Shooting Elvis (13 page)

I said, ‘Do you have anything on the go at the moment?’ and he told me that he had. I asked to see it and he left us for a few seconds to retrieve his latest work from the teetering heaps of boxes in the other room. He came back carrying a long, torpedo-shaped petrol tank.

I took it from him two-handed and admired his handiwork. I like to think that using an airbrush is easy and gimmicky, like painting on velvet, but the proportions were perfect, the colours well-toned and the detail immaculate. I couldn’t do it, and I went to art college.

‘Bat out of Hell,’ I said, recognising the album cover.

‘Yeah, it’s a favourite of theirs,’ he replied.

‘And mine.’ I studied the workmanship for a minute and carefully handed the tank back to him. ‘Do you have a bike, Mr Bousfield?’ I asked.

‘No. Not interested.’

‘But you have friends who have?’

‘They go in the pub, that’s all. Most of them are just posers. They have jobs. Nobody could afford a Harley without one.’

‘You were telling me about Julie.’

He started at the mention of her name and gently placed the petrol tank on the cushioned seat where he’d slept. ‘Julie? What about her?’

‘The trial must have been a traumatic time for you. I believe you made some threats at the end of it.’

‘Yeah, well. I was upset, wasn’t I?’

‘He was called Terence Paul Hutchinson, and you threatened to kill him. Would you still like to kill him, Mr Bousfield?’

‘It was just talk.’

‘But would you still like to kill him?’

‘Yeah, I suppose I would. Scum like him deserves to die.’

‘But you weren’t in Heckley on the ninth of May?’

‘No, I’ve never been to flamin’ Heckley. I don’t even know where it is.’

‘It’s in Yorkshire,’ I told him. ‘What about your Angel friends? Were any of them in town that night?’

‘How would I know? So who was this Alfred Whatsisname?’

Dave showed him the picture but the only reaction it provoked was a shrug of the shoulders. Bousfield said it meant nothing to him.

‘Apparently Alfred Armitage bore a strong resemblance to Hutchinson, the Midnight Strangler,’ I said. ‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t know. He might do.’

I looked at my watch and went on, ‘But it’s not the same person. The real Terence Paul Hutchinson is safely locked up in Bentley prison. He’ll have had a warder gently shake his shoulder about half an hour ago and should be tucking into a full English about now.’

Bousfield’s neck muscles tightened like tree roots at the thought of his sister’s murderer lording it in a category C prison. He clenched and unclenched his fists and breathed hard through his nose. Was it because he thought the man was dead? Huge veins ran down the inside of his arms, like strip maps of the River Nile, spreading into deltas at his wrists. In reality, Hutchinson would have been blasted out of his pit by a bell at six-thirty, and breakfasted on mechanically reclaimed pork sausage and lumpy porridge, eaten off a tin plate.

He remembered some more names for his alibi and gave us a couple of addresses, but we knew it would check out. I took Dave back to the services where he’d left his car, and we drove home to
Heckley. We weren’t fazed by Bousfield’s cast-iron alibi. He hadn’t done the deed himself, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t involved. Paint jobs like the one he’d shown us don’t come cheap, as our man had admitted, but cash is not the only currency, and Hell’s Angels are not affiliated to the Women’s Institute. The line of enquiry was still alive.

My phone rang on the way home and I pulled into a lay-by to answer it. The ACC had decided that an appeal on
Calendar
and
Look North
was overdue, and I was nominated to do it. I grumbled but was overruled. They needed me at HQ by three o’clock. I stopped at Sainsbury’s to buy a
Gazette
and a sandwich, and parked near the cash machines while I dashed in.

A black youth and a white girl were before me at the basket-only checkout. I followed them out and they climbed into a Jaguar XK8 convertible parked in a
Disabled
slot, with the hood down. ‘They didn’t get that on Motability allowance,’ I mumbled to myself. Almost without thinking about it I flipped my notebook open and wrote the number down. It’s all about stereotypes. It shouldn’t be, but it is, and experience often proves us right. As they drove off another convertible, this time a Mercedes SLK 320, nipped into the space they’d left. It was driven by a tall woman in heavily embroidered flared trousers cut low enough to be barely decent, a skimpy top and the obligatory
shades. She had Mercedes written all over her, but the youth and girl were strictly Skoda Octavia. I watched her sashay away on four-inch heels and wrote her number under the other one, simply because I had a pen in my hand and it’s what we do.

The newspaper had a half-page photo-collage of the race, with Sonia in two of the pictures.
Return of the Gazelle
, it said. In one photograph she was battling with Eunice Mboto, the girl who came second, and in the other she was with me, surrounded by admirers. Hers, that is, not mine. The caption named me, describing me as her coach. I’d have words with our press officer about that, but it was better than calling me her live-in lover. I carefully folded the paper and drove to the office, where I cleaned my teeth and brushed my hair, ready for the telecast.

They’d prepared a statement for me, saying that Alfred was murdered and we wanted anyone who had seen a white van in the vicinity to come forward. It had been a sadistic crime for no apparent motive and we desperately needed to apprehend the killer. I asked for any unusual motorcycle to be added to the list of suspicious vehicles, and it was. Alfred was well known locally, I had to tell the world, and anyone who had seen him with strangers was asked to contact the police.

I memorised most of it, declined having my face powdered, and we were away. Someone with a
slightly familiar face introduced me as Acting Detective Chief Inspector Priest and I made the statement with barely a glance at the notes. Everybody said ‘Well done’ and I drove back to Heckley.

Eddie Carmichael was in the office when I arrived back, his head in a newspaper. He looked up, saying, ‘Hi guv. How did it go?’

‘Fine,’ I replied. ‘No problem.’

He held the paper for me to see, open at the sports page. ‘They’ll be having you on
Celebrity Squares
next.’

‘No chance. Do you want to volunteer as the acceptable face of the force? Your old pal Superintendent Stanwick is looking for someone.’

‘Nah, not me, guv. Everybody to his own, I say.’

I said, ‘Don’t say you weren’t asked. You could be the next Michael Parkinson. What have you found?’

‘Nothing. Blank faces all round. Maybe the broadcast will jog a few memories.’

‘Let’s hope so. What do you know about Hell’s Angels?’

He looked puzzled. ‘Same as anybody, I suppose. They’re a bunch of scruffy bikers scrounging off the state. In America they go round killing people, into drugs and what not. Over here they’re just a bunch of tosspots. What’s brought this up?’

I told him about our interview with Bousfield. ‘Have a look into them, please, Eddie,’ I told him.
‘Have a word with the Serious Organised Crime Agency. They have experts on gangs. See if the Angels are active down in Lincolnshire, or into bumping people off. Anything at all. Bousfield is in the frame, good and large.’

‘Great,’ he said, glad to have something fresh to work at. ‘I’ll get on with it.’

Half an hour later, just as I was finishing filling in the log book, Dave came in with a coffee for me. ‘How did the TV go?’ he asked.

‘No problem,’ I replied. ‘They said they might ask me to do the weather forecast if they’re ever short.’

‘Only the weather forecast? I’d have thought it would be
Panorama
at least. Have you seen the paper?’

‘About the race? Good, innit?’

‘
Coach
!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve heard it called some things…’

I said, ‘Now now, Dave. Let’s not get personal.’

‘Yeah, sorry about that. Do you want me to start looking into the Hell’s Angels?’

‘Ah!’ I said. ‘No. I’ve asked Eddie to get on with it.’

‘Oh, right,’ he replied, and turned to go. I opened my mouth to call him back, then closed it again without saying anything. He’s a big boy.

Half an hour later he brought me another coffee, but apart from me thanking him we didn’t speak. Another half-hour later he brought me another coffee, then it was time to go home.

Sonia and I did our laps of the park, showered at home and dined on casseroled pork cutlets. At nine o’clock I took her to the station and introduced her to the staff in the incident room. We had four telephonists manning the phones to gather the responses to the broadcast, which had gone out at 6.25 on the BBC and 6.45 on ITV. They were not being overwhelmed. One was taking a call and the other three were chatting, their chairs turned at angles to their desks. A newspaper was folded with the crossword showing, almost completed, but I resisted the temptation to pick it up and have a go. I studied the reports we had and saw that some might be worth following up but that nothing stood out like a Rastafarian at a Ku Klux Klan tea party. There were the obvious crank calls, and the
well-meaning
ones that had nothing to say, but in the next few days every one would be chased. We went home and watched
The Shawshank Redemption
on video. OK, so I hadn’t caught a murderer, but it had been a near perfect day.

Dave brought me a coffee next morning before I finished the tea I’d made for myself. I asked Jeff Caton to join me in the office and told him about the odd couple I’d seen in the posh Jaguar, taking up a
Disabled
space.

‘I don’t think it’s a crime, yet, Chas,’ he said.

‘You know what I mean,’ I told him. ‘It might be worth looking into. They were only in their early
twenties. What does a car like that cost?’

‘About fifty-five grand.’

‘There you go, then. That’s the number.’ I pushed my notebook towards him and he copied it.

‘What’s this other one?’ he asked.

‘Ah!’ I started. ‘That one doesn’t matter. She was rather elegant, that’s all. In a nice car, too. A Merc. Very swish. Now she did look the part.’

‘You’re incorrigible, Charlie. I’ll look into it. By the way, you looked great on the telly.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And in the
Gazette
.’

‘I thought so, too, but it’s nice of you to say so.’

‘Is it true they’ve asked you to be the new face of
Laboratoire Garnier
?’

‘Get stuffed.’

In the incident room I told the team about our trip to Lincolnshire and about the responses to the appeal. We had some legwork to do, but it didn’t look promising. Our best bet was still with the Hell’s Angels.

‘Eddie,’ I said, looking at him. ‘Have you found anything out about them?’

‘A bit, guv, but not much.’

‘Well come up here and tell us all about it.’

‘I had a word with the Serious Organised Crime Agency,’ he told us after he’d come to the front, with all the aplomb of someone who conferred with them every day. ‘They have an expert on biker
gangs. Hell’s Angels is a pretty loose term in this country, unlike America. Over there, they were formed by ex-Second World War bomber crews, disillusioned when they returned home. Call yourself an Angel over there and you could get killed. Over here it’s much less organised, but there are three main groups: one is based on the south coast, around Brighton; one up in the North East; and one in the east of England, where our suspect lives. Unfortunately for them the British climate is not conducive to riding around for hours with your arms and legs spread like a jump suit on a washing line. They usually ride old British bikes, mainly Triumphs, on which they lavish great attention. The members themselves are often ageing remnants of the rocker scene, hippies and greasers. There’s no doubt that they peddle drugs, but what part of society doesn’t? They are not to be confused with the Harley Davidson Owners Group, who like to refer to themselves as Hogs. Harleys start at about ten grand, so these are usually well off, born-again bikers living in a fantasy world. They call themselves
bad asses
and go to Rotary every Wednesday evening.’

‘So how would you summarise?’ I said.

‘In short, guv, the Angels are a bunch of scumbags who’d rob their grandma of their granddad’s ashes if they thought they could get a bob or two for them.’

Someone said, ‘The weather’s warming up, so
they’re probably coming out of hibernation.’

Yeah,’ Eddie agreed. ‘They’re all coming out from under their stones.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘There’s a strong possibility that Bousfield recruited one of his Angel friends to nobble Alfred. Unfortunately, Lincoln is a long way away, so we can’t dash down there at the drop of a nun’s wimple, and while we might have enough to bring him up here for a long and meaningful talk, if he stays shtoom we have no chance of charging him. We’ll have to ask Lincoln to do some legwork for us, and maybe spend a day or two down there when we have some names. Anybody fancy a break amongst the sprout fields of Lincolnshire?’

I’d hardly warmed the chair in my office, upstairs, when Dave brought me another coffee. ‘What’s all this about?’ I asked. ‘I’ve only been here an hour and I’m onto my third drink.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d be grateful. Would you rather I didn’t bother?’

‘I am grateful, but you’re killing me with kindness. I’m spending more time going for a pee than I am working.’

‘Sorry, Chas. I’m only trying to oil the wheels.’

‘You’re certainly succeeding in that. Could I have the next one at about ten, please, if we’re still here?’

He went out and I started looking at the reports from the appeal. One or two demanded immediate attention, so I deployed the troops to look into
them. Maggie came in and I told her to sit down.

When I’d finished making a note I said, ‘What’s going off with Dave, Maggie? He’s behaving strangely.’