‘Last night,’ Brenda repeated flatly. She shrugged. Geraldine waited. ‘Cal wouldn’t take me,’ Brenda mumbled at last. She was high as a kite. Her speech was slurred. She could barely manage to string two words together coherently.
‘Last night, Brenda. What happened?’ Geraldine persisted.
‘Hot. It was hot,’ she said, flapping her hands. Her eyes grew wide as she struggled to explain. ‘Too hot. Roofs – in the rain!’ She giggled unexpectedly. ‘Rain in the moonlight.’ She leaned forward and gazed intensely at Geraldine. Her pupils were unnaturally dilated. ‘The roof is so pretty.’
‘Brenda, there was a fire in your house. What happened? Who was there?’
Brenda was agitated now. ‘Where’s Cal?’ She was crying. ‘Where’s Cal?’
Geraldine pressed on but it was a waste of time trying to get a sensible answer out of Brenda in her present state.
‘She’s in shock,’ Bronxy explained.
‘She’s drugged up to her eyeballs,’ Geraldine replied crossly. Bronxy’s face twisted but she didn’t bother to deny it.
Callum Martin must have been waiting outside because he walked in as soon as Peterson opened the door for Brenda to leave.
‘Someone’s made a nasty mess of your face,’ Peterson said. Martin’s left cheek was scored with four deep scratches.
‘A cat,’ Martin lied. ‘I drowned it.’ He trotted out his story before they had a chance to question him. ‘I was in the pub last night. You can ask the landlord.’
‘Don’t worry, Mr Martin, we will.’
‘My word not good enough for you?’
Geraldine was inclined to believe him. ‘If he was lying, he’d have said he was at the Lagoon with Madam Bronxy,’ she said to Peterson as they made their way back to the car.
‘Should we check out the pub anyway?’
Geraldine nodded. ‘No stone unturned,’ she said. ‘One way or another we’re going to nail the bastard.’
‘Are you as confident as you sound, gov?’ Geraldine didn’t answer. Peterson was growing to know her too well.
The pub was empty. Geraldine glanced around. ‘Where’s Bert?’
‘He’s not been in today.’
‘I thought you said he’s always here.’
‘He’s not here now.’
‘Where can we find him?’
The landlord shrugged. ‘He lives round here somewhere.’
Geraldine and Peterson had a coffee in the pub while they waited. At last a constable phoned back with Bert Cartwright’s address.
‘There’s something else, gov,’ the constable said. ‘Bert Cartwright was a cop.’
‘Run that by me again.’
‘He was a detective sergeant when he left the force.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘There was an incident involving alcohol and he was forced to resign. He was a good DS, according to the records. Until he had to quit, that is. It was a long time ago.’
Before they left, Geraldine asked the pub landlord to let them know if the old man turned up. Bert lived in a rundown block of flats about five minutes’ walk from the pub. There was no answer when they rang the bell. A neighbour let them into the building. They knocked on Bert’s door. No answer. The lock was easy to open. Inside they found stacks of old newspapers, a cupboard stuffed with moth eaten jumpers and stained underwear, and a stinking pair of boots with no laces. There was a small bottle of whiskey under the unmade bed and another one on a table in the filthy kitchen. Geraldine wrinkled her nose at the smell of damp. Bert wasn’t there. They asked his neighbour to inform them when he returned. There was nothing else they could do.
Barker had been the subject of two sadistic attacks. He might not survive a third. ‘Tell me, gov,’ Peterson said, ‘would you honestly care if Barker gets it? It’s no worse than he deserves, and it’ll be one less villain screwing things up for everyone.’
‘The law’s there to protect everyone. There can’t be any exceptions.’
‘I know,’ he agreed. ‘But even so –’
‘We have a job to do, upholding the law. Once we lose our grip on that, everything slides into chaos.’
‘I know that, but –’
‘You can’t choose who deserves the protection of the law. It’s there for everyone.’
‘I know. I just wondered.’
‘Well don’t.’
‘You’re that sure?’
‘Have to be in this job. Otherwise –’
‘I know, chaos. Do you ever get the feeling it’s not far off, gov?’
‘Don’t go there, Ian. We’ve got to keep the devils at bay.’
‘Is that the devils out there, or the devils within, gov?’
Geraldine didn’t answer.
45
Hotel
Mrs Pettifer opened the door.
‘Oh, it’s you, Inspector. I’m sorry, this isn’t a very good time. We’re expecting visitors this evening so I’m afraid I’m rather busy. Can’t this wait?’
‘It’s Mrs Cliff we want to speak to.’
‘She moved out on Thursday.’ Mrs Pettifer was unable to tell them where Sophie had gone. ‘I think she was going to her parents. I think they live up North somewhere,’ she added vaguely. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot on. I’d help you if I could.’
Geraldine hid her surprise on hearing that Sophie Cliff had left her neighbours’ house. ‘Thank you, Mrs Pettifer. Can you please contact me if you hear from Sophie. We need to speak to her urgently.’
It took the local police nearly an hour to confirm that Sophie Cliff hadn’t returned to her parents’ house. They had no idea where she was and hadn’t heard from her since news of the fire had reached them. As Geraldine received the update, Ryder wandered into her office.
He studied Geraldine’s expression as she put the phone down. She felt herself blushing under his scrutiny. ‘Where the hell is she?’ he growled when she told him they had lost track of Sophie Cliff. ‘Find her, Geraldine.’ He stalked out again.
‘I’m doing my best, sir,’ Geraldine muttered crossly to the empty room. The DCI’s dismay only increased her frustration. She passed a further anxious half hour before a constable came to tell her that Sophie Cliff had been traced. She was staying at a local motel.
Geraldine smiled in relief. ‘How did you find her?’
‘She finally answered her mobile phone, ma’am. We kept trying it, like you said.’
They found the rundown motel on the main bypass out of town. A man was lounging behind the counter watching a daytime chat show and stuffing a sugary doughnut into his mouth. He didn’t look up when Geraldine and Peterson entered the grubby reception area.
Geraldine held out her identity card. ‘We’re looking for a Mrs Cliff.’
The man behind the desk shoved the end of his doughnut into his mouth and brushed his sticky hands together. He looked up at Geraldine, his cheeks swollen with the pastry, and clambered to his feet. ‘We don’t want any trouble,’ he said, his eyes flicking to her card. Crumbs shot from his wet lips. ‘She in some sort of trouble? We don’t accommodate criminals. It’s not that sort of establishment.’
‘No. I’m sure it’s not. And she’s not a criminal, she’s a victim.’ The man tapped at his keyboard. ‘Room 17. You’re lucky. She only came back today.’ He slumped in his chair and turned his attention back to the television. ‘17,’ he repeated, flapping his hand towards a door at the far end of the reception room.
Geraldine led the way past a series of doors, to number 17. There was no response to her knock. She knocked again before trying the door. The handle turned and the door swung open. Sophie Cliff was sitting on the bed. She stared at the floor as Geraldine perched on a cheap plastic chair. Peterson slouched against the door. He gazed around the dirty room and straightened up suddenly.
‘Mrs Cliff,’ Geraldine began. Sophie didn’t respond. ‘Last night there was a second attack on Raymond Barker – the man you say you saw in your headlights on
the night of the fire at your house. That’s two attacks on Barker in three days. Mrs Cliff, we believe these incidents are linked. So, for the purpose of elimination, we need to know your whereabouts on both these occasions. Let’s start with the first assault. Where were you on Saturday night?’ No answer. ‘Mrs Cliff, please answer the question.’
Sophie Cliff raised her head. ‘Is he dead?’
‘We need to know where you were on Saturday night.’
Sophie dropped her eyes. ‘I went away.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘I went to the coast.’
‘Where on the coast?’
Sophie looked up again. She spoke slowly, as though speaking in a foreign language. ‘I went away. I had to get away from all this. You know, they won’t allow me back in my own home. Not that I want to go back there. Not now. That’s not what I meant. They’re crawling all over the place. They’ve taken over my home. Firemen.’ She let out a long shuddering sigh. ‘My doctor told me I should go away. He suggested I went to my parents. I couldn’t face their fussing, but I did go away. The doctor told me to.’
Geraldine glanced at a patch of damp on the wall. ‘Where did you go?’
Sophie rummaged inside her handbag and handed Geraldine a receipt. ‘Excelsior Hotel, Sandmouth,’ Geraldine read aloud. The receipt showed a credit card payment dated that morning. ‘May I keep this?’ Geraldine asked. Sandmouth was about seventy miles away. The receipt indicated that Sophie Cliff had left the hotel that morning. ‘When did you go to Sandmouth?’
There was a pause. Sophie seemed to be calculating. ‘I went there on Saturday morning and came back this morning.’
‘You stayed there for three nights?’
Sophie nodded. ‘And then I came back here.’
Geraldine looked around the dismal room. ‘Mrs Cliff, how long are you planning to stay here?’ Sophie didn’t answer. She sat staring at the floor. ‘If you leave here, will you go to your parents? Or is there somewhere else you might go?’
‘There’s nowhere.’ Her voice was flat.
Geraldine stood up. ‘Mrs Cliff, please don’t go away again without letting us know where you are, in case we need to speak to you again. Do you understand? Please keep us informed of your whereabouts.’
Sophie looked up. ‘Is he dead?’ she asked again. ‘The man that was attacked. The man I saw. Is he dead?’
‘No, Mrs Cliff, he survived. He’s in hospital, badly injured, but he’s not dead. He’s going to be all right.’ Sophie Cliff’s head fell forward, masking her expression.
As soon as they were back at the station, Geraldine contacted the police station in Sandmouth. ‘I’d like this treated as a priority,’ she said, ‘and get back to me straight away. I need to know when she arrived and when she left. Dates and times please, as accurately as possible.’ The credit card provider confirmed the transaction in Sandmouth on Sophie Cliff’s credit card at nine thirty that morning. There was nothing else to do but wait to receive confirmation that Sophie Cliff had been in Sandmouth all weekend.
‘If she’s lying, that puts her right in the frame for the attacks on Raymond Barker,’ Geraldine told Peterson. ‘And if not –’
She didn’t finish the sentence. Someone had launched two vicious assaults on Raymond Barker and they had no other suspect.
‘If not, then maybe Barker did lie to protect Callum Martin when he said he was attacked by a woman,’ Peterson replied. ‘That’s two murders and two attempts on Barker’s life. If you ask me, Martin’s the one we should be going after. Let’s hope Bert Cartwright has something concrete for us.’
Geraldine looked worried. They had contacted all the hospitals in the area but there was no sign of the old man. He had disappeared.
46
Sandmouth
A call came through from Sandmouth station while Geraldine was in the canteen. She had been studying what Sophie Cliff had said. She knew most of the statements by heart and couldn’t focus on them any longer. Her head was beginning to ache. While she was sitting quietly at a corner table, drinking a mug of tea, a couple of young constables came in. She recognised Polly, who had been crying in the toilets. The two constables glanced over at Geraldine. Choosing a table at the other side of the room, they sat with their backs to her, heads bent forward. Judging by the jerking of their two heads, they were both talking incessantly. As she left the room, Geraldine overheard a snippet of their conversation.
‘He’s not worth it,’ the dark haired constable was saying.
‘That’s easy for you to say –’ Geraldine heard Polly reply as she went out into the corridor.
She returned to her desk to find a new report waiting. A local sergeant had interviewed the manager of the Excelsior Hotel who confirmed that Sophie Cliff had arrived at reception at around eleven on Saturday morning. The manager said that room number 213 had been ready for her on arrival. She had stayed there for three nights, checking out at nine thirty that morning after having breakfast in the dining room. Their records showed she had eaten in the hotel, sitting down on each of the three evenings at seven o’clock when the dining room opened. She had signed in for breakfast at eight o’clock every morning. The local constable had been thorough. He had checked the CCTV from the hotel car park and was able to confirm that Sophie Cliff’s car had not moved from the hotel car park throughout her stay.
Geraldine showed the report to James Ryder when he wandered into her office that afternoon.
‘Summarise it,’ he said, waving at the report in her hand. Geraldine was aware of him, perched on the corner of her desk, as she read. She tried to ignore his closeness.
‘It’s a bit convenient, isn’t it, sir?’ she asked when she had finished. ‘Barker’s attacked on Saturday evening on his way home from the pub, his house is torched on Monday evening and he’s almost killed, and meanwhile our suspect is conveniently staying at a hotel nearly a hundred miles away at the time.’
Ryder sighed. ‘Too much of a bloody coincidence,’ he agreed, standing up. ‘But Sophie Cliff couldn’t have driven back here on Saturday and Monday evening if her car was in the car park all the time.’
‘The timing’s possible, though, sir. She could’ve set all this up as an alibi –’
‘And taken a cab –’ Ryder interrupted.
‘Or hired a car,’ Geraldine added.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ he barked. ‘Get moving on it. Check out every cab company and car hire firm. If Sophie Cliff travelled backwards and forwards between Harchester and Sandmouth on either of those two evenings – or both – we need to know. Check the trains and buses too. Any way she could’ve managed it. Go on then, get on with it.’
‘Yes sir.’ As the DCI closed the door Geraldine thought she overheard him say, ‘Good thinking, Geraldine,’ but she wasn’t sure. She didn’t know if she felt elated because the enquiry was opening up, or because James Ryder had expressed his approval of her.
It didn’t take long to check the train schedules. There was no direct train from Harchester to Sandmouth. The last train on Saturday evening left Harchester at ten fifteen, ten forty on a Monday. Sophie Cliff couldn’t have attacked Barker and reached the station in time to catch a train that would make the connection to Sandmouth that evening and it was impossible for anyone to have travelled from Harchester to Sandmouth by train on Monday or Tuesday morning and reached the hotel in time for breakfast at eight. Several constables set to work, checking taxi firms from all the interconnecting stations to see if a passenger had taken the last train from Harchester in the evening and completed the journey by taxi. Only one woman travelling on her own had taken a taxi from Lower Troughton to Sandmouth at eleven ten on Monday. Her destination turned out to be a private house three miles from the Excelsior Hotel. The passenger was traced. She wasn’t Sophie Cliff.
It took longer to establish that Sophie couldn’t have made the journeys entirely by car. Constables checked every taxi firm and cab hire company in Harchester and Sandmouth
and every intervening town, village and train station. Only one journey had been booked from Harchester to Sandmouth on Saturday evening, at eleven o’clock, by a Mr George Kite. A constable traced Mr Kite who confirmed that he had made the journey in person.
Three hire cars had been taken out over the period. At the end of the day, the constable who had overseen the research handed Geraldine a list of names: Desmond James, Bobbie Geere, and Ellis Collamore.
They had drawn a blank. Sophie Cliff’s car hadn’t moved from the car park. With a car, she could have returned to Sandmouth overnight and appeared in the dining room again at eight on Tuesday morning. Without a car, it was impossible for her to have eaten in the dining room in the Excelsior Hotel in Sandmouth at seven on Monday evening and been back in Harchester in time to set fire to Raymond Barker’s house before nine o’clock. She couldn’t have been responsible for the attack on Barker on Monday evening.
‘Not unless she’s superwoman,’ Peterson joked. Geraldine didn’t smile. It was past nine when Geraldine finally returned home to find a message from Hannah on her answer machine.
‘Geraldine, call me.’ With a twinge of guilt she deleted the message. It was too late to call back that evening.
47
Panic
‘I told you before, you’ve got nothing to be scared of. It’s always the same with you. What the hell have you got to be so scared about all the time? Don’t I look after you? I keep you safe, don’t I? Scared of your own bleeding shadow you are.’ Cal sat down on the bed and lit a cigarette. He didn’t offer Brenda one.
‘What if they find out? What if they know it was you?’ Brenda whimpered. She pressed herself against the back of a chair, legs bent, clutching her knees to her chest.
‘What if they find out what was me? Do you have any idea how stupid you sound? I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about. Talk sense for fuck’s sake.’ Cal flicked cigarette ash impatiently.
‘I know where you and Ray went. I’m not stupid.’ Brenda glanced fearfully at the glowing end of Cal’s cigarette. ‘I’m not stupid,’ she repeated, raising her voice. Cal hooted with laughter. ‘I know it was you, breaking into those houses. I know it was you topped that old woman.’ Her eyes flicked nervously to the door, her hands fidgeted. ‘Why did you do it, Cal? Why did you kill her? She was just an old woman. She never did you any harm. I saw her picture in the paper.’
Road Closed Page 20
