Kennedy 04 - The Broken Circle (14 page)

There was a knock on the door and Jack went to see who it was.

Seconds later, an exceptionally well-groomed border collie bounded into the room, leapt over Archie Weston as if they’d been parted for years, jumped up at Max and tried to lick his face, then began pawing Jack Taylor’s dog and barking with sheer joy.

‘You’d best let ’em out, Jack,’ Archie suggested. ‘And don’t wander off, Jess,’ he warned the exuberant dog, ‘because you’re a murder suspect. They’ll be taking your paw prints next.’

He laughed at his own joke until he was coughing and gasping for air in a way that would have floored most men. Max wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find he’d been at the hospital getting that checked out.

While Archie fought for breath, Max stood at the window to watch the two dogs chasing each other up and down the long length of the garden.

‘Right,’ he said, turning to face Archie Weston. ‘I’ll see that letter. When will you be home?’

‘In about an hour. Probably. I’m stopping at the butcher’s and I need to get some milk from the shop—yes, I might be home in about an hour.’

And he might not, Max suspected.

‘You’ll be there this evening, will you?’

‘I might be.’

‘I’ll call in about seven.’

Away from Jack Taylor, Archie might be more approachable. God, he felt like a headmaster splitting up two naughty schoolchildren.

It was getting on for seven thirty that evening when Max knocked on Archie Weston’s door.

As Weston had said, PC Williams had spoken to him last week and, at that time, he hadn’t been able to remember where he’d been on the day in question. Max wasn’t surprised that Jack Taylor had suggested the hospital as his possible whereabouts. If ever there was a candidate for urgent hospital treatment, it was Archie. Assuming the NHS was doing its job properly, which Max wouldn’t put money on, he would be having tests to make sure that cough wasn’t connected to something serious.

The door swung open and Archie Weston, far more welcoming than his friend, stood back to allow him entry. As soon as Max stepped into the hall, the border collie launched herself.

‘Sorry about the dog,’ Weston said. ‘I’ve not been well lately so she hasn’t had the exercise or the training she needs. I did walk her into Bacup this afternoon, but you’d never know it.’

That was a good walk for someone in the peak of condition and Archie Weston wasn’t that. Max guessed though that he was as stubborn as Jack Taylor. It would take more than ill health to stop him doing exactly as he pleased.

‘It’s the training she needs more than anything,’ he added.

Max was reminded of the first time that Ben had brought Fly home. The dog had been manic. Yet now, thanks to Ben’s patience, he was a well-behaved, obedient dog. This one, however, was quivering with pent-up energy.

‘Come into the front room,’ Archie Weston offered. ‘It’s warmer. Would you like a brew? I can’t offer you coffee because I don’t drink it.’

‘A cup of tea would be very welcome. Thank you.’ A large whisky would be even better but, as soon as he’d finished here, Max was meeting Jill at the pub and the whisky could wait till then.

It was kind of him to offer and Max wanted to keep on the right side of him.

Being careful not to trip over the dog, Max followed Archie into the kitchen. ‘Shall I make it?’ he offered.

‘No, you’re all right. I might look like I’m totally buggered, lad, but I can still manage to boil a kettle.’

The kitchen was even smaller than Jack Taylor ’s, but the furnishings were very similar.

‘Have you known Mr Taylor long?’ Max asked casually.

‘We’ve been friends all our lives. Good friends,’ he added. ‘Let me think, we started school seventy-three years ago and we were friends before that. It’s a long time.’

‘It is. The two of you must be very close.’

‘We are.’ Archie moved slowly about the kitchen, putting the teapot to warm, getting cups from the cupboard and milk from the fridge. ‘We were to have been married on the same day. Had it all planned. Do you take sugar?’

‘No, thanks.’

The cups were finally put on a tray that Max offered to carry. An offer that was turned down.

‘I’m not an invalid,’ Archie told him quietly.

It was no mean feat getting the tray to the ‘front room’ without the dog knocking it from his hands, but finally he set it down on a table next to a pile of newspapers and correspondence.

This room was warm, cosy and cluttered. Several framed photos were on a table next to the small television.

‘You said you were to have been married on the same day as Mr Taylor,’ Max reminded him when they were seated and had their cups in their hands. ‘Was it to have been a double wedding?’

‘Ay, it were.’ Archie pointed to one of those photos. ‘That’s my Gladys,’ he said fondly.

The black and white photo had been taken in the forties or fifties and showed a laughing girl with blonde hair in the style of the day.

‘I remember how jealous Jack and me were when her uncle invited her to stay with him. Had money, her uncle did. He thought she’d like to visit the Farnborough Air Show. I don’t think she were bothered one way or the other,’ he added with a small smile, ‘but she knew me and Jack would have given our right arms to be there.

‘There were twenty-seven people killed that day, and a lot more injured. A fighter plane—a De Havilland 110, it were—broke the sound barrier and then disintegrated over the spectators. Gladys died two weeks later.’

The story had the hairs standing up on Max’s arms.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, wishing the words didn’t sound so inadequate.

‘Life goes on,’ Archie said. ‘So Jack and Mary were married, and I were Jack’s best man.’

‘You never married?’

The question seemed to surprise him. ‘No.’

‘Jack—Mr Taylor and his wife—they were happily married, were they?’

‘Lord, yes. When she died, cancer it were, he were devastated. It’s been the two of us ever since. Well, there’s young Hannah, of course.’ He nodded at the photos again.

‘Ah, Hannah Brooks. Of course, she’s Mr Taylor’s granddaughter, isn’t she?’

‘My goddaughter, too,’ Archie said proudly. ‘When Jack and me worked in the pit,’ he added, ‘we were paid-up members of the Labour Party so it goes against the grain to vote Tory. Mind, they can’t be any worse than this lot, can they?’

‘Probably not,’ Max agreed with amusement. ‘So you worked in the mine together?’

‘We did. Of course, they’re all gone now.’ Tea sloshed into his saucer as he began coughing. ‘That’s probably just as well,’ he added breathlessly when it was over.

‘Not the healthiest of occupations,’ Max agreed. ‘Or the safest.’

‘You’re right at that. Jack and me lost a few friends to the pit.’

Jack Taylor and Archie Weston were as close as two men could be. Archie would know his friend’s every thought.

‘Jack didn’t like Bradley Johnson, did he?’ Max said casually.

‘He didn’t. I didn’t either.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘As I said, you get new people in the village and you get trouble. That’s a fact.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that. A friend of mine, Jill Kennedy, is fairly new to the village. She hasn’t caused trouble.’

‘Jill? Oh, she’s a lovely girl. Lovely.’ A twinkle appeared in his eye. ‘Ah, yes. There’s been a rumour that she’s seeing some copper. That’ll be you then.’

‘It will.’

‘I suppose you’re one of these who don’t believe in marriage?’

‘On the contrary, Mr Weston—’

‘Call me Archie, lad. Everyone does. Now, what were you saying?’

‘Just that I’m having a hard time persuading Jill that I’m a good risk.’

‘Women today.’ Archie shook his head. ‘Ever since they decided on this equality thing, they’ve been nothing but trouble.’

Max laughed at that. ‘Chain them to the kitchen sink, I say.’

‘That’s not a bad place for them,’ Archie agreed with a chuckle.

‘Jill has nothing but praise for Jack so he’s obviously treated her with respect. Why’s that? If he’s so against newcomers, why is he OK with Jill and not with Bradley Johnson?’

‘Jill didn’t come here throwing her money around. She didn’t make out she were better than any of us.’ His lips were a thin, angry line. ‘She didn’t—push people around. She’s different, that’s all.’

Max could understand that.

‘You were going to show me a letter from the hospital,’ he reminded Archie.

‘Yes. I’ve got it ready for you.’ He got to his feet, moving stiffly across the room to take a folded piece of paper from behind the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘It shows the times of my appointments if you can make any sense of it.’

Max was shocked to see from the letter that Archie was having radical radiotherapy treatment that involved visit after visit to the hospital for several weeks.

‘Lung cancer,’ Archie said unnecessarily. ‘It’s a bit of a bugger.’

‘A bit of a bugger is about right, Archie. The treatment isn’t very pleasant, is it?’

‘It’s not, but I’m free of that at last. Between us, we’ve decided it’s a waste of time.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be, lad. Some days I feel as if I could run a marathon.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘And some days I struggle to get out of bed in the morning. Still, I’m seventy-eight so I’ve had my quota. It’s flown by, though. One minute I were thirty, the next I were seventy. Flown by it has.’ He glanced down at the dog that had just that second settled at his feet. ‘Jack’ll look after her when I’m gone.’

‘I’m sure he will.’ Saddened, Max handed back the letter and stood up. ‘It’s time I was off, Archie. If you hear anything, you’ll let me know?’

‘I will. And if I see young Jill, I’ll put in a good word for you.’

‘Thanks. I need all the help I can get in that direction. And thanks for the tea.’

Max stepped outside into a blizzard. Nothing was sticking, it was too windy right now, but it was snowing heavily.

He dashed to his car and, once inside, wondered why he wanted a cigarette so badly. Only that morning, he’d decided to quit. Again. And Archie Weston’s laboured breathing should be enough to put off anyone for life.

He drove towards the Weaver’s Retreat and passed the newsagent’s. It was still open. One cigarette wouldn’t hurt, would it? He’d just buy ten. Then, when they had gone, that would be it. No more.

He doubled back at the roundabout, parked outside the shop and dashed inside. There was a queue, people buying lottery tickets mostly, and Max almost changed his mind and walked out. But then he was at the counter and he soon had ten cigarettes and a box of matches in his hands.

Back in his car, he lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, and then called himself all kinds of an idiot. He should throw them away. Now. But that would be a waste. He’d keep the remaining nine in the car, just in case …

He drove off, intending to go straight to the Weaver’s Retreat, but he did a detour round the back of Bacup. He wondered if Jill knew that Archie Weston was being—or had been—treated for terminal lung cancer. Probably not. Archie wasn’t the type to broadcast the news …

He rounded the sharp bend on Greave Road and there, parked outside the Crown Inn, was Tom McQueen’s car.

The Crown was one of Max’s favourite pubs so dropping in to sample a pint of one of their excellent guest beers could hardly be classed as harassment.

He stepped inside and the warmth hit him.

Walking into the Crown, with its stone-flagged floors, was like stepping back in time, and that wasn’t a bad thing. He went up to the bar, ordered himself a pint and then, when it was in his hand, turned around to see who was about. It was crowded, but Tom McQueen, sitting alone at a table in the corner, was easy enough to spot.

‘Tom, what a surprise!’ Max carried his pint to the table and, without waiting for an invitation, sat down. ‘I didn’t know you came here. I often call in. You get a good pint, don’t you?’

‘Don’t tell me this is a coincidence, Trentham.’

‘What? Hey, I’m off duty.’ He took a swallow of his pint. It was a pity he was driving. ‘You’re a long way from Harrington, Tom. What brings you out to this neck of the woods?’

‘I was out this way and thought I’d call in for a quick one. That’s not a crime, is it?’

‘Not yet. On your own, are you?’ Max asked, looking around. There was no sign of the minder.

‘I am.’

‘It’s a nice place to stop, isn’t it?’ Max looked at the oak beams, the jugs and horse brasses, and the roaring coal fire. ‘I only stumbled across it when I came out to watch the Nutters last Easter.’

The famous Britannia Coconut Dancers performed their folk dances with blackened faces that were supposed to reflect either a pagan or medieval background, or their mining connections. No one seemed to know for sure. One theory was that the dances had originated with the Moorish pirates who settled in Cornwall and were employed in local mining. Then, when the mines and quarries opened in Lancashire in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, it was only natural that they should bring their expertise north. Whatever, the spectacle of the men with their black faces, and their red, white and blue arched garlands, was well worth seeing.

The subject clearly didn’t interest McQueen, however. Perhaps he had other things on his mind.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about Bradley Johnson?’ Max asked. ‘Anything that might interest me?’

‘Not a whisper.’

‘I’ve heard he wasn’t averse to a spot of blackmail. Would you know anything about that?’

McQueen’s gaze sharpened at that. ‘No.’

‘He wasn’t blackmailing you, was he?’

‘Me? God, man, what do you take me for? Blackmailed by a tosser like him? Besides,’ he added, ‘I’ve got nothing to hide. He’d have nothing on me.’

‘Come on, Tom. Everyone’s got something they’d rather keep private.’

‘Not me.’ He gave Max a smug smile. ‘As pure as the driven white stuff, that’s me.’

More like the filthy black slush out in the gutter.

‘What would you have done if he’d tried it on?’

Grinning, McQueen leaned across the table to whisper, ‘I’d have told him to fuck off.’ Sitting back in his seat, he added, ‘Then again, I might have bludgeoned him to death in Black’s Wood. Who knows?’