The next morning, I again returned to Hinton Littlemore feeling that although I had enjoyed a pleasant day I had achieved little. The commander had finished by telling me that his doctor – in Woodford, that is – having been in contact with those who had treated him in Bath had forbidden him in a telephone conversation from going back to work for at least another week. Rolt had not seemed to be too worried about this and would obviously be briefed by his staff if and when necessary.
The Metropolitan Police had meanwhile reported that the men we were referring to as the Biddulph brothers had been of no known addresses, although Steve had lived rough but was thought at one time to have shared a bedsit in Bethnal Green with Kyle, his half-brother. The Met had lost track of the pair of them after they had been evicted for not paying the rent. Both had been known to have drink problems and prepared to do just about anything to get hold of it.
‘They were probably regarded as expendable,’ Patrick said during a phone call to me that evening. ‘I reckon Dorney got them to do the dirty work with someone else – if there were indeed three of them. They probably got a couple of bottles of whisky each. Then, when he discovered, somehow, they had failed to kill Rolt, he got a kick out of stringing them up. But it’s all conjecture – I might be quite wrong.’
‘Surely the third man would have been the brains behind it as it doesn’t sound as though they would have been that intelligent,’ I said. ‘And we still don’t have the first idea how they knew where Rolt was going to be.’
‘Perhaps you’d better go and ask at that pub where he stayed, The Lion and the Unicorn. Make it official.’
‘Have you located Dark Horse?’ I asked.
‘No. It looks as though he’s gone to ground, as he said he would. But he doesn’t appear to be at the house I saw him enter – no one is. I’ll give it another twenty-four hours – I can’t spare any more time.’
The pub had obviously been built some time during Queen Victoria’s reign and, from the outside at least, looked as though little had been done in the way of refurbishment since. But when I arrived at lunchtime the small car park was full and I was forced to leave the Range Rover half on a pile of gravel in one corner, something that these particular vehicles do not find a problem.
Within, it was warm and clean, a log fire crackling. The throng of customers all appeared to be eating and lunch suddenly seemed a very good idea after my frugal slice of toast, marmalade and coffee breakfast. I managed to find a small table and had a look at the menu. Pheasant casserole, chicken and mushroom pie, venison sausages, cold game pie and salad, and roast pork with all the trimmings were on offer. Little wonder Rolt had come here, for the man-food.
After relishing the said chicken and mushroom pie, I went to settle my bill and asked to speak to the manager. This request seemed to fluster the girl behind the bar and I had to assure her that I wasn’t going to complain about anything. She told me that she would fetch Mr Fielding, who was actually the owner.
A man, probably in his late thirties, appeared from somewhere at the rear and, oddly, seemed to be immediately on the defensive as he said, ‘John Fielding. What’s the problem?’
‘National Crime Agency,’ I said, producing my warrant card. ‘Congratulations on a wonderful pub.’
‘Oh,’ he said, looking relieved. ‘Thanks.’
‘On the twenty-third of last month a man was staying here and I’m not sure if he actually checked out, although I should imagine that all accounts would have been paid to you by now,’ I began. ‘Would you be good enough to check as I’m not sure if he was using his real name.’
‘Dodgy then, eh?’ Fielding replied with a knowing look.
‘Far from it.’
He went away and came back with the register to ask, ‘Was he on his own?’
‘As far as we know.’
‘Yes, here we are. There were two couples staying on that date and one bloke on his own. A Mr D. Rolt.’
‘Had he stayed here before?’
‘He can’t have done as we’ve only just started having paying guests and the previous owners didn’t. I only bought this place a few months ago. It was pretty rundown – the kitchen contained just a filthy deep fat fryer and several microwave cookers.’
‘So he might have found out about it on the Internet then.’
‘That’s perfectly possible as we have a good website. I’ve remembered what happened now. He’d been here for two nights and then went out one morning and we didn’t see him again that day, or ever again for that matter. The next morning a man and a woman arrived, settled his bill and said that he’d been taken ill. They took his possessions with them, something I wasn’t very happy about, but one of them showed me a police ID.’
‘That was all perfectly OK,’ I assured him as he still seemed to be uneasy. ‘Were you aware of anyone visiting him here? Did you notice him talking to anyone or did anyone sit with him at mealtimes?’
Fielding shrugged. ‘This is a very busy pub.’
When I merely smiled, he added, ‘I’ll ask the staff but I can’t be sure exactly who was working during those days as they’re mostly students.’
‘But you must have records,’ I said as he turned to go.
He gave me a crooked smile. ‘They come, they go. Sometimes they turn up, sometimes they don’t. I’m always on the phone begging someone to come to work.’
‘Please also ask them if he mentioned where he was going or what he intended to do.’
He went away again and was gone for quite a while but had nothing to tell me when he returned.
‘Did he tell you where he was going?’ I persisted.
‘No, but I’d noticed that he was wearing hiking gear at breakfast so assumed he intended to go walking.’
‘And the previous day?’
‘Er, yes, I think so.’
‘Please try to remember. It’s very important.’
Fielding stared into space for a few moments, and then said, ‘Yes, I’m fairly sure he was now.’
‘Sorry to go on about it, but he thinks he may have mentioned what he intended to do that day to someone here.’
‘If he did I haven’t a clue as to who that might have been.’
I had no choice but to leave it there and, a bit depressed that once again I had achieved nothing, I drove back home. Much later that day, Patrick arrived, having failed to locate his quarry even though he had worked most of the night, as he put it, ‘dredging Hackney’.
Michael Greenway had been right: the case was stagnating.
James Carrick returned to work and perhaps due to après-flu depression was driven to make up for his absence by going through the nick and all cases outstanding therein like a firestorm. Lynn Outhwaite was almost reduced to tears after one such sally in her direction. Other personnel, I was given to understand, were going about their duties tight-lipped. I stayed away following a tip-off from my partner, who seriously fell out with the Scottish DCI – thankfully, in the comparative privacy of Carrick’s office, Patrick tending to counter bad temper and unreasonableness with carefully selected blistering nouns and adjectives. Which always makes things worse.
This couldn’t be allowed to continue.
An hour after Patrick had departed for work, his intended venue for this not mentioned, I borrowed Elspeth’s car and drove into Bath not knowing, frankly, what I was going to find in what was supposed to be a powerhouse of keeping law and order.
I knocked, briefly, on the DCI’s office door and, without waiting for a response, went in. I already knew he was there as I had heard him coughing as I approached.
‘Good morning,’ I said, having seated myself. Then, bloody-mindedly ignoring the fact that he looked pale, was thinner in the face and obviously still downright unwell, continued, ‘If you don’t sort this out – alienating all your loyal staff – I shall contact Commander Greenway and suggest he pays a visit and gives you and Patrick what would amount to a kick up the backside.’
OK, I had absolutely no idea about the protocols involved with this threat but it had sounded good to me.
Carrick stared hard at me for a moment and then glanced down. I detected a fleeting smile on his face.
‘I should have expected something like this,’ he murmured, running his fingers through his thick fair hair.
‘I’m not taking sides,’ I told him.
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘You’re always even-handed.’
I took this as an attempt to mollify me but, under the circumstances, could hardly blame him. There was a short silence, and then he continued, ‘The Met has traced the next of kin of the hanging victims, Steve Biddulph and his half-brother, Kyle. Patrick’s trying to find out a bit more about them in police records. The mother, plus a full brother to Steve, and a daughter, all have form and appear to live, on and off, at the same address in Bethnal Green – a rented flat over a dry-cleaners. I have an idea that man of yours is keen to undertake some surveillance on them and while he’s in London have a last-ditch look for the F9 man.’
‘Can I get you anything from the chemist’s?’ I asked.
‘Thanks, but I’m up to my ears with all kinds of stuff already.’
‘I could drive you home.’
‘No, but thanks anyway.’
There seemed little point in staying longer so I rose to go.
‘Ingrid?’
I turned.
‘I’ll try to fix things.’
Patrick was in the general office, having borrowed someone’s desk who was on leave. At least, I hoped that the framed photograph of the busty young woman not wearing much on it wasn’t his.
‘That’s Amethyst,’ he informed me, seeing the direction of my gaze and speaking quietly as others were working in the room. ‘I think they’re getting married soon. He’s booked the bouncy castle.’ He then had a brief attack of man-giggles.
We were under serious pressure from the older children to arrange one of these as it was Mark’s first birthday soon and they wanted to have a party. I was not winning the argument that he was far too young for that kind of thing.
‘Have you seen Carrick?’ Patrick went on to ask, cautiously.
I nodded. ‘He’s too ill to be at work.’
‘I think everyone’s agreed on that.’
‘He intimated that you might be going to London to check up on the Biddulph twos’ next of kin.’
‘Well, nothing’s being achieved here – there’s no evidence locally.’
‘I’d like to come with you this time.’
This was given consideration.
‘I’m not even earning my part-time salary,’ I pointed out.
‘Just think of it from the point of view that your husband gets paid neither overtime nor danger money,’ Patrick whispered with feeling.
I ignored the remark. ‘Besides which, your battleaxe is bored on account of not having shot up any mobsters lately,’ I added.
He gazed at me for a moment as if wondering if I was being flippant, a bad failing of mine, and probably decided that I was. Then he said, ‘All right. Providing things don’t get too hazardous – and you’ll have to promise that you’ll clear out if I tell you to.’
I promised and pulled up a chair.
‘They’re an obnoxious bunch,’ Patrick went on to say, his eyes on the computer screen in front of him. ‘As well as having had a half-brother, Kyle, Steve Biddulph had a full brother, Wayne. No one’s quite sure but there’s a Polish father in there somewhere who appears to have nothing at all to do with crime and probably bolted back to his native country when he saw the way things were working out. Wayne’s been in trouble with the police for most of his life. Rumour has it that he’s a member of a London gang. His sister, Ravenna, has done time for shoplifting on an industrial scale with a bunch of other women and was in trouble before that for being drunk and disorderly and assault. The mother, Donna Black, ran the shoplifting business and they sold the stuff through a market stall that also had legitimate stock – or at least it couldn’t be proved that it wasn’t. She was thought to be behind an acid attack on another stall-holder after some kind of disagreement, but again, nothing could be proved.’
‘They’re not going to take kindly to being questioned about the deaths.’
‘The Met’s already questioned them and the mother’s upset and spitting mad about it but said she doesn’t know anything. Whoever spoke to her thought she was lying, possibly out of fear. But she was adamant that she hadn’t seen either Steve or Kyle for ages. As far as Wayne goes, she says she hasn’t seen him for even longer and in her words “he’s a good boy, really”.’
‘And the daughter?’
‘Not around. Black said she didn’t know where she was. It was suspected at the time that at least one other person was in the flat as they’d heard voices after they rang the doorbell but didn’t have a search warrant. Of course, it could have been a radio or TV.’
‘Are these people still running the market stall?’
‘No idea.’
‘We could have a poke round there first.’
‘There’s more than one market in that part of east London.’
‘The nearest one to the address, then.’
But there were other cases to which Patrick had to give his attention and, whatever Greenway said, he couldn’t just go back to the capital and leave others to deal with them. I could help with this – much of it was very routine – and the pair of us plodded along with it for the rest of the week. Then, on that Friday evening, Patrick came home and announced that he would work all weekend if necessary to find the F9 man, Rolt having just rung him to say that he couldn’t be contacted.
‘Rolt finally, finally, sounded a bit rattled,’ Patrick added. ‘He said he’d requested that other contacts in that area keep an eye out for him and they haven’t seen him either. The retired cop who helps on the flower stall as his cover, one of Rolt’s “ghosts”, also seems to have gone off the map.’
‘So?’
‘So the bloke who just failed in chucking a couple of Dorney’s mob into the Regent’s canal will have to have another go at locating this man. I appear to be the only person on the planet whose credentials fit the bill but I’d rather thought my days of doing things like that were over.’
‘Did Rolt ask you to try again?’
‘Not in so many words, and he can’t really give me orders. But I got the impression he wants me to.’
‘And your working partner?’
‘What I said earlier in the week still applies. If things get a bit difficult, you must bale out.’
I nodded my agreement.
‘We’re just checking on Dark Horse – not tracking down and raking Matt Dorney out of his hideaway.’
I felt that this was a reminder to himself rather than anything to do with me.
We checked into our usual hotel in the West End for, as Patrick jokingly put it, there was little point in our camping out under a canal bridge. When we went out a short while later we were dressed in the same clothes as when we had arrived, inconspicuously, like tourists. Patrick had brought a camera with him to enhance the impression, a small one which could be slipped into a jacket pocket so as not to be an encumbrance.
We had left the Range Rover at home and travelled up by train as it is sometimes too conspicuous. Taxis are anonymous and we took one to Hackney, asking to be put down near the town hall. We would walk from there and planned first to check on the house Patrick had seen Dark Horse enter. By this time it was a little after three thirty and would get dark early due to a heavily overcast sky.
‘At the most, we have an hour and a half of useful daylight left,’ Patrick commented as we walked, his thoughts uncannily echoing mine.
I tucked an arm through his. ‘How are you going to refer to this man if you ring the doorbell and someone we don’t know about answers it?’
‘I mentioned that to Rolt. He said just ask for Phil.’
‘And if they say he’s not there?’
‘How I play it depends on who answers the door.’
The shutters on the little flower stall were down and padlocked and it was comparatively quiet for London, the lull before shoppers and workers went home and then possibly got ready to go out again for the evening. We walked for fifteen minutes or so and then took a right turn into one of the thousands of practically identical residential roads of the capital. An unremarkable scene: terraced and semi-detached Victorian houses, pollarded trees, a fairly modern block of flats that had perhaps been built on a wartime bombsite, the defunct print-works Patrick had mentioned. It was still oddly quiet. A couple of cars went by and just a few pedestrians were in sight.
‘Number twenty-three,’ Patrick said.
As is our practice, we first went right by and carried on walking with no more than a passing glance. Nothing out of the ordinary could be seen. The place looked tidy if a little tired and in need of a coat of paint, but someone had recently cut the grass in the tiny front garden. Gardens say a lot about people, but then of course the landlord might have seen to it.
‘For once in my life, I am going to be polite and ring the doorbell,’ Patrick said when we had turned and were going back the way we had come. ‘For one thing, it’s a mid-terrace, there’s no sideway and I’m not going to start poking around to find access to the rear.’
There were two doorbells for upper and lower flats but no nameplates to give an indication as to which one our quarry lived in. Patrick rang both twice and there was no response from either. I stepped to one side and, almost avoiding a variegated holly bush, looked through the only window on the ground floor at the front of the property. There was nothing to be seen in the dark interior except for the vague outlines of a sofa and a couple of armchairs. ‘We can’t just break in,’ I said, rubbing my prickled arm.
Patrick was studying the locks on the front door. ‘No, but I think I can open these without breaking anything.’
He has a set of what I call his ‘burglar’s keys’, which successfully deal with everything but the most modern locks.
I said, ‘I don’t like it that Phil’s chum seems to be out of circulation as well.’
‘Neither do I and, as we know, they share this house.’
One of the locks had yielded to Patrick’s efforts when the front door of the house to our left opened and a middle-aged man came out. ‘What the hell are you doin’?’ he demanded to know, hitching up the waistband of his sagging tracksuit bottoms over an impressive beer belly.
‘Good afternoon,’ Patrick said. ‘Police.’ He produced his warrant card and gave it to me to show the man. ‘Have you seen the people who live here lately?’
The man hardly glanced at it. ‘Not for a coupla days. Can’t say I’m surprised you’re checking up on ’em, though. A right pair of dodgy characters.’
‘Who did you see?’
‘I don’t know their names. The younger, ugly one.’
‘Can you remember exactly which day it was you saw him?’
‘It mighta bin Sunday – no, Monday.’
‘And it’s Saturday now, so that’s actually about five days ago.’
The man shrugged disinterestedly. ‘Time flies, dunnit?’
‘Have you noticed other people going in and out?’
‘No.’
‘No one hanging around in the past few days?’
‘No. I’ve got better things to do, ain’t I, than snoopin’ on the neighbours.’
‘OK, thanks,’ Patrick said and proceeded to stare him right off his own threshold and back indoors. The door slammed.
After a little more careful wrangling, the second lock opened. Patrick pushed the door wide without entering and hot air with an unpleasant musty smell gusted out. We exchanged glances and he moved to go in but paused to signal to me to stay where I was.
I didn’t have to be asked twice: I had a horrible feeling what the smell was.
About half a minute later, Patrick came out, looking rather pale, took a deep breath of fresh air and went back in again. After another short period of time had elapsed, I looked through the open doorway and heard a faint hissing sound, seemingly coming from upstairs. But there was no smell of gas, and I then saw that water was running down the stairs to form a small lake in the hall. I took hold of my mobile phone in my jacket pocket.
Patrick reappeared from the direction of what was presumably the kitchen. ‘One in the bathroom of the upper flat, hanging from the shower – it’s been torn out of the wall with the weight of the body – and one just outside the back door strung up from a pergola,’ he said, coming right out into the open for more fresh air. ‘They’d been shot before they were strung up and have been dead for days. The heating seems to be on full blast.’
To make sure that the corpse inside the house started to decompose? This was utterly horrible.
Commander Rolt had been immediately notified and announced that he would return from Ashleigh Coombe without delay, arranging for someone to bring him to London as he was not yet permitted to drive. Although Patrick met him there, I was not present when he visited the crime scene later that night as I had made a short statement and returned to the hotel.
‘Against what I gather was fairly fierce female opposition, Piers Ashley did the driving,’ Patrick told me when he arrived in our hotel room. ‘Must have a shower – I can still smell those bodies.’
So could I, on his clothes. I put everything he had been wearing in one of the large plastic bags we carry for that purpose and secured the top. Then I contacted room service and ordered some food for him. Only sandwiches were available at this time of night.
‘The Ashleys simply can’t face the thought of Piers getting involved again,’ I said, carrying on with the conversation when Patrick appeared in his bathrobe.
He tackled the sandwiches. ‘Thanks for getting these. His mother in particular can’t. Thea wanted to bring Rolt in her car but big brother said no.’
‘Poor Thea. She’s actually four years older than Piers. Elizabeth told me.’
‘I honestly don’t think he was being controlling. Just doesn’t want her to be exposed to any danger, not even London’s traffic system.’
‘And she has her own business in the city.’
After a pause, Patrick said, ‘D’you mind if we talk about these latest murders in the morning?’
I told him that I would rather not have to think about them again tonight either.