‘It looked like it. She told me this morning that she was too worn out for unbridled passion, but she certainly looked a bit flushed and tousled when we got back.’
‘And what would it take to make you look a bit flushed and tousled?’
‘Hugh Jackman. Brad Pitt if Hugh’s busy. Meanwhile,’ she said, giving him her sweetest smile, ‘I’ll settle for feeling human.’
She made them both coffee and handed him a cup. ‘So what about this fire at Atkins’ place? Anything new?’
‘They got a body out but, until we can check dental records, we can only assume it’s Atkins.’ He took a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from his shirt pocket. ‘It was definitely started deliberately, though.’
‘Really?’
‘I never doubted it.’ He sat at the table, coffee in front of him. ‘Rags were soaked in petrol and then pushed through the letterbox.’
‘And you reckon it’s connected?’ Jill’s feet were aching and it was bliss to sit down.
‘Oh, come on, Jill. We talk to him about some videos and the next minute he’s bacon? Of course it’s connected. Someone made sure he kept his mouth shut.’
‘Did anyone see anything?’ she asked.
‘A woman four doors away saw a gang of kids hanging around at about midnight. She thought they were aged between fifteen and seventeen. Said there ought to be more bobbies on the beat,’ he added with a rueful smile. ‘Two people saw what they thought was a man walking quickly down the road at about midnight. Other than that, nothing as yet.’
Max had taken a cigarette from the packet. Jill was waiting for him to ask if he could smoke in her cottage, but Max being Max, he simply lit it and looked around for an ashtray.
‘We may as well sit outside,’ she told him, getting to her feet.
As they crossed the lawn, coffee cups in their hands, Finlay Roberts was walking up his drive. Although they couldn’t see him, his cheerful whistle was clearly audible.
‘He was tucked up in bed when the fire started,’ Max muttered. ‘No witnesses, of course.’
‘I expect most people were tucked up in bed.’
‘Including Vince Blakely.’ Max sat on the old wooden bench, put his coffee on the table, and leaned back. ‘But he had a witness. The new woman in his life –’
‘God, that was quick.’
‘Apparently, she’s been a great comfort to him.’
‘Oh, for –’ Jill pulled a face at that.
‘Quite. Anyway, the stunning Yvonne can vouch for him.’
‘Is she? Stunning?’
Max nodded. ‘Dim, but stunning.’
‘How long have they been seeing each other?’
‘According to Blakely, and I never believe a word that bloke says, she used to work for him and they grew close then. Not close enough to be unfaithful to his wife, you understand, but close. About six months ago, they met up again and . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished and looked at her. ‘Do you think he’s an honest sort of chap?’
‘Not really,’ Jill admitted, ‘but I don’t think he’s a killer, either. I think he likes to make a good impression. He might have been shagging this Yvonne for years, but it wouldn’t suit his image. He lies, but only to keep his image intact.’
‘Hm.’ He flicked his cigarette butt onto her border. ‘So are you all packed and ready to go?’
She laughed at that, mainly to hide the fact that the thought of going on holiday with him – albeit with his two sons to amuse them and a separate room – always made her blush scarlet. Ridiculous!
‘There’s ages yet. And if this mess is still –’
‘It won’t be,’ he said grimly. ‘No one, but no one is keeping me from two weeks in Spain with you. Besides, I’m thinking of buying a beach bar.’
‘Ha. I’ve heard it all before. You’d be bored to death.’ Another thought struck her. ‘You say Yvonne used to work for Vince Blakely. Where does she work now? If she’s working at another architect’s practice –’
‘She isn’t. She’s working at a travel agent’s.’
Chapter Eighteen
Yvonne Hitchins sat in front of her mirror and brushed at her hair. ‘Why can’t we go out instead?’
It was a Saturday night and Vince expected her to cook.
‘Why can’t we –? Oh, for God’s sake!’ Vince picked up the jacket she’d thrown on the bed, her bed, and hung it over the back of the chair. ‘I can hardly go and paint the bloody town red, can I? Hm? My picture’s in the paper every bloody day. I’m supposed to be the grieving widower. Remember?’
‘There’s no need to snap!’
‘There’s no need to keep whinging, either! Christ, it’s hardly difficult to throw a salad or something together, is it?’
‘I suppose it’s not,’ she replied airily. ‘Right, while you do that, I’ll take a bath.’
With that, she flounced out of the bedroom and into the bathroom.
‘Let’s see how difficult it is when there’s not so much as a lettuce leaf in the fridge,’ she muttered to herself as she turned on the bath tap.
The thought made her smile. His house, she knew from the three times she’d visited, was immaculate. Everything was hidden away. Even the evening paper was put in the drawer before anyone read it. Her house was different. She wanted to live in her house, not have it featured in some lifestyle magazine.
Not that there was any chance of that. There wasn’t much call in the glossy magazines for new two-bedroomed semi-detached houses on estates.
She lay back in the bath and sank down so that the water lapped around her neck.
She couldn’t hear Vince over the sound of the water tank filling up. He was probably making a meal from the few items in the fridge and cupboards, and that would test his improvisation skills to the limit. Of course, he might have stormed off, but she doubted it. Vince wasn’t the storming-off type. When she left her bath and went downstairs, he’d carry on as if nothing had happened.
That wasn’t Yvonne’s way of carrying on. To her mind, a good row might clear the air. She didn’t particularly want to argue with him, but she would like to know what she meant to him. Before it happened – and she always thought of the shocking murder of his wife as ‘it’ – they’d snatched precious hours, sometimes whole days and nights together, and Vince had said that, as soon as Carol agreed to a divorce, they would move in together.
‘If you moved in with me now,’ Yvonne had pointed out, ‘she’d have to divorce you. If she didn’t, you could wait and do the two-year separation thing.’
‘No. Firstly, I don’t want to wait two years. Secondly, and more important, I don’t want to antagonize her.’
Of course, it was only a week since Carol had been killed and Yvonne had to admit that the shock was indescribable. For all that, she was convinced that Vince was cooling towards her.
She poked her toe in the tap and tried to put her mind to more cheerful matters. It was impossible. Carol’s death had spooked her. The slightest creak of a floorboard had her on edge, and she was constantly panicking that someone was following her. They weren’t, of course, but she couldn’t relax. Even lying in the bath, supposedly relaxing, she kept thinking that some crazed killer was about to burst through the bathroom door.
If Vince was right and some madman was out there, everyone had to be on their guard.
The bath was doing nothing to relax her so she climbed out, wrapped a towel around herself and wandered intoher bedroom. She opened her wardrobe door and ran a hand over a row of dresses.
Smiling to herself, she chose the black one. Backless, low at the front and boasting a long slit at the side, it was one of Vince’s favourites. She completed the look with very high heels and walked down the stairs.
He looked at her briefly, then turned his attention back to the cooker.
‘It’ll have to be frozen pizza,’ was all he said.
So much for seducing him, Yvonne thought, stifling a sigh.
She supposed a bottle of w
hite wine was cooling in the fridge, but he could stuff that, she preferred red. She opened a bottle and poured a glass for herself.
God, he was irritating her. She was thirty years old, for heaven’s sake. What thirty-year-old would want to sit in on a Saturday night with a boring pizza and a man who was paying her no attention whatsoever?
‘So where am I supposed to be tonight?’ she asked sarcastically.
‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I just wondered what I’m supposed to say if the police come knocking on my door again,’ she replied airily.
She’d lied for him, and he owed her. At the very least he owed her a bit of attention.
‘Say what you like,’ Vince snapped back. ‘For Christ’s sake, Yvonne, I wish I hadn’t bloody bothered. My wife has been murdered. Remember? The police are asking questions every five minutes. They wanted to know where I was last night and, as I was at home all night, I thought it might save time if I told them you could back that up. But bloody hell, I wish I hadn’t bothered. I was only doing them a favour, saving them time. There’s no need for all this grief. Tell them what the hell you like.’
‘What I can’t understand is why they wanted to know where you were.’
‘I’ve no idea. Now, this pizza is ready.’
She perched on a stool at the counter and, with fork poised, said, ‘It was because of the fire at that architect’s house.’
Vince had phoned her and told her he’d claimed she was with him, but it had still given her the shock of her life to open the door this afternoon and find two policemen on her doorstep.
‘It was,’ Vince agreed. ‘They wanted to know if I knew the chap. I didn’t.’
‘Do they think you started the fire?’
‘Why in hell’s name would they think that?’ he demanded.
She shrugged, but she couldn’t shake off a growing sense of unease. She didn’t know why they might think that, but they must have had a reason. What if they found out that she’d lied? What would happen to her then?
But Vince didn’t start that fire. Why should he? It was a ridiculous idea. She took a sip of wine and tried to put the notion from her head. There were far more important things to worry about, like persuading Vince to take her out or making him notice her.
Yet the worry remained.
‘What will happen to me when they find out I lied for you?’ she asked.
‘For God’s sake!’ His hand hit the side of her face with such suddenness and force, she thought he’d broken her jaw.
‘Bastard!’ she screamed. ‘Get out! Go on, get out now!’
‘Yvonne, hey, I’m sorry. Come on, sweetheart –’
‘Get out, you bastard!’
Still clutching the side of her face, she ran up the stairs and locked herself in her bathroom. She stayed there, in shock, until long after she heard him leave.
Chapter Nineteen
It was Jill’s first day back at work with the force after two years, and she was still wondering if she’d made the right decision.
She’d been given an office that was small but did, at least, boast a good-sized window. Her large desk was new, as was the computer sitting on it, but, so far, she’d spent very little time in there.
Now, she was in Max’s office with the day almost over and with no idea how it had passed so quickly and fruitlessly.
‘Meredith’s right,’ Max was saying. ‘It’s two weeks since Carol Blakely was murdered and we’ve nothing to go on.
We didn’t find the weapon used by – or allegedly used by – Eddie Marshall, and we haven’t found the weapon used on Carol.’
They’d just come from Phil Meredith’s office and, as ever, he was growing impatient at the lack of progress.
‘We’re getting too wrapped up in Eddie Marshall’s cases,’ she said. ‘It isn’t important how the killer came by those tapes. He wanted us to think The Undertaker was involved. Let’s forget that for the moment and imagine Eddie Marshall had never existed. Let’s pretend that Carol Blakely’s murder is like nothing we’ve ever seen before.’
‘OK.’ Max tapped his pen against his chin. ‘Vince Blakely would be chief suspect. Motive? He wanted rid of her, a divorce at any rate, and he wanted money. His prayers would have been answered if she hadn’t changed her will.’
‘Opportunity?’
‘Now that’s where it all falls apart. He was definitely on the east coast of Scotland. We’ve tried everything and there’s no way he could have got down here and back.’
‘Someone else must have a motive,’ she reasoned.
‘Ruth Asimacopoulos,’ Max said, ‘except she didn’t know that Carol’s death would make her a rich woman.’
‘And she was in Spain at the time. Who else?’
‘No one that I can think of. A couple of small florists in town would be happy to see her business closed down, but I doubt they’d go as far as murder.’
Jill was doodling on a notepad and, when the page was filled with dozens of flowers and Christmas trees, she flipped over the page.
‘Right, Ralph Atkins. What do we know about him?’
‘Heavy drinker. Gambler. Wife died of cancer eight months ago. Jaded. Disillusioned. No money, but no huge debts, either. No children. No family at all, in fact.’
‘And it was definitely his body they brought out?’
‘Yes.’
‘So who could have wanted him dead?’
‘The person who didn’t want him telling anyone what he did with those sodding tapes.’
They were going round in circles.
Before they could continue, Grace burst in.
‘Guv – hi, Jill – what do you think of this? Three years ago, a guy smashed a window in Carol Blakely’s shop. He also sprayed abuse on the walls outside. Carol didn’t press charges, but apparently, this guy, name of Terry Yates, claimed she’d ruined his life.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah, and that’s not all –’
Jill had to smile at the excitement on Grace’s face.
‘He sent her champagne and chocolates on her last birthday.’
‘In February?’ Jill queried.
‘Yes! I’ll go and have a word with him, shall I, guv?’
‘Where is he?’ Max asked and, like a conjuror pulling awhite dove from his pocket, Grace handed him a piece of paper.
‘No. You’re OK. It’s on my way so I may as well see him.’ He gave her a beaming smile. ‘OK, Grace. Thanks. Good work.’
Grace had been married for a year and, despite the hard exterior and that no-nonsense Geordie accent, was devoted to her husband and was happy to wait on him hand and foot. She was equally devoted to Max though and, as she left the room, she looked like an eager young puppy who’d been highly praised by its adored master.
Max glanced at his watch and then at Jill. ‘Are you off home or do you fancy paying Yates a visit?’
She had stacks to do at home, but she was curious. ‘I’ll come with you.’
Terry Yates lived in a modern terraced house in a quiet cul-de-sac. They tried the door, but there was no one at home and they were about to leave when a blue Ford Mondeo pulled on to the driveway.
The owner, male, got out and looked at them both.
‘Mr Yates?’ Max asked, and he nodded.
Max showed his ID. ‘We’d like a word with you about Carol Blakely, if you wouldn’t mind.’
He looked as if he minded a great deal, but he simply said, ‘You’d better come inside then.’
He unlocked the front door and a small brown dog bounded up to greet him. The animal took no notice whatsoever of his visitors, and Jill was glad about that. It looked like an ankle biter.
By her reckoning, Yates was a good five or six years younger than Carol Blakely. He was tall, lanky even, with short dark hair, and he wore rimless glasses. The suit he was wearing was creased, as if he’d spent a long day sitting in it.
‘Come in,’ he said, showing them into a small, but neat lou
nge that looked out on to the road. ‘Sit down.’
They sat and, after he’d let the dog into the back garden, he did, too.
‘We believe you knew Mrs Blakely?’ Max began.
‘Yes.’
‘How well?’
‘Very well.’ He played with an invisible thread on the armchair for a few moments. ‘We had an affair,’ he said at last.
‘When was this?’ Jill asked.
‘Four years ago.’
‘How long did it last?’ she asked curiously.
‘About a year. Just less than a year.’
‘How serious was it?’ Jill guessed that, from his point of view, it had been very serious.
‘Very,’ he said, speaking quietly. ‘We were both married, but we were prepared to leave all that behind and move in together. I left Beverley, that’s my wife, and Carol was planning to leave her husband.’
‘But she changed her mind?’ Jill guessed.
‘Yes,’ he agreed, after giving the suggestion a few moments’ thought. ‘I suppose you know about her sisters?’
‘Yes,’ Max said.
‘Naturally, as they were so close, their deaths hit her very hard. She thought it was God’s way of punishing her for getting involved with me. The stupid thing was –’ He shook his head as if, even now, he couldn’t believe it. ‘She’d never had a religious thought until that happened. She didn’t even believe in God. But anyway, that’s what she thought and she ended things between us.’
‘How did you feel about that?’ Jill asked.
‘Very angry. Oh, not with Carol, more with circumstances. It was rubbish, you see. God wasn’t punishing her. I wanted her to see sense, but she wouldn’t. They were killed on a Saturday and by the following Wednesday, everything was over between us. She wasn’t thinking straight, that’s what I kept telling her.’
‘And because she wouldn’t listen, you smashed a window at her shop?’ Max asked, and Yates coloured.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I was drunk. Because I was angry with her for being so stupid. Because I’d lost my wife and kids, lost my home – I’d lost everything. I’d given it all up for a life with Carol. I gave it all up for nothing, as it turned out.’
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