by Carol Wyer
A note she’d written, Dickson’s name encircled in red, flashed before her eyes. Superintendent Dickson, the man who wanted her to lead this investigation. It still seemed peculiar he’d asked for her . . .
‘Sir, why have you passed the Euston train investigation across to a different team? We were first on the scene. This should remain in our patch.’
He gives a long-drawn-out sigh. ‘I’d rather you didn’t question my decision.’
‘It’s crazy to pass this over to London. I want to take the lead on this.’
‘Kate, I’m sorry. No.’
‘Sir!’
‘There’s no discussion to be had on the matter. Now let it drop.’
‘Sir, at least make sure the investigation remains with a team up here in Stoke.’
‘That will be all, Kate.’
Why insist on her involvement this time? Especially as he was the one who’d forced her to take extended leave? Kate wanted this. She wanted the chance to redeem herself, collar a suspect, be able to tell Dickson she’d succeeded, yet she wasn’t going to dive in head first. No matter how much she needed this for herself, she’d lead the investigation the way she had always worked, diligently and carefully so there were no loopholes and they caught the right person.
‘You okay, guv?’ asked Morgan.
‘Sure.’
‘You were mumbling to yourself.’
‘Just chucking about some ideas. Sometimes it helps to vocalise them.’
‘Yeah. Right.’ Morgan tore his gaze away from her and fired up the engine.
She needed to be more prudent. She couldn’t afford to have her own officers doubting her sanity.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FRIDAY, 4 JUNE – EVENING
Kate hammered on Lisa’s door, lips pressed together in a disapproving thin line. It opened wide and Lisa greeted them with, ‘Did you find something at the office?’
‘Could we come inside, please?’ Kate was firm.
Lisa made no attempt to respond but stood aside to let both officers in. The sound of murmuring voices caught Kate unawares for a second until she worked out it was the TV. Lisa shuffled forward, her soft slippers swishing against the bare tiles like skis on powder snow. Kate and Morgan followed her into the sitting room, where she dropped on to a settee overflowing with cushions of all sizes and hugged one tightly to her chest. She didn’t offer them a seat.
‘Would it be okay if we sat down to chat to you?’ asked Kate.
‘Yes.’
Kate settled on the edge of a chair next to Lisa and leant in towards her. ‘You lied to us, Lisa. You were inside Alex’s house yesterday. We found the contract.’
‘I didn’t mean to lie . . . I got so scared. I was inside the house and I knew you’d think . . . but I couldn’t. I could never harm Alex.’ She clasped the cushion tighter, a shield to combat and deflect the barrage of questions forming on Kate’s lips.
‘I need you to understand how serious this is.’
‘I do.’
‘Then tell me what actually happened.’
‘I . . . didn’t . . . I didn’t kill . . . him.’ She turned first to Morgan then back to Kate, then squeezed the cushion as if it were an accordion, and spoke. ‘It wasn’t all made up. I took the contract around to Alex’s house at about two. His car was parked outside so I rang the doorbell, but he didn’t answer and when I banged on the door, it just . . . opened. I went inside, half-thinking he’d deliberately left it unlocked for me, and called out his name. I dropped the contract on the hall table, along with my handbag.’ The picture of the blue-eyed kitten on the cushion was now squashed into a fat ball of fluff. ‘I don’t know what drew me to the dining room. I think I heard a noise and the door wasn’t closed, so I went in and . . . there was Alex. I panicked. I thought the attacker might still be in the house so I ran for it, snatched up my bag and raced to my car. I forgot all about the contract.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’ asked Kate.
‘I really don’t know. Scared you’d think I killed him, I suppose, and I was in shock.’
‘But by lying to us, Lisa, you were perverting the course of justice, and that is a criminal offence.’
Lisa’s mouth flapped open and the kitten grew wider again. ‘No! I didn’t mean to.’
Kate moved on quickly. ‘You said you thought you might have heard a noise. What sort of noise?’
Lisa’s mouth hung open for a few seconds. ‘It might have been a creak.’
‘Did you hear any other noises?’
‘No.’
‘Or see anyone else?’
‘No.’
‘Yet you ran away because you thought whoever killed Alex was still in the house?’
‘Yes. I was terrified.’
Kate felt it was strange Lisa had gone directly to the dining room and not looked elsewhere for Alex first. She decided to try tripping her up by repeating questions to pick up on any anomalies, but Lisa stuck fast to her story.
‘And where exactly did you place the contract?’
‘On the hall table. I put it underneath my handbag.’
Kate folded her arms and regarded Lisa closely before asking, ‘Why? Why didn’t you carry both the contract and handbag around with you? After all, you wanted to hand the contract to Alex. I wouldn’t go into somebody’s house and put down my bag, especially if I hadn’t been invited in.’
‘It was a sign to let Alex know I was around. If he’d been outside or upstairs and not heard me, he might have been surprised to see me. If he saw my bag, he’d know I was there.’
‘He’d have seen your car.’
She hung her head. ‘Sounds so stupid now.’
‘The door was locked when the police arrived. Did you shut it after you?’
‘I slammed it shut in case I was being chased. It takes time to open a lock. I have a similar self-locking mechanism on my door. A few seconds could have saved me. Look, I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner. I was in a terrible state. I’d found Alex and . . . I wasn’t thinking straight at all.’
‘I understand. But at this juncture I’m afraid we can’t simply take your word for any of this, especially as you’ve already given us one false version of events. Until we can clear you, you’ll have to remain part of our investigation. You will have to provide a full statement at the station, as well as DNA and fingerprints, in order to be eliminated from our enquiries. I’d like you to come by tomorrow, please.’
Lisa’s jaw dropped. ‘I never meant for this to happen. I was frightened. You believe me, don’t you?’
Kate got to her feet. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow.’
The growling coming from Morgan’s stomach made Kate aware that none of them had stopped working since lunchtime. It was nearing seven thirty and although she didn’t feel hungry, she asked, ‘Want to stop and pick up a takeout?’
‘Sure. Any preference? There’s a fish-and-chip van close by.’
‘Whatever you fancy. My treat.’
‘If I’d known that, I’d have suggested that smashing Indian place in Stafford.’
They stopped near the van and ordered cod and chips from a man in a brightly coloured headscarf. The food came in cardboard boxes printed with newspaper images.
‘When did they stop serving these in actual newspaper?’ she asked, slopping vinegar into her box and spearing a fat chip with a green plastic fork.
‘I think that might have been back in the noughties,’ scoffed Morgan. ‘When was the last time you ate fish and chips?’
‘Can’t remember exactly. When I was a kid, my dad used to treat me every Friday when the fish-and-chip van came to our village.’
She was overcome with sadness at the memory of her father’s hand holding on to hers as they waited for the man in a white hat to fry their supper. That was before her stepmother, Ellen, and stepsister, Tilly, arrived on the scene. There’d only been the two of them then – the perfect combination – father and daughter. She surveyed the chip dang
ling from her fork and stuffed it into her mouth.
She turned away and watched another customer lift the large red bottle and squirt copious amounts of ketchup over his food. The bright red stood out, a large paintball of colour, and without warning the scene began to disassemble, fragments exploding and breaking away, only to re-form until the vehicle became a train carriage.
Kate walked along the length of platform beside the carriage with feet of lead. She passed windows marked ‘First Class’, desperately trying to keep her focus straight ahead on the backs of fellow colleagues who drew level with the open door and awaited her arrival. In spite of her efforts, her gaze was drawn against her will to the window directly before the door, splattered crimson, a face pressed against the blood.
‘Kate? You all right?’
The words shattered the illusion and she coughed a couple of times and bashed a fist against her chest. ‘Yeah. I’m fine. A chip went down the wrong way, I was eating too quickly.’ She folded the top down on the box. ‘I’ll grab something for Emma and then we’ll head back.’ Leaving him by the wall, she strode across to the van, chucked her box in the bin and ordered Emma’s food. She’d got away with it this time, but she’d have to exercise caution from hereon in.
The hallucinations could occur at any time, accompanied by terror that usually sent her scurrying for Chris. The medication kept them at bay. She jammed her hands into her jacket pockets, where her fingers sought and retrieved two pills. Keeping her back to Morgan, she dry-swallowed them. She took a couple of paces away from the van so that Morgan couldn’t detect her sudden anxiety. She only needed a few minutes to collect herself; the time it would take for Emma’s food to be prepared. She busied herself, checked her phone, discovered a text from Chris. She couldn’t remember the phone vibrating. The fat fryer sizzled in the background as she read it:
Sorry Babe
Shit signal here.
Speak soon.
Love you.
X
It was a welcome message and, together with the pills, it righted her again. She took the food and hastened back to the car, where Morgan was waiting with news that Alex’s accountant, Mark Swinton, was waiting to be interviewed at the station. She slipped back into the passenger seat, her calm restored. She could focus again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FRIDAY, 4 JUNE – EVENING
Ian Wentworth dismissed the waiter with a haughty wave of his hand. There was no way he was going to leave the incompetent buffoon who worked at the overpriced establishment any tip. The meal had been a total let-down: the wine wasn’t sufficiently chilled, his portion of sea bass pathetically small, and the so-called frîtes maison so anaemic he’d questioned if they’d actually come straight from blanching and bypassed the frying stage. Naturally, he’d complained, but in this neck of the woods nobody actually knew who he was or appreciated the influence he had in his capacity as business advisor to the government, and his lofty position wielded no power.
It wasn’t only the meal that had been a complete waste of time; his companion for the night hadn’t shown up. Ian had waited a full half-hour, squirming in anticipation of what was to come, before realising his escort wasn’t going to show. Not wishing to lose face in front of the waiter, Ian pretended to take a call from a fictitious colleague and exclaimed loudly that it was a shame their flight had been delayed and maybe they could reschedule the meeting for the following day.
He wasn’t sure the waiter bought his act, but he was past caring by then. He ordered his food and gulped down another glass of the expensive Sancerre he’d chosen. It wasn’t as refined as some he’d been privileged to enjoy in his lifetime, but it was palatable.
With his server somewhere out the back, no doubt grumbling to his co-workers about the tight-fistedness of his client, Ian threw his napkin on to the table and eased out of the booth. He’d settled on this restaurant because of the individual booths, each with red leather banquettes. His was at the back of the room, as far away from the entrance as possible, so there’d be no way anybody could have spotted him and his companion. It might be a little-known restaurant close to the Peak District, but Ian knew there was always a possibility of being recognised and, worse still, becoming headline news for all the wrong reasons.
He had no intention of contacting his date to find out why he hadn’t turned up. Ian had met Jazz on an exclusive dating site and used an anonymous name during the online chats. No doubt Jazz had, too. It was best to let it drop.
Outside it was breezy but mild. Here in the foothills of the Peak District National Park there was less light pollution than in the city and, looking up, he was rewarded with a clear view of the Plough, the only constellation he could identify. He inhaled deeply. Forget Jazz. He’d return to his holiday cottage and go online instead. He might get lucky and find somebody else who fancied a steamy night of sex.
His car was at the far end of the car park, beyond which was nothing but fields. Ian wasn’t a lover of the country. He missed the noise, the buzz and the decent coffee shops. His stone cottage served a purpose. It allowed him to be anonymous for a while and was a hideaway where he could indulge in his fantasies, providing, of course, he had somebody to indulge them with.
The door to his ancient Land Rover opened with a rasping creak. The vehicle was a boneshaker but suited the rural setting and allowed Ian to blend in. Here, he could be mistaken for a local farmer rather than the townie he truly was. It was only a ten-minute drive back to Raven Cottage, a small croft secreted up a winding track and perched on a hillside. Ian had to admit that from the upstairs bedroom the house had spectacular views and, best of all, no neighbours to bother him. He’d bought it dirt cheap from a Welsh woman who’d only used it as a holiday home for decades. With time and age against her, she’d tired of it and had been more than happy to take Ian up on his offer. She’d thrown in the Land Rover for an extra thousand pounds.
He drew up outside the property and dropped gracefully from the car. He prided himself on his fitness. He regularly trained at his local gym and made sure he kept the weight off his lean frame. He hadn’t been blessed with height or good looks and had to compensate by ensuring the rest of his body was physically attractive. No one would notice the thin, hooked nose and pale, high forehead with its ever-thinning hair if he sported a flat stomach and firm buttocks. For a sixty-one-year-old, he was in decent shape, and regular shots of Botox helped him maintain his youthful appearance.
He unlocked the front door, clicked on the light and discarded his car keys on a wooden table afflicted by considerable surface patina. There wasn’t a sound to be heard – a far cry from his penthouse apartment in Lichfield, built on what had once been hospital grounds. He’d been one of the first to purchase off-plan and had commandeered the entire top floor of a nice three-storey block overlooking a park, filled most weekends with families and joggers.
He caressed the soft leather of his Gucci loafers as he removed them and carried them towards the kitchen. You could tell a lot about a man by his shoes, and Ian had a penchant for expensive footwear. He’d purchased these from a boutique in London and, a year later, they still retained a fresh leather smell he equated with quality shoes.
The kitchen door was a faded cream colour with a cast-iron thumb latch. It opened with a determined click and he shouldered the warped door gently to ease it open, as he always did. He hadn’t had it repaired or changed. It was part of the old charm of the cottage.
Ian exchanged his shoes for slippers and examined the undersoles of the loafers for signs of dirt. Satisfied they were clean enough, he placed them on a shoe rack by the back door. He brushed a hand over his midriff and moved through the kitchen towards another door which led to the study, where he kept his laptop. He’d log on to one of the few exclusive websites he favoured and get over tonight’s let-down with Jazz, because he’d be certain to find a pulchritudinous young man eager to enjoy a night or two of fine company and exhilarating sexual pleasure.
He was aware so
mething was odd the second he pushed open the door. Yellow light from a table lamp fell softly across his desk. He’d turned off all the lights before leaving to go on his date. He took a tentative step forward and halted immediately, his gaze drawn to the desk on which his laptop normally rested. It was still there; however, he was drawn to the object beside it – a jar, inside which floated a jellylike substance. He approached it step by step until he could see exactly what it was, and then, fumbling for his phone, he dialled the emergency services.
Mark Swinton, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, was grey-faced. He sipped the glass of water provided and stared wide-eyed at Kate. ‘I still can’t believe it. I only spoke to him yesterday morning to let him know I’d submitted the VAT return.’
‘We were hoping you’d be able to tell us about Corby International – if it was going through financial difficulties; if Alex had been having trouble with any of his suppliers.’
Mark removed his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed under his eyes before replying. ‘It was in great shape. Alex had acquired rights to operate in several foreign countries this year and each depot was performing well. From a financial perspective, there were no issues or problems and he certainly didn’t mention any to me.’
‘What exactly does the company do?’ asked Morgan, sat next to Kate in the interview room.
‘It’s a simple formula; the company gets food suppliers in the UK to agree to let Corby International sell their British products abroad. Those products are placed in various shops and supermarkets overseas. It’s basically a supply-and-demand model.’
Kate understood. Alex had built up a successful business by acting as a middleman. ‘Why the warehouses? If he’s acting as a middleman, he doesn’t need to store goods, does he?’
‘Corby International stores some goods, especially for smaller suppliers who don’t have an adequate storage facility of their own and otherwise wouldn’t be able to meet the high demands for their products. CI charges them for storage and arranges transportation for the goods.’
