Chapter 38
The doors slid open to reveal Slim inspecting his tongue in the mirror. “Morning, Thurstan. Very timely. I was going to speak to Degsy but you’ll do. Where you off to?”
He stepped in. “Your place. I’m looking for the paperwork on the Brannan Fenton job.”
Slim laughed. “Not mine. You’ll need to see Carol.”
“So, what did you want to tell me?” The DCI surreptitiously glanced at his reflection then straightened his tie.
“The results on your barbed wire job. You know we found DNA on it? Well, we’ve got a match.”
“And what’s the name?”
“Oh, we haven’t got a name.”
A voice announced their arrival. They stepped out, smiled at the next customers and walked along a corridor.
“You’ve matched it but don’t know the name? Why?”
“Because it’s a pigeon, Thurstan. Well, to be exact lots of them. There’s traces all over it. If I was Degsy I’d be looking for someone with a pigeon loft. Of course, we’ll send off any other samples he recovers during the searches but my bet’s on the pigeon fancier.”
They entered the office. “If you want Carol, she’s the woman over there with the blue cardie on. Oh, and in addition to the glove fibres, we found some others on the wire. Forensic say it’s from a Fair Isle sweater. I’ll drop the report down to your office after lunch.” Slim lumbered off to his desk, on the far side of the open-plan office
Thurstan made his way across to Carol and introduced himself.
Light brown hair, cut short, attractive, late forties, she smiled and they shook hands. “Carol Jones. Ooh, Thurstan! What a lovely name! I’ve heard about you.” Her voice rang soft and pleasant, tinted with a warm hint of scouse.
He blushed. “And what have you heard?”
“Ooh, nothing. Just heard about you. Heard your name.” She smiled again. “Now, if you’ve come for the report on the Claughton Road murder, I sent that over two days ago. You should have had it by now.”
He shook his head. “No, that’s Birkenhead CID. I’m looking for whatever you’ve got on the Brannan Fenton job.”
She began looking on her desk, removing files, sifting through them then dropping them back down again. “Ooh! I don’t know where it’s gone. It was here not so long ago. Are you sure you haven’t got it already?”
He sighed. “I’m certain. That’s why I’m here.”
Suddenly she picked up the phone. A few seconds. “Jimmy! Did you take a file off my desk this morning?... You did?... That’s the one... How’s your Sandra?... Ahh, is she? .... That’s good. Catch you later.”
She looked at him sympathetically. “What are you like, Thurstan? I hope you didn’t take the stairs. Jimmy left it in your office five minutes ago.”
“Thanks, Boss.” Degsy put the phone down. “Dennis? You got anyone on the house to house sheets who’s got a pigeon loft?”
The sergeant shuffled his way through some papers then flicked through a Rolodex. “Yep, here we are. Michael and Theresa Morgan at number nine and Leonard and Hazel Shuttleworth, at number thirty-three, backing onto the scene.”
Ten minutes later, Degsy, Sammy and two local uniforms walked away, closing the front gate behind them. “Do they throw many garden parties around here, Boss?” Sammy smirked.
“I shouldn’t think so but God bless ‘em. I can’t blame whoever filled the forms in. It is actually a pigeon loft, they just forgot to ask them if they were using it as a garden bar.” Degsy pointed the officers towards their next port of call. “If you see anyone coming out before we get there, don’t let them get away.”
In front of a shabby, plain brown door, he looked for the bell. There wasn’t one. He knocked.
It was opened by a woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties but Degsy suspected she was probably much younger. She cradled a baby in her arms whilst a small boy clung to her leg. A little girl of four or five peered at them from behind her mother’s skirt.
“Missus Shuttleworth?” She nodded. “We need to speak to Leonard.”
She turned and called, “Lennie!” then, walking them towards the kitchen, “Emily, take Harry and watch some telly.” She opened the back door. “He’s in the shed with his pigeons.”
They crossed the garden and Leonard appeared in the doorway, a pigeon furled in his hands, cradled against his well-worn Fair Isle sweater.
“I like your jumper, Lennie.” Sammy smiled.
He gave a sad little shake of his head: “I’ve been expecting this for a while.”