Souvenirs of Murder (24 page)

Someone put the lights back on to reveal half a dozen police wearing some kind of riot gear
sans
shields plus four or five other people who, like us, had stayed put and were now looking less than enchanted. A man not in uniform strode through his dark-blue clad troupe to the front giving every impression of being in charge.

Speaking quite loudly, but not to him or his underlings, Terry said, ‘Questions. Was there a lookout who made sure everyone dodgy, including the staff, got away before this lot had even squeezed themselves through the front door? Yes. Is Jethro Hulton likely ever to show his stupid face in here again? No. Has he ever actually done so or did one of the plods' oppos confuse him with an Estonian delivery driver who had called in to ask the way? Quite possibly. Do we go and chuck these Noddy cops, together with Big Ears here, in the nearest sewage works? Yes.'

And, to a man, those who had been in the club all night moved forward.

The one in charge, who did indeed possess rather large ears, went a little pale, jerked his head in the direction of the exit and the police contingent clomped out.

‘I need a beer,' someone said. ‘I've been hanging out in this effin' dump for a week. All for bloody nothing now.'

Terry flexed his arms in businesslike fashion and headed over to the bar. ‘Then I reckon they owe us a pint or six. Your orders, gentlemen.'

I left them all to it, drowning their frustration, and found a very late taxi.

Michael Greenway was a big man, broad-shouldered, around six foot four, and usually as placid as Virginia Water. On the morning after this fiasco though and when I had given him a fairly detailed verbal report I got the impression that he was coming up to a slow simmer.

‘Rundle,' he brooded darkly. ‘We will find this Rundle and ask him about the individual who didn't arrive to do his turn on watch in Park Road that night due to what was referred to as a mix-up. I emailed him about it and got no reply. The guy with guts-ache should have been relieved at six the next morning but wasn't so perhaps we ought to find out who that should have been as well.'

‘So there's two on at night and one during the day?' I queried.

‘It depends on staffing levels. But yes, usually. Hoodlums are busier during the night, like rats, and it's safer to have two on as they can watch one another's backs. And this was a particularly dangerous crowd, of course. It's not unknown for surveillance teams to be found out.'

The Commander had been sort of overspilling from one of the smaller upright chairs in his office but now stood up and said, ‘Coming?'

‘What, now?' I asked.

‘Now. I'm in the mood to cause a few knees to knock together and I've a spare couple of hours.'

Apparently Rundle was at home, on a day's leave, so it was just as well that Greenway had checked before we left. This meant driving out to Enfield. I wondered why the Commander hadn't merely contacted whoever had been left in charge of the case or called Rundle on his mobile but it appeared that it was the DCI's knees that were required to knock.

We were leaving the building when my phone rang and I paused to answer it. It was James Carrick.

‘Sorry to be so tardy in getting back to you,' he said ‘But I had to release Crosby and he went off to see his solicitor to sue the police for wrongful arrest. I hope whoever that is has the sense to tell him to get his head down below the parapet and keep it there. He's insisting that he saw a youth drop the stone and then slide down the embankment on the far side into a concealed track. I've been back there and there's no concealed track nor signs of someone having slid down anywhere. But I've no real evidence against Crosby either. On top of that, Hinton Littlemoor seems to have gone into a state of suspended animation, hardly a leaf moves, they're
all
keeping their heads down.'

‘You need to make something happen,' I remarked.

‘Yes, I'm sure that would be your next move. But this is the Somerset and Avon Police, not Gillard and Co. How is he, by the way?'

I told him.

‘I'll call in tonight and see him.'

‘That's good of you. Ring the bell of the front door of the rectory itself, he's moved in there so he's not under John and Elspeth's feet all day.'

‘Roger.'

There was no one in at the Rundle household. Greenway got back in the car, took a deep breath and found his mobile. It soon transpired that the DCI was in B&Q with his wife before taking her to a doctor's appointment. After that they were both due at the dentist's.

‘I don't
think
this man doesn't want to see me,' Greenway muttered, glancing at his watch. ‘I'm really sorry, Ingrid, but I shall have to leave it here. Are you coming back with me or do you want the authority to speak to him when he finally turns up? You can charge a taxi fare to expenses.'

Which was why, moments later, I found myself standing alone on the pavement outside a very boring semi-detached house in a stultifyingly boring suburb of north London. I worked out that Rundle would not show up for at least two hours and walked back to a row of shops that I had spotted on the way where I found a little bistro and had coffee.

It was quite wrong to assume that Patrick was at the top of Greenway's list of priorities but the longer all this went on, the more we found ourselves on barren ground; no leads, no real fresh evidence to add to what we already knew, then it was obvious that the patience of everyone in authority would become exhausted. Patrick would be asked, quietly, to resign, the multiple killings would remain on file and he would live the rest of his life with a shadowy charge of murder hanging over him. Worse, he would not be able to keep his promise to Katie.

By lunchtime, the Rundles had still not come home and I was beginning to despair. I wondered if Greenway, trying to be helpful, had phoned the DCI back to tell him that I was waiting to talk to him and he had, for whatever reason, decided that he did not want to talk to me either. Perhaps there had been a major failure with surveillance matters generally that he did not wish to come to light.

Perhaps I should follow my own advice to Carrick and make something happen.

After waiting another hour to no avail strolling around, buying a sandwich and eating it in a tiny square nearby, I abandoned Enfield and took a taxi to Muswell Hill – a long way but I was not in the mood for a journey achieved using, no doubt, nine changes of buses or five different railway routes. I had not thought to ask Greenway for the address of the house used for the surveillance in Park Road and knew only that it was an empty upper floor flat a little way down the street on the opposite side. As it happened finding it was easy as a for sale sign was displayed on the top floor of the first house on the end of the terrace next to the recreation ground.

Patrick's ‘burglar's' keys came in very handy to open the outer door which had an old-fashioned lock and a more modern one, the latter off the catch, perhaps only locked at night. I went up the stairs, which were carpeted, though worn, ascending to the top floor through a lovely aroma of cooking: garlic, herbs and frying meat. I supposed I could have gone to the estate agent, shown them my ID and asked for the keys to the flat but patience has never been a trait of mine. This lock – the door was at the top of a narrow flight of twisting stairs – was slightly more sophisticated but I must have been a good pupil for it only took me a couple of minutes to open it.

The door opened directly into a typical studio flat: a large room with a huge window. There was only one bedroom which was at the front, from where the police must have kept watch. I was surprised to see that a single mattress was on the bare boards of the floor with a couple of blankets folded up on it. In one corner was a suitcase and an old chair that had a motley collection of items on it: clothing, a pair of trainers, a towel . . .

The towel was damp as though it had been used recently.

I went quickly into the tiny kitchen, little more than a curtained-off recess, and saw a carton of milk, fresh, an opened loaf of bread and other things that pointed to someone actually living here. A nasty cold, tingling sensation travelled down my spine. A matter of feet away was an equally cramped bathroom, or at least, a room with a toilet, shower and minuscule basin. Shaving gear was dumped on a shelf, together with a somewhat disgusting toothbrush in a plastic mug.

‘And who the hell might you be?' said a man's voice behind me.

I spun round. He had approached with the silence of a cat.

‘You should have checked to see if the door to the roof terrace was locked before you had your snoop round, shouldn't you?' he said smugly, coming a little closer. ‘It wasn't and that's where I went when I heard you trying to get in. I asked you a question, who are you?'

‘SOCA,' I told him. ‘And I know who you are. Jethro Hulton – you've just shaved off your beard – the whiskers are all over the basin. I saw you in the pub.'

He shook his head. ‘No, you didn't.'

‘It was you, you were working in the cellar. As I've just said, I saw you. You're pigeon-toed too and there's a tattoo of a bird in flight on your right hand, just like the man I saw.' The police description had not mentioned those details or the rotten teeth, yellowish eyes, the general demeanour of a mangy and deranged hyena.

He walked right up to me in his strange hunched-over, hulking way, oddly seeming to be fascinated by my presence rather than angry. ‘Before I kill you tell me how you knew I was here.'

I was desperately wondering how I could defend myself and stop him doing just that. Fool, fool, why hadn't I said straight away that I was from the estate agent's? Why had I left the gun in the Range Rover? ‘I didn't,' I said. ‘I've just come to have a look at the flat the police were using to watch Pangborne's house.'

The man swore and then laughed. ‘So SOCA's as useless as the Met! They weren't here! That was the place next door but one!'

‘What are you doing here?'

‘If you want to hide from the law, stick around. It's worked before for me and it worked this time – until you came along.'

‘You're under arrest,' I said, drawing myself up to my full height.

‘You and who else is going to take me in?' he jeered.

‘For murder,' I went on as though he had not spoken, determined to keep talking and wring responses from him while I worked out what I was going to do in order to stay alive.

‘You mean that lot over there?' Hulton replied, wide-eyed and waving an arm vaguely in the direction of the window. ‘Not a chance!'

‘You shot them all,' I countered. ‘The cleaning woman was terrified because you were in the house.'

‘I called in. They were all sleeping off their excesses. I left again.'

‘No, you shot them. Even your own daughter.'

‘I did
not,
Mrs SOCA,' he retorted. ‘I did
not
. Some other bastard, or bastards, did that. They murdered my little girl. That's another of the reasons I'm sticking around, just in case he comes back.'

‘Cheap that, coming from someone who was going to sell her to the sex trade.'

‘Oh, no. I would never do that. Who said that?'

‘You drugged a man and then told him that's exactly what you were going to do – after you'd fetched Pangborne to finish him off.'

‘I drugged no one.'

‘I'm sure you wanted them dead though.'

‘Of course. They were messing up my life with their stupid ways of going about things. That woman, she thought she was some kind of god. She had told me to get out or she'd kill me. And now someone has been arrested, a man from SOCA. How could this be?'

‘You tell me. You were in the gang so you know him.'

‘There was only one clever one, the man who said he'd been a soldier. I believed him. Perhaps he went off his head. I knew he'd killed before, there was something about him – dangerous.'

‘He'll kill you, slowly, if you hurt me,' was the only thing I could think of saying.

The horrible eyes widened. ‘You're his woman?'

‘I'm his wife.'

He must have moved as quickly as a cat then and hit me, for darkness swallowed me up.

SIXTEEN

My phone was ringing. It stopped when the messaging service must have cut in and then, some time later – a minute, an hour, a week? – rang again. I opened my eyes and was presented with a woodworm's eye view of dirty floorboards. But only just, it was practically dark. The side of my face hurt, the side ground into the dust and roughness of the floor, and I seemed to be lying in a heap.

The phone . . . had stopped again.

What was the point of a phone you couldn't answer? I thought dully. It was useless – would have to go.

I struggled to sit up, head spinning, felt sick, had a little rest and finally, retching, got myself into a sitting position, my back to a wall. The phone was in my coat pocket and I took it out after getting very cross and swearing at everything for not cooperating and glared at it, or tried to, my eyes refusing to focus.

Then it rang again, making me start violently.

Somehow, I must have pressed the right button. ‘What?' I bawled, making my head swim nauseatingly.

‘I've been trying to call you,' said Patrick's voice.

‘You don't have to tell me that!' I raved at him. ‘It's been ringing for bloody ages!'

‘Ingrid, what's wrong?' he asked sharply.

‘I'm just furious because the damn thing keeps ringing and I haven't been able to answer it,' I told him. What the hell else did he think was wrong?