‘Always seems that way the next day. There are paracetamol in the glove compartment, plus a bottle of water. Help yourself.’ She did so.
He risked a smile. ‘So how much did you have?’
She looked accusingly at him as she was swallowing the tablets. ‘I’m not going to fall for that one.’
‘Just between you and me, Prisha. This isn’t evidence I could use.’
‘Six or seven glasses of wine.’
‘Where were you going at that speed, after that amount?’
‘Home.’
He said nothing for a while, driving slowly and carefully, letting the reality of her situation sink through.
‘Where from?’
‘My ex-husband.’ The emphasis on the last two words made Gillard think that it may not have been grief about the murder of her mother which caused such an uncharacteristic lapse of judgement.
‘Did you argue?’
She gave him a look which spoke weary volumes of domestic disharmony, but said nothing.
Gillard turned to her. ‘Here is some advice. You will be charged. They can’t let you off for exceeding sixty in a built-up area, despite the mitigation of bereavement. You’ve had no previous incidents apart from speeding, so you might be able to retain your licence so long as you show genuine contrition, okay?’
‘Thank you. I will.’
‘So what’s going to happen with the company now?’ He tried to make it sound as casual a piece of small talk as possible.
‘I’ve no idea. My brother never wants to sell. Always a mummy’s boy.’
‘So you would?’
‘Of course. EoS has filled its marketplace, basically. It already produces most of the products that Indian food fans would expect to buy, and is the biggest producer with the largest market share. There is very little growth possible, at least not without overstretching the brand.’
‘So the only way is down,’ he said.
She eyed him. ‘That’s the way I look at it.’
‘Not your mother’s view, I gather.’
‘No. Of course she deserves the lion’s share of the credit for having built it to what it was, but it was pointless to blindly follow my father’s ambitions for the family long after he died. She never needed to sacrifice her life to it.’ She paused, and Gillard could see that she had hit upon a home truth.
‘So who killed her, Prisha?’ He didn’t look in her direction, but his peripheral vision absorbed her reaction to his question. She stared directly ahead, at the traffic, her hands bunched into fists on her lap.
‘Do you know Jason Waddington?’ he asked.
She shifted her entire body so that she was facing him. ‘Don’t try to connect this to me. Did you not listen when I told you this week? It’s Morag.’
‘Why would she want to kill your mother?’
‘It’s quite simple,’ she said, enunciating the words carefully, as if dealing with someone short on intelligence. ‘She has been trying for years to snare my brother in marriage. None of us have been keen on her. So when it became clear that Harry was going to marry Sonali, she had to do something to stop the wedding.’
‘But if Harry preferred Morag, the question of marrying someone else would simply not arise, would it?’ Gillard knew that Prisha already had such a low opinion of his intelligence that he could pretend he knew nothing about the power of arranged marriages. He hoped to provoke her into a greater revelation.
She shook her head in disbelief. ‘You simply haven’t a clue, have you? Harry has the willpower of a jellyfish. From childhood everything has been given to him, all he had to offer in exchange was obedience. First to my late father and then to my mother. But then along came Morag, casting her pale Scottish spells over him, like some witch from the blasted heath. For more than ten years he has been her puppet—’
‘You’ve got a good Shakespearian imagination.’
‘No, it’s true, believe me.’ Her eyes widened. ‘First she got Harry to appoint her shift leader over those who had been there years. That was only the start. She got promoted again and again despite being lazy and useless, then slyly squeezed herself into management, with a made-up job title.’
‘Operations manager? They do exist.’
‘No. The place runs itself, believe me. I did years in production as a youngster. I’ve seen it there from the inside, and even now, it’s like a ghost ship. Harry sits at his desk playing video games when he thinks no one is watching, while she pokes into the drawers and filing cabinets, looking for ways to get control. And now she’s angling for a position on the board. Of our family firm!’ She looked at him in outrage. ‘And she’s not even family, and never will be. At least Deepak was married to me when he was made a director.’
Gillard eyed this obsessed and consumed woman.
Prisha examined her nails, and let the next comment drop casually. ‘You know she failed her degree, don’t you?’
Gillard said nothing, so she continued. ‘Her CV says she got a 2:1, but I checked the records at Essex University. She dropped out. Too idle to complete the course.’
‘Did you tell all this to your mother?’
‘I may have mentioned it.’ Prisha stared out of the window. ‘But nothing ever changed. Harry defends Morag at every turn, and my mother was gradually taken in. Mātā was so busy trying to run the business, and this ghost of a woman was seeping into everything, like a cold mist. I think it made poor Mātā ill.’
‘Really?’ She suddenly had Gillard’s full attention.
‘Yes. Her hair was falling out, and she was so fatigued. She was distraught about it. Tried everything, but it didn’t work.’
Gillard waited for more. He could feel there was plenty of venom left.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if Morag had taken some of Mātā’s hair and cast a spell on it.’
Gillard chuckled. ‘Now that’s a bit far-fetched.’
Prisha changed the subject. ‘You know why Morag dropped out of university, don’t you?’
‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’
She laughed, a short, bitter sound like choking. ‘She was pregnant. Secretly gave birth to a boy. A feral half-blood child called James. You know what that name means, don’t you?
‘No, but it’s a pretty common name.’
‘It’s from the Hebrew. Yacov. It means “he who grasps the heel”. Just as Jacob did in the Bible, trying to pull his twin back into the womb. I looked it up. Genesis 25:26. Jacob supplanted his brother by tricking his father.’
Gillard laughed. ‘There’s an awful lot of supplanters then. You can’t move for Jims in this country.’
‘Look, why do you think all the Scottish kings were called James? Because they wanted to supplant the English throne. They knew their Hebrew and they knew their Bible, while you have forgotten it. The Latin for James is Iago. Shakespeare knew.’
The detective looked at her.
‘You’re surprised that I, a Hindu, should know the Bible and Shakespeare, aren’t you? My father sent me to Roedean, so I would become an English lady. But I never got a look at my own birthright.’ Now she was furious.
‘None of this makes any sense to me,’ Gillard said, shaking his head.
‘Aha. Morag has that effect on men. It’s a kind of charm, an innocence. So pale, so pure, so slender…’ She looked out of the window again. ‘She secreted the boy away in an expensive school where no one would find him. No one knew who the father was, nor where the money came from to support him. But I’ve found out.’
‘You’re quite the detective, aren’t you?’
She turned to him. ‘The father of that child is my brother Harry.’
‘How do you know?’
‘There are ways, detective chief inspector. Scientific ways. There’s a great fat inheritance awaiting him, once Morag marries Harry.’
Gillard shook his head. ‘The child wasn’t born in wedlock, was he? That’s what the trust codicil stipulates.’
Now it was Prisha’
s turn to be amazed. ‘What do you know about the codicil?’
‘I’m a detective. It’s my job. Even when it’s written in Gujarati.’
She folded her arms, as if offended. ‘There’s room for interpretation in the codicil. The trustees are the judges. They can be swayed.’
‘So why are you blaming Morag for the murder rather than Harry? Surely if your theory is correct, they would be equally complicit?’
She snorted with contempt. ‘He hasn’t got it in him. He has no streak of ruthlessness. And of course he simply adored his mother, so he would never have done it.’
‘But you think she would?’
Prisha fiddled with the car ventilator, directing the air conditioning to suit her. ‘I suppose you think I’m terrible, making all these accusations which I can’t really substantiate. But you did ask me. I feel it’s my duty to protect my brother, because he’s helpless, truly he is.’
‘So why was it that you were driving like a maniac last night – was it simply because of a row?’
She said nothing for a while, and then looked out of the window and muttered: ‘I’m fed up with the uselessness of the men in my life. The laziness, the stupidity, the ineptitude. I’ve sort of got used to that, but they can’t produce a single working sperm, out of millions and millions.’
‘I see. So you are trying for a boy yourself?’
She glared at him as if to dare him to pry further, but he said nothing. The look persisted. Eventually, she fished a lipstick out of her bag and applied it to a full-lipped pout, without mirror. Her question was dropped casually, like small talk.
‘So, do you have any children, detective chief inspector?’
He turned to her slowly. His enunciated reply answered her question and more. ‘No.’ He was definitely not going to mention Sam’s pregnancy.
A small impish grin flashed across her face as she spoke. ‘I’m a little sorry for you then. Poor defective chief inspector.’
He brought the car to a halt. They were in a residential street, which the satnav showed was just over a mile from her home. ‘You can walk from here.’
‘What?’
‘You heard. Please get out. You’ve overstepped the mark.’
She smiled wickedly. ‘Oh gosh, poor you, you were really trying for children, weren’t you?’
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘You don’t even have a sense of humour?’
‘Not during working hours, no.’
She eased herself out, then leaned back in towards him. ‘It was just a joke. I know that you’re going to be a dad. Mid-September Sam’s due, isn’t she?’
Impossible.
Just impossible. Gillard could not believe she could know this. Sam had been very careful not to tell anyone at this early stage when the baby was due. Maybe Prisha was just guessing, but it would be a pretty wild guess to make. The detective tried to keep his amazement from his face, but he could read in hers the smug satisfaction of a bullseye.
‘Would you please arrange to get my car returned to me?’
‘You’re pushing your luck, Ms Roy. Your home is that way.’ He pointed, as he watched her stalk away on her stiletto heels. ‘You’re unlikely to be mugged, but if you are, please dial 999.’
‘Be careful of your wife,’ Prisha hissed. ‘A lot could go wrong between now and September.’
Chapter 12
The detective leaned across and pulled the door closed, then pulled a sharp U-turn before accelerating along the leafy road. It was only when an elderly lady walking her dog looked up in alarm that he realised he was exceeding forty miles per hour, well above the speed limit. Time to cool it. He pulled over, took a couple of deep breaths, then rang Sam. He knew she would not be happy about this. Not happy at all.
‘No way, Craig. I haven’t told anybody,’ she said. ‘The only person who knows when I’m due is my doctor. I’m not even showing.’ After a short and uncomfortable conversation, the detective apologised to his wife for his abruptness, and then hung up. Something Sam said remained in his mind. That woman is trying to get under your skin. I have a feeling she is succeeding. It would suit him perfectly if Prisha Roy had murdered her mother, or even attempted to poison her, but he had to admit that just because she was an arrogant bitch, that was no reason to suspect her. He needed more.
But somehow he had to find out how she had dug up so much information about him. Including the expected arrival date of their baby.
On the ninety-minute return journey to Mount Browne, Gillard realised he hadn’t eaten anything since last night. He considered the implications of the DNA test on the murder weapon. This had been the biggest chance of a smoking gun, but it wasn’t to be. If Jason Waddington had handled the gym weight, he must have been wearing gloves. In any event it simply weakened the case against the man. But as it was not any of the Roy children either that put a further wedge between the family and whoever murdered Mrs Roy.
He left the detective block and wandered into the refectory. The lure of a fry-up was impossible to resist, the unhealthier the better. Crispy bacon, sausages, mushrooms, toast, possibly baked beans. And eggs, the full English cardiac arrest. There were only two in the queue ahead of him and he looked across the hot steel shelf into the bustle of the kitchen beyond wondering where Iris, his early morning friend, had got to.
‘I think it might be her day off,’ said his colleague.
Gillard leaned across the warm counter and asked a woman who was cleaning the coffee machine what had happened to Iris. ‘She normally works on a Saturday doesn’t she?’
‘Didn’t you hear?’ the woman replied. ‘She’s been off sick for days. I think there’s a card if you want to sign it.’
Gillard waited while the circulating card was traced and brought to his table. He looked through the many signatures and the ‘get well soon’. One signatory had said ‘I hope they get whoever did this to you.’ The signature was illegible.
Alarmed, Gillard signed his name, and then took the card back to the counter and asked to speak to the manageress. Mrs Ho, a tiny Chinese woman, emerge from the office and came up to him. ‘Can I ask you what happened to Iris?’ he asked her.
‘She was mugged at a bus stop.’
‘How awful,’ Gillard said. ‘Has no one been to see her?’
* * *
It was a two-hour errand, but definitely worthwhile. Iris McQueen lived in a Victorian terraced house in Staines, just a few streets away from DI Mulholland’s house. Before making the trip he’d read the brief and the sloppily-written crime report which said two young white males had shouted racial abuse at her while she was waiting to catch the bus, then approached, snatched her handbag and pushed her over. The attack was five days ago but no e-fit pictures had yet been issued, nor any follow-up action recorded.
Gillard rang the doorbell, and a tall West Indian youth opened it and eyed Gillard nervously. ‘You must be Josh,’ Gillard said, introducing himself. ‘How is your mum?’
‘I’m fine,’ said a loud and familiar voice from inside. ‘Is that my favourite detective?’
‘She’s okay,’ Josh said with a smile, beckoning the detective inside. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
Gillard accepted, and walked into the neat but rather over-furnished lounge. There were lots of photographs of smiling youngsters on the wall and on every surface. A Jamaican heritage was proudly proclaimed.
Iris was sitting on the settee wearing a housecoat with a bandaged leg extended onto a foot stool. ‘They told me I have got to keep my weight off it. But, boy, it is so sore.’
Establishing that there had been no further contact from the police, Gillard said: ‘This really isn’t good enough. I’ll contact PC Bennett and see what they can do. The report said you lost your house keys. Was the address with them?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Iris said.
‘You need to be sure, because you might need to change the locks.’
‘That’s expensive,’ Josh said.
‘Yes, but it’s a worthwhile precaution. In many muggings the purse and any distinguishing objects get tossed into a garden somewhere. I’m going to ask the local PCSOs to knock on the doors of the street down which they ran away to see if anything has been handed in.’
‘Thank you so much,’ Iris said.
‘Were you given a leaflet about criminal injuries compensation?’
She shook her head. ‘The young policeman who came to see me was in a hurry. He didn’t even finish his biscuit, and I’ve never seen him in the canteen.’
‘Right,’ said Gillard. ‘Josh can look it up online for you, it would certainly be enough money to pay for new locks and compensate you for any loss of earnings. Here is my mobile number. Just let me know how it’s going. Really hope to see you back at work and in fine fettle in the next few days.’
‘Oh darling, you are so kind,’ Iris said. ‘Come on, give me a kiss. I can’t stand to say goodbye.’
* * *
Back at the station, Gillard looked again at the raw e-fit images on file of Iris’ assailants. He then checked to see if the credit cards that had been stolen from Iris had been used. He was surprised to see no mention on the case of such enquiry having been made before. The case was listed as part of Colin Hodges’ workload, but he hadn’t logged into it at all. The bank took only two hours to forward the details of where the cards been used. The biggest bills were for the download of computer games, and had been made from a pay-as-you-go mobile. Gillard asked Rob Townsend to look up the network, and see if they could get a location.
Gillard looked around the office to see if he could see Colin Hodges, who he knew was on weekend duty. He found him staring at his phone as if transfixed, writing down figures on a pad.
‘Colin,’ he said, putting his hand on the shoulder.
Hodges gave a start. ‘Christ, boss, you almost gave me a heart attack.’
Gillard could still see the screen of Hodges’ phone. ‘Nosh2U shares, eh? Having a dabble, are we?’
Hodges shrugged. ‘I’ve got a few, yeah.’ He sounded defensive.
‘It’s Saturday. The stock market is shut.’
The Body in the Snow Page 17
