Forty minutes later, Mark looked up at the chipped and peeling gold lettering etched onto what was once a glossy black signboard, then lowered his gaze to the bay window jutting out into the narrow cobbled alleyway.
A sorry collection of cheap furniture, tasteless china ornaments and dirty jewellery lined the display, framed by a series of faded notices listing everything from opening hours to warnings about a lack of cash on the premises.
‘I want to put on protective gloves just looking at this place,’ Jan said, frowning at the layer of dirt ingrained within the rotting window frame.
‘How long did Alex say this bloke had been here?’
‘Three years. There’s nothing on the database to suggest that there’s been any trouble. I checked with local uniform and they say they’ve never had cause for concern either – Mr Targethen drinks in one of the pubs in the Market Square on a regular basis, and tends to keep to himself, according to the bloke who owns this building. Targethen does a bit of house clearance work in between running this place, and fancies himself as an antiques dealer on the side.’
‘Don’t they all.’
Mark took one look at the smears on the door handle, then used his elbow to push his way inside.
He ducked as something brushed against his hair, a chill running across his neck before he turned to see a wisp of loose brown tape from a broken electrical junction box above the open door. It fluttered in the breeze until Jan pushed it aside.
To his left and right, shelves lined the walls, disappearing into a dusty gloom and stacked haphazardly with old china cups and saucers, copper pots and dirty silverware.
He could hear a radio station playing in the background, a tinny collection of jumbled voices with too much treble and little resonance before he spotted an ancient smartphone propped up against a stack of leather-clad books on the counter, a miniature speaker beside it.
A thin man in his fifties eyed him from behind a glass-topped counter that was as cluttered as the shelves. He leaned an arm on a till, his mouth in a zip of a line and a harshness in his gaze.
‘Well, if it isn’t the police,’ he sneered. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Are you Marcus Targethen?’ asked Mark, moving closer.
‘I am.’
Mark held out his warrant card, then the photograph, now creased in several places. ‘Do you know this woman?’
The pawnbroker leaned forward, but didn’t take the photograph and instead swivelled a desk lamp around to illuminate it.
‘Nope.’ He rocked back on his heels. ‘Why? Has she been trying to fence stolen goods or something?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. Do you get much trouble like that in here?’
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘DS Mark Turpin.’
Targethen grinned, exposing uneven teeth blackened with rot. ‘I don’t get any trouble in here, detective. I don’t hang around with those sort of people. I run a perfectly legitimate business here.’
‘Are you busy?’ Jan asked, her tone incredulous.
‘It’s a quiet time of the day, that’s all. Gives me time to do the paperwork.’ Targethen swept his arm in the direction of a chipped mahogany sideboard behind the till, where a stack of receipts and bills wobbled beside an ancient laptop computer. ‘You interrupted me.’
‘Then we’ll keep this short,’ said Mark. ‘Where were you between half past six and ten-thirty on Tuesday night?’
Targethen poked his finger towards the door. ‘Over at the pub in the square. Watching the footy. Ask the landlord, he’ll tell you. I got there at six, and walked out at five to eleven. Then I went home.’
Mark waited while Jan took down the details, and looked past the shop owner to the spreadsheet display on the laptop. ‘Do you keep a record of everything that you buy and sell?’
‘Of course.’
‘Any cash jobs?’
‘Look, only now and again, and only if it’s a particularly crappy piece. No jewellery, mind – I’m careful with that stuff, just in case your lot do turn up. Only the odd chair or ornament here and there. But I still put it in that inventory list,’ he hastened to add. ‘The accountant sorts it all out at the end of the year and tells me what I owe the tax man.’
Mark raised an eyebrow in response.
‘Where do you find most of your stock?’ asked Jan.
‘Most times, people walk in here with bits and pieces. Stuff they’ve inherited that they don’t want to keep, or unwanted presents.’ The blackened teeth grinned again. ‘Plenty of engagement rings and unwanted reminders. They figure at least I’ll give them some money for it rather than taking it down the charity shop or handing it back to an ex.’
‘Do you have CCTV cameras?’ Mark said.
‘I’ve never had any trouble, so I don’t bother. Expensive things to run, them.’
‘I’m surprised your insurance premiums haven’t gone up if you haven’t got cameras.’
‘I’ve got good locks on the doors and windows. That helps.’ Targethen’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s this about, anyway? That woman – what’s she done?’
‘She was found on the side of the road a few miles away from here. We’re treating her death as suspicious.’
The pawnbroker’s face paled. ‘She’s dead?’
‘I thought you didn’t know her.’
‘I-I don’t. It’s just shocking, isn’t it?’ Targethen swallowed. ‘I’ve got two nieces, and I keep telling my sister she ought to pay for them to have some self-defence classes. It’s just not safe out there anymore, is it?’
Mark took one last look at the contents of the counter and shelves behind the till. ‘Thanks for your time, Mr Targethen. We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.’
He slid a business card across the counter, then followed Jan outside, blinking in the grey light from an overcast sky.
He didn’t look back, feeling Targethen’s stare boring into him through the smeared window panes, and instead set a brisk pace back to the market square.
As Jan unlocked the car, he finally eyed the entrance to the alleyway and growled under his breath.
‘When we get back to the incident room, I want to take another look at the background checks Alex pulled out of the system.’
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ she said, dropping behind the wheel and putting her bag behind her seat.
‘We’ll check out his social media for the nieces as well,’ he said, reaching forward to turn up the heater.
‘Okay. You didn’t believe him about the self-defence classes?’
‘I do, but you saw his reaction when I told him about our mystery dead woman.’
‘He’s lying,’ said Jan, starting the engine. ‘He looked frightened when you said that. So you think he did know her?’
‘Yes. And I want to know why he’s scared.’