"And where do we go from here?" I asked.
"I'll need to speak to you more formally down at the station. But that can wait until tomorrow."
More formally? That was a joke. It got more formal than this?
He said, "I'd like you to be at the station at nine if that's convenient. I can send a car for you if you need one."
"I can make my own way thanks."
"As you wish." He said his goodbyes and headed towards the door.
"Is there nothing else?" Was he going to walk away without a word about everything that had passed between us?
He faced me with a blank stare. "There was something you wanted to discuss?"
I considered this for a moment. And decided that maybe it was best to let it go. "Nothing, I guess."
"Then I'll leave you to enjoy the rest of your evening."
He closed the door behind him and left me standing in the middle of the reception area. Was that it? Was this what it had come down to? This cold indifference. I'd expected something more, some show of emotion. Anger maybe. A demand for an explanation, emotional restitution. And yet it had been that kind of emotional outburst that I had most wanted to avoid. So why was I feeling like this? Why was I so disappointed?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
There was a reporter from the local press waiting for me outside the police station the following morning. He introduced himself as the crime correspondent for the Charwell Sentinel.
"Jeff Stokes is the name." He held out a hand.
I ignored it. Reporters aren't among my favourite people. Public figures, even minor ones like me, attract the likes of this man, always on the lookout for salacious gossip they can pass on to their readers. I still hadn't forgotten the rough ride I got after the breakup of my first marriage.
"What can I do for you, Mr Stokes?"
The weather hadn't improved much. The rain had stopped but there was still a chill wind blowing in from the sea and I didn't feel like standing around in the cold for the benefit of Mr Stokes.
"Jeff, please," he said, with that phony bonhomie so often adopted by his type. "I was hoping to have a chat about your father's unfortunate death. Get some insights from the point of view of the grieving son. That sort of thing."
"I'm sure you'll appreciate that this is a very difficult time for me, Mr Stokes. And I don't feel ready to talk about my feelings yet."
"Of course, I understand. But maybe one or two quotes. It's going to be our lead story tonight - we're trying to get something out before it hits the Nationals - and a comment or two from you would be appreciated." He reached into a satchel he carried over his shoulder and took out a notebook and pen.
It hadn't occurred to me until that moment that the story of my father's murder would attract a lot of media attention. But of course it was bound to. More aggravation to deal with.
"Then you can say that I was stunned by the news of his death. My father was a peace-loving and well-respected local figure and his murder is as inexplicable as it is shocking."
"And I understand you've been helping the police with their enquires. Anything to say about that?"
I snorted. "I think we both know what is implied by the use of that particular phrase. But I'm sorry to disappoint you. The police just wanted some background information."
"I believe it was you who found the body?"
"That's right."
"Were you alone?"
"No."
What would he have made of it if I had been? I could picture it now. Local priest found strangled after lone visit from well-known son. No need to risk a libel by making a direct accusation. The implication would be obvious. Something for the gossips to mull over.
I said, "I was accompanied by Sgt Lowe of the local police."
"Do you know if the police have any suspects yet?"
"Not that I know of. And now if you'll forgive me, Mr Stokes, I have an appointment in the station. I must go."
"More enquiries?"
"I'm eager to do everything I can to assist the police in helping to find my father's murderer." I cut him short before he could ask any more questions. "And now if you'll excuse me."
I left him standing at the entrance to the station, scribbling in his notebook.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Nathan glanced at his watch as I entered his office. He was seated at his desk, an open file in front of him.
"I thought we said nine," he said.
"Sorry, I was waylaid by a reporter from the local paper. He's hanging around outside."
For God's sake, it was only five minutes. I'd forgotten what a pain he could be about punctuality. I pulled back the chair on the other side of the desk and sat down.
"That could be useful," he said.
"Useful?"
"You have a public profile. You attract media attention. When we have no leads, it can be productive to bring this sort of crime to public attention."
"I'm not sure I want the media digging into my private life. And they will. It wouldn't be the first time."
"That's inevitable to some extent. Publicity is a two-edged sword."
"Oh, great. Something to look forward to."
"Of course, if you have nothing to hide..."
I ignored the remark. "If you have no real leads, does that mean I'm off the hook? I think your Sgt Lowe had me down as the prime suspect."
"I'm sure I can vouch for you."
That was some relief at least. "What about this local guy? Dr Black? Any luck there?"
"He has a daughter in Sheffield. The local force are making enquires. We should hear from them shortly."
He rocked back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "But let's get back to you shall we. I need to verify your whereabouts over the last week or so."
There was a sinking feeling in my stomach. No way was I going to discuss the intimate details of my private life with Nathan Quarryman of all people.
"I gave all this information to Sgt Lowe. What else can I tell you?"
He leaned forward, rifled through the file, and stopped at a page about halfway through. "You say here you were alone in your flat for most of the week. I understand you married again a few years ago. And yet there's no mention of your wife as an alibi."
"I thought you said I was off the hook here. This sounds very much like an interrogation to me."
His expression hardened and he fixed me with a look that dared me to question him. "You know the score, Mikey. You've been involved in enough investigations to know how it works. We do this by the numbers."
"It feels very different when you're on the other side of an investigation."
"I'm sure it does." He leaned back in his chair. "So, what's the score here?"
As far as I was concerned, my marital problems were my business. Not something to be pawed over in public.
"I have my own flat in the city where I do most of my work. I like to be alone. It helps me concentrate. I was there all week."
"Well that takes care of the past week. What about the week before?"
My throat tightened. I knitted my brows as if trying to recollect. "I can't be sure." I was trying to think fast, find some sort of explanation that would sound reasonable.
"It was just a week ago."
"I lead a busy life. What can I say?"
His pinched expression suggested he wasn't too happy about my casual dismissal of his questioning. I had to come up with something but decided to leave out the parts about my more nefarious activities. Perhaps a nod in the direction of the truth might help.
"Look," I said, "I really have been spending more time alone recently."
I paused, a moment of discomfort, and then continued. "My wife and I are going through a difficult patch and I've been staying in my flat for the past few weeks. So, you see, I can't use her as an alibi."
He stared at me without speaking and then picked up a pen and scribbled something in his file.
I squirmed in my chair. Nathan Quarryman was the last person I wanted
to discuss my marital rift with but at least it got me off the hook.
He continued pressing me for more information. Places I had been. People who might be able to give me an alibi. I countered as best I could, giving details of my more mundane activities including visits to my agent, and time spent in the research department of the local library. For the rest, I claimed to have been alone in my flat. Which was certainly true for some of the time.
Finally, he closed the file and straightened it. I could only hope he was satisfied with my answers.
"Let me know if you think of anything else," he said.
"Sure I will."
Like hell I would. What I got up to in my private life was not something I wanted leaking to press. And it's that sort of information that somehow managed to get out.
"And one more thing, Mikey. I don't want you getting involved in the investigation. Leave the interviewing to us."
I opened my mouth to protest.
He cut me off. "No. I know what you're going to say and I appreciate you have some relevant expertise. But you're personally involved in this case and it may not be appropriate to take part in the investigation."
If he remembered anything about me at all, he would know I wasn't about to take a damn bit of notice. Of course I was going to involve myself.
"There is one matter I need to deal with," I said.
I explained about my visit to Jonas Wainwright's place and seeing my mother's bracelet on Laura Wainwright's wrist.
"It's a very expensive piece of jewellery," I said. "And I can't believe Laura Wainwright got it through legitimate means."
"You don't want the police involved?" Nathan asked.
"Hardly. She's just a kid. And she's had a rough time of it. Her mother died last year and she's not coping too well. I think it's best if I have a quiet word with Erin."
"Okay. Do you have her address?"
"No. Not yet."
"I'll get the Desk Sergeant to look it up for you. But no more than that, you understand?"
I kept silent.
"I think that's it for the moment then. But get back to me if there's anything else you can think of."
He rose in anticipation of finishing the interview. I stayed in my seat.
"There is something else I'd like to talk about," I said. "A personal matter."
His brow wrinkled. He seemed genuinely puzzled and sat down again, waited for an explanation.
Did he think there was nothing to say? This was going to be embarrassing but I needed to clear the air.
"I want to talk about us."
"Us?"
"Oh, please, Nathan. You know what I mean. Since my return, you've treated me like a stranger, as if nothing happened between us. We have a history."
"One that ended very abruptly as I remember. Your choice. What do you want from me, Mikey?"
"It didn't end well. Maybe I'm looking for closure."
"Closure?" He raised an eyebrow and snorted. "You got all the closure you needed. You walked away."
"And you have nothing to say about that?"
He leaned toward me, arms on the desk. "Look, Mikey, you made your choice a long time ago. What's done is done. You moved on. You have a wife and a different life now. And I had to move on too. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?"
"I wanted to explain. Tell you how and why."
"The time for explanations is long gone. Let it be."
"Can't we still be friends?"
His jaw tightened, and I caught the glimpse of some fleeting emotion cross his face. Anger? I couldn't be sure what it was. But when he spoke again, his tone was cool.
"I see no reason why we can't have an amicable working relationship," he said, stiffly.
So that was it. Closure of a sort I guess. It would have to do.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Interrupting Erin Colby's chores was becoming a habit. When I arrived, she was standing by her front door shaking the dust from a rug. I crunched my way up the gravel path towards the house and, as I reached the adjoining garage, I was treated to a high octane stream of invective from behind the half-opened doors. Someone was decidedly not in their happy zone.
Reacting to the sudden outburst, Erin looked up and caught sight of my approach. She seemed surprised to see me but greeted me, all the same, with a wave, and then pulled a face.
"That's my husband, Adam", she called out. "Don't mind him. He thinks the car will run better if he abuses it."
In response to Erin's voice, the garage doors were pushed fully open and out stepped a wiry-framed man of average height clad in a blue oil-stained boiler-suit.
He had a firm square face that sported a wide embarrassed grin beneath a prominent nose. Short brick-brown hair, damp with sweat, stuck to his forehead. Thick brows framed silver-grey eyes that caught his smile and twinkled.
" Sorry about that," he said.
Erin introduced us.
Adam Corby adopted a more solicitous demeanour and commiserated with me, expressing his abhorrence at recent events and offering his sympathies for my recent loss.
I accepted his condolences.
He held up his grease-stained hands and said, "I won't shake. I'm in the middle of trying to get this heap of scrap metal back on the road."
Inside the garage was a white Fiat Punto which looked as if it had seen better times. An orange sticker in the back window read 'My other car is a Rolls Royce'. It begged the question why he would want to drive this one.
"I'll leave you to it then," I said. "I wanted a word with Erin."
He raised a hand in acknowledgement and stepped back into the garage.
Erin led the way into the house and through to the living room. She was full of questions about the police investigation, eager for information, and seemed disappointed when I had nothing to tell her.
"There's something else I need to talk to you about," I said. "It's a rather delicate matter."
Picking my words carefully, I told her of my concerns about the bracelet Laura had been wearing and, as I did so, her face slowly crumpled.
"Please don't think I'm accusing her of anything," I said hastily, not wanting to appear too confrontational, "but I find it difficult to believe that my father would have given it to her."
Needing to explain further, I added, "It was my mother's favourite piece of jewellery and I'm sure he wouldn't think of parting with it. Besides which, it's a unique piece and very valuable. Not something you'd give to a young girl. And when Laura said she'd got it from the market, I knew that couldn't be true."
I finished what I had to say and waited for the inevitable barrage of angry denials. It didn't happen.
Instead, Erin sank into a chair and ran a despairing hand through her hair.
"I'm so sorry," she said.
This wasn't what I'd expected.
I seated myself opposite her. "Forgive me for saying so but you don't seem particularly surprised."
"No." She looked drained.
A few moments passed in silence while she composed herself.
She said, "It's not the first time." A pause. "Look, she's been through a bad spell. And this isn't like her. It was after her mother died. That's when it all started."
"I did wonder."
"She took some CDs from one of the other houses I clean. I caught her at it that time and made her put them back. But I found some of my own jewellery in her bedroom when I was cleaning for her dad. Seems she'd been making a habit of it."
"That must have put you in a very awkward position," I said.
"What do you want to do about it?" she asked. "Will you tell the police?"
"I don't think so. I was hoping you might intervene on my behalf. She's had a hard enough time without any more problems."
Erin thanked me profusely. She seemed relieved.
I said. "I'm not saying she should be allowed to get away with it entirely. She needs to know that her behaviour is unacceptable. And if she doesn't change it, there will be consequences."
"Don't you worry about that. I'll make damn sure she doesn't forget about it in a hurry. And I'll be finding her plenty of work to keep her out of trouble."
"Good. Then I'll leave it in your capable hands. And perhaps you can find a way to get the bracelet back to me sometime. I'm staying over at the Fairview on the Esplanade. You know it?"
"Yes, of course." She promised to return the bracelet as soon as possible.
Satisfied with the outcome, I said my goodbyes and took my leave. At least that was one tricky situation easily resolved. For the moment.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jeff Stokes had been true to his word. My father's murder was headline news in the local paper. And it hadn't made just the front page; it had taken over the whole edition. As if details of the murder itself weren't enough, there was also a two page spread devoted to my personal history. Seems like I'd finally made it as man of the month.
Karen was in panic mode. She'd already had calls from several national newspapers checking on room availability. It looked as if they'd be settling in for the long haul. All I needed.
We were seated by the fireside in the Fairview. The evening paper had just been delivered and I was scanning it for the more salacious bits.
Karen was fretting about her staffing problems.
"What am I supposed to do?" she asked. "I use casual staff in the season. It's too late to get anyone now and I don't think I cope with more than one or two guests at this time of year."
"You're not obliged to fix them up with rooms. Let them camp out in the rain somewhere. They're reporters after all. Their thick skins should protect them against the weather."
"Mikey. What's the point of alienating them? How is that going to help?"
I ignored the criticism and continued looking through the paper.
Karen said, "I wonder if I can get some of my summer staff to cover for a while."
I groaned. "Listen to this. Well-loved local priest, Owen MacGregor, was found strangled following a visit from his estranged son, Michael MacGregor, the celebrity radio presenter. Dear God. Why don't they just accuse me of murder and have done with it?"
The Slow Road to Hell Page 6
