Dear Departed (28 page)

‘And did he?’

‘He never shoplifted – I don’t fink he did, anyway – but when he left school he got in wiv another lot and started smoking weed. Well, ’cause he was hanging about on the streets he got stopped and searched a few times by the – by policemen,’ she corrected politely, ‘and one time he had some weed on him and he got done for possession. When Mum found out about that one she burst into tears, and Denny was really frit then.
He’d never seen Mum cry before. So then he said he really would turn over a new leaf if we’d help him. Well, me and Mum helped him get this job, and he really has been trying hard, only it’s not easy. His mates are always on at him. But I said, Den, you stick to it. You’re doin’ great, and never mind what them bastards say, excuse my French. And then
this
has to ’appen!’ She cried again, what seemed like tears of frustration, and fumbled in her bag for a tissue. ‘He’s been in such a state since you started asking on the telly for him, and I told him to come in and clear it up, but he wouldn’t. He said you coppers have got it in for him, and that you hate blacks, and that you’d fit him up for something. I said, don’t be daft, but he said you’d never believe him ’cause he was black an’ he’s got a record. And the longer he left it, the worse it was. And then that picture was on the telly last night, and now he finks everyone finks he’s a murderer!’

‘So what was he doing in the park?’ Slider asked, trying to keep a grip on the thread.

‘He was going to work, of course. He always goes frough the park, it’s the quickest way. And the only reason he was running was he didn’t wanner be late. I mean, he’s a good boy, and just because he’s running you make him out to be a murderer and ruin his life.’

‘We only ever wanted him to come forward so that we could eliminate him from our enquiries,’ Slider said soothingly.

‘Well, that’s what I
told
him, but he doesn’t trust coppers. But it’s all right now, in’t it? You do believe me?’

Slider believed her. Everything about her was patently honest, and she was trying to do her best by her brother. It did not, of course, mean that the brother had not lied to her.

‘We’ll have to check into it, just as a matter of routine. If you’d like to write down for me your name, address and telephone number, the time Dennis left home that morning, and the name and address of Dennis’s employer, so that we can check with them what time he arrived that morning—’

‘If you go asking his boss stuff about him like that,’ she said bitterly, ‘he’ll lose his job and that’ll be that.’

‘I promise you we’ll make it very clear we’re just eliminating everyone who was in the park.’

She only shook her head slowly, her face profoundly troubled.
‘Denny’ll never forgive me. He’ll find out I told you and he’ll fink I shopped him.’

‘I won’t say anything about your visit here.’ She was still unconvinced, and he didn’t want to threaten her, so he said, ‘You were right about one thing – the longer it went on the worse it looked for your brother. Now, if we can get this cleared up quickly everything can go back to normal. If you say he didn’t know Chattie Cornfeld—’

‘He
didn’t.
I swear to you. He told me so and I know when he’s lying and he wasn’t lying then. He doesn’t know any white birds.’

‘Right. So all we have to do is check with his employer what time he got in that morning, and we’re done.’ He pushed the pad and pen at her temptingly. ‘Sooner the better. Let’s get it over with, eh?’

She sighed, reached for the pen, and began to write in an unpractised, loopy hand.

‘Where is your brother now?’ he asked.

‘He’s staying with a mate. He’s scared to come home.’

‘This friend he’s staying with, it isn’t Darren, is it, by any chance?’ Slider said casually.

‘No, it’s Baz, I fink. Baz King,’ she said, still writing. ‘That’s his best mate. I dunno where he lives, though. I fink it’s somewhere in Acton but I dunno the address.’

‘But he does know Darren? Darren Barnes?’

‘I dunno,’ she said. ‘I don’t fink so. I never heard him talk about him. Who is he?’ He showed her the photo of Darren. She looked carefully and shook her head. ‘No, I don’t know him. Why ju wanna know?’ Then her eyes widened. ‘He’s somfing to do wiv the murder, innee? That’s why you’re asking did Denny know him. You still fink Denny’s in on it.’ Tears rose again to her eyes and her lips quivered with anger and self-pity. ‘You said you believed me!’

‘I do believe you,’ Slider said. ‘You must understand that we have to check everything and everyone, even those people we believe with all our hearts. It’s just our job.’

The use of the word ‘hearts’ got to her, but she was not quite ready to give up her pique. ‘Denny’s a good boy. I wish I’d never come,’ she said, in hurt tones.

‘I’m very grateful to you that you did,’ Slider said. ‘The more
quickly we can get these little things cleared up, the sooner we can get after the real villains.’

She sniffed back her tears and seemed mollified. When she had finished writing, Slider asked her if she had a photograph of Dennis, and she produced one from a little folder in her bag. ‘Can I keep this, for the time being? I’ll let you have it back in a day or two.’

He ushered her out with full old-fashioned gallantry. ‘Thank you again,’ he said at the door. ‘Mind the steps, now. Good afternoon.’

He watched her descent to the street with amazement, hardly able to believe she could walk on those tiny spike heels. It was something like seeing a huge water-filled balloon balance on a golf tee. As he turned to go back in, Hart arrived at the foot of the steps with a paper bag in her hand, and watched the departing form with raised eyebrows.

‘Blimey,’ she said. ‘I bet she’d make a cracking tight-rope walker.’

‘Is that my sandwich?’ Slider said, practically snatching it from her. He was so hungry he could have eaten straight through the paper. ‘How much do I owe you?’

‘You can pay next time,’ she said airily.

He gave her a stern look. That sort of thing had to be nipped in the bud. ‘How much do I owe you?’

‘Oh, well, you can’t blame me for trying,’ she said. ‘You’re not married yet.’ And she changed the subject quickly. ‘Who was that lady I saw you with just now? That was the one who came in, was it?’

‘It was Running Man’s sister, and she says he didn’t do it, but was too scared to come forward because he doesn’t trust the police and he’s got a minor record.’

‘Just the way you predicted, guv,’ she said. ‘So, do we cross him off?’

‘Not just yet,’ he said. ‘He’s run away and gone into hiding with a friend, which might be excessive caution for a man who really hasn’t done anything. And we don’t know that he didn’t know Darren. He used to smoke weed and got done once for possession, according to his sister, so he may have bought something from Darren at some point. We’ll have to look into him a bit more closely before we eliminate him.’ He passed over
the sheet of paper. ‘Check with his employer what time he arrived that morning, then we can work out if he had time to do anything between leaving home and getting to work other than getting there. Run his record, see if the sister’s told us everything. See if you can find any connection between him and Darren. Show this photo to Mrs Hammick, see if she remembers him ever coming to the house. And try to find this Baz King he’s supposed to be staying with, lives somewhere in Acton.’

‘D’you want me to go round and roust him out when I’ve found it?’

‘Definitely not. I don’t want him flushed out and running. We’ll leave him be until we find out whether there’s anything in it.’

They reached his door and she eyed the greasy bag in his hand. ‘Want me to get you a tea to go with that?’

He hesitated long enough to feel he ought to discourage her from mothering him, but the thought of tea won by a couple of lengths.

‘Yes, thanks,’ he said. He heard his phone begin to ring and with an inward sigh pushed into his office to answer it, wondering if he’d get to the sausage sandwiches before they grew hair.

Baz King also turned out to have a record – for possession, carrying an offensive weapon, shoplifting and a couple of TDAs – which made it easy to find out where he lived. So if it became necessary to collar Dennis Proctor they could be there in a jiffy. But it seemed less and less likely they would need to. The owner of the small printing shop on the corner of Becklow and Askew Roads, a Mr Badcock, who had the honour to be his employer, was not best pleased at first at being tracked down and bothered on a Sunday afternoon when there was an international on telly; but when he heard that the cause was eliminating Dennis from enquiries he straightened his shoulders and got down to it. Dennis was a good boy, he said, and he was glad to be helping him overcome his unfortunate beginnings. He firmly believed that Dennis had been influenced by a bad lot and that underneath he had the right instincts, inculcated by his late father (who had been a friend of Mr Badcock – they had worked together at one time at the Gillette works on the Great West Road) and upheld by his mother and sister who were decent people.

What time had Dennis arrived at work on Wednesday? Wednesday, Wednesday – oh, yes, wait a minute, that was the morning he was late. He’d been late once or twice before, and Mr Badcock had warned him very sternly about it, so that lad had really been making an effort. How late? Well, not by much. He’d arrived out of breath from running at five past, and Mr Badcock had forgiven him because he’d obviously run so hard to make it on time he couldn’t speak for about five minutes. Mr Badcock had advised him to start out earlier in the morning, and set him to work. How did he seem that day? Oh, just his
usual self: cheery – a bit cheeky, if you want to know, but that was youngsters, these days, and there was no harm in him. You’d to keep after them, none of them had an idea of hard work, but Dennis was no worse than the rest in that department, a bit better if truth be told because he was interested in the business. Had quite a little flair for setting things out – artistic, you might say. How had he been the rest of the week? Well, now you come to mention it, he was a bit absent-minded on Saturday, and he dashed off on the dot of five without tidying up, which Mr Badcock was going to have to talk to him about. But Wednesday, no, Wednesday he’d been fine.

‘You’ve been a big help,’ Hart said. ‘There’s just one more question – can you remember what he was wearing on Wednesday when he came in?’

‘Well,’ Mr Badcock said slowly as he thought, ‘well, now – no, I can’t say that I do. They all dress much the same, don’t they, these lads, baggy pants and a T-shirt? Always clean, though, Dennis, I’ll say that for him. Spotless, really. I expect that’s his mother’s influence. But I can’t remember exactly what he had on, what colour or anything. I wouldn’t really notice, you see.’

‘Do you remember if he was wearing a grey top with a hood?’

‘No, no, I’m sorry, I can’t say. I believe he
has
worn one of those but whether it was Wednesday or any other day …’ He laughed. ‘I have a job to remember what I’ve got on without looking. Typical man, my wife says.’

‘So you see, boss,’ Hart said to Slider later, ‘it looks as though Dennis may not be our man. For one thing, if he’d just done a murder he wouldn’t’ve been likely to seem just like his usual cheery cheeky self – unless he’s a total psychopath. Also, his mum says he left home for work on Wednesday at ten to eight. They live in the flats in Rivercourt Road and that’s a mile as the crow flies, a bit more allowing for corners and that. Well, you can do a mile in fifteen minutes at a brisk walk, and he was running like the clappers, but even so—’

‘Yes,’ said Slider. ‘Hardly time to fit in a murder on the way.’

‘Unless they’re all lying.’

‘There’s always that,’ Slider said. ‘But it seems more likely that he dawdled along with his head in the clouds and then realised he was going to be late and dashed the last bit.’

‘Yeah,’ said Hart. Also, McLaren took the photo of him round
Mrs Hammick’s, and she said she’s never seen him. It don’t prove Chattie didn’t know him, but it’s all on the same side. It’s a pity the old geezer can’t remember what he was wearing. If he didn’t have the hoodie on, that’d mean he’d chucked it on the way, which would be a help, but—’ She shrugged.

‘Hmm,’ said Slider, pondering. ‘Well, I think we’d better go round to his friend’s house and get him, ask him a few questions, get a voluntary buccal swab from him for elimination purposes, and then take him home. Tell him he’s not wanted for anything and there’s nothing to worry about. Make sure he believes that. If he really is innocent, I don’t want to lose him his job and ruin his life; and if we find evidence against him later, it’ll be easier to pick him up if he’s going about his normal daily business than if he’s on the run.’

‘Yeah, boss, good one. Who’s going?’

‘I think you should do it – you look nice and unthreatening. Take McLaren with you in case he panics, but tell him to keep his mouth shut. We want to reassure this boy, not frighten him.’

‘Understood. I’ll make ’im stand behind me,’ Hart said.

She turned to go, and in the doorway passed Atherton, just coming in. He answered her enquiring look with a shake of the head. To Slider he amplified, ‘Nothing. No blood anywhere except in the living room where he attacked Jasper. No traces on any clothes or shoes, nothing down the drains. No evidence at all. It’s all on the knife, now. If they don’t find Chattie’s DNA on that, we’ve got nothing but his confession. Haven’t you heard from them yet?’

‘They only had it this morning, give them a chance.’

‘God, is it still Sunday? It feels like a week. That flat! I don’t know why we have prisons. Making someone live in that would be punishment enough.’

‘To you, not to them,’ Slider said. He could see Atherton was depressed. He said, ‘The hospital phoned to say that Stalybrass is making progress. There were some internal injuries but nothing life-threatening, though they had to remove his spleen. They’ve got him patched up and it’s a matter of rest and recuperation now.’

‘That’s not all it’s a matter of,’ Atherton said. ‘Remember, I’ve been there.’