33
It had not been a good night. She’d arrived home curiously depressed after the conversation with Jules. Morriss Towers didn’t help. It was warm and cosy but – as always – empty. Times like that, you needed to talk. Perhaps she should get a lodger? She’d recced all the rooms but the new locks had deterred visitors, authorised or otherwise. She was reduced to talking to herself. Again.
“Okay, Bev, the evidence against Charlie isn’t enough for a conviction, but it’s early days. He’s not asbestos man and this time, he’s gonna burn.”
It took three large Grouse and a microwaved chicken Kiev before she actually began to believe it, and she’d woken next morning with a head that had a mind of its own. It had issued warnings about imminent death without immediate oxygen. An early run seemed the only option.
It wasn’t as much fun without Frankie, not having anyone to talk to, but it was great for getting rid of the cerebral cobwebs. Wouldn’t like to do it on her own all the time, though. Loneliness of the long distance runner and all that. Not that three miles qualified.
“Two down, one to go, Bev.” God. She must stop talking to herself. Not that there was anyone around. Not when the grass was skimmed with ice and her breath was like something out of the Flying Scotsman. Still, you noticed things more when you weren’t rabbiting on about tasty blokes or wankers at work. Rustic touches like a trail of paw prints or baby snowdrops sprouting in a crop of cotton buds. Crop of cotton buds? Pass the sick bag! What about all the glue-sniffing gear and empty cans of Special Strong Brew. Mind, it was good to be about when the park was quiet. Couldn’t see the point in getting out later, pounding pavements, dodging lippy schoolkids and smoking exhausts. Still, horses for courses and all that. Jules’s Marathon Man didn’t mind the fag end of the day. Set your clock by him, she said.
She stopped dead, heard her breathing in the still air as disjointed thoughts fell into a sort of focus. The Thread Street runner. It was his patch, as much as the girls. Had he been interviewed? Had he seen anything? Had he come forward? And if not, why not?
It took a couple of false starts but Bev was propping up Marathon Man’s sink before he’d downed breakfast. Cyanide Lil had eventually pointed her in the right direction. There weren’t many locals the old dear hadn’t clocked in her time and Bev was banging the bloke’s front door in line with the eight o’clock pips. He lived in a redbrick bed-sit. Like many in Balsall Heath: gross on the outside, inside what you made it. Jack Crane hadn’t made much of it. He hadn’t made much of himself; his cheap grey tracksuit was out at the knees and he’d obviously cut himself shaving. Either that or he had strange ways with bog roll. At thirty-something, he had a schoolboy fringe that fell into deep blue eyes. He wasn’t one for clutter: bare walls, empty shelves, no knick-knacks or newspapers. She thought maybe he’d just moved in but the packing cases were Jack Crane’s idea of a dining suite.
He hadn’t stopped gabbing since he’d opened the door. He’d apologised for the mess, offered her a bacon sarnie, explained how the wife had kicked him out and how he was on benefit. All this in the time it took to cross the cracked lino into what passed for a kitchen. Yet she didn’t get the impression he was jumpy, just saw a lonely guy glad to have someone to talk to, even if she was a copper.
“Sure I can’t get you something? Piece of toast? Coffee?” He was hovering like an anxious waiter.
She shook her head. “I’m fine. Finish yours.”
He perched on the only stool, self-consciously forking scrambled eggs. “I eat as well as I can.”
She nodded. Bloke sounded almost apologetic. “Have to. Running like you do.”
“I love it. Keeps me going in more ways than one. I don’t smoke, don’t drink. Can’t afford a telly. I’d go mad if I stopped in this place all day.”
“That’s what I want to talk about. Your evening runs.”
She waited while he swallowed. “Thought you said it was to do with a murder inquiry?”
“It is. You may have seen something that could help us.”
“Happy to. When did it happen?”
Bev studied his face. Was it possible he didn’t know? “Not it. Them. Two girls. You haven’t heard anything?”
“Should I have?”
“It’s been in the news a lot. Loads of people talking about it down the pub, that sort of thing.”
He shrugged. “Not my scene.”
She gave him edited highlights, concentrating on dates, times. His face was rapt, set in concentration.
“Can’t help you with Tuesday. There was a big protest in Thread Street. Threw me off my regular course.”
She nodded, impatient. “What about the Friday before?”
He had a mobile face, she could see him playing the events of the evening in his mind. Come on, come on.
“No.” He shook his head. “Couldn’t have been…”
“What?” The outburst filled the tiny space. “Sorry, Mr Crane. What couldn’t have been?”
He was so slow. This was so painful.
“I didn’t see any girl. Nothing like that.” There was an unspoken but. He frowned, met her gaze. “He seemed a nice bloke.”
“Who did?”
“Said he’d had a fall.”
“Who did?”
“This bloke. Looked all shook-up. Had quite a tumble. I took him for another runner. Lot of blood on his top.”
“Can you remember what he looked like?”
“Good-looking sort of chap. Very dark. Very fit. Long hair. Had it tied back.”
Gotcha! “This man, Mr Crane, would you recognise him again?”
“Yes. I rather think I would.”