Free The Maggie Murders by J P Lomas

ambit
was often useful at the club, but sometimes he despaired of his coarseness. He
wondered if that was why Roy’s college bound son had kept quiet throughout. He
sipped at his Pimms and tried to think of any jokes he might tell which hadn’t
come off ‘The Two Ronnies.’ He was sure DS Jordan had told him a good Irish
joke the other week, something about a Patrick Fitzmurphy?

Chapter 6
     
    Neither Sobers, nor Hawkins would
have placed the pub given as one of their suspect’s usual haunts in their
all-time top hundreds, even if either of them had been partial to keeping such
lists. It certainly didn’t look like the type of place that needed to be open
on Monday lunchtime, even in high season.  It wasn’t just the lack of a beer
garden, or any chairs outside on the pavement which had given Sobers that
conclusion, the weary looking exterior and grubby porch (which made Jane think
of The Black Hole of Calcutta – although she had no clear idea what this was)
made him think that even if the tavern was more aimed at the working man it
would surely fail to have much trade, even at the weekends.
     ‘The King’s Arms’ was housed at
the end of an indeterminate brick terrace, at the bottom of a hill which sloped
down to Exmouth’s new pedestrian shopping precinct. The hostelry was at the
edge of the area cleared for this new development and had more in keeping with
the buildings considered tired and tawdry by the town planners, than the chain
store Mecca they were designing.
    Unlike Exeter, Exmouth hadn’t
been redeveloped by the Luftwaffe. Just two stray bombs had hit the town,
whilst the Cathedral City had blazed during the Baedeker raids of 1942. Yet
some still felt that the town, like its larger sibling had suffered more at the
hands of the post-war developers. Those who shared that opinion might have cared
to cast a longer look at ‘The King’s Arms’ and some of the other buildings
which had survived and perhaps reconsider the idea that the old was always
better.
    If tradition meant a heavy smell
of chemicals coming from the toilets, a carpet with enough stains to keep the
forensics boys happy for a century and windows which suggested the pub was in
the midst of an industrial city, then the pub was certainly traditional. Apart
from the almost obligatory old man and a dog, there was only one other customer
and he fitted the description of their suspect.
    Paul Francis Reed was propping up
the dingy saloon bar. His most recent photo on file showed a still healthy
looking man in his mid to late thirties. This was taken after he’d been charged
with dealing cannabis at the tail end of the 70s. Either the three years he’d
served hadn’t been kind to him, or else the unhealthy habits of a misspent
youth had caught up with him, but the cadaver chain smoking on the bar stool
and nursing a lager had coffin dodger written all over it.
     ‘It weren’t me.’
    ‘What weren’t you?’ Sobers
settled himself at a neighbouring table as Hawkins put the barman through the
difficulty of finding any soft drink which wasn’t orange juice, coke or
lemonade.
    ‘Whatever you think I’ve done, copper!’
    ‘You’ve seen a lot of films
haven’t you, Mr Reed?’
    ‘Wot you goin’ on about?’
    ‘Are you sure this pub is big
enough for the both of us?’ teased Sobers.
    ‘I want my brief before I talk to
you.’
    ‘Firstly, Mr Reed, I don’t think
you have a brief, but I’m sure we can provide legal aid for you once again,
should it come to that. Secondly, I’m sure you don’t want to have to rush your
lager and come with me to answer a lot of questions you’ve probably answered
before in the incident room.’
    Sobers watched the bluster go out
of the wiry man at the bar. He guessed from Reed’s file that he was dealing
with a small time bully who having served a total of 5½ years during the course
of three custodial sentences was probably averse to returning for a fourth too
quickly.
    Jane brought over two