All the Lonely People

Chapter Three-2

DAVID COOKHAM WAS AT home, being a night shift worker at a factory on one of Elmhurst’s two industrial estates. He lived in a small flat which, to judge by the number of internal doors off the hall, was a one-bedroomed, one living-roomed apartment. The living room was uncared for; clearly Cookham only regarded the flat as a place to sleep. The furniture was mismatched and looked worn in places as if it was other people’s cast offs. But, Rafferty supposed, if he worked in a factory there wouldn’t be much spare cash for new suites of furniture.

By now, Mr Cookham had heard that the man he had found had in fact been dead rather than dead drunk. The realisation had clearly shaken him up.

‘Last night was my night off,’ Cookham told them as, with a gesture towards the worn settee, he invited them to sit down. ‘Pretty unlucky to come across a body on my one night off in the week. Guess I could have been the second victim of these guys, these muggers, if I’d left the pub a little earlier.’ He rubbed his hand over his face and stared at them from dazed grey eyes from where he sat in a shabby armchair.

I appreciate that this has been a shock for you, Mr Cookham,’ Rafferty said. ‘But I’d be grateful if you could try to answer a few questions.’

David Cookham didn’t seem to hear him at first, then he shook himself, like an animal trying to remove tormenting fleas. ‘Yes, yes, of course. Ask what you want. God, what a thing to have happened. I’ve...I’ve never seen a dead body before. Didn’t even realise he was dead. He was just lying there in the pub yard, looking as comfortable as if he was stretched out in his own bed.’

Rafferty nodded. David Cookham could be no more than his late twenties. It was understandable that the realisation that he had seen a dead man should unnerve him. Modern deaths happened mostly in the clinical environment of hospitals these days, so unless the dying person was a family member, death was not something frequently encountered.

Cookham clutched his arms around his body, rocking slightly backwards and forwards and gazed at Rafferty as if he expected him to make everything better.

Rafferty wished he had that power. He broke the silence. ‘I know that you found the body, Mr Cookham, but did you see anyone else in the pub yard? Hear any sound from the street? Car doors slamming or feet running away? Anything at all?’

Cookham shook his head. ‘No. I heard nothing. Saw nothing. Strange really, as I saw him leave the pub and he can only have been dead a matter of minutes, if that. Yet the night was quiet. Not a sound anywhere. No one on the street.’ He gazed at Rafferty. ‘I thought it was funny at first, some old drunk curled up in Andy’s yard. I almost left him there, but for the possibility someone could run over him, not seeing him in the dark. He looked so peaceful it seemed a shame to have to get Andy to disturb him.’ His lips thinned. ‘You must think me a fool for not realising he was dead.’

‘No. Not at all. It wasn’t immediately apparent. Though—’ He broke off. He had almost been about to reveal the cause of death and that the wound had bled but little. However, these were pieces of evidence he wanted to keep up his sleeve. So far, only Andy Strong and the team knew the cause of death and he wanted it to stay that way. Andy had been warned to keep silent. He wasn’t normally a loose-tongued individual, so Rafferty was confident he would keep his counsel. It could be important if they got a suspect who admitted to knifing Sutherland in the back. Such an admission would provide confirmation of guilt, which was always welcome given the predilection of the courts to free anyone if the case wasn’t tied up tight.

‘You didn’t perhaps hear a car start up as you went back to the pub?’

Cookham shook his head. ‘I told you,’ he said. ‘I heard nothing. Not from the time I left the pub to the time I returned to the bar to tell Andy about the body. Not a sound. Not a soul. I could pretty much swear there was no one but myself and the drunk – the dead man – in the yard.’

It was clear that Cookham could tell them nothing more, so they made their goodbyes and left, having arranged for Cookham to come into the station and make an official statement.

‘Someone took one hell of a chance,’ Rafferty commented as they left Cookham’s flat and walked back down the stairs. ‘The Railway Arms was almost at chucking out time—they don’t go in for extended opening times like some of the pubs in town as Andy Strong, being ex-army, likes things a bit more regimented and sticks to the old licensing hours. So anyone could have come into the yard for their car after leaving the pub and witnessed the murder. Sutherland’s killer must have been waiting for him, quite cold-bloodedly.’

‘Unless it was an opportunistic mugger, as Mr Cookham thought,’ Llewellyn put in. ‘Some local tearaway waiting for whichever intoxicated person staggered first from the pub to the car park.’

Rafferty shook his head. ‘I told you before that I don’t think so. That just doesn’t feel right to me. Something about this killing strikes me as being more selective, more deliberate. More personal, as I said. The knife between the shoulder blades, aimed straight at the heart. There was surely no need for even the most hard-nosed mugger to do that. Strikes me that someone wanted him dead and wanted to make sure of it.’

They reached the car and got in. ‘Cookham must have missed the murderer by seconds,’ Rafferty said as Llewellyn fiddled with his seat-belt and adjusted the rear-view mirror until it was positioned to his satisfaction. Rafferty sighed and thrust his own seat-belt into the slot in a ‘no-time-to-waste’ manner, hoping it would serve as a hint. He sat back as, finally, Llewellyn started the car. ‘Shame he didn’t leave the pub a little earlier, then we might have had a description of the killer.’

‘Or another corpse,’ was Llewellyn’s cryptic response.

‘God, you’re a happy camper and no mistake, Dafyd. Just as well I’m such a cheery soul or we’d both be plunged into the deepest depression.’ Rafferty scowled and said, ‘But I suppose you’re right. I suppose also we ought to be grateful we have only got one corpse. Right,’ he said. ‘Before we see anyone else, let’s get over to Ian Sutherland’s. I’d like to hear more about the reasons for the argument he had with his late old man. He’s likely suffering this morning. If he’s putting his energies into bearing his hangover, he’ll be less likely to have any left to obstruct us, if such is his intention.’

‘You think he might want to obstruct us?’

‘Yes. He’s certainly likely to want to avoid mentioning that he and his father were at loggerheads over his planned marriage. Maybe, also, they had other areas of disagreement. It’ll be interesting, shall we say, if he tries to conceal any of them. Let’s get over there and drag him from his pit.’

‘Have you considered that you might have got this Ian Sutherland all wrong?’ Llewellyn murmured as, inch by tentative inch, he nosed the car into the traffic. ‘He’s just lost his father—lost him violently and suddenly. Maybe their disagreement is only a temporary thing. Many parents don’t approve of their children’s choice of marital partner.’

‘True. Perhaps we’re about to find out. Put your foot down, Daff.’

This last was said more in hope that expectation. Llewellyn putting his foot down was as likely as the clouds raining beer instead of water. There was no Divine intervention—no cloudburst of Best Bitter and no visible rise in the precise 30 mph at which they pootled along, but they reached their destination eventually.

***