by Penny Grubb
‘Where do I go from here? You said you’d help me, Martyn. What do I do next? You’re the detective. I’ve never been near a cold case before. I can list reasons in favour of one or the other.’ She pointed to the board with its suicide/murder lists. ‘But I’m not managing to rule stuff in or out, well, not enough to make any headway.’
‘You need that note,’ he said again. He wished that Joyce Yeatman would hand it over. Mel might not have thought it through this way, but if the note had convinced a coroner, it would probably convince her.
‘I know, but she’s being precious about it. I’m in no position to make demands.’
‘Reel her in slowly, Mel. You know how to get round a witness. Chip away at her. You’ll get there.’
‘Martyn, suppose it was shown not to be suicide …’ She held up her hand to forestall an objection he hadn’t been going to make. ‘Just bear with me. Just say it looks like murder after all. What’s your next move?’
‘I’d probably go and see if Davis had fallen asleep on the job again.’
‘Why?’ She looked at him blankly.
‘Because I’d want an excuse to swear at someone. It’s a 15-year-old case, Mel. It wasn’t treated as suspicious at the time so no one was out gathering evidence. No photos, no statements worth anything. Certainly no forensic after all this time.’ His train of thought stalled for a moment on the image of the woman from the lab. I’m saying it’s a match! Not a peep out of her since yesterday morning. He wondered if she’d turn up in person to tell them she’d got it wrong. No, that message would come by email. If she came in person it would be because she was right. ‘Suspects,’ he said to Melinda. ‘I’d be looking for suspects, anyone who was around at the time.’ He pulled forward the second board and wrote the word Suspects in the middle.
‘For starters, the bastards who killed her husband,’ she said. ‘When did they get out?’
He wrote Tiger guys on to the diagram. ‘I haven’t checked up on their release dates. Be fair, Mel …’ He reacted to a tightening of her lips. ‘We just pulled a lad’s body out at those gravel pits. I haven’t had a lot of time. I’ll try, but there ought to be a paper trail in the public domain. Who else?’ He wrote Known associates, and added Joyce Yeatman’s name.
‘How’s she a suspect?’ Mel said. ‘Why would she have agreed to talk to me if she’d done it?’
‘How better to find out exactly how close you’d got to the truth?’ He watched her take in his words, pleased to have given her a solid reason to be wary of the woman. ‘China Kowalski and her daughter,’ he went on. ‘That gives you links to the old school network, Gary Yeatman and whoever else.’
‘Gary Yeatman died twelve years before Pamela,’ Melinda said. ‘I think even you’ll allow that as a watertight alibi. But doesn’t China Kowalski’s daughter provide a link to Brad Tippet?’
He nodded and added Brad and Bradley, encircling their names and drawing a line to where he’d written Suspects, then enclosing Kowalski’s daughter and Bradley Tippet’s names in square brackets. ‘Probably too young to be viable suspects 15 years ago,’ he explained. ‘But they give us the links.’ He added a final bubble labelled Other, and sat back. ‘Person or persons unknown. Could be anyone. And none of this means anything if the coroner got it right. We’re back with the note.’
‘How would you find out about these people after all this time?’
‘Work out who was around when she died. We know Joyce Yeatman was. Maybe Kowalski, too, back then. Tippet never moved from the area.’ He thought it through. He’d be out looking for friends of friends, the people this lot had been close to at the time. People invariably incriminated themselves somewhere along the way and when it was something big like a murder it was their friends and lovers who were the key, and it was usually all that was left to work with at this distance. But he didn’t want Mel out chasing those sorts of leads. ‘If it had been a murder enquiry,’ he said, ‘there’d be statements and alibis to recheck, but it wasn’t. Your best bet is still the note.’ She nodded, her gaze fixed on the spider diagram he’d created. ‘Mel …?’
She looked up.
‘Why did you ask me about the quintets comment?’
‘Yes, that was odd. I let the word drop out when I was talking to Joyce … What?’
He hadn’t intended to react visibly but her comment had brought a clash of emotions, partly relief that she was telling him openly, but … ‘Mel, please be careful what you say to her. If this were to turn into anything and she pops up knowing stuff she shouldn’t …’ He didn’t need to spell it out, hoped she wouldn’t clam up again.
She looked mildly annoyed; he couldn’t guess whether at herself or him. ‘Yeah, OK.’ She bit off the words and took in a breath. ‘Anyway, Joyce repeated it. Quintets. Asked me what I meant. I didn’t tell her anything, I played dumb, but she said it rang a bell with something Gary had said. He’d had a row with someone once and the word had stuck in her mind, but it was all a long time ago. She said she had no idea what it was about.’
Webber worked it backwards. Gary Yeatman had died 20 years ago. It was a long time for an unconnected word to stick in someone’s mind. He was about to say so when Melinda stood up and clacked the boards together, carrying them to their corner. ‘By the way,’ her voice had hardened, ‘I spoke to Fiona today.’
His insides hollowed out. They’d been relaxed and talking for … he glanced at the clock … way longer than he’d realised. She’d trusted him with her snippet of information from the Yeatman woman. And in that one phrase the bridge between them had collapsed like the unstable towers he’d been building for Sam.
‘She said they don’t want your name on the birth certificate.’ Her expression was hard, closed.
He suppressed a sudden hope that they’d decided the child wasn’t his; not wanting to show emotion until he knew what emotion Mel wanted him to show.
‘I told her no admission of paternity, no support. And if they want to fight through the courts fine, but that’s how it is. She told me they didn’t want us to have any involvement with the child, bar financial.’
‘Well … let’s not rule that one out.’ Webber tested the waters. Not to be involved suited him just fine.
‘That’ll be our decision, not theirs,’ she snapped, turning her back and marching through to the kitchen.
At least she’d said ours, thought Webber, though he knew she meant it would be her decision and not Suzie’s. He imagined the result of the negotiation carried back to Suzie who would be livid, but Melinda had manoeuvred both biological parents out of the equation. He felt an unexpected fellow feeling with the dour Fiona. She’d have a hard time with Suzie.
He stood up and crossed the room to put his phone on charge. As he clicked in the lead, it beeped a new email. For the second time that evening he sent up a silent prayer of thanks for the existence of a woman he’d never met.
‘Email from China Kowalski,’ he called out.
Melinda hurried through, drying her hands on a tea towel. ‘What does she say?’ The sour note was gone from her tone. She was bright, interested again.
‘Haven’t looked yet.’ He clicked the icons to open the mail, holding the phone where she could see it, showing that he wasn’t trying to check before showing her. ‘She’s up and about early,’ he commented. ‘It can’t be 5 a.m. where she is.’
China Kowalski declared herself surprised to receive his mail, saying it had arrived just in time as she was setting out on a research trip where she would have no internet connection. She was pleased the matter had been taken seriously, adding, I couldn’t have spoken out sooner, I didn’t know about her.
‘Know about who?’ said Melinda. ‘Pamela Morgan?’
Webber shrugged and shook his head.
I’m sorry if it’s caused you any trouble, Kowalski wrote. I wasn’t expecting you to identify me. The policeman’s father must have been sharper than he looked. But there’s nothing more I can tell you. And Brad’s son doesn’t kn
ow anything. I simply used him because of the history. It was the best I could think of at the time.
‘Does this make any sense to you?’ Melinda asked.
‘Not really.’ He scrolled to the next paragraph.
I don’t know whose daughter you mean. Neither Pamela nor I had children.
‘If she doesn’t have a daughter, was it her who met John’s father?’
‘That seems to be what she’s saying.’
He checked that Melinda had read to the bottom of the small screen, then scrolled down again. There were just two more sentences before China Kowalski’s formal signature.
It’s nothing to do with the quintets. They were dead and buried a long time ago.
Chapter 15
The next morning, Webber watched as Davis called his team together. He leant back against the narrow window ledge, early morning light streaming through behind him, showing the figures around the table in stark relief, and making him all but invisible to them in the glare of the low winter sun. The dynamics of the group interested him. He wanted to see them engaged and working together. It was a weird tangle of cases that needed sharp minds and no shortcuts. His misgivings about Davis had largely eased. The man looked haggard but then he probably hadn’t worked this hard in years. He was on the ball though, and keeping his team up to scratch which was all Webber asked. Almost all. He wanted positives on the case as well, and was pleased to hear progress being reported.
Persistent pursuit of every lead had finally set them on the track of the elusive mate of Jenkinson’s. He existed after all. An old Scarborough connection, but not the sort they’d expected. A young man who’d been plucked out of hopeless circumstances in Hull and dropped into the ‘Kids with Potential’ initiative a few months before Jenkinson. He’d seemed a perfect candidate at the time but his Hull address had had to be dealt with because the grants were rigidly postcode dependent. He’d moved in with an aunt in Scarborough, though he hadn’t spent much time there as far as anyone knew. Like Jenkinson, he’d hit adolescence and been expected to use low level crime to become the family breadwinner. Getting hapless parents to stand on their own feet had all been part of the support network. Somewhere along the way he’d met Jenkinson but the only evidence for that was that they’d been together in York. It didn’t nullify the theory that Jenkinson had had higher level dealings with an organised crime ring, but Webber hoped it was a step along the way.
‘We just had the lass from downstairs at the flats to start with,’ Davis said. ‘She’s identifying him as having been a regular visitor those last few weeks. We wanted independent corroboration,’ He glanced towards Webber, ‘because it seems that Jenkinson and the lass’d had some sort of relationship. She says it was nothing, but there’s always the worry of payback when you’re dealing with exes. Anyway, we have our corroboration. CCTV from the end of the road.’
‘Which is interesting in itself,’ someone else put in, ‘because of the times and the route. Coming to Jenkinson’s flat from that way is pretty tortuous, but it avoids the main cameras.’
‘And once we had photos to tout about, we got a tutor who saw the guy hook up with Jenkinson outside a lecture.’
‘That’s not all we had from that camera,’ Davis said. ‘We might have a sniff at the mystery man too. We’ve a witness who saw Jenkinson with a second guy, no detail but he clocked a distinctive walk, and we have similar on one stretch of footage. The stills are crap and we’re trying to get the pictures enhanced.’
Webber heard the phone ring from his office and let out a sigh, pretty sure it would be a conversation he’d rather not have. Not only was Tom Jenkinson’s mother raising Cain, but Arthur Trent’s family too. Understandably, they wanted his body for burial, but despite nothing untoward having shown up at the post-mortem, Webber would not authorise the release before he had comprehensive toxicology results.
He pushed himself away from the window and went to answer it.
* * *
By mid-morning the day was developing into a series of frustrations and annoyances. The only bright spot had been Davis putting his head round the door to report that Jenkinson’s mate had been picked up in Hull. Webber, who was on the phone, had given him a thumbs up but missed the detail. A later call had brought a report from Scarborough. Ahmed losing his rag, having to be pulled up by the sergeant there. That was a genuine worry. Ahmed had been in some sticky situations in his career, but he’d never lost the plot. The whole Jenkinson business was getting to him and if things weren’t calmed down this was the sort of path that could lead to disaster for a promising career. He’d hate to see Ahmed throw everything away and wondered if he could find an excuse to bring him to York.
Hanging over him was the forceful warning he’d felt obliged to dole out that morning before he’d left home.
‘Steer clear of the Tippets. Don’t go near them. They’re potentially involved in another case.’
To have revealed the forensic detail about the car would have been a step too far, but in terms of the cat and mouse game between them, it had become a huge step backwards because he was openly withholding information. Her rational self wouldn’t have asked him to do it differently, but it didn’t stop her milking it, and it didn’t stop him feeling bad about it.
When he finally escaped his desk and went to look for more detail on Jenkinson’s mate, he found the place all but deserted. As they were out chasing the various leads from this morning’s briefing, he couldn’t complain, but felt frustration at the number of loose ends that flapped without order or promise of closure. Leafing idly through a heap of files, he caught Suzie Harmer’s name on a list. His lips tightened. The sooner she was gone on her maternity leave, the better.
He paused. Who was going to cover for her? He thought of Ahmed in Scarborough. The perfect opportunity. Ahmed to step up to acting sergeant and come to York for however many weeks … months it would be. He would have to float the idea in a way that Farrar wouldn’t veto.
He turned back to his office. He could call Farrar ostensibly to brief him on the latest developments, to test the water and see if things had settled enough for normal interaction.
He hadn’t quite made up his mind when the phone rang an internal call.
‘Martyn, there’s a woman just come in. Says she’s Arthur Trent’s sister-in-law. She wants to speak to someone.’
‘What state’s she in?’
‘Quiet … Calm.’
He cast around for an excuse. He didn’t want to do this, not now, but in the circumstances, he shouldn’t palm her off on someone else. ‘OK, I’ll come down.’
A coffee would be welcome. If she didn’t look the sort of blow up and create mayhem, he’d take her up the road to the café.
* * *
The woman cradled her tea as Webber sat down opposite her. He’d chosen a table in the window, away from the other customers who had huddled into the back of the shop away from the draught by the door. All she’d said was, ‘I want a word about Arthur,’ and had agreed to his suggestion of a chat over a hot drink.
‘They’re very upset,’ she said now. ‘They can’t understand why they can’t have him back.’
This woman wasn’t a blood relation to Arthur Trent but she’d known him well. He intended taking this chance to do a bit of digging.
‘He had a car accident,’ she went on. ‘It’s tragic but it’s not uncommon. What’s the delay?’
‘I’m just waiting for the final lab reports. Some of these tests take time.’
She looked him in the eye. ‘What’s the problem? Are you saying it wasn’t an accident?’
‘No, I’m not saying that.’ Webber chose his words carefully. ‘But I want to be sure. If there was more to it, you’d want to know, wouldn’t you?’
‘Of course.’ She nodded.
‘Tell me about Arthur. What was he like? How long had you known him?’
She gave a small laugh. ‘I married his brother almost twenty years ago. Arthur was … a good man. A
good family man. Nothing out of the ordinary to most people, but …’
‘He’d been in that job a good many years, I believe.’
‘That’s right. It suited him. He liked to be out and about, not stuck indoors.’
‘One of his last deliveries …’ Webber watched her as he spoke. ‘He took concrete to a site where they’re putting up wind turbines.’
She nodded, accepting his assertion.
‘Would he have had reason to take a detour on the way to the delivery? I mean, if he did, why would that be?’
‘No, of course not. He was a good man. He’d done that job for a long time. He’d never have done anything like that. I mean if he was going to call at home or something, it’d be for an emergency, that’s all. Not that there was any emergency that I heard about.’
Webber kept his expression neutral, uninterested, as she replied with far too many words, trying to shield her relative’s reputation, unsure where the attack was aimed. So Arthur Trent was not averse to diverting a yard or so of concrete here and there. He’d probably get an interesting analysis of the family’s driveways if he chose to. But he wasn’t sure she knew anything specific.
‘I thought tests could be done within minutes these days.’ She returned to the first topic. ‘You test people at the side of the road.’
‘That’s for alcohol,’ he said. ‘That one can be done quickly. Arthur wasn’t over the limit.’
‘Of course he wasn’t!’ Her vehemence came as a surprise. She glared at him across the table.
He tipped his head. ‘He wasn’t that far under. Alcohol might have been a factor.’
‘What!’ She stared, mouth agape, her expression horrified. ‘Arthur didn’t drink. He was teetotal. He hadn’t touched alcohol in decades.’
Webber stared back. There was no dissembling here. She wasn’t trying to protect anyone’s reputation now. This was the truth.
* * *
