‘Is Sandra Stevens a friend of yours?’ Patrick began by asking.
The woman seated herself by the desk and, because there were no other chairs in the room, we remained standing. Swinging herself gently from side to side, she gazed up at Patrick and said, ‘No, but I know who you mean. It was in the paper. She was attacked in her flat. Terrible.’
‘You did business with her when she helped Stevens and Sons – the funeral directors firm.’
‘Yes, but Sandra and Hereward were already divorced by the time the crematorium opened. We spoke on the phone a few times. But it was just … business.’
‘You never met socially.’
‘No, but she called in at the crematorium a few times in connection with work.’
‘Has she phoned you lately?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? It’s very important.’
‘I can’t see how. Two women, just having a chat sometimes?’
Patrick said nothing, just gazed fixedly back.
‘Well, er, she might have done a couple of times. But I do speak to hundreds of people on the phone every week.’
‘Perhaps she was a bit lonely and needed a little female conversation.’
‘That might have been the reason.’
‘Did she phone you at any time between Thursday and Saturday morning last week?’
‘No.’
‘Are you quite sure about that?’
‘Yes.’
If she thought she had put herself in a superior position by sitting where she had, as though she was interviewing us, Patrick now blew this ruse out of the water by perching on a corner of the desk, facing her.
‘Do you know a man by the name of Fred Judd?’ he asked.
‘No, should I?’
‘He’s referred to as Freddie the Bent.’
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ the woman declared.
‘How long have you been having an affair with Robin Williams? Please don’t deny it – you’ve been watched.’
Sarah Dutton’s jaw dropped. ‘Watched?’ she whispered. Then added: ‘For God’s sake, keep your voice down.’
‘Doesn’t your husband know? I think he might.’
‘What the hell has it to do with you anyway? With the police? Or are you one of those men who gets a kick out of digging dirt?’
This wasn’t the kind of stuff that makes Patrick lose his temper. ‘The question bothers you. Which means that you are.’
‘You’re a bastard, aren’t you?’ she flung back at him.
‘When I worked for MI5 they used to let me loose on people that, in those days, were referred to as traitors. Mrs Dutton, I haven’t even started yet.’
This had been kindly said and no, he hadn’t.
‘What has it to do with the police?’ she again demanded to know.
‘How about murder, serious crime and one of the most wanted mobsters in London?’
‘I’m not involved with things like that.’
‘So your little lunchtime sorties out to the beauty spot with Williams are because you’ve married a weed and for no other reason.’
She set her jaw furiously but said nothing.
‘Does your husband know about it?’
Silence.
‘Is that why he buys you expensive jewellery? To try to win you back? The bangle and diamond earrings you’re wearing must be worth a couple of thousand pounds, at least.’
‘My husband can’t afford that kind of thing,’ she answered without thinking.
‘Thought not. Who then?’
Sarah Dutton shot to her feet. ‘I’m going. And you can’t stop me!’
‘Of course not. I shall just arrest you.’
‘Look, I save the money to buy myself things I like from my wages,’ she said desperately, clinging on to the back of the swivel chair.
‘You’re lying. And you’re afraid. Sandra Stevens told you that we were going to see her on Saturday morning and you told someone else. Who?’
‘You’re making a completely innocent remark into a crime.’ She dashed away a few tears. ‘All right. I lied – but you’re trying to connect me with someone shooting Sandra.’
‘Who did you tell?’
After a short pause, she replied, ‘Only Robin. I think he quite fancied her at one time but doesn’t now. We both felt sorry for her when her ex-husband was killed. Hereward was really nice.’
‘Does Williams buy you the jewellery?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Look, we’ve just discovered that Sandra Stevens’s husband was murdered.’
This shocked her and she moaned, ‘Oh, God! But it’s got nothing to do with me!’
‘Your brother,’ I murmured, having had a flash of inspiration. ‘Is he still in prison?’
‘Guy? Yes, unfortunately he is.’
There had been a certain wariness in the reply.
‘Aggravated burglary, wasn’t it?’
She actually shrugged. ‘That’s what they called it.’
‘That tends to be the charge when a man smashes his way into someone else’s home and that someone ends up dying.’
‘I understand the old lady had a weak heart.’
‘That makes it all right then.’
‘No, of course it—’
I carved her up with, ‘Is it her jewellery you’re wearing? No, on reflection that’s more modern than an elderly lady would probably have owned. Someone else’s then – the booty from other burglaries?’
‘I’m not saying any more,’ Sarah Dutton said.
Patrick got off the desk with a gesture of weariness and said, ‘Go and get it. All of it. All the stolen property he’s given you.’
‘I paid him for it,’ the woman argued stubbornly.
‘Go and get it!’ Patrick yelled in her face.
She went, and I went with her.
TEN
Almost a week went by. We were both of a mind that, despite her hostility in answering questions, Sarah Dutton was not involved with what we were working on. Nevertheless, everything had to be investigated properly. She was charged with receiving stolen property – at least fifteen items of gold jewellery – and released on police bail, the case referred to the Met as her brother’s crimes had been committed in London. Patrick went to interview Robin Williams again, who confirmed that Mrs Dutton had indeed given him the news that Sandra Stevens had told her that people from the National Crime Agency were going to speak to her. They had pondered what the reason for this might be. He denied utterly that he had spoken to anyone else about it, insisting that he knew no one who would be remotely interested. Patrick was inclined to believe him.
James Carrick had visited the scene of the shooting – everyone still waiting for DNA test results to come through – and Patrick ‘walked’ him through what had happened. There wasn’t a lot to see. The day before he had gone to have the stitches out of his forehead at the hospital. Hopefully the scar would fade with time. His arm, black and blue, was at least less painful and he could now drive, which was a relief to me as I had plenty of other things to do.
The next morning we went back to London and, as a courtesy, I called in to see Michael Greenway.
‘I simply can’t believe that you were in the same room as this man,’ he said. It might have crossed his mind to add, ‘And didn’t manage to arrest him,’ but to his credit, he didn’t. He did ask where Patrick was, though.
‘Weapons training,’ I told him. ‘Just shooting at targets – his arm was seriously bruised and he’s worried about it. We started off very early this morning so he should be here soon.’
‘All the man said was that mobsters burst in and shot the woman you were interviewing.’ He consulted a notepad before him. ‘A Mrs Sandra Stevens, and then did a runner, although you, Ingrid, got a good look at one of them. He’s since been identified as O’Connor and a warrant’s out for his arrest. The latest in a series of warrants, that is – he just seems to disappear into thin air.’
‘Patrick didn’t mention the bit about a light fitting being shot out and a large splinter of glass slicing across his forehead so he couldn’t see for blood?’
‘God, no.’
‘He must have phoned you from somewhere in the hospital when he went to have an X-ray on his arm. O’Connor slammed a handgun down on it to make him drop the Glock. I expect someone called him in just then and he couldn’t go into any more details.’
‘So that’s why he wanted a couple of days off. It does pay to keep me completely in the picture, you know.’
‘Sorry, but I didn’t think you were that interested,’ I countered. ‘This job was just something for Patrick to cut his teeth on.’
Greenway went a little pink, studying his notepad again, then cleared his throat and said, ‘I have been following this – out of interest, you understand. Patrick must know that it’s vital to discover the reason behind all these happenings. Several questions need answering. Has Frederick Judd been murdered, and if so, was the body cremated his? If it was, why did they go to all that trouble to get rid of him? How is the Peters woman involved and where is she now? There’s more we need to know, but that’ll do to start with.’
‘Judd was reputed to be off his head,’ I recollected.
‘Mad, bad and dangerous,’ Greenway mused. ‘Yes, and perhaps making a real nuisance of himself in certain criminal circles.’
‘Well, he certainly was to his neighbours. It would be worth talking to them if the Met haven’t done so already.’
The commander wrote ‘neighbours’ on his pad, got up and left the room to ask his secretary to fix us some coffee. He is not a man to shout and expect people to come running.
‘Would he have been a rival to O’Connor, I wonder?’ he said on his return.
‘Pass,’ I said. ‘The Met are working on it and we’ve heard nothing since his house was made safe from the explosives.’
‘Which were intended to kill and maim police, of course, never mind any kids who might have decided to have a look round.’
Patrick’s arrival coincided with our coffee arriving but he declined, saying that he had had some already. He didn’t look very happy.
‘The shooting practice?’ Greenway enquired.
‘Not good. Even picking up the weapon makes my hand shake.’
‘To be expected, surely,’ said the commander. ‘It’s not long since it happened.’
‘It’s possible to lose accuracy permanently.’
‘In that case, I think you ought to consider having treatment at one of those specialist clinics.’
Patrick shook his head. ‘I’ve had enough time off already. I’ll ask Dad to say a few words over it.’
Greenway did not laugh, or even smile, saying instead, ‘Please yourself.’
‘Just to keep you abreast of what I’m doing, I’m going to speak to Fred Judd’s immediate neighbours.’
The commander turned around his notepad and held it up for Patrick to see what he had written.
I supposed I had to let him take the credit for it.
I drove to give Patrick’s arm a rest, convinced that he should have more treatment. I really examined my motives, wondering whether it was because I was selfishly worrying about my own safety when there was a question mark over his ability to protect us should a dangerous situation arise, or it was just wifely concern. Ashamed, I could not decide, so settled for both. Nevertheless, I felt somehow naked and had to put it into words. ‘Frankly, I’m not too happy wandering around here after what happened at Judd’s house.’
‘Ingrid, I might be a bit under the weather but I can still put a few holes in a barn door,’ he retorted.
‘Sorry. But I didn’t really mean it like that,’ I lied. ‘It might jeopardize the case if someone sees us, that’s all.’
He leaned over and put his head on my shoulder for a few moments. ‘Sorry.’
‘Does your head hurt?’
‘A bit.’
I had an idea that his head, and his arm, were giving him hell.
We had reached a residential road near where we had left the car on our first visit, and I pulled in and parked just in time before bursting into tears.
Patrick put his arm around my shoulders. ‘What’s up?’
‘I don’t want to do this anymore,’ I sobbed. I had really lied to him for the first time, ever. ‘And you’re always getting hurt.’
‘Then let’s go home,’ Patrick said quietly.
‘But—’
‘Where we’ll have a think about whether we carry on or if I get a less hazardous job. It’s probably about time I did, anyway – it doesn’t mean that much to me, not now. Honestly.’
‘We can’t just walk away,’ I said, gazing at him with blurred eyes.
‘We can.’
‘You want O’Connor.’
‘I have the rest of my life to find him.’
‘And you promised your father you’d sort it out.’
‘He’ll understand that this has developed into something I have no choice but to hand over to others.’
I simply had to tell him. ‘I lied to you just now. I’m so scared.’ I wept afresh, just managing to get out, ‘And so sorry if it offends you.’
When I became aware that he had got out of the car, I thought my admission had been too much for him, but he came round to the driver’s side, opened the door, helped me out and then ensconced me in the passenger seat. We drove away. Not very far, though. Patrick parked in a vacant space reserved for the superintendent at the local police station, muttered something about ‘his lordship’s probably playing golf’ and went inside. Around twenty minutes later, when I had got myself back together and was feeling very small, he reappeared.
‘They are going to talk to Judd’s neighbours and those living nearby,’ he announced. ‘The DI I spoke to before agrees that the pair of us have too high a profile – finding the explosives in Judd’s house – to, as you put it, go wandering around that area. We’ve also recently come face-to-face with O’Connor. If he, or some of the cronies he was with in Bath, are somewhere here – according to her the neighbourhood where Judd lived is stiff with ex-cons and those helping with enquiries – house-to-house enquiries might find them. Obviously, there’s a full murder investigation taking place on account of Dougie’s body having been found in the building and they’ve carried out some local questioning already, but she’s prepared, in view of what I said, to divert a few more people to it.’
I looked at him and he smiled, then said, ‘Actually your freak-out made me remember what my promotion means – being able to involve other police forces. Lunch?’
Even I did not recognize at the time that nerves, evolving into something approaching a panic attack, had rather a lot to do with intuition, my ‘cats’ whiskers’ crashing in with a red alert. Rightly, as it turned out.
‘That is interesting,’ Patrick murmured.
During a quiet discussion – now postponed until the weekend – about my reservations I had received a call from Joanna, who, still working with terrier-like tenacity, had been to see the curate at Wellow, Kenneth Watson. With no mandate to investigate officially she had told him the truth: that she knew the Reverend and Mrs Gillard and was helping to get to the bottom of the puzzle of the whereabouts of Mrs Peters. Mentioning in passing that her husband was DCI in Bath had provided all the credentials she needed.
Recognizing that what the woman had told him could hardly be described as ‘confessional’ confidences, Watson had been delighted to talk to her, this of course having nothing to do with the fact that Joanna is a strikingly beautiful woman. He had recollected Mrs Peters’s concerns about her husband’s funeral and how upset she had been. He then spoke of experiences of his own as he had visited the couple in their home when he had first moved to the village to take up his post, a task that was part of his job. The couple, he recollected, had been daggers drawn and, seemingly, in the middle of an argument, a description he immediately amended to a ‘blazing row
’ as he had heard them shouting at one another as he approached the front door. Things had simmered down a little on his arrival and, the woman disappearing, grudgingly, into the kitchen to make tea, Archie had bawled after her, ‘Silly old bat, you’ll have me in tears next. Perhaps you oughta have gone on the stage for real!’ Whereupon his wife had poked her head around the door to say, or perhaps, he thought, hiss, ‘I’ll have you know that the drama society relied on me at one time for female leads!’
‘Did he know what they were arguing about?’ I had asked Joanna.
‘Money. The old man muttered something about her always wanting more housekeeping money.’
‘Did Kenneth know where they had lived previously?’
‘I gather he hadn’t liked to ask.’
‘OK,’ Patrick said. ‘This does tend to fit in with your theory that she told tales about what happened, perhaps having threatened whoever worked the scam that she’d go to the police. As you said, she might not have been paid. We’ve just discovered that she can act. As I said, it’s interesting and useful, but that’s all. We’ve still no clue as to the connection between her and the mobsters who appear to be involved. Why didn’t they kill her? I can see that it was useful to get rid of evidence, that is, Archie’s corpse, by blowing up the bungalow, but why not dispose of her at the same time?’ He took a bite from his beef sandwich and chewed gloomily. ‘Come on, put that bloody wonderful imagination of yours to work.’
‘Look, we’re cops, or rather, you are. We’re not writing a crime novel here.’
‘So if you were writing a crime novel, what would the answer be?’
‘If I told you you’d have to verify loads of info, look up records, try to prove masses of things and it would probably come to absolutely nothing.’
Patrick slapped his lunch back on the plate and stared at me. ‘You’ve already worked it out!’
‘Only thought up the plot for a novel.’
‘When?’ he demanded to know.
‘Just now. When you asked why hadn’t they killed her.’
‘For God’s sake, put me out of my misery. Why didn’t they?’
‘Because they’re working for her.’
Ashes to Ashes Page 13
