“I got a call on my mobile in the Pig and Whistle.”
“From who?”
“Who do you think?”
“Go on.”
“He said our mutual friend was drinking in a pub down the street, and if an opportunity presented itself… well, I was to have a quiet word, like.”
“But how did he… Never mind.” Michelle realized that Shaw must have been using his whole network of informers to keep an eye on the comings and goings in the Graham Marshall investigation. But why? To hide the truth, that the great local hero Jet Harris was a murderer?
“So what did you do?”
“We waited outside and followed the two of you back to the riverside flats. We were a bit worried because we thought he might be going in to get his end away, like, no disrespect, and we might not get back to the Pig and Whistle till they’d stopped serving, so it was all sweetness and joy when he came straight down those stairs and into the street. We didn’t muck about.”
“And the beating was your idea?”
“Like I said, it gets the point across. Anyway, we wouldn’t have hurt him too much. We didn’t even get a chance to finish. Some interfering bastard walking his dog started making a lot of noise. Not that we couldn’t have dealt with him, too, but the bloody dog was waking the whole street up.”
“And that’s everything?” Michelle asked.
“Scout’s honor.”
“When were you ever a scout?”
“Boys’ Brigade, as a matter of fact. What’s going to happen now? Remember what you promised.”
Michelle looked at DC Collins. “What’s going to happen now,” she said, “is that we’re going to go away, and you’re going to the Lord Nelson to drink yourself into a stupor. And if you ever cross my path again, I’ll make sure they put you somewhere that’ll make the Middle East look like an alcoholic’s paradise. That clear?”
“Yes, ma’m.” But Wayman was smiling. The prospect of a drink in the present, Michelle thought, by far outdid any fears for the future. He wouldn’t change.
“Do you think you can tell me what all that was about?” asked DC Collins when they got outside.
Michelle took a deep breath and smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Of course, Nat. I’m sorry for keeping you in the dark so long, but I think you’ll understand when you hear what I have to say. And I’ll tell you over a pie and a pint. My treat.” She looked around. “But not in the Lord Nelson.”
Chapter 17
Glad you could come, Alan,” said Mrs. Marshall, sticking out her black-gloved hand. “My, my. You’ve been in the wars.”
Banks touched his lip. “It’s nothing,” he said.
“I hope you’ll come back to the house for drinks and sandwiches.”
They were standing outside the chapel in the light drizzle after Graham’s funeral. It had been tasteful enough, as such things went, Banks thought, though there was something odd about a funeral service for someone who has been dead over thirty years. They had the usual readings, including the Twenty-third Psalm, and Graham’s sister gave a short eulogy throughout which she verged on tears.
“Of course,” Banks said, shaking Mrs. Marshall’s hand. Then he saw Michelle walking down the path under her umbrella. “Excuse me a moment.”
He hurried along after Michelle. During the service, he had caught her eye once or twice and she had looked away. He wanted to know what was wrong. She had said earlier that she wanted to talk to him. Was it about last night? Was she having regrets? Did she want to tell him she’d made a mistake and didn’t want to see him again? “Michelle?” He put his hand gently on her shoulder.
Michelle turned to face him. When she looked him in the eye, she smiled and lifted the umbrella so it covered his head, too. “Shall we walk awhile?”
“Fine,” said Banks. “Everything okay?”
“Of course it is. Why do you ask?”
So there was nothing wrong. Banks could have kicked himself. He’d got so used to feeling that his every move, every meeting, was so fragile, partly because they had been like walking on eggs with Annie, that he was turning normal behavior into perceived slights. They were police officers in public – in a bloody chapel, for crying out loud. What did he expect her to do? Make doe eyes at him? Walk over to his pew and sit on his knee and whisper sweet nothings in his ear?
“This morning, in the station, I wanted to tell you that I enjoyed last night, but I could hardly say that in the cop shop, could I?”
She reached over and touched his sore lip. “I enjoyed it, too.”
“Are you coming back to the house?”
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t like that sort of thing.”
“Me, neither. I’d better go, though.”
“Of course.”
They walked down one of the narrow gravel paths between graves, carved headstones dark with rain. Yews overhung the path and rain dripped from their leaves onto the umbrella, tapping harder than the drizzle. “You said you wanted to talk to me.”
“Yes.” Michelle told him about Dr. Wendell’s tentative identification of the Fairbairn-Sykes commando knife and Harris’s wartime record.
Banks whistled between his teeth. “And you say Jet Harris was a commando?”
“Yes.”
“Bloody hell. That’s a real can of worms.” Banks shook his head. “It’s hard to believe that Jet Harris might have killed Graham,” he said. “It just doesn’t make any sense. I mean, what possible motive could he have had?”
“I don’t know. Only what we speculated about yesterday, that he was somehow connected with Fiorino and the porn racket and Graham fell foul of them. Even so, it’s hard to imagine someone in Harris’s position doing a job like that himself. And we don’t really have any hard evidence; it’s all just circumstantial. Anyway, he’s not the only candidate. I remembered Mrs. Walker – you know, the woman in the newsagent’s – said something about Donald Bradford being in a special unit in Burma. I checked. Turns out it was a commando unit.”
“Bradford, too? That complicates things.”
“Well, at least we know that Bradford had some sort of involvement with pornography. We don’t even have any evidence that Harris was bent yet,” said Michelle. “Only Shaw’s behavior. Which brings me to our interview with Des Wayman.”
“What did he have to say for himself?”
Michelle told him about Wayman’s assertion that Shaw was behind last night’s attack. “He’d deny he ever said it if we challenged him, and I’m sure Shaw will deny it, too.”
“But we know it’s true,” said Banks. “That gives us an edge. It was a stupid move on Shaw’s part. It means he’s worried, getting desperate. What about the burglary at your flat, the van that tried to run you down?”
Michelle shook her head. “Wayman knows nothing about that. Shaw must have got someone else, maybe someone a bit brighter. My impression is that Wayman is okay for the strong-arm stuff but couldn’t think his way out of a paper bag.”
“Like Bill Marshall?”
“Yes. You think we should have a chat with Shaw?”
“Soon. It’d be nice to know a bit more about Harris first.”
“I’ll call you later.”
“Okay.” Michelle turned and carried on walking down the path.
“Where are you going now?” Banks asked.
She slowed, turned and smiled at him. “You’re a very nosy fellow,” she said. “And you know what happens to nosy fellows, don’t you?” Then she walked on, leaving Banks to gape after her. He could swear he saw her shoulders shaking with laughter.
“Okay, Liz, are you going to tell us the truth now?” Annie asked once the interview room was set up and the tapes turned on.
“We didn’t do anything wrong, Ryan and me,” Liz said.
“I have to remind you that you’re entitled to a lawyer. If you can’t afford one we’ll get a duty solicitor for you.”