by Penny Grubb
* * *
The next morning, Sam was fractious. It seemed to Webber that he and Melinda were as bright and friendly with each other as they’d been since before Suzie Harmer’s revelation, but Sam seemed to see through the act.
‘Come on, Sam, have your cereal.’ He rested his palm against the boy’s forehead, wondering if he were sickening for something. If he stayed off playgroup, Mel would cancel her meeting and he’d have to wait to find out who she’d been talking to. It crossed his mind it might be Harmer’s partner, Fiona.
‘Sam!’ Webber leapt back as the cereal bowl flew from the table, cascading milk down the front of his shirt. He saw Melinda grin as Sam banged his fists into a pool of soggy Weetabix and laughed.
‘That’s the way to get Daddy’s attention, Sam. He could see you were miles away. Serves you right.’
Webber pulled off the wet garment, checking that the spillage hadn’t spread to his trousers. ‘Hell, I’m running late as it is.’
Melinda jumped to her feet, reaching to take the shirt from him. ‘Keep an eye on Sam. I’ll get you a clean one.’
He watched her march through to the kitchen, where she clicked on the iron, tossed the wet shirt down and pulled a clean one from a tangle in the dryer. If she was prepared to iron his shirt, she was keen to have him out of the house which meant her meeting was earlier than he’d assumed. He’d planned to call in to work and come back again, but maybe he’d just park up at the top of the road and keep watch.
* * *
As he drove off, Webber clicked his phone to speaker and called in to get an update. ‘Don’t wait for me,’ he said. ‘I’ll be late. Any developments overnight?’
When he heard that Tom Jenkinson’s mother had been over to ID her son’s body the previous evening, he was tempted to leave Melinda to her own devices. It seemed petty to be spying on his own wife when other people were dealing with death in these circumstances. ‘How was she?’ he asked.
‘Holding things together. Nothing like I imagined her to be, if I’m honest. Small, neat, full of talk about Tom and what he’d achieved. It’s a crying shame.’
‘Yes,’ Webber agreed. ‘I suppose she didn’t come clean about whatever contact she’d had with him after we let him go.’
‘Well, no one was pushing her, not in the circs, but no. She was careful to talk as though she’d seen and heard nothing of him for about a week. Lying, of course, but there’s a time and a place for putting the pressure on.’
‘It’ll have to be soon. She might have the key to this. And we have to find out what the hell happened.’
‘Are you thinking blackmail?’
‘Yes.’ Webber eased the car to the side of the road, parking between two other vehicles. Mel wouldn’t spot him from here and he had an unimpeded view of the front of the house. ‘He’s gone back to his mystery man, probably asked for hush money. And they’ve got him up to those lakes.’
‘Why there?’
‘Probably thought we’d lost interest. As far as anyone knows, it was just an old car pulled out.’
‘Why the jacket in the lake?’
‘The way I’m seeing it,’ Webber began, then stopped. ‘Hang on a moment.’
A car had pulled up outside his house. A tall blonde woman sat behind the wheel and he could see a small child in the back. He knew the face. Jo … Jess …? The house door opened and Melinda appeared with Sam. It was one of the mothers from playgroup, but it occurred to him that they must all have had other personas before motherhood took over. Maybe she’d been one of Mel’s colleagues in the job. Then he sat back. She hadn’t come to talk investigations with Mel, she was here to collect Sam. Mel was strapping the boy in the back with the other child. He watched her as she waved the car off, saw her look up the road. He shrank back in his seat, but she wasn’t looking for him. She was expecting a visitor.
‘The way I’m seeing it,’ he repeated as Melinda disappeared indoors, ‘is that he … they … whoever … got Tom Jenkinson to the edge of that foundation pit and hit him on the head so he fell in. No sign of a struggle anywhere nearby. They rearranged the rubble on top of him, but it wouldn’t have been deep enough to cover him completely. You’d disguise a body in bad light, but not that jacket. I think they pulled it off him, bunged some bricks in the pockets and went and hurled it into the gravel pit off that bit of a bridge, never realising it would end up where the car had been. It could well have been blood the diver saw, trapped in the hood. Then they went back to guide the concrete lorry in.’
‘You’re talking like there’s more than one of them.’
Webber blew out a sigh. ‘Yeah, maybe. I don’t know.’
‘And surely he went into the concrete after it was laid, not the other way round.’
‘It’s speculation until we get the official report.’ Webber conceded the point. ‘But I don’t think there was enough depth for his body to have sunk into it, not that thick a mix. I think it went in on top of him, but he was still alive.’ He shivered as he thought of the pathologist’s informal first impressions. I’m pretty sure there’s concrete mix in his airways.
‘Unconscious, I hope, but alive.’ He closed his eyes and felt thankful that nothing Melinda was dabbling in had any involvement with anyone who would do that to another human being. ‘Let me know if there’s anything new,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long.’
He cut the call. Another car had drawn up outside his house. Webber watched intently. Again a lone woman driver, this time no child with her. This wasn’t one of Mel’s playgroup friends. The woman’s hair was neatly styled and silver-grey. He judged her to be in her sixties. The right age for Dr China if Mel was right. She’d told him Pamela Morgan had had a school friend called China Kowalski who surely must be the Dr China who had spoken to Farrar senior. Webber hadn’t contradicted her but the ‘young woman’ of Farrar senior’s account didn’t fit with someone in her sixties. If Farrar’s father was right about the man being Brad Tippet’s son, then maybe the woman had been China Kowalski’s daughter. It was an unusual name and Mel had dug out a link with Pamela Morgan.
He watched as the woman in the car climbed out, straightening her coat. She looked unassuming and harmless enough but Tom Jenkinson’s words played in Webber’s head.
When we get near enough to see, there’s two of them, and it’s a woman driving.
He watched her walk up to the door and ring the bell. After a moment, Mel was there, smiling and letting her in. He realised his fingernails were digging into his palms. He was desperate to race down, to burst back in, to shout at Mel not to trust her, whoever she was.
Who was she? The car registration was clearly visible and he made sure he noted it accurately before he called it in. If he was questioned, he wasn’t sure he could justify it, certainly not if Farrar wouldn’t back him. And if Farrar wanted an excuse to have him directing traffic for the rest of his career, he was handing it to him on a plate, but he had to know.
The name that came back meant nothing. Mrs Joyce Yeatman, 63 years old. Nothing of any interest attached to the car’s details. He reached for the keys and started the engine, pulling out to coast down the road. As he cruised past his house, he peered in through the front window. The tableau was clear. Joyce Yeatman, assuming it was her, sat on the settee cradling a cup. Mel stood by the TV. It wasn’t possible to see anything more but he’d lay bets that Sam’s easel and blackboard were centre stage along with the mirror and its photographs.
He didn’t want to leave Mel alone with this stranger but she’d go off pop if he walked back in on her. His phone rang.
‘I’m on my way,’ he said. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Jenkinson’s mother’s on the warpath now. She’s gone to the local press, the ones who did features on the “Kids with Potential” initiative. We’ve killed her son, all that stuff.’
Webber pursed his lips as he listened to the detail of the alcohol-fuelled tirade that had been unleashed. He couldn’t blame her but it probably meant that
the press would get chapter and verse on whatever Tom had confided to his mother before it came to them. ‘Local press,’ he said. ‘They’ll come to us before they go into print, but we need to get her in.’
‘But that’s not why I rang. I took a call from the Chief Super’s office. He wants to see you. Now.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Webber couldn’t hold back his annoyance. With all that was unfolding, couldn’t Farrar get past Suzie Harmer? ‘What now?’
‘Afraid he didn’t say. I … uh … I didn’t say you hadn’t been in, just said I’d pass on the message.’
‘Thanks.’ Webber ended the call and blew out a sigh. The only bright spot was that from here, he wasn’t far away and would have appeared to answer Farrar’s summons very promptly. He turned the car and drove past the house again. Mel had her back to the window. The woman sitting on the sofa looked benign. Again his fists clenched as every instinct screamed at him not to leave Mel on her own with this stranger. With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, he drove away.
* * *
Webber walked towards the familiar entrance way, wondering if Farrar’s gaze was on him from an upstairs window. Inside, he listened to the swell of conversation as he closed on the big office, trying to work out if Suzie Harmer’s tones were in amongst the throng. He walked through, gathering a handful of absent nods of recognition.
Farrar’s office door was ajar. Voices. Farrar’s and a female whose tone was familiar but not Suzie. He knocked and stepped inside.
Farrar’s expression was hard but Webber didn’t think he was the focus. ‘Ah, Martyn. Come in.’ Yes, the tone was normal. Farrar waved his arm in an indeterminate gesture. ‘You know each other.’
Webber looked at the woman in the chair. It took a second to recognise her. He’d only ever seen her as an image on a screen. Out of context here, outside her lab, she looked different. She wore a tailored suit not a white coat or overalls. He had no idea of her name and couldn’t remember if he was supposed to know so didn’t ask.
Farrar moved behind his desk and slumped into his chair, waving Webber to sit down and then pointing at the woman. ‘Tell him,’ he said.
Webber stared from one to the other of them. Farrar’s tone was almost despairing.
‘I’ve ID’d your body,’ the woman said. ‘From the boot of the car.’
‘A bit of lateral thinking apparently,’ Farrar said. Webber felt something like disapproval coming at him.
‘Who is it?’ Lateral thinking’s good, he wanted to add, especially if it’s got us an ID. He looked back at the woman. Here was someone who dealt in facts, who savoured the solidity of hard evidence. But she wasn’t happy now. He read uncertainty in her face, and could see that uncertainty was uncomfortable territory for her.
‘I’ve checked and double checked,’ she said to Farrar.
‘So you say.’ His tone was dry.
‘Who is it?’ Webber asked again.
She pulled in a deep breath. ‘The DNA we took from the plastic sheeting … And bear in mind that it was a body that was wrapped up, no severed head, no survivable injury nonsense.’
Webber nodded. She spoke as though he’d asked the question. He wanted to give her a shake and say, get on with it.
‘The DNA …’ She spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘It’s an exact match for your guy who was killed by tigers, Mr Robert Morgan.’
CHAPTER 12
‘It can’t be,’ said Webber. His mind ran over the exchanges he’d had with this woman; her devotion to forensic science. She’d been trying out some new toy and it wasn’t as good as she thought it was. He recalled the reports she’d sent him on Robert Morgan. ‘What are you comparing against? They cremated what was left of him.’
‘Histology slides,’ she said. ‘I used to work for the man who did the analyses at the time. That’s where I got the report I sent you. I don’t know why I thought of it. Well, to be honest, I didn’t. I was pleased with what we got from that plastic, that material was pretty well degraded, and I wanted to try again with something as old. It just occurred to me your tiger guy died at about the same time, so I asked if I could have some samples.’
‘Degraded material,’ Webber said. ‘We know it can’t be an exact match. Are you saying it’s a relative?’
She gave him a hard stare. ‘I’m saying it’s a match. I got full profiles from both sets of samples near enough. The mud had preserved the ones from the car and the slides had been properly stored. If it’s a relative, we’re talking identical twins.’
The connection sparked in Webber’s head. ‘Quintets!’ He sat upright, looking expectantly at Farrar. ‘Is that what that quintets business was about?’
‘Quintets?’ Farrar returned his stare blankly. ‘Do you mean quintuplets? Why would you think that?’
Tripping mentally on his error, Webber ran through a lightning reconstruction. Farrar had no idea he’d interviewed his father. The quintets comment didn’t exist in the paperwork. He would have to come clean about his trip to the wilds of East Yorkshire. Or would he? He’d sent Farrar a written report on Pamela Morgan. Farrar had deleted it unread. ‘Uh … the word she used was quintets. The woman who originally approached your father. Apparently that’s what she said; something about quintets. It didn’t make any sense at the time, but …’
‘It’s not making much sense now, Martyn.’
‘The warehouse where Morgan died is still there.’ The lab woman broke in.
‘You won’t get forensics from the scene after all this time.’ Farrar’s tone was dismissive.
‘No, no, of course not. It was in use as some sort of commercial garage for years, then for storage, but it hasn’t been pulled down or anything. It’s probably pretty much the same as it was 30 years ago.’
Webber sat back. She’d already started making enquiries and wanted to go racing down south to check out the crime scene; chase the mystery. Shades of Mel and her surreptitious investigation, only this woman wanted to do it on his budget. ‘There’ll be nothing left to find after 30 years,’ he said, knowing that whilst it was probably true, if the investigation were to be reopened officially, then walking the scene would be top of the list. ‘Nothing you can’t get from photographs. If there’s anything to uncover, it’ll be in the case files or it won’t be anywhere.’
‘But I can go back to the original forensics and check them out, can I?’ Her voice was eager.
‘I didn’t say that.’ Webber closed his eyes for a second, trying to make sense out of this development. If Robert Morgan were one of quintuplets, he couldn’t believe the news reports had failed to mention it. Twins weren’t so newsworthy, but why had Dr China talked about quintets? It had to be identical twins or the forensics were at fault. The former was easily checked. He caught Farrar’s eye. ‘We’re going to have to take a look at this. That blasted gravel pit! It’s been like a magnet for bad news these last few weeks.’
He saw Farrar glance at the woman, who now sat, eyes unfocussed. Planning her hyper expensive retesting of a 30-yearold crime, Webber supposed. He felt trapped by this turn of events. Whatever had happened to Robert Morgan or to any identical sibling, it had happened 30 years ago. He wanted to see a way to leave it dead and buried, but it had begun to resonate with recent events. He could see no option but to allow the woman to review the original forensics. He knew she must be wrong, but he was going to have to pay for her to prove it.
‘I’ll get Davis on to Robert Morgan,’ he said. ‘Find out about his family. I’d like you to recheck that match. I know, I know …’ He forestalled the objection she began to make. ‘You’ve done all that, but do it again before you take a look at anything else. Someone’s wrong somewhere along the way.’
After she had left, Farrar turned to Webber. ‘What are you thinking, Martyn?’
‘I’m thinking I want this mess unravelled as soon as possible. There’s enough going on without diverting resources into 30-year-old crimes. I want to talk to Brad Tippet’s
son. And while I’m at it, I’d like a word with the woman who spoke to your father last May.’
‘Do you know who it was?’
‘Possibly the daughter of one of Pamela Morgan’s old school friends, a woman called China Kowalski.’ He watched for any sign of recognition from Farrar. Nothing.
‘Anyone else?’
Webber thought about Joyce Yeatman sitting on the settee in his own living room, but he shook his head. ‘Not for now.’
‘This stays under wraps, Martyn,’ said Farrar. ‘If we’re dealing with mix and match bodies, let’s get some answers before the press scrum starts.’
* * *
Back home that night, Webber found all Melinda’s focus on Sam who had returned from playgroup with a streaming nose and mild temperature. It took Webber a while to identify the cause of his own unease as he sat with the boy on his knee. It was only a minor virus from which he was already looking brighter. But as Melinda bustled through from the kitchen with Sam’s favourite juice, he realised that it wasn’t his son’s illness that was worrying him. Quite the reverse. His and Melinda’s united front had been genuine, their differences buried in the uncharacteristic whining of their child. His unease was guilt at finding an upside to Sam’s discomfort.
Sam had never been much of a crier. He rubbed the boy’s back, watching as he reached forward and closed his fists round the plastic handles of the cup Mel held out to tempt him.
‘I’ll give him another dose of Calpol,’ she said.
Webber nodded, catching her eye and smiling. ‘He’s looking better than he was.’
She smiled back, just as though nothing was wrong between them, as she lifted Sam from his knee. He saw her pause. It was momentary. He wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been watching for it. For a while, there had been no Suzie Harmer between them. As they disappeared upstairs, Webber moved to clear the plates and pick up Sam’s toys before clicking on the kettle and preparing coffee. He wanted information from Melinda and didn’t want any routine household chores in the way as an excuse for her to avoid him.
