Episode 12 - Pooth, Harry and Lizzie

Tuesday

Frank phoned Chris Marlow as early as politeness allowed. Chris was an early riser who often started work before seven in the morning and often carried on till the very late, so Frank encountered a cheerful forensic expert who was happy to send him the current report on Harry Palmer.

“Someone fed him with arsenic over a longer period,” Chris told Frank.

“How can I get to see old case files?” Frank wanted to know. “Harry Palmer is sure to have had an impressive past if someone wanted him dead.”

“If he has not been active recently, his file would not have been entered into the database,” said Chris. “The archive was in a mess until Colin Peck got the job of restoring order and digitalizing everything in a roomful of files.”

“Who is Colin Peck?”

“He’s a recently qualified lawyer and now in charge of the archives, but he’s working backwards,”

“He is?”

“Starting with recent cases, Frank.”

“A sordid job if he includes recent Upper Grumpsfield cases,” said Frank.

“Colin’s girlfriend is a free-lance photographer and happens to be Cleo’s ex’s daughter.”

“Nepotism,” said Frank.

“Not really, Frank. It’s a small world.”

“And includes us private eyes,” said Frank.

“That’s right, but don’t misunderstand me,” said Chris. “It took Gary Hurley a while to find that out and you can see where that got him.”

“I assume you are now talking about my boss,” said Frank.

“You are picking my brains, Frank, so I’ll go a step further. Cleo is a great lady with an incredible instinct for evildoers. And she’s turned Gary’s world around.”

“You sound as if you approve, Chris.”

Of course, but you’ll have to ask Gary or his assistant the inimitable Nigel about the police records,” said Chris. “I still have to go the long way round to get at crime files marked ‘forensic’. It’s a stupid ruling from the old days.”

***

Gary was already in his office when Frank phoned his mobile number.

“Why was Palmer in prison, Gary? It would help to know who he associated with.”

“I see you are in the agency office, Frank. I’ll get Nigel to find the information and fax it to you. It will be on paper here. The digital files go back about three years for closed cases. Can you wait a few minutes?”

“Yes,” said Frank. “Then I must push off and trace Harry Palmer’s last movements.”

“I suppose you’ll have to start with the pubs and other disreputable establishments. In Middlethumpton most don’t open till late morning. Our underworld sleeps late here.”

“Any suggestions?”

“I’d try the one-armed-bandit place in the High Street. It opens earlier than the pubs.”

“Thanks for the tip, Gary.”

“I’m glad someone strange to the town is going there. The types who run those places can smell a cop at half a mile.”

“Can they smell a private eye, Gary?”

“I dare say they can, but they are not as alarmed. They can deal better with private eyes, so I would be disinclined to hang around.”

***

Chris’s analysis of the Palmer corpse did not include any new information. Harry Palmer had died of a massive stroke brought on presumably by a high dose of arsenic received shortly before and preceded by doses that had caused diverse symptoms, notably hair loss and probably digestive problems.

Gary phoned Frank to tell him that according to an old newspaper court report, Harry Palmer had been a forger. He had done time for theft as well, but seemed to have made himself useful to the crime scene because he could forge documents such as passports. He had also spent time in jail for embezzlement. Nigel would fax all the documents to Cleo’s office. The embezzlement was possibly a clue to his demise. Other crooks don’t like being diddled.

Armed with photos of Palmer and Ali, Frank eventually set out in his car to find a parking space in the centre of Middlethumpton and a coffee bar where he could get some breakfast. Frank’s landlady might be a distant relative, but she was uncooperative. She had not been prepared to serve breakfast before eight or let anyone into her kitchen to make their own. The coffee he had made himself at the Agency office was not enough to keep him going. He hoped there was a decent café in Middlethumpton.

Frank was sure that a retired former crook would visit his old haunts in the town. The billiard hall opened at about ten. His satnav guided him to the parking at Milton’s fashion store. His was the first car there. Milton’s did not encourage shoppers before ten, he discovered, but there were stairs onto the back yard and the double wrought iron gate leading into the delivery area was wide open. Milton’s store was run down. The yard was unbrushed and empty packaging was heaped in the corners and protected from the rain by plastic sheets as if they were meant to be a permanent feature. Frank did not think he would spend any money there.

The proprietor of the murky looking billiard hall three doors away was standing in the entrance puffing at a cigar. He was a fat, unshaven character. Instinct told him that Frank was a private snoop. Years of experience at picking out cops and other over-curious individuals stood him in good stead when confronted by a new one. The raised hackles at the back of his neck never failed to warn him. His reptilian brain was in full working order. The rest of his intellect left much to be desired.

“Selling something?” he said, shielding his premises as Frank approached.

“No,” said Frank, realizing that the truth might be a better bet than trying to flummox this wily subject. “I’m a private detective and I’m investigating two deaths, Mr…”

“Pooth,” said the man, more relaxed now he knew for certain who he had in front of him. “And your name?”

“Wetherby, how do you do,” Frank replied, stretching out his hand.

Pooth stepped back hurriedly. The hand stretched towards him usually held a weapon.

Frank startled Pooth again by reaching for the photos in his breast pocket.

“Watcha want, Wetherby?” Pooth said in a threatening tone. “You are makin’ me nervous and I ain’t done nothin’ I’d regret.”

“Then you are in the minority,” Frank could not help saying, but regretted the comment immediately, so continued hurriedly. “I just want to know if these two men ever visited this establishment,” said Frank, handing Pooth the photos. It would take more than a half-soaked windbag to alarm him, Frank decided.

“Give ‘ere,” said Pooth, snatching them.

“This is Harry Palmer,” Pooth said. “Is he dead? He looks dead.”

“Yes.”

“Natural causes, like? Heart?”

“Could well be. I don’t know for sure, Mr Pooth. Have you any idea if anyone wanted to get him?”

“His old girl,” said Pooth, wheezing. “He was probably spoiling her business.”

“How do you know that, Mr Pooth?”

“Stands to reason. Men who don’t pay women working on the streets cramp their style, if you know what I mean.”

Pooth had got so near to Frank to half whisper that last comment that it was all Frank could do not to hold his nose.

“You say he was married?” said Frank, hoping not all his informers would carry that same stench around.

“I don’t know about that. Harry lived with a retired call-girl in a high-rise block, and she wasn’t retired when he wasn’t at home, take my word for it.”

“You mean she still had clients?”

“I sent a couple of desperate guys to her. She was cheap and good at her job and she paid me for sending them. Understand? I don’t think old Harry approved.”

“So he was in the way,” said Frank. He was repulsed by this stinking doorman, but knew he had to pursue this line.

“She threw him out regularly, but he always came crawling back.”

“Where can I find her, Mr Pooth?”

“Beethoven Street, like nearly all the playmates in Middlethumpton, except that her playing days should have been over long ago.”

“What’s her name, Mr Pooth?”

“Lizzie, he called her.”

“Surname?”

“You want it all on a plate, don’t you, Mr?”

“If you happen to know, you could tell me, Mr Pooth.”

“I bloody don’t know her second name. Now get out of here!”

Frank understood the signs. He drew a bank note from his pocket and Mr Pooth snatched it.

“What about the guy on the other photo, Mr Pooth?”

Pooth seemed gratified at the payment for his information.

“I don’t remember him,” he said, mollified. “Ask at the pizzeria take-away down the road. They get foreigners more than us.”

With those words, Mr Pooth stretched out a palm again and Frank obediently dropped another twenty pound note onto it. Pooth told Frank he could come again and Frank left the establishment wondering if the man had told the truth or just made something up to get rid of him.

***

Frank’s next call would be at the pizzeria. He drank a quick coffee and ate a bun at a nearby bakery. He would go there again and have a proper all-day breakfast, he decided. The girl serving had made eyes at him and was buxom. He could do with a bit of creature comfort, he reflected.

The only person he came across at the pizza at an hour when few people would be likely to indulge in one of its specialities was a middle-aged woman serving cigarettes and other essentials through the hatch. Outside the pizza business, the frontage of the take-away serves as a kiosk. It was not licenced, but liquor was available if the woman knew the buyer. She recognized Ali’s photo immediately.

“That’s Ali Lewis,” she said. “He worked here till he found something better.”

“Are you are sure about that?” said Frank.

“Positive,” said the woman. “He was quite a bright spark. Good with the young ladies. Not the paid ones, mind you.. He could have any girl he wanted for free and he didn’t go for them second-hand, of you know what I mean. After he left here he cooked at that boarding school in Huddlecourt Minor and probably had free run of the teenage girls there. The last I heard was that he had gone to the local pub there and turned the down and out café into an exclusive restaurant. He bedded the barmaids for good measure. Ali was good in bed, they told me.”

She sounded as if she had been overlooked by Ali and bore a grudge. All praise to gossipy women, Frank thought.

“That’s brilliant, Mrs…”

“Miller,” said the woman. “I live in Huddlecourt Minor, you see, Mr…”

“Wetherby.”

“Mr Wetherby.”

“So you know what has happened to Mr Lewis, I expect.”

Mrs Miller leant conspiratorially across the kiosk counter. ”I heard he’d been done in by the pub barmaid and she was under ‘im at the time. Sounds fishy to me.”

“We don’t know who did it, Mrs Miller.”

“Are you from the police, Mr Wetherby?”

“Not exactly, but I’m investigating the case,” said Frank.

Mrs Miller was suitably impressed.

“I’ll give you my card, Mrs Miller. Can you phone me if you think of anything else I should know?”

Mrs Miller examined the card.

“You are from that investigation agency in Upper Grumpsfield, Mr Wetherby,” she said. “Come to help out while Miss Hartley has her babies, have you?”

Frank was not surprised that Mrs Miller knew about Cleo’s pregnancy. Women like Mrs Miller usually knew everything there was to know about their neighbourhood. That’s what made them useful if sometimes unreliable witnesses.

“I can take time off when my colleague comes,” she said now. “I could tell you one or two more things over a cup of tea, Mr Wetherby.”

“Look at the second photo, Mrs Miller. Do you know who that is?”

“That’s Harry. Often came for a can or a dram, Mr Wetherby.”

“Did he come on his own?”

“Yes. Lizzie, his wife, sometimes phoned and asked if he was here and not to give him any alcohol, but I had to, Mr Wetherby. He was paying for it.”

Frank would not comment on the trading policies of the kiosk. Snitching was not his style, but in any case the police probably turned a blind eye to what went on.

It was clear to Frank that Mrs Miller had decided to trust him and Frank had learnt not to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth, so he invited Mrs Miller to have breakfast with him, bought a morning paper and a fitness drink and sat on a rickety chair on the pavement to wait. Mrs Miller’s colleague arrived a few minutes later. A short discussion followed, after which Frank escorted Mrs Miller and sat opposite her at the bakery down the road where he had just warmed to the assistant.

Frank decided to make it clear to Mrs Miller that he was footing the bill, so he assured her she was his guest and asked her what she would like.

Mrs Miller did not need to be asked twice. She ate a substantial fried breakfast accompanied by a pile of heavily buttered toast and two little jars of marmalade. She washed it all down with a double pot of tea. She did not stop there, either. The woman serving behind the bakery counter told Frank that Mrs Miller was a guzzler as she put three eclairs on a plate for her to finish off her breakfast in style. Frank ate two pieces of toast and a boiled egg.

“Is that all,” the girl said.

“I’ll come back for more later,” said Frank looking into the girl’s décolleté and wetting his lips lecherously.

“I’m off at one,” the girl whispered.

During the repast, Mrs Miller concentrated single-mindedly on her free breakfast and said not a word. Frank sipped at his cappuccino, nibbled at his toast, bashed the shell at the top of his egg off to get at it and exchanged frequent glances with the young woman behind the counter. He finally went up to her to order himself a scone to keep company with Mrs Miller’s chocolate eclairs and asked the girl for a date, having decided not to improvise. The girl, who had the name Sheila pinned on her chest, was delighted to be asked properly. The young men round here tended to see girls like her as self-service freebies. This guy even had clean fingernails. Sheila wrote her phone number on a paper serviette, handed it to him and he gave her a business card showing his mobile number.

***

“You’ll have to watch out for Sheila,” Mrs Miller whispered when Frank returned to the table. “She doesn’t just sell fry-ups and cakes.”

Frank felt bound to whisper back.

“What do you mean?”

“I hear she is quite fast, Mr Wetherby, and she wants a family.”

“I’ll manage,” whispered Frank, no longer quite as enthusiastic about dating Sheila. He was normally quite a shy man who liked to take the initiative. Sheila, who had fancied Frank at first sight when he had eaten the bun on his first visit to the bakery and left a generous tip under his saucer, wondered if he was forward. Despite her DD bust displayed to advantage in a plunging neckline, she was a shy girl with a respectable upbringing. She did not hop into bed with a guy on a first date, but if it came to a second she was, in her own words, willing and able. Frank wondered if she had known Ali Lewis, and how well, but that was not the kind of question you put to a girl you wanted to date, so he put that idea on the back burner.

Finally, Mrs Miller was replete and willing to talk.

“But I haven’t got much time,” she told Frank, who was naturally a bit put out, since she had eaten solidly for twenty minutes without saying a word about what she had indicated would be worth his while.

“Ali used to be a gamer,” she said. “Always needed an advance on his wages.”

“Really,” said Frank.

“Got in with the Norton brothers. I suppose you know who they are, Mr Wetherby.”

“Not in so many words, Mrs Miller.”

“Gangsters, they are. Local Mafia: stolen cars, drugs, illegal immigrants. You name it; they do it.”

“I’m not sure it’s safe for you to be talking about them then,” said Frank, who was as much concerned for his own safety as for Mrs Miller’s.

“As long as they get their cut from the pizzeria they stay clear,” she said. “I’ve never made trouble for them, you see. I’d like to see my grandchildren grow up, Mr Wetherby.”

“Do you think Ali Lewis owed them money?”

“He did them one or two favours. That kept them at bay. Then he got that job in Huddlecourt Minor and they probably lost interest. I suppose they crossed him off their list.”

“Or he was still on it, Mrs Miller, and had to pay the price.”

“I don’t think the Norton brothers are into murder, Mr Wetherby. People are worth more alive than dead.”

“There’s always a first time!” said Frank.

He was starting to wonder if Middlethumpton was the quiet market town he had thought it was. He vowed to ask Gary Hurley a lot of questions. Frank was not anxious to get mixed up in investigating Mafia practices, though he had seen quite a bit of Welsh Mafia goings-on in the town hall at Frint-on-Sea. Chasing kids who had stolen old ladies’ handbags was one thing, putting oneself on the line sorting out drug smugglers and red light stuff was quite another.

***

Mrs Miller stood up suddenly.

“I’ll have to go back to work now,” she said. “Nice to meet you, Mr Wetherby, and thanks for the breakfast.”

With those words she left the bakery in double-quick time and Frank soon found he had invested a small fortune in feeding Mrs Miller. He would get a receipt and put it on expenses alongside the bribes to Pooth. His next call would be on Harry Palmer’s wife. He wondered how much she would cost him.

***

Frank only had time to consider his meeting with Lizzie until he got to her flat. For one thing, she probably had not heard that Harry was dead and he would be forced to tell her. How would she react? Frank had as much difficulty handling women’s tears and hysterics as he had with promiscuous young ladies.

***

With the help of his Satnav, Frank soon found Beethoven Street, parked his car and walked to the entrance of the tower block where, according to Pooth, Harry had lived. By counting the doorbells, Frank ascertained that the building housed 80 flats. By eying the bell pushes he discovered that Harry Palmer had lived on the third floor. He pressed the bell and a voice soon inquired who he was and what he wanted.

“Wetherby and I’d like to talk to Mr Palmer,” said Frank.

“You’d better come up,” a woman’s voice invited. ”Third floor, turn right from the lift and it’s the second door.”

By the time Frank had negotiated the stairs – lifts being taboo for him if he did not know the lie of the land – the woman who had spoken was standing in her doorway. She was quite petite but wore extremely high heels, an awful lot of what Frank thought of as war-paint, henna red hair piled in a heap on top of her head, and clothes more reminiscent of a glittering party invitation than a coffee morning. Sparkling rings adorned her fingers and she had an ankle bracelet of what looked like diamonds but couldn’t have been. The woman was in her forties, Frank thought.

“How do you do, Mrs…”

“Lizzie. Who are you? What do you want?”

Frank handed her a business card.

“I’m a private investigator. Can you ask me in? I have something urgent to tell you.”

Lizzie led the way into her kitchen.

“Have you brought a message from Harry?” she said. “He’s been gone a week. He doesn’t usually stay away that long.”

“Where did he go, Mrs…?”

“Just Lizzie.”

“Are you his legal wife?”

“Quite legal, Mr Wetherby,” said Lizzie consulting Frank’s personal card for the name.

“Did Mrs Miller send you here?” she asked.

“No. Why did you pick on her?”

“Because she serves at that pizza kiosk and Harry often got drink from her.”

“Do you think that’s where he went when he left here?”

“Search me. The only thing I know for certain is that he did not go to bed with her. She’s a nasty old bitch and anyway, he gets enough here.”

“I’m sure he does,” said Frank, hoping she would not offer him any.

“Don’t be shocked, Mr Wetherby. Harry was a client of mine when I was a call-girl, but he offered me a better life as a wife and I accepted.”

“That was a wise decision,” said Frank, for want of something to say. “What I have to tell you now will upset you.”

Lizzie sat down at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette on which she drew several times before speaking.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she said finally.

“Yes, Mrs Palmer.”

“It’s still Lizzie and I’m not surprised,” said the woman. She was upset, but clearly determined not to give in to an emotional reaction. “He had a bad heart and I told him to keep off the drink, but every now and again it came over him. He’d go out, sit on his own or with his old drinking pals until he was stoned and then stagger back home.”

“He was murdered, Lizzie.”

Lizzie covered her mouth with the hand also holding the cigarette. Frank took her free hand and sat down on the chair next to hers. Later he could not really explain why, but he felt a growing sympathy for this gaudy woman.

“Who killed him, Mr Wetherby?”

“We don’t know yet. He was poisoned.”

“God save his soul,” said Lizzie, crossing herself.

“Could he have been getting doses of poison from someone, Lizzie?”

“There’s no poison here, Mr Wetherby, Just some vitamin tablets and aspirin.”

“Where did he get the vitamin tablets, Lizzie?” said Frank. He had had a hunch worthy of one of Dorothy’s. Old soaks did not normally bother about their health.

“I never asked.”

“Did you try them?”

”No.”

“Can you show me them, Lizzie?” said Frank, wondering if they could have contained something more potent than vitamins.

“He got them from friends,” said Lizzie. “I remember now.”

“Friends?”

“People he’d done one or two jobs for.”

“What people and what jobs?”

“He learnt to be a car mechanic one time he was sent down. He helped people with their cars.”

“Who was he working for, Lizzie?”

“The Norton brothers. He told me that, but it was a secret except that he’s somewhere else now and doesn’t need a secret any more. Harry said the Nortons were powerful, but paid well. Full of praise for Harry, they were when they rang up to get him to service their limousines. They drove white BMWs, Mr Wetherby. Lovely cars, Harry used to say.”

***

So Mrs Miller had been right. She had not explained in so many words, but Harry must have started to make trouble and had to be disposed of. Frank thought he should make tracks and start the ball rolling by talking to Cleo about what he had just heard. He got up to leave. Lizzie put her arm on his.

“Where did Harry die, Mr Wetherby?”

“In a pub in Huddlecourt Minor, Lizzie. He was alone. He must have had a heart attack. It’s possible that a large dose of arsenic brought it on.”

“Can I see him?”

“Yes. As his wife you will have to identify him, so it will be a formal visit, Lizzie. Give me your phone number and I’ll let you know when. I can pick you up here and take you there.”

Lizzie scribbled her phone number on the back of a grocery receipt and Frank went towards the door.

He turned and said “I’m sorry about Harry.”

“So am I,” said the woman.

Lizzie started to cry. Her thick black eye-liner and mascara mixed in with the tears so that smeary stripes rolled down her cheeks until they were caught by the backs of her hands. Quite instinctively Frank turned back and put his arms round her for a moment.

“I’ll phone you tomorrow to see how you are, Lizzie,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Lizzie in a small voice as she closed the flat door.

***

Frank sympathized with Lizzie. She was dressed brassily in the way some women thought was attractive to men, but there was something nice about her. Frank wondered why she was a call-girl, and presumably had been all her adult life. She was not far off 50. Was she one of those girls who ran away from home as soon as they could and found themselves with the choice between starvation and prostitution? They were undoubtedly examples of the victims of the society he came across in his job.

Sleuths delved into the tail-end of decency and plenty of what lay beyond it, Frank reflected. He would return to the office in Upper Grumpsfield, write reports on what he had done that morning, and then find a way of organizing Lizzie Palmer to say good bye to the man who had been kind to her. Gary would no doubt help.

Frank had been able to pocket a few of Harry's vitamin tablets. Driving back to the office in Upper Grumpsfield, he wondered if they were what he suspected. He had to ask himself who could want Harry Palmer out of the way badly enough to kill him. Mrs Miller had said that the Norton guys were not into murder. Harry Palmer was an old drunkard. Did he have some sort of hold on someone? Surely someone like Harry was not worth bothering about, let alone killing, since he had a criminal record himself and was unlikely to spill any beans. Frank decided he would have to persuade Lizzie to show him Harry's belongings and papers. There might just be something tell-tale among them. He would get Forensics at HQ to analyse the tablets, but he would keep his suspicions to himself until he had evidence to back them up.