A Killing kindness

The woman looked at him in alarm.

'You don't think Tommy's got anything to do with killing that lass, do you? It was the Choker, everyone knows that.'

'But who's the Choker, Janey? Who knows that? You've met Tommy?'

'Couple of times. Ron brought him round to the house.'

'Nice lad.'

'He seemed very nice. Very decent,' she said emphatically. A scrap of tobacco had got stuck to her tongue. She picked at it with a scarlet fingernail. The effect was much sexier now that she wasn't trying.

'And Brenda, did you meet her?'

'Just the once. She was in the car when Tommy called, so I made him bring her in. Nice girl too. Well spoken.'

'Bit posh for Tommy, you thought?'

'No. Just well spoken.'

'Frankie, did he meet her?'

'Yes. He said hello.'

'And what did he think of her?'

Now alarms were ringing in her mind.

'What's that mean? He didn't think anything of her. Just for a minute they spoke. What the hell are you driving at?'

Wield looked at her with a blankness not altogether affected. He had stumbled on this line of questioning by chance just as he was about ready to give up and go. There was no way that Frankie was going to let hints about his brief acquaintance with Brenda Sorby scare him into admitting the Spinks ‘warehouse job. But Janey might let something slip out of sheer indignation.

'We're interested in anyone who knew Brenda,' he said, suddenly very stiff, very official. 'There's a strong possibility that she was picked up by a car after she left Tommy that night. And for her to get willingly into a car at that time of night, she would almost certainly need to know the driver.'

She was on her feet leaning over him, so close and so angry that he felt little specks of spittle hit his face as she spoke.

'Are you pigs so hard up you want to pin this one on any poor sod who's handy? Well, you've come to the wrong shop if it's my Frankie you're after. He was here with me all that night, and I mean all that night, from when he got home till next morning when he went to work. And nothing's going to make me say different, not even if they send a whole battalion looking like you do!'

'What time did you go to bed?' asked Wield calmly.

'What?'

'Bed. You did go to bed? What time.'

'I don't know. Half eleven, midnight.'

She was confused as people often are by a lack of reaction to an emotional outburst.

'What about Ron?'

'What about Ron?'

'Did he go first? Or was he still up when you and Frankie went to bed?'

'I don't know. First I think.'

'So there was a period when you and Frankie were downstairs by yourselves between eleven and midnight.'

'I don't know! What's it matter? Mebbe we went first.'

'Leaving Ron by himself?'

'No! I mean, most likely we all went up together.'

'I didn't know you were that close a family,' said Wield.

She slapped at his face, a full round-arm blow. Wield parried unhurriedly, the chopping edge of his left hand held palm forward at head height like a gesture of peace.

'Jesus!' she swore as she nursed her wrist.

'Pick someone your own size,' said Wield.

He rose, put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her down on to the chair he had just vacated.

There was something here, he was sure. But it was probably something for Chief Inspector Headingley, and he had already spent too much Choker time on it.

Casting bread on waters was a good exit ploy for a policeman. Leave them worrying. It was often very effective. It was also often very unpleasant but, as any Rider Haggard fan knew, duty must be done.

'Janey,' he said sternly. 'If your Frankie's relying on Ron for an alibi, he shouldn't sleep too well at nights.'

'What the hell do you mean?' she said sullenly, still rubbing her wrist.

'Come on, Janey! Don't be naive. You must know your brother well enough by now. When Frankie got done for the whisky, did you never wonder how we got on to him?'

She was with him so quickly he knew he must have touched some deep hidden suspicion.

'You're lying,' she said. 'Prove it.'

'Oh Janey,' he said sadly. 'That's the one thing people like you and people like me have in common. We know when each other's lying or telling the truth. It's only juries that need proof.'

He made for the door. There was nothing else for him here just now. Later, perhaps…

Wield knew he'd taken a risk. It was one thing to threaten Ludlam, quite another to blow the gaff to Janey. But Wield had his intuitions too. It crossed his mind that the last time he had followed one was when he sat in on the seance with a cassette recorder in his pocket.

He shuddered at the memory and drove to Brenda Sorby's bank.

Millhill was a typically 'mixed' suburb, middle-class, owner-occupied on the side nearest the river moderating to council house and commercial towards the neighbouring industrial estate. The Northern Bank was in a smallish shopping precinct at about the midway point. The previous weekend after the discovery of Brenda Sorby's body, Pascoe had interviewed the bank staff while Wield had checked round the shops. Only the hairdressing salon a quarter of a mile along the road had provided any witness. Brenda had kept her appointment, been bright and chatty and left just after six-fifteen. Indeed, as they knew that she had met Tommy in the Bay Tree at eight, anything the bank staff or shopkeepers could tell them hardly seemed likely to be significant, but Dalziel wanted the ground turned over again, and Dalziel was Ayesha.

Wield checked his notebook. A couple of the smaller shops had been closed for the annual holidays. It was surprising how many people still stuck to the old tradition of taking their vacation during the High Fair.

The first one he tried, M. Conrad, Jeweller and Watch-Repairer, was locked. The second, Durdons Confectioners, was open. Mr and Mrs Durdon had just got back from a week in Spain that very morning, and were clearly bent on recouping their expenses as rapidly as possible.

Yes, they had read about the killing, they always bought the English papers on holiday. Yes, they had been here that Thursday, they didn't go till early Friday morning. Yes, they remembered the lass vaguely.

But no, they didn't recall seeing her that day, and no, there was nothing they could tell Wield though he got a distinct impression they had lorded it at their Costa Brava hotel on the strength of their intimate connection with the case.

In the bank he was greeted with less enthusiasm. Mulgan, the acting manager, had (according to Pascoe's notes) been genuinely distressed at Brenda's death, but also perhaps a little too concerned that somehow it would reflect on him.

Now, a week later, this personal concern seemed to dominate. About five nine, with brown hair, thick, luxuriant and anointed, he was a good-looking man in a fleshy kind of way. His full cheeks were razored to a roseate glow and gave off strong emanations of one of the more macho aftershaves. Wield's memory was stirred. Maurice had given him a bottle last Christmas, but he had never used it.

He took Wield into his office, an act, so the sergeant felt, more of concealment than courtesy.

'This is very nice, sir,' said Wield, looking appreciatively round the well-proportioned office. 'It's a pretty large establishment. I mean, for a suburban bank.'

'Yes. It was built as the Avro Industrial Estate developed,' said Mulgan. 'Head Office anticipated a lot of business.'

'But didn't get it?'

'Pardon?'

'I meant, you sounded as if things didn't quite work out.'

'Oh no,' said Mulgan with loyal indignation. 'It's very flourishing. Very flourishing.'

Then, relaxing a little, he said, 'Mind you, they're a very conservative lot, your Yorkshire businessmen. You'd be surprised how many of them insist on maintaining their accounts at the main office in the town centre. Not that they couldn't have been persuaded with a little more dynamism perhaps. Well, perhaps it's not too late.'