to improve on the properties of good quality duck down. Or wool and cotton, come to that. Polyester is OK for ties – gravy stains wipe straight off. Maggie was wearing a smart suit with trousers and a raincoat.
Homes 4U were in a single-fronted shop on the edge of the town centre, where rents are cheaper. There was an alley alongside, so I drove down the back street and saw his silver Mondeo parked in a tiny yard with a big notice on the wall that claimed the space for D. Buxton, Manager. I left my Vauxhall blocking him in and we walked through the alley to the front entrance.
The gum-chewing girl at the front desk had more rings through her facial features than a Masai dancetroupe. Her bleached hair was dragged together and held by a rubber band, like a horse’s tail sprouting from the side of her head. I’d heard Maggie call it the slag’s cut. She can be very uncomplimentary about her sisters.
‘Police,’ Maggie said. ‘Will you please tell Mr Buxton that we’d like a word with him?’
The girl recovered quickly, sliding her magazine under the table and reaching for the telephone. ‘I’ll, er, see if Mr Buxton is in,’ she said.
‘No, love,’ Maggie insisted, leaning over the desk. ‘You’ll tell him we’d like a word with him.’
I examined the notices on the walls. Several desirable properties were available for rental and DSS giros were only accepted with ID.
‘There’s two police people here to see you, Mr Buxton,’ the girl was saying.
I smiled at her. ‘I’ve never been called a police person before,’ I said.
‘He says he’ll be down in a moment.’
The moment dragged into three minutes and I was beginning to eye the stairs when he arrived, full of bluff cheeriness.
‘Gentlemen – I mean officers!’ he blustered, taken aback by Maggie’s presence. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Spend ’alf my life on the old dog and bone, these days – you know how it is. So what can I do for you? Is it a problem with one of my tenants?’
He was exactly as I’d imagined him. I must be gettingbetter at it. ‘This is DC Madison and I’m DI Priest,’ I said. ‘From Heckley CID. We’d like a word with you, in private.’
The bonhomie slipped from his face. ‘Go do some shopping, Samantha,’ he told the girl, nodding towards the door. She grabbed her coat and scuttled out like a startled rabbit.
I dropped the latch and turned the sign to closed. Samantha was crossing the road, her thin white legs spanning the gap between miniskirt and Caterpillar boots like a pair of rugby goalposts. She reminded me of Popeye’s girlfriend, Olive Oyl, but I doubted if she’d ever been extra virgin.
‘Where were you on Christmas Day?’ I demanded, turning back to face Buxton.
‘Christmas Day?’
‘Mmm. Only eight days ago. Turkey for dinner, Queen on the telly, if that helps.’
‘I was at my parents’. Why?’
‘All day?’
‘No. I left home about twelve, got there about one. Had lunch, stayed for tea. Got back to Heckley about eleven. I go see them every Christmas. What’s this all about?’
‘We’re investigating a rape. What about the night before? Where were you on Christmas Eve?’
‘Christmas Eve?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘I went round a few pubs in the town. What of it?’
‘Name me them.’
‘I don’t know their names. They’re just pubs. I ’aven’t lived in Heckley all that long.’
‘Do you know the Tap and Spile?’
‘Yeah. I know the Tap.’
‘Did you go there?’
‘What if I did?’
‘Do you know the barmaid there?’
‘Janet? Yeah. I know Janet.’
‘How well do you know her?’
He gave a little cock-eyed smile, his lips pursed. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I fink I can say I know her very well.’
‘She says you followed her home and raped her at knifepoint. Did you?’
‘She said that?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Janet?’
‘Mmm.’
‘The cow! The friggin’ little cow!’
‘Are you denying it?’
‘Course I’m friggin denying
Homes 4U were in a single-fronted shop on the edge of the town centre, where rents are cheaper. There was an alley alongside, so I drove down the back street and saw his silver Mondeo parked in a tiny yard with a big notice on the wall that claimed the space for D. Buxton, Manager. I left my Vauxhall blocking him in and we walked through the alley to the front entrance.
The gum-chewing girl at the front desk had more rings through her facial features than a Masai dancetroupe. Her bleached hair was dragged together and held by a rubber band, like a horse’s tail sprouting from the side of her head. I’d heard Maggie call it the slag’s cut. She can be very uncomplimentary about her sisters.
‘Police,’ Maggie said. ‘Will you please tell Mr Buxton that we’d like a word with him?’
The girl recovered quickly, sliding her magazine under the table and reaching for the telephone. ‘I’ll, er, see if Mr Buxton is in,’ she said.
‘No, love,’ Maggie insisted, leaning over the desk. ‘You’ll tell him we’d like a word with him.’
I examined the notices on the walls. Several desirable properties were available for rental and DSS giros were only accepted with ID.
‘There’s two police people here to see you, Mr Buxton,’ the girl was saying.
I smiled at her. ‘I’ve never been called a police person before,’ I said.
‘He says he’ll be down in a moment.’
The moment dragged into three minutes and I was beginning to eye the stairs when he arrived, full of bluff cheeriness.
‘Gentlemen – I mean officers!’ he blustered, taken aback by Maggie’s presence. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Spend ’alf my life on the old dog and bone, these days – you know how it is. So what can I do for you? Is it a problem with one of my tenants?’
He was exactly as I’d imagined him. I must be gettingbetter at it. ‘This is DC Madison and I’m DI Priest,’ I said. ‘From Heckley CID. We’d like a word with you, in private.’
The bonhomie slipped from his face. ‘Go do some shopping, Samantha,’ he told the girl, nodding towards the door. She grabbed her coat and scuttled out like a startled rabbit.
I dropped the latch and turned the sign to closed. Samantha was crossing the road, her thin white legs spanning the gap between miniskirt and Caterpillar boots like a pair of rugby goalposts. She reminded me of Popeye’s girlfriend, Olive Oyl, but I doubted if she’d ever been extra virgin.
‘Where were you on Christmas Day?’ I demanded, turning back to face Buxton.
‘Christmas Day?’
‘Mmm. Only eight days ago. Turkey for dinner, Queen on the telly, if that helps.’
‘I was at my parents’. Why?’
‘All day?’
‘No. I left home about twelve, got there about one. Had lunch, stayed for tea. Got back to Heckley about eleven. I go see them every Christmas. What’s this all about?’
‘We’re investigating a rape. What about the night before? Where were you on Christmas Eve?’
‘Christmas Eve?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘I went round a few pubs in the town. What of it?’
‘Name me them.’
‘I don’t know their names. They’re just pubs. I ’aven’t lived in Heckley all that long.’
‘Do you know the Tap and Spile?’
‘Yeah. I know the Tap.’
‘Did you go there?’
‘What if I did?’
‘Do you know the barmaid there?’
‘Janet? Yeah. I know Janet.’
‘How well do you know her?’
He gave a little cock-eyed smile, his lips pursed. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I fink I can say I know her very well.’
‘She says you followed her home and raped her at knifepoint. Did you?’
‘She said that?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Janet?’
‘Mmm.’
‘The cow! The friggin’ little cow!’
‘Are you denying it?’
‘Course I’m friggin denying
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