A Genuine Mistake by Ted Tayler (miss read books txt) 📗

Nicholas’s office. Gus half-expected the glass barrier between them to become frosted.

“I hope they didn’t expect to find any Bourbons or Garibaldis, guv,” said Neil.

“I noticed you took advantage of not having any input in the conversation to fill your face, Neil.”

“Did I miss the notice in the newspaper nominating Gerry Hogan for a sainthood, guv?”

“Nick Barrett was a fan, wasn’t he? Before he mentioned the wife and daughter, I wondered whether his interests lay elsewhere, despite the frequent references to females they met on the trip.”

“I pegged him as an old-fashioned type, old before his time, guv. It goes with the territory. That legal language deliberately makes everything sound old and venerable.”

“Did he mention one name we didn’t already have on our list, Neil?” asked Gus.

“Not one, guv,” said Neil, “apart from Ginny and Josephine. I can’t see any point in interviewing them.”

Gus and Neil returned to the station car park. The place was just as busy as it had been earlier.

“Five or six nights,” said Neil.

“I made a mental note of that, Neil,” said Gus. “Not sure how it helps us.”

“No, I don’t suppose those traveller hostels kept pristine records on who was staying there any more than they kept the rooms in five-star order.”

“If we discovered that Gerry Hogan upset someone between February and November 1981, would that person wait until May 2012 before taking his revenge? That’s a non-starter, Neil.”

As Neil drove them back through Holt village, Gus wondered what Alex had discovered. If Nick Barrett was right, and Gerry Hogan was a saint, then that was another door slammed in their faces.

They were running out of doors.

“Where next, guv?” asked Neil as they entered the lift.

“Luke will have our next meetings arranged, Neil,” said Gus. “Or he’s for the naughty step. I want you to concentrate on Nick Barrett’s background. Do some digging to find out whether he’s the bumbling country solicitor that he purports to be.”

“Got it, guv,” said Neil. “I can’t see what Gerry Hogan saw in the bloke.”

They exited the lift, and Gus headed for the restroom. Neil laid his jacket on the back of his chair and sat with a sigh.

“No joy?” asked Luke.

“Gus had a plan which didn’t work for a change,” said Neil. “I sat on my hands while Nick Barrett gave us his life story, with occasional references to our victim.”

“What did you learn?” asked Blessing Umeh.

“In a nutshell? We got confirmation that Gerry Hogan was an honourable man in every part of his life. He was never in trouble and went out of his way to keep his friends on the straight and narrow. His business affairs will be squeaky clean, no matter how deep Alex digs if we can believe everything his pal Nick says. Hogan’s sons come from the same mould. During the gap year that Barrett and Hogan spent together, there were half a dozen occasions where Hogan may, or may not, have slept with a fellow female backpacker. Barrett followed the line that as a gentleman never discusses such matters, therefore his pal Gerry would never say a word about what happened.”

Gus returned from the restroom with two coffees.

“White, one sugar, Neil,” he said. “Have you given them the potted version?”

“Pretty much, guv,” said Neil.

“Any ideas where to look into Nick Barrett?”

“I can’t talk to Bruce Atkins and Natalie Flook, guv. They’re partners in the firm and will close ranks. As for the pit bulls in the office, well…”

“Daphne and Suzanne? I think we’ll leave them well alone. They’ll be very protective of Mr Nicholas. Your best bet is to do a spot of overtime one evening this week. Drop by the club that he mentioned on Market Street, enquire about membership over a beer. Mention Barrett’s name for a potential reference, then sit back and see what reaction you get.”

“Right, guv. I can swing it with Melody once I tell her she’s got a night out on Friday.”

“What sort of club is it, Neil?” asked Lydia. “Are you sure Melody will let you go there?”

“It may have been a private members club in the past, Lydia. Perfectly proper and above board. The type of club where the only female they allowed in worked behind the bar. I’ve visited dozens of them over the years. I can imagine they were a welcome refuge for thousands of married men who just wanted somewhere to get away from the wife and kids for an hour between the wars and into the Fifties. Most of the places had a small bar, a dartboard, and a billiard table. Some termed themselves as Reading Rooms, which attracted teetotal men. They still had a billiard table, but the walls contained shelves of books and magazines, rather than a dartboard.”

“It sounds Victorian, guv,” said Blessing.

“Most of the premises were from that era, Blessing. Now, who was likely to join such a club? Their membership came from middle-class professional men, who avoided the working men’s clubs like the plague—managers who didn’t want to rub shoulders at the bar with the factory workers they employed. Everything changed in the Seventies when women insisted they should be allowed to join. A few famous golf clubs and London establishments held out for as long as they could. The result was inevitable.”

“Quite right too, guv,” said Lydia.

“Perhaps you should go to Market Street tomorrow night, Lydia, with Neil. Take a good look. When I joined the force in 1975, there were over a dozen similar clubs in Salisbury. I can show you three buildings within a hundred yards of this office that were once a hive of activity several evenings a week. Most had a small bar, a dartboard, and a billiard table. In the larger premises, there was also a skittle alley. You could argue that the type of