“So what are you telling me, love,” Cossall had asked, “the landlord won’t talk to you, is that it?”
“He’ll talk, right enough. Talk the hind legs off that donkey. It’s what he won’t say bothers me.” No hesitation, coming right back to him, giving as good as she got, Cossall liked her for that. Local, too. That accent. Mansfield, somewhere roundabout. “Take, for instance, there’s a couple of windows broken, right? Stuck together with tape, like he’s waiting for them to be properly fixed. Well, that’s recent, right? And when I had a shufti round back, there’s a couple of chairs there, broken, slung out. But when I tried to ask him about them, any of that, he wasn’t having any, just wasn’t saying. I thought you might get more out of him.”
Cossall nodded. “Right, thanks. I’ll get right along.” And winked. “I’d get you a drink, love, only you’re on duty.”
She lowered her voice so no one along the bar would hear. “If I weren’t, I’d buy one for myself. But thanks, love, all the same.”
Cossall held back his grin until she had turned away and then watched her all the way to the door, an arse on her like a pregnant duck.
He walked off the street into the main bar of the pub; two men in working clothes were sitting off by the back window, Irish, Cossall could tell without knowing them, something about their complexion, broad, high brows, the natural wave at the front of the hair. An Irish pub, is that what this was?
He eased one of the high stools far enough out from the bar to sit down. Through in the side room, he could see a black youth in white T-shirt and dreadlocks, long baggy shorts and hi-top trainers, playing himself at pool. No, an equal opportunity pub, that’s what it was.
“What’ll you have?” the landlord asked, appearing at the end of the bar and coming slowly towards him. He was a tall man, rangy, with a flattened face that was more like a child’s drawing than the real thing.
Cossall told him and watched the man draw a pint, showing him his warrant card when he set the glass before him. With a generous movement of his hand, the landlord waved Cossall’s money away.
“I had one of your lot in here earlier,” the landlord said. Cossall nodded. “Tell me about Saturday night.” He could see the windows the officer had spoken of down towards where the two men were sitting, glass cobwebbed over with brown tape.
“I told her.”
Cossall tasted the beer, grimaced, and shook his head. “If you’d told her, you wouldn’t be standing there looking at me. If you don’t tell me, tonight you’ll be looking at two others like me; and tomorrow there’ll be four, and so it goes.” He set the glass back down. “That’s not what you want.”
The landlord forced a laugh. “All this over a pane of broken glass and a few lousy chairs?”
Cossall leaned far enough forward for the man to feel his breath on his face. “We had an officer killed, not a few hundred yards from here. Saturday night.”
“But that was nothing to do with this.”
“Why don’t you,” Cossall said, “let me be the judge of that?”
The landlord pushed a glass against the optic and gave himself a large Jameson; sipped at it before, elbow leaning on the bar, he spoke. “These youths come in sometimes, you know, match days. Skinheads, mostly. Lot of noise, swearing and that, but they spend well, so most times I let it go. But this week, one of them gets into an argument with one of the Paddies that use the place all the time. Regulars, like. Well, one thing these lads can’t stand, more than the blacks, even, it’s the Irish. Just hate them. IRA truce or no truce, it doesn’t matter a damn. And this gives them an excuse. One minute these two are squaring up to one another, a bit of pushing and shoving, you know how it goes; next thing, this skinhead’s mates start in and before you know it the whole pub’s like the last round of a Frank Bruno fight with no holds barred.” He drank a little more of the whisky and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I doubt if it lasted more than ten minutes at most.”
“You called it in? Called the police?”
“And risk my license? It’s not worth it. That’s why I didn’t want to say anything before.”
“You’ve been warned, then?”
“Once or twice.”
Cossall nodded. “These youths, know them well enough to know any names?”
Slowly, the landlord shook his head.
“D’you notice where they went from here?”
“No. But if I was to guess, I’d say on down towards the Trent.”
“And that’s all it is, a guess?”
“Afraid so, yes.”
Cossall took a final swallow at his pint and pushed the glass away unfinished. “Here.” He took a card from his top pocket and set it down on the bar. “If you do hear a name, or if one comes to mind, give us a call.” He winked. “It’ll count for you, not against. Won’t do any harm, someone in your corner, eh?”
The landlord watched Cossall till he was through the door, swallowed down what remained of his whisky, and allowed himself another. He’d as soon count on a copper like Cossall, he thought, as back himself to win the lottery without buying a ticket.
Twenty-seven
Resnick was on his way back from the superintendent’s office when Lynn intercepted him with her analysis of Bill Aston’s movements and contacts during the last twenty-four hours of his life.
“It’s pretty much all there,” she said, business-like, not quite looking Resnick in the eye. “One or two gaps I still have to fill.”
Resnick gave the first sheet a quick glance. “Anything that looks helpful?”
“Afraid not. Trips to the supermarket and the garden center, that’s about it. The pool. Walking the dogs.”
Resnick nodded, skimming the remainder. A day in the life of a quite ordinary, not especially interesting man. What was interesting about Aston was that he was dead: the manner of his dying.
“Okay, thanks.”
“There’s one more thing,” Lynn said. “You remember you asked me to track down that call Aston made the day of his death? The one that was unaccounted for.”
Resnick looked at her expectantly and she pushed a folded piece of paper into his hand. He opened it, looked thoughtfully at the name, then folded it again before pushing it down into his breast pocket.
“There were two other calls, too. Unanswered, but logged in Aston’s office.”
“Right. Good.” And then, as Lynn turned away, “Are you okay?”
She nodded, still not directly looking at him. “I’d like to take an hour later, personal time?”
“Fine.”
They continued their separate ways, Resnick along the corridor towards the CID room, Lynn making for the stairs. Whatever else, Resnick was thinking, she’s right about one thing-all this stuff that’s troubling her, it doesn’t seem to be interfering with her work.
The meeting with Skelton had not been encouraging. One of his best hopes had been that the second blood sample taken from Aston’s clothes, the blood which wasn’t Aston’s own, would prove to have come from someone who was known. But Jane Prescott had checked the records available to Intelligence, made comparisons with all known and processed samples. Nothing. No match. Which left the shoe prints, the cassette, and-most outside of all outside chances-the bat. After that, they were down to information received, unearthing a witness who had seen or heard more than anyone had so far come forward to say. The media appeals had brought in replies, of course, and these were being processed through the computer and the more promising laboriously checked out. But so far …
Sheer accident, Bill Aston’s murder? An unfortunate victim who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or was there a more specific motive? Resnick thought again about the name Lynn had given him and was glad he had already arranged to meet Khan and discuss the Snape inquiry. If there was a connection there, he had to tease it out.