Fell Purpose (14 page)

But then he rolled the fag to the other side of his mouth, glared at them through narrowed eyes, and said, ‘Why don’t you piss off, copper?’

It was the friendliest thing anyone had said to them. Atherton felt pleased and encouraged. ‘Just look at this picture and tell me if you saw her here,’ he said beguilingly.

The man grew angry. ‘Is that the girl that got murdered? Why d’you come asking
us
questions? We don’t know nothing about it. You people never leave us alone.’

‘Take it easy, mate,’ Hart said, letting her accent slip a little further towards the of-the-people end of the spectrum. ‘We don’t fink you had anyfing to do wiv it. Course we don’t. We’re just trying to work out where she was Sundy night. We fink she might’ve been here, thass all. It ain’t no grief for you. Did you see her? Have a look at the picture, go on.’

He squinted unwillingly sideways at it, and then, as Hart urged it at him with little pushes, took it, looked once properly, and then thrust it back at her as if unwilling to be caught holding it.

‘Might have been here. Lotter people here Sundy night.’

Hart glanced at Atherton. In these-people speak, that was a yes. ‘We reckon she might’ve been here wiv her boyfriend. This is him.’ She held out Carmichael’s picture. He didn’t touch that one. He removed the cigarette from his mouth and spat out a shred of tobacco on to the grass. ‘That who you reckon done it?’

‘Yeah,’ Hart said, and Atherton let her. If it took the heat off . . .

‘I seen her. She was wiv a bloke. Coulda been him. Never saw him proper.’

‘Thanks. That’s great. What was he wearing, d’you remember?’

He shrugged, and turned back to his barrels. He muttered something, and Hart bent forward, ‘Say again?’

‘Rifle range,’ he mumbled. Then he turned back sharply and glared at them. ‘Sod off. I got work to do.’

The man at the rifle range was just taking the covers off, in between stretching, yawning, scratching himself, and trying to light a roll-up that would not catch. He was younger than snack-stall man, lighter skinned, with greasy mouse-brown hair and a puggy, cockney face. ‘Cor, you ain’t ’arf stirred up a few people,’ he said as they approached. He was not exactly friendly, but did not seem to be suffering from the same congenital hostility as the others. ‘They don’t like your sort round here.’

‘We noticed,’ Atherton said.

The man shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t care. I ain’t one of them. Pikey bastards! They keep themselves to themselves. I’m a gayjo to them, even though my dad was in fairs forty years, and I’ve had the stall twenty. You can’t ever be one of them unless you’re born in one of the families. Fuckin’ gyppos. Well, they can keep it. I don’t care. I’m as good as they are. I make me money and stay out of it. You looking for that girl that was killed?’

‘That’s right. This is her. Did you see her?’

‘She was here all right. Pretty girl. Couldn’t miss her. Having a great time, she was. Screamed her head off on the waltzer and the atomic rocket. Having too much of a good time, if you get my drift.’

‘Showing off? Drunk?’

‘Both, I reckon. She was with this bloke. He was showing off as well. Took her on the dodgems, show her what a great driver he was. Banging into everything. Danny on the dodgems had to warn him. Had a couple of goes on my range. Not a bad shot,’ he conceded with professional grudgingness. ‘I let him win a teddy bear for her. Do me bit for our side.’

‘Our side?’ Atherton queried.

‘Men,’ Hart elucidated.

The rifle man nodded. ‘He was trying to pull her, but it wasn’t working. I could see that. She was flirting with him, but she wasn’t going to put out. I could’ve told him. She had the cold eye, for all her screaming and hanging on to him. Ended up having a row.’

‘
Did
they?’

‘I wasn’t surprised. I reckon he worked it out in the end, realized he was spending his money for nothing.’

‘Did you hear what they were rowing about?’

‘Nah. Just arguing back and forth, yap yap yap. At it for quite a while they were. Then she walks away. That’s all I seen.’

‘Did he follow her?’

‘Nah. He went off in
that
direction.’ He jerked his head towards the entrance on Scrubs Lane. ‘He might’ve come back, though. But I never seen him.’

‘Did you see her again?’

‘Not after that. But I wasn’t looking out for ’em. I had other things to do.’

‘And do you know what time that was? When she walked off?’

He scratched his head again. ‘It was just getting busy. I reckon – maybe half-nine, ten o’clock.’

Hart and Atherton looked at each other. That was awfully early. They must have got together again afterwards. She showed him Carmichael’s picture. ‘Is that the man she was with?’

‘Could’ve been. Looks like him. I wasn’t that interested in
him
, tell you the truth. Had a leather jacket on, though. I saw that. Could’ve been him.’ He passed the photo back. ‘You won’t get anything out of the others. They don’t talk to the cops. But Gary on the waltzer’ll remember her, and Danny on the dodgems. They won’t tell you, though. They’re all giving me filthy looks for talking to you, but I don’t care. My family’s bin in the fairs as long as any of them. We’re as good as them any day.’

He was half right. They couldn’t get anyone else to talk to them, though one or two of them looked at the photos and grunted before freezing them out. To counterbalance that, and to dispel any suggestion the fair folk were going soft, Danny on the dodgems crawled out from under a maintenance panel with a two-foot-long spanner in his hand, which he slapped suggestively against his other palm, while his brindled pit bull advanced snarling to the end of its chain and burst into a fusillade of barking, effectively drowning out any possibility of conversation.

They worked conscientiously towards the back of the fair, where the living vans and lorries were parked, between the rides and the open space of the Scrubs. No one in the caravans would speak to them either, and many of them would not even open the door. Eventually they got to a large van parked right on the edge of the lot, its open door towards the Scrubs, where a woman was sitting on the step knitting what looked like a string dishcloth, and smoking a roll-up wrapped in liquorice paper. She was so massively fat she looked like a shipping hazard, but she might have been beautiful once: the face above her accumulation of chins suggested it, with striking dark eyes and abundant black hair done up in large rollers all over her head. Her hands were like a couple of pounds of pork sausages, but they flashed away nimbly, and were decorated with a large number of gold and diamond rings. She was wearing an ankle-length skirt and voluminous smock-like top, probably because nothing else would have fitted her, and the lobes of her ears were pierced and carried thick, heavy gold rings which had enlarged their holes over the years into hanging loops of skin. But her plump bare feet, protruding into the sunshine from the hem of the skirt, were surprisingly small and rather pretty, with gold rings on three toes of each.

‘Excuse me, sorry to disturb you, but have you—?’ Hart began politely, but she looked up at them unsmilingly, while her fingers never ceased to knit.

‘Making fools of yerselves,’ she said, in the strange accent of the fair people, which was like East End London mixed with Essex, but with a different, more exotic tinge to it, which made them seem slightly foreign, like the tinge of sallowness to their skins.

‘Just doing our jobs. A young girl was killed,’ Hart reminded her.

‘Oh, I seen her. She passed by here.’ The fingers reached the end of a row and switched the knitting over all on their own. They weren’t so much like sausages now, Atherton thought, as like plump bald feral animals munching at something they had hunted down. ‘She went off that way.’ She nodded towards the open space.

‘Was she on her own?’

‘She had a row with him, didn’t she? Tall chap. Brown hair. Older than her. Bit like you.’ She nodded towards Atherton. ‘She was angry. He was trying to pretend he didn’t care, but he was angry all the same. Harsh words was exchanged, then she went off. Running, she was. Took her shoes off so’s to run. He went back that way.’ She jerked her head towards the fair. ‘Didn’t see me, either of ’em. I was looking out me winder, having a last smoke.’

‘
Last
smoke? What time was this?’

‘Midnight, near enough. I don’t stay up till we close, not these days. Near two o’clock, time my son comes to bed. But we was still open. Be about midnight, give or take.’

That was much better. Atherton said, ‘Did you see him go after her later?’

‘Nah. I watched till she stopped running, see if she’d come back, but she went trudging on, away over the common. I’d finished me smoke so I went to bed. Never saw neither of ’em again. Now I told you all.’ Her face grew a fraction sterner. ‘So don’t you come saying it was one of our chaps what done it. Don’t you try that. She was just a gayjo tart, nothing to do with us.’

‘We never thought it was,’ Hart said. ‘Thanks, ma.’

The woman turned her face away, staring out at the green grass under the smudgy August sky, her fingers chumbling away at their woolly carcase. ‘What for? I never told you nothing.’

Slider picked up the phone and said, ‘Slider,’ but was answered only by breathing. ‘Hello?’ he said impatiently.

His father’s warm, burring tones came back to him. ‘Sorry, son. I was debating whether to hang up, you sound so busy.’

‘I am busy, but don’t let that stop you,’ Slider said. His father hardly ever rang, and never at work before. ‘Is everything all right, Dad?’

‘Oh yes, don’t you worry. I’m fine.’

‘Joanna said you wanted to talk to me about something. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to ring you, but I’m not getting home until late and I know you go to bed about half past nine.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry to bother you but there’s something that has to be decided, and I need your opinion first. I’ll get right to it. I’m thinking of selling this house.’

There were many things about that statement that required questions to be asked, but the one that got its nose in front was, ‘But you don’t own it. How can you sell it?’ The house he had been born and brought up in had been a tied cottage, for which his father, a farm worker, paid a peppercorn rent.

There was a soft chuckle down the line. ‘Bought it years ago. Just didn’t tell you. It was going to be a nice surprise for you when I popped off. Make up for losing me and all my helpful advice, see.’

It was one of Dad’s jokes. ‘Nothing could make up for losing you. But how come you bought it?’

‘It was when old Mr Davies died. He said in his will I was to be offered it. Afraid if the estate was sold off I’d be chucked out. He was always very good to me and your mother.’

‘Why would the estate be sold off?’ Slider couldn’t help asking, even though he didn’t want to slow his father down in getting to the point.

But Mr Slider said with commendable briefness, ‘Going through a bad patch. As it happened, they come out of it eventually, but at the time young Mr Davies was happy enough to let me have it. Nobody else would’ve wanted it, anyway. Not modern enough, and too far out of the way. Well, I had a bit put by, and there was an endowment policy come in just about then, and it was enough. He didn’t want much for it.’

‘So you’ve owned it all these years?’ He reckoned back to when the estate’s owner – the ‘old lord’ – had died. ‘That must have been twenty years ago.’

‘That’s right. Bit more, even.’

‘So why do you want to sell it now?’ A thought occurred to him. ‘You
are
all right? You’d tell me if you were ill or anything?’

‘No, I’m fine son. Don’t worry. But I’m getting on a bit now, and the garden’s getting a bit much for me. I don’t need that much land. It’s near-on four acres, you know.’

‘
Is
it?’

‘Well, I bought the fields either side of the lane. Thought at one time I might keep a few chickens, sell the eggs, but I never got round to it. I just let ’em for grazing. But you’re busy,’ he collected himself. ‘You don’t want to hear all this. Fact is, it’s a long way from anywhere and a bit isolated, so I’m thinking it’s time to be selling up. I just wanted to be sure you didn’t mind.’

‘Why should I mind?’

‘Well, it’s your childhood home. Lot of memories. You might’ve wanted it for yourself. Holiday house or some such.’

‘I’d love to
live
in it, but it’s far too far to commute. And it would be wonderful for a holiday cottage, but I can’t afford it. I can’t even afford a flat for Jo and me and the baby. But if you sell, where will you live? Oh damn.’ He added the last as Mackay, one of his firm, appeared in the doorway with a look of triumph on his face.

‘What’s that?’ his father said.

‘Someone wants me.’

‘That’s all right, son. I won’t keep you. Just wanted to be sure you didn’t mind if I sold it. We’ll talk about it some other time.’

‘I’ll give you a ring. As soon as I can. It won’t be tonight—’