Ritual Murder (19 page)

“What makes you think he'll be in?” Ellers asked suddenly. “Man of affairs, Joe. You haven't made an appointment?”

“Next thing to it. I got Hinchley after him to let him know I'd be calling at Mrs Cossey's round dinnertime, and he'd better be at home to visitors if he knew what was good for him. Not to make him frightened—he's not one to take fright easily—but to make him curious. If I read his mind correctly, he'll be staying home to grill us, not the other way round.”

As it turned out, Joe Fisher was staying home, or so it appeared, to put the dinner on. The man had barely opened the front door to the two detectives before he let out an anguished “Fuck!” at the sound of something boiling over in the kitchen. The gas lowered, he returned to the little hall to scream a companion “Balls!” at the sight of the linoleum.

“For Christ's sake! Why'n't you bring in the frigging dog with you and be done with it? Don't they run to doormats down at the nick?”

“You should know,” answered Jurnet. Just the same, he went back to the door and scraped away with a will. “Your turn, Jack.”

Joe Fisher snapped, “Fat lot o' good that'll do now! I'll have to get some paper.”

When he had cleared up the mess to his satisfaction, he allowed the two through into the little living-room, indicating which chair each was to occupy; rushed back into the kitchen to pop a rice pudding into the oven; and only then put himself at the police officers' disposal. It dawned on Detective-Inspector Jurnet that Joe Fisher was a very happy man.

“Sandra's always late getting back from Canon Greenaway's. Holy old humbug, pays her for three hours an' keeps her bes' part o' four. Can't think why she stands for it, 'cept she reckons working in the Close gets you a free pass at the Pearly Gates.”

Jurnet asked acidly, “And who's helping out Millie?”

“Don't gi' me that.” The man was quite embarrassed. “Millie's right as rain, and well you know it. Fish an' chips fit for a belted earl, that's what she's tuckin' into this very minute, as we sit here gassing. I give young Willie the money last night. So don't give me that.”

“If you're going to treat her like an animal—feed her at intervals and then forget she even exists until feeding time comes round again—you might at least muck her out occasionally. I don't recall seeing you messing about with doormats and old newspapers down by the river.”

“Millie don't know what clean means.” Joe Fisher rose from his seat, picked a thread off the carpet, and sat down again. “An' she don't want ter know. Once I give that trailer a coat of emulsion an' she took on like I'd knocked off her best friend.”

“She manages to keep Willie clean.”

“Willie keeps hisself clean. Look 'ere, Mr Jurnet—” the man rose again, to stand square and bulging on the hearthrug. “Is that what you kept me in all morning for? To gi' me a lesson how to look after Millie?”

Jurnet said, “You know why we're here, right enough.”

“Oh ah.” Joe Fisher resumed his seat, lowering himself carefully on to the buttoned dralon. “That bloody kid. What you think I can tell you about the little squirt you don't know already?”

Jurnet said, “You just told us something. Squirt. Not poor dear little Arthur.”

“You must be joking! Don't tell me you lot been snufflin' round this long, and ain't found out yet what Arthur was really like? Makes you wonder what we pay rates for.”

“Couldn't hardly expect you and him to hit it off,” Jurnet conceded. “No kid likes it when his Ma brings a fancy man into the house.”

“You ought to have your mouth washed out!” There was no doubting that the anger was unfeigned. “Apparently you could be as hung with balls as a Christmas tree and still be as pure as the driven snow.”

Jurnet said, “My mistake. I'll try again. How much did the boy take you for?”

“Arthur? Take me? I'd see the little bugger dead first!”

“Got that down, Sergeant Ellers?” Jurnet's tone was crisp, professional.

Joe Fisher stared.

“Don't talk so daft! Can't you reckernize a figger of speech when you see one? You arst me did I give that little shit money an' the answer is no, I did not give that little shit money. So why should I knock him off and get Sandra all upset? It stands to reason.”

“If you refused to pay blackmail, all the more reason for shutting him up permanently.”

Joe Fisher ran his fingers through his hair.

“Gawd preserve us from dumb cops! Blackmail! Injure my spotless reputation? Don't make me laugh!”

“Something in that,” admitted Jurnet, always willing to concede, even to the opposition, a point well taken. “Unless, of course, you had something big in the pipeline, and Arthur said pay up or I spill the beans.”

“If yer want to know—” Joe Fisher spoke with dignity—“the on'y big thing I got on at the moment is politics. An' fer that, as you know as well as I do, the more publicity the better.”

“Thinking of standing for Parliament, are you? Come to think of it, I heard somewhere you'd joined the League of Patriots.”

The man's face darkened to purple.

“Tha's a bloody libel for starters! The English Men, didn't Mr Batterby tell you? Not that pissy League of Pansies!”

“That's very interesting.” Jurnet sat back and crossed his legs. “Sergeant Ellers and I have often wanted to know what the English Men stand for, exactly. Now you can tell us.”

“'S not what they stand
for
,” Joe Fisher pronounced. “ 'S what they're
against
. Contamination of our pure English blood, kikes an' blacks out, an' so on.”

“Fascinating! Some time we must have a long talk. As time's a bit short, perhaps you'd tell us this—if you didn't hand over any payola to Arthur, where d' you reckon he got the bread to pay for his bike and all that stuff up in his room. Not out of his paper round.”

“Course not! Sandra took that. I asked 'im once why he kept it on at all, seeing he never seemed short of a penny.”

“What did he say?”

“That he liked bein' out on the streets early when they was quiet an' nobody about.” Joe Fisher leaned forward confidingly. “Don't let on to 'is Ma I said so, but the kid was a freak.”

Jurnet persisted. “Where do you think he got the money from, then?”

“Out o' the cathedral collection, for all I know. Never 'ad two words to say to him myself when one 'd do.”

“Was that a fact?” Jurnet waited a moment before pouncing. “At least you exchanged enough chat to find out where he kept his little nest egg.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Only that when Sergeant Ellers and I were here before, we found that a drawer in Arthur's room had been forced open.”

“I never—!”

“Can it, Joe. Next time you do a job, don't leave your tools behind. I'm willing to believe you did it because Sandra asked you. His Ma, after all, and could do with the money. Only I need to know how much you found—the truth, mind!—to get at the proper scale of Arthur's business activities, whatever they were. Otherwise, I'll have no alternative than to assume you handed over hush-money after all, and were only taking back what you thought of as yours—” The detective finished, offhandedly, “After you killed him, that is.”

“I—” Joe Fisher began huskily. He cleared his throat and began again. “Four hundred and fifty nicker,” he said. “In fivers.”

Sergeant Ellers said, “And I was beginning to feel sorry for the little runt! Poor little blackmailer, trying so hard to make a dishonest penny, and everyone saying ‘Nothing doing, sonny!' Pathetic! But four hundred and fifty!”

“Where'd he get it, that's the question.”

“One of 'em's bloody well lying. Take your pick.”

“‘
What is truth? said jesting Pilate: and would not stay for an answer
.' First sentence of Bacon's
Essays
,” said Jurnet, “and don't ask me what comes next because that's as far as I got.” After a moment he added, “Far as anyone's got.”

The two detectives walked on in silence. In the Close, azaleas were taking over from the almond blossom, whose petals lay about in drifts as if a wedding procession had passed that way. Tulips and wallflowers were opening among the tiring daffodils: on the lawns, illicit dandelions flowered like mad while the going was good. An elderly canon had come out daringly in his light clerical grey, and from the Deanery emerged a young priestling full of a seemly joy.

Jurnet said abruptly, “I'm going to pop down to the river.”

“To make sure Willie got the fish and chips?”

“Certainly not. You heard what the Superintendent said. ‘Get on with it.' I propose to get on with it by proceeding with all haste to the Water Gate to satisfy myself that the PC we stationed there hasn't fallen in.”

PC Blaker, guarding the Water Gate against all corners, sat on the staithe feeding bread to a cluster of assorted waterfowl. As he scrambled to his feet at the detectives' approach, a gull, yellow legs dangling, swerved past and snatched the piece of bread he held in his hand.

“Cheeky—” PC Blaker began, and blushed in the presence of his superiors.

“Ah, George!” The young constable blushed redder, gratified to be recognized thus informally. “Making friends with the locals, I see. Very commendable, even if that bloody herring gull has just made off with your dinner.”

“Oh no, sir! My Mum give me a bag for the birds. This is the second day I've been down here, an' I told her—” The red on the downy young cheeks became positively fluorescent as PC Blaker stammered, “And, begging your pardon, Mr Jurnet, it weren't a herring gull. Lesser Black-backed, sir—”

“You don't say!”

“Yellow legs, sir—that's how you can tell. Herring gulls are a dirty pink.”

“You learn something new every day!” Jurnet smiled at the young policeman. “This lot your only callers?”

“Couple of tourists from the cathedral, took a look and went straight back. Courting couple and a young chap on the towpath. Bit early in the year for much to be doing down by the river.”

“Let's hope it stays that way.”

A smart cabin cruiser, every polyurethaned surface gleaming, came slowly upstream, its engine purring expensively. The elderly couple in the cockpit stared at the three men on the staithe with the undisguised curiosity common to children and the old; the woman letting her knitting drop into her lap as she leaned forward to make some observation to her husband.

“Taking a look at the natives,” said Jurnet, noting that Jack Ellers, aware of being under surveillance, was well up on his toes. The boat went past, and the little Welshman's feet resumed contact with
terra firma
. “Didn't pay for that little toy out of their old-age pensions.”

“They'll be back in a minute, you'll see.” PC Blaker predicted confidently. “Couple of 'em yesterday, the same thing. Get round that bend and all of a sudden it isn't pretty any more, not entertaining. They see those old huts, and the rubbish dumps and they turn back.”

Jurnet said sympathetically, “You're a bit short on entertainment yourself, down here.”

“Oh no, sir! I quite like it, what with the birds—” PC Blaker stopped, and blushed again.

“Yellow legs, Black-backed. I must remember that.”

“
Lesser
Black-backed,” was the anxious correction. “The
Great
Black-backed's got pink'uns, just like the herring gull.”

“I know when I'm licked!” Jurnet threw up his hands humorously. “From now on, far as I'm concerned, gulls are gulls pure and simple, and to hell with the colour of their socks! Come on. Sarge! Keep on with the good work, Constable.”

“Yes, Mr. Jurnet.” Seeing the direction the two detectives were taking, the young policeman added, “You can't get far that way, sir. The path stops a little way on.”

“Thought we'd try to get across country.” Jurnet was not anxious to advertise his private back door into Joe Fisher's estate. He took a few steps, and immediately drew back, his face blank.

Stan Brent came along the river path not at all disconcerted to find himself in the unexpected company of three police officers; at first, or even second, glance a clean-limbed English lad in his uniform of jeans, T-shirt, and anorak, his red hair trimmed to an acceptable shortness, the knapsack on his back khaki and serviceable. A cool customer, Jurnet thought again, feeling his face tighten with an annoyance that was no less strong for the realization that sexual jealousy accounted for a good part of it.

“Well, well!” he greeted the newcomer. “Look who's here! Gentleman Jim!”

“Don't shoot!” Stan Brent cried. “I'll come quietly.” He grinned, completely at ease. “Don't tell me the three of you've come all this way looking for little me!”

PC Blaker, young enough to resent any detraction from his professional dignity, addressed Jurnet in his most official tone, “Sir, he's the one come past twenty minutes ago.”

“Oh good show, Watson!” Stan Brent exclaimed; and to Jurnet, “Eagle-eyed, that one. He should go far.”

“It's a public footpath,” Jurnet pointed out, refusing to be drawn.

“Lonely, though,” the young man rejoined. “Just the spot for a quiet rape.”

At that Sergeant Ellers rose up on his toes and said, “I'm splitting my sides, laddie.”

“Don't do yourself an injury on my account,” the red-haired young man begged earnestly. “You'll be glad to know I've left some clues. Orange peel, a Coke tin, and the wrapping off a Mars bar. In the waste-paper basket, of course. I wouldn't want to be run in for something really serious, like litter.” Tiring of the game: “Permission to go, sir?”

Jurnet said, “I was thinking you must be feeling lonely to stay this long.”