Author: Peter Robinson
Category: Other
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Gerry enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her face and her hair as she headed down Elmet Hill, only mildly annoyed that the sunny weather would probably bring out her freckles. Myers lived on one of the many narrow, meandering side streets, Elmet Close, and had said over the telephone that he would be pleased to talk to her again. Though he worked in the sales office of an agricultural supplies company in Helmthorpe, he said he often worked from home these days and would put fifteen minutes or so aside for her visit. So eager did he sound that she rather thought he might have an agenda of his own.
Myers’s house was a Georgian semi with a large bay window and a reasonably sized, well-kept front garden, complete with crazy-paving, herbaceous borders, neatly-trimmed lawn and a small patch set aside for herbs. Gerry recognised basil, thyme and rosemary, and could smell their mingled aromas as she passed by. The front door was painted white – recently by the looks of it – with a brass door knocker and four small thick glass panes above the letterbox. There was also a bell, which Gerry pushed, and in no time at all the door was opened by a tall man in navy chinos and a blue and white checked short-sleeve shirt with breast pockets, one of which held a black pen. The white star on its cap protruded pretentiously.
‘Come in,’ said Granville Myers with a smile. He had a fine head of greying hair and a thin face, with a receding chin that Gerry thought might benefit from a small beard. Once again, she was struck by his resemblance to Nigel Farage. ‘We’ll sit in the kitchen,’ he said, as she followed him inside. ‘I’ve put some coffee on. Will that be all right? I can make tea if you’d prefer. DC Masterson, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. And coffee’s fine, thank you,’ said Gerry. The kitchen was a bright, airy room, all clean pine surfaces and gleaming white appliances, with four matching stools around a central island. Myers pointed to one and Gerry sat, resting her feet on the lower bar. The top of the island had a slight overhang which formed a perfect recess under which her knees fitted snugly. Through the window, she could see the paved patio area in the back garden, with its outdoor grill and white table and chairs, all under the shade of a large striped umbrella and an overhanging willow. Very nice, indeed. The hill wasn’t an area of town she knew well at all, and she could see why the locals might like it to remain a well-kept secret. She wondered what the house prices were like. More than she could afford, no doubt; she would be stuck in her one-bedroom flat on the edge of the student area for some time yet, she thought. Still, she had it all to herself, which was more than could be said for many young women away from home for the first time.
When he had poured them both coffee and put out the milk and sugar, Myers sat opposite Gerry and smiled. ‘At your service,’ he said.
‘You may have heard,’ she began, ‘that there’s been a death on Hollyfield Lane.’
‘Yes. A drug addict, wasn’t he?’
‘That’s right. A man in his sixties called Howard Stokes. We don’t think there’s anything suspicious about his death, but we still have to ask a few questions.’
‘Overdose, was what I heard.’
‘Pardon?’
‘A drug overdose. That’s what he died of.’
‘I can’t really comment on that.’
‘Most likely self-administered.’
‘We don’t know that.’
‘Oh, come, come, DC Masterson. Remember Lisa Bartlett?’
‘Yes, of course, she’s—’
‘Then you might also remember that Lisa is the daughter of a very good friend of mine, Gus Bartlett, a fellow founding member of the Watch, and she was sexually assaulted hardly a quarter of a mile from here on her way home from Eastvale Comprehensive just a month ago. The poor girl is still traumatised, absolutely traumatised.’
‘I investigated the case, as you know,’ said Gerry, ‘and it’s terrible, but you have to—’
‘Do you know how long it’s been since we’ve had a regular police presence in this area? An occasional car passing through, let alone an officer walking the beat?’
‘Our resources just don’t—’
‘Then what are you here for? It’s not as if your solution rate is that high. I mean, you haven’t found out who assaulted poor Lisa yet, have you?’
‘Believe me, Mr Myers, it’s not for want of trying. She wasn’t able to give us a very accurate description of her attacker. But I want you to know we’re still working on it.’
‘Would you be able to give a description? If you were grabbed from behind and . . . and violently sexually assaulted in the dark? Do you really think you would be making notes of your attacker’s appearance? I have children, DC Masterson. Including a nine-year-old daughter. Can you imagine how that makes me feel about living here with a monster like that on the loose? Can you?’
‘Sir, these occurrences are very rare. Besides, it’s not that—’
‘Tell that to Gus Bartlett. The poor bloke’s at his wits’ end. Not to mention his wife, Sally. And Lisa’s brother, poor Jason. He’s having to try and concentrate on sitting his A-levels with all this going on. My own son’s having a hard time of it, too. Jason and Chris are best friends.’
‘I’m very sorry for your—’
Myers leaned back and seemed to relax. Now that he had said his piece, his voice took on a softer, more sing-song tone, as if placating a wayward child. ‘I’m not blaming you, DC Masterson. I’m sure you’re doing your best under the circumstances. No. It’s the system. I realise that. A government that would rather spend money on campaigns to keep itself in power than on personal security, education and healthcare. I’m not blaming you personally, but I do think the police could try just a little bit harder.’
‘I assure you the Lisa Bartlett case is still being investigated, sir. It’s still active.’
‘But the death of this drug addict takes precedence. Is that it?’
‘Not at all. This is a separate issue.’
‘And no doubt you’re putting the rest of your resources into investigating the death of that young Arab up on the East Side Estate, eh?’
‘His name is Samir Boulad, and he came here from Syria all by himself. And he was murdered. There’s no doubt about that. Brutally stabbed to death, and we—’
Myers’s voice hardened again. ‘Are you saying that’s worse than what happened to Lisa?’
There was no real answer to that if you were talking to the kind of person who thought an assault on a young white girl was worse than the murder of a Middle Eastern boy, but Lisa Bartlett would heal in time, would go on to live a normal and possibly very productive life; Samir Boulad would not. ‘We don’t make such comparisons, sir,’ Gerry said. ‘We have limited resources and we allocate them as best we can. I wish I could send you ten officers to patrol your neighbourhood every night of the week, but I can’t.’
Myers ran his hand through his hair. ‘I know,’ he sighed. ‘Believe me, I know. I’m sorry. Put it down to tiredness. I’m out almost every night with the Watch these days. It’s tiring me out. All of us. But we can’t risk another girl getting assaulted.’ He smiled. ‘Do you think I really want to give up my evenings to wander these streets until all hours? I’d rather be home with my wife watching TV and having a beer or two.’
‘I’m sure you would, sir,’ said Gerry. ‘But I came to see if you could help us. After all, you do patrol the streets around here, even if you don’t venture as far as Hollyfield. You know better than we do what’s going on in the neighbourhood. How many of you are there?’
‘In the Watch? Oh, it varies,’ said Myers. ‘We don’t wear uniforms or anything, you know. We’re not some paramilitary militia or vigilante outfit. We just walk the streets, usually in groups of two. My son Chris is also involved on occasion. And Lisa’s father and brother. There’s my next door neighbour, Bill Parsons; Harry, the landlord of The Oak at the bottom of the hill; the Farrars. Several others. Women as well as men. About twenty in all, but not all active at once, of course. We take turns.’
‘Can you give me a list
of the members?’
‘Of course,’ said Myers. ‘I’ll run off a copy for you before you leave.’
‘Thank you, sir. Have you noticed anything unusual in the neighbourhood lately?’
‘As you said, we don’t patrol Hollyfield,’ said Myers, ‘and we certainly advise our children not to go there, so I can’t really tell you anything about this drug addict. We do know Hollyfield’s a haven for addicts and hooligans. They cross the park sometimes. We’ve had two break-ins lately, as well as the assault, you know, but since we’ve increased our patrols, things haven’t been so bad. We might seem a bit like Dad’s Army to you professionals, but we definitely act as a deterrent.’
Gerry wanted to say they hadn’t been much of a deterrent on the night Lisa Bartlett was assaulted, but fortunately she was smart enough to realise before opening her mouth that it would be wiser to refrain. ‘I know, sir,’ she said. ‘And we really do appreciate your help.’
‘It’ll be a red letter day when that whole bloody Hollyfield Estate has been rased to the ground, but until then we have to live next to it.’
‘So you haven’t noticed any strangers or suspicious characters in the neighbourhood?’
‘No. Things have been fairly quiet lately.’
Gerry took the picture of Samir out of her briefcase. Banks had told her to ask about him whenever she talked to anyone in the area, no matter what she was talking to them about. She passed it over to Myers, and he made an expression of distaste as he looked at it.
‘The dead boy, I suppose?’ he said.
‘Yes. Have you ever seen him at all?’
‘Around here?’
‘Anywhere.’
‘No,’ said Myers, pushing the photo back over the wooden surface. ‘And I think I would have noticed. What would he be doing here? I thought his body was found on the East Side Estate?’
‘That’s correct,’ said Gerry. ‘But he wasn’t necessarily killed there. And we have no idea what he was doing in Eastvale. That’s what we’d like to find out.’
‘Do you think he had something to do with the other drug addict’s death? Is that what this is about?’
‘Other drug addict?’
‘This latest one. I’m assuming the boy was on drugs, too, or somehow involved?’
‘We have no evidence to suggest that, sir, or reason to think it.’ Gerry certainly wasn’t going to tell him about the cocaine in Samir’s pocket. That piece of information hadn’t been released to the media. ‘As far as I know, there’s no connection between the two. Maybe your son would know something?’
‘I can’t imagine Chris having anything to do with him, either. I mean, there’s the age difference, for a start. Eighteen-year-olds don’t usually hang out with younger kids. Besides, Chris is busy with his A-levels at the moment. We’re hoping he’ll get into Oxford. The teachers have high hopes for him.’
‘That’s excellent, sir. Where does he go to school?’
‘St Botolph’s.’
‘Ah.’ St Botolph’s was a minor public school in a moorland hollow a few miles north of Lyndgarth. It had an excellent reputation, and accepted day boys as well as boarders. Gerry knew that schools like St Botolph’s also took quite a few foreign students, and for a moment the idea passed through her mind that Samir could have been a pupil there. He was the right age, and he could easily have come from a wealthy Syrian family. But he hadn’t, as they had just discovered. ‘Do you know anything at all about Howard Stokes, the dead drug addict?’ she asked.
‘Me? Why would I? All I know is what I’ve heard on the news.’
Gerry showed him a photograph. ‘Have you seen him around?’
‘He was that scruffy old bloke on the mobility scooter, wasn’t he?’
‘That’s one way of describing him.’
Myers tapped the photo and nodded. ‘I thought so. We had a bit of trouble with him once, hanging around the playground in the park, scaring the kids.’
‘What did he do to scare them?’
‘It was just his being there. He didn’t have to do anything. His mere presence scared them. I mean, just look at the photo. Don’t you think he’s pretty scary?’
‘Right, sir.’ Gerry gathered her stuff together. ‘I’ll be off, then,’ she said. ‘Sorry to trouble you again. And thank you very much for your time.’
‘I’ll just run off that copy for you. Won’t be a sec.’
Myers disappeared upstairs. Gerry heard a humming sound, and he was back in no time waving a sheet of paper.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
Myers saw her to the door. ‘I hope you catch him,’ he said. ‘Whoever assaulted Lisa. Believe me, I know you have other serious demands on your time, but somehow, when it hits close to home, when it could have been one of your own . . .’
‘I understand, sir. And we are doing our best.’
When she had made her escape, Gerry took a deep breath and paused on her way back to Elmet Hill. She should have known what to expect from Myers, even though she had a lot of sympathy with his concerns. The police couldn’t patrol as they should, as they used to do. The bobby on the beat was a thing of the past, as the patrol car was quickly becoming, too. The money and the manpower just weren’t there. More and more local Neighbourhood Watches like Myers’s, and even private security companies, were having to fill the gaps. It was worse in the urban areas, of course, but there was plenty of crime in the counties these days, a lot of it due to drugs. And county lines.
When she got to the corner of the Close and Elmet Hill, instead of turning left back to North Market Street and the police station, she turned right, towards the park and the Hollyfield Estate beyond. One or two people still lived there, and they were more likely to have noticed anything unusual than the denizens of the hill.
Blaydon’s driver Frankie Wallace was an ex-middleweight boxer who had never amounted to much more than a second-rate scrapper in the ring. Fortunately for him, he had the brains to retire before he lost the capability to do so. He drifted into low-level criminal activity in the Glasgow gang scene for a while, working as a ‘debt collector’ for slum landlords and partaking in various other dodgy activities, including illegal gambling and protection rackets. After his second jail term, he came to what little senses he had left and gained honest employment first as a club bouncer, then as chauffeur-cum-bodyguard, first for a wealthy banker in London, then for Connor Clive Blaydon back up north. He was fifty-one years old and had been working for Blaydon for five years when Banks went to talk to him in his small terrace house just outside the York city centre.
‘Evening, Frankie,’ said Banks when a sweaty Wallace opened the door in his string vest and rugby trousers. ‘Been pounding the crap out of a punch bag?’
Wallace grunted. ‘I like to keep fit.’
‘Good for you.’ Banks couldn’t help noticing that Wallace did still look fit, more muscle than fat. His face was a mass of hardened scar tissue which probably didn’t even feel incoming punches, and his nose and left ear didn’t seem to have recovered from his years in the ring. ‘Remember me?’
‘I never forget a copper. You’re Banks, aren’t you? You did me once. Long time ago.’
‘That’s right. Good to know all those punches you let through your guard haven’t done your memory any harm. Can I come in?’
‘I suppose you’d better. Excuse the mess.’
The mess wasn’t quite as bad as Banks expected for a man of Wallace’s intelligence and social skills living alone, though it did smell a bit like a gym at closing time. The living room was untidy but clean, with a massive flat-screen TV dominating one corner. Its obvious focal point, though, was a glass case full of trophies: cups, shields, belts and gloves.
‘What is it you’re after?’ Wallace said when they had sat down.
‘A bit of information.’
‘I’ll no talk about my clients, if that’s what you mean. That’s privileged, like a doctor or a vicar.’
‘I understand you work exclusivel
y for Connor Clive Blaydon these days?’
‘Aye.’
‘Works you hard, does he?’
‘Well, he doesn’t drive, himself, so I get plenty of practice, thank you.’
‘Where do you drive him?’
‘All over the place.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘No. It’s between him and me.’
‘How does it work?’
‘I don’t get you.’
‘Well, you don’t live on the premises. Are you on call?’
‘Oh, I see. Aye. He gives me a bell, and I’m there in twenty minutes, tops.’
‘Where do you keep the Merc? I didn’t see one out on the street.’
‘You must be joking. Car like that wouldn’t last five minutes around these parts. He keeps it at his place, and I drive over in my wee Toyota when he calls.’
‘You’d have to break a few speed limits to get there in twenty minutes from here.’
Wallace just glared at him. ‘Speeding now, is it?’
‘No. It’s the other part of your job I’m interested in.’
‘What other part?’
‘Messages, errands, muscle, bodyguard stuff.’
‘I don’t do anything wrong.’
‘Not saying you do.’
‘So?’
‘So what?’
‘So what do you want? I haven’t got all day.’
‘Answer my questions and it’ll be over a lot quicker.’
‘I am answering your questions, as best I can. You haven’t really asked any yet.’
‘Fair enough. Do you ever drive Blaydon to London?’
‘I told you—’
‘Oh, go on, answer me, Frankie. What harm can it do? Just in general. London’s a big place.’
Wallace muttered to himself for a moment, then said, ‘Aye, of course. The boss does a lot of business there. He’s got an office and all that. Nothing secret about it.’