Cobweb (12 page)

‘No!' Beardshaw was staring at the weapon in horror. ‘No! I was going to say I'd used a pickaxe handle once or twice when we did over a mobster and his oppos, or something like that, but no, nothing like that, ever. I swear it!'

The knife went back out of sight. ‘OK.' Patrick stood up to leave.

‘So what's it all about then?' Beardshaw asked. ‘Is that it?'

By the doorway Patrick turned. ‘Harmsworth's dead. It was in all the local papers. But now it looks as though someone might have knifed him and then made his death look like an accident by shoving him and his car off a bridge.'

‘I didn't know he was dead,' Beardshaw said. ‘I've been in hospital. Lung cancer. There's nothing else they can do for me.'

‘I'm sorry. You wouldn't happen to know who hated Harmsworth that much, would you?'

‘Everyone I know hates the Bill.' Then, avoiding our gaze, he muttered, ‘I don't personally hold with killing coppers. I mean, who else would catch the shits who mess with little kids? You could try a bloke who sometimes works behind the bar at Jo-Jo's. By all accounts he knows everything what goes on.'

‘What's his name?'

‘No one asks – you don't.'

‘It would be helpful to know whom to approach – I'm new on this patch.'

After a short silence Beardshaw said, ‘Word is that he is Jo-Jo, the owner of the place, and likes to keep his hand in. An oldish bloke, Italian-looking, eyes like one of them snakes what swaller things.'

‘I take it you didn't mention the possibility of a police snout being on the premises at Jo-Jo's when you were in there,' I said to Patrick when we were sitting in the car perusing the list of names.

‘Not to the bloke who said he was the manager, no,' he replied. ‘Just as well after what we've just been told. He did seem to be rather nervous, though.'

The saying about being caught between a rock and a hard place crossed my mind. I said, ‘What did you make of Beardshaw?'

‘He's a devious so-and-so and I haven't completely ruled him out of being a possible suspect. But I do have to say he genuinely didn't seem to bear any grudges against the police.'

‘I'm wondering if he's as ill as he says he is.'

‘Obviously, neither of us is happy about writing him out of the picture.'

‘It's funny how Jo-Jo's seems to keep being mentioned. The barman who was in there the other night was quite young. We could eat there this evening, see if the owner's on the premises and and watch out for boa constrictors.'

Patrick glanced at his watch. ‘Good idea. But there's plenty of time yet to call on a man called Peter Forbes. He's the only one on this list with an address in the immediate locality.'

But the terrace of houses where the house had been located – the whole road, for that matter – had been demolished and, according to a large notice board, was part of an ‘urban improvement scheme'.

We seemed to be getting nowhere.

I sensed, when we entered Jo-Jo's that evening, that things were about to improve – that is, if the man standing behind the bar was indeed our quarry. Beardshaw had had a point: there was something distinctly reptilian about him, although I would have said more lizard than snake. I went to the bar with Patrick and perched on a stool because I wanted to hear what was being said.

‘I know who you are,' said lizard-face, Jo-Jo, whoever, with a strong Italian accent as he fixed two glasses of wine for us. ‘You were asking questions in here the other day.'

‘It's my job,' Patrick replied sadly.

‘And you,' he said to me, pointing with a gnarled forefinger, ‘threw water over one of my customers.'

‘He's a cop too,' I said, ‘and out to rubbish this man in my life.'

The slit eyes momentarily opened wider. ‘I like loyalty in a woman.'

Patrick said, ‘We're trying to discover whether another cop, who died, was murdered.'

‘The one called Gray?' said the man in surprise. ‘I thought everyone knew he was murdered.'

‘No, DCI Derek Harmsworth. His car went off a bridge before Gray was killed.' Patrick added, after a short silence, ‘Were you his snout?'

‘Such a horrible word,' retorted the other, seeming to be really offended.

‘My apologies,' said Patrick gracefully. ‘English idiom can be cruel. Let me say, then, that whoever it was gave him certain information. You were offended, so I'm guessing that it was you.'

‘It might have been,' the other conceded.

‘In return he might have turned a blind eye to some of your staff being illegal immigrants and the club you run being a bit – well – iffy.'

‘I will have no criminals here!'

‘I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Now, do you know anything about Harmsworth's death?'

The old man seemed to wither a little into himself. ‘It was bad, very bad,' he muttered. ‘I saw him that night, you know. He came in here, just popped in, as you say. He sometimes did, not for any reason, just to say hello, Jo-Jo, how are you? We had a good understanding.'

‘What time was this?' Patrick asked.

‘At just before seven, I think. He was on his way home.'

‘Was there any particular reason why he came here that evening?'

‘He asked me if I knew anything about the Giddings man. But no, nothing. I know nothing about politicians.'

‘And he made no comment about any other calls he planned to make on the way home?'

‘Nothing that I can remember. We were very busy.'

‘I hear what you say about no criminals being permitted here, but did you notice anyone who might have been a stranger standing near to you when you were talking? Was anyone taking a furtive interest in Harmsworth?'

Jo-Jo now appeared to go into a state of suspended animation, presumably thinking. It occurred to me that he more closely resembled one of those unfortunates who had been ritually murdered back in the mists of time and whose remarkably preserved remains are sometimes found in peat bogs. For some reason I then shivered: there was something very unnerving about this man and I would have hated to get on the wrong side of him.

At last, Jo-Jo said, ‘As I said, we were busy. I cannot remember anyone of the sort you are after. The place was full of businessmen, bank people, professional types. Most of my customers are like that – the rough ones are not welcome here. But' – and here his thin shoulders rose in an elaborate shrug – ‘this person might be like – what is it called? – a creature that changes colour?'

‘A chameleon,' I said.

The wizened features split into a ghastly smile. ‘On the menu tonight, perhaps? You want some?' And he wheezed with laughter.

Patrick was not to be diverted. ‘I'm also interested in a man by the name of Theodore du Norde. I understand he belongs to your club.'

‘The club is not part of the restaurant.'

‘I'm aware of that.'

‘And none of the business of the police.'

‘So it was a no-go area with Harmsworth, was it? OK, we'll forget it's actual set-up for now – just tell me about du Norde.'

‘It's confidential,' said Jo-Jo. ‘Now, that is enough. I'm busy.'

He went from sight through a door marked
‘PRIVATE'
.

We stayed to eat, a smiling waiter appearing as abruptly as his boss had disappeared to show us to a table. I took this to mean that there was no real enmity towards us, which I suppose was a relief, as I had a strong suspicion that Jo-Jo might be behind a lot of illegal goings-on in the Woodhill area.

‘The local godfather?' I whispered to Patrick when we had placed our order.

‘I reckon he must be. But who knows? The DCI might have tolerated him and those who work for him because his presence, and muscle, keep out far worse hoodlums from, say, central Europe. As he said, he and Harmsworth had an understanding – but that isn't going to prevent me from having a rummage around in his club.'

‘How, though?'

‘I'll think of something.'

We left the restaurant at a little after nine thirty and, not having brought the car set off to walk back to our lodgings. It was a murky night, drizzling lightly but eventually soakingly, the pavements having a greasy sheen to them.

‘What do you suggest we do next?' I asked as we left the side lane and turned into the main road.

Patrick was silent for a moment or two and then said, ‘As we're all too aware, there's no actual evidence yet that would point to Harmsworth having been murdered. There are no real leads with regard to the Gray inquiry either – I checked up on that while you were in the shower earlier. No one yet questioned saw anyone suspicious near his house around that time and none of the forensic evidence has so far been useful. No fingerprints, DNA samples other than Gray's, nothing useful at all. I think we're looking for a pro for that killing, who wore gloves and took other precautions. The same might even apply to Harmsworth's death, if he really was stabbed. It might be time to make something happen.'

And with that something did: a man came at us from an alleyway at the run, on us instantly to grab me around the neck to haul me back from whence he had come. I took him unawares by collapsing, deadweight, getting him off balance so that he almost fell. I curled up in a protective ball and other than a desultory kick in my general direction that landed on my left shin he abandoned me only to run straight into Patrick. I was just in time, jumping to my feet, to see what happened next – a knife flashing as the blade caught the light from a street lamp. It was wrung from his grasp and clattered to the ground. In the next second Patrick had gone headlong into the road, a foot slipping off the kerb. A car screamed to a standstill, stopping just short of him.

Footsteps pounded off into the distance.

Patrick was swearing inventively when I got to him, a passenger having got out of the car to assist him.

‘You OK, mate?' he asked.

‘Don't touch it!' Patrick said as the man moved towards the knife. ‘Yes, thanks, I'm fine.' I saw his teeth gleam as he grinned fiercely. ‘Just dented pride.'

‘No, that wasn't an attempted mugging,' Patrick agreed when we were having the inevitable debriefing in our room. ‘And for the record I don't think it was anything to do with Hicks either – unless he's even more stupid than I thought.'

‘Just a random attack by a crazy sort of person who goes in for such things?' I hazarded, rubbing my bruised shin. Patrick was, I knew, furious with himself for not having grabbed our attacker, especially as, lately, he has worked hard to get himself back to the same standard of fitness as he had when we worked for D12, our MI5 department.

‘What do you think?'

‘I think, no, it wasn't a random attack.'

We'd taken the knife to the nick and made a report before heading for our digs – quite a long walk, as the former was in the opposite direction; Patrick had insisted we needed the exercise. I had actually wondered if he was half-hoping that whoever it was would have a second attempt, but nothing had happened.

‘In other words, then, it's another attack on the police, or those connected with them?'

‘Based on shaky info,' I replied, ‘that the new boy at the nick's a semi-retired army bod who must have been driving a desk for years so will be a pushover – literally. Whoever it was probably meant to kill or badly injure you, though.'

‘Info?' Patrick murmured. ‘There's a mole, you mean?'

‘I don't really know why I said that,' I admitted. ‘Yes, unless Jo-Jo was warning you off or trying you out.'

‘It doesn't ring true. He gains nothing by antagonizing the local police. No, let's go back to what you said. If it's correct, it means that an individual inside, or connected to, the nick, is giving someone else information.'

‘Civilian staff, friends, relations: just a few hundred suspects then.'

‘Let's pray there's some fingerprints or DNA on the knife.'

‘I
think
he was wearing leather gloves.'

‘We may have our murderer. Or had.' Patrick groaned. ‘God, if only I'd not let the bastard go.'

‘Look at it from the point of view of your not being tucked snugly inside a mortuary chiller cabinet right now.'

The chill, or rather frost, proved to be in Woodhill police station as it had got round that one of MI5's one-time finest operatives had failed to apprehend someone who, after all, had behaved no worse than an armed mugger. I concluded that none of the critics, Hicks included, had ever suffered the attentions of such a person, least of all when accompanied by a female whose safety would be given priority. This female had accompanied the maligned one to work the following morning: it was time I put in an appearance.

‘I thought you were bloody-well armed,' was Hicks's remark when we came face to face with him – too neatly for it to be a coincidence – in a corridor.

‘Would you have had me shoot him in the back?' Patrick demanded to know. ‘Not to mention all the resulting publicity. And, by the way, I want you to apologize to Erin Melrose before the day's out for quite ruthlessly being prepared to drag her name through your own personal stinking midden.'

With a curl of the lip Hicks walked away.

‘Please remember what Greenway said,' I pleaded.

Silence.

‘I'm serious,' I continued. ‘Erin might not know anything about it yet. If Greenway's as good as you say he is, he'll have a quiet word with her, or has done so already. We don't need a full-blown war here right now or the consequences might be disastrous. Divide and rule and all that.'

‘As usual, my dear, you're right,' he muttered.

He knows it infuriates me to be thus spoken to.

Superintendent Fred Knightly, who apparently wanted to see us, was in his office, reading a newspaper. When he saw us appear in the open doorway he thrust it into a drawer of his desk and switched to brisk efficiency. He looked older than he had in pictures in the local paper and for some reason I took an immediate dislike to him.