Devil in the Detail by A.J. Cross (love letters to the dead .TXT) 📗

the hospital appointment her son and his wife attended yesterday afternoon, after which they dropped in briefly for a family visit, then went to dinner at some place in Newhall Street.’ He glanced down at her. ‘If you like “salubrious”, you’ll approve of Newhall Street.’ He took a few steps, nudged a chunk of concrete with his foot. ‘They could have avoided the inner city when they drove home from that restaurant. I’m presuming they went in the wrong direction fairly early on.’

‘You’re always telling me that presuming is a bad idea.’

‘It can be, but the indications are that that’s what happened. It had been a workday for both of them, followed by the hospital appointment, the family visit, then dinner. They were probably tired, missed the road for home, hit the roadworks and ended up in this hellhole.’

He watched her mooch across the taped-off area, past SOCOs and uniformed officers still searching for something, anything, no matter how small, and on to the abandoned petrol station. She was now heading back to him.

‘How did he get here?’

‘Who?’

‘The gunman.’

‘Like Adam said, there’s no indication.’

‘Got any investigative theories?’

Watts looked in the general direction of the Bristol Road intersection. ‘This place is some distance from where the carjacking series occurred, but it’s walkable. Right now, I’m not ruling out a link. Whoever did them might have decided to escalate his operation. If he’s local he’d know about the road chaos, might have anticipated lost or confused drivers ending up here. That’s what he would have wanted. Potential victims looking lost and confused.’ He took a folded sheet of paper from an inside pocket and handed it to her. She unfolded it. It was a map. He pointed out some of its features.

‘We’re here, and not too far in that direction is housing, just about visible, see? And beyond that the Bristol Road interchange.’

She looked up and nodded.

He continued, ‘No need for a car. It’s close enough to walk here without attracting any undue interest from other locals who might have been about, then get the hell out of here and he’s home.’

‘Sounds neat,’ she said. ‘You’re ruling out that he drove here?’

‘I’m ruling out nothing.’

‘See that, Sarge?’ He looked in the direction she was pointing. ‘A convenience store.’

He narrowed his eyes through the growing murk at a lit sign, put on his glasses. ‘Twenty-twenty wins every time. I know that place from way back. Its owner is an optimist or insured to the eyebrows. I want to talk to him.’

They quickly covered the distance and entered the small shop, sidling through aisles crammed with stock. One or two customers glanced at Watts, took in his height and casually left their baskets and the shop for urgent appointments they’d just thought of. A little man in a white, long-sleeved, Islamic shirt topped by a padded gilet suddenly appeared, both hands raised.

‘Mr Watts, sir, what a long time it is I don’t see you!’

‘How’s it going, Abdul?’

Abdul’s face lost its pleased expression. ‘You are here about that truly awful event which happened.’ He raised his hands again. ‘Who would do such a terrible thing?’

‘This is my colleague, PC Judd. That’s what we’re here to find out.’ His eyes drifted around the shop. ‘Still in business, Abdul. Doing well?’

Abdul’s face sobered. ‘For now. My wife wants me to sell up. She says, too dangerous.’

‘She might have a point.’

Abdul gave a quick headshake. ‘No, no, Mr Watts. I have good clientele here. Good people. OK, one or two I don’t like, but most others very good, very nice.’

Watts moved towards the door and peered out. ‘Where do they come from?’

Abdul joined him, pointing. ‘Over that way, mostly.’

Watts looked at distant housing, beyond it two blocks of medium-rise flats, like teeth jutting from otherwise empty gums. ‘A lot of older people over there with no transport, Mr Watts. They need Abdul’s mini-market.’

Watts turned back into the shop. ‘Had any trouble here, recently?’

‘Not in the last twelve months.’ He turned, called towards the back of the shop. ‘Nigel!’

The massive individual who appeared gave Watts that rare experience of looking up at another human being. Judd’s mouth dropped open. He gave her a swift nudge. ‘Afternoon, Mr …?’

The man stared down at him. ‘Nigel will do,’ he said, in a tone which sounded like an invitation to make something of it.

Abdul proudly eyed him. ‘Nigel is in charge of security for Abdul’s mini-market. Very good worker, very good.’

‘You work here every day, Nigel?’

‘Yes. Not to a fixed routine. I vary it, but mostly I’m here early and late.’

‘Dark mornings, dark evenings, Mr Watts. No trouble since Nigel came.’

Aware that Nigel’s eyes hadn’t shifted from him, Watts reached inside his jacket for his notebook. ‘We’re interested in yesterday, Monday, the third. You were both here?’

‘Yes.’ Nigel’s eyes were still fixed on him.

‘You know what’s happened in Forge Street?’

No response from Abdul nor his security operative.

‘Did you see anything?’

‘Nothing,’ said Abdul. ‘Too far away.’

Watts studied Nigel, waiting. ‘How about you?’

Nigel shook his head.

Watts waited some more. ‘Did you hear anything?’

Nigel and Abdul exchanged looks. Abdul nodded to Nigel, who said, ‘What sounded like two shots at around nine twenty, nine thirty.’

Watts wrote down the time, then frowned at it. ‘You sure about that?’

‘Thereabouts, give or take.’

‘Neither of you looked out? Went out?’

‘Do we look like fools?’

Watts thought he had a point. He took out a card, handed it to Abdul. ‘If you think of anything else, hear anything from the locals, give me a ring.’ Abdul looked at the card, nodded.

Watts gave Nigel an appraising look. ‘You work out?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Where?’

‘Sidney’s Place. My dad owns it.’

Now seeing the family resemblance, Watts’ face cleared. ‘How is your dad?’

‘Like a butcher’s dog.’

‘Tell him DI Watts sends his regards, and that I might be seeing him.’

He and Judd left the shop and walked back to the Forge Street scene, which was still showing signs of forensic activity.

‘That’s a useful fix on the time of the shooting, Sarge.’

‘You might think so, Judd.’

She frowned up at him. ‘You