The Killing Season (4 page)

She winked at me. ‘Because you are a very handsome man. If I was fifty years younger I might have given her a run for her money.’

I laughed. ‘You’d have barely been at infant school fifty years ago, Helen.’

It was her turn to laugh. ‘I can see you’ve kissed the Blarney Stone, Jack.’

‘Kissed it? My family installed it.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’

I had the impression that she was stalling. Avoiding the matter that had brought me to her house in the first place. Everything in this room seemed so ordered. It was as if she was reluctant to break the sense of security she felt in it.

‘The police have been of no use?’ I prompted her.

She snorted in response – in a ladylike manner, mind. ‘Don’t even get me started. No offence.’

‘None taken. So you want to show me how bad it is?’

Helen nodded, then led me to the left-hand side of the room and opened the door almost reluctantly. Her eyes glistened as she looked inside. But not with joy. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as I looked in.

I could see why she had been reluctant to open the door.

William

HE DIDN’T KNOW
how old he was.

Big for his age, but terrified by the small woman who stood in front of him. She had long, dark curly hair tied back, eyes as blue as eggs in a robin’s nest and a hardness in them that was no foil to their beauty. She had a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones, lips like a cut fig. Her skin was pale, almost alabaster, and she wore no make-up. When she smiled and laughed it lit up his world like a Christmas tree. But he couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed. Or smiled. She certainly wasn’t smiling now.

In her hand she held a long stick, and he already knew that he had done wrong. He looked across the kitchen at the broken fragments of the green-patterned plate he had dropped and he felt his knees tremble. The lady who owned the plate would be annoyed. It was part of a set, a valuable set. And the small woman who held the stick would bear the brunt of that anger. But not in the way that he would bear hers.

Soon after, with his back and buttocks bared, the stick cut fresh marks over old scars and he bit down hard, determined not to cry or yell.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried, either.

THE DOOR FROM
Helen Middleton’s lounge opened into the bungalow’s kitchen.

Some plastic sheeting had been draped haphazardly, bisecting the kitchen, but the wind blew coldly through, creating a low hum as it set the sheet flapping. Beyond that there was a large hole that had been cut through the kitchen wall and beyond that lay her garden, which looked as well ordered as everything else concerning the bungalow. And past the garden lay the flat salt marshes that led to the coast. And then the North Sea itself, stretching all the way to the North Pole. And the wind, blowing straight from there, blew straight into her kitchen.

I shivered. It was a flensing gale.

‘It’s an extension, a kind of studio for me. I’m doing a bit of writing and I wanted a view.’

‘Nice view.’

‘Would be – through a window, if there was one,’ Helen sighed sadly.

‘What was the deal?’

‘They quoted me a price. I had a couple of different firms in. They seemed the most reasonable.’

‘Cheapest isn’t always the best when it comes to builders.’

‘Or women.’ She cracked a tiny smile at that. ‘An expensive lesson I take it?’

Her ghost of a smile faded. ‘And a painful one.’

‘What have they said?’

‘I have already paid them what they quoted to start with and then five thousand pounds more. Now they tell me they want another few thousand to finish it. I haven’t got that to spare. Well, I could, I suppose. But there is a principle involved. I am not getting any younger, Mister Delaney. I may need to draw on my investments for other necessities.’

‘Do you have a contract with the builders?’

‘Not a formal one, no. Because of the new laws on not needing planning permission for a ground-floor extension if you don’t go beyond the property’s limits, I didn’t get an architect. The pair of them seemed trustworthy. What is it they say about a fool and her money?’

‘I don’t think you’re a fool.’

‘The evidence would seem to suggest otherwise.’

‘Cynicism is the modern curse. It infects our society like a canker. Trusting people is not a bad thing. You shouldn’t blame yourself and we can take care of this.’

‘How?’

I smiled wryly at her. ‘I have degrees in cynicism, Helen. Distinctions in it. The first thing is to get this room sealed properly so your kitchen is usable. And let me worry about the bad men. It’s what I do.’

‘Like I say. I do have some small resources left financially.’

I held up my hand. ‘Let’s not worry about that now. Seems to me these people haven’t fulfilled their part of the bargain.’

‘The police said they couldn’t do anything.’

I smiled again. ‘I’m not police, Helen. At least, not at the moment, anyway.’

I pulled out my phone.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Guy I know in Sheringham. Retired cabinet maker, puts his hands to most things. I’m going to have him put the windows in and see what needs doing to get the rest finished. We’ll have this sorted before you know it.’

‘Thank you.’

The relief in her voice was palpable. She bent down to pick up her dog who had come scampering up as he heard the emotion in her voice and was whimpering a little, concerned for her. His tail thumped wildly against her arms and he licked her face as if he had not seen her for a week.

She smiled as the tension leaked from her body. Canine medicine.

I smiled ironically to myself as I finished punching the numbers into my mobile. Dealing with dodgy builders and petty vandals – I felt a long, long way from London.

‘Mike,’ I said as my call was answered. ‘It’s Jack Delaney.’

IT WAS A
couple of hours later.

I had taken my Saab back on the demolition-derby coastal road and managed to survive the journey to Weybourne. I’d also called the builder whom Helen Middleton had had the misfortune to employ and had ascertained, by use of skilful detection techniques, where he was currently working. He was doing some roofing work on a rental property that was located down the coastal road that ran from opposite The Ship public house down to the beach.

I had asked about his availability for a quote and he had said he’d be finished about five and could swing by my house later. I told him I would check with the wife and call him back if that was suitable. I’d asked him how far away he was from a street in Sheringham – where we didn’t in fact live – and he gave me the name of the street in which he was working. If I hadn’t been a detective maybe I would have made a great telephone salesperson. Then again, I reasoned, I probably didn’t have either the temperament or the personality for it.

It was nearly three o’clock when I pulled up alongside the builder’s Mercedes van. I’d guessed that he’d have a van and it would have his name on it, and I’d figured right. You don’t get to be made a DI in the greatest police force in the land without that kind of deductive genius. The nearly new Lexus parked next to it, with his sign also on the back window, seemed to indicate that he was doing pretty well out of his building business too. Judging by the way he had ripped off Helen Middleton I wasn’t surprised that he could afford a luxury car to go with his Mercedes van.

My carpenter pal Mike Garnet had arrived earlier at Helen Middleton’s place with a builder friend of his to weatherproof the kitchen, and to evaluate the damage. By their assessment the job required about three grand or so to finish it off to a good spec. The good news was that there were no major problems with the work that had been completed – barring the fact that Bill Collier’s lot had overcharged her by about five grand for materials and hadn’t finished the job when they were supposed to. And now they were putting the strong arm on her for more money to do so. Sharp practice. The police seemed to regard it as a civil matter, which is, I guess, where I came in.

Only I wasn’t going to be civil about it.

I pulled up in front of the Lexus, got out of the car and walked back to the house.

My experience as one of the Met’s finest also led me to deduce that the fact that there were two vehicles parked outside the house meant that there was more than just Collier on the job. I could see one guy on top of a medium-sized ladder, adjusting some guttering that ran just above the mounting for a Sky aerial dish that was pointing south.

He was broad-shouldered man, shorter than me by a couple of inches by the look of him. But heavier. Thick dark hair, a face battered by more than weather in its time. His hands were about twice the size of mine. In his late forties, I would have guessed. Something definitely simian about him. I could see why Amy had said he was not likely to be easily frightened. But a man is worthy of his hire, or should be – and I had a job to do.

‘Your name Bill Collier?’ I asked.

The man on top of the ladder turned round, looked at me and grunted, growling suspiciously.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ he replied.

‘Name of Delaney, Jack Delaney. And I need to speak to you about a job you did for Helen Middleton.’

‘What’s it got to do with you?’

‘I said I would help her in the matter.’

‘How?’

‘By my reckoning the job needs a few grands’ worth of work to get it finished.’

‘And?’

‘And you have already overcharged her for materials and supposed labour, et cetera. Ballpark? Five grand, let’s say. I want the money from you to pay a competent builder to complete the project,’ I said pleasantly. Then I smiled.

It took him a moment or two to take it in. ‘Are you out of your fucking mind?’

‘Not at all.’ I kept the smile on my face.

‘Want me to come down there and punch your lights out, then?’ He had a Midlands accent – Birmingham or Coventry or thereabouts, I guessed.

I took it as a rhetorical question, but kicked the ladder over just to be on the safe side. Bill Collier shouted in rage as the ladder fell away below him. He flailed, grabbed the Sky dish mounting, and dangled some eight feet from the ground. ‘You are a fucking dead man!’ he yelled.

‘I am just trying to establish a bit of dialogue here. We can do it easy or we can do it hard, Mr Collier. Either way the lady is going to be compensated.’

‘Just who the fuck do you think you are?’ His face was red with rage and exertion.

I smiled again and pulled out my warrant card. Somewhat out of my jurisdiction, and, technically, not serving presently. But I figured he wouldn’t be able to read the small print.

‘I’m all kinds of trouble,’ I said and slipped the card back into my pocket. ‘You know, and I know, that you have had the woman over. Put it right and we don’t have to get official. Everyone’s a winner. You don’t get sued and she gets her extension.’

‘And if I tell you to go stick your head in a pig?’

‘Well then, I would have to take action.’

‘Don’t!’ he shouted out suddenly. I was puzzled for a moment until I realised that someone was coming up behind me.

I turned round and saw a man even bigger than the one who was dangling above me.

I reacted on instinct as the newcomer hammered a fist into my stomach. I moved in time to lessen the impact. Even so, it felt like a steam-hammer. I gasped and staggered back.

‘Leave it, Sam,’ shouted the man above. But his colleague seemed not to hear him. He swung a slow roundhouse punch to my head. I stepped aside and snapped a fast punch to his jaw. He stumbled, shook his head, looked puzzled and then turned to face me. I shot a quick jab to the bridge of his nose and then a fast left-right combination. He fell to the floor, dazed.

I picked up the ladder and leaned it against the wall, just out of the dangling man’s reach.

The other one lurched to his knees, making a ragged, gurgling sound.

‘What are you going to do? He didn’t know you were a copper,’ said Bill Collier, gasping as he struggled not to fall from his precarious perch.

I shrugged. ‘Sort out that repayment for Helen Middleton and everything, I am sure now, will be fine. We can put this behind us and just move along.’

‘You have no idea who you are dealing with, you fucking mick! You’re not going to get away with this!’

‘Yeah, I will. One way or another. Up to you how hard you want to make it on yourself.’

I turned and walked slowly back to my car with a confident smile on my face.

I used to play poker, after all.

William

HIS PARENTS HAD
been killed soon after he was born.

He had been told when he had been old enough to realise that he was an orphan. He had never known them and nobody ever talked about them. Not that there was anybody to talk to apart from his aunt. She was his sole surviving relative and she had brought him up without ever sparing the rod. She never mentioned her dead sister or her husband and he learned from an early age that he should not bring the matter up. She seemed to have no friends nor the desire to make any. She worked hard, brutally long hours and he was left pretty much to his own devices. He had no friends, neither in the squalid street where he lived nor in the school he was sent to. He and his aunt had moved around the country before coming to King’s Lynn and what little education he’d had hadn’t prepared him for much. He wasn’t bothered. He was used to being different, other, used to being a loner.

Poverty wasn’t an abstract concept in his life. It was a hard-faced reality that ran through every part of their existence like the rings of an oak tree. Their place in the world had been clearly defined for him since he’d been old enough to walk. They were scum. And they deserved no more and no less than they got. Pain, hardship, and sorrow. He had been sent to school finally but that was no refuge. The Brothers were of a cruel and sadistic nature. He had always been a strong boy, but amongst grown men he was as weak as a woman and he knew that. So he kept his head down and minded his own business as best he could. That didn’t stop the Brothers using the strap and the stick, of course. They didn’t need a reason to beat. Spare the rod and spoil the child, just as his aunt proclaimed. He had never been spared or spoiled.