Over the Edge (11 page)

‘Wallenberg,’ John Rose announced as he came into my office.

‘I got your note on his wife,’ I said, gesturing for him to sit down and handed the cuttings to him.

‘Good. She’s been round the block a couple of times. What are these?’

‘Tony Krabbe’s obituaries. They make him sound like something between Neil Armstrong and Nelson Mandela. What have you got?’

‘Quite a bit, some of it off the record.’

‘OK, start with the concrete stuff.’

‘Right. First of all, he sponsored Krabbe to the tune of
£
5,000 for his recent trip to Nepal. And that wasn’t to climb a mountain. He went on a
fact-finding
mission with a view to opening a school and a clinic out there.’

‘Mmm. Add Mother Teresa to the list. Have you spoken to Wallenberg?’

‘Briefly, on the phone. I just said we were talking to everyone who had connections with Krabbe, and
we’d read about the sponsorship in the book. He reckons he’s only met him a couple of times, at charity functions, and Krabbe tapped him for a contribution.’

‘Sounds reasonable.’

‘Except he’s lying through his teeth. Krabbe’s shop in the mall – Art of Asia – is rented from a property company, which just happens to be part of the Wallenberg empire.’

‘That doesn’t mean he knows who his tenants are.’

‘I’ve spoken to the staff who worked there. The shop’s closed now, but I tracked down the manageress and her assistant via the security company. They both recognised a mugshot of Wallenberg. Said he called in now and again when Krabbe was there, and they would go into a huddle in the stock room. They knew each other, all right.’

‘I’m convinced. Anything else?’

‘Yes. Wallenberg is bigger in this town than we’ve realised. Next to the council he’s just about the biggest landlord, but did you know he owns that new restaurant on the Town Square:
L’Autre Place
?’

‘No, that’s a new one on me. They do a magnificent beef Wellington, I’m told.’

‘So they say. Word has it that he entertained Joe Crozier there a couple of weeks ago, and there’s lots of other talk about him, on the streets.’

‘We’ve looked into Crozier and he’s legit, these
days. Only just – he’s a club owner and into various other entertainment activities. Betting shops, that sort of thing. Nothing we can touch him for. What are they saying about Wallenberg?’

‘Well, apparently he inherited a small fortune from his parents, but he has a weakness – gambling. He’ll bet on anything, I’m told, and conducts his business deals with the same recklessness. The result is that he’s had some heavy losses over the last few years, so it’s back to basics. He’s reverted to the original family businesses, namely prostitution and protection, and he’s spreading his wings.’

‘Who have you been talking to?’

‘I have my sources. They’re reliable.’

‘Your Rasta friends?’

‘They don’t like him. They use him and he uses them, but there’s no respect.’

‘Be careful with them, John.’

‘Don’t worry, I am.’

‘It looks like we’ll have to have words with Mr Wallenberg.’ I turned a pencil over between my fingers and tapped the blunt end on the desk, thinking what to do next. Gilbert answered his phone straight away. ‘You mentioned some tickets,’ I said, ‘to a charity bash at the football club. Did you find them?’

‘Yes. I’d thrown them in the bin but they were still there. Do you want them?’

‘When is it?’

‘Let me see…um, next Saturday.’

‘I’ll have them, then. I’d like to see Wallenberg on his own turf first, before I have a really good talk to him.’

‘Is he on your list of suspects?’

I didn’t have a list of suspects. ‘No,’ I replied, ‘not for Krabbe’s murder, but we’ll think of something.’

When John had gone I rang Nigel Newley in Leeds and arranged to meet him for a drink, later that evening. The Halfway House was conveniently situated, approximately equidistant from Leeds and Heckley, so we met there. Big Dave came with me.

‘How’s Sophie?’ I asked on the drive over. ‘I haven’t had chance to ask you.’

‘Alright,’ he replied.

‘Only alright?’

‘I hardly saw her, did I? We were working, remember.’

‘Mmm, sorry about that. Some people are inconsiderate about the timing of their murders. Did she bring the boyfriend with her?’

‘Digby? No, he was playing rugby in France. Usually Shirley’s OK. She knows the score, but this weekend she’s been a pain. And Sophie wasn’t any better. The little I saw of them made me feel like a pariah in my own house. I was glad to get out.’

‘Women,’ I said, as if that explained everything. I
knew something Dave didn’t, and thought about ways of changing the subject.

‘Yeah, women,’ he agreed.

Nigel is a great one for shaking hands. He was late, as expected, but bounced in like a Labrador puppy on amphetamines, his arm already extended. I’m not a great shaker, but it’s easier to comply than to make a point. He would have shaken our hands even if we’d spent all day working together, which I consider excessive.

Long time ago I was the youngest inspector ever appointed by East Pennine. Now it’s my proud boast that I’m the longest serving inspector in the history of the police force. I was already in that rank, and had been for a long time, when Nigel joined the department. He was on the fast track, with a degree in law and a naive belief in the innate goodness of everybody he met. Not just the crooks: he believed it about the police, too. How green can you get? They would have made mincemeat out of him, but I took him under my wing, hammered some sense into his receptive brain, and in double quick time he was the same rank as me.

Truth is, I saw a bit of myself in him, and it wasn’t just the boyish good looks. If I’d ever had a son I would have liked him to be like Nigel. He would have stayed in Heckley CID forever, content to work for me, but I kicked him out, made him go for promotion. It was one of the hardest things I ever did.

‘So how’s the courting going?’ Dave asked, when we were seated behind our drinks. Nigel had asked for a pint of lager shandy and I’d joined him. Dave was on the bitter.

‘It isn’t,’ he replied.

‘What happened?’

‘No, you’re supposed to say: ‘What did she do for a living?’

‘OK. What did she do for a living?’

‘She was a chicken sexer.’

‘A chicken sexer? That’s interesting.’

‘No! You say: ‘Where did you meet her?’’

‘Right. I see. So, um, where did you meet this, um, chicken sexer, Nigel?’

‘At a hen party!’

He hooted with laughter while Dave looked at me, blank-faced, and I returned the look. ‘Good one, Nigel,’ I said, eventually.

‘Yeah. A very good one,’ Dave agreed.

After Dave fetched the second round I said: ‘So tell us about your new case, Nigel. This could be your passport to fame.’

‘I knew it,’ he replied. ‘And I thought you’d invited me out for the pleasure of my company.’

‘Well it wasn’t for your sparkling wit,’ Dave told him, unkindly, I thought.

I said: ‘Joe Crozier knew Peter Wallenberg. Wallenberg was some sort of business acquaintance of Tony Krabbe. I don’t believe in coincidences.
They were all mixed up in something.’

‘Perhaps we should have a joint meeting, see if it’s worth combining the two enquiries.’

‘It’s a bit early for that,’ I said. ‘For a start, we don’t know if Crozier fell or was pushed, do we?’

‘Ah! The leading question,’ Nigel replied. ‘No, but let me tell you this: Crozier owned a third share in a lap-dancing club called the Painted Pony. It’s in the basement of the apartment block where he lived. The other two shares are held by a pair of accountants who sail close to the wind. We tried to talk to them, of course, but they clammed up. The DS who did the interview said they were scared stiff, but they did admit that they were selling their shares in the club.’

‘Who to, did they say?’

‘Mmm. No point in them denying it. Your friend Peter Wallenberg. He’d made them a good offer.’

‘That they couldn’t refuse,’ Dave added.

‘Crozier,’ I stated, when I’d digested Nigel’s announcement. ‘He was in the water about two weeks. Was death due to drowning?’

‘Yes, and there wasn’t a mark on his body and he still had his wallet in his pocket with
£
300 in it.’

‘Had he drowned in the Aire?’

‘Yes. The diatom analysis showed he had.’

‘So he could have gone for a walk late one night, after having a bevvy or three too many, and fallen in,’ Dave suggested.

‘It looks like it,’ I agreed, but Nigel remained tight-lipped. I took a sip of my new drink before asking: ‘Is there something you’re not telling us, Nige?’

He took a longer draught of his pint before saying: ‘There was one small indication that his death may not have been accidental.’

‘Which was…’ I prompted.

‘Well, it just so happens that his ankles and wrists were tied with masking tape, and his mouth was covered with it, too.’

I clunked my glass down on the table and a burst of bubbles exploded inside the golden liquid, causing a head of froth to rise and quickly subside again. ‘Well, you kept that quiet,’ I said after a while, feeling slightly annoyed.

‘We decided to,’ he replied. ‘And we still haven’t released it. You can imagine why.’

‘I suppose so,’ I agreed, and at least he’d had the courtesy not to tell us to keep it to ourselves.

‘Did you say
masking
tape?’ Dave asked.

‘That’s right.’

‘The stuff that decorators use?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s only made of paper, isn’t it? I’d have thought it would go soggy and float off.’

‘We thought the same, so we’re doing some tests. As of this morning, it still hasn’t gone soggy.’

I’d have thought it would soften and float away,
too. I’d have gambled money on it. Perhaps the murderer or murderers thought the same thing, but they were too impatient to do the tests. Wrap his hands and feet with the tape, put some round his mouth to stem the screams, and let nature do the rest. It sounded a great idea, but it hadn’t worked. The inquest had been adjourned indefinitely, so this piece of information would be hidden from the public. And from the murderers. They could relax, safe in the knowledge that they’d pulled off the perfect deed, but we knew otherwise. I had to smile: Nigel was thinking like me.

Wednesday I rang Sonia Thornton and went to see her. She worked at a place called High Adventure, but this was her day off because she worked weekends. High Adventure was a new resort, as it liked to call itself, built on an old colliery site outside Oldfield, in Lancashire. Where once had existed slag heaps, a coke works and a hundred years’ of industrial grime, there was now an indoor ski slope, with real snow, and lots of other associated activities. I’d been promising myself a visit since it opened.

Sonia lived in a Victorian terrace, one of the grander ones that had not yet been divided into bedsits, just outside Halifax. Robert, the DC who’d made the initial interview, was tied up with
paperwork, so I made the journey there alone. I was happy to do so. Sonia Thornton was a dream to any man who liked his women fit and talented, and not looking as if they’d spent six hours applying their makeup. When she opened the door and I saw her for the first time in seven years, I wasn’t disappointed. I extended a hand – it’s only men I object to shaking with – and introduced myself. ‘Charlie Priest,’ I said. ‘DI. Um, Heckley CID.’

She was taller than I expected, probably about five feet ten, and still had the runner’s figure, although the baggy top she wore did its best to disguise it. When we were seated in her front room I smiled and said: ‘You haven’t changed. You look just the same as when I watched you on TV, tearing down the back straight. I expected you to have put on about four stones.’

‘You said it was about Tony,’ she replied.

Ah well, I thought, perhaps some other time. ‘Yes,’ I confirmed. ‘I understand that you and he were partners for a while. Is that true?’

‘Yes, but not for long.’

‘1989 to 1997. Eight years. That’s a fair length of time.’

‘Not compared with most marriages, Inspector. Even by today’s standards.’

‘But you never married?’

‘No.’

‘Any reason why?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. Tony was in a high-risk occupation, he said. He didn’t want the commitment.’

I noted the
he said
. It always implies disagreement. ‘What difference does that make?’ I asked. ‘If someone you love gets killed, does it matter if you are married or not?’

‘You should have asked him that,’ she replied. She was quiet for a while but I could see she was wondering whether to say more, choosing her words carefully. ‘At least, if you were married there’d be something to hang on to,’ she added.

‘That’s what I would have thought.’

The room was furnished old-style, with cabinets and a sideboard and a big, soft, three-piece suite like my grandma had. I suspected it had belonged to her parents. One of the cabinets, with a bow front, gleamed with silverware from her athletics days, and there was a picture standing on it of her receiving a medal from some dignitary. I said: ‘Wow! Look at those trophies.’

‘There’s more, upstairs,’ she told me, matter-
of-fact
, but didn’t invite me to a private show.

‘I have three football medals,’ I confessed, ‘in a drawer somewhere, wrapped in cotton wool, inside a tin box.’

The corners of her mouth lifted into a smile, ever so briefly, and she said: ‘You probably worked just
as hard for them as I did for these.’

‘I suppose so,’ I agreed. ‘The only difference is talent. You work at High Adventure, I believe.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What do you do there?’

‘I’m climbing wall manager-cum-instructor. There’s a 20 metre climbing wall. Tony designed it, as a matter of fact.’

‘I didn’t know you’d been a climber.’

‘Yes. I was a climber before I was a runner. I took up running to be fit for rock climbing, and found out I was good at it.’

‘And the rest is history.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Until you had the crash.’