By then, both Richmond and Susan were rummaging through the junk. They would find nothing on display, of course, but the search had to be as thorough as possible. Susan flipped through the stacks of old 45s on wobbly tables—Rai Donner, B. Bumble and the Stingers, Karl
Denver, Boots Randolph, the Surfaris, names she had never heard of. One table groaned under the whole of Verdi’s Rigoletto on 78s. There were also several shelves of books along one wall: Reader’s Digest condensed editions; old Enid Blytons with torn paper covers that said 2/6 on the front; books with stiff pages and covers warped and stained by water-damage, most by authors she had never heard of. She doubted whether even Banks or Gristhoipe would have heard of them, either. Who on earth would want to buy such useless and smelly junk?
When they were satisfied that there were no videos or stereos hidden among the cracked figurines and rusted treadle sewing-machines, they asked Fairley if he would show them the rest of the premises. At first he hesitated, then he shrugged, locked the front door, turned the sign to read CLOSED, and led them through the moth-eaten curtain behind the counter. Silent so far, he seemed resigned to his fate.
The curtain led into a corridor with a filthy sink piled with cups growing mould from old tea leaves. Next to the sink was a metal counter-top streaked with rust, on which stood, among the mouse-droppings, a bottle of Camp coffee, a quarter of Typhoo tea, some curdled milk and a bowl of sugar lumps.
The corridor ended in a toilet with a stained bowl and washbasin, flaking plaster and spider-webs in the corners. It was almost impossible to open the door to the other room on the ground floor, but slim Richmond managed to slip in and discover that it was packed mostly with collapsed cardboard boxes. There were also some books, video cassettes and magazines of a slightly suspect eroticism, though perhaps not the more prosecutable variety of pornography.
After he had finished there, Richmond pointed to the other door off the corridor. “Where’s that lead?” he
asked.
Fairley tried to bluff his way out of opening it. He said it led nowhere, wasn’t part of the premises, but Richmond persisted. They soon found themselves following Fairley down to a cellar with whitewashed walls. There, lit by a bare bulb, stood what looked like the remnants of the Fletcher’s warehouse job. Two television sets, three videos and a compact-disc player.
“Bankrupt stock,” said Fairley. “I was going to put them in the window when I’ve got room.”
Richmond ignored him and asked Susan to check the serial numbers on the cartons with the list that the manager of Fletcher’s had supplied. They matched.
“Right,” said Richmond, leaning back against the stack of cartons. “Before we go down to the nick, I’d like to ask you a few questions, John.”
“Aren’t you going to charge me?”
“Later.”
“I mean, shouldn’t I have a solicitor present or something?”
“If you want. But let’s just forget the stolen goods for the moment, shall we? Have you got any form, John?”
Fairley shook his head.
“That’s good,” Richmond said. “First offence. It’ll go better for you if you help us. We want to know about Carl Johnson.”
“Now look, I didn’t have nothing to do with that. You can’t pin that on me.”
It was interesting to watch Richmond at work, Susan thought. Cool, relaxed and looking as elegant as ever in the dingy room, careful not to lean against the wall for fear of marking his suit, he set Fairley at ease and led him gently through a series of preliminary questions about his relationship with Johnson and Poole before he got to Chivers. At the mention of the name, Fairley be
came obviously nervous.
“Carl brought him here,” he said, squatting miserably on a box. “I never liked him, or that girlfriend of his. They were both a bit doolally, if you ask me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that look he got in his eyes sometimes. Oh, he could be pleasant enough on the surface, but when you saw what was underneath, it was scary. I couldn’t look him in the eye without trembling.”
“When did you see him last?”
“Couple of weeks ago.”
“Did you ever think he might be concerned with Carl’s death?”
“I … well, to be honest, it crossed my mind. I don’t know why. Just the kind of person he seemed.”
“Yet you didn’t come forward?”
“Do you think I’m crazy or something?”
“Did you know of any reason he might have had for killing Johnson?”
Fairley shook his head. “No.”
“There was no falling out over the loot?”
“What loot?”
Richmond kicked a box. “The alleged loot.”
“No.”
“What about the girl? Did Johnson make a play for her?”
“Not that I know of. She was sexy enough, and she knew it, but she was Chivers’s property, no mistaking that.
