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Authors: Stuart Pawson
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replied. ‘A carrot in a brown paper bag is all I ever use.’
‘How do you like the Mondeo?’ Eddie asked as he settled into the passenger seat.
‘Love it,’ I replied.
He ran his finger over the console with the delicacy of a devotee, checking the numbers, the quality and God knows what else. ‘Two litres?’
‘Yes.’ I started the engine and steered us out onto the road.
‘Hmm. It feels nice. What do you get to the gallon?’
‘Thirty… something,’ I told him.
‘Press the button on the end of the stalk.’
I did as I was told.
‘Thirty-six point five,’ he read from the digital display. ‘Not bad. Press it again.’
I pressed it.
‘At an average of 38.4 miles per hour.’
That kept him happy for the rest of the journey. Donovan Bender lived in one of the project blocks at the bottom end of the Sylvan Fields estate. Bottom end geographically and socially. The lift stank of the usual, the car parking area held the standard array of shopping trolleys and wheel-less vehicles, and if a window cleaner had ever ventured into the flats he’d have found a sanding machine more useful than a wash leather.
‘Police,’ Eddie shouted through the door in response to Donovan’s ‘Who is it?’
He let us in and asked us to sit down. His wife was at work, behind the desk at a local filling station, and he was preparing vegetables for when the kids came home from school. The TV was showing cartoons but he switched it off. The room was surprisingly neat and tidy.
‘What am I supposed to ’ave done now?’ he asked, wiping his hands on his jeans and sitting down.
‘We don’t know. What have you done?’ Eddie responded.
‘Noffing. Noffing at all.’
‘Where were you on Sunday the ninth? That’s a week last Sunday.’
‘Nowhere. I never go anywhere, do I? Down to the pub on a Saturday, watching cricket or football at the rec. in the afternoon, and that’s it. Can’t afford to go anywhere, not wiv two growing kids. If I do go anywhere it’s wiv them, innit?’
‘When did you last see Alfred Armitage?’
‘Huh! So that’s worrits about, is it. Loopy old Alf. I thought it was ’im when I saw it in the paper, but I wasn’t sure.’
‘You haven’t answered the question.’
‘When did I last see Alfie Armitage?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Dunno. Probably the day Ellis and Newbold’s closed down. I’ve certainly never seen ’im since.’
‘What did you do at Ellis and Newbold’s, Donovan?’ I asked.
‘I was just a labourer and van driver, wasn’t I?’
Eddie quizzed him some more, gave him a hard time, suggested he might prefer to come down to the station to make a statement, but he had nothing to offer us. Donovan remembered Eric Smallwood, said he was weird, and that the two men hardly spoke to each other, but it never came to violence. He couldn’t think of anybody at the factory who might want Alfred dead. Nobody cared that much about him.
‘How are the daughters, Donovan?’ I asked. ‘Have they forgiven you for ruining their Christmas?’
‘Yeah,’ he replied, blushing and looking sheepish. ‘It was a long time ago. We ’ave a laugh about it, now and again. I’d been on the Carlsberg Special. She’s forgiven me, except…’
‘Except what?’
‘Oh nowt. Just the job thing. It ain’t right, the wife working an’ me at home, is it? But there’s noffing for me. Not now. Not wiv my record.’
I stood up and Eddie did the same. ‘If you think of anything else, give us a ring.’
He followed us to the door, his brow furrowed as if he were working at some imponderable puzzle. ‘There is somefing,’ he said as we stood at the door.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘I’m not sure. It’s just that Smallwood ’ad a name for Alfie. Called ’im it behind ’is back.’
‘A name. What sort of name?’
‘I’m trying to fink. Midnight, or somefing like that. Yeah, that was it: Midnight. ’E called ’im Midnight.’
‘Midnight?’ we replied in
‘How do you like the Mondeo?’ Eddie asked as he settled into the passenger seat.
‘Love it,’ I replied.
He ran his finger over the console with the delicacy of a devotee, checking the numbers, the quality and God knows what else. ‘Two litres?’
‘Yes.’ I started the engine and steered us out onto the road.
‘Hmm. It feels nice. What do you get to the gallon?’
‘Thirty… something,’ I told him.
‘Press the button on the end of the stalk.’
I did as I was told.
‘Thirty-six point five,’ he read from the digital display. ‘Not bad. Press it again.’
I pressed it.
‘At an average of 38.4 miles per hour.’
That kept him happy for the rest of the journey. Donovan Bender lived in one of the project blocks at the bottom end of the Sylvan Fields estate. Bottom end geographically and socially. The lift stank of the usual, the car parking area held the standard array of shopping trolleys and wheel-less vehicles, and if a window cleaner had ever ventured into the flats he’d have found a sanding machine more useful than a wash leather.
‘Police,’ Eddie shouted through the door in response to Donovan’s ‘Who is it?’
He let us in and asked us to sit down. His wife was at work, behind the desk at a local filling station, and he was preparing vegetables for when the kids came home from school. The TV was showing cartoons but he switched it off. The room was surprisingly neat and tidy.
‘What am I supposed to ’ave done now?’ he asked, wiping his hands on his jeans and sitting down.
‘We don’t know. What have you done?’ Eddie responded.
‘Noffing. Noffing at all.’
‘Where were you on Sunday the ninth? That’s a week last Sunday.’
‘Nowhere. I never go anywhere, do I? Down to the pub on a Saturday, watching cricket or football at the rec. in the afternoon, and that’s it. Can’t afford to go anywhere, not wiv two growing kids. If I do go anywhere it’s wiv them, innit?’
‘When did you last see Alfred Armitage?’
‘Huh! So that’s worrits about, is it. Loopy old Alf. I thought it was ’im when I saw it in the paper, but I wasn’t sure.’
‘You haven’t answered the question.’
‘When did I last see Alfie Armitage?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Dunno. Probably the day Ellis and Newbold’s closed down. I’ve certainly never seen ’im since.’
‘What did you do at Ellis and Newbold’s, Donovan?’ I asked.
‘I was just a labourer and van driver, wasn’t I?’
Eddie quizzed him some more, gave him a hard time, suggested he might prefer to come down to the station to make a statement, but he had nothing to offer us. Donovan remembered Eric Smallwood, said he was weird, and that the two men hardly spoke to each other, but it never came to violence. He couldn’t think of anybody at the factory who might want Alfred dead. Nobody cared that much about him.
‘How are the daughters, Donovan?’ I asked. ‘Have they forgiven you for ruining their Christmas?’
‘Yeah,’ he replied, blushing and looking sheepish. ‘It was a long time ago. We ’ave a laugh about it, now and again. I’d been on the Carlsberg Special. She’s forgiven me, except…’
‘Except what?’
‘Oh nowt. Just the job thing. It ain’t right, the wife working an’ me at home, is it? But there’s noffing for me. Not now. Not wiv my record.’
I stood up and Eddie did the same. ‘If you think of anything else, give us a ring.’
He followed us to the door, his brow furrowed as if he were working at some imponderable puzzle. ‘There is somefing,’ he said as we stood at the door.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘I’m not sure. It’s just that Smallwood ’ad a name for Alfie. Called ’im it behind ’is back.’
‘A name. What sort of name?’
‘I’m trying to fink. Midnight, or somefing like that. Yeah, that was it: Midnight. ’E called ’im Midnight.’
‘Midnight?’ we replied in
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