by Jane Isaac
Nancy could feel her defences returning. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. But this is scary stuff, and just after…”
Nancy turned away. “No. I’d have known.”
“It’s a bit of a coincidence though, don’t you think?”
She turned back to Ryan. “You just want to find something, anything to make him look bad.”
“Well, hang on, that’s not fair.”
Ryan leant forward, moved to place his hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. “I’m sorry, Nance. I’m only trying to help. Maybe if you told me what actually happened last Sunday?”
Nancy blew out a heavy sigh. Going over the events of Sunday evening only served to remind her how little she could remember. By the time she had gone through her experience at the morgue, the pain in her head had soared to new heights. She decided not to mention the different identities of Evan. She didn’t want to give Ryan any more reason to think badly of him right now.
“I’m so sorry, Nance. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be going through all of this.”
She gave a feeble attempt at a nod.
“But there’s no reason anyone would be interested in you. If they’d wanted to kill you, surely they’d have done so on Sunday. Did you get a look at him? The man outside.”
She shook her head.
“Maybe it was kids messing about. It could have been just a prank.”
“It didn’t feel like a prank.”
Ryan scratched his chin. His face was impassive, although she could see the concern he was so deftly hiding. “There’s something else.” Nancy placed her mug on the coffee table and wandered out into the kitchen. She could feel him beside her as she rummaged through the waste bin.
“What are you doing?”
Nancy ignored him. She pulled out a drinks carton, pushed aside a couple of crisp packets. When she couldn’t see what she was looking for she delved deeper until her fingertips brushed the top of torn paper. Nancy grimaced, reached in further and dragged out the pieces of the note.
She could feel Ryan’s eyes on her as she washed her hands, wiped them with a tea towel and tried to piece the torn paper together.
“‘Debts pass to next of kin’,” he read out loud. He glanced at her. “What does that mean?”
“Next of kin,” she repeated. “There’s only one thing it could mean.”
Chapter Twenty
Jackman felt the heat of a pair of eyes trailing him as he turned off the Birmingham Road and crawled down the side of the Premier Inn. He parked around the back of the hotel beside the canal. A woman in a black jumper sat beside the window in the corner of the Thyme Café, cradling a mug of coffee, watching him as he approached. She didn’t look away when he met her gaze. By the time he had pushed open the door and crossed the threshold she had placed her mug down and was standing to welcome him.
“Mr Jackman?”
He nodded. “Amanda Grayson,” she said. “Thank you for coming to meet me here.”
He’d deliberated over sending one of his team when he’d taken her call in the incident room. She said she’d seen him doing the press appeal earlier in the week, insisted on speaking to him personally. Public appeals always attracted a number of time wasters and attention seekers and it was difficult, at times, to separate truth from reality. But there was something in the way this woman crafted her words that piqued his interest. She spoke clearly, enunciating every syllable. And when she mentioned Eamonn Benwell’s name, he’d felt compelled to come along and meet her himself.
Grey-blue eyes set in a clear complexion stared back at him as he shook her extended hand. Her hair was pulled into a loose French plait.
Jackman ordered a coffee and sat himself down. “How can I help you?”
She rubbed her lips together before she spoke. “It’s rather awkward. I’ve come to talk to you about Eamonn Benwell.”
“So you said.” Jackman kept his face expressionless and let the silence linger in the air.
“I know you’ve been questioning him about his movements last Sunday evening, the day the man was killed in the barn. I’ve come to say that he wasn’t involved. He couldn’t have been.” She sucked in a deep breath. “Because he was with me.”
“Mr Benwell said he was at work.”
She looked down into her coffee. “He was. Until early evening. He met me at a lay-by on the A46. We went for a ride in his Buick.”
“Why?”
“Pardon?”
“Why was he with you? How do you know Eamonn Benwell?”
“We’ve been…” she paused, turning her eyes to the right, “seeing each other for the past eight months.” She winced slightly as she spoke the words. “Since his marriage ended. But nobody knows, not his wife and certainly not my husband. Eamonn would never tell. He wouldn’t break my confidence. I’ve got children, two of them, at primary school. It would rip my family apart, and it wouldn’t do his any good.” She stared out of the window for several moments. “But I can’t see him being arrested and questioned for something he didn’t do.” She looked up. “It’s not fair.”
The waitress arrived with a mug, placed it in front of Jackman and retreated.
Jackman stared at the coffee and looked back at Amanda. “How long have you known Eamonn?”
She moved her hand to her neck, wound the gold chain that hung there around manicured fingers before she answered. “Almost a year. Our daughters were in the same class at primary school, they played at each other’s houses. It was invariably Eamonn that would be there when I collected my Lily, or dropped her off. Sue, his wife, worked full-time. He runs his own business and seemed to be able to drop out of work to look after his kids and ferry them around. We exchanged numbers, mainly to arrange play dates for the children. It was nothing much at first. The odd look, a smile here and there. He sent a few texts. Just flattering stuff really. I thought he was being friendly. Then just before Christmas last year I was out shopping on my own, picking up the last few stocking fillers. The children were with my mother. And we happened to be in the same store. The shops were heaving, so we went for a coffee. And… I’m not proud of myself, Inspector. I love my husband. I never intended for anything like this to happen. It just sort of started.”
“How often do you meet?”
“Whenever we can. Sometimes once a week. Sometimes less often.”
“Where?”
She cleared her throat. “Sometimes we go to a hotel in Leamington.”
He felt her recoil as he opened his notebook, took down the details.
“If we didn’t have much time, which was often the case, we’d go for a drive. Take one of his cars if Evan was around to open the barn.”
“Did you go to the barn?”
She shook her head. “No. Never. Eamonn would pick the car up first. Meet me along one of the country roads. I’d leave my car in a lay-by and we’d go out in his. We had to keep to the country roads in his American cars, in case they drew attention. I used to wear sunglasses.” She placed a hand across her face. “God, you must think I’m awful.”
“My job isn’t to make judgements. It’s to establish the truth.” The silence lingered awhile before Jackman continued. “Did you ever meet Evan?”
“No.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“When was the last time you saw Eamonn?”
“Today. Only for a few minutes because the children were at a club. That’s when he told me about the police interviews. I couldn’t believe it. He’s a good man, Inspector. He’s just had a difficult year.”
“When did you last see him before today?”
“On Sunday. He texted me in the morning. My children go to a swim class early evening. Michael, my husband, was golfing. I met with Eamonn, he was in his Buick. We drove down to Warwick Road Lands.
“What time was this?”
“From around 5pm for an hour. I collected the children at 6.15.”
“Is there any way that I can confirm this?” he asked
.
She hesitated briefly, swallowed and fumbled in her bag, moving across her purse, a packet of tissues, unzipping a side pocket inside. The phone she pulled out was switched off, the blank screen bare. “This is the phone I use to contact Eamonn. It has details of all our calls and texts. He has one similar. I don’t use my own phone, for obvious reasons, and his wife checks the billing on his mobile.”
Jackman picked up the phone, switched it on and scribbled down the details he needed along with her contact details. When he passed it back to her he could see tears in her eyes. She didn’t look like the kind of woman that would be paid to manufacture a fictional alibi, but then criminals didn’t look like the comic book monsters he was raised with as a kid.
“What happens now?” she said.
“We check out your story.”
“How?”
“It’s routine police work.”
“Is there any way of keeping this confidential?” There was desperation in her voice. “I know it’s a minor issue for you. A man has been killed.” She placed a hand on her chest, clearly fighting to keep her composure. “But I don’t want my husband to find out about the affair.”
“I can’t make any guarantees.”
“I realise that, but I have children. Please?”
Jackman surveyed her a moment. “It’s not unusual to treat a report like this as confidential intelligence. People would never come to us if they thought their every word, every detail they gave would be made public. I will need to keep your contact details on file, just in case, but if your account is proven, and you are not suspected to be involved in any way, it’s possible the details may not need to come out.”
“Thank you.” Her words were laced with relief, but her face still looked anxious. She stood, indicating an end to their conversation.
Jackman watched her go, pulled some money out of his pocket and left it on the table. He was walking across the car park as she drove out in a green Volvo. She flashed him a brief grateful look, and was gone.
He sat in his car for several minutes, letting their conversation percolate in his mind. He would have his team cell site her phone and check the police cameras to correspond her movements on Sunday, although he was pretty certain she wouldn’t have given the account if there wasn’t an element of truth in it. But one thought coloured all others. By her own admission she was keeping her affair from her family, her loved ones. Eamonn Benwell was keeping things from his family too – the affair, the money in his flat. Both of their accounts, however true, were laid on a foundation of deception.
He leant his head back, pushed it into the headrest. Her statement explained the reason why Eamonn Benwell was at the barn on Sunday, but it didn’t give him an alibi. He still had to return his car to the barn, which gave him plenty of chance later to carry out the murder. But if he was the killer, Jackman still didn’t have a motive for him. And he couldn’t see what Eamonn would stand to gain from burning the barn down.
Chapter Twenty-One
On his way back into the station, Jackman felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He paused in the corridor to check it. A missed call from Celia, his daughter, followed by a text.
Sorry I missed you. Call you later x
He was just pocketing his phone when he heard a door slam. Almost immediately he felt a presence behind him. “What are you doing lurking out here in the corridor?”
He turned to face Davies who was smirking up at him. “On my way back to the incident room.” He made a play of sniffing the air around them. “Back on the fags, then?”
“Only at work. Keeps me sane.” She chuckled. “Any news?”
“I just popped out to meet a friend of Eamonn Benwell’s. Claims they’ve been having an affair for the past eight months. Apparently she can prove he was with her on Sunday. He met her in his car, they went for a drive.” Jackman explained about their journey to Warwick Road Lands.
“Doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved.”
“No, but it makes it less likely.”
“So where does that leave us? Surely we’re not beholden to Mr Drugs Squad?”
Jackman couldn’t resist a grin. Mike Clarke was certainly the kind of detective that took his job overly seriously. “Let’s look into the farm owners’ backgrounds,” he said. “Everything points to them not being involved, but with all the investment in this operation, I can’t see that the victim would have planned to shut it down when they returned. Also, see if Keane can chase the international liaison angle. What happened to the real Evan Baker and why did the victim steal his identity? And chase that DNA. Again. Finding the true identity of the victim is a priority, pay extra if you need to – I’m sure Janus will have something to say but we’ll deal with that later. I guess we’ve exhausted missing persons?”
A familiar voice came from behind him. “Will, fancy bumping into you.” He turned to see Carmela’s wide smile and found himself grinning back. “Still okay for later?”
“Sure.”
An awkward silence followed. Davies shot Jackman a look, stepped forward and introduced herself.
“Nice to meet you,” Carmela said and shook her hand. She gazed up at Jackman. “Well, I’ll see you later, then.” She pulled that smile again and moved along the corridor.
“Mixing with the high flyers now, I see?” Davies said, just as Carmela was out of earshot.
“It’s not like that.”
“Didn’t know you two knew each other well enough for a ‘later’,” Davies said.
“We don’t.” Jackman paused, scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “She’s just helping me with something.”
Davies widened her eyes. “I bet.”
Jackman turned and watched Carmela push open the door at the end of the corridor. As soon as she disappeared he decided it was time to share his secret promotion board with Davies. But as he turned back to face her she’d gone. He spun, just in time to see her push through the door at the other end of the corridor on her way back to the incident room. Jackman rested his back against the wall. Another chance gone.
***
The first thing Nancy noticed when they drove down Lodge Road and pulled up was that the front curtains were drawn. The clock on the dash read 3.30pm. She bit her lip and glanced around. Apart from a few parked cars, the street was empty. She turned to face the house she’d been raised in. It had changed so much in the few years since her grandmother died. Clumps of grass and weeds hung out of the stone tubs out front that had once housed fuchsias, petunias and begonias in a kaleidoscope of colours at this time of year. Her eyes slid to the neighbouring house next door whose pretty window basket was overflowing with red geraniums. Mrs Gibson lived there. When she was growing up, Mrs Gibson’s granddaughter, Isabel, used to come and stay with her in the holidays. Isabel was the same age as Nancy and the two girls played out together; she remembered them roller-skating up and down the pavement one summer until their legs ached. On the other side an elderly man called Roger lived alone, his wife long since passed away. These people had been friends of her grandmother, smiled and exchanged pleasantries when they saw her out in the street, took parcels in for her at Christmas; attended her funeral to pay their respects.
After Cheryl had moved in, they became distant. Nancy suspected it was the regularity of police vehicles outside and the company her mother kept that pushed them away. If she saw them in the street, she would smile at them sympathetically. But sympathy soon turned to embarrassment. She cringed when they started to ignore her. They could clearly see what was going on in their quiet street and disapproved of the comings and goings next door. It was sad to think what her grandmother would have made of it all.
The boarded lounge window was an indelible reminder of what happened last time her mother hadn’t paid her debts: the window had been smashed when a brick had been tossed through it. Nancy thought back to her visit that day. The neighbours had alerted the police, who eventually called her. She’d been at the farm with Evan and, despite only
knowing her a few short weeks, he insisted on coming over to help.
The front door had been swaying in the breeze when they’d arrived. She remembered the huge sense of trepidation as she’d walked through the hallway and stared into the lounge. A female police officer sitting on the sofa immediately stood. “She’s upstairs. The paramedics have given her the okay. We’ll be back to take a statement when she’s sober.” And with that she’d left.
A couple of empty bottles had sat on a coffee table, which was strewn with plastic lighters and an overflowing ashtray. The kitchen was filthy, dishes and glasses stacked up in the sink.
Evan had followed her up the stairs where they found her mother laid across the bed, a line of spit hanging out of the side of her mouth. Nancy recalled shouting, snapping Cheryl out of her sleep. They’d bickered, words flying across the room, until Evan had stood between them. He was amazing that day. He’d placated Nancy and sent her out, while he spoke to Cheryl alone. She wasn’t sure but he was so insistent that finally she relented and stood out on the landing, desperately trying to make sense of the muffled words spoken through the wooden door. Finally, she gave up. She was sitting on the top of the stairs when Evan emerged, closing the door behind him.
Evan refused to tell her what they discussed and moved past Nancy and downstairs. When she found him in the kitchen he was tackling the huge pile of washing-up in the sink. The moment felt surreal, they didn’t talk as she started to empty the ashtray and clean up the house, just like she had many times before. Evan went to the builder’s yard down the road, returning with a sheet of chipboard and proceeded to board up the window before they left.
But what was more remarkable over the weeks that followed was how Cheryl sought help in an effort to wean herself off the alcohol. It hadn’t been easy, she’d been interned in a clinic that Evan had arranged for several days, came out and had counselling. She was withdrawn, but she’d been free from alcohol for two months and she seemed to be more responsive, to be eating, cleaning the house, coping.
Evan even offered to replace the window in the weeks that followed, but Cheryl refused his offer. She wanted to save and pay for its repair herself. It was a remarkable turn of events and Nancy remembered how grateful she’d been to Evan for his efforts.
