Johnson remained icily cool. I drew some comfort from the fact that Wilcox was perspiring sitting in front of me and there were damp patches of sweat under his armpits.
Coffee had been brought in but I couldn't drink it. I was afraid my trembling hands would betray me. The tape whirred quietly in the corner recording everything that was said. I wondered if Steve Langton knew what was happening. Maybe he did and was not allowed to conduct the investigation being a personal friend.
'Why did you go there, Adam?' Inspector Staples leant back in his chair and examined his fingernails as if he was considering a manicure.
I'd lost count of how many times I'd said, 'Because I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to find out why he vandalised my paintings.'
Staples lunged forward, his face ugly with menace. Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by a knock at the door. A uniformed police officer appeared and whispered something in the inspector's ear. He frowned, scraped back his chair and for the benefit of the tape said, 'Interview suspended at twenty-three fifteen. Would you like more coffee?'
I shook my head.
The door closed behind the sergeant and the inspector, leaving a uniformed officer inside the room with us. Johnson unfolded his elongated frame from the hard chair and stretched.
'What do you think is going to happen now?' I felt exhausted.
'They'll either have to let you go or charge you. If they charge you, or think they have reasonable grounds to hold you, they can do so for up to fifteen hours before it goes before the superintendent who can hold you for a further twelve hours.'
A police cell. I didn't think I could handle that again.
'During that time they'll either try and make you confess or they'll try to get more evidence.'
My head came up. 'I didn't kill him.' And if I didn't who did and why?
'Whoever did, their timing is perfect.'
Johnson's words pulled me up sharply. I knew he meant the timing of Ben's death after the incident at the art gallery, but I interpreted his statement differently. What if this had something to do with Jack? How could it though? There was no connection between Ben and Jack, or the fire fighters who had died of cancer. No connection whatsoever, except…me.
Suddenly I felt cold. I had been making enquiries into Jack's death. I had almost been killed. Could someone be trying to frame me for Ben's death in order to get me to stop asking questions? Who would go to such extremes? It was crazy. And if I told Johnson he would think so too. The police would think me paranoid, and if they got hold of the psychiatrist's report after Alison's death they'd probably have enough to hold me.
Instinctively though, I knew I must be right. Poor bloody, innocent Ben. It made my blood boil. I was no longer afraid, I was very angry. Now I had Ben's death on my conscience and I had another reason to continue this quest. Only by getting to the truth could I make Ben's death mean something. But would I be allowed to? Only if the police let me go and they were hardly likely to do that.
That was where I was wrong.
The sergeant returned half an hour later, leaving the door open behind him as he walked in. 'Thank you for your co-operation, sir,' he said evenly. 'We'll be in touch if we need to speak to you again. Perhaps you wouldn't mind just making your statement to the officer here before you leave.'
'I can go?' I said startled. Even Johnson looked surprised.
'Yes, sir.'
I made my statement, refused a lift home from the police and accepted one from Johnson.
'It didn't look too good for you back there,' Johnson said, driving through Portsmouth's deserted streets.
Tell me about it, I thought. I peered through the windscreen into a mist-shrouded night examining recent events. Why had the police released me? Did they have new evidence that put me in the clear? Perhaps the police had changed their minds about Ben's death being suspicious. Even if they had I was still convinced that someone had killed him.
I knew that eventually the police would find out who Ben Harrow really was and then they'd make the connection with Alison. Would they return to question me? Maybe, but I didn't have time to worry about that now. I had to find out who had killed Jack. I'd already missed out talking to Ian tonight but he would be on duty again tomorrow night. And tomorrow I would talk to Sandy Ditton at the Maritime Museum.
Faye was waiting for me when I put the key in the lock and stepped inside the hall. She looked relieved to see me, but she didn't run to me with open arms. I followed her through to the kitchen giving her the gist of what had happened but I was too tired to go into much detail.
'I knew they'd made a mistake. How could anyone think you capable of murder, Adam? It's impossible.'
Is it? Although I didn't want to be accused of murder, it was Faye's tone that unsettled me. It reminded me too much of Simon's. Perhaps she hadn't forgiven me for not pressing charges against Ben.
'How do you know Graham Johnson?' I asked, a little later, as I stepped into the shower to wash the stench of that interview room off my skin.
'He was a client when I worked for the advertising agency in Portsmouth,' Faye called back. 'He's very good.'
'I'm glad he was there.'
I stepped out of the shower and towelled myself down walking through to the bedroom.
Faye was in bed. 'Will you be all right if I go into work tomorrow? We're very busy.'
'You don't have to wet-nurse me, Faye. I am capable of looking after myself.'
'I sometimes wonder that, Adam,' she said stiffly but I held her stare forcing her to look away.
I wondered if she would still have gone into work if I'd been locked away in a cell.
'I'm staying up in London all week,' she said, as I climbed into bed. 'You'll let me know when your father's funeral is, won't you?' Her voice was determined.
I didn't see any way I could prevent her from attending and now, strangely enough, I didn't much care.
I lay back and stared up at the ceiling. I was glad Faye wasn't going to be around. It left me with a clear field to pursue my enquiries, and it would be safer for her. I had no doubt that whoever was after me would try again. If Ben had been killed to frame me, or frighten me off, then who was to say they wouldn't try to harm Faye, or Jody. I almost shot out of bed. I had to stop Jody from asking around. I wanted to call her then, but it was the early hours of the morning. Only another four and I could get up, another six and I could call her. My eyes swivelled to the clock beside me; I willed it onwards.
Faye shook me awake to say she was leaving. I wasn't sure what time I fell asleep; it seemed only minutes ago. I called Jody as soon as it was decently possible; even then it was barely eight o'clock. There was no answer. I left a message urging her not to make enquiries about the fire and to call me.
I showered, shaved and dressed. I called for Boudicca but she didn't come. I even rattled her dish but it didn't summon her. 'Stay out then,' I said, closing the door.
I felt agitated. Time was running out. Where had Ben gone yesterday? Had he been alone? Why had the police released me? Had someone else been seen entering the hotel with Ben?
He had been killed in his room and then the room ransacked to make it look as though I had done it. I wondered? Had Ben's killer been searching for a diary or notes that Ben had made about me and taken them? That would explain why the police had found no connection between Alison and me. If that was the case then why did the killer want to keep that secret? Surely it would have been better to have left it and further incriminated me in Ben's murder.
I couldn't wait around here all day waiting for something to happen. I telephoned Brookfield. He was on a course. Damn. I left an urgent message for him to call me. I needed those fire reports and I needed them now.
I listened to the news on the radio but there was nothing about Ben's death. Strange. I knew that what I was about to do might be foolish, but I didn't care. Ben's death had just upped the anti and I had to act.
There wasn't a policeman guarding the entrance to the
White Sails Hotel and neither was there any blue and white scene of crime tape. It looked as though nothing untoward had happened there yesterday. I guessed the police must have got all the evidence and photographs they needed.
I crossed to the seafront and took up my position in the café. Here I could see in both directions: east and west. The woman with the poodle must exercise her dog at some stage and the best place for that exercise had to be along the seafront.
I waited a good hour before I saw her tottering towards me from the direction of Southsea Castle. I charged outside and began walking casually towards her. The poodle was on one of those stretchable leads and was sniffing around on the stones. I made for it.
'Lovely little dog,' I said, as it sniffed round my ankles. I ruffled his fur. 'What's his name?'
'Teaco,' the elderly lady said hesitantly, peering at me.
'Hello Teaco, little chap. I expect he can smell my cat.' I smiled.
'He hates cats.'
'He likes a walk though.' I looked directly at the dog's mistress who gave a little start of recognition.
'It's OK. Police,' I said authoritatively and quickly flashed my driving licence card at her, stuffing it away before she could peer more closely at it. 'I wanted a quick word with you. I'm undercover.' I wouldn't have thought myself capable of such deceit and daring but needs must…
'Is that why were at the hotel yesterday? Drugs was it? He looked like a drug addict.'
I nodded. Poor Ben. 'We're keeping it as low key as we can so that we can get the man behind the drug ring.'
'I thought as much,' she declared triumphantly. 'I told that other policeman about you. I didn't know who you were.'
'That's all right. You also told that other policeman about the man you saw with Ben Harrow, didn't you?' I waited with baited breath. Was I right?
'I heard them speaking.'
Yes! Was that why the police had let me go, they had another suspect. 'What were they talking about?'
'It was too muffled to hear. They didn't talk for long.'
No, I thought, the other man was busy killing Ben. 'Did you see this other man leave?'
'Not really. Only the back of him. I looked out of my window. He climbed into a dark blue van.'
The same colour van that Jody's landlady had seen outside Jack's house on the day of the funeral and break in. 'What was he like this man? Tall, short fat, thin?'
'Tallish. I couldn't really see.'
So, not much there. I was disappointed, though I hadn't really expected much. 'Did the receptionist see him? You must have talked about this.'
'The other policemen asked me all this,' she said irritably.
'I'm sorry but we have to check and double check. People don't always recall everything immediately after the incident. It can take a couple of days to remember something trivial that might actually be important.'
'There was some kind of commotion in the kitchen. Someone had left the tap on and flooded the place. She was called away to attend to it.'
Well-orchestrated then. I thanked her, ruffled the dog's head and with a plea for her to say nothing about our meeting that I doubted she would keep, let her go. I had learnt little, except Ben had probably been killed by a tallish man, but even that was unreliable.
I stopped off at the newsagents. There was a small paragraph on page three about Ben's death. I widened my eyes as I read, 'The police are not treating it as suspicious.' Why not? What about this other man? The article mentioned a suspected drugs overdose; the old lady had been right. The police hadn't told me how Ben had been killed even though I had asked. So, this wasn't a murder enquiry but either suicide or accidental death. Had I got this wrong? I made to close the newspaper when another news article on the opposite page caught my eye.
A fire at a residential nursing home on Hayling Island has claimed the life of an elderly resident. The fire at the Stella Hardlay Nursing Home was discovered in the early hours of Saturday morning by a member of staff. Three appliances from Havant and Hayling Island attended the fire and fire fighters helped the twenty-two residents to safety but one man had already been overcome with smoke. He has been named as Albert Honeyman. It is thought that the fire started in his room and was caused by an electrical fault.
Stella Hardlay not Stella Hardway!
I pulled out the postcard and went through the letters. Yes! I could get both names from Jack's letters – Stella Hardlay and Albert Honeyman. Had Jack called on this elderly man? My spine tingled. I knew he had. I didn't know why though, and there was only one way to find out. Hayling Island it had to be.
CHAPTER 10
The sea was grey and choppy as I crossed the bridge on to Hayling Island to the east of Portsmouth. I wondered if I should have called Rosie and told her who Stella Hardlay was, or rather what it was. I decided I would after I discovered exactly why Jack had been telephoning the place.
I swept into a gravel driveway that led up to a large Edwardian whitewashed house. I was surprised to find business as usual. This was explained by one of the carers who answered the door to me, a big boned young woman with a mass of marmaladecoloured hair and black eye make- up.
'The fire was at the back in the new extension. We've sealed it off and have had to double up on rooms. I can tell you the five residents we've had to move are not very happy. It's only until the end of the week but they don't like their routine being disturbed. They don't seem too upset over Mr Honeyman's death, but then he wasn't very popular, poor man.'
'It's him I've come to enquire about,' I said. 'A friend of mine contacted your nursing home a short while ago. He was a fire fighter, Jack Bartholomew, and–'
'You mean the man who was killed in the fire at the old Labour Club!' she exclaimed.
'You knew him?' I asked surprised. I hadn't expected instant recognition.
'I remember him because he was so friendly, and he came to see poor Mr Honeyman.'
My heart began to race. 'When was this?'
'About a month ago. Mr Honeyman told us not to let him in again if he called. I couldn't understand why, when he had no other visitors except one old man who looked like a tramp.'
What had Jack said to make Honeyman ban him from visiting again? And why had Honeyman died in a fire and now? Surely that was too much of a coincidence. I had to be on the right trail. I needed information about Honeyman and I needed it now.
'Can you tell me anything about him?'
'He was very temperamental. I hope that doesn't sound too disrespectful?'
I assured her it didn't with a smile and an encouraging nod. 'Did he ever talk about the past? What he did for a living?'
She was shaking her head. 'He didn't talk much at all, except to complain. You'd best speak to the matron, she could tell you more about him.'
Was my luck about to change? I hoped so.
After knocking briefly, the marmalade-haired girl pushed her head around a door and said, 'Mrs Davey, there's a man here would like to talk to you about Mr Honeyman.'
The middle-aged woman looked up from her desk with a scowl on her moonlike face. Hastily I stepped forward. 'I'm terribly sorry to intrude on you when you must have so much to do, but a friend of mine believes her late husband knew Mr Honeyman. I wondered if you could tell me a little about him.'
Her expression softened. 'I thought you might be a journalist.'
She nodded her dismissal to the young woman and waved me into a seat opposite. She looked to me like a no-nonsense kind of woman in her sensible clothes and brogues. I hoped she'd give me some no-nonsense answers to my questions.
'This must be a terrible time for you,' I began. 'How did the fire start?'
'His electric blanket apparently. The fire investigations people have taken what remains away for further examination but it appears he fell asleep with it on and it short-circuited.'
I wouldn't have thought anyone would need an electric blanket here. It was stifling hot and I was beginning to sweat under my leather jacket.
She
said, 'The owners will want a scapegoat of course; they always do. I might as well resign now only I'm not going to give them the pleasure.'
'Have any of Mr Honeyman's relatives been to see you?'
'He didn't have any.'
'Then who has he named as his next of kin?'
'His solicitor, Peter Goodman of Goodmans and Hopper in Portsmouth. I have, of course, informed them.'
'And is there nothing left belonging to Mr Honeyman, no photographs, diary?'
In Cold Daylight Page 9
