“Okay. That makes more sense.” Greg seemed slightly happier. “Although I’d have thought a partial match might have shown up already. Thanks for clarifying.”
“Always a pleasure. Just bring me good news, eh?”
“Can’t promise that. But we’ll always bring you the truth.”
“I guess that will have to do.”
When Robin returned to the room, the atmosphere had turned distinctly chilly. Pru, shoulders hunched and standing by the frosted window, exuded tension.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“All ready to resume the interview, sir.” Pru, with a thunderous look on her face, returned to her place at the table and restarted the recording equipment with a clipped, “Inspector Bright returns. Interview resumes.”
Robin got straight down to business. “You were about to explain exactly how you got into dealing fakes.”
To his surprise, Howarth spread his hands on the desk and simply said, “I wasn’t, but I will.” What followed was an account that matched what Becky had told them—apart from pointing the finger at himself—and no doubt contained elements that would match what she’d put in her statement when they had the chance to read it in full.
“So you see,” he said finally, “you end up in a situation that’s running out of control. You’re where you don’t want to be, but you’ve no way of stopping.”
“Couldn’t you just have said that enough was enough?” The sneering edge in Pru’s voice hadn’t been present earlier in the interview. “Are you really saying that you couldn’t square up to two ‘mere’ women and say you wanted out?”
Howarth, clearly wanting to make a response but wary of saying anything that would make the situation worse, kept tight lipped.
“We’re waiting for an answer,” Robin said at last.
“I suppose I wanted to carry the business on,” Howarth conceded. “We all did. It was the wrong decision, in retrospect.”
“Wrong decision?”
“We thought that after a lull, people might have forgotten the kerfuffle and we could start up again. We’d reckoned without Sian.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Pru drummed the table impatiently. “You started up again after she started volunteering at Culford. Why take such a risk?”
“I didn’t know she was working there. I don’t handle the details of who volunteers and where; that’s all delegated to the people on-site. I’d been on secondment out in France. We have strong links with our equivalent department in Paris.” Howarth appealed to Robin. “Can you imagine what it was like getting back and finding her there, gloating at us? We’ve been looking over our shoulders all the time since.”
Robin recalled the twitchy way Howarth had reacted to Sian’s arrival when he and Ben had interviewed the man on-site. “So why didn’t you mention it to us?”
“Because I’d have seemed an idiot, admitting I was scared of a woman.”
That avoidance of losing face certainly seemed in character, as was the patronising attitude. “You are scared of her? Why?”
“I didn’t say I am scared. Only that I had been in the past. When she was making all those wild threats. Even you’d have been frightened, Inspector.”
“Chief Inspector,” Robin reminded him. “Was Pippa Palmer frightened of her?”
Howarth looked askance at the question. “Pippa? Of course. She wasn’t daft. And that stuff about burying ourselves with our own artefacts was aimed at all three of us.”
“You said was,” Robin snapped back. “Not is. Any reason for that?”
“No. But we were talking about last summer, weren’t we?”
Robin left the question unanswered, waiting to hear what Howarth would say if they left him to squirm a while.
“I suppose,” Howarth said uneasily, when the conversational gap had gone on too long, “you’re wondering whether Pippa Palmer could be the dead woman, whether Sian could have killed her, and if I knew anything about it?”
“Now, how could you surmise all of that just from my question about ‘was’ versus ‘is’? Why don’t you tell us what you know for a fact?”
Howarth sighed. “When Pippa Palmer left the business—eight months ago, I think it was—we had no reason to think that she was dead. We sort of assumed she was just trying to get out of harm’s way. When the body turned up at the dig, I never dreamed it could be her. We’d still been emailing about her verifying some objects for us.”
Robin looked up sharply. “When was that?”
“Last September? October? I’d need to check.”
“And you’re certain it was her?”
“I had no reason to doubt it. But I didn’t speak face-to-face, although that wouldn’t have helped. I’d never met the woman.” Howarth waved his hand. “All done through email.”
Both Howarth and Becky Bairstow had made a point of saying they’d never met Pippa Palmer. Was that the truth, or was there more to it? An explanation of why they wouldn’t have known it was Pippa in the grave, even if her body had turned up when it remained recognisable?
Yet this still didn’t add up. Yes, Robin could see Sian volunteering at Culford and getting involved with the local groups as a means of keeping up the pressure on the people she felt had been the ultimate cause of her father’s death. Yes, being a keyholder there—and having seen the work done by the Community Payback volunteers—Sian might have realised she had the ideal place to hide a body should she need it. And that realisation could have been post-murder if Pippa’s death had been an accident, the result perhaps of some confrontation that had turned into a blazing row.
But why should she stay on until the body was discovered? Why not do a runner when news of the planned dig emerged? Or was Sian so confident that nobody could pin this on her—and the lack of ID and few tangible things like fibres on the body showed either a very clever or very lucky criminal—that she could afford to stay and watch how things unfolded? In which case, it might be wise to have a discreet check kept on her.
“You’ve only answered the first of your three points,” Robin said. “Is it possible that Sian killed her?”
“It’s possible. Although she hasn’t been acting like a murderer. She has never made any overt threat against me since she appeared at Culford. Just been there. A brooding presence,” Howarth added theatrically.
“But Becky Bairstow was frightened enough to do a runner,” Pru pointed out.
“Is that what she told you? I suspect she was over-egging the pudding. Trying to justify her upping sticks and creating a new life for herself with a new bloke. Otherwise it looks rather selfish, leaving her parents and going globetrotting.”
Robin shared a glance with his sergeant, who wore a look of disbelief. One of these two had to be lying, but why? Had the police been studying this from the wrong angle? Although in that case, what was the right one?
“You lied about having an affair, to cover up running your fakes business.” Robin raised his hand as Howarth appeared to be on the verge of interrupting. “Let me finish, please. One of the pair of you is lying about what went on before Becky Bairstow had her lottery win. Are you also lying about your involvement in murder?”
“No!” Howarth slammed his hands on the table.
Robin took a deep breath. “I can’t work out if you’re innocent but stupid or guilty as sin. You had good reason to want Pippa Palmer dead. She could have been as much of a threat to your reputation as Sian. More so, given that she had inside knowledge.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Howarth, arms folded now, sat back in his chair.
“You worked closely with her. You could have been in a position to find out enough about her to access her passwords.” Pru leaned closer. “So many security questions are the standard—first pet, first school, mother’s maiden name. Hardly a secret if you know somebody. Do you have any Chinese rugs, by the way?”
“Chinese rugs? What the hell is this about?” Howarth flung himself onto his feet. “I’m not answering an
y further questions without my solicitor present. I’ve been honest with you about the antiquities business, but other than that, there’s nothing to discuss. You can’t hold me.”
“We have no intention of doing so. We’ll arrange to continue this interview at a mutually convenient time for all parties.” At which point Robin might have hard evidence to lay on the table.
“I hope he’s not gone home to dispose of his rug collection,” Robin quipped as they left the interview room, only half joking.
“Don’t worry, sir. We share enough mutual friends that one of them would be able to tell me if he’d ever had posh carpets. He’d not be able to stop boasting about them, for one thing.” Pru grimaced. “And I bet it’d be really hard to remove every trace of them without Wendy—that’s his wife—getting suspicious about why he wanted the house deep cleaned, let alone rid of expensive furnishings. What did you get called out for?”
Robin explained about Greg and the mix-up. “What happened when I was out of the room?”
“Charlie was being Charlie.” Pru’s frown hardened. “Asked why I was being so cold to him, when we’d been such great friends. Why the police couldn’t understand that he’d not done anything wrong. Blah blah blah.”
“That was all?”
“You don’t miss much, do you?”
“Adam reckons I can be quite oblivious. But Howarth had changed his tune, and you looked like you wanted to thump him.”
Pru leaned back against the corridor wall, rolling her shoulders. “That’s because I did. Remember pointing out that perhaps I shouldn’t be on the case because Charlie and I go back a long way? I thought the potential problem would be bias towards him, and I knew I could ensure that didn’t happen.”
“But it isn’t?”
“No. Even when he was trying the ‘we’re old pals, Pru’ line, I could handle it. But he started talking about my family. All the pride they must feel at how well I’ve done for myself and how nobody would have guessed the little girl with pigtails would be heading up the ladder towards Chief Constable.” Pru narrowed her eyes. “Don’t say anything. One quip and I swear to God I’ll belt you one, whether it costs me my job or not.”
“Never crossed my mind.” Pru would know that wasn’t the truth, but Robin wanted to sound reassuring. “He seems to have been on a course about how to get under people’s skin.”
“Isn’t that a fact? Especially when he started going on about what my dad would say when his dad told him that I’d been coming down hard on his only son. I had to give Howarth a piece of my mind.” She halted, taking a deep, calming breath. “How do you manage to keep objective, sir? That murder at Lindenshaw school, your Adam was involved in the investigation right from the start.”
“He wasn’t ‘my Adam’ then.”
“Yeah, but I bet you wished he was.” Pru was always a touch too astute for Robin’s comfort. “And look at the last murder we dealt with. That ended up too close to home, as well.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I’m not getting at anything. I just think you’re a bloody marvel, sir. Howarth mentioned my dad and I almost lost it. Adam was threatened and you hardly blinked an eyelid.”
That wasn’t how it had felt at the time: when Adam—and Campbell—had been at risk, Robin had been a total jelly inside. Although he was pleased that he’d maintained a cool façade, pulling the wool over his colleague’s eyes. “Did Howarth threaten your dad?”
“Lord, no. It was all schoolboy-level stuff. You know, ‘I’m going to tell on you. Nyah nyah.’” Pru made a face. “I told him to grow a pair. Or else I’d be telling his dad what a snivelling wretch he’d turned into.”
“Quite right. It did the trick too. Got him talking.”
“But did he say enough? I keep thinking we’re one step forwards and two steps back.” Pru rubbed her forehead with both hands. “We should reconsider everything we have from Howarth and Bairstow—and Sian—making a note of inconsistencies, looking for anything that might tie them in tighter to that death.”
“Get Ben and Sarah to do it. They’ll bring a couple of pairs of fresh eyes. But wait until Monday. We all need to clear our minds.” Robin rubbed his neck. “I wish I’d had a good rummage through that blue file of his. Makes my thumbs prick.”
“Something wicked this way coming?” Pru stifled a yawn. “I have no idea what my dad would say if Howarth turned out to be complicit in a murder. It would be the scandal of the decade down our way. I’d rather it was a simple case of Sian killing Pippa Palmer and hanging around Culford to terrorise the other two.”
“It’s certainly the best fit we’ve got at the moment.” Not an ideal fit, though. More like trying to put a round peg in a square hole. “I’ll be happier when I know who was in that grave.”
“Won’t we all, sir?”
It wasn’t often they had a proper roast dinner outside of Sunday lunchtime, but Adam reckoned he and his partner needed a treat. If Robin had to eat his later, plated up and warmed in the microwave, so be it; Adam and Campbell were having roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, gravy, the whole works. When Robin rang to say that he’d be home at a reasonable time and hopefully wouldn’t have to go in again that evening, Adam opened a celebratory bottle of red wine to let it breathe. Who knew when they’d have such an opportunity again?
Broaching the subject of the “Abbotston snitch” and airing Adam’s worries, might have to wait until the next day. He hid the tabloid newspaper, and some research notes he’d made subsequently inside his copy of the Times Educational Supplement, then tried to forget about it.
When Robin arrived—tired, hungry, but grateful to be home, or so he said—Adam suggested he loosen his tie and get himself outside of a glass of red.
“Whatever’s cooking smells great. Only two places laid?” Robin asked as he slipped his tie off.
“Yeah. Campbell’s having his in his basket. Room service.”
“Pillock. I meant, where’s Stuart?”
“Out again.”
“I hope he hasn’t found another woman.” Robin took a sip of wine. “That would complicate matters.”
“Unless he moved in with her pretty sharp.” Adam tried the Merlot; it was rare to find something that fulfilled all that the label promised, but this did. “Actually, I think he’s just keeping a low profile. He texted me to say he’d be taking in a film and a kebab with one of the new—male—constables at Stanebridge. Either our guest realises he’s being a third wheel or he’s avoiding having an awkward conversation.”
“He can’t avoid it forever. We’ll nab him tomorrow, assuming I don’t get called in.” Robin launched into a résumé of the day’s developments. He reached a complicated bit about DNA tests only for his mobile phone to go off. “I hope this isn’t a case of famous last words.” He answered the call. “Hello?”
Adam had gone past the point of pretending he wasn’t listening to Robin’s half of any conversations. If it proved to be something entirely confidential, one of them would leave the room.
“You don’t sound your usual cheery self, Greg. Got bad news for me?” From the bleak expression that plastered Robin’s face, the reply couldn’t have been a welcome one. “Hit me with everything. No pussyfooting.”
The rest of the conversation descended into a procession of increasingly miserable responses, ending with a, “Bloody brilliant. No chance of a mistake? No, forget I said that. Thanks anyway. Can you send the report over by email? Good, thanks.”
It wasn’t like Robin to drown his sorrows, but he picked up the wine glass as soon as he’d put down the mobile.
“Want to talk about it?” Adam asked.
“Not sure there’s much to say. Remember I was talking about checking our victim’s DNA against the bloke we thought was her uncle’s? Forensic Greg has done it. They’re not related.”
“She’s not Pippa Palmer?” For all that Adam vowed he didn’t want to get involved with his partner’s cases, it frustrated him that a lead he’d had a
part in generating had come to nothing.
“Doesn’t look like it.” Robin rubbed his hands over his face. “What a bloody mess.”
Adam, en route to the oven to check the Yorkshire pudding, rubbed Robin’s shoulder. “DNA isn’t the be-all and end-all. Have I ever told you about my best friend at school? The one who was the grandson of a missionary?”
“You’ve mentioned him, but I don’t see how it relates.”
“It was a bit like your case, in a way. Peter didn’t share any DNA with his aunt because she was adopted. She didn’t even have the same skin colour as the rest of the family because she’d come from an African orphanage.”
“You know, that’s food for thought.” Robin had pulled the bottle towards him to pour a second glass, but now he pushed it away again. “What if the uncle was adopted? Or Pippa was? Am I clutching at straws?”
“I don’t think so. Life’s more complicated than we give it credit for. This will be about another five minutes.” Adam moved from oven to hob, where the carrots and broccoli were simmering nicely. “Plenty of time for me to share another brilliant thought.”
“I’m all ears.” Robin inhaled the aromas that had escaped from the oven. “Apart from the bit of me that’s all gastric juices.”
Adam switched into a Caribbean accent and produced a calypso-style lilt. “Shame and scandal in the family.”
Robin glanced at him askance. “Have you been at the wine already?”
“No, you twit. It was a song. Gran had it on vinyl. She used to play it for us, much to Mum’s disgust.”
Robin still looked perplexed. “Did that come out of the ark with Noah?”
“Nearly.” Adam took the joint of beef—which had been resting—and placed it before Robin. “You carve. Anyway, this song was all about how this bloke fancies a girl, only his dad says that he is really her father—near-the-knuckle stuff for the sixties—so the son and the girl can’t go out with each other. Then at the end his mum tells him that the bloke can get together with the girl because his father isn’t really his father. If you follow me.”
Two Feet Under (Lindenshaw Mysteries Book 3) Page 19
