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“Maybe we should talk to the neighbours. Do you know them well?”
“The old couple next door, the Watsons, might be worth visiting.” Once again, she pointed to her left. “They’re retired now so they’re home most days. I feel sure they might be able to help.
The couple on the right I’m not so sure about. The Mallards. They’re both teachers, but the school is in Halifax.”
“You never know, Mrs Soames. One of them might have been at home. Thank you once again for your time. Like I said, if you think of anything else, just call the station.”
Outside, the Irishman turned to Gardener. “A teenager luring kids away. I wonder if he had anything to do with the missing girls. We might strike lucky with the jacket.”
“That’s what I was thinking. But why did he change sex with his victim this time? And if he did take the girls, what’s happened to them? I’ve read all the interviews. As usual, no one’s seen anything. He must be bloody sure of himself if he has taken all three!”
Janet Soames mentioned how well-mannered David was, which fit in with what he’d discovered from the parents. He had never missed school, was liked by his teachers and peers, as well as the neighbours. He earned pocket money by tending to odd jobs for them. He wasn’t sports orientated, more a bookworm. He had a computer in his room, his games being challenging adventures as opposed to shoot-em-ups. He used to help his father, Jim, on weekends, in the small DIY shop they owned in Churchaven. The boy was definitely not the outgoing type, so how had the youth lured him away? It must have been more than a promise of fish and chips.
Gardener sighed. “Two cases with no leads to suggest a connection. Two children are missing, a third is dead, and no one can help. We find a decomposed corpse that looks as if it’s been dead three months, but really only dead for three hours. We can’t find out anything about him, what he’s been killed with, or who killed him…” – He turned to his partner and scowled – “…and now I’ve a gut feeling that something is seriously amiss. I really don’t like where this is heading, Sean.”
Chapter Twenty-one
“I’ll have a pint of the black stuff, thank you very much.”
The landlord reached up and removed a clean glass from the shelf. As he poured the Guinness, he stated, “Not seen you in here before.”
“No. I’m meeting someone. Place comes highly recommended.”
“Pleased to hear it.”
Reilly pulled up a barstool. From his vantage point, he had an unobstructed view of the whole pub. The bar was long and straight, running almost the full length of the room. Opposite the bar in the far corner, leading to the toilets – and the so-called beer garden – was a pool table. Of the twenty or so people in The Black Bull, only half were seated. The rest lined up at the bar, except for four playing pool. The jukebox cranked out a Sixties number by The Monkees.
“Got any sandwiches?”
“One or two, nowt special, mind. Beef, ham, cheese and pickle, corned beef...” He left the sentence unfinished as if he’d lost interest.
Reilly sipped his pint, sizing up the publican. He was small and bald, aside from a few wisps of grey hair, which snaked along his pate. His eyes were black and soulless, much like his attitude. His teeth were false. A Band-Aid held his glasses together in one corner. He was dressed in an old grey woollen cardigan with tweed trousers. Reilly wondered if he’d left his slippers on.
Further down the bar, a pot-bellied pensioner cackled in delight, squeezing the backside of a woman half his age.
“Made your mind up, yet?” questioned the landlord.
“Not yet, no.”
“Suit yourself. What brings you round here, then?”
“I’m looking for someone. I’m told he drinks in here.”
“Who might that be?”
“Herbert Plum.”
The Irishman noticed the landlord stiffen. Although slight, it was enough to arouse Reilly’s curiosity.
“Never heard of him. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got other customers to attend to. If you want that sandwich, give us a shout.”
The landlord shuffled down to the other end of the bar. Reilly wasn’t so naive as to think he could have walked straight in and obtained the information with ease. He hadn’t expected such an abrupt change of attitude, however. The publican conversed with a couple of customers, but still threw occasional glances in his direction.
The detective checked his watch, wondering where his partner was. He left his stool. On his way to the toilets, he glanced at a few black and white pre-war frames hanging on the wall, of what he surmised to be Rawston and the surrounding area. On his way out, he was greeted by a reception committee. The four pool players.
The man Reilly assumed to be the ringleader stood with his arms folded, his cue neatly tucked across his chest. Although he was big, he was out of shape, with a beer belly that somehow managed to defy gravity. His visible skin was heavily tattooed. Of his three colleagues, Reilly considered only one of them a possible problem: a barn door of a man, cracking his knuckles, probably more at home on the rugby field.
“Gentlemen,” said Reilly, nodding his head.
