by Jane Isaac
“Sure. I’ll have another please. Make it a double.”
Ryan had barely touched his drink. He ordered another, handed it over. She pressed it straight to her lips. “Take it easy, Nance. You know what you are like with drink.”
She pulled the glass from her lips, angled her head. “And what is that?”
“You know what I mean.” Ryan glanced about awkwardly.
“What, that I can’t take my drink? Not like my mother?”
“Come on. You know I didn’t mean that.”
“Well, don’t say it then,” she snapped. The anger was raging through her so hard, so fast that all she needed, all she wanted right now, was another drink.
The barman switched the CD and the soft sounds of the Cranberries filled the bar area. Nancy and Ryan drank in silence.
She finished her glass, placed it down on the bar. “I’m just going to the loo.” Her voice had raised a decibel, almost on its own.
Nancy could feel the heat in her cheeks. Eyes boring into her. She looked around, just in time for two men in the corner to avert their gaze. A couple at the end of the bar were deep in conversation. They flicked a quick glance at Nancy and continued. She turned on her stool to find a sea of eyes look away awkwardly. The bar area had hushed. People weren’t staring. They were consciously looking away. It couldn’t have been more obvious.
A single notion pushed through the hazy fog that now wrapped itself around her mind. Did these people think she’d filled Evan’s place? She could imagine their sordid little conversations in the car on the way home, ‘He’s not even cold and she’s out with someone new.’ Her blood boiled. How quick people were to judge. It was the same for Evan with his background. How dare they?
Nancy stood. The room blurred slightly. She wavered, realising she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Becca had stopped at the motorway services on the way back and ordered a sandwich, but Nancy had settled for a latte. Her insides had been far too chewed up with meeting Audrey to be able to negotiate food.
“Hey,” Ryan placed his arm around her. “Careful.”
She pushed him away. “I’m fine. Just need to get something to eat.”
“Okay, let’s go and get something.”
Nancy gave a single nod. “I’ll just go to the ladies, first.”
The walk around the edge of the bar to the ladies’ room was one she had done numerous times in the past, but never with such great concentration. She battled to keep straight, pressing one foot carefully in front of another, kept her head high.
As soon as she was through the door she rushed to the sink and splashed her face with cold water, then pressed her forehead to the cold marble. When she stood she felt calmer.
But one thing was clearer in her mind than ever before. Evan might have taken someone else’s name, their identity, but he was no fraud. The Evan she knew was a kind, considerate man, he would never have hurt anyone, and she was sick to death of people making judgements about him. She reached into her bag, searched around the side pocket, pulling out a pack of gum and a blister pack of paracetamol. She pressed out a couple of tablets, holding her hair back so that she could drink from the tap to swallow them down, then placed a minty stick of gum on her tongue. As she replaced the packet, her fingers caught the edge of something. It slipped out of her bag and fell to the floor. Nancy reached down and curled a nail underneath the business card from the journalist. She rose and stared at it for several moments, before grabbing her phone and punching out the numbers. It was about time people found out who her Evan Baker was.
***
“You asked to see me?” Jackman faced Miranda Holmes as he spoke. The fact that she was representing both Luke Denton and Nick Anderson wasn’t lost on him.
“You have arrested my client for murder, yet you have no evidence to link him to the crime.”
Jackman leant back and watched her irritably scratch the point of a manicured nail down the side of her neck. She was well-known in the station, with her expensive suits and her abrasive manner. Strangely, even though it showed them as well-connected criminals, suspects supported by Miranda Holmes wore her representation like a badge of honour, as if they’d really made it. He wondered how she managed to sleep at night. “Are we talking about Mr Anderson?”
“We are.”
“I have a number of other matters to put to him.”
“Come on, Inspector. You and I both know it’s all circumstantial.”
“How much is he paying you to stay here this long?”
“I really don’t think that’s relevant.” She started gathering her papers together. “He’s tired after his flight. I suggest you let him go home to his family.”
There was a knock at the door and Russell’s head appeared. She widened her eyes as she asked to speak to him. Jackman excused himself.
“They’ve located the garages,” Russell said when they were safely out of earshot. “They’re rented in Carly Anderson’s maiden name which is why they didn’t flag up before. There’s a false back on one of them. The search team missed it at first, it’s a professional job. Behind it they found some firearms and an array of different mobile phones.”
“Are any of the firearms linked to Upton Grange?”
“We’ve linked the serial numbers of three firearms with those registered to Mr Lawton at Upton Grange Farm. We’ve sent a mobile fingerprint machine down there to see if we can lift anything.”
“Brilliant.” Jackman let out a relieved sigh. “We finally have something to go on.”
“Shall we prepare the suspect for another interview?”
Jackman glanced back at the door behind him. “No, not tonight.” He gave her a wink and let himself back into the room.
Anderson’s solicitor pursed her lips as he approached. “Well?”
“You are right, of course, Mr Anderson would be tired after his flight.” She raised her eyebrows. “He can bed down here for the night as I now have a lot more questions for him.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Nick Anderson stared defiantly at Jackman. He looked fresh, despite spending the night in a police cell, the shadow across his chin the only clue that he’d been denied his home comforts.
In contrast, Jackman was running on adrenalin. He’d stayed late last night, assisted by one of the intelligence officers they’d called in especially to help, and ploughed through the contacts and text messages on the mobile phones found in the garage. The hours passed by. He was almost ready to quit for the night when they placed a loose SIM card into one of the phones and a string of messages came up to another party named ‘Evan’. Texts such as: The debts are coming out of your share, and Do as you are told. They’d have to wait for billing from the mobile phone company to identify any further details and that would be after the weekend. There was nothing on Evan’s mobile phone that they’d found at the farmhouse, but knowing that it was usual for dealers to use different phones and SIM cards to lessen the chance of detection, Jackman really felt they were onto something. He’d arrived home just after 3am, his head buzzing, making for a fitful few hours of sleep before he stepped back into the station at 7.30 that morning.
Miranda Holmes leant forward. “Inspector, we’ve been in here for almost half an hour and according to my watch you only have another five hours to hold my client. Do you have something new? Because, if not, I suggest it’s time to consider release.”
Jackman ignored her. He focused on Anderson. “We know you were at the farm on Sunday evening.”
“No, you traced my phone there,” Anderson said. “And I told you, I lost it.”
“So you weren’t there at all?”
“I was at home. My car was parked on the drive. I’m sure my wife will vouch for that. You have spoken to her?” He slung himself back over the chair, a bored expression spreading like a stain across his face.
“We have. But your car wasn’t on the drive, was it? It was at the barn.”
Miranda sat upright. “Do you have some proof of this, Inspector?”
Jackman looked from one to another. Protocol meant that he couldn’t release details of the tracker.
Anderson scoffed. Said nothing.
Jackman surveyed him a moment. “How long have you rented the garages off the Birmingham Road?”
A muscle flexed in Nick Anderson’s jawline.
Jackman made a play of looking at his notes. “Numbers 34 and 35, I believe.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“It’s where you and your son ride on your motorbikes, isn’t it?”
“Who told you that?”
“There’s a camera rigged up on one of the garages opposite yours. Barely visible.”
Anderson turned away.
“It’s also where you stored the guns you stole from the farmhouse.”
“I’ve never seen any guns.”
“Strange,” Jackman said. “Because they have your prints all over them. Along with the collection of mobile phones and SIM cards we found there.”
Anderson glowered at Jackman.
“Are you sure you don’t want to say anything about the phones? Their text messages certainly make for interesting reading.”
Anderson gave his solicitor a single sideways glance. “No comment.”
***
An hour later, Jackman took a deep breath and placed his plastic cup on the table in front. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
They were seated in a spare meeting room waiting for the custody sergeant to call them through to formally charge Anderson. Janus had called in on her day off, keen to be a part of the action.
Davies glared at him. “What do you mean?”
He averted his gaze, deep in thought. “Let’s work it back. What was Denton’s motive?”
“We know he killed Eamonn Benwell,” Davies said. “It’s on CCTV.”
“I’m not denying that, but why?”
“To frame him for the murder in the barn. Probably thought he was doing Anderson a favour. Eamonn was linked to the barn through his cars.”
“Anderson could have killed Evan in any number of ways. Why would he burn down and ruin a cannabis farm that he could take over and reap the rewards from?”
“To send a message to Northampton? Put an end to their fight?”
Jackman scratched the corner of his temple. “Why take the guns, then?”
Davies shrugged. “Maybe they were his security policy.”
“It seems soft to me.”
“You think too much,” Janus said. “We’ve got him in custody. His fingerprints were at the barn. We can place him near the scene on Sunday. Some of the SIM cards contain suspect messages to Evan. He has means and motive.”
“We know the victim had a bang to the head. How did he transport the body from the farmhouse to the barn?”
“We still need to establish that. It’s likely he had help.”
“Doesn’t explain why he would burn down the barn.”
Janus sighed. “The CPS have agreed a murder charge, pending further enquiries.”
“We won’t get the phone billing until Monday,” Davies said. “And there’s a wealth of text messages and numbers to work through.”
“But for today, it’s over,” Janus said. “And it’s a great result. Send everyone home to get some rest. Issue a brief announcement to the press and we’ll follow it up after the weekend. You need to be fresh for Monday. We’re releasing the news of the cannabis farm next week, part of Warwickshire’s new campaign against drugs. The chief constable will be coming over himself to launch it.”
Jackman cringed. It was extraordinary how Janus could spin this case around so that it represented a result for the police, a PR exercise. The two men who’d lost their lives would pale into the background. He’d often thought her hard-nosed approach would be better suited to a manufacturing plant than a people-based service.
The custody sergeant’s face appeared around the doorframe. “Okay, you’re up,” he said. “He’s at the front desk.”
***
Jackman dragged his feet on their way back up to the incident room after they’d made the formal charge, still trying to work through Anderson’s motivation in his mind. He recalled the text message: The debts are coming out of your share. Why would Anderson burn down Evan’s only source of income to pay back the debt? It didn’t make sense.
The cheer that rose as he entered the room took him by surprise, forcing him to push the questions to the back of his mind. He held up a hand. “Well done, everyone. Brilliant work.” He dug his hand into his pocket, pulled out a few notes. “Pop out and get a round of pizzas, will you?” he said to Davies.
“You’re not coming?”
He shook his head. “Take Keane with you. He’s the resident pizza expert.” He turned and collected his keys off the table. “There’s something I need to do. Won’t be long.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
As Nancy woke she was immediately assaulted by a slice of daylight seeping in through the gap in the top of her curtains. She turned away, jammed her eyes closed. The movement induced a surge of bile to her throat, causing her to rush to the bathroom and hang her head over the toilet. She retched, hard. Several times. Only to vomit a small amount of liquid.
The heat in her head cooled as she sat back on her heels. She recalled leaving the toilets at the pub last night, feeling the weight of eyes follow her back to the bar. Bickering with Ryan over a request for another drink, the cool air of the car park. Then nothing. Last Sunday she’d experienced a similar memory blank. The night Evan died. Fear curled its long fingers around her shoulders. Was the memory loss last Sunday really a result of the concussion or was alcohol masking her senses, blocking her mind. Just like it did with her mother.
Ryan used to laugh at her when they were together. He called her a cheap date because she only ever drank a single glass of wine. She placed a hand over her eyes. He wouldn’t be calling her that this morning. Nancy stood, padded into the kitchen, grabbed the washing-up bowl and took it back to bed.
The pain in her head eased slightly, pushed aside by a barrage of thoughts teeming around her mind. For as long as she could remember, she’d avoided drinking alcohol. Never once had she come home drunk, been ill and forgotten herself, although she’d nursed Becca through a hangover many a time. Ryan had indulged her sobriety; she drove his car when they went out. In contrast, Evan always drove and encouraged her to sample different shorts and enjoy the experience. ‘Drinking a few glasses doesn’t make you an addict,’ he’d said. She cursed. But if only she hadn’t drunk last week, she’d be able to remember what happened.
She looked at his photo on the bedside table. The man accused, arrested and charged with rape. The very thought wrenched her heart into her mouth every time it crept into her mind. Rape was such a heinous, violent crime. Her Evan wasn’t perfect – obsessive in his tidiness, and he liked things done a certain way. But she couldn’t believe he was capable of such a twisted act.
Detective Russell’s visit rang out in her mind. They were looking into links with the farm and the man harassing her for money. Was Evan killed because he was involved in something illegal? Or was history repeating itself with misguided judgements? She wouldn’t let that happen again. She couldn’t.
Nancy hauled herself up and into the shower. The tepid water slowly calmed her nerves. As she climbed out and got dressed, she could hear the door open in the shop below. Becca and Karen had returned from setting up the weekend’s event flowers and were preparing for the Saturday morning rush. She checked her watch and just had time to pull a brush through her hair before the doorbell sounded.
The door was opened to reveal an elegantly dressed woman in a trouser suit and matching dark rimmed glasses. She clutched a briefcase in her right hand. Elise Stenson’s dark hair was smoothed back into a bun this morning, accentuating her prominent cheekbones. “Where would you like me?” she said.
***
Dark rainclouds were rapidly gathering overhead by th
e time Jackman entered Tiddington Road. He could see the twinkling lights of a modern chandelier illuminating the front room as he left the car and crossed the driveway. His knocks at the door were followed by a trampling of feet pounding the stairs. Music was switched on, a heavy beat thumped from the room above.
He waited a moment, knocked again. Finally the door pulled open to reveal Amanda Grayson. She was dressed casually in a pair of black jeans and long white top, her hair tied back loosely. The light dusting of make-up she wore did little to hide the dark shadows that hung beneath her eyes.
“Sorry about that,” she said, raising her eyes skyward as she let Jackman in. “They’ve got the devil in them today. I guess it’s understandable. Their dad moved out this morning.”
Jackman gave a sombre nod and followed her into a long kitchen. An oversized work station dominated the middle of the room, surrounded by matching cupboards; a table at the far end overlooked a long garden.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thank you. I have some news. We’ve arrested a man for Eamonn’s murder.”
Amanda stood very still. “Who is it?”
“His name is Luke Denton, he’s a local Stratford man. He was charged yesterday and will be remanded in custody, pending trial.”
“Do you know why?”
“Not at the moment. Our investigations are still ongoing.”
A sense of disquiet hovered in the room. Amanda Grayson reached for a nearby stool, manoeuvred herself onto it. “It’s such an unnecessary tragedy,” she said.
Jackman thought back to his initial meetings with Eamonn Benwell when he’d expressed what appeared to be genuine concern that the body in the barn might be Evan. Yes, there were question marks over his bank accounts, his income, but perhaps he was fiddling the books, not putting jobs through to keep them from his wife. That would explain the cash under the floor in his flat. His fingerprints on the generator placed him at the barn, but he’d never denied he’d spent time there. He was a man who thought he’d found a safe place to store his cars and unknowingly become involved in a drugs ring. A ring that ultimately led to his own murder. Perhaps his only sin was not cooperating with the police, or giving them an explanation for his movements on Sunday. The idea, unpalatable as it was, wedged itself in the back of Jackman’s mind.
