Still Waters (Charlie Resnick #9)(85)
Kevin Naylor and Ben Parchman had divided the black cabs between them, leaving Divine to have a crack at the freebooters, drivers for mini-cab firms who were not authorized to ply for hire within the station concourse. It was a fact, however, that if one of them drove in to drop off a passenger and there was a fare waiting but no black cabs, well, business was business. They were also known to hang around at busy times outside the station, hoping to catch the eye of any potential customers for whom the regular queue was too slow and too long.
By mid-morning, between them, Naylor and Parchman had spoken to some fifty drivers and come up blank each time.
The first time Resnick spoke to Gill Manners, who ran the flower stall in the station concourse with her husband, Jane’s picture didn’t mean a thing, but later, when Resnick was walking past after talking to the station manager, she called him over and asked to look again.
“I’ve seen her, I know I have, I just can’t fit it in with what you said. Times and that.”
“Her picture would have been in the Post. On TV. You don’t think you’re remembering it from there?”
She shook her head. “You, now, Mr. Resnick, I’ve seen you on the local news a time or two. But this one, no, I’ve seen her I know, but where or when? It’s wedged in this poor head of mine somewhere, but I can’t shake it down.”
Resnick gave her one of his cards. “You’ll let me know, if you do remember? It could be important.”
“’Course. I’ll have a word with my Harry when he gets here, see if he can’t come up with something. Hanging’s too good for him, Mr. Resnick, whoever done this.”
Nodding noncommittally, he hurried across to WH Smith. It wasn’t inconceivable that Jane would have stopped in to buy a newspaper, tissues, something of the kind, or that one of the assistants might have noticed her walking by.
It was past noon before anything definite broke. Kevin Naylor had just wandered across the street from the cab rank south of Slab Square and called Debbie from outside the Bell, Debbie sounding remarkably cheerful and reminding him there was a little errand he had to run for her at the chemist’s on his way home.
Naylor fancied something from the barrow close alongside and treated himself to a couple of bananas, one for now, one for later. It gave the drivers a laugh anyway, everything from, “Okay, punk, make my day,” to the inevitable, “Is that a banana in your pocket, officer, or are you just here to arrest me?”
He dropped his peel in the nearest ornately decorated, black-painted bin and, photograph in hand, continued working down the line. Second was a young Asian who scarcely seemed old enough to be in charge of a cab without a minder. Naylor had even half a mind to check his license, but the thought went away the moment the driver tapped his finger twice against Jane Peterson’s face and said, in a strong local accent, “Yes, I had her in my cab not so long back. Remember her, right. Picked her up, yeah, at the station, and took her to an address in the Park. Those newish places up near Derby Road. Flats, are they? Houses? I don’t know. But you know where I mean, right?”
“You’re sure it was her?” Naylor asked.
“Yeah, she was—I don’t know—she was all worked up about something, right? Dead nervous. Dropped her money all over the inside of the cab when she was fixing to pay me. I jumped round and helped her, like, pick it up.” He looked at Naylor, open faced.
Feeling the adrenaline starting to kick in, but keeping it all nice and simple, nonetheless, Naylor noted the driver’s name and address, then asked him, not putting too much into it, the other things he needed to know. Yes. The date and time checked and so did the address.
“Here,” the driver said, “this is important, yeah? All this stuff you’re asking. I bet there’s got to be some reward, right? Or else maybe I’ll get to be in one of them programs on tele, yeah? True crime.”
But Naylor was no longer listening.
Just Resnick, Lynn, and Naylor in the office on the Ropewalk: close to old times.
“You think he’s got his details right, Kevin?” Resnick said.
“Didn’t seem to be in any doubt, sir.”
“Which means,” said Lynn, “she caught the later train, the six fifty-two. And according to the guard Steve spoke to, it was in on time. Two or three minutes at most to get to the cab rank; allowing for traffic, what, another ten minutes to the Park? Fifteen tops. She’d have been home by quarter past seven.”
“Quick bath, change, mash tea, and settle down to EastEnders,” Naylor grinned.
“Likely, Kevin,” Resnick said, “she had more pressing things on her mind.”
The receptionist in Alex Peterson’s surgery was half out of her seat in protest when she recognized Resnick and held her tongue. Lynn was standing close behind him, Naylor at the door.
“This patient,” Resnick said, “how much longer will he be?” Flustered, she looked from her desk to the clock behind Resnick’s head, then back to her desk again. The telephone sounded and she let it ring. “I don’t know, it should have been over, let me see, at quarter past. But his next appointment’s waiting and there’s somebody else Mr. Peterson’s promised to try and fit in. I’m sorry but I really don’t think he’ll have time to talk to you till the very end of the afternoon.”
Resnick leaned toward her, close across the desk. “Explain to these people there’s an emergency. Apologize. Don’t make a fuss.”