‘The worrying thing’s that we’ve found six or seven letters from the same source – from the man we believe she met at the pub the night she was murdered. They come from a ...’ Words almost failed her. ‘He’s a deviant,’ she said, ‘a nutcase. And he’s almost certainly killed before. A girl from Macclesfield.’
‘So that’s why you’re going to Macclesfield. I did wonder.’
She met his eyes. ‘And there may be more.’ A sudden burst of anger shot through her. ‘How can Sharon have been so naive she didn’t recognize him as a danger? Why did she arrange to meet him? Unless ...’
‘Unless what?’
A new idea was taking shape. ‘Unless she suspected what he was and wanted to go.’
‘Why on earth ...?’
Her voice was low. ‘Unless her perversions matched his.’
She drank deeply, then made a face. ‘Then there are the usual loose ends guaranteed to drive any self-respecting detective wild. We still haven’t found her other shoe. She was only wearing one when we found her body. We’ve scoured the moors. It just isn’t there.’ She stopped. ‘We just wonder – it’s a long shot, I know – but we just wonder whether it’s still in the killer’s car or somewhere near where she was killed. We live in hope,’ she said. ‘And as usual the wire cable she was killed with is proving annoyingly elusive to track down.’
She took another draught of wine. ‘And it all matches this other rape and murder which took place in Macclesfield eighteen months ago.’
Tom looked interested. ‘Really?’
She nodded. ‘Another young single mother,’ she said. ‘Do you remember Stacey Farmer?’
Tom nodded.
‘Same sort of set-up, really, advert in the local rag, wanting and promising the usual – sex and adventure. And she got it. Turned up raped and strangled on the edge of Macclesfield Forest. I’ll speak to Matthew tomorrow to see if the DNA samples match, but I bet they do.’
Tom had a habit of saying least while he was thinking most, so although she knew he had listened to her every word he said nothing, but regarded her with intelligent eyes.
‘The problem with DNA testing is,’ she said. ‘You can match like with like. But you can’t screen the whole population. So we have to catch our sparrow first.’ She stopped talking and set her knife and fork back on the plate. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘That was quite – interesting.’
‘Have I impressed you with my superb domesticity?’ He glanced at the half-full plates. ‘Oh well,’ he said. ‘Never mind.’
A nasty shock awaited her when Joanne approached her front door later that evening. There was a huge, bright red splatter over her front door. For one frozen moment she thought it was blood. Then she moved closer and smelt the paint. It was still wet. She stood and stared at it with one thought running through her mind.
‘Jane.’
Chapter Ten
She awoke early and watched the sun, pale and cool, stream in through the bedroom window. She sat up, wrapped her arms around her knees and thought.
She couldn’t mention Jane’s spiteful attacks to Matthew. It would seem too much like telling tales from school. But she wanted her to stop and leave her alone. No more letters. No more tins of paint. No more Matthew.
So what did she really want? Marriage ... children ... home ... She didn’t care either way about marriage; children she had something approaching dislike for and she already had a home. She glanced around the bedroom with its discreet but pretty wallpaper and antique pine furniture. She was happy here.
So what was missing?
She stared out of the window at a blue tit pecking at the windowframe. Yes, what was she missing?
She had always thought, from early childhood, that study of the criminal mind, apprehension of felons ... that it would all be enough. Her joy in detective novels had always been in the last chapter – the just deserts bit. But in the real world how many criminals did get their comeuppance? And how many innocent people were the ones to suffer? Perhaps that accounted for the lack of fulfilment she sometimes felt. It was true that her idealism had evaporated, but she had been warned that it would. She’d been told as a young rookie: ‘Forget justice, Piercy. Being a copper is nothing to do with that. It’s a matter of working the system.’ But the compromises, the injustice of the entire adversarial system, made her unhappy. Break one of the countless rigid rules of PACE and the villains would go free. No matter who knew they were guilty.
Her pottery figures downstairs had all been apprehended within the law, sentenced by it.
A chill gripped her momentarily. Rob her of her faith in the work she did and what was left? Answer: very little.
What could she do about it?
She didn’t know. She threw off the bedclothes. Perhaps something was missing from everybody’s life.
It seemed natural to work the weeks through during a murder investigation. And as Joanna dressed again in a skirt and sweater on that Saturday morning she knew that even if she had taken the day off her mind would have stayed with the still figure on the moors. Like a Staffordshire bull terrier her grip would be maintained to the end.
But Korpanski was a family man and his wife resented the lonely weekends left with their children. She glowered at Joanna as she answered her knock.
‘Mike,’ she shouted back into the house.
Korpanski’s face was flushed as he passed her. It didn’t take a clairvoyant to know they’d been rowing again.
Joanna waited in the car while Mike gave his wife a peck on the cheek. He climbed in and slammed the door. She was tempted to comment. They could be on the verge of a significant discovery.
He should have felt stimulated, excited – not guilty at abandoning his family. This was his job. Not for the first time she had no regrets about being single. Too many police marriages crashed against the rocks of long hours, unpredictable appearances, and sudden and prolonged disappearances.
The road to Macclesfield was quiet and the sun spilt across the fields to light the dew. It was such a contrast to last week’s snow that it made Sharon’s murder seem a long, long time ago.
As they followed the signs for the town centre she risked an approach to Mike. ‘Spot of bother at home?’ It was an attempt to lighten his mood, but it failed.
He grunted. ‘She doesn’t like me working weekends.’ There was no answer to that.
Detective Inspector Paul Austin was already in his office when they arrived. He had a brisk, pleasant attitude, an unremarkable face and steady brown eyes.
He briefly shook hands with them before settling behind his desk. ‘I don’t envy you,’ he said. ‘The Stacey Farmer case has haunted me for the last eighteen months. The sight of that poor girl ...’
He stared out of the window for a moment. ‘He must have been a ruddy ...’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘To tempt a girl out – on a date – and then do that to her. And I reckon he must have planned it, so I knew sooner or later he’d do the same thing again.’ He ran his fingers through the short, brown hair. ‘I’ve been waiting. But you know how it is. There’s one sure way of getting more evidence.’
They all knew. A second murder provided fresh evidence yet there was no source they wanted less. Joanna felt a pang of sympathy for Paul Austin. ‘You must have dreaded this moment.’
He nodded.
They spent more than an hour talking to him and at the end he pushed a red file towards them. ‘I hope it gets you somewhere,’ he said, ‘although I have my doubts. Between you and me I don’t think we even interviewed the right guy. I don’t think we got anywhere near him.’ He tapped the file. ‘Maybe I’m wrong and there’ll be something in there that can be used as evidence. I hope so. It would make me and the rest of the investigating officers feel a lot better.’
Joanna knew the feeling – the count of hours wasted when an investigation proved to be futile.
They drove back to Leek.
Weekends are an ideal time to find people at home so they had decided to spe
nd the rest of Saturday and Sunday concentrating on the house-to-house interviews. The estate was a large one, densely populated and people had plenty to say. The trouble was that most of it had little relevance to the investigation. By late Sunday night they had a pile of statements to be checked through as well as the file on the murder of Stacey Farmer. Joanna yawned and stretched her arms. ‘I’d like to say I’ll sit up all night reading these but I think it’s more likely I’ll fall asleep.’ She eyed Mike across the desk. ‘You’d better get home. Fran will wonder what’s happened to you.’
Mike stood up. ‘I think she has an idea,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
She couldn’t be certain but she imagined Stuart had been waiting for her to turn out on to the main road. He grinned, gripped her hand in a hard handshake, rattled his feet into their pedals and together they cycled along the road. He seemed cock-a-hoop today and she was sure he would ask her out again. But he didn’t.
She watched his muscled brown legs working the pedals. He was a good-looking man, with neat, regular features, athletic and fit looking.
So why wasn’t she flattered that he chose to ride with her?
Mike was late at his desk and when he arrived he had the swollen face of a man who had eventually induced sleep with a heavy night’s drinking. Around him clung the faint odour of last night’s beer. He groaned as he walked in.
‘I was praying you’d be late,’ he said, ‘that I’d have time for a third cup of coffee and you wouldn’t have cycled in. It makes you too bloody lively.’
She smiled sweetly, disappeared and returned with two cups of steaming coffee. She handed one to him and he sipped it cautiously.
‘Thanks,’ he said, wiping his sweating forehead. ‘I need this.’
Joanna laughed.
Then he glanced at her crossed legs. ‘You aren’t working in those, are you?’
‘No.’ She looked down at the cycling shorts and nylon shirt and shook her head. ‘Mike ...’ she paused. ‘Can I ask your advice?’ She felt suddenly unsure of herself.
He looked up.
‘Someone threw a pot of red paint over my door two nights ago.’
‘Someone?’
She was silent and he gave a low whistle. ‘Matthew’s wife, I suppose?’
She nodded. ‘She’s been writing me fan mail, too.’
Mike’s dark eyes were thoughtful. ‘If I were you, Jo,’ he said, ‘I’d leave it. Don’t stir it up. She’ll soon get bored.’
‘But ...’
He touched her arm. ‘Leave it. Unless she does something worse.’
‘OK. Thanks, Mike,’ she said. ‘Now, drink your coffee and we’ll plan the day out. I want to go to Blyton’s.’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘What exactly are we looking for?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I want to talk to that friend of hers. What was her name?’
‘Andrea,’ he said.
‘She might be able to fill in some of the gaps. If only we could get the name of Ryan’s father.’ She paused for a moment, frowning. ‘Why did Doreen Priest dislike him so much?’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Mike said. ‘Who says she didn’t like him? She said she didn’t even know who he was.’
‘She said.’ Joanna stared at Mike. ‘Come on, she must have known who he was. Otherwise why is she so against Ryan? He’s only six months old. While she’s quite prepared to have the other two she’ll throw Ryan to the wolves. Why?’
Mike shrugged his shoulders and winced at the pain in his head.
‘I suppose Andrea might know who it was that Finnigan found her in bed with,’ she said slowly. ‘And she just might be able to tell us something about Prince Charming, too. Someone at Blyton’s must know more about Sharon Priest than we’ve discovered so far.’
Half an hour later, dressed more demurely in a navy suit, Joanna was driving Mike into the yard of the small, family-run engineering firm. She had decided to drive after taking the decision that Mike was possibly still over the legal limit. Certainly he was bleary eyed and looked tired. ‘I ought to be breathalyzing you,’ she said, ‘instead of acting as your chauffeur.’
He smiled.
‘You’d better take the rest of the day off,’ she said, ‘once we’ve been to Blyton’s.’
She steered the car into the parking space, next to a familiar white Mercedes – number plate RED 36. She sat and stared at it.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘An old friend.’
Mike screwed up his face in puzzlement.
‘What a coincidence. Do you remember the night of the Legal Ball?’ she said, still keeping her eyes fixed on the vehicle. ‘The night you got me stopped and breathalyzed? The same night Sharon Priest was murdered?’
‘Yes,’ Mike said, giving her a sideways look. ‘I remember.’
She climbed out of the car and stared at the white Merc.
‘This car passed me.’ She looked at Mike. ‘It tore past me, coming straight from the moors. It was late, too, well after the snow had started. Do you remember I asked you about it? What did you say the owner’s name was?’
She stood and recalled the black night, spattered with huge snowflakes, the car screaming past.
‘Charles Haworth. He’s an accountant.’
‘And here he is, working at the same company as Sharon.’
Her eyes rested on Mike. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘what do you think?’
Mike shrugged. ‘I’ll tell you what I don’t think,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it’s a coincidence.’
She leaned forward. ‘Then what do you think?’
‘She’d been having an affair – hadn’t she? With a married man ... someone Christine Rattle – and others – described as being wealthy.’
‘She wasn’t in the same class as this guy.’
‘No?’
‘She was a bloody cleaner.’
‘She was a very attractive cleaner,’ Joanna said. ‘Attractive and available. And it looks as though he works here, at Blyton’s. In the same place.’
Mike blinked. ‘And he was on the moors that night?’
Again the picture swam into her vision, clear and unmistakable. She shook her head. ‘Regretfully, no,’ she said. ‘It was throwing a blizzard down here, in the town. We decided Sharon’s body was dumped before the snow started. It was late when I saw him. Wherever he’d been it wasn’t the moors. Oh well, nice try. But still, he did come from the direction of the Buxton road, which must have been closed for at least an hour before I saw him. He might have seen something.’
They climbed out of the car and entered the factory, which was dirty and noisy and stank of soldering flux, hot metal and grease. They picked their way past the machinery and through the noise until they reached a door marked ‘office’, which sealed in thick carpets and the scent of lavender. A young woman with brown hair, teased into an improbable ponytail, stood up as they entered. She rubbed her hands down the side of her skirt. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
Joanna nodded. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Piercy. I’d like to speak to whoever’s in charge, please.’
‘Can you wait a minute?’ the girl lisped. ‘He’s got someone with him at the moment.’
‘Would that be a Mr Haworth?’ Mike asked brusquely.
The girl blinked. ‘We’re not supposed to divulge ...’
‘It’s all right,’ Joanna said resignedly. ‘We want to speak to him too.’
They sat down and waited.
The girl glanced across periodically. ‘He’s our accountant,’ she said eventually.
When the door finally opened, a distinguished, grey-haired man walked out. He was wearing a navy business suit somewhat spoiled by a bright yellow silk tie which gave him a foppish, effeminate air.
Joanna stood up. ‘Mr Haworth?’
He turned a pair of alert grey eyes on her. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Piercy,’ Joanna said.
He held out a large hand and gave hers a firm shake. ‘
Hello,’ he said with a wide, warm smile. And quite unexpectedly Joanna found herself liking the man.
‘We’re investigating the murder of Sharon Priest,’ she said. ‘Did you know her?’
Haworth looked vaguely puzzled. ‘Sorry?’ he queried.
‘She was a cleaner here.’
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I’m the accountant.’ A ripple of humour passed across his face. ‘I don’t really have a great deal to do with the cleaners.’
Behind Mike the girl with the unruly ponytail spluttered.
‘I know that.’ Joanna was forced to put a little steel into her voice. ‘But I really would like to talk to you. Would tomorrow suit? Shall we say about eleven? At your offices?’
Haworth looked amazed. ‘What on earth do you want to ask me?’
‘We’re interviewing everyone who knew her.’
‘But I’ve told you,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know her.’ He paused for a moment, frowning. ‘Couldn’t you ask me any questions here? Do you have to visit my offices?’
‘Well, yes, we do, Mr Haworth,’ Joanna said. ‘You see, I’ve come here to talk to the MD and other employees of Blyton’s today.’ She stopped. ‘I want to visit you separately.’
He still looked puzzled but nodded briefly, his eyes wary. Then again he showed a faint touch of humour. ‘I don’t suppose, Detective Inspector Piercy, that I have any choice in the matter, do I?’
And now she was smiling too. ‘No, Mr Haworth,’ she said, ‘you don’t.’
‘I thought not. Well, my offices are in Bath Street, near the top. But I assure you I know nothing about this ... You said she was a cleaner?’
Joanna nodded.
‘Until tomorrow, then,’ he said, before turning on his heel and walking through the swing doors, leaving behind him a faint tang of expensive aftershave.
‘What a wanker,’ Mike said under his breath.
Joanna turned to him. ‘I thought he was rather nice.’
Mike gave an explosive grunt.
The girl with the ponytail was speaking into the phone.
Joanna turned to see a short, balding man come out of the office and stand in the doorway. ‘Detective Inspector Piercy?’ he asked.
A Wreath for my Sister Page 13
