Val McDermid 3-Book Crime Collection: A Place of Execution, The Distant Echo, The Grave Tattoo. Val McDermid
Читать онлайн книгу.
He used to be a professional boxer. Then, the story goes, he took a bung to throw a fight, got caught and lost his licence. Then he made a living for a while on the illegal bare-knuckle circuit. Earned enough to buy the pub.’
‘Makes you wonder whose application the licensing magistrates would throw out,’ George commented as the car slid into the kerb outside the unappetizing Wagon Wheel pub. No lights showed behind the closed doors and curtained windows.
‘It’s in his wife’s name.’
They hurried from the car round the side of the building and huddled in the lee of a stack of beer crates. Clough hammered on the door. ‘I don’t fancy taking a hand searching tomorrow if this keeps up,’ he said, tilting his head back to see the upstairs windows. He banged on the door again.
A grimy yellow square appeared above their heads. A bald head popped up, obscuring most of the light. ‘Open up, Fist, it’s Tommy Clough.’
They heard feet thunder down a flight of stairs. Bolts rattled behind the door, then it opened to reveal a man who filled most of the available space in the narrow corridor. He wore a set of woollen combs that might once have been white but were now the colour of dried snot. ‘What the bloody hell do you want this time of night? If it’s a drink you’re after, you can sling your hook now.’ He scratched his balls extravagantly.
‘Nice to see you too, Fist,’ Clough said. ‘A minute of your time?’
Ferguson stepped back reluctantly. They filed inside, George bringing up the rear. ‘Who’s that, then?’ Ferguson demanded, pointing a thick finger at him.
‘My guv’nor. Say hello to Detective Inspector Bennett.’
Ferguson made a strange grunting noise that George took to be a laugh. ‘Looks young enough to be your lad. What’s up, then? Must be a damn sight more than looking for a lock-in if you’ve brought the organ grinder, Tommy.’
‘Peter Crowther drinks here,’ Clough said.
‘Not after tonight, he doesn’t,’ Ferguson said, his hands unconsciously bunching into fists. ‘I’m not having somebody that interferes with young lasses in my bar.’
‘What happened tonight?’ George asked.
‘Crowther turned up same time as usual. I thought he had more guts than I’d given him credit for, but it turned out he had no idea anybody knew he’d been in the nick all day. I shoved the paper under his nose and he near about burst into tears. I told him if he wanted a drink in Buxton tonight, he’d better find a pub where nobody could read. Then I told him he were barred for life.’ Ferguson’s chest was puffed out, his shoulders flexed back.
‘Very bold of you,’ George said drily. ‘I take it Mr Crowther left?’
‘Of course he bloody left,’ Ferguson said indignantly.
‘Do you know where he went?’ Clough asked.
‘I don’t know and I don’t bloody care,’ Ferguson said negligently.
‘For the record, Mr Ferguson,’ George said, ‘Mr Crowther had nothing to do with the disappearance of his niece. The story in this week’s Courant is a work of fiction. I’d be obliged if you’d lift your ban before your licence comes up for renewal.’ He turned on his heel and walked back into weather that suddenly seemed more hospitable than the pub landlord.
‘You should pay attention to Mr Bennett,’ Clough said as he followed. ‘He’s going to be around for a very long time.’ Ferguson glared at George’s back but said nothing.
They sat in the car and stared gloomily at the swirling sleet. ‘Better go back to the station and put out a request for patrols to keep a lookout for Crowther,’ George sighed. ‘Do you think tomorrow’s going to be any better than today?’
Saturday, 14th December 1963. 7.18 a.m.
There was little he could contribute to the search plans that the senior uniformed officers were making for the day, so George wandered back upstairs to his office and started the weary task of ploughing through witness statements in search of something that might produce a lead. He was reading an interview with Alison’s English teacher when Tommy Clough stuck his head round the door.
‘Have you seen this morning’s Daily News?’ he asked.
‘No. The paper shop was still shut when I got in.’
Clough came in and closed the door behind him. ‘Train’s just in from Manchester. I got one off the driver. I don’t think you’re going to like it.’ He dropped the paper in front of George, folded open to page three.
Clairvoyant joins hunt for missing Alison By our Staff Reporter
A top French clairvoyant has revealed exclusively to the Daily News that missing schoolgirl Alison Carter is still alive.
And she has offered her services in the search for the thirteen-year-old whose disappearance has baffled police.
Madame Colette Charest’s clairvoyant powers have amazed police in her native country and she believes she can help find Alison, who vanished from home on Wednesday.
With the permission of Alison’s worried parents, a member of our news team phoned Mme Charest and gave her details of Alison’s movements after she returned from school to the Derbyshire hamlet of Scardale where she lived with her mother and stepfather.
Safe and well
Mme Charest said she was convinced the girl was still alive.
‘She is safe,’ she told our staff reporter. ’She went away with somebody that she knew and they travelled in a car.
’She is in a small house, one of a row of many similar houses. I think it is in a city, but it is many miles from her home.
‘She has been in danger, but I sense that she is safe for the time being.’
Mme Charest explained that she could not give any more detailed information without a photograph of Alison and a map of the area. These have been sent to Lyons, France, by special air courier and a full report of Mme Charest’s conclusions will appear in Monday’s News.
Police pledge
A police spokesman said, ’We have no plans to consult a clairvoyant, though we do not dismiss Mme Charest’s comments out of hand.
‘Stranger things have happened.’
Of Mme Charest, French gendarmes have been quoted as saying that her powers were ‘uncanny’ after she had given assistance in cases where police had no leads.
Weather permitting, members of the public will today join Derbyshire police in further searches of the bleak moors and dales around Scardale.
George screwed the paper into a tight ball and threw it across the room. ‘Don bloody Smart,’ he swore, his cheeks scarlet against the dark bruises under his eyes. ‘Can you believe that? Safe and well?’
‘I suppose it’s possible.’ Clough leaned against a filing cabinet and lit a cigarette.
‘Of course it’s possible,’ George exploded. ‘It’s possible that Martin Bormann is alive and well and living in Chesterfield, but it’s not bloody likely, is it? What’s this going to do to Ruth Hawkin? I can’t believe any newspaper could be so irresponsible! And who gave them that bloody silly quote?’
‘Nobody, probably. Smart likely invented it.’
‘Oh God,’ George sighed. ‘What’s it going to be next, Tommy?’ He took a cigarette from the packet lying already open on his desk and inhaled deeply. ‘I’ll buy you another paper,’ he apologized. ‘Anything you like except the News. Oh God, he’ll be at