She squeezed her lips tightly together as if to prevent the wrong words coming out. ‘I can’t tell you nothing,’ she mumbled.
‘Can’t, or won’t?’ Silence. ‘You don’t like Charlie, do you? You didn’t want Terry to have anything to do with him?’ Still no reply. ‘Are you protecting Charlie… scared of him, perhaps?’
‘Protect that weasel – you must be joking!’ Contempt overcame her determination not to speak. Then, without warning, the tears began to fall again. ‘Sure, I’m scared,’ she admitted in a broken whisper. ‘But not the way you mean. I wanted Terry to stay away from him because I knew there’d be trouble. Charlie’s evil. My dad used to say, if he fell off the QE2 he’d come up with a fish in both hands and he wouldn’t give a toss if everyone else got drowned. I wanted Terry to promise to stay away from him, but—’
‘But you think he took up with him again?’ She nodded, still quietly weeping. ‘That suggests Charlie’s living somewhere round here. Do you know where?’ That time she shook her head. ‘Well, thank you, Mrs Holland, you’ve been very helpful.’
Castle got up and left the room. At the front door he met DC Hill. ‘Go ahead and search,’ he ordered. ‘She won’t give you any trouble.’
Nineteen
Terry couldn’t believe it was really happening. Surely some creature out of a nightmare had grabbed hold of him and dragged him backwards into the past, rubbing his nose in its horror, forcing him to relive the events that had ended his freedom for so many soul-destroying years. The arrest, the caution, the drive to the nick in the police car, the barked order to turn out his pockets, the hands that searched for a concealed weapon, the walk along endless grey corridors… it all had a dreamlike quality that convinced him that at any minute he would wake up in his own bed with Rita beside him. It was only when they went through the ritual of reminding him that he was entitled to the advice of a solicitor that he at last faced up to the sickening reality. Maybe he should ask for a brief – but why the hell should he? He’d done his time, wiped the slate clean.
As for all this crap about a murder… he hadn’t touched that woman, had only set eyes on her once when her husband had been there, hadn’t been near the place since installing the safe and no one could prove he had. Didn’t that fingerprint on his rear-view mirror, in a place where he himself never touched it, prove that someone else had been driving it? OK, so it was too smudged to identify, but the point was, it was there and he was ready to swear on his mother’s grave that it wasn’t his. Whoever had left it, the bleeder who’d nicked his van that day, was the one the coppers should be out looking for, not pulling in an honest citizen and upsetting his wife and kid. He’d done his best to help them, but he’d think twice about cooperating with coppers from now on. He made this clear to them, defiantly and not particularly politely. They made it equally clear that they were not impressed.
It worried him that the DI with the face like an eagle had stayed behind to talk to Rita after they’d cuffed him and put him in the car. It had been stupid of her, blurting out Charlie Foss’s name like that. He hoped she’d had the sense not to say any more. Not that there was much she could tell them about where Charlie was now or what he was calling himself. He’d kept her in the dark about everything except that Charlie had come across with some of the money.
The money. Well, that was safely stashed away and that young copper who’d stayed behind to search wouldn’t find it, or anything else that could incriminate him. Anyway, it had nothing to do with the present bit of bother. He had every right to it. He’d earned it by all those weary years spent inside while Charlie had been using everything he and Frank had lifted from the bank job to feather his own nest. He’d made a bloody fortune… enough to run a Jag and buy a posh house with a swimming pool and a sauna and gold necklaces for Brenda. It was high time he settled his account with his old partners. What had been surprising was the way he’d caved in after that episode by the pool. Terry had expected more resistance – more of the smarmy, ‘Now look here, old son’, sort of bullshit that he’d used in days gone by when the three of them had argued about who was taking the most risk and deserved the biggest cut. It was odd, too, the way the money had been handed over. Some bloke who wouldn’t give a name phoning to tell him when and where to find it. At the time, he’d been so chuffed to get his hands on it that he hadn’t given much thought to the whys and wherefores. But this was no time to bother his head with all that. There was this bloody stupid murder inquiry that he’d somehow got tangled up in.
He slumped down in his chair in the interview room, watched listlessly as the tape was switched on, heard the time, his name and the names of the two policemen spoken into it. The eagle-faced DI Castle and grey-haired, bushy-eyebrowed Sergeant Radcliffe, whose ruddy face reminded him of the vicar in the church he used to attend as a kid. He was a big bloke, the vicar, who stood tall behind the brass lectern to read the lesson. The lectern had an eagle’s head… and here they were again, the Vicar and the Eagle… this wouldn’t do, he had to stay calm, answer their questions, get the whole thing sorted.
They began quietly. No hectoring, no bullying, just spelling out what they had against him, asking what he had to say about it. The gravel from Mr Chant’s drive they’d picked out of his tyres. The thread from his overalls found under the window, the plaster dust from his van that had left prints of his trainers on the floor inside the house. The diamond earring that Mr Chant had said belonged to his murdered wife. All he said in reply, all he could say, was that he knew nothing about it, some other bugger had been using his van and wearing his gear. He kept on saying it, and each time the Eagle and the Vicar looked at one another and smiled, and he knew what they were thinking: Pull the other one, Terry. Can’t you think of something better than that threadbare old yarn?
Then they started about the money from his overall pocket. Was it from Mr Chant’s safe, the one he’d supplied and fitted? Had he ordered a spare key before installing it? It would be easy enough to find out, enquiries were already being made but it’d save a lot of time if he’d tell them now. They put their questions forwards, backwards and sideways. How had he got the money, if not from Chant’s safe? It was money that was owed to me, he kept insisting. Who owed it to you? That ain’t none of your business.
They asked him about Charlie Foss. He knew they would, because of what Rita had said. He’d have given anything to know how much she’d told them. He explained that Charlie was just an old mate he ran into recently. Rita had never liked him, but they had a drink together for old times’ sake. Where does he live, Terry? I dunno, do I? We met in a pub. What pub? Can’t remember.
Then they sprang the first nasty surprise. They knew about the five grand. Where did he get it? Was it from Mr Chant’s safe? I keep telling you, I don’t know nothing about what was in the safe. I wasn’t there, it must have been the bloke who nicked my van.
There was a short silence after that. For a moment, Terry had a wild hope that they’d given up, that they were ready to admit they were getting nowhere. They looked at one another and then back at him. Then the Eagle put a plastic envelope containing something shiny on the table in front of him. The gold necklace, the one in the picture, the one he’d been tricked into pretending he’d seen Mrs Chant wearing because the Eagle knew he’d recognised it and the last thing he wanted to do was put them onto Charlie. Not while the bleeder still owed him a packet. After that, OK, stuff him.
‘This necklace belonged to Mrs Lorraine Chant,’ the Eagle explained. ‘But you already know that, don’t you? We reckon it was stolen by whoever killed her.’ He leaned forward and fixed Terry with those unblinking, greenish eyes. ‘It’s got your prints on it,’ he said softly. ‘How d’you explain that?’
Until now, Terry had felt more anger and resentment than anything else. Now, for the first time, fear crept in and chilled him like a breath of cold air. He stared in stupefaction at the necklace that Brenda Foss had been wearing that evening and knew he was cornered. He reme
mbered admiring it, picturing something like it round Rita’s neck. The scene by the pool came rushing back… the way he’d shown Charlie who was top dog… the surge of adrenalin as he dropped the slimy bastard in the water, soaking the fancy suit… the look on Brenda’s face as she stood watching her husband spluttering and floundering at her feet. Then he had reached out and touched the necklace, held it for a moment between his thumb and forefinger. Such an innocent thing to do, and it had landed him in this mess. It was all because of Charlie. Rita had been right, over and over again she’d warned him to have nothing more to do with Charlie, he should have listened to her. Bobbing on the surface of the dislocated jumble of thought that was swirling around in his brain was the conviction that it was Charlie’s doing that he was here. Somehow, Charlie had stitched him up. Christ alone knew how, but he’d stitched him up good and proper. His head was aching, splitting – it was like having it crunched between the jaws of a monstrous nut-cracker. He let out a groan of mingled pain and despair.
The Eagle repeated his question. Terry covered his face with his hands. ‘I ain’t saying no more,’ he muttered. ‘Not till I’ve talked to a brief.’
DI Castle sat behind his desk and cursed his luck. Sergeant Radcliffe stood leaning against a filing cabinet while he sounded off, sympathising but saying nothing. He knew from experience that it was best not to comment for the moment, just listen until the storm subsided.
Castle got up and strode round the office. He took his keys from his pocket and began tossing them up in the air, closing his fist tightly round the bunch each time he caught it as if wishing he could get his fingers round Terry Holland’s collar and shake the truth out of him. ‘We nearly had him, Andy,’ he muttered. ‘I swear he was on the point of cracking… now we’ve got to wait for a duty solicitor, who’s unlikely to get here before’ – he stopped flinging the keys up and down to consult his watch – ‘ten o’clock at the earliest. Next thing, Holland will be claiming he’s too tired to answer any more questions.’
‘Maybe that’d be no bad thing,’ Radcliffe suggested. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, Guv, you’re looking pretty done in yourself. And besides, this fax has just come in. Some background information from the Yard about the robbery Holland got sent down for.’ He handed Castle a sheet of paper. ‘Makes interesting reading.’
Castle put the keys back in his pocket, slumped into his chair and shut his eyes. Radcliffe was right; he was feeling done in. He had been exposed to quite a bit of raw emotion during the day and it was beginning to tell. First there had been Mrs Bayliss’s distress – how genuine was it, though? – at having to part with her husband’s last gift while still traumatised by his sudden death. Then Arthur Chant’s outburst – a mixture of anger and guilt over the suggestions about illicit profits or merely a cloak for his private anguish? And finally, Rita Holland’s despair at her husband’s arrest. That, at least, had been genuine.
With an effort, he opened his eyes and scanned the text of the message. In a moment, he was wide awake and reading aloud. ‘“Driver of the getaway car alleged by defendants to be one Charlie Foss, no record, present address unknown. Defendants unable to produce any evidence to support the allegation. All attempts to find the stolen money unsuccessful.” Well, well, well.’ Castle sat back in his chair and locked his hands behind his head. ‘So that’s why Holland’s wife got so upset when she found her old man had taken up with Charlie Foss again,’ he mused. ‘Scared of what he might do to get hold of his share of the loot.’
‘It explains why he didn’t look too happy when you asked him about Foss,’ said Radcliffe.
‘Exactly.’ Castle sat up and reached for his jacket. ‘Come on, Andy, we’ve got a bit of time to spare. Let’s go out for a pint.’
The noise level in the saloon bar of the Bear Inn was low enough to make conversation possible without shouting yet high enough for the two men to speak normally without the risk of being overheard. Castle bought two pints of best bitter and carried them to a corner table. Radcliffe followed with two large bags of crisps.
‘Any ideas, Guv?’ the sergeant asked above the crackle of plastic as he ripped one of the bags open.
Castle dived into his crisps and began munching. It wasn’t that long ago that he’d eaten, but already he was feeling peckish again. ‘According to that report,’ he said ruminatively, ‘although the police didn’t succeed in tracing Foss, they spoke to people who knew him and were quite ready to believe him capable of running out on his mates and taking the money with him. If it’s true, then he was clever enough to cover his tracks completely. But,’ Castle went on, with heavy emphasis on the word, ‘our Terry seems to have succeeded where the Met failed.’
‘It could have been luck, the way Holland explained it.’
‘You reckon? Two villains from London coming to Gloucestershire and meeting up again by chance?’
Radcliffe upended his crisp bag to catch the last few crumbs in the palm of one hand, emptied his tankard and held out his hand for Castle’s. ‘Same again?’
‘Thanks.’
When he came back with the second round Radcliffe said, ‘This is all very interesting, but I don’t see how it helps our case against Holland.’
‘Holland’s wife said she reckons Foss is living somewhere on our patch and she knows they’ve been in touch, but she doesn’t know how or where. Supposing Terry put the squeeze on Charlie to cough up his share. Charlie might have pleaded poverty – said the money was all gone. Supposing they plotted this heist together and Charlie is up to his old tricks, leaving his partner to do the dirty work and take the rap?’
‘You could be right, Guv. From what that report says, a trick like that’d be right up his street.’
‘At least, if that theory’s correct, Charlie didn’t get away with all the loot this time. I think we’ll have another go at Terry on the subject of his old mate when we restart the interview. If it dawns on him that Foss has dropped him in the shit again, he might change his tune… and maybe then we can get to Foss before he does another runner.’ Castle checked the time by the clock above the bar. It was almost ten. ‘Drink up, Andy, we’d better be getting back.’
The desk officer greeted them with the news that Terry Holland was closeted with his solicitor, who emerged shortly afterwards to inform them that his client categorically denied any involvement in either robbery or murder, but was too exhausted to answer further questions that night.
Twenty
It was almost eleven o’clock when Jim Castle returned to his flat in Tewkesbury Road. He had taken it, initially on a six-month lease, after returning to Gloucester following the collapse of his short-lived marriage. At the time, he told himself that it was a temporary expedient, that once he had settled down he would look out for a village property, a renovated cottage with a garden perhaps. Despite having been born in the city he had always had a yen to live in the country, something that his ex-wife had flatly refused even to consider. Two years after the divorce and his return to his roots, he had still taken no steps to fulfil his dream. Meeting Sukey again and finding that she too was free once more had held him back. It was like having a hand on his shoulder, a voice in his ear whispering, Wait awhile, wait and see how things turn out. Maybe one day the two of you will go house-hunting together.
Meanwhile, the flat was convenient. Jim parked the Mondeo in his allocated space, closing the door as quietly as he could because the retired civil servant in the flat above his was quick to complain if his slumber was disturbed. For the same reason, despite his weariness, he climbed the three flights of stairs instead of using the lift. He let himself in at his front door, bolted it, put his jacket and briefcase in the hall cupboard and went into the kitchen, pulling a face at the sight of the used breakfast crockery stacked in the sink. He wandered into the bedroom, kicked off his shoes and picked up the pyjama bottoms that he had thrown towards the bed that morning before taking his shower. His aim had been bad and the garment lay where it had fallen in an oddl
y contorted heap, as if it had been worn by someone writhing in pain. He went back into the kitchen, made a pot of tea and took a mug into the living room, dragging off his tie and undoing the top button of his shirt with one hand as he drank.
He checked his answering machine for messages, but there were none. He told himself that it was illogical to expect to hear from Sukey when he had been speaking to her in the flesh so recently. Just the same, he was tempted to call her, had already tapped out the first part of her number without thinking about it before it occurred to him that she was quite likely in bed and possibly asleep. He hung up; it wasn’t as if there was anything of real significance to tell her.
He felt depressed and discouraged. All the softly-softly tactics had come to a grinding halt when Terry Holland, faced with the one solid, indisputable piece of evidence against him, had clammed up and demanded a brief. The dismayed expression that replaced the look of sullen obstinacy on the doughy features, the way his roughened hands balled into fists and the refusal to speak another word without first consulting a solicitor were not, Castle was convinced, the reactions of an innocent man. Nor, he judged, a particularly intelligent one either. It would be interesting to learn what line he would take after legal advice followed by a night’s rest.
Castle went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, thought about a shower but decided to wait until the morning. He got into bed and tried to read, but found it impossible to concentrate and threw the book aside. Yawning, he lay down and put out the light but, despite his weariness, his brain was still active. There was so much to think about, so much still to be done before the case was wrapped up. There was Charlie Foss to track down; it was possible that he held the key to the whole business. A vague bell rang at the back of his mind, a faint suggestion that somewhere among the tangle of contradictory evidence there was something he hadn’t recognised as significant. He spent a long time trying unsuccessfully to pin it down before falling asleep.
Death at Hazel House Page 19
