by Jessie Keane
Ah, must be love . . .
It was so sweet. But sort of tragic, too.
The killer finished his coffee, and left. He followed Romilly Kane, just for kicks.
89
It was early Friday morning. Three weeks since the shooting at the church in which she had lost her eldest son, and Eunice Hinton was still shell-shocked at the turn of events. When she opened the door to find the Bill standing on the front step, she couldn’t suppress an exasperated sigh. Christ! Couldn’t they leave her in peace for one bloody minute? Were they completely insensitive?
‘Mrs Hinton?’ Romilly flashed her warrant card. ‘DI Kane, and this is DS Harman. Can we come in?’
‘I’m just off out to work,’ said Eunice. It was the truth: she was standing there in her overall, ready to get the bus and get started. No use moping about the place. She’d picked up her handbag, put on her coat – and now here were the police again, bringing it all back when all she wanted to do was try to forget.
‘Only a few minutes,’ said Romilly, unmoving.
DS Harman stared beadily at Eunice from over Romilly’s shoulder. Eunice felt guilty, like she had done something wrong. And she hadn’t. But talking to coppers always gave her the jitters. She opened the door wider, took off her coat again and slung it back on the hook. Good job Patrick wasn’t here today. He’d give them the rough edge of his tongue – and that would have embarrassed her. Eunice was always polite. Maybe she was what they called a ‘people pleaser’, but so what? Manners mattered. She thought so, anyway.
‘You’d better come in,’ she said, and led the way up the hall and into the lounge.
They sat down and Eunice eyed them expectantly.
‘So what job do you do?’ asked Romilly.
‘I clean. I always have, since right back when the kids were small.’ Eunice felt defensive all of a sudden. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being a cleaner. My girls always mock, but I enjoy the work. I like getting places spick and span.’
Romilly nodded and glanced around. The house showed clear signs of Eunice’s devotion to her calling. It was immaculate. ‘Why do they mock? Do they think you could do better?’
Eunice shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’
‘And where is it you work?’
‘Offices mostly, now. For a big contract company. Used to do it off my own bat, private houses, but not any more.’
Romilly made a note. ‘The company’s contact details please?’
Eunice rattled the company name and their phone number off. Romilly jotted both down. ‘Who disliked Rob enough to kill him, Mrs Hinton?’
Eunice’s eyes opened wide in startlement. ‘I don’t know. How would I know that?’
‘You weren’t that close?’
Eunice let out a sigh. ‘We were close. Very. But Rob was always out and about, doing his own thing.’
‘What about the other two?’ asked Harman, consulting his notebook. ‘Daniel’s the middle son, that’s right, isn’t it? Tell us about him.’
‘Daniel’s like a rock,’ she said. ‘He’s dependable. Not one to set the world on fire, but a good boy.’
‘And the youngest? Leon?’ asked Romilly.
Eunice wrung her hands and looked down at the floor.
‘Eunice?’ prompted Romilly.
Eunice glanced up at her. ‘They always say you shouldn’t have favourites, don’t they. But most women do, I think. I did, anyway. As the eldest boy, Rob was very special to me after having had the two girls. I suppose Daniel being in the middle, he sort of got overlooked. Then there was the baby of the family, Leon. Leon was always my real favourite. My baby boy, you know?’ Eunice gave a shaky smile. ‘I spoiled him, I suppose. Couldn’t help it. I feel bad about it now. Very bad. Maybe I should have given Rob more affection, but he was so capable, so independent. Maybe I failed him. And Daniel. Losing Rob has made me think much more about Daniel. That he never got the love he should have done. But I’ve always tried to do my best for my family.’
‘What about your husband?’
‘My late husband.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Harry was a nice man. Sweet, you know? Harmless. He was a postman. He passed four years ago now. Only good thing about that is, he didn’t live to see Rob cut down in the prime of his life like that. It would have broken him.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Romilly.
Eunice looked at her watch. ‘I’m sorry, I’m going to be late . . .’ she fretted. ‘The office workers come in at eight thirty, we have to be out by—’
‘Can you give me the addresses of your two daughters?’ She flipped her notebook open. ‘That’s Mrs Trudy Fields and Mrs Sarah Pascoe, correct?’
Eunice gave her the addresses.
‘No new men in your life? Since losing your husband?’ asked Harman. He was thinking that Eunice didn’t look the type to retire to graceful widowhood, to embrace cardigans and slippers. Even today, ready for work, it was plain that she’d taken care with her appearance. She had a blonde up-do, and she’d slathered on mascara and lipstick. Her look was busty, brassy, still attractive.
‘Oh! Well, my daughters encouraged me to try dating again. I didn’t want to, really. But through Trudy I met up with one of my old boyfriends and – yes – I suppose we’re what you’d call an item.’
‘His name?’ asked Harman.
‘Patrick. Patrick Dowling, he owns a car dealership out Clacton way. Trudy works there.’
‘The address? And his home address?’
Eunice gave her both. Finally Romilly stood up. ‘We won’t keep you any longer, Mrs Hinton. Thanks for your patience. And if you think of anything that could help us with our enquiries, please don’t hesitate to get in touch.’
90
‘So how are they?’ Ruby asked Daisy when she and Daniel got back to Marlow late Friday morning.
‘The twins? Fabulous. Bewildered of course by Rob being gone. Too young, thank God, to understand the full implications.’
‘How’s Vanessa?’
‘Thrilled to have the twins there. Happy as a dog with two tails.’
‘Daniel looked after you OK?’
‘Yes. Of course he did.’
‘I like him.’
‘So do I.’ Daisy was frowning, wondering why Daniel hadn’t spoken a word to her on the way back home – and then he’d just left her to it, gone off to the garage block without another word to her.
‘Daisy?’ asked Ruby, when Daisy fell silent, staring at the carpet. ‘Something wrong?’
‘No,’ said Daisy with a bright, artificial smile. ‘Nothing at all.’
Ruby gazed at her daughter in sympathy. ‘This has all been so hard on you,’ she said sadly. ‘What is it, Daisy? Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Sometimes I think I’m going completely crazy,’ she said mournfully. ‘I want Rob back so much that it hurts. But then I stop and think – I didn’t even know him, did I? Not really. He wasn’t the Rob I thought he was. He was a dealer, going behind Kit’s back, cheating him. What else did he do that I don’t yet know about?’
‘Nothing, we hope.’ Ruby shook her head. ‘Maybe that’s the end of it. And they’ll find his killer soon. They have to.’
‘I don’t think I’ll ever rest easy until they do,’ said Daisy. And even then? How was she going to go on, rebuild her life, when it had turned into a train wreck?
Ruby was staring at her daughter. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Daisy.
‘Really? You’re sure?’
‘Really. Truly. How’s it going at the club? Did you ever find a replacement for that poor girl Crystal Rose?’
‘Sort of. I think so. One of her sisters is shaping up pretty well as a stand-in. When I watched the act on Saturday night, I was pleased with Jenny. Not a slip in the champagne glass. Not a hair out of place. Even that miserable cow Aggie looked hot in her spangly costume, assisting her sister with lots of cheesy broad smiles and wide-spread look-at-this! arm gest
ures. The punters loved it.’
‘Good. I’m glad something’s working out, anyway.’ Daisy paused before adding: ‘Did you know that someone lays white roses every year beside my father’s grave? And that Vanessa has no idea who does it?’
Ruby squinted at her. ‘Well it certainly isn’t me,’ she said. ‘It’s been a very long time since Cornelius was my favourite person in the whole world.’
‘I know that.’ Daisy gave a thin ghost of a smile. ‘Strange though, isn’t it? Wouldn’t you say so?’
‘Yes. I certainly would.’
‘So how was it down at posh towers with crazy Lady Daisy?’ asked Leon.
Daniel was on his way up to his place over the garage block when he met Leon coming down the flight of stairs that led to both flats. Leon paused at the bottom, blocking Daniel’s way.
‘It was fine,’ said Daniel. He wasn’t going to rise to the bait. Leon always tried to wind people up. He seemed to enjoy it, the tosser. He always had.
‘Spent the night, yeah?’ Leon leered.
‘Yeah, we did.’
‘Managed to get into her pants yet? Should be easy, the grieving widow.’
Daniel sent him a look of blistering hostility. ‘Why don’t you shut your stupid mouth?’
‘Truth hurts, yeah? You always fancied her, I know that.’
Daniel shoved hard, pushing Leon back against the brickwork, out of his way.
‘Ow!’ laughed Leon. ‘Watch the suit, bruv.’
‘I said, shut up.’
‘Yeah, I reckon you’re glad Rob’s out of the way because—’
Leon didn’t manage to finish the sentence. Daniel punched him, hard, sending him crashing back against the wall. Leon stopped laughing, the smile wiped right off his face. When he straightened up, he raised an unsteady hand to his mouth, where blood was dripping from his split lip.
‘Fucking fool,’ said Daniel, and went on up the stairs.
91
Trudy Fields was sitting at her desk in the far corner of Patrick Dowling’s car showroom catching up with the monthly invoices and humming along to ‘I Don’t Like Mondays’ on the showroom sound system when she looked up. Two punters, a man and a woman, were moving down the line of shiny, brightly lit cars toward her.
She put down her pen and stood up, straightening her fuchsia-pink skirt suit, beaming her false professional smile. ‘Good morning. Can I help?’ she said, crossing the floor to where they stood beside a used Ford.
Not used, pre-owned. Patrick had dinned that into her time and again. Pre-owned and pre-loved. Everything in the showroom had been bought for a song, then made to look a treat with a large price tag stuck on the front of it. No matter if the cars were clocked (most were), eaten away with rust (a bucket of Polyfilla sorted that little problem out, provided you didn’t get one of those smart-alec customers coming in with a magnet in their pocket), or cut-and-shuts, an amalgam of two wrecks sandwiched together, that could be – although Patrick insisted they weren’t – a danger to drive. Valeting was one of the big costs here. All of Patrick’s cars were presented beautifully, buffed to a high shine, and looked a million dollars.
‘Are you interested in any particular make or model?’ she asked. ‘Or just browsing? No pressure. Have a good look around.’
Romilly held out her warrant card. ‘You probably don’t remember me too well. When we last spoke you were rather shaken up. Police. Mrs Fields?’
‘Oh! Yes. That’s me,’ said Trudy, her smile slipping. Oh God. She remembered the woman now. Those sharp brown eyes. And the man. They were going to talk about Rob’s death again. She couldn’t bear it.
‘I’m DI Kane, this is DS Harman,’ said Romilly. Her eyes moved past Trudy to the big, red-faced, middle-aged man who sat in a half-glassed office not far behind Trudy’s desk. He was on the phone and had half-risen from his seat to stare out at Trudy and the new arrivals. ‘Is that Patrick Dowling in there?’
‘My boss. Yes,’ said Trudy.
‘And your mother’s boyfriend, that right?’ asked Romilly.
‘Yes. That’s correct.’
‘We wanted to talk to both of you. You first, if you don’t mind?’
‘No. Not at all.’ Trudy’s smile had faded completely and she looked pale. ‘This way.’
She led the way over to her desk and moved behind it and sat down, indicating two free seats in front. Romilly and Harman sat.
‘I know this is painful for you,’ said Romilly, watching Patrick Dowling put the phone down and come around his desk. ‘But I would like to go through what happened on the day of your brother’s shooting once again, if you don’t mind.’
Trudy nodded dumbly. She did mind. It was agony touching on the subject of Rob’s death.
‘Who’s this?’ asked Patrick, bustling out of his office door and coming round to stand beside Trudy’s chair.
Romilly stood up. ‘Police, Mr Dowling.’ She showed him her card. ‘We have a few more questions for Mrs Fields and for you too in a moment.’
Patrick puffed himself up. ‘Well it’s bloody inconvenient,’ he said hotly. ‘This is a place of work. We have customers coming in. Police on the premises when you’re selling motors? It doesn’t look good.’
‘We’re not uniform, Mr Dowling,’ said Harman, a hard edge to his voice. There were no customers in the showroom in any case. ‘However, if you would feel more comfortable closing the premises and accompanying us to the station so that we could talk there, that’s fine.’
Patrick’s fierce brows drew down over his eyes and his face turned a darker red. He stared at Romilly. Romilly gazed steadily back.
‘All right, all right!’ he said at last. ‘But make it quick, can you? We’ve got work to do.’ He stood there, arms folded.
‘We need to talk to you separately. Maybe we could use your office to talk to Mrs Fields in private,’ suggested Romilly.
‘Right! Go ahead,’ he said, and stormed off across the showroom and out onto the forecourt.
The three of them moved into Patrick’s office.
‘Now,’ said Romilly. ‘Talk me through that day, Mrs Fields. Take your time.’
92
Daisy came downstairs on Sunday morning to find Ashok, one of Kit’s most trusted men, sitting in the hall chair. He folded his paper and stood up.
‘Hi, Ashok,’ she said. ‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Out. At the club, I think, with Fats.’
‘And Daniel?’
‘Busy with Kit. Anything I can do for you?’
‘Oh. No. Nothing.’ Daisy left him there and went into the kitchen. Daniel had been the one minding her ever since Rob’s funeral, what was Kit playing at? Or had Daniel asked to be taken off that duty?
Bev Appleton turned up at Romilly’s door that same night, clutching a bottle of red. She held it aloft when Romilly opened the door in her pyjamas.
‘Sunday night?’ asked Romilly in surprise.
She had been lying on the couch. The great TV dinner had been consumed – beef and Yorkshire pudding, sluiced down with juice and painkillers for a rotten stress headache – and the long evening stretched ahead. Tomorrow she would question Clive Lewis’s widow, again, and Rob Hinton’s other sister. She was already mapping out the line of questioning. ‘What about Brian? Where are the kids?’
‘Brian’s slumped in front of the telly. The kids are up in their rooms. I am surplus to requirements, having ironed, packed clean sports gear into satchels, made up lunches ready for tomorrow, cleaned out the loo and vacuumed upstairs. I do that, you know. One week it’s the upstairs, the next the downstairs. I have a set routine. It’s dull as fuck, but it gets the thing done. When that’s out of the way, I have a drink as a reward, before the Monday onslaught.’
‘Christ!’ Romilly laughed and ushered her mate inside. ‘And to think I sometimes get maudlin over the loss of my marriage! I hope you got a taxi, Bev.’
Bev took off her coat and laid it over the newel post at the foot of the stairs. She follow
ed Romilly through to the kitchen. Romilly got out glasses and a corkscrew, laid out some nibbles.
Bev sat down at the breakfast bar and looked at her pal. ‘Of course I got a ruddy taxi. Don’t worry.’ She glanced at Romilly’s left hand. Still no rings. ‘Is it lost then, the marriage?’
‘Oh, it is.’ Romilly applied the corkscrew and got the bottle open. She filled the two glasses and took a seat. ‘Lost beyond hope of ever finding it again.’
‘Hugh seemed like a good sort,’ said Bev, taking a handful of crisps.
‘The woman I found him in bed with obviously thought so.’
Bev’s eyes widened. Romilly nodded. ‘Yep. Told him I’d be late home, then sneaked in at six. And there they were.’
‘Was he . . . I mean, did he apologize? Grovel?’
‘No, he blamed me. Let’s face it, Bev. The man’s a complete cunt.’
‘Yeah.’ Bev half-smiled. ‘But cunts are useful.’
‘That one isn’t. Hugh’s about as much use as a spare prick at a wedding. And who knows? Maybe he’s right. Maybe this is all down to me. You know what the job’s like.’
‘Yeah, but he’s a social worker. Aren’t they meant to be understanding types?’
‘Well, you should know. And they are, in their work. But day to day, when they’re feeling neglected? He’s a man, for God’s sake. They want to be numero uno, don’t they. And my job was that. So he went.’
Bev eyed her friend keenly. ‘So how are you coping?’
‘Oh, fine. Relieved, I suppose. But it’s still hard. I get headaches.’
Bev sipped the red. ‘God, that’s nice. I love late Sundays. A bit of a break before the madness starts all over again.’
‘I’m not lonely,’ said Romilly, taking a sip. It was nice.
Took the edge off.
‘Did I say you were? Anyway, there are always solutions to that.’
‘Oh, please. Dive into the whole stupid thing, all over again? You’re joking.’ Romilly grimaced. ‘You know what? It’s a relief he’s gone. The pressure he put on me . . . it was getting hard to take. I have enough, with the job. I don’t need more.’
