by Penny Grubb
Davis, watching from behind the scenes, probably thought Webber was losing it, letting Tippet off the hook, but it wasn’t the car he was interested in. It was the aftermath. He leant forward, met Tippet’s eye and injected puzzlement into his tone. ‘It’s not the car theft that’s important to me after all this time, it’s the robbery. And there’s one thing I’m struggling with, Mr Tippet … Uh …’ He stopped as though unsure whether or not to go on.
Tippet sat upright. ‘I’m a law-abiding citizen, Superintendent. I don’t know what I can tell you that you don’t already know. My car was used in the robbery, of course, but that was after it was stolen.’
‘Didn’t you know one of the men involved?’
‘I did not!’ Tippet’s indignation was real.
Webber reached out and pulled the Dictaphone towards him, deliberately clicking the switch to turn it off. Tippet watched and gave him a questioning glance.
‘Something that puzzles me,’ Webber murmured. ‘Why would Chief Superintendent Farrar have told me you knew one of the brothers?’
Tippet glanced again at the machine on the table. Webber lowered his voice further. ‘Something you might not be aware of, Mr Tippet. Last May your son contacted John Farrar’s father.’ Tippet gasped. Webber saw the blood drain from his face. ‘He’s not in any trouble,’ Webber reassured him, ‘but he’s rather put the cat amongst the pigeons. I’d like to know what’s behind it if I’m to damp things down.’
Tippet pulled in a breath. ‘It’s nothing to do with Bradley,’ he whispered. ‘It’s my fault for things I’ve said in front of him. I thought this was all behind us.’
‘What’s all behind you? What happened?’
‘I won’t say this on the record.’ Tippet glanced at the Dictaphone then fixed Webber with a hard stare, ‘but I caught Mr Farrar out early in his career and he’s never forgiven me. He was determined to involve me in that robbery.’
Webber tried and failed to envisage circumstances in which Tippet got the best of Farrar. OK, he would pursue that in a moment. Let the man stew for a while. ‘So you didn’t know any of the perpetrators?’
‘Three brothers, wasn’t it? The eldest went to the same school I did, but no, I never knew him. He was two years ahead of me. I wish I’d never known anyone from that lot, but I never knew him at all.’
‘Who did you know that you wished you didn’t?’ Webber felt his way carefully. That lot? Was Tippet about to disclose some kind of relationship with another of the brothers?
‘One of them married Tina, my older sister,’ he said. ‘I knew it was a disaster from the off. He married her for money and two years later she was dead.’
‘Your sister? I’m sorry … Who did she marry?’ The original enquiry couldn’t have missed the marriage of Tippet’s sibling to one of the robbers. And what was that about money? The proceeds of the raid had never resurfaced.
‘A man called Michael Drake.’ Distaste suffused Tippet’s face as he spoke the name.
‘And who was he in relation to the men who stole your car?’
‘He was in the same year as the eldest brother. Like I said, I wish we’d never had dealings with anyone from that lot. Not that Drake and his ilk would have had anything to do with that family, far too lah-di-dah. Or so he liked to think. The obsessive type. Idolised Charlie Sheen, can you imagine? That’s how he drew my sister in.’
‘When did they marry?’
‘1974.’
Webber shelved his embryo theory of a link between Tina Tippet’s money and the proceeds from the crime. The robbery had taken place twelve years later. And the Tippet family finances had been under the spotlight. There wasn’t any money. This sounded more like a manufactured grudge.
‘That would have been a bit before Charlie Sheen’s era, wouldn’t it?’ he said.
‘They married the year Sheen first appeared on the big screen in The Execution of Private Slovik.’
Webber nodded, no idea if this was accurate. He’d never heard of the film. It was Tippet who came across as the triviacollecting obsessive. ‘You say Drake married your sister for money. Was she very wealthy?’
Tippet gave an irritable shrug. ‘Of course not, but why else would he marry her?’ Tippet’s disapproval of his sister’s suitor shone brightly and irrationally from across the decades. Webber knew he was heading into a dead end.
‘Apparently your son mentioned quintets. What would he have meant by that?’
‘I’ve no idea!’
Webber wondered if the denial had come too quickly, but Tippet was still tight-lipped over his ex-brother-in-law. He mustn’t start to read reactions that weren’t there. Farrar senior hadn’t been certain who had made the quintets comments.
He lowered his voice again to emphasise the charade of a confidential exchange. ‘What did Farrar do? You said you’d caught him out.’
Tippet’s glance shot left and right as though to check for eavesdroppers. Webber had an idea he was relieved at the change of subject. ‘I told him everything,’ he hissed. ‘Everything. Drake, Tina. He was there to take my statement about the car and I told him about the murder of my sister. What’s more important, Superintendent, a car or a person’s life?’
Webber nodded sympathetically.
‘He did nothing,’ Tippet went on, his words laden with venom. ‘Nothing! He chased after a car and abandoned a murdered woman. I’ve never forgotten and he knew I’d never forget. I could drag his name through the mud anytime I wanted to. If it weren’t that Tina isn’t here to defend herself I’d do it tomorrow.’
In Tippet’s voice, Webber heard the seam of irrationality with which he’d talked about his brother-in-law. It was nothing. Mountains from molehills. Old grudges gone bitter over the years. The only thing of any interest was the time of the car theft and Tippet pretending not to know. And now in order to cover all the bases, he would have to chase up yet another decades-old death, Tina Tippet / Drake. He looked at the man opposite, took in the spiteful gleam. Tippet thought he’d reeled in an ally against his long-time foe. Even if he’d had anything on Farrar, he would never have made a move. He was the sort who manufactured the bullets for others to fire while he watched from a safe distance. Webber didn’t like him, but if Tippet had reached the age of 58 and still believed in ‘off-the-record’ inside a police interview room he was probably the innocent he purported to be. He pocketed the Dictaphone and stood up. ‘Inspector Davis will come and take some details. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr Tippet.’
‘My pleasure, Superintendent.’ Tippet gave him a conspiratorial smile as he proffered his hand.
Davis entered almost at once, flicking open a notebook highlighting the lie that no one had been listening. Tippet didn’t seem to notice. ‘Let’s start with your sister’s details, Mr Tippet. What’s her full name?’
As Webber left, he heard Tippet say, ‘Quintina Tippet. Well, Drake when she died, of course. We always called her Tina.’
Quintina? Webber thought back to the puzzlement in Donald Farrar’s tone as he’d repeated the overheard comment. Poor Quinny. Maybe Quinny wasn’t Pamela Morgan but Tina Tippet.
* * *
Back in his office he pulled out the email address Mel had given him for China Kowalski. Using it, and the name, a simple search found her. Dr China Kowalski BSc MBA PhD worked in the science and technology cluster of the Mara University of Technology in Selangor, Malaysia. He found a brief professional bio that said nothing about her family or personal life.
What did he want to ask her? He framed a careful question around her daughter’s approach to John Farrar’s father last May. Being deliberately vague on substance he implied that he knew more than he did; he mentioned Quintina Tippet and Pamela Morgan. Then with some careful rewording, he managed to tag on, ‘and the quintets of course,’ leaving the reference ambiguous. If it weren’t for the official signature, it was an enquiry that invited unthinking deletion as spam, and that might be its fate. But if any of the phrases chimed with her, she’d
surely check with her daughter. Though it might be her niece or some other relation. He hesitated and then wove a little more ambiguity into his queries. The only clear message he wanted to convey was that he knew everything there was to know, so there was no point in hiding anything. If she responded saying she hadn’t a clue what he was talking about, there’d be little he could do about it, but if she swallowed the lie he hoped she’d chase up the detail and unwittingly leak it back to him. He read through what he’d written, felt some misgivings, but sent it on its way.
That done, he opened the report on Gary Yeatman’s death and began to read. When he’d finished he leant back in his chair wondering what to make of it. Joyce Yeatman had lied to Melinda. Her husband’s death was recorded as suicide.
Chapter 14
As Webber pulled up outside home he could see Melinda quarter profile towards the back of the living room. She hadn’t seen him. Her focus was on something out of sight and he saw her lips move as she spoke. Her demeanour told him it was Sam who was the target of whatever she was saying. As he watched, he saw her laugh, and felt his brow crease as though at a sudden pain. He’d been weighing up how honest he could be about the Yeatman woman and everything else that was going on. He desperately wanted to tell her everything; to trust her unconditionally and rely on her discretion not to get him into trouble. How else would he win back her trust? He’d promised to help with her informal enquiry about Pamela Morgan, and though he hadn’t meant it at the time, it was something he could do wholeheartedly, something that might help them find a way past the stupid Harmer bitch.
She ducked out of sight as he climbed from the car. When he looked again, she’d seen him. Sam was in her arms grinning and flapping one chubby fist. As he waved back, he felt oddly as though on the verge of tears. Shaking the sensation out of his head he went in to greet them, taking advantage of her holding Sam to embrace them both.
‘Had a good day?’ He aimed the question at his son, but realised he was anxious to hear her answer.
Sam chattered back at him. ‘Da boy … oy … oy …’ stringing out the word, as though stretching elastic. ‘Da book …’ He tipped himself over Melinda’s arm to point down at the heap of toys on the carpet.
Webber bent to retrieve the picture book. No, your day, he wanted to say to Melinda. I want to know what you’ve been doing. She wouldn’t believe him if he said it. What Mel got up to while he was at work had always felt intangible and to do with babies and mothers at playgroup. Suddenly it had become real. Life hadn’t stopped for her when Sam came along. It had just changed.
‘Da book!’ Sam pushed away the offering with such a fierce stare that Webber couldn’t hold back a laugh.
Mel smiled, too, and said dryly, ‘Wrong one. Try Thomas the Tank Engine.’
‘gine … gine … gine …’ Sam confirmed, snatching the book from Webber’s hand.
‘Gently, Sam,’ said Melinda.
Out of nowhere Webber remembered an overheard snippet, Mel and one of the women who’d become part of her new world.
… no, the wife’s usually the only grown-up in the family … laughter …
He couldn’t remember if it had been Mel speaking, but if so it hadn’t occurred to him she might have included their own relationship. And now they were poised at the lip of a precipice, held by a flimsy glass barrier that might shatter in an instant. He wanted to tell her he’d turned a corner … grown up … realised how stupid he’d been, it would all be different from now on, but to say that would be to admit to past sins in the hope of forgiveness and at least he was grown up enough to know that wasn’t the way it worked.
Thank heavens for Pamela Morgan. Thank heavens for China Kowalski’s daughter and her bizarre approach to Donald Farrar. At the moment it was all he had to hold a solid link between him and Mel. Telling her about Gary Yeatman wasn’t just a matter of showing trust; he was scared for her. She was being reckless to prove a point. He wanted her to be cautious. Joyce Yeatman might look harmless but who could say what secrets she held.
He tipped his thumb towards the stacked boards. ‘Anything new?’
She glanced up meeting his gaze for a second before turning back to Sam. All he could read was that everything remained in the balance. After an uncomfortable pause, she said, ‘John’s father … you said he’d talked about quintets. What was that about?’
‘It was just the word, quintets. I don’t know why he picked up on it, and nor did he. Why do you ask?’ He thought back to his talk with Tippet, his momentary certainty that the word quintets had sparked a reaction.
‘Mentioned by Tippet’s son or by China Kowalski?’ she asked.
‘He wasn’t sure. And … uh …’
‘What?’ She set Sam on the floor amongst his toys, where he slammed the book down and grabbed Webber’s trouser leg pulling himself to his feet and holding out his arms, his lower lip beginning to wobble.
‘I don’t think it can have been China Kowalski,’ he said as he crouched down with Sam and pulled building bricks at random from the pile, stacking them to half a dozen high before Sam lunged to topple them with a delighted shriek. ‘I think it’s more likely it was her daughter. John’s father described her as a young woman. Kowalski would be in her 60s by now.’
‘I didn’t know she had a daughter.’ He saw Melinda frown as she took this in.
‘I don’t know for certain, but it’s an unusual first name and there’s some kind of link. I think it’s likely.’
‘Have you found out anything about her?’
‘I’ve emailed her, but I haven’t heard back. I didn’t get to it till late in the day and it turns out she works in Malaysia. She’s about six hours ahead of us. Hopefully there’ll be a reply in the morning.’
‘So you don’t have anything new for me?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ He concentrated on stacking a new tower for Sam to demolish. He’d heard the hint of a challenge in her tone. She’d found something and hadn’t decided whether or not to tell him. She was going to trade information. But Joyce Yeatman could have ulterior motives. He had to regain her trust. She needed to be telling him her plans in advance, not keeping him guessing. ‘I checked on Gary Yeatman,’ he said. ‘I was going to wait until Sam’s down.’
One hand gripping a tower of coloured blocks, protecting it from Sam’s determined fists, he looked up at her. Her gaze rested on Sam for a moment before she met his eye, her glance speculative. ‘OK,’ she said and turned on her heel to head for the kitchen.
After they’d eaten, Webber carried his son upstairs. Mel had said nothing about what she might have uncovered, but he assumed it was to do with the quintets comment. As he lowered Sam into the shallow bath water, his mind created words from the floating letters of the waterproof alphabet. Dread and peril swirled around before Webber swept his hands through the rubber squares creating a mini tsunami that Sam slapped down with his palms. It wasn’t until he carried the boy, warm, dry and encased in thick pyjamas, through to his bedroom that Sam began to grizzle. In the aftermath of his cold he was clingy for Melinda. Webber half turned towards the stairs to call out to her, then stopped. It was his job to read people, to keep a step ahead, to wheedle them to his way of thinking. If a boy Sam’s age could outpace him, he’d have no chance with Mel. It was all a matter of trust. Trust and concentration. He picked up the bedtime book and emptied his mind of everything except the rhythm of the rhymes as he paced back and forth. Sam’s head lolled against his shoulder as sleep crept up, then snapped upright to twist round looking for Mel. Webber traced his finger round the pictures intoning the hypnotic words again and again as Sam fought to stay awake.
It took half an hour and as he made his way down, stretching the cramp from his right arm, it occurred to Webber that Sam had proved a harder nut to crack than Brad Tippet.
Melinda had made coffee. He sank into the chair and picked up his cup. ‘Why did you ask about the quintets thing?’ he said.
‘Nothing much.’ A pause. ‘You
said you’d looked up something about Gary Yeatman.’
He could tell from her tone that she expected a stand-off. Him to refuse the information until she told him what she’d found. But that wasn’t the way to get her talking to him properly. ‘Yes, I got the reports on his accident. The thing is, Mel, it’s not recorded as an accident.’ That caught her attention; he saw her gaze snap to his face. ‘It’s recorded as a suicide.’
She stared at him open-mouthed then turned to the window, her brow furrowed in thought. ‘It was a car accident. Why suicide?’
‘He was in some kind of financial difficulty. There was a reference to a note. And yes, I’ve sent for the full file.’ He raised his crossed fingers. ‘Let’s hope no one wants to know why I want it.’
‘But that’s … Why would she lie to me?’
He didn’t answer. She knew as well as he did that people were secretive about suicide for a whole range of reasons, guilt, shame, religion …
‘So we’ve an accident that’s a suicide and a suicide that’s a murder,’ she said.
‘We don’t know that. Your best bet would be to get Joyce Yeatman to show you Pamela Morgan’s note. Could you persuade her?’
She blew out a sigh. ‘She’s cagey. Sort of wants to know but doesn’t, if you know what I mean. I don’t want to push her or she’ll just back off.’
‘How often have you met her? Do you have another meeting planned?’ As he spoke, he found himself tracing his finger around the dragon-tail pattern on his coffee cup. These were the cups he’d found out that time he’d brought Ahmed back here.
He became aware that Melinda’s gaze was following the movement of his hand. ‘She’s never been here when Sam’s around. Only when he’s been at playgroup.’
The defensiveness in her tone came as a surprise, but at the same time it reassured him. She’d sensed enough of a potential threat to keep Sam out of the way. He smiled. ‘I’m impressed that you found her at all, that you’ve got as far as you have. But I’ve not seen anything yet that says it wasn’t as straightforward as the coroner said it was.’
