Stella Hallett was a dumpy little woman in her thirties. With mousy hair that fell to her shoulders and a plump figure, she was an unlikely choice of mistress for the husband of glamorous Amy Henshaw – which had been Geraldine’s first suspicion on hearing the terms of the will. Looking at her, Geraldine thought Stella was more likely to be a relative; Henshaw’s younger sister or a daughter, perhaps. Yet a woman with brown hair had been lying on the passenger seat of Henshaw’s car not long before he died, and Stella’s hair was brown.
Stella was the first person to express any grief on hearing about Henshaw’s death. Visibly shocked, her face lost its colour and she clutched at the door frame as though in need of support.
‘Patrick’s dead?’ she repeated several times.
Geraldine waited for her to absorb the news that Henshaw had been murdered.
‘I’m afraid so. I’m here to ask you a few questions, Stella. Shall we go inside and sit down?’
‘Yes, please come in. But how did you find me?’
Geraldine didn’t answer. She didn’t yet know if Stella had known about Henshaw’s will. If she had, that might provide a motive for wanting him dead.
When they were settled in Stella’s tidy but threadbare living room, she dissolved in tears again, hiccupping and snuffling into a large tissue.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she stuttered, ‘it‘s just such a shock. I had no idea anything had happened to him. I haven’t seen him for five years.’
Geraldine sat back in her chair and waited for the other woman to regain her composure. She couldn’t help thinking Stella’s grief was a disproportionate reaction from someone who hadn’t seen the dead man for so long. And Stella had dark hair.
In a calf length brown skirt, cream shirt and beige jumper, Stella looked dull, although her clothes were clean and neat. Her skirt wasn’t creased and her shirt must have been starched, the points of the collar were so perfectly symmetrical. Her flat was equally spick and span, with shelves gleaming as though they had just been polished. Gazing around, Geraldine recognised a younger Patrick Henshaw in a framed photograph on a shelf. Turning her head, she saw another similar framed photograph hanging on the wall. It took her a few seconds to realise the slim woman smiling at his side in both pictures was Stella. It seemed strange that she would have photographs of Patrick displayed in her living room, if she and Patrick were no longer seeing one another.
‘Yes, that’s me,’ Stella admitted with a shy grin, following the direction of Geraldine’s gaze. ‘I’ve let myself go a bit since that was taken!’
Her eyes watered again.
‘Tell me about your relationship with Patrick,’ Geraldine said gently.
‘Like I said, I haven’t seen him for five years. We were together for two years and of course I knew all along he was married. I knew he’d never leave her for me, really, although I still hoped. You do, don’t you? When you love someone. I never stopped hoping until – until now –’
She broke off, her voice wavering, her face creased in an effort to control her sobbing.
‘There’s never been anyone else –’
Stella was convincing, but Geraldine had to question whether there was something strange about her extreme attachment to Henshaw. If they had been apart for so long, it seemed unlikely he would still be the man in her life, the one whose photographs she wanted to see every day in her living room. On the other hand, why would she lie about it, unless she wanted to distance herself from his death? That would suggest she had been involved in his murder..
‘How did you meet?’ Geraldine asked.
‘We met about eight years ago. I was his personal assistant then. That’s how we met, at work. He was married so I never wanted anything to happen between us, but somehow –’
She shrugged.
‘But I’m not sorry,’ she added, her voice rising with a flash of spirit. ‘I knew he was married when I met him, but once we started seeing each other I didn’t care about that any more. And I wanted him to leave her, I actually prayed their marriage would fall apart. Was that so terrible? He wasn’t happy with her and I knew I could make him happy. I wanted to be the other woman, the marriage wrecker – only it never happened. She was so glamorous and I’m so ordinary. But like I said, you always hope, don’t you? And then –’
She fell silent, lost in her memories. Geraldine wondered if sexual jealousy had prompted the particularly nasty attack on Henshaw.
‘What happened?’ Geraldine prompted her.
Stella heaved a shuddering sigh, dropped her head in her hands and began to rock in her chair, wailing.
‘Stella, perhaps you’d like me to come back later –’
The weeping woman shook her head and raised her glistening face, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. Then she smiled apologetically and assured Geraldine she was fine.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she hiccupped. ‘I think perhaps – that is, can I offer you a cup of tea? Or something?’
Geraldine shook her head.
‘But please go ahead if you’d like one.’
‘Yes, I think it might help. It’s been a bit of a shock.’
Her eyes began to water again. Muttering that she would only be a moment she hurried off leaving Geraldine alone in the living room.
Geraldine gazed around the room registering the worn carpet, faded curtains frayed at the hem and broken springs in the chair beneath her, and wondered if Stella had known the terms of Patrick Henshaw’s will. It looked as though she could do with the money.
‘Here, I thought you might like to look at this,’ Stella said. She handed a photograph album to Geraldine who flicked through it with a show of interest: Stella and Patrick by the sea, the pair of them sitting by the river, Stella on a park bench, Patrick on the same bench. Geraldine closed the album and turned to Stella.
‘Tell me what happened,’ she repeated.
Stella stared straight ahead while tears rolled unheeded down her round cheeks. She spoke in a flat voice, barely louder than a whisper.
‘I think he was only with me because he wanted a child. He didn’t want me, not for myself. We’d been seeing each other for just over a year when I fell pregnant. He seemed so happy about it. He said he’d leave her and marry me. And I believed him. I think he really meant it. He made me give up work, said I had to look after myself, he’d take care of everything. But then I lost the baby and that was the end of everything. Nothing was the same after that. He became distant, cold, then one day he didn’t come round. He didn’t say anything but I knew he wouldn’t get in touch again. He stopped paying my bills and I had to move out of the flat I was renting and I’ve been here ever since. I never saw him again. And now I never will.’
Stella’s bottom lip wobbled and Geraldine spoke briskly before she broke down again.
‘We need to eliminate you from our enquiries, Stella.’
‘Eliminate me?’
‘Where were you last Sunday evening?’
‘I don’t know. Sunday evening? Was that when it – when he – when it happened?’
Geraldine inclined her head without speaking.
‘I didn’t go anywhere on Sunday. I was here. I don’t go out much.’
Stella had no witnesses who could vouch for her whereabouts on the evening Henshaw had been killed.
Stella appeared surprised when Geraldine asked her to go to the police station so a sample of her DNA could be taken.
‘What do you want that for?’
‘So we can eliminate you from the enquiry.’
‘But –’
‘It will be better for you if you come willingly.’
‘Yes, alright.’
‘You do know you’re mentioned in his will?’ Geraldine asked cautiously.
Stella raised bloodshot eyes to stare at her.
‘Am I? So that means he did remember me – still thought about me. Do you think he still cared about me, deep down?’
Geraldine could only speculate about whether Henshaw had
been motivated by affection or guilt when he chose to leave his money to Stella. She glanced around the spotless room, wondering if Stella was lying when she had claimed to know nothing about the will. It was possible her tears were phony; and even if her emotion was genuine, there was still no way of knowing if her tears were prompted by grief or remorse.
CHAPTER 17
After reading through all the reports, Geraldine tried to put the investigation out of her mind when she went to bed. There was nothing more she could do now. In the morning she would ask around and see what else she could find out. But she slept uneasily, her dreams haunted by images of Patrick Henshaw’s mutilated corpse. After a hurried breakfast on Thursday morning, she drove straight to Hampstead hoping to catch Amy early. Arriving at eight thirty she opened the gate in time to see a small dark-haired woman approach the front door. Geraldine watched from the gate as the woman rang the bell and waited, oblivious of Geraldine standing a few yards behind her. No one came to the door. The woman fidgeted impatiently, looked at her watch and rang the bell again, several times. At last she turned away and as she walked back down the path caught sight of Geraldine hovering on the pavement.
Geraldine stepped forward, blocking the woman’s exit.
‘I’m looking for Mrs Amy Henshaw.’
‘Mrs Henshaw lives here, but she’s not in. She knew I was coming. I’m here every Monday and Thursday to clean for her. She always lets me know when she’s not going to be here. Do you think she’s forgotten?’
The little woman’s face twisted in irritation.
‘Well, she’ll have to pay me. It’s only fair. I’ve come all this way for nothing. So how do you know her?’ she added, suddenly suspicious.
Geraldine introduced herself without explaining the reason for her visit. She learned the woman’s name was Christina.
‘You know the household. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Mrs Henshaw.’
Christina’s black eyes narrowed in alarm.
‘Where’s Mrs Henshaw? What’s happened to her?’
‘Calm down, please. Nothing’s happened to Mrs Henshaw, but I’d like to ask you a few questions.’
At first the cleaner was reluctant to divulge any information. She insisted she had to get home, but wavered when Geraldine offered to reimburse her bus fare.
‘Mrs Henshaw gives me breakfast,’ she said promptly.
A veiled threat, added to the offer of breakfast and her bus fare, clinched it; a small price to pay for what might prove key information about the Henshaws.
Seated in a dingy café Geraldine sipped lukewarm milky coffee, while Christina tucked into greasy egg, bacon and toast. A plate of food and a mug of tea on the table in front of her loosened her tongue, as Geraldine had hoped; Christina became positively garrulous. Chomping on her breakfast, she explained she had been visiting the house twice a week for about six years. Only when Geraldine enquired whether the Henshaws were happy together did Christina clam up.
‘That’s not my place to say.’
‘Christina, we’re investigating the circumstances of Mr Henshaw’s death. I‘m afraid you have no choice but to answer my questions, unless you want to find yourself facing prosecution for obstruction.’
Christina’s mouth fell open in surprise and the knife and fork she was clutching dropped onto her plate with a loud clatter. Geraldine turned away from the disagreeable sight of half masticated egg and bacon and took a gulp of coffee before resuming.
‘Now, I’ll ask you again. In your opinion, was the marriage a happy one?’
Carefully Christina wiped a piece of toast round her plate mopping up egg yolk, her eyes fixed on her breakfast. At last she raised her head, apparently making up her mind.
‘I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but he was a foul-tempered man. If you ask me, poor Mrs Henshaw couldn’t possibly have been happy with a man like that. No one could. He was a lot older than her and I don’t think he paid her much attention. Money maybe, but that’s about all he gave her. If you ask me,’ she leaned forward in her chair, ‘that’s why she married him in the first place. For his money.’
‘Was he seeing other women?’
‘Mr Henshaw?’
Christina sat back in surprise.
‘Now how would I know a thing like that?’
A slight belligerence in the way Christina spoke drew Geraldine’s attention.
‘What about Mrs Henshaw – was she seeing anyone else?’
Geraldine was surprised to see Christina blush.
‘Oh well, I suppose you’re going to find out anyway so there’s no harm in spilling the beans. Yes, she was. She had another man, and I can’t say I blame her.’
Geraldine sat, pen poised, but Christina merely sipped her tea without saying any more.
‘Who was he?’ Geraldine prompted her at last.
‘Who? Her fancy man? I don’t know. I don’t know anything about him. I never saw him but he was on the phone to her all the time.’
‘Are you sure it wasn’t her husband she was talking to?’
‘Oh yes. I used to overhear her sometimes though I’d blush to repeat some of what she said. And it wasn’t her husband she was talking to, I can tell you that for a fact.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ Geraldine pressed her.
‘Well, for a start, I heard her promise to leave her husband, only she said it was difficult, and she asked for more time. Then she said how much she loved him and wanted to be with him, and how she hated having to keep the affair a secret, and I can’t remember what else besides, but more on the same lines. I don’t know who she was talking to, but it wasn’t her husband.’
Geraldine looked up from her note pad.
‘Are you sure you can’t tell me anything about him? Did you ever hear his voice?’
‘Yes. I answered the phone to him several times. Just tell her it’s me, he said. It wasn’t Mr Henshaw’s voice.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure as I’m sitting here.’
‘What did he sound like?’
Christina shrugged.
‘Like a man, you know. He had a man’s voice. He sounded young and –’
She paused, thinking.
‘Eager. Like he was impatient to speak to her, like he was always in a hurry.’
‘So have you found out anything from Amy Henshaw?’ Sam asked Geraldine when she returned to the station.
‘I think so. Not about Henshaw himself, but – well, you met his wife.’
‘Yes, and – ?’
‘It seems she was having an affair with a young man.’
‘I said it was a crime of passion!’
Geraldine couldn’t help laughing at the triumph in Sam’s voice.
‘What did she say exactly?’
Geraldine shook her head.
‘I didn’t see Amy Henshaw, but I spoke to her cleaner who’s been going to the house twice a week for the last six years. She was very forthcoming, and I can’t see any reason to doubt what she told me. So we need to find Amy and find out who this other man is. You met Amy. What do you think? Could she have killed him herself?’
Sam considered, her expression serious.
‘It was certainly a vicious attack, with marked sexual aggression, which means the killer was probably a man.’
‘Probably,’ Geraldine sounded a note of caution. ‘Let’s not jump to conclusions. Remember –’
‘I know, I know. I’m only saying. Alright, so we think the killer was probably a man. They usually are. I did think when we saw the body that the injuries might have been inflicted by a jealous husband, if Henshaw had been messing around. But maybe it was Amy’s lover who was jealous. This young man she was having an affair with, whoever he is.’
Geraldine nodded.
‘Yes, this opens up new possibilities.’
‘What you mean is, you have to concede I was right all along,’ Sam grinned.
‘Right? About what, exactly?’
‘That this
was a crime of passion, carried out by a man in a fit of jealousy.’
‘It’s one possibility. But you’re forgetting the DNA found on Henshaw’s body. It was female.’
‘Does that mean Amy was there when he was killed? The young lover came in and found them at it and in a jealous rage pounced on his hated rival! Or perhaps,’ Sam went on in a more serious tone, ‘Amy and her lover were in it together.’
Despite her confusion, Geraldine couldn’t help laughing at the gusto with which Sam outlined her theories. There was something infectious about the sergeant’s enthusiasm which made her company invigorating.
CHAPTER 18
In a dark suit and clean shirt, George fumbled with the knot in his tie.
‘Here, let me,’ Desiree said as she climbed out of bed.
He grinned sheepishly as she fiddled at his throat, not wanting to be distracted by her naked body, as though focusing on the approaching meeting could make a difference to the will. There was no reason for him to feel nervous. He and Patrick had drawn up an agreement that if one of them died, Mireille would become the sole property of the remaining partner. There was no way the agreement could be altered without their joint signatures. It was a good arrangement for whichever partner outlived the other. He and Patrick used to joke about doing away with each other, agreeing that poison would be the most appropriate method, with a restaurant at stake.
Now Patrick was dead, George could do anything he wanted with the restaurant. He was free to sell it if someone offered the right price. He couldn’t help grinning. Mireille was a substantial windfall and it had come in the nick of time, because George’s lucky streak had stopped abruptly about a year ago, and since then his debts had been spiralling out of control. Pipped at the post with every decent sized bet he placed on the horses, winning and losing in equal measure at the casinos, he had been unable to take care of his financial difficulties. Whichever way he turned, the debts mounted. It was as though he’d been cursed. All he had needed was one lucky break as he kept losing and losing until he dreaded opening the post, and daily expected bailiffs to come knocking at his door. In one stroke all that had changed with his business partner’s death.
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