The first thing which struck Cynthia about DS Andy Croft when they met outside the pub was how tall he was. She’d always thought of George as the right kind of height, six foot or thereabouts, and Gladys had a formidable presence, but both were comfortably outdone by Croft. His brown eyes like an affectionate dog were set in a square face and his fairish hair was cut short. He was dressed casually as befitted a Sunday morning in an open-necked shirt, cord jacket and tan chinos. Would she have recognised him as a policeman? She wasn’t sure, although there was a clue perhaps in the hint of watchfulness in the eyes.
The two women introduced themselves and Croft and George shook hands. “Thanks for coming, Andy,” was George’s greeting and “Good to see you again, sir,” was the response.
George came back quickly. “No need to call me ‘sir’ anymore—George will do.”
“Oh right.” Croft stood awkwardly. George rubbed his hands together. “Time for a drink,” he said as he led the way inside, lowering his head to avoid cracking it on the top of the doorframe. Looking back, Cynthia saw Croft bending virtually double to achieve the same feat. Inside their heels echoed on the uneven flagstones, which had probably been in situ for at least two hundred years, and passed by the large, blackened fireplace. Cynthia could well imagine a big pot simmering there in times gone by filled with stew awaiting weary travellers descending from stagecoaches outside and stumbling over the threshold. The landlord by contrast was young and fresh-faced with an easy manner born of dealing regularly with the public at large.
“It’s a scotch and soda for me please, Glyn,” George ordered. “Make it a double. There’s no more decent free booze at the Village for a few days.” He looked at the other enquiringly and Gladys came in straightaway for a gin and tonic with Cynthia following suit. Croft asked for an alcohol-free beer. They sat down at a well-used table in a booth with a window overlooking the steady procession of traffic passing on the main road. There was a rather uncomfortable exchange as George asked about various ex-colleagues and Croft provided anodyne replies. This was a world which George would once have dominated. Now he was retired and, although he still retained respect and maybe some influence, the picture was rolling on without him.
“So Andy, you know we have an interest in the Pennington affair,” George plunged in. “Did you manage to take a look at the Grouper for us?”
Croft was instantly at ease when it came to business. “Yes, I did, sir… I mean, George. It was a bit before my time of course when he was in his pomp, so to speak. The 1980s were his heyday. He died three years ago and he passed on his empire to his son, just like royalty really. The son is called Enver like his father so we christened him the Grouper Junior to make the distinction, so to speak. You’ll remember from your time we never managed to lay a glove on the father apart from some minor tax evasion. We know they’re mixed up in a whole range of stuff from drugs through to fake luxury goods, VAT fraud, you name it, but we’ve never been able to prove it in court.”
George nodded sagely. “I was involved in court appearances by the father.”
Croft downed about half his beer in one go. “There’ve been some more recent ones involving the Grouper Junior but there’s always some flaw which enables him to get off. This link you’ve found with Charlie Willis—we didn’t have that on file but he would be typical of the runners which the Grouper organisation uses.”
“Well, when we get Willis’s statement, no doubt you’d like us to pass it on.”
Croft took another drink before he answered. “Of course—and we’ll look at it, but there’s not a great deal we can do in following it up. If he’s as sick as you say, there’s no point in our trying to see him and his doctor would probably refuse us access anyway.”
“It’s new evidence, isn’t it?”
“It is, but what I’m trying to say is that, well, as you’ll remember… er… George, resources are stretched. Without some sort of lead to identifying and convicting Pennington’s killer I can’t see any chance of a cold case officer being assigned to this. However, we’ve no problem with you continuing to…” He scratched his ear as he searched for the right words.
“Nose around,” Gladys suggested.
Croft smiled gratefully. “I wasn’t quite going to put it that way, but yes, that’s fine.”
“We think we’ve found the surviving daughter, Shamira Iqbal and I have a commission from Behind the News magazine to interview her. She’s a well-known lawyer now.”
The smile broadened. “No problem with that—it’s human interest material, isn’t it? You never know what it might yield.” He produced a manila envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I’ve brought some paperwork with me which might help your investigations.” Cynthia and Gladys clustered a little closer to him as he opened the envelope. “You asked me about Pennington, George, and there’s a rundown here of the complaints made against him by women—no names mentioned of course. Also, there were some financial allegations as well.”
“Financial allegations?” George repeated, finishing off the last of his whisky.
“Yes, you’ll know Pennington’s bank, Gonzalez and Co., were and still are well-known money managers. Before Pennington’s murder several of the bank’s clients lost a great deal of money as a result of bets on the markets which the bank made. Three of them explicitly blamed Pennington personally for the losses and one was heard publicly to say he’d like to kill him.” He paused to give his words the chance to sink in and on cue the two women gasped. “Needless to say, this was all investigated at the time but nothing came of it. All the material’s here so you could take a look at it. If anything strikes you, let us know.”
As nobody else made an instant grab, Cynthia took charge of the bundle of papers and stowed them in her handbag. George got up and began gathering up the glasses. “Same again all round?”
“Not for me thanks,” Croft replied, his attention momentarily distracted as a large truck thundered past outside. “I’ve got lunch at home—I’d better not be late.”
“And we have lunch coming up as well,” said Cynthia.
The landlord materialised beside the table. “Are any of you going to tuck into our lunch today? There’s roast lamb and roast beef on offer—all prepared personally by the wife.”
By this stage Croft was heading for the door trying to figure out if he could negotiate his exit any more gracefully than he’d managed the entry. Cynthia and Gladys were close behind, conscious there were only a few minutes to go before the one o’clock deadline. “Sorry, Glyn,” George apologised as he reluctantly moved away. “Maybe another day.”
**
A brief taskforce meeting took place after lunch where it was agreed that George would take over the paper bundle which Andy Croft had handed over on the grounds that the two ladies might already have their hands full with their assignment with Shamira Iqbal. “And this is police work,” George had added, tapping the papers once they were in his grasp. In truth Cynthia was glad to hand them over as she wanted to concentrate on making sure her camera equipment was in order for when she might be required to use it. She spent the afternoon cleaning the camera body and the lenses until they all shone and there wasn’t a fleck of dust to be seen. Then she stowed all the pieces carefully into her camera bag, which she placed first of all on the hall table before deciding to put it underneath on the floor to avoid the risk it might fall off. She had planned another trip across the road to the memorial ground, but all her efforts took her much longer than she’d expected so she took the view that a glass of sherry on the patio might do the trick. She’d just settled down when the doorbell rang.
After she went to answer it, Gladys walked in without waiting for an invitation. She had news to impart. “It’s all set up.” She was beaming with excitement. “Shamira Iqbal is indeed the daughter of Hassan and Shamira and she’s seeing us tomorrow at midday at her office in London.”
“That’s fantastic news!” Cynthia’s enthusiasm was combined with the thrill that her research had turned up trumps. “How did you organise it?”
“Well, when I got back from lunch I thought why wait until tomorrow? She might well have been busy and I would never have got her so I took a deep breath and gave it a go today. She answered at once and guess what…” Gladys gave a pause for effect, just as effective if not more so than Andy Croft’s had been, “she was pleased to do it. ‘I’ve read the magazine once or twice and nobody has ever given me the chance to express my views’—I think those were her exact words. She went on to say she would be able to give us an hour. So,” she clapped her hands together, “we cracked it. Now where are you sitting, dear? Out on your patio—it should be warm enough. We need to talk about how we’re going to handle it all.” She strode out into the garden and unfolded the other chair which Cynthia kept neatly folded away against the wall underneath the overhanging roof. Then she spotted the half-empty glass of sherry on the little round table next to the chair which was already there. “Oh good,” she exclaimed. “Sherry! Just the ticket to get us in the right mood!”