Phil Rickman - The Smile of a Ghost

Mabbe Jason was meeting somebody in town – a girl or one of his scumbag mates. Mumford let him get close enough to the end of the bridge and then he started jogging.

Smiling at himself. This was what retired bastards did, to stay alive. All looking like Mumford in his tracksuit top and his pale blue trousers with elasticized bottoms, and his trainers.

Nobody else even walking this side of the bridge. He could see the traffic lights up ahead now, the vehicles nose-to-tail. Over the wall on his left was the River Wye where there used to be a restaurant. All this kind of recreation happening across the road now at Left Bank Village, so it was lucky Jason wasn’t heading towards town on that side. No chance there; far too crowded.

Thirty yards behind Jason now, and the sound of his trainers was muffled by the growling traffic. Had his baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, looking down at the footpath, and just as well; with fifteen or twenty yards to go, Jason heard him and glanced over his shoulder and then back into his chips – just some sad ole jogger.

What Mumford did next was start smiling. Beaming all over his face. It didn’t come easy, never had, but he did it. Dumpy, middle-aged, genial, smiling bastard civilian.

Drawing level with Jason now, puffing a bit and slowing up as the traffic lights turned fortuitously to green, all the drivers’ attention fixed on getting through.

And Jason, stuffing a chip in his gob, never seen it coming.

Soon as the boy’s hand was back in the chip bag, Mumford’s shoulder connected with the muscle near the top of his arm, the bag flying up in the air.

‘Oh, sorry, mate! Sorry!’

‘You fuckin’ clumsy—’

‘Let me help you, boy,’ Mumford said and, with his back to the traffic, smacked Jason in the mouth, not too hard but hard enough.

The boy was still choking on the chip while Mumford was propelling him down the street to the left and across the car park, back towards the underside of the bridge. Figuring that under the bridge was best. Be nobody about on this side. Nice bit of dereliction, fair bit of cover.

Plenty of time, plenty of river. And he had the bastard who, one way or another, had murdered Robbie Walsh.

‘LEDWARDINE VICARAGE,’ LOL said.

‘Is the vicar there?’ Woman’s voice, local accent.

Lol said the vicar was out and asked if he could take a message.

He was unhappy. He’d answered two calls so far from parishioners, both of whom seemed to have recognized his voice, neither of whom had wanted to discuss the nature of their business with him. The tones suggesting that they thought the vicar was not out at all but was perhaps upstairs, sobbing into her pillow, aching from dozens of bruises in places where they wouldn’t show.

‘When will she be back? I mean, can you contact her? Has she got a mobile?’

‘No, she hasn’t. Not at the moment. I can’t contact her, I’m afraid.’

Lol heard a door opening behind him. Jane came into the scullery, looking flushed, followed by Eirion.

‘Damn,’ the woman said. ‘Look, if she comes in, can you get her to ring me. Like, just me, OK? Anybody else answers, don’t talk to them. Can you tell her that? My name’s Karen Dowell. Tell her I’m Andy Mumford’s… something or other, relation. She’ll know.’

‘Oh. You’re calling from police headquarters.’

Pause. ‘Who are you, exactly?’ Karen Dowell said.

‘My name’s Lol Robinson. I’m a… friend.’

Jane was making handle-turning motions at him, to wind this up. He tucked the phone between his shoulder and his cheek and raised both hands at her.

‘OK,’ Karen Dowell said, ‘I know who you are. Mr Robinson, have you heard from Andy?’

‘No, but I’ve had Bliss here.’

‘I know that. He said he was going to talk to the vicar. They all seem to trust the vicar.’

‘He talked to me instead.’

‘Where exactly is Mrs Watkins?’

‘She’s in Ludlow.’

‘Damn,’ Karen said. ‘Listen, can I really trust—’

‘Yes, you can.’

‘Not a word to Bliss, not to anybody, apart from the vicar and Andy, if he calls.’

‘I understand,’ Lol said.

‘Don’t even make notes, you only need the sense of this.’

‘OK.’

‘I’ve been doing PNC checks for Andy – police computer, yeah?’

‘Right.’

‘And following stuff up. I’m good with computers, it’s my thing. Checked out a number of people connected with the Plascarreg, which you don’t need to know about. The one you do need to know about is Jonathan Swift.’

‘The writer?’

‘It’s a guy in Ludlow who Andy asked me to check a few days ago. He calls himself something else there, but this is the name in which his car’s registered. He hasn’t got a record, but I’m always suspicious when there’s a name change involved, so I made a few calls. We had a previous address for him in Cheshire, near Stockport, so I belled a bloke I was at the police college with, works at Greater Manchester Police. Keeping it off the record. And he put me onto another guy, OK? I’m stressing again that this is unofficial, Mr Robinson, and only for (a) Andy, (b) the vicar, right? My neck’s gonner be on the block here.’

‘Is this a man called Jonathan Scole?’

‘That’s correct. His real name’s Swift, and the crux of it is his parents were shot dead. Both of them. They… you there, Mr Robinson?’

‘Yes.’

‘You on your own?’

Lol caught Jane’s eye, pointed at the door. ‘Yes.’

‘All right: Swift’s parents ran a transport caff – greasy spoon, yeah? They were shot as they were leaving at closing time, just before midnight. Takings stolen. I remember this one, actually, although no reason you would. Major police hunt, but nobody ever caught. Very efficient. Head shots with a handgun. Well, no shortage of them in the Manchester area these days.’

‘Recently?’ Lol nodded as Jane shrugged and slipped out, with Eirion.

‘Last year. I’ve got the date somewhere, but that don’t matter. Bit of a puzzler, though, because the takings came to just over three hundred. Peanuts, in other words. Two people shot dead at close range, for three hundred? Even in Manchester, you don’t get that. It was on Crimewatch and they got zilch from the public. It was all very carefully planned, and kids after money for drugs aren’t that careful, take my word.’

‘And so… what’s the significance?’

‘Contract killing,’ Karen said. ‘That’s the whisper. That’s the unspoken. Not a shred of evidence, mind.’

‘The parents were, like, underworld figures?’

‘Good God, no, they were respectable people who worked day and night and didn’t even have any points on their driving licences. Contract killing en’t what it used to be, Mr Robinson. Too many guns about now, and too many evil little buggers who’ll do it for a thousand or less.’

‘So this guy in Ludlow changed his name… because his parents were murdered?’

‘He changed his name, originally, on police advice, because people started pointing the finger. Collected a lot of money, see – sale of a house, sale of a café to a national chain looking for a site. Now, he was personally in the clear – away on a business-studies course. Full alibi. But, as I say, neighbours and friends of Mr and Mrs Swift were whispering about terrible domestic rows. Had a temper on him, see. Not a happy family.’

‘Look,’ Lol said, feeling his chest going tight, ‘can you spell this out? What are we worrying about, in particular? I don’t know this guy, but I think Merrily does.’

‘Well, Mr Robinson, I don’t know, do I? I’m just passing on what I’ve discovered. It might be something or nothing. But I’d feel real bad if I hadn’t passed it on and then something happened. Which is why I’m telling you now rather than wait till Andy shows up. And that’s another problem, ennit?’