The Not Quite Perfect Murderer, page 17
Thinking that some men wouldn’t have hesitated to do so and there was every chance Patrick as a young man had been insufferable, Carrick said, ‘Your ruse obviously didn’t work.’
‘No. I tried to demonstrate to Ingrid that I didn’t want to sleep with her but that just had the effect of turning us both on something awful. She says that the ol’ magic we’d had in our early relationship worked again.’
‘And you got married for the second time.’
‘Yes, and have three kids. I can’t believe it really, but it’s all down to Ingrid. She’s always rescued things – lost cats, dogs with thorns in their paws. She rescued me, picked me up, dusted me off and as good as told me to get on with life. I owe everything to her.’
Carrick was quiet for a few moments and then said, ‘That bastard could have killed Joanna.’
‘You have Lynn to thank – she kicked his backside and he released her.’ Patrick rose and clapped the DCI on the shoulder. ‘I’m going with her to talk to Mr Adams tomorrow morning. We might learn something. Get some rest; I’ll keep an eye on Joanna while you’re here.’
Carrick was left feeling a bit humbled.
They were told that they could only talk to Mr Adams for about ten minutes. But although his head was swathed in bandages and he had an arm in plaster, he looked bright enough – perhaps glad to be alive, Gillard thought, as they seated themselves at his bedside. The protection officer hadn’t taken any chances and had carefully scrutinized their warrant cards before allowing them through.
Lynn Outhwaite introduced herself and then went on to explain that Gillard worked part-time for the National Crime Agency.
‘I thought there was more to you than insurance,’ said the patient in a remarkably strong voice. ‘Have you come to arrest me?’
‘No, but you are a suspect in a serious criminal investigation,’ Lynn told him quietly.
She had said to Gillard on the way to the ward that she would defer doing anything like that until she had assessed the situation for herself.
‘Well, I were there, weren’t I? What else would you think?’
‘Can you remember what happened?’ she went on to ask.
‘Some of it. But when someone set about me with what looked like a poker and then bashed me over the head with it, that was it for I don’t know how long. Nothing. Then Mr Gillard here turned up – for which I shall ever be grateful, sir,’ he added.
‘Can you tell us about it roughly from the beginning?’ Gillard asked.
The old man gathered his thoughts for a few moments. ‘Did Maggie tell you that Mansell phoned me and said did I want to call as he had a mind to offer me my job back and pay me the last lot of wages he owed?’
‘Yes, she did,’ Gillard replied. ‘Are you sure it was his voice?’
‘He sounded a bit muffled like, but I never gave it a thought.’
‘Did he suggest a time?’ Lynn enquired.
‘He said if I wanted to come over that afternoon, he’d be in. So I did.’
‘Did you take anything with you?’
‘No, why would I?’
‘Who does the Devon shovel belong to?’
‘It’s mine. That was one of the reasons I went over there. I knew it was in the shed out the back. I’d used it to deal with the gravel when the drive was done. Wrong sort of gravel, mind. He didn’t even ask my advice on that.’
‘Are you aware that it was used as a murder weapon?’
‘It wasn’t. That bastard strangled him first. Then they must have bashed him around to make it look as though I’d done it. I can’t be too sure of anything that happened really. I think I was on the floor then. Everything went a bit kind of fuzzy.’
‘Had you fetched the shovel from the shed, though?’
‘Yes, before I rang the doorbell. I left it in the porch.’
‘Would there have been any mud on your boots?’
‘I weren’t wearing boots. Shoes. You must know that. Anyhow, the paths to the shed are good. No need to go on any open ground.’
‘Mr Adams, you don’t seem to be too upset by these ghastly happenings,’ Lynn said.
The old man sighed. ‘I can’t get what happened out of my head really, but it’s no good cracking up, is it? I did a stint as an ambulance driver in the sixties when I couldn’t get a gardening job. That was before you did a lot more training and ended up as what I think’s called a paramedic these days. When you’ve helped to pick up bits of folk after road accidents …’ He shook his head sadly and then whispered, ‘I’m just so glad to still be around.’
Gillard said, ‘Did Mr Mansell give the impression that he was expecting you?’
‘No, that’s when it all started to go wrong. He wasn’t and got really angry, said I was a damned nuisance – only he didn’t say it that politely. We were standing in the hallway and suddenly this mob of roughs – they had hoods on – rushed in behind me and virtually carried me up the stairs. Then they started hitting me.’
‘Had Mansell opened the door?’
‘I suppose he must have done.’
‘Did you try to fight back?’
‘Too right I did! But there were four or five of them, so they’ll only have a few bruises.’
‘Where was Mansell while this was going on?’
‘Oh, yes, that’s right. He were flapping about, shouting at them. Wanting to know what the hell they were doing and why they’d barged into his house. They told him to shut up and then he tried to run from the room. They grabbed him.’
‘At no time, then, because they wore hoods, did you see anything that might identify them?’
‘Only that the one in charge, the one who strangled Mansell, had green eyes. A strange sort of green if you ask me, like an alien in a film. As well as being rotten to the core, I reckon he’s nuts.’
Mr Adams was obviously tired now, so Lynn thanked him, told him they might need to talk to him again, and she and Patrick left.
‘Is he too calm and remembers too well?’ Lynn said when they were walking to where they had left their cars. ‘I still have to regard him as a suspect, but there’s no firm evidence to arrest him.’
‘People of his generation had to work too hard for a living to be snowflakes,’ Gillard pointed out.
‘Well, at least he won’t be going anywhere for a while and forensics might be able to tell us about any other people in that room.’ She stopped in her tracks. ‘I ought to go and find out how the boss is.’
‘Avon Ward,’ Gillard called after her hurrying figure. ‘Green eyes,’ he then went on to muse aloud. ‘And probably hiding in plain sight.’
This was likely as, Mansell’s murder apart, the force had been searching out all offenders who could possibly have a connection with the crimes under investigation and questioning them. Ben Baker and Jez Smithson – the latter discharged from hospital after being kept in for just over twenty-four hours with suspected concussion – were both questioned, by Lynn, that afternoon. They both refused to say a word other than to confirm their identities. And, of course, rules prevented Patrick Gillard from being present.
It didn’t, though, prevent him from conducting his own inquisition.
Ben Baker, he of the broken nose, was, like his brother Zak, of no fixed address, the latter having been remanded in custody as he had been found to be carrying a knife. The other two involved in the assault on Gillard had been released on police bail, Smithson to go home to a basement room at the bottom of Lansdown Hill that he got rent-free in exchange for cellar work and cleaning at the pub above it. At present, Ben was staying with a slightly disabled aunt. This was a family arrangement, mostly on account of everyone being of the opinion that this demanding and bad-tempered woman was a thundering nuisance, but at least he got free board for helping her with shopping and anything else that needed doing. In reality, he helped very little other than himself from her purse when she wasn’t looking. His conscience was clear on this as she was reputed to have a fortune stashed away somewhere in the house. He assiduously searched for that, also when she wasn’t looking.
Released from the police station after being questioned, he headed, on foot, in the direction of his aunt’s house in Twerton, not noticing the tall man slouching along, hands in the pockets of his anorak not far behind him. When he did notice him, it was too late and he found himself remorselessly steered down a side alley, around some waste bins and then parked in the lee of some larger bins outside the rear entrance to a Chinese restaurant.
‘I won’t punch you on the nose again as it looks quite smart in that dinky little bandage,’ his new companion whispered. ‘That is as long as you tell me where the bastard lives who put you up to that ambush on me the other night. And be warned, I used to be in a specialist army unit and can easily kill you with my bare hands. Starting a bit like this.’
He gave Baker a violent shake and slammed him against the wall behind him.
‘It’s all a bit difficult, with Georgio threatening to wring the life out of all of you if you step out of line, isn’t it?’ Gillard went on. ‘I know that he’s the man in charge and that he has killed several people. I don’t like it when people add me to that kind of list.’
‘No one knows where Georgio is for most of the time,’ Ben Baker honked, this due to the state of his nose. ‘No, honest,’ he hooted, his voice going up an octave when Gillard tightened his grip on the front of his fleece jacket. ‘Word has it that he’s got another job – another life really, an ordinary one – and that’s how he stays hidden.’
‘Go on.’
‘We all want out, but he seems to know everything that goes on. He knew where you might be the other night. Honest, that’s the truth. He gives orders and we do stuff and that’s it. He doesn’t turn up all the time – only for important things.’
‘Like strangling children, for example,’ Gillard said through his teeth.
‘No, that wasn’t planned. The kid turned up like – looked through the window.’
‘Were you there?’
‘It was a meeting after we’d done a job.’
‘The first jewellery shop heist?’
‘Yes.’
‘This was the house at the bottom of Brassknocker Hill belonging to a man by the name of Mansell.’
Baker nodded.
‘And you were there.’
Baker groaned. ‘I still feel bad about it.’
‘And Archer?’
‘He was just a pain in the backside. He had to get rid of him really.’
‘Why did Georgio kill Mansell?’
‘He was getting to be a pain in the backside too. Georgio thought he’d grass on us.’
Gillard loosened his grip a little. ‘Don’t you agree with me, then, that the sooner this man’s out of circulation, the better it will be for everyone?’
‘He’s raving mad.’ Baker bared his teeth in a crooked smile. ‘You mean … for ever?’
‘If you like.’
Gillard hadn’t meant that at all, but this interpretation of what he’d said was actually rather handy.
‘You said you were in a special army unit …’ Baker said. ‘Sort of … killing people?’ He swallowed hard. This man had grimly nodded and seemed to have a permanent snarl on his face. ‘How much would you want?’
‘A couple of K should do it.’
‘We might be able to scrape that together between us.’
‘But you’d have to do a bit of work for me first – give me a rough idea of where he might be.’
‘All I know is that people say he’s got a posh red sports car.’
‘What sort of sports car?’
‘I think it’s a Porsche. But he doesn’t drive round in it when there’s a job on; that’s for when he does the other ordinary stuff.’
‘D’you know the model?’
‘No.’
Gillard released him. ‘D’you have a mobile?’
‘Yes.’
‘Give me the number and I’ll ring you tomorrow to see what you’ve turned up.’
‘That doesn’t give me much time.’
‘You do want to make your court appointment for assault, don’t you?’
Well, Baker supposed he did. He hadn’t given a thought as to why he and the other two had been ordered to half kill this man. But Ben Baker didn’t do a lot of thinking at all.
ELEVEN
The scenes-of-crime team working in Mortimer Mansell’s house – a big job as there were a lot of rooms and most of them were filled with all kinds of things – had come across a locked room on the second floor. The key to this had not been found either on the murder victim, among his personal effects or in any drawer in furniture in the entire building. Finally, they had obtained permission from DI Outhwaite to get a locksmith to open it. The items revealed had resulted in another specialist being called in – an expert from one of the fine art galleries in the city. He had immediately contacted a colleague in another gallery whose particular field was stolen works of art and forgeries.
‘So far three paintings found were stolen in London from the same house in Knightsbridge two years ago, another two from Kensington last year, and some of the rest of the dozen or so in the room are thought to be forgeries. But obviously investigations with regard to those are continuing and will do for some time,’ Lynn reported from the crime scene in a phone call to Carrick the following morning. ‘It might be that Mansell was cheated.’
‘Possibly by the same dealers who bought stolen property from him here in Bath,’ Carrick suggested.
‘That could have happened,’ Lynn agreed. ‘But we’ll probably never know for sure.’
The DCI was at home, fretting. His temperature had come down and he had been discharged from hospital; as one doctor had put it, ‘It might be just one of those things.’ He had added that, in his opinion, Carrick was exhausted and would carry on feeling unwell if he didn’t rest.
Other evidence with regard to the Mansell case was slowly emerging. A fingerprint on the poker, just one clear specimen due to the blood smeared all over it, was Mansell’s. Among others too smeared to be of any use, there was a thumb and forefinger print on the handle of the shovel. This was Adams’s, which, of course, did not incriminate him as the shovel belonged to him. When shown photographs of Adams’s head injuries, a serious injuries consultant said she had a good idea that they had been inflicted by something like a poker, but obviously she couldn’t say for certain. His broken arm had probably been caused by a blow from a similar weapon.
Patrick Gillard hadn’t mentioned his possible ‘contract’ to take out Georgio either to his wife or Carrick. He thought it highly unlikely that Ben Baker would be able to tell him anything useful, and it went without saying that he had no intention of phoning him on his personal mobile. He would use the phone issued to him by the NCA that ensured calls were untraceable. He was just about to do so when he suddenly remembered something that Baker had said: ‘He knew where you might be the other night.’ How had he known? Admittedly, Gillard thought, he had gone back to the car park by the same route he had used in the morning, although he usually went slightly different ways at random. This was force of habit from undercover days working for MI5. Was this man watching him? Had he followed him? The latter of these queries, he thought, could be discounted as, again, from habit, he was vigilant.
Two pieces of information then crashed together in his mind. A man with a red sports car who had an idea where he, Gillard, would be? Who was this character Denholm Woodstock who worked for the same insurance company as he did and who he’d never clapped eyes on?
He was in the right place to get answers, the office, and went along the corridor to the personnel department. He had a very good excuse to find out what he wanted to know as he needed to speak to him in connection with the two claims that had been turned down. Five minutes later, he had some information: Denholm Woodstock worked on a similar footing to he himself – that is, he was semi-freelance and worked quite a lot from home. His address, though, Gillard was told, was ‘confidential’.
‘Why?’ he demanded to know.
The young clerk shook her head and said she didn’t know, but rules were rules.
‘Is the number of his red sports car on record?’
After half a minute or so of computer perusing, she said, ‘Sorry, it doesn’t appear to be.’
‘How about a photo? We all have to have one taken for our security pass.’
The computer said that it was ‘pending’.
‘Have you any idea when he’s next likely to be in the office?’ he persevered.
‘No, sorry. It’s not really my job to know things like that.’
Exasperated, but not one to play the heavy to someone barely out of her teens, Gillard merely gave her a little wave and went to find his boss. Who, it appeared, wasn’t around.
With work to do but no real reason to do it where he was, Gillard set off to go home. When he had just settled himself behind the wheel of the car, he remembered Ben Baker and rang the number he had been given. Amazingly, the man answered.
‘They think it’s a good idea,’ Baker replied in response to the question Gillard had put to him in the alley, obviously still with his nose stuffed with cotton wool. ‘But say they haven’t the cash.’
‘You could pay me some time later,’ Gillard cajoled. ‘I need this bastard out of my life, too.’
‘OK, you do it and we’ll give you the dosh afterwards.’
Yeah, right, Gillard thought. ‘But I need to know where he is, or might be,’ he stressed.
‘OK … er – right. You could try the Spotted Dog in Stoke Marsh – he goes there a bit.’
‘Does he have green eyes?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘’Course.’
Not quite grinding his teeth, and with the conviction that the man knew far more than he was admitting, Gillard rang off. He was in a real quandary now and had no intention of just dumbly hanging around near the pub in question; the man might spot and recognize him. If he went there at all, there would have to be a good reason and he would have to change his appearance. Meanwhile, he’d go and call on Carrick.
