Tiger Blood (DS Webber Mystery Book 2)

by Penny Grubb

  ‘Oh, I never thought much of Brad,’ she said easily. ‘Very prissy and uptight. Quite the opposite of his father who was a good man, strong, decisive. Brad’s son took after his grandfather. Every good trait in that family seemed to skip a generation with Brad. I can’t say I was that close to his wife either, but we lived next-door to each other. We shared an evening together now and again, but really I was old enough to be her mother.’

  ‘In your original statement, you told us …’

  Told us … As Ahmed listened to his own voice, he reflected that the theft of Tippet’s Ford Tempo pre-dated his birth.

  * * *

  By the time he was striding away from the tiny bungalow Ahmed’s spirits had lifted. It had taken less time than he’d expected and she’d been clear about what she could and couldn’t remember. A useful witness. He flipped back through his notebook as he walked. Brad Tippet was the closest they had to a viable suspect at this end of the country. It was the animal rights gang who were more likely to bear fruit but none of them had been traced to this area; some hadn’t been traced at all yet.

  Mrs Bell had been his second call; should have been his third but he’d been stonewalled by Edith Stevenson who had sounded like a grumpy old woman on the phone. It didn’t bother him. As far as he could tell she was on the list for being an old school friend of Robert Morgan’s wife. She was hardly a key witness. She would be in the paperwork somewhere. All the old friends had been interviewed at the time, but he had a mountain yet to dig through.

  His first call had been to more of the Morgans’ old school friends, Michael and Tiffany Drake. Michael had known them, anyway. Tiffany had greeted him with a glare and a petulant toss of her head.

  ‘Tiff’s not too well just now,’ Michael had said.

  Ahmed had made no comment, but had noted it was Michael who was the unwell one. Shades of Mrs Bell, he too walked with a stick and with a certain fixity of expression that revealed pain in every step. A nice enough guy, open about his strained relationship with Brad Tippet. Ahmed thought about Webber’s notes of his interview with Tippet as his gaze had rested on a stack of DVDs by the television; Charlie Sheen. According to Tippet both Drake and his first wife had been Sheen fans. Maybe it was something he had in common with the second Mrs Drake too.

  However, it wasn’t rocket science to know that it was more than a 30-year-old car theft that had brought Ahmed to their door. Michael Drake was no fool.

  ‘Oh God, it’s nothing to do with Pamela, is it?’ he’d said, his expression troubled.

  ‘Pamela who?’ Ahmed had asked, hiding his surprise. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Pamela Morgan. Someone’s been saying that the police were looking into poor Pammy’s death. I just wondered if there was a link. You said you’re interested in Brad’s car, the one that was stolen, only that was round the time Robert died. Pammy’s husband, Robert.’

  ‘Where did you hear we were looking at Pamela Morgan’s death?’

  Ahmed had watched Michael Drake closely. His eyes scrunched in reflection as his gaze lost focus. ‘Where was it? Tiff? Who was it mentioned Pammy the other week?’

  It was at that point she’d stood up, squinting against a shaft of sharp winter sun, and given Ahmed a look of contempt. ‘I never met Saint bloody Pamela, so how the fuck would I know?’ And she’d stormed out.

  Ahmed had seen her husband’s gaze, part distress, part embarrassment, as it tracked her departure. Glancing at the disappearing woman, he’d seen she was younger than he’d first realised. Michael, with his shaky health, probably leant on her a lot. It couldn’t be easy for either of them, but his sympathies were with the man who’d offered a shamefaced apology as Ahmed had turned the conversation back to Brad Tippet’s car.

  Thinking over the encounter, he wondered how long the Drakes had been married, how old she was, what were their circumstances? He should have had all this at his fingertips before he’d been in touch. He’d been cutting corners. And why not, he thought sourly. Fat lot of good it had done him playing it straight all these years. Tom Jenkinson’s mother hadn’t turned it into an official complaint yet, but some bent lawyer would find her, go after him to see what they could get, turn Tom’s death into a compensation circus.

  At least from over here he’d be on hand to learn the latest on the enquiry, even though not officially in the loop, which was why he wanted to get back. No one was going to wait around to debrief him. He would have to rely on his own eyes and ears. He’d talked to the Drakes, had the brush off from Stevenson, and seen Mrs Bell. He checked the time. DI Davis would be debriefing his team in about twenty minutes. Perfect timing. He’d be back and discreetly tucked into a corner of the office ostensibly intent on his own paperwork.

  As he reached for the key to start the car, his phone rang. The screen told him it was Sergeant Suzie Harmer. ‘Ayaan, whereabouts are you? How’s it going?’

  ‘Just about to set off back.’ He gave his location and a summary of his two calls. ‘Tippet’s neighbour pans out,’ he told her. ‘His alibi’s solid. He didn’t go to Dorset with his car that night.’

  ‘How about the other one, Drake? The guy Tippet fingered. What did he have to say?’

  ‘He was frank about bad blood between them. He told me his first wife, Tina, used to borrow Tippet’s car. Apparently it was never an issue until she started seeing Drake, then Tippet made a huge fuss over it, constant digs about them taking advantage.’

  ‘Is that new?’

  ‘I don’t remember it from the original statements but I’ll double check. Drake told me they didn’t have much to do with Tippet after they married, but they couldn’t keep completely out of his way. They both worked for Tippet’s father. He said it came as no surprise that Tippet should accuse him of stealing the car, but at that time he hadn’t had anything to do with Tippet for about ten years. That pans out. The first wife, Tippet’s sister, died in …’ Ahmed raked through his notes. ‘In … uh … 1976. A decade before all this kicked off.’

  ‘What about Stevenson?’

  ‘She wouldn’t see me. Why was she on the list? I didn’t find her in the initial enquiry.’

  ‘She wasn’t. She’s one of Superintendent Webber’s ideas. Probably a waste of time, but he insisted we add her. You know what he’s like.’ She chuckled. Ahmed laughed uneasily.

  ‘Um … Another old friend of the Morgans, isn’t she?’

  ‘It’s like Martyn says,’ she went on. ‘When a case is this cold, you’re not going to find a fresh crime scene. You need all you can get on how your suspects were acting at the time.’

  Everyone said Suzie was easy to work for as long as she got her own way, and so far Ahmed had no complaints, but he hated to hear her talk about Martyn Webber. She unbalanced him by her switch from formal to informal address and he was terrified she’d pull him into a conversation he didn’t want to go anywhere near. He snatched at the topic of suspects. ‘I don’t think we have any suspects this end of the country. Brad Tippet’s not looking good.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong and that’s why I’m ringing you. Just heard that one of the animal rights group headed back this way when he was released. The ring-leader Will Jones. Did you see a note about a hitchhiker in that first batch of files from Dorset? A walk-in witness, after the publicity about Robert Morgan. Some guy had picked up a man near the warehouse.’

  ‘Vaguely,’ said Ahmed, something sparking in his memory from his initial skim of the old notes. ‘It didn’t go anywhere, did it?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t followed up. They didn’t need to. They all turned themselves in. I’m thinking of Will Jones dumping the body in the warehouse then going back to join the rest of them. Does that mean he was acting alone?’

  ‘Well, hang on. How did he get the body there? Why was he hitching? What …?’

  ‘I didn’t say I’d thought it through. This hitchhiker thing might never have been relevant but you bear it in mind when you talk to him.’

  ‘When I ta
lk to him? Where is he?’

  ‘I have a last known that’s not far from where you’re sitting.’

  Ahmed suppressed a sigh and flipped his notebook to a new page. ‘OK, go ahead.’

  ‘I’ll email it.’

  The phone pinged as he listened. He clicked on to it to check.

  ‘Yes, I have it. How about a phone number?’

  ‘Couldn’t find one. Call round there. You never know.’

  ‘When did he get out of prison?’

  ‘July 1996.’

  As he ended the call, Ahmed looked at the time. No chance of getting back for Davis’s briefing now, even if the guy wasn’t in. Unless he were to cut another corner, head straight back and simply pretend there’d been no one there.

  He pulled himself up. This had to stop. He’d had a setback. He hadn’t done anything wrong. If he threw away his career, his future in-laws would put a block on the marriage plans. He felt his mouth curve to a smile as Cari’s face shimmered in his mind, returning his smile with that sparkle that melted his heart. She’d said herself that this relocation to York could be the start of something good. They’d been talking with her parents, her father running away with things as usual, her mother promoting him to inspector in a trice. Smiles … laughter … He saw the quick glance she’d shot at him. He’d had to duck his head to hide a grin. She hadn’t been talking about the York move in terms of career progression, she’d been thinking distance. Too far for her mother to be popping in every five minutes. Yes, that suited him just fine. Stifling family or no, Cari was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

  Time to get his head together. If the animal rights brigade had been involved, this Will Jones was a prime suspect for Robert Morgan’s murder. He took the keys from the ignition and climbed out of the car. All that tea had given him indigestion. He craved a strong coffee and there was a café at the end of the road. No point rushing, so he awarded himself a ten minute break, strode down the pavement, arms swinging, feeling suddenly better than he’d felt at any time since the awful moment he’d known it was Tom under that concrete.

  He went through the door turning to hold it open for a woman coming in behind him, and found himself face to face with Melinda Webber.

  Chapter 19

  Ahmed’s relaxed mood vanished. Every muscle tensed. His hope that she wouldn’t recognise him died as it was born.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Ayaan Ahmed, isn’t it? How are you?’

  Thoughts kaleidoscoped through his head. She must know why he was in the area, that he reported to Suzie Harmer, that he might be her rival for the upcoming acting sergeant cover. Her greeting was friendly and open. Was it a little too friendly, a bit forced perhaps? He battled an urge to loosen his collar as he replied.

  ‘Uh … Hello, Mrs Webber. Thanks, I’m fine. How … um … how are you?’ The question seemed a gross impertinence, as though he were asking outright, what’s the story with your husband and Sergeant Harmer?

  She laughed as though she was aware of his discomfort and found it amusing. ‘Melinda, please. If you’re staying over here we might be colleagues in a few weeks.’

  He didn’t want to move inside the café. He wanted to change his mind and leave, but it would mean pushing past her, and there was someone else waiting to come in, waiting for him to get out of the way. ‘Just grabbing a quick coffee before my next call,’ he gabbled as he headed for the counter.

  ‘Me too,’ she said pleasantly. ‘I’m doing a stint at Sam’s play school. There’s nothing more exhausting than a roomful of toddlers. It’ll make the Saturday night drunks a piece of cake when I get back.’

  He reached the head of the queue and felt he had to offer to get her drink, too. She smiled her thanks and signalled to the man behind the counter that they would be drinking in. It was a natural assumption. He wasn’t quick enough to contradict her before the fat china cups were under the machine. Of course, she wasn’t deliberately cornering him into sharing a mid-morning coffee with her. Why would she? His imagination ran riot as it conjured up answers. She wanted to check up on Harmer … she wanted to check up on Webber … she wanted a confidante on the spot … she wanted to get back at Webber and sharing coffee was just the start …

  ‘I heard you’re getting married,’ she said, as she took a seat at a table by the window. ‘Congratulations. Have you set a date?’

  She looked interested and the words came out so naturally that he relaxed. No one else had bothered to ask properly. If they mentioned it at all, it was laced with inadequately disguised curiosity about whether the nuptials had really been arranged by the two sets of parents. ‘If it were up to us, we’d nip down the registry office and just get it over with,’ he said and then laughed at a sudden image of a set of four faces; his parents and Cari’s. That would unite them. There’d be no polite bickering over minutiae if they had something like that to talk about.

  She asked about Cari, about their plans, and he found himself talking openly. She was the first person outside the family to show interest in the things that mattered. Inside the family it was all stress and strain over details that simply weren’t important.

  A wedding doesn’t organise itself … you’d soon complain if it wasn’t done properly …

  ‘Oh, and sorry if I’ve caused you any extra work.’ She dropped the words into a pause.

  Puzzled, he looked the question at her.

  ‘Edith Stevenson,’ she said. ‘She was an old friend of the Morgans. It was me who mentioned her to Martyn.’

  ‘Oh … right … How …?’ It sounded to him as though his voice had risen half an octave. She didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘I know someone who knew them years ago. Just coincidence, that’s all.’ She gave him a sudden sharp stare. ‘I hope you’re not thinking Martyn’s been telling me things he shouldn’t. You know him better than that.’

  He had to bite back an urge to say, I know he’s been doing things he shouldn’t.

  ‘We were on a trip the other week with Sam,’ she went on. ‘Martyn was called out and we had to go with him, so I probably know a bit more than I should, but anyway, maybe this Stevenson woman will have something useful to say.’

  Ah ha! That was it. Ahmed felt the satisfaction of an anomaly ironed out. He hadn’t given it much thought but yes, she’d been one in the crowd up by the public areas that Sunday when they’d found Tom’s jacket in the lake. He’d seen her name on the witness list. It had been a bleak Sunday for a family day out, but maybe they’d been at the cinema or something.

  She gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘I’m really sorry about that boy you mentored. That was awful. All that potential just cut down. I’m sure they’ll get whoever did it. I just hope it’s soon.’

  He returned her smile. She was very understanding, and she was right about Tom. He’d been on the verge of making something of his life. Of course, she would know the frustration he felt, being so close to the enquiry but not a part of it.

  ‘But this whole Morgan thing’s a bit of a nightmare, isn’t it?’ she went on. ‘It’s such a long time ago. I mean where do you start? I shall never complain about the futility of going after petty car crime again. A thirty-year-old car theft, for heaven’s sake!’

  Of course he shouldn’t talk to her about any of this, but he reflected that she was Webber’s wife and pretty close to being back in the job. He wasn’t giving her any information, not really, nothing she didn’t already seem to know. And he learnt a thing or two from her. Not least that the Webbers’ marriage appeared as strong as ever which he was glad about, although mystified.

  ‘Oh no!’ Her exclamation cut through his thoughts. She was raking through her handbag.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’ve left my phone in the car. Hell, I’ve parked miles away. I’ll be late now. Oh, unless …’ He saw hope dawn in her eyes as she looked at him. ‘Could I use yours? Just a quick call. I promised Martyn I’d ring and if he tries to call me and doesn’t get through he’ll
panic, you know what he’s like.’ Her mouth curved to a grin. ‘He’ll mobilise a full search and rescue, but I just can’t be late at nursery.’

  Ahmed laughed and pulled out his phone. ‘Yes, of course.’ He was amused at the thought of Webber freaking over a missed call from his wife. Webber liked to project a persona that rarely got ruffled, let alone panicked.

  She gave him a grateful smile as she punched in the number.

  ‘Hi, it’s Mel. I … uh … No, it’s Ayaan Ahmed’s phone. I bumped into him, thank God because I’ve left my phone in the car. I know, I know … Uh …’ She lowered her voice and turned towards the window.

  Ahmed realised he was staring at her, openly eavesdropping. He jumped to his feet. ‘I’ll take the cups.’

  Fortified by the coffee and a pleasant chat about his wedding plans, Ahmed didn’t bother to go back for the car. Will Jones’ last known address was just a couple of streets away. He checked his email to be sure it was the right place before walking up to the door and pressing the bell. Footsteps sounded from inside and the door swung open. A tall elderly woman faced him. Older than Mrs Bell he judged, but in far better health. He held out his warrant card as he introduced himself.

  She read it through then looked him in the eye. ‘What can I do for you, Detective?’

  ‘I’m looking for a Mr Will Jones. I have this address as–’

  Her expression froze as her words cut across his. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! No! Mr Jones lived here for less than a month 20 years ago then cleared out owing me rent. I’ve had callers for him ever since. He made a credit black spot of this address.’

  ‘Would you have the dates? And did he leave anything behind?’

  She glared at him. ‘July 1996. You’ll find the exact dates on your own records. I reported him as a thief. And yes, he left a heap of garbage in his room. I paid a man with a van to take it all to the tip. Whatever he’s done now, I hope you find him soon and throw away the key, but I never want to hear his name again. Goodbye.’