The Lily-White Boys Read online

  ‘Very tasteful,’ he said. ‘Has no one been out to inquire what we’re up to?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Not even the woman who complained about the van?’

  ‘That was Miss Tovey, sir, of Randall Tovey. You know, the JP. I suppose she’ll be at the shop.’

  ‘Well, I’ll try knocking on her door and see what we come up with.’

  The woman who answered his knock was middle-aged, pleasant-faced, and wore her hair in an old-fashioned bun.

  ‘Good afternoon, ma’am. Is this Miss Tovey’s house?’

  Her eyes had gone beyond him to the activity round the shrouded van. With an effort she brought them back to his face.

  ‘She lives here, yes, sir.’

  ‘Is she at home?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘Anyone in apart from yourself?’

  ‘No, sir; Mrs Tovey’s gone to her bowls.’

  ‘Know anything about this van out here?’

  Her eyes slid back to it. ‘Miss Tovey mentioned it yesterday morning. She heard it come during the night.’

  ‘Have you noticed anyone near it?’

  ‘Me?’ Her eyes widened. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Where is Miss Tovey, do you know?’

  ‘She’ll be at the store till five-thirty.’

  It was just after three. Better to see her straight away. The woman said uncertainly, ‘Is something wrong, sir?’

  ‘Nothing, I imagine, that will concern Miss Tovey.’ And with a smile to conceal his prevarication, Webb turned and went back down the steps to the waiting policemen.

  ‘Bob, I’d like you and Steve here to get over to Randall Tovey’s. Have a word with Miss Tovey and find out all you can about the arrival of the van.’ He turned to Penrose. ‘You took her phone call, didn’t you? Did she mention the driver?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Said he tried several times to start the engine, then walked off down the hill. She thought he’d gone for petrol.’

  ‘Let’s hope she got a good look at him,’ Webb said grimly. ‘Right, Mr Penrose, if the press arrive before you leave with the deceased, tell them we’re preparing a release and there’ll be a press conference at noon tomorrow. I should be back from the post-mortem by then.’ He signalled to Jackson and climbed back into the car. ‘Meanwhile,’ he added, fastening his seat-belt, ‘we’ll look in at the victims’ address and see if their landlady knows anything. Trafalgar Street, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s the one, Guv.’

  As they were driving down the hill a car came screeching past them and swerved into the parking place they’d just vacated.

  ‘And here’s the press, right on cue,’ Jackson grinned. ‘Trust Bill Hardy to be first on the scene.’

  ‘He’s less time than the dailies, remember. Not that he’ll get much for tonight’s edition; we haven’t much ourselves.’

  Trafalgar Street was one of a maze of roads lying to the east of Station Road, most of them named after famous British victories. Trafalgar itself was the first turning past the station and possessed what must have been an added attraction to its recently departed residents: it was immediately adjacent to the football ground.

  The door of No. 24 opened as they stopped the car, revealing a small, worried-looking man. ‘Is there any news?’ he blurted out, as Webb started up the path.

  ‘Mr – ?’

  ‘Trubshaw. I been down to the station this morning, I-’

  ‘Yes,’ Webb said gently, ‘I know. Perhaps we could come in for a minute?’

  As he stepped into the small hallway, Jackson close behind him, a woman appeared at the kitchen door.

  ‘The wife,’ Trubshaw muttered unnecessarily. Webb nodded to her and she followed them into the living-room.

  Webb introduced himself and Jackson. ‘I believe Gary and Robert White had lodgings with you?’ he began formally.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could you tell me the last time you saw them?’

  ‘Monday evening, like I told the other copper. We all had supper as usual and later on they went out.’

  Webb turned to the woman. She was standing in the doorway watching him closely, and he had the fanciful idea that she was there to protect her husband. ‘What time was your meal, Mrs Trubshaw?’

  ‘Half-six, as usual.’

  ‘What did you serve?’

  She raised her eyebrows, and for a moment Webb feared he might have to explain why he needed this information. But then she said, ‘Cottage pie. Same as always on Mondays.’

  ‘And you finished eating at what time?’

  ‘Seven, seven-fifteen.’

  ‘Then the Whites went out?’

  ‘Not immediately, no. They watched a couple of TV programmes, but they were restless. I remember thinking they were strung up about something.’

  ‘Restless in what way?’

  ‘Kept fidgeting and looking at their watches. And come to think of it, they didn’t eat as much as usual.’

  ‘Did they mention what they were going to do that evening?’

  She shook her head. ‘They never say.’

  ‘Well, we never ask, do we?’ Trubshaw put in defensively.

  ‘I know they often meet their mates, either at the Whistle Stop or the clubhouse.’

  ‘The football club?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So what time did they go out?’

  ‘Must have been getting on for nine.’

  Mrs Trubshaw said suddenly, ‘You know something, don’t you? Something you’re not telling us.’

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes. The Whites are dead, Mrs Trubshaw. I’m sorry.’

  ‘What – both of them?’ The man was staring at him, suddenly trembling. His wife moved swiftly to his side.

  ‘How?’ she asked baldly.

  ‘We’re not sure yet.’

  ‘But they didn’t crash the van. We were told it had been dumped.’

  ‘Where –’ Trubshaw broke off, cleared his throat and tried again. ‘Where were they found?’

  Webb hesitated, but they’d know soon enough. ‘In the back of the van.’

  The Trubshaws regarded him with horror. ‘They’ve been there all the time? Then what – I mean, how – ?’

  ‘We don’t know, but we’ll find out.’

  Mrs Trubshaw said, ‘Are you saying they were killed deliberately?’

  ‘It looks like it, yes.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Trubshaw sat down on the nearest chair.

  ‘How long had they been with you?’ Webb inquired. There seemed to be more than a lodger-landlord relationship, certainly with the man. A surrogate family, perhaps.

  ‘Going on three years now.’ His voice was shaking.

  ‘Do you know anything about their family? Next of kin, and so on?’

  ‘They never had none. Brought up in an orphanage. Only had each other – till they came here.’ His eyes filled with sudden tears. ‘They called me Pop,’ he added brokenly. His wife laid an awkward hand on his arm.

  ‘You’re sure about that – that they’d no family?’

  ‘That’s what they told us,’ the woman answered. ‘Mind – not wanting to speak ill of the dead and all, but I didn’t believe everything they said, not by a long chalk.’

  ‘Doris!’

  ‘I’m sorry, love. While they was alive I kept quiet, and maybe I did wrong. Now they’re dead, nothing I say can hurt them.’

  ‘And what are you saying, Mrs Trubshaw?’ Webb asked quietly.

  ‘Well –’ She averted her eyes from her husband’s pleading, upturned face. ‘I’m pretty sure they handled stolen goods, though whether they did the stealing theirselves I couldn’t say. Several times I noticed things in their room, pushed out of sight but not properly hid. But Sid was that soft about them, I kept it to myself.’

  So Bob Dawson’s suspicions were justified. ‘What kind of things did you see?’

  ‘I didn’t look too close, but silver – stuff like that. And once, early in the morning, I
saw them carrying something bulky out to the van. It looked like one of them videos.’

  ‘I see. Well, some officers will be along later to examine their room. If you’ve a key, perhaps it could be locked till they arrive.’

  Mrs Trubshaw was affronted. ‘We’re responsible citizens, Officer. If you say not to go in their room, then we won’t. There’s no call to lock doors in this house.’

  He said gently, ‘Mrs Trubshaw, your husband was fond of the boys. He –’

  ‘He won’t go covering up for them, if that’s what you’re getting at. You’ll be looking for clues to the killer, won’t you? Well, I reckon Sid wants him caught even more than you do.’

  Webb sighed and turned to the man, who was staring miserably into space. ‘Coming back to the next of kin, Mr Trubshaw: if there’s no family, we’ll require you formally to identify them.’

  Trubshaw gasped and blanched, and again his wife came to his aid. ‘I’ll do it,’ she said staunchly. ‘They didn’t mean as much to me.’

  ‘Very well. Thank you. A car will collect you in an hour or so. There’s no need to worry, they look quite peaceful.’

  His reassurance proved unnecessary. ‘I laid out both my parents,’ Mrs Trubshaw told him stoutly, ‘I know what to expect.’

  ‘That’s all right, then. Well now, Mr Trubshaw: you say the twins used to meet friends for drinks. Can you remember any names?’

  The man gave himself a shake, trying to collect his thoughts. ‘Let’s see. Not surnames; I never heard those. But there was Mike and Charlie and Jango. They were in the same gang, like, though not what you’d call close. The twins weren’t that close to anyone but each other.’

  The names might ring a bell with Bob Dawson, Webb thought, and a warning one at that. He’d spoken of fighting at the ground.

  ‘They belonged to a gang, did they?’

  ‘Well –’ Sid Trubshaw shuffled his feet uncomfortably. ‘They was all members of the Supporters’ Club, like, but a group of them usually met for ajar before matches and went along together.’

  ‘With the aim of causing trouble?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’ Trubshaw looked as though he regretted volunteering the information.

  ‘All the same, there often was trouble, wasn’t there? Rival fans beaten up, and so on?’

  ‘Well, high spirits sometimes get out of hand.’

  Obviously a visit to the club would be necessary. Bob and Steve could see to that. As Webb took his leave of the Trubshaws, he wondered how they were getting on with Miss Tovey, JP.

  Miss Tulip had experienced a moment of sheer panic when the two large figures came through the door. She’d no doubt whatever who they were; unattached males were rare at Randall Tovey’s, appearing only in the weeks before Christmas to purchase expensive lingerie and handbags for their ladies. In any case these two were literally in a different class, and while they hesitated just inside the door, she made a lightning assessment of them.

  The older one had dull black hair and heavy-lidded eyes under dark brows. He looked like a mournful bloodhound – which, she reminded herself with a spurt of fear, was exactly what he was. The younger was tall and thin, with bony wrists protruding from the ends of his sleeves. His mid-brown hair was short and neat and, though both wore chain-store jackets and trousers, he’d taken trouble with shirt and tie.

  Could something have gone wrong? she was wondering frantically. Had she made a mistake somewhere? But as they moved towards her, ludicrously out of place in such feminine surroundings, her professional smile was securely in place. If they’d come to arrest her, she wouldn’t assist them by displaying apprehension.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. May I help you?’

  To Steve Cummings, the woman who had stood unmoving while they waded over the thick carpet seemed equally formidable. On the wrong side of seventy, she was ramrod straight in black linen tunic and tailored skirt. Her silver hair, though severely styled, was in keeping with her years, but her face was a mask, heavily rouged and eyeshadowed as though she were about to appear on some brightly lit stage. Heaven help them if this was Miss Tovey.

  Beside him, the skipper cleared his throat. ‘We’d like a word with Miss Tovey, please.’

  Steve, watching the painted face, caught a fleeting expression of relief. What had the old bird been up to? he wondered with amusement. Exceeding the speed limit? Drunk in charge?

  ‘I’m not sure if she’s free. If you’d just wait a moment?’ She turned away to lift the phone on the satinwood desk behind her. From a screened area to their left came the tinkle of crockery and a smell of toasted teacakes. Nice little place they had here. Pricey though, he’d bet. Wiser not to mention it to Rita.

  The gorgon turned back to them with a smile. ‘That’ll be all right, gentlemen. If you’ll please follow me?’

  She led the way up the curved staircase and across more carpeted expanses, where brocade sofas were positioned at intervals between rails of dresses and discreetly curtained alcoves lined the walls. Stopping at a door, she knocked, opened it, and ushered them in.

  The woman who rose from the desk seemed altogether more approachable, with pretty, fair-to-grey hair and an attractive smile. ‘Good afternoon. You wish to see me?’

  ‘Detective-Sergeant Dawson, ma’am, and DC Cummings. You reported an abandoned vehicle, I believe?’

  Her brow cleared. ‘I did, yes. Have you traced the owner?’

  ‘We have, but there are one or two questions we’d like to clear up.’

  She gestured at a couple of chairs. ‘Sit down. Would you like some tea?’

  ‘That’s very kind. Thank you.’

  She spoke into an internal phone and Dawson cleared his throat. ‘I know you’ve been through this before, ma’am, but I’d be glad if you’d bear with me. Could you tell us exactly how the van came to your notice?’

  ‘Certainly. I’d just turned out my light on Monday night when I heard a car in difficulties. Then it ground to a halt and the driver tried several times to restart it. Since it sounded very close, I got out of bed to have a look.’

  ‘And what exactly did you see? This could be important.’

  ‘The van was directly under the street light, with the driver standing on the pavement looking helplessly up and down the road.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  She looked surprised. ‘I thought he’d been contacted?’ When Dawson kept silent, she shrugged and replied, ‘He was of medium height, wearing a denim jacket and trousers.’

  There was an interruption as a girl came in with a tray. No teacakes, Steve saw regretfully, but there were some interesting biscuits on a plate. These were passed round while Miss Tovey poured the tea and the girl handed them each a cup. Then she left the room.

  ‘Anything else you noticed, ma’am?’ Dawson prompted.

  ‘Yes, he had red hair. I could see it quite clearly in the lamplight.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Twenties, I’d say. I only had a quick look, because as soon as he saw me I drew back.’

  ‘He saw you?’ Dawson leant forward urgently and his tea slopped in the saucer.

  ‘Goodness, Sergeant, you made me jump! Yes, he saw me. Does it matter?’

  ‘It might matter very much indeed.’

  ‘But I don’t understand. I thought –’

  ‘Excuse me a minute. Are you absolutely certain that the man you saw was the driver of the vehicle?’

  She stared at him in bewilderment. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said again.

  ‘You didn’t actually see him get in or out of the van?’

  ‘No. But it was the middle of the night, for heaven’s sake, and there was no one else around.’

  ‘Nevertheless, for the sake of argument, it is remotely possible that the driver had already left the vehicle and this man just happened to be standing beside it?’

  ‘I don’t for a moment think –’

  ‘But it’s possible?’

  ‘If you say so.’
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br />   ‘You didn’t see him lift the bonnet, or do anything to suggest he’d any connection with the van?’

  ‘Other than stand beside it in an otherwise deserted street, no.’

  Dawson drew a deep breath. ‘Right. This man, whoever he was, saw you looking at him. How did he react?’

  ‘I really don’t know. As I told you, I let the curtain fall. But a minute later I heard him walking off down the hill. I thought he’d gone in search of petrol.’

  ‘Did he seem worried when he saw you? Nervous at all?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He just looked up, our eyes met, and for a moment we stared at each other. Then I moved back. Look, let’s stop playing games, shall we? What’s all this about?’

  ‘The man you saw, ma’am, might or might not have driven the van, but he certainly wasn’t the owner.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because,’ Dawson said heavily, ‘the owner and his twin brother were lying dead in the back of it.’

  Monica put down her cup. ‘Oh no! How absolutely awful!’

  ‘So it seems likely,’ Dawson continued, ‘that if the man you saw was the driver, he was also the murderer. And he knows that you saw him.’

  There was a short silence. Then Monica said levelly, ‘So now what happens?’

  ‘For a start, we’ll arrange protection. And it would help if you could move to a friend’s house for a while, till things die down.’

  ‘But if he thought I was some kind of threat, wouldn’t he have come after me already?’

  ‘He might just be waiting for the opportunity.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘I see now why you were trying to cast doubt on his being the driver, but it won’t wash, you know. It was a still night, and my window was open. I heard the car approach and stall. I heard him try to restart it. Later, I heard him walk away. If there’d been anyone else I’d have heard his footsteps too, and voices, because obviously they’d have spoken. So we really can’t clutch at that straw.’

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. And protection’s pretty pointless, too. He has only to look up the electoral register to track me down, and I lead a pretty high-profile life, as you doubtless know. Moving to someone else’s house wouldn’t help; I’d still have to appear in Court and come here every day. Just a minute.’ Her voice sharpened. ‘You say the driver and his twin were in the back?’