Questions unearth anomalies and lies. More interesting than the lies themselves could be the reasons behind the lies, if you could home in on them. Does there always have to be a reason? No. But … Whatever, this was lie number one. The perfect husband didn’t work where he said he did. How many more lies would they unravel? Why had Jadon Glover lied about his place of work and did this have any bearing on his current disappearance?
To Mike, she said, ‘This is beginning to sound a little more interesting. Let’s put out a general search for the Mitsubishi and see if we can get a lead from that.’
Korpanski nodded. ‘It’s a start, anyway – give the lazy buggers in Traffic something to do.’
‘Judging by the general congestion in the town and the problem they dealt with last night in Bottomhouse they’re not exactly dying of boredom,’ she responded. But privately she agreed with Hesketh-Brown, who was by now, hopefully, tucked up in bed and fast asleep, that it wouldn’t be long before the vehicle was found. Strange, she reflected as she finally left the room, that a car is so much easier to find than a person. But there is no Automatic Number Plate Recognition for human faces. They are the proverbial needles in haystacks. Descriptions are vague. Medium height, medium build, brown hair, aged between thirty and forty. Last seen wearing …
It was not precise enough. They could melt into any crowd from John O’Groats to Land’s End taking in London, Birmingham, Manchester and all the other big cities and small towns in between. With so many cameras acting like watchful public eyes it was likely they would find the car before the man.
But thinking was not going to find him. She needed action.
Three minutes later she’d picked up DC Phil Scott and was heading out of the station.
FOUR
Thursday, 6 March, 11.00 a.m.
As she drove Joanna asked DC Phil Scott to try Jadon Glover’s mobile number one more time. She took her eyes off the road for a moment to smile encouragement at the young DC. There was something heartening about these young detectives still wet behind the ears but willing to have a go at preserving law and order in a changing world. ‘Maybe he’s turned up, tail between his legs, a lame excuse between his teeth and we can turn the car around and all go home.’
But Scott hit the same result, straight through to answerphone. Glover’s phone was switched off so all he got was an irritating message. Scott looked at her, understanding that if Glover’s phone was switched off they couldn’t track him using Cell Site Analysis. However, clever though these gismos were, they weren’t infallible. He left a message on Glover’s answerphone anyway and the number of Leek Police Station. But, as he disconnected, Joanna had the oddest feeling: Glover never would be returning that call. It was the strangest feeling that the, ‘Hi, this is Jadon Glover. Leave a message,’ would be all they ever heard of his voice. Already it sounded like a voice from the past. The voice of a dead man?
She shook herself. In this job there is no place for spooks. And it wouldn’t do DC Phil Scott any favours either. Feelings and superstition would not help him pass his sergeant’s exams.
She pondered for a while, turning over the possibilities. And, like Hesketh-Brown the previous night, she ran through the same likely options … mistress, girlfriend, out with mates, drunk, car breakdown, accident, amnesia (not that she believed in that one). Then there were the other, stranger stories – less common and harder to pull off: John Stonehouse, Canoe Man John Darwin or, in fiction, Reggie Perrin, faking their own death only to reappear later. Phil Scott was watching her. ‘What percentage of missing husbands are never found?’
‘It’s surprisingly high,’ Joanna said, her hands on the wheel, stuck in traffic again. Leek, these days, was so congested maybe it would have been quicker if she’d come out on her bike, Scott jogging beside her. She smiled and turned her attention back to him. ‘If they don’t want to be found,’ she said soberly, ‘they usually aren’t.’
But he pushed her. ‘So you don’t think anything bad’s happened?’
She studied him. Young, keen. He’d make a good detective because, exams aside, he asked questions. That was why she’d requested his transfer to her. Besides, she liked him. With his habit of earnestly scribbling everything down he reminded her of herself a few years ago now.
‘Put it like this, Phil,’ she said. ‘There are … anomalies in Jadon Glover’s case.’ Again, she fell silent, reflecting.
There were disappearances that never were solved, people who simply vanished off the face of the earth, never to be seen again and no clue as to their fate. So which one of these would Jadon be? Had living up to the perfect husband image just got too much for him and he’d done a runner? Or would his lie about his job match up with another deceit – another woman or a man. Perhaps another entire family?
It was all possible.
She caught Phil Scott grinning and read the excitement in his eyes as his thoughts probably matched hers. He couldn’t hide his pleasure at being asked to accompany her. Once she’d been like that. Now she’d grown up but she’d never quite lost her buzz.
And now they’d arrived at the small, modern development on the Ashbourne road, the road that ran due east out of Leek towards the high ground, Thorncliffe and beyond. The town was trying to creep into the surrounding moorland tortoise-slow so nobody noticed. But in the years since she’d been here, she had. No big developments, nothing too obvious or controversial. Lip service must still be paid to the sacrosanct green belt and the protection of the National Park less than five miles away, but here and there the odd field had been swallowed up to provide eight or nine smart houses, with the cheeky selling point that they were surrounded by some of the most beautiful and unspoilt countryside in England. But the muddy fields bordered with dry stone walls and the ancient trees and hedges had vanished to be replaced by nice houses for nice people, and with it some of the character of Leek was leaching away. One day, Joanna wondered, as she turned into Disraeli Place, would there be no moorland? No wild green lungs for the inhabitants to breathe? Well after her time, she hoped. Take away the moorland which cocooned Leek, wrapping it in wild country as though it was a precious pearl, and it would lose its identity to become just another small town. The same as any other.
Perhaps it had been as a means of pleasing the people and avoiding controversy that the few roads had all been named after prime ministers – hence Disraeli Place, Gladstone Avenue and Wilson Rise. There was no Thatcher Park, Joanna noted. That would have been a step too far, guaranteed to make furious headlines in the Leek Post & Times. Thatcher had been just too controversial, someone who polarized opinion, particularly among the largely Liberal moorland farmers and other businesses in and around Leek.
Number 8 Disraeli Place was as neat and well maintained as the other seven houses in Greenland’s select development. Outside there was a matched pair of pink flowerpots sporting yellow pansies and purple crocuses and tarmac space for two cars. A navy Mini was parked to one side of the drive. The space for a second car yawned empty.
The door was opened as they pulled in and Eve Glover stood, waiting, on the doorstep.
Joanna had always had a problem with people who veneered their teeth and sported orange skin. It might look OK on television but in the flesh they looked like some sort of genetic mutation instead of real people. Apart from that Eve Glover was a petite, attractive woman of around thirty, long blonde hair with fashionable dark roots tied back loosely in a ponytail. She was wearing a pink V-neck sweater and tight-fitting skinny jeans with black leather pumps. She had a movie-star figure; curves everywhere. She was very attractive. Joanna heard even DC Scott give the sort of guttural grunt that men make when they have to acknowledge a sexy, beautiful woman. The sound always reminded her of apes, particularly as she didn’t think that men were aware they had made any noise at all. It was a sort of feral instinct. But, as Joanna faced Jadon Glover’s wife, she wondered. Eve was attractive enough without morphing into something so bizarre. She was blessed by natu
re. Joanna studied her, searching for the woman beneath the veneer. Her face was perfectly made up but strained, her expression anxious. Her blue eyes were beseeching and puzzled and frightened. In spite of the fake suntan and teeth she looked a vulnerable innocent. A babe in the literal sense rather than someone streetwise.
‘Mrs Glover.’ Joanna flashed her ID card, introduced DC Scott and studied the woman further. ‘Can I come in?’
Eve’s shoulders twitched. ‘Yes, yes. Come inside. Have you heard anything?’ Her voice was Marilyn Monroe breathy.
Joanna shook her head and took it as said that Jadon Glover had not been in touch with his wife either.
Eve Glover led Joanna into a soulless room with a huge television and everything else beige. Sofa, carpet. Even the picture over the mantelpiece of one solitary dark red flower had a beige background. The place was spotlessly clean and smelt of fragranced candles or a plug-in air freshener – something every bit as artificial as Eve herself. Joanna looked around. The room was an enigma. There was no obvious sign of a male occupant. It seemed like a house whose sole inhabitant was a woman. It was as though Jadon did not live here, had no role here, no function and no personality either. It made him a curious void. An absence – someone difficult to picture. All Joanna had heard of him, so far, was a fairly brusque voice on an abrupt answerphone message. Even here, in what was supposed to be his own home, it was difficult to conjure up his physical presence. So, did this perfect husband spend so little time at home, with his new wife, that he left no mark? Or did he simply sit on a corner of the immaculate sofa and watch television with his equally perfect wife?
Joanna’s frown deepened. Questions. As a detective, the minute you stepped inside a case there were never-ending questions, anomalies, hidden secrets. Questions with too few honest answers. In her experience everyone had something they wanted to hide. A public front behind which hid a truth they were anxious to keep hidden. Sometimes they were so anxious they would commit perjury – a further crime – simply to conceal evidence. And it all wasted police time and resources and provoked police suspicion.
DC Scott stood by the sofa and she sat down, opening the interview in neutral territory. ‘I think it’s best, Mrs Glover,’ she said gently, ‘if I begin by explaining what we do in cases like this, in general, rather than referring specifically to your husband’s apparent disappearance.’ She spoke very slowly and clearly, avoiding ambiguity, giving Eve Glover plenty of time to digest the content and ask questions before she continued, ‘First of all, has he ever been missing before?’
Eve Glover winced at the word, steadying herself by studying the polish on her nails. ‘No, Inspector,’ she said heavily and deliberately. ‘He has not.’
‘Right.’ Joanna paused. ‘Was he on medication?’
Eve was too angry this time to do anything but shake her head.
‘Any history of mental illness?’
‘No.’
Joanna scooped in a deep breath. Mrs Glover was not going to like her next statement. ‘Now then, obviously, while we are concerned about your husband’s disappearance, the level of concern is not as high as if he were a vulnerable child or an elderly person.’ She was going to keep the anomaly of her husband’s workplace a secret for now, a hidden card up her sleeve.
Anger flashed through Eve Glover’s eyes as charged as lightning. ‘I think that’s wrong,’ she said, quickly suppressing the emotion with an effort by tightening her lips. She probably perceived, quite perceptively, that hostility would not further her cause.
Joanna continued, still in the same calm voice. ‘We will of course search for your husband’s car and continue trying his mobile phone. If necessary we’ll gain access to his phone records. Now you can help us, Mrs Glover. But first I have to ask you some more questions.’
Eve Glover braced herself, hands either side pressing into the cushions, knees together, body tensed. ‘Ask away,’ she said. Then added as she leaned forward, ‘You can ask what you like but I can tell you, Inspector, something very bad must have happened to my husband. Jadon loves me. I am his first priority.’ Her words were delivered with the flourish of a bull fighter’s cape. ‘First and last. His instinct, whatever has happened, would be to come home. To me.’ She was close to tears now but Joanna was intrigued by the word whatever. What on earth was going through this woman’s mind? What horrid scenarios was she cooking up? She would have liked to have asked her whatever it was that she thought her husband might have done. Questioned her in more detail, put her under pressure, but as it was she needed to stick to the guidelines. She could practically feel Chief Superintendent Rush’s dried-up talons sticking into her bones as he peered over her shoulder, checking whatever it was that she was doing. She couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes.
‘As I said,’ she repeated, very calmly, ‘there are certain questions I must ask. Have you any financial difficulties?’
Eve Glover looked surprised at the question. ‘No. He had a good job.’
Not working at Johnston and Pickles, he didn’t.
Joanna tucked the rogue fact away – for now, wondering where it would lead. ‘Ah, yes.’ She picked up. ‘Where did you say he works?’
‘Well, it’s really his own company.’ There was a hint of conspiratorial pride in Eve Glover’s statement. ‘Johnston and Pickles. Financial advisors. He’s one of the directors,’ she said, adding comfortably, with the first touch of humour they’d seen, ‘Jadon is a financial advisor, Inspector Piercy. He wouldn’t be a very good one if we had money worries ourselves, now, would he? No. Jadon is very good with money. We’re comfortably off. No problems there.’
Smug.
Joanna tried not to let her eyes betray her and she didn’t dare even glance at Phil Scott. ‘How long has he worked there?’
‘Since before we were married.’
‘OK. And you say he had no health problems?’ Joanna looked up. ‘And was not on any medication?’
Eve Glover leaned right forward and locked her eyes into Joanna’s to give her words emphasis. ‘My husband is thirty-two years old,’ she said. There was the glimmer of a smile and more than a hint of pride. ‘He’s as fit as a flea, Inspector. Goes to the gym at least twice a week.’
Joanna’s ears pricked up. First place to start asking questions. You wouldn’t believe how many romances start up alongside the running machine or the weights bench. No better place to admire or display a nice body. She kept her voice casually neutral to ask, ‘Which gym?’
‘Pecs.’ That was when the first tiny note of doubt crept into Eve Glover’s voice.
Joanna ignored it, her own mind too busy to be diverted. Will the real Jadon Glover please stand up? She was struggling to recognize his identity while at the same time mentally drawing up a list of where to begin her enquiries. Already she was intrigued.
She looked up. ‘Pecs. Is that the gym on Southbank Street?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does he go on regular nights?’
Eve was answering more slowly now, weighing up her responses warily before responding. ‘Usually a Monday and a Thursday. He’s there for about two hours, generally comes home about nine thirty.’ Joanna glanced towards the door wondering whether Phil Scott had, like her, picked up the note of doubt in Eve’s voice, the first hint that maybe all in the garden was not newly mown grass and fragrant roses. But as quickly as the doubt had arrived it flew out of the window and Jadon Glover’s wife recovered her confidence with a stunning smile.
Joanna waited, knowing she needed to ask the next question delicately.
‘Has he ever stayed out overnight before?’
Eve simply tightened her lips and there was a blaze in the china-doll eyes. She’d already given her answer.
Joanna bulldozed forward. ‘Does he have friends he might have stayed with, maybe if he’d had one over the limit so decided not to drive? A work celebration or something?’
The answer was predictably haughty and at the same time oddly dignified. Eve
Glover sat up straight and met Joanna’s eyes full on. ‘That isn’t Jadon, Inspector.’ Her trust was touching. ‘It isn’t my husband. It isn’t his way. When I say he is a perfect husband that’s exactly what I mean.’ Her eyes challenged Joanna. ‘He’s reliable, Inspector.’
Joanna was silent. She was going to get nowhere here. ‘His business partners?’
She looked up at the pause which greeted the question, sensing something that Mrs Glover was not quite so certain of. Shaky ground? She almost repeated the question verbatim but instead changed it to, ‘Have you rung his business partners?’
Eve Glover looked awkward. ‘No,’ she said flatly and Joanna’s automatic response was why not? It was the obvious step. So why hadn’t she?
She felt a familiar prickling along the back of her neck.
Eve supplied an answer of sorts. ‘I don’t have their numbers.’
Joanna was incredulous. What?
Her next was a trick question. ‘You’ve rung his office?’
Again, there was a pause then a variation on the response. ‘He doesn’t like me bothering him at work.’
I’ll bet he doesn’t. Because he doesn’t fucking well work there. Joanna was beginning to smell a stinking big rat somewhere and by the wary expression on DC Scott’s face she suspected he shared the same feeling. This enigma, this paragon of husbands, wasn’t ringing true. He’d been lying to his wife at the very least about his job. And what else? Did his wife suspect all was not as it seemed? Was that why she had been so twitchy and nervous when he had been late home, ringing the police after just five hours? Did she know her husband was deceiving her? Had she known this and wanted to close her eyes to it? Act blind? It was either that or she was naive enough to swallow his lies without the most basic of checks. Unless … Joanna’s mind was tracking down another path. It was possible that she had rung the police to alert them to this anomalous man. Joanna smothered a smile. So many possibilities.
Crooked Street Page 3
