‘She didn’t need her car,’ explained Tom.
‘She couldn’t exactly take a cab to a murder,’ said the detective and he mimicked that conversation. ‘Wait here while I kill someone.’
‘And she could hardly take the bus,’ said Helen.
‘I never said she didn’t need a car,’ Tom explained, ‘I said she didn’t need her car.’ And at that point they reached the end of the alleyway, which opened out into a wide space. ‘She had another car,’ Tom pointed ahead of them, ‘and she parked it right here.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Bradshaw, as he realised what Tom meant.
The council had put this open space behind the high street to good use: a car park big enough for around twenty vehicles.
‘Annie could have driven a second vehicle down here early that morning or even the night before and left it. She could have jumped on an early bus home if she didn’t want to risk a taxi. Who’s going to remember one woman on a bus? She parks her own car at the opposite end of town, buys a ticket, does all of her errands then leaves the cinema. She could have driven out of town, killed Rebecca Holt then returned here or left the other car somewhere else. As long as she was back in town to collect her car later, no one is going to question it. She even made sure she was a little late so she had to pay a fine, which went on record and confirmed her alibi so she was in the clear. Her only mistake was making the alibi too damn perfect.’
‘That’s a bit tricky, isn’t it?’
‘She has an au pair to get the kids up and ready for school because she runs first thing in the morning. Maybe this time she ran to a car she’d parked a few streets away, drove it to town then got the bus back in time to get the kids to school before heading in again. It’s tight but it’s possible.’
‘How could she have a second car without anyone noticing?’ asked Helen. ‘Could she rent one? Wouldn’t there be records?’
‘She didn’t need to rent one. She looks after the pool of company cars at her place of work. There are always demos just sitting there. They probably have to be signed out but she is the one responsible for that so I’m assuming she didn’t bother.’
‘Then how can we prove she used one of them?’ asked Helen, ‘if she didn’t sign it out.’
‘I don’t know yet,’ he admitted, ‘but I’ll think of something.’
‘Okay, it all sounds just about plausible,’ admitted Helen, ‘but you’ve not explained one crucial thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I understand how Annie Bell could get away to kill Rebecca,’ she said, ‘but how would she persuade Rebecca Holt to come and meet her?’ Helen mimed picking up a phone then and speaking into it. ‘Hello, it’s Annie Bell here. I know you’re having an affair with my husband and I would love to discuss this with you down an isolated country lane but don’t worry, I promise not to kill you.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I hear you. I don’t know the answer to that question either, but if we do find out how she got Rebecca to agree to meet her we are almost there.’
That night, back at Tom’s house, Helen had a hot bath and basked in the heat from fully functioning radiators. Afterwards, she climbed into the big double bed. It was quiet now, the only sound coming from the shower as Tom also took advantage of the hot water. Helen felt warm, safe and drowsy. By the time Tom came to bed she was already fast asleep.
The next morning when Tom visited Annie Bell at her office for a second time it clearly irritated her, though she said nothing. He kept her talking for half an hour, going over old leads and asking questions he’d asked before, just for clarification. Then he asked some new ones, all of which she answered calmly. He told her about his recent meeting with Freddie Holt, which she took a great interest in, but neglected to mention the businessman had attacked him. Tom kept an eye on the time, subtly checking the clock on the wall in her office at regular intervals, because timing would be crucial that morning.
‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ he said, ‘I do have one more question.’
‘What about?’
‘Your car scheme.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The demos on your car fleet,’ he said, ‘can anyone use them?’
Annie looked confused but replied, ‘Theoretically, anybody can drive them. They are insured by the manufacturers for all drivers but we don’t permit anyone outside the company car programme to take one for a spin.’ She noticed the half-smile on his face and thought she understood now. ‘Including you, Mr Carney, if that is what you’re asking?’
He held up his hands. ‘Can’t blame me for trying,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking of trading mine in for something with a bit more oomph under the bonnet. It’s off the road at the moment.’
‘Sorry, can’t help you,’ she told him firmly.
He stole a quick look at the clock again then. It wouldn’t be long now, assuming she didn’t let him down. ‘I suppose you can’t let people abuse the system,’ he said amiably, ‘but how can you possibly control it when the cars are just sitting around here all day?’
‘I control it,’ she told him. ‘If you’re a qualifying driver, you can take a demo for a few days or even just a few hours before you order your next car and we sometimes use them as pool cars for off-site meetings, but I keep the keys and they have to be signed out in the ledger.’ She tapped her finger against an A4-sized, thick, red, hard-backed book that was on her desk.
‘Do you drive them all?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I need to have a working knowledge of them to manage our fleet, in case drivers ask me questions.’
‘What’s to stop someone just coming in here when you’re not around, picking up a set of keys and going for a joyride without you knowing?’
‘That couldn’t happen,’ she said. ‘The keys are locked away and when you take a car you have to sign it out.’
‘In the ledger,’ he said. ‘Looks pretty thick. You must have had a lot of cars?’
‘We buy a lot of cars,’ she told him, ‘for managers and the sales force. This ledger contains five years of demonstrators.’
‘You’re very organised. How many demos do you have at any one time?’
‘Usually three,’ she said, ‘from different manufacturers, rotated every two or three weeks. Why do you ask?’
‘You must be an expert then. What would you recommend?’
‘That depends on what you’re looking for.’
‘Something I can count on.’
‘German cars,’ she told him, ‘are usually best for reliability these days.’
‘Thanks for the tip. I’ll bear it in mind.’
The phone rang then. Right on time, and so loudly that it almost made him jump.
‘Excuse me,’ she said and picked up the phone. ‘Yes … what?’ A deep sigh. ‘What does she want?’ she asked irritably and there was a pause while she digested the answer.
Tom frowned his concern. ‘Everything alright?’
‘There’s a journalist at the front desk.’
‘Really? What does he want?’
‘It’s a she and I’m just—’ Annie listened for a few moments more then told Tom, ‘She’s from a newspaper in Newcastle and says she wants to speak to me about Richard’s case being reopened.’
Tom shook his head. ‘That’s not a good idea, Annie. We need to control this story not let every rogue reporter get their hands on it so they can twist things.’ He furrowed his brow. ‘What’s her name?’
Annie asked that same question down the phone and turned back to Tom when she received an answer. ‘Helen Norton.’
‘Oh, Christ.’
‘You know her?’ asked Annie.
‘We …’ he paused as if he was trying to put things delicately ‘… worked quite closely together on the case I wrote about in my book, but to be honest I never really felt I could trust her.’
‘But how could she know we were looking to reopen the case?’
‘Prison guards,’ said Tom. ‘Your husband warned me one of them would
leak it to the press eventually.’
‘The bastards,’ she said, and it was the first time he’d heard Annie swear.
‘Just get rid of her.’
‘They’ve tried but she insists she won’t leave until she’s seen me. She seems to think I might want to speak to her.’
Tom exhaled. ‘Look, I know Helen Norton well enough and she won’t budge unless you go out there and tell her face to face to leave.’
‘I really don’t want to talk to her.’
‘Just tell her you still firmly believe in your husband’s innocence and are open to any new information that will help to clear his name but you are not actively pursuing any new investigation. That will give her the quote she needs to keep her editor happy but it will kill the story stone dead.’
‘Are you sure that will work? What if it makes things worse?’
‘It won’t,’ Tom assured her, ‘but whatever you do, don’t tell her I’m here.’
Annie thought she understand then. ‘A woman scorned?’
Tom was evasive. ‘It just won’t help either of us if she knows I’m on the case.’
Annie still looked unsure. She got to her feet but did not leave the office; instead, she stood there, thinking. She looked at Tom, glanced down at the phone she was still holding in her hand as if reluctant to speak into it again, and then both of them listened as the faint voice at the end of the line began speaking once more. Finally, Annie raised it to her mouth and said, ‘Tell Miss Norton I’ll be there in a moment,’ and hung up without another word. Annie walked out of her office as if sloping reluctantly to the gallows, heading for reception.
Tom didn’t move. Not at first. He was mentally tracing the number of steps Annie had to take to reach the end of the room and pass through the door. He had counted them in his head on arrival. She would then march purposefully to reception to meet Helen. A great deal would depend on how long Helen could keep her there but he couldn’t rely on it being long. Helen would stall, she would ask questions and demand answers, but Annie would fight her corner and rebuff the journalist. She would regurgitate Tom’s statement about believing her husband’s innocence then send Helen Norton packing.
Tom had to move quickly and he had to move now. He left his seat and moved to Annie’s desk, glancing towards the door to make sure no one was about to walk through it. Outside, the desks were all manned but nobody looked towards him as he bent to slide out the ledger. He ducked back down into his chair and quickly began to leaf through the ledger from the back to the front. There were a series of columns denoting the manufacturer and model, followed by the car’s registration number then a time out and a time in to indicate when the car had been taken and returned. Finally, there was a column for the driver’s signature, so he couldn’t wriggle out of responsibility for an accident or a speeding fine if one landed on Annie’s desk weeks later.
Tom knew Annie would be back at any moment. If she had given Helen an unsympathetic hearing, which was likely, she might already be on her way. He thumbed the ledger’s pages while he speed-read the dates at the top of each page and drew closer to the date he was looking for.
All too soon he saw the door at the other end of the outer office open. Annie was back already. ‘Bollocks.’ This was nowhere near enough time. He couldn’t afford to be caught leafing through the ledger, but knew he would never get another chance to check it alone.
She was halfway across the room when his eyes settled on the correct page. Three cars were listed there. Tom scanned the notices for the entire week, including the date of Rebecca Holt’s murder, but when he reached it he noticed only two had been signed out. The third car must have been the one she took that day, but Annie Bell was almost back at her office door now and Tom had no more time to make a note of it.
Then Annie stopped, right outside the door. At first he thought she had somehow spotted what he was doing and was about to burst in and confront him. Then he heard a voice, but it wasn’t Annie’s. Instead there was the low murmur of a male employee asking a question. Someone had left his desk and intercepted the boss before she could vanish back into her office. This was Tom’s chance. He grabbed a pen and notebook from his jacket pocket and, balancing them against the ledger, hastily noted down the make, model and registration number of the third car.
Tom slapped his notebook shut and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, along with the pen. He could hear Annie Bell giving her employee instructions right outside her door and launched himself out of his seat, pushing the ledger back into its original spot on Annie’s desk. He virtually jumped back into his chair and landed on it just as she came through the door. He had to make a show of adjusting his posture and crossing his legs, as if he had grown uncomfortable in his seat.
‘Everything alright?’ he asked brightly.
‘I can see why you don’t like her,’ was Annie Bell’s sole pronouncement on Helen Norton.
When they were done, Annie walked Tom out to the car park. Like Helen before him, she evidently wanted to make sure he was safely off the premises.
‘What do you want, Mr Carney?’ Annie Bell asked him as they walked towards his brother-in-law’s car.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I’m asking you what you really want out of life.’
‘Why are you asking me that?’
‘I’m curious,’ she said. ‘Not this, surely: living hand to mouth, scratching a living from freelance journalism, hoping to land a big story from time to time so you can pay the bills and topping up your income with some investigative work, which must be piecemeal at best. Wouldn’t you like something a little more solid?’ she asked him.
‘Maybe,’ he admitted.
‘I don’t suppose this is what you dreamed of doing when you were a child.’
‘No,’ he admitted, ‘I wanted to be a train driver, an astronaut or a footballer but, like most people, I had to settle for something else. This isn’t so bad. I get to choose my own hours, I’m my own boss and occasionally I help to catch some bad guys and put them in prison.’
‘Yes, but where is the future in that? Wouldn’t you prefer something more stable, a job with prospects and a nicer lifestyle?
‘And where would I get that kind of opportunity,’ Tom asked, ‘assuming I did like the sound of it?’
‘Our company is expanding,’ Annie told him. ‘I’ve been talking to my father about new hires, some fresh blood to energise the firm. For a while now we’ve been discussing the idea of a director responsible for PR.’
‘I suppose I do have the skills for that kind of role, but what sort of salary would we be talking about?’
‘Seventy K,’ she told him.
‘Seventy thousand a year, just for handling your company’s PR?’ He whistled.
‘I’m sure you’d have to earn every penny. This company is growing rapidly. We are really going places.’
‘That would certainly cure a lot of my problems, but what about my investigation?’
‘I’m not talking about right away,’ she said, ‘I meant afterwards. Once you’ve seen this through, of course.’ And she sighed. ‘We both know my husband hired you in desperation, to see if you could uncover something that might win him an appeal. I know you feel beholden to us because you’ve taken a small amount of our money already and you haven’t got anything to show for it, but I just want to say I understand how difficult this is. No one is expecting a miracle from you,’ she told him, ‘not even Richard.’ Then she added, ‘Especially Richard. All I’m saying is that, when you do get to the end of this, there could be a very good job here waiting for you.’
‘Thanks, Annie,’ said Tom. ‘That’s very kind of you. I promise I’ll give that some serious thought.’
And he did give it serious thought. All the way home he wondered why Annie Bell was trying to buy him off.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Rosewood café was virtually empty. Rain teeming down outside kept away the faint-hearted but not the detective or the two
reporters. They had agreed to meet later than usual to allow Tom and Helen to visit Annie first and now they were bringing Bradshaw up to speed.
‘Could you have a word with someone about a car in Annie’s ledger?’ asked Tom.
‘What are we looking for?’
‘Proof,’ said Tom, ‘that she had a demo for her own use on that fateful day.’
‘I’m assuming she wouldn’t put it in a ledger if she did?’
‘She didn’t,’ admitted Tom. ‘Annie is the only one in the company who could get one without signing it out, so I took a look at it around the time of the murder. Soleil had three cars and all three were in constant use for three weeks, apart from a three-day period which overlaps the murder, when only two cars were logged out on the ledger. The third car never left head office during that time.’ Then he added, ‘In theory.’
‘That would make sense,’ said Bradshaw, ‘if Annie used it.’
‘But it doesn’t prove that she did,’ Tom reminded him.
‘No,’ said Bradshaw, ‘but give me the reg number anyway and I’ll do some digging.’
‘Thanks, Ian.’
‘You reckon she did it,’ Bradshaw said, ‘don’t you?’
‘Don’t you?’ asked Tom.
‘I don’t know. Yes, maybe?’ he offered lamely.
‘She had a motive,’ Tom reminded him.
‘Another woman was screwing her husband,’ agreed Bradshaw, ‘but thousands of women discover that every year and most of them get over it.’
‘But Rebecca was one of many and I think Annie always had her suspicions, regardless of what she says now.’
‘Then why kill Rebecca, if she wasn’t the first he’s been to bed with?’
‘Perhaps she was the final straw,’ said Helen. ‘Maybe she’d had enough.’
‘Then she should have killed her husband,’ observed Bradshaw.
‘And done time for it?’ said Tom. ‘Even with a sympathetic judge and jury, Annie Bell would be a convicted murderer and she’d lose everything: her career, the kids.’
‘And this way she gets rid of her rival,’ said Helen.
Behind Dead Eyes Page 28
