Laughing Boy (22 page)

So much for the American Dream, I thought, but at least no one had ever called Tim Roper the New Dylan. I went to bed early and thought about Annette in the hope that I’d dream about her, but it didn’t work. It never does.

“Suspects,” the assistant chief constable said. “Do we have any suspects?”

Mr Wood’s secretary came in carrying a tray with three coffees on it, giving me a few precious seconds to think of a number. I saw Gilbert glance towards his drawer where he keeps the chocolate digestives, but he decided that this was not the time.

As the door closed behind her I said: “We have a list of one hundred and four possibles, namely resulting from vehicle sightings and comparison with lists of known offenders. Unfortunately psychiatric evidence says that our man is a first timer, so he could be totally unknown to us. At the moment I have two officers studying video tapes of the last victim’s usual territory, and hopefully they’ll find something.”

“Hopefully’s not good enough, Charlie. We need
something
more positive than that.”

“I’m open to suggestions,” I said.

The ACC flung a copy of the
Gazette
on Gilbert’s desk. The headline read:
Latest Victim Named
, and the page was divided into two linked stories. One was about Norma Holborn and her bleak life, the other was an assertion from Madame LeStrang that she could help find the killer. “What about
her
?” he demanded. “What have you done about
her
?”

“Madame LeStrang?” I asked, incredulous.

“Yes.”

“Nothing.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s complete bloody balderdash, that’s why not.”

Gilbert said: “Charlie…” and reached a restraining hand towards me. The ACC, his face white, tapped his fingertips together several times, composing his argument.

“My wife,” he began, “once attended a seminar held by Madame LeStrang. She heard things there, things about
herself
, that were beyond belief. Personal things that Madame LeStrang could not possibly have known about. There are stranger things in heaven and earth, Charlie, than you or I ever dreamed of.”

“She’s a clever lady, Sir,” I said. “That I’ve never doubted,
but she does not have supernatural powers.”

“Give her a try, eh. We’ve nothing to lose, have we?”

Only our marbles, I thought. “Right, Sir,” I said, rising to my feet. “Is that everything?”

“No. Sit down, please.”

I sat down.

“There’s been a lot in the papers lately about
institutionalised
racism in the service,” he said.

“Resulting from the Macpherson report,” I replied.

“That’s right. And the situation is tense in Heckley, I hear. This case involving the young man stabbed by the gang of Pakistanis hasn’t helped. It isn’t enough to be fair, Charlie, we’ve got to be seen to be fair, applying the law without fear or favour. Know what I mean?”

“No.”

Gilbert rolled his eyes and looked away.

“What I mean, Charlie, is this: any form of racism will not be tolerated, and anyone who doesn’t like it can get out.”

I said: “That’s exactly my attitude, Sir.”

“I’m glad to hear it, but it works both ways, y’know. I want this stabbing case cleared up, no matter what the
outcome
. Black offences against white are just as intolerable as white on black.”

“We tend to just regard them as offences, Sir,” I replied.

“Good. Good. So let’s have some results, eh?”

I unwound slowly from the chair, in case he told me to sit down again, but he didn’t. I turned to go, then turned back to face him. “There’s this group in Heckley,” I began. “Fascists. Nazis. Call them what you will. Their sworn aim is to deport all the Blacks, all the Asians and, believe it or not, all the plumbers.”

He looked at me, puzzled. “
Plumbers
, did you say?”

“That’s right. Plumbers.”

“Why on earth do they want to deport all the plumbers?”

“No idea,” I replied, shaking my head and turning
towards the door again. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Gilbert bury his face in his hands.

Nigel Newley was sitting in the main office, with one or two of the others. He was wearing a pair of lightweight headphones plugged into a Walkman and had a silly grin on his face.

Dave looked at me and said: “Blimey, you look grim. I take it he wasn’t handing out medals.”

“No,” I replied. “I think I’ve just had a bollocking. He wants an arrest, soon, and he wants the Paul Usher stabbing clearing up –
without fear or favour
.”

“I’ve offered to sort it,” Dave replied.

I thought about things for a few seconds, then asked: “If his wife withdrew her statement how would she explain it to him?”

“She’s a resourceful girl,” he told me. “She’d think of something, and according to Jeff
he’s
scared stiff of her
family
so he wouldn’t dare lay a finger on her.”

“It sounds as if you’ve already discussed it.”

“Um, maybe.”

“No comebacks?”

“None at all.”

“OK, when you get the time, but don’t do anything silly.” I turned to Nigel and shouted in his face: “What are you
listening
to!”

He pulled the headphones off with a grimace and poked a finger in an ear. “This,” he replied, shoving an empty
cassette
case towards me. It was from the Tim Roper tape.

“I thought you were more into string quartets,” I told him.

“Baroque. It’s just this one track, it brings back memories.”

“You mean – you’ve heard one? Nobody else has. Which is it?”

He rewound the tape and transferred the cassette to the portable stereo on Pete Goodfellow’s desk. “This one,” he replied. “We had an American teacher for a year and she
taught us this. She was over on an exchange, or something. A Fulbright, perhaps. Platinum blonde, looked like
something
out of
Baywatch
. We had to stand up and do all the actions. I think that was the first time I fell in love.”

“How old were you?” Pete asked.

“Thirty-three,” Dave interjected.

“Six or seven,” Nigel told him. He pressed the button and the combined voices of Tim’s band, The LHO, filled the room:

“C’mon then, Nigel,” I urged, “let’s see the actions.” He blushed and shook his head.

Dave jumped up and started twisting, standing on one leg, fists pumping to the beat. Pete clapped his hands in time with him.

None of us was quite sure at which point the ACC came into the office. I saw Pete’s eyes going round like a fruit machine and twisted in my seat to look behind me. Nigel clicked the off button and Dave sat down again, colour rising from under his collar. Maggie had been watching and listening with amused tolerance. “That’s not listed as Tim and The LHO,” she said, still unaware of the presence of God’s first
lieutenant
, “but it sounds like them. It’s called ‘Theo’s Tune’ on the album and credited to Blue Coyote, whoever they are.”

“Hello, Mr Pritchard,” I said, too loudly, rising to my feet. “This is the music that we think inspires the killer. The letters he’s written to us contain quotes from it. Maybe there’s something in there that will lead us to him. We’re just familiarising ourselves with the lyrics.”

“Right,” he said. “Right. I’m a James Last man, myself. You can’t beat a good melody, I always say. I thought I’d pop in to say how much we appreciate all the hard work you’re all putting in during these difficult times. I know it’s not easy and family life suffers, but we wouldn’t have joined the force if we thought it would be easy, would we? So good luck, and let’s hope we soon have a change in fortune.”

Everybody mumbled a thank you and I saw him out of the door. When I rejoined them Pete said: “Shit.”

“Sorry, Chas,” Dave added.

“He’ll get over it,” I said. “So where were we?”

Pete looked at Nigel, asking: “Did Miss Texas 1949 tell you who played it, Nigel? We had a teacher in junior school, Miss Kesteven, who used to bring records in, but nothing like that. It was stuff like
The Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra,
or
Peter and the Wolf
. She was nice, Miss Kesteven, used to come and sit next to me when we did…”

“Yes, Peter,” Maggie interrupted. “We’re talking about the case, not regressing into childhood, and we’d rather not know what you and Miss Kesteven got up to.”

Nigel shook his head. “No, she never said who it was by.”

“It’s a bit different to all the others,” I said. “Catchy. It’s a children’s tune. Maybe they released it under
another
name because they thought it would destroy their credibility.”

“Like Paul McCartney and ‘Mull of Kintyre’,” Pete
suggested
.

“Something like that.”

I saw the latest copy of the
Gazette
on a nearby desk so I retrieved it and spread it in front of Pete. “We’ve got to
consult
her,” I said, tapping the photograph of Julia LeStrang, resplendent in a flowing cloak and enough gold
ornamentation
to plate an aircraft carrier. “It’s a major new initiative inspired by the ACC’s wife.”

“You’re joking!” was their collective response.

“’Fraid not. Drop her a line, please, Pete, from the ACC’s office. Make a list of precise map references of the places where the bodies of our victims were found and say that you hope this will be useful. It might keep her quiet for a day or two. Apologise for being unable to supply any belongings of the deceased’s because they are all held under our connected property rules, then slam it to HQ for him to sign.”

“If you say so,” Pete replied.

“I do.” Turning to Dave and Maggie I said: “OK, now tell me all about the breakthroughs you’ve had from the videos. How many white pickups have you seen?”

Checking the tapes from the CCTV cameras was a tedious job. There were thirty hours of them, taken in the Manningham area on the night of Norma’s death. Maggie and Dave had watched about a quarter, fast forwarding through the blank bits, stopping to make a note of every
vehicle or person who wandered into focus. All the
descriptions
and any registration numbers would go into the
computer
and we’d finish with a list that included punters and local people, possible suspects and the totally innocent, with equal conviction. So far they hadn’t seen any white pickups and there’d been no sign of Norma.

I drove over to the posh side of town, where Graham Allen’s parents retreated when the tourists became
intolerable
on the Costa. They weren’t home, as I expected, so I had a good look round the outside of the house.

The magnolia in the conservatory was wilting and the lawn needed cutting. A bricked-off area near the fence marked the place where the famous barbecues were held, although there wasn’t a trace of ash or smoke staining. No doubt the contraption itself was one of those great hibatchi things with gas bottles and variable settings – an Aga on wheels – and would be parked securely in the garage. I was just nosey-parkering, not looking for anything in particular, wondering how the other half lived.

When I’d seen enough I moved next door. I gave a single push of the doorbell then wandered down the side of the house and round the back. There was a double garage and the stripes on the lawn were even more distinct than when I’d last seen them. I’d love a double garage. I peered through the window and saw his car standing there. It was a blue Rover 75. Between me and it, in the space designed for number two car, were all those things that accumulate in the best regulated households: step ladders, wheelbarrow, an old bookcase that was too good for the dump and
several
plastic boxes filled with magazines. Under the window was a chest freezer and by shielding my eyes with my hand I could just make out the lawnmower alongside it, the
handles
pointing towards me. One had a chrome lever that probably operated the throttle, and the pull-cord for
starting
the engine terminated on the other in a yellow grip, moulded to fit the fingers.

Behind the garage was a solid-looking shed that I hadn’t noticed on my previous visit. It was about ten by eight, in the natural colour of the wood, and I suspected I’d seen
similar
ones advertised in the colour supplements. I was heading towards it when a voice said: “Where do you think you’re going?” in an accusatory tone.

He had a black eye and a plaster across his nose, but I managed to keep a straight face. “Hello Mr Ferriby,” I said. “I was looking for you. DI Priest, Heckley CID. We have met before. I tried the doorbell several times and wondered if you were out here.” I nodded towards the shed, which I now recognised as being intended to contain a Swedish sauna. “Is that where you keep your fish?”

“Yeth,” he replied. “DI Prietht, did you thay?”

“That’s right.”

“You came about that thad buthineth with Colinette,
didn’t
you?”