The landlady looked over her glasses at Sarah. She narrowed her eyes.
‘It’s not for us.’ Murray grinned. He’d worked with a few detectives whose questioning skills lacked refinement, but Sarah beat them hands down.
‘Oh! No, it’s not for us. We’re looking for some people.’
‘The couple you mentioned on the phone?’
Murray nodded. ‘It’s possible they’re in the area. If they are, they’d want to stay out of the spotlight.’
The landlady gave a snort of laughter that wobbled her ladder. ‘In Coton? Everyone knows everyone’s business here. If your pair were here, I’d know about it.’ She took another piece of Blu Tack from Sarah, and stuck a bunch of silver balloons onto a fake beam. ‘Speak to Shifty, tonight. He might be able to help.’
‘Who?’
‘Simon Shiftworth. Shifty suits him better, though. You’ll see why. People who can’t get a council flat get one of Shifty’s. He’ll be in around nine – always is.’
Sarah looked at Murray. ‘It’s a date.’
They ate in the village’s other pub, the Black Horse, in order to ask the landlord if he knew of any incomers to the village. He didn’t. Murray was surprised to discover he wasn’t overly bothered by their lack of progress. In fact, if the entire trip proved to be fruitless, he didn’t care. Sarah was looking happier than he’d seen her in months. She had polished off steak and chips, and a treacle tart, along with two glasses of wine, and the pair of them had laughed in a way Murray didn’t think they’d laughed since they first got together. A change was as good as a rest, they said, and Murray could feel his own spirits lifting, as surely as if he’d spent a week in a health spa.
‘If Shifty’s not here, we can just go to bed,’ Sarah said, as they walked back to the Wagon and Horses.
‘It’s still early, I’m not …’ Murray caught Sarah’s wink. ‘Oh. Good plan.’ He hoped Shifty would decide to have a quiet one at home. But as they headed to the bar to get a nightcap to take upstairs, the landlady jerked her head towards the snug.
‘In there. You can’t miss him.’
Murray and Sarah exchanged a glance.
‘We’ll have to see him.’
‘But …’ It had been a very long time since Murray had had an early night.
Sarah suppressed a laugh at his obvious frustration. ‘We’ve come all this way.’
They had. And with any luck, their chat with Shifty wouldn’t take long. Plenty of time for an early night.
The landlady had been right; there was no missing Shifty.
In his sixties, he had greasy yellowed hair pasted across a bald head, and thick-rimmed glasses so smeared it was a wonder he could see through them. A cold sore wept in the corner of his mouth. He wore pale blue jeans, black trainers with white socks, and a leather jacket, cracked at the creases of each elbow.
‘He looks like a public service announcement for paedophiles,’ whispered Sarah.
Murray shot her a look, but Shifty showed no sign of having heard. He looked up as they approached.
‘Caz says you’re looking for someone.’
‘Two people. Tom and Caroline Johnson.’
‘Never heard of them,’ Shifty said, too fast for it to mean anything, either way. He looked Murray up and down. ‘Not police, are you?’
‘No,’ Murray said, with a clear conscience.
Shifty drained his pint glass and set it down deliberately in front of him.
Murray knew the score. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘I thought you’d never ask. I’ll have a pint of Black Hole.’
Murray caught the landlady’s eye. ‘A pint of Black—’
‘And a whiskey chaser,’ Shifty added.
‘Right.’
‘And a couple lined up for later. I’m feeling thirsty.’
‘I tell you what.’ Murray opened his wallet. ‘Why don’t I give you this?’ He pulled out two twenty-pound notes and laid them on the bar. From his pocket he took out photographs of Tom and Caroline Johnson, given to the police after each was reported missing. ‘And you tell me if you’ve rented a flat to this couple.’
Shifty pocketed the cash. ‘Why do you want to know?’
Because they’re pretending to be dead.
If Shifty had half the nous he appeared to have, he’d tell them nothing and get on the phone to the Daily Mail.
‘They owe us money,’ Sarah said.
Inspired. Murray wanted to applaud. Shifty was nodding, no doubt reflecting on his own experiences of absent debtors.
‘Never seen this bloke.’ He jabbed at the photograph of Tom Johnson. ‘But the bird,’ he jabbed at Caroline, ‘she’s in one of my bedsits in Swad. Different hair, but definitely her. Goes by the name Angela Grange.’
Murray could have kissed him. He knew it! Fake suicides. This was huge. He wanted to spin Sarah around, buy champagne, tell the whole pub what they’d discovered.
‘Great,’ he said.
‘At least, she was …’
So close.
‘She scarpered, owing me a month’s rent.’
‘Take it out of her deposit,’ Sarah suggested helpfully.
Murray tried to keep a straight face and failed.
Shifty looked at her as though she had suggested he wash his hair. ‘What deposit? People rent from me because there are no deposits. No contracts. No questions.’
‘No carpets,’ Caz contributed, from behind the bar.
‘Fuck off,’ Shifty said mildly.
‘Could we take a look around the bedsit?’ Nothing ventured, Murray thought. A regular landlord would tell him where to go. Shifty, on the other hand …
‘No skin off mine. Meet you there tomorrow morning.’ He looked at the full pint and the tumbler of whiskey in front of him. ‘Better make it after lunch.’
The address Shifty had written down for them was in Swadlincote, five miles from Coton in the Elms, and with none of the latter village’s charm. An array of charity shops and boarded-up premises graced the town’s high street, and a motley collection of youths outside Somerfield suggested employment opportunities were limited.
Murray and Sarah found Potters Road and parked outside the block of flats Shifty had described. The building was red brick. Several windows had been covered with metal grilles, which had in turn been covered with graffiti. A large yellow penis was sprayed across the front door.
‘Nice place,’ Sarah said. ‘We should move here.’
‘Lovely outlook,’ Murray agreed. A cairn of mattresses filled the scrubby garden at the front of the property. In the centre, a charred circle showed where someone had tried to set fire to them.
Sarah nodded towards an oncoming car – the only one in the deserted street. ‘Do you think that’s him?’
There was nothing low-key about Shifty’s car: a white Lexus with lowered suspension and out of proportion wheels. Blue LEDs glowed from behind a silver mesh grille, and a giant spoiler weighed down the rear end.
‘Classy.’
Murray got out. ‘Maybe you should wait in the car.’
‘Not a chance.’ Sarah hopped out and waited for Shifty to emerge from behind the tinted windows of the Lexus. The man was a walking cliché; Murray was surprised he hadn’t seen a gold medallion glinting between his shirt buttons.
No time was wasted on good mornings. Shifty gave them a curt nod and strode past towards the penis-adorned entrance.
The bedsit where Angela Grange – aka Caroline Johnson – had spent the last twelve months was depressing. It was clean – cleaner, Murray suspected, than when Caroline had moved in, judging by the filth in the communal stairwell – but the paint was peeling from the walls, and with all the windows shut fast, condensation glistened on every wall. Murray nodded at the extra bolts on the inside of the front door.
‘Standard around here, are they?’
‘She did that. Someone had the frighteners on her.’
‘Did she say that?’
‘She didn’t have to. She was jumpy as fuck. None of my business.’ Shifty was wandering around the room, checking for damage. He pulled open a drawer and picked up a black bra, turning to Murray with a leer. ‘Thirty-six C, if you’re asking.’
Murray wasn’t. But if Shifty was going to poke around, so was he.