.’

‘I’m not questioning his integrity, Miss Davies,’

Trevor said.

‘But you seem to know him?’

‘In connection with another case,’ Anna interposed.

‘I don’t know what I would have done without him after Laura died. He settled all the business, paid all the bills, even the ones for the funeral. And he handled the sale of the cottage and the London flat as well as Adam’s defence. In fact I’ve now put my own estate in his hands, and made his firm executors of Hannah’s affairs. My sister left Hannah far better provided for than I would have given her credit for. One day Hannah is going to be quite a wealthy lady.’

‘Your sister took out insurance policies?’

Trevor asked.

‘Yes. It amazed me when Mr Marks told me about them. It seemed out of character for Laura, but she’d taken out a substantial lump-sum insurance policy payable on her death, as well as an annuity which more than covers Hannah’s living expenses –and that will continue until Hannah finishes full-time education. Mr Marks has taken an almost fatherly interest in Hannah. He calls in to see us quite regularly. Yet it’s strange –’

‘What?’

‘He never met Laura. One of his partners drew up her will. But his firm did organise Adam’s defence. As I said, my brother-in-law is an intelligent man and can be delightful company when he wants to be. Perhaps he charmed Brian Marks into taking care of Hannah for him.’

‘Perhaps.’ Trevor rose from his seat. ‘Thank you very much for your time, Miss Davies.’

‘Thank you for coming. It’s odd, but you’ve put my mind at rest. I was worried when I heard that a tramp had been watching the school-yard. I know it sounds strange, with Adam being convicted of murdering my sister, but I find it reassuring to think that it might have been him watching Hannah, and not some dirty old man.’

‘Anything strike you as peculiar, Trevor?’ Anna asked, as they sat in his car at a set of traffic lights.

‘Nothing in particular.’ He wondered if her hands were giving her trouble. She had seemed preoccupied since the fire.

‘Brian Marks took a paternal interest in Anthony George, and visited Mrs George regularly in her home. Now he’s doing the same with Blanche Davies and Hannah.’

‘He’s an old-fashioned family solicitor.’

‘Maybe,’ Anna conceded. ‘But, Adam Weaver’s a convicted murderer. He killed Blanche Davies’ sister, and she’s looking after his daughter, so you’d think she’d be petrified at the thought of him coming near them. Instead she seemed to welcome the idea of Adam Weaver getting in touch with them.’

‘She also said he could be charming. Perhaps he charmed her too. They say most psychopaths are intelligent, endearing souls.’

She wanted to shout that whatever else Adam Weaver might be he wasn’t a psychopath, but she managed to contain herself. If she revealed her past relationship with the actor, she’d risk being taken off the case. And she wanted a chance to prove herself as good a detective as the men she worked with.

‘Blanche Davies certainly seems to be taken with Adam Weaver,’ Trevor drove off as the lights changed. ‘Let’s hope she won’t have to pay for her infatuation.’

‘You heard her; she doesn’t believe Weaver killed her sister,’ Anna reminded him.

‘He’s been tried, convicted and sentenced.

That’s good enough for me. I’ll ask the super to give her and the child round-the-clock protection, just in case.’

Trevor drove from Blanche Davies’ house into the centre of town. He left the car on yellow lines and he and Anna walked down one of the ramps into the underpass. Tom Morris’s evangelists were manning the soup kitchen, but there was no sign of Tom.

‘They have a rota,’ Peter explained when they finally tracked him and a shivering, blue-faced Andrew down.

‘No sign of Tony?’ Trevor didn’t know why he was even asking.

‘If I was him I’d be half way to the Caribbean on a banana boat. At least it would be warmer than this,’ Peter replied.

Anna held up her bandaged hands and shook her head at one of the youngsters who offered her soup.

‘How’s the hands, Sarge?’ Andrew asked.

‘They’ve promised me they’ll be almost serviceable after one more dressing in outpatients.’

‘I think it’s time all sick people were put to bed so they can put in a full day tomorrow. Come on, Sergeant.’ Trevor laid a hand on Anna’s shoulder.

‘You too, Peter. Eight suit tomorrow morning?’

‘Great, a lie in.’ Peter said sarcastically.

‘Lift?’

Peter nodded. ‘Supper for two at my place,’ he whispered to Anna.

‘I’m tired. Perhaps tomorrow.’ After talking to Blanche Davies all she wanted was her own bed, and time to think about her present – and her past.

Trevor led the way back to his car. They passed a narrow lane between a furniture store and a burger bar. At the far end, the pale outline of a skip shimmered in the darkness. The sea of glistening black bags that filled it heaved slightly as Trevor unlocked the doors. A dark head peered cautiously over the edge. Feverish brown eyes focused on Anna, watching as she and Peter climbed into Trevor’s car. The engine turned, there was a puff of smoke from the exhaust and the car drove away.

Ten minutes later Andrew emerged from the underpass with Chris. The head burrowed underneath the bags again. They smelled, but only of food. It was a small price to pay for security and warmth on a cold night.

When dawn broke, the town centre was deserted. The soup kitchen had long since packed up. The volunteers were sleeping in their soft, comfortable beds. The town’s homeless, huddled in rags, newspapers and cardboard boxes, were beginning to crawl out of the sheltered corners they had found. A milk float rattled around the roundabout, the clinking of bottles diminishing with distance until silence reigned once more.

Before the fingers of chilly light reached the lane, the bags in the skip shifted. A man emerged from the billowing mass. Dropping over the side he landed lightly on the soles of his feet. He ran into the shadows that fringed the wall of the furniture shop before moving cautiously on to the main street.

Pulling up the collar of a denim shirt he’d scavenged from the clothing skip, he put his head down and walked towards the YMCA.

The rooms on the top floors of the building were rented to students. They used the showers and bathrooms on that floor, which meant he could slip into the one on the ground floor and lock the door.

He read the clock as he passed the church tower.

Three and a half hours. That was all he had to wait.

The caretaker unlocked the door to the bleak hall that housed the Job Club at eight-thirty. The first members weren’t due in until nine, but the keen ones came in early. Hugh Thomas had sent his C.V.

to thirty-six different firms in a fortnight. Something was going to break – and soon – he knew it. He opened the door, stood and stared.

‘Hey, you’re not in the club!’ he shouted at the filthy individual who was standing at a table flicking through the telephone directory. The man looked up.

Hugh registered sunken cheeks covered in stubble, dark eyes, trembling hands, and the stink of sweat and unwashed clothes.

‘Sorry, mate, just looking for someone’s number. Didn’t mean no harm.’ The man moved towards him. Repelled, Hugh retreated. The man barged through the door into the corridor, knocking over the next arrival.

‘Hey, didn’t that look like…’

The interloper didn’t wait to hear any more. He had to find somewhere to hole up. Thanks to the directory he had somewhere to go at nightfall, but not sooner lest he be seen. Where? Since the fire the police were everywhere, checking and double-checking every empty building. Thoughts whirled round his mind like dead leaves in an autumn wind.

He was no longer capable of reasoning, only feeling.

Cold – hunger – exhaustion – paralysed his mind.

He couldn’t recall being this wretched before. Not even the first night he had been forced to sleep on a street.

A police car hurtled around the corner, siren blaring. Behind the YMCA were rows of terraces, including the house he had broken into the night before. Covering the same ground twice was risky, but if he stayed it would only be a matter of time before he was picked up. One or two of those houses had to be empty. Some people had day jobs.

He walked down the first back alley he came to.

A woman dressed in a tailored suit was hanging washing on a line. Men’s trousers, shirts, towels, a pullover. When she finished she called a dog into the house. He heard her lock the back door. After five minutes he risked taking a closer look. Seeing no movement he jumped over the wall. The dog began to bark, hurling itself against the patio doors.

He froze, waiting and watching, but no one came.

He’d struck lucky. There was a shed and a greenhouse. The shed was locked, the greenhouse wasn’t, and there were reed screens inside the glass to shade the plants from the sun. He went inside, closed the door and lowered the blinds.

A gravel path ran down the centre of the greenhouse. The stones pressed into his skin as he lay on them, but he was so tired it didn’t matter.

Discomfort would wake him in a few hours. The woman had obviously gone to work. He hoped it was a full-time, not part-time, job. Two or three hours. That’s all he needed. The weather was good, the washing would dry. He’d noticed an outside tap.

He would clean up, change, and head out of town.

But not now. Now all he needed was sleep.

‘Dan called yet?’ Anna asked as she walked into the office. Peter and Trevor were sitting at opposite ends of Trevor’s desk, poring over the night shift’s reports.

‘He’s probably only just landed and New York is four hours behind us,’ Trevor answered.

‘You can’t believe a bloody word a junkie says,’ Peter said flatly, continuing an argument that had been raging between him and Trevor.

‘What’s this?’ Anna sat at her desk and attempted to flex her bandaged fingers.

‘We have a spaced-out junkie who thinks he saw Tony sleeping in a skip at the back of the burger bar last night.’

‘Was the area searched?’

‘From one end to the other. Twice,’ Peter asserted.

‘Inside the skip?’

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.

‘If you were a beat constable would you climb up to your neck in half-eaten chips and burgers to check out a skip for a suspect?’ Trevor asked.

‘If it had to be done.’

‘It’s a pity not all beat constables are as conscientious as you, Peter.’

‘I tell you that guy wasn’t compos mentis.’

‘I’m the senior, permanent sergeant assigned to this squad, and with Dan away that makes me officer in charge. We empty the skip and search it.’

‘He was probably never there,’ Peter replied.

‘It’s not as if we’re inundated with leads crying out to be followed.’

‘And now you’ve elected yourself, Bwana, you don’t intend to dirty your hands doing the actual work.’

‘Someone has to wait here for the Inspector’s call.’

‘So it’s my job?’

‘Seeing as how you want it, Peter,’ Trevor smiled.

‘Something tells me I’m going to get it, whether I want it or not. Give me two constables,’ Peter held up his bandaged arm, ‘and I’ll do the supervising.’

‘Sadist.’

‘Sir,’ Andrew knocked on the door and walked in with Chris. ‘Our man was seen in a job club in the YMCA this morning, before nine.’

Trevor glanced at the clock on the wall. Half past nine.

‘You sure?’ Peter demanded.

‘No doubt about it, a job club member…’

Andrew consulted his notebook, ‘Hugh Thomas, walked into the club early and saw him reading the telephone directory.’

‘And you didn’t get him?’ Trevor groaned.

‘They didn’t phone us until after he’d gone.’

‘I’ll ask the super to put more men into that area.’

‘The town’s crawling with men.’

‘Then it will crawl some more.’

‘Did this Hugh Thomas see what name Tony was looking up?’ Anna asked.

‘Unfortunately our man closed the book before he left,’ Chris leaned on the back of a chair. ‘But Mr Thomas did say that it looked as though he was going through the names near the beginning of the book.’

‘The beginning –’ Trevor looked at Anna.

‘Davies?’ he suggested.

‘You have asked the super to give Blanche and Hannah round the clock protection?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’ Trevor reached for the telephone on his desk. ‘But I’ll up the cover to two men. Just in case.’

‘I know my rights, Inspector Evans. I don’t have to speak to you.’

‘No, you don’t, Dr Marks, but…’

‘Mr Marks, I’m a surgeon. You are a British policeman, and I am now a permanent resident of the United States of America. Events in the UK

don’t concern me.’

Dan shifted on the leather lobby chair in an attempt to get comfortable. Marks had been uncooperative from the outset. It had taken the threat of publicity to get the man to meet him in the foyer of the hotel that the conference was being held in. And a journey of over fourteen hours via two airports and a courtesy call to a New York police station had taken its toll, even before he’d met the surgeon with his neatly manicured hands, impeccably trimmed beard and moustache, and immaculately tailored Saville Row suit.

‘Mr Marks,’ Dan summoned the last of his patience. ‘Last week I was investigating a murder. A man was soaked in petrol and set alight. He was still screaming when he was found in the centre of a fireball minutes later. Have you any idea what it must be like to burn alive, Mr Marks?’

‘No, Inspector. But I fail to see what interest this brutal crime can hold for me.’

‘That was the first murder, Mr Marks. I began by investigating one. Now I am investigating eleven.

Ten more people burnt to death when a derelict building was deliberately set ablaze. One of the victims was a fireman.’

‘So, you’re looking for an arsonist who has been at work in Britain in the past few weeks, when I’ve been here.’