Grief Encounters (31 page)

Teri drained her glass. ‘The game’s good fun,’ she said, ‘but I think I prefer the idea of taking him for a million.’

‘Good girl.’

‘There’s just one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘If you download the images but hide them on his hard disk where he can’t find them, when you threaten to expose him what’s to stop him taking his computer to the dump and scrapping it?’ She sat back with a triumphant smile, confident that she’d scuppered the plan.

‘You’re thinking well,’ Richard replied. ‘That’s what I like to hear. It makes us a team. But work on it. His computer will have all his accounts on it, plus his showbiz contacts, his address book, all stuff for the Inland Revenue, not to mention his music and lyrics. His world depends on it and he’d be lost without it. He can’t afford to throw it away. We bury the stuff in several places, maybe tell him where a couple of them are. Even if he buys a new one he’ll have to transfer all the stuff from his hard disk to it, including the stuff we put there. He’ll be shitting bricks for the rest of his life.’

‘Richard!’

‘Sorry, but he will.’

‘What about fingerprints and DNA and all that?’

‘We wear gloves, but we’ve a perfect right to be there. We’ve been in before, and you do the plants, so it’s no problem.’

‘It sounds as if you’ve thought of everything.’

‘I have.’

‘So when do we do it?’

‘You said “We”. Are you coming in with me?’

‘Of course. It sounds fun.’

‘It will have to be tonight. He comes home tomorrow.’ He reached out to touch her again, and this time she didn’t pull away.

Teri went in as normal to water the plants. She used her key and entered the code number into the burglar alarm to disable it. There was a CCTV camera watching the entrance, but she walked nonchalantly past it without an upward glance. In the kitchen she switched off two switches on the wall which Richard told her must be for the outside security lights, as per their house. She found a tea towel and draped it over the CCTV camera, sneaking up behind it as if it might suddenly whirl round to accost her. She didn’t reset the alarm as she left.

They dressed like aristocratic burglars in an amateur theatrical production of something by EW Hornung: black silk polo necks; double-dyed black Farah jeans; leather gloves. The outside security lights didn’t come on as they tiptoed round the back of their famous neighbour’s house, just after midnight, when the street was at its quietest. After Teri had watered the plants they’d discussed the job over and over again, then watched a video of
The League of Gentlemen
.

They both carried tiny torches, Chinese copies of Maglites that Richard had bought at the local filling station. Teri unlocked the door and saw that the towel was still over the camera lens. Richard nodded approvingly. They knew that the office was upstairs, on their side of the house, because they’d seen Zed Boogey up there occasionally, working. All the houses in the square were individual, but they’d been designed by the same architect and were similar enough for them to find their way around. In seconds they were upstairs, in the computer room.

Richard closed the door and extinguished his torch. ‘Pull the curtains together,’ he said, placing three Maxell re-writable CDs on the desk next to the keyboard, ‘and turn the light on.’

Teri did as she was told. ‘Isn’t it exciting?’ she said, her voice low but expressive.

‘Too exciting. Keep quiet.’ After a few seconds with the familiar displays following each other on the screen, he said: ‘No password, just as I’d hoped. That makes it easier,’ and started exploring Zed Boogey’s
My Documents
files.

It took nearly an hour, with Teri sitting on the floor in the corner while he transferred the images of abused children to obscure corners of the rap artist’s hard disk.

‘That should do it,’ he said, eventually. ‘He’ll never find that lot in a month of Sundays. Let’s go.’

They retraced their steps. In the kitchen Teri closed the switches for the outside lights. Richard went out through the door and Teri pulled the towel off the camera and hung it where she’d found it. She went out as if she’d been in to water the plants again. She wasn’t worried about the discrepancy: Zed Boogey didn’t go through the video films every time he returned home. 

Richard was waiting for her. ‘Quick,’ he whispered. ‘There’s a car coming up the main road. It’s turning into the square!’

He dragged her by the hand round the back of the house and the security lights came on, bright as daylight. They ducked into a pool of shadow behind a yew tree and held their breath.

‘Jesus, it’s him,’ Richard hissed as the Porsche Cayenne’s xenon headlights swung into the driveway, blazing like anti-aircraft searchlights. The Wentbridges, cowering behind the tree, felt like two moths caught in a projectionist’s beam.

They heard the automatic garage door rumble open, the car door slam and the garage door close behind the Porsche. ‘C’mon,’ ordered Richard pulling at his wife again, and they slipped across the garden into the safety of their own territory.

Inside, they flopped on the settee, after Richard had poured them two stiff brandies. ‘Phew! That was close,’ he admitted. ‘We nearly blew it. I was going to suggest that…you know…’

‘That we made love on his bed?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I was thinking the same.’

‘Let’s go over it. Did you lock the door?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Put the towel back?’

‘Yes.’

‘Switched the security lights back on?’ 

‘You saw them working.’

‘True. Switch the alarm back on?’

‘I did.’

‘And we opened the curtains upstairs, closed the doors, switched the computer off and unplugged it, so we’re in the clear. A job well done and we’re as safe as houses.’

‘Not his house.’

‘Well, no, not his house, but we’ve covered everything. All we have to do now is be patient.’

Teri stood up and started pulling her husband to his feet. ‘Patience isn’t one of my virtues,’ she said. ‘Come on, I’m sure our bed is just as good as his. Bring the bottle.’

The riots generated enough paperwork to fuel a small power station and enough hot air to make it redundant. By the end of the week things were settling down and I could direct my thoughts and resources towards simpler, less contentious issues, like murder. The politicians agreed that the riots were not racially motivated, which was a great relief to us all, and resumed their vacations. Those of us who thought differently were just grateful that tempers had cooled along with the weather. Serena was sitting at her desk reading something, and looked up as I walked in to the office. I gestured for her to join me in mine and she rose to her feet.

She sat in the spare chair, pushed her notebook onto the desk and looked at me. I said: ‘Are you doing anything tonight, Serena?’

‘Um, er, no, not really,’ and I swear she blushed.

‘If you’re not, I’ve a little job for you.’

‘Oh. Right.’ 

I spread my AA three-miles-to-the-inch road atlas on the desk and pointed. ‘That’s where the pub called the Hairy Lemon is,’ I showed her, ‘and this, down here, right where the pages join, as always, is where Magdalena’s body was found. Let me show you on the A to Zs.’ I produced the books and found the pages straight away because I’d already looked. ‘That’s where the pub is, and…that’s where the body was found. They’re only about twelve miles apart, in a straight line, but as you can see, there’s no obvious easy route between the two.’

‘You want me to drive the route and see how long it takes?’

‘In both directions, please, between about ten and eleven.’

She looked disappointed, as if she’d been expecting something more exciting, but she said: ‘No problem.’

Serena was hardly back at her desk when Maggie rang. ‘It’s me, Chas,’ she blurted out. ‘I’ve got a positive on the necklace.’

‘You have! That’s great. Where are you?’ I’d had Maggie and a couple of others asking round the jewellers to see if anybody had tried to off-load the necklace. Robbery is a powerful motive, and we have to follow every lead, if only to eliminate that possibility and pre-empt the defence’s smokescreens when we eventually put someone before a court.

‘Henderson’s on Wilson Street in Halifax. Mr Henderson said a bloke came in with something like the piece in your drawing about two months ago, maybe less. He couldn’t be sure.’

‘Did he buy it?’

‘No. It’s called a torque, by the way.’

‘A torque?’

‘That’s right. Mr Henderson said it was an attractive piece but not anything in his line. He said it was made by an amateur and had little intrinsic value, so he told the seller to try a pawnbroker. He said the seller looked as if he could be a down-
and-out
.’

‘Well done, Maggie, well done. So now it’s the pawnshops.’

‘Yep. No rest for the wicked.’

I looked out of the window, then at the pile of paperwork in front of me. The ACC wanted an update, we were behind with our budget forecast, there was a reminder from finance that I hadn’t claimed any expenses for three months and I’d been invited to give my comments on a proposed merger of forces. Well, Gilbert had been invited, but we had similar views about that one. Outside, the sun was shining again and I could hear the pigeons cooing above the rumble of the traffic. There couldn’t be that many pawnbrokers in Halifax, I thought, and if the man was on foot…

‘Where are you now, Maggie?’ I asked.

‘At the end of Wilson Street. Are you coming?’ 

‘I’m thinking about it.’

‘That’s what I predicted.’

‘Am I that obvious?’

‘Yes. I need to use the loo, so I’ll see you in Debenhams, soon as you like.’

‘Do you have the Yellow Pages with you?’

‘Never go anywhere without them.’

‘OK. See you in the restaurant. I’m on my way.’

It took me nearly half an hour and Maggie was growing restless when I arrived, but she managed another coffee while I ate a bacon sandwich. She’d already extracted the addresses of the town’s pawnshops and plotted the shortest route between them.

But it wasn’t necessary, because we struck pay dirt at the very first one, just round the corner from the jeweller’s. The buxom woman behind the counter, draped in the obligatory prince’s ransom of gold chains, looked carefully at our IDs, listened to what we said and went away. Five seconds later she returned and laid an ornate necklace on the
glass-topped
counter.

‘Ten pounds,’ she said. ‘I allowed him ten pounds against it. More than it’s worth.’

‘Did you take his name and address?’

‘Of course.’ She reached under the counter and produced a ledger. ‘He’s here somewhere. Do you have a date?’

‘Second week in August.’ 

‘This must be him.
Mexican-style necklace, ten pounds
.’ She spun the book round so I could read it for myself. He was called F Raw and lived in town. I put my finger on the place and Maggie copied it down.

‘We’ll have to take this,’ I told the woman. ‘Do you have a plastic bag we can put it in?’

‘I thought you carried them with you.’

‘We do, but we had a run on them this morning.’

‘I’ll need a receipt for the necklace. I gave ten pounds for it.’

She didn’t ask if it was stolen. She’d no need to.

We decided to go and see Mr Raw, and collected Maggie’s car from the multi-storey. She knew the way and in minutes we were driving along a street of terraced houses, looking for number 52. The local primary school had just disgorged its charges and the street was filled with little groups of them, carrying impossibly large rucksacks, accompanied by their mothers. We were in the middle of the Asian community, and some of the kids wore turbans or topknots with their school blazers. The adults were in pyjama suits in bright colours and one wore a full burka. It was black and white, with just her eyes showing, and the cut of it looked expensive. She was tall and slim, and I suspected that she was fully aware of the impact she had. Another, leading a little girl by the hand, wore an eau-de-Nil suit and four-inch stilettos. The kids chatted and dashed back and forth between groups, like kids all over the world. Maggie stopped to let them cross the road and we both smiled.

Number 52 let the street down. The windows were dirty and bags of rubbish were strewn about the small front yard. ‘Shall we disturb his reverie?’ Maggie asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Park where you can and we’ll do a PNC check.’ I phoned the nick and asked for it. Only certain officers have access to the computer and the data it contains, and we weren’t on the list. Two minutes later the reply came back, just as the school party, or what remained of them, caught up and passed us. The woman in the burka and the one in stilettos weren’t with them. Frederick Raw had convictions for being drunk and disorderly, causing an affray, assault, ABH and threatening behaviour while armed – the arm being a shotgun – and had spent a decent portion of his adult life as a guest of the Queen.

‘Sh-sh-sheest,’ I hissed. ‘We nearly walked into that one, Maggie.’

So I did some more telephoning and thirty minutes later a familiar battered Ford Transit turned into the street and parked nearby. Maggie raised a finger off the wheel in acknowledgement and we drove back to Heckley.

‘Where are you going?’ Richard Wentbridge asked his wife.

‘Shopping,’ she replied. ‘With Fiona. You know it’s our shopping day, or have you stopped my credit card?’

He looked sideways at her, unsure of her attitude. ‘I thought you’d forgiven me,’ he ventured.

‘But not forgotten,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps I’ll find it in my heart to forgive you when we get the million off Zed Zed Doodlebug next door.’

‘I told you: we have to be patient. It’s money in the bank for a rainy day, which hopefully will never arrive. So where are you going?’

‘Dreary old Leeds again. Fiona’s choice.’

‘Do you want a lift?’

‘No. She’s coming here and I’ve ordered a taxi. We can still afford taxis, can’t we?’