The Judas Sheep (24 page)

‘He sounds a wily old goat.’

‘Wily’s not the word. He doesn’t miss a trick.’

‘I should have asked about the security videos then when I saw you before. Did they capture Mrs Norris?’

‘Mmm. Worked a treat. Every floor knew she was here before she’d barely come through the front door.’

‘Your early warning system.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Any chance of me having a word with the person who actually saw her arrive?’ I asked.

He grinned sheepishly and pressed his fingertips together. ‘It was me,’ he admitted. ‘I was down in Security, watching the monitors when she arrived.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary. The chauffeur, poor Harold, opened the door for her and she got out. That’s all I saw.’

‘What about when she left?’

‘I walked out with her, saw her into the Rolls. Harold was dozing, didn’t see her come. That didn’t improve her temper.’

‘She was in a bad temper?’

‘Yes. She’d given a salesgirl a ticking off over nothing. She usually found something to complain about.’

‘I see. Did she say where she was going next?’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

‘What sort of a person was she?’

The secretary came in to collect the cups. The Inspector wants to know about Mrs Norris,’ the manager said to her.

‘Then tell him,’ she threw back as she left.

He smiled again. ‘She was a cow,’ he declared. ‘She’d been a model, so she thought she knew all about the business, but she was useless. God gave her a good figure and a nice face, but I’m afraid he economised on the brain cells.’

‘What was their marriage like?’

‘Can’t really say. He had an eye for the ladies. I think he bought into this place just to keep her happy; give her an interest. Not bad, eh?’

‘Not bad at all. When I saw Norris he told me that he called in on the Saturday morning and saw you. Did he want anything in particular?’

He looked puzzled. ‘Well, yes. He wanted to see the security videos.’

Now I looked puzzled. ‘The videos?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was that unusual?’

‘Unusual, but not a surprise. It was his style to arrive unannounced and ask to see something out of the ordinary. One week it might be the figures for staff sick leave, another, the footwear accounts or the kitchens. He believed it kept us on our toes.’

‘And did it?’

‘You bet.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Not much. It’s a twenty-four-hour recording system, switching round the cameras at five-second intervals, unless we want to stay with any selected camera. He sat down with the Friday’s cassette and asked me how
things worked, then told me to leave him to it, which I gladly did.’

‘And by now it will have been recorded over a few times,’ I suggested.

‘Well, no. We thought you had it.’

‘Us? The police? Why did you think that?’

The manager shook his head. ‘We didn’t realise it at the time, but he probably took it with him. We normally have seven tapes in use, and put a new one in at nine o’clock every morning. The day before’s goes to the other end of the rack, so we hold a record for a complete week at a time. The following week we realised that one was missing. Security told me, but by this time we knew about Harold and the papers were suggesting that Mrs Norris had been kidnapped. It explained why Norris had called in, and we presumed he’d given the tape to the police.’ Suddenly he looked unhappy. ‘It was the last picture he’ll have seen of his wife. Maybe he’s kept it.’

‘Yes. That’s the probably explanation,’ I agreed.

His in-tray was piled high with documents – some green, some yellow, and a few an urgent pink; he’d been working late tonight. The back of a photograph frame was towards me, and I wondered how resigned the faces on the other side would be towards his absence. Sometimes I envy colleagues who have photos of their families on their desks; other times, I think they’re pillocks.

‘Did anyone else see the tape of Mrs Norris’s arrival?’ I asked.

‘Yes, one of our security staff, Sylvia. She’s been with us for years.’

‘So you employ your own security?’

‘Yes, always have done. Town & County had been in the same family for seventy years until five years ago. Most of us have been with them all our careers.’

‘But times are changing?’

‘Sadly, yes.’

‘If it’s any consolation, you’ve escaped for longer than most. Is Sylvia at work?’

He did some telephoning, then told me that she was on the early shift, and had therefore left for home.

‘I’d like a word with her,’ I said. ‘Will she be working in the morning?’

‘Yes, seven till three.’

‘Fine. How about if I catch her tea break at, say, ten?’

‘I’ll tell her to expect you.’

We shook hands. At his office door I turned and asked him to treat our conversation as confidential. ‘Particularly what I said about the DNA links,’ I added conspiratorially. He nodded with enthusiasm.

Outside I tried to ring DCI Peacock, but he’d gone home, too, so I joined the crush of traffic and threaded my way back towards God’s Own Country. Marina Norris had been a model, and fashion photographers shoot off films like Don King shoots off his mouth. Somewhere there would be drawers, trunks, attics, filled with glossy prints of her in every pose imaginable,
wearing the latest offerings from the world’s most expensive couturiers. The image of Bradley Norris poring over five seconds of flickering video, a lone tear trickling down his cheek to drop into his Jack Daniel’s, didn’t move me. So why did he need that video?

Next morning I did the journey again. Sylvia was not quite what I expected. She reminded me of my grandma, and had worked for Town & County for nearly forty years in various capacities, but never on sales. Her right arm trembled as she poured me a tea, splashing into the saucer, and I guessed that she suffered from a mild form of Parkinson’s disease, or something similar. She was a loyal servant, and had been treated loyally. I accepted a couple of bourbons and held the saucer under the cup as I drank, so as not to drip on my trousers.

‘So how do you like being in the law-enforcement business, Sylvia?’ I asked.

‘Oh, it’s smashing. Best job I’ve ever ‘ad. Are you sure you don’t want milk?’

‘It’s fine, thanks. Just what I needed. How many people do you catch?’

‘You’d be surprised, Mr Priest, you’d be surprised.’

‘Call me Charlie,’ I told her, popping half a biscuit into my mouth, ‘Everybody else does. Tell me about this missing tape, please.’

She pointed to the rack of tapes above the VDU. ‘Well, Charlie, as you can see, each tape is marked with a label, saying which day it is. I thought the label
had fallen off Friday’s tape, until I looked in the cupboard. See what I mean?’ She delved under the desk and opened a door. There were two unmarked tapes inside. ‘We ‘ad ten tapes, so there should ’ave been three spares, but there’s only two. It looked as if the unmarked tape was a new one, and Mr Norris ‘ad taken the Friday tape.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘To give to the police, I suppose.’

‘Has anyone else interviewed you?’

‘No, but I couldn’t tell you nothing, could I?’

‘The manager tells me that you were with him when the camera caught Mrs Norris arriving, that last time.’

She smiled. ‘Yes, I was.’

‘Does he often come down here?’

‘Just on a Friday morning, usually.’ The smile reached her eyes, displaying a fine set of crows’ feet.

‘I get it,’ I said, as if I’d just learnt their little secret, ‘He comes down here to watch for her arriving, so he is ready for her. Is that it?’

She nodded, spilling more tea into her saucer. ‘As soon as we see her he rings Drapery. They ring Menswear and Fashion. In thirty seconds the entire store knows she has arrived.’

‘He rings them? Don’t you ring anybody?’

The smile vanished from her face, quick as the channels changed on the VDU. ‘No. I’m too slow with the telephone. I operate the cameras, see where she’s heading.’

‘So you were watching the monitor while he was phoning?’

Now she looked worried. ‘Yes.’

‘What did you see that he didn’t?’

‘I … I thought the police had the video. I didn’t think I’d seen anything important.’

The feeling I get in my loins when I’m on to something was growing stronger. It’s a bit like dancing in fur-lined underpants, and the slower you dance, the greater the sensation.

‘Your manager told me yesterday that Mrs Norris was a proper cow,’ I said.

‘He said that?’

‘Yep. He has a very low opinion of her.’

‘Is she dead?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘Would you like some more tea?’

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

The teapot was lighter, now, so she could manage it one-handed without spilling a drop.

‘There was a man on the video …’ she began.

‘Yak!’ I spluttered. ‘No sugar! Sorry about that. Tell me about this man.’

She passed a spoon across to me. ‘I was just about to switch to another camera, see which way she was heading, when I saw this man approaching the car, so I stayed with the front entrance. He walked up and spoke to the driver – that poor man whose body they found. I didn’t like the look of ‘im so I zoomed right in.
The police – you – would’ve ’ad a really good shot of ’im. Close up.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘He was a skinhead, wearing one of them old Army jackets, with the camouflage patterns on it.’

‘I had one of those once,’ I told her. ‘Could never find it. How tall was he?’

She shrugged, unamused. ‘Hard to say.’

I stood up. ‘Whereabouts did the roof of the car come?’ I asked, indicating various levels on my chest. She picked one that made him seven feet nine.

‘That’s excellent, Sylvia,’ I said. ‘You’ve been brilliant. Look, it’s all been a misunderstanding about the tapes. If anything, the fault is with me, for not asking to see the right people. Now I’d like it if tomorrow I could send someone to talk to you and try to help you remember more about this man. One of our experts. He’ll show you some pictures, and ask you to pick out the ones most like him. Will that be all right?’

She nodded.

I jumped to my feet again and grinned at her. ‘You’re a good witness, Sylvia. I wish they were all like you. Expect it’s with being in the business.’

She still looked troubled. I didn’t want to leave her feeling depressed, that’s not my role in life. ‘I’ll tell the boss how helpful you’ve been,’ I said. ‘And that we’ll need some more of your time. It might be easier if we invited you to the station, but if he grumbles, let me know.’

Her left arm was across her body, holding the right one steady. She looked from me to the floor, and back to me.

‘I …’ she began.

I pulled a chair across and placed it close to hers. ‘What, Sylvia?’ I said, softly.

‘I … there was someone else. On the video. I don’t suppose it’s important, but―’

‘It might be. Why not let me be the judge?’

She nodded. ‘There was an old woman on the pavement. She turned and watched Mrs Norris la-di-da into the store. She’s like a bag lady, except that she pulls one of them bags-on-wheels. I’ve noticed her before, on the VDU, but ’aven’t seen her since. She … she …’

I let her lapse into silence. After a minute or so I asked: ‘She what, Sylvia? What were you going to tell me?’

She smiled and shook her head. ‘Oh, nothing.’

I didn’t move. ‘Please?’

She sighed and pulled her arm tighter. ‘She reminded me of what I might have become, if it ’adn’t been for Town & County. That’s all.’

There was a proper cafe just over the road from Town & County, with tablecloths and portions that varied in size according to the whim of the waitress, so I had a decent lunch. My seat looked out on to the street, but no old lady pulling a shopping trolley shuffled by. It was the right time of the week, but maybe she wasn’t
a creature of habit. I’d asked Sylvia to keep a lookout for the woman on the video, and save me the tape if she saw her again.

DCI Peacock wasn’t chuffed when I rang him from home and told him about the missing tape. No doubt he ruffled a few feathers amongst his staff when I rang off. He agreed to send someone sympathetic round to interview Sylvia, for a full statement of what she saw and a description of the mystery man in the combat jacket. I typed a report for the files and dossed on the settee for an hour, listening to Mahler’s Fifth. How did he know that, a hundred years later, it would just fit on a CD? That’s genius.

At the Heckley end of the enquiry into Nicola’s death Nigel now had a comprehensive account of her last movements, and was starting to interview all known sex-offenders who were loose in the community. There were over ten thousand of them across the country, including fifty who’d been convicted for child murder. We’d interview them all, starting with those living locally, and ask for hair samples where necessary, to obtain a DNA profile. For the ones who’d been given life, we’d be able to store this information in the data bank, but all the rest would have to be destroyed. They’d paid their dues, asked forgiveness, changed their spots. After that lot had been sorted through there were all the others, without records. Everybody is a first-time offender at some point in their career.

We had some spin-offs. Dave Sparkington took a
dislike to the creep who owned Heckley’s new disco, the Copper Banana, and did him for possession and employing unlicensed bouncers. We drove the town’s only full-time prostitute off the streets, and charged George Leach, Nicola’s stepdad, with indecent assault and every related offence we could think of.

Under expert guidance, Sylvia described the mystery man as being about five-ten, stockily built, a skinhead with a round face. He was wearing a combat jacket and trousers. It was good. Liverpool CID circulated the description, but didn’t release it. The following Friday Sylvia rang me at the station. She’d seen the old lady again and caught her on camera.

I was busy, interviewing a couple of youths for something that would have warranted a clip round the ear when Dave Sparkington was a kid. Mind you, they guillotined pickpockets in Halifax in those days. I told Sylvia and asked if she would mind if an officer from the local nick visited her and collected the tape. She’d rather liked whoever it was who took the statement from her, and I promised to ask for him again.