I busied myself through the morning, distributing these various objects around the house, adding some colour where needed. With everything else finally placed to my satisfaction, I took the wooden box into the bedroom and put it on the bedside cabinet. It was stuffed with old receipts and other scraps of paper, and I’d just emptied them out into the wastepaper basket when the doorbell rang.
Nathan?
I grabbed some scraps that had overspilled the basket onto the floor, dropped them in with the other rubbish, and hurried downstairs to answer the door.
It was Rusty.
I hoped the disappointment didn’t show on my face. I feigned a welcoming smile and invited him in.
He stepped through the door, guardedly, his eyes troubled and downcast, his whole demeanour more reserved than usual. “I came to apologise.” His voice had lost its upbeat lilt.
Only then did my incipient anger at his previous unwanted attention swim up into awareness, and just as quickly ebb away. “I’m not sure you’re the one who should be apologising.” I could hardly blame him for fancying his chances. And it’s not as if I’d been upfront with him about my circumstances.
I stepped back to let him into the room. “Go grab yourself a can from the fridge and chill out.”
“If you’re sure?”
“Sure I’m sure. I could use the company.” As he went over to the kitchen, I called out to him. “Get me one too.”
He returned with a couple of frosted cans and handed me one. I rolled it against my forehead, enjoying the ice-cold feel of it against my sweating brow and then pulled the tab, letting its contents foam and run over my fingers.
“Let’s take them outside.” I headed for the back door. “I need some air. I’ve been stuck in all morning.”
Outside, we sheltered from the blistering sun in the dappled shade of a spreading beech that hugged the wall at the end of the garden. I arched my back and rubbed the back of my neck, easing the tension that had built up over the morning, grateful for another diversion from my brooding.
“So. You and the Chief, eh? That came out of left field.”
“We go back a long way. We grew up together.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I thought we were mates.”
“I guess I’m still feeling my way, Rusty. It’s a big change for me. I’m still not sure how to handle it.”
“Jeez, Mikey. What planet are you from? It really shouldn’t be a problem.”
“So Nathan tells me.”
“So it’s not going too well?” He raised an eyebrow.
What was I supposed to say? Did I really want to get into all the reasons why my relationship wasn’t working?
I didn’t go out of my way to seek publicity. But my status as a minor celebrity - unwanted though it was - sometimes drew unwelcome attention. And so when the news of my divorce was made public, it also led to speculation about the reasons; about the numerous affairs, the sexual encounters with other men, reasons well-known to Nathan. Any wonder that he found it so hard to trust me?
That particular media storm had been short-lived and had eventually given way to more pressing concerns, and, hopefully, had faded from the memories of those who drew delight from the misfortunes of public figures. But its aftermath was still all too fresh in the minds of those who knew me well. And still a source of pain.
Fortunately, I was saved from having to delve any further into the ramifications of my troubled relationship by the incessant ringing of my mobile. It was the ring-tone I’d set for calls from Nathan. I made my excuses and answered the call.
Rusty said, “Should I leave you to it?”
I shook my head.
Nathan said, “Is someone with you?”
For the briefest of moments, I considered lying. But why should I? I had nothing to hide. “Rusty’s here.”
A long silence.
I waited for him to continue.
His tone was curt. “We’ve had some developments.”
I listened while he filled me in on the details.
“A local businessman filed a missing persons report. His fiancée.”
He explained how the description had fitted that of the murder victim, and how the man had later identified the victim as the missing woman.
“And we have a possible suspect in custody,” he continued. “The man’s son was known to have made threats against her on several occasions.”
“You want me to come down to the station?”
“Of course.” He was brusque. “You’re still on the team aren’t you?”
I wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a question.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“So how is Rusty?” There was an acerbic edge to Nathan’s tone.
Of course, he wasn’t really asking after Rusty’s welfare. What he really wanted to know was why Rusty was over at the cottage. And, no doubt, he’d already drawn his own conclusions about that.
We were in Nathan’s office waiting for Lowe to set up the interview with his suspect. This was meant to be a briefing, but I got the feeling Nathan was trying to turn it into an interrogation.
He sat behind his desk and I faced him from the safety of the couch at the other end of the room. The wayward frond of a potted palm at the side of the couch poked me in the face as if urging me to confess. I pushed it aside. “He’s fine. He came round to apologise.”
“Apologise?”
“For what happened yesterday. He was embarrassed. He thought he might have offended me and wanted to say sorry.”
Nathan grunted. A non-committal response. I couldn’t tell if he was acknowledging my answer or refuting it. But his eyes were full of doubt.
Whatever irritation I’d felt at his brusqueness melted away in the face of his uncertainty. A rush of tenderness and sorrow swept through me. How could I blame him for being so unsure?
I moved over to the desk, dropped into the chair on the other side of him and leaned toward him, my hands on the desktop, clasped together. “I love you, you idiot. Why would I want to spoil what we have?” To push home the point, I added, “Rusty got it wrong, okay?”
He reached across the desk and took both my hands in his. “And why do you suppose that was?”
I pulled a face, looked down at the desk, and nodded. “Okay, I get it. I should have told him about us.” Head still lowered, I raised my eyes, meeting his gaze from under furrowed brows. “But did you really think there was something between us?”
“Well, I didn’t think you were discussing the weather.” He let out a long slow sigh, and said, “You told me what happened and I accept your explanation. There’s no point to this if we can’t learn to trust each other. But if you hadn’t put yourself in that position in the first place, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now, would we?”
“Okay, my bad.”
He continued, “Let’s forget it and move on, shall we? We both get things wrong at times.”
I laughed, and said, “I think it’s fair to say your track record is better than mine.”
I pulled one of my hands free and pressed it to his. And for a moment we sat together, hands entwined, and made silent peace with each other.
Sometimes, the past had a way of reminding us it hadn’t yet finished with us, that we still have a way to go before we can shake it off.
To allay any lingering doubts, I said, “Rusty was a good friend when I needed one. And now it’s my turn to be a good friend to him. But that’s all he is. A good friend.”
The telephone interrupted us before he could reply. Its sharp rebuke brought us both back to the present, reminding us we had work to do.
Nathan groaned, let go of my hands, and leaned back in his chair as he took the call. And then, “Keep him in holding till we’re ready for him.”
Dropping the receiver into its cradle, he said, “I’d best fill you in on where we are with this before the interview.”
He looked around for the file, and as he reached towards it, I placed a restraining han
d on his arm. He paused and looked up.
“Are we okay?” I said.
His eyes crinkled to match his smile, and he said, “We’re okay.”
He pulled the file towards him, flipped it open and ran his finger down the first page. A moment later, he was running through the details, bringing me up to speed on the investigation.
Listening to him reminded me of how much I enjoyed watching him at work. His professionalism, the way he focused on the task at hand, his confidence, the sure and certain way he commanded his team, his coolness under pressure. And how much more ashamed I was for the way I had treated him, dented his confidence, made his so unsure of himself. I still had a lot of making up to do.
He was explaining the victim’s circumstances, and I pushed all other thoughts to one side and focused on his words.
He said, “She’s been living locally all this time. Under an assumed name. Lydia Carrington.”
I snorted. “Nice choice. Sounds like someone from a soap opera.” A sudden remembrance. “I’m sure I’ve heard that name before.”
“You should have. She was your damsel in distress.”
It came back to me. “Of course. The terrace at the Fairview. Some jerk was getting physical with her.”
“Lowe filled me in on the details.”
“Is he the suspect?”
“Yes.” He checked the file. “Marcus Farrow. She was engaged to his father, John Farrow. It was the father who reported her missing.”
“So what are the circumstances?”
“She was supposed to be taking the train to London, visiting a friend and should have been back the following day. That was the last he saw of her. Her Porsche was still in the station car park.”
“And the friend?”
Nathan shrugged and closed the file. “Who knows? Farrow had no idea who it was. She never said. And, anyway, she obviously never made it.”
I drummed my fingers on the desktop while I thought it through. “And Marcus Farrow? What’s the evidence against him?”
Nathan leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. “Circumstantial so far. It seems the altercation you witnessed wasn’t the first public spat they’d had. And we have a text message.”
That sounded more promising.
Nathan checked the file again. “Her mobile was in the car. There was a message from Marcus Farrow.” He jabbed at a spot on the file. “Here it is.” He read it out. “Say a word and you’re fucking dead.”
“Short and to the point,” I said. “Though his prose style could use a little work.”
Nathan grunted. His usual response to one of my quips.
I said, “It’s still all circumstantial. Do we have anything more substantial?”
Nathan rose from his desk. “Let’s go find out shall we?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The wall fan above Lowe’s desk stirred the papers on the desktop as it swept back and forth on its spindle, but did little to cool the heat-laden air.
Lowe was already seated at the desk, twiddling the brightness control on the monitor. Nathan gently squeezed my arm before we dropped into place on either side of him. Lowe leaned back, arms folded, and we sat in silence, all eyes on the monitor as an image of Miles Barber with Marcus Farrow in tow appeared on the screen. Another uniformed officer followed them into the interview room and took up a position in the corner as Farrow and Barber seated themselves facing each other.
Farrow was agitated, a nervous mess, pulling at his collar every few seconds, crossing and uncrossing his legs. Reading his body language wasn’t going to be a problem.
Miles Barber ran through the usual preliminaries for the sake of the recording and launched into his questioning by asking for details of Farrow’s movements around the time of the murder.
Farrow tugged at his collar. “Well obviously, I’m in my office in London, during the day.” Sweating profusely, he pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his forehead. “I’ve always been a creature of habit. I get back on the same train every evening and I’m back home by seven.” He dabbed at his forehead again. “I’m sure my family can confirm that.”
“And your employers?” said Barber. He glanced down at the file in his lap, “That would be The Brightside Building Society.” He looked up again. “They can account for your time during office hours?”
Farrow stiffened. “It surely won’t be necessary to involve my employers?”
“We need to verify your whereabouts at all times.”
Farrow, pulled at his shirt cuffs, each in turn, and pressed a hand to his brow. “Let me think. I might have got it wrong. So easy to get the days mixed up.” A short sharp laugh. “I may have taken a few days off.” He wriggled in his chair.
“You may have? You’re not sure?”
“Yes, I did take some time off. I just can’t remember when.” He squirmed. “It could have been over the last few days.” He swallowed hard. “Yes, now I think of it. It was.”
“We’re talking about the last week. You surely must know what you were doing during that time?”
“Yes, of course. I was getting confused.”
And so it continued. Like a drowning man, Farrow sank deeper and deeper into a churning sea of deceit and prevarication and evasion, thrashing around for something to grab hold of, and finding nothing that wouldn’t pull him down further.
I groaned. “You really don’t need me to tell you how this is going.”
“Looks like we’ve got our man,” said Lowe.
Nothing could be further from the truth but I let it pass for the moment.
Leaning towards the microphone on the desk, I said, “Miles, it’s Mikey. Could we pass on this pitiful display and go for motive? Find out what he and the victim were arguing about.”
Barber touched his earpiece, nodded imperceptibly and said to Farrow, “You didn’t much like her, did you?”
That simple question opened a floodgate of vitriolic abuse. Farrow seemed to be on firmer ground here. To say he disliked her would be an understatement. We were regaled with a list of the many reasons Candy Bayliss deserved his undying hatred. Top of the list was what Marcus deemed to be her sociopathic manipulation of his father, driven by insatiable greed, followed by the lesser sins of spite, vindictiveness, and a total disregard for the needs of others, all in no particular order of priority.
It was safe to say daddy’s fiancée would never have made it onto his party list.
Under Miles Barber’s questioning a broader picture of Farrow’s circumstances and relationships became clearer; his own dire financial situation following near-bankruptcy brought about by a gambling addiction that had left him near destitute. His skin had been saved by his father’s financial support which included moving back into the family home with his wife after losing their own home.
Candy Bayliss’s arrival into the family nest must have been a serious blow to his dreams of finally inheriting the family fortune and getting out from under the yoke of what he described as his father’s oppressive control.
The poisonous atmosphere that must have built up in that particular family unit was hard to imagine.
Miles Barber finally brought the interview to a close after advising Farrow he was being released on police bail pending further investigation and reminding him, much to Farrow’s annoyance, that he would have to return for more questioning at a later date.
Lowe was overjoyed. He punched the air. “Result.”
“Think again,” I said.
Nathan knitted his brows, waiting for an explanation.
Lowe lowered his arm and faced me, eyes narrowed. “You knew he was lying. It couldn’t have been more obvious. You made that clear yourself.”
“And that’s how I know he didn’t kill Candy Bayliss.”
Lowe said, “I don’t get it.”
Nathan grunted.
“Have a good think about our guy. He’s a mature intelligent man in a profession that calls for a sharp agile mind. And yet he was l
eft floundering.”
Lowe said, “That was obvious.”
Nathan nodded.
“Do you seriously suppose our killer wouldn’t have come up with a decent alibi by now? This guy was all over the place. You don’t need me to point out the obvious.”
“He was lying all the same,” said Lowe.
“Sure, but not about this. And that’s what you’ll be getting in my report,” I said, bringing any further dissent to an end.
Nathan said, “We’ll have to follow the usual procedures all the same.” To Lowe, he said, “Get a warrant to search the house and then talk to his employers.”
Lowe looked glum. “Looks like we’re back to square one.” He leaned over and turned off the monitor. The image faded to black.
“Not necessarily,” I said. “Forget about alibi and think about motive in the context of what Farrow told us.”
“His opinion of Candy Bayliss is clear enough,” said Lowe, “but given that she may well benefit financially from her relationship with the father at Farrow’s expense, he’s almost certain to have a negative view of her.” He picked up a pen, flipped open the file in front of his and scribbled some notes on the inside cover.
Nathan added, “It is a subjective opinion.”
I said, “Our opinions of others are always subjective. That doesn’t make them wrong. And my interpretation of Farrow’s body language tells me he firmly believed his own assessment.” As an afterthought, I added, “And if he had killed her, he’d be more likely to play down his feelings. He wouldn’t want to give us the chance to make a case against him.”
Dead Feint Page 10
