Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (5 page)

I hung around more in hope than anticipation. And just maybe Lens had escaped and was lying injured somewhere. That hope turned to despair when there was still no news of him after the hour it had taken the fire brigade to bring the blaze under reasonable control. My insides churned and ached in frustration. I’d failed Lens twice. I’d put him in danger and I was too late to save him. After a further thirty minutes the fire team entered the building, damping down the burning embers. Another thirty minutes later the fire investigators went inside the burnt shell followed by the forensic team. The news leaked out. They had found a charred body but they couldn’t make a positive identification. I stayed long enough to watch the fire team return with a bulging and strangely deformed body bag. What contents from breakfast I still had left in my stomach ended on the ground between my legs.

“Excuse me, sir,” the same policeman addressed me, his tone neutral.

I looked up hopefully. Expressions tell a great deal and the policeman’s hadn’t changed for the better.

“I suppose it was Larry they’ve dragged out of there?” I asked, a large lump swelling in my throat and choking me.

“It’s impossible to confirm anything at the moment, sir. They’ve retrieved a body and it’s being taken away for examination; that’s all I can tell you; sorry.”

My head dropped back into my hands and I exhaled long and heavy.

“I’ll need to take your name and address, sir, as a statement will be required for the investigation team later.”

I nodded and squeaked out my relevant details which he noted in his black notebook. I couldn’t recall exactly where I went afterwards, when I’d finally found the strength in my legs to get to my feet and walk away from the carnage. It was some pub close by, its name by-passing my memory. I can only remember the pub was quiet and I had somewhere to think. I drank until the dark rum numbed my brain and the barman finally refused to serve me any more. I can’t remember how I got home but my Roadster was at an angle in my driveway the following afternoon.

I was informed three days later that the charred body of Larry Lazerow was identified not by any physical part of his anatomy but by the gold ring he had pieced through the end of his foreskin. I remembered Larry telling me that the girls adored it. Not anymore they won’t.

Nobody should have to endure a double tragedy. The police in Berkshire were satisfied that Tommy Bickermass had been the unfortunate victim of circumstances. That he had slipped and had fallen into the slurry tank; a forgone conclusion, signed, sealed and delivered. I wasn’t convinced-well not after the death of Lens, which at least was still under investigation although not in the direction it should have taken.

I had all the time in the world to blame myself for Lens. I’d dragged him into the frame. Quicker thinking on my part and I could have warned Lens much earlier, probably got him away from the photography shop with some lame excuse without scaring him. But how the frigging hell was I to know he’d been added to some death list. I say death list because two accidents relating to something that connects me just doesn’t happen. My troubles are usually my own; they don’t involve others, well not serious enough to be killed for.

Lens had been got at alright, that I was sure. But the most frightening part of the whole situation is no police fingers were pointing to any particular suspects other than Lens was a victim of his own making and therefore Lens would become another unfortunate accident report.

Lens had died by sinister means; I’d no doubt about that. I had an inclination of who was to blame for his death and the two sad bastards from the MDP were clearly embedded in mind. They’d been in contact with Tommy. They’d turned up on my doorstep swinging threats at me and had most definitely stolen my telephone pad, which I now recall I’d left opened on the page with Lens’s photographic shop telephone number and address clearly visible. I’m positive it was the same two that had arrived at the photography shop on that fatal day. It made sense it was them.

Lens wasn’t renowned for his toughness and he would have succumbed to anything when threatened with violence. Lens was too much of a nice guy. He wasn’t particularly a strong man either and he would have undoubtedly struggled to fight them off. The fact was Lens couldn’t even fight his way out of a wet paper bag even when he got angry enough. I imagined his resistance to an assault would have been nonexistent because he probably never thought he was going to die in his own shop.

What really nailed my brain to the floor was why should anyone want to commit murder over a battered WWII camera, which was unquestionably the link, and then create the impression they were accidents. I mean killing someone to make it look like an accident had been practiced since the first lawman arrived. The problem I had now would be trying to persuade the police that they had a murder enquiry on their doorstep.

I soon got my chance.

I was summoned to Kennington Road Police station on a wet and miserable morning: 10 AM on the dot. I was early for a change but that was more to me not sleeping properly since the tragedies. On principle I’m not normally cooperative with the police, but on this occasion I had to reassure myself that the police fully understood the seriousness of what was going on right under their noses. And if they had already done their job thoroughly I’m sure the evidence accumulated would be sufficient to arrest the culprits and for me to identify the bastards from the MDP.

I approached the desk sergeant apprehensively and told him who I was and why I was here. He made an internal phone call. While I waited for a response, I glanced around. Police stations, wherever situated in the world, always gave me the feeling of uneasiness, mainly because I had frequented too many in the past in order to defend myself against false accusations, but that’s another dozen or so stories.

I was shown into an interview room and told to take a seat. Within minutes the interviewer arrived, carrying a green paper folder and pen. He closed the door behind him and introduced himself as Detective Constable Stevens. He was a tall, young fresh looking chap with well groomed dark hair and had a lean build. He had a determined look and one that gave me the distinct impression that he could go a long way through the police ranks. The more I studied him, the more I concluded he was just another ambitious copper who would ignore common sense to get a prosecution in order to build up an impressive CV to show his bosses for when the promotions were up for grabs.

Stevens smoothed his trousers down with his hands before he sat, opened the folder and looked briefly at the contents, which I assumed was my statement I had made the day after the fire which had killed Lens. He flicked his eyes in my direction and said, “You are Mister Shackleton Speed?” His tone resembled more of a prosecuting Barrister.

I nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

“I’m sorry to drag you down to the station on such a horrible rainy day,” he sounded sincere but his lying eyes betrayed him, “and I hope not to detain you any longer than necessary.” He coughed lightly to clear his throat. “Now I’m led to believe you actually spoke to Mister Lazerow shortly before his unfortunate death. Is this correct?”

“Yes, by telephone.”

He ticked the document in front of him, looked at me with a powerful stare, which made me shift uncomfortably in my chair. “You seem agitated, Mister Speed?”

“I’m tired. I haven’t been sleeping well. It’s hard to accept the death of a friend.”

Stevens nodded in agreement. “I quite understand. This-ah,” he glanced at his notes, “telephone conversation with Mister Lazerow, anything special you discussed?”

“Just to ask if he’d completed some work for me.”

“Work of any importance?”

“No!” I was getting a bit peeved already.

“How did he sound to you over the phone?”

“How did he sound? I’m not following.”

“Did he sound distressed or was there anything he said that was out character?”

I should have realized sooner than I did what Stevens was getting at, and that his thoughts, I feared, nowhere near matched mine. “No.” I said assured. “He sounded like he always sounded, happy and content.”

His eyes flicked up. “So what induced you to dash over to the photography shop?”

“The call was cut off without warning.”

The eyes still probed. “You redialled?”

“Yes.”

“What occurred?”

“The line was dead. I guess I panicked.”

“You panicked?”

“Yes. It happens sometimes when I’m under stress. Has this anything to do with his murder?”

I hit a nerve in the Detective’s back teeth as he sat up straight, slightly shocked by what I had just said. But he recovered quickly and said, “I’m sorry, but I think there’s been a misunderstanding. This is not a murder inquiry I’m conducting.”

“Then why-”

“To iron out a few points,” he jumped in.

I hate to be interrupted and have my sentence anticipated. “What sort of points?”

He smiled weakly. “We need to establish the last known movements of the deceased and his state of his mind at the time. You were the last person to talk to him.”

“That maybe so but what’s the purpose of all this?”

“We have to prepare a report for the Coroner’s office. Every minute detail has to be established for a correct verdict in court.”

“And what is the verdict likely to be, out of curiosity?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“There’s nothing suspicious about the way he died?”

“There’s nothing that we are aware of. Fire investi gators pinpointed the probable cause of the fire was by a small explosion of chemicals relating to the processing of photographs. They concluded that the owner of the photography shop, Mister Lazerow, probably mixed the wrong chemicals which then created an explosive reaction that ignited flammable material. Or he may have been smoking at the time.”

I jumped straight down his throat in protest. “That can’t be right! For starters Larry never smoked and he never made mistakes. His expertise in photography was legendary.”

The Detective wasn’t for listening. “It’s what the fire investigators confirmed, taking in consideration of where the body was positioned and the intensity of the blaze. They’re extremely professional in their field, I can assure you, Mister Speed.”

“They’ve got it wrong this time.”

“Is that so, sir?”

“Larry could do his job with his eyes closed and three parts pissed.”

“So he drank a lot too?”

Typical police twister
, I wanted to tell him and simultaneously expressed my disgust with his feeble accusation. I held back my anger when I said, “He never drank during the working week and that’s a fact. What I said was a figure of speech. I was trying to emphasize that Larry was careful beyond being careful. Mistakes by him would be unthinkable. Someone else started that fire.”

“I know you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset!”

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, Mister Speed. But has a doctor prescribed any medication for your trauma?”

“I don’t need medication.”

“Maybe it would be best if you booked an appointment to see a doctor.”

“I don’t need to see a doctor.”

He tried to allay me. “You’ve lost a good friend and it’s understandable that his death is distorting the way you’re thinking, Mister Speed.”

“Look! I’ve got over his death. It’s what you’re trying to tell me that upsets me. It just doesn’t add up. I knew Larry inside out and he wouldn’t be that clumsy.”

“It’s evident how you feel, but I can categorically state that the fire investigators are extremely confident with their findings. They’re a pretty accurate bunch and I can vouch for their competence.”

“I’m not disputing their skills. I’m saying Larry Lazerow didn’t make those kind of mistakes. He was too damn
good
at his job. The fire, I believe, was started by someone else and made to appear as an incompetent accident.”

The policeman’s eyebrows lifted. “Then perhaps you can throw some light over the proceedings, Mister Speed? You seem to have very strong opinions on the matter. Do you have any notions to support your theory? Perhaps some suspects?”

“I know two men entered the shop while he was in conversation with me on the telephone. That’s when the line went dead. The fire started not long after that.”

“There’s nothing in your statement referring to the two men.”

“It had slipped my mind. It was hard to think clearly at the time.”

“These two men you refer to; they were customers?”

“More than customers, they were from the Ministry of Defence Police.”

“How could you have possibly known that considering it was a phone call?”

“I heard it mentioned in the background before the line went dead.” I had to lie in order to get him thinking my way.

“Why should the MDP want to call upon, Mister Lazerow?”

My brain went into constructive overdrive as I concocted what I considered to be a decent enough story. “It concerned the recent discovery of a war plane in Berkshire?”

He nodded. “I’ve read something about it in the papers.”

I thought I’d better explain the situation, eradicating myself from the scene, of course. “Well the owner the land, where the plane was unearthed, asked Larry to take some photographs of him standing near the wreck. Tommy, that’s Tommy Bickermass the farmer, wanted the pictures for his scrapbook.”

“Put pictures into a scrap book.” He sounded incredibly bored.

“Yes. To capture the memories so he could show his grand-children.” Sarcastically, I added, “It’s what normal families usually do!”

“To show grand-children plane wrecks?”

I wondered if he ridiculed everyone he interviewed. As big as he was he needed a good smack across the chin and I was certainly strong and fit enough and certainly in the mood to do just that. But somehow I didn’t rate my chances of exiting the building without the assistance of a stretcher if I did. Instead I gave him something else to mix into his thin dossier for the Coroner.

I said, “What about Tommy Bickermass? He also died recently in mysterious circumstances shortly after the discovery of the plane.”