by Penny Grubb
More cars. Jenkinson and his flashlight stunt … Trent in a car with a jammed cruise control. And Joyce Yeatman’s husband. Webber had made enough enquiries around Yeatman’s death to know the unlikelihood at this distance of distinguishing deliberate sabotage from the disasters and near disasters caused by early manual cruise control systems, but in any case, Gary Yeatman had left a note. Melinda had made a friend of Joyce Yeatman so she could work out what had happened to Pamela Morgan who had also left a note. He’d seen the coroner’s report. It was comprehensive. Pamela Morgan had killed herself with an overdose. But he couldn’t get that certainty across to Mel. She just said that neither of them had seen the note. Apparently, Joyce Yeatman had never read it all through; didn’t know if she still had it. How could anyone not read something like that? He imagined Joyce Yeatman stringing Mel along, keeping her on side, pushing her to reveal details of more recent cases. No, that was paranoia. Mel wouldn’t miss anything like that. She knew what she was doing. He wasn’t thinking straight, there was too much in his head.
The office walls pressed in, the space made gloomy by the winter weather. He grabbed his coat and made for the door.
‘Ayaan,’ he called. Ahmed’s head jerked up and turned his way. ‘With me. Get your coat.’
Webber braced himself against the rain that whipped across him in sheets and, taking advantage of a snarl-up in the traffic, zigzagged between the vehicles and jogged towards the café where he’d sat with Trent’s sister-in-law. He didn’t look back until under the shelter of an awning, and saw Ahmed, head down, sprinting to catch up.
‘Grab that corner table,’ Webber said over his shoulder as he pushed through the door and headed for the counter, seeing at once that his concern was unnecessary. The impression of a crowded space had been the condensation misting the windows. There would be no fight for the one table that afforded a degree of privacy.
‘Uh … thanks.’ Ahmed radiated both surprise and unease as Webber thumped the coffee down in front of him.
‘I needed to get out, clear my head,’ Webber told him. ‘And I’ve some intel for you.’
‘Yes, you said you’d another name, as well as Tilly Brown. Is it another of his school friends?’
His? Webber frowned. ‘Did I say one of Robert Morgan’s friends? I meant his wife, Pamela. Tilly Brown left the school a few years before they did. I assume her parents moved away.’
‘Oh, then Robert Morgan probably wouldn’t have known her at all. He didn’t go to school here. He came over from Canada.’
Webber nodded. ‘Yes, I remember. So have you found Tilly Brown?’
Ahmed shook his head. ‘I … um … I haven’t looked yet. I’ve been after the missing brother; the eldest. Big brother post office, the one who was never caught after the raid.’
‘He’s surfaced, has he?’
‘Not as such, but his name cropped up in the Robert Morgan files from Dorset.’
‘Really?’ Webber, about to switch to Will Jones, pulled back surprised and signalled Ahmed to go on.
Ahmed blew out a sigh. ‘It’s barely a mention. It was never followed up. You know they went all out to make a cast-iron case. They did house to house, went in all the pubs, big public appeal. They were snowed under. The whole circus thing and the animal rights had split the community even before all of it kicked off. Everyone wanted to have a say. It’s something from a guy in a pub. It was taken as drunken rambling, someone with a grudge wanting to put the boot in. The guy was a known petty felon, much like big brother post office. I’ve an address from 30 years ago and that’s about it. It was one scrap of intel out of an avalanche. I can’t even find out who recorded it.’
‘The address, is it still current?’
‘I was just about to make a call when you … uh … when we came out. And I was going to get on to Tilly Brown after that.’
‘OK, give me a quick update. I haven’t had a chance to catch up today.’
‘I … um … thought you were looking busy. I heard a report had come back about Tom; that you’ve found where he was killed?’
Webber relaxed as he sipped his drink, amused more than irritated to hear Ahmed trying to pump him for information. It was understandable, but he didn’t want him distracted from his job which he would be if he were to tell him what they were finding. Jenkinson had kept reams of data online. They’d found no computers in his rooms but he had an account with one of the large cloud storage companies. Davis had had to get heavy with them to prevent the files being junked. Jenkinson had hacked his way to free use of what should have been a premium account. The files, all encrypted, were fighting their corner for scarce analytic resources. There was a part of him that longed to pull Ahmed into the team and set him to work, but he knew he couldn’t.
‘We’re getting there, Ayaan,’ he said. ‘We’ll have the bastard who did it. Now tell me about Will Jones. Who is he?’
‘He was ring-leader of the animal rights group gaoled after Morgan’s death,’ Ahmed told him. ‘He’s known to have come back to this area when he was released. He rented a room, stayed less than a month then disappeared leaving his stuff and a pile of debts. He’s the nearest we have to a suspect at the moment, him and big brother post office.’
Webber buried his face in his cup, hoping the shock didn’t show. This man had approached the Yeatmans and been warned off. Joyce claimed not to know why. And the Yeatmans had known the Morgans. And now Mel was mixed up with Joyce.
He struggled to keep his voice level. ‘That’s interesting. It fits with the other name I have for you. More old friends of the Morgans.’ He gave Ahmed the outline.
‘Joyce and Gary Yeatman? That’s interesting.’ Ahmed echoed his words back at him. ‘That links Robert Morgan’s friends at the time with the animal rights people. But why would he do that?’
‘Why would who do what?’
‘If you’d been instrumental in killing someone like that, why would you go back to his friends afterwards?’
‘Maybe Jones found out that he’d been sent down for a killing that hadn’t been to do with the tigers at all. Look into Yeatman. Why did Jones go to him? Did he go to any of the others? Look at them all, especially Edith Stevenson. Joyce Yeatman has an old school photo of her husband’s. Someone next to Stevenson has been cut out of it. She thinks it might be Jones.’
Ahmed had put down his coffee and was scribbling furiously. When he looked up, Webber could see the question in his puzzled expression and provided the answer before it could be asked.
‘Joyce Yeatman is someone my wife got to know recently.’ He wanted to tell Ahmed to keep Melinda’s name out of it, but it wasn’t something he could ask outright. He’d have to hope that Ahmed’s natural instinct to keep on an even keel with Suzie would do the trick.
‘Oh, right …’ Ahmed’s pen hovered but didn’t touch down. ‘Did they meet at the fishing lakes?’
Webber felt the thump of his heart in his chest. ‘Why on earth would they have met at the fishing lakes?’
‘Oh, it was just that I remember Mrs Webber’s name on the witness list from that weekend … the bystanders up at the site. She told me about you being out together when the call came in.’
Webber thought back to Mel wrapping Sam in his thick jacket and insisting they accompany him. The PCSOs had rounded everyone up. Mel had been caught in the trawl. But he’d skimmed that list, hadn’t he? He couldn’t think of any credible reason for Mel’s new friend to have been out there that drizzly Sunday.
‘Are you saying Joyce Yeatman was on that list?’ he asked Ahmed.
‘No, I don’t remember the name.’
Swallowing the urge to snap, Then why scare the shit out of me by saying it, Webber looked up at the plate glass where beads of condensation coalesced into tiny reservoirs that swelled until they burst their banks and skittered down the smooth surface. He waited a moment then stood up ‘Right then. Back to it. And let me know about Tilly Brown.’
As he strode towards the door,
he was aware of Ahmed almost upending his chair as he leapt to follow.
* * *
Webber was barely back at his desk when a call came through.
‘Mr Webber, I’m so sorry to bother you at work.’ It was a young woman’s voice. ‘I’m ringing from play school.’
An icy hand scrunched his insides. ‘What’s happened? Where’s Sam?’
‘No, no. He’s fine. Sam’s here with me. It’s just that I’m new and …’ Deliberately, Webber drew in a slow breath as he took in the words. Someone had been called away. The woman was on her own … some query she couldn’t answer. He glanced at the clock. Surely all the children would have been collected by now.
‘When someone who isn’t the parent comes to collect a child, when we don’t know in advance, we have to check. It’s the procedure. I’m sure it’s all right. Mrs Webber sent a note with the woman but I don’t know her and Mrs Webber’s phone’s off and yours is the other contact number.’
‘Yes, of course. You were right to call. Who is it who’s come for Sam?’
‘It’s …’ He heard the rustle of a piece of paper. ‘It’s Mrs Joyce …’
‘No!’ Webber cut across her. Shock pricked his skin in a rush of retreating blood. ‘Keep Sam there with you,’ he barked into the phone. ‘Don’t let him out of your sight. I’m on my way.’
Chapter 23
‘Grandpa Larry’s not here,’ the voice said.
Ahmed felt a surge of optimism as he heard the words. It was a young girl’s voice but the name was clearly familiar. The Larry who had dropped big brother post office’s name into a statement all those years ago was still at the same address.
‘Is your mum or dad there?’
A pause, then a sing-song response. ‘Well, I’m not on my own.’
It sounded rehearsed. He hoped he wasn’t going to have to escalate this and alert a child protection team. ‘Who’s there with you?’
‘Teddy and Tinker but they’re asleep.’
‘Can you wake them up?’
‘No, I won’t. They’re very tired.’
‘OK, if I tell you my name again and my phone number, will you ask one of them to ring me back?’
She giggled. ‘Not Tinker.’
He supposed Tinker was a pet of some sort; maybe Teddy was too. Speaking slowly and clearly, he spelt out his name and recited his number. From the grunts and huffs of concentration she was making an attempt to write it down but he wasn’t confident the message would get anywhere.
‘I’ll ring back in a while,’ he told her before saying goodbye.
He’d told Webber he would get on to Tilly Brown after he’d made that call. The thought sparked a swell of resentment. He’d been made to look like he’d taken an early break but only managed to choke down half a cup of coffee. Webber himself had raced off out again almost as soon as they were back. Suzie had left for some appointment or other. His remaining colleague had made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t best pleased to be landed with a mountain of old case files while he, Ahmed, swanned off with the boss.
In his head he could hear Melinda Webber. Without putting it into words she’d managed to express sympathy that he’d been forced to work with Suzie. The more the conversation came back to him, the more uncomfortable he felt about the things he’d told her. No matter what Suzie’s failings might be in other directions, at least she didn’t talk in riddles and keep everyone guessing. He’d rather work for her than for either of the Webbers.
He glanced at the phone. His brief exchange with the little girl hardly counted as a call. Tilly Brown could wait. She was just one of Webber’s hunches along with the new name, Joyce Yeatman. He’d made the appropriate note but they could both wait until he’d arrived at a satisfactory conclusion on Larry from the old statements. Larry, after all, offered the glimmer of a link between the post office raid and Robert Morgan’s death. He could be the key to the whole case. Suzie Harmer had homed in on that scrap of intel from Dorset right away. He would have something solid to report to her when she returned.
* * *
Webber could see nothing through the kitchen window but the haze of lights from next door through a dank evening drizzle. He swished the knife blades through the hot soapy water in the sink and rinsed them under the tap. The dishwasher thrummed but Mel didn’t like these knives in there; the detergent blunted the edges. For years he’d been tactically absent-minded about it, tossing the knives in with everything else, claiming to have forgotten if she noticed. Washing them by hand made for a futile gesture in amongst everything else, but at least it would be one less thing for her to have a go about. He laid them in a row on the draining board and turned his attention to the pan that he hadn’t been able to cram into the machine. As he laboured with a wire brush, he heard Melinda’s steps down the staircase and, as a backdrop, the high fluting sounds of Sam singing himself to sleep.
Behind it all, the words echoed in his head. It’s Mrs Joyce …
Melinda’s voice floated through. She was on the phone again, laughing. He paused to listen, a frown creasing his brow. Her father. Visiting the in-laws was an ordeal yet to be faced. He hadn’t asked outright but presumed they knew about Harmer. As Melinda had said when he’d tried to touch on keeping things quiet, ‘It’s not the sort of thing that can be brushed under the carpet. If we’re not upfront about it, all it means is that people talk behind our backs.’ At least she’d said ‘we’.
He balanced the pan upside down on top of the knives as she wound up her call. Drying his hands on a tea-towel, he went through to the living room.
She met him with a hard stare. ‘I feel really bad about Jess.’
He said again, ‘I thought she said Joyce.’ He’d lost count of the number of times he’d said it. If he’d let the woman finish what she was saying, he’d have heard Mrs Jess Eberhart which he surely wouldn’t have misheard as Mrs Joyce Yeatman. Mel’s good and trusted friend, Jess, had waited at playschool to ask him what the hell he was doing implying she wasn’t a fit person to look after his child? He’d apologised at the time, then later by phone with Melinda standing over him. For all her indignation, she’d revelled in his discomfort, going out of her way to call people to tell them what he’d done.
Part of him wanted to feel anger, to tell her to wrap it up, to shout that she should take her share of the blame for her illicit investigation that was at the root of his paranoia. But the fact remained that he’d put himself irretrievably in the wrong and ought to welcome any means that Melinda could find to even the balance. Once she’d deemed him to have repaid the debt, maybe they could resume normal life. Even as the thought formed, he knew he was kidding himself. Life never balanced out as neatly as that.
He tossed the tea-towel on to the back of a chair; watched her gaze track its flight, half expected her to carp at him about returning it to its hook in the kitchen. She tightened her lips but said nothing. He supposed they would work their way through this. There would be no dramatic reconciliation. Everything swung wildly out of kilter, but it would settle in time. All he had to do was avoid tipping the balance while it was still too new, too raw. If she really wanted to leave him, she’d have gone by now. She’d never been one to shilly-shally over decisions. He had to hold on to that.
‘I’ve persuaded Joyce to have a look for that note,’ she said.
He tensed as he heard the name, and looked across to see her pulling the boards from behind the TV.
‘Good. That’s good.’ He didn’t know what else to say. He’d be reassured if Joyce Yeatman actually produced the note. He was certain it would make everything clear; less certain that the Yeatman woman wasn’t hiding something. How could she have left it unread all these years?
‘So you thought I’d send Joyce to collect Sam, did you? A woman he’s never met? Someone I hardly know?’
He shivered at the coldness in her voice. ‘No, of course not. I knew you wouldn’t.’
‘For someone who’s supposed to be good at listening, goo
d at reading people, this has been a real cock-up, hasn’t it? Are you losing your touch? What else are you going to mess up? Are you going to be out of a job?’
‘No, I’m bloody well not! For fuck’s sake, it was Sam. Of course my judgement was out. You’ve got yourself involved with this woman. You don’t know her from Adam. And now her name’s cropped up in a murder enquiry. I was fucking terrified for Sam! Can you fucking blame me?’
He couldn’t hold back the outburst and found his fists clenched as he stared at her. She looked taken aback but her expression was bright, animated. Was she amused? He couldn’t read her.
‘Enough with the swearing,’ she said, her tone mild. ‘Sam might not be asleep yet.’
‘Sorry.’
‘So you thought Joyce was trying to kidnap Sam. What did you think she’d done with me?’
‘With …?’ He stopped. He hadn’t given her a thought. His head had been full of Sam.
She took three strides across the carpet, stood facing him for a moment before putting her hand on his chest and giving him a sharp push. Off balance he fell back into the chair. He stared up into her face; still couldn’t read her. Unexpectedly, she held out her hands, taking hold of his.
‘Martyn, I don’t think you get it,’ she said. Her tone remained mild, her grip on his hands firm. ‘I don’t think you get how bloody angry I am with you.’
He wanted to say he did, that he understood, that he’d make amends in whatever way she wanted. As he opened his mouth to speak, something in her expression made him shut it again.
‘This is not some stupid transgression that’ll blow over in a few months.’ He could sense her anger, but couldn’t hear it in her voice. ‘This is going to be with us forever. We can’t move past this, Martyn. We have to live with it.’
‘But you won’t leave me, will you? Please, Mel, I can’t lose you.’ It felt like the wrong thing to say and the wrong time to say it, but he couldn’t stop the words tumbling out.
She drew in a breath, narrowed her eyes. ‘If you want the truth, Martyn, I’m too bloody angry to know.’
