Lying Dead

by Aline Templeton

  ‘Have you touched this?’ she asked, and when he said no, dug in her shoulder bag for one of the plastic evidence bags she always carried, and a pair of tweezers. She picked it up carefully, tucked it in and put it away.

  ‘Does she have any papers anywhere? Passport – that sort of thing?’

  He shook his head. ‘Never saw any.’

  ‘There was nothing at all on her when we found her. Presumably she had a handbag, but we haven’t located it. Would you know what it looked like?’

  Wordlessly he indicated a shelf at the top of the wardrobe where there were more than a dozen bags of varying size and colour including some even Marjory recognized as seriously expensive. ‘She changed bags all the time. I wouldn’t know what’s missing.’

  The only lead he could give her was the name of one of the other barmaids. ‘Natasha and Jax used to go for a girls’ night out together every week. Maybe Natasha talked to her, like girls do.’

  ‘Will she be in the bar today? My sergeant’s there now.’

  ‘No. Day off. But I can give you her mobile number – can’t remember the address but I don’t think it’s far from here.’

  Fleming scribbled it down. ‘Are you at work yourself today?’

  ‘No. Took the week off – just in case.’

  She smiled. ‘So at least you have the rest of the week to relax.’

  As if the word were a trigger, the young man’s shoulders sagged. ‘I suppose so,’ he said dully. ‘I just feel shattered. Can’t take it in, know what I mean? It’s kind of like some sort of weird dream, like she might come walking in any minute. But . . .’ He hesitated. ‘What’s going to happen – to her, I mean?’

  ‘You would like us to notify you when the body’s to be released? We have no record of next-of-kin.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I would.’ His eyes had filled again. ‘I wouldn’t want her to be – you know – just left there. You see, I really loved her. Whoever she is, whatever she’s done.’

  From the sound of things, he was a lot more than she deserved. ‘We’ll do that, then,’ Fleming said gently. ‘There’s just one more thing. Can you think of anything that might have prompted her suddenly to do this?’

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, and when he did speak it was as if the admission was physically painful. ‘Yes, suppose I do, really. I just didn’t want to admit it, even to myself.

  ‘You see, my gran left me a bit of money. Not a lot, just a few thousands. But Natasha wanted to do things – expensive things – like we took a holiday cruise in the Caribbean, and another time we went to Bali. And, well, the money was running out.’

  ‘And her clothes and so on didn’t come cheap either.’ Fleming felt very sorry for him.

  ‘Oh no, she paid for all that sort of stuff out of her wages,’ he said naively. ‘But when I told her we couldn’t go on living that way any more, she went sort of cold and angry, like it was my fault.’

  As Fleming left, he said, ‘I know she made a fool of me. But you know what? I’d do it all over again, even now.’

  If ever there was a woman asking to get herself murdered, it was Davina/Natasha. But it wasn’t this poor innocent who had done it.

  And the man who, it seemed, had? As she went down the stairs, Fleming glanced at her watch. They’d be questioning him now – Allan and, no doubt, Kingsley. She regretted bitterly that she could not be there for the crucial six hours of questioning before they had to charge or release him.

  She knew what Allan would want. Allan would want a confession, a nice neat confession followed by a guilty plea. That was what they all wanted, after all, but Fleming liked to hear what they had to say first, even if she then with painstaking ruthlessness tore the story apart until they cracked and admitted it didn’t stand up. Allan didn’t care, just so long as they signed at the foot of the page.

  She was never sure about his methods either. Since the advent of meticulously recorded interviews, you couldn’t use a rubber hosepipe on your suspects, but it was surprising what pressure a powerful and aggressive man could bring to bear in the confines of an interview room. The point sometimes came when a man would put his name to anything, just to get the questioning to stop. And she didn’t trust Kingsley to restrain him.

  Jon had worked closely with her, but somehow he had never wholly accepted her principles. Law courts might be purely and simply about proof: on the basis of the evidence presented, you were guilty or not guilty, though she had always believed the verdicts of ‘Proven’ or ‘Not Proven’ gave a more accurate picture of the process. As a police officer, you could see it as your job simply to find evidence that would satisfy a court, but if you didn’t also believe it was to find out the truth and deliver justice as best you could, sooner or later grave injustice would be done. Kingsley believed in the quick fix.

  Fleming had little doubt that Ingles was guilty, but she wanted even that small doubt removed and she was far from sure that Allan’s questioning would do it. But he’d been on his way to the interview room when she spoke to him and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Oh yes there was! She got out her mobile and scrolled to the Kirkluce HQ number. ‘Get me DC Tansy Kerr. As a matter of urgency.’

  Keith Ingles was waiting in the interview room, sitting at the table with his head bent over his clasped hands. He looked up as the two officers came in, giving them a veiled look from hooded blue eyes. He had an outdoor complexion, weather-beaten rather than tanned, and there were deep lines about his mouth. With his greying hair he looked considerably older than forty-three, the age given on the charge sheet.

  Jon Kingsley went to fiddle with the recording machinery while Greg Allan sat down on one of the two chairs opposite, leaning back and crossing his legs in a pantomime of assurance.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he drawled, ‘some old lags just can’t keep away, can they? Looking forward to meeting up with the boys again?’

  Ingles lowered his head again, saying nothing, then jumped in shock as Allan brought both hands flat down on the table with his full force.

  ‘I asked you a question!’ he roared. ‘When I ask you a question, you answer! Got that? Now, when I ask you a question, what do you do?’

  ‘I have the right to remain silent . . .’ The response hung in the air, but the man who could have said it had done time and had learned the futility of that sort of response. Ingles licked his lips. ‘Answer.’ He had a slight lisp, a sort of thickening of the ‘s’ sound.

  ‘ “Answer, sarge.” ’

  The old bully’s trick. ‘Answer, sarge.’

  ‘That’s better. Now, what was the question again? Oh yes, looking forward to another spell inside?’

  ‘No . . . no, sarge.’

  Allan leaned back again, beaming. ‘Now, that’s what I like to see. Co-operation. DC Kingsley likes that too, don’t you, Jon?’

  ‘Yes – sarge!’ Kingsley said cheekily and they both laughed.

  ‘Right.’ Allan turned back to Ingles. ‘Now. We’re just going to turn on the tapes and do the formalities. Then you’re going to tell us about how you murdered Davina Watt.’

  Struggling for composure, Ingles said, ‘Would it make any difference if I said I didn’t?’

  Allan pulled a face. ‘Means it would all take longer, that’s all. Waste of everyone’s time. Give us a confession and we can be out of here in half an hour. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  There was no reply from Ingles, and Allan raised his voice. ‘I said, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes what?’

  ‘Yes, sarge.’

  ‘That’s better. OK, Jon, get us started.’

  Kingsley recited time and names, adding that the subject had been cautioned and informed of his rights, and Allan began.

  ‘Keith Ingles has stated his intention of making a confession.’

  Ingles sat up in his chair. ‘I didn’t!’ he protested. ‘I said no such thing.’

  Very coolly, Kingsley said, ‘Y
ou expressed your wish to do it and be finished.’

  ‘I – I didn’t! You asked me – I can’t remember exactly what you asked me.’

  ‘DS Allan asked you if you wanted to make a confession and you agreed. Do you mean you now wish to change your mind?’

  ‘Yes – no – I mean, I never said that.’ Sweat was beginning to appear on Ingles’s forehead.

  ‘Sweating already!’ Allan said with marked enjoyment. ‘You’re going to have to do better than that. It usually takes a lot longer to break someone down. So let’s cut the cackle. How did you kill her?’

  Ingles shut his eyes and drew a deep breath, then another. Allan gave Kingsley a hopeful glance and they waited in silence. But when the man spoke again, it wasn’t what they were looking for.

  He seemed to have pulled himself together. ‘I wish to state that I did not at any time suggest that I wished to make a confession. I am innocent, and I am now aware that these officers are trying to coerce me into making a false confession.’

  Kingsley stiffened. Allan’s doughy face turned bright red. ‘Are you accusing us—?’ he began, but Kingsley cut in.

  ‘There must have been some sort of misunderstanding. DS Allan and I were both of the opinion that you had expressed your intention of making a confession. However, we are applying no coercion and the last thing any of us wants is a false statement.

  ‘But it may help you to decide that truth is in your best interests if I tell you that there is forensic evidence proving your guilt.’

  ‘I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘Oh no?’ Allan sneered. ‘So how come her blood’s been found on a tarpaulin at your house? And that won’t be all, believe me, once these boys get going. But for starters, maybe you’d like to explain how it got there? She cut her knee, maybe, so you wrapped her up in a tarpaulin to make it better? Tell that to the jury – they always like a bit of a laugh.

  ‘Come on, Ingles, you’re wasting my time.’

  Kingsley leaned across the table. ‘Shall I tell you what happened? She did the dirty on you over the money you stole from the Yacht Club. Then she turns up again, wanting more. You’ve still got quite a bit of cash tucked away somewhere, haven’t you – you must have! You were a solicitor, you’d a house, a car.

  ‘What did she do, Keith? Did she come wheedling round you, sweet-talking you, thinking you’d fall for it all over again? But she’d got you wrong, hadn’t she? You hated her, because she wouldn’t lie for you when you’d done it all for her. Can’t say I blame you. It’s a natural reaction.

  ‘You’ve been here before, Keith. You know the score. You didn’t accept the evidence the last time, and it did you no good, did it? We’ve got an open-and-shut case here. Have a look at the tariff. Probably you didn’t even mean to kill her, it was an accident, and with the reduction you’d get for an immediate plea it could mean you’d be out in four years – three, even.’

  Still Ingles did not speak.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ jeered Allan. ‘Can’t find anything to say? Too hard to explain away, just like last time? Some people never learn!’

  ‘I can explain.’ Instead of being worn down, Ingles was gaining in confidence. ‘But there is no point in talking to you. I’ll save it until I can make a statement through my lawyer.’

  The officers’ frustration was evident. Kingsley looked coldly furious and Allan’s face darkened in temper. ‘You’ll talk,’ he blustered. ‘Oh, believe me, you’ll talk.’

  ‘We’ve a long time left.’ Kingsley’s voice was tightly controlled. ‘You’d be surprised how difficult it is to stay silent all that time, knowing that at the end of it you’re going to be charged. As you will be.’

  After three-quarters of an hour, in which Allan and Kingsley between them had bullied, reasoned and even sat in silence themselves, Ingles had said not another word. At last, with a jerk of his head to his subordinate, Allan rose and left. As Kingsley joined him, he instructed PC Jack, waiting outside with an expression of lugubrious resignation, to keep an eye on the suspect.

  ‘Not working, is it?’ Allan said in frustration. ‘So where do we go from here?’ He looked hopefully at Kingsley. Jon didn’t like it when things didn’t go his way; maybe he could come up with something.

  ‘Stubborn bastard!’ Kingsley’s annoyance was obvious. ‘Not much point in waiting another couple of hours like this – I’ve better things to do.’

  ‘You reckon we should charge him anyway? Haven’t got much to put in a report. And then that accusation about forced confession – we just have to stick to it that he said he wanted to confess.’

  ‘Of course he did.’ Kingsley didn’t hesitate. ‘Changed his mind, clammed up.’

  ‘Right, right!’ Allan was saying, when DC Tansy Kerr and PC Sandy Langlands appeared in the corridor.

  ‘Hey, lads! Having a breather? Has he told his uncle Greg nicely what a bad boy he’s been?’

  Allan looked at Kerr sourly. ‘He’s in there, thinking about it. What are you two wanting?’

  ‘I’m to take over for a bit. Boss’s orders. She wants me to have a wee chat with him.’

  ‘And I’m telling you, there’s no need for that.’ Allan was outraged. ‘We’ve talked to him already, he’s denied it, and he’s decided he’s not saying anything till he’s got his brief. I’m in charge here – I’ll speak to Marjory later.’

  ‘I’ve had my orders.’ Kerr wasn’t giving an inch. ‘Anyway, is there any reason why not?’

  She could tell what he was thinking: because you might succeed when we had failed. Allan turned anxiously to Kingsley for backing. ‘Jon?’

  Kingsley shrugged. ‘You never know, Greg, the woman’s touch! I’ll come in and support you, Tansy.’

  Allan gasped in outrage at this shameless determination to be on the winning side, but Kerr was having none of it. ‘No, no, Jon, it’s all right. The boss suggested I took in Sandy to do his hand-patting act. See what a bit of sweet-talking can do.’

  Langlands grinned, and they went into the interview room, leaving the other two outside.

  ‘Well, thanks a lot for backing me up!’ Allan snarled and stalked off down the corridor without waiting to see if Kingsley had followed.

  Jax Jones was something else. She had agreed warily to a visit and Fleming found a taxi to take her to a run-down terrace in the Northern Quarter of the city.

  Jax was a skinny bottle blonde with her hair tied on top of her head in what looked like a chimney sweep’s brush. She was wearing turquoise leggings and a yellow crop-top which exposed the tattoo of a pink rose on her hip. She was made up like a teenager, with green glitter on her eyelids and fingernails, but Fleming guessed she’d be lucky to see thirty again. She was chewing gum, and her accent was so strong that it took Fleming a minute or two of saying, ‘Sorry?’ before she got her ear in enough to understand what the woman was saying.

  Jax led her upstairs – ‘All bedsits, innit?’ – to a room where the bed in one corner was almost completely covered with soft toys of lurid hue and indeterminate species. There was a sagging curtain across another corner, a portable TV and a floor cushion as well as a chair covered in a purple throw.

  ‘You better sit there, I s’pose.’ Jax indicated the chair and curled herself up on the cushion, chewing rhythmically. ‘Watcha want, then?’

  ‘Jeff Brewer tells me that you and Natasha Wintour used to have a girls’ night out once a week?’

  ‘Believed that, did he? Well, that’s a laugh!’

  Fleming blinked. ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘Nah! Used to buy me a drink, then I’d do my thing and she’d do hers, no questions asked.’

  ‘Was she on the game?’ Fleming asked bluntly, leaving aside the question of what Jax herself did in her spare time.

  ‘Nah!’ she said again. ‘She’d a better scam going – chose some bloke from the bar, didn’t she, then he’d show her a good time and give her “presents”. Nice work if you can get it, right?’

  Reluctant to be dra
wn into discussion of the finer points of what did, or did not, constitute being on the game, Fleming moved on. ‘Was this usually the same man, or a series of men?’

  ‘Same man, for a bit. ’S what I mean, see? Always looking for some rich punter to take her on, but never stopped putting it about, in case she missed a better one. Then they’d twig and we wouldn’t see them in the bar again in a hurry. So she’d have to move on to another one. Told her once, didn’t I? “You watch it, my girl, stick to one while you still got your looks.” Don’t last long, do they?’

  Jax pulled a rueful face and Fleming realized she was older than she had thought, possibly nearer forty than thirty-five.

  ‘Did she ever tell you how she came to be in Manchester?’

  ‘Not really. Oh, said she’d been living with some old geezer but he threw her out – up to her old tricks, I’d reckon.’

  ‘And she never told you she was going away?’

  Jax looked down, picking at a chipped nail. ‘We-ell, couldn’t say it was a surprise, know what I mean? Not with Jeff always on about money, and her looking at him like he was dirt. Thought she’d just do a bunk, if you want to know, minute she got a better offer.

  ‘But here – what happened to her? You hear all sorts. Done you a favour, talking to you, haven’t I, so I want to know. Was it one of them in the bar did it? Got a right to know if I’m safe.’

  She sounded truculent, but Fleming recognized the aggression of fear.

  ‘No, I think you’re all right. I can tell you that someone in Scotland has been detained on suspicion of her murder.’

  ‘What’s that, when it’s at home?’

  Resorting to TV speak was the best chance of communication. ‘Our prime suspect’s in custody.’

  ‘Oh. Well, that’s all right, then. Just never know, do you?’ She digested that. ‘So – a Scottie, was she? Sounded like you, any road. What was her name?’

  ‘You knew it wasn’t Natasha?’