The Lily-White Boys (7 page)

And that had been that. In the all-consuming selfishness of passion, both Harry and Monica were forgotten, and within weeks the wedding had taken place. Now, after all those years, Justin found himself belatedly wondering how Monica had felt. Of course, it wasn't as though there'd been any commitment between them, a fact which, if he'd thought about it at all, had eased the odd twinge of conscience. It failed to do so now. He could only hope she'd not been hurt as badly as Harry must have been. It said a lot for both Monica and Harry that they were still among their closest friends.

Gazing unseeingly out of the window, Justin continued to probe his suddenly sensitive conscience. For, having discarded Monica without a thought, he hadn't hesitated to call on her whenever it suited him. It was to her that he propounded his ideas for expansion, his worries about share prices or personality clashes among the staff. She was always ready to listen, calming unnecessary anxiety, offering sound comment and occasionally suggesting a course of action which he was glad to follow.

And over the last year or two his demands on her had extended into the social sphere as well. Eloise had never hidden her boredom with the fat Italians and balding

Frenchmen who came to do business with him and whose languages she made no attempt to understand. So, when she started to plead increasingly unconvincing migraines, he had turned to Monica, who had willingly placed at his disposal not only her fluency in languages but the quiet, attentive charm that was so much a part of her. In fact, he realized to his dismay that there were times when he preferred his sister-in-law's company to that of his wife.

A knock on the door made him start and he turned sharply.

‘Justin?' a voice called. ‘Coming down for a drink before lunch?'

‘Be right with you!' he answered, and, thankfully relinquishing his musings, he went to join his colleagues.

The press conference over, Webb and Jackson had repaired to the Brown Bear for lunch, where they were joined by DI Crombie.

‘Any developments while I was at the PM?' Webb asked him, as Crombie put down his plate and glass and pulled out a chair.

‘The piece in last night's
News
produced some phone calls.' The local paper had run a front page item, asking if anyone had seen the van between 9.0 p.m. and midnight on Monday.

‘Well?' Webb prompted, as the Inspector spread a paper napkin over his knees before embarking on his meal.

‘Some lads walking home from the Mulberry Bush are pretty sure they saw the van parked along the road about ten forty-five. At any rate the one they saw was dirty, dark green in colour and had an elongated roof-rack. And at eleven-twenty or so a motorist pulled into the Wood Green lay-by to check a map reference and noticed a dark van parked there without lights. He didn't investigate – thought it was a courting couple.'

‘So if both sightings were the van we're interested in, it had only moved a hundred yards in half an hour?'

‘It would seem so.'

‘Waiting for someone?'

Crombie shrugged.

‘Did the lads see anyone in it?'

‘Yes, they glanced in as they passed and a man was sitting behind the wheel. It was only a brief glimpse and they can't describe him, or say if there was anyone with him.'

‘Well, it's not likely the murderer would have been hanging about with a couple of bodies in the back. So, always provided it was the right van, it seems the twins parked near the Mulberry Bush for a while, and later drove on to the lay-by. Any bright ideas why?'

‘A call of nature?' Jackson suggested. Webb shot him a repressive glance.

‘And there was another report,' Crombie continued. ‘Not the van this time, but a parked car just round the bend from the lay-by. The bloke who rang in thought at the time it looked suspicious, because it was off the road hidden under some branches. As far as he could tell there was no one inside.'

‘What time was this?'

‘Also around eleven.'

‘So the two vehicles were parked near each other?'

‘No, Davis checked that when he took the call. The car was on the Shillingham side of the lay-by and the van on the far side, near the Mulberry Bush.'

‘Close enough, though, not to rule out a connection between them. So where had the car driver got to, and why did he try to conceal his car? Do we know what make it was?'

‘Not much of it was visible, but it looked like a hatchback.'

‘Mm. Any other news?'

‘The house-to-house didn't turn up much. All the neighbours noticed the van, but Miss Tovey was the only one who did anything about it. The rest of them ignored it, presumably in the hope that it would go away.'

Webb grunted. ‘I take it all the people who phoned are coming in to make statements?'

‘Yes, this afternoon, after which I'll drive out with them to check the exact positions of the parked vehicles. In the meantime, though it's rather late now, the lay-by's been sealed off till the SOCOs can get to it.'

‘Everything all right, gentlemen?' The barmaid bent forward to collect their empty plates, the bracelets on her wrists jangling discordantly. An inveterate sensation-seeker, she took great pride in her police clientele and constantly questioned them on current cases, seemingly undeterred by their unfailing refusal to be drawn.

‘Fine, thanks, Mabel.'

‘Working on the murder of them twins, are you?'

Webb winked at Crombie. ‘That's right,' he admitted.

‘Shocking thing, young lads like that. Mind, they weren't what you'd call squeaky-clean theirselves, were they?'

‘Weren't they?'

‘Come on, Mr Webb, you're not fooling me. All that hooligan business up at the club. Some say it's just high spirits, but I don't go along with that. It's violence, same as any other, and once you get into that sort of thing, there's no saying where it will end.'

‘Very true, Mabel.'

She waited hopefully, but when it was apparent he was adding nothing further, she reluctantly moved to the next table.

Webb drained his glass. ‘Speaking of which, has Bob been along to the club?'

Crombie grinned. ‘You bet – any excuse! He hadn't got back by the time I left.'

‘I wonder if he'll come up with anything new.'

As decreed by the Football Association, Shillingham United Supporters' Club had no official link with the football club. Nor had it any official premises, being based at a small commercial hotel, the Duckworth, a little further up Station Road. There, its members had the use of what was grandly known as the conference suite, which comprised a bar, a large room where social events were held and a small ante-room for committee meetings.

Bob Dawson, an ardent football fan, knew it well, but this was the first time he'd been there in an official capacity. He hoped young Steve's presence would reinforce his authority over what was normally a relaxed social gathering.

As it was lunch-time, several members who worked locally were gathered in the bar, talking in low voices. The news of the double murder had jolted them out of their flat, end-of-season feeling, and when they turned towards him, Dawson saw that his apprehension had been groundless. Whatever his usual relationship with them, they recognized him now as an officer of the law and were looking to him for reassurance.

Dick Turner, the chairman, came towards him with his hand extended. ‘Glad to see you, er – Sergeant. A terrible business.'

‘Yes, sir.' Dawson gratefully kept up the formality. ‘This is my colleague, DC Cummings. Mr Turner, club chairman.'

Steve also had his hand shaken.

Dick Turner cleared his throat. ‘We were just wondering if this is going to reflect on the club in any way? We've had our share of bad publicity, but nothing as serious as this, thank God.'

‘Too early to say yet, sir. I'd be interested, though, to hear of anyone you might know of who's clashed with the Whites in the past.'

‘But, good God, man, you know how they were!' Turner broke off, remembering Dawson's official hat, and continued more calmly. ‘This is difficult, with the lads dead, but it has to be said they've caused us quite a few headaches over the years. They were loyal members of the club – none more so – but if there was any trouble at or around the ground, they were sure to be in the thick of it.'

Dawson nodded. ‘They had their special cronies, didn't they?'

Turner shrugged. ‘As to that, I couldn't say. Bill here knows more about the daily goings-on than I do.'

The club secretary came forward, his normally cheerful face subdued. He nodded awkwardly to Dawson, embarrassed by his change of status.

‘They were more hangers-on than cronies,' he said. ‘It was an odd set-up – the twins were totally self-sufficient. There was something about them that set them apart, and it fascinated the other lads.' He drank from the tankard he was holding. ‘They were known as the Lily-White Boys, you know; partly from their name and partly because they always dressed in green, the United colour.'

Dawson glanced at Steve, writing industriously in his notebook. Bill Johnson knew Dawson was aware of all this, and it was to Steve's notebook that he addressed his remarks.

‘Anyway, the gang, such as it was, used to go drinking before matches. One season we tried closing the bar here until after the game, but it caused aggro with the other members and didn't stop the tearaways, who found another drinking hole.'

‘If we could have the names, sir?' Dawson reminded him. He knew them, of course, but was interested to hear if Johnson's list tallied with his own.

‘Jango Simms, Mike Leyton and Charlie Richards were the main ones. Sometimes Pete Seymour and Brian Arkwright joined them, but they were more on the fringe. Still, what's your interest in them? They were pals, not enemies.'

‘They'd know any likely enemies, though.' Only a half-true answer, but it satisfied Johnson.

‘Yes, of course. I see.'

‘The last match of the season was at Steeple Bayliss, wasn't it?'

‘That's right, the week before last. We beat them four-nil.'

‘The White boys were there?'

‘Yes. They didn't start any trouble, though; like the rest of us, they were over the moon at the result.'

‘And they went straight home afterwards?'

The secretary frowned. ‘I couldn't say. We'd laid on a coach, but they weren't on it – used their own transport. Come to think of it, their van was still in the car park when we left.'

‘Which was at what time?'

‘About six.'

‘What about their pals?'

‘They were with us. I remember thinking the Whites must have told them to push off. They did that sometimes, when they wanted to be by themselves. As I said, it was a weird set-up.'

‘So it's at least possible they could have got up to something after the rest of you had left.' Something which had serious repercussions a week later.

‘I suppose so, yes.' Bill Johnson looked anxious, as though as secretary he was responsible for the conduct of his members.

‘Right, we'll get on to the other lads and see if the Whites mentioned what they were planning to do. Thanks for your help, gentlemen. If there's anything else, we'll be in touch again.'

Not, Dawson thought, as Steve Cummings followed him out of the side door from the conference suite, that he himself had learned anything new. The point was what the Governor would be able to do with it.

It was five o'clock when Dick Hodges, the Chief SOCO, phoned.

‘Thought you'd like to know we've finished going over the victims' room.'

‘Anything of interest?'

‘Not with regard to their deaths, as far as I can tell. No fingerprints other than their own and Mrs Trubshaw's. But there's a stash of what looks like stolen property, which might be helpful.'

Webb reached for pen and paper. ‘Give me a quick run-through, will you, Dick?'

‘Well, there's a handful of jewellery all bundled together. Nothing of enormous value, but some rather nice pieces – jade, coral, stuff like that. Plus a silver cigarette box inscribed LMB, some silver and ivory fish-eaters, a little jade statue and a couple of strings of pearls. I haven't checked if they're real or not – my guess is cultured – but I bet my old lady wouldn't turn her nose up at them.'

Webb grinned, thinking of Dick's ‘old lady', a bright, vivacious forty-year-old. ‘OK, thanks; I'll have them checked with the property index.'

‘I've some news for you, Alan,' he told Crombie when, ten minutes later, the Inspector returned to his desk. ‘Remember that house that was done on the SB to Marlton road? The one you thought might have some connection with the plane?'

‘Yes?'

‘It was the White twins who turned it over. Dick's found some of the stuff in their room.'

‘What the hell were they doing out there?'

‘At a guess, returning from SB after the match.' He'd just finished Dawson's report. ‘From what I remember, the owners admitted leaving the garage doors open. The lads must have noticed as they drove past and stopped on spec.'

He shot a sly glance at the Inspector. ‘I don't think the plane was theirs, though,' he added with mock seriousness, ‘or we wouldn't have found anything in their room.' And he dodged, grinning, as Crombie flicked a paper dart in his direction.

When Monica arrived home that evening, Mrs Bedale was in the hall replacing the telephone.

‘Oh, Miss Tovey, there you are. That was a call for you.' Monica paused, alerted by the woman's tone of voice.

‘Yes?'

‘I'm sorry, he wouldn't give me his name.'

‘Did he leave a message?'

‘Only that he'd ring back.'

Monica frowned. ‘He asked for me specifically?'

‘No, he said, “the lady”. I asked which one, and he said “The one who works at the shop”.'