CHAPTER FIVE

 

 

AS SHE TURNED onto Sherwood Terrace she was hit by a wave of nostalgia. There was the house on the corner with the bright yellow door, the same convenience store next to it, with what looked like the same Sikh grocer stood behind the counter.

Back in her day the redbrick pub at the end of the cul-de-sac had been called the Dog and Duck, or more usually the Dog and Fuck. When you were feeling especially lazy, you’d just ask if people fancied a quick Fuck.

Many an evening—many an afternoon, for that matter—had been spent within its snug confines. It was a curious place, something of a hidden treasure; she hadn’t even known it existed until she’d started her second year. It was the kind of place you either found by chance, or were told about in whispered tones by someone who’d vouch for you.

Which was ridiculous really; it was just a pub.

Still, seeing it again made her smile, even if the old fashioned sign had been replaced by something more modern featuring the titular snake and rainbow with a trio of badly drawn zombies sandwiched in-between.

As she approached the old fashioned doors, inlaid with glass, brass handles glinting in the autumn sun, she remembered standing there in the rain smoking with friends, remembered awkwardly breaking up with Alec—she more tearful than him—and she remembered snogging him in the same place just a few weeks later. So many memories she hadn’t recalled in years. It made her melancholy.

Finding the doors locked, she rapped on the glass. When no one came to investigate, she clenched a fist and hammered hard on the wooden door.

That got someone’s attention. A shadow appeared behind the glass. “We’re closed.” The voice was male, muffled.

“You don’t say. Just open the door. Police.”

The shadowy head behind the glass had been bowed but now it snapped upwards. Helen felt a curious disquiet, as if he was no longer alive.

Except zombies didn’t talk, or at least they didn’t make sense.

She heard a bolt snapping back, and then one of the doors opened. On the other side of it a man eyed her warily. She took him in quickly. He was short and squat, his shoulders so broad he was practically rectangular. Mid-fifties if she had to guess, with a bald scalp and tiny dark eyes. He wore jeans and a red-and-black checked shirt. “Police?”

She showed him her warrant card. “Detective Inspector Helen Ogilvy.” He didn’t react. “Can I come in?”

For a moment he said nothing, and she wondered if he was about to demand she produce a warrant, which eventually she could of course, but there were simpler ways; the threat of an ambulance parked at the end of the terrace would drive away business as surely as a sign that said ‘we’ve run out of beer.’

In the end he decided it wasn’t worth the effort, nodded and stepped back inside.

The door swung shut behind her with a bang and she almost jumped. Helen felt suddenly hemmed in, which, with the man’s wariness, set alarm bells ringing. She told herself she was being unduly paranoid. Any landlord would seem a little skittish if the police turned up unannounced. He probably had some black-market spirits in his cellar, or maybe even some honest-to-god cigarettes he kept behind the counter for special customers.

The sign might look modern, but the inside looked the same: mock Tudor beams and tankards hung from the bar, tired wallpaper that looked like it had been hung back in the twentieth century, and a yellowish ceiling that hadn’t been painted since before the initial indoor-smoking ban, let alone before it was banned completely.

The man sidled up to the bar. There was a phone and a set of keys resting there. For a moment he just stared at them, and she couldn’t shake the feeling he was composing himself. When he turned and smiled she knew she’d been right. The smile was friendly enough, but she saw the skin beneath one eye twitch, noted the way his palms rubbed against his jeans. “So how can I help you?” She detected an accent: a hint of West Country.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was now behind her. There were doors leading off left and right; she remembered that one led to the cramped snug, the other to the lavs. Nobody could have entered via either door without her seeing them.

That just left the booths behind her. She hadn’t noticed anyone sat there as she entered, but then she hadn’t been looking.

She put her warrant card away then, trying to make the movement look natural rather than panicked, she swept back her coat and placed her hands on her hips, showing off the gun.

“Trinity Brown.”

“Trinity Brown?” His tone suggested this was the last thing he’d expected her to say. He still looked wary, but there was now a glimmer of relief in those tiny eyes.

“Yes. She worked here, didn’t she?”

“Worked here? She still does, in fact she was on last night, left about 2am. Is she in trouble?”

I guess bad news doesn’t always travel fast.

“I’m sorry, but Trinity Brown died this morning.” She paused, watched his expression. It barely shifted, even when she added, “She was murdered.”

“Christ,” he said at last, though the long pause suggested he’d said it because he thought he should say something, not because he was genuinely bothered. No, he hadn’t known she was dead, he just didn’t particularly care, except insofar as he’d need a new barmaid.

“Sorry, I didn’t get your name?”

“Dowd,” he replied. “Ryan Dowd.”

“And you’re the landlord?”

He nodded. “Part-owner with my brother Dean.”

Dean Dowd? In spite of everything Helen had to resist the urge to snigger.

“And where’s your brother?”

“Sleeping off a hangover. Dean, Dean!” he shouted towards one of the booths.

Helen turned slowly. Dean Dowd was sat in the booth to her left. His arms were folded on the table and his head was resting on them, but now he looked up. He blinked frantically, rubbing his eyes as he sat back against the fake leather backrest. Ryan’s surprise might have been genuine, but Dean’s sleepiness was an act; she hadn’t been paranoid.

“What is it?” Dean’s accent was stronger than his brother’s, his words slurred for added effect.

“This lady’s a police officer. She’s here about Trinity Brown. Apparently the poor gal’s been killed.”

“That’s shitty.” He actually seemed a smidgen more upset than his brother.

“Could you join your brother, please?” she asked Dean. She smiled. “Saves me having to keep turning my head.”

Dean nodded. “Oh, sure.” He awkwardly clambered out from behind the table and ambled over to join his brother.

If Ryan Dowd were square, then his brother was altogether rounder. Both were big men, despite their short stature; with Ryan it was muscle, with Dean fat. This aside, they looked almost identical, even dressed similarly. The only other difference was that Dean retained some hair. Helen suspected he was younger, but not by much.

“So how long had Trinity worked here?”

Ryan shrugged. “Not long. She started working here in the spring. Obviously she took off over summer, most of them do, but a few weeks ago she came back in asking if we had any jobs. She was lucky, we’d had a girl walk the night before.”

“And was she a good worker? Did you have any problems with her?”

He folded his arms. “She was okay, we’ve had worse. She was always late, and a bit lippy, but she never ducked a shift and we never had any concerns about her fiddling the till or handing out free drinks when her mates were in.”

“Her mates, remember any of their names?”

He shook his head. “To be honest she seemed to know a lot of people. I don’t think we ever saw the same group of people twice.”

“How about her boyfriend, Isaac Zeigler?”

“I don’t know who that is. He might have come in, but she never introduced us.”

Helen shifted her gaze towards the younger brother. “How about you, Dean? Did Trinity mention Isaac Zeigler?”

Dean Dowd had been slumped against the bar, his eyes downcast. Now he was forced to stand straighter. “No, never heard her mention anyone.” Dean spoke quickly, and was clearly nervous about something. Best get out of there as quickly as possible; she could ask some uniforms to swing by later. It was always possible CID had the pub on their radar if there was something untoward going on here. Still she needed more information.

“You said Trinity left at two this morning, is there anyone who can corroborate that? I need to ask your whereabouts as well.”

Ryan grinned; whatever he was involved in, he knew he was in the free and clear with regard to Trinity Brown’s murder. “She left with Bryn Edwards. He’s bar staff too, another student.”

“Were they friends? Did she ever have any trouble with him?”

Ryan laughed. “Bryn wouldn’t hurt a fly. Never showed any interest in Trinity, or vice versa, but they lived in the same direction, so they walked home together. He’s a poofter, but nice enough, you know.”

Charming. “And your whereabouts?”

“Oh, we were here, had a few friends round after closing, we were drinking till four or five. I can give you their names?”

It was always possible that Ryan or Dean could have tracked Trinity down after their friends left, or that the friends were accomplices who’d give an alibi to anyone who asked, but Helen doubted it. “That’s okay, I’ll come back to you if I need them. One last question: how’d Trinity seem last night?”

“Same as always.” From the disinterested way Ryan said it, Helen suspected he wouldn’t have noticed if Trinity had spent the night bawling her eyes out.

Dean actually looked more contemplative. “She was a bit quieter than usual. I actually thought she was stoned for a while.”

“Okay, then. Well, thank you both.”

Ryan clapped his hands together. “Always happy to help. I’ll show you out.”

He tried not to appear eager, but after he gestured towards the door he quickly overtook her. She didn’t like turning her back on Dean, but she could hardly back her way out of there. She’d asked her questions and was going; it wasn’t in either man’s interests to do anything rash now.

As Ryan grabbed the door handle and began to open it, Helen was contemplating asking when they’d changed the pub’s name. Not that long ago, she guessed; it had taken a few years for people to become comfortable enough with the living dead to start making jokes about them.

She didn’t ask the question, because the moment she opened her mouth she heard it: a crash coming from somewhere within the pub, followed almost immediately by a low, mournful groan that could only have come from the mouth of one already dead.

She and Ryan locked eyes for a moment. She saw a flicker of indecision, as if he wondered if he could bluff her, then he started to close the door.

Helen went for her pistol. The Beretta cleared her holster and she began shouting a warning for Ryan to raise his hands. That was when an express train thundered into her, slamming her up against the door.

“Son of a bitch!” she yelled, as much at herself as Dean bloody Dowd, because she’d let go of the gun. She heard it clatter to the floor but had no time to mourn its loss, because suddenly someone had grabbed her hair, yanked her head back, and then slammed it forwards.

The last thing Helen saw was the door rushing up to meet her.