THE JAGGED LINE A Thrilling, Psychological Crime Mystery (Harry Briscombe Book 2)

by Carolyn Mahony

  A shrug of the shoulders.

  ‘Well, several people said that you’d been there Monday night – but here’s the strange thing – no one could give any definite information on times.’

  Harry noted the small smirk that came into play around Ken’s mouth. ‘So now you’ve got your memory back, perhaps you could enlighten us on that?’ he added.

  Another shrug. ‘It’s pretty much as I said before. I probably got there between eight-thirty and nine, and was back here by eleven.’

  ‘Your wife told DC Macaskill here that it was nearer eleven-thirty.’

  ‘Did she? Could’ve been, I suppose. I’m not good at detail.’

  ‘It’s a shame that, Mr Lazard, because I have to tell you that unless someone can confirm the exact times, it doesn’t put you in a very good place as far as your alibi’s concerned. Paul Copeland was killed pretty much within that window.’

  ‘No.’

  It was Maggie Lazard who gasped the word, her eyes flying in fear to her husband’s. ‘Ken–’

  ‘There’s nothing for you to worry about, Magz – I’m sure there are people at the pub who’ll be able to back me up when they’ve had a bit of time to think back to last Monday. They can’t pin it on me when I didn’t do it, can they?’

  The look he threw at Harry was hostile. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘One other thing. Do you know a man called Dominic Cartwright? He owns Cartwright Estate Agents in Barnet and was the managing agent for Paul Copeland’s flat.’

  ‘Never heard of him. Are you going to accuse me of killing him, too?’

  ‘So you know he’s dead, then?’

  For the first time, the other man looked rattled. ‘No, I didn’t – I was being sarcastic.’

  ‘It’s not a good idea to play games in these situations. I generally find plain talking and the truth work much better.’

  ‘I’ll try and remember that.’

  ‘Is there anything you want to add to your statement before we go – something you may have forgotten?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then that’s all for now,’ Harry said, standing up. ‘But please don’t leave the area without informing us – we don’t want to be chasing around looking for you if we need to question you again. You know where we are if you want to talk to us.’

  ‘He’s hiding something, isn’t he?’ Beth said as they walked down the path to their respective cars.

  ‘Yeah, I’m pretty sure of it. But not much we can do at the moment apart from hope that something more comes to light at some point. I might go back to the pub tonight seeing as it’s Monday. See if anyone’s there who was there last Monday. It can’t do any harm to jog people’s memories.’

  ‘So what’s next?’

  He pulled out the handwritten notes he’d made from Paul Copeland’s tenancy file and leafed through them. ‘Ah, here it is. Next is Simon Jordan, of Jordan’s Solicitors – Paul Copeland’s landlord. They’re in Whetstone. I’m not holding out much hope they’ll have anything interesting to add, but we need to tick the box. Are you happy to come with me?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll follow you.’

  ‘Here it is, Jordan & Son, Solicitors,’ Beth read out loud, as they stood outside the swish, modern premises on Whetstone High Street. She pushed open the door and they walked in.

  Inside, the attractive brunette sitting at the reception counter smiled as they approached.

  ‘We’d like to see Simon Jordan?’ Harry said.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  He pulled out his ID. ‘No, but hopefully he’ll see us.’

  The receptionist studied the ID and gave it back to him. Then she picked up her phone and dialled a number.

  ‘There are two police officers to see Simon,’ she said into the mouthpiece. ‘Okay.’

  She smiled at Harry and got up from her chair, escorting them to a large office to the left of the reception area. There, an older man half-rose from his chair and stepped forward to greet them, indicating a couple of seats as Harry and Beth were shown in.

  ‘Hi, Tony Jordan. I’m afraid my son’s out visiting a client. Can I help at all?’

  ‘We’re investigating the murder of Paul Copeland,’ Harry said. ‘I understand he was a tenant of your son’s at his property in Barnet?’

  ‘Yes. Terrible business. In fact, it’s been a shocking week one way and another.’ He looked haggard as he said it, shaking his head as he sat back down in his chair.

  ‘Did you or your son know Mr Copeland personally?’

  ‘No. Cartwrights manage a couple of properties for us and that includes finding tenants as and when necessary. We don’t usually have any input into the process, apart from accepting their recommendation when they find someone suitable.’

  ‘So you never met him?’ Harry asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was your son aware Paul Copeland had just come out of prison when he took up the tenancy?’

  ‘Yes, I believe so. Robbie told him he’d been done for dangerous driving or something – he wasn’t exactly a criminal – and the fact was the flat had been empty for three months. His references stacked up and Robbie reckoned he’d be a safe enough bet. Which he was, until this happened.’

  Harry changed tack. ‘What about Dominic Cartwright? You obviously knew him quite well?’

  The older man looked shattered. ‘We went to school together. Our families are very close.’ He shook his head. ‘It hasn’t sunk in yet – I can’t believe it.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘He dropped by Thursday of last week – the day he died. I think he wanted to talk to us in person about the Paul Copeland thing. It had obviously upset him.’

  Harry’s ears pricked up. ‘You saw him last Thursday? What time was that?’

  ‘Well … as I say, it was a spur of the moment thing, so I didn’t make a note of the time, but I reckon it was probably around ten-thirty to ten-forty-five? He’d just been to see the chap’s girlfriend and was clearly upset. He was hoping to see Simon, as it was his tenant, but Simon was out so we had a coffee together and he told me about it instead. I reckon he was here about twenty minutes.’

  ‘He didn’t say anything that you think might be relevant regarding Paul Copeland’s death?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He said he’d been to see the girlfriend and wanted to talk to Simon.’

  ‘He didn’t say what about?’

  ‘I presumed it was to do with the tenancy and how they’d handle things.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going after that?’

  ‘Another appointment, I think. I told him I’d get Simon to ring him when he got back and that was it.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Simon hasn’t mentioned it if he did, and Dom went on to his next appointment which I believe is where he had the accident, so there wouldn’t have been much time between leaving here and that happening.’

  Harry rose from his chair, Murray’s comment about not letting the grass grow under his feet beginning to sound like an ominous foreboding.

  ‘Okay, thanks. Maybe you could ask your son to give me a call?’ He pulled out yet another card and handed it over.

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more use.’ Tony Jordan looked suddenly anxious and much older than his age, as he said, ‘Dom’s death was an accident? You’re not thinking it might be linked to Paul Copeland’s?’

  ‘We can’t say for sure. At the moment we’re pursuing the two lines of enquiry separately, but we can’t rule out that they might be connected. I’d rather you didn’t share that with the press, though.’

  ‘No, of course not. Jesus…’ The other man looked devastated. ‘I can’t believe it … Poor Sylvia. If there’s anything more I can help you with?’

  He looked up suddenly as the street door to their offices opened.

  ‘Oh, looks like you’re in luck. Here’s Simon now if you want to talk to him.’

  Harry’s ey
es followed his gaze to the man who had just walked in. Simon Jordan was early thirties, pristinely dressed in suit and tie, and had the air about him of a man in a hurry. But when Harry explained to him who they were and why they were there, his manner changed instantly to one of concern as he led them into his office and sat down at his desk.

  ‘God, it’s a dreadful business. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Well, I understand Dominic Cartwright wanted to talk to you about the death of your tenant, but you were out when he called?’

  ‘Yes. Dad said he was quite upset about it.’

  ‘Did you call him back? Speak to him?’

  ‘No – I tried, but it went to answerphone. We learnt later that the accident had already happened. We couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘Is there anything you can tell us about Dominic Cartwright or Paul Copeland that you feel may be relevant to our investigations?’

  ‘I wish there was. Dom was a lifelong friend of my parents’ – he was like a second father to me, and I’ve known Kirsty and Rob all my life … but I hardly knew Paul Copeland – apart from to say hello to when I was living upstairs. But there was never any trouble with him that I was aware of.’

  ‘Okay.’ Harry didn’t even bother getting his notebook out again. ‘Thanks for your time. No … don’t get up, we can see ourselves out.’

  ‘Do you think he was telling the truth?’ Beth asked as they walked back to the cars.

  Harry sighed. ‘Who knows? He sounded genuine enough, but at this stage we need to keep an open mind on everything.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Kirsty stood outside number 28 Myton Road that evening, and wondered what the hell she was doing there. The memories associated with this house, when Simon had lived upstairs, were ones she was desperate to put behind her, impossible though she knew that was. She shoved them resolutely to one side and concentrated on the task in hand.

  She hadn’t a clue what she was going to say to Paul Copeland’s girlfriend. She’d been fretting about it all day.

  She took a breath and rang the bell.

  The girl who came to the door was only a year or two older than herself, and she looked exhausted – and anxious – her eyes darting beyond Kirsty along the road, before coming back to settle on her face.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Susan Porter?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you. I know it’s a difficult time, but my name’s Kirsty Cartwright, Dominic Cartwright’s daughter? I wondered if I might have a quick word with you?’

  The girl’s look became more edgy. ‘What about? I’ve already seen your brother this afternoon. He gave me the money and I’m off.’

  ‘I’m sorry? Money?’

  The girl sighed impatiently. ‘The two grand.’

  ‘Two–?’ Kirsty stared at her stunned. ‘Look, can I come in – just for a moment?’

  ‘I’m in the middle of packing.’

  ‘I won’t keep you long, I promise. I just want to ask you a couple of questions about my father.’

  The girl’s expression relaxed, almost reluctantly. ‘He was nice, your dad. I’m sorry about what happened to him.’ She opened the door wider. ‘Okay, just for a minute.’

  The flat was almost identical in layout to the flat Simon had occupied upstairs, but mercifully the décor was very different, which made it easier for Kirsty.

  Closing the door behind them, Susan headed straight for the bedroom, her manner brisk. ‘I need to carry on with my packing. My brother’s coming soon to pick me up. What did you want to talk about?’

  Kirsty followed her through, marshalling her thoughts. ‘I’m trying to piece together what happened to Dad – you know it was a hit-and-run accident? The police don’t seem to have ruled out the possibility that it could be linked to your boyfriend’s death, and I can’t get my head around that.’

  The other girl peered at her sharply before turning away to open a drawer. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t help you with that. The police were here again on Saturday asking more questions, and I’ll tell you what I told them. Your dad came to offer his sympathy, we talked a bit about Paul and what I was going to do now, and then he left.’

  ‘You mentioned about my brother giving you some money. What was that for?’

  Susan hesitated. ‘It was kind of him. He came here on Saturday after the police had been, and asked what I wanted to do about the flat. There’s still eight months to run on the contract, see, and I couldn’t afford it on my own, but he said as how the landlord was thinking of doing the place up and selling it, and was prepared to give me two grand to go. I couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘And you say he came up today and paid you the money?’

  ‘Yeah. In cash. He told me not to tell anyone ’cos it’s not really the done thing – and I won’t. I thought as you’re family you probably already knew.’

  Kirsty stared at her. It made her wonder what else Rob might be getting up to on the quiet.

  She stopped her mind from thinking about that now and concentrated instead on the issue in hand. This would probably be the only chance she got to talk to Susan.

  ‘Was there any link between Paul and my dad, do you think – no matter how small – that might have made them a danger or threat to someone else?’

  The girl shook her head but her eyes dipped away from Kirsty’s. She wasn’t being straight – Kirsty sensed it straight away.

  ‘Susan, please–’

  ‘There’s nothing.’ She turned her back on Kirsty and pulled some articles of clothing out of the drawer.

  ‘There was something – I can tell. Why aren’t you telling me? It may be relevant to why Dad was killed – why Paul was killed.’

  The girl swung round, her expression one of defiance mixed with pure terror. ‘You don’t get it, do you? Maybe it was – and maybe that’s why I’m not saying! Jeez, I’m scared out my wits if you want the truth. I don’t wanna end up like them – that’s why my bruvver’s coming to get me.’

  ‘So you do think their deaths are connected?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She glared at Kirsty as if it was all her fault, then shrugged, returning to her task of ramming more clothes into the suitcase. ‘It’s possible, isn’t it? Seems too much of a coincidence to me.’

  ‘I just want to find out what happened to my dad, Susan. Like you probably feel about Paul.’

  She could sense the girl weighing it up in her mind. Finally, with another little shrug, she shook her head. ‘Paul was suspicious about something, that’s all I know. He thought he could make money out of it, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was – and I stopped asking. Knowing him, it were probably nothing anyway. I just want out of here. I’m sorry, but you must go now.’

  ‘Did you tell my father that? You must tell me.’ Kirsty could hear the desperation in her own voice. ‘Please …’

  ‘Yeah, I told him. But I ain’t got nothing else to say. I mean that.’ She slammed the lid of the suitcase shut and led the way out into the hall. ‘You best go now.’

  Kirsty followed her, searching for something … anything … that might yet change Susan’s mind, but she’d run out of ideas. At the last minute, she pulled a Cartwrights card out of her bag and scribbled on it, then thrust it at the girl. ‘That’s my mobile number. If you change your mind and want to help me find out what happened to Paul and my father, just call me. I’ll keep anything you tell me confidential, I promise. I’m not the police, but I’ve got friends in influential places who might be able to help us without drawing attention to anything. Please call.’

  It was all bollocks, but what did she have to lose? She heard the front door close behind her as she walked down the path, feeling more worried than she could ever have imagined, and trying to make some sense it all.

  What was going on? What the hell was going on?

  She needed to talk to Rob.

  But when she rang his mobile, and told him where she was, he cut her off.
/>   ‘Sorry, Kirsty, but I’m nearly home and we’ve got Lizzie’s parents staying over.’

  ‘Rob, we have to talk.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘The money you gave Susan Porter, for one thing. What was that about?’

  ‘It wasn’t about anything. Simon felt sorry for the girl and bad about Paul, that’s all. It was his way of helping her out. Look, I’m home now. We can talk about this tomorrow if you want. Give my love to Mum. Tell her Lizzie will drop round in the morning to see her.’

  ***

  Sometimes, Harry thought – feeling thoroughly hacked off – life seemed to conspire against you. And tonight was one of those nights. He’d spoken to nine people in The Crown pub, all of them regulars, and most of whom had been there last Monday night – yet none of them had been able to confirm the exact length of time Ken Lazard had been at the pub. Some said they’d seen him at the beginning of the evening, some said at the end, but not one had said a definite yes, they’d seen him there all evening and given exact timings. Was there some sort of conspiracy going on that he definitely wasn’t a party to?

  He was about to give up and leave when another man walked into the pub. ‘Evening, Derek,’ he said to the landlord. ‘A pint of bitter, when you’ve got a moment – that one you recommended last week, if you remember which one it was.’

  The man smiled at Harry. ‘Sorry. Hope I’m not pushing in?’

  Harry held up his empty glass before putting it down on the counter. ‘I’m leaving.’

  The man looked around him. ‘A bit quieter in here tonight, eh?’ he said to the landlord. ‘Not like that ruckus last week.’

  ‘Yeah.’ The barman threw a quick look at Harry and shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Happens sometimes when you run a pub.’

  ‘What was that?’ Harry asked, more out of politeness than anything.

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? I wouldn’t say that. You’re being modest, Derek. It could have turned nasty if you hadn’t stepped in and calmed things down.’

  Harry flicked a glance at Derek, picking up on the man’s uneasy body language, then looked back at the man next to him. ‘What night was that?’ he asked casually.