‘There is that, I suppose.’
‘But we never got to see each other. Different shifts. Different shouts.’
‘Shame.’
‘Well, I’m a big girl I guess.’
‘You certainly are that!’
Emma gave him a flat gaze and finished her glass of wine as the barmaid came past.
‘Can I have a word with you’ the barmaid asked Tony.
‘Sure,’ he replied, smiling. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Outside. I could do with a breath of fresh air.’
‘Okay.’ Tony took a slug of his ale and followed the barmaid to the entrance.
‘Can I get a glass of wine here?’ Emma Halliday called after them, but her words fell on deaf ears.
The snow had finally stopped and the moon was riding high in the sky. The barmaid fished a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and offered Tony one. He shook his head and looked along the High Street as she flicked at her nearly empty Zippo lighter. It was a picture-postcard kind of town. With the snow covering the ancient buildings, he half expected a coach and horses to come clattering up the High Street. He could see why someone would want to move from Harrow-on-the-Hill to here. Was pretty sure, though, that it would drive him mad after a month or so. He’d miss the adrenaline rush London provided on a daily basis, but right now he could have stayed there for a week or two. Recharge his batteries. He thought about Emma Halliday sitting at the bar. A long streak of attitude and smiled. He wouldn’t mind if she stayed with him, come to think of it.
‘So, what’s the mystery?’ he asked the barmaid who had finally got her cigarette alight.
‘No mystery as such, just wanted a fag and I didn’t want the old dragon to hear.’
‘She doesn’t like you smoking?’
‘She doesn’t care as long as it’s outside. I meant her not hearing what I was going to tell you.’
‘Go on.’
‘Lee told me you had been asking about her husband? You think he might have been murdered.’
‘How did he know that?’
‘He was listening at the door. He’s got no time for the old dragon either. He used to be her toy boy before she traded him in for a younger model.’
‘She does seem to be a woman of appetite.’
‘You can say that again. Sure if sex were potatoes she’d supply the town with chips.’
‘That a Cork expression, is it?’
‘It is now,’ she replied with a wink, drawing on her cigarette again and blowing out a long stream of smoke.
‘Well, he heard right. Andrew Johnson was officially logged as a suicide.’
‘I’m not surprised people believed it, especially if they’ve met his wife.’
‘Now we think he was murdered.’
‘You were asking if he had any enemies.’
‘And did he? Do you know something?’
‘There was an incident in his old pub back in Middlesex, at a staff party. Everybody got very drunk apparently. One of the barmaids, Michelle Riley, claimed Andrew Johnson assaulted her.’
‘But she never brought charges?’
‘She was flirting with him in the cellar, they had a bit of a snog. He wanted to take it further, she didn’t.’
‘But he still did.’
‘Raped her. Didn’t take long — I suppose that’s something.’
‘Why didn’t she go to the police?’
The barmaid laughed. ‘You’re joking me, aren’t ya? A staff party, alone in the cellar, she leading him on. His word against hers. What are the chances of that getting to court? And even if it did, what are the chances of a successful prosecution?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yeah, you do. And besides she was paid off. Big time.’
‘How much?’
‘Fifty large, apparently.’
‘And you know all this how?’
‘The old dragon told Lee. One night off her head on the Tanqueray while he diddled her.’
DI Hamilton smiled. ‘Diddled?’
The barmaid grinned. ‘The old diddley do. Makes the world go round so they say.’
‘So they do.’
The barmaid flicked her cigarette on the floor and ground it under her heel, then jerked her thumb back towards the bar. ‘So the Queen of Narnia in there …’
‘Detective Inspector Halliday.’
‘If you say so.’
‘What about her?’
‘Are you diddling her?’
‘Ours is a strictly professional relationship.’
‘Good. I come off shift at eleven o’clock if you’re snowbound and still around.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
‘Do that.’ She handed the detective a piece of paper. ‘Name and address. If she’s still there, that is.’
‘How did you get hold of this?’
‘The old dragon’s phone book. All their old numbers.’
‘You consider a career change, come and look me up.’
‘And if you fancy making the world go round, come and do the same.’
She winked at him and walked back into the bar.
A couple of minutes later, DI Halliday came out of the Ladies and up to the bar. Tony had his coat on and his beer remained untouched. She looked at the piece of paper in his hand.
‘Give you her number, did she? And where’s my wine, by the way?’
‘She gave me a number, yes. And you won’t be needing the wine.’
‘I bloody will, if I have to sit here and look at your “cat that’s got the cream” smile much longer.’
‘They’ve cleared the jack-knifed lorry on the M11 and the B-roads are clear enough now. We’re good to go.’
‘Thank Christ for that!’ She stood up and fished the car keys out of her pocket.
Tony took them from her. ‘You’ve had three glasses of wine, I’ve had a pint and I only took a sip of that gin.’
Emma Halliday was going to snap back but realised he had a point. ‘Fair enough. Come on then,’ she said, putting on her coat and heading for the door. Tony Hamilton shrugged apologetically at the barmaid and followed her.
‘So what’s the number you’ve got?’ asked DI Halliday as the night air hit them.
‘It’s what you might call a bit of a clue.’
‘Go on.’
‘Michelle Riley. Used to work for Andrew Johnson when they ran a pub in Harrow-on-the-Hill.’
‘And?’
‘And,’ replied Tony as he beeped the car door open, ‘seems she claims that Andrew Johnson raped her one night in the pub cellar.’
‘Ah!’ Emma moved the seat back a little to accommodate her long legs.
‘Ah, indeed. And it seems likely he did, because they paid her fifty large to keep her mouth shut about it.’ Tony Hamilton pulled his seatbelt around him and clicked it into place.
‘Michael Robinson. Andrew Johnson. Both from Harrow. Both rapists. Some kind of club, you’re thinking.’
Tony fired up the ignition. ‘Rape club? I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘Somebody used a police-style Taser to make them jump in front of a train. Maybe we have a vigilante?’
‘I’d say we definitely have!’ said Tony Hamilton as he flicked on the windscreen wipers to clear away the fallen snow and pulled out into the High Street heading back to London.
62
DEREK ‘BOWLALONG’ BOWMAN was whistling rather tunelessly as he laid out his instruments on the trolley by the mortuary table. He looked at his watch and smiled as Kate Walker came into the room, followed by Diane Campbell.
‘I was just about to start without you,’ he said.
‘That’s okay, Derek. You can start when we’ve gone,’ said Deputy Superintendent Campbell.
‘Fair enough,’ replied the pathologist, laying down the circular Stryker saw.
Diane and Kate walked across and looked at the naked body of the young woman lying on the table. Her hair had been straightened, her arms laid flat alongside her. Her eyes were closed, the blue veins in her eyelids even more prominent now.