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“According to her neighbours, she was a prostitute.”
“A prostitute? Well, there you are then. Every bloke has needs. Our Barry obviously pays this woman for what he wants…” Morrison stopped to think for a moment before continuing. “Wait a minute. You said, according to her neighbours, she was a prostitute. So you haven’t spoken to her? She isn’t dead as well, is she?”
“I’m afraid so,” replied Gardener. “We were called out to investigate her death at midnight. Before that was brought to a satisfactory conclusion, we were called out to your brother. During the course of the investigation we have found a link. His car was regularly seen round there, at least once a week. We’ve since discovered that he owned the property.”
Billy Morrison was shocked.
“What the bloody hell’s going on?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. And I appreciate it’s a tough time for you, but if you want us to catch your brother’s killer, we have to keep asking questions.”
“Well I keep asking you lot one, but you never answer me. What the bloody hell happened to our Barry? I have a right to know.”
“We’re not sure yet.”
“What do you mean, you’re not sure? Was he shot, stabbed, beaten up, what?”
“When we found him, his body was leaning against the door, half lying on the doorstep. He was naked apart from a pair of trousers and a hat. We found a coat and vest left on the doorstep, which we believe were his.”
“Naked?” repeated Billy Morrison. “Five o’clock in the morning and our Barry’s on his own doorstep, naked. Had he been drinking?”
“No,” said Reilly. “We certainly couldn’t smell any booze on him.”
“And he wasn’t beaten up?”
“Not from what we could see.”
“So how did he die?”
“We’ll have to wait for the Home Office pathologist to tell us that. But here is what we do know. Barry was at work last night from around seven o’clock. There was no contact with him from ten o’clock when Sid Prosser popped back and found the place empty. A cigarette was left in the ashtray, and food on the counter. Barry’s car was seen at the house in Hume Crescent between the hours of ten and twelve. The only time your bother was seen was early evening when Prosser spoke to him, and five o’clock this morning when he was discovered.”
“You ever have any trouble with punters?” Reilly asked.
“Depends what you call trouble.”
“Fare dodging, drunks throwing up in the cabs, cars being vandalized?”
“It’s a taxi business. We certainly have our fair share of the first two. We’ve always told the drivers if you have somebody dodging a fare, jumping out on you and making a run for it, let ’em go. We had a couple of incidents years ago where drivers gave chase and ended up being stabbed. One died. We told them all, ‘don’t bother, it’s not worth your life and i
t will never come out of your wages.’ Drunks throwing up? Well, most of our clients are repeat business, and the once or twice it’s happened, they’ve been pretty reasonable and paid for the mess to be professionally cleaned.”
“No cars vandalized then?”
“No.”
“It’s a pretty good pitch,” said Gardener. “You’ve never had the competition trying to buy you out?”
“No. Nobody’s ever bothered that way. There’s still enough business to go round.”
A banging sound at the entrance to the portacabin diverted the officers’ attention. Gardener turned to see a powerfully built man a little over six feet tall, with thinning black hair and blue eyes. He was dressed in faded jeans and a black tee shirt. He nodded and spoke to Billy Morrison, then made his way to the filing cabinet to sort out a drink. Gardener glanced at Morrison for an explanation.
“This is Alan Sargent. He’s one of our latest recruits, a driver.”
Gardener nodded. “How long have you been with the company, Mr Sargent?”
“Only three or four weeks.”
“It was our Barry who brought him in. He alternates between nights and days.” Morrison turned to Sargent. “This is the police.”
