Death of a Bovver Boy (6 page)

‘I had never heard of this character. But the name can't be usual. I've been to see Mrs Bodmin.'

‘Yes, that's his aunt. But Mrs Bodmin will have nothing to say to her lout of a nephew. She told poor Dutch to keep the little girl away from him and I'm sure he did.'

‘Do you think that Gil's anger and spite at that was sufficient to get his crowd to work on Dutch?'

‘I shouldn't think so. I know Gil had a lot of influence with the others. But there was nothing, that I know of, which actually suggests that the skinheads were responsible for Dutch's death. If there was you wouldn't have much difficulty in narrowing down your enquiries, but I think it would be a great mistake to suspect them just because they are so-called skinheads.'

‘I agree,' said Carolus. ‘I should find any sort of guess at this point most dangerous. Besides, I have not even seen these famous skinheads yet.'

‘They use a pub called the Dragon chiefly.'

‘They drink then? By all accounts that's a healthier
taste than those of the long-haired boys who go in for pot.'

Leng smiled.

‘I can see you're not very experienced in this sort of thing. Delinquency, I mean, not crime.'

‘Are you?'

‘I make it my business to know something about it.'

‘As a choirmaster?'

‘Well, yes. If you want to know. Skinheads and Greasers, as the Press call them, can't be divided into two completely opposing factions. They have certain things in common. Some greasers take pot, some skinheads drink. But some of each do the other, if you see what I mean. Gil Bodmin, I believe, does both.'

‘What about your protégé, Dutch Carver?'

‘I don't think he took pot. He may have had a pint occasionally.'

‘You knew him really well?'

‘I had known him for a long time. Can one say one knows any of these youngsters well, nowadays?'

‘You agree with Mrs Bodmin—he wasn't a bad boy?'

‘I do. Yet—to be frank—I cannot pretend to have been altogether surprised when I heard the news.'

‘You mean, in an expressive idiom, he stuck his neck out?'

‘Something like that. We live in an age of violence.'

‘I see you don't mean to tell me what
are
your suspicions,' said Carolus.

‘I have none. I'm entirely at sea.'

‘The police theory, I gather,' said Carolus, ‘is that he was killed on the Saturday afternoon or evening and taken over to be dumped by the Boxley Road near Newminster during the night of Saturday. There were marks on his wrists and ankles that suggest he
was carried on the pillion seat of a motor-cycle, either unconscious or dead.'

‘So I understand.'

‘Doesn't
that
make you suspect the skinheads?'

‘Not necessarily. It could have been one of his own crowd with whom he had fallen out. And his brother rides a motor-bike. We're looking to you to decide that.'

‘I shall do my best. You don't know of anyone who saw Dutch on the Saturday?'

‘Yes. My friend Skilly. Dutch came here at about two o'clock on Saturday afternoon. He asked for me but Skilly told him I'd gone up to town to meet my wife. He seemed surprised at that because I usually go up on Friday. It was an exception for me to go on Saturday. Skilly asked him to come in but he didn't wait. He told Skilly the repairs on his motor-bike were finished and he was going to get it from the garage.'

‘He was on foot, then?'

‘Yes, he smashed his motor-bike up some weeks ago.'

‘That doesn't get us much farther, does it? He walked out of your front gate and from then till Sunday when my gardener Stick found his body in a ditch by the Boxley Road we know nothing of his movements. Or if he had any.'

Leng was thoughtful.

‘Do you know that road?' he asked.

‘Of course. I come by it to Hartington—whenever I come to Hartington, which frankly isn't often. Why?'

‘It's dark and pretty deserted. But I shouldn't have thought it was an ideal site for a murder.'

‘I see what you mean,' said Carolus.

‘This thing has shaken me,' said Leng. ‘Thank heavens my wife is back.'

‘What did she think of the boy?'

‘What we all did, I suppose. That he had a fine voice but was in many ways a young fool. I think she was quite fond of him in a way. We have no children of our own.'

‘And Mr Skilly?'

‘He's my wife's cousin. As a matter of fact I met her through him. He's a very old friend. Lives with us here. I don't think he had much opinion one way or the other about Dutch Carver. He's chiefly interested in this house and garden. Domesticated type.'

‘I see. Well, Mr Leng, I am sure you will let me know if anything occurs to you which might help me find out the truth.'

‘I certainly will. Though of course I shall tell the police, too.'

‘Of course. They depend more than me on their technical knowledge of this sort of crime. Forensic chemistry and so on. I have to trust to my instincts.'

‘I've always got on pretty well with the police. I had to work with them during the War. I was in Field Security, you see.'

‘Were you? I was in a far less exciting outfit. Commandos. It seems a long time ago now.'

As Leng showed him out of the front door Carolus noticed a Daimler, of a violent yellow colour, in the stable yard. It had not been visible from the drive by which he had come in.

‘By George,' he said, with professional interest. ‘Is that your car?'

‘Yes. Bit of a screamer, isn't it?'

‘I like strong colours on cars, though mine's black.'

‘Skilly's the same. He says he approves of mine but has a quiet little green Cortina for himself.'

Carolus said goodbye, and as an afterthought asked
Leng if he might come again if there was anything else he wanted to know.

‘Of course,' Leng said. ‘Come in any time.'

Now it was time for Dutch Carver's mother and Carolus reminded himself to say ‘Mrs Delafont' when he addressed her.

She had seemingly dressed for the occasion for surely a busy housewife would not be likely to be wearing what could only be described as a tea-gown, if such a thing was possible in the 1970's. She welcomed Carolus and explained rather archly that she could guess what he had come about.

‘You want to tell me about the Investment Trust I wrote in about.'

‘No,' said Carolus, but at first it did not seem that Estelle Delafont, as Flo Carver had become, had heard him. She was examining herself with a broad smile of approval in the mirror over the mantelpiece.

‘I was sorry I was out when you came this morning. I was having my hair done. Do you like it?'

‘No,' said Carolus determined to attract her full attention, and before she could speak added—‘I've come to see you about your son Kenneth, the one who has been murdered.'

He pronounced the last word with such emphasis that Estelle looked positively alarmed.

‘I did see something in the paper about it,' she answered coolly.

‘You know you
had
a son, presumably?' went on Carolus. ‘And that on Sunday night he was found dead in a ditch beside the road, stark naked?'

‘I don't know anything about that,' said Estelle.

‘You know now, because I've just told you. I gather Kenneth was not your favourite son. But surely news like this must be painful to you?'

‘I suppose it is. Of course I hadn't seen much of him lately. Are they sure it was murder?'

‘Quite sure. He had been suffocated.'

‘Dreadful, isn't it? Would you care for a cup of tea?'

‘No thanks. When did you see him last?'

‘Who? Kenneth? Oh not for a long time. My husband didn't encourage him to come here.'

‘Your…?'

‘Mr Delafont. He had no use for Kenneth. He knew how he'd made me suffer.'

‘How?'

‘He was always a thoughtless boy. Not like his brother Roger. Even his father admits that. I was so ashamed when he—Kenneth I mean—got into all that trouble.'

‘What trouble?'

‘He was never out of it. The police and everything. People looked at me as though it was my fault, as though I hadn't brought him up properly. I'm sure I did everything I could for him. Mr Delafont says I did far too much.'

‘And did you?'

‘At first I did. But when I saw that he had no gratitude at all I gave it up. If you can't show a little appreciation, I said, you can get someone else to do things for you because I'm not going to. Mr Delafont said I was quite right. I don't like the way he's made it all curl up above the ears, do you?'

Carolus, who had long practise in this kind of dialogue, was able to realize that it had switched to this morning's session at the Maison Chic but hung on like a bull-dog to the subject of Kenneth.

‘How long is it, would you say, since you had helped your younger son?'

‘Helped him? He doesn't need help! He's always got plenty of money, and buys himself more new clothes than I can afford to. Sometimes I think I look almost
shabby.
Don't you think so?'

‘I don't know anything about it. Did you see Kenneth on the Saturday afternoon before his body was found?'

‘Well, I don't know about seeing him. The lady next door who spoke to you this morning did mention that he'd been round early in the afternoon.'

‘How early?'

‘Before three, she said. I had the telly on and didn't know anything about it. She said he didn't hardly touch the bell of the front door but that he went away again. I didn't hear it and it's a good thing I didn't because I'd have told him to clear off, pretty quick. I've got too much to look after without bothering about him.'

‘Did anyone bother about Kenneth, Mrs Delafont?'

‘Well, it was his own fault. He never paid any attention to me so I seemed to lose interest in him. Do you like these shoes? I bought them this morning at the Co-Op. It's the style nowadays. Only it changes so quickly you never know where you are.'

Carolus was silent and Kenneth's mother said—‘Well, I must Get On. I've got a lot to do before Mr Delafont comes home. I hope you're successful,' she added insincerely. ‘It's a nasty thing to have come on suddenly like that. Do you happen to know what they'll do about the funeral? I should think the police would look after that, wouldn't you? They've done it all so far. I mean they wouldn't expect his father and me to be responsible, would they? Not after what's happened. There's one thing, though. Whatever do you think happened to his clothes? It seems funny his
having been found with nothing on. Do you think someone did it so they wouldn't recognize him? Or was it out of spite? You read of that, don't you, only it's usually a woman they do it to. It must have given someone a start, finding him like that. Only you can't tell nowadays. You never know what you're going to see in the papers next. Well, ta ta, then. I hope you get to the truth of all this. It quite upsets me when I think of it. Only Mr Delafont says I mustn't worry. Things like this are always happening.'

She waved gaily from the door and Carolus escaped.

‘The Dragon', Leng had named as the pub used by the skinheads, and Carolus made for it. He left his car in a more or less concealed park and entered the barroom.

It was empty but for two youths unmistakably of the kind he expected to find. One was a tall hefty young man with a rather brutish expression on his face, the other a skinnier individual with small cunning eyes.

Carolus went straight up to them. He expected trouble and did not mean to leave them the initiative. He was fit, remarkably fit for his age, but knew something of the modern idea of fair odds in a fight.

‘Either of you named Bodmin?' he asked.

They did not turn towards him or make any direct answer but the bigger youth turned to his shifty friend and asked in a tired voice, ‘Who's this mug?'

The friend obliged. ‘Some mug,' he answered, not very inventively.

The larger oaf continued still addressing his friend—‘Looks like the Law to me. They get them in all sizes nowadays.'

The friend grinned. ‘But not this sort, surely.'

Carolus did not show any anger.

‘I asked you a question,' he said to the taller one.

‘And I didn't answer. So push off, will you? We're talking.'

Carolus without any haste or excitement, picked up the youth's newly filled pint of beer and emptied it over his head. There was a splutter, a lunge and in a second the youth was on the floor.

The friend made no attempt to go to his assistance. He seemed baffled.

‘How did you do that?' he asked Carolus. ‘Karate?'

‘Nothing so oriental,' Carolus replied. ‘Just old-fashioned Unarmed Combat which we learned in the last war.' The big boy had struck his head on something and looked up dazed.

Carolus extended a hand.

‘Ups-a-daisy,' he said good-humouredly. ‘And the next question I ask will be answered. Is your name Gil Bodmin?'

‘What about it?'

‘Where were you on the Saturday night when Dutch Carver was murdered?'

‘Nowhere in particular. Why? I had nothing to do with it!'

‘You are deplorably bad at answering questions. I asked you where you were that night?'

‘You were at the Cattle Market, weren't you Gil? That's a discotheque,' suggested the skinny one.

‘That's right,' agreed Gil.

‘Did you see anything of Dutch Carver?'

‘No. I didn't. I never saw him that day, or the day before.'

‘Or the day after?'

‘Course not. He was dead, wasn't he?'

‘You tell me.'

‘Everyone says so, anyway. He was supposed to have
been done on the Saturday night. And found over near Newminster on Sunday.'