individual was a builder-cum-plumber but business must have been bad because he was at home, fixing his van outside his garage, when George happened to drop by in the middle of the afternoon. ‘How’s it going?’ said George and he reintroduced himself, though straight away it was clear that he’d been remembered. The handyman delved around in the engine for a minute, wiped his hands on a rag, dropped the rag into the toolbox on the kerb. ‘Water pump,’ he explained, and in his eyes there was a hint that he was wondering why he’d been singled out for a repeat visit. They talked for a while about this and that: waterpumps, vans, motors. Within a minute the nervousness, never more than the slightest suggestion of unease, had gone entirely. And then, as the lad picked a spanner out of the toolbox, George looked down at the heap of pliers and drill bits and screwdrivers. The tools were all well used, smeared with oil, pitted with rust. But what attracted his attention was the hammer: the hammer was brand new. Not in itself incriminating, but George felt the dawning of suspicion, the rising of a truth moment, and the dawning grew stronger when he looked into the garage. Partly hidden behind lengths of skirting board and pipes, there was a bicycle. ‘Nice bike,’ George remarked, though it was battered and spattered and very far from nice. He established the make, pretended he was thinking of buying the very same model for his nephew. ‘Mind if I take a look?’ It was a blatant pretext, but what could be said except: ‘Help yourself’? Telling the cop to bugger off wouldn’t have made a good impression, would it? ‘Had it long?’ asked George, giving the bike a slow close scrutiny.
The interviewee was busying himself under the bonnet, acting unconcerned. ‘Didn’t hear you,’ he shouted, so George asked it again. Our man claimed he’d bought the bike a couple of months ago, second-hand. This turned out to be true, but George didn’t believe him. Half the garages in England have a bike in them, but this one, for some reason, was suddenly emitting an aura of evidence.
George took his time. He wasn’t looking for anything: he was just letting the man stew for a while, and when he was saying goodbye, a perfectly casual goodbye, he saw a shrinking in his eye and knew that this was the one. Another eight or nine hours of face work it took, but in the end our friend contradicted himself one time too often, and he owned up. From somewhere this numbskull had got hold of the idea that Billy Renfrew was some sort of miser, with thousands of pounds stashed in socks and jam jars all over the house. He’d meant to help himself to a bit of cash, that’s all, but Billy must have heard him gouging away at the lock because suddenly the door opened and there he was, effing and blinding, and there was no option but to dab him on the head with a hammer, was there?
Be patient. That, in a nutshell, is the lesson to be learned from the case of Billy Renfrew. ‘Be patient. Let nothing be wasted on you,’ George Whittam would say to us. And: ‘Every piece of information adds something to the picture, even if you can’t see it at first.’ It gave George great pleasure to sound wise, and he was good at it. ‘Elimination is progress,’ he would tell us. ‘You’re always getting nearer if you don’t stay still. Nothing is a waste of time.’ This isn’t true. Sometimes, work that feels like a complete waste of time really is a complete waste of time. But it doesn’t matter that it’s not true. From the story of Billy Renfrew one could conclude that when it comes to solving a tricky homicide you can’t beat having a sixth sense. Should a sixth sense not feature in your armoury, you need a damned great stroke of luck. These pronouncements would be truer, but less useful for the maintenance of morale among the juniors.
It was necessary to stoke morale at regular intervals. At the end of another long morning we had no useful information. We had heard about an incident at which Henry was present, that’s all. Around Christmas three years ago, in Topsham, there had been a fire. An empty house went up in smoke with such speed that by the time the fire brigade arrived on the scene the roof had gone and the top-floor windows were falling out. Something highly inflammable was in there – presumably to help the blaze – and every few minutes an explosion sent flames shooting out. A seagull got cremated, standing on a lamp-post. It was a hell of a show and it drew a good crowd. Henry was among the spectators, we were told. He stayed until the last flames were extinguished, which would have been around three or four in the morning. It was odds-on that the fire was started deliberately and of course there were people prepared to believe that the disreputable-looking old geezer who hung around till the final curtain might have been in some way involved. But Henry wasn’t involved. Within two days it was known that it had nothing to do with Henry. Three schoolkids did it. Having no TV to watch at home, Henry had stayed to watch the fire. Probably warmed himself up a bit into the bargain. End of meaningless episode. We have an anecdote, when what we need is a story.
In the afternoon, as in the morning, we meet people who can’t bring themselves to say it but obviously had never thought that Henry was much of an adornment to the locality. Equally obviously, none of them had ever wished him dead. They confirm that Henry was prone to going missing for a week or two, every now and again. No one has a clue where he went. Everyone is sorry he’s gone.
No, that’s not right: Mr Latimer wasn’t sorry. Formerly an airline pilot, today a gin-pickled old fascist, Mr Latimer would have had Henry clapped in irons and set to work in a chain gang if he’d had any say in the matter. ‘The Wandering Jew,’ he called him, giving us a look to gauge if we are men enough to take his strong straight talking. Between sentences his jaws made fierce little champing movements, as if chewing on tiny cubes of hard rubber. Occasionally, he reported, he saw Henry in the town, ‘watching people’. There was something not right in the way he followed people with his eyes. It wasn’t just rude: ‘You felt he was up to something,’ said Mr Latimer, but he declined to specify to what manner of thing Henry might have been up. And once he came across him on the top of the cliffs. ‘Ogling a young woman,’ he said, with a sneer, then paused for us to work out what he meant. ‘Messing with himself,’ he elucidated, displeased at our failure to participate in his disgust. We shouldn’t pity such people, Mr Latimer insisted, affronted by the permissiveness he’d discerned in us. This isn’t the eighteenth century, after all. Our society makes provision for the unfortunate, and anyone who lives like that man lived is doing so through his own choice and for no other reason.
And in the same afternoon we encountered Ferrari man, a taxi driver who lived in a flat with Ferrari-red carpets and Ferrari-red curtains and model Ferraris all over the place, on the windowsills, on chairs, under chairs. It was like a plague of scarlet metal mice. Magnetic Ferraris were stuck on the fridge. The phone was in the shape of a Ferrari. It was news to him that Henry’s name was Henry. It hadn’t registered with him that Henry was missing until he saw the posters. Another futile conversation, but mercifully brief, and for Ian this character was the highlight of the day, of course.
An hour after the visit to the Ferrari man we’re in the pub, where Mary – Ian’s new girlfriend – is waiting, with her friend Rachelle. It’s one minute past six and they are the only people in the place. This is the first time we’ve met, so Ian undertakes the introductions. ‘Mary Usher, John Donohue. John my colleague, Mary my girl. Rachelle, John. John my colleague, Rachelle my girl’s best friend.’
‘Nicely done,’ says Mary, giving him a smack on the arm.
‘He won’t be staying long. Has to get home to his wife,’ Ian whispers loudly to Rachelle, getting another whack from Mary, then he’s off to the bar.
‘Hello,’ says Mary. For some reason her boyfriend has omitted to mention that Mary is startling to look at, with whiteblonde hair and a wide frank face and grey-blue eyes that are as clear as a child. We shake hands.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ says Rachelle, reaching over the table. A year or two younger than Mary, she’s dark and small and sinewy, like a marathon runner. She and Mary have known each other since they were at infants’ school together, she explains timidly, as if she feels herself to be under an obligation to establish at once her right to be here. She works in a café up the top of the hill, she says, and she seems almost grateful that the name of the place is recognised. We talk
