Dead Man Upright Read online

  ‘Oh, before. I should say at least two years before.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Now tell me about Mr Rich.’

  ‘Miss Hayhoe came to see me one afternoon, and informed me that she wished to pass her very considerable estate over to a Mr Henry Rich, during her lifetime, now, at once.’

  ‘I see. Had you ever met this Mr Rich?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And did you ever meet him?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘You mean, not even at the moment the documents were signed? That seems rather unusual.’

  ‘Not really. His side of the transaction was carried out quite properly, but entirely by mail.’

  ‘There’s one thing I want to know badly, Mr Katz. I’m very interested in a certain house. Can you tell me if any property was listed among Miss Hayhoe’s assets?’

  ‘I can answer that immediately,’ said Katz. ‘There was none, apart from the flat she lived in, I think in Chepstow Road. What happened to that subsequently I don’t know – but if it was sold the transaction was certainly not carried out through us.’

  ‘Then the street name Thoroughgood Road in connection with Miss Hayhoe means nothing to you?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  I somehow expected that, all the same I was disappointed. ‘Then what form did Miss Hayhoe’s estate actually take?’

  ‘It was virtually all in the form of negotiable bonds, a very large sum.’

  ‘How large?’

  ‘Upwards of four hundred thousand pounds.’

  I agreed that that certainly was large and thought there could be the price of two houses in that easily, cash, both of which would doubtless be registered to Carat Investments. ‘All right, then,’ I said, ‘let’s get back to Mr Rich again. Do you have, or have you ever had, an address for him?’

  ‘No, just Carat Investments, care of Messrs Darko & Associates.’

  ‘All right. How did Miss Hayhoe seem to you when she first came to see you about this?’

  ‘In her behaviour? Quite normal. I see what you’re getting at, though. I tried to advise her – I asked her if she was sure that transferring these very valuable assets to Mr Rich was what she really wanted to do, but all she did was laugh, and point out that at the age of fifty she supposed she knew what she was doing.’

  ‘And you left it at that.’

  ‘Naturally. A solicitor may advise, but of course his duty is to carry out his client’s instructions. So I drew up the necessary documents, ensured that they were agreed to, witnessed and signed, and that was the end of it.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Katz. Do you think you could give me the approximate date?’

  He thought for a minute. ‘That would have been in June, 1988.’

  ‘Thank you. And was Mr Rich represented by a solicitor?’

  ‘No, I’m positive he wasn’t, although I could have the file brought up.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ I said, ‘anyway not yet. But you can see what I’m driving at. I go to the bank that handles the Carat Investments account – no one at the bank has ever met Mr Rich. Next, I get your name from the bank and come round to see you as the solicitor who handled the transaction between Mr Rich and Miss Hayhoe – and it turns out that you’ve never met him, either. In fact there’s a serious shortage of people who ever have met Mr Rich. Tell me something else – once the documents were in order and signed, when did you next see Miss Hayhoe after that?’

  The lawyer looked up at me. ‘I haven’t seen her since.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You’ve been very co-operative with me, Mr Katz, so I’m going to tell you something – that’s beginning not to surprise me very much.’

  After a long silence he said: ‘Do you mean you think something’s happened to her?’ When I didn’t answer he added in a low voice: ‘You don’t mean to say that you think she’s dead?’

  I stood up and said: ‘Why not? Her parents are dead, you tell me she has no other relatives, she isn’t married. Carat Investments hasn’t seen her, you haven’t seen her – who was going to miss her? You didn’t.’

  10

  Barry was sitting with his back to the computer terminal reading his horoscope. ‘Mrs Simphonides has got it all wrong again,’ he said angrily when he saw me. ‘It’s not me that ought to be dealing with intractable emotional problems – how could it be when the Recorder says I’ve got Mars in my own sign and that long-cherished dreams are at last becoming a reality? Cruddie says she does a good job on Scorpio, but she can’t seem to get Aries right at all.’

  ‘There are millions of Aries,’ I said, ‘how can she get you all right, and what’s the matter with this computer? Broken down?’

  ‘It’s me that’s broken down,’ he said, ‘it’s the end of my shift.’

  ‘Find me a name before you go, Barry.’

  ‘Look, have a heart, Hendry’s playing Jimmy White at Preston in half an hour.’

  ‘Find me the name, Barry – ring Sheila and get her to tape the snooker.’

  ‘Don’t you people ever let up?’

  ‘How can we?’ I said. ‘The villains never do.’ I gave him Firth’s drawing. ‘This is him. His name could be Henry Cross, but it could just as well be Henry Drury or Henry Rich – in fact it could be any bloody thing. See if we’ve got him, you never know – how long’ll it take? I’m just going for a sandwich and I’ll be back.’

  ‘It’ll take longer than that!’ he shouted.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said, ‘and while you’re at it check if a Daphne Hayhoe has ever been reported missing – age fifty, white, unmarried, probably slipped on the banana skin in 1988. You’re a good lad, Barry, thanks again.’

  I went over to The Trident, the coppers’ pub, and saw Tom Cryer from the Recorder crime page at the bar.

  ‘Well, well, fancy,’ said Cryer, ‘it’s been a while, what’ll you have?’

  ‘A Kronenbourg, but it’ll have to be quick,’ I said. ‘How’s the family?’

  ‘Come and have dinner some time.’ He added: ‘You’ve got your working face on, where’s the murder? Want to talk about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anything printed yet?’

  ‘How could there be? There isn’t a body.’

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’ said Cryer. ‘Running after a killer who hasn’t topped anyone is sort of new.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure,’ I said, getting hold of my pint, ‘I met one of his future corpses last night.’

  ‘That’s better. If there was something in it, would you work it on your own?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘one man couldn’t cover it if it took off. I’d have to have someone else in with me, Stevenson if I could get him.’

  ‘Why are you and Stevenson such mates? Because he’s another difficult copper?’

  ‘You’ve got it,’ I said. ‘That, and I never have to look round when he’s there. But lay off it now, it hasn’t got going yet. I’ll tell you if anything changes. What else is new?’

  ‘We’re doing a spread on the soaring crime rate this Saturday.’

  ‘By Saturday it’ll have dropped a point, I hope,’ I said. ‘Going to be your piece?’

  ‘I’m the crime man. The others are all away sunning themselves or getting shot at.’

  ‘I suppose it’ll be full of crap,’ I said, ‘about the public not getting the police it pays for.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake don’t start,’ said Cryer, ‘it’s lunch-time. Why don’t you just wait till it comes out, then you can write to the editor and blast his head off.’

  ‘I just want to know why you write so negatively,’ I said. ‘Is it just to sell copies?’

  ‘It’s the public’s right to know.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ I said, ‘but do you ever think about the effect that what you write really has on the publ
ic?’

  ‘I think about the effect I want it to have. I’m a cynical bastard.’

  ‘You are now,’ I said. ‘It’s a long time since the McGruder case.’

  ‘Why didn’t you grow up dirty like the rest of us?’ said Cryer.

  ‘Don’t think I’m clean,’ I said. I emptied my glass and got up. ‘I’m off.’

  ‘Regards to the Factory,’ said Cryer, ‘’bye now.’

  ‘Well, Barry?’ I said when I got back, ‘did you find anything?’

  ‘Nothing on Hayhoe,’ he said, ‘but your man looks juicy.’ He showed me a police photograph. ‘This is him all right.’

  ‘Christ, yes,’ I said.

  ‘I think so too,’ said Barry, ‘someone did you a good drawing.’ He put a file up on the screen. ‘Well, you’ve got some heavy reading to do. The name’s neither Cross, Drury or Rich – say hello to Jidney, Ronald James. Born London 13/4/31 . . . children’s home 1938 . . . apprenticed Wessex Engineering, New Cross, 1945 . . . and here we go. March 1948, Lewisham Magistrates Court, assault on a Jessie Tyler . . . bound over . . . Jan ’49, six months for indecent assault, HMP Gloucester . . . national service, August ’49, joined under police escort . . . January 1950, Barnard Castle, actual bodily harm on Corporal Williams, Military Police, a hundred and twenty-eight days MCE Colchester . . . November 1950, Armoured Corps Depot Bovington, arson, damage to War Office property in that he did, to the prejudice of good order and military discipline, destroy ‘A’ Squadron ablutions block by fire, how the hell did he manage that? . . . court martialled . . . remanded for psychiatrist’s report . . . discharged with ignominy . . . doing well, isn’t he . . . April 1956, Bow Street, grievous bodily harm to common-law wife May-belle Shelley . . . four years, they threw the book at him that time . . . May 1965, held West End Central for questioning over assault on Gaytime Gondola, I just don’t believe that name, prostitute . . . November 1966, Knightsbridge Crown Court, indecent assault on Janine Carla Smith, bank clerk, three similar offences considered, eighteen months . . . Ealing, July 1967, battery and attempted sexual assault on Judith Anne Parkes, victim refused to press charges . . . quiet for a bit . . . pops up again, Great Marlborough Street this time, indecent exposure with assault and battery on Sandra Myers, quantity surveyor, 1969, nine months Wormwood Scrubs . . . lovely . . . then 1970, psychiatrist’s report again, draws section six, Broad-moor, two attacks on staff . . . released 1975 . . . here, listen to this then, 1977, deception and false pretences, also charged with wounding a police officer, Knightsbridge again, five years with full remission for good conduct, that makes a change . . . released December 1980 . . . served HM Prisons Armley, Canterbury, Gartree, the Scrubs, Gloucester, Lewes, Maidstone, a real tourist . . . that’s it . . . quiet, file ends.’

  ‘Very impressive,’ I said. ‘I want a copy of that picture and a print-out of his record, because I want to show all this to the man I’m working with straight away.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Firth.’

  ‘What?’ said Barry incredulously. ‘You mean Firth who was busted? You can’t be serious. That’s not working, it’s getting pissed round the clock.’

  ‘I know you used to be married to a clergyman’s daughter, Barry,’ I said, ‘but don’t come on moral – I tell you it was Firth who put me onto this, and he was spot on.’ I looked at Jidney’s face again. ‘It’s funny. Going by his record you’d think you were just dealing with a crude smash-’em-up villain who’s got it in for women, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘That’s what it looks like.’

  ‘Yes, only the way Firth describes him, Jidney isn’t like that at all. You wouldn’t think he’d done a day inside; he’s harmless-looking, keeps himself to himself except for his girlfriends, he’s neat and tidy, no uproar in the house, model citizen. Look at him here at Brixton with his number under his chin. The photo’s enough to make God look wicked, but he doesn’t look as if he’d topped Grandma even so, does he? Or does he? Anyway, for a man of his age he certainly pulls birds, nice respectable women too, middle-class, well-off, I’ve met one. So what’s his secret? His looks?’

  ‘Christ, no. Look at those eyes.’

  ‘All right then, how does he score?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps he plays hard rock through a comb and toilet paper – you can’t tell what women will go for.’

  ‘You should know, Barry. And another thing. Normally a criminal’s got a pattern – repetitive, stupid. Starts off nicking baked beans in a supermarket – next it’s robbery, aggravated bodily harm and on up the ladder till there’s a killing. That’s the usual dreary pattern, only Jidney’s broken it.’

  ‘And he was doing so well,’ said Barry, ‘graduated through the cement treadmill right up till 1980.’

  ‘Since when he’s disappointed us all,’ I said, ‘nothing since then and here we are in December ’92, that’s twelve years. So what’s he been doing for a living? His wants are modest, OK, but he still needs money for the birds, and he goes for the birds because he has serious sexual problems, look at the file. So what’s the answer? Where does the bread come from?’

  ‘He nicks it.’

  ‘Of course he does,’ I said, ‘but how? Not the hard way any more, no more B and E, none of that, and no more seedy flashing, either – he must be sick of doing porridge, he’s got crafty, he’s no longer young, he’s learned to cool it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, it’s still a theory,’ I said, ‘but I don’t think he ever had just one criminal pattern. I think he’s got two, and always has had. He was repeatedly caught on the first pattern, these earlier sexual assaults where he couldn’t control himself when he was younger, but they were none of them fatal. But I think on the other, second pattern they were, and are, fatal assaults, and if so he’s never been caught for any of them, which makes him a serial killer for gain as well as sexual satisfaction, a killer who’s been active for maybe twenty years and a very dangerous man.’

  ‘Why gain?’

  ‘That’s to do with a little property company I’ve been investigating,’ I said, ‘with the help of a no-hoper called Freddy Darko. Its assets have a mysterious past, and among them happens to be the house where Jidney lives rent-free, would you believe? So if I’m on the right track, Jidney doesn’t bother weaving down to Social Security with the old pension book, he harnesses his notion of sexual pleasure to financial need and turns into Messrs Cross, Rich and Drury, three gentlemen with lots of money – in fact so much money that it’s not bread we’re talking about, it’s Mother’s fucking Pride. I think he’s turned into a sweet little scam called Carat Investments which owns four houses, Barry, houses that were presented to our Ronnie by various female admirers on bended knee.’

  ‘Lucky bastard. No crime in that.’

  ‘Not if the admirers are alive there isn’t,’ I said, ‘no, but if some of these punters turn out to be dead, such as the Miss Hayhoe I was asking you about, then the law is going to want to ask Mr Jidney a lot of very tedious questions which he will have considerable bother answering.’

  ‘It makes a nice story.’

  ‘Yes, doesn’t it?’ I said. ‘The only bit missing is the proof.’ I got up. ‘And talking of that, I think your Ronald’s lovely, I’m a fan – in fact I’m so star-struck that I might go round and see if I can get his autograph.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Barry, ‘I should take your cap-pistol just in case.’ He shut his terminal off. ‘Is it all right if I jack it in and get off home now that I’ve missed the snooker?’

  ‘You bet,’ I said, ‘and I’m really grateful, Barry – how about a couple down at The Trident one of these days?’

  ‘I haven’t had the five pints you owe me for already yet,’ he said gloomily.

  ‘Nor will you,’ I said. ‘I was reading an article about the effects of too much alcohol on old men like you in the paper the other day, and yo
u want to watch your liver.’

  As I was leaving the building to ring Firth a voice yelled out behind me by the passageway that led to the cells. ‘Hey, you!’ Bowman shouted. ‘You’ve turned up at the right moment, I was looking for someone lying around spare.’ He jerked a thumb down the passage towards the cells. ‘I’ve got a teenager in here for throwing acid in an old woman’s face and nicking her bag. Come on, he’s in cell two, I’m going in to beat the shit out of him.’

  ‘Before you do that,’ I said, ‘have you ever heard of the custody officer? He’s the man who logs everything that happens in a prisoner’s day, so why make any more good reading at an internal inquiry?’

  He looked astonished. ‘The custody officer?’ he said. ‘What matters round here is that the custody officer’s heard of me if he knows what’s good for him.’

  ‘There’s some legislation been passed called the Police and Criminal Evidence Act,’ I said, ‘only you’ve obviously been too busy to read it.’

  ‘That?’ he said. ‘I’ve read it, but I couldn’t make sense of it somehow, so come on.’

  ‘I’m busy,’ I said.

  ‘You’ve always got an answer for everything, haven’t you?’ Bowman said, ‘that’s why I’ve never liked you, you’re a difficult bastard. What do you mean, busy? You’re not busy if a superior officer tells you you’re not – that’s why you’re a sergeant. So what are you busy on? A body?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, ‘I’m trying to keep one out of the morgue.’

  We were walking towards the doors which led to the cells. Bowman looked at the passage wall; there was some writing on it which said: Lead with your head, man, your arse will follow.

  ‘It’s disgusting,’ said Bowman, ‘Christ knows how many times I’ve told them to get this filth scrubbed off.’

  ‘Don’t knock it,’ I said, ‘that’s our new democracy.’

  ‘Get stuffed,’ said Bowman, ‘life’s tough at the top.’

  ‘It must be,’ I said, ‘seeing the way you got there, and talking of bodies, have you, Rupt and Drucker buried that crack dealer yet? Going to the funeral, are you?’