Five Dead Canaries

‘That’s where you’re wrong, Harv. At least I got through the door. When you put a slip of paper through the letter box with your name on it, Harte didn’t believe you were a detective. He thought it was a trick to lure him out.’ Keedy’s grin spread from ear to ear. ‘He said that you were shifty.’

Marmion was offended. ‘Shifty?’

‘That was the word.’

‘I take exception to that.’

‘It’s why he didn’t let you in. You’ll have to take some lessons from Alan Suggs.’ Marmion bridled. ‘He’s obviously a master at turning on the charm.’

Everyone had a good word to say about Royston Liddle. Tolerant of his severe limitations, they found him harmless, likeable and unfailingly helpful. As he walked past the Golden Goose, he exchanged a few words with the glazier repairing some of the shattered windows of a neighbouring house. Farther down the street, two old women were chatting on the doorstep. They broke off when they saw him coming and gave Liddle a warm greeting. One of them slipped indoors to find some lettuce leaves she’d saved for his rabbits. When it was time to move on, there were other cheery waves and kind comments to collect from friends. He felt looked after. Wherever he went in Hayes, he was given a welcome. Liddle’s famous grin was never wider.

There was, however, one person who had taken against him and he was lying in wait. When Liddle turned down an alleyway, he walked straight into the arms of Alan Suggs and was shoved unceremoniously against a fence. With one hand to his captive’s throat, Suggs held a menacing fist inches from his nose. Caught unawares, all that Liddle could do was to splutter and tremble. The driver was bigger, stronger and much more aggressive than he could ever be. Suggs looked as if he was ready to inflict a terrible beating.

‘Hello, Alan,’ said Liddle, weakly.

‘You’re a numbskull, Royston.’ He squeezed the throat. ‘What are you?’

‘I’m … whatever you say.’

‘You’re a stupid, flea-brained, loud-mouthed, bloody nuisance.’

Liddle was in pain. ‘You’re hurting me.’

‘I ought to cut you into little bits and feed you to those rabbits of yours. They’ve got more sense than you have. They know how to keep their traps shut.’

He released his hold and took a step back. ‘I thought you were a friend.’

‘I am, Alan, I always will be.’

‘Not any more. You landed me in trouble.’

‘I didn’t mean to,’ said Liddle, rubbing his throat.

‘Why did you have to talk to the coppers?’

‘But I didn’t — it was that inspector who talked to me.’

‘Yes,’ said Suggs, pushing him against the fence again, ‘and what did you do? You broke your promise and opened your trap. Inspector Marmion grilled me for over an hour. Thanks to you, he thought I’d planted that bomb.’

‘Oh, no, I didn’t say that. I told him that you only went into that outhouse to be alone for a bit with your friend.’ He recovered his grin. ‘What’s her name, by the way?’ Suggs went for the throat again. ‘Sorry,’ croaked Liddle, ‘what have I done wrong now?’

‘You behaved like the imbecile you are. Someone should have locked you up years ago. It’s not safe to let you out.’ He swung Liddle round and smacked the side of his head. ‘Why I trusted you, I’ll never know.’

‘I did you a favour,’ argued Liddle. ‘I kept watch for you.’

‘I paid you to keep your gob shut, not to spill the beans to the coppers. When I came off work today, the inspector was waiting for me. He did everything but slap a pair of handcuffs on me. And it was your bloody fault!’

‘I couldn’t tell a lie to the police.’

‘You didn’t need to tell them anything at all.’

‘But that detective frightened me.’

‘That was no reason to blab about me borrowing that key,’ said Suggs. ‘What happened was private, see? It was nobody else’s business. Then you betray me to Inspector Marmion and he bullied the truth out of me.’

Liddle tried a smile of appeasement. ‘I won’t do it again.’

‘You can’t do it again, you fool. The outhouse was destroyed. I’m not going to be taking anyone into a pile of rubble, am I?’

‘What I meant is that I’ll remember what you tell me next time.’

‘There won’t be a next time, Royston,’ said the other, vehemently, ‘because I’d never trust you again. Keep out of my way from now on or I’ll give you the hiding you deserve.’ He made a threatening move towards him. ‘Now bugger off!’

With a cry of alarm, Liddle scuttled down the alleyway until he felt that he’d put a safe distance between them. Upset at his treatment and wounded by the cruel way Suggs had spoken to him, he felt an uncharacteristic urge to strike back.

‘I know what you did in that outhouse,’ he taunted, ‘because there’s a hole in the back wall. Last time you went in there, I watched the pair of you. She had big tits and I saw both of them wobbling away.’ He giggled at the memory. ‘I’m not that daft. I know what you were up to. You and her were doing what my rabbits do. I saw you, Alan.’

Enraged by the information, Suggs let out a roar of anger and charged down the alleyway. Liddle bolted at once, disappearing around the corner as if a runaway lorry was on his heels. Suggs went in pursuit but he was slower than his quarry and was soon panting at the exertion. Something brought him to a sudden halt. Marmion had warned him not to wreak revenge on Royston Liddle or there’d be repercussions. It was a warning that had to be taken seriously but Suggs wanted to inflict punishment somehow. Liddle would not escape completely.

The detectives were not only invited into the living room of the house, they were given tea and biscuits. In spite of the grief weighing her down, June Ingles was hospitable. Judging by the black-draped photograph of her daughter that stood on the sideboard, she bore a close resemblance to her. Florrie had inherited all of her mother’s salient features. Had she not been so pale and drawn, June would have looked like an older version of her daughter. Both detectives noted with sadness that, when the photograph was taken, Florrie’s complexion had been as clear as her mother’s. She was a lovely young woman with an enchanting smile.

Brian Ingles had bequeathed none of his features to his daughter. He was a tall, well-built man with an expression of despair on a pockmarked face. Head bent forward and eyes wandering aimlessly, he looked as if all the life had been sucked out of him. It was left to his wife to do most of the talking. June sat beside him on the settee and held his hand for comfort. Ingles had a senior position with the Great Western Railway but he was bereft of authority now. Every question made him twitch defensively. While his wife sought to put on a brave face, he seemed haunted.

Marmion and Keedy had both noticed the difference. Every other house they’d visited in connection with the investigation had either been part of a terrace or semi-detached. The Ingles residence, however, was detached. Boasting four bedrooms, it had a small garden at the front and a larger one at the rear and, unlike most of the others, indoor sanitation. The detectives were impressed with the size and relative luxury of the living room. It had been recently decorated and had a new carpet. Brian Ingles’s wage was clearly much larger than that of someone like Eamonn Quinn, the Irish coalman, or Jonah Jenkins, the officious bank clerk. The size of the home raised an obvious question.

‘Why didn’t your daughter live with you?’ asked Marmion.

‘Florrie and her husband wanted a place of their own,’ explained June. ‘When they got married, they moved into a flat. They were saving up to buy a house. Brian was going to lend them some money, weren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ muttered Ingles, wincing.

‘We offered to have them here, of course, but Florrie wanted them to set up on their own. And when she decided on something, there was no changing her mind.’

‘I can understand her moving out when she married,’ said Marmion, ‘but why didn’t she come back when she lost her husband?’

‘It’s what we both wanted, Inspector. Our other two daughters have married and moved away so we have three spare bedrooms here, but Florrie wouldn’t hear of it. Having left home, she wanted to keep her independence.’