Read Shooting Elvis for Free Online

this sort of thing, and £ 500 would help towards their expenses.
    Brian pondered on what he’d been told, and thought of things that people had said to him about closure and getting on with his own life. Julie’s death had ruined every relationship he’d had. Maybe they were right. Maybe, with Terence Paul Hutchinson dead, he’d be able to move on.
    ‘Five hundred?’ he’d queried.
    ‘Yeah, that’s all. Payable after the deed’s done.’
    ‘How will I know you’ve done it?’
    ‘It will be in the papers,’ he was told.
    ‘We don’t get the Yorkshire papers.’
    ‘Then I’ll have to make sure it gets reported in the nationals, won’t I?’
     
    The man with shiny shoes parked his car on the drive in front of his detached house and checked the computer. He’d averaged 41.2 miles per hour at an average fuel consumption of 34.5 miles per gallon. Slightly worse than usual, he thought. Perhaps the car needed a service. He belched and tasted the egg and sausage he’d eaten a few minutes earlier. Up in the spare bedroom-cum-office he found the scrapbook dated 1990–1994 and leafed through the pages until the long, asinine face of Terence Paul Hutchinson was staring at him. He held apicture of Alfred Armitage next to it and began to laugh. Allowing for the age difference, the passage of time and the ravages of prison life, the similarity between the two men was remarkable.
    ‘Sorted,’ he said, triumphantly, and closed the book.
     
    Eric Smallwood lived in a neat Sixties-style bungalow with long views across the Calder valley. Its main feature was the external chimney built in random stone, acting like a buttress for the rest of the building. The garden was neat and a six-foot lapboard fence shut out the neighbours on each side. One of the neighbours’ gardens boasted a For Sale sign, with the name of a local estate agent.
    ‘Just a sec,’ Dave said as I parked the car in the road, across the front of Smallwood’s drive. He tapped a number into his mobile and I listened to his half of the conversation.
    ‘Oh, hello. You’re acting for a bungalow that’s for sale on the Hebden Bridge road, just outside Heckley. How much is it please?’ He pulled a face and asked how many bedrooms it had. ‘OK, thanks a lot. No, I’ll call into your office for the details. Thanks. Bye.’
    He switched the phone off, saying, ‘ £ 349,995 for a quick sale. Cheap at half the price, I’d say.’
    ‘And vital information. C’mon, let’s see what the man has to say.’
    The drive was block-paved with no weeds ormoss growing in the cracks. I wondered how he managed it. Block paving is not as labour saving as I’d hoped it would be. The garage door was closed and no car stood on the drive. Dave pressed the button on the white PVC doorframe and within seconds the front door opened. Even his bell worked. This man was too good to be true.
    Mr Smallwood was wearing a tweed jacket, with shirt and tie, and cavalry twill trousers, with turn-ups . He was tall and slightly stooped, and on his head was a black and silver helmet, as worn by cyclists.
    ‘Mr Smallwood?’ Dave asked.
    ‘Er, yes.’ He sounded furtive and stepped across the threshold, pulling the door half-closed behind him. ‘Who are you? I was just going out.’
    ‘DS Sparkington and DI Priest, from Heckley CID. Could we have a word, please?’
    ‘Well, um, it’s very inconvenient. What’s it about?’
    ‘We’re making enquiries into the background of Alfred Armitage. You may have read that he was found dead a few days ago. We understand you used to work with Mr Armitage at Ellis and Newbolds.’
    ‘Yes, that’s right, but I don’t see how I can help.’
    ‘You probably can’t, sir, but we have to follow every avenue. You were chief accountant there, I believe. For how long did you know Alfred?’
    ‘Actually I was company secretary. The accountswere just a part of my remit. How long did I know Alf for? I’m not sure. I worked there from July 1969