“Perhaps you’re right,” Mower said. “But there’s one more thing it might be worth checking out, if only because it’s something only I know about. It was never reported officially. Come on, Dizzy. I need back-up here.”
The DJ shrugged massively but followed Mower back out into the rain-lashed parking area to Priestley House. This time when Mower knocked on Kiley Hatherley’s front door it opened quickly and a different girl peered out. She had the same blank frightened eyes as Kiley herself but mascara lined and she was dressed in a mini-skirt and sleeveless top which showed off barely budding breasts. Under the make-up Mower guessed there lurked a child not much older than Kiley herself, but dressed for a night out clubbing on the town.
“You must be Kiley’s sister,” Mower suggested. The girl looked at the two men speculatively before nodding faintly.
“I’m Sharon,” she said shortly. “Are you the fuzz?”
“Sort of,” he said.
“I wondered if you’d come back. Someone’s done him in, haven’t they? I saw it in t’paper.”
“What?” Mower said sharply.
“The bloke that gave our Kiley t’booze. And that snotty little Emma Maitland.”
“Can we come in, Sharon?” Mower asked, bemused by this apparently random stream of consciousness. Sharon looked up and down the walkway, her eyes narrow with suspicion, but evidently seeing nothing to cause her any alarm she nodded.
“Me mam and dad’s gone to Leeds for t’day,” the girl said. “I’m minding our Kiley after school. They won’t be back till right late.”
Mower and Sanderson followed her into the living room of the flat, a cluttered space littered with overflowing ashtrays and empty beer cans and several days’ copies of the Bradfield Gazette. Kiley was curled on the sofa, her thumb in her mouth and her eyes glued to the television.
“How old are you Sharon?” Mower asked, knowing that he would not like the answer. Sharon’s eyes flickered momentarily.
“Fourteen,” she said firmly. Mower did not believe her but he guessed she thought that was a safe age to be allowed to babysit.
“Last time I came your mother wouldn’t let me talk to Kiley about the man at the shops who gave her and Emma alcopops. Do you think she’ll mind now?”
“They didn’t know who he were till I told them,” Sharon said.
“And who was he?” Mower asked. Kiley still stared steadfastly at the TV.
“He were this bloke who’s been murdered. I saw his picture in t’paper. I told you.”
“Right,” Mower said. “You’re quite sure about that?”
“Course I am,” Sharon said. “He were always hanging around, weren’t he, when we went for us dinner up the chippie. And outside t’ school sometimes. He never did owt. He weren’t dangerous or owt like that. He were just there, sometimes, talking to t’bigger lads. And that day he were in’t shop buying stuff and when he come out he just gave Kiley and Emma t’bottles.”
“He didn’t want anything in exchange? Didn’t ask them to go with him?” Sanderson asked angrily.
“He never does. He just chats to folk, mostly the lads, not the girls. Any road, I were there. I were watching Kiley. I bought her t‘chips and I were going to teck her back to school wi’me when it were time.”
“What class are you in, Sharon?” Sanderson broke in again.
“Year Six …” The girl stopped, realising she had been tricked.
“She’s eleven,” Dizzy B said flatly. “You need help here, Kevin. Parents, social workers, your guv’nor, the whole shebang. We’re up a creek without a paddle.”
Mower shrugged tiredly.
“Never mind,” he said. “At least we’ve found someone on this bloody estate who saw something sometime. The rest of the bastards go round like the three wise monkeys.” He pulled out his mobile and called police HQ.
“We’ve got two young kids here on their own who need to talk to DCI Thackeray,” he said. “Can you deal?”
Martin Harman had slipped into police hands almost by chance when he walked into the Devonshire Arms, Bradfield’s only gay pub, at the precise moment that DC Mohammed Sharif was asking the barman about Stanley Wilson’s friends and acquaintances.
“Here’s the lad you want to talk to,” the barman said, not bothering to disguise his relief. “Martin’s a good mate of Stanley’s. Best mate maybe.”
Sharif turned towards the newcomer to the almost empty bar and smiled the smile of a hungry tiger. The young man who had just come in did not smile in response. Instead his already pasty face acquired a greenish tinge and his pale blue eyes flickered this way and that, like a small animal seeking some burrow down which to dive in the face of the predator which Sharif undoubtedly believed himself to be. Harman was a skinny youth, spotty as well as pale, with unfashionably long fair hair straggling down his back in greasy strands onto a scuffed leather jacket. He glanced at the warrant card which Sharif flashed in his direction and flashed the tip of his tongue over dry lips.
“Best mate, is it?” Sharif said, his dark gaze never leaving Harman’s.
“Not really,” Harman muttered, glancing wildly round for the barman who had taken himself to the far end of the bar where he was busy polishing glasses and avoiding anyone’s eye.
“You know Stanley’s dead, I take it?”
“Yeah, someone showed me his picture in t’evening paper,” Harman said.
“But you didn’t think we might want to talk to you?” Sharif asked.
“I didn’t think,” Harman said. “I ain’t seen Stanley for weeks.”
“Well, I have a boss who’s been thinking a lot about you.”
“How has he?” Harman said wildly. “He doesn’t know I exist.”
“Ah, but he guessed you might,” Sharif said. “Stanley Wilson being what he was. My boss just guessed there might be someone like you we’d need to talk to. So if you’ll just come down to police HQ with me you can meet my boss and he’ll tell you everything he’s been thinking since we found Stanley. That OK with you?”
And just in case it wasn’t he took hold of Martin Harman’s arm with just a little too fierce a grip and turned him on his heel and marched him towards the door.
“Thanks mate,” he called over his shoulder to the barman, knowing this would cause him maximum embarrassment with the handful of other customers who had been watching the proceedings anxiously. Outside in the gusting rain he thrust Harman into the front seat of his car, wiped his hands ostentatiously on his trousers after he had slammed the door, got in the driver’s side and opened all the windows in spite of the weather.
Harman glanced at him fearfully but said nothing.
“One of my clients must have left something unpleasant under the seat,” Sharif said, face as frozen as an Egyptian god, as he crashed the car into gear and swung out of his parking space at a furious pace. “Left a nasty smell.” By the time he pulled into the car park at police HQ Martin Harman was shaking, although not another word had been spoken.
Harman was still looking terrified when Michael Thackeray himself came into the interview room where Sharif and Val Ridley were facing him across the bare and scratched table.
“Mr. Harman,” Thackeray said mildly. If there was going to be a good cop, bad cop routine here it was clear that Thackeray had been cast in the kindlier role. “I’m glad we traced you. And I’m pleased you agreed to come in and talk to us.” Harman shrugged his thin shoulders and glanced at Sharif with undisguised hatred.
“I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”
“I understand you knew Stanley Wilson quite well?” Thackeray ignored the tension which made the air in the enclosed space tingle. “You must have expected that we’d want to talk to you. Now, tell me how you met him, would you? Where and when?”
“I met him at the Devonshire, the way you do,” Harman said. “It were ages ago. I can’t remember exactly when, can I?”
“Bought you a drink, did he?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“And the relationship developed from there?” Thackeray offered Harman a cigarette which he lit with trembling fingers. Given the contempt radiating from “Omar” Sharif he felt more sorry for Harman than he might normally have done. After all, there was no reason yet to suppose that Harman had strangled Wilson after some lovers’ quarrel.