The Ring of Death (9 page)

‘The way I look at it, Betty,' the first woman said, ‘is that if you never ask, you'll never find out. So what
is
goin' on?' she asked Cousins a second time. ‘Is it true that feller's been murdered?'

‘Yes, I'm afraid it is,' Cousins replied.

‘Oh, what a shame!' said Betty, as she did her best to cover her look of salacious curiosity with a veneer of regret.

‘Well, who would ever have thought it?' asked Edna, as she, too, attempted to form the appropriate expression of shock and concern.

‘Did you know Mr Adair well?' Cousins said.

‘Didn't know him at all,' Edna replied. ‘He kept himself to himself. Didn't talk to the neighbours . . .'

‘He was always pleasant enough to
me
when I spoke to him on the street,' Betty pointed out.

‘
Pleasant enough
isn't the same as
talkin
',' Edna said sharply. ‘You've got to be accurate when you're speakin' to the police.' She paused for a second. ‘Now where was I?'

‘Pleasant but not talkative,' Cousins prompted.

‘That's right. He didn't have mates callin' round on him, either, an' single men – without a wife to put her foot down –
always
have their mates callin' round on them. Still,' she lowered her voice as if she were about to impart a great secret, ‘he
was
a southerner, you know.'

‘So I believe,' Cousins said. He made a half turn. ‘Well, since he kept himself to himself so much, and there's nothing you can tell me about him . . .'

‘I never said I couldn't tell you
nothin
',' Edna said hastily.

An amused smile flickered briefly across Cousins' face, but was gone by the time he was looking directly at the women again.

‘I'm listening,' he said.

‘Mr Adair kept odd hours,' Edna told him.

‘Odd?'

‘It was a rare day he opened his bedroom curtains before eleven o'clock in the morning – not that I was looking, you understand.'

‘Of course I understand,' Cousins agreed. ‘You weren't
looking
, but you couldn't help
seeing
.'

‘Well, exactly,' Edna agreed, folding her arms across her ample bosom, as if she was glad that had been made clear.

‘On the other hand, he was out very late,' Betty said, making her second attempt to get a foothold in the conversation.

‘What do you mean by “late”?' Cousins asked.

‘He never came home until the pubs closed,' Betty said.

‘Sometimes he was even later than that,' Edna added, quickly recapturing the initiative.

‘How could he be later than that?' Betty asked sceptically. ‘Once the pubs are closed, there's nowhere else to go, and men
always
make their way home. It's a well-known fact, is that.'

‘A well-known fact it may be, but I'm tellin' you that he sometimes didn't come home until four or five in the mornin'.'

‘How would you know that?' Betty challenged.

Edna looked embarrassed.

‘I sometimes have to get up in the middle of the night to . . . you know,' she said, with some reluctance. She turned to her friend, though perhaps turned
on
her friend would have been more accurate. ‘An' don't you go pretendin' you don't do the same, Betty Openshaw, because
all
women of our age have the same problem.'

‘I never said a word,' Betty countered, adding, almost under her breath, ‘but I
am
four years younger than you.'

‘Anyway, I'd sometimes look out of my window and see him walkin' up the street.'

‘Walking up the street
how
?'

‘Puttin' one foot in front of the other,' Edna replied, clearly puzzled by the question.

‘What I mean is, was he staggering from side to side, as men often are when they come home late?'

‘No, he wasn't,' Edna said, as if she'd just received a revelation. ‘I always
assumed
he'd been out on the batter, but now I think about it, he didn't seem drunk at all.'

They had arranged to meet at a pub called the Pig and Whistle, mainly because neither of them was known there.

The newly promoted Inspector Walker arrived first, and thus had ample opportunity to study Mike Traynor as the journalist crossed the bar.

And the man didn't look happy, Walker thought. He
definitely
didn't look happy.

Traynor dropped down into the chair opposite Walker with all the grace of a dumped sack of potatoes.

‘The bitch!' he said. ‘The bloody bitch!'

Walker, who never failed to draw pleasure from others' discomfort – even if the ‘other', in this case, was an ally of his – couldn't resist grinning.

‘I take it that you're talking about our dear Detective Chief Inspector Paniatowski,' he said.

‘She's getting better at giving these press conferences, you know,' Traynor complained.

‘Some people might think that was a good thing,' Walker said, still extracting as much fun out of the moment as he could.

‘Some people might think it, but I'm not one of them,' Traynor said. ‘The thing is, she's developed this trick of sounding as if she's being frank and open. And she's got
so
good at it that most of the morons who pass themselves off as journalists are taken in. But not me. Not Mike Traynor.'

‘So she didn't tell you anything useful?' Walker asked.

‘No,' Traynor agreed. His eyes narrowed. ‘And neither have you.'

It was Walker's turn to start feeling uncomfortable. ‘That's because there's nothing to tell at the moment. Whatever happened out in the woods,
Ma'am
's keeping a tight lid on it.'

‘I pay you for information, not excuses,' Traynor said tartly.

How things had changed, Walker thought. Only a few weeks earlier, when the journalist had been unsure of him, their relationship had been like a courtship, with Traynor making all of the running.

‘
If DCI Paniatowski's not doing her job properly, then it's your duty as a member of the police force – and the well-being of that force is where your loyalty
truly
lies – to make the general public aware of that failing. And, of course – though I know this wouldn't sway you one way or the other – there might be a bit of money in it for you.
'

That was what Traynor had said back then.

But now the journalist was like a man who, having coaxed his bride to the altar, no longer saw the need to make any effort. Now, in Traynor's eyes, his police source was no more than a drudge – bought and paid for.

Many a man would have been hurt by such a change in attitude, Walker thought, but the truth was that it didn't really bother him
what
Traynor thought of him, as long as the money kept coming in.

Besides, he told himself, whatever the journalist might think,
he
was still the one in control, because if Traynor
really
started to annoy him, he could always arrest the bastard on some trumped-up charge. If he did that, of course, Traynor would try to drag him down, too, based on the bribes he'd paid out. But without the money as evidence, it would just sound like sour grapes – and they'd
never
find the money, however hard they looked!

‘I'll try and get you something with a bit more meat to it,' the inspector told the journalist, ‘but since it's going to be harder work and more risk for me, it will naturally cost you a little more than usual.'

‘Don't push it,' Traynor threatened.

‘And don't you try bullying me,' Walker said. ‘Or
bullshitting
me, either. You'd sell your own granny to raise the money you needed to bring
Ma'am
down – and we both know it.'

‘I'll pay well for good information,' Traynor conceded. ‘But you'd better make sure it
is
good.'

‘Like I said, I'll do what I can,' Walker replied. ‘Are you stopping for a drink?'

Traynor shook his head, and clouds of dandruff fell to his collar like a gentle early snow.

‘There's no time for boozing today,' his lips said. ‘I've got to get back to the office.'

But what his
eyes
said was, ‘The way I feel about you at this minute, I'd rather cut my own arm off than have a drink with you.'

Walker watched Traynor walk to the door, then was suddenly aware that someone else was standing next to the chair that the journalist had just vacated. He turned, and saw that the new arrival was a man who had silver hair and was wearing an expensive-looking herringbone suit.

‘Would you mind if I joined you, Inspector Walker?' the new arrival asked mildly.

‘Yes, I bloody well would mind,' Walker growled.

‘Really?' the man with the silver hair said.

‘Really!' Walker repeated.

‘I'm sorry you feel like that,' the silver-haired man replied.

And then he sat down anyway.

NINE

T
he cafe was a greasy spoon, located just off the market square. The moment he entered the door, DI Beresford had it tagged. It was the sort of place that only invested in a single teaspoon, and even
that
was kept chained to the counter – an establishment in which the dishcloths were rinsed out once a week, whether they needed it or not. It was
not
, in other words, somewhere he would normally have considered going in to – except when leading a police raid – but it was where Sid Eccleston had insisted they meet, and so there he was.

‘I use this place as my office,' Eccleston said, as he rolled himself a wafer-thin cigarette on the grimy Formica tabletop. ‘Yes, surprising as it might seem to you, I run my entire business empire from a humble little place like this.' He winked at Beresford, as if he were about to teach him a valuable lesson. ‘It helps cut down on the expenses, you see, Inspector.'

And any cockroach you can catch is probably yours to keep, Beresford thought.

Eccleston was around forty-five years old, the inspector guessed, and was one of those men who took little pride in their personal appearance – the state of his teeth was ample evidence of that – but who were wildly impressed with what they thought they'd accomplished in life.

‘When the Calcutta Mill closed down, most of the lads I'd worked with blew their redundancy payments in the first few months,' Eccleston said, in a self-satisfied manner. ‘They just pissed it away! They bought new cars, and big television sets. They had fitted carpets laid in their front rooms, and took their families off to Spain for their holidays.'

‘But not you,' Beresford said, as he knew he was expected to.

‘But not me,' Eccleston agreed emphatically. ‘Them old workmates of mine thought they'd soon get
new
jobs in
new
mills, but I knew that kind of job was never coming back to Whitebridge.' He paused, and looked down at the mug in front of him. ‘You're not expecting
me
to pay for these teas, are you? I mean, when all's said and done, I am giving up my valuable time to assist you in your inquiries, so it wouldn't be unreasonable to expect the police force to provide the liquid refreshment.'

‘Well, our expenses are very tightly controlled, and don't normally run as far as providing cups of tea for witnesses,' Beresford said, deadpan, ‘but since your time
is
so valuable, I think we can make an exception to the rule on this occasion.'

‘That's all right, then,' Eccleston said. ‘Now where was I? Oh yes, I knew the jobs were never coming back, so I invested my redundancy money in a couple of terraced houses, and started renting them out immediately.'

‘It was that easy, was it?'

‘Simplicity itself, if you're smart enough to grasp an opportunity when it's presented to you. See, there's plenty of newly-married couples living in the in-laws' back bedroom, and desperate to get out. But they don't have the capital for it, do they? Then I come along and offer them an escape – and if the place I rent them is a bit old-fashioned, or has a touch of damp, they're not going to complain as long as I'm not charging more than they can afford to pay.'

‘You make yourself sound almost philanthropic,' Beresford said.

‘Here, there's nothing bent about me,' Eccleston, as if he'd just been insulted. ‘I'm a simple, honest Whitebridge man, born and bred.'

‘Of course you are,' Beresford agreed. ‘I certainly never meant to suggest otherwise.'

‘Anyway, when them first two properties started turning a profit, I bought a couple more,' Eccleston continued, somewhat mollified. ‘And ask me how many I've got now.'

‘How many have you got now?' Beresford asked.

‘Fifteen! All of them occupied, and all of them bringing me in a regular income.'

‘And one of them was occupied by Andy Adair,' Beresford said, getting to the real point of this meeting.

‘That's right, it was,' Eccleston agreed. He frowned. ‘That place could be a bit of a problem to me, now, couldn't it?'

‘Could it?'

‘Well, yes. I mean, my tenant's been
murdered
. Admittedly, it could have been worse – he could have been killed on the actual
property
– but even so, some people are a bit squeamish about renting a house that was once occupied by a man who met a violent death.'

‘Some people are
over-fussy
,' Beresford said.

‘You've hit the nail right on the head,' Eccleston agreed enthusiastically. ‘Some people
are
over-fussy. Still, knowing that doesn't really help matters, does it?' He sighed. ‘If I want to get anybody in that house soon, I'm going to have to lower the rent, you know.'