A Killing Kindness

Middlefield snorted indignantly, turned on his heel and marched away. Greenall gave an apologetic shrug to Wield, said, ‘For God’s sake, Mr Lee, watch those animals of yours,’ and went after him.

‘Yorkshiremen!’ said Lee. ‘Tough buggers, they think. Always wanting to fight.’

‘Not me,’ said Wield. ‘I want to talk.’

They went to sit in the sergeant’s car. Gypsies don’t invite strangers, especially policemen, readily into their caravans and though the day was balmy, Wield knew that if he talked with Lee out of doors, he would quickly inherit the circle of curious kids.

Away from the excitement of confrontation, the gypsy’s torrential speaking style declined to a reluctant dribble.

‘It’s about last Thursday night,’ said Wield.

‘I’ve told all that.’

‘I read what you said,’ said Wield.

‘Well then.’

‘You said you were at the Fair from eight till eleven, mainly on the dodgems.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you didn’t see anyone resembling the dead girl during that time.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You don’t sleep at Charter Park, do you?’

‘No. They stopped the ponies a few years back. Said they were dangerous. Like that short-arse fool.’

‘So you came back here to your caravan at night. How?’

‘I’ve a van. That’s it there. Licensed and insured.’

‘I never suggested it wasn’t,’ said Wield. ‘But I’ll check. I’ve done a lot of checking on you already, Mr Lee.’

‘So?’

‘So I know all about you. You’ve a nasty temper.’

The man shrugged.

‘Against women too. I saw a woman today at your stall. She’d had a nasty crack.’

‘She’s a clumsy bitch.’

‘Yes. Rape too. You’ve not stopped short of that, have you?’

This at last restarted the torrent of words, but not English. Wield said finally, ‘Shut up or I’ll pull your balls off.’

The man subsided, then burst out again. ‘There wasn’t no rape! No conviction! Rape that slut? Stick feathers on a chicken!’

‘All right, all right,’ said Wield impatiently. ‘Where was your van parked?’

‘Behind the stall,’ he answered sullenly.

‘And you just drove back here? Straight back? At eleven?’

‘Eleven, half past. I don’t know. It started raining. We packed the stuff from the stall into the van like every night.’

‘We?’

‘My wife and me. You met her you said. Then back here.’

‘And no doubt she’ll confirm this? And that you then went to bed and slept peacefully all night?’

The man didn’t bother to answer.

‘All right,’ said Wield. ‘Now tell me about Madame Rashid.’

He had a sense at that moment of the gypsy’s receptivity being turned up a notch, though there was no outer physical sign.

‘You know her?’

‘Yes.’

‘In fact she’s a relation of yours, isn’t that so?’

‘She married a gorgio,’ he said. ‘Many years ago.’

‘And her niece. You know her too?’

‘I see her at the park.’

Wield paused. He’d no idea why he’d introduced this line of questioning. It wasn’t going anywhere.

He decided on the heavily significant abrupt conclusion.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘That’s it.’

‘What?’

‘Out.’

The big gypsy got out of the car and shut the door with a force that shook Wield. An older grey-haired man with a ruddy open face who had been hanging around close by approached Lee and exchanged words with him in rapid Romany. Wield leaned out of his window and beckoned to the newcomer.

‘Who’re you?’ he demanded.

‘Me, pal? I’m Silvester. Silvester Herne’s my name, pal.’