Headcase Page 13

  “ATG…Arachnophobic Transvestites Group?”

  “It happens most Fridays, whatever it is,” she said, “and we’re missing out. Let’s go backwards. Every acronym starts life in longhand. Perhaps we’ll get lucky.”

  She dived into the pile of rolled-up wall charts Jenny had kept. They’d been tied up so long each wanted to stay in its own tight little roll and soon the room looked like an ancient library, filled with scrolls.

  “ATG, ATD, ATG…hey, we’ve lost ATG.” Annis peeled off more layers. “ATD, ATD…gotcha! Art Therapy Dave!”

  “The Silver Star will be awarded…”

  “Sod that, I want the Annis Jordan Brains of Aqua T-shirt, my own office and my own gun.”

  “You’re on.” I was buzzing. This was the first, the tiniest thing we had uncovered that added anything to our knowledge of the affair. I had no idea what it meant but I felt something had shifted.

  There was no entry in Jenny’s black phone register under art therapy or even therapy. Out came the Yellow Pages. Nothing under “Art” but the therapists were at home between “Theme Parks” and “Thermic Cutting”. It was a surprisingly short list and only two art therapists advertised their services. One practised at a “centre for healing” in Bristol, the other from a private address in Bath: Kate Lythgoe, Dip. Hum. Psych., Abbey View.

  “Widcombe again,” we said in unison. Abbey View starts not two hundred yards from the Kennet-and-Avon Canal.

  Kate Lythgoe answered in a soft, neutral and non-threatening voice but went on the defensive as soon as I explained who I was. “Client confidentiality, you must appreciate that, Mr Honeysett. I cannot reveal the identity of my clients or anything about them without their consent, and even then …

  How often had I used the very same words when Avon and Somerset’s finest were trying to muscle in on one of my cases? I went for the blunt approach. “The client in question was murdered and I need your help in finding his killer. You’ve no objections to that, I hope? You run classes on Fridays?”

  “They’re not classes, they’re therapy sessions. But yes, between six thirty and eight thirty. You may come along afterwards if you want to talk, though I can’t promise you anything.” She cut the line without formalities.

  “Of course there’s no such thing as Spaghetti Bolognese.”

  “What?” Annis put the knife down, a neat mound of finely chopped onion on the board in front of her. “Perhaps the guy hit you harder than we thought.”

  “The dish is called Ragu Bolognese,” I said, undeterred, “and is always served with tagliatelle. Spag Bol is strictly for the tourists. Italians never eat spaghetti with meat sauces.”

  Annis smiled benignly with her head to one side. I wasn’t fooled for a second. “You’ve no idea how annoying you are, have you?”

  “I just wanted to point — ”

  “Well, don’t. I liked Spag Bol.”

  “Okay, we’ll have it with spaghetti.”

  “Oh no. Too late now, I’d feel like a dumb tourist. I’m going to have a look through the things in Dave’s room, if that’s all right.” She whirled around, hair flying. “Spaghetti with meat sauce — yuch, what a revolting idea!” I heard her happily skip upstairs.

  When I was ready to add a slug of wine to the browning meat it just didn’t smell right. It whiffed of patchouli oil. I was around the corner as fast as I could move to find a figure already running back along the corridor towards the open door to the garden. I made a grab for him but he twisted in my grip and managed to elbow me in the ribs, just where I didn’t need it. Another one of those and I’d have to let him go.

  “Annis! Now!” I croaked.

  She couldn’t possibly have heard that but came sailing down the banister, already alerted by the sounds of our undignified scrap. It was over in two seconds. Annis twisted his arms back and Matt stopped struggling.

  “Ow, you’re hurting me,” he blurted with the voice of a kid in a playground brawl.

  “You really do need a bodyguard, Chris. What’s that awful smell?”

  “Patchouli? His trainers?”

  The other awful smell.”

  “Oh shit.” I hurried back to the kitchen and whipped the smoking saucepan off the heat and into the sink. Behind me, Annis marched Matt into the kitchen. He’d gone quite limp, rubbing his arms and looking with his furtive pinprick eyes from me to Annis and back, calculating his chances and coming up with nil. He decided to flounce against the freezer, arms crossed in front of his narrow chest. “You’ve no fucking right,”

  he whined experimentally.

  “Oh shut up, Matt,51 said, still poking the pan in the sink, feeling too tired for any of this.

  “He’s not happy,” Annis explained to him. He looked up at her, half furious, half curious, from under his fringe of thin, colourless hair. “You’ve ruined his ragu. Makes him mad.”

  I made the necessary introductions. “Matt, meet Annis, Annis, kick Matt in the balls if he moves.” I needed more recovery time so I poured myself a glass of Valpolicella and chucked it down my bruised throat. Don’t ever cook with cheap plonk, you never know when you might need to drink the stuff. “Yuch. Right, living room.”

  Matt slouched away in front of Annis, all thoughts of flight apparently shelved, and let himself be pushed on to the nearest sofa. I sat on the other one, tapping my foot on the place where Jenny’s body had lain. Annis shut the door behind her and leant against it.

  “Why did you do it?” I bellowed at him. He shrank back into the cushions. I took another swig from the bottle I had brought, trying to look mean and moody.

  “Do what?”

  “Why kill Jenny?”

  His eyes widened and he sat bolt upright in an instant. “I didn’t, Chris, I didn’t kill her. How can you say that? She was already dead. There.” He pointed with a trembling finger to the floor in front of me. He hadn’t even tried to deny that he was at the scene that day. Then why come back?

  “Bullshit. She caught you pilfering and you hit her with the sharpening steel.”

  “She was already dead. She was lying there, with her face to the ground. I turned her over, didn’t know if it was her. It was fucking awful, mate. She was all blue in the face and smashed up. It made me fucking sick.”

  “Not too sick though. Not too fucking sick to rob her, for instance.”

  “I never…” he started but floundered.

  “You took Jenny’s credit cards and went on a shopping spree. You were chucked out of Somerset Lodge for stealing and you’ve been coming back to pilfer it ever since. Cash, candlesticks…” I waved my hands as though I had a long list. “And finally Jenny’s cards.”

  “It’s not like she needed them anymore,” he mumbled. “Insurance pays for that kind of thing.” The universal bit of wisdom from the petty thief.

  “You had financial advice about that, did you? Who’s the girl who helped you use them?”

  “You don’t know her. We went halves.”

  “Was she with you when you found Jenny?” A shake of the head. “So what’s all this thieving in aid of? What are you on now?”

  “I’m clean, mate, I’m on a programme now.” A certain pride crept into his voice, on surer ground now.

  “Methadone? How long?”

  “’Bout six weeks. NA meetings three times a week. Well, used to, anyway.”

  “You stopped going to Narcotics Anonymous?”

  “I don’t have a choice, do I? They staked the bloody place out, it’s totally out of order. They want you to stay clean then they stop you from going to meetings, I mean, make up your minds or what?”

  “You clocked a surveillance team outside?” I was ready to be impressed.

  “A mate did. This van turns up, only no one gets out and the driver disappears in the back. Obvious,” he said with new-found bravado.

  “So you’re trying to go straight but turn up here, and God knows where else, and steal what you can? Oh, I get it. You still owe.”

  “Too f
ucking right and they’re scary bastards, you don’t mess about with them. Only, however much I come up with, it’s never enough, is it? They slap on interest too. Only the full whack will do. And if I don’t find some every day…”

  “…then you have to start selling your methadone.”

  “I don’t want to do that, Chris,” he said, meeting my eyes straight on for the first time. It wasn’t a look of appeal but a timid kind of determination. I almost felt sorry for him. But sorry wouldn’t get me anywhere. “You’ve got a place of your own?”

  Matt shrugged and snorted. “I did rehab at Hill View for five weeks, after that they gave me a council place in Phoenix House.”

  How kind of them. Phoenix House in Julian Road had everything a recovering drug addict needed, drug users, dealers and loan sharks. Perfect.

  “Doesn’t matter. I can’t go back there. Either I’ll get picked up for murder or get my knees bashed in for being late with the money. The door’s been kicked in so many times there’s hardly a thing left.”

  “So where’re you hiding out?”

  He tapped the side of his nose, a gesture employed by people who think they’re cleverer than they really are. “I’m not telling you or you’ll want to move in. It’s got everything; water, it’s cosy, it’s even got food. No toilet but I’m not fussy. No one’s gonna find me there. So I’m not about to tell you.”

  “You seem to be labouring under the illusion that I’m not handing you over.”

  He jumped up, looking from me to Annis who was still barring the door. “You can’t do it, Chris, I’ve done nothing, I didn’t kill her. They’re going to pin it on me, I know what they’re like, they’re never gonna believe me.”

  “And why should I?”

  “You have to!” he shouted and flopped back down on the sofa. “You have to fucking believe me,” he said again, defeated.

  I looked across at Annis who shrugged her shoulders. I did believe him. And perhaps Needham’s investigation would clear him, but it would take a long time and I had better plans for him. I was just about to give them an airing when the doorbell chimed its electronic ding-dong. It was so rare an occasion I had forgotten what it sounded like. I slipped past Annis to the front door and put my eye to the spyhole. Through the distorting fisheye of the tiny lens Detective Superintendent Needham appeared to have piled the pounds back on since I last saw him. I retreated hastily to the sitting room.

  “Cops,” I announced quietly. The word electrified Matt. “Get upstairs, quickly and quietly.” The moment I was sure they were both out of earshot I wrenched the door open. “Hey Mike, what can I do for you?”

  “Move to Greenland.” He hefted past me into the hall. “Thought I’d see how you are. We heard you got yourself clobbered.”

  “The royal we?”

  He ignored it. “We sent a PC up to the RUH to get a statement but you’d discharged yourself. Glad to see you’re well,” he said and gave me a manly and calculated slap on the arm. He even knew which side I’d been hurt and looked pointedly elsewhere while I winced.

  “So they’ve got you on muggings now, have they?” I managed.

  “You can come to the station and give your statement there, we don’t have time to run after you. I was just passing, thought I might show my face. What’s that awful smell?” He sniffed towards the kitchen. “Not burning din-dins while we speak, are you? Not that I care. But don’t burn your fingers, Chris. If someone clobbers you that hard he must have good cause. Stands to reason you’re messing with things I should know about.” Needham rattled his fingernails over the Chinese dinner gong.

  “I got mugged.”

  “Standing around in Locksbrook Road, as one does of an evening. Take much, did they? Did they get your magnifying glass, Sherlock?”

  He really was in a foul mood and that could only mean one thing. “So you haven’t made any progress.”

  He didn’t meet my eye but scratched his nails in an angry move across the gong, making it sing. “Junkies, crushes, squatters. The people who know where Hilleker and Chap win might be don’t talk to us, Chris. But I know I’m on the right track. We’ve staked out Matt and Lisa’s flats, they both have council places, the Chapwin woman’s right here in the bloody neighbourhood, just up the road in Odd Down. Amazing, isn’t it? All you need to get a council flat is break the law or pump yourself full of recreational drugs.” He waved it away. “Whatever.” I could feel even Needham was tired of that particular rant of his. “Both of them have scarpered.”

  “Must have clocked you,” I rubbed in. “Doesn’t mean they’re involved. They’ve got enough reasons not to want to talk to your lot.”

  “I know that. It doesn’t help me, though.” Needham still wasn’t meeting my eyes but appeared busy examining the photographs pinned to the wall. Still without turning he whipped out a couple of seven-by-five prints from inside his suit jacket and held them out to me. Mug shots of Matt and Lisa. When I made no move to take them he rubbed them impatiently against each other between his thumb and index finger.

  “We had a deal, remember?” I reminded him. “Is this a new deal by any chance?”

  “Just keep your eyes open for us,” he thundered. “Take the damn pictures, Chris,” he added quietly, facing me squarely at last. “And don’t say anything cheap now. And don’t phone it into Manvers Street.” He put his card on the rim of the gong. “My mobile number is on the back.”

  “Why did you do that? One minute you accuse me of killing Jenny then you hide me from them.”

  “Because now you owe me,” I said with what I hoped was an evil grin. We had taken up our station in the kitchen again where I chucked together a salad to go with the dreaded Spag & Pesto I had settled for. “Gavin is still missing and so is Lisa. Have you any idea where they might be?”

  “I never met the Gavin guy. Lisa is still around, but she doesn’t look too good on her medication. She had a bit of a rough deal, really; they sent her back to Hill View from here and when she got out of there she was shunted about a lot. She’s got her own place now and goes everywhere on a moped so she doesn’t have to stop and talk to anyone. Tried to ride it through Sainsbury’s once. It nearly landed her back at Hill View. But no, I’ve no idea where either of them are.”

  “Then get one.” If Needham could delegate then so could I. I fished one of my cards from my pocket and slapped it on the counter.

  He ignored it. “The crazy thing is I never really wanted to leave here. It’s a good place. It’s much harder out there by yourself. This is a good place, really.”

  “Shouldn’t have buggered it up then, you were warned often enough, as I recall.”

  “I know, it was the money thing. It’s so expensive here.”

  “What do you mean “expensive”? It’s a charity and everything’s paid for by the Benefits Agency.”

  “Shows what you know. Sure they pay benefits. Housing benefit and disability. Only the housing benefit never covers the rent they ask, which is pretty hefty. So that comes out of your money for a start. Then there’s the food money, you’ve no choice, it’s part of the package. At the end there’s practically nothing left. It’s a good place, I’m not knocking it and I wish I was back here. But I didn’t see much charity going on.” He seemed to contemplate it for a moment. “You think there’s any chance…now that…” He trailed off. I was glad to see he was capable of embarrassment.

  “Any chance of moving back in, now that there are a couple of vacancies?” I needed Matt to trawl the doorways of the city, check out the squats, chat to Big Issue sellers and the beggars pretending to play the penny whistle, but to make false promises would have been cruel. “I’ll ask but don’t hold your breath. Drug addicts aren’t their scene at all.”

  “I’m clean now, I told you,” he said, injured.

  “Then make sure you stay clean. You haven’t had a birthday yet.”

  “I know. They make a big deal at NA of someone who stays clean for a year. And every year after that. I like th
at about them.”

  “Not them, Matt. Us. You’re part of it now and you’re in for life. When this blows over you can go back and have your birthday. I’ll bake you a cake myself. First though, this needs sorting. The sooner we find Gavin and Lisa…” I furnished him with the mug shot of Lisa that Needham had left. A desperately thin face, a large nose over a pinched mouth, vacant eyes. Mug shots always had the effect of making the subject look guilty. Lisa’s hair appeared to supply only the thinnest covering over her bony skull. Matt’s own picture looked no more flattering. In fact it didn’t look much like him at all, as he was quick to point out. “If they’re looking for the guy in this picture they’ll never pick me up.” On the picture board was another snapshot of Gavin, this time with Jenny behind him, carrying a tray full of Christmas crackers. I watched his reactions closely. He seemed unperturbed. “Haven’t seen him. But I’ll look. Honest.”

  “My numbers are on my card. Now scram.”

  Matt slunk away, uncharacteristically without trying to scrounge money off either of us.

  Supper was running late. A tired but cheerful Mel arrived for her sleepover duties with her holdall of textbooks and I asked her to join us. She accepted. Spag & Pesto, a sure way to impress the girl. Why Matt hadn’t tried to scrounge any money became patently clear when I went to sound the Chinese dinner gong. It had vanished.

  CHAPTER VII

  I knew I would never feel this good again and refused to move a muscle. “Any more beer left?”

  Annis reached out and pulled another bottle of Stella from the sink, opened it with her teeth and handed it over. Mmh. I lifted it in a silent toast before drinking deeply. It was reasonably cold. “How did this happen?” I asked at length.

  “It didn’t happen. As far as I remember I’ve never got into bed with anyone by accident.”

  “This isn’t a bed, it’s a bathtub.”

  “Same rules apply.” She went nearly cross-eyed examining her breasts riding proud of the soap bubbles. “D’you think my breasts are too small?”