“DI Stott,” Hatchley introduced them, “This is Well Hung Low.” He laughed, and the waiter laughed with him.
Stott seethed inside, his rage, as it always did, crystallizing quickly from fire to ice.
“Just a joke, sir,” Hatchley went on. “His name’s Joe Sung. Deserted the bright lights of Whitechapel for the greener pastures of Eastvale. Joe wanted to be a copper once, too, sir, but I managed to persuade him he was better off where he was. His father owns this place. It’s a little gold-mine.”
“Perhaps you should reconsider,” Stott said with a smile, shaking Joe’s hand. “We need more…a more ethnically diverse police force. Especially in Yorkshire.”
“Aye,” said Hatchley. “I told him he wouldn’t know what was worse, the prejudice or the patronizing.”
Joe laughed.
Again, Stott felt his anger boil up and freeze. Oafs like Hatchley symbolized all that was wrong in today’s police force. His type’s days were numbered. “I wonder if we might ask you a few questions?” he said to Joe Sung.
“Fire away, mate.” Joe gestured to the empty restaurant. “See how busy we are. Here, take the weight off.” He beckoned them to join him at one of the tables.
“Remember what I said, Sergeant,” Stott hissed in Hatchley ’s ear as they followed. “This isn’t another meal break.”
“No, sir.” But Hatchley took the ashtray on the table as an invitation to light up.
“What is it, then?” Joe asked when they’d sat down. “Official business? About that murder?”
“Yes,” said Stott.
Joe shook his head. “Terrible business. I knew the girl, too, you know.”
“Knew her?”
“Well, not in the real sense of the word. Not to talk to, like. I mean she’d eaten in here with her mates, that’s all. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw that photo in the Evening Post.”
Stott couldn’t understand how it happened, but a tray of appetizers suddenly appeared on the table in front of them: spring rolls, garlic shrimp, chicken balls. All Stott noticed was the retreating back of another waiter. He hadn’t heard a thing. Hatchley picked up a shrimp and popped it in his mouth between drags on his cigarette.
“When did she eat here?” Stott asked.
“They come here every now and then. A bunch of girls from the school, that is. Maybe when one of their daddies sends the monthly check. Anyway, they generally keep quiet, don’t cause any trouble, and they don’t expect to be served beer. She was with them once or twice, that Deborah Harrison who got killed. I recognized her.”
“Do you remember anything about her?”
“Nah, not really. ’Cept that she was a good-looking girl. That’s why I remembered her in particular.”
“Ever noticed anyone take an unusual interest in her, or the other St. Mary’s girls?”
“Well, they’ve caught the odd eye or two. There’s a couple of right corkers among them, and there’s always something about a girl in a school uniform. Sorry. That was in bad taste.”
“Not at all, Joe,” said Hatchley. “I know what you mean, and I’m sure the inspector does, too.”
Stott said nothing. Three bottles of beer materialized with three glasses on the table before them, as if by magic.
“Somefink to wash the food down,” Joe said with a grin. “My treat.”
Stott ignored the beer. Hatchley grabbed a bottle and ignored the glass. Well, let him drink it, Stott thought. Fine. He wasn’t going to touch any, himself. Give Hatchley enough rope and he’ll surely hang himself. If only he didn’t have a strong ally in Chief Inspector Banks. Stott couldn’t understand that relationship at all. Banks seemed like an intelligent, civilized sort of copper. What could he possibly see in a boor like Hatchley?
Right now, though, there were more important things to think about than Hatchley’s eating and drinking habits. “So you noticed nothing unusual about the girl and nobody taking any undue interest in her or her friends?” Stott asked.
“That’s right,” said Joe. “Noffink out of the ordinary.”
“Did she ever meet anyone here? Anyone other than her schoolfriends?”
“No. They always came and left together as a group. Never had any boys with them, if that’s what you mean. Too close to the school, if you ask me. You never know when one of the teachers might drop in and catch them. They eat here, too, sometimes.”
Stott glanced over at Hatchley, who took out the artist’s impression of the stranger in the Nag’s Head. “Ever seen this man?” he asked.
Joe stared at the picture, shaking his head. “It doesn’t look much like him, except for the hair,” he said, “but we had a bloke looked a bit like that in here just last night.”
Stott’s pulse began to race. “What was he wearing?”
“An orange anorak.”
“Tall?”
“Yeah, tall-ish. Bit over six feet, anyway.”
“What time did he come in?”
“About half six. I remember because he was the only one in at that time. Miserable night.”
The time fit, Stott thought, feeling his excitement rise. The killer had a couple of drinks at the Nag’s Head, murdered Deborah Harrison, and then he came here for dinner.
“Did he do or say anything unusual?”
“He seemed a bit restless. I saw him muttering to himself once or twice.”
“Hear what he said?”
“Sorry.”
“Who waited his table?”
“I did. We were short-staffed because of the fog. He was certainly hungry, I’ll say that. First he had spring rolls, then he ordered orange beef and Szechuan shrimp, a bowl of rice and a pint of lager. Ate it all, too.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Only to take his order. He didn’t seem communicative, so I didn’t push it. You learn how to behave in this business, who wants to chat and who just wants to be left alone. This bloke wanted to be left alone.”
Stott saw his bottle of beer disappear into Hatchley’s hand. He let it pass. “Did you notice anything else about him?”
“Yeah. He had a little cut, just up there, high on his left cheek.” Joe touched the spot on his own cheek.
Stott could hardly contain his excitement. The post-mortem had reported skin and tissue under the middle fingernail of Deborah Harrison’s right hand. She had scratched her attacker. It had to be Jelačić. “How long did he stay?” Stott asked.
“Just as long as it took to order and eat. About three-quarters of an hour.”
“Did he have a car?”
“If he did, I didn’t see it. Somehow, I got the impression he was on foot. I mean, who’d take the car out by himself on a night like that, just to go out alone for a Chinese meal? Fine as the food here is. Me, I’d order a take-away and let some other poor bugger do the driving.”
“Good point,” said Stott. “See where he went?”
“Afraid not.”
From the corner of his eye, Stott noticed the last spring roll disappear between two sausage-like fingers.
“Had you ever seen him before?” he asked.
Joe shook his head.
Stott smiled. “I don’t suppose he happened to mention his name, did he?”
Joe grinned back. “Sorry. Didn’t mention his address, either. No. Like I said, some of them are chatty, this one wasn’t.” He paused. “I’ll tell you what, though.”
“What?”
Joe stood up. “If my memory serves me right, he paid by card. You might be able to get his name from that. I haven’t done the returns yet. Shall I go get it for you?”
Stott sent up a silent prayer of thanks to God.
Joe came back with a sheaf of Visa slips in his hand and started going through them. “Not this one. Not that…no…no. Yeah. Right, this is the one.” And he passed it over.
Anxiously, Stott grabbed the slip of paper, but as soon as he looked at it, his spirits sank. He couldn’t read the signature-that was just a mess of loops and whirls-but the name was printed clearly enough in the top left corner. And it wasn’t Ive Jelačić.