Death in the Family

by Jill McGown

  Lloyd knew that. The room was having to be sealed off until all the blood had dried in order that Forensics could work out exactly what sort of blood patterns they were dealing with. But he also knew that whatever one expert said, you could always find another to say just the opposite. He didn’t like relying on esoteric discussions of blood patterns when he took a case into court. He liked witnesses, and he thought he might have one.

  “Come to that, there’s no reason to suppose her assailant stepped in the blood at all. Most of the blood on the floor would have seeped out after the attack.”

  “Why was this assailant still there?”

  “How should I know? That’s for you to work out, not me.”

  “Indulge me, Freddie. Theorize for a moment—I won’t tell anyone; I promise.”

  “Very well,” said Freddie, raising his eyes to heaven. “Presumably, he had just finished the job when Waring came home.”

  Lloyd nodded. “But he must have heard Waring’s car arriving. And his car—or at any rate, the car he got away in—was in the garage. So why would he wait until Waring had come in, walked through the house, found the body, and summoned the emergency services before he even got into it? What was he waiting for? Not to kill Waring, or he would have used the same weapon.”

  “I give in. I don’t know. What’s your theory this time?”

  “I think the other person wasn’t an intruder at all, but a witness. He came in by the garage, saw the body, got into the car, and drove out. Then he saw Waring coming out of the front door with blood on his clothes and ran him over before he ended up the same way. He used Waring’s phone to call the police.”

  “But where is this person who called the police? Why didn’t he just stay there?”

  “For the same reason as he gave Waring’s name. Because he didn’t want us to know he’d been there.”

  Freddie abandoned theorizing and took Lloyd on an unpleasant tour of the injuries, explaining exactly how he had drawn the conclusions he had, which weren’t really any different from his conclusions at the cottage, except that he could now demonstrate that the doorstop was undoubtedly the weapon used.

  “And there’s no evidence of sexual assault,” he concluded. “Know who she is, yet?”

  “Not exactly. Just that she’s almost certainly Kayleigh’s mother.” Lloyd glanced at his watch. “While I’m here, I’ll check up on Waring—see if there’s any likelihood of his ever being able to talk to us.”

  “Do you really think he did it?”

  “No. But it’s a possibility, and I’m taking nothing for granted.”

  The girl on Reception tracked down a doctor that Lloyd could speak to, and they now seemed a little more optimistic that Ian would recover.

  “When he regains consciousness, barring any postoperative complications, he will be able to speak to you, but you certainly won’t be able to question him for any length of time. A few moments—no more. And, of course, he probably won’t remember anything about what happened to him.”

  Oh, wonderful. A murderer who had genuinely forgotten that he’d done it. That was all Lloyd needed.

  The doctor turned to go and then turned back. “Oh—he has a visitor, I believe. I thought you might be interested.”

  A visitor? Someone who knew him? Knew his circumstances? Would they just have kept that to themselves if Lloyd hadn’t happened to be here? He bit back the angry words that rose to his lips. Once he would have told the doctor exactly what he thought, but his years with Judy had, as it were, tempered his temper. He reminded himself that the doctors weren’t aware of his fruitless efforts to find out exactly who these people were and where they had come from; they were just trying to save Ian Waring’s life and seemed to be making a rather better attempt at their job than he was at his.

  The gods had decided to smile on him again; in the intensive care ward he found an attractive dark-haired woman, tall, as the postman had said, slightly overweight, as the postman had said, sitting by Waring’s bed. He correctly assumed that it was Theresa Black.

  “DCI Lloyd, Stansfield CID. Would it be possible to have a word with you?”

  “Of course.” She came out into the corridor. “Can you tell me what happened at the cottage?”

  Lloyd had two choices: treat her from the start as a suspect, take her to the police station, to an interview room with taping facilities, caution her and question her, or simply talk to her. He led her to a bench, and they sat down. “Quite frankly, Dr. Black, we don’t know what happened. In fact, we really know very little. I’m hoping you can shed some light on it all.”

  “Me?” She shook her head. “All I know is what I heard on the radio. They said a woman was dead. Is it Lesley?”

  Lloyd sat back. “Who’s Lesley?”

  “Ian’s new . . . whatever. Partner. Significant other. Whatever silly name you want to—” She pursed her lips. “Sorry, sorry. I seem to be angry with everyone, and I don’t know why.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. It’s a very unpleasant business.”

  She took a moment to compose herself, and Lloyd didn’t hurry her. He had waited all day for some information; he could wait a little while longer.

  “Ian and Lesley were moving into the cottage this morning. Is it Lesley who died?”

  “We’re not certain who it is. At first, we thought it was you. Now, we think it’s a Mrs. Scott. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “Scott?” She shook her head. “No.” But as she spoke the word, a tiny frown appeared, and she thought for a moment. “Wait . . . yes. Yes, it does. Lesley’s daughter’s name is Scott. Kayleigh Scott. They didn’t change it when they adopted her.”

  “When who adopted her?” asked Lloyd.

  “Lesley and her husband. Late husband. She’s a widow.”

  Kayleigh was adopted. So perhaps Freddie’s findings were irrelevant, because Alexandra could also have been adopted. But that would make the conversation that the postman overheard a little unlikely, because presumably one knew whether or not one had adopted a baby; there could be no argument about it. Except if her natural father was claiming her, of course. The young man driving the Audi? But why would he murder the woman?

  “Is Kayleigh all right? I hadn’t even thought about her until now.”

  “She’s had a dreadful shock. That’s one reason we’re having problems—she can’t, or won’t, speak to us. What’s Lesley’s surname?”

  “Newton.”

  Lloyd felt as though a huge weight had been lifted. Mrs. Lesley Newton was the owner of the stolen Audi. He should have been quicker than that—he should have noticed that the first name was the same when Theresa Black mentioned it. Bloody jigsaw. At least he had been right about the Audi being involved, but the baby’s things weren’t in it, so that was still a puzzle.

  And now the driver of the Audi was officially a suspect. In Lloyd’s book he was possibly merely a witness, but he knew this opinion would not be shared by his colleagues. And though the stolen car made it a racing certainty that Lesley Newton was the victim, they still needed someone who could identify her.

  “Do you know Mrs. Newton personally?”

  She shook her head again. “I’ve heard about her. That’s all.”

  Oh, well. It would have been a lucky break in a day that had never heard of such a thing. “Do you know anyone who does know her personally?”

  “Phil Roddam. She was his—oh, God, I wish they would think of a word for it—his long-term partner until she took up with Ian.”

  “You don’t by any chance know his address, do you? It’s very important that we get in touch with him—we really need to get a positive identification.”

  “Yes—if you have a piece of paper, I’ll write it down for you.”

  Lloyd tore a page out of his diary and handed it to her, watching as she wrote down the address and two phone numbers, a little puzzled by her familiarity with Lesley Newton’s ex-partner. “You don’t happen to know when Mrs. Newton left Mr. Roddam, do
you?”

  “Well—they separated a year ago. But he was the one who left. Or was invited to leave, I should say.”

  “And is that when Mr. Waring left you?”

  “No. Ian didn’t actually move to London until January of this year. But he’d been seeing Lesley in what he thought was secret since the previous April—I’ve no idea why he couldn’t just move in with her.”

  “You knew he was having an affair with her all that time?”

  “I guessed that he was having an affair.” She smiled suddenly. “But it’s an odd word to use when you’re talking about Ian—he’s really not like that. And it’s not quite how it sounds—there was no acrimony. Ian and I are still good friends.”

  “It’s none of my business,” he said, “but you seem very . . . forgiving.”

  “Forbearing would be a better word. He even borrowed my van to move some of their stuff into the cottage.”

  Case’s more practical vehicle—it wasn’t the Audi, after all, so the lack of baby things in the Audi might not be a puzzle; they could be in the van. “Do you know where your van is now?” he asked.

  “In the car park.” She nodded her head toward the window.

  “Oh—you’ve got it back?” Lloyd frowned. “I take it that you didn’t find items of baby equipment in it, did you?”

  “No.” Dr. Black looked puzzled. “Why?”

  “We can’t locate Alexandra’s things,” he said, in a deliberately casual reference. “Pram, clothes, feeding bottle, cot blankets—we thought they must be in whatever was used for the move.”

  She looked even more puzzled. “I’m sorry—who’s Alexandra?”

  “Mrs. Newton’s baby daughter.” Lloyd mentally crossed his fingers.

  “But she didn’t have a baby daughter.”

  Yes! thought Lloyd. But then again, it wasn’t the sort of thing Waring was likely to tell his ex-partner. He could be celebrating Emma’s return to her parents a little prematurely.

  “Can you be certain of that? We know she didn’t give birth to her, but we think she might have adopted her in January—at least, that’s roughly when we believe the baby was born.” Using the official-sounding “we” lent his surmises an authority that they didn’t deserve, but being apparently confident about your facts was one way of eliciting the actual information. “And I know that regular adoption agencies probably wouldn’t allow the adoption to go through if there were domestic problems, but these days . . . well, people go to Romania and places like that for babies, and who knows what checks they make?”

  Dr. Black was shaking her head. “If Ian had been talked into adopting a baby, I would have heard all about it, believe me.”

  Lloyd asked her to excuse him and walked a discreet distance away in order to phone Bob Sandwell.

  “So when we find the man who took the Audi, we’ve got our murderer,” was Sandwell’s instant response to the information.

  Lloyd was less inclined to take things at their face value than his colleagues, as Case had pointed out. “Perhaps,” he said.

  “Forensics have just phoned through to say that they’ve found traces of human blood on the driver’s seat, which seem to have come off someone’s clothing, and that a tire mark on Waring’s shoe matches the tire pattern on the Audi. The man’s foot was crushed, sir. If the Audi crushed it, I think we can assume it did the rest of the damage.”

  “Oh, I realize the Audi driver caused Waring’s injuries,” said Lloyd. “But I’m not convinced he was Mrs. Newton’s killer. Maybe he just walked in on a murder, and exacted revenge, or was afraid for his own life.”

  “Oh.” Sandwell managed to pack a lot of doubt into one syllable. “You won’t mind, will you, if I just assume for the moment that the Audi driver’s our man for both incidents?”

  Lloyd laughed. “Be my guest, Bob. He very probably is. And I’ve at last found someone who can formally identify the body.” He gave him Roddam’s details. “Has the photograph of Emma Crawford come through?”

  “No, sir—I’m afraid there’s bad news. They’ve sent police divers to the river. Tom Finch and DCI Hill were observing a suspect couple when Tom saw a baby’s body in the water.”

  Lloyd took that in but could find no words.

  “Sir? Did you want something else?”

  “No. No—thanks, Bob.”

  Lloyd gave himself a few moments to come to terms with what he had been told before he walked slowly back along the corridor toward Theresa Black, his mind no longer on the murder investigation. Was this what the stars had had in store for Emma Jane Crawford? He could see Roger Crawford’s face, slightly merry and completely joyful. He had wanted a little girl this time, he’d said. And the labor had been so easy; Lloyd had thought how Judy would envy Mrs. Crawford. Judy would be devastated, and he had to go home now, whether she objected or not.

  But he was on an investigation, and he still wanted to talk to Theresa Black; there was a lot she could tell him. Besides, she might well have murdered the woman, for all he knew. If he left now, he might never see her again, and quite apart from any considerations of the murder, he had to find out how sure she was that Lesley hadn’t acquired a baby, because Alexandra existed and she wasn’t Emma. She must belong to someone, and just who she belonged to seemed to be an issue.

  He saw how he could satisfy both his desire to go home and his desire to continue his investigation and took a gamble, sending a text message to his driver that he could leave without him. Mobile phones were so useful, he’d found. But he sent the message in the Queen’s English.

  “Dr. Black, I’m so sorry about this, but . . . well, something’s come up, and I have to get home to Malworth, I’m afraid, but there are some other things I’d like to talk to you about. If I could see you later this evening, perhaps?”

  “Of course. I’ll be here.”

  He turned to go, then tapped his head. “Damn,” he said. “I’m an idiot.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “I forgot I haven’t got my car.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m going to have to get someone to come and collect me.”

  “I can give you a lift, if you’re in a hurry.”

  “Oh, would you?” Lloyd smiled at her. “That would be a godsend.”

  Sometimes, he thought, it was just too easy. And if Theresa Black was a murderer, she had chutzpah; he had to give her that.

  “Tell me to mind my own business if you want,” he said as they walked through the corridors to Reception, “but you seem to me still to be very fond of Ian Waring. Am I right?”

  “Quite right. But it’s a platonic relationship now, and had been for some time before he left. I’m a sort of mother-confessor, really.”

  “Do you think that he would have told you if he and Mrs. Newton had, well . . . unofficially adopted a baby? An illegal adoption? Would he have told you something like that?”

  “I wouldn’t know if Lesley would do anything like that, but I know Ian wouldn’t.”

  “If she had done it without his knowledge, and he’d found out only when he moved in with her?” The big glass doors at Reception slid open as they approached. “Is that remotely likely? It might explain the delay in his joining her in London, if she wanted to present him with a fait accompli, and didn’t want him around while the negotiations were going on. And perhaps that’s something he would rather not tell you.”

  She led the way to her van. “Buying a baby is something Lesley could afford to do, and given that she would do such a thing, then doing it without consulting Ian sounds to me entirely in character. But believe me, Mr. Lloyd, there is nothing Ian would rather not tell me. I got told this morning all about his problems with Lesley, and they didn’t include him suddenly discovering that he had responsibility for a new baby. At least . . .” She trailed off as she thought about something.

  Lloyd noted that Ian had had problems with Mrs. Newton but right now was more interested in the baby. “Yes?” he said encouragingly.

  “There was one thing h
e was less than forthcoming about. And if I’m right, he would think that it was none of his business and therefore none of mine.” She looked at him. “I think this baby you’ve got might be Kayleigh’s own baby.”

  That simply hadn’t occurred to Lloyd; Kayleigh was no more than a child herself.

  They had brought her to the children’s home where they had taken the baby and put her in a small sitting room that Mrs. Spears had called “the quiet room,” whatever that meant.

  Kayleigh had had a fleeting moment of recognition when she had walked into the home; she had never been here, of course, but her very earliest memories were of somewhere just like this.

  Social Services had got some sort of child psychologist in to speak to her, but Kayleigh didn’t care who asked her questions or what they asked her; she wasn’t going to say anything. They’d got it all wrong, but they’d have to sort it out for themselves, because anything she said might get Phil into trouble.

  She thought about what she had told them. Just that they were moving into the cottage. She was sure she hadn’t said anything else. She didn’t understand what was happening, and she didn’t know what to do; she had never felt so alone, so frightened, so confused.

  The doctor sat back, and she saw him glance at Mrs. Spears before he spoke.

  “You told Chief Inspector Lloyd that you were going abroad.”

  So she had. She’d forgotten that. But that wouldn’t help them much. She hadn’t even said where.

  “Do you want to talk about that? Were you looking forward to it?”

  Sooner or later, he’d get it into his head that she didn’t want to talk about anything. Period.

  Phil was on another train. He hadn’t called her to say he was coming; she might be away on holiday, in which case he would book into a B & B for the weekend, but he hoped she was there.

  He and his Aunt Jean were close, in an odd, blood-is-thicker-than-water way; when he had been a child, she had looked after him as often as his mother had. His father, if he had ever been on the scene, had left it long before Phil was old enough to know him, and his mother and her sister had brought him up between them.