‘Yes.’ Brunnie paused and sat back in his chair, taking his hands slowly from the keyboard, staring with open eyes and mouth at the computer screen. ‘Oh my. .’
‘What!’ Penny Yewdall exclaimed. ‘What have you found?’
‘I’ll give you three guesses as to who disappeared at about the same time that Rosemary Halkier disappeared.’
‘Not Tessie O’Shea?’
‘Yes. . got it in one. . the one and the same. We’re getting thin on the ground. We’ll have to follow this up, as well as Mrs Pontefract.’
‘Well, Mrs Pontefract isn’t a suspect, and I can visit her alone.’
‘If you could — I can drive to Virginia Water, also alone.’
‘I’ll let Harry know what we are doing.’
Ainsclough took off his overcoat and hung it on the coat rack, and sat at his desk. He glanced sideways at Penny Yewdall. ‘Is Frankie out?’
‘Yes.’ Yewdall glanced out of the window and smiled as she saw a sliver of blue sky appearing amid the grey cloud. ‘Yes, he’s just gone to Virginia Water. Well, that is to say he’s gone to Sunninghill police station, being the local nick down that neck of the woods, chasing up an old case that might have some bearing on Rosemary Halkier’s murder. I am about to go and visit her old workmate, one Miss Pontefract. Hoping I can do that before Mr and Mrs Davies from Pontypool arrive at the London Hospital. . time. . day. . not. . enough.’
‘I see.’ Ainsclough sat at his desk and logged on at his computer. He tapped the keyboard. ‘Rusher’, he said absent-mindedly.
‘Sorry? As in the Soviet Union, as was?’
‘No; mind you, it could be spelled that way. I am assuming it’s spelled as in one who dashes about as if in a rush, as in “rush hour”. It’s a nickname but it’s at least a name, and as a nickname it’s a damn sight more useful than a “Nobby” or a “Charlie”.’
‘Yes. . I once ran a felon to ground by chasing his street name of “Dogheaver”, not many “Dogheavers” in London. Well none now, he collected life and is in Durham E Wing.’
‘A hit. . a hit. . a palpable hit. .’ Ainsclough clenched his fists at shoulder height. ‘I think there is no need to check the spelling, R-u-s-h-e-r seems correct. One “Rusher” aka Oliver Boyd, thirty-one years. . form for GBH, assault with a deadly weapon. . dishonourable discharge from the army for organizing a post office robbery. We need this man in the quiz room. . need his mate also.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, Oliver “Rusher” Boyd sounded to be the real hard case, he did most of the work in J.J. Dunwoodie’s murder. His oppo seemed to want him to ease up.’
‘Try known associates,’ Yewdall suggested.
Ainsclough tapped the keyboard. ‘Just one,’ he announced, ‘a geezer called Clive Sherwin, aka “The Pox”.’
‘“The Pox”?’ Yewdall smiled.
‘Yes, doubt you’d call him “The Pox” to his face, but yes. Let’s look at him.’ He continued to tap the keyboard, ‘Yes, he’s well known: GBH, handling stolen goods, driving offences. . one short stretch in the slammer. You know it’s really only the Grievous Bodily Harm that puts him in the same league as Rusher — seems a much gentler guy really, all in all. You know if it was Sherwin in the alley with Rusher that night, he’s the one to lean on, not Rusher, that will be a two-hander.’ He paused. ‘Me and Swannell it seems. .’
‘Seems. . unless you hang fire.’ Yewdall stood. ‘I have to go out.’
Penny Yewdall signed out and drove out to Barking, and then to Bower House, off Whiting Road. The address revealed itself to be a complex of medium-rise inter-war council developments; clearly part of the ‘Homes fit for Heroes’ movement after the war to end all wars. Rachel Pontefract lived on the third floor of the furthest block of the Bower House Estate. She was short, had a round face, steely eyes, and was not keen to have Penny Yewdall in her home. The interview was thusly conducted with Rachel Pontefract standing on the threshold of her flat and Penny Yewdall standing on the windswept outer landing.
‘Can’t really tell you much. Yeah, me and Rose did have a few nights out together but I didn’t know her well at all.’
‘What did she say about her boyfriend at the time she disappeared?’
‘Just she wanted away from him but couldn’t find the old door marked “exit”.’
‘I see.’
‘She was a good girl and she’d found that her man was a blagger, that he’d done time, and folk who got in his way tended to perform the old vanishing act.’
‘Is that what she told you?’
‘Not using those words darlin’ but you know, the gist is still the same. She was a good girl who had just found out her man was well out of order and known to the Old Bill. In the early days she thought he was as sweet as a nut; by a few weeks in she was not well impressed no more. She said she must have been a right pillock to have got so far in. She said she had to get out or she was certain to get bumped. . take the short cut out the door through a high window. . or maybe just vanish. . but she couldn’t see no old door with “exit” in big red letters on it — no, she couldn’t — and it all started because he had a fancy jam jar. . Rolls Royce, Bentley, Merc. . it meant something to her that did after she walked out on her last old man who could provide nothing but a damp little place in Clacton. Swapping dodgems for a Roller, well, that was climbing the right way.’
‘Did she mention his name?’
‘Curtis. No last name. Just Curtis, me old china, just Curtis.’
Frankie Brunnie sat down in the chair opposite DC Gerrard in the interview suite at Sunninghill police station in Surrey. Brunnie found it a light and airy room, decorated in pastel shades, with armless easy chairs in which to sit round a low coffee table. It was a room designed to make victims of crime relax and speak as freely as possible, rather than to interrogate suspects. It also clearly doubled as a room in which visiting officers could be welcomed and accommodated. Brunnie glanced out of the window as a sudden but short rainfall splattered on the pane and saw a small stand of cedars swaying in the zephyr. ‘Winter’s not giving in without a fight,’ he commented.
‘Seems so.’ Gerrard too glanced out of the window. ‘But in fairness, this isn’t bad for January, too early to expect spring yet.’
‘Yes, reckon I’m impatient.’ He turned to Gerrard who seemed to Brunnie to be elderly for a detective constable, a man who most probably had just not made the grade when his grey hair was black. ‘So, Mrs O’Shea?’
‘Yes, I have the file here,’ Gerrard patted a manila folder, ‘foul play.’
‘You think?’
‘Well, just take a squint at the profile. . fifty-five years old, comfortably married. . children off her hands. . six grandchildren to rejoice in — just a gentle soul who lived in a council house on the edge of Virginia Water. The sort of person who would likely describe herself as “just a simple person”. If folk like that are reported missing they very rapidly turn up, or their corpse is very soon found — they do not remain missing for ten years. Not in densely populated north Surrey.’
‘Rather suspect you’re right.’
Gerrard scanned the missing persons report. ‘Went to work as usual, humbly cycling on her old black bike, and just did not return home that afternoon. Her employer said she left at the usual time, about half past midday, having prepared the food for lunch and left it on a hotplate. So why is New Scotland Yard interested in her?’
‘We are. . well. . how to put this. . we are more interested in her employer, Curtis Yates, who is using the name Pilcher.’
Gerrard’s jaw dropped. ‘Pilcher is Curtis Yates!’
‘You know the name?’
‘Do I know the name? Do I know the name? He’s a real villain, the Drug Squad have been interested in him for a long time. My brother is a detective sergeant there. He has mentioned that name a few times. . fly. . and slippery. We never had cause to suspect him.’ Gerrard glanced at the file. ‘You see, he gave his name as Pilcher and it was a mis per enquiry. All we can do is take statements until the person or the body turns up.’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, well. . so now we know where he lives. That’s been a puzzle for a while. He has an accommodation
