by John Harvey
The younger son, Marcus, had spent the evening with a bunch of friends from college and had ended up spending the night on the floor of one of their places in Sneinton.
Michael was back in London, at his shared digs in Camberwell.
Howard Brent's friends supported his story. It was Marcus's alibi that was the weakest and potentially the easiest to break; Marcus and his pals with time and opportunity, Khan thought, to torch the Alston place before getting their heads down for the night.
Just maybe.
When he put his doubts forward, Resnick told him to go ahead and find out what he could.
That morning Lynn had arranged to see Tony Foley, the husband and father in the Bestwood murders, Lynn explaining that she was taking a new look at the case and Foley, concerned, wanting to know should he bring his solicitor. Up to you, Lynn had told him, if you think it would make you feel more comfortable go ahead; but, she assured him, it was just an informal conversation, filling in background, bringing herself up to speed.
Foley arrived on his own, smart after a fashion in a dark blue suit that had probably been dry-cleaned too many times, white shirt, blue and silver tie, shoes polished to within an inch of their lives.
Lynn asked herself if she'd have pegged him as a car salesman if she hadn't already known.
"Good of you to come in." She offered her hand. "I'll try not to take too much of your time."
Foley's smile was practised, his grip firm and just a little overeager, holding on to her hand that few seconds too long. "Anything I can do to help. Anything at all."
His breath smelt freshly of peppermint, either from one of those little gizmos you sprayed in your mouth, Lynn thought, or else he'd been sucking extra-strong mints in the car.
On the way to the Interview Room, he chatted on about the day, the weather, the drive down from Mansfield where he was currently living-more Ravenshead than Mansfield, really, pricey that side of town, south, but nicer, bit more class, plus easier for getting into the city. As if priming her for the moment, he showed her the new Audi Cabriolet TDI Sport convertible. Definitely a lady's car, and for her he could see a way of shaving 5K off the price.
"Please," Lynn said, "take a seat."
"Thanks." He sat back easily enough, one leg hooked across the other, helpful smile in place. He was quite heavily built, more than a few kilos overweight, a reddening in the cheeks which suggested, Lynn thought, high blood pressure or an overdependence on alcohol or both. Thirty-nine, but she might have placed him as older, midforties easily.
"The enquiry into the murder of your wife and daughter," she said briskly, taking the smile off his face in one stroke. "As I explained on the phone, I'm just familiarising myself with the case, the people involved. Sometimes it's useful to have someone look at things with a fresh eye."
Foley shifted a little in his seat. "Different perspective, that sort of thing."
"Yes, if you like." She shuffled a few papers on her desk. "Susie, she was how old?"
Foley blinked. "She was four."
"And you've two other children? From a previous relationship?"
"Yes."
"How old are they?"
"Fifteen and eleven. Jamie, he's fifteen, Ben's eleven."
"Both boys."
"Yes."
"It must have been different, having a girl?"
"Yes, I suppose." He looked away, as if there were something logged in his brain. "I suppose it was."
"You still see them, the boys?"
"Not really."
"You not want to or-"
Foley shook his head. "They're living in Suffolk, for one thing. Colchester, just outside. Not as if you can nip across of an evening, anything like that. For another, she's married to a real self-righteous prick, excuse my language, who's gone out of his way to make it clear from day one that any contact with me was definitely a bad idea. So, no, I don't see too much of them anymore."
"They're your children."
"I know, but"-Foley leaned forward, one arm on the table between them-"you've got to understand, this last five, five and half years, since I met Chris, Christine, my life… well, let's say my life changed. Tanya and I, when we got together, got married, and Tanya had Jamie, I was what? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? Still wet behind the ears. I was out there working all the hours God sends. Different jobs, lots of different jobs in those days. Tanya, too. Bits and pieces, you know how it goes. And the boys-it was never easy. Jamie, he was always getting into trouble at school, and Ben, Ben was… well, Ben was, I suppose you'd say, slow. Kind of slow. Special needs. So it wasn't easy. None of it was easy. And we'd row, Tanya and me. Fight. Argue. It was all a kind of nightmare. I don't know why we stuck with it, either of us, as long as we did.
"But then, then I met Chris and everything else, everything that had happened, it didn't seem to matter, this was it now, this was my life, and when Susie was born, I suppose-I suppose, if I'm honest, that was when I seemed to start caring less about not seeing the boys, just birthdays and Christmas and not always that." He looked at Lynn. "That's wrong, I know."
"Not necessarily."
"But that's how it was, Chris and Susie and me, the three of us, you know? Perfect."
He brought his hand to his mouth as if to stifle a sob and turned his head aside, and Lynn asked herself if he were putting it on.
"Till something went wrong," she said.
"What?"
"Something went wrong, with the relationship. Between you and Chris."
Foley tilted his head back and, for a long moment, closed his eyes.
"I had this stupid, this bloody stupid-I won't even call it an affair, it wasn't an affair, not anything like that, it was a fling. I suppose if you want to call it anything, that's what it was. A fling with this girl, worked in the showroom. I needed my bloody brains tested, I know. It was all stupid, like I say. She was just some kid flashing her legs, bending forward whenever I walked past the desk so I could see right down her front. I mean, she knew, she knew I was married, I think that was half the fun of it for her, to see if she could. Jesus!" He hit the edge of the table with his fist. "We were at this sales conference, Milton Keynes, a whole bunch of us drinking in the bar after dinner, you know how it is? Having a laugh." He shook his head. "I'm not making excuses, it's just how it happened. One minute we're down in the lobby, and the next we're getting into the lift, and then we're there, in my room and, to be honest, I was too pissed to remember much about what happened, but it did, just the once, and Chris she finds out. Next day. Only texts me, doesn't she, this stupid little tart, and Chris has got my mobile because the battery on hers is flat and the cat's out of the fucking bag and I'm out the door. No explanations, no excuses, no fucking second chance."
He pushed his hands up through his hair.
"I still don't understand it, you know, how you can throw everything away, everything we had, all because of one little… transgression. One half-drunken step in the wrong direction that didn't mean a thing. Not a bloody thing. You understand that? Can you?"
Lynn wasn't sure. Although, looked at coldly, it did seem a bit extreme, she thought perhaps she could. If what they'd had together had really been as full, as complete as Foley had said, then maybe all it needed was one little crack to feel the whole thing was in danger of falling apart.
"I mean, would you?" Foley persisted. "In her situation. React like that?"
Would she, she wondered? If she found Charlie going over the side? She didn't know. She'd never really given it a thought.
"You tried to get her to change her mind?"
"Of course I bloody did. Only she'd met up with what's-his-face, bloody Schofield, by then, hadn't she?"
"How did you feel about that? Christine meeting somebody else?"
"How d'you think I felt? Like shit got wiped off some fucker's bloody shoe."
"You got angry, then?"
"Of course I got bloody angry!"
"With her?"
Foley shook his head.
"First off, I thought it was, you know, tit for tat. Sauce for the goose, something like that. But then it was more. More, and I was out on my ear for bloody good."
"You didn't like that."
He looked at her as if it were a question not worth answering.
"You kept trying to get Christine to change her mind. Rowed in public. Shouted. Argued."
"She wouldn't let me into the house."
"So you shouted at her in the street."
"It was the only way to get her to see sense."
"Not just in the street, the shops, the supermarket."
"Her fault for locking the door in my face."
"She was within her rights."
"What about my rights?"
"You threatened her."
"Never. Shouted, maybe. Lost my temper, all right. But I never raised a hand to her. And I never threatened to, never."
"'If I can't fucking have you, no other bastard will.'"
"What?"
"It's what you said."
"When? Where?"
"One evening, outside the house. Little more than a week before she was killed."
"No."
"'If I can't fucking have you, no other bastard will.'"
"No way. No fucking way. I'd never've said that, not to her. Not in a million years."
"You were heard."
"Yes? Who by?"
Lynn lifted out a copy of the statement. "A neighbour. Evelyn Byers. Lives across the street."
"Nosy cow."
"Thursday evening. The week preceding the murder. Says she knows it was Thursday because that's the evening her daughter always comes round. Heard the shouting and went to the window to see what was going on."
"I'll bet she did."
"And that's when she heard you."
"And when was this again? Thursday? Thursday before?"
"Yes."
"Then, no. Can't have been. She might have heard somebody, but it wasn't me. I was in Portsmouth. Gone down about a job. New job, change of scene. Living so close, driving me round the twist. I went down that morning, the Thursday morning. Drove. Interview in the afternoon, dinner that night with the sales manager and a couple of the staff. Here"-he took a personal organiser from the inside pocket of his suit-"names and numbers-you can check."
"And it checked out?" Resnick asked.
"In detail," Lynn said.
It was not so long after eight thirty in the evening, neither of them with time nor inclination to cook, and they were sharing a takeaway from one of the Indian restaurants on the Mansfield Road. Lamb passanda and chicken korma, saag aloo and brinjal bhajee, fried rice and naan bread, plus an assortment of pickles from the cupboard and the fridge. In the absence of any more Worthington White Shield, they split a large bottle of Hoegaarden between them.
Resnick said, "You have to ask why it never came up before."
Lynn shrugged. "Nobody asked the right question. I've looked at the tape of the original interview. The words the wit ness claims she heard being used-they were never put to him directly."
"So what now?"
"We're checking it out. But I've been out there. It must be twenty, twenty-five metres at least between the witness's upstairs window and the Foleys' front path. Plus, it would have been dark. The nearest streetlight is a good thirty metres away."
Resnick helped himself to some more lamb. "And this witness, she's how old?"
"Sixty-plus."
"So her eyesight's likely not what it used to be."
"Exactly."
"It could have been anybody standing there having a slanging match with the victim. Anybody who fits the same basic description."
"Which the new boyfriend does, apparently. Younger, but around the same height, same darkish hair worn quite short."
Resnick speared a piece of chicken with his fork. "You're talking to him, too?"
"Tomorrow."
"You going to eat that last piece of naan?"
"No, go on."
"It's all right, keep it. You have it."
"For heaven's sake, take it."
"All right. Thanks."
"Maybe next time we should order two."
"We tried that. Ended up with most of the second one getting thrown away."
Lynn poured herself some more beer. "It's an inexact science, ordering Indian takeaway."
"Bit like police work, then."
She smiled. "Anything new on the fire?"
"Not as yet. Tomorrow, most like."
Lynn nodded. Tomorrow. Another day.
Sixteen
Some of the old industrial buildings in the centre of the city had been left to decay slowly and now harboured little beyond floors thick with pigeon waste, an infestation of rats, and the occasional body burned almost beyond recognition; others had been eviscerated and reborn as luxury flats and waterside bars, or health clubs with cybercafes and solariums, personal trainers and corporate-membership schemes.
The club where Dan Schofield worked was housed in one of the old low-level railway-station buildings close by the canal. He had hesitated only momentarily when Lynn had phoned: eleven thirty would be fine.
Several young women slicked past her on their way to an hour or so of ergonomically calibrated exercise-an aqua workout in the pool maybe, or a little holistic tai chi-each one fashionably dressed for the occasion, makeup perfectly in place. In her blue-black jeans, black cotton top she'd had for more years than she cared to remember, short corduroy jacket and clumpy shoes, Lynn felt just a smidgeon out of place.
Beyond the enquiry desk, a tanned individual in an official health-club vest and eye-wateringly tight shorts was flexing his muscles for all to see.
"Dan Schofield?"
He shook his head without breaking a sweat.
"He's around somewhere. You'd best ask at the desk."
She did. A quick call and Schofield appeared. Late twenties? Round about the same age Christine Foley had been when she died. And where the man she'd seen first was all overdeveloped muscle and curly dark hair, Dan Schofield was trim and athletic in his uniform tracksuit, not tall, no more than an inch more than Lynn herself, smooth-shaven with neat, short hair. Were he a soccer player, she thought-something else in which Resnick had partially schooled her-he would be a midfield playmaker, not afraid to put his foot on the ball, look up, then play a probing pass upfield.
"Is there somewhere we could go and talk?" Lynn asked.
"There's the juice bar, though that tends to be busy this time of the day. Or we could go outside."
It was only a short walk back on to London Road and the entrance to the canal.
As they went down the steps towards the water, a narrow boat puttered past, brightly painted, a brown and white dog stretched out on deck, a man with heavily tattooed arms seated at the helm, contentedly reading a book. All it needed was for the sun to break through the matte-grey coating of cloud or for the refuse that cluttered the far bank to disappear, and it could be a perfect scene, a perfect moment in the day.
"What happened to Christine," Lynn said, "I'm really sorry."
"Thank you."
"It must have been a terrible shock."
"Yes, it was."
"You'd known her how long?"
"We'd been living together five months, give or take. If that's what you're asking. But I'd known her longer than that. A good year and a half."
"And you met her where?"
"Here, at the club. She used to come for classes. Just the one at first, but more often after that."
" Your classes?"
"Some. Not all. But mainly, yes, I suppose they were."
"And that's when you got to know one another?"
"Yes, like I said. We used to talk after the session sometimes, just, you know, chat. Nothing special."
They stopped and sat on a bench back from the edge of the canal path.
"She was lonely, Christine. At least, that was how she seemed. I mean, okay, she had a busy life, with her little girl and everyt
hing, part-time job, home, but just the same you sensed that she needed something else. Someone to talk to."
"Aside from her husband."
Schofield half-smiled. "You've met him? Foley?"
"Just the once."
"Then maybe you'll know, you don't talk to Tony. He talks to you. You listen."
The more she listened to Schofield, the more she could hear the vestiges of a Geordie accent filtering through. They were silent for a moment as a couple of swans ghosted past.
"Your friendship with Christine, then," Lynn said, "it had started quite a long time before she broke up with her husband?"
"Yes, I suppose so. Not that that had any bearing on what happened. That was all down to Foley, wasn't it? Screwing some bimbo from work. Christine, she was gutted. Said she could never look at him in the same way again."
"But you helped, I daresay."
"How d'you mean?"
"Oh, you know. Someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on."
"You could put it that way if you like."
"And you weren't sorry."
"How'd you mean?"
"When they broke up."
"I was sorry for her."
"It meant the field was clear."
"That makes it sound-I don't know-wrong, somehow."
"Your friendship could move on. That's all I'm saying."
"We were already close. When Foley left, we became closer. No crime in that."
"And there was never any thought she might go back to him?"
"Foley? Not in a million years. Why would she?"
"I don't know. Because of the little girl, perhaps. Susie. She must have been really upset her dad was gone."
"A little, maybe." He shook his head. "I'm not sure how much time they ever really spent together."
"And you got on with her okay?"
"Susie? Yes, fine."
Lynn smiled. "A ready-made family."
"You could look at it that way."
"Lucky, some would say."
" I would," Schofield said emphatically. "I would, and no mistake. Those few months-" He looked away. "What you were saying, about Susie, about us being like a family. I'd never… never really thought of having kids, you know? Being a dad. I was happy the way I was. Friends. Girlfriends. Working where I do, no shortage of those. Women coming on to you. Well… like I say, I'd not figured on settling down, but then the more time I spent with Christine, the more it was what I wanted to do. What we both wanted to do."
