Let Me Lie(84)

‘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.