The Scent of Death

Five

Plot reminder: Whilst interviewing Jennifer for an article in the local newspaper, crime reporter Ben Vickers has expressed his opinion that it is highly probable Lockwood was innocent. (The case histories he alludes to at the end of this chapter are real.)

*

Had I heard him correctly, I wondered? Highly probable? He thought it was highly probable that Lockwood had been innocent of Kayleigh Harrison's murder?

As my lips searched in vain to formulate a follow-up question, his own curved upwards in amusement.

"If we're really going to have this conversation, then we should at least do it over a drink, don't you think?"

No, I didn't - not at all - but before I had chance to voice my misgivings he was already stepping through to the hallway.

"Looked like a nice little pub I passed just at the end of the road."

And thus there seemed little I could reasonably do except grab my keys and coat, pat Dudley’s head in goodbye and hurry along after him.

"What's it like inside?" he asked once I'd caught up with him.

"What, the pub?"

He turned me a smile. "Yes, the pub."

"Well I... I'm not sure exactly. Never been."

Pausing his step, he jerked his skinny shoulders round to me in astonishment. "There's a pub less than a minute from your front door and you've never been in it!"

I shrugged in feigned matter-of-factness: "I don't get out much.'' The words felt like an abridged version of my life story somehow.

Vickers had meanwhile lurched back into motion, his bespectacled eyes peering through the fading late-afternoon light at the sign just a few metres ahead.

"'The Crown'" he read. Then, holding the door open for me so that I could enter first: "Let's see if it's as regal as its name suggests."

Not quite perhaps, but the place was pleasant enough I thought. The truth was, I didn't have many means of comparison: I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of pubs which under situations of similar duress I'd been forced to enter. As many of the buildings along my street, it was seventeenth-century in origin, the interior a larger and more open-plan version of my own home. The same original stone floor tiles and ceiling beams, the same wonky angles. Both the bar and the surrounding tables were of a dark mahogany which whilst not quite so historic as the structure itself seemed to bear a certain age. The only note of incongruous modernity was the pool table in one corner and the brightly flashing fruit machine in another.

Upon being served, it was a table in another of the corners - this situated furthest away from any of the smattering of fellow customers - which Vickers ushered me towards. Half a pint of best bitter for him, a glass of white wine for me. His treat - he'd insisted on it.

After taking a first sip of his beer, he unzipped his coat and settled himself as comfortably in his chair as his gangling frame would allow. His gaze then fixed itself pointedly upon mine; we were about to get down to the nitty-gritty it seemed.

"Lockwood... He just never fitted the profile for me. For one thing, there was his age." A hand was lifted as if to communicate I should allow him to finish before raising a point of objection. "Murders of revenge or financial gain - yes, you'll find numerous examples of people - men, most particularly - who were in their fifties. But murders which carry a sexual element..." - there was a regretful shake of the head -  "which it seems clear was the motivation in this case... Well, these are almost exclusively committed by men in their twenties or thirties. A recent American study on the matter, for example, found that only half a per cent of what they refer to as 'sexual homicides' were carried out by men over 55."