Hard Going (11 page)

‘No,' he said with a simple bewilderment that sounded genuine.

‘Has your dad?'

‘No,' he said. ‘I don't think so. Why would he? Look, I haven't done nothing. Can I go now? I gotter go to the toilet.'

Atherton shook his head. ‘Where's your dad now?'

‘I dunno!'

‘Guess,' he suggested, with menace.

Mark evidently tried. The effort made him look miserable. ‘Maybe some pub. Or down the betting shop. He goes there a lot.'

‘He's got a gambling habit, your dad?' McLaren said.

He nodded, and said dolefully, ‘Bloody right!' Little bits of misery came spurting out of him under the pressure like leaks in a hosepipe. ‘They row about it all the time.'

‘Your mum and dad?

‘She said if he didn't stop betting she'd kill him.'

‘Is that why there's no money?' Atherton asked.

‘It's worse 'n that.'

‘What's your dad got into?' McLaren urged.

‘I can't tell you! Me dad'd kill me.'

‘You're in enough trouble already, chap,' McLaren said. ‘Don't make it worse for yourself. What d'you think your mum and gran will say if you get nicked?'

The knee jiggled, the eyes flitted, the hands fidgeted madly as he lost his mellow; and the mellow – or a long history of mellows – had already robbed him of his wits. He needed someone to tell him what to do. He wasn't capable of thinking anything out for himself.

‘Who are these bad men your gran told us about?' Atherton tried. ‘Are they after your dad?'

He looked so scared they knew they were on to something.

‘Look,' he cried, ‘my dad's a good man. He's never done nothing wrong.'

‘What about the illegal fly-tipping?' McLaren put in. ‘And the stolen lead? And cheating that woman out of her deposit.'

‘It's not his fault! He's into them for thousands. You don't get it! They said they'd break his knees if he didn't get the money. Then he'd never be able to work again. He's a good man, my dad! It's them you ought to be going after.'

‘Oh, we will, don't you worry,' Atherton said. ‘But you've got to help us. Tell us what you know about them.'

‘I
can't
,' he wailed. ‘Dad'd kill me. And they'd go after me if I talked. You don't know what they're like. You got to help my dad – you
got
to.' He started to cry. ‘Mum don't understand. She thinks he's mad to go on gambling, but it's the only way to get that sort of money. But he never wins enough,' he wept. ‘He keeps on trying, but it's never enough.'

A fairly clear picture was emerging, Atherton thought. A runnel of snot was hanging from the snivelling youth's nose and he handed him a tissue, waited until he'd cleaned up, and said firmly, ‘Tell me.'

The Roxwell business had been before Jonny Care's time, but he put Slider on to one Gerald Hawes who had been a detective sergeant on the case. Hawes had retired from the Met and was living out in Greenford where he worked freelance as a carpenter, making bespoke furniture and built-in cupboards.

‘It was always a hobby of mine,' he told Slider. ‘I love wood. Now I can indulge myself all day long, and earn a crust at the same time. Come through to my workshop. We can talk privately there.'

The house was a modern one on a new estate, with picture windows and an open plan layout intended to give a sense of space and dignity to a basically cramped and cheap design. They passed by the open door to the lounge where a stout, grey-haired woman was sitting watching daytime television. ‘The wife,' Hawes said briefly, but didn't offer to introduce Slider; nor did the wife turn her head from the quiz show that was absorbing her.

Hawes was a cheerful, overweight but bouncy man with thinning hair and glasses. Behind the lenses he still had copper's eyes: any other copper – and probably any career criminal – would have made him immediately. He led the way into a large extension that had been built on behind the garage and fitted out into a workshop with every facility, well-lit, spacious, and smelling deliciously of wood shavings and varnish. It was not without creature comforts – an armchair, a table bearing an electric kettle and toaster-oven, a small fridge, a radio quietly playing Classic FM.

‘I sit in here a lot,' he said, noting Slider's cataloguing of the scene. ‘Pat's always got the telly on – drives me mad. I read and listen to the wireless in here, do the crossword, and we meet up at bedtime for cocoa.' It was said jokingly, but Slider read an old, accustomed hurt under the lightness of tone. Policemen's marriages were always strained. The wife, so much alone at home, living with the knowledge that the Job meant more to her man than she did, generally turned either to anger or indifference, or found a more sympathetic mate. That's why the divorce rate was so high; but it seemed the Haweses had found an accommodation of sorts.

‘So,' Hawes said, ‘that old Roxwell case has come alive again, has it?' He walked over to a large rocking-horse that was evidently under construction, and picked up a piece of glasspaper. ‘Make yourself comfy. Mind if I carry on with this while we talk? It's meant for one of the grandkids, but it's taking me so long, she'll be on her A levels before I get it finished.'

Slider waved assent, and sat down in the arm chair. Hawes began rhythmically and lovingly rubbing at the horse's neck.

‘You didn't sound surprised that I was asking about the Roxwell case,' Slider said.

‘Well, no. It was a nasty business, and there were always question marks about it. What's your interest, if I may ask?'

‘The defence solicitor, Bygod.'

‘Oh, really? Has he been getting into trouble? You know, I never truly believed he was a nonce. You know how you get a feeling for people. But when he disappeared, I had to wonder. No smoke without fire, and all that sort of thing. What's he been up to?'

‘He's dead,' Slider said. ‘Murdered.'

The rubbing hand stopped, and Hawes looked up. ‘Oh,' he said, with a world of meaning. He pondered. ‘Well, there were threats against him, as I expect you know. But it was all a long time ago.'

‘Tell me about it, will you? Everything, from the beginning.'

‘There was no doubt Roxwell was hanging around the school playground. He said he just liked watching the children play – and of course, twenty years earlier nobody would have thought twice about it. But we'd all had to get a lot more suspicious by that time, and one of the mothers complained so of course we had to give him a tug. Then we found he'd been a scout master once and had to give it up when some of the parents heard things about him. No charges were ever made, but once you're on the radar …' He shrugged. ‘As far as the original charge went, the Kim North business, he denied he'd been following her. He said he was going home to his mother, and it's true she lived in that direction. She's dead now – his mum. Never got over it, all the nastiness. Anyway, he said he was just walking in the same direction as Kim, and when they got down the alley she turned and waited for him.
She
said she asked him why he was following her.
He
said she asked him for a cigarette.
She
said he offered her one. They apparently got talking while they smoked. Roxwell said she flirted with him, and said, “I'll give you a kiss if you give me the rest of the packet.” Kim said he just suddenly lunged at her, grabbed her tit and kissed her against her will.'

‘So he didn't deny he had touched her?'

‘He denied he touched her tit, but he admitted straight away he kissed her, only he said she'd initiated it. Well, they always do. Fancy a cuppa? Put the kettle on, will you. It's filled, just switch it on.' Slider got up to comply, and Hawes went on. ‘Well, you pays your money and you takes your pick. Probably it was a bit of one and a bit of the other. There's no doubt Kim was a well-developed young lady, and not backward in coming forward. Anyway, he said when he kissed her she grabbed the packet of fags out of his hand and ran off laughing.
She
said she managed to escape his 'orrible tentacles and ran home in terror.'

‘But she was under age,' Slider said. The mugs and teabags were on a shelf above the table, and he got two mugs down and went about making the tea.

‘Oh yes, she was only fourteen, so of course whether she wanted it or not was academic. Soon as he admitted it, he was in trouble, especially with the previous complaint against him from up the school, and the scout troop. All the same, I'm guessing he'd've got off with a suspended, seeing as it was his first offence, and there was no violence done. But that's when it all got nasty. Because the Crondace girl and her mother came in and said that he'd raped her down the same alley days earlier. Oh, ta.'

He put down his tools, took the mug from Slider, and leaned against his work bench.

‘Debbie Crondace,' Slider said. ‘What was she like?'

‘Another one like Kim North, only more so. Big, bold and busty, fourteen going on thirty-five. They say it's all the hormones in the chicken that makes 'em develop so young. Her mother was a real hard case – a mouthy cow, all “I know my rights” and “Who are you looking at?” Straight off
EastEnders
. You know the sort. Kind of made you sorry for the girl – up to a point.'

‘There was a father in the picture, too, I believe?' Slider asked.

‘Yes. Derek Crondace. He was a market trader. Had a pitch in the Chapel Market, down the Angel, mostly selling cheap clothes. Big ugly bugger with a foul mouth, the sort who likes to settle arguments with his fists, and he was a “Nobody insults my wife but me” sort. He went after Roxwell like a pit bull. But he had a lot of native wit. He wasn't stupid by a long streak. The first thing he did was to involve the tabloids.'

‘Did they pay him?'

Hawes gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look. ‘Now what do you think? I couldn't prove it to you, but he bought himself a new car just about that time, and Mrs C sprouted a lot of gold jewellery.'

‘So how did Roxwell get to instruct Bygod? And how could he afford a top silk like Wickham Williams? Did he have money?'

‘No, he lived with his mum in a flat and worked as a librarian. Hadn't a bean, but he was just over the limit for legal aid. No, it was Bygod approached him, offered his services pro bono, and negotiated Wickham Williams for a reduced fee which he paid himself – Bygod did.'

Slider's eyebrows went up. ‘I can see where the idea came from that they were all in it together.'

‘It was nuts for Crondace,' Hawes agreed. ‘Bygod said he was convinced of Roxwell's innocence, said he was being set up by the Crondaces, and that the furore in the press meant he would never have a fair trial. Well, between them they pulled out all the stops and got Roxwell off, which was quite a feat in the prevailing atmosphere. The evidence against Roxwell was only Debbie's word and the admitted assault on Kim North. There was no material evidence. Debbie said she'd been too scared to tell her parents at the time it happened – and knowing her parents I wouldn't blame her – so there was no rape kit or anything of the sort. When she finally went to the police two days later, there were bruises on her wrists, but Roxwell had notably small hands and they didn't match. Prosecution made what they could of claiming bruising spreads as it ages, but defence brought their own expert to say it didn't. And what she knew about Roxwell could have been accounted for by the fact that she and Kim were best mates. In the end, the jury decided there wasn't enough evidence, and acquitted him. More tea?'

‘No, I'm fine, thanks,' Slider said, deep in thought.

Hawes heaved himself up. ‘I'll get on with my horse, if you don't mind.'

He resumed his rubbing, and Slider said, ‘So what happened to Roxwell afterwards?'

‘Well, the press attention turned more on Bygod and Wickham Williams after the trial, but he still came in for a lot of nastiness. Windows broken. Parcels of shit through the letter box. Name calling in the street. He stuck it out for a bit, until someone put a petrol-soaked rag through his letterbox one night. He managed to put the fire out, but his old mum had a heart attack from the shock – she'd not been well since the first Kim North business – and she died in hospital two days later. There was nothing to keep Roxwell after that so he upped sticks and went to Spain, and as far as I know he never came back.'

‘Do you think he was innocent?'

Hawes hesitated. ‘I don't know. It's always hard to say in cases like those, when it's one person's word against another. And in the bad old days, women who came forward were routinely not believed and given a hard time, and that was wrong. Maybe we've swung too far the other way now, I don't know. But I must say I liked Roxwell. He seemed a genuine chap, mild, polite, kind to his mother – the sort that always get the shit kicked out of 'em. And the papers always go after the easy targets. Why should someone be crapped upon from a great height, just because he's not married, wears specs and doesn't swear like a footballer with Tourette's?'

‘On the other hand,' Slider said.

Hawes gave a rueful smile. ‘Yes, on the other hand, coming across as nice doesn't mean you are. Well, like I said, you pays your money. Anyway, Bygod certainly believed he was innocent, and he put his money where his mouth was.'

‘Yes – Bygod. What did you make of him?'

‘Bit of a rum bird, I thought. I didn't get him. Why'd he pick on this case among all the others to back? – except for the press campaigning against Roxwell, and he had a bee in his bonnet about the press. He certainly paid for it. The tabloids turned their attention on him, innuendo was rife, his life was made a misery, his wife left him, his practice went down the tubes. Then old man Crondace started stalking him and issuing death threats for getting his precious daughter's attacker off scot free, and brought out this story about the paedophile ring. Set up a vigilante group – torchlit marches, complete with placards. Gave us a few interesting nights, I can tell you.'