LITMIR.BIZ

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himself alertly interested throughout.

      The conversation didn’t take long. As they were about to leave, Lester Holroyd drove into the yard; he walked across to the office, encountering the policemen in the doorway. There was a further brief exchange but Lester could add nothing to what Mansell had told them.

      Later in the day the local evening paper came out with a four-page spread on the crime. Photographs of police activities, interviews with residents of the council estate, recounting Harry’s many endeavours on their behalf. Tributes from fellow members of the British Legion.

      Mention was made of the fact that it was Harry’s evidence which had been largely responsible on three separate occasions over the past few years for the arrest and sentencing of local youths on charges of vandalism and thefts from cars. What the paper didn’t mention was that Harry had reported yet another such case, lads breaking into cars, only a matter of weeks back; he would have been giving evidence when the case came up. The lads concerned were at present out on bail.

      A sizeable section of local opinion laid the murder firmly at the door of some one or more of these tearaway youths, either bent on revenge or maybe disturbed in the course of committing some further misdemeanour. Possibly, such opinion had it, there had been no serious intention of actually killing the old man, the wish had more probably been merely to rough him up, teach him a lesson. Easy enough, in the event, for someone to strike too hard, astonishing himself – and any mates – by the violence of the aggression sweeping over him.

      But more general opinion in the local pubs inclined towards a run-of-the-mill mugging that had got out of hand, the victim being selected for ease in carrying out the robbery, with total indifference as to who that victim might be, the perpetrators more than likely not from the locality at all.

      It was on this last point that opinion most sharply divided, some firmly rejecting the possibility that local lads could be involved in such a brutal crime, others maintaining with equal vehemence that the choice of dumping-ground – a private garden with the owners absent – must surely argue a degree of local knowledge.

      Both groups were united in believing more than one assailant must have been involved, probably with a vehicle of some sort nearby. How else account for the spiriting away of the satchel and freesheets? A lone attacker on foot, argued the know-alls, would scarcely set about lugging the body single-handed off the common and into the garden, and then attempt to make off under the street lights, weighed down with a heavy satchel, brilliantly coloured, specifically designed to be noticed.

      Tuesday morning brought a conference and press briefing. At noon the Chief had an appointment with Harry Lingard’s solicitor.

      Harry’s will was a straightforward document. After a number of bequests to charities he had actively supported, his estate was split down the middle between his two grandchildren. Apart from the house, Harry had owned stocks and shares, various other investments. ‘A lot of folk are going to be surprised at the amount he leaves,’ the solicitor said. ‘He saved all his life, he was a shrewd investor.’ Harry’s wife had been the only child of a shopkeeper, she had inherited a substantial sum in her middle years; no mortgage had been needed when Harry came to buy his council house.

      Gareth had been appointed joint executor with the solicitor. Both grandchildren knew the contents of the will; Harry had talked it over with them before the will was drawn up. To the best of the solicitor’s knowledge Harry had always been on excellent terms with both grandchildren. As far as he knew, neither was in any financial difficulty.

      The Chief pondered these points as he left the solicitor’s office. Jill had reached Gareth’s house around six-thirty on Friday evening. Anne was there with the children, Gareth came in from work shortly afterwards. They had spent the evening together in the house. Gareth’s partner and his wife had come in for an hour or two after supper, arriving at about eight and leaving around ten-thirty. By eleven everyone had retired for the night.

      Before returning to the station Kelsey called in at the bank and building society where Harry had held accounts. Both accounts showed substantial balances; there had been no unusual movement recently in either.

      The afternoon saw an energetic round-up of every youth in the area who might be thought to have harboured a grudge against Harry Lingard. Clubs, discos and similar meeting-places were visited during the evening. Interviews took place in the police station, in the offices of clubs, in lads’ homes, in the presence of parents where possible.

      The effect of all this activity was to arouse a good deal of apprehension in a section of local society more usually remarkable for its carefree attitude to law and order. Petty crime might be an everyday staple but suspicion of murder was another kettle of fish altogether, one that had many of these characters quaking in their designer trainers.

      Alibis for Friday evening were produced in the end for everyone – in some cases only after considerable red-faced shuffling about, understandable enough when it emerged that one pair had spent the evening rampaging over half the county in a succession of stolen cars; a second pair had improved the shining hours by nicking cigarettes and cash from a tobacconist’s in another town; a third had amused themselves by breaking into an isolated dwelling some miles from Cannonbridge while the owners were out for the evening.

      The youths currently on bail, against whom Harry would have given evidence, had operated as a gang of six, all living in the same area of Cannonbridge, a district with an unsavoury reputation, where the mere sight of a police car drawing up was normally enough to afflict every resident with dumbness, deafness, blindness and acute loss of memory.

      Today, however, these afflictions were a good deal less severe and widespread. The fathers of some of the gang, themselves with records of one sort and another, were usually happy to turn a blind eye to whatever their sons got up to, no more in their indulgent eyes than might be expected from any lad of spirit. But on this occasion more than one of these citizens offered to beat the truth out of their offspring, given ten minutes without interference from the law.

      It wasn’t necessary to accept any of these obliging offers as the lads were able to account satisfactorily for the manner in which they had spent Friday evening. It appeared they had occupied themselves harmlessly for once. Two of the gang had taken part in a pub darts match at the other side of Cannonbridge, the rest had gone along to cheer them on. All six had remained in the pub till closing time and had then gone on with members of both teams to the nearby home of one of the captains where the team wives set about making coffee and sandwiches. There had been a party of sorts which broke up around one-thirty.

      The inquest on Harold William Lingard took place at eleven on Wednesday morning. The proceedings were brief and formal, the inquest being adjourned with no date set for resumption; the body was released for burial. Few members of the public were present. Old hands knew initial proceedings were scarcely ever of much interest; it was resumed inquests that usually offered a better chance of eye-opening disclosures.

      Among the few who did take their seats the Chief noticed a handsome, dark-haired young woman with a strong, passionate face. She came alone, sat alone, spoke to no one. She looked about with keen interest, listened intently, left the moment the proceedings ended. The Chief was certain he knew her face and after a minute or two it came to him that he had seen her once or twice with her father at functions in the town. She was Tom Mansell’s daughter, Diane Holroyd, married to Lester Holroyd, Mansell’s right-hand man.

      When the Chief left the court house he found Gareth and Jill Lingard waiting for him at the foot of the steps. ‘Something I remembered when I woke up this morning,’ Gareth told him. Two or three years ago his grandfather had told him he kept a certain amount of ready cash in the house for his bits of dealing. ‘He showed me where he kept it,’ Gareth added. ‘In a secret drawer of an old chest in his bedroom. He wanted me to know in case anything happened to him.’ Gareth couldn’t remember if Harry had mentioned a specific figure but his impression was that the sum might have been a few hundred pounds. ‘I’ve no idea if he still kept money there,’ he said, ‘or how much it might be now. He never mentioned it again.’

      ‘We’ll get along there and take a look in the chest,’ the Chief decided. Over his radio

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