After that, Michelle had enlisted DC Collins’s aid and discovered through local land registry records that Donald Bradford’s shop had been owned by a company linked to Carlo Fiorino, the late but unlamented local crime kingpin. The company had also owned Le Phonographe discotheque and several other newsagents’ shops in the Peterborough area. Ownership of Bradford’s shop went to the Walkers when he sold, but many of the other shops remained under Fiorino’s control well through the new town expansion into the seventies.
What it all meant Michelle wasn’t too sure, but it looked very much as if Carlo Fiorino had set up the perfect retail distribution chain for his wholesale porn business, and who knew what else besides? Drugs, perhaps? And maybe even some of those advertising cards in the newsagents’ windows weren’t quite so innocent after all.
All this she told to Banks as she drove through a steady drizzle down the A1 to Barnet. As they talked, she kept a keen eye on her rearview mirror. A gray Passat seemed to stay on their tail a bit too long and too close for comfort, but it finally turned off at Welwyn Garden City.
“Bradford must have got Graham involved somehow, through the magazines,” said Banks. “But it didn’t stop there. He must have come to the attention of Fiorino and Mandeville, too. It helps to explain where all that extra money came from.”
“Look, I know he was your friend, Alan, but you have to admit that it looks as if he was up to some unsavory stuff, as if he got greedy.”
“I admit it,” said Banks. “The photo must have been Graham’s insurance. Evidence. He could use it to blackmail Bradford into paying him more money, only he didn’t know what he’d got himself into. Word got back to Fiorino, and he signed Graham’s death warrant.”
“And who carried it out?”
“Bradford, most likely. He didn’t have an alibi. Or Harris. I mean, we can’t rule him out completely. Despite what his ex-wife told you, he could have kept the commando knife, and if he was being threatened with exposure as a homosexual, he might have been driven to kill. Remember, it wouldn’t only have meant his career back then, but jail, and you know how long coppers survive behind bars.”
“Jet Harris searched Graham Marshall’s house personally just after the boy disappeared,” said Michelle.
“Harris did that? Searched the house? How do you know?”
“Mrs. Marshall mentioned it the first time I went to talk to her. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now… a superintendent conducting a routine search?”
“He must have been after the photo.”
“Then why didn’t he find it?”
“He obviously didn’t look hard enough, did he?” said Banks. “Adolescents are naturally very secretive. Sometimes, by necessity, they have an uncanny knack for hiding things. And at the time, if that photo had been securely Sellotaped to the inside of Graham’s guitar, nobody could know it was there without taking the guitar apart. It was only because the adhesive had dried out and the Sellotape had stiffened over the years that the photo broke free and I found it.”
“I suppose so,” Michelle said. “But does that make Harris a murderer?”
“I don’t know. It’s not proof. But he was in it. Deep.”
“I also rang Ray Scholes this morning,” Michelle said. “Remember, the detective who investigated Donald Bradford’s murder?”
“I remember.”
“It turns out there was a Fairbairn-Sykes knife among Bradford’s possessions.”
“What happened to it?”
“Forget it. It’s long gone. Sold to a dealer. Who knows how many times it’s changed hands since then?”
“Pity. But at least we know it was in his possession when he died.”
“You said the photo was evidence,” Michelle said, “but what of? How?”
“Well, there might have been fingerprints on it, but I think it was more dangerous because people would have known where it was taken. I doubt there are that many Adam fireplaces around, and probably none quite as distinctive as that one. The rug, too.”
“You’re thinking of the Mandeville house?”
“Sounds a likely place to me. I’m certain it was all connected: Fiorino’s porn business, his escort agency, the Mandeville parties, Graham’s murder. I think this is where we turn off.”
Michelle kept going.
“The junction’s coming up,” Banks said. “Here. Move over or you’ll miss it. Now!”
Michelle waited and made a last-minute lane change. Horns blared as she sped across two lanes of traffic to the off-ramp.
“Jesus Christ!” said Banks. “You could have got us killed.”
Michelle flashed him a quick grin. “Oh, don’t be such a pussycat. I knew what I was doing. This way we can be certain no one’s following us. Where now?”
When his heart rate slowed, Banks picked up the street guide and directed Michelle to the pleasant suburban semi where Ex-DC Geoff Talbot enjoyed his retirement.
Talbot answered the door and asked them in. Michelle introduced herself and Banks.
“Miserable day, isn’t it?” Talbot said. “One wonders if summer will ever arrive.”
“Too true,” said Banks.
“Coffee? Tea?”
“A cup of tea would be nice,” Michelle said. Banks agreed.
Michelle and Banks followed Talbot into the kitchen, which turned out to be a bright, high-ceilinged room with a central island surrounded by tall stools.
“We can talk here, if it’s all right with you,” Talbot said. “My wife keeps pestering me for a conservatory, but I don’t see the need. On a nice day we can always sit outside.”
Michelle looked out of the window and saw the well-manicured lawn and neat flower beds. Someone in the family was obviously a keen gardener. A copper beech provided some shade. It would indeed have been nice to sit outside, but not in the rain.
“You didn’t give me much of an idea what you wanted to talk about over the telephone,” Talbot said, looking over his shoulder as he dropped a couple of tea bags into the pot.
“That’s because it’s still a bit vague,” Michelle said. “How’s your memory?” She and Banks had agreed that, as it was her case and he had no official capacity, she would do most of the questioning.
“Not so bad for an old man.”
Talbot didn’t look that old, Michelle thought. He was carrying a few pounds too many, and his hair was almost white, but other than that his face was remarkably unlined and his movements smooth and fluid. “Remember when you served on the Cambridge Constabulary?” she asked.
“Of course. Mid-sixties, that’d be. Peterborough. It was called the Mid-Anglia Constabulary back then. Why?”
“Do you remember a case involving Rupert Mandeville?”
“Do I? How could I forget. That’s the reason I left Cambridgeshire. If it comes right down to it, it’s the reason I left the force not long after, too.”
“Could you tell us what happened?”
The kettle boiled and Talbot filled the pot with boiling water, then carried it on a tray along with three cups and saucers to the island. “Nothing happened,” he said. “That was the problem. I was told to lay off.”
“By whom?”
“The super.”
“Detective Superintendent Harris?”
“Jet Harris. That’s the one. Oh, it was all aboveboard. Not enough evidence, my word against theirs, anonymous informant, that sort of thing. You couldn’t fault his arguments.”
“Then what?”
Talbot paused. “It just didn’t feel right, that’s all. I can’t put it any other way than that. There’d been rumors for some time about things going on at the Mandeville house. Procurement, underage boys, that sort of thing. It was the start of what they called the permissive society, after all. Ever heard of Carlo Fiorino?”
“We have,” said Michelle.
Talbot poured the tea. “Rumor has it he was the supplier. Anyway, the problem was, Rupert Mandeville was too well-connected, and some of the people who attended his parties were in the government, or in other high-level positions. Real Profumo stuff. Of course, I was the naive young copper fresh from probation, proud to be in CID, thinking he could take on the world. Not a care had I for rank or sway. We were all equal in the eyes of God as far as I was concerned, though I wasn’t a religious man. Well, I soon learned the error of my ways. Had my eyes opened for me. When the super found out I’d been out there and caused a fuss, he had me in his office and told me in no uncertain terms that Mandeville was off-limits.”