by Penny Grubb
‘It was given to a DI,’ Webber said, showing the page to Farrar.
Farrar nodded. ‘Yes, I remember him. He’ll have done a good job. No longer with us sadly. What did he find?’
‘There was an insurance policy,’ Webber summarised from the report. ‘But it was Quintina Drake who’d taken it out, not Michael. In fact she’d insured both herself and her husband,’ he said as he read further. ‘They both had life insurance but the policies were too new to pay out. She did it through a broker, a family friend. According to this, it wasn’t clear the husband even knew about it before she died.’
‘So this broker was a family friend of Tippet’s sister, not Michael Drake?’
‘Yes, must have been,’ Webber said reading on. ‘In fact he did insurance for Brad Tippet and his wife as well at the same time.’
‘That policy’ll be worth a bit now if it’s still running,’ Farrar commented.
‘Ah, here’s something,’ said Webber. ‘Tippet senior, Brad and Tina’s father, weighed in on Michael Drake’s side, said he’d been a devoted husband; that Brad had always been jealous. Drake worked for Tippet senior. Looks like he pushed Brad Tippet’s nose seriously out of joint. That feels to me like the origins of the grudge against Drake.’
Webber sat back and ran his hand through his hair. Other than the original forensic team falling prey to melodramatics, it looked as though a thorough job had been done on all the various cases and angles, although the bulk of the information on Robert Morgan’s death was still to land. ‘It’s hard to know how much resource we can give this,’ he said. ‘Trace and interview everyone from the original case or cherry pick?’
‘It’s thirty years, Martyn. Mother Nature will have done the cherry-picking.’
‘I suppose we’ll have to see who’s still around and then take it from there, but I don’t want to pull anyone off looking for Jenkinson’s killer. There are too many loose strands on that one as it is.’
‘Anything come of that link to something more organised, major drug trafficking?’
‘Nothing solid, but it looks like there was something. Davis raised it with Ayaan Ahmed. He couldn’t rule out Jenkinson keeping some irons in the fire and well below the radar. He had family circumstances pushing him into petty crime but he was a bright lad. Ayaan reckoned that if he was going to choose a life of crime, he’d go for the big time.’
Farrar gave him a speculative look. ‘On Morgan there shouldn’t be much urgency. It’s been thirty years. If anyone was inclined to destroy evidence, they’ll have done it a long time ago. All the same …’
Webber nodded. Farrar was hinting at some kind of clock ticking in the background. He could feel it himself, not sure what it was. Whoever had killed Robert Morgan might get wind of the new developments. What might they do? As Farrar said, evidence would have been destroyed or simply vanished over the past three decades.
‘My original interview with Tippet,’ said Farrar suddenly. ‘Where is it?’
Webber raked through the papers and passed them over. He watched Farrar’s stare run across the words. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘I’m seeing myself back in that room. Tippet perched on the end of the chair, all uptight.’ He gave a tut of annoyance. ‘It’s not here but I’m sure he said it. Quintets. I can hear him saying something about quintets.’
… their talk was full of Qs …
Webber’s mind went back to the day he’d sat with Farrar’s father, drinking tea watching the rain.
… Quinny … quintets … Quintina … she spoke quite differently when she thought the young man wasn’t listening …
‘Whatever it was, I didn’t note it down.’ As he spoke, Farrar looked up and met Webber’s eye. ‘What is it? What are you thinking, Martyn?’
‘A woman called China Kowalski,’ he said. ‘She’s the one who approached your father back in May. She works in Malaysia now but she knew them all thirty years ago. It would be good if we could talk to her.’
Chapter 17
He was late home. Farrar had insisted they try to chase up Kowalski at once. Webber had pointed out that it would be late evening for her, heading for midnight, and anyway she’d said she was going on a trip. Farrar had brushed that aside and picked up the phone himself. Half an hour chasing leads and pulling strings netted the contact details for Kowalski’s boss who wasn’t answering the phone, and a mobile number for Kowalski herself. When Webber tried the latter it went straight to voicemail. ‘If she’s out of internet range, there’s probably no mobile coverage either.’ He’d left a message anyway.
As he came through the door, Melinda was coming downstairs. She raised her finger to her lips. Webber could hear his son’s voice, a low crooning that would be aimed at one of the toys that crowded the cot. He wondered, not for the first time, why Melinda could leave Sam before he was properly asleep and he couldn’t.
Once in the living room, he said, ‘I rang but you were on the phone.’
‘Yes, it was John. He said you were on your way to see him.’
‘John?’ He was puzzled. Why would Farrar chase him at home when he knew he wouldn’t be there?
Melinda looked at him. He couldn’t read her expression. It was as though she was puzzled too. ‘He was just asking if I was OK.’
‘Oh, right … good of him.’ Webber tried to keep his tone neutral. He didn’t like the idea that Farrar had been talking to Mel behind his back. He didn’t need Farrar butting in causing more trouble, though her demeanour seemed somehow warmer than he was used to since Harmer’s visit. What had Farrar said? Was it to do with Farrar? Was he imagining it? No, because there she was putting out the meal she’d saved for him.
‘Thanks.’ He smiled at her and she sort of smiled back, before turning abruptly and heading to the kitchen. He certainly hadn’t expected her to keep food warm for him. It seemed to signal that they’d reached some kind of understanding, or rather that she had. He hadn’t a handle on any of it. And he couldn’t ask her, didn’t know what he wanted to vocalise.
He glanced towards the TV where Sam’s blackboards were stacked. They’d been moved. She hadn’t given up her quest for the truth about Pamela Morgan. If he tried to lay down the law, he might jeopardise what felt like a fragile reconciliation, but he had to say something. The live enquiries edged closer. Robert Morgan’s death was under the spotlight. How could he tell her to stop and still sound like he trusted her?
‘Problems?’
He jumped; hadn’t noticed her come back into the room. ‘Sorry, it was … just this bloody case.’ He paused, then amended, ‘these bloody cases.’ He had to trust her with the truth even if it cost him his job, because otherwise he’d lose her. As he ate, he told her about Trent’s sister-in-law.
‘And you don’t think Arthur Trent was a secret drinker.’
‘That would be too much of a coincidence. He was given something, but who knows if it’ll show up.’
‘But it’s not just that, is it?’
He wondered if she meant something specific or if she was just guessing from his manner. ‘No, it’s everything really. Some bastard killed that lad Jenkinson in cold blood and not a sniff at a suspect yet. It’s been almost a week.’
‘Three days,’ she corrected.
‘Three days since we found him. It’s close on a week since he was seen alive.’
‘John told me …’ He looked up as she paused. Her glance met his briefly, then shied away. ‘He … uh … said what you’d … well, anyway, it was a nice thing to do.’
So that’s what it was about, his aborted request to get Ahmed out of trouble. He wasn’t sure what astonished him the most, that Farrar had told her at all or that she’d taken it this way.
‘I … uh … gather Ayaan Ahmed was over here,’ she went on.
He thought back to that day at the gravel pit; couldn’t remember what he’d told her. Things had been pretty strained. ‘Yes, I brought him back to the house. He was there when they found Jenkinson. Didn’
t know where else to take him really.’ Maybe she’d spotted the tell-tale signs of a visitor the way he had. It had been the day he’d first found her behind-the-scenes investigation. It was hard to think it was only three days ago.
‘It’s been tough on him,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Another reason it’d be good to get this case tied up.’
‘John’s bringing him over here to cover her maternity leave.’
Shock rippled through him. He knew he was staring at her open-mouthed.
‘Didn’t you know?’ She was laughing at his expression. He couldn’t believe that Farrar would have told Melinda and not told him.
‘Well, no. I knew he was thinking about … He didn’t say anything to me.’ It came out with a touch of petulance.
‘It’s good,’ she said. ‘Don’t look so shocked. It’s what he needs right now.’ He felt so far out of the loop that he wasn’t entirely sure if she was referring to Farrar or Ahmed.
‘OK.’ She became suddenly business-like and strode across to pull out the makeshift evidence boards and prop them against the TV. He saw a new list and an unfamiliar photograph. ‘I made some unexpected progress with Joyce today. Or rather she made some headway with old memories. Some more of Gary’s school friends. Martyn, is it OK if Joyce contacts China Kowalski? She never really knew her but …’
He watched her run-down as she looked into his face. But thank God she was checking with him. ‘No Mel, you need to keep clear. We’ve had some unexpected developments, too.’
Finishing his meal, he picked up the plate and headed for the kitchen, talking to her over his shoulder, beginning the tale of the lab woman’s trip to Dorset. He came back with coffee for them both and sat on the settee as he told her about Robert Morgan and the over-dramatic conclusions that the original forensic team had drawn. As the story unfolded, she backed away from the blank face of the TV and sank into a chair. ‘But, that’s awful … she spent all those years thinking … so, when …? Who?’
She came out with all the questions that had been thrown around the video call. He told her everything he knew, half hoping a new angle might emerge as they talked.
‘So this Brad Tippet …?’ she began.
He shook his head. ‘Morgan was killed within minutes of being dumped. Tippet was at home all evening. His alibi looks solid.’
‘You’re going to check, though?’
‘Oh yes.’ Webber thought about Ahmed. Checking out old alibis would be something safe to divert him into. He didn’t want him anywhere near the Jenkinson enquiry. ‘Brad Tippet was at school with one of the brothers who did the post office, the eldest, the one who disappeared. You said something about Gary Yeatman’s old school friends.’
‘Oh yes, the quintets thing.’ Melinda pointed to the photograph. ‘Joyce remembered something and went delving around for old photos. But Martyn, that’s awful. How could it have happened? That means it wasn’t an accident.’
‘No, probably not. And you mustn’t say anything to Joyce. Not yet.’
She nodded absently. ‘I know, but you’ll keep me in the loop, won’t you?’
‘Yes, I will.’ He wanted to add that he really meant it this time. ‘You won’t mention anything to John, will you?’
‘Of course not,’ she snapped, giving him a who-do-you-take-me-for look.
‘So Joyce has worked out the quintets thing?’
‘Not sure, but Gary went round with a gang at school and apparently there were five of them. They were a tight knit group. That might have been what the quintets thing was about.’
She reached forward to pull the photograph free of its Sellotape mooring. Webber took it from her and tipped it towards the light. She sat beside him as she pointed to the group. He saw a laughing carefree gang, arms lightly round each other’s shoulders, each kicking one leg in the air for the camera, hair flying, huge grins.
‘That’s Gary,’ Melinda’s arm brushed his as she leant across to point. ‘And that’s China Kowalski.’
He took in the small dark-haired girl at the end of the line, then ran his gaze to the woman in the centre. ‘Pamela Morgan,’ he said and paused. She looked so vibrant, full of life, more so than any of them. Yet she’d been dead for 15 years.
‘Michael Drake,’ said Melinda, her finger resting on the smiling young man next to Pamela.
Webber studied his face. ‘Brad Tippet’s ex brother-in-law,’ he said.
‘No, really?’ Mel had turned to face him, close enough that he felt her breath on his cheek. He held on to the intimacy of the moment, the lives of strangers bringing them close. He told her about Tippet’s sister, Quintina; the resentment that burnt bright in brother Brad.
‘Who’s the fifth one, the other woman?’
‘Joyce said she’s Edith Stevenson,’ said Mel. ‘There was a list of names on the back of the original. That’s a copy.’
‘Did you see the original?’
‘Yes, why?’ He sensed a hint of sharpness as though he was questioning her ability.
‘I wondered if the list might have had more than five names on it.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘No. No, I don’t think so. Why would there have been more than five? What is it, Martyn? Come on, what are you thinking? Tell me and I’ll see what I can find out from Joyce.’
He ran his finger along the faces in the photograph. China Kowalski, a doll at the end of the line, dwarfed by her contemporaries. Physically dwarfed at any rate. He suspected she’d outstripped them academically from an early stage. Gary Yeatman grinned out of the picture beside her, his arm hugging her off-balance. His other arm encircled Pamela Morgan, her face the most carefree of all, laughing from between Gary Yeatman and Michael Drake, their three heads tipped together like an inner-circle within the group. And Michael Drake’s other arm was around the third woman, the one new face and name in Melinda’s latest find. She was smaller than Michael, but not by much. Her other arm was mostly out of shot. It might have been a badly framed photograph, but he didn’t think so.
‘It’s been cut,’ he said to Melinda. ‘There’s someone else the other side of Edith Stevenson.’
Chapter 18
Ayaan Ahmed tried to curb his impatience as he approached the tiny bungalow, one in a network of low buildings, interspersed with narrow flower beds constructed with emphasis on neat corners rather than botanical expertise. Old food wrappers gave more colour to the displays than the few plants that straggled limply in poor soil. He would be offered tea, possibly biscuits, and he’d have to accept because this interview needed the trappings of an informal chat. He wanted more than her recollections of an evening thirty years ago. He wanted her insight into the Tippets, the couple who’d been her close neighbours. The whole of his Monday morning looked set to comprise tea and biscuits with York’s old and infirm. If this was the best the job had to offer, he had to do some serious thinking about his future.
There was a long gap after his knock until the door swung open. The woman standing there didn’t look as old as he’d expected, but she hobbled awkwardly bent over two sticks. ‘Mrs Bell,’ he greeted her. ‘We spoke on the phone …’
‘Yes, you’re Inspector Ahmed, aren’t you?’ She didn’t spare a glance for the warrant card he held out, but began to turn away to lead him into the house; the curve in her spine not allowing her to look up to meet his eye. ‘Come in, come in. I’ve just made tea.’
‘You ought to have checked my identity before you invited me in,’ he admonished gently, letting the misplaced promotion slide past. It wasn’t the first time a member of the public had erroneously accorded him inspector rank, and she’d hit a nerve. The Chief Super had brought him across here to work with Suzie Harmer because they’d be short-handed once she went on maternity leave. He felt resentful there’d been no hint he’d be doing the actual cover as acting sergeant. Just another dogsbody on the cheap. Not only that, but he suspected he might be kept around for a couple of months and then sent back so someone else could step in. Melinda W
ebber, for instance. She was due back from her maternity leave soon. If she was given the role, he’d take a bet she’d have the temporary promotion, too. He was on a loser either way. If Farrar had chosen him over Melinda, he’d have Webber’s resentment to deal with. Something else to be pissed off about because he’d always got on fine with Martyn Webber.
‘We’ve a warden on site,’ Mrs Bell said and laughed. ‘If you start any funny business, I’ll go for my panic button.’
‘Let me help you.’ He followed her to the cubby hole that held the kitchen, marvelling that he could hear nothing but cool tranquillity in his tone. Inside, he boiled with impatience, wanting this interview over and done with so he could hurry back to the station. He’d learnt that from Webber; that ability to flick the switch when stepping across the threshold into the interview space. He noted the cups, saucers and milk jug balanced precariously on a tray with a plate of biscuits. Mrs Bell leant against the work surface for balance as she tipped the kettle. He reached forward to re-stack the tray, then lifted the steaming teapot from in front of her and gave her a big smile. ‘I’ll take these through. Those biscuits look good.’ He couldn’t imagine how she’d have manoeuvred a single cup from kitchen to living room, let alone a heavy teapot and a tray of crockery, but it would have taken far too long. He had everything on the table, cups back in their saucers, biscuits re-ordered from where he’d shoved them aside to fit the teapot, and she hadn’t even made it into the room.
‘Why on earth are you going back over it?’ The words arrived before she did. ‘It was only a car theft and it’s such a long time ago. I wasn’t sure I’d remember much when you first rang, but do you know, it’s all quite clear. I suppose it’s because of the fuss at the time, making a statement to the police. It fixed it in my mind.’
She propped her sticks in a corner and eased herself into a chair. Ahmed sat opposite her.
‘Some new evidence has come to light, Mrs Bell. We’re checking everything to do with Mr Tippet’s car.’
