Letting out the Worms: Guilty or not? If not then the alternative is terrifying (Kitty Thomas Book 1)

by Sue Nicholls

  In fury, Paul shot out a hand, grabbed the collar of Poulton’s jacket and drew back his other hand in a tight fist. Poulton clamped his fingers round Paul’s wrist and tried to wrest it from his lapel, and the solicitor leapt from her chair to cower in a corner. Jennifer Mann ran around the table to tackle Paul from behind, grabbing his bunched fist and at the same time, kicking his chair from under him. Outside the room a siren warbled, and footsteps pounded along the corridor towards them.

  Releasing Poulton, Paul crashed to the floor, trying to shake off DS Mann, and spat at Poulton, ‘Kitty - my own daughter? You bastard. Think I’d hurt her? Never!’ Spread-eagled on the floor, he yelled the words that had been buzzing round in his head since his arrest. ‘Maurice or Mick must have done it.’

  The room became quiet, and realising that his temper had once more caused his downfall, Paul slumped back on the floor. As Jennifer Mann climbed to her feet, the door burst open and four uniformed officers ran in. Poulton held up a hand, and they halted; their breath coming in heavy blasts. In the room’s silence Christabel Lynch smoothed her crumpled shirt over the fold of her stomach and said from the corner of the room, ‘With your permission DI Poulton, Mr Thomas and I will take a moment to discuss this.’

  64 SAM

  After Josh hung up, Sam reran their conversation with a sense of unease. His dad was not altogether on top of things these days. It was possible he had wandered off and lost his way home. Blinking away the remnants of sleep, Sam swept his thumb through the contacts on his phone.

  ‘Hello, again.’ Anwen sounded surprised.

  ‘Hi Anwen. I’m worried about Dad. He seems to have gone walkabout and I wondered how he was when you saw him this afternoon.’

  ‘He was OK at first, but then I told him about Paul’s arrest and the next I knew, he had gone out in the car.’

  After apologising to Anwen for disturbing her, Sam hung up and stood, perplexed, bouncing his phone in front of him. The only explanation that made sense was that when Maurice heard about Paul’s arrest, he went to the police station to try and help his mate. It would be typical of Dad to bumble in and get under everyone’s feet, meaning well but making things worse. Sam sighed.

  65 PAUL

  ‘My client does not wish to make any further comments,’ Miss Lynch announced to DI Poulton.

  Paul was calmer now. His interlaced fingers relaxed on the table but out of sight, his knee vibrated shaking the suspended floor, and between his palms his thumbs twisted and writhed.

  DI Poulton regarded Paul. ‘I’m sure you don’t, Paul, but you have made accusations against two other people. If there was a collaboration between yourself and these two men, whom I believe to be the ex-husbands of Sabrina Roman and Millicent Adu, the sooner you tell us, the better are our chances of catching them and less likely you are to be charged with all three murders.’

  ‘The bastards nearly killed my daughter,’ Paul mumbled, ignoring Christabel Lynch’s protestations. ‘If they hadn’t done that, I’d be glad to take the rap.’

  Poulton sat up in his chair and said, ‘Just to get things clear, you are telling me that you, Maurice Roman and Michael Adu are jointly responsible for the deaths of Fiona Rutherford, Millicent Adu and Sabrina Roman?’

  ‘No comment,’ replied Paul.

  66 SAM

  The front door of the police station burst open, and about six uniformed officers pelted out of the building and leapt into waiting cars. As they screeched off, sirens warbling, Sam caught the closing door and stepped into the tiled lobby. It did not take long to see that his father was not there, and he let out a frustrated sigh.

  An officer behind the desk looked up. ‘Can I help you, Sir?’

  Sam pulled a rueful face. ‘Thanks, but I doubt it. I thought my dad might be here. I think you are holding his friend, Paul Thomas, and I thought Dad might be trying to help.’

  ‘May I have your name, please Sir?’

  ‘Sam Roman.’

  ‘And your father would be,’ the policeman peered at his screen, ‘Mr Maurice Roman?’

  Sam felt relieved, ‘Yes. He’s here then?’

  ‘No Sir. Not yet. May I ask you to take a seat?’ The officer pointed at a line of four brown plastic chairs against the wall.

  ‘OK.’ Sam frowned his bewilderment and sat down, taking out his phone to read the news.

  Behind the desk, the officer lifted the phone.

  67 LUCAS

  At Churchills, Lucas was getting ready to leave. Still wondering where Mick might be, he thumbed a text to Megan to say he was setting out, and looked up when a blinking blue glow lit his peripheral vision. Outside the window, two police cars were pulling up, and as he watched in mild curiosity, three uniformed officers climbed out of each car. While three jogged down the alley between the restaurant and the antique shop next door, three more barrelled in, almost knocking Lucas over.

  ‘Mr Michael Adu?’

  ‘No. That’s my dad. He’s not here. What’s this ab…?’

  The officer spoke urgently. ‘Where can we find him, Sir?’

  Lucas squeezed his eyelids shut and opened them again. ‘Sorry. What’s this about?’

  ‘Just answer the question please, Sir.’

  ‘I can’t tell you where he is.’ Lucas’s tone rose half an octave. ‘He was here an hour ago then he received a phone call from a friend and left.’

  ‘And the name of this friend?’

  ‘Maurice. It was Maurice Roman.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir. Would you mind if we had a quick look round?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Two officers took the stairs and the other poked behind the bar then went into the kitchen. He opened cupboards without closing them and touched sterile surfaces but came out with nothing. After fifteen minutes, the three men thanked Sam and left him standing, bewildered in his empty restaurant. He stared after their cars, their lights no longer flashing, then he sent another text to Megan: Delayed. Sorry. Explain later.

  68 SAM

  The faint percussion of the police station: the tapping of keyboards, jangling of voices and banging of doors, provided a backing to Sam’s thoughts. Those prophetic words from the police officer: ‘Not yet,’ could only mean that Maurice was due at the station.

  A voice at his shoulder startled him and he looked up at a black-skinned woman, in plain clothes, who was aiming a professional smile at him. ‘Mr Roman? I’m DS Mann, Sir. Thank you for waiting. Would you follow me?’ She led him through a security door into the back office, where he stepped round briefcases and wove between uniformed and plain clothed staff at paper strewn desks.

  On reaching a cramped room with a high barred window that gave a view of blue sky and unremitting sun. DS Mann said, ‘Do sit down Mr Roman; we won’t keep you a moment.’

  Sam slid into a metal chair, one of four tucked under a rectangular melamine table, and wiped his face with an arm. When the woman offered him a drink, he asked for water and settled down to wait, staring at a blank wall and wishing there was a fan.

  A beaming DI Poulton strode in and banged down a plain white mug of water and a matching plate of digestive biscuits. Indicating the latter, he said, ‘Sorry they’re not more exciting. You’re lucky to have them actually, we don’t give them to suspects.’

  Sam thanked him, wishing that the mug was a glass, clinking with ice.

  The DI sat down and sniffed. He leaned back to wrestle a tissue from his trouser pocket and blew his nose with a loud toot. ‘Hay Fever,’ he explained and put the tissue away. He sniffed again. ‘Mr Roman, I expect you’re wondering why you’re here.’

  Sam agreed that he was puzzled.

  Poulton’s face dropped into an expression of insincere sympathy. ‘I’m about to say something you might find upsetting.’

  Sam put down his mug.

  ‘I’m sorry to inform you…’

  ‘Is my dad dead?’ The edge of the table dug into Sam’s palms.

  ‘No, no Sir. Actually, we don�
�t know where he is. We are seeking him in connection with the murders of Fiona Rutherford, Millicent Adu and, he hesitated, Sabrina Roman - your mother.’

  What? ‘That is the most ridiculous idea ever.’ But even as he spoke, Sam knew it was not. It explained a lot: his father calling him away from the trolley in the woods, the green stuff, and his father’s evasive answers about the calendar. But Mick was involved, too? Sam slid his palms down his cheeks and realised that DI Poulton was still talking. ‘Mr Roman!’ he said emphatically, ‘Do you have any idea where your father or Mr Adu might be?’

  Sam fixed his eyes on the clasped fingers of DS Mann resting on the scratched table, and struggled to organise his thoughts. ‘I can’t imagine,’ he said in a faint voice. ‘I thought they’d gone to the pub.’

  Poulton gathered his face for a sneeze and fumbled for his tissues again. The sneeze exploded in the small space, and Sam leant back to avoid its blast. After blowing his nose, the Inspector apologised again. ‘I’ve run out of tablets. No time in this job to nip to the pharmacy.’

  What was he supposed to say? Offer his sympathies? Sam willed the man to get back to the point.

  Noting his expression, Poulton blinked his pink, watery eyes and obliged. ‘You said pub. Which pub might that be?’

  Work brain, for God’s sake, Sam begged. ‘Er… there’s a pub in Chelterton High Street… The Plough. They sometimes go there on a Monday when it’s quiet in the restaurant.’

  ‘Anywhere else?’

  He scoured his mind for some place the men might meet. ‘There are so many places: Callum Hill car park, the sticky pub, that’s the one in Kingsthorpe with the soft play area, but actually, I’d imagine they would meet at one or the other’s house, or maybe Paul’s.’

  ‘He’s not at Mr Adu’s or Mr Thomas’s,’ Poulton said, and Sam’s frustration at Maurice grew.

  Then a location popped into his mind. Yes, that would be a good place. ‘There is somewhere,’ he said.

  69 MAURICE

  Mick glared at Maurice. ‘What the fuck were you thinking of?’ On the floor of the Kent beach hut, his bulging sports bag had made scuff marks in the dust. Maurice had flung his suitcase onto the daybed, where it balanced on top of a haphazard scattering of faded canvas cushions. Outside, although the men hardly noticed it, the sea sucked and crashed against the shale.

  ‘I couldn’t risk Sam and Kitty uncovering everything. They were getting too close. Sam was asking questions about my calendar.’

  ‘Your calendar?’

  ‘I marked the date when Twitch disappeared.’

  ‘Why the fuck did you keep that calendar?’

  ‘I didn’t think about it. All my calendars are in a drawer in the kitchen.’ Maurice shook his head as if realising for the first time how misguided he had been. ‘They went to Mauritius, you know.’

  Mick was stunned. ‘Mauritius. You sure?’

  ‘Anwen told Lucas. She saw the tickets while she was cleaning.

  Micks eyes were hard. ‘Well, if you wanted to stop Kitty, you should have done it properly. She’s still alive, and Paul’s devastated. If he finds out it was down to you, he’ll shop us both.’ He stared over Maurice’s shoulder at the quaint little kitchen area and muttered, ‘I thought we’d got away with it.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Maurice pulled at his fingers. ‘Me too.’

  70 POULTON

  A joint team of police officers from Lymeshire and Kent forces, edged along Tankerton promenade.

  In a car, on the coast road above, DI Poulton sat in the passenger seat beside DI Humphreys of Kent Police, directing operations.

  A short distance ahead of them, a car was huddled against the curb in the shadow of an ice cream parlour and to their right, pale holiday homes slumbered in the darkness. On the left-hand side of the police car, a grassy slope dropped away to the promenade below. And beyond the promenade: groynes, beach, and the black, flashing sea.

  Poulton spoke into the radio. ‘This is Beach Buddy, report your positions.’

  ‘All in place.’

  Poulton grinned. ‘That’s Sir to you, Roberts.’

  ‘Sorry Sir.’

  ‘Everyone ready?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Poulton glanced at Humphreys, who nodded. Gripping his handset Poulton roared, ‘Go go go!’

  71 MAURICE

  Fee inherited this beach hut near Whitstable from her mother, but after her death, once her affairs were in order, because of the memories associated with it, Kitty had given the key to Paul. Paul hid it in the dark recess below the hut so that any of the three men could make use of it. Maurice had not availed himself of its charms, but he knew that Mick had taken the occasional lady friend for a romantic liaison.

  Many years before, the children enjoyed summer days here with their mums - days from which their fathers were excluded. Maurice would hear, second hand, of picnics, ice creams and paddling. This had reinforced his feelings of inadequacy because he could not provide the same level of entertainment. Now, sitting in the gloomy interior, facing Mick, he imagined the laughs and cries of those long-ago mothers and children.

  A red plastic bucket with a yellow handle lay on its side on the floor, shells tumbling from it into the dust. Who, he wondered, had collected those? Had it been his Sam or Josh?

  A sound outside brought him to tense watchfulness, but nothing followed. The night was growing wild, the sunshine of the day a memory.

  Mick stood up. ‘It’s time. I’ll get going.’

  Their differences forgotten, they hugged, and the wind whined round the little wooden building, sneaking through cracks, stirring up dust and making joints creak.

  ‘I’ll go first then you follow in ten minutes.’ Mick punched Maurice’s arm and turned to the door.

  Maurice nodded. ‘Good luck, mate.’

  Mick’s ebony face disappeared into the gloom of the night, and Maurice sat, staring at his watch, following the second hand with his eyes, tracing the minute hand’s jerky progress. When ten minutes had elapsed, he picked up his bag - it was so light. At the open door he breathed in the salty air, his eyes half closed to protect them from flying grit.

  An arm flew from the darkness and slammed into his chest, sending him onto the floor. More hands yanked him upright and threw him into his seat. Then the tiny space was full of bodies. A shout from outside, and heavy boots pummelled the promenade.

  Run Mick, run.

  72 POULTON

  Above, on the road, DI Poulton listened to the gasping voice of Roberts. ‘One detained, Sir. In pursuit of one other.’

  ‘Which direction?’ Poulton strained his eyes through the dusk, then Humphreys nudged him and pointed.

  ‘There.’

  A bulky figure carrying some kind of bag was powering across the grass, passing them several yards away and heading, it seemed, for the parked car by the ice cream parlour. Poulton narrowed his eyes, weighing up his options. If he pursued this perpetrator on foot and failed to catch him, he would be left behind when Humphreys took off in pursuit. Still, he had to give it a go. He pulled on the door handle, cursing himself for not organising flood lights.

  ‘Wait,’ Humphreys barked. ‘The uniforms’ll get him if they’re quick.’ He turned the key to start the car, and Poulton settled back.

  Four officers dashed over the rise and pelted past the control car, but the silhouetted figure flung the bag aside and with a final surge of speed, threw itself at the car ahead. In seconds, the vehicle was snaking away. The frustrated officers jogged to a halt, their chests heaving, and Humphreys pumped the accelerator, making the engine rev loudly, and shouted, ‘OK. Let’s catch this bastard. Hang on.’

  Poulton fumbled for the handle above his left ear and caught it as the V8 Mustang lurched past the panting policemen, blues and twos piercing the quiet night.

  With his feet braced on the floor, Poulton seized the radio with his free hand, and while Humphreys propelled the powerful car along Marine Parade, bellowed, ‘DI Poulton and DI H
umphreys in pursuit of Mercedes, can’t see the model.’ He squinted at the car ahead, ‘Registration, er… put your foot down, Humphreys.’ Their vehicle spurted forwards, and Humphreys closed the gap.

  ‘Model C Class, Coupé. Registration HP63 DLJ.’

  The Inspector was a competent driver, and they stuck to the other vehicle like a Scalextric car in a groove. ‘Not sure where he’s going,’ Humphreys muttered through gritted teeth. ‘He’ll get to a dead end if he’s not careful.’ But at the next junction the Merc. veered left onto Herne Bay Road, thankfully empty of traffic. ‘If he’s trying to head North, he’ll have trouble. The railway line cuts across here.’

  The police car raced between rows of bungalows, then squealed right, dodging parked cars on one side and then the other. Ahead of them, Mick touched the brakes at a crossroads as if lost, but then jerked onward, swerving and screeching round a ninety-degree bend. Humphreys and Poulton bounced over potholes in the narrow road, and the whine of their siren echoed off the drowsing houses and parked cars as they dropped down a winding hill. There was no faltering at a chicane, or when the car took off on the hump of a railway bridge.

  ‘He seems to know where he’s going,’ Humphreys shouted. The two cars flew up a hill and veered left at high speed. Ahead of them, the Mercedes lost control, bouncing off a hedge on one side, then the curb on the other, but the driver corrected it and ploughed on.

  Humphreys’ tone was tense. ‘We’re approachingt the old Thanet Way. That’s a busy road.’

  A voice came over the radio. ‘Sir, the car you are chasing is an automatic, registered to a Michael Adu.’

  ‘OK. Mr Adu, time to meet justice,’ Poulton muttered as they clung to their quarry.

  ‘If it’s automatic, that would explain the handling,’ noted Poulton.