Chris Collett - [Tom Mariner 01] (25 page)

‘I know. I’ll stay in touch.’

‘Thanks, I appreciate that.’

Mariner left Kerry in the capable hands of a WPC at the Facial Identification Bureau, at Lloyd House. There, in accordance with Home Office guidelines, she’d be shown a selection from the 25,000 or more mug shots they kept on file. The department also operated a sophisticated e-FIT system, which could create a computer image based purely on descriptions Kerry gave them. It was a step or two up from the crude cut-and-paste jobs they were doing when Mariner had started on the force. But if all that state of the art razzmatazz failed, there was always the graphic artist on hand.

Mariner’s next stop was DCI Coleman’s office. Burly and balding, Jack Coleman was an old generation copper who had risen through the ranks through sheer slog and a powerful conviction that simple but dedicated attention to detail achieved results. It was a doctrine bordering on pedantry that in his previous posting at Severn Road Station had earned him the nickname of ‘the Severn Bore’. But Coleman’s principles were founded on bitter experience.

Only five weeks into the job he’d been one of a handful of officers on foot patrol on the night of 21 November 1974, when a coded warning was received to say that two bombs had been planted in Birmingham city centre.

He’d been present later too, at Steelhouse Lane, when the six Irishman had been brought in, branded guilty and savagely beaten before they’d even opened their mouths to protest their innocence. He’d seen the fear on their faces and known that it was wrong, but like dozens of others he kept silent and had lived with the guilt ever since. These days he made sure that his officers had solid facts before an arrest was sanctioned, and despite the occasional frustration most of them felt, his squad’s high conviction record spoke for itself. Today he was characteristically bedded deep in paperwork when Mariner went in.

‘I want to shake Frank Crosby,’ Mariner told him, without procrastination.

Coleman put down his pen and sat back in his seat. The glare from his desk lamp bounced off his shining scalp. ‘On what grounds?’

Mariner explained what they’d uncovered, including the link with Kerry. Saying it out loud, even to his ears it was beginning to sound flimsy and insubstantial. Unsurprisingly, the gaffer apparently felt the same way.

‘Eddie Barham’s murder doesn’t on the face of it look much like Crosby’s usual style, does it?’ he said. ‘He’s not known to dress things up, as someone patently did.’

‘No, but he does have ready access to drugs and women, so that part at least makes sense. And he has a history with Eddie Barham, too. I just want to talk to him, see his reaction.’

It must have been enough because Coleman didn’t argue any further. ‘Just go carefully, Tom,’ he warned, unnecessarily.

‘I could really live without Frank Crosby bringing a complaint of harassment.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘What about Tony Knox?’

‘If he’s available I’ll take him along. The uniform could be an asset.’

‘You would seem to be having quite an influence over him,’ Coleman remarked.

‘He’s good at his job,’ said Mariner, not having any reason to say otherwise. ‘He could be CID material.’

Coleman glanced down at the paperwork on his desk, suddenly avoiding eye contact. ‘Yes, I’d heard that he was desperate to get back into plain clothes.’

‘Back?’

‘Didn’t he tell you?’

‘We work together. He doesn’t confide in me. What happened?’

‘Let’s just say that during his last spell out of uniform he lacked a certain self-discipline. I’m sure he’ll fill in the details for you if he wants to.’

So, Tony Knox had been a detective before. No wonder he’d taken to it so well.

Frank Crosby was taking an afternoon off to get in touch with his human side, playing the role of respectable businessman to improve his swing, putt and very possibly perfect his techniques for employing golf clubs as instruments of torture. Mariner and Knox sat in the car waiting for him to return from the green, watching the clusters of grown men in their gaudy checks and pastels pushing around their golf carts like old women with their shopping trolleys.

‘Bunch of poofs,’ Knox muttered under his breath, before casting Mariner a wary sidelong glance. ‘You don’t play, do you, boss?’

Mariner let him off the hook. ‘No, I’m with Twain on this one: “Golf’s no more than a good walk spoilt”.’ He looked at Knox. ‘That’s Mark Twain I’m talking about, not Shania.’

Knox flashed back a sarcastic smile. ‘Still,’ he added slyly, ‘the state of the football teams down here, there has to be an alternative sport.’

It was too good an opportunity to miss. ‘So, if you didn’t come down here for the football, why did you move to Birmingham?’ Mariner asked. ‘It wasn’t for the clean air.’

‘I just fancied a change,’ said Knox without missing a beat. And he was spared further interrogation by the appearance of Frank Crosby, his perambulation apparently over for today.

They watched Crosby and his entourage of two go into the clubhouse, before tracking him down in the members’ bar where he was ordering a Campari and soda. Even in their golfing gear, it wasn’t hard to pick out Crosby’s goons from the general public. It was a question of size, though paradoxically, the exception was Crosby himself.

Less than five feet six of concentrated muscle and teeth, Crosby resembled a Pit Bull terrier in human form, and had a reputation for being every bit as vicious. The baby pink polo shirt was stretched grotesquely over his hairy, tattooed arms, as anomalous as biker’s leathers on a newborn infant.

Although Kingswood Golf Club was not as exclusive as some, Mariner doubted that many other club members had any idea what Frank Crosby really did for a living. Right now he was enjoying a joke with his coterie.

‘Mr Crosby?’ Making no effort to lower his voice, Mariner openly displayed his warrant card for the benefit of all those present. ‘Detective Inspector Mariner, West Midlands Police. Could I have a word?’ With Knox’s uniform providing added visual effect, Mariner had succeeded in capturing the attention of everyone in the room: everything so far going to plan.

Crosby’s fury was visible in the flush that spread up through his Bob Monkhouse tan. But this was a man who’d learned over time to control his temper, and by the time he’d picked up his drink and separated from the group there remained only a hint of irritation in his voice. ‘Over here,’ he said, tautly, leading the way to a secluded corner of the room, well away from listening ears. Despite the unnaturally dark hair and gleaming white teeth, Crosby was approaching sixty and running to fat. If you knew where to look, his throat still bore the deep scar sustained in a scuffle in Winson Green, although it was many years since he’d been a guest of Her Majesty. He’d become far too skilled at delegation for that. These days he could afford to be relaxed, play a round or two of golf give or take the occasional rude interruption from the law. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded, at a safe distance from his fellow club members. He regarded Mariner like something nasty he’d just stepped in, his annoyance betrayed only by the bulging muscle in his jaw.

‘I want you to tell me about Eddie Barham,’ Mariner said, with equal directness.

Crosby snorted, almost with relief, making Mariner wonder what he’d thought was on the agenda. ‘What about him? He’s a reporter. Pain in the arse if you must know,’ Crosby said, candidly.

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Spends too much time sticking his nose into things that don’t concern him.’

‘Into your affairs, you mean. He landed you right in it four years ago, didn’t he?’

The eyes narrowed and hardened. ‘I was never charged with anything.’

‘Eddie Barham dragged your name through the mud though, didn’t he? That must have been bad for business.’

‘I got over it.’

‘But not the sort of thing you’d want to happen again, if you could help it.’ Mariner glanced around him at the opulent surroundings. ‘Wouldn’t go down well here, would it? Your name splashed all over the papers a second time.

It must have made you a bit nervous, when Eddie linked up with one of your girls again. I don’t suppose you wanted to play the lead in anything else he was about to write. Is that why you had him roughed up?’ Crosby had seen this coming and was far too street-smart to deny it. After all, Eddie Barham hadn’t pressed charges so there was nothing to worry about. ‘My colleagues offered him a little advice, just in case he was thinking of doing anything stupid.’

‘It was hard advice. It left Eddie with enough bruises to fabricate a mugging story.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s what he’s good at, isn’t it? Making up stories. I just wanted to make sure that he got the message.’

‘But he didn’t, did he, Frank? So you had to go back.

Was he threatening you with blackmail? Is that why you had to get into his house to recover any incriminating documentation?’

‘What?’

Crosby suddenly had the look of a man who had completely lost the plot, though masking his reactions would come naturally by now.

‘What were you doing?’ interjected Knox, increasing the pressure. ‘Following Kerry? Or had you tapped Eddie Barham’s phone?’

‘Where were you on Sunday the sixteenth of February, Frank?’ Mariner demanded. ‘The night Eddie Barham was killed.’

Finally they provoked a reaction, but not the one Mariner expected. ‘Killed? I didn’t know he…’

‘Oh really. Don’t you read the papers, either?’

‘Why would I? Full of crap most of the time.’ Crosby was on the defensive. Then Mariner remembered someone telling him that Crosby couldn’t actually read very well.

Knox pushed again. ‘How far were you prepared to go, to keep Eddie Barham quiet, Frank? Or were you doing it for Paul?’

‘Paul who?’

‘Paul Spink. Forget him already? Even though he took the rap for you back in ‘95. Were you repaying the compliment?’

Mariner had no idea whether there had been any contact between the two men since Spink’s conviction. It was just a simple logical pursuit, but one which apparently, Crosby was having difficulty keeping up with.

‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about,’ he said, finally beginning to lose his cool. ‘A Sunday night? I’d have been at the dog track all night.’

‘And what about your “colleagues”?’ Mariner nodded towards the group at the bar, who cast the occasional anxious glance towards them.

‘Carl and Terry were with me. We’d have been at the track till two in the morning. Ask anyone.’

‘We will,’ Mariner assured him. Unexpectedly, Crosby seemed then to relax, again making Mariner wonder what else was bothering him. But seeing the now smug expression, Mariner had a nasty feeling that, about Eddie Barham at least, Crosby was telling the truth.

‘I’ll need you and your monkeys to come in and give a blood sample,’ Mariner dropped in, as a last ditch attempt at unnerving him. ‘Just so that we can eliminate you from our enquiries.’

Crosby didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Always happy to oblige,’ he lied.

‘What do you think, boss?’ asked Knox when they were back in the car.

‘I think Frank Crosby’s an accomplished actor,’ said Mariner. ‘Let’s wait for the blood tests.’ But even Mariner wasn’t holding out much hope. Crosby had taken it all too much in his stride.

‘Dinner time?’ Knox started the car, ever the pragmatist.

‘No thanks,’ said Mariner. ‘There’s something I’ve got to do.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s personal,’ Mariner said, enigmatically. ‘I’m going in search of a resolution, Tony. You should try it sometime.’

But Knox just looked at him as if he was mad.

Mariner tried Greta’s office number first. With a small child to clothe and feed, he couldn’t imagine that she’d had the luxury of being a stay-at-home mum. He was right.

‘Tom! What a surprise.’ A mutual one. She sounded not displeased to hear from him. Equally unexpectedly she agreed to meet him for a quick drink after work in a couple of hours, giving Mariner ample time to make his debut visit to Toys R Us.

Greta wasn’t in the appointed bar when he arrived a few minutes late and it crossed his mind that she might yet stand him up for old times’ sake. He’d trailed round every appropriate shop in town to look for a present for the baby, but when it came to it he hadn’t a clue what to buy. He didn’t know the gender of the child, or for that matter exactly how old it was. In the end he’d settled on a generic cuddly rabbit. Greta had chosen as their meeting place a wine bar close to where she worked. Sitting down at a table, Mariner ordered a bottle of obscenely expensive mineral water with two glasses. Greta had never been much of a drinker and he needed to keep a clear head.

When she appeared, short of breath, Mariner was for several moments thrown into confusion. ‘Greta.’ He stood up to kiss her cheek. ‘How are you?’ But he hadn’t really needed to ask. She was clearly blossoming, her belly swollen by about six months of pregnancy.

‘I’m great,’ she said. ‘Really well. Do you want to see?’

And with the enthusiasm of any new parent-to-be she sat down, and without waiting for his reply, rifled through her handbag to produce a monochrome snapshot of what resembled, to Mariner, an oversized tadpole. ‘The consultant says that she’s a perfectly average size, plum in the middle of the fiftieth percentile. If she keeps growing at the same rate, she’ll weigh about seven pounds at birth. Sorry, that’s probably too much information, but I get told everything.

First baby at my age, you can’t even fart off the record, especially coming so soon after a miscarriage.’ She looked into Mariner’s eyes, pausing for the first time. ‘I’m afraid ours didn’t make it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mariner, as something stabbed at his chest.

‘So was I at the time, but it was probably for the best, wasn’t it? I should have let you know, but I was—well, let’s not go over all that again.’

No, let’s not.

‘Dominic, an old friend was very supportive.’ She placed her hands on her ‘bump’. ‘So supportive, in fact, that we ended up with this.’

Finally Mariner recovered his power of speech.

‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘I’m really happy for you.’