Vera Stanhope 06 - Harbour Street (18 page)

‘Then I’ll give the head my notice tomorrow. He’ll need a full term.’ And so, it seemed, the decision was made.

He went to the counter to pay his friend and there seemed to be a flurry of anxiety for a moment. She wondered if he’d forgotten his cash or his credit card, but when she asked him he said it was nothing. A photo that he kept in his wallet seemed to have gone missing. She hoped he’d kept a photo of her, though she couldn’t remember him taking one. She didn’t like to mention it again because he seemed so put out to have lost it, and by then they were out in the street and on their way to the Sage.

When they returned from Newcastle, George must have gone to bed because the lounge was empty, the curtains drawn against the dark. Kate was buzzing. The concert had been so awful that it had been funny and the audience had shared the experience like a joke. In the end it was as if they’d all been present at a really special gig, with the small hall at the Sage warm and intimate, and they’d all wandered out talking and laughing about it like old friends. The last Metro home was full of partying drunks, but everyone was good-natured. A policeman got on at Haymarket and stayed on the train; someone said that had happened every night since the murder. They’d got the seat right at the front, so the lights of the approaching stations rushed at them and Kate felt as if it was a fairground ride, as if she was about ten years old.

Both kids were home when they arrived back. Ryan hadn’t long got in; it was raining and his jacket, thrown over the banister at the bottom of the stairs, was wet. Kate and Stuart had had a couple of drinks in the interval to keep them going through the second half of the gig and Kate was still not entirely sober. She felt very happy, in a tipsy, emotional way. Both her children were safe at home and she had this wonderful new man and her future seemed exciting.

The kids were in the basement sitting room in front of the television.

‘There’s been another murder,’ Ryan said as soon as they were in the room. ‘They were talking about it in the Coble.’

For a moment she didn’t take in what he’d said. She knew he went into the Coble occasionally, but she didn’t like it. Stuart had once said in his dry, practical way: ‘Boys that age are going to drink anyway. Better that they do it in the pub where there are other adults around.’ Her worry, which she’d never discussed with Stuart, was about where Ryan got the money from for drink. She gave him an allowance, but would that run to pub prices? She knew Malcolm Kerr paid him, but Ryan always seemed to have cash. Deep down she was anxious that he’d started thieving. It was as if she had a stranger in the house. She remembered the small, affectionate boy who’d held her hand when they walked to the park, but this stylish young man bore no resemblance.

Then the shock of another killing hit her and her concern about Ryan seemed petty.

‘What did you say?’

Ryan seemed sober, but hyper, and he repeated the words with a kind of repressed excitement that made her feel ill.

Stuart seemed not to notice the boy’s reaction. ‘Do you know who the victim was?’

‘Some woman,’ Ryan said. ‘She drinks in the Coble and lives in Percy Street. Dee Robson they call her.’

Kate recognized the name and remembered that Margaret had talked about her. One of her waifs.
Dee needs someone to look after her, and all they can do is call her names.

‘We’re waiting for the late local news.’ Chloe was wearing the same black knitted jumper as she’d had on for school; it was too big for her, and she seemed to disappear inside it. She was drinking a mug of tea.

There was a strained silence. Kate was quite sober now, but she couldn’t find anything appropriate to say.

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Stuart said at last. ‘Anyone else want a brew?’

But nobody answered because the local news came on the television and there were the flats in Percy Street, with blue-and-white police tape stretched around the lamp posts, and scientists in white suits and masks making their way to the door. Even Stuart paused on his way to the kitchen to watch.

Joe Ashworth found Vera still standing outside the flat in Percy Street when he arrived, as if she’d been fixed there since calling in the murder, waiting for him to arrive. He knew that she’d be upset. Something about Dee Robson had moved her. She could be as callous as hell, but occasionally she connected with a witness and, when that happened, she would move heaven and earth to help them. The objects of her pity were usually loners, clumsy, despised. And fat, Joe thought, grinning to himself despite the situation. Much like Vera herself.

‘What do you think happened?’ It was cold. A draught blew up the stairwell. He knew that the last thing she’d want would be sympathy.

‘She must have been killed not long after we came to see her.’ Vera was standing with her hands in her pockets. There wasn’t much room there and his elbow brushed against her arm.

‘A customer?’

‘She was dressed for work, but still wearing her knickers. No evidence that sex had taken place.’

He could tell that she’d already thought this through. ‘It could still have been a punter,’ he said. ‘We know that she wasn’t much good at risk assessment. She went off with that guy Jason, without knowing where he lived.’

‘The link with Margaret Krukowski is just a coincidence, do you think?’ Vera gave a sharp little smile. ‘That’s some elephant-sized coincidence.’

‘What then?’ He was losing patience. If Vera Stanhope had a theory, why didn’t she just tell him? Why play games?

‘Dee Robson knew something about Margaret’s killer,’ Vera said. ‘But she didn’t know that she knew. Otherwise she’d have told us when we saw her yesterday.’ There was a pause. ‘Or maybe she was smarter than anyone thought.’

‘Blackmail?’ Sometimes he knew the way her mind was working. ‘She kept the information secret so that she could make money from it.’

She gave a slow clap. ‘Well done, that boy.’

‘You think that she’d have been capable of that?’ He couldn’t see it. He didn’t think Dee had been bright enough to make the connections, and he’d been convinced by her performance the day before.

‘She was desperate,’ Vera said. ‘An alcoholic, living like this – there’d be an incentive to get money any way she could. Maybe Margaret said something to her when they last met. Something so obvious that you wouldn’t have had to be Einstein to work out who’d killed her.’

There were footsteps on the stairs and Billy Wainwright appeared. He looked grey and ill.

‘You okay, Billy?’ Joe disapproved of Billy’s lifestyle choices – the string of young lovers seemed undignified for someone of his position – but couldn’t help liking him.

‘A bit of a hangover. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure.’ He was already in the scene suit and was putting on a mask, so the words were muffled.

‘I thought you were so busy with the crime scene in the Metro there’d be no time for partying.’ Vera’s words were sharp.

‘All work and no play . . .’ Joe could tell by his voice that he was grinning. ‘You could do with a bit of play yourself, Vera.’

‘Just go in there and do your work, Billy. Tell me who killed these women. Find some fibres or spit or fingerprints, and link the two investigations. That would be a good start.’

He realized that she was serious, gave a mock salute and went into the house. Outside came the sound of sirens. ‘The cavalry,’ Vera said.

Joe couldn’t face standing here for much longer, watching Vera tear herself apart with guilt, but bottling it all up inside. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Knock on some doors, Joe. Start in the flats and then move down the street. Dee would have been an object of interest. There might even have been a campaign to get her shifted. She was hardly a model tenant. Let’s hope there’s a busybody somewhere who’s made a note of the comings and goings. I’ve sent Hol back to the station to coordinate calls from the public.’ When he paused she continued angrily. ‘If it’s not beneath your dignity as a sergeant, sometime today would be good.’

He put up his hands, a gesture of surrender, and walked away. When she called him back he thought she was going to apologize for being so sharp. But she handed him a greasy carrier bag. ‘Get rid of these, will you? Fish and chips. They’ll be cold by now.’

He started at the ground floor and worked up. Two flats on each floor, six lots of tenants. Mid-afternoon and the week before Christmas he expected most people to be out, but he was 50 per cent lucky. The first door he knocked on had a handrail outside and a ramp to the front step. A tiny elderly woman with a walking frame opened the door. She had shining white hair permed into tight curls. He showed his warrant card.

She stepped aside and let him in, sat him in front of the gas fire and chatted while she made tea. She couldn’t have been happier to see him if he’d been Santa. ‘It gets a bit lonely,’ she said. No self-pity. ‘Though I get out to the over-sixties on Thursdays, and that’s always a laugh. Our Christmas party tomorrow.’

‘I’m here to ask some questions.’ He sat with the tea and a plate balanced awkwardly on the arm of the chair. She’d insisted on him getting the Battenberg out of the cake tin.

‘About that woman who was killed on the Metro?’ She poked her head forward, eager for information. ‘The one with the foreign name. I remember her when she was a lass. Always a bit full of herself and stirring up the lads. Ricky Butt had his eye on her at one time, and Val threatened to bar her from the Coble.’

‘Ricky Butt?’ The woman obviously wanted to chat and she reminded Joe of his nan.

‘Oh, this won’t have anything to do with him.’ The woman shook her head. ‘Val was the landlady of the pub for years, but she’s long gone, and he left Mardle when he was still a boy.’ She smiled. ‘Sorry, pet, you’re not interested in me wittering on. How can I help?’

‘There’s been another incident,’ he said.

‘Oh?’ Eyes wide with curiosity.

‘Dee Robson. She lives on the top floor. Do you know her?’

‘Oh, that one! Peggy Jamieson lives next door, and her life’s a misery. Banging up and down the stairs at all hours. Men knocking. She told the police and the council, but nothing happened.’ She paused. ‘Not Dee’s fault, mind.’ She tapped the side of her head. ‘I knew her mam and she was a bit daft too, like. Though not as bad as Dee.’ A thoughtful pause. ‘They used to lock up people like that in asylums.’

Ashworth couldn’t tell if she approved or disapproved of the notion.

‘Dee’s dead,’ Ashworth said. ‘We think she died in her flat yesterday. Did you hear or see anything unusual?’

The woman shook her head regretfully. ‘I was out all day yesterday. My daughter took me back to hers for my dinner.’

He stayed for a few more minutes and had another slice of cake. Vera wasn’t the only one with compassion.

The next inhabited flat was on the second floor. A woman in her early thirties with a toddler clinging to her legs. She didn’t ask him in.

‘I’ve already talked to you lot about the woman that was stabbed on the Metro.’

‘Did you know Margaret Krukowski?’

‘Nah, but when they showed me her picture I realized I’d bumped into her on the stairs a couple of times. She was on her way to the flat upstairs. I told them that.’ The toddler began to grizzle.

‘Perhaps we could go in and talk about it,’ Joe said. ‘We don’t want the bairn to get cold.’

The flat was exactly the same in layout as Dee’s, but there was carpet on the floor and it was furnished. In the living room there was a box of brightly coloured plastic toys. The television was on.
CBeebies
. The woman was called Jodie and she didn’t like cops.

‘You’re here on your own with the bairn?’

‘Only since you put my man inside.’

Here, then, he was unlikely to be offered tea and cake. ‘Dee Robson . . .’

‘What about her?’ Jodie was very thin, with a ratty face and narrow eyes.

‘She’s a neighbour.’

‘The social set her up in that flat upstairs. All the old biddies in the block want her out.’ She put the child on the floor and he pulled a train from the toy box.

‘And you?’

She shrugged. ‘Live and let live.’

‘You weren’t worried that she was attracting unsuitable men into the flats?’

The woman gave an unpleasant laugh. ‘Have you met her? How many men do you think she attracts? Those too drunk to get up the stairs. She hangs out in the Coble because the locals feel sorry for her and buy her drinks. She might have done a bit of business a few years ago, but now she’s just a laughing stock.’

‘Are you in the same line yourself?’

She laughed again. ‘I’m a reformed character. Check my record.’

‘Dee’s dead,’ he said. ‘We think she was killed sometime yesterday afternoon.’

‘Poor cow.’ She scooped the child into her arms and held him tight, kissing his hair. ‘She was as mad as a snake, but she didn’t deserve that.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘I haven’t seen her for a few days, but I heard her yesterday. Her flat’s above mine and the ceiling’s like cardboard. Usually there wasn’t much noise. The telly, but I have it on most of the time anyway.’ She sat on the sofa with the child still in her arms and watched the children’s presenter pretending to be a lion.

‘But yesterday you heard something,’ he said. ‘People shouting? A row?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing like that. Music. Could have been on the telly, but very loud. I’d put Alfie down for a nap and I was worried she’d wake him up. I banged on the ceiling with a broom handle and it stopped. She must have gone out then, because I heard her on the steps outside.’

‘But you didn’t see her?’

Jodie looked horrified. ‘Oh my God, you think it was the killer going past the door?’

‘It’s possible,’ Ashworth said. ‘What time was it?’

She shook her head as if time didn’t mean anything to her. ‘I didn’t see anything. I mean, I didn’t look out of the window.’

He left her sitting with her son on the sofa and staring at the television.

Peggy Jamieson was expecting him and knew who he was. Her friend on the ground floor must have phoned her, and anyway by now the neighbouring flat was swarming with people and the blue-and-white tape was across the corridor, blocking her way to the stairs. Ashworth bobbed underneath it, nodded to the PC who was standing guard, and knocked on the door. There was no sign of Vera. Peggy opened the door and immediately started talking. She was short and round, and the stairs must be a trial to her.