Death Dues Read online

  ‘And grabbed it. Mmm. I suppose you’re right.’ Frustratingly, Llewellyn usually was. ‘OK. Scrub that theory. Any other ideas?’

  ‘To return to the psychological angle—’

  ‘Let’s not. I told you, it’s something meaty I want. How many hammers are we missing?’

  ‘Three. One each from the sheds of numbers one, three and eleven. But as those sheds were as lacking in locks as the back gates it gets us no further forward. Anyone could have helped themselves from most of the garden sheds along the row.’

  ‘You’re no use, are you? I ask you to give me hope and all you do is give me facts I already know.’ Rafferty slumped back in his chair and returned to his study of the ceiling. ‘Throw me a few straws I can clutch at, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I’m not a great believer in straw-clutching.’

  Rafferty lowered his gaze from his ceiling-study and stared at his sergeant for a few seconds. He sighed and said, ‘No, you’re not, are you? Perhaps I should try young Timmy Smales? I might at least find a straw behind his wet ear.’ Though even that hope evaporated as he recalled that Smales’s ears were beginning to dry up nicely. Which were more than his own were doing as he felt like he had half the Atlantic lodged there. He found a grubby tissue in his drawer and poked about for a bit, shaking his head vigorously to dislodge any lingering puddles.

  The murder had occurred in a part of town which frequently required the presence of uniform: domestics, neighbourly disputes and troublesome youths causing a nuisance.

  Rafferty’s Ma’s house, only a few streets away, was different again. Most of the residents of her road were older and had bought their houses from the Council. They had a pride in keeping them spruce. Primrose Avenue conjured up an aura of faded gentility that was at odds with reality. The terraced housing had been built after the war and the land had originally been fields adjoining a stream which had been drained at the time the houses went up. There were few primroses to be seen there now.

  He turned back to Llewellyn who was studying the batch of early statements. ‘None of Malcolm Forbes’s debtors mentioned Jaws Harrison knocking on their doors?’

  Llewellyn shook his head. ‘Not according to house-to-house.’ The Welshman’s intelligent brown eyes were thoughtful. ‘I’d like to know what he was doing in that alleyway where he died.’

  Rafferty smiled. Experience always told. That one was easy, as he told his sergeant. ‘I imagine he was in that alleyway because he knew he wouldn’t get an answer if he knocked on the front door. Probably, he had nous enough to know that debtor families with kids leave the back door unlocked. Likely, he didn’t keep to a strict routine on his collection round, either. If he had any sense, he would have liked the element of surprise. He was also probably scared of getting mugged given the two cases last week. He’d usually have a tidy sum, I imagine, by the time he’d finished his collections.’

  ‘So nobody could have known precisely when he’d turn up?’

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking. But we can check it out. If I’m right, it must have made it more difficult to plan his murder — if planning was actually involved and it wasn’t just an opportunistic assault.’

  ‘Clearly not too difficult, considering he’s dead.’

  ‘True.’ Rafferty put his feet up on his desk. His shoes were dulled from their contact with the deep puddles in Primrose Avenue. He’d have felt aggrieved at that if they hadn’t been pretty dull to begin with. No Beau Brummel, him. ‘Perhaps the adults used the kids as lookouts and got warning of his arrival?’ The children on the street were currently on their Easter holidays from school, and even though the weather had been cold and wet most of them would have been playing out on their own and neighbouring streets and easily able to warn mum and dad of Jaws’ arrival.

  ‘Our victim was killed in broad daylight yet no one saw a thing. Or so they claim. Can his killer really not have appreciated that their tormentor would be quickly replaced? Or did fear and desperation simply cloud their judgement? Was any break from the debt collection, however brief, a welcome respite? Overcome by misery, despair and hatred of their persecutor, did the killer just strike out at the local face of their tormentor when the opportunity presented itself, so that, for once, someone else was the victim?’

  Slowly, Llewellyn nodded his head. ‘Plausible. Desperation can drive people to commit all sorts of illogical acts.’

  ‘Mmm. It would have made more sense if they’d targeted the boss man himself, Malcolm Forbes. A petrol bomb lobbed through his window in the middle of the night, home and office both, would have removed him and the debtors’ records.’

  Instead, the killer — whom Rafferty was convinced must be numbered amongst those who owed Forbes money — had chosen to remove one of Forbes’s collectors. Pointless really.

  It indicated that the killer wasn’t very bright. Unless it meant that Jaws had been murdered for reasons other than debt.

  Rafferty frowned. Was he letting the debtor issue obscure other possibilities? Maybe someone with entirely different motives had used the debtor angle and the recent spate of loan shark muggings for their own ends?

  Which would indicate that their killer might be bright enough to get away with it

  .

  Chapter Four

  ‘It’s time I got over to Jaws Harrison’s home and broke the news of his death,’ Rafferty said as, regretfully, he metaphorically stubbed out his electronic cigarette. ‘You stay here and carry on reading through those statements,’ he told Llewellyn. ‘I’ll take Lizzie Green with me. You can give me the gist of the rest of them when I get back.’

  John Jaws Harrison had lived in a small first floor flat off the High Street. A slatternly-looking bleached blonde with a cigarette dangling from her lip, answered the door. Her low-cut top and short skirt made Rafferty wonder if Jaws had done a bit of pimping on the side.

  ‘Yeah? What do you want?’ she asked after they had shown her their IDs. Her expression was sullen and unwelcoming. It seemed police officers were not her favourite people.

  Rafferty braced himself. ‘If we could come in for a few minutes? I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.’

  ‘Bad news? What bad news?’ She stood, arms folded, barring their way, her expression suspicious as if she thought they were trying to gain entry under false pretences.

  Rafferty tried again. ‘It’s about Mr Harrison,’ he began. ‘He–’

  ‘What’s happened to him? Tell me.’ Her thin, bony hands were clenched into fists as if she was considering striking them. ‘If you’ve arrested him—‘

  ‘It’s nothing like that.’ Gently, Rafferty took her arm and persuaded her up the stairs and down the narrow hall to the living room. Once he’d got her seated, he broke the news.

  ‘Dead? He can’t be dead. I only saw him this morning.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s true, Ms Pulman.’

  She took a few moments to absorb this, then she asked, ‘So how did he die? Did he have an accident in his car?’

  ‘No. I’m afraid we have reason to believe he was murdered.’

  Her eyes with their thick surround of eyeliner and lashings of mascara rounded at this. Then she began to sob loudly and messily.

  ‘I’ll make some tea,’ Lizzie volunteered, to Rafferty’s dismay leaving him with the sobbing woman. He patted Annie Pulman’s stiff back with a tentative hand. But the tea was quickly made and Lizzie was soon back.

  ‘Did Mr Harrison have any enemies that you know of?’ he asked Annie Pulman’s bowed head. It shook in response. Her eye make up had smeared and run, making black tracks with her tears through the thick foundation on her face. Rafferty looked around for a box of tissues, and seeing none, he went in search of the bathroom and came back trailing a length of toilet paper. Silently, he handed it to her.

  Clearly she was in denial, given Harrison’s job was designed to make enemies. ‘Have you lived together long?’

  ‘Six months,’ she spluttered between gulping sobs.


  She could tell them little; she knew nothing about Harrison’s job beyond that he was a debt collector.

  ‘Did he have any family? Parents? Brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No, his parents are dead. He had one brother, but he emigrated to Australia ten years ago. I don’t know where he lives. John hasn’t heard from him in ages.’

  It didn’t leave much choice about who would have to do the formal identifying. Tentatively, he mentioned this to Annie Pulman, but all he received in return was a shocked stare. ‘Maybe later,’ he murmured soothingly.

  After another five minutes of this, Rafferty said, ‘I’ll leave Constable Green with you. Let her know if there’s anyone she can call to be with you.’

  He received no acknowledgement to this. But as there was nothing else he could do here for the moment, he nodded to Lizzie to get her out on to the landing so he could have a private word. ‘See if you can have a look around. Ms Pulman might give you permission, but if not…’ He left the ‘if not’ open-ended, confident that Lizzie Green would grasp his meaning. But, with or without Ms Pulman’s permission, the murder of her partner gave them carte blanche to give the place a thorough going over.

  After bidding the still sobbing Annie Pulman a polite ‘good evening,’ Rafferty left. He needed to get back to the station.

  Jake Sterling and Des Arnott, the two cockiest of the leather-clad youths who had been hanging around on the corner of Primrose Avenue with Jake’s brother and another mate, were just as cocky an hour later as, one after the other, they sat in interview room two.

  Rafferty had seen numerous youths like this pair pass through the police station; the country had an entire generation of them; those who knew all about their “rights”, but nothing at all about their responsibilities.

  All four youths had been interviewed separately. So far, all the two cockiest had contributed were sneering “no comment”s to Rafferty and Llewellyn’s questions. Rafferty blamed the police programmes on the telly, which were full of youths like these two with their own “no comment”s.

  ‘You know I could charge you with wasting police time?’ he told Jake Sterling.

  Sterling gave a careless shrug of his head with its No 1 haircut. The gesture said it was all the same to him.

  It probably was, too. Jake Sterling and Des Arnott knew the score. They’d been here before, both of them. So had Jake’s brother, Jason, though Tony Moran, the youngest of the quartet, so far had a clean score sheet.

  The duty solicitor — Jake, knowing his rights, had demanded a brief from the off — looked as bored with the proceedings as Jake Sterling himself. He gazed into space, his pen poised to jot down anything of interest that Sterling chose to say. So far, his lined pad was as pristine as a fluffy summer cloud.

  ‘You don’t deny giving me a false name?’ Llewellyn asked.

  Sterling gave another shrug.

  ‘Was that a “yes” shrug or a “no” shrug?’ Rafferty asked, beginning to lose his temper. He’d had his fill of surly youths like Sterling. His brother Jason was coming along nicely in the same mould. Doubtless in a few months, Jason, too, would have the business of frustrating the police down to a fine art.

  This was a waste of time, Rafferty acknowledged to himself. He stood up and was about to formally suspend the interview when Jake demanded:

  ‘I can go, right?’

  ‘So you can say something other than “no comment”, then?’

  Jake blanked him.

  'One of your friends told us that three women left Primrose Avenue after Jaws Harrison entered the alley. Can you confirm that?' Rafferty asked.

  'Yeah, I suppose. Two old biddies and the juicy Josie. I wouldn't mind a go at her.'

  'Never mind that. Did you see anyone else leave the Avenue?'

  'No. Not that I recall. But then I can't say I'm interested in the doings of a bunch of old women. All they do is complain and have goes.'

  'Perhaps they find the behaviour of you and your friends offensive?' Llewellyn suggested.

  Jake Sterling shrugged. 'Whatever.'

  Rafferty got the only satisfaction of the day when he told Sterling, ‘And no, you can’t go. Wasting police time is a serious business, particularly when it involves a murder investigation. We’ll probably want another word with you later, so I think we’ll hang on to you for now.’

  Jake scowled, clumped back in his chair and stared at his brief, who gave a well-practised shrug of his own. As if becoming aware that such a facial contortion didn’t gell with the required look of cool nonchalance he favoured, Jake let the scowl fade and replaced it with an it was all the same to him, look.

  After he had packed Sterling back off to his cell, Rafferty suggested they try Tony Moran again. Moran, at eighteen, was the youngest of the four youths brought in for questioning. Like Des Arnott, he didn’t live in Primrose Avenue. He lived with his mother in the next street. Surprisingly, given that he hung around with the yobbish Sterlings and Des Arnott, Tony Moran had never been in trouble before. He hadn’t even demanded the services of the duty solicitor. Fortunately, Llewellyn had had the wit to ensure the four youths were separated immediately they were picked up so Moran hadn’t had the benefit of Jake’s street wisdom.

  It was fortunate, too, that Moran was over eighteen – just – so they hadn’t had to put up with one or both of his parents putting their oar in. Not that it was likely to make any difference. It wasn’t as if the Crown Prosecution Service would be interested in proceeding with the flimsy cases against them. The most they were likely to get was a caution. Might as well give them a lollipop each for all the notice they’d take of that, to judge from their previous number of visits to the cells. Rafferty’s lips tightened, then he asked for Moran to be brought to the interview room.

  ‘So tell me, Tony,’ said Rafferty a few minutes later, when they had the last of the four youths settled for the second time across the table in the interview room. ‘Why did you give a false name to my colleague?’

  Moran’s lips quivered. ‘I dunno. I just copied Jake.’

  Rafferty nodded understandingly. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time, hmm?’

  Moran nodded. There was an innocence about Tony Moran that his three friends didn’t share. The youth seemed to have little guile to him and none of the aggressive confidence that the others exuded with every breath. His lower lip trembled noticeably; so had his hands until he’d thrust them in his jeans pockets, out of sight.

  ‘Jake Sterling’s the leader of your little gang, I take it?’

  Moran nodded again.

  ‘For the tape, please.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So how long have you been a member?’

  ‘Not long. A couple of months.’

  ‘You know they’ll get you into serious trouble before long, don’t you?’

  Moran’s expression fought between mutiny and tears. So far it was a draw. ‘They’re my mates.’

  ‘One for all and all for one?’

  Moran frowned at this rare example of Rafferty’s limited literary references but nodded. ‘Yeah. That’s right.’

  Poor innocent, thought Rafferty. They’d drop him in it when it suited them. The naïve Moran would be a perfect patsy to the others. It was probably why they’d let him join their gang.

  ‘OK. Now we’ve got that sorted out. Tell me, Tony, have you remembered anyone else you saw leaving the street, other than the three women you’ve already told us about?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Think about it. For instance, did you see Mr Eric Lewis enter the alley with a hedge trimmer?’

  ‘I saw some old bloke. I don’t know his name. He had some gadget or other with him.’

  ‘And what time was this?’

  ‘I dunno. I don’t wear a watch.’

  Time mused Rafferty. Keeping track of it was such an inessential to so many modern youths. He often wished it wasn’t such an imperative in his own life. ‘Just roughly.’

  Moran’s fore
head puckered in thought. ‘It must have been sometime around three-ish, I suppose, or a bit later. Perhaps it was half past.’

  ‘Do you recall seeing anyone else?’

  Moran’s forehead did some more puckering. Rafferty, while he was waiting, amused himself by changing one of the vowels in the youth’s name on his notepad till he had a surname that was singularly appropriate. Unkind, Rafferty, smote his strict Catholic conscience. But it was clear that deep or even not so deep, thought, wasn’t one of Tony Moran’s strong suits.

  ‘I dunno,’ he eventually volunteered.

  Rafferty swallowed a sigh.

  ‘There were some kids out when I arrived. Playing like.’

  Somehow, Rafferty doubted young kids were responsible for Jaws Harrison’s murder. But such were the times they lived in, he couldn’t totally discount the possibility. ‘Do you know their names?’

  Perhaps himself feeling his previous responses had lacked variety, this time Moran just shook his head.

  To Rafferty’s surprise, Tony Moran then volunteered something. ‘Now that I think about it, I remember seeing another bloke on the street this afternoon. I know the faces of everyone in the street.’

  He should, thought Rafferty, when he spent most of his time hanging around its corner watching his bolder mates causing trouble.

  ‘But this man was a stranger. I’d never seen him before. He carried a briefcase and knocked at number nine.’

  Number nine was Tracey Stubbs’s home. ‘Was he let in?’

  Moran nodded. ‘Eventually. He was there quite a while.’ He grinned. ‘According to the lads, that Tracey’s a bit of a goer. I wondered if they might be having it off.’

  No one else had mentioned seeing this man. Strange that it should be “I dunno” Moran who supplied the information.

  ‘What did he look like?’ Rafferty asked, expecting another “I dunno” answer. But Moran surprised him again.

  ‘My mum would call him very smart. Suited and booted. But he was actually a bit flash. I noticed the wind didn’t ruffle his hair. It stayed put as if it had been glued to his head. And his suit had a peacock blue lining. I saw it when the wind blew his jacket open. Flash git, I thought.’