Shooting Elvis Page 7

  ‘God knows,’ I replied.

  Simon was painting his garage door when we arrived. He wrapped the brush in cling film so it wouldn’t dry out and invited us into the kitchen.

  ‘Have you got anyone, yet?’ he asked.

  ‘For killing Alfred? No, not yet.’

  ‘So how can I help you?’

  Before I could answer his telephone rang. ‘Excuse me,’ he said as he lifted the receiver. We heard the usual half of the conversation. ‘Um, yes it is. Um, yes. It’s a bit awkward at the moment. Can I ring you back? What’s your number, please?’ At a guess somebody wanted some gardening done. Simon was working in the black economy, but it wasn’t our business.

  ‘Eric Smallwood,’ I said when he was back with us. ‘We had a word with him, as you suggested, and he told us some more names. Do you remember Donovan Bender?’

  ‘Bendy? Sure I remember him. He was alright. Drove the van sometimes. He got done for robbing a bank after he left. It was in all the papers. Can’t see him being a murderer, though.’

  ‘Someone is,’ I replied. ‘Was there ever any conflict between Donovan and Alfred that you know of? Might, for instance, Donovan have been stealing the odd item of scrap and Alf warned him about it?’

  Simon shook his head. We questioned him some more, mainly about security, or lack of it, but it was a waste of time. As we stood up to leave Dave said, ‘Does the name Midnight mean anything to you?’

  Simon looked puzzled for a second, before saying, ‘Yeah. It does. One of them used to call the other it. Don’t know why.’

  ‘One of whom?’

  ‘Smallwood and Alf. That’s right. Midnight. Smallwood used to call Alf it, and Alf got really annoyed. It really wound him up. Then, all of a sudden, he stopped, but it was never the same between them again. Someone said that Alf had sent him a solicitor’s letter, but I don’t know if it’s true.’

  ‘Do we still have solicitor’s letters?’ Dave wondered as we drove away.

  ‘I suppose so,’ I replied. ‘Although I haven’t heard of one for years. These days people are more likely to dive straight in with litigation. A solicitor’s letter was like a shot across the bows to warn someone that you were thinking of taking action against them.’

  ‘Stop it or I’ll sue.’

  ‘That’s it. A letter before action. I think that’s the proper name for one.’

  ‘It’ll be interesting to hear what Mr Smallwood has to say about it.’

  ‘It will, won’t it?’

  But first we wanted to see his Scalextric. We used the standard ploy to get into the house – we’d like a statement, and perhaps he’d prefer to come down to the station to make it – and were admitted into his surgically clean habitation.

  ‘One of your officers came to see me yesterday,’ he protested, his tone suggesting that we were wasting public money, which we probably were. He was wearing his cycling helmet and I had great difficulty not looking at it. Every few seconds my eyes flicked towards it as if it might light up or start doing tricks.

  ‘That would be DC Carmichael, sir,’ Dave said. ‘Unfortunately he’s gone off work with shingles and taken his notebook with him, so we’re trying to catch up.’

  I winced at the explanation, but heaved a small sigh of relief that he hadn’t said that Eddie had been killed in a car crash and his notebook destroyed in the resulting conflagration.

  ‘Very painful, shingles,’ Smallwood told us.

  The room he took us in was furnished in dark wood and leather, with everything looking expensive and well looked after. The chesterfield gleamed and smelt of leather polish, the windows sparkled and he’d taken his Christmas cards down. Well, it was May. A glass-fronted fire with artificial flames flickered in the hearth and above it was a print of elephants, signed by the artist.

  ‘When DS Carmichael rang in he said you had a big Scalextric set,’ Dave was saying as I studied the print. It was a David Shepherd. The big bull elephant in the middle was looking extremely stroppy.

  ‘Yes,’ Smallwood replied. ‘He looked through all the windows before he knocked on the door, but I didn’t let him in.’

  ‘Quite right, sir. Sometimes he is a bit overenthusiastic, gets carried away with the job. I’m thinking of buying a set for my son. Nothing too elaborate, unless he really takes to it. Is there any possibility of seeing yours, and I’d be very grateful for any advice you have to offer?’

  So, for the next half hour the overburdened taxpayer sponsored Dave to play at racing cars and me to watch. Smallwood had designed the track so that one car went round as fast as possible all by itself. He explained how every segment of its track was on a separate supply of which he could control the voltage by a bank of transistors. That car would fly down the straights and slow for the corners according to how he’d set things up. The other car he controlled manually. It was like playing chess against a computer, except that playing chess is a useful skill that you can convert into other things, such as friendships. Racing toy cars his way was a lonely occupation, like playing with yourself in a darkened room. Lots of fun but difficult to share with others. I felt sorry for him.

  ‘C’mon,’ I said. ‘There’s work to be done.’

  ‘You were really getting the hang of it,’ he told Dave as he led us back into the other room.

  ‘I was, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Mr Smallwood,’ I began, ‘does the name Midnight mean anything to you.’

  ‘M-Midnight?’ he echoed, his manner answering my question.

  ‘Yes, Midnight.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘I think it does.’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘I’m told by one of Ellis and Newbold’s employees that you used to call Alfred Armitage Midnight. Did you?’

  ‘I don’t remember. I may have done.’

  ‘I’m also told that there was talk of a solicitor’s letter being sent. Do you know anything about that? It will be relatively easy for us to contact local solicitors.’

  ‘It was just a joke, that’s all. I used to tease him. For a laugh, but he couldn’t take it and sent me the letter.’

  ‘Do you think that Mr Armitage may have been stealing from the company?’

  ‘No. I’d have known about it if he was.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did they pay well?’

  ‘Well enough.’

  ‘But perhaps not as much as you thought you were worth.’

  ‘I wasn’t stealing from the company.’

  ‘So who was Midnight?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He’d clammed up on me, but the thought of this helmet-clad, tweed-jacketed nerd taking the mickey out of anybody – of being the heart and soul of the company – was hard to swallow. ‘Well thanks for your cooperation, Mr Smallwood,’ I said, ‘and if you think of anything else, however trivial it might appear, we’d be grateful for your help. This is a murder enquiry, after all.’

  At the door Dave said, ‘Thanks for the drive, Mr Smallwood.’

  Smallwood opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it.

  ‘Was there something?’ I asked.

  ‘No, except…’

  ‘Except what?’

  He turned to Dave. ‘I was going to say…if you’d like to bring your son round for a drive, I don’t mind.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Dave replied. ‘I’ll ask him.’

  ‘Give me a ring, first.’

  ‘I will.’

  In the car I said, ‘Will you?’

  ‘Will I what?’

  ‘Will you take Dan round for a drive?’

  After a long pause he said, ‘No, I don’t think I will.’

  Chapter Four

  Leyburn is a super place. I could live there anytime. It’s in the most northern tip of North Yorkshire and is the jumping off point for Swaledale, most desolate of all the dales. I leapt at the excuse for a trip up there.

  And Mrs Newbold is a doll. Everyb
ody should have a grandmother like her. She is attractive, well-groomed, and bakes the best scones this side of Giggleswick. I’d rung ahead and she’d made a trayful in preparation. We tucked into them sitting in an airy conservatory attached to the side of the converted barn that her daughter and son-in-law lived in. They were both out attending to the village’s sick and lame.

  ‘I could have asked the local police to talk to you,’ I said as she leaned forward to pour me another cup, ‘or I could have sent one of the team, but I decided on the personal touch and I’m glad I did. Perks of the job, and all that. This is a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon.’ The sun was in my eyes and I twisted my head to find some shade.

  ‘Ooh, that looks weak,’ she exclaimed, as she saw the colour of the tea. ‘I’ll just show it the pictures.’ She raised the teapot and waved it around, pointing the spout at the windows.

  ‘Show it the pictures,’ I said. ‘I haven’t heard that one before.’

  ‘No? It’s one of my mother’s sayings. It gave her an excuse to agitate the pot if the brew looked weak.’

  ‘Ah! My mother used to say things like: “Don’t tomorrow me,” or “I’ll give you in the morning.” I never did know what she meant.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I remember all those. Have another scone, Inspector. My daughter said you wanted to talk to me about Ellis and Newbold’s.’

  I dragged what passes for my brain back from wherever it was wandering and remembered why I was there. ‘Yes, that’s right. Do you remember an employee called Alfred Armitage?’

  She did, and had read about his death in the newspaper. Sadly, it wasn’t his death that aroused the interest of the tabloids and broadsheets, but the manner of his dying. Alfred’s five minutes of incandescence came too late for him to enjoy.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if it was the same Alfred,’ she told me, ‘but he was the right age, and lived in Heckley, so I imagined it was.’

  She didn’t know him very well, but sometimes took on secretarial duties when the usual woman took leave, so she had met most of the employees. Alfred had always been respectful and considerate, even if he was dull and unimaginative. Eric Smallwood was regarded as a faithful servant who kept a strict hold on the company’s finances and other affairs, even if he was, she said, ‘a little strange’.

  ‘What do you mean by strange?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing tangible. He was just quiet, kept himself to himself, never socialised. My husband called him “still waters”.’

  ‘I see. Did you hear of any other nicknames for either of them, such as Midnight?’

  She looked bemused. ‘Midnight?’ she repeated. ‘No, not at all. What’s that all about?’

  ‘I was hoping you might tell me.’ I leaned forward. ‘Mrs Newbold, do you think either Alfred or Eric were stealing from Ellis and Newbold’s? Either directly or via some sort of fraud?’

  She looked awkward and fiddled with the hem of her cardigan. When she reached for the teapot again I shook my head and waited for an answer.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied, eventually. ‘Things went downhill quite rapidly. Percy – Mr Newbold – didn’t say much but he became very depressed. He regarded the workforce almost like family. He paid them the top rate for the job, when he could afford to, and gave them benefits far ahead of his time. He couldn’t believe that any of them would cheat him, but that was the conclusion he came to. A very painful conclusion. He felt betrayed.’

  ‘Did he investigate it, or contemplate taking any action?’

  ‘No. He hated unpleasantness of any kind. Our nearest competitor, a company called AJK, made him an offer and he accepted. He was glad to get out. He tried to protect the jobs of the men but after a suitable period AJK closed the factory down. He never really got over it. Judging a man was something he’d always thought he was good at, but the thought that Alfred and Eric were robbing him had really undermined his self-esteem. He always believed them to be so conscientious. Why, they never took any holidays, neither of them. Just the occasional day, perhaps. They never took a whole week off.’

  I asked her about Spain and the move back to England. It had been a happy interlude for a while, until Percy became ill, but she was glad to be back home, even if the winters were cold. I resisted a third scone, thanked her for a pleasant visit and climbed back in the car.

  There wasn’t time to have a quick look into Arkengarthdale but I stopped in the village centre to use the loo and buy a Wensleydale cheese. Then it was a hard thrash down the motorways back to Heckley.

  Mrs Newbold had spoken about the feeling of betrayal, about her husband’s disappointment that two men he trusted could be so disloyal. Evidence of their apparent dependability was the fact that they worked such long hours and didn’t take any leave. I pressed the button for the CD player and clicked through the discs until it found Thomas Tallis. Not taking leave is also a hallmark of the serious fraudster. He dare not have any time off in case the person who does his job while he’s not at his desk rumbles the fraud. The Newbolds were nice people, and nice people believe the best of everybody else. I’m a cop, and cops take the opposite view.

  It was after hours when I arrived back at the office and only Jeff Caton was in. We exchanged quick greetings and he reported that nothing was spoiling, which is how I like it. I dumped my briefcase and checked my desk for messages. There were two. Superintendent Stanwick wanted a word with me and so did the inspector in charge of the economic crime unit, or, as we all facetiously called it, the department formerly known as the fraud squad. I looked at my watch. Stanwick had left his mobile number, so presumably he didn’t mind what time I rang him. I tapped it into my desk phone.

  I don’t know Mark Stanwick very well, which is unusual. I’ve been around a long time, wiped a lot of runny noses in the accumulated years that have made me the longest-serving inspector in East Pennine. Most of my senior officers are younger than me, but I don’t mind: they’ve all passed through the Charlie Priest training college at some time in their careers, and if I need a favour it’s usually there for me. Nothing important or against the rules, but if I need something quick, I usually get it.

  But Stanwick had moved down to the Met early in his climb to dizzy heights. He was a desk cop, more interested in running the behemoth that is Her Majesty’s police force than in catching villains, and had slipped out of sight for many years. I thought no worse of him for that. Somebody’s got to do it. He’d returned north about six months earlier, as head of East Pennine career development. Maybe he wanted to know how we were getting on with Eddie Carmichael.

  I was about to abandon the call when he answered. ‘Mr Stanwick,’ he said.

  It’s a bad opening line. A curt ‘Stanwick’ would have been appropriate. ‘Superintendent Stanwick’ would have given me two free pieces of information. But ‘Mr Stanwick’? I registered it as a sign of insecurity.

  ‘Hello, Mr Stanwick,’ I replied. ‘It’s Charlie Priest here. You left a message.’

  A dog barked in the background and I heard a door close, cutting the noise off. He was at home. ‘Oh, hello Charlie,’ he responded. ‘Thanks for ringing. It’s just a couple of things, nothing important. But before that, congratulations on the appointment. It’s been long overdue.’

  ‘You mean the acting DCI? It’s only temporary.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it will be consolidated.’

  Yeah, I thought, providing I make all the right noises, learn the Newspeak, buy a suit and fall in with whatever he’s about to ask. ‘We’ll see. What else was there?’

  ‘Right, well, first of all, how is Eddie Carmichael fitting in?’

  ‘Eddie’s OK,’ I told him. It wasn’t totally true, but if I was going to assassinate the man I’d do it my way, not through snitching to the boss.

  ‘Oh, that’s good to hear. He can be a bit difficult, I believe.’

  ‘Not really. He still has one or two bad habits he picked up in the Met, but he’ll soon lose them. Who knows, perhaps he can teach us a few thi
ngs, too.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, Charlie. I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘No problem, except, you seem to be taking an extraordinary personal interest in him. Is there something I should know about?’

  ‘No, not really, Charlie. It’s just that Eddie and I go back a long way. We both came down to the Met in the same intake and helped each other through those first difficult weeks. You know the sort of thing. Actually, we went back even earlier than that. We were both in the army for a while, which gave us something else in common. I wasn’t as streetwise as Eddie. He helped me a lot, kept me out of trouble until I found my feet. I felt I owed him one, so when his file landed on my desk and I read about his spot of bother with the civilian girl I decided to try to help him, had him transferred to you. I thought if anybody could sort him out, it was Charlie Priest.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’ By ‘finding his feet’ Stanwick meant that he came in from the cold, abandoned being a street copper for the comforts of an office. Maybe I should have done the same. If I had it might have saved my marriage. In which case, I wouldn’t have met… No, I was content with my lot. ‘You said there were a couple of things…’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve been given the job of finding a media liaison officer. I straightaway thought of you. What do you think?’

  I didn’t have to think. ‘Sorry, Mr Stanwick, but I’m not interested.’

  ‘I didn’t think you would be, but there’s something else. We need a spokesman for talking to the public via the media. One or two recent examples haven’t quite been public relations disasters, but they’ve come close. On the other hand, you’ve done several press conferences in front of the cameras and they’ve been superb. I’ve watched the tapes.’

  ‘They got results, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Not just results, Charlie. They showed the force in a good light. You come across well. The public like you and trust you. You could become a star.’

  It was results that mattered to me. I wasn’t too bothered about being liked and trusted by the public, and stars come to fiery ends. ‘I hate doing it,’ I told him. ‘I do it because nobody else will. We’ll probably do one next week and I’ll ask for volunteers, but I know I’ll have to do it myself.’ And, I thought, I’m supposed to be a detective – a plain clothes detective.