Simeon's Bride

by Alison G. Taylor

  ‘Nothing!’ Jamie spat the word.

  Dewi’s voice was silky. ‘If you’ve done nothing, Jamie, you’ve no reason to have a brief. We’re not saying you have done anything. We’re almost agreeing with you that you haven’t done anything. Isn’t that right, Inspector?’ he said. ‘We just want you to tell us about the car, then you can walk right out of here, all legit, and not have to come back again.’

  Jamie stared at Dewi, his eyes cold. Dewi wondered irrelevantly how many of those babies seen today might be the fruit of Jamie’s loins. Rotten fruit, so to speak. ‘What’s so important about the car anyway?’ Jamie asked.

  ‘That’s our business.’ Jack was losing patience. ‘Who lends it to you? Why is this mate of yours quite happy to hand over fifteen thousand quid’s worth of car whenever you want it?’

  The silence lengthened. Jamie felt like a cornered animal, the feeling engendered by the sight of any policeman. ‘What happens if I don’t want to tell you?’ he asked. ‘If I decide it’s none of your fucking business?’

  Jack hissed, ‘You’ll find out in the next thirty seconds.’

  Dewi intervened. ‘You’re making life hard for yourself, Jamie. Beats me why you should want to do that. The inspector’ll have to arrest you unless you tell him.’

  ‘Why?’

  Dewi said to Jack, ‘The trouble is, sir, Jamie’s conditioned to not telling us anything, even when there’s no reason for him not to…. I don’t reckon he thinks the car’s important, to be honest. Aren’t I right, Jamie?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  Jack banged the table with his fist. ‘I’ve had enough of this! Take him down to the cells!’

  ‘What for?’ Jamie leapt to his feet, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he gulped air.

  ‘Wilful bloody obstruction. To a murder investigation!’ Jack stalked off.

  ‘What the fuck is he talking about?’

  ‘What he said, Jamie,’ Dewi sighed. ‘That’s the bottom line. So don’t you think it might be a good idea to stop playing silly buggers?’

  Chapter 16

  I have known Christopher Stott for some time. I can’t remember where I met him. He is married and has a child, and works at Snidey Castle as a guide or something like that. He has never taken part in any criminal offences with me. He got the Ford Scorpio car about three years ago. It was second-hand. I do not know where he got it. He said I could borrow it sometimes. I think he said this because he did not drive it very often himself. He told me his wife does not know how to drive. He sold it to somebody last summer. The new owner agreed I could still borrow the car sometimes. I think Chris Stott made this arrangement. Chris Stott used to live in Turf Square. I have not seen him since some time last year. That is all I know. I have never used the car to commit any criminal offences. This statement is made of my own free will.

  Signed: James Wright

  Jack re-read the statement, trying to unravel the implications of its terse sentences, and failed. Jamie had been sent home. Dewi fretted and nagged, wanting to chase after the philanthropic Christopher Stott. Jack decided nothing would be done until he had spoken to McKenna, and thought about the fact that Mr Stott worked at the castle.

  ‘Blackmail, Jack. That’s what this is all about,’ McKenna decided. ‘Jamie’s got something on this bloke Stott. Why else would the car loan arrangement continue after it was sold? We’ll go and talk to him.’

  ‘And probably get led up another garden path,’ Jack said bitterly.

  ‘What’s bugging you?’ McKenna demanded.

  Haltingly, reluctantly, Jack reported the events of the night before, Denise’s hysteria and Emma’s rage. ‘And it was my fault,’ he admitted. ‘If we’d told the twins, none of it would’ve happened.’

  ‘Never mind,’ McKenna said. ‘Water under the bridge now … I’ll talk to Denise.’ Shame for her behaviour scorched him, disgust that she should let her emotions flap around outside her body like dirty rags blown on the wind of circumstance, and anger that she had made a puddle of her problems for Jack and his family to fall into unwittingly.

  * * *

  ‘Mr McKenna,’ Wil said, ‘I’ve got a deadline to meet. I don’t care overmuch if the Dead Sea Scrolls are under the floors. I want to be done with that bloody place and out of there!’

  McKenna fingered the jacket and skirt Wil had brought to the police station, smudges of dust staining his fingers. ‘Where exactly did you find these?’

  ‘Under a couple of loose boards in the back bedroom. And it’s only because I always clean out the hole before putting boards back that I found them at all. They’d have lain there ’til the place fell down otherwise.’ Wil puffed hard on the pipe. ‘And before you ask, there aren’t any more loose boards anywhere. I’ve made sure of that, so there’s no need for your lot to go tearing the cottage apart, looking for things which aren’t there.’

  ‘What d’you think?’ Jack asked, after Wil had left. ‘Should we get forensic back?’

  ‘If we do, the owner will send us an almighty bill,’ McKenna said. ‘Pulling up floors’ll do no end of damage, and it’ll be our responsibility to put it right. Let’s have a think about things, shall we? Ring Eifion Roberts and tell him to bring that file with clothing labels.’

  ‘And what about Jamie’s boyfriend?’

  ‘Jamie’s boyfriend?’

  ‘Mr Stott.’

  McKenna laughed. ‘Come on, Jack! Jamie’s not interested in other men.’

  ‘Jamie would be interested in anything and anybody which might be useful to him,’ Jack said. ‘Man, woman, child or beast. He’s got no conscience; he’s the most evil bastard I’ve ever come across, and he makes my flesh crawl.’

  ‘Dewi says he’ll kill somebody one day.’

  ‘Well,’ Jack said, straightening out the jacket, ‘for once, I agree with him.’

  Jack, Dewi and McKenna sat in McKenna’s office, sandwiches and a pot of coffee on a tray on the desk, the suit folded over the back of a chair. McKenna pushed the tray aside, and spread out the skirt, turning it inside out, then back again, rubbing the fabric between finger and thumb, feeling the harshness of synthetic fibre woven into the wool. Half-lined with matching satin, both lining and outer fabric bore creases where they had been stretched tight around hips and belly. The back of the skirt bulged, its side seams pulled so taut stitches were exposed. A grubby label was sewn into the inside waistband, along with two tape loops for hanging the garment.

  ‘One thing’s for sure,’ Jack observed. ‘There’s no way our lady in the woods wore that. It’s so short her backside would’ve shown.’

  ‘It’s too wide as well. Size 16 according to the label. 16S. What does that mean?’ McKenna looked from Jack to Dewi.

  ‘I think it means “short”, as in short fitting,’ Dewi offered. ‘For short women, sir.’

  Jack looked at him. ‘All right, Prys, you’ve made your point. It belongs – it belonged – to a short woman. Ergo, not Romy Cheney, or whatever her name was.’

  ‘What does “ergo” mean?’ Dewi asked.

  ‘“Ergo” means “therefore”, Dewi,’ McKenna said, before Jack could snap at the boy. ‘It’s Latin.’

  The jacket had fared better from its wearing than the skirt, although the fabric was heavily creased across the front of the elbow area. A shapely little garment, with curved rever collar, curved hem, and a slightly shaped waist, its fabric appeared to be the same blend of wool and synthetic as the skirt, and its lining matched. It bore the same brand name as the skirt, on a silky label sewn into the front left-hand facing. ‘This is just a size 16.’ McKenna said. ‘A pretty fabric, rather unusual.’ A picture of Denise came unbidden to his mind. She would look well in this suit, the skirt smooth over her hips, not tortured by surplus flesh, the slender length of thigh below its hem, the pale bones of her knees beneath.

  Eifion Roberts pushed open the office door, marched in and dropped a heavy black file on top of the skirt. ‘You look like a bunch of perve
rts sitting there with those clothes,’ he grinned. ‘Washing-line thieves. Got the undies as well?’

  ‘No, Eifion,’ McKenna smiled. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

  Dr Roberts fingered the clothes. ‘Not much to show for all this intensive police work, is it? Anything new cropped up since we last spoke?’

  ‘I told you about the solicitor, didn’t I?’ McKenna said. ‘Wil the builder found the suit stuffed under the floorboards in one of the bedrooms at Gallows Cottage.’

  Dewi coughed. ‘Er – what about Jamie and the car, sir?’

  ‘Shut up about bloody Jamie!’ Jack roared. ‘And shut up about that sodding car!’

  Dr Roberts favoured Jack with an oblique look. ‘You want to get your blood pressure seen to. You’ve gone quite purple in the face.’ He turned to McKenna. ‘What’s this about the car, then?’

  McKenna sighed. ‘Dewi found Jamie with the car today, and brought him in. Here’s the statement.’

  ‘Has the car still got that silly toy in the back window?’ Dr Roberts asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ McKenna admitted. ‘Has it, Dewi?’

  ‘No, it hasn’t, as a matter of fact. I recognized the number plate.’

  ‘There you are, then.’ Dr Roberts dropped Jamie’s statement back on the desk. ‘That’s very significant.’

  ‘What is?’ Jack demanded.

  ‘Moving that toy,’ the pathologist said. ‘Somebody’s obviously got the wind up. That’s how Beti Gloff fingered the car in the first place, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but the toy was bought after the guy in Turf Square got the car,’ Jack said. ‘Jamie’s been borrowing the car all along.’

  ‘How d’you know it was? You’ve only got this man’s word for it.’ Dr Roberts opened the file, turning over pages. ‘You lot strike me as being remarkably slow, considering what we pay you. Beti’s seen the same car being driven by our body as she’s seen somebody else driving since,’ he went on. ‘Beti recognized the car in Turf Square, not because of its colour or shape or make or any of the usual reasons, but because of that silly toy in the back window. Ergo, that toy must have been there when Beti saw it the first time. When our Romy was driving it, in other words. QED.’

  Jack glared at Dewi. ‘Don’t you dare ask what “QED” means!’

  ‘I know, as a matter of fact,’ Dewi said. ‘We learnt it at school: “That which has been proved”.’

  Dr Roberts grinned. ‘Precisely! You’d better talk to Beti again. Where would you be without her, eh?’

  ‘Not quite so far up shit creek as we are at the moment,’ McKenna responded. ‘What can you tell us about the clothes?’

  ‘Wouldn’t fit Romy Cheney, for starters.’

  ‘We already deduced that.’

  ‘Doubt if they’d fit Rebekah either…. There’s a right old to-do going on about her, you know.’ Dr Roberts made himself more comfortable. ‘This rabbi’d read about her in the Daily Post, so he comes to see me, does a bit of tutting and says she should have a Jewish burial, and the nearest cemetery’s in Liverpool. I told him there was no way of knowing if the lass was Jewish or not. I mean,’ he added, ‘if I’d had her hubby on the table, I’d’ve been able to tell from the bits lopped off his parts, wouldn’t I?’

  Jack squirmed. McKenna said, ‘Not after two hundred years you wouldn’t.’

  ‘Don’t you be so cocky, McKenna,’ Dr Roberts said. ‘Put our Romy’s parts in some sort of order, didn’t I? Anyway, I sent the rabbi to see the vicar in Salem village, and they’re at it hammer and tongs, because the vicar reckons she’s a bit of local history, and they’ll ship her off to Liverpool over his dead body.’

  ‘Does it really matter, Eifion?’ McKenna asked. ‘She’s long dead, and her soul will’ve gone to the right place.’

  Dr Roberts shrugged. ‘I don’t know if it matters, do I? These holy souls of one persuasion or another seem to think so, and while they’re arguing, she’s taking up space in my chill cabinet, and I’m not at all sure what might happen. She’ll probably disintegrate, turn to dust, then we can sweep her up and put her in an urn, and she can be awarded like an Oscar. A year to the Jews, a year to the Church. To and fro ’til Kingdom come.’

  ‘How come you don’t know if she’ll fall apart?’ Dewi asked.

  ‘Mummified bodies don’t come my way very often, Dewi,’ Dr Roberts said. ‘We either get nice and fresh ones or nice and maggoty ones. Both types keep well enough, if you look after them. Like what your mam does when she puts the Sunday joint in the freezer. Now,’ he added, ‘let’s have a look at these clothes. They’ve only been worn two or three times, I’d say. No sweat stains … and traces of a very unusual perfume on this jacket. Smell it.’ He thrust the jacket under McKenna’s nose, then Jack’s, then Dewi’s. ‘Remind you of anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Carnations,’ Dewi said. ‘Sort of dry and musky.’

  ‘And there’s only one perfume in the world which smells like real carnations, and keeps on smelling the same.’ Dr Roberts paused, staring into space. ‘There was an odd dry scent on the skeleton’s clothes. Reminded me of death, it did.’

  ‘How long does it keep on smelling that way?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Indefinitely. It’s called “Incarnat”, which is old French for carnation … means flesh-coloured, as well, if you’re interested in that sort of thing. The perfume’s made by Corday in Grasse, and I doubt you’d be able to buy it this side of Chester. The clothes came from Debenhams, by the way, their own label….’ Dr Roberts looked at the suit, a slight frown creasing his forehead and the skin around his eyes. ‘It’s a bit odd, come to think of it, because with all due respect to Debenhams, I wouldn’t expect a woman who buys her clothes there to wear this perfume. A small bottle of it would cost ten times the price of this suit.’

  McKenna touched the jacket. ‘I don’t know. It matches the jacket, in a way. Matches the pattern … faded and flowery.’

  ‘They don’t go together,’ Dr Roberts argued. ‘Price-wise or personality-wise. I see the woman in this suit as a middle-aged sort, mentally if not physically. Maybe a bit vain. And no sense of style, because the skirt was obviously far too tight round the bum. Perhaps a bit frumpish as well.’

  ‘Even supposing you’re right, although for the life of me, I can’t see how you can deduce all that from a jacket and a skirt,’ McKenna countered, ‘what’s to say she didn’t splash out on a new perfume to go with her new outfit?’

  ‘It’s the wrong perfume,’ Dr Roberts said. ‘Apart from the difficulty of buying it, a woman will only wear that scent if she really loves it. It’s very exotic, very individualistic. Not in the least fashionable, not the sort of perfume advertised in women’s magazines, not the sort many women know about.’

  Dewi stood up. ‘Shall I get to Debenhams before they shut up shop for the day, sir?’ he asked McKenna. ‘Find out when the suit was on sale?’

  ‘Ask about the perfume as well. What’s it called, Eifion?’

  Dr Roberts wrote the name of the perfume in Dewi’s notebook, tucking the book into his pocket. ‘Just a thought, sir,’ Dewi said to McKenna. ‘Lots of women use their friends’ scent, don’t they? Spray on a bit to see if they like it. This lady could’ve done that, couldn’t she? Maybe Romy liked carnations.’

  Chapter 17

  McKenna dialled Robert Allsopp’s home number. The telephone rang twenty-three times before Allsopp responded.

  ‘How much longer is all this going to go on?’ he demanded.

  ‘All what, Mr Allsopp?’

  ‘Being hounded! I’m sick to death of it!’

  ‘We’re not hounding you. I did say we’d need a formal statement.’

  ‘How many formal bloody statements d’you need to do your job?’ Allsopp shouted. ‘Eh? First her, then the car, then her husband, then the bloody car again! What next?’

  ‘Hopefully, not much, provided you’re willing to answer a few more questions now.’

  Allsopp sighed. ‘What d’you want to kn
ow?’

  ‘What kind of perfume did Madge – Romy use?’

  ‘What kind? How d’you expect me to know that? The kind that smells!’

  ‘Yes, Mr Allsopp,’ McKenna said. ‘Perfume usually does smell, otherwise there’d be little point in using it. What did her perfume smell of?’

  ‘Jesus Christ! Flowery sorts of things.’

  ‘Which flowers? Any in particular?’

  ‘Oh, God! You’re like a bloody terrier with a bone! I can’t remember.’

  Jack could hear the rise and fall in Allsopp’s voice, the whine of despair. ‘Think.’ McKenna was saying. ‘Just cast your mind back. Try to picture the scent bottles, where she kept them, how many. Then try to recall their actual smell. Did you prefer one or the other? Did you dislike any of them? Take your time. Did you associate a particular scent with clothes she wore, or places you went together … little things like that.’ He lit a cigarette from the stub of the last, and swivelled his chair back and forth.

  ‘You still there?’

  ‘I’m still here, Mr Allsopp.’

  ‘There was one I remember, because I hated it, and she would insist on using it because she said she liked it. Actually, she said she loved it because it made her feel special.’

  ‘Why did you hate it?’

  ‘It got right up my nose. Literally! Gave me sneezing fits, and runny eyes.’

  ‘D’you know what it was called?’

  ‘Some French name … they’ve all got French names, haven’t they?’

  ‘Well, then, what sort of smell was it?’

  ‘Really pungent. Like anaesthetic with flowers, if you know what I mean. Romy used too much of it, sprayed it on all over, even though I told her it was very strong. You couldn’t sit in the car with her.’

  ‘Any chance of picking out the flower?’

  ‘I’m not very good at that kind of thing … I can’t say … not really.’

  ‘Shit!’ McKenna exclaimed.

  ‘I beg your pardon? You say something?’

  ‘Mr Allsopp, this is very, very important. I know you’re sick of the sight of policemen, but I wonder if you’d do us a favour?’