Death on a Dirty Afternoon (The Terry Bell Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  'No, Lizzy was there. She found him and called me.'

  'Why would she call you, Mr Bell?'

  'Have you asked her?'

  'I have, and now I'm asking you.'

  I took a breath and felt it catch in my throat as I struggled for an explanation. 'Well, she just...I mean, she wanted, you know, someone there...'

  The youngster persisted. 'Someone there?'

  'Yes. I mean, for God's sake, if someone close to you had just died, you wouldn't want to be on your own, would you?'

  He leaned back as if his job was done.

  'So you're saying Mrs Armstrong was already in the house when you arrived?' Charis's mouth went into a kink at one side, in a sort of pretend smile.

  I dropped my head, like I was getting bored. 'Yes.'

  The chair creaked as she sat back and I could feel her eyes burning into me. Then, 'Did you notice anything unusual when you entered the house?'

  'You mean apart from the fact that Frank was lying dead on his dining room table?' I tried to remember my first impression of the room when I'd seen him laid out, but all I could think was that it looked exactly like it had every other time I'd been in the house, except for the body.

  And then I remembered something, but as Charis hadn't mentioned it, I thought I'd keep it for later. Looking up, I saw from her expression that, as usual, I'd given too much away.

  She craned her neck. 'Anything else?'

  I shook my head and looked out the window, hoping she'd think I was searching the caverns of my mind for some elusive detail. 'No, nothing I can think of.'

  'Right.' And she was on her feet, heading for the door. 'I'll most likely want to see you again,' she said over her shoulder.

  The constable followed her, then stopped at the front door, turned and delved into his coat pocket. 'Here.' Throwing the keys across the hall, he waved a finger at me. 'Don't leave town.'

  Jess appeared and stood in the doorway, no doubt making sure they were definitely leaving. I headed for the kitchen and opened the fridge.

  'What was all that about?' Jess had her arms folded, which was never a good sign.

  I grabbed a pack of bacon. 'Fucked if I know. Can I make a buttie?'

  She made a huffing noise. 'How can ye not know - you're the one that's been sitting there talkin to them?' She snatched the bacon off me and switched on the George Foreman grill.

  I shook my head. 'There's obviously summat they're not saying.'

  'Like what?'

  I stared at her. 'I don't know like what, cos they're not saying, are they?'

  'Well, ye've got your keys back so you can bugger off home when ye've eaten this.'

  'Thanks.'

  Back at Otterburn Terrace, I was happy to see the police presence had disappeared, though another, unexpected individual had replaced him. Ken Thompson was sitting on my communal doorstep, elbows on knees, head in hands. He looked about as pleased to see me as Jessie had.

  'Ken.'

  He rubbed the back of one hand across his face. 'Terry.' As he squinted up at me, the hard line of his mouth told me he wasn't looking to catch up on old times.

  I waited while he got to his feet, then opened the front door and waved him inside. Watching his size tens clomping up the stairs to my flat, I couldn't help wonder if this was the first time he'd paid a visit.

  Unsurprisingly, the cops hadn't bothered to clear up, so the broken coat stand still lay on the hall carpet. I threw my coat onto the bed and watched Ken stop at the end of the passage. He stood gazing down at the dark stain on the carpet that marked the spot where his son's head had been caved in.

  'Through here, mate.' I took his arm and led him into the kitchen. He leaned against one of the units as if he needed the support.

  'The cops don't think ye killed him.' His eyes avoided mine and he looked like he might cry.

  'No, I didn't.' It was a little early in the day for alcohol, but I couldn't face making yet more coffee while struggling to conjure up small talk, so I reached into the fridge and handed him a beer.

  Ken knocked back half the contents then balanced the can on his ample belly, leaving a wet patch on his shirt. He was wearing the same clothes as the day before and I wondered if he'd been to bed. Raising his eyes to my shoulder, he said, 'I dunno where else to go.'

  Though I'd picked him up from his house several times over the previous year, I couldn't quite recall where he lived. I did a mental journey up from the office, through town and over the bridge, then left into one of the Council estates. Second or third on the right and there it was - Sebastopol Street. Nice house, shitty area. There was something else too, something I should have remembered.

  'Can't go home,' he muttered. 'It was bad enough living in that house without Beryl, but now...'

  Oh yes - the dead wife.

  I struggled for supportive phrases, positive, reassuring, but all I could manage was, 'You can always stay here if you like?'

  He looked right at me and I waited for the onslaught, the tirade of abuse at the mere thought that his emotions could stand to spend a night in the place where his son was murdered. I felt moderately relieved when he shook his head.

  I waited, but he continued to stare at the floor, so ditching the positive and reassuring crap, I went for inoffensive. 'Expect Carol's got things in hand down the road, has she?'

  He nodded. 'Aye.'

  'Good thing she's there, eh? What with...one thing and another.'

  He looked at me. 'Ronnie hated her, you know?'

  'Did he?'

  He didn't reply and gazed off into the distance. We stood there for ages, avoiding eye contact. The silence was agony and I wondered how long I could stand it without screaming out for conversation. Any normal person would've shut the fuck up, given him space to talk, the chance to get it off his chest etc. If he'd wanted to. And if he didn't, that same regular individual would've just 'been there' for him. But not me. After a couple of minutes, it was too much and I heard myself stammer, 'If there's...you know...anything I can do?'

  And there it was - a simple meaningless phrase, a platitude, intended to do nothing more than imply, 'It's alright, mate, I'm here for you.' Not - definitely not - a phrase to be taken literally.

  Ken's face brightened, or at least, took on the appearance of a slightly less recently-bereaved taxi driver. 'Well, now you mention it, we are two drivers down.'

  Chapter 3

  The next morning, I had a pleasurable few minutes staring up at the sun-dappled ceiling, believing I didn't have a damn thing to do. Then I remembered the conversation with Ken.

  It was only just after seven, so there was no need to rush. I reckoned I could take my time, have a leisurely breakfast, check emails and whatnot before trotting round to the office to do what I'd agreed to the night before - covering the lunch-to-teatime rush. As I still hadn't actually disconnected the radio from my car, and in fact hadn't removed any of the other items that marked it as a hackney carriage, all I had to do was dig out my cash bag and sort out loose change.

  On my way to the lock-up at the end of the street, a blue Rover passed me. I might've been mistaken, but the redhead in the driver's seat looked a lot like Charis. Was she spying on me? Checking up? Or simply proving the non-existence of one of those coincidences she didn't actually believe in?

  I slid the magnetic 'Taxi' sign onto the roof above the driver's-side door and plugged it back in. Still worked. My cash bag had plenty loose change and even a couple of fivers I'd forgotten about. Lastly, I made sure my just-in-case spanner was in its usual place under the seat. And that was it - I was a cabbie again.

  Shortly after eleven, I drove down the Esplanade and parked up round the corner from the office. Three more Nissan Crappys were in front of me, which meant any cushy jobs would've already gone. Not that I cared - all I wanted was an easy afternoon.

  'Thought ye weren't comin back?' Carol flashed me a smile and pushed a clipboard across the counter.

  'Don't get any ideas pet, I'm just helpi
n out.' I filled in my shift details and passed it back. 'Just park up on the rank, then, will I?'

  'Can't expect to get the best jobs if you're not here, can ye? Joe was in at eight so he's out on an airport run and Geoff's first on the list for Newcastle.' She nodded towards the office. 'Him and Fat Barry are in with Ken. All a bit bloody secretive for my liking. Don't suppose you know anything about it?'

  I glanced at the office door where Geoff and Fat Barry-shaped forms moved around against the frosted glass. Their voices were too low to make out what they were saying, but I could guess the topic of conversation. 'They'll be after Ronnie's share of the account work if I know those two.' I sniffed. 'Where's everyone else? Craig, Beardy Bob an them?'

  'Ken's put them on evenings for now. Bob's not happy - nearly had a blue fit when he realised he'd miss out on Monday night bingo.'

  'Would've thought he'd be glad to get away from his missus.' I leaned over the desk. 'You spoken to the police?'

  She nodded. 'Aye. Sod's have taken all the job sheets for Friday and Saturday. I canna do me bloody figures til I get them back.'

  'Were you on the desk Friday night?'

  'I was. Busy enough and there was a fight at The Ferryboat. Geoff ended up taking three blokes to the RVI.'

  'What about Frank?'

  'What about him?'

  'He was working, wasn't he?'

  'Well...' She glanced towards the office. 'Ye know Frank, he's normally dead busy, rushing around all over the place, one after another, but that night he only did about ten jobs.' She paused. 'Come to think of it, a couple of them were on the new contract.'

  'Sangster?'

  She shook her head. 'New one. Ronnie took it on just after you left. Big deal apparently. Him and Ken were dead chuffed, reckoned it was goin to be worth a bomb.'

  'Oh aye? What sort of contract?'

  'Mostly picking up construction workers from home and dropping them at sites and offices between here and Killingworth, though there's been a few for the company bosses as well - ye know, restaurants and stuff?'

  The radio crackled and Carol picked up the mic. 'You clear, Jimmy? That wifie from 49 Inkerman thinks she left something in your car. Can ye pop round there?' She hung up the mic and looked at me. 'That's all I know.'

  'Big company, is it?'

  'I dunno. They're called SAHB.'

  'Sensational Alex Harvey Band?'

  She laughed. 'I doubt it. And before ye ask, they're not a car maker either. The boss feller's called Andersson, so it's probably...' She shook her head. 'Something Andersson Something Something.'

  'Catchy name. An he's signing the cheques, is he, this Andersson?'

  She made a face. 'Come on, Terry, that's confidential. I canna be givin out that sort of information.'

  'And what if it's linked to Frank's death?' Admittedly, I had no reason to think this was likely, but it couldn't hurt to check.

  Carol hesitated and glanced again at the office door. Dropping her voice to a whisper, she said, 'Look, there's only been one invoice in so far and it had Sven Andersson's signature on it. And hey - I better not get dropped in the shite for tellin ye.'

  'So he's a builder?'

  She nodded. 'From what they were sayin, it sounds like he's got things going on all over the place. Got his fingers in that new development up past Tesco's an all sorts.'

  'I see.' I'd seen construction work taking shape on the patch of land behind the supermarket, but I'd no idea what they were building. From the size of the thing, it might be anything from an apartment block to a new high school. 'Okay, I'll be on the rank if you need me.'

  I was almost out onto the landing when she said, 'I hear Sharon's moved out.'

  Feeling a sigh coming on, I coughed instead. 'Friday night. Well, yesterday morning, really. Why, like?'

  A slow smile spread across her face. 'No reason.'

  Outside, a cool breeze was coming in and a hint of the haar that often engulfed the coast at this time of year was making itself felt. The summer was long gone and with any luck, a nice autumn chill would be enough to prompt a few shoppers to take a cab home instead of waiting for a bus.

  It was like being on automatic pilot as I drove up to the High Street and pulled onto the back of the taxi rank. There were seven cars in front of me and at this time of day, I knew it might be five minutes or half an hour before I got a fare. Rolling down my window, I stuffed my cash bag into the driver's side pocket, then fished around in the glove compartment to find the novel I'd been reading intermittently for the last month or so. Reading was one of several things I'd planned to do a lot more of when I had the time, along with setting up a Facebook account, updating my email passwords and getting to grips with online banking, but typically, I hadn't got round to it yet.

  Ten minutes later, I'd moved to the front of the queue and was well into the misdemeanours of a bent New York cop, when the nearside rear passenger door opened and a little round woman squeezed herself onto the seat, propping a pair of carrier bags on her lap. 'I thought that was you, Terry - where've you been?'

  I leaned over the back of the seat. 'Just had a couple of weeks off, Evie. Goin home, are ye?'

  She nodded. 'Aye, and divvent spare the horses.'

  That first fare was a short run, but as I helped the old woman out with her bags, it felt like I'd never been away.

  'Thanks pet,' she said, giving me a cheeky grin. 'Ye can pick me up anytime.'

  I watched her into the house then got back in the car just as a blue Rover pulled alongside. The child in the driver's seat wound his window down and signalled for me to do the same.

  'Morning Constable Ramshaw,' I said.

  'It's Detective Constable. And it's afternoon.'

  Condescending prick. 'Thanks for the update. Can I help ye at all?'

  'Back on the cabs, then?'

  'Temporarily.' I leaned forward and made a show of noticing he was alone. 'Charis let you out by yourself, has she?'

  His reply was lost as the car pulled away. I watched him disappear round the corner and wondered if he'd just happened to be passing, or if he'd been checking up on me. Again.

  The rest of the afternoon was relatively busy and by the time I'd called in my last pickup I'd had enough and was ready for home. I clicked the radio again. 'Car ten signing off.'

  'Can ye pop up to the office for five minutes Terry?' Carol's voice sounded odd, but maybe she was just stressed - couldn't be easy running things just now.

  It was after six when I bumped the car up onto the pavement in front of the office. Maybe Ken had decided he didn't want me here after all. Maybe he'd left Carol to pass on the good news. I made plenty of noise going up the stairs, just in case they were all up there talking about me. But they weren't. A young couple busied themselves eating each other's faces while they waited for a driver. Carol was at the desk wearing a tight smile.

  'Okay?'

  She nodded, but she wasn't her usual cheery self and there was something else in her expression I couldn't quite read.

  'Can ye do one last job before you go?'

  I nodded. 'Sure. These two?' I indicated the snoggers.

  'No.' She passed a note across the desk. 'Just a pickup from the Hexagon. Dropping off at Central Station.'

  I looked at the note. 'Thought ye said –'

  'You'll need to get a signature.'

  Shaking my head, I put the note back on the desk. 'I told Ken I wouldn't be doing any account work.'

  'Aye, but it's that new contract and...and they asked for you. Specially.'

  'Really?'

  'Maybe an old customer?'

  'Old customer on a new account? Doesn't seem likely.' I stared at her but she'd swivelled back to the radio, fiddling with the log sheets. I picked up the job slip again and looked at the name - Elise. 'No surname?'

  She shrugged. 'Didn't say. Might be one of the bosses at SAHB.'

  I waited til she turned around. 'Did Ken authorise this?'

  She pouted. 'Look, Terry, t
hey asked for you. I'm just doin what I'm told.'

  'Think this might be who Frank picked up on Friday?'

  'If I had the job sheets I could tell ye, but I haven't, alright?' She was beginning to sound irritated.

  'So he could have?'

  'I've told yer - I don't know. When the cops bring me stuff back I can have a look.'

  Studying the name again, I knew I wasn't going to be able to resist finding out who this woman was - and more to the point, why she'd asked for me. If it turned out she knew something...

  'Fine, I'm going.' I stopped at the door. 'If I wake up dead tomorrow, I'll be really annoyed.'

  Carol smiled despite herself. 'I wouldn't worry - it's probably yet another one of your many ex-girlfriends.'

  'Aye,' I said, solemnly. 'I expect it is.'

  The Hexagon was one of those fancy modern designs that never looks right in a northeast town. True to its name, the six-sided structure balanced precariously on the edge of the cliff like an alien craft that hadn't quite landed. It reminded me of the house that American architect knocked up - the one that sticks out over the waterfall.

  The style of the thing did nothing to compliment the surrounding architecture, though maybe that was the point. The recent passion for regenerating all things pre-Sixties had taken off in a big way after the area fell into disrepute along with the rest of the town. Though the nearby shops and offices had at least regained something of their former glory, this place looked more like something that should've been built on Canary Wharf. The rising fog added an air of eerie mystery that I might have thought was interesting if I was a fan of film-noir.

  I parked outside the front door and immediately a gorilla wearing shades strode over and leaned into the car.

  'No pickups here, mate.' He pointed along the street. 'Go into the car park and see the attendant.'

  I sighed and did as I was told.

  The attendant turned out to be an old guy in a red apron with a matching cap and a badge declaring Here to Help! The American influence was clear. He crouched down and gave me a tired smile.

  'Alright marra? Who yer lookin for?'