Shades of Evil

by Shirley Wells

‘You can shut your mouth, an’ all.’

  ‘OK,’ Max said, ‘you can leave quietly or I can arrest you. Your choice, Mr Smith. A night in your bed or a night in a cell? What’s it to be?’

  ‘Bugger off!’

  They watched him leave the pub and stand in the car park for a few moments, swaying on the balls of his feet, before heading towards the town centre.

  ‘I shall be eternally grateful when the day’s over,’ Max muttered as they walked up to the bar.

  ‘You reckon tomorrow will be better?’

  ‘Probably not, but you know me. Ever the optimist.’

  He’d been right about the pub’s customers being mainly members of the force. There were about twenty people in there and Jill recognized at least half of them. It made her wonder how many coppers were actually working right now.

  Max ordered his pint and looked questioningly at her.

  ‘A gin and tonic, please. A double. Not too much tonic.’

  They took a table in the corner where no one was likely to bother them and where Max could glance at his watch and glare at members of his team now and again.

  ‘They’re not going to dash home to their beds when the boss is out enjoying himself,’ she pointed out.

  ‘True, but scowling at them makes me feel better.’

  Max drank half of his pint in one slug, and Jill knew how he felt. It was one of those days when a drink definitely helped.

  ‘What do you think about Steve then?’ she asked him, already guessing his answer.

  ‘I think he’s a lying so-and-so. I also think that, given the time he’s had to dream up his story, he could have done one hell of a lot better. Next question.’

  She’d known that Max was still convinced of his guilt. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. Steve had lied and now it was difficult to believe anything he said.

  ‘He could be telling the truth,’ she said.

  ‘So why wasn’t anyone else seen in the area?’ He picked up a beer mat and tapped it against the table. ‘We have three people who saw Lauren Cole that morning. One chap saw her driving up the lane, another saw her parking her car and yet another saw her when she was heading towards the spinney. Added to that, we have two witnesses who can put Carlisle in the area. Five witnesses in total.’

  ‘So? We know that Lauren and Steve were both there.’

  ‘Yes, but given the short time span, one of those five witnesses would have seen someone else. If there’d been anyone else to see.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  Max gave her his ‘you’re talking crap’ look and took another swallow of beer.

  ‘According to your chum Steve,’ he said, ‘he and Lauren Cole used to meet up and have a pleasant little chat as they walked their dogs. According to Lauren’s boyfriend, Ricky Marshall, Carlisle gave her the creeps.’

  Jill was aware of that but, without being able to talk to the dead girl, they would never know why. She suspected it was all due to the age difference. Lauren was twenty, little more than a teenager. Steve, on the other hand, was heading towards fifty. To a twenty-year-old, fifty is positively ancient. Added to that, she was an attractive girl and would have been used to members of the opposite sex trying to chat her up. Perhaps she’d thought Steve fell into that category. Come to that, perhaps he had.

  ‘Why,’ Max asked, ‘would she walk with him if he gave her the creeps?’

  ‘Without being rude, perhaps it was difficult to get away from him.’

  ‘What? She had a masters in being rude.’

  ‘Perhaps with Steve she was different. Look, he’s going through a bad patch,’ she said. ‘He’d worked all his life until a year ago, so he’s possibly feeling rejected and worthless. Depressed even. As he said, talking to Lauren brightened his day. Perhaps he was a bit over-friendly. Perhaps he was difficult to get away from.’

  Max was right, though; Lauren wouldn’t have cared about being rude.

  ‘What about the dog?’ she asked. ‘Assuming Steve’s story is true—’

  ‘Which it isn’t.’

  ‘But assuming it is, what happened to the dog? Did someone take the dog to make Steve and Lauren split up?’

  ‘There was no one else there, Jill.’

  She refused to believe that. If she did, she would have to accept that Steve Carlisle, a man she liked and respected, or had respected, was a killer.

  ‘What about the mysterious Josh?’ she asked.

  ‘We can’t find him. We’ve spoken to every Josh or Joshua in the area. Nothing. And it’s not a particularly common name. I beginning to wonder if he ever existed.’

  ‘Maybe he’s done a runner to avoid a murder charge.’

  ‘We’d still have records of his existence.’

  ‘Ricky Marshall has no alibi,’ she pointed out. ‘We don’t think he’s a killer, but maybe we’re wrong. Maybe he was a lot more pissed off about being rejected than he led us to believe.’

  ‘Maybe.’ But she could see he was doubtful. She was, too.

  ‘It might be worth having another word with him.’

  ‘It might.’ He reached for her empty glass. ‘I’ll get us another.’

  Jill watched him at the bar and was aware of a small inner sigh. There was always something pushing their relationship on to the back burner. Always. Right now the priority was to catch Lauren Cole’s killer. Before that, there was the missing Yasmin Smith. And when Lauren’s killer had been caught, they would still be hunting Yasmin …

  ‘Why do you believe Carlisle’s innocent?’ Max put their drinks on the table and sat beside her.

  ‘You know you’re always telling me about your gut instincts? Well, this is one of mine.’

  Really, she had nothing to back up her claims. If he was found to be guilty though, she would feel let down. Worse, she would feel as if her judgement of character, something she’d always prided herself on, was worth nothing.

  ‘He’s a self-contained man,’ she tried to explain. ‘I don’t believe he has illusions about himself. In fact, I think he knows himself well and is happy with himself.’

  ‘How can he be happy with himself when he blames himself for his daughter’s death?’

  Jill was still surprised she’d lived in the village for five years and yet heard nothing about the Carlisles’ child.

  ‘I wonder why they didn’t have more children,’ she murmured. ‘They’re practising Catholics, after all.’

  ‘I think a lot of Catholics ignore the views on contraception. If he blames himself, if she blames him …’ He shook his head in despair. ‘Why the hell do people have to live such complicated lives?’

  ‘It’s called marriage,’ she said, remembering her own brief marriage and the problems that had brought with it.

  ‘Rubbish!’

  ‘Some people, you and me included, aren’t cut out for wedded bliss.’

  ‘Speak for yourself.’

  ‘It’s funny, but I always thought Steve and Alison had a good marriage. They always seem easy with each other. Perhaps I’ve been wrong, though. Who knows what goes on behind closed doors?’

  Before Max could comment on that, they were joined by a couple of officers and talk turned to football, a subject that soon had Jill yawning.

  She organized a ride home and said goodbye to them all. She needed to get home to her cats who, thanks to her mystery caller, were still locked in.

  It was as she walked through her front door that she thought of Adam Smith again. Why had he called her Max’s bit of skirt? How could he possibly know they were more than colleagues?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ruth Carlisle was pleased to see the first glow of morning light. It had been a long night, one that she’d spent sitting in the kitchen, drinking cups of tea, going back to bed, realizing the futility of that and returning to the kitchen and drinking yet more tea.

  On the one occasion she’d managed to drift off to sleep, she’d woken with a start, stiff and aching in the chair in the kitchen, from a dream. Per
haps it hadn’t been a dream, maybe her imagination had been playing tricks. Either way, she’d seen Steve being led from a cell with a black hood over his head.

  It was stupid. They didn’t hang people these days. Evidence had to be gathered, too. Unless they had proper evidence, they couldn’t prosecute. Steve would be fine.

  What she had to do was keep busy. She’d clean out the kitchen cupboards before Frank came down for his breakfast. Then, when that was out of the way, she would tackle that pile of ironing.

  She felt better with her morning planned. By lunchtime, perhaps Steve would be back home where he belonged.

  Oh, she hoped so. She couldn’t bear to think of him locked up at the police station.

  Funny, but whenever she thought about him, it was the child’s smiling face she saw, not the adult’s world-weary features.

  By eleven o’clock, her chores done and her mind refusing to be still, she decided to walk up to the house. If Steve had been released, he would have called her, but if Alison had received news, Ruth would be one of the last to know.

  It wasn’t snowing, but the ground was frozen hard again, and Ruth chose her steps with care. The last thing she needed was a fall. At her age, that would probably involve hospitalization for a broken hip or some other silly thing.

  Years back, she would have crunched her way, slipping and sliding, all the way along the street. It wasn’t much fun getting old but, as her dad used to say, the alternative wasn’t much better.

  When she’d left home, she’d been cold. Then, thanks to the exercise she supposed, she was warm. Now, though, as she walked up the driveway to Mason’s Cottage, she was shivering again. She was well and truly out of sorts today.

  Alison opened the door, an earring in one hand and her mobile phone in the other. ‘I’ll ring you back,’ she told her caller, snapping the phone shut. ‘Ruth, come in.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Ruth was surprised to see Alison looking so made up. She supposed that, as her daughter-in-law’s job was to sell cosmetics, it had become second nature to her. Tall and slim, Alison was always immaculately groomed. In fact, in all the years they’d known each other, Ruth couldn’t recall once seeing Alison without carefully applied make-up on her face.

  They went into the kitchen and Ruth, still feeling cold and a little shaky, perched on a tall, black and chrome bar stool.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything?’ she asked Alison.

  ‘I phoned, of course, but they’re keeping him there for the moment and I’m to call again this afternoon. What a mess.’ She frowned. ‘Are you all right? You look a bit sickly?’

  Of course she wasn’t all right. Her son was being treated like a criminal. It wasn’t that he’d been accused of stealing apples or parking on double yellow lines either. How should she look?

  ‘I’m fine. Just – worried.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  Ruth’s heart was pounding and she longed to tell Alison what she could do with her tea. She was thirsty though and falling out with her daughter-in-law would achieve nothing. Ruth had managed to be friendly towards Alison for more than twenty years and she wasn’t about to stop now. For Steve’s sake.

  ‘I would. Thank you.’

  Ruth’s other children had moved away from the village but, when Ruth saw them and their spouses and their children, she always felt like part of the family They were still close. Try as she might, she couldn’t relax with Alison.

  ‘Has Steve been all right with you lately, Ruth?’

  Alison was hunting for tea bags. They always went through this ritual. It was as if Alison needed to point out that she only drank coffee. Steve drank tea, though, so there had to be some in the house.

  ‘He hasn’t seemed happy,’ Ruth answered. ‘But then, he hasn’t been happy for years, has he?’

  ‘Thanks!’ Alison tried to make light of it. ‘Married to the woman of his dreams and you reckon he isn’t happy?’

  ‘You know he isn’t,’ Ruth said, unsmiling.

  ‘It’s hardly my fault.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was. It’s no one’s fault. It’s just a fact.’

  Alison poured boiling water on to a tea bag and went to the fridge for milk.

  ‘You don’t take sugar, do you, Ruth?’

  For God’s sake, how long had they known each other?

  ‘I never have, Alison.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Ruth forced herself to take a deep breath and remember that none of this could be easy for Alison either. Her daughter-in-law might appear cold, unfriendly and uncaring, but there must be more to her than that or Steve wouldn’t have married her.

  Twenty-two years ago, Ruth had so looked forward to meeting her. Steve had been totally in love with her and Ruth had imagined the two of them growing close, having mother-daughter type days out, laughing together and watching children grow.

  But she supposed there were two sides to everything. Just as Steve had been devastated by the loss of lovely little Maisie, so had Alison. Perhaps, if the circumstances had been reversed and it had been Alison looking after the child that night, Steve might have blamed her. Sometimes, it was far easier to apportion blame than it was to accept the cruel facts.

  ‘Last week,’ Ruth began, ‘you were in Leeds and Steve came to us for his tea, like he always does. I knew then that something was bothering him.’

  Alison poured herself a cup of thick black coffee from the machine that was permanently bubbling away in the kitchen. This morning even the smell was making Ruth feel nauseous.

  ‘I knew something was wrong, too,’ Alison said at last. ‘I phoned him every night from Leeds. I always do if I’m away, you know that. He sounded odd each time. Then, on the Friday night, we went down to the pub for a drink. I was amazed when he lied, and so easily, about not knowing the girl.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Exactly that,’ Alison retorted, exasperated. ‘He’d told me about the woman with the white dog he’d met when he was out walking Cally. Then, because he lied about not knowing the dead woman, I didn’t twig it was the same one. He knew her, Ruth. He used to meet up with her. Her dog and Cally used to run around together.’

  ‘But he couldn’t have known her.’ Ruth was with him when he looked at the newspaper and saw her photo on the front page. If he’d known her, he would have said something. ‘No, Alison, you’ve got it wrong. Someone said they saw him with her, that’s all. They must have been mistaken.’

  ‘Of course they weren’t,’ Alison snapped. ‘And do you know how the woman was killed?’

  Ruth couldn’t say she did. The newspaper and television reports had simply talked of her being ‘attacked’ and mentioned a ‘brutal’ killing.

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Well, given that the police were crawling all over this place yesterday, I think it’s safe to say she was killed with an axe. They were looking for Steve’s axe, Ruth, and it’s not here.’

  ‘What?’ Ruth felt the room sway and she had to put a hand to her chest to steady her racing heart. ‘What do you mean? Why would they think it was Steve’s axe?’

  Alison walked to the window, peered out across the snow-covered garden and then spun round.

  ‘Hasn’t it crossed your mind, Ruth, that there’s no smoke without fire? Haven’t you thought that maybe, just maybe, the police have some evidence to link Steve to the murder?’

  ‘What exactly are you saying, Alison?’

  ‘I’m asking if you’ve considered the possibility of your son being a killer!’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Max turned left at the lights, an action that had Jill looking at him in astonishment.

  ‘This won’t take a minute,’ he promised. ‘I need to call on Vincent Cole. He said he’d try and find Lauren’s old diaries for us.’

  Having spoken to two shopkeepers who knew Lauren, but nothing about her, he was driving them back to headquarters. He knew Jill had an appointment, but
as he’d told her, it wouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes to go via Vincent Cole’s house. As well as, hopefully, collecting Lauren’s diaries, Max wanted to see how Cole was coping.

  ‘Come in and see what you make of him,’ he said, as he stopped the car outside Worcester House.

  ‘I expect I’ll see nothing more than a grieving father,’ she replied, unfastening her seat belt.

  When he opened the door, Vincent Cole looked as if he hadn’t washed or shaved since his daughter had been murdered. The shirt and v-necked sweater were those he’d worn when he’d identified Lauren.

  Max introduced Jill and, although Cole shook her hand, Max gained the impression he neither knew why she was there nor cared.

  ‘You said you’d try and find Lauren’s diaries,’ Max reminded him.

  ‘Yes. I did say they were old, though.’

  He took them through the hall and into the sitting room where, on a low sideboard, there were half a dozen pocket diaries held together with an elastic band.

  ‘Here they are.’ He handed them to Max. ‘Every January,’ he explained for Jill’s benefit, ‘Lauren would get a brand new diary and spend hours writing in people’s birthdays, and their names and addresses, of course. She’d put in appointments and suchlike, too. By February,’ he said with a sad smile, ‘her enthusiasm had waned and they’d be thrown in the back of the drawer never to see light of day again.’

  While he spoke, Max flicked through them. Cole was right in that they were old, but they were crammed with friends’ addresses and phone numbers. Something useful might come to light.

  ‘This is a lovely photo,’ Jill said, pointing to a framed print that had pride of place on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Yes.’ Cole picked it up and rubbed imaginary dust from the frame. ‘Lauren and her mum. It was taken when her mother was well. The last one I had of her, in fact.’

  ‘Were Lauren and her mother close?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Very. Lauren never got over her mum’s death. I can’t say I ever did, either, but Lauren didn’t cope. She just couldn’t deal with it.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jill said quietly.

  The room wasn’t quite as neat as it had been, Max noticed. A thin layer of dust covered the surfaces. Three unopened newspapers were lying on the coffee table next to an empty cup. Presumably, Cole had told his cleaner not to bother for a while.