“No, she can’t, although the other information about her is pretty scant. Surely that’s the way she’d want to keep it? The more she tells the media, the more chance there’ll be of one of those dupes locating where she is.” Robin pushed his chair back at last and rose to better gather his things. “I’ve got one dead woman. I don’t want another.”
“You think she’s still in danger?”
“Possibly. She certainly gives the impression she believes she might be. You heard the list of threats—what did you notice about them?”
“That they could have come straight from the forensic report about how our dead girl met her end. And the bit about the marks on the neck didn’t get reported in the media, so it can’t be a case of back attribution.”
“Exactly. I wonder if Howarth kept the threatening letters?”
Pru shrugged. “It wouldn’t be in character, but I wouldn’t have thought passing off fakes was in character, either. Shows how you don’t always know somebody. Will he get charged?”
“Hard to say. Fraud’s a strange area, so we’ll have to hand it over to the specialists to deal with. Whatever that triumvirate have done, they’ve not been daft. Remember what Agnew said about not absolutely guaranteeing items? Have they actually committed any crime?” Robin reached for his briefcase, suddenly keen to wipe the dust of the interview room off his shoes. “The CPS might not think a prosecution is worthwhile. Which is why Sian may have begun making physical threats in the first place.”
They started the walk back to the car park, passing the office where Becky was dictating her statement. She gave them a stony glare through the window, although Robin had little sympathy for her having to go through the process. She’d caused them enough trouble.
“What I don’t get, sir,” Pru said as they emerged into the fresh air, “is why Sian Wheatstone told you and Ben that Howarth and Becky were having an affair if that’s not what was happening.”
“Ah. She didn’t actually say that, just implied it.” Robin waited as Pru unlocked the car, then slung his briefcase into the back before settling into the passenger seat. “We’re dealing with a very clever young woman. It strikes me that everything she told us was true, or could align with the truth. What she said she’d overheard Becky saying could apply equally well to an affair or to dealing in fakes.”
Pru concentrated on reversing out of the minuscule station car park before asking, “But why mention it at all?”
“To look like she was being helpful. She’s probably playing us like a fish.”
Although he had a horrible suspicion that Becky Bairstow was doing something similar.
Over lunch, Adam decided to take a walk into Culdover. He needed to get some cash and do a couple of other errands, but most of all he needed to have a think, because he’d identified what had unsettled him about Baxter’s note. On the way to work, he’d remembered Robin getting cross that the regional radio station had got wind of the Becky Bairstow development before the news had been officially released to the media. Had that been a leak from someone at Abbotston? And if so, was it possible that the snitch had also told their media contact about Robin and him, and were they using Baxter to find out more about their relationship?
By the time he dropped into the newsagents to get the local paper, he’d decided he was likely overreacting, that the timescale was too compressed for Baxter to have been contacted directly on his account—that must have happened before the meeting, surely?—and that the local radio was just looking to dig up the usual sort of dirt.
The sight of a tabloid newspaper headline—from one of the rags whose attitude would have made the 1950s look modern—brought him up short.
Chasebury cop’s gay love nest!
Chasebury had been all over the news two months previously, the location for a particularly vile child murder. The police involved had been vilified for taking so long to find the body, which had been in a cupboard at the little boy’s step-uncle’s house. The media too had come in for stick for having targeted one of the locals, whom they’d mistaken for a paedophile. This news story was likely an act of justification.
Adam bought a copy and read it on the way back to school, feeling sicker with every paragraph. The chief inspector leading the enquiry had left his wife while the investigation was still on, moving in with another bloke and allegedly holding wild orgies. The article had ended with some wild but carefully worded posturing, the paper proposing a campaign to “keep the public safe” by rooting out bad police officers.
While Adam didn’t believe half of what was reported, it still felt like a blow to the stomach. What if one of the rotten Abbotston eggs saw that and got inspired to make mischief by serving the media up with an untrue story? You couldn’t get away with homophobic remarks at work, but you could let the media kill two birds with one stone, making life uncomfortable for Robin and smearing the Stanebridge force at the same time.
While neither he nor Robin had anything to hide, the tabloids weren’t always interested in the truth and even a “Gay detective’s lover gets too close to the case. Again!” type headline would be a nightmare. Today’s news might be next week’s chip paper, but these kinds of stories had a disproportionately hurtful effect.
Adam stopped as he reached the school gates. Was he overreacting? Was there truly a threat to him and Robin? He’d have to have a word with Baxter about what he did or didn’t say to the researcher—that would be useful advice whatever the circumstances—but he’d have to raise the issue with Robin. Finding who was leaking news to the media was a crusade that maybe couldn’t wait.
Early afternoon, Robin called all his officers together to explain the developments arising from Becky Bairstow’s interview. The sense of optimism in the team was still high, even though Warnock had apparently been less than helpful. He hadn’t seen Pippa in ages, he’d said. She’d gone off travelling without him, and that was just one of the grudges he appeared to hold against her and life in general.
“He’s a right pain, sir,” Alison reported. “Never stopped whingeing. Dead sorry for himself, reckons he was stitched up over the driving conviction. We had a look at the records when we got back here, and he definitely wasn’t—they didn’t just have eyewitness evidence; he was caught on CCTV too—but he struck us as the sort of bloke with a whacking great chip on his shoulder. He thinks the detectorists are all up themselves and his old mate Tom has turned into a pain in the arse. The list went on and on.”
“Sounds like a bundle of laughs,” Robin agreed. “Nothing useful to say?”
“Not really. He definitely used to go out with Pippa Palmer—they’d been friends at university, although it didn’t become more than that until later. They split about a year ago, he says. Before she went wherever she went.” Alison squinted at Ben, who was wearing an unfamiliar frown. “Did I get that wrong?”
“No, spot on.” Ben tapped his notepad with his index finger. “He had a chip on the shoulder about that too. Said she thought herself too good for him, especially after he got convicted of the driving offence.”
“So, what’s the problem?” Alison countered. “You’ve a face like you lost a pound and found a penny.”
“What he said about Pippa. How she was a tough cookie. She didn’t strike me as your typical victim.” Ben looked around the team for support, but he wasn’t getting any.
“Is there such a thing as a typical victim?” Pru’s hackles were obviously up. “Tough women can get attacked just the same as soft ones. Anyway, I bet he only called her tough because she stood her ground. Some men wish they were back in the 1950s and women acted like Stepford Wives.”
The unexpected outburst took everyone aback. Pru had never struck Robin as having a feminist streak, although he knew—and appreciated—her passion for opposing the use of stereotypes.
Fraser muttered, “Calm down, tiger.”
Pru gave him a cold stare. “I’ll calm down when people stop making stupid comments. Ben, all I meant was that we shouldn
’t jump to conclusions, not least about the reliability of a man scorned.”
“Sorry, sarge.” Ben raised his hands. “I was wrong to say that about victims. But if we’re not jumping to conclusions, then we shouldn’t automatically label Pippa as being easily led just because Becky Bairstow said she was.”
“Touché.” Pru gave a mock salute.
Robin brought the discussion back to the interview itself. “Did Warnock mention the fakes business?”
Alison shook her head. “Swore ignorance, sir. Said the only thing he’d had to do with old sites was when he’d had to do his Community Payback, which of course produced a rant about that. When we got him back on topic, he said if he wanted—his words—‘fucking bits of old pot,’ he’d go down to B&Q.”
“Did he have anything to say about where Pippa is now?”
“He was distinctly cagey about that, wasn’t he, Ben?”
“Yes. Clammed up.” Ben shrugged. “Simply said he didn’t know, but I’m not sure that’s true.”
“You pressed him on it?” Robin asked.
“Yes, but he just went into ‘all the world’s against me’ mode. Complained about the police harassing innocent people.”
“If he calls that harassment, he should have seen some of the things that happened when I was a young copper.” Robin could have told them stories that would make their hair stand on end—not so much what he’d witnessed first-hand, but the tales of the bad old days of policing, when corruption had been rife in certain areas and where nailing a crime on someone, anyone, had been more important than making sure you’d convicted the right person. “Maybe I’ll tell you about them when we’ve got this case sorted.”
“I’m looking forward to it already, sir.” Sarah grinned. “Did you get anything out of Warnock about why he comes back here?”
Ben frowned. “Sod all.”
“If it is Pippa who was killed and he knows that, perhaps he’s visiting the grave,” Fraser suggested.
Pru frowned even deeper than she’d done at the “typical victim” comments. “The murderer revisiting the scene of the crime? Does that actually happen? If I’d killed someone, I’d want to get as far away as possible and keep away.”
“Wouldn’t that make it look as though you were guilty as sin?” Fraser countered. “Maybe it’s a double bluff. ‘I can’t have done it, because I’m acting normally.’”
“Only Warnock’s not acting normally, is he?” Sarah reminded them. “Not according to his mate in the CAS.”
“If Warnock killed his ex-girlfriend, that would put the case firmly in ‘domestic’ territory, sir. Where you’d like it to be.” Pru gave Robin a wink before explaining to Ben. “Our chief inspector here has always said you’re most at risk from those you know well.”
“I only say it because it’s true.” But did it apply here? Would Warnock as murderer work? “Let’s assume Warnock has a motive—resentment about the breakup—and there are elements in the killing which would be concomitant with an argument that went too far. He’d have the means, at least to bash somebody over the head, but so would pretty well anybody.” Robin picked up a large paperweight from the nearest desk. “See?”
“What about the marks on the neck, sir?” Ben enquired. “We’ve got to make them fit into the story.”
“Do we?” Alison chipped in. “We live in the real world, not in the middle of some TV crime show where all the loose ends have to tie up. Life’s not like that.”
“No, but sometimes juries are.” Robin hadn’t served on one, although he’d heard about plenty in action. “If we’ve got anything we can’t explain, then some clever defence counsel will pounce on it and put enough doubt into people’s minds that we risk not securing a conviction. Which brings me to opportunity. How would Warnock get a body onto the Culford site? Every time I go there, I’m more convinced that you’d have to bring it in through the gate.”
“Got his hands on the keys and had a copy made? The good old-fashioned strategy of a bar of soap to take an imprint?” Ben’s suggestion was solid. “Although almost anyone on-site could have done the same.”
“True. Okay, let’s keep our minds open for the moment. We don’t even know that the dead woman is Pippa Palmer. Talking of which . . .” Robin looked at his constables expectantly.
“Lady Luck’s smiled on us at last, sir.” Sarah beamed. “We discovered that one of Pippa Palmer’s relatives is already on the DNA database. That nice, middle-class family she originated from has a black sheep. Her paternal uncle was done for assault a few years back.”
A murmur of approval ran round the room. They had the victim’s DNA profile, although why that hadn’t already been checked against the database worried Robin. Still, he wasn’t going to spoil this meeting for a potentially vital step being missed. “Have you got Grace or anyone onto it?”
“Um.” Sarah glanced nervously at Fraser. “We wanted to check with you first.”
Robin took a deep breath and counted to ten. Hopefully time wouldn’t turn out to be of the essence. “Get onto it as soon as we’ve finished here. Pru and I have work to do.”
The sergeant explained that she’d been on the blower to Howarth and arranged for them to see him that afternoon, much to the bloke’s chagrin, as he’d insisted that his weekends were inviolate. She’d reminded him that murder was no respecter of days off, and that he’d better make himself available.
Robin suggested the rest of the officers head off home—once they’d got the DNA comparison ordered—to get some rest, as their next step would depend on the result of the DNA tests, and he wouldn’t expect that until the next day at the earliest. If any surprising developments arose, he’d call them back in.
The first surprising development—although not one that justified a recall—was Howarth arriving at the station early for his appointment.
“Sooner we’ve seen him, the sooner we can get a break,” was Pru’s last remark as she went to fetch him from reception, leaving Robin to go and set up the interview room. He’d noticed a distinct change in his sergeant’s attitude towards her old friend these last few days—and all for the better. Now that she’d developed an appreciation for her old mate’s feet of clay, maybe the smarmy so-and-so would be less able to pull the wool over Pru’s eyes. Howarth was clearly taken aback by the formality of the setting, and the fact his words were going to be recorded. If Robin had been a betting man, he’d have put a tenner on Becky Bairstow having been in contact with her partner in fraud as soon as she’d made her statement. And if the prospect of a “proper” interview had unsettled him, then Pru’s insistence on calling him “Mr. Howarth” must have been equally disorienting.
They went through the official procedure, Robin never having quite got to the point of it feeling like mindless routine. There was too much significance in recording a person’s words to make it an everyday thing.
“Becky Bairstow has given us a full account of your business,” Robin said, once the preliminaries were done. “Dealing in faked antiquities. We’d like to hear your side of the story.”
Howarth gave Pru a cold glance, which she ignored. “Am I being charged with anything? If so, I’d like a solicitor present.”
“We have no charges to bring at present,” Robin clarified. “And as I’ve already said, you can have legal support at any point you choose.”
Howarth looked at the officers, at his watch, and then at the officers again. “Oh, let’s get this over and done with. Yes, Becky and I ran a business selling artefacts. Remember that blue file I was so keen to get back?”
“I do.”
“That contained some vital paperwork concerning a range of recent transactions. You can imagine how lost I’d have been without it.”
“I can. Especially if I’d picked the file up and found it crammed full of information relating to your scam.”
“Scam?” Howarth’s eyebrows shot up. “We were totally legitimate.”
“Are you saying that you never sold any fakes?”
“No. I’m saying that our business was completely above board at the outset. And that the first object we sold of dubious provenance we sold unawares of the fact.” Howarth spoke like a politician or a civil servant, weaselling his way around and through the truth to present the version of it he’d like to get across.
“Object of dubious provenance?” Pru sneered. “You mean the first fake you conned someone into buying.”
“As I said, we didn’t realise it was a fake at the time, given that we don’t microscopically inspect everything we deal in. We just didn’t have a complete history for this particular item, as we made plain to the purchaser.” Howarth wore that smug grin again, the one which made Robin want to break all the rules he held so dear and punch the bloke’s nose.
“Did Pippa Palmer microscopically inspect everything you sold?”
A sharp rap at the door came at entirely the wrong moment as far as Robin was concerned, allowing the witness time to think, and to further refine a story which had no doubt already been honed. Pru answered the knock, then returned to whisper in Robin’s ear that he was wanted urgently on the telephone by Greg from forensics.
“Interview suspended. Chief Inspector Bright leaves the room.”
He tried not to let his anger show, knowing that Greg wouldn’t have had the nerve to haul him out of an interview unless the matter was vital, but given the unfriendly tones which greeted him, he must be on the warpath.
“I got a message one of your officers left me. Why are you getting us to recheck the DNA on our victim? I’ve already done it. She’s not on the database.”
“Sounds like the message got garbled.” Robin tried to be sufficiently soothing; the last thing he wanted was noses being put out of joint among the CSIs or forensics crew. He’d have to replace “put a rocket up the team for not doing simple DNA check” with “put a rocket up the team for not making that message plain.” “We’re trying to establish if the dead woman is called Pippa Palmer. Her uncle was done for assault and is on our records, so it should be a straight comparison.”
Two Feet Under (Lindenshaw Mysteries Book 3) Page 18
