DELAHAYE PUSHED OPEN THE SHOP door of Hardy’s Gifts and a bell chimed above his head. It was late in the day so he was the only prospective customer. The shelves were laden with expensive giftware and the cashier station was in the centre of the space, affording a wise 360-degree view of the store. A man in a linen suit was behind the counter.
The counter was polished glass and, as Delahaye approached it, he saw it was a cabinet of extraordinary confections.
Sugar mice. And giant jelly crocodiles.
There were other, almost fairy-tale-quality candies, but Delahaye was fixated on the sugar mice. The giant crocodiles were displayed in a crystal bowl, twisted around each other like a rainbow Escher lithograph. The man behind the counter walked around to greet him.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
Delahaye showed him his warrant card. ‘Hello, I’m Detective Sergeant Delahaye.’
The man extended his hand. ‘Yes! I’m Mack Hardy, the owner-manager of this shop. How can I assist?’
Delahaye shook the man’s hand which had a peculiar powdery softness. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about some of your stock, Mr Hardy.’ The man’s mouth was lopsided, scar tissue pulling the lower lip out of shape.
‘Ah! I saw you admiring the rose-point sugar mice! Exquisite, are they not?’
Delahaye reached into his jacket pocket and drew out Bryan Shelton’s sugar mouse in its clear evidence bag. He placed it on the counter. ‘This was found among Bryan Shelton’s possessions, Mr Hardy. His family have no idea how he came to have it.’
Hardy moue’d his lips. ‘And you think it was bought from this shop?’
‘You sell the rose-points. The only other shop who sells sugar mice like this in Birmingham is on Corporation Street and they sell only the blue-points.’ WDC Gibson had also found out that the things were made in Switzerland. ‘You are the only shop who sells these rose-point mice.’
‘I see,’ said Hardy. He had grey almost metallic eyes. ‘It isn’t inconceivable that someone well meaning bought it for the poor boy.’
‘I hear you have a problem with shoplifting,’ said Delahaye.
‘Not since I rearranged the cashier station and maintain the strict rule of no children allowed unless accompanied by an adult,’ Hardy said with a smile.
‘I understand Mickey Grant had shoplifted from you a few times,’ said Delahaye.
‘Yes, he was the main reason why I enforced the rule. He was problematic but . . . not anymore,’ Hardy said.
Delahaye couldn’t work out if Hardy was sad about that. His face was expressionless, the steely eyes revealed nothing. He didn’t blink much.
‘As for Bryan Shelton, that poor child! This mouse might’ve been a gift from a friend,’ said Hardy.
‘An adult friend? The boy kept it a secret at the bottom of a box under his bed,’ said Delahaye. ‘So, if an adult bought it for him, and he never told his family about it, I’d say that was dubious.’
‘He might’ve found it,’ said Hardy. ‘Some people are so careless with their possessions.’
‘Entirely possible, Mr Hardy,’ said Delahaye. He didn’t like Hardy. There was a mechanical falseness that underpinned the man’s every move like he was a stringless puppet. Like Pinocchio.
Delahaye reached into his other jacket pocket and extracted Gary Clarke’s red jelly crocodile and placed it beside Bryan’s mouse. Hardy cocked his head to one side and studied the sweets but Delahaye could see that the man was unsettled.
‘This was found in Gary Clarke’s drawer,’ said Delahaye. ‘His family have no idea how or when he got it. His brother claims the only place he knows where Gary could’ve got it is your shop, Mr Hardy.’ There were no matches yet for the fingerprints other than Gary’s on its marshmallow underbelly.
‘Again, it’s an unfortunate coincidence but it still could’ve been a gift bought or a thing found,’ said Hardy. He clasped his hands in front of him. ‘I do hope you aren’t suggesting that I have anything to do with these frightful murders, Detective Sergeant.’
‘Your shop with these unusual sweets is a connection between Shelton and Clarke other than their manner of disappearance,’ said Delahaye. ‘The police must follow every clue and investigate each piece of evidence, Mr Hardy, no matter how small and seemingly irrelevant. I am sure you understand that.’
‘Of course. Yes. You could take my fingerprints so that you could eliminate me from your inquiries but you won’t find them on these confections, DS Delahaye – I use hygienic plastic gloves, tongs and scoops and I never pick up with my bare hands.’
Although Hardy remained unctuous, he was clearly rattled by the presence of the evidence presented before him. Hardy was so otherwise expressionless Delahaye couldn’t tell if the man’s unease was due to guilt, of knowing something he should tell the police about or knowing someone who bought these things for the boys with ill intent. His knowing his fingerprints might be asked for and saying so without prompting was interesting. The police would take his prints anyway.
‘Gary’s father and brother came in here last year to buy a present. Do you remember that?’ Delahaye asked.
Hardy pretended to think hard. ‘I do recall the Clarkes purchasing a silver frame, yes. But that was all they bought. No sugar mice or crocodiles!’
Delahaye returned the packaged sweets to his pockets. ‘How did you get those scars, Mr Hardy, if you don’t mind me asking?’
Mr Hardy relaxed, and smiled, which looked awful because the damaged lips couldn’t quite make a full curve. ‘Oh, a farmer’s dogs attacked me while I was apple-scrumping on his land as a child. Thank God I was unconscious for the worst of it. Alsatians they were – nasty things! I had thirty stitches in my poor head and face!’
There it was again – the canine connection.
The bell chimed above the shop door and Karl Jones sauntered in wearing his reflective Wayfarer sunglasses. He stopped when he saw Delahaye.
‘I’ve delivered everything you put on the list, Mr Hardy,’ the boy said, walking no further. Delahaye didn’t need to see Karl’s eyes to know there was animosity there, and Delahaye wondered if hostility was just the boy’s nature. ‘I’ll go home now.’
‘Yes, Karl, thank you,’ said Hardy, his eyes shining. When the boy left, Hardy smiled at Delahaye. ‘Gorgeous, isn’t he? Cheaper and faster than Royal Mail!’
* * *
Lines found Pete Ancona on his drive, chatting to Trevor Bax, who was tinkering underneath the Cortina. Their laughter stopped when the detective constable strode into view.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ said Lines. ‘Mr Ancona, can I have a private word?’
Ancona folded his arms. ‘Nah, I’ve nothing to be ashamed of. What do you want?’
Lines shrugged. ‘You were the last adult to speak to Gary Clarke before he disappeared on Saturday . . . ’
‘Oh, here we go,’ said Ancona.
‘Was there anything about the boys or anybody around them that made you at all suspicious that afternoon?’ asked Lines, amiably. He’d pulled out his notebook.
Ancona sighed, his cockiness given short shrift by the detective’s civility. ‘The boys bought ice creams from me. They were chit-chatting about fuck all as kids do, and happy enough. I did hear Gary say he couldn’t wait to get to Beacon Hill because somebody had told him about the best hiding place but that’s it. Off they went.’
‘Thank you, Mr Ancona,’ said Lines. ‘That’s genuinely very helpful.’
As Lines turned to go, Bax, from beneath the car, said, ‘Catch the fucker doing this, Detective. I’ve got my Luke to worry about.’