by Roberta Kray
Lorna flapped a hand. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that now. It came out of petty cash and Harry has all the receipts, but there’s no rush. The main thing is that you’re still in one piece.’
‘Just about.’
‘And you didn’t need to do this,’ Lorna said, sniffing appreciatively at the roses. ‘You’ve got enough on your plate. They’re lovely. I can’t remember the last time anyone bought me flowers. I think Mac’s forgotten what a florist is.’
As if on cue, Mac came out of his office. When he saw Jess, he gave her a brusque nod and retreated back inside.
‘Don’t mind him,’ Lorna said. ‘He’s got a lot on his mind at the moment.’
Jess, who had seen the expression on Mac’s face, suspected that his coolness was down to something more personal. Still, that was hardly surprising. On the trouble front, her record left a lot to be desired. She wondered if Harry had told him about her investigation into the Minnie Bright case. As an ex-cop, Mac would probably be none too pleased about that either.
Jess repeated her thanks to Lorna and then, laden with shopping, trudged up the stairs to the flat. Inside, she dumped the carrier bags on the table and sat down wearily in a chair. It had been a long day, but at least she’d begun the process of sorting things out. Having to deal with the practical stuff, with the bank, the insurance company and the replenishing of her wardrobe, had been a temporary distraction, but when she’d gone down to Cowan Road police station, she’d had plenty of time to think about Becky Hibbert again.
Despite having arranged an appointment for four o’clock, Jess had been made to wait for over fifty minutes before Valerie Middleton had deigned to put in an appearance. And even then she’d been about as welcoming as Mac. She had looked Jess up and down, pursing her lips as if Jess had been found wanting in some fundamental way. Granted, the woman was up to her ears in a murder inquiry, but a little politeness wasn’t too much to ask. Instead, the DI had been decidedly offhand, as if Jess was one of those familiar time-wasters who had to be listened to but who no one took particularly seriously.
Jess shook her head, not wanting to think about it any more. She’d done her duty and told the inspector about her article and her association with Becky Hibbert. What Valerie chose to do next was up to her. After waiting all that time, Jess had been in and out of the interview room in less than fifteen minutes.
Rising to her feet, she picked up one of the bags and took it through to the kitchen. She emptied the contents – milk, pizza, salad and wine – into the fridge. Then she returned to the living room and took the rest of the bags through to the bedroom. Her clothes shopping had been fast and furious. Normally she’d have spent hours choosing new jeans, but today she’d bought the first pair that had more or less fitted. She had new trainers too, as well as a smarter pair of black shoes, underwear, shirts, T-shirts, trousers, a simple black dress and a black jacket. She hung some of the garments in the wardrobe and put the rest, apart from the trainers, in the chest of drawers.
The final carrier bag contained a wallet, cosmetics, a cheap watch, a handbag, phone, notepads and pens. She sat on the edge of the bed, took the phone out of its packaging, inserted the battery and plugged it in to charge. Earlier, she had called Neil from the mobile that Harry had lent her, telling him that her phone had broken down. She hadn’t mentioned the fire or the murder of Becky Hibbert or the fact that she was currently staying at Harry’s place. He would only feel obliged to rush back, and she didn’t want that. There was no point in disrupting both their lives. He’d be home at the weekend and she’d explain everything properly to him then.
Jess gathered up the receipts from the bottom of the bags, wincing as she thought about the hit her credit card had taken. Hopefully the insurance wouldn’t take too long to come through, or she’d be living off bread and water for the foreseeable future. She went back into the living room and stood by the window. She was glad to be alone, needing the time to get her thoughts together. Harry had called her in the afternoon, saying he could get someone to cover his surveillance if she’d like some company tonight, but she’d told him she’d be fine. Was she fine? Well, she was at the moment, knowing that Lorna and Mac were still downstairs, but she wasn’t sure how she’d feel when they left and it got dark.
Not wanting to dwell on that too much, she turned and walked into the kitchen. What she needed was food and alcohol. Food for energy and a few glasses of wine to take the edge off her fear. She still hadn’t really faced up to the fact that someone had tried to kill her last night – the same someone who in all likelihood had murdered Becky Hibbert. And she couldn’t shake off the thought that she had been in some way responsible for Becky’s fate, her constant pushing and probing a catalyst for what had come next.
She reached into the fridge, took out the pizza, unwrapped it and put in it in the microwave. While it was heating up, she opened the bottle of wine and poured herself a glass. Returning to the living room, she switched on the TV and found the local news. There were pictures of the Mansfield Estate and a report about the murder. Detective Inspector Valerie Middleton, with professional ease, gave a brief statement saying that they were searching for a man called Dan Livesey – Becky Hibbert’s ex-boyfriend and the father of her children – to help with their enquiries.
Jess took a sip of her wine as she stared at the mugshot on the screen. She frowned. If this Livesey guy had killed Becky, then there was no obvious link to the Minnie Bright case. She understood now why the inspector had been so offhand with her; if the police already had a suspect, they wouldn’t be interested in pursuing what probably seemed like an unlikely connection to events from the past.
But Jess didn’t like coincidences. Becky had been murdered on the same night as someone had set fire to her flat. That couldn’t just be chance. She refused to believe it. And if the cops weren’t going to investigate, then she would damn well do it herself. The thought of what this might mean – there was clearly someone out there who would stop at nothing to preserve the secrets of the past – sent a small shiver through her. But fear was no excuse for cowardice. She was the one who had lit the fuse and it was down to her to deal with the explosive consequences.
The microwave pinged and Jess switched off the TV. She retrieved the pizza and took it back to the table. She’d intended to have a salad with it, something healthy to balance out the fat and calories, but lethargy got the better of her. She couldn’t even be bothered to open the packet.
While she ate, she booted up the laptop and connected to the internet. The one sensible thing she had done was to save most of her notes and research to an external vault. She also had Harry’s hard copy of all the press cuttings connected to the Minnie Bright case. It was time to get back to work.
Two hours later, Jess was looking again at the timeline for the day Minnie had died. Her head was starting to ache, a combination of too much screen-staring and too much wine. She sighed and sat back. The remains of the pizza lay congealing on a plate. Wrinkling her nose, she leaned forward again and pushed it away. The trouble with comfort food was that it came with a mighty dollop of guilt – and her guilt levels were already in overdrive.
Fatigue was tugging at her bones. The day, despite a few hours’ kip in the morning, had been a long and stressful one. She blinked twice and yawned, thinking how nice it would be to have a hot bath, curl up in bed and go to sleep. But she refused to give in to the temptation. Placing her elbows firmly on the table, she shook her head and tried to focus on the job in hand. What about Hannah Bright, Minnie’s mother? No one seemed to know where she’d gone to, or when. Surely that was worth following up.
She did a search on the internet, checking out the social network sites. She came up with a few hits, a few other Hannah Brights, but not the one she wanted. Next she tried the electoral register, but she got no joy there either. It was what she’d been expecting. If Hannah was still living the same kind of life as she had been, she’d be one of those people who slipped under the radar, n
ot paying tax or insurance, probably not even in possession of a computer.
The next person she thought about was Clare Towney, Donald Peck’s niece. As a teenager, her life had been turned upside down. Her uncle had murdered a child and her mother had borne the brunt of local protest. Clare had moved away but had been forced to come back. Yes, that woman had every reason to be angry.
Jess jotted down Clare’s name in her new notebook and then moved on. It was Lynda Choi’s phone calls that were still really bugging her. Why were they important? So important that nobody wanted to talk about them. Except David Choi. And he’d had his card marked, been threatened, told to stop. But why? None of it added up. So Lynda had gone back to the house, seen a light go on and off, banged on the door, got no response and left. There was something wrong about it all, but she couldn’t work out what.
Staring down at her timeline, Jess read through the details again. When she’d reached the end she went back to the beginning and started to wonder about Donald Peck’s testimony. What if he hadn’t been lying? What if he hadn’t killed Minnie Bright? She needed to talk to someone who had known Peck, someone impartial who had nothing to gain or lose by telling her the truth. Her eyes alighted on the name of his ex-probation officer, Ralph Masterson, who had given evidence at the trial. Of course there was no saying that he was still alive. He’d already been retired at the time of the trial, and that had been fourteen years ago. That would make him in his late seventies or early eighties now. And even if he was still around, would he be living locally? Well, there was only one way to find out.
Jess checked out the electoral register for Bethnal Green. Bingo! There was a Ralph Masterson of the right age living in Banner Road. She cross-referenced the information with a phone directory and came up with a number. Taking a quick breath, she dialled and waited. It was answered after a couple of rings.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Mr Ralph Masterson?’
‘It is.’
The voice, although she’d only heard a few words, sounded elderly but strong. ‘I’m sorry, this is going to seem a little strange, but are you the Ralph Masterson who used to be a probation officer?’
‘I am. And who are you, may I ask?’
‘I’m really sorry to bother you. My name’s Jessica Vaughan. I’m a freelance reporter. I’ve been looking into the Minnie Bright case and I was wondering if—’ She didn’t have a chance to finish before he interrupted her.
‘I’ve got nothing to say. For God’s sake, why are you bringing all this up again? It’s ancient history. Haven’t you got anything else to write about? I had enough of you lot back then. It’s over and done with.’ A sigh rolled down the line. ‘Why can’t you leave it alone?’
Jess felt her eyebrows shifting north. For a man who claimed to have nothing to say, he didn’t seem to be doing too badly. She wasn’t sure if it was anger she was hearing or simply exasperation. ‘It’s not what you think,’ she said quickly, hoping that he wouldn’t hang up on her. ‘There have been some developments. I understand you knew Donald Peck, and I was wondering if I could come and talk to you.’
‘What sort of developments?’
But Jess didn’t want to say too much. ‘I think a face-to-face meeting would be more useful than discussing it over the phone.’
‘I’m sure you do, Ms Vaughan, but I’ve got better things to do with whatever limited time I have left on this earth than to waste it in pointless resurrections of the past.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of wasting your time, sir.’
‘It would appear you are already doing so.’
‘Okay, just let me ask you one question and then I’ll leave you in peace.’ She left a short pause, then said, ‘Are you absolutely convinced that Donald Peck was guilty of murdering Minnie Bright?’
There was a distinct hesitation on the other end of the line. ‘The jury believed him to be so.’
‘With all respect, sir, that wasn’t what I asked. What was your opinion?’
‘My opinion is irrelevant.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Jess said. ‘Please could we meet up? I assure you I’m not some scandal-mongering hack. But I do have important new information and I’d really value your take on it. I mean, your professional and your personal take.’ Jess pulled a face. Was she being too obsequious? ‘You’re one of the few people who actually knew Donald, so I’d like to hear your thoughts.’
Masterson thought about it for a moment. He might have been flattered by her comments, but more likely he was just curious. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘I suppose I can spare half an hour. Why don’t we say ten o’clock tomorrow morning? Would that suit?’
‘That would suit me just fine,’ she said. ‘Thank you. Should I come to your place or would you rather meet somewhere else?’
‘I think we’d better meet here. It’s hardly the kind of subject to be discussed in public. I take it you have my address?’
Jess glanced at the computer screen, where his details where still on display. ‘Twenty-four, Banner Road? Is that right?’
‘It is indeed. I won’t ask how you got it. I’m sure you journalists have your methods. And you’d better give me your phone number in case I need to contact you.’
Jess recited the number of her new mobile and said, ‘Tomorrow morning then. Thank you again.’
‘Please don’t be late. I may be old, but my time is as precious as anyone else’s.’
‘I won’t. I promise.’ Before he could change his mind, she quickly said goodbye and ended the call, then laid the phone down on the table, feeling pleased and relieved that he’d agreed to see her. Perhaps she was finally making some progress. The positive feelings didn’t last for long. She suddenly found herself thinking about Becky Hibbert’s kids, two children who would grow up without a mother. Maybe Dan Livesey had murdered Becky, or maybe he hadn’t. She was more inclined towards the latter. The cops, she suspected, had got it wrong.
34
Valerie Middleton looked up at the clock on the wall. It was getting on for nine o’clock, time to call it a day. The evening shift was already in full swing, dealing with calls and chasing up any leads that came in. The news appeal had produced hundreds of so-called sightings of Dan Livesey, from Glasgow to Plymouth and plenty of places in between. Some of those claims were being investigated, but she wasn’t holding her breath.
She had, however, been holding it in a more literal sense when she’d attended Becky Hibbert’s autopsy late that afternoon. The smell still lingered in her nostrils, harsh and distinctive. No amount of disinfectant could completely erase the stench of death. And the results had only confirmed what they’d already suspected – that Becky had been strangled by the scarf she was wearing. There wasn’t any useful material under the fingernails, no blood or tissue, but there were some cotton fibres. She must have clawed at the scarf in her last few seconds of life. Valerie thought about the panic she must have felt, the sick and horrifying fear as she helplessly succumbed to her assailant.
She was sitting at a desk opposite Kieran Swann, who was humming something tuneless while he tapped the end of a pen against his jaw and stared at a computer screen.
Neither of them had spoken for the last fifteen minutes, but she knew that he was trying to put the pieces together just as she was.
‘Livesey used her scarf,’ she said, ‘so maybe it wasn’t premeditated. He couldn’t have known that she’d be wearing it. Maybe he went to the estate to confront her, they got into a row and he lost his temper.’
Swann glanced over at her. ‘Confront her about what?’
‘The fact that she was moonlighting as a tom. According to Lister, Paige Fielding reckoned there were rumours going around. If they were true it would account for all that cash Becky had stashed away.’
‘Or maybe he wanted a share of the proceeds and she wouldn’t play ball.’ He smirked. ‘So to speak.’
Valerie frowned at the pun. ‘But if it was a spur-of-the-moment thing, then I don’
t get why he went home and cleared out his flat. I mean, yes, you’d go back and pick up some stuff, the bare essentials you’d need if you were going to make a run for it – but you wouldn’t hang around any longer than you had to. You’d be out of there as quickly as you could in case someone discovered the body. But PC Bennett found lots of things – bills, food, old payslips and the like – in the outside bins.’
‘Which suggests that he did plan the murder and had a good clear-out before he went to meet her.’ Swann smirked again. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted to leave anything lying around with that junkie living downstairs. Even murderers don’t want their identities being nicked.’
‘But if he did plan it, then he must have been aware of the camera out on the street, so why didn’t he wear something that would obscure his face?’
‘He could have forgotten about it. Or he could just be bloody stupid. Maybe he didn’t think anyone would recognise him.’
Valerie could just about go along with that. If it hadn’t been for DC Lister’s eagle eyes, they could still be trying to work out the identity of the man on the CCTV footage. ‘And then he doesn’t take his car. Or get a cab so far as we know. So how did he get away? Either somebody helped him, or he hasn’t gone far.’
‘Yeah, he could still be on the manor, lying low until the heat dies down.’
‘We need to check out all his known friends and work associates. I’m sure Chris Street and his daddy will be none too pleased, but the quicker they cooperate the sooner they’ll have us off their backs. I don’t suppose they’ll want a police presence in their clubs and bars. It won’t do much for trade.’
