Murder on Page One (28 page)

Curiosity won.

He arrived at the towers flanking the main gate of the Scrubs as visiting time ended. As they left, he watched the different people with friends or family inside. One couple looked out of place rubbing shoulders with street-hardened young mums steering push-chairs like dodgems, forty-somethings going on sixty-something, and raucous youths with shaved heads and jagged tattoos: a sleek, middle-aged man in a camel-hair coat gripped his wife’s arm with stone-faced intensity. To judge by their expressions, she was coping with shame better than he was.

‘I am here to check an alibi,’ Baggo told the uninterested man who checked him in, and went to wait as patiently as he could.

The first impression Pavel gave was one of physical strength. Even with shoulders stooped under his prison uniform, Baggo could see that his arms and legs were thick with muscle. Toughness was another matter; a wispy beard failed to conceal swelling from his left eye to his jaw, his lip was cut and a front tooth was missing. It was a vulnerable, unhappy face.

‘I don’t speak to cops,’ he said, his accent strong.

‘I helped your sister.’

Pavel sat down but leaned back, arms folded.

‘I saved her.’

No response.

‘I said I was here about an alibi. You can talk to me and say you were helping someone. Where is your sister now?’

‘Away. She say Paki helped her.’

Baggo forced a smile. ‘Has she gone home?’

‘Why you need know?’

‘Things got messy.’

‘Yes. She home. Never come back to bloody Britain.’

An intense feeling of relief washed through Baggo. He felt like kissing Pavel. ‘How do you know all this?’ he asked, his voice catching.

‘Two weeks ago, mother visit. She tell. Patrycja safe now.’

Speaking slowly and clearly, Baggo said, ‘I want to know everything you can tell me. If you help us, we help you. Serve sentence in Poland, soon go to open prison.’

Pavel’s lip trembled as he searched Baggo’s face. ‘Okay,’ he said.

‘Do you remember Candy Dalton?’

Pavel frowned. ‘Yes.’

‘She helped you and your sister?’

‘She say she help.’

‘Did she not help?’

‘Big talk, big talk. She get us away from Wolenski, to Glasgow, to Edinburgh. She find us good jobs. Pah!’

‘All talk, no result?’

‘Nothing happen. But we tell her things and she write down. Write, write, write. Patrycja, she tell her all tricks. I hate listen. We good people. Live good in Poland. No money, but good. We come to bloody Britain for money. Pah!’

‘Did you tell Candy things?’

‘I tell her things she write in big book, “bust-seller”. How you slit throat, how you strangle. I …’ He paused. ‘You mean it, I get out of here?’

‘I mean it.’

‘I get her gun.’

‘When?’

‘Week before I arrested. End November. I think.’ He shrugged.

‘What sort of gun?’

‘Beretta 92. I show her how it shoot, give her bullets, sound suppressor.’

‘How did you get it?’

‘I steal from Wolenski. Big mistake. I say I lose it, I drop in river. Accident. Wolenski bloody mad at me. Kicking. Ugh. I not know what she did with it. She say poor girl in big trouble need it very bad.’

‘Did she pay you for it?’

‘Promise, promise, clothes, food. She would get us to Glasgow. But money, no.’

Baggo could scarcely believe his ears, but he wanted more. ‘Do you know if Candy was with Patrycja the night you were sentenced, after you got eight years?’

‘Yes. Patrycja very upset. Say Candy give her sleeping pill. Slept all evening and night. Sore head next morning. Candy gone. My mother, she tell me this.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell me about Candy?’

Pavel shook his head.

‘You must be ready to tell all this in court.’

‘No court. No.’

‘Yes, court, but it may not be necessary. You have to be willing to tell. You do want out of here?’

Pavel put his hands to his eyes and nodded.

‘Good man. I’ll try to get you moved next week. Say nothing to anyone. Understand?’

Pavel’s eyes were shiny with tears. He was like an ill-treated dog offered food by a stranger. ‘Okay. Maybe you, Paki, will do as you say.’

‘I am Indian. And I will do as I say.’

Pavel nodded, stood up and, fists clenched by his sides, quietly left the room.

As he drove back to the station, Baggo told himself he should phone Osborne immediately; however something held him back. On Pavel’s evidence, Candy Dalton was Crimewriter, but she had a solid alibi for Robertson’s killing; for that the spotlight was back on Cilla Pargiter.

25

Baggo felt tired as he sat on the edge of his bed on Saturday morning. During a wakeful period he had thought things through and had been unable to get properly back to sleep.

He spent longer than usual in the shower. He knew that his belief in Cilla Pargiter’s innocence was visceral, not rational. He had met her only once, but he had also read her book and loved every page. Her prose had added so much colour and character to his image of Ancient Egypt. He was as attracted to her mind as her body. Well, nearly. And he liked her mum. And her friends liked her. That did not mean she was innocent, but before giving Osborne the evidence he had, he intended to double-check Dalton’s bookbinding alibi.

‘Going somewhere special, Baggo?’ Willie Metcalfe called as he arrived at the station, striding briskly, his shirt crisp and his trousers pressed.

‘You never know your luck, Willie,’ he replied, allowing the lift door to close before the heavily-built Willie could reach it. He immediately felt bad; Willie was one of the good guys, always up for a laugh. But this morning he wanted no distraction.

In the CID room, he looked up the details of the alibi and phoned the bookbinder. A woman’s voice answered. Mr McElhinney was away at a book fair and would not be back in the shop; he did not like mobile phones and refused to carry one; this was Mrs McElhinney speaking; no, she had not been in the shop when Mrs Dalton had called on Monday evening; well, if it was really urgent, Mr McElhinney should be back home by six. Baggo prised her address out of her, reassured her that it was very urgent, possibly a matter of life or death, and promised to be with her then. He swore as he set the phone down; only Mr McElhinney could identify the woman who collected the old book. He would just have to wait. He gathered the things he would need, including the photo of Candy Dalton, and went to the car pool.

Ron Doran called the cars his babies, and he liked to know where they were going and when they would be back, specially at weekends. When Baggo told him he planned to drive to Scotland, he laughed. ‘You don’t expect me to fall for that one, Baggo. Who’s the lucky girl? Not that you’ll be taking her anywhere in a police car.’ It took Baggo quarter of an hour to persuade him that he legitimately needed a car, but once convinced, Ron gave him the best car he had, plus advice on his route north. ‘Now go home and get some shut-eye,’ he had concluded.

But Baggo had other plans. It would be interesting to see how the Francis family were enjoying life without Sidney.

It was after eleven when Baggo drew up opposite the Tooting flat. The fine spring morning failed to lift the down-at-heel, scruffy exterior. The curtain in the front room was half-pulled and not properly hooked on to its rail, and the brass plate seemed more crooked than Baggo remembered. He got out and walked up the path. He was about to ring the bell when he heard a noise like a shout. He decided to look through the window. Treading carefully past an untended rose and across a weed-strewn patch of mud, he peered through a gap in the curtain.

What he saw shocked him, and he forced himself to stifle a yell. On the table beside the window were the messy remains of a breakfast. Both a cereal packet and a carton of milk had been knocked over, and a puddle of milk surrounded a plastic pack of uncooked bacon and dribbled over the table’s edge. At the far side of the room, Harold and Rufus, in pyjamas, cowered in a corner. Harold was trying to shield Rufus while their mother lashed them with a brown belt. Through the closed window, Baggo heard her shout, ‘You fucking little bastards, you fucking little bastards.’

Baggo grabbed his i-Phone and took two pictures through the glass. Matilda Francis was unaware of this, and continued to rain blows on her children, principally Harold, who used his plastered right arm as a shield. Catching his good trousers on the rose, Baggo rushed to the front door and put his shoulder to it. It did not budge. He pulled a credit card from his wallet and ran it down the side of the yale. The old housebreakers’ trick worked. He ran through the hall then burst into the living room. Matilda looked up, her face contorted with rage, and aimed a blow at him. The belt buckle caught him behind his left ear. He put his head down and charged at her, knocking her to the ground and landing on top of her. Swiftly, he turned her on her front, knelt on her back, and pinned her wrists with one hand. He used the belt to secure them. Still on top of her, he used his i-Phone to summon urgent police assistance and a children’s social worker.

He looked over at the two boys. Their arms round each other, they squatted in the corner, shaking and sobbing their hearts out. ‘No, no,’ Harold repeated, pleading with Baggo. At that astonishing moment, Baggo realised that the boy wished he had not discovered the awful truth about the family.

It took less than ten minutes for assistance to come, but it seemed much longer to Baggo. On the floor, Matilda Francis soon realised the futility of struggling. She stopped swearing and her breathing returned to normal. Baggo wondered if he should let her up, but did not want to lose control, and was still astride her when a female, uniformed officer arrived.

Relieved, Baggo got up and showed her his warrant. He started to tell her what he knew then Matilda Francis’ little girl voice interrupted him.

‘I’m sorry, but this officer’s misinterpreted what he saw. The boys were squabbling then fighting. They were hitting each other with this belt and I tried to stop them.’

‘It was our fault,’ Harold said, his voice tearful. ‘Mum was going to give us a cooked breakfast. We were mucking about. Rufus spilled the milk so I hit him. Then he hit me with the belt. I went for him and Mum tried to stop us. It wasn’t her fault.’

The policewoman turned to Baggo, her raised eyebrows inviting his response.

He showed her the photos he had taken on his i-Phone. They had come out reasonably well, despite the glass. ‘I suggest you check their bodies,’ he said, rubbing the lump forming where the buckle had connected with his head.

The policewoman helped Matilda to her feet and, without untying her hands, led her to the settee and told her to stay there. Then she turned to Harold. ‘I’m Marjory,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Harold.’

‘Well, Harold, could we go to your room for a minute? I promise I won’t hurt you.’

Reluctantly, Harold allowed her to take him out of the sitting room. They were gone for a while. When they returned, Harold was weeping. Marjory looked down on Matilda with disgust.

‘This is a bad case,’ she muttered to Baggo.

Soon the house was full of police and social workers. The boys were taken away and their mother was arrested and handcuffed. Baggo gave a full statement and sent his photos to Marjory’s mobile. In a whispered conversation with the Sergeant from the Woman and Child Unit, he told her about the retreat and begged her to delay as long as possible the time when the father would be informed.

By the time all the formalities had been completed, Baggo was itching to cross town to Highgate for his meeting with the bookbinder.

* * *

‘There must be some mistake, officer. Mrs Dalton definitely collected that book on Monday evening.’ Horace McElhinney, a sprightly little old man, full of old-fashioned courtesy, sipped his Amontillado and set his glass on a coaster protecting the marquetry table beside his chair. Baggo noted his strong, rough hands and peering eyes, the hands and eyes of a craftsman.

‘What did the lady look like, sir?’

‘She was quite petite, and she wore glasses. I remember her well. She was so enthusiastic about that lovely book. It’s wonderful when one’s work is appreciated, and I received a most effusive letter this morning from her husband, a vicar, I believe.’

‘Was this her, sir?’ His heart in his mouth, Baggo showed McElhinney the photograph of Candy Dalton.

The bookbinder removed one pair of glasses, replacing them with another from the inside pocket of his jacket. He held the photograph to the light. ‘Let’s see. Hm. No. That is not the lady I saw on Monday. She was younger, probably in her thirties, with black hair that went, you know, down the sides of her face.’

‘A bob, dear,’ from the sofa, his wife prompted him.

Willing himself to be patient, to take things slowly, Baggo asked McElhinney to describe his dealings involving the book.

‘Gracious me. Are you sure you won’t join us in a sherry? No, of course I understand. Well, Mrs Dalton telephoned me before Christmas. She had bought this book, The King’s Book of Sports, and she wanted it restored for her husband’s birthday. A fascinating book. Yes, well worth the effort. We discussed it, and she sent it to me, by post I think, wasn’t it, my dear?’