Stop Dead (DI Geraldine Steel)

Nick went out.
    ‘So who is he?’
    ‘What?’
    Geraldine glanced up from her screen, frowning.
    ‘Maurice Bradshaw. What do we know about him?’ Sam repeated, a hint of impatience in her voice.
    Geraldine turned to face the sergeant who had perched on the edge of Nick’s chair and was leaning forward, her hands palm down on her knees, staring intently at Geraldine. An enthusiastic sergeant was more useful than any online information. Geraldine had read all the reports anyway, several times over. She could have recited chunks of the witness statements by heart but knowing the information so well was pointless if they didn’t have the right information. She focused her attention on Sam.

     
    ‘We know who he is. The answer’s in the question. His name’s Maurice Bradshaw.’
    ‘Yes, but who is he? I mean, we know how Henshaw and Corless are connected. Obviously someone wanted them both out of the way, as an act of revenge or to get their hands on the restaurant, or something. That much makes some sort of sense.’
    ‘If you say so.’
    Geraldine sighed. She wasn’t sure any of it made any sense, even if it turned out to be true that the first two murders had been committed for the sake of a business, however successful it was. The killer must have known the two restaurant owners and she was confident they would uncover the motive in time, but Bradshaw was a conundrum. He seemed to have been such an innocuous little man, leading such an inoffensive life. Geraldine wondered if there was anything that could link him to the other two victims, and hence to the killer. Speculation was futile. She needed to find out more about the third victim.

     
    She set Sam the lengthy task of trawling through the statements again to look for inconsistencies, anything that didn’t ring true. Geraldine had already been through the whole lot, but a fresh pair of eyes might spot something she had missed. Geraldine drove to Archway and stood for a moment gazing at the dingy block of flats where Bradshaw had lived. She waited outside the depressing building but no one went in or out so, after a brief hesitation, she got back in her car and headed for the nearest station, thinking. According to the pathologist, Bradshaw had been drinking beer within an hour or two of his death, but there was none in the flat, and no empty beer bottles or cans in the crammed rubbish bin which hadn’t been emptied since his death. Unless someone else had been round and taken the empty bottles or cans away at the time, which seemed unlikely, Bradshaw had not been drinking at home on the night he was murdered. Geraldine wondered where he had been and if he had been drinking alone.

     
    Dudley Court was a few yards along from the junction with Dartmouth Park Road. Bradshaw couldn’t have walked far with his arthritic limbs and bent spine so, seeing a bus along the main road, Geraldine followed its route on a hunch. After a while she executed a U-turn and retraced the bus route in the opposite direction. Two miles past the entrance to Bradshaw’s side turning she saw a bus stop right outside a pub. She pulled over straight away and parked. It was growing late and the silence was oppressive as she crossed the pavement. As if from nowhere, a gang of youths appeared on a nearby street corner, and stood watching her as she approached the pub. Automatically, she quickened her pace.

     
    The interior of the pub was shabby. Rings glistened on unwiped tables and dust gathered at the foot of the skirting boards as though someone had gone through the motions of sweeping the floor, careless of the outcome. In spite of the uninviting atmosphere, it was surprisingly busy for a weekday evening. Most of the tables were occupied and a few men lounged at the bar. Geraldine showed a photograph of Bradshaw’s face to the landlord who shook his head.
    ‘Can’t say I recognise him but that’s not to say he’s never been in. We get all sorts and it gets mobbed, especially when the football’s on.’
    He sighed, as though customers were an unwelcome imposition.

     
    ‘Please check again,’ Geraldine said. ‘I need to know if this man was in here yesterday evening.’
    ‘Sorry, love, I can’t help you there. Wednesday was my evening off.’
    He turned away and called out.
    ‘Who was behind the bar last night?’
    ‘Angela.’
    The landlord half turned and nodded at a short plump barmaid leaning on the bar, chatting with a customer. Angela scrutinised the