Free The Maggie Murders by J P Lomas Page A

glasses of
iced tap water, as Reed reluctantly parked his wiry carcase on the peeling,
faux leather seat of the red banquette – below one tear the spongy yellow
padding was already poking through.
    ‘Where were you on the night of 9th
May, 1983?’
    ‘Probably in here.’
    ‘Until what time?’
    Reed looked uneasily in the
direction of the landlord.
    ‘We’re not interested in breaches
of the licensing law, ‘Sobers pressed.
    ‘About one.’
    ‘Any witnesses?’ asked Jane.
    ‘None who want to come forward, ‘offered
Reed.
    ‘Check it with the barman, Jane,
tell him we’re not interested if there was a lock-in that night – emphasise
this is a murder enquiry.’
    Relieved at the chance to peel
herself off the sticky seat and cursing herself for wearing a linen skirt to
such a grotty dive as this, Jane went to verify Reed’s alibi.
    ‘It’s about that there queer
butcher, isn’t it? I seen your face in the paper. Coloureds, women and homos –
that’s who runs the country today!’
    ‘I don’t think you’ll find many
black or gay faces in Parliament Mr Reed and apart from the obvious, very few
women.’
    ‘I got in a little bit of bother
over 20 years ago and it changed my life. Lost my job at the shoe factory when
they found out I had a criminal record and all I did was break a window, ‘snarled
Reed, as he angrily downed the last of his Stella.
    ‘You were part of a mob that
launched a cowardly attack on a war hero!’
    ‘If people like that were heroes,
then it’s a pity we won.’
    Out of the corner of his eye
Sobers could see Hawkins giving him the signal it was time to go. Reed had been
here when Kellow died.
    At least the fresh air outside
was a relief from the poisonous atmosphere inside. The nicotine fug, stained
walls and reeking jakes were the least of the pub’s problems; a better
clientele was what it needed in Sobers’ opinion.
    ‘That’s why the locals have
another name for the pub,’ Jane said as she dabbed at her skirt with a damp
tissue.
    ‘What?’
    ‘The King’s arse. It really is
the pits. It’s only ever used by those with chronic cirrhosis or students who
need to score. I think it must have been last cleaned during the reign of
Ethelred…’
    Sobers smiled wryly.
    ‘So, can we rule him out, sir?
The landlord might be lying.’
    ‘He could be lying, but I doubt
it. I think he’d rather lose a customer than his licence. Even if he doesn’t
have that many.  Check out the other names he gave you anyway – we can’t afford
to leave it to chance.’
     Sometimes he so wanted people to
be guilty. Of course he had known officers back in The Met who‘d fitted people
up and gained convictions that way.  He’d had to look away a few times himself
when only a D.C. Yet he hoped he was better than those people. Reed might be an
unpleasant little bully; however he hadn’t become a policeman to fabricate
cases against such losers. Even with nothing else to go on, Sobers knew he
didn’t have it in him to try and pin the case on Reed, especially if the man’s
alibi checked out.
     
    ****
     
    The Lady Nelson, just down the
hill from the incident room and standing next to the narrow bridge at the
centre of the village, had become the pub of choice for the uniforms attached
to the investigation; even though it was a typical tourist trap filled with
horse brasses and homemade pickles packed in Holland.  Most of its business was
done during the season, when Scampi and Chips style lunches on the trestle
tables outside gave holidaymakers from the camp a taste of traditional Devonian
fayre. The takings in July and August far exceeded the amount taken in the rest
of the year put together.
    In early July the holiday season
had yet to reach the heights generated by the school summer holidays and so the
pub, after an initial flurry over the Whitsun weekend, had relapsed into its
standby mode of waiting for a combination of good weather and the weekend to
coincide. A dry, yet breezy