Stop Dead

by Leigh Russell

  Hesitation gave her away, indicating the affair was still going on.

  ‘Who is he?’

  Amy shook her head.

  ‘It’s over,’ she insisted. ‘I don’t think it’s relevant who he is.’

  ‘I’ll decide what may or may not be relevant, Mrs Henshaw. Why did you lie about it?’

  Amy began to cry.

  ‘It’s over,’ she insisted. ‘It’s over.’

  Geraldine leaned forward.

  ‘We know that’s not true,’ she fibbed.

  She couldn’t be sure the affair hadn’t finished – but when Amy’s eyes widened, Geraldine knew her accusation was accurate. Abruptly, Amy dropped her head in her hands and broke down in tears. After that, it didn’t take Geraldine long to learn the identity of Amy’s lover.

  ‘He’s got nothing to do with all this,’ Amy insisted tearfully. ‘Please – please –’

  She broke off, weeping noisily.

  Now that she had discovered what she needed to know, Geraldine stood up. She felt sorry for the woman’s distress, but her sympathy was tempered by the suspicion that Amy might be responsible for the cold blooded murder of her husband. It was a horrible thought, but there was no time to dwell on it. She informed Amy that someone would be round shortly to take a DNA sample in order to eliminate her from the enquiry, and left.

  It was hard to focus on anything else while they waited for the results of the DNA test, especially with Sam so hopeful that Amy was at least implicated in the murder.

  ‘I’m guessing it was the two of them in it together, her and the boyfriend,’ she told Geraldine. ‘I can’t wait for the results of the DNA test. Amy’s already tried to pull the wool over our eyes about her affair. Why would she lie about it now her husband’s dead, unless she’s got something else to hide? If she’s prepared to lie about that, for sure she’d lie about killing her husband.’

  Thinking it all over when she got home, Geraldine thought she could understand why a forty-year-old woman might want to conceal her relationship with a twenty-three-year-old man, even if her husband hadn’t just been brutally murdered in what appeared to be a very personal attack. There were all sorts of reasons why she might want to keep her two lives separate. For a start, the young man might not know how old his mistress was. Lost in speculation, Geraldine was startled by her phone and nearly dropped it as she lunged for it on the side table. She was neither surprised nor particularly pleased to hear her sister’s voice.

  ‘Geraldine, how are you?’ Celia asked earnestly, as though Geraldine was suffering from some sort of terminal cancer. ‘We haven’t heard from you for ages.’

  Geraldine assured her she was fine and asked after Celia’s husband and daughter. That was a mistake. Celia could talk about her daughter for hours. She listened politely for as long as she could contain her impatience before she interrupted, insisting she had to go. Promising to call back when she had more time, she rang off.

  CHAPTER 21

  Guy was traced to a company that installed double glazing and bespoke conservatories. The next morning, Geraldine and Sam went to question Amy’s young lover.

  ‘Guy Barrett?’ the woman on reception repeated. She checked a ledger and nodded uncertainly.

  ‘Yes, he’s out on a job right now, but I’m not sure I can give you the customer’s address – I mean, I don’t think Mr Reynolds would like it if you interrupted the work, but I should have Guy’s address here somewhere. I’ll have to fish around for it. The system’s down, I’m afraid.’

  With a sigh she began flicking through a file.

  At five o’clock they arrived outside Guy’s flat just off the main Holloway Road. He didn’t answer the door, so they returned to the car to wait for him to come home. The mild September was changing with a hint of cold weather to come and a light steady drizzle began to fall as Geraldine settled further down in her seat. Just before half past six a young man entered the building. They waited a few moments before hurrying across the glistening road.

  Tall and sturdily built, in his early twenties, Guy had a broad high forehead, dark curly hair and boyish features. He folded his bulging arms and leaned against the door frame, staring from Geraldine to Sam and back again, chewing gum and glaring like a sullen adolescent. When Geraldine introduced herself he straightened up, arms dangling, eyes downcast.

  ‘May we come in, Mr Barrett?’

  He gave an awkward shrug without meeting her eyes.

  ‘Or we can talk at the police station.’

  With a grunt the young man led them through an untidy kitchenette. Several empty beer bottles stood on a narrow work surface, a crusty saucepan rested on the hob beside a greasy frying pan, and a pile of plates was stacked, unwashed, beside a sink full of cutlery. One soiled tea towel was scrunched up beside the sink, another lay discarded on the floor. They passed into a cramped living room furnished with a dark red carpet, chairs too large for the space, and curtains an inch too short for the window. An unsightly crack stretched diagonally across one wall from floor to ceiling.

  Guy remained standing, stammering awkwardly as he answered Geraldine’s questions. To begin with, he denied knowing the widow, but his lies were clumsy and he soon abandoned the pretence.

  ‘Oh Mrs Henshaw,’ he mumbled, frowning as though he had just recognised the name, and blushing. ‘Yes, I know her. That is, we’ve met. I was on a job at her house in Hampstead last year. That’s where I met Mrs Henshaw. And Mr Henshaw. I met them both.’

  He glanced furtively at Geraldine under long thick lashes, before his eyes flicked away again.

  ‘Was that when your affair began? Last year?’

  ‘Affair?’

  He turned his head and spat his gum into an open bin where it stuck, glistening, on top of an empty cigarette packet.

  ‘What affair’s that then?’

  Geraldine almost felt sorry for the gauche young man. He didn’t strike her as particularly intelligent.

  ‘We know about your relationship with Mrs Henshaw so it’s pointless lying about it,’ Sam said firmly. ‘You’re not protecting her. It was Mrs Henshaw who gave us your name and told us about the affair.’

  Barrett drew his broad shoulders back and raised his head, his face creased in a belligerent frown. He stared at Sam. He wasn’t much younger than her but he sounded like a stroppy teenager talking to his mother.

  ‘So? What of it? It’s not a crime to be seeing a woman, is it? And I don’t see that it’s any of your business either.’

  ‘No. But it is a crime to kill someone.’

  ‘Kill someone? What are you talking about? I thought you were talking about me and Amy. Who said anything about killing anyone?’

  He shifted his weight awkwardly from one leg to the other and leaned back against the door frame again in a crude attempt to appear nonchalant. Geraldine studied his face closely as she told him that Mr Henshaw had been murdered. He scowled but didn’t say anything straight away. At last he raised his eyebrows in a studied expression of astonishment. Amy had presumably already told him about her husband’s death but Geraldine wondered if he had known before that. If he had been the first person to know.

  ‘Poor Amy. This is terrible.’

  He gave an exaggerated sigh.

  He was such a poor liar that Geraldine challenged the young man outright about his relationship with Patrick Henshaw and he glared at her suspiciously.

  ‘What relationship? What are you talking about? I only met him once, when we were doing his conservatory.’

  ‘When did you last see Patrick Henshaw?’

  ‘I told you, last year, when we had a job on there.’

  Geraldine nodded.

  ‘Fine. Now we’d like you to come along to the police station to make a statement –’

  ‘What for? What sort of statement?’

  He narrowed his eyes and took a step backwards.

  ‘You think I did it, don’t you? I’m sleeping with his wife so it had to be me that killed him. Is that
it? That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard so you can get lost with your stupid stereotypes. You haven’t got a shred of evidence.’

  He took a step backwards.

  ‘Are you refusing to come to the station?’

  ‘What if I am?’

  ‘I suggest you come voluntarily, so we can eliminate you from our enquiries.’

  ‘Do I have any choice?’

  ‘Not if you’re going to be sensible. Now come along.’

  Somehow Geraldine found herself treating Guy as though he was a child. Despite his defiance, he seemed very biddable. Now that Geraldine had met him, she had to admit that Sam’s theory seemed quite plausible. Amy might well have seduced her young lover into disposing of her husband.

  Back at the station Sam was exuberant.

  ‘He was screwing Henshaw’s wife, for goodness sake. And she’s going to inherit a packet, I expect. That house alone must be worth millions.’

  Geraldine nodded. Despite Guy’s relationship with Amy, they had a lot of work to do if they were going to achieve a conviction. And she wasn’t convinced that Guy had murdered Patrick.

  ‘I’m sure he would’ve wanted Henshaw dead. He had powerful motives. And I can believe he was physically capable of overpowering a man in his sixties. But –’

  ‘But?’ Sam prompted her.

  ‘We don’t know he’s guilty.’

  ‘What makes you think he isn’t?’

  Geraldine shrugged.

  ‘For a start, he’s a hopeless liar.’

  ‘He had a motive.’

  Geraldine pointed out that Henshaw’s business partner also had a pressing reason for wanting him out of the way, and asked Sam to take a careful look into George Corless’s finances.

  ‘Do you really think Henshaw’s killer was motivated by money?’

  ‘It’s possible. We know George had money troubles and whatever his situation, that restaurant is a gold mine. This could’ve been, as you put it, a crime of passion, but greed could also be a motive with so much money at stake.’

  ‘Yes, anything’s possible. But is it likely? What about the nature of his injuries? What’s that all about if he was killed for his money?’

  ‘Then the quicker we can eliminate George Corless from our enquiries the better. Now, enough speculation for one day. Let’s get to work.’

  CHAPTER 22

  Wound up by uncertainty over the case, Geraldine wanted to take some time to cool off and refocus. She found Sam in the canteen where they sat in companionable silence for a while.

  ‘Come on then, let’s get back to work,’ Geraldine said when she had finished her coffee.

  ‘Time for another piece of cake?’

  ‘No, come on, we need to crack on.’

  Geraldine stood up.

  ‘I still don’t know how anyone can eat like you do without putting on weight.’

  Sam patted her stomach and grinned.

  ‘I’m not exactly size zero,’ she replied.

  Before her break, Sam had been looking into George’s financial circumstances. Back in the office, she told Geraldine what she had discovered.

  ‘So one way and another, he blew a heck of a lot of money,’ she concluded.

  ‘A heck of a lot,’ Geraldine echoed.

  ‘Imagine having that much money in the first place.’

  ‘And then throwing it all away like that.’

  ‘Why would anyone spend so much? For no reason.’

  ‘He spent hundreds of thousands on his girl friend, Desiree. He bought her a club at one time. That lasted all of six months, and nearly wiped him out.’

  ‘What a waste!’

  They sat in silence for a moment, musing about the obscene amount of money one man had squandered. It could have bailed out a hospital ward, or paid for a raft of police officers for a year, enough to clear up many cases. With a sigh, Geraldine stood up. It was time to pay George Corless another visit.

  On finding the restaurant closed, they drove to his flat in West Hampstead. It was unassuming for the owner of a fashionable upmarket restaurant, and very different to the Henshaws’ imposing property. A young woman with voluptuous curves came to the door, a pink silk dressing gown draped around her hourglass figure. Her peroxide blonde hair darkened at the roots, and her nails and eyelashes were obviously false, but her smile conveyed a warmth that was entirely natural.

  ‘What’s the stupid bastard gone and done now?’ were her first words on seeing Geraldine’s warrant card.

  A door slammed somewhere in the house behind her.

  ‘We’d like to speak to George Corless.’

  The young woman clutched her dressing gown more tightly around her waist as Sam stepped briskly forward and gave the door a vigorous push.

  ‘Tell them to fuck off,’ a man’s voice called out suddenly. ‘Any more of this bloody harassment and I’m calling the police –’

  The blonde woman half turned and yelled over her shoulder.

  ‘It is the police.’

  She turned back to Geraldine with an apologetic shrug.

  ‘He thought you were the bailiffs.’

  George led them into an untidy kitchen. It stank of stale cigarette smoke. A few magazines lay strewn around the chairs. He swept them up and chucked them on the floor before waving a hand, inviting Geraldine and Sam to sit down at the table.

  ‘Patrick Henshaw’s death came at a very convenient time for you,’ Geraldine commented.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘You were facing financial difficulties.’

  ‘That was nothing new. It’s not a crime to owe money, is it?’

  ‘What did Patrick Henshaw say about your gambling debts?’

  ‘Nothing. It was none of his business any more than it’s any of yours.’

  He pulled a cigarette out of a packet and tapped the end of it on the table before lighting it. Leaning back, he exhaled slowly, avoiding Geraldine’s eye.

  ‘And now you’re a very rich man,’ Geraldine continued. ‘You inherited your business partner’s share of the restaurant just when you needed it. That’s going to sort out the bailiffs for you.’

  George rose to his feet in a sudden swift movement, his face flushing darkly.

  ‘What the hell are you saying?’

  ‘I’m just stating the facts, Mr Corless. You were in trouble. Couldn’t pay your bills. Now you’re home and dry – until you gamble it all away again, that is. It’s very convenient for you, Henshaw dying just now, isn’t it?’

  She sat back and watched him smoking and scowling.

  ‘Is that all?’ he responded at last. ‘Only I’ve got a business to run. How long is this going to take?’

  Geraldine ignored his question.

  ‘Did you get on well with Patrick?’

  ‘What do you think?

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘We were partners.’

  ‘Yes. And did you get on well?

  ‘I’d say so, yes. We were mates. We go back a long way.’

  ‘Tell me about how you met.’

  ‘Oh for Christ’s sake! It was years ago. We were working for the same construction company. The company went down the pan but we kept in touch. A few years later he invited me to join him in a small business venture – I was flush at the time so we put up the money together and one thing led to another. Then Mireille came up. It was a good deal, and we knew we could work together, so we went ahead. That’s all there is to it.’

  Geraldine quizzed him about the finances for the restaurant.

  ‘We both put money in. It was a joint venture. Equal partners.’

  ‘Tell me about your disagreements.’

  ‘What disagreements? We never had any disagreements. If you’re going to put words in my mouth, I want my lawyer present.’

  He glanced nervously at Sam, notebook open in her lap, pen poised.

  ‘You told me you had different ideas,’ Geraldine insisted.

  But however much she pressed him, he
revealed nothing that might implicate him in Henshaw’s murder.

  ‘I already told you, he was the business brains behind the restaurant. I’m in the shit without him. Why would I want to kill him? Now, can we hurry this along if you’ve got any more questions, and let’s get this over with. I need to get off to the restaurant soon.’

  He glanced at his watch, his face twisted in anger. His hands shook as he lit another cigarette.

  Geraldine tried a different tack.

  ‘Mr Corless, where were you on Sunday evening?’

  ‘Sunday evening?’

  He took a deep drag of his cigarette, thinking. She wondered if he was really trying to remember, or if he was taking his time, concocting a convincing alibi.

  ‘What time are we talking about?’

  ‘Some time around midnight, say between ten and one in the morning.’

  ‘I’d have been here. We close early on a Sunday, and it wasn’t too busy so I left around ten. Patrick said he’d lock up.’

  ‘Can anyone vouch for that?’

  ‘Ask Desiree. She’ll vouch for me.’

  Geraldine wondered if Desiree’s word was as false as her nails.

  CHAPTER 23

  She hated having to stand on a crowded underground train, even for a short journey. The heat from other people’s closeness made her cringe; their smells suffocated her: body odours, the stench of stale cigarettes mingled with cloying perfumes and hair gels; strangers coughing and sneezing beside her, breathing on her. She made a point of walking right to the far end of the platform, where she was more likely to get a seat. At least sitting down she had some space of her own.

  Her attention was arrested by a face staring blankly at her. There was no mistaking the glaring angular features; his face haunted her dreams. Squinting, she tried to make out the words below the photograph but it was impossible to read the text across the carriage as the page trembled with the bumping of the train. All she could distinguish was the headline: ‘Police Hunt Killer.’ Passengers shuffled along the packed carriage obstructing her view of the newspaper. She shifted sideways in her seat but by the time the paper reappeared in her line of vision the commuter had turned the page.