‘Did anyone come forward to say they were supposed to be meeting Deborah that evening?’
‘The police didn’t really try too hard,’ Randall Pelham said. ‘Because she never went on that date, you see. The plan was that she went shopping, came home, got changed and went out. The fact that she disappeared in the middle of the day took the emphasis off the night-time date.’
Joanna nodded, then looked at Elspeth. ‘You were close to your daughter?’
She nodded. ‘I would have said so, yes,’ she answered quietly. ‘Perhaps a little less so when she returned from Saudi Arabia.’ She stopped. ‘Deborah seemed a little more hard-boiled after being there.’
‘And that bloody spiky-haired female didn’t help either.’
Joanna looked at Randall Pelham.
‘Well – with her rights-for-women attitude and going on about men using women for their own ends. All that crap.’
The word was unexpected coming from him and Joanna smiled. ‘Mr Pelham. I had the feeling that you suspected someone of being involved in your daughter’s disappearance.’ Joanna paused. ‘Was it Leanne Ferry?’
He looked away. ‘I had no proof.’
‘But ...’
‘She had a lot of influence over Deborah,’ he said fiercely. ‘Deborah even began to talk like her.’
‘Was there anything concrete we can go on?’
He shook his head.
Joanna was silent for a moment, digesting facts. But try as she might she couldn’t see where Leanne Ferry fitted into the picture.
‘Tell me ... Do you really think Deborah is dead?’ Elspeth Pelham asked again.
‘It’s possible,’ Joanna said cautiously.
‘By the same man?’
Joanna nodded.
‘I see.’
‘I’ve never understood,’ Randall Pelham said slowly, ‘why since that day we never heard anything. And neither has her ex-husband. Her son is now nearly three years old and has no recollection of his mother.’
Pelham was close to breaking down. He covered his face with his hand. His wife tightened her grip on him but he stood up. ‘Where does Miss Ferry live now?’
‘Please ...’Joanna begged. ‘Leave this to the police.’
Pelham gave her a sudden, malevolent look. ‘I’ve done that for the last two years. Where has it got me?’
‘Nowhere,’ Joanna said calmly. ‘But neither will harassing Leanne Ferry.’
Joanna left soon after that. The feeling of emptiness in the old house was painful, the couple’s unhappiness tangible. She could hardly remember ever feeling more pity than she did for these two lonely, middle-aged people. And his social position and her bravery all added poignancy to the situation.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Great morning for cycling, Joanna,’ called Stuart as he came up level with her, and she nodded back in agreement, out of breath and apprehensive. She had seen another side to Stuart. A less attractive side.
‘I’m still having trouble keeping up with you,’ she panted.
But he took little notice and pedalled faster. ‘You working this weekend?’
‘Most of the time.’
He slowed down then and she caught up with him. ‘Sure you won’t spend an evening with me?’ he urged. ‘I know a great little restaurant.’
‘I don’t think so.’
He bent back down over his handlebars. ‘Oh,’ he said and quickened his pace.
She made a face, kept her head down and pedalled faster, swinging round the corner towards the hill. They were at the top before she caught him up again.
They cycled silently for half a mile before she turned to look at him. ‘I don’t know much about you, do I?’
He laughed it off. ‘Not much to know. I work in the town.’
‘What as?’
They were speeding along now. ‘I trained as an engineer. As I said,’ he laughed, ‘I’m a nuts and bolts man.’
Her front wheel wobbled. ‘Where exactly do you work?’
‘Blyton’s’ he said cheerfully.
She dropped right back then, feeling hollow. She and Mike had committed the cardinal sin of leaving someone out of the questioning, just because they hadn’t been there at the time. There had been two engineers and they hadn’t spoken to either of them.
Now she was curious about this one.
‘You aren’t married, are you, Stuart?’
He looked almost embarrassed. ‘Course not. What do you take me for? I live with my mum.’
‘No girlfriend?’
‘Not at the moment.’ Now he looked hurt.
‘Why?’
‘Nothing.’
She would prefer to interview both Stuart and the second engineer in a more formal atmosphere, and with Mike at her elbow.
She had never been so relieved to reach the turnoff and lift her hand to wave goodbye.
Stuart waved back and carried on and she watched him go with mixed feelings. She finished her journey in slow, thoughtful mode, and chained her bike to the railings.
The first person she spoke to was Mike. He was as mortified as she at their omission.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘so we go back to Blyton’s.’
‘Exactly.’
The morning briefing was uneventful and she knew that without something positive to go on there was a danger of the officers becoming apathetic and bored with the case. After all, new crimes were being committed daily, many of which they would have a better chance of solving. And these days they were constantly being told how to measure their success – by convictions.
But this could be a dangerous period, when time could easily be wasted by lack of concentration. So Joanna planned to spend the morning concentrating on the positive aspects and specific tasks and attempting to raise morale. She made a quick decision.
I think we should watch Christine Rattle. She’s had a brick through her window. There’s not much doubt it’s Finnigan ... the wording of the threat plus the phrase “stop rattling”. Keep watching him, too – see what else he’s getting up to ... If any of you see him heading towards her, intercept him.’ She stopped and glanced around the room. ‘I don’t trust him,’ she said.
Timmis interrupted her. ‘Why did Finnigan do it?’ he said. ‘He wasn’t particularly prominent in our enquiries. All he’s done is draw attention to himself. Why? Do you think there’s something Christine Rattle isn’t telling us?’
She gave a wry smile. ‘There’s always something they’re not telling us, Timmis, don’t you know that yet? They don’t tell us for a variety of reasons. They’re frightened, they don’t understand the significance of what they know, or they’re just plain stubborn. And, of course, someone isn’t telling us all he knows because he is our bloody killer. And Christine Rattle might have taken it into her head to protect him. God knows why ...’ she muttered, and then felt unreasonably disloyal to Christine. She had until recently counted her as one of her friends ... But sometimes the police could not afford the luxury of this most valued of life’s commodities. She had learned that the hard way.
Timmis spoke up again. ‘Do you think Finnigan’s the killer, ma’am?’
She perched on the corner of the desk and crossed her legs.
‘We don’t know yet,’ she said. ‘We really don’t know who our killer is. We’re keeping open minds.’ She made a face. ‘You know how I hate guesswork and so-called hunches. I’m not in a desperate hurry. I simply want to get the right man to court. But I want to do that without further killings. We know Finnigan’s a villain. We know he’s violent, and he held a grudge against Sharon Priest. But the man we’re looking for has raped and killed before. At least once.’ She thought she might as well confide in them.
‘We know that our killer was also responsible for Stacey Farmer’s death in Macclesfield eighteen months ago. Well, some of you will remember the disappearance of a woman called Deborah Halliday, two years ago. Her body was never found, but I’m almost certain she’s our third victim.’ She
glanced around the room, then added, ‘And there’s a link – Leanne Ferry, Deborah Halliday’s best friend. Now living with Paul Agnew, Sharon Priest’s ex-boyfriend. DS Korpanski and I will be visiting her today.’
There was a muttering around the room.
Joanna turned back to the board. ‘As for Finnigan, although we have no record of Finnigan ever having raped, we have to consider this. Would Sharon have left the pub with a man who had openly threatened her and beaten her up? Personally I don’t think so. She was dressed for a date. The question is – with whom?’
Mike was chuntering. ‘No evidence that Finnigan ever raped anyone? Your friend Ms Rattle is lying.’
‘Well, we’ll challenge Christine with that, but we can’t force her to make a statement.’
‘What about bringing Finnigan in?’
‘It’s worth a try,’ she agreed.
Turning back to the room, she knew she was leaving the most important detail until last.
‘Korpanski and I will also be visiting Blyton’s later on to interview the two engineers who have so far escaped our attentions.’
Finnigan was surly and resentful at being hauled in. Accompanied by two uniformed officers, he sauntered through the office area, unshaven and reeking of stale sweat and lager and wearing a crumpled and stained T-shirt.
‘What do you want me here for now?’ he grumbled, then demanded legal aid.
Valuable time was wasted. It was an hour before an available solicitor arrived. He briefed Finnigan before turning to Joanna.
‘Are you charging my client?’
Joanna shook her head. ‘No,’ she said smoothly. ‘Of course not. But as well as the murder investigation we are also now investigating an unpleasant incident that took place the night before last.’
The solicitor opened his briefcase. ‘And in connection with which investigation have you brought my client here today?’
‘Both,’ Joanna said.
‘I was at home,’ Finnigan said.
‘You don’t know at what time the offence was committed.’
‘I was at home all night.’
Joanna leaned across the table. ‘Witness intimidation carries a jail sentence these days,’ she said softly.
‘Bloody typical,’ Finnigan looked aggrieved. ‘The first sign of trouble and you come charging in on me. Well, you can’t pin the killing on me,’ he said. ‘I never touched Sharon.’
‘The night before last a brick was thrown through Christine Rattle’s window. The brick was accompanied by a threatening note.’
Finnigan sniffed. ‘Don’t know nothing,’ he said, folding his arms around his chest.
‘Are you good at writing?’Joanna asked drily.
‘Now what are you on about?’
The solicitor glanced again at his watch. ‘Please, Inspector,’ he said.
‘Write “interfere”.’ She rolled a pencil across the interview table and pushed the pad across. ‘No, better still, write this whole sentence down.’
Finnigan flushed.
‘Bricks through windows, Mr Finnigan?
‘You can’t prove a thing,’ he muttered.
‘Want to bet?’
The solicitor spoke. ‘You don’t have to say anything.’
Joanna wished the solicitor would shut up. She ignored him, but unfortunately Finnigan did not. He rolled the pencil back across the table.
‘You haven’t charged me.’
‘Not yet, not yet.’ She stood up. ‘You can always live in hope, can’t you?’
Finnigan eyed her, ‘Prison?’
She nodded. ‘As I said, witness intimidation does carry a prison sentence these days.’
Finnigan leaned back heavily in his seat. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I don’t know about no bricks and things.’ He gave an attempt at an ingratiating smile. ‘But I think I can tell you something.’
‘About Sharon?’
He nodded. ‘I don’t know if it’s anything to do with her getting herself killed, but I think I know the married bloke she had the affair with. I know who Ryan’s dad is.’
She could not suppress the feeling of elation.
Mike walked towards the table and bent over him. ‘Who?’
‘He drives a white Merc,’ Finnigan said, avoiding looking at Mike. ‘He goes into Blyton’s but he doesn’t work there. I can tell you the reg number of the car. It’s personalized.’
Joanna already knew it. She made her hand into a tight fist and looked down at it. Small facts, tiny pieces of a Chinese puzzle. The wooden sort that could never make a perfect sphere until you had each piece in exactly the right place. And this case was just beginning to take shape.
She nodded, then spoke to Finnigan again. ‘What were you so afraid that Christine might “rattle” about, Mr Finnigan?’
Finnigan dropped his gaze but not before Joanna had read an uncertainty. The solicitor cleared his throat and for a moment the room was silent.
He was hiding something.
‘It wouldn’t be rape, would it?’
Finnigan’s eyes bulged.
She glanced again at Mike, and let Finnigan go – for now.
It was time to turn her attentions to Leanne Ferry.
Paul Agnew lived in a small terraced house with bay windows and four black plastic dustbins standing in the garden. The street was ringing with the strains of pop music. The girl who answered his door was short and squat with bright, spiky hair. She wore wash-faded flowered leggings, a grubby pullover and a dour expression.
‘Yeah?’
It wasn’t hard to guess who she was.
‘Leanne Ferry?’
The girl nodded.
Joanna showed her her card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Piercy and this is Detective Sergeant Korpanski. We’re investigating the rape and murder of Sharon Priest.’
‘I didn’t think you’d come here,’ the girl said grudgingly but without a trace of apprehension. ‘There’s no point. Paul isn’t in. He’s at work. Anyway,’ she added, ‘you know everything. Paul finished with Sharon ages ago when she was expecting Ryan. He didn’t even know she was in the pub that Tuesday. They had nothing more to do with each other. He couldn’t stand her. And then he met me. And he didn’t have no time for her any more. He didn’t fancy her no more.’
‘I haven’t come to see Paul,’ Joanna said. ‘It’s you I want to talk to.’
The girl’s face twisted. ‘Oh, charmed, I’m sure. You want to ask me about my boyfriend’s ex?’
‘No.’ Joanna took a step forward. ‘Leanne,’ she said slowly. ‘I think you can help us.’
‘Help you what?’ There was deep distrust in her voice.
‘Can I come in?’
The girl looked around in a sudden, fleeting panic and Joanna read her mind.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘I’m not on a hunt for grass. I don’t care if you have a marijuana plantation in there. I’m not interested. We’re talking about murder. Now, can I come in?’
Leanne stood her ground. ‘No, you bloody can’t. Not without a warrant. Not unless you tell me what you do want.’
Joanna took a deep breath. ‘All right, then – on the doorstep where all your neighbours will hear.’
Leanne Ferry gave a chuckle. ‘Listen, copper,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you got no ears? Can’t you hear all that music? They wouldn’t hear anything if your beefy friend here was to rape and strangle me.’
Mike flushed and shifted uneasily. It was an unfortunate choice of words. The three of them were conscious of Sharon Priest’s final struggle.
Leanne moved back, flat against the door, and without a word the two police filed past.
Leanne glanced up and down the street before closing the door and standing against it, her arms folded. The room was tiny, dark and claustrophobic.
‘Go on, then,’ she said.
And suddenly Joanna wasn’t sure where to start. ‘Tell me about Finnigan,’ she began.
Leanne looked surprised. ‘Finnigan? You want to know about Fi
nnigan?’
‘Yes.’
Leanne relaxed. ‘He’s a nothing,’ she said. ‘He’s a violent, lager-drinking lout.’
Mike moved close to her. ‘Is he a rapist?’
Leanne gave a shrug. ‘It might just be a rumour. People say things. You don’t always know they’re true.’
‘What things?’
And both police felt they already knew the rest. They had felt it instinctively in Finnigan’s flat.
‘Paul said ...’ Leanne swallowed, ‘... Sharon told him Finnigan got a bit rough sometimes.’
‘How rough?’ Joanna demanded. ‘How rough ?’
‘Very.’ Leanne was even more reluctant to say the next sentence. ‘I think he tried something on with her friend Christine, too. He’d try it on with anybody.’
Joanna caught Mike’s eye. They had never checked Finnigan’s alibi but had let it ride because Sharon would never have left the pub with him. It was even more definite now. She had been wearing nothing but her best, new dress. Finnigan hadn’t needed an alibi. In a way Sharon had been it.
‘Anything else?’
‘Sharon honestly thought he’d kill her,’ she said. ‘He seemed to really hate her after that night. She was really frightened of him.’
‘So she left the trousers hanging out of the window?’
Leanne nodded. ‘If it had been left to Sharon they’d still be there now.’
‘But they’re not.’
Leanne seemed frozen, almost stuck to the door. Very slowly she moved away and headed towards the narrow staircase. Halfway up she stopped and looked down on them. ‘I’ve got them,’ she said, before covering the last few steps to the top.
Neither Mike nor Joanna spoke until she reappeared holding a pair of black jogging pants.
She gave an abrupt laugh. ‘Paul sort of inherited them,’ she said, ‘when he met Sharon. Hanging out of the window, they still were – but he wasn’t frightened of Finnigan. They were upsetting her so he got them down. They’re nice trousers.’ She handed them to Joanna.
Somehow she had imagined that the word ‘trousers’ related to a creased, formal garment. Neither had visualized casual wear but, holding them, Joanna realized that to Christine, Finnigan, Agnew and the rest, jobless and permanently skint, this was a pair of trousers, black jogging pants, sportswear, cycling trousers.
A Wreath for my Sister Page 17
