‘Do you want me to come along, guv?’ Grace asked.
‘No, I can handle Yvonne, thanks.’
‘Must be your lucky day.’ She grinned at him. ‘What will you do if she cries rape?’
He shook his head, unsmiling. ‘She’s too scared to cry rape . . .’
Max was at the lay-by at ten minutes to two and there was no sign of her. He got out of his car and leaned againstthe bonnet to enjoy the view. The sun was shining and the air was pleasantly warm rather than oppressively hot.
At two fifteen, a car pulled up alongside his. Yvonne Hitchins killed the engine, put on a pair of sunglasses, and got out.
She was wearing amazingly tight jeans, and a lightweight cotton top with a hood that she pulled over her head. Oh, yes, she was scared.
She stood next to him, hands in her jeans pockets. Max wouldn’t have thought there was room for her hands.
‘You OK?’ he asked her, and she nodded, although she looked far from OK.
‘What happens,’ she asked, coming straight to the point, ‘to people who lie to police?’
‘It all depends,’ he said. ‘Why? Have you lied?’
She was a long time answering, and she wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was locked on some distant spot. ‘You know you asked where Vince was on the night of that fire? When the architect was killed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Vince told me to say I was with him all night.’
‘Ah.’
‘I wasn’t,’ she said shakily, still not looking at him. ‘But I didn’t think it would matter. He said you suspected him of killing his wife . . . but he was in Scotland then, wasn’t he?’
‘He was.’
Max had been over it a dozen times and there was no way Blakely could have driven or flown down from Scotland to kill his wife and then raced back there. No way. Max had even been shown photographs that Blakely’s friend and fellow golfer had taken, and Blakely had been smiling for the camera.
He could have paid someone else to get rid of his wife, but they could find no evidence of that.
‘So he couldn’t have done it, could he?’ she persisted.
‘It seems not,’ Max agreed. ‘So the night of the fire, where do you think he was?’
‘He says he was at home alone.’
‘Don’t you believe him?’
‘I don’t know what to believe any more.’ She hunted in her bag for a cigarette and lit it with hands that were shaking. ‘I suppose he’s a suspect in the other girl’s murder?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ She took a deep drag on her cigarette. ‘People he knew – OK, he says he didn’t know the architect who died in the fire, but that sounds doubtful. People he knew are getting killed.’
‘He knew Nikki Craven?’ Max’s heart skipped a couple of beats before racing off at a dangerous pace. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Knew of her,’ she said, not quite so confident now.
‘How did he know her?’ And why the hell had his name never cropped up in the investigation?
‘She was drunk in Harrington one night and smashed his car’s lights in.’ Yvonne was frowning at him, mistrustful, as if he was trying to catch her out. ‘That was about a month ago. I was with him at the time. We’d been to the club. Reno’s, you know?’
‘Yes. Tell me exactly what happened, Yvonne.’
‘We were only going out for a bite to eat that night,’ she explained, ‘so Vince drove. Then we decided to go to Reno’s. As he was driving we didn’t intend to stay long, but then he said we’d get a taxi and he’d come back for it in the morning. Anyway, we came out of the club and there were half a dozen young louts hanging around the car park. Vince saw that the headlight on his car had been smashed and he shouted at these louts, wanting to know who’d done it. There were all young blokes, except one, and it was this girl who came forward. “I did,” she told him, and she was laughing. She gave him her name and address as it was a joke. I suppose she knew that Vince couldn’t do anything about it. Especially with her friends hanging around. There was a lot of abuse thrown, but Vince knew he couldn’t prove anything. He drove us home,’ she admitted. ‘He’d had too much to drink, but hewas furious and he wasn’t going to leave his car there. There was no knowing what they might have done to it.’
‘Did he report it?’ Max asked.
‘No. There was no point. As he said, that Nikki Craven would have denied saying anything. A couple of days later,’ she went on, reaching for another cigarette, ‘the window at his office was smashed. He swore it was her, this Nikki Craven. I told him it could have been anyone, but he was convinced it was her. He was livid.’
‘Did he report that?’
‘No, but he was really angry.’
‘Where was he, Yvonne, when Nikki was murdered?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, taking a long drag on her cigarette.
‘I see. So if he claims he was with you, it’s a lie. Right?’
‘He won’t do that.’ She ground out her cigarette. ‘I haven’t seen him lately. It’s all over between us.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah. He was round at my place one night and we were having a bad evening. It was the day of the fire at the architect’s house. You lot had been to ask if I was with him that night and, because he’d told me to, I said yes. So I asked him what would happen to me if you found out I’d lied, and he lost his temper. He hit me. I thought he’d broken my jaw. He hadn’t,’ she said quickly, ‘but I told him to get out. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.’
‘Had he hit you before?’
‘No. He’s always had a bit of a short fuse, but no, he’d never gone that far. He apologized immediately,’ she said, ‘but I wanted out. I’m glad now I chucked him out. People round him keep friggin’ dying.’
That’s why she was so scared. She thought she might be next on the list.
‘Thanks for that, Yvonne. I appreciate it.’
‘What will happen to me now?’
‘Nothing.’ But she was terrified. ‘I’m sure you’re quite safe,’ he went on, ‘but we can send someone round to your house to check on your security and give you some advice. OK? And if he tries to contact you, let me know.’ He handed her a card with his number on it. ‘This will reach me day or night. OK?’
She stared at the number, and looked slightly reassured. ‘OK. Thanks.’
‘Day or night,’ he repeated.
‘Thanks.’ She ground out her cigarette. ‘I’d better be going.’
‘Keep in touch, Yvonne.’
She nodded, and then unlocked her car and slid inside. A few seconds later, she was driving off.
Max lit a cigarette and stared at the view, his thoughts racing. What had he learned? That Vince Blakely had a temper and wasn’t above hitting a woman. That he had no alibi for the night Ralph Atkins – a fellow architect – was burned alive in his house. That he knew, or had at least come into contact with, Nikki.
That was their first real link. So far, he was the only person they’d come across who knew, or knew of, all three victims.
Max flicked his cigarette butt away and returned to his car.
Suppose Vince Blakely had wanted his wife killed. He’d hire someone, then take off to Scotland and make sure he was photographed at the hotel to give himself the best of alibis.
Who would he hire?
Nikki had come into contact with some highly unsavoury characters. If she’d discovered the truth, Blakely would have wanted her dead, too.
Max fired the engine and headed back towards Harrington.
He’d been back at headquarters long enough for a bollocking from his superior when Fletch sought him out.
‘Here’s a coincidence, guv. Ralph Atkins – his wife –’
‘Late wife,’ Max corrected him.
‘Yes. Well, you’ll never guess what her parents did for a living.’
‘Then save me the trouble, Fletch. I’m not in the
mood for guessing games.’
‘Her dad,’ Fletch said triumphantly, ‘was a trapeze artist. Not only that, he was a trapeze artist with The Experience. The same circus as Finlay Roberts grew up with. She must have known Roberts. Must have. Which means Ralph Atkins must have known him, too.’
‘Eureka! That’s it, Fletch. Roberts and Blakely were in on it together. Right, I want Blakely in for questioning. If we put enough pressure on him, he’ll crack. That smug bastard Roberts won’t, but Blakely will. Meanwhile, find Roberts. Sod it, he could be anywhere by now, but find him!’
Chapter Thirty-Five
The following evening, after a particularly fruitless and frustrating day, Jill was locking up her cottage and setting off for a good long walk in the hope that it might relax her. It was cooler than of late, and perfect for a stroll.
She was halfway along her lane, about a hundred yards from her cottage, when Max drove along. He slowed to a stop and the window went down.
‘Where are you going?’
‘For a walk, but it doesn’t matter.’ She held up the bag she was carrying. ‘I was going down to New Line to chuck stale bread at the ducks.’
‘Good idea. We’ll come with you.’
It was then that she noticed Holly was lying on the back seat.
‘Unless you want to be on your own?’ he added.
‘Not particularly, but I warn you now, I’m not the best company in the world. You would not believe the day I’ve had.’
He smiled at that. ‘If it’s been any worse than mine, I’ll buy you dinner at the pub.’
He drove on to her cottage, left his car on the drive and walked back to join her. He’d taken off his tie, and the jacket to his suit was nowhere to be seen, but he wasn’t dressed for walking.
Holly was trotting by his side as she always did. The dog idolized him.
‘Right,’ he said, reaching into his trouser pocket for cigarettes and lighter, ‘tell me about your day.’
‘You know I was in court today?’
‘Yes.’ She could see the smile tugging at his lips.
‘And I bet you know the rest of it,’ she muttered. ‘It took me ages to prepare for that. Ages. Today, I’ve been kicking my heels at the court. All bloody day. Then, at the very last minute, the little sod changed his plea.’
‘So I heard.’
‘That shouldn’t be allowed. All that taxpayers’ money wasted. The little shit should be banged up for that alone.’
‘He should,’ Max agreed.
‘As if I don’t have anything better to do with my time,’ she grumbled.
‘Indeed,’ he agreed. ‘You could have spent the day at the bookies.’
‘Fortunately, I did manage to nip out and place a bet at lunchtime.’
‘Ah. So you can afford to buy me dinner?’
‘Nope, sorry.’ She smiled at that. ‘They’re still running.’
They left the road and walked down to the disused railway line. Holly ran a few yards ahead occasionally, but she didn’t stray far from Max’s side.
‘What was so bad about your day?’ she asked.
‘Everything. I wish I hadn’t bothered getting out of bed this morning. The highlight was a one-hour-twenty-minute bollocking from Meredith. One hour and twenty minutes!’
‘Blimey, that must be a record.’ She grinned at that. ‘What happened to your usual escape plan?’
‘He was having none of it. I was just about to fall to the ground clutching my chest when he had to take an important call. You’ll be delighted to hear that, thanks to all the speed cameras, the number of road accidents in the area is down. The TV company wanted to know if he’d like to comment on that.’
‘It’s nothing to do with the cameras. The roads are so congested you’re lucky to get out of second gear.’
‘You won’t convince Meredith of that.’
‘So what was this particular bollocking about?’ she asked.
‘The usual. My lack of delegation skills. My complete ignorance of the correct procedure. If I did things by the book, apparently, I’d have our killer – or killers – banged up by now. What else was there? Oh yes, overtime payments are sky high. The press are making us look like morons. There was plenty more, but I think those were the salient points.’
They reached the small reservoir and, as was usual, the assortment of ducks and geese came to inspect them. As far as the geese were concerned, visitors had to be carrying bread. Holly ignored them until Jill threw the first chunk of break into the water. Then she leapt into the water, retrieved it, shook herself dry and ate it.
Spluttering with laughter, Jill threw another piece, only to have it brought back and eaten by Holly.
‘What’s the point of that? I may as well give her the bagful. Don’t you feed her?’
‘She’s like me. She’s had nothing since breakfast.’ Max grabbed her collar. ‘Lie down, you stupid animal.’
One word from her master and Holly forgave the insult. Grudgingly, she watched as each piece of bread landed in the water and was gobbled up by greedy ducks.
There were a couple of fishermen on the other side of the reservoir but, otherwise, it was deserted. It was a blissfully peaceful spot. Jill leaned on the wooden rails and gazed into the water. Occasionally, she spotted fish swimming around.
‘So what’s new?’ she asked Max. ‘You must have something by now.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like Meredith,’ Max said with a grimace. ‘And no, nothing’s new. I’ve got nothing at all. Nothing that would stand up in court at any rate.’
‘There’s something we’re missing,’ Jill said.
‘Vince Blakely is sticking to his story and protesting his innocence. He admits to making threats to Nikki when she and her mates damaged his car, and he was as mad as hell when his office window was smashed, but he claimed heknew he couldn’t make anything of it because they would deny all knowledge.’
‘That sounds feasible.’
‘And he still maintains he never knew Ralph Atkins. He has, however, admitted to asking Yvonne to lie for him the night the fire was started. He insists he was merely trying to save our time and his.’
‘I can’t see Blakely as guilty of murder,’ she murmured.
‘I can. We’re talking about an estate amounting to millions of pounds, Jill. That’s one hell of a lot of money.’
He had a point. That would be a huge incentive.
‘Have you found Finlay yet?’ she asked.
‘Yes and no. We’ve found the house where he’s supposed to be staying.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Preston.’
‘Preston? You’re kidding me. So he’s gone – what? – thirty miles away?’
‘Supposedly. The trouble is, he’s not there. We’re having the place watched, but there’s no sign of him. He’s vanished into thin air.’
What the devil was he doing in Preston? He’d said he was going where the whim took him. Why move thirty miles away?
‘What about his father?’ she asked. ‘Did you talk to him about Katherine Atkins?’
‘Yeah. He claims to remember her well. He’s sure Finlay would remember her, too. But whether they were in touch . . .’ Max shrugged. ‘Who knows? At the time those videos were – what shall we say? – found – she was terminally ill, though.’
Without conscious decision, they strolled around the perimeter of the reservoir.
‘Anything on the person who leaked the story to the press?’ Jill asked.
‘DC Johnny Simpson’s on the case,’ Max told her. ‘This week, the paper’s received two phone calls, both taped, and both from a man claiming to be Edward Marshall.’
‘Two?’
‘It’s bollocks,’ Max dismissed that. ‘One was made from a phone box in Nottingham. The other from a phone box in Stoke.’
‘How do you know it’s bollocks?’ Jill demanded. ‘What if we’re on the wrong track completely? What if, after all this, Marshall is still alive?’
/>
‘He isn’t.’
‘How do you know?’ Jill demanded, exasperated and starting to panic.
‘Come on, Jill, you said yourself that he didn’t kill Carol.’
‘Yes, but what if –’
‘You’re not wrong,’ he said firmly. ‘Marshall’s dead, Jill. I don’t know who is making those phone calls, but it’s not Marshall.’
‘It’s our killer though, isn’t it?’
‘I imagine so, yes. There’s CCTV near the phone in Stoke. It’s not as near as we’d like, but Johnny’s going to have a look at that and see if he recognizes anyone. We know the time of the call. Ergo, we’ll know – assuming we get a good enough picture – who made it.’
Jill was suddenly besieged by doubt. She’d made a mistake before, and that mistake had been responsible, in part, for Rodney Hill committing suicide. If she’d made another mistake –
‘Marshall’s dead,’ Max said quietly as if he could read her thoughts.
But what if he wasn’t? What if they were making no progress in this case because they weren’t focusing on Marshall?
‘If it were Marshall,’ Max said, ‘he’d speak loudly and clearly. What we’ve got is a tape recording.’
He was right. If it were Marshall, he wouldn’t bother with a recording. Would he?
‘Come on,’ Max said, taking her hand, ‘let’s walk back to the pub and get something to eat. I’m starving.’
‘Yes, me too.’
‘You’re always starving . . .’
Jill had thought a walk would relax her, but now she was more tense than ever. She couldn’t rid herself of the idea that Marshall might still be alive. If he was, then she’d made the biggest mistake of her life. She had possibly made a mistake that had cost Nikki her life. She’d told Max he couldn’t blame himself for Nikki’s death. She’d said it wasn’t his fault and it wasn’t hers. But what if it was? What if the blame could be placed firmly at her feet? She’d been so certain they were looking for a copycat . . .
‘Are you OK with eating outside?’ Max asked. ‘It’ll save having to leave Holly tied up outside.’
‘Yes, fine.’
Several other people had had the same idea, and most of the tables on the lawns were taken. Jill wasn’t surprised. It was good to make the most of the late evening warmth.
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