by Damien Boyd
‘That’s OK.’
‘What about that lot out there?’ asked Janice, gesturing to the front of the bungalow.
‘They’ll have to wait,’ said Mrs Perry. ‘They remind me of . . .’
‘That’s enough, Mum.’
‘We’ve even had his constituency chairman on the phone already, would you believe it?’ said Tom Perry’s father, walking into the room and standing behind his son’s chair.
‘What did you tell him, Tom?’
‘I didn’t speak to her. My father did.’
‘I told her he’d got more important things to worry about at the moment and they’d have to wait.’
‘Will they?’
‘I don’t know, I can’t think . . .’ Tom Perry’s voice tailed off as he buried his face in his hands. His father leaned forward and put his hand on his son’s shoulder.
Suddenly, Perry looked up.
‘I want to know why he killed her.’
‘We’ll find out, Tom,’ replied Jane.
‘Why her, why now?’
‘It may have been a burglary gone wrong,’ said Janice.
‘I need to know whether it was something I did. Whether there was anything I could have done to stop it.’
‘We’ll keep you informed, Tom.’
‘Then, one day, Stanniland and I are going to meet.’
The drive to Poole took nearly an hour and a half and much of the journey was spent in silence. Jane guessed that Janice was not in the mood for conversation and so kept her thoughts to herself, although Janice was clearly thinking about the case, judging by the questions she blurted out from time to time.
‘Was she insured?’
‘What?’ asked Jane.
‘Life insurance. Was there any?’
Next came a real belter.
‘They’re doing a DNA test on the child, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, they are.’
That was followed by ‘Have we had the bank statements yet?’
‘No.’
‘Were they in debt, d’you think?’
‘We’ll soon find out,’ replied Jane.
‘What about his reaction? Genuine, do you think? Or put on?’
‘I thought he was genuine.’
Janice had sighed at regular intervals, shaken her head and even grimaced. Eventually, Jane lost patience.
‘You don’t seriously think Tom Perry was behind it, do you?’
‘It’s possible,’ replied Janice. ‘He could have paid Stanniland.’
‘Right in the middle of a by-election? Do me a favour, Jan.’
‘Depends what she was gonna reveal about him, perhaps? Have you thought of that?’
Jane hesitated. Stanniland being paid to kill Elizabeth Perry would explain a great deal.
‘All right. I’m with you up to a point,’ said Jane. ‘Someone coming out of Bristol looking for a remote house to burgle is unlikely to drive all the way to Bridgwater, is he? It also explains why nothing was taken. Where you’ve lost me is Tom Perry.’
Janice took her phone out of her handbag and began tapping out a text message. Jane leaned across and tried to read it.
‘I’m telling Mark to chase up the bank statements. Stanniland’s and Perry’s.’
‘Waste of time,’ said Jane. ‘Stanniland’ll have been paid cash.’
Janice began tapping out a second message, reading it aloud as she did so.
‘Ask Watson if he found any cash in Stanniland’s flat.’
‘It’ll be stashed somewhere else,’ said Jane. ‘Well hidden.’
‘I suppose so. It’s hardly going to be under his mattress, is it?’
The Antelope was just behind the quay in Poole and proved easy to find, once Jane had got the hang of the one way system. She parked on the pavement outside an empty shop and directly opposite the hotel, placing one of her Avon and Somerset Police business cards on the dashboard in the hope that an officer from the Dorset Constabulary might not give her a ticket.
‘You’d have thought they’d have gone home, wouldn’t you?’ asked Janice, looking up at the antelope on a plinth above the front door.
‘Maybe they wanted to be with their son?’
‘Maybe.’
Jane followed Janice into the hotel and waited behind her while the receptionist rang Mr and Mrs King in their room.
‘They’re expecting you. Room seven. Through that door, up the stairs, then follow the corridor around to the right.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Another one that’s not going to be easy,’ said Jane.
‘They never are.’
Janice knocked on the door and waited.
‘Yes.’
The man was young, perhaps late twenties or early thirties, with short dark hair that was shaved at the sides of his head. He was very tanned and wore a polo shirt, open at the neck, and a pair of chinos.
‘Er, we’re here to see Mr and Mrs King,’ said Janice.
‘Let them in, Simon.’ It was a woman’s voice, coming from behind the door.
Jane followed Janice into the middle of the large room and listened while Janice made the introductions. Mrs King was sitting on a purple sofa behind the door and her husband, Charles, was pacing up and down in the bay window.
‘This is our son, Simon. He’s based at RM Poole and on standby so he can’t get away,’ said Mrs King.
‘What do you do there?’ asked Janice, turning to Simon King.
‘I’m not allowed to talk about it.’
‘Do sit down.’
There were two small chairs either side of a chest of drawers, which Simon carried into the middle of the room.
‘Thank you,’ said Jane.
‘We’re really sorry to . . .’
Mrs King raised her hand, stopping Janice in mid-sentence.
‘We know. We just want to know what you’re doing about it,’ said Mrs King. She was fighting to keep her composure and winning. Just.
‘A forty-one year old man from Bristol has been arrested and charged with the murder of your daughter, Mrs King. At the moment we’re looking for any connection between them to give us a . . .’
‘Motive,’ interrupted Charles King.
‘He’s a barrister,’ said Mrs King.
‘Well, yes, then,’ said Janice. ‘We’re looking for a motive.’
‘So, what have you got? DNA at the scene?’
‘The arrest is the result of forensic . . .’
‘So, he’s miles from home. But what’s he doing there? That’s the question, isn’t it?’
‘Mr King, we have boxes we have to tick, questions we have to ask,’ said Jane.
‘Well, you’d best get on with it, hadn’t you?’ snapped Mrs King.
‘How would you describe your daughter’s relationship with her husband?’ asked Janice.
‘You don’t seriously think he’s behind it, do you?’ asked Mr King.
‘It’s a question . . .’
‘You have to ask. I get it.’
‘No, definitely not,’ said Mrs King. ‘They were devoted to each other.’
‘Had she ever said anything that might have given you cause for concern?’
‘No.’
‘Or that Tom might have been unfaithful, perhaps?’
‘No. Look, they were planning to start a family, for God’s sake.’
‘Mrs King, your daughter was . . .’
‘Did they have any money worries?’ interrupted Jane. ‘Were they in debt?’
‘Not that we knew of,’ replied Mr King.
‘And if they did we’d have helped them out,’ said Mrs King.
‘What about her previous boyfriends?’
‘She only had one. That lad at Exeter.’ Mrs King shook her head. ‘What was his name, Simon?’
‘James somebody. Bryce, I think. Something like that. It was years ago.’
Jane was making notes.
‘What did Elizabeth study at Exeter?’
‘Economics. Then she traine
d as an accountant.’
‘And James Bryce?’
‘Chemistry, from memory,’ replied Simon.
‘Have you ever heard her mention the name John Stanniland?’
‘Is that him?’ asked Simon. ‘Her killer.’
Jane nodded.
‘Where is he now?’
‘He’s in custody.’
‘Have you charged him?’ asked Mr King.
‘Not yet,’ replied Janice.
‘I’ve never heard that name,’ said Mrs King. ‘Have you, Charles?’
‘No.’
‘Where did Tom and Elizabeth meet?’
‘At the wedding of a mutual friend. We knew it was serious before she did. Well, I did anyway,’ replied Mrs King. ‘He’s a good lad is Tom. Or at least he was until he got involved in politics. Whatever possessed him . . . Lizzie was never cut out to be an MP’s wife. She was supposed to have her own career. Her own life . . . but she threw it all away to support Tom . . .’ Her voice tailed off.
Charles King sat down next to his wife on the sofa and put his arm around her.
‘Anyway, I refuse to believe he could’ve . . . would’ve . . .’ she buried her face in her hands and began to sob.
‘Did you interview Stanniland?’ asked Charles King.
‘We did,’ replied Janice.
‘And what did he say?’
‘We can’t divulge . . .’
‘My daughter has been murdered, Inspector, and I would like to know whether her killer offered any explanation as to why he killed her.’
‘He said nothing,’ replied Jane.
‘No comment?’
‘Every question.’
‘Was he advised?’
‘He had the duty solicitor.’
‘What happens now?’
‘We’re waiting for the forensic and post mortem reports and trying to build a picture of their lives together. It remains possible that it was purely random . . .’
‘Random? You’re joking surely?’ said Simon.
‘It’s possible,’ replied Janice.
‘Bollocks.’
‘What my son means is that Elizabeth died for a reason and we want to know what it was,’ said Mr King.
Don’t we all.
Jane peeled the parking ticket off her windscreen and jumped into the driver’s seat.
‘I wasn’t expecting a bloody cross-examination,’ said Janice.
‘At least they were quite clear about Tom.’
‘And thanks for stopping me. I nearly put my foot in it, didn’t I?’
‘Odd they didn’t know she was pregnant though, don’t you think?’ asked Jane.
‘Possibly.’
‘I mean, she was three months gone and they’d had a scan too. You’d have thought she’d have told her mother by then?’
‘Maybe they were going to tell them at Christmas?’ asked Janice.
‘Yes, that might be it.’
‘What d’you make of Simon?’
‘A grieving and angry brother.’
‘I’d love to know what he does at RM Poole.’
Jane took her phone out of her handbag and opened a web browser.
‘Here it is.’ She was reading from the screen. ‘Wikipedia. Ah, that explains it.’
‘What?’
‘Special Boat Section.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Think SAS but with boats instead of wings.’
‘He’s on standby to go overseas then, I suppose, which explains why they’ve stayed in Poole.’
‘It does.’
‘Let’s get back. Then I want to go right through Elizabeth’s past and see if we can’t find John Stanniland cropping up somewhere.’
‘And Tom’s?’
‘Yes, and Tom’s.’
Jane was filling up with petrol at the Shell station at the entrance to Express Park when four police cars and a van came screaming down the service road from the back of the police station. They turned left at the roundabout, and then sped north towards the motorway roundabout, turning their sirens on as they accelerated away from Bridgwater.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ asked Janice. She was standing behind Jane, swigging from a bottle of Diet Coke.
‘God knows.’
‘I’ll walk in from here. See what all the fuss is about.’
‘I’ll catch you up,’ replied Jane, replacing the nozzle on the pump.
Jane watched from the queue in the petrol station as Janice walked along the pavement towards the police centre. She had always cut a confident figure had Janice, but somehow seemed just a little bit out of her depth this time. Or maybe Jane had just got used to working with Dixon, who oozed confidence even when he had no real idea what was going on at all. Not that he would ever admit it, of course, at least not to anyone else except her.
She sent him a text message, where are u J x, wondering whether the reply would be in the pub or on the beach. She looked across the garage forecourt. Vehicles were turning in with their headlights on now and it had been raining hard for most of the day. Yes, it would be in the pub, she felt sure of that.
Jane was parking her car on the top floor of the car park when the reply came.
watching tv x
‘Tosser,’ muttered Jane, rolling her eyes. Then she jumped out of her car and ran across to the staff entrance, sidestepping the large puddles as she went. Janice opened the door for her from the inside.
‘What’s up, Jan?’
‘The Parrett’s burst its banks.’
Jane looked back and watched the rain falling in the lights on the far side of the car park. She listened to the water running along the gutter in front of her and the sound of the raindrops hammering on the parked cars. It was difficult to tell which was louder. Then she thought about Mr Grafton and Mrs Freeman, with sandbags across their front doors.
‘Muchelney’s cut off,’ continued Janice. ‘And they’re evacuating Moorland and Northmoor Green.’
Chapter Eight
What’re you up to this morning?’ asked Jane.
‘I’m gonna pop down to Landroverman and see if they’ve got a snorkel,’ replied Dixon. ‘Then I’ll have a go at fitting it.’
‘You?’
‘What’s wrong with that? There’s a video on YouTube that shows you how to do it.’
‘Still, if it falls to bits you’ll have to get a new car.’
‘Fat chance. How about you?’
‘Still looking for a connection between Elizabeth Perry and her killer.’
‘What’s his name?’ asked Dixon.
‘Stanniland.’
‘Any ideas?’
‘None.’
‘There may be no connection, of course.’
‘I thought you said there was no such thing as a random murder?’ asked Jane.
‘There isn’t. So, look for a connection between Tom Perry and Stanniland.’
‘We are.’
‘Or with the person who paid him.’
‘We are.’
‘I’ll shut my face then,’ replied Dixon, smiling.
‘What about your cold case?’
‘I was supposed to be seeing the witnesses next week but they’ll have been evacuated, I expect. Muchelney’s flooded, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve got mobile numbers so I’ll catch up with them on Monday.’
Jane followed Dixon south on the M5, getting off at junction 23. She slowed as she crossed the motorway and watched the back of his Land Rover disappearing into the distance as he continued south. Monty was sitting in the rear window staring at the cars behind them. She thought about her conversation with Dixon over breakfast and the little white lie she had told. Look for a connection with the person who paid Stanniland. That had been Dixon’s advice and she had replied ‘we are’ when what she really meant was ‘we will be’. But where to begin?
She arrived at Express Park just as the morning briefing was finishing. Janice, Dave Harding, Mark Pearce and
Harry Unwin were gathered around a workstation in the CID area on the first floor and Jane caught the tail end of the discussion. Dave was to focus on the Bridgwater end, while Harry and Mark were to concentrate on Bristol, building a complete picture of Stanniland’s movements for the forty-eight hours leading up to the murder, profiles of his known associates, CCTV and traffic cameras, and his van. They had their work cut out.
‘Jane, you’re with me,’ said Janice, picking up her handbag and walking over to a workstation in the vast windows of the police centre. ‘We need to find a connection between Stanniland and the Perrys. All right?’
‘What if they’re not connected? What if the connection is with someone else, and that person paid Stanniland, possibly?’
‘That’ll have to be stage two, if we find nothing directly connecting them, and let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Jane. ‘Coffee?’
‘Yes, please. You take Elizabeth and I’ll take Tom. OK?’
It was just after 4 p.m. by the time Jane looked up from her computer. She had spent much of the day on the phone and the rest staring at her screen. Her eyes felt dry and hot, so she rubbed them and peered out into the gloom. The street lights were already on and it was still raining. Hard.
She turned back to her computer, opened a web browser and went to BBC News.
‘Oh, shit,’ she said, scanning the news headlines. ‘You seen this, Jan?’
‘What?’ Janice was sitting at the next workstation and spoke without looking away from her screen.
‘A major incident has been declared by Somerset County Council and Sedgemoor District Council. An amber flood warning is in place and they’re expecting another inch of rain in the next twenty-four hours.’
Janice looked up.
‘And listen to this,’ continued Jane, reading from her screen. ‘Experts tell the public to be prepared for further flooding.’
‘I could’ve told them that,’ said Janice.
‘And look at this,’ said Jane.
Janice jumped up from her chair and stood behind Jane.
‘Where the hell is that?’
‘Muchelney,’ replied Jane.
They were staring at a photograph of the roof of a silver car, water gently lapping against the top of the windows.
‘That must be four feet deep,’ said Janice.
