by Sally Rigby
‘Thank you for your help. Please don’t leave the city without first letting us know, as we will need to speak to both of you again.’
‘Am I a suspect?’ Naomi asked, her hand in a tight ball and pushed against her chest. ‘My parents will vouch for me, as I’ve already told you.’
‘We’re investigating all avenues. We’ll see ourselves out.’
They left the house and headed back to the car.
‘Was there anything of interest in the bedroom?’ she asked.
‘The bed hadn’t been slept in and there was no phone. So, we can assume he was still up when he was called out,’ Whitney said.
‘The fact that he’d only half cleared up also suggests the same.’
‘True. And, what is it with these women that both of them had to stay overnight with mummy and daddy because their husbands were otherwise occupied? Can’t they look after their children on their own?’
‘Yes, I observed that myself. Very often pampered women crave attention and find being on their own for any length of time very difficult to deal with.’
‘I’m not saying being with their parents is wrong. Just weird that both of them did it at the same time, that’s all. But thinking about it in your terms, I can understand why they’re doing it. Sort of.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. Where to next?’
‘The station. I’m hoping the stalker has been brought in, and I’m expecting two of the friends who were at the party to come in, too. What did you make of Naomi and Scott?’
‘If we hadn’t known that she was married to Ryan, we’d be forgiven for assuming that Naomi and Scott were partners. The way she looked at him for support when you asked her a question. The way she leant in towards him and the mirroring of their body language. They both had their legs crossed, pointing at each other. Her left leg over her right, and his right over his left. In my professional opinion, they have a close relationship.’
‘Close enough to kill Armstrong?’
‘We have no evidence for that, but it shouldn’t be discounted. I—’
Whitney’s phone rang.
‘Walker.’ George glanced over at Whitney who was nodding her head. ‘Okay, Brian. I still want to interview her, though. Arrange a time for her to come in. We won’t be long.’ She ended the call. ‘Kurt Kastrati is already at the station. Deborah Radley, our stalker, has an ironclad alibi. She was in hospital. She went in on Friday with stomach pains and wasn’t discharged until Sunday afternoon.’
‘That rules her out. But she might have something useful for you if she’s been following him recently.’
Chapter 8
The drive back to the station was delayed because of an accident on the main road into the city meaning that Whitney had no time to stop for a much-needed coffee in the canteen before heading to the incident room.
Brian was standing by the door, tapping his foot and checking his watch as they entered the incident room. ‘What kept you?’
‘Sorry, there was a hold-up,’ she said, scanning the room, and noting the team were all working at their desks. She turned back to Brian. ‘Come on, let’s interview Kastrati. George will observe.’
She marched down the corridor to the lift, with the other two following.
‘Finally,’ Kastrati said, standing as Whitney and Brian entered. He was tall, towering over Whitney, with close-cropped blond hair and a pencil moustache, like the one Brad Pitt often grew.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Kastrati. Please, take a seat. I will be recording this interview.’ She sat on the chair opposite, leant across Brian and pressed the record button. ‘Interview on the eighth of March, those present: Detective Chief Inspector Walker, Detective Sergeant Chapman and …’ Whitney nodded at Kastrati.
‘Kurt Kastrati.’
‘Thank you for coming in to see us,’ Whitney said.
‘Well, anything I can do to help catch the monster who did this to Ryan.’
‘I’d like to ask you about Saturday night. Please go through the events of the evening.’
‘I went to Ryan’s house for our monthly get-together. We’ve been doing the same thing for the last few years, unless Ryan’s away at a tournament or some other engagement.’
‘What do you do there?’
‘We hang out together and have a laugh. Drink, eat, play a few games of snooker. A normal lads’ night out.’
‘How long have you known Ryan?’
‘Over fifteen years, since we were kids. We met at a snooker club in Lenchester and hit it off straight away.’
‘Do you play professionally?’
‘I wish. I’m not a bad player, but not good enough to do it for a living.’
‘What is your job?’
‘I’m a builder. I have my own company.’
‘On Saturday did anything strike you as different from usual?’
He shook his head. ‘It was exactly the same as every other time. I arrived around seven and stayed until midnight.’
‘Did you leave on your own?’
‘I left with Rory. We got an Uber, and it dropped me off first and then took him.’
‘And after that, where were you?’
‘I was at home with my wife. She was up when I got back and can vouch for me if you need her to.’
‘Please write down her details so we can contact her.’ Whitney slid over her notebook and pen.
‘Surely you’re not accusing me. That’s fucking ridiculous. I’d never have hurt him. We were friends. Good friends.’ He glared at her.
‘We’re checking everybody’s alibi so we can exclude them from our enquiries.’
‘Okay, then,’ he said, picking up the pen and writing in the notebook. He then pushed it back towards Whitney.
‘We understand that Ryan had a stalker, and he had to take out an injunction against her.’
‘You think it was her?’ he asked, his eyes wide. ‘I know she was a pain in the arse, but she’d never been violent in all the times she followed him. Which was often. We used to joke that if Ryan didn’t watch out he’d find her hiding in the men’s toilets watching him take a leak.’
‘We don’t believe it to be her. Do you know why he felt the need to take out an injunction against her?’
‘Naomi discovered her in the garden taking photos of her and Sienna. Ryan didn’t mind people being at the club, but he was angry about her snooping around at his house.’
‘Were there other stalkers?’
‘There were lots of people, both men and women, who wanted to hang around and be near him because he was famous.’
‘Do you know of any issues between him and these people? Was he mean to any of them?’
‘He was kind and took the time to talk to everyone He appreciated his fans, especially those who would spend money to watch him at tournaments.’
‘Is there any person who you can think of who might have held a grudge against him?’
Kastrati gave a slow shake of his head. ‘There’s no one. I was gutted when I found out what had happened to him. He genuinely was one of the good guys.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Let’s put it this way. He was famous and could afford all the trappings that went along with it, but he didn’t let it go to his head and didn’t rub it in your face. If it had been …’ He paused for a moment.
‘What were you going to say?’
‘Nothing. It’s not relevant.’
‘I think it could be,’ George said in her ear.
Whitney gave a nod. ‘Let me be the judge of that. Please continue.’
‘Look, we’re all friends, but Scott Marshall, who’s also a professional snooker player on the circuit, does have a habit of making out he’s better than the rest of us, even though he wasn’t in the same league as Ryan.’
‘How was he with members of the public?’
‘It depended on his mood. Sometimes he treated them well, and other times he could be rude and arrogant. He wasn’t as popular as Ry
an, that’s for sure.’
‘Was there any animosity between Ryan and Scott?’
‘They were business partners, and good friends. I never witnessed them falling out, but I often used to think that Scott took advantage of Ryan.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Maybe not advantage exactly, but he was the leader of the two of them. He decided what they did. It was his idea to buy the snooker club when it came up for sale.’
‘Was Ryan reluctant about it?’
‘No. But it wasn’t his idea. I don’t want you to think that I have an issue with Scott because I don’t. We’re all mates and we have a good time together when we hang out. But of the two of them, he’s …’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve said enough.’
‘He’s what?’ Whitney pushed.
Kurt paused and stared at his hands, the strain of betraying his friend clear on his face.
‘He’s the one who might have upset someone enough to get himself shot.’ He held up both hands. ‘But that’s just my opinion. It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t know why anyone would want to kill Ryan.’
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Kastrati. If you do think of anything else you believe might be useful in the investigation, please contact me.’ Whitney handed him a card, which he took and placed into his jacket pocket. ‘We’ll be contacting your wife to confirm your alibi for Saturday night, and DS Chapman will escort you to the front entrance.’ She paused. ‘Actually, just one more question. Did you call a taxi for Scott Marshall on Saturday night?’
‘No.’ He shook his head.
‘Do you know who did?’
‘I don’t. I remember Scott leaving first, but not long before I did.’
‘Did you see the taxi pick him up?’
‘We were all in the basement. The road can’t be seen from there.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
Whitney waited until Brian and Kastrati had left and then went next door into the observation area.
‘A useful interview,’ George said.
‘It certainly gave us an alternative view of Scott Marshall,’ Whitney said. ‘But so far nothing which indicates a motive for Armstrong’s death. Let’s go back to the incident room and find out when Rory Clarke is due to come in for his interview. If it’s not for a while, we should have time to visit the snooker club.’
Chapter 9
The Palace Snooker Club was situated in an old, red-brick building. They parked in the street on the opposite side of the road and headed to the entrance. The door was propped open, and they stepped into a small foyer. On the wall was a sign indicating the snooker club was upstairs.
‘This is a lovely building, it looks like it dates back to the late Victorian times,’ George said. ‘The ceilings are exquisite.’
‘It was a theatre until the 1960s and then it was turned into a bingo hall. I remember my mum telling me about how she would come here with her parents on a Thursday to play bingo.’ Whitney’s voice faded as memories of the conversations she’d had with her mum came to mind. They weren’t so frequent nowadays, as her mum’s dementia had been getting steadily worse. Although when they’d visited the care home and told her about Tiffany being pregnant, she was very excited by the news.
‘I imagine the acoustics would have been extraordinary,’ George said.
The curved, dark wood staircase took them into a small vestibule. Whitney tried the door, but it was locked. On the wall beside the door was a swipe pad and above it a bell which Whitney rang. A hatch, to the right of the door just above her eye level, was opened by a woman in her forties, her eyes were red, and tiny streaks of mascara were on her cheeks.
‘Are you members?’ the woman asked.
Whitney held up a warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Walker and this is Dr Cavendish. We’re here to see Glen Tibbs.’
‘Come in,’ the woman said, as she pressed a buzzer releasing the catch on the door. The door opened into a large bar area and from a door to the right of them the woman walked out to meet them.
‘Where is Mr Tibbs?’ Whitney asked.
‘He’s in the office, I’ll go and fetch him.’
She disappeared back through the door she’d just come out of, and Whitney scanned the large room. There was a man standing by the fruit machine feeding coins into the slot, and another sitting on a stool at the bar with a pint of beer in front of him. Further into the room were two men standing by the pool table. She walked over to the closest wall and stared at the photos lining it. Several of them featured the victim, holding up trophies.
‘Where are the snooker tables?’ she asked, turning to George.
‘According to the signage, tables one to six are up the stairs over there,’ George said pointing to an area off to the left where there was a small staircase. ‘And tables seven to twelve are downstairs, over there.’ She pointed beyond the pool table to the rear of the room. ‘I’m assuming that must go down into what was the stage area of the theatre.’
‘Hello, I’m Glen Tibbs.’ Whitney turned at the sound of his voice.
‘I’m DCI Walker and this is Dr Cavendish. Is there somewhere private we can talk?’
‘Are you here about Ryan?’
‘Yes.’
‘We can go into the upstairs snooker room. It hasn’t been opened up yet, so no one will be playing. My office is tiny and can house two people max, and that’s only if they breathe in.’
‘The snooker room is fine, as long as we won’t be overheard,’ Whitney said.
They followed him up the steps and into a large rectangular room housing six snooker tables, set in three blocks of two. On the wall beside each one was a mahogany scoreboard with gold lettering and a rack filled with cues. The tables had grey covers on them. Tibbs led them over to the snooker table in the far left corner, which had a bench seat against the wall and a circular table with four chairs around it.
‘It still hasn’t sunk in,’ Tibbs said, as he sat on one of the chairs and gestured for Whitney and George to join him. ‘Do you know any more about it? Like, why and who?’
‘That’s what we’re investigating. We’d like to know more about Ryan’s input into the club. Obviously, we know it’s owned by him and Scott Marshall. What else can you tell us?’
‘Ryan would be here several times a week, if he wasn’t away at a tournament or doing media events. The members enjoyed seeing him. It’s part of the appeal of the club and what makes it so successful.’
‘Can anyone come in and play?’
‘We’re a members’ only club, which is why the door is locked and people can’t come in off the street. Members swipe their membership card to get in.’
‘You still use actual cards?’ George said, frowning.
‘It’s easier to control entry that way. Anyone could get in if we used a keypad entry system once they knew the number. It’s not perfect and non-members occasionally do get in, but it’s the best option.’
‘How many members do you have?’
‘Over a thousand on the books, but some of them might only come in once or twice a year. We have a hardcore of around two hundred, maybe a little less, who are regulars.’
‘Do you allow non-members in?’ Whitney asked, leaning in slightly.
‘Only if they’re invited. Members can bring in guests, but they have to sign them in. And, obviously, Ryan and Scott would meet people here. They’d let us know in advance if we were to expect anyone.’
‘Did they often hold meetings at the club?’
‘Sometimes, in the mornings during weekdays as that’s when it’s the quietest. We don’t tend to get busy until after lunch.’
‘Who did they meet with?’
‘A variety of people. Salespeople from the brewery, or people who wanted to sponsor our tournaments. Business people from Lenchester. Charities wanting Ryan to promote them.’
‘When was Ryan last here?’
‘Friday. He’d been around quite a lot recently, as there wasn’t a tournament on.’
‘Were Ryan and Scot
t always here at the same time?’
‘They were often together, but not all the time. Scott has always spent more time at the club because he doesn’t have so many other commitments.’
‘Do you have CCTV footage available for us to look at, so we can look at who Ryan met with recently?’ Whitney asked, the camera on the wall facing them catching her eye.
‘Yes, we do. I can email it to you if you’d like. It’s all digital.’
‘Please send me the last three weeks. Here’s my card.’ Whitney pulled out a card and handed it to him. ‘Can you think of anyone who might have held a grudge against Ryan?’
He let out a long sigh. ‘I can’t. He got on well with everyone.’
The same story. A popular guy. So what was the motive?
‘Is business going well?’
‘Yes, exceptionally. The club’s very popular with the snooker playing public.’ His brow furrowed. ‘What’s going to happen to it now?’
‘That’s something you’ll need to discuss with Scott Marshall. Can you tell me, what you were doing during the early hours of Sunday morning between one and three?’
‘I was on duty Saturday night, and the last customer left around midnight. By the time we’d finished and locked up, it was twelve-thirty. I gave a lift to two members of staff, as usual, and then went straight home. I was there by one-fifteen.’
‘Can anyone vouch for you?’
‘My wife was in bed when I arrived back, but I accidentally woke her when tripping up the stairs, so she can. She moaned about the time, which is why I can be so exact.’
‘We’d like to confirm that with her.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Whitney took out her notebook and pen from her pocket and passed it over to him. ‘Please write down her number.’
‘That’s her mobile, you can catch her anytime on there,’ he said after giving it back to Whitney.
‘Where do you park your car when you’re here?’
‘In the car park next door.’
‘Were there any cars in on Saturday night when you left?’
He shook his head. ‘Mine was the only one.’
