Dead Money (A Detective Inspector Paul Amos Lincolnshire Mystery) by Rodney Hobson Page A
Authors: Rodney Hobson
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don’t talk about our customers to strangers. We talk to them, not about them.”
“Would you like a drink… or a coffee,” the landlord butted in, hoping to defuse the increasingly frosty atmosphere.
"The coffee’s not on yet,” responded his better half. “And I'm sure the officers don't drink on duty.”
“I would prefer to complete this conversation before your first customers of the day arrive,” Amos ventured. “No doubt you would prefer not to have police spoiling the congenial atmosphere, either,” he added.
The landlord shot a glance at his wife, who went “hmmph,” threw her head back and walked out through the door to the private quarters. A moment later the vacuum cleaner could be heard in the drawing room.
“All I’m saying is this,” the landlord conceded, “Jim Berry knew Ray Jones, the dead man. Jim did work for him. Odd jobs. He often left here to go across to see Mr Jones in the early evening, get his orders for next day and come back here. Mr Jones rang him in the afternoon so Jim knew if there was anything doing. Jim hadn't had a call that Friday. Well, there was nothing unusual in that. There wasn't work every day and Jim wouldn't expect anything for a Saturday. But he still went across on the Friday evening, and much later than usual.”
“Berry said he was going across to see Jones on the night Jones was killed?” Swift asked.
“No, he didn't say anything. As a matter of fact, he was quiet and moody. But I came out collecting glasses just as he left and I saw him turn into Killiney Court from the window.”
“Where does he live?” Swift inquired.
“He lives just down the road,” the landlord said sullenly. “It’s the only house with a red door.”
“Thank you,” Amos said graciously, rising from his perch. “We will trouble you no further.”
Then after a pause: “For now.”
Chapter 21
Jim Berry was shifty, uncomfortable and defiant as he sat across the interview room table from Amos and Swift.
He presented a curious picture with ginger eyebrows that twisted up to a point on the edge of his ruddy face. His tweed jacket was old but clean and leather patches adorned the elbows to protect against wear. His checked shirt was beginning to fray at the collar.
The neatest part of him was his goatee beard, ginger to match the eyebrows but showing more white. His hair was greying and receding and was a week or so overdue for a trim.
At a nod from her superior officer, Swift switched on the tape and went through the routine of stating date, time, and those present.
“Can you confirm, Mr Berry, that I have offered you an opportunity to contact a solicitor and you have declined,” Amos asked in a matter-of-fact way.
“What do I want with a lawyer?” Berry asked peevishly. “I can't afford one. They're not interested in the likes of me. I don't need one, anyway. I've done nothing wrong. I'm the victim here.”
“As you wish,” Amos replied smoothly. “I am investigating the murder of Raymond Jones, which took place last weekend. What were your movements between 5pm on Friday and 10 am on Tuesday?”
“Blimey, I can't remember every single minute,” Berry exclaimed. He had, however, lightened noticeably.
“I can't remember off-hand where I was earlier on, but I was in the pub all Friday evening - the one opposite Killiney Court, as if you didn't know. Then I went home at closing time and went to bed.
“I'll have to think about the rest of the weekend. I don't think I know what I was doing most of the time. But I did pop into the pub once or twice on Saturday and Sunday. I stayed in bed all day Monday. I felt poorly.”
Swift was surprised that Amos did not immediately press him further on his movements, particularly on the Friday evening when the murder, as they now knew, took place. However, Amos was pursuing a different tack.
“Jones bought your company,” the inspector said. “Had you known him before that?”
Berry was
“Would you like a drink… or a coffee,” the landlord butted in, hoping to defuse the increasingly frosty atmosphere.
"The coffee’s not on yet,” responded his better half. “And I'm sure the officers don't drink on duty.”
“I would prefer to complete this conversation before your first customers of the day arrive,” Amos ventured. “No doubt you would prefer not to have police spoiling the congenial atmosphere, either,” he added.
The landlord shot a glance at his wife, who went “hmmph,” threw her head back and walked out through the door to the private quarters. A moment later the vacuum cleaner could be heard in the drawing room.
“All I’m saying is this,” the landlord conceded, “Jim Berry knew Ray Jones, the dead man. Jim did work for him. Odd jobs. He often left here to go across to see Mr Jones in the early evening, get his orders for next day and come back here. Mr Jones rang him in the afternoon so Jim knew if there was anything doing. Jim hadn't had a call that Friday. Well, there was nothing unusual in that. There wasn't work every day and Jim wouldn't expect anything for a Saturday. But he still went across on the Friday evening, and much later than usual.”
“Berry said he was going across to see Jones on the night Jones was killed?” Swift asked.
“No, he didn't say anything. As a matter of fact, he was quiet and moody. But I came out collecting glasses just as he left and I saw him turn into Killiney Court from the window.”
“Where does he live?” Swift inquired.
“He lives just down the road,” the landlord said sullenly. “It’s the only house with a red door.”
“Thank you,” Amos said graciously, rising from his perch. “We will trouble you no further.”
Then after a pause: “For now.”
Chapter 21
Jim Berry was shifty, uncomfortable and defiant as he sat across the interview room table from Amos and Swift.
He presented a curious picture with ginger eyebrows that twisted up to a point on the edge of his ruddy face. His tweed jacket was old but clean and leather patches adorned the elbows to protect against wear. His checked shirt was beginning to fray at the collar.
The neatest part of him was his goatee beard, ginger to match the eyebrows but showing more white. His hair was greying and receding and was a week or so overdue for a trim.
At a nod from her superior officer, Swift switched on the tape and went through the routine of stating date, time, and those present.
“Can you confirm, Mr Berry, that I have offered you an opportunity to contact a solicitor and you have declined,” Amos asked in a matter-of-fact way.
“What do I want with a lawyer?” Berry asked peevishly. “I can't afford one. They're not interested in the likes of me. I don't need one, anyway. I've done nothing wrong. I'm the victim here.”
“As you wish,” Amos replied smoothly. “I am investigating the murder of Raymond Jones, which took place last weekend. What were your movements between 5pm on Friday and 10 am on Tuesday?”
“Blimey, I can't remember every single minute,” Berry exclaimed. He had, however, lightened noticeably.
“I can't remember off-hand where I was earlier on, but I was in the pub all Friday evening - the one opposite Killiney Court, as if you didn't know. Then I went home at closing time and went to bed.
“I'll have to think about the rest of the weekend. I don't think I know what I was doing most of the time. But I did pop into the pub once or twice on Saturday and Sunday. I stayed in bed all day Monday. I felt poorly.”
Swift was surprised that Amos did not immediately press him further on his movements, particularly on the Friday evening when the murder, as they now knew, took place. However, Amos was pursuing a different tack.
“Jones bought your company,” the inspector said. “Had you known him before that?”
Berry was
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