“Oh, hell.” Pru blanched. “Are you thinking she’ll manage to contact someone on the outside who’ll put pressure on him to keep quiet?”
“That’s certainly a possibility, and I wouldn’t want anything happening to either of those blokes. Or to anyone,” he added hastily. “I want her to stew in her own juice for a while, wondering exactly what George told us. In the meantime, let’s have another word with Warnock.”
Once they were all back in the interview room, and while Pru set things up, Warnock kept looking anxiously at his solicitor, obviously urging her to speak.
“My client wishes to change his previous statement,” she said after the recording started. “He admits that he was using a pre-agreed story earlier, one that doesn’t reflect the reality of what happened. He’d like to amend that.”
Robin nodded. “To be absolutely clear, are you saying that Howarth didn’t kill Sian?”
“I am.” Warnock wasn’t so defiant now. His arms were at his sides, fingers drumming nervously against his legs. “He wasn’t even there. Pippa suggested we point the finger at him because he had motive to kill Sian. That’s what we agreed we’d say to you. I should have known she’d go her own way.”
“What really happened?”
“I don’t know. Not exactly. When I got in the house, Sian was already dead. I think she’d smacked her head against that thing in the hall. Or had it smacked.” He glanced at his solicitor, got a tentative nod in response, then leaned on the table. “Pippa said it was an accident and asked me to help cover it up.”
“I think there’s a consistent story about what happened after Sian died.” That part never seemed to vary, except in who’d been present. “What we need to know is what happened in the hallway. Was it deliberate or accidental?”
Warnock shrugged. “I think it was deliberate. If I’d known that was what she had in mind, I’d never have gone with her.”
Robin sat, fingers pressed together; they were so close, but still miles away from having concrete evidence. “You’ve got to help us, Jamie. What you think happened isn’t enough; give us something we can use to prove she did it.”
Warnock glanced at his solicitor again, but her quizzical expression suggested she had no idea what was being asked of her. He turned back to Robin. “Where’s my phone? They took it from me when I came in.”
“Then it’ll be with the rest of your stuff. Why?”
“Pippa texted me, from the house, telling me to come in.”
Robin, remembering Adam’s old phone, cut in, “You kept the text?”
Warnock nodded.
“For the tape, please,” Pru reminded him.
“I kept the text. Just in case I needed it.”
A text should have a date and time stamp. Maybe they were getting somewhere.
They were waiting in the interview room when Pippa and her solicitor arrived. The suspect looked less at ease than she’d done in either of the previous interviews. Pru reminded her that she was under caution, with a curt, “As we’ve already said, if you do not mention something when questioned which you later rely on in court, it may harm your defence. And we mean that—ask your solicitor if you don’t believe me.”
“When you had your heart to heart with George,” Robin said, as though the break hadn’t happened, “it wasn’t about covering up a driving offence. We’ve proved that. The terrible thing you’d done was murdering Sian, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?”
Pippa opened her mouth, shut it again—like a drowning woman gasping for air—then crossed her arms tightly. “No. And if that’s what he said, he’s lying.”
“What if you had so much to drink you can’t remember what you confessed to him?” Robin let the point hang, although Pippa’s exterior remained defiant.
“I don’t have to say anything more. You’ve no evidence.”
“Don’t we? Do you remember texting Jamie when you killed Sian?”
“I didn’t kill Sian. Why are you hounding me?”
“We’re not—”
“You are. You’ve done nothing but make my life hell. Where were you when Sian was threatening to strangle me, smash my head in, and bury me with a piece of old pot?”
Pru shook her head. “We’d have been there if you’d bothered to tell us about the threats.”
“Would you?” Pippa swept her up and down with a withering look. “Like you were there to help my uncle when he was being picked on? He had to stand up for himself because nobody else would, and look what happened to him. Nobody cares about the victims.”
“You were a victim. Is that what you did?” Robin asked. “Stand up for yourself?”
“It’s what you have to do. Not take any nonsense.” Pippa’s voice had grown louder; the notion of protecting one’s own seemed to rile her in a way nothing else had so far. “You know, when I went to see Sian, it was like one of those scenes in a James Bond film, where the criminal mastermind starts gloating and making ludicrous threats. It was laughable.”
“I know what you mean,” Pru agreed. Robin forced himself not to smile. He’d always found those scenes particularly dumb.
Pippa sneered. “What master criminal would act quite so much like an idiot? Why not kill Bond outright straight away?”
“If James Bond was shot on sight, there’d not be a story,” Pru countered. Robin had been about to step in and move the discussion on from films, but he let it run. Pippa was losing her cool. “Real people aren’t that thick.”
“Oh, do me a favour.” Pippa rolled her eyes. “Sian was thick as shit. So I—we—got our own back. Made it look like she’d done exactly what she’d threatened.” She stopped, face suddenly ashen. “When we did the cover-up, I mean. After Jamie killed her.”
“I or we?” Robin saw his opportunity to come in hard. “Leave all that crap about Warnock out of this. You murdered her, didn’t you?”
Pippa flinched, but there was no spoken response.
“I’m showing the witness a copy of the content of a text message she sent to Jamie Warnock on July the twelfth of last year at eighteen twenty-five.” Robin pushed a piece of paper across the table. “Would you read it out, please? For the recording.”
The solicitor, nudging her arm, shook his head.
“No, I won’t. You’ll pretend it was a confession.”
“It certainly reads like that, doesn’t it? ‘I’ve done it. Turned the tables on the bitch. Get in here quick and help.’ What did you mean by that?”
Pippa, colouring up, slammed her hands on the desk. “I told that sod not to keep anything. If his stupidity has pinned this on me, I swear to God I’ll kill the bastard.”
“Like you killed Sian?”
“Yes. No. Whatever.” Pippa leaped to her feet, shaking off the restraining hand of the solicitor. “I killed her. Satisfied now? I killed her and I took over her life and I got a lot more out of it than she ever did. If Jamie Warnock hadn’t been such a bloody wimp about moving the body again, I’d have still been doing it.”
All that remained after that was a fresh reading of the caution, a charge of murder, and making plans for going home.
As Robin and Pru drove back south, he was in contemplative mood. He’d met some hard-boiled villains in his time, but Pippa Palmer had leaped straight into gold-medal position. Pru kept ringing into Abbotston, given that they still had to clear up the not-inconsiderable matter of Howarth and Bairstow and how much they knew. A team was also going through all of Jamie’s devices to see if he’d kept any other evidence of Pippa’s guilt, although Robin asked Pru to keep any updates for when they took a break. He couldn’t trust himself to drive and talk at the same time.
Over a coffee at a service station, Pru reported that, in light of developments, Cowdrey was pulling Howarth and Bairstow in, because he had a hunch they’d known a lot more than they were letting on, a hunch seemingly confirmed when Becky Bairstow’s solicitor asked if she could make some sort of deal. While neither was going to make a convincing witness for the prosecuti
on, they might provide something in the way of solid evidence.
“Howarth’s a sly dog, sir,” Pru averred. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he’s kept something to use against Pippa in case things got rough.”
“I’d not be surprised, either. Maybe it was in that blue file, which is why he made such a fuss about it.”
Pru giggled. “If it was, no wonder it made your thumbs prick. Do you think we’ll be able to charge them with more than just being a pair of grade-one pains in the arse?”
“I sincerely hope so, but don’t hold your breath. If I were a betting man, my money would be on it taking a long time to wheedle out all the truth.” And while he couldn’t see Howarth or Bairstow as a murderer, he’d put money on the pair being Pippa’s pawns after the event. Howarth’s reluctance to develop Culford—whether through the university dig or the student’s business plan—couldn’t just be driven by the fakes business. That could be relocated anywhere; you couldn’t so easily relocate a body.
Before they set off again, Robin rang Adam to say when he’d be home, apologised for how hectic life had been, and promised they’d get some time together now. When he eventually started the last part of his journey, Abbotston to Lindenshaw, further inspiration struck; all that was needed was for a certain shop’s late-night opening to extend to the time Robin had found somewhere to park nearby.
He was in luck, the bakery still open for business and with a few cakes in stock, including some of Adam’s—and Campbell’s—favourite varieties displayed in the window. If Robin wasn’t too late to get a special message piped onto a suitably plain one, then he was in business.
“Don’t forget the milk?” The woman behind the counter rolled her eyes. “You really want that message on a cake?”
“Every word.”
When Robin got home, Adam had a bottle of bubbly chilling and a spread of the best canapés and tapas that Waitrose could provide. The cake would make the perfect dessert.
“You daft bugger.” Adam eyed the cake, then gave Robin a huge hug. “What did they say at the shop when you asked for that?”
“Let’s not go there.” Robin didn’t think he dared face returning to the bakery. The woman who’d iced the message had evidently thought it meant something pornographic—he should have settled for a simple, unambiguous I love you. They shared a kiss. “Will those snacks wait?”
“If I put them back in the fridge, yes. I haven’t even warmed the oven for the ones that need heating.”
“Good.” Robin drew Adam into another cuddle, then turned him round to propel him in the direction of the stairs. They indulged in a few more kisses en route—a messy job but someone had to take the plunge and do these things, even with a Newfoundland trying to make it a three-way hug.
“Okay, you.” Adam broke the clinch, better to manoeuvre the dog back into the kitchen, and shut the door on him. “He can whimper all he likes. I don’t know about you, but I need more than just a bit of hurried fumbling in the hallway.”
“You’ve read my mind. Dinner can wait; this can’t.”
“Too right.” Adam leaned in for another kiss, then pulled back. “What if the bloody phone goes?”
“Don’t answer it. Cowdrey says that, short of world war three breaking out, the team won’t be called in tonight.”
“Cowdrey’s a legend. I always—” The chat was cut off by Robin pinning his lover to the wall. Time for talk to give way to action.
Afterwards, they’d have lain in bed longer, but Robin’s rumbling stomach and Adam’s swearing that his own guts thought his throat had been cut spurred them into action. By the time Robin had got washed and changed into a T-shirt and jogging pants, the savoury aromas of cooking food were wafting up the stairs and—as he found on opening the kitchen door—the Prosecco had been poured.
“We’ll take it through to the dining table.” Adam encouraged Robin to pick up a glass. “Make a proper celebration.”
“We’ll have a toast here first.” Robin raised his drink in the direction of the dog basket. “Campbell. That dog deserves a medal.”
“Campbell.” Adam solemnly completed the toast. “For saving our bacon yet again.”
The dog, an unconvincing expression of innocence plastered on his face, gazed hopefully at the tin where his biscuits were stored.
“Oh, all right, just the one.” Adam produced a charcoal-black biscuit—Campbell’s favourite variety. “You’ve earned it.”
“Everybody else’s Newfoundland makes heroic water rescues,” Robin observed. “How did we end up with one who does marriage guidance? Because he’s the most intelligent dog in the world?”
“I should cover his ears. You’ll inflate his ego.” Adam returned his gaze to his bubbly.
“It deserves inflating. I wish he worked on my team at Abbotston instead of some of them—it would make the setup a damn sight more efficient.”
“Maybe you should take him in. He could growl at any officers he didn’t think were working hard enough.”
Robin chuckled. “He’d certainly make a good wingman. Shame I can’t teach him to speak or use the phone.”
“What’s going to happen at Abbotston? Did you plug the leak?”
“Yeah.” Robin knocked back his glass, then gave them both a refill. “The desk sergeant—name of Lewington, so there’s the connection you found—is going through disciplinary procedures. Thanks for sorting that. I’m sorry I didn’t take you seriously enough.”
“You’ve had a lot on your mind.” Adam sipped his wine. “Glad to be of help.”
“I think it’ll work out well. It’s given everyone a much-needed reminder that Cowdrey’s not going to stop until he’s excised all the rot.”
“Another night of the long knives?”
Robin shrugged. “We might get away with simply having a swap round of personnel with Kinechester and some of the other big stations. Split them up and see if they sink or swim. I’ll be keeping Ben, though. He’s almost as useful as Campbell.”
“You’ll get a good team in the end. You did at Stanebridge. Just needs time and patience.” Adam inspected the contents of the oven. “About five more minutes and we’re there.”
“I should put you on my team too. Efficiency, brains, and looks. Cracking combination.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere. Anyway, familiarity breeds contempt and all that. You wouldn’t like to have me hanging around all day long. Think what it was like with Stuart being here. That was nearly the end of a wonderful working relationship.”
“True. I said you had brains.” Robin set down his glass and pulled his partner closer. “Thing is, I’m not in love with Stuart. Only you.”
“Silly bugger.” Adam leaned into the embrace, head on Robin’s shoulder. “We’re all right, aren’t we?”
“Yeah. I think so.” He caressed Adam’s back. “And I’ll never have to worry about you being pregnant and not telling me.”
“Or have your mother fretting about her hat for the christening.”
“She does like her millinery. We could, by all means, give her another excuse for hat shopping.” Robin pulled back so he could look into his lover’s eyes. “Not sure I’d be comfy with the whole wedding thing—I’m too conservative by half—but if you ever thought a civil partnership could be a goer, I’d be your man.”
Adam’s brow wrinkled in contemplation. “If that’s a proposal, it has to be the least romantic in the history of the universe.”
“Is that a ‘no’ then?” Robin swallowed hard; had he misread this like he’d misread so much in the Sian Wheatstone case?
“Of course it isn’t, you clown. It’s a resounding ‘yes.’ I’ve got a mother who wants to wear a posh hat, as well.”
A rumble of delight emanated from Campbell’s basket, although whether at the news or the biscuit, Robin couldn’t tell. And frankly, at that point, he couldn’t care less.
Explore more of the Lindenshaw Mysteries: riptidepublishing.com/titles/series/lindenshaw-mysteries
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Thanks go to Cathy, who came up with the idea of the feud between the CAS and the detectorists and so kick-started the whole tale. And to Sally, who invented the murderous Pippa single-handed. Also to my editor, Caz Galloway, who always points out where I’ve made no sense and takes the sow’s-ear bits and suggests ways of making them into silk purses.
Novels
The Best Corpse for the Job
Jury of One
Broke Deep
Count the Shells
Lessons for Survivors
Lessons for Suspicious Minds
Lessons for Idle Tongues
Lessons for Sleeping Dogs
Lessons in Love
Lessons in Desire
Standalone short stories
Second Helpings
Awfully Glad
Don’t Kiss the Vicar
Promises Made Under Fire
Tumble Turn
The Angel in the Window
Dreams of a Hero
Wolves of the West
Music in the Midst of Desolation
Two Feet Under (Lindenshaw Mysteries Book 3) Page 28
