Mark Pearson - The Killing Season

I shivered. It was a flensing gale.

‘It’s an extension, a kind of studio for me. I’m doing a bit of writing and I wanted a view.’

‘Nice view.’

‘Would be — through a window, if there was one,’ Helen sighed sadly.

‘What was the deal?’

‘They quoted me a price. I had a couple of different firms in. They seemed the most reasonable.’

‘Cheapest isn’t always the best when it comes to builders.’

‘Or women.’ She cracked a tiny smile at that. ‘An expensive lesson I take it?’

Her ghost of a smile faded. ‘And a painful one.’

‘What have they said?’

‘I have already paid them what they quoted to start with and then five thousand pounds more. Now they tell me they want another few thousand to finish it. I haven’t got that to spare. Well, I could, I suppose. But there is a principle involved. I am not getting any younger, Mister Delaney. I may need to draw on my investments for other necessities.’

‘Do you have a contract with the builders?’

‘Not a formal one, no. Because of the new laws on not needing planning permission for a ground-floor extension if you don’t go beyond the property’s limits, I didn’t get an architect. The pair of them seemed trustworthy. What is it they say about a fool and her money?’

‘I don’t think you’re a fool.’

‘The evidence would seem to suggest otherwise.’

‘Cynicism is the modern curse. It infects our society like a canker. Trusting people is not a bad thing. You shouldn’t blame yourself and we can take care of this.’

‘How?’

I smiled wryly at her. ‘I have degrees in cynicism, Helen. Distinctions in it. The first thing is to get this room sealed properly so your kitchen is usable. And let me worry about the bad men. It’s what I do.’

‘Like I say. I do have some small resources left financially.’

I held up my hand. ‘Let’s not worry about that now. Seems to me these people haven’t fulfilled their part of the bargain.’

‘The police said they couldn’t do anything.’

I smiled again. ‘I’m not police, Helen. At least, not at the moment, anyway.’

I pulled out my phone.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Guy I know in Sheringham. Retired cabinet maker, puts his hands to most things. I’m going to have him put the windows in and see what needs doing to get the rest finished. We’ll have this sorted before you know it.’

‘Thank you.’

The relief in her voice was palpable. She bent down to pick up her dog who had come scampering up as he heard the emotion in her voice and was whimpering a little, concerned for her. His tail thumped wildly against her arms and he licked her face as if he had not seen her for a week.

She smiled as the tension leaked from her body. Canine medicine.

I smiled ironically to myself as I finished punching the numbers into my mobile. Dealing with dodgy builders and petty vandals — I felt a long, long way from London.

‘Mike,’ I said as my call was answered. ‘It’s Jack Delaney.’

It was a couple of hours later.

I had taken my Saab back on the demolition-derby coastal road and managed to survive the journey to Weybourne. I’d also called the builder whom Helen Middleton had had the misfortune to employ and had ascertained, by use of skilful detection techniques, where he was currently working. He was doing some roofing work on a rental property that was located down the coastal road that ran from opposite The Ship public house down to the beach.

I had asked about his availability for a quote and he had said he’d be finished about five and could swing by my house later. I told him I would check with the wife and call him back if that was suitable. I’d asked him how far away he was from a street in Sheringham — where we didn’t in fact live — and he gave me the name of the street in which he was working. If I hadn’t been a detective maybe I would have made a great telephone salesperson. Then again, I reasoned, I probably didn’t have either the temperament or the personality for it.

It was nearly three o’clock when I pulled up alongside the builder’s Mercedes van. I’d guessed that he’d have a van and it would have his name on it, and I’d figured right. You don’t get to be made a DI in the greatest police force in the land without that kind of deductive genius. The nearly new Lexus parked next to it, with his sign also on the back window, seemed to indicate that he was doing pretty well out of his building business too. Judging by the way he had ripped off Helen Middleton I wasn’t surprised that he could afford a luxury car to go with his Mercedes van.

My carpenter pal Mike Garnet had arrived earlier at Helen Middleton’s place with a builder friend of his to weatherproof the kitchen, and to evaluate the damage. By their assessment the job required about three grand or so to finish it off to a good spec. The good news was that there were no major problems with the work that had been completed — barring the fact that Bill Collier’s lot had overcharged her by about five grand for materials and hadn’t finished the job when they were supposed to. And now they were putting the strong arm on her for more money to do so. Sharp practice. The police seemed to regard it as a civil matter, which is, I guess, where I came in.

Only I wasn’t going to be civil about it.

I pulled up in front of the Lexus, got out of the car and walked back to the house.

My experience as one of the Met’s finest also led me to deduce that the fact that there were two vehicles parked outside the house meant that there was more than just Collier on the job. I could see one guy on top of a medium-sized ladder, adjusting some guttering that ran just above the mounting for a Sky aerial dish that was pointing south.

He was broad-shouldered man, shorter than me by a couple of inches by the look of him. But heavier. Thick dark hair, a face battered by more than weather in its time. His hands were about twice the size of mine. In his late forties, I would have guessed. Something definitely simian about him. I could see why Amy had said he was not likely to be easily frightened. But a man is worthy of his hire, or should be — and I had a job to do.

‘Your name Bill Collier?’ I asked.

The man on top of the ladder turned round, looked at me and grunted, growling suspiciously.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ he replied.

‘Name of Delaney, Jack Delaney. And I need to speak to you about a job you did for Helen Middleton.’

‘What’s it got to do with you?’

‘I said I would help her in the matter.’

‘How?’

‘By my reckoning the job needs a few grands’ worth of work to get it finished.’

‘And?’

‘And you have already overcharged her for materials and supposed labour, et cetera. Ballpark? Five grand, let’s say. I want the money from you to pay a competent builder to complete the project,’ I said pleasantly. Then I smiled.

It took him a moment or two to take it in. ‘Are you out of your fucking mind?’

‘Not at all.’ I kept the smile on my face.

‘Want me to come down there and punch your lights out, then?’ He had a Midlands accent — Birmingham or Coventry or thereabouts, I guessed.

I took it as a rhetorical question, but kicked the ladder over just to be on the safe side. Bill Collier shouted in rage as the ladder fell away below him. He flailed, grabbed the Sky dish mounting, and dangled some eight feet from the ground. ‘You are a fucking dead man!’ he yelled.

‘I am just trying to establish a bit of dialogue here. We can do it easy or we can do it hard, Mr Collier. Either way the lady is going to be compensated.’

‘Just who the fuck do you think you are?’ His face was red with rage and exertion.