Mike leaned forward. ‘How did you know she had an advert in the paper?’
‘I read it,’ Finnigan said. ‘It was bloody obvious it was her.’
‘How?’
Finnigan thought. ‘Well, she was always on about wanting a Prince Charming. Bloody obsessed. She fancied herself in red and was always saying she wanted a bit of sparkle. Know what I mean?’
‘Are you saying anyone could have guessed it was Sharon who put that advert in?’
Finnigan shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I ain’t. I m saying anyone who knew her well would know it was her. He stopped for a minute. ‘They would have to know her well.’
Joanna glanced at Mike and knew exactly what he was thinking. It was a long list.
Once back inside the police car Joanna glanced at her watch. ‘Come on, Mike,’ she said. ‘There are a few things I want to do, and then I want to get the briefing over and done with and get home. I’m tired.’ She yawned.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘And I had you earmarked for a late night tonight.’
‘I would do,’ she said, ‘but I really am knackered.’ She grinned at him. ‘It’s a bath, a book and bed for me tonight.’ She looked at him. ‘Mike,’ she said tentatively. ‘How much do you think we should be looking at Stacey’s murder rather than concentrating on Sharon?’
‘I’ve glanced through the file,’ he said. ‘There doesn’t seem anything particular to go on. No descriptions. No identity. Nothing.’ He stopped.
‘Perhaps they’ll have the DNA test results at the hospital. I’ll give Matthew a ring.’
Mike grimaced. ‘I suppose they might.’
They were silent for a while, then Joanna spoke. ‘Do you think it could have been someone who worked at Blyton’s? Maybe the man Finnigan found her in bed with?’
‘Well, someone will know,’ he said. ‘You know what gossips people in small firms are. Someone will know.’ And she was inclined to agree with him.
They had reached the station. She parked the car and switched off the engine, but neither of them moved.
What if someone heard her talking about the advert,’ Joanna mused, ‘either at work or one of the men she had already been sleeping with? What if they decided to set her up, meet her, kill her?’
‘There’s so many possibilities,’ Mike grumbled. ‘It gives me a headache just thinking about it.’
‘We’d better set up a line of enquiry at Blyton’s?’
Mike nodded in agreement.
‘Good.’ She was satisfied. ‘I have the feeling that Blyton’s will bear fruit.’
‘It had better,’ Mike said soberly. ‘Because Colclough’s going to want results.’
The team was already assembled as she and Mike walked in. He sat beside her at the table.
So far the results of the investigations were disappointing. All the work – the interviews with everyone who had been at the pub that night, the combing of the moors, the examination of Sharon Priest’s house, the studying of the remaining letters – had yielded disappointingly little.
No one had yet found the missing shoe. Still no one had tracked down the twisted steel cable used to kill her.
The assembled officers felt disheartened. Because they all knew he was out there. And now they were worried that they would fail and the killer of Stacey Farmer who had got away with it would also get away with murdering Sharon Priest.
Only Joanna, even at this early stage of the investigation, had not the slightest doubt that they would catch him. She stood up after listening to the various reports.
‘Our next step,’ she said, ‘should be to scrutinize Blyton’s, where Sharon Priest worked as a cleaner two evenings a week.’ She nibbled her thumbnail.
‘At the moment,’ she continued, ‘we know that our killer may have murdered before. We’re waiting for DNA results which will confirm or deny this. It’s possible he comes from Leek. It’s also possible that he already knew Sharon Priest when he replied to her advert. According to Sam Finnigan, Sharon’s ex-husband, anyone who knew Sharon reasonably well would have connected the lonely hearts ad with her. Certain typical phrases were used.
‘We still don’t know all of Sharon’s men friends. notably the married man she had an affair with, the father of her youngest child, Ryan, and also the man she had an affair with while still married to Sam Finnigan, the man he found her in bed with.’
She turned to Mike and spoke to him. ‘And I wouldn’t mind betting someone tipped Finnigan off that his wife was having an affair. I expect they rang him that night at work.’
Mike’s eyes gleamed and he nodded. ‘I thought coming home at three in the morning was a bit strange.’
She turned her attention back to the room. ‘Now, Sharon might have discussed the insertion of the advert with someone at work. That person might have leaked the information – perhaps unintentionally – or they might have been overheard.’
She smiled. ‘Any questions?’
‘Finnigan,’ someone called. ‘Is he clean?’
‘He fits the psychologist’s profile. He’s quite bitter against Sharon, and even to us he didn’t fake any real grief for her. But so far,’ she said, ‘he’s clean. We’ve nothing on him.’
‘And Agnew?’ someone muttered. ‘Pot-smoking little prat.’
‘I don’t know. There’s something unsavoury about him.’ She stopped. ‘But as for being a killer – I don’t know.’
‘Yeah, but, ma’am.’ PC Mark Timmis could be quite persistent at times. ‘He was at the pub that night.’
‘I know,’ she said, ‘but he’s so fuddled with marijuana half the time I honestly don’t know whether he even registered the fact that Sharon was in the Quiet Woman at all. Agnew claims he spent the rest of the evening back at home with his new girlfriend, Leanne Ferry.’ The name continued to buzz around at the back of her mind like a bloodthirsty mosquito ...
Chapter Nine
She had barely turned out her bike on to the main road when Stuart shouted, ‘Joanna!’
She slowed and waited for him to catch her up. He was panting hard. She raised her hand. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Just finished work?’
Today he was fly-eyed in tinted goggles and crash helmet. And he was struggling to catch his breath. ‘Don’t usually see you on your way home.’ He panted. ‘Working late or finishing early?’
She grimaced. ‘I seem to finish at a different time every day. I don’t really work regular hours.’
They approached the brow of the hill. In front of them the temptation of swift descent. But the sudden blast of an easterly almost threw Joanna off balance.
‘Traffic’s easier today,’ Stuart commented as they flew downwards.
‘Yes,’ she agreed.
But all descents come to an end and now there was the long hill to climb and a steady flow of traffic passing them.
An ambulance screamed behind them and instinctively they pulled in. Once stopped Stuart pushed his goggles up and blinked.
‘Joanna,’ he said shyly, ‘do you mind if I ask you something?’
For some unknown reason she imagined it would be to do with her work. But it wasn’t. And afterwards she realized he didn’t even know she was in the police force.
‘I wondered if you’d like to come out one night, for a drink?’ He paused. ‘Would you?’
Despite the cold her face felt hot. She didn’t know what to say. Embarrassment was quickly replaced with anger with herself. For goodness’ sake, Matthew was married. She might as well get on with her life solo. But she couldn’t quite convince herself.
‘Look,’ she said, hesitating. ‘I’m a bit tied up at work at the moment. I would like to – maybe in a week or two?’
He grinned and she had another glimpse of his beautiful teeth.
Joanna knew if she was to find any pleasure in life she must deny the spectre of Matthew which prevented her from forming other relationships. Even this vague arrangement with Stuart was making her feel marginally guilty as she pushed h
er feet back into the toe clips and sped along the flat.
Stuart soon caught up with her and handed her a slip of paper. ‘Here’s my telephone number. Just give me a buzz when you’re free.’
She had trouble holding the paper between her thumb and finger. It threatened to blow away. Laughing, she tucked it in the back pocket of her cycling top.
Even beneath his Oakleys she could see he was pleased. There was a change in the shape of his mouth, a satisfied tilt upwards.
She pedalled rhythmically to a pounding tone, reasoning with herself.
What about Matthew?
Why shouldn’t I go out and enjoy myself? Stuart shot past her in a burst of energy and she continued her silent conversation. He’s nice, he’s pleasant. I bet he isn’t married. I bet he doesn’t have a daughter.
Stuart swerved out into the middle of the road in an exuberant, risky dance and, sharing his energy, she made a little bend too, a concession to having shed a small part of her load. Since her affair with Matthew she had led the life of a nun. Apart from Tom and Caro her life had been Work, only work.
Already she was feeling lighter. Maybe she could shed the whole load. Maybe she didn’t really need to carry the guilt around with her like a frame rucksack.
The arguments achieved something. She decided. If – she quickly replaced the ‘if with a ‘when’ – when they solved this case, she would enjoy a drink with him. Just a drink.
There was a note pushed under her front door and for a moment she caught her breath and thought it might be another threat from Jane. Then she recognized the writing. I’m hoping you’ll be home well before eight as I’m in a cooking frenzy. Beware the stomach!
The signature was a flourished ‘T’.
The scent of garlic wafted out of the doorway as she knocked to ask if she should bring red or white wine. Tom was dressed for the occasion in a navy and white striped butcher’s apron. He grinned at her. ‘Concocdon du cochon,’ he said and she laughed.
‘Good, I’m starving. Red or white?’
‘Uuum – red,’ he said before taking her elbow firmly and steering her out through the door. ‘Now, you be a good girl. Have a shower and get dressed up. I promise it will be a meal ...’ he rolled his eyes, ‘fit for a Detective Inspector.’
She laughed again and looked at him. His thin face was alight and warm. ‘You’re celebrating something,’ she said.
Tom frowned, then exploded into laughter. ‘Honestly, Jo, you’re like a maiden aunt. I can’t keep anything from you.’
‘What is it?’ she asked curiously.
‘Oh ... Nothing very much. Only – Caro has agreed to come on holiday with me next month.’
‘Oh, Tom,’ she said. ‘I’m so happy for you.’ And she kissed his cheek.
‘It’s such a small step,’ he said. ‘Three weeks. Not exactly a lifetime.’
‘It’s a giant step for you, though,’ she said soberly.
But entering her own cottage she felt a sudden quick surge of jealousy. No three-week holidays for her. At least – not with Matthew. And she kicked her shoes off so hard they bounced against the opposite wall.
‘Damn,’ she said, and felt evil.
She and Tom were best friends. She should feel happy for him. Not envious. And just to punish herself for being mean-spirited she turned the shower thermostat down to just above cool and forced her body to stay there for more than five minutes. But when she came out she felt a warm glow. Virtue and the relief of escaping the chilling gush. She wrapped a thick white towel around her and poured herself a glass of cold white wine from the fridge. She drank it thoughtfully. It was always the quiet minutes like these that she treasured. She switched the CD player on to some Mozart flute and harp music, closed her eyes and dreamed. It was what her mother used to call quality time.
It was her stomach rumbling that brought her back to the present. She dressed in blue silk shirt and black trousers, pulled on some boots, sprayed herself with Ombre Rose, loving the strange, exotic smell of a spice market. She brushed her hair and creamed her skin. Applied mascara and a smear of lipstick. The nice thing about dinner with Tom was that he was far more absorbed in his culinary skills – or lack of them – than he was interested in his guest’s appearance. And she knew from experience that if she questioned him tomorrow he would have no idea what she had worn.
She poured herself another half-glass of wine and by the time she turned up for the second time that evening on Tom’s doorstep her mood had lightened.
Tom was an intriguing cook. Cooking relaxed him. He loved making weird concoctions, treating the kitchen as he would a chemist’s laboratory suitable for experiments. He would always start off the same way – the way most cooks do – with a recipe book, a shopping list of ingredients, equipment. But that was where the similarity ended. He would then prowl the kitchen, grabbing bits and pieces, herbs and spices, throwing them in and treating himself to frequent tastings. He could never repeat a recipe. And sometimes Joanna was glad. There had been some memorable failures. Chicken when mixed with garlic, rice, lemons, olive oil and too many chillis had been mouth-burningly delicious. But fillet steak with nuts, digestive biscuits, tomatoes and breadcrumbs had been very difficult to swallow.
Still, at least he looked the part.
She pulled the cork from the bottle.
‘It smells brilliant,’ she said. ‘And I’m starving.’
Tom observed her with a serious expression. He lifted the lids from the steaming saucepans.
She knew she was expected to gaze reverently inside.
It looked like pork in a creamy sauce. She sat down and waited.
‘I’ve suddenly lost confidence.’ He gave a twisted smile. ‘I don’t know what it’ll taste like.’
‘That’s never stopped you before.’
He made a face, leaned across the table to poke a knife into the asparagus.
She picked up her wine glass. ‘Well, the wine’s fine,’ she laughed.
He gave a sudden, mischievous grin. ‘One way to get a drink,’ he said. He ladled food on to plates and they sat down to eat.
She took a mouthful of the creamy meat. There was too much pepper in it.
He watched her. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I think sometimes when I’m tasting I forget to stir it first. Then I put more seasoning in and ...’
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Now tell me. Where are you going on this holiday?’
He leaned back in his chair and smiled. ‘Bali,’ he said. ‘Three weeks for the price of two. Leave your wallet behind. Food, drinks and watersports all free.’
‘Lucky you,’ she said and held up her glass. ‘Let’s drink to romance in the sun.’
He took a sip, then set his glass down on the table. ‘What about you?’
‘Nothing doing,’ she said as lightly as she could manage. ‘Matthew seems happily ensconced with wife – and daughter. I’m – on my own.’ She stopped, took another sip of wine. ‘Oh, I forgot. Wife now sending anonymous letters, just to add a touch of spice.’
Tom blinked. ‘What? Surely you’re not serious?’
‘Yes, I am. To be honest,’ she said, ‘I only ever felt sorry for Jane. But Eloise, Matthew’s daughter. She’s the manipulative one. She’s clever. I still think after their holiday – I think Matthew would have left. But Eloise is the sort of child who can act. So she fell into the part of a baby. Then her father couldn’t leave.’
‘No, he couldn’t,’ he said, nodding. ‘Not Matthew.’
They were both silent for a moment, then Joanna gave a snort.
‘Please, Tom,’ she said, ‘can we change the subject?’
He nodded. ‘All right. How’s your murder case going?’
‘Slowly but surely,’ she said, toying with her food.
‘Do you have any idea who did her yet?’
She shook her head. ‘Not really. But we’re working on it.’
‘The papers say the police were interviewing the ex-husband.’
; She laughed at that. ‘Did they?’ She took another forkful of the peppered pork, chewed it and washed it down with a mouthful of wine. ‘We’ve interviewed lots of people, including the ex-husband,’ she admitted. ‘But bear in mind something like sixty per cent of murders are done by the next of kin. Sam Finnigan seemed like a good place to start. Especially as he’d already been in front of the beak with a charge of ABH against his now-deceased wife.’
‘Mmmm.’ Tom was considering. ‘And what about her most recent boyfriend?’
She sighed. ‘The trouble with that is – who was Sharon Priest’s most recent boyfriend? Paul Agnew says they split up when she was pregnant with Ryan. Somewhere along the line, somebody made her pregnant. We think it might have been a married lover – according to friends Sharon was having an affair with a married man.’ She stopped and thought for a minute. ‘The trouble is no one seems to know anything about him, except that he was married. Oh ... I nearly forgot ... married and rich.’ She put her wine glass down.
‘So where do your investigations take you next?’
‘Macclesfield tomorrow, checking statements on Sunday, then on Monday we’ll call in at Blyton’s.’
‘Blyton’s?’
‘She was a cleaner there. Mike and I are going to interview a few of her work mates. She’d put an ad in the lonely hearts column in the Evening Standard, and it’s possible she might have talked about it at work.’ She gave a snort. ‘It was so corny, Tom – Prince Charming for a Cinderella in red. Honestly, I ask you.’
Tom frowned. ‘And I thought women were so liberated these days – bringing up families on their own, divorcing, kicking out the boyfriends they’d got fed up with ...’
‘You may think that,’ Joanna said, ‘and for some this is true. But for many others what they really want is Prince Charming to come and sweep them off their feet.’ She stopped. ‘But he never does. All they get is a series of unsuitable boyfriends.’ Tom shot her a swift glance and she hurried on. ‘Someone from this area answered that advert. But although she only put a box number the person who answered it used her name. He replied “Dear Sharon.” And he knew other things about her, too.’
‘Spooky.’
A Wreath for my Sister Page 12
