Dark Truths

by A. J. Cross

  Arnold stared at him. ‘You mean … something illegal?’

  ‘Did any residents here have business or other dealings with him?’

  The look on Arnold’s face changed. ‘Nothing which would have led to his being harmed, if that’s what you’re suggesting. He put some of his men on to a garden reconstruction for Penny Ainsworth, a near-neighbour of mine at the time, but that wasn’t “business dealings” in the sense you’re—’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  Arnold shook his head. ‘Detective Inspector, these are people I’ve known for years. What you’re asking is making me uncomfortable.’ Watts waited. Broughton sighed. ‘Penny Ainsworth asked Broughton to remodel her garden. This would have been about twelve years ago, possibly more. She complained about cost, duration, the quality of the work. She accused Broughton of instructing his workers to dig deeper than was needed, simply to prolong the job and add to costs. That’s it. That’s all I can tell you. She still lives here. Ask her about it.’

  ‘Who else didn’t like Daniel Broughton?’

  Arnold looked like he was doing some thinking. ‘I recall he had a falling-out with another resident, David Winter. Winter was always complaining about Broughton parking his car and business vehicles on the roadside and allowing his employees to do the same, some of it opposite Winter’s house. He went on about it to anyone who would listen. He suspected Broughton of doing it purposely. One day, Winter reversed out and into the side of Broughton’s car. Broughton accused him of doing it on purpose. He was furious.’

  ‘I dare say he was.’

  Arnold was looking troubled. ‘Detective Inspector, these were relatively minor fallings-out. I can’t believe that an incident such as that had anything to do with Broughton’s disappearance. Winter is a successful businessman and Penny Ainsworth is a small woman. How could she have done anything to …?’ A quick ring and the door of the shop opened. Arnold’s face lit up. ‘Good morning, Marjorie.’

  Watts turned to a shapely woman in a close-fitted, low-cut cream dress printed with red flowers. She came to them, leant on the counter and kissed Arnold on the cheek. Watts got a cloud of perfume, watched the look of embarrassed pleasure arrive on Arnold’s face.

  ‘Are you busy?’ she murmured.

  Arnold indicated Watts. ‘This is the police officer I told you about. Detective Inspector, this is Marjorie Ellis, a friend of mine.’

  The woman’s brown eyes widened on Watts. ‘You’re here about the builder who disappeared. How exciting.’

  ‘Did you know Daniel Broughton at all?’

  ‘Sorry, no. I came here five years ago.’

  ‘Do you know David Winter?’

  ‘I know of him.’

  ‘What about Penny Ainsworth?’

  She grinned at Arnold. ‘Oh, yes. I bought Penny’s house when she downsized to a few roads away. When she showed me around the house and the garden, she went on and on about Broughton having cheated her over some landscaping work he’d carried out years before. She was still annoyed about it.’ She grinned at Watts. ‘I can’t see Penny in the role of kidnapper or worse. Her problem is that she has great difficulty letting go of life’s annoyances. Ask her ex-husband. He’ll confirm it.’

  ‘Marjorie,’ murmured Arnold. ‘You are talking to a police officer, you know.’

  She looked back at Watts. ‘Are you having any success with your case?’

  ‘We’re seeing progress.’

  She looked at him, eyes shining. ‘I’ve read about it in the newspapers, you and a criminologist investigating together. I find police work so interesting.’ Hearing a subtle cough, she turned to Arnold. ‘I know. Stop talking to the policeman and let him get on.’ She leant on the counter again, looked up at him. ‘Actually, I’m here with an invitation to lunch.’ Seeing the wide smile arrive on Arnold’s face, Watts looked away. The bookseller had got it bad. ‘I’ll pick you up at twelve thirty. Nice to have met you, Detective Inspector.’ Arnold watched her leave.

  Wanting the bookseller talking, Watts went with his gut. ‘That looks serious.’

  Arnold nodded. ‘It is.’

  ‘From what you said last time I was here, about being married years ago, I got the impression life suited you on your own.’

  Arnold looked at him. ‘Eighteen years of being alone is a long time and one divorce is enough for anybody, but then I met Marjorie.’ He gave Watts a direct look. ‘You want to know, so I’ll tell you. My marriage was fine but there was one problem: Suzanne, my first wife, wanted children. I didn’t.’ He nodded. ‘A big problem. We separated, got divorced, she met somebody else and they started a family.’

  ‘So, everybody got what they wanted.’

  Arnold reached for a stack of books. ‘Is there anything else, Detective Inspector?’

  Watts glanced at his notes. ‘One last question. Did Broughton travel much?’

  The shop door opened and Arnold smiled and nodded at the couple coming inside. He lowered his voice. ‘I think he went to Spain fairly often, but he didn’t ever talk to me about that. We weren’t on those terms.’

  Watts’ eyes tracked the couple to shelves some way off. ‘He never said anything to you in passing about any plans he had?’

  Arnold shrugged. ‘There was one time I recall him referring to “making himself scarce” for a while, or words like that. The impression I got was that it was something to do with a woman.’

  ‘When was this?’

  Arnold gave it some thought. ‘I’d say a few months prior to his disappearance.’

  ‘Did you tell the police at the time?’

  ‘It never occurred to me that it was relevant. His comment was a little “nudge-nudge”. Broughton tended to brag, so I dismissed it.’

  Watts headed for the door. He’d had enough of this case and Brophy could do what he liked with it. ‘OK, Mr Arnold. If you think of anything else, ring me.’

  ‘I’m as perplexed as you, Detective Inspector. It’s a real mystery.’

  Watts stepped outside the shop and closed the door, deep in thought at Arnold’s last words. Inside his vehicle, he started the engine, his eyes fixed on the bookshop. ‘I’ve never liked mysteries.’

  Half an hour later, he was in the city centre, looking across the road at his destination, preoccupied with how to handle the next few minutes. He knew what he wanted to do. It could bring him a load of trouble. He’d been watching the place and the two men moving around inside it for about five minutes. It looked quiet. Crossing over, he headed to it, pushed open the door and walked the expanse of wood floor, his eyes going to the shop’s high ceiling and its corners: one security camera positioned towards the door. He turned to where the two men were talking together. One was much younger than he’d expected. The one now walking away fitted the description of Harry Josephs. He glanced in Watts’ direction, gave a professional smile.

  ‘If you need any help or advice, sir, just ask Dom.’

  Watts followed him the length of the long counter, blocked his exit from it. The face beneath the styled hair looked startled. ‘Tell Dom to get lost.’

  Josephs’ brows shot upwards. ‘Excuse me? I don’t—’ He stared at the ID.

  ‘Does this help?’ Watts waited as Josephs walked back to his young colleague, listened as he suggested the youngster take a break, watched as he returned with a self-assured smile. That brief exchange told Watts that Josephs was a swift thinker who’d used the last few seconds to do just that. The next words out of Josephs’ mouth confirmed it.

  ‘If this is about a visit here recently by a young, female police officer, there’s something you should know.’

  ‘Exactly my thinking.’

  ‘Whatever she’s said, it’s all lies.’

  ‘What do you think she’s said?’

  Josephs hesitated. ‘I’m guessing here, but something about me giving her some wine to drink?’

  Watts waited. ‘Did you?’

  ‘Not in the way you’re probably thinking. She was very ins
istent that I talk about Annette Barlow, the previous manager here and a good friend of mine, who went missing. It upset me. I poured myself a small glass of wine and she asked for one. She had three glasses, as far as I recall. Then, she told me she didn’t feel very well, what with the heat and everything. Although it’s strictly against company rules, I showed her into our staffroom, made her a black coffee.’ He sighed, shook his head. ‘I felt rather sorry for her, but I was also shocked.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘The way she started behaving when we were in the staffroom. She became very giggly and over-friendly. I can tell you I was very surprised.’

  Watts nodded. ‘Makes two of us.’

  Josephs placed his hands together, prayer-like. ‘I was really concerned about her leaving here, driving.’

  ‘Show me this staffroom.’

  ‘Like I said, we don’t allow members of the public in there.’

  Watts leant towards him. ‘I’m your exception.’

  Still reluctant, Josephs walked ahead of him to a door at the back of the shop, pushed it open, led the way inside. ‘There’s nothing to see.’

  Watts came into the room, his eyes going from the youth sitting at the table, a magazine in front of him, to the high ceiling and its corners. No security. ‘Dom?’

  The youth didn’t look up. ‘Yeah?’

  Watts walked to him, lowering his head to his ear. ‘Beat it!’

  With a start and a harried glance at Josephs, Dom grabbed the magazine and moved quickly to the door. Watts’ eyes tracked him to the street door and out. ‘You were telling me what happened here between you and one of my officers. Let’s have the rest of it.’

  Josephs held up his hands again. ‘I’m getting a really bad vibe about this so I’ll say it again: whatever she told you, she’s lying.’

  Watts fetched his notebook from his shirt pocket. ‘Any guesses as to what she told me?’

  Josephs’ eyes flicked sideways, words falling from his mouth. ‘Well, I’m only guessing of course, but if she said anything about me coming on to her, it’s an outright lie. Actually, it was the other way around, plus, I could make an allegation against her for physical assault. Right now, I’m seriously considering it.’

  Watts nodded, wrote quickly, put down his notebook and looked him in the eye. Before Josephs knew what was happening, his back was hard against shelving, bottles and glasses crashing either side of him to the floor, Watts’ hands gripping his shirt, his mouth next to his ear. ‘I’ve checked you out, you sleazy bastard,’ he whispered. ‘I found nothing but I’m making it a regular check as of now.’ He shook Josephs, whose face was now the colour of sour milk. ‘I’m really interested in you and I want to know exactly what your relationship was with Annette Barlow.’ He gave him another shove. ‘All right?’

  Josephs took a quick breath, pulling at his shirtfront. ‘Annette … I had sex with her. In here. It was no big deal. I put a stop to it as soon as I realized she was a slapper and a bit too keen on the stock. I was young. No way was I putting my health or my job at risk.’

  ‘You’re a real star. Was she having any trouble with punters as far as you know?’

  ‘I never saw them but she had a lot of phone calls here from men. She told me they were clients wanting her to talk sex. She called them “financial transactions”.’

  ‘Listen in, did you?’

  Josephs smoothed his hair. ‘Difficult not to. She told me one of them came here while I was on my lunchbreak. She showed me the money he gave her. Later, he rang her, talked to her, if you get what I mean.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Calling her names. That was the arrangement they had. Whenever he came on the phone, she told me to mind the shop.’

  ‘What else?’

  Josephs shrugged. ‘There were a couple of oddballs like him. One of them would call, be very polite, ask for “Miss Barlow”. At first, I thought he was her father or some other older relative but as soon as she got on the phone, he was off, screaming at her, calling her names. I heard them. “Jezebel! Harlot!” Annette laughed, said he was one of her regulars, an old-fashioned-weirdo. She took it as one big joke.’

  ‘What about the other one? What did he say to her?’

  ‘I don’t know. She said he liked to rage at her. She didn’t seem bothered by it.’

  ‘Got a name for him?’

  Josephs gave a vigorous headshake. He sent Watts a swift, evaluative glance. ‘I hope that’s helpful.’

  ‘Might be.’ A final shove of Josephs against the shelving dislodged another bottle which joined its mates in pieces on the floor. ‘Don’t get the idea you’ve seen the last of me. You interest me, Josephs, given that Annette Barlow’s murder is still unsolved.’ Watts loosened his grip, picked up his notebook, tucked it into his shirt pocket, walked from the room into the shop and out.

  Ten minutes later, he was stuck in traffic, Josephs still on his mind. He crept up to the traffic lights. They changed to red. He leant his head back, eyes drifting to several medium-sized manufacturing businesses to his left, stopped by a single name: Prentiss. He sat up, looked across at parked vehicles facing towards him: a couple of vans, three larger vehicles, also with the name Prentiss, and the one car which had snagged his attention: a dark blue-grey Audi. Getting a loud hoot from a vehicle behind him, Watts drove on.

  He had been back at headquarters fifteen minutes when he got a call from an officer he had told to follow up Nilsen. ‘I’ve talked to his colleagues at this college he works at, Sarge. My opinion, he wouldn’t win any popularity contest there, but a woman named Eve Saunders who works in his department told me she was driving up Blackfoot Lane at around eight twenty a.m. on the Monday Roberts was murdered. She says she saw Nilsen appear from the path at the top of the lane.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She says she stopped and offered him a lift because of the heat. I asked her to describe him and how he seemed. She’s confirmed he was wearing dark clothes and carrying a small backpack. She also confirmed that his clothes and his hands looked clean and his behaviour was as usual.’

  ‘Hands, plural?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge. No sling.’

  ‘Go to the college, talk to her and whoever else is available. Find out if she’s got any reason to say what she did. She and Nilsen might be an item.’

  ‘Doubt it, Sarge. She has to be about fifty.’

  ‘Fifty-year-olds have their moments.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge. I didn’t mean—’

  He put down the phone as Traynor walked in. ‘Townsend, the runner, placed Nilsen in the general area of Blackfoot Trail on the morning Roberts was killed. Now we’ve got a fiftyish female colleague of his who’s telling a similar story.’ He shook his head at the interest quickening in Traynor’s eyes. ‘She stopped at the top of the lane to give Nilsen a lift. According to her, there was no blood on him. No indications of unusual behaviour or mood.’ He went to the Smartboard, started writing. ‘That whole area is Nilsen’s go-to for watching and stalking women but his colleague’s description of him that morning appears to rule him out for Roberts.’ He jabbed a full stop, stared at what he’d written. ‘We’ve got him for the Merriman assault, but that’s it.’

  Traynor let his backpack slide from his shoulder to the floor. ‘The team asked me this morning if there was a briefing. I was noncommittal.’

  Watts eyed him. If Traynor didn’t refer to their discussion the previous day, neither would he. ‘I should have told them, no. I had to go out. One of the places I went was the wine shop Annette Barlow managed.’ He told Traynor about it, omitting facts relating to Judd. ‘As part of her on-the-side earnings, Barlow took regular calls from men who paid to talk rough to her, call her names.’

  Traynor looked at him. ‘What kind of names?’

  ‘Old-fashioned stuff: harlot, jezebel, that kind of thing. There was another one who “raged” at her. Our chances of tracing any of them are minus zero, but the current manager there is worth consideration.’

>   Traynor reached inside his backpack, took out an envelope, opened it. ‘I’ve been back to the newspaper office where Justin Rhodes worked. I wanted to check with Jess Meredith whether she’d had any more thoughts about him and his disappearance. She said not, but she’s lent me this photograph.’ Watts came to look at it. Traynor pointed. ‘That’s Justin Rhodes.’ He pointed to another figure in the photograph. ‘He was a work experience student who moved with his parents to Scotland not long after this was taken. These two females were support staff on the newspaper, both married women. The older man here is Jess’s father who owned the paper back then.’ His finger moved along. ‘Take a look at him.’ Watts did, at a sandy-haired man standing apart from the others, his hands pushed into his jeans’ pockets, not looking at his colleagues, his face unsmiling. ‘He looks a bit of an outsider,’ said Watts. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Paul Clarke. According to Jess, he left the newspaper shortly after this photograph was taken.’

  ‘Did she say why?’

  ‘Yes. She didn’t sack him but she told him he had no future as a reporter, that he lacked the easy manner and ability to get people to talk. He didn’t take it well.’ He looked at Watts. ‘Jess said she suspected that Clarke felt he was being compared to Rhodes, although Rhodes’ name was never mentioned. Clarke was twenty-nine when this picture was taken. She advised him to look at other kinds of work more suited to his personality.’

  ‘That’s a lot of detail, Traynor.’

  ‘I took Jess to lunch.’

  ‘What else did she say?’

  ‘That Clarke left and she never saw nor heard from him again.’ He paused. ‘Not even requests for references.’ The implications of Traynor’s last words hung in the warm air between them.

  Watts tapped the photograph. ‘I heard the expression “bad vibe” today. It’s what I’m getting now about him.’

  ‘Same here. I’ll phone Jess in a while, see if she’s located any more information on him.’ The door opened and Judd came in. Watts was on his feet. ‘How about a cuppa?’