Destruction of Evidence (8 page)

‘Where are you sitting?’ the barmaid asked.

Trevor looked around. The bar was crowded. There were a few elderly and middle-aged couples, whom he assumed were local, but the majority of the customers were hard faced men and women he recognised as journalists.

‘The vultures have gathered at the feast,’ Peter murmured.

‘This will do fine.’ Hoping none of them would recognise him or Peter, Trevor pulled a stool up to the bar and sat down.

The barmaid poured their drinks and served them. ‘I’ll get your order to the kitchen.’ She walked past a man who stopped her. He spoke to her and she shook her head.

‘Someone’s asking questions about us,’ Peter said.

‘Can you blame him given the location of this pub? That’s if he’s the landlord,’ Trevor replied.

‘You, gentlemen, all right?’ The dark-haired, sardonic-featured man walked down the length of the bar and confronted Peter and Trevor.

‘Been seen to, thanks,’ Peter replied. ‘You the landlord?’

‘I am.’ The fact that he didn’t introduce himself wasn’t lost on either Peter or Trevor.

‘Efficient barmaid you have there,’ Peter complimented him.

‘She is.’

‘You always this busy at lunchtime?’ Peter sipped his drink.

‘Not always,’ he replied evasively.

‘So these people are tourists?’ Peter suggested.

‘If you’re bloody journalists…’

‘We’re not journalists,’ Trevor interrupted softly.

‘I haven’t met one yet who wasn’t a liar, especially about what they do for a living.’ The landlord stared belligerently at Trevor.

‘We’re not journalists,’ Trevor repeated.

The landlord had been about to embark on a rant and wasn’t to be dissuaded. ‘Bloody gutter press turning tragedy into entertainment for the idiot masses. Asking insensitive questions and not listening to answers. Making up lies about decent folk. Alun Pitcher and his family were good, honest, hard-working people. Ready to do anyone a favour. Never did any soul any harm, then some maniac comes along and murders all of them…’

‘Michael wasn’t murdered.’ The barmaid returned and set Trevor’s sandwich in front him. ‘Sorry, sir, your burger’s going to take another five minutes,’ she apologised to Peter.

‘Thanks, I’d prefer it cooked to raw.’

‘Why are you here if you’re not journalists?’ the landlord asked bluntly.

‘Business meeting,’ Trevor cut his sandwich into smaller pieces.

‘One of the family survived?’ Peter reminded the barmaid.

‘What’s it to you whether or not one of the Pitchers is alive?’ The landlord glared at Peter.

‘Nothing. I just heard the headlines on the car radio,’ he said conversationally. ‘I thought they said the entire family had been killed.’

‘As I said, bloody gutter press, never get their facts right.’

‘So did one of the family survive or not?’ Peter pressed.

When neither the landlord nor barmaid answered Peter’s question, Trevor said, ‘I take it you’ve a few reporters in town.’

‘Look over your shoulder,’ the landlord raged. ‘We’re bloody inundated. Some of the buggers tried to book in here. I might have to serve them food, but I don’t have to give the bastards house room.’

A man walked up to the bar with an empty pint glass and handed it to the barmaid. ‘We can hear you all over the bar, Tim. Give it a rest. Now the coppers have caught the one who did it, there’s nothing more to be said before the funeral. Afterwards, the Pitchers can rest in peace and the town get back to normal.’

‘Normal! Normal!’ the landlord repeated in a strained voice. ‘This town will never get back to what it was before this happened, George, and you know it.’

‘I hate the swine who killed Alun and his family as much as the next man. If we had capital punishment in this country I’d be the first to volunteer to slip the noose round his neck…’

‘Talk. That’s all you’ve ever been good at, George.’ Tim took George’s glass from the barmaid. ‘Customer’s burger should be ready,’ he snarled.

‘I’ll look in the kitchen.’ She scurried off.

‘You can have your pint, George. And, you,’ he glowered at Peter, ‘can have your bloody burger. And that’s it. This is a pub not a bloody gossip shop. I’ll have no more talk about the Pitchers in here. They were good friends of mine. All of them.’

Trevor picked up his plate and glass and climbed off his stool. ‘Table’s free over there.’ He pointed to the back corner of the bar.

Peter followed. ‘But are the natives around it any friendlier?’

CHAPTER SIX

‘Take no notice of Tim,’ the barmaid set Peter’s meal, cutlery and napkin in front of him. ‘He was a close friend of Alun Pitcher but I think he’s forgotten we all were. The Pitchers were nice people. It’s not bloody fair. No one should have to die that way. Horribly murdered in their own home.’ She bit her lip and brushed a tear from her eye.

‘I’ll second that, love.’ Peter sprinkled salt on his chips.

‘Nothing like this has ever happened in this town before.’

‘It doesn’t happen often in the country, love.’ Peter forked chips to his mouth.

‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw it on the TV news. And not just the local news. It made headlines on the national. When I walk round town, I keep looking over my shoulder. I know everyone says they’ve caught him but I can’t help wondering if he’s the right one. If he isn’t, there’s a murderer walking free and who knows who he’ll kill next…’

‘Have the police said who they’ve arrested?’ Peter feigned innocence.

She lowered her voice to a theatrical whisper. ‘Not officially but everyone knows it’s one of the thugs from the Garth Estate, Larry Jones. He was released from prison the morning before the fire and he came in here that night, drunk as a skunk. Couldn’t even stand up straight. Tim took him outside and he passed out cold on the pavement. But,’ she glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was close enough to overhear. ‘People are saying more than one person was involved.’

‘Why would they say that?’ Trevor finished his sandwich and handed her his plate.

‘Alun Pitcher was over fifty but he was a strong man and so were his sons. I was in school with the middle one James. I knew him well. He was a really nice boy.’ She wiped her eyes again and looked towards the bar. When she was sure that the landlord was nowhere in sight, she leaned even further over their table.

Peter eyed her cleavage and wondered if her top was about to burst its seams beneath the weight of her breasts. If she was wearing a bra, he couldn’t see it.

‘No one believes one man on his own could kill a strong man, his two sons and his wife, especially when he was falling down drunk only a couple of hours before. Wouldn’t the others have come running and put up a fight as soon as he attacked one of them?’

‘Depends whether they were already dead or not. There was a fire wasn’t there?’ Peter bit into his burger.

‘They’re saying none of them died in that fire. They were all dead before it started. And, another thing. Alan Pitcher was an antique dealer. He did house clearances and stored some of the more valuable things in his cellar. The last house he cleared was full of…’

‘Pam!’

‘Got to go.’ She picked up Trevor’s empty plate and glass and scurried off.

‘Another five seconds and I would have had an eyeful of boob. But they were silicone,’ Peter said disparagingly. ‘I prefer the real thing.’ He pushed the last onion ring into his mouth and wiped his lips on his napkin. ‘Do I have time to go to the little boys’ room before our meeting?’

‘If you don’t stop to talk to anyone.’ Trevor reached into his trouser pocket. ‘I take it this is on me?’

‘Senior officer’s prerogative to buy the junior officer lunch.’

‘Guess who’s going to get stuck with the dinner bill,’ Trevor threatened.

‘Expenses. If she comes back and you find out whose house Alan Pitcher cleared of what, let me know.’ Peter left the table.

By the time Trevor and Peter left the pub the workmen had finished replacing the door on number eight. The gleaming UVPC glared white, bright and shiny in stark contrast to the smoke-damaged walls on which little of the original cream paint could be seen. The same uniformed constable they had seen earlier was still standing outside.

They climbed into Peter’s car, Trevor entered the police station’s postcode into the SatNav and they followed a torturous one-way route to a large, detached four-storey Victorian building that dominated the square in the centre of town. It bore the legend, POLICE STATION 1874 pressed in concrete over the entrance.

‘Car park at the back by the look of it,’ Trevor said.

‘Think it’s safe to leave the car here?’ Peter eyed a boy who was ostentatiously smoking a spliff in full view of the station’s windows.

‘As safe as anywhere in town.’

‘You’re probably right.’ Peter parked the car, locked it and they entered the building. An officer in a neatly pressed, new uniform that marked him as a rookie stood behind a high desk that faced the front door in the tiled reception area.

Peter approached the desk. ‘Where’s the cameras?’

The rookie looked at him in bewilderment. ‘Sir?’

‘The last time I saw a station like this was in a film about Jack the Ripper. Is this the set?’

‘They’re building a new station, sir,’ the rookie informed Peter brightly. ‘It will be finished in six months.’

‘With electric lights and indoor plumbing?’

Trevor ignored Peter and showed the constable his warrant card. ‘Inspector Joseph and Sergeant Collins to see Superintendent Moore.’

The rookie snapped to attention. ‘She’s expecting you, sir. You’ll find her in her office. Straight down the passage, it’s the one on your left.’

‘“She”, Peter repeated sotto voce. ‘I thought the name was Reggie. But then, I should have known it would be a woman screaming for help.’

Trevor pretended he hadn’t heard him. ‘Thank you, constable.’

‘Sweet, sir, Tony Sweet, sir. This is the biggest case we’ve had in the town. The forensic teams have been working flat out since the fire service stabilised the house; a full team from this force, and complements from outside. The Home Office pathologist started work…’

‘Thank you constable. I am up to the task of updating these officers on the situation.’ A woman stood in the corridor behind the desk. She was suited up in protective clothing and her hair was covered by a sterile bonnet. The lines around her eyes and mouth suggested middle age. She eyed Trevor. ‘You are Inspector Joseph?’

‘Inspector Trevor Joseph and Sergeant Peter Collins, ma’am.’

‘My office is this way.’ She walked down the corridor and opened a door. ‘No one is to disturb us, Constable Sweet. If anything urgent comes up, tell Inspector March to deal with it. If it’s life-threatening, my mobile will be switched on. But, warn her it had better be life-threatening.’

‘Yes, Super.’

‘Can we call you Super too?’ Peter asked.

Regina Moore gave him a withering look that might have had an effect if Peter had any respect for rank. ‘Superintendent Moore will do, Sergeant Collins. Your reputation has preceded you.’