The Case of the Stained Glass Widow

by Douglas Lindsay

  'Have a seat. Help yourself to ice cream. I've used those spoons, but I don't have any germs. At least, nothing you probably haven't already got.'

  He watched the television for a few seconds, then looked at her. There was nowhere else to sit, except beside her on the sofa. The buttons in her pyjamas had parted, and from where he stood he could see the curve of her left breast, the edge of her nipple.

  He quickly looked back at the television.

  'What are you watching?' he asked.

  'It's Iranian. Frontier Blues. It's set on the border with Turkmenistan. Did you know Iran has a border with Turkmenistan? It's rather beautiful but not a lot happens. I suppose not a lot happens in real life either. You should sit down.'

  'Ilsa Ravenwood is dead,' said Jericho, with his trademark terseness.

  Rosalind Parks did not even look at him. He watched the flick of her tongue as she licked ice cream from the spoon.

  'How tragic,' she said eventually, then she turned and looked blankly at Jericho. 'On the plus side, that's one less awkward potential meeting at Jeffrey's funeral. You will come?'

  She licked a piece of chocolate from the corner of her lips. Suddenly, for a moment, he stopped finding it alluring and became annoyed.

  'Where were you three hours ago?'

  She studied him while taking another spoonful of ice cream.

  'I was here,' she said. 'Alone. Eating ice cream. There are empty pots in the garage if you want to check.'

  'There's no one to verify your movements?' asked Jericho.

  She shook her head. Continued to eat ice cream in an erotic manner, not noticing that she had lost her audience.

  'I'm afraid not. You'll just have to trust me. Why don't you sit down and give me an alibi for the evening in case someone else gets murdered.'

  Jericho stared at the empty space on the sofa and had one of those moments of self-loathing.

  x

  The morning was bright. A good day for a murder, if there was to be another one. The previous evening, Jericho had finally left the widow Parks in order to inform the other grief-stricken girlfriends of the latest death. Neither of them had been especially bothered by the demise of Ilsa Ravenwood; just as neither of them had had an alibi.

  Jericho was sitting at a table in the canteen, scratching his four day old stubble, slowly drinking his third coffee of the day. He looked up as Haynes came and sat down beside him, armed with a full breakfast and three slices of toast.

  'All right?' said Haynes, settling down, spearing a sausage before his backside had made contact with the seat.

  'Yes,' said Jericho. 'Tell me about the widow's phone.'

  'Straight down to business, eh?' said Haynes.

  Jericho didn't reply. He glanced at Haynes' breakfast, but he was neither tempted nor hungry.

  'It checked out,' said Haynes through a mouthful of breakfast. 'It had been used in Australia, local calls. The phone was in Australia, no question. The sisters check out, too. One of them was in Sydney with Parks, the other lives in Lee, south of London.'

  'Has she got an alibi for the night of Parks' murder?'

  'Haven't checked that yet, Sir. Are we extending the net that wide?'

  'The net's not just wide, Sergeant... the net extends to cover absolutely everyone in the country. At some point we'll narrow it down.'

  'You want me to find out what she was doing?'

  Jericho thought about it for a moment then shook his head.

  'I'm going up to London, speak to the sister. You can come if you like.'

  Haynes continued to shovel food. Finally he swallowed much too big a mouthful without chewing it properly and waved his fork in Jericho's direction.

  'You're kind of obsessing about this woman, Sir. She was in Australia. We know she was in Australia. There are about fifty other potential killers out there, and you're spending all your time on this one. What gives?'

  Jericho drained his coffee and got to his feet. Haynes's eating habits offended him, and he didn't want to have to watch it any more.

  'Right at the start, when you wanted me to say who I thought did it, I was being flippant when I said it was the widow. But you know what? I was right. So, come on, you've got ten minutes to eat that lot then we'll need to go. We should be back around seven, then you can come with me and we'll go round and arrest her.'

  'Shouldn't we arrest her now, if you so sure?'

  'Don't have enough yet. But we will. Just have to hope that she doesn't murder anyone else in the meantime.'

  'Ten minutes,' he added, when Haynes didn't say anything, and then he turned and walked slowly from the canteen, his shoulders slightly hunched. Haynes wondered if he still had a sore neck, or whether he always walked like that anyway, and if the weight of being the country's most successful detective dragged his shoulders down.

  xi

  They sat on the train up to Paddington. A little over three hours travelling time in all before they arrived at the house of Rosalind Parks' sister. Haynes had tried talking, but almost as soon as the trip began, Jericho had felt the encroachment of depression; his replies had become shorter and shorter. Going back to London.

  He didn't want to go back to London. There was too much there. And Paddington in particular. Where the ghosts were. Where he had last seen Amanda.

  He didn't know where she was now. If by some impossible chance she was still alive, she wouldn't be at Paddington Station; yet part of him was still stuck there, still trapped looking over his shoulder, the last time he saw her. A quick smile, a last glance.

  It wasn't supposed to be the last glance. He hadn't known it at the time. Hadn't even had a strange feeling, an inkling, a premonition. Where had his famous police instinct been that morning?

  Sitting uncomfortably on the train, he realised he ought to have sent Haynes on his own, but he'd wanted to meet the sister, to confirm his theory. For all his outward confidence, for all that he projected the image of being in control and knowing everything that was going on, this was just a hunch. He needed to confirm the hunch himself, not rely on Haynes.

  Eventually he had stopped talking altogether, and Haynes had given up any attempt at communication and had started playing Bookworm on his iPhone.

  ***

  The Tube was packed, every carriage seeming like a rush hour commuter train. They stood in amongst tourists. Haynes enjoyed it. The crush of people, the noise, the vibrancy, the adverts on the walls, the great rush of life. Compared to this, Wells was a one house village in the middle of the Highlands. He would have said so to Jericho, but Jericho had shut down. His eyes were open, but his stare was empty. Haynes had heard he had days like this, but he'd never seen it before. He wondered if he'd have to take over when they got to the house of the widow's sister.

  The train out to Lee wasn't so busy, and by the time they walked out of the station and along the back roads to the semi-detached Edwardian home, the crush of central London was well behind them, a pale winter sun was shining and Jericho was able to emerge slightly from the shell he had constructed around himself.

  Nevertheless, when they stood at the door and rang the bell, Jericho had not uttered a word since just after they'd left Pewsey station, over two hours previously.

  Janine Miller opened the door and smiled at them both. Black hair was drawn back tightly from her face, just long enough to be tied at the back. She wore thick-rimmed glasses that Jericho thought might be a few years too young for her, and which Haynes thought were at least twenty years too young for her.

  'Come in,' she said, not bothering to ask for identification. They had arranged their visit.

  There was coffee already made, waiting on the table. Hot milk. Three cups. Brown sugar in a small, elegant bowl. No biscuits or cake. She already knew how Jericho took his coffee. They were all settled in seats, not another word had been spoken, when she said, 'Milk? Sugar?'

  'Yes, two sugars please,' said Haynes, and he glanced at Jericho. No reply, then the two coffees were handed over and he
wondered how Janine Miller had instinctively known what Jericho would want.

  They each took a sip of coffee and then, like a trio of well-rehearsed synchronized swimmers, laid their cups back on the low table that separated them.

  Miller looked expectantly at them, her eyes moving between the two. Haynes wondered if he was going to have to say something, and wasn't sure of the line that Jericho had intended taking.

  A noise escaped his lips as he started to formulate his first question, but he was immediately cut off by Jericho.

  'Did you kill your brother-in-law?'

  The voice was flat, matter-of-fact. Haynes stared at the carpet, even though he knew he should have been looking at Miller to see her reaction. As it was, there was nothing to see.

  'Why would I do that?' she asked.

  Her voice was completely neutral, and yet totally different from thirty seconds earlier. Haynes looked up.

  'He was a monstrous asshole, and your sister asked you to.'

  Miller laughed. She looked curiously at Jericho, wondering if he was being serious, and then a genuine smile started to spread across her face.

  'She said you were a piece of work.'

  'Did you kill him?'

  'No.'

  'Your sister came to stay with you before she went to Australia?'

  'Yes,' said Miller. 'Just for a couple of nights. We went to see Warhorse. I know, but everyone's been talking about it...'

  'And you've been here since then?'

  'Went to Edinburgh.'

  Jericho had been expecting her not to have been there the whole time. He would ask her for proof of her visit to Edinburgh and she would have it, neatly tucked away, train tickets and hotel receipts.

  'You can prove that?' he asked.

  'Oh...' she said, and she looked over her shoulder, furrowed her brow. 'Yes, I might be able to. You see, I never throw away receipts and what-not until I get the card bill in. I like to cross check.' She smiled, looked embarrassed. 'My sisters tell me I'm on the spectrum. You know, Asperger's. I alphabetize absolutely everything and I can multiply three hundred and twenty-six by nine thousand, three hundred and forty-one in under a second.'

  'What is it?' said Haynes.

  'Oh... seven hundred and ninety-five thousand, two hundred and fifty-six.'

  She smiled awkwardly, as if she'd just let them in behind the mask. Jericho took another long drink of coffee, laid the cup back down on the table, stood up and said, 'Thank you very much.'

  'Oh,' she said again. 'You don't want to see the receipts?'

  'No,' said Jericho.

  He looked down at her for a moment, wondering whether it was worthwhile saying anything else, decided that he didn't feel like talking and turned and walked to the door. Haynes glugged the rest of his coffee, put the cup back down, rose at the same time as Miller and smiled. Decided that he better not say anything, as his previous three words were quite possibly three words more than Jericho had wanted him to say.

  Jericho did not turn. He was not in the mood to be lied to. He opened the door and walked out into the fresh air, the day beginning to cool to a crisp, winter's afternoon. He hadn't noticed it before, even though they'd been in Miller's house less than five minutes.

  Haynes nodded at Miller and caught up with Jericho as he got to the end of the garden path and turned onto the pavement. She watched them go from the door, not entirely sure what had just happened, waited until they were out of sight and then returned inside to call her sister.

  'It's three million, forty-five thousand, one hundred and sixty-six,' said Jericho.

  Haynes looked at him for a second, then realised what he meant.

  'So she just made up an answer?'

  'Yes.'

  'She was justifying keeping receipts by trying to establish a condition that she doesn't have.'

  'Yes.'

  'So she never went to Edinburgh?'

  'Oh, she never went to Edinburgh.'

  'So, she murdered Parks? Why are we leaving?'

  'She didn't murder Parks,' said Jericho.

  Haynes nodded. He thought he'd been doing all right.

  'I'm getting a disconnect,' said Haynes.

  'You ever see Duck Soup?' said Jericho, although he didn't feel like talking.

  'Never heard of it. What is it?'

  'Marx Brothers,' said Jericho.

  Haynes shook his head.

  'I didn't mean you to leave,' said Jericho.

  'What?'

  'You go back, talk to her. Find out what you can. I've got to go somewhere. Meet you back at Paddington in two and a half hours. Don't be late.'

  Haynes stopped walking. Jericho walked on without looking at him; Haynes watched him go.

  ***

  They met again at Paddington, ten minutes late. They sat and drank another two cups of coffee. Jericho didn't eat anything, Haynes had two sandwiches, talking all the while about Janine Miller and what he thought might be relevant. Jericho listened and did not speak. They got on the afternoon train back to the south-west and arrived at Castle Cary at 6.45.

  xii

  This time she wasn't wearing pyjamas, but her look was still dressed down and alluring. She welcomed them in, giving Haynes an appreciative glance as they passed her in the hall.

  'Tea?' she said, having shown them into the front room. An empty tub of ice cream, spoon propped on the edge, sat on the table. The TV was off, a couple of magazines lay on the floor.

  'Sure,' said Haynes.

  'Yep,' said Jericho. 'And cake, if you've got any left. I'm starving.'

  She smiled and left them to it for a minute. Haynes looked curiously at Jericho, having picked up on the vibe.

  'If you've got any left? How long did you stay last night?'

  Jericho finally felt the relief of being away from London. Like the pressure had lifted. London compressed him, squeezed him into a black ball. Getting out, sitting on the train heading in the other direction, released him from the oppression. At least for a short time.

  'A while,' said Jericho, though not in the least defensively. 'We watched an Iranian movie. Nothing happened in the movie. She offered me ice cream. I don't like ice cream. So she offered me cake. I ate cake. I left. I just asked her if she had any more cake. Are you apprised of the facts, or would you like to know anything further?'

  Haynes settled into the sofa and lifted a copy of Town & Country.

  'I'm curious as to whether we're really about to arrest her. Apart from that, I'm pretty cool.'

  Jericho grunted, then stood in the middle of the room with his arms folded, staring at the walls.

  'Seems a bit off to let her go and make tea, when she's about to be nicked. I don't think they tell you about that in training college.'

  Haynes looked up at Jericho, who shrugged.

  'I'm hungry,' he said.

  Haynes read an article about foxes. Jericho looked at the walls. Eventually Rosalind Parks returned with the tray. She laid it on a small table, handed the two men a piece of cake each.

  'It's yesterday's, but sometimes cake tastes better the next day, doesn't it?'

  'We're here to arrest you for the murder of your husband, Mrs. Parks,' said Jericho. 'And for the murder of Ilsa Ravenwood yesterday evening. I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down, and may be used against you in a court of law. Thanks for the cake, by the way. You're right,' he added with a full mouth, 'it is a bit tastier, even if it has lost a certain amount of moisture.'

  She looked at Haynes, her eyebrow twitching slightly, then back to Jericho.

  'You must think I have very long arms, Chief Inspector,' she said, 'to reach all the way from Australia.'

  Jericho nodded, his mouth full of cake.

  'If you'd gone to Australia, yes. But since you never got any further than Paris, we can afford to leave the length of your arms out of it.'

  Haynes was looking at Parks as Jericho spoke, and saw the movement in her face for that brief second. Just an instant, but it was all t
here. The guilt, the fear, the loathing. Then she flicked the switch and her face returned to showing neutral interest, as if Jericho had just told her she had a problem with her gearbox and her car would need to go into the garage for a couple of days.

  'I went to Terminal 3, checked out the CCTV. Your sister went to Australia on your passport. You look similar enough, the photo is old enough that she could get away with it, she got her hair done the way you had it nine years ago. You went to Paris on a false passport, just so that you could return at the same time. You met in the toilets, swapped passports, you emerged to be met at Border Control with your own passport, for all the world as if you'd just been to Sydney. All three sisters in on the lie.'

  She breathed heavily, controlling the emotion. Haynes was aware that he was sitting there, a bit of a village idiot, no real idea what was going on, looking at the two protagonists in turn with monstrous fascination.

  'She doesn't look anything like her sister,' he found himself saying.

  Jericho didn't look at him. He was staring at Parks. She smiled sweetly at Haynes.

  'Thank you,' she said. 'At least one of you is talking sense.'

  'In the meantime,' said Jericho, 'you travelled about a bit, laid the alibis for your sister – which were never going to be watertight, but you just had to hope were enough – and, of course, killed your husband. Having attempted to lay the proof of your innocence for that murder, you then killed Ilsa Ravenwood in exactly the same manner, hoping that it would show you also to be innocent of her murder. Sadly it didn't. You're nicked.'

  Rosalind Parks bent down and lifted a cup of tea. She blew seductively across the top, sucking the men in with her slow movements, giving herself time to think. What they knew and what they didn't.

  'But I didn't kill Jeffrey. Why would I do that when there were so many other people queuing up to do it?'

  'No there weren't,' said Jericho, his words barely understandable, as he'd just taken a mouthful of cake. 'The others all came in knowing he was married, knowing there was a harem. Only you'd become involved with him expecting monogamy. Only you were actually annoyed about it, while the others just took what they could get.'