‘Then you’ll just have to cope,’ Geraldine replied. She regretted her harsh words as soon as she had spoken. ‘I’m sorry, Hannah, I just don’t know what you expect me to do. I can’t make Jeremy do what you want. I have no influence over him at all. Now I really have to get back to work.’
‘Your precious work,’ Hannah snapped and hung up. Geraldine hesitated, uncertain what she could say to make Hannah feel better. She decided to give her friend time to calm down before calling her back. She pulled a report out of her bag, poured herself another glass of wine, and was just setting to work when the phone rang. With a sigh, Geraldine put down her file and prepared to listen to Hannah.
It was nearly midnight when she was finally able to settle down to her reading. There had to be some indication of intent in Callum Martin’s statements, some slip that might help to crack the case. But if there was, she didn’t find it. They still couldn’t establish who had been driving the car that had run over Maggie Palmer.
Three times.
54
Hospital
Geraldine called in at the hospital on her way to work on Friday morning. The corridor was quiet, apart from an irritating hum from the lights. Geraldine approached the desk and waited until the nurse finished on the phone before showing her warrant card.
The nurse pointed her in the direction of Barker’s room. ‘Just for a minute, Inspector. The doctor said you mustn’t disturb him. In any case, he’s due his medication shortly. The doctor will be doing her rounds soon. You’ve just got time to catch him before she gets here.’
A young constable standing in the corridor opened the door and Geraldine saw that Barker was in a room on his own. One of his eyes was still hidden by bandages that swathed his head. The other was closed.
Geraldine approached the bed. ‘Raymond Barker.’
He gave a faint groan. One bloodshot eye stared up at her with a flicker of recognition. ‘I seen,’ he croaked. His hoarse voice was barely audible. ‘I seen.’ Geraldine took another step forward. A faint whiff of burning mingled with the strong smell of disinfectant. Barker’s pale eye glared watery.
‘You saw who did this?’ she prompted him.
Behind her a nurse entered the room. ‘Doctor’s here on her morning rounds.’
‘No,’ Barker rasped. He tried to move his head and groaned again. ‘I saw.’
‘Time’s up, Inspector,’ the nurse interrupted. ‘Raymond needs his rest.’ She adjusted the drip and his eye closed.
‘I saw,’ he mumbled but his speech was slurred.
‘Who did you see?’ Geraldine asked urgently. ‘Was it Callum Martin?’
‘Inspector,’ the nurse interrupted.
‘Not him,’ Barker whispered. Geraldine leaned over the bed to hear. ‘Not him.’ His lips quivered but he made no sound.
‘Was it a man or a woman you saw?’ The lips didn’t move. ‘Mr Barker, Ray, blink if it was a man.’ He didn’t respond.
The nurse turned to Geraldine and gestured for her to leave the room. ‘The doctor’s on her way.’
‘When will I be able to speak to him again?’
‘That’s for the doctor to decide. Anyway, the patient’s very confused at the moment. You won’t get much sense out of him.’
‘But –’
‘I’m afraid he’s going to be heavily sedated for a few days. He’s not likely to be coherent for a while. Shock, compounded by medication.’
‘How long until I can talk to him again?’
The nurse shrugged. ‘I’m sure the hospital will be in touch.’ She took Geraldine by the arm and ushered her out of the room. In the corridor, the young PC was chatting to a nurse. He stopped talking and straightened up as Geraldine passed.
‘Call me as soon as he wakes up.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
The briefing was about to begin as Geraldine arrived at the station.
Ryder broke off what he was saying and looked expectantly at her. ‘I was just saying you were at the hospital questioning Barker.’
Geraldine looked around the assembled faces. ‘Barker told me he saw his attacker this time,’ she began. The room was hushed. Footsteps echoed along the corridor outside. ‘But that’s about all he did say.’ A barely audible groan seemed to rise from the floor. ‘He was so heavily drugged he could barely speak. I asked him if it was Callum Martin who attacked him and he denied it. He tried to say something else, but I’m not sure what.’
‘I hope he’ll have something to say about Callum Martin when he’s able to make a statement. In the meantime I’ve arranged frogmen to search the canal near where Cartwright’s glasses were found.’ The DCI paused. It was five days since the old man had disappeared. ‘What about Sophie Cliff?’ Ryder tapped Barker’s picture on the Incident Board as he spoke. ‘Sophie Cliff blames Barker for Thomas Cliff’s death and when we fail to bring him to justice, as she sees it, she takes matters into her own hands and goes after Barker herself.’
‘She’s got an alibi,’ Geraldine reminded them. ‘We’ve had confirmation from every taxi firm and car hire company in the South East. Unless she borrowed a car from someone she knew, there’s no way she could’ve done the journey in time. Not on Saturday or Monday.’
‘What about friends? Could someone have given her a lift? Lent her a car?’
‘We’ve been asking around, her work colleagues, her mother-in-law, local CID have interviewed her parents again. Nothing. But there’s something funny about it, isn’t there? Why did she go to Sandmouth just then?’
‘She probably needed to get away,’ Polly piped up. ‘Perhaps it all got too much for her, losing her husband like that.’
‘Perhaps she hitchhiked?’ Bennett suggested. They were clutching at straws.
‘Too unreliable,’ someone else answered. ‘Not with such a tight schedule. And in any case, no one hitchhikes these days.’
The DCI shook his head. ‘Too many bloody convenient alibis,’ he said, not for the first time. He sounded angry. ‘Forget Sophie Cliff for the moment. She wasn’t involved in the hit and run –’
‘As far as we know,’ Geraldine pointed out.
The DCI ignored the interruption. ‘Is there a connection between the attacks on Barker and Maggie Palmer’s murder?’
‘Someone’s lying,’ Geraldine said.
‘Barker, Martin, Sophie Cliff, they could all be lying, the whole bloody lot of them,’ Peterson added.
‘What about the girlfriend?’ someone asked. ‘She’s a woman.’
‘Just about,’ Bennett interjected.
‘Brenda?’ the DCI frowned. ‘She was there in the house –’
‘She’s a complete fruit cake,’ Peterson took over. ‘If you ask me, she’d be capable of anything. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.’
‘Let’s talk to her again. If Martin’s trying to cover his tracks, he could well have used Brenda as his accomplice. He kills the market trader who might be able to lead us to them. He attacks Barker on the way home from the pub, and when that fails, he gets Brenda to set fire to the house.’
‘With her in it. She was upstairs when the fire started. If she was responsible, surely even she would have had the sense to leave the house, not go upstairs where she could well have burned to death,’ Geraldine pointed out. ‘We can try talking to her, sir, but it’s almost impossible to get any sense out of her.’
The DCI frowned. ‘OK, you can find out your schedules from the duty sergeant. I don’t need to remind you we need to work fast on this, and we need to be thorough. Someone has made two unsuccessful attempts on Raymond Barker’s life. Whoever it is, they might try again. We’ve got round the clock surveillance on Barker while he’s in hospital, but he’s not going to be there forever. Let’s sort this mess out before he’s discharged.’
No one spoke. They all knew the longer the case dragged on, the less chance they would have of finding Barker’s assailant. And they were looking for someone intent on murder.
PART 5
&nb
sp; ‘then must you speak
Of one that loved not wisely but too well’
Othello - William Shakespeare
55
Lagoon
The Blue Lagoon looked very different without its mask of tawdry glamour. Curtains that appeared plush under red lamps showed threadbare in the light of day. The floor was streaked with a grimy concoction of cigarette ash and spilt booze. Small chairs stood in disarray where they had been left in the early hours of the morning beside tables littered with empty bottles and dirty glasses.
‘Don’t they clear up?’ the sergeant asked. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. As if in answer to his question, a hunched woman appeared with a mop and bucket. She set them down with a clatter. Whipping a jay cloth from her overalls, she began scooping empty bottles and cans into a black bin liner, and smearing the tables with her rag.
‘Sod those bloody girls.’ She hobbled over to the bar for a tray. ‘Never clean up their crap. Not my job to clear the glasses.’ She eyed Geraldine and Peterson suspiciously. ‘What’s your game then?’ She turned her back on them without waiting for an answer and busied herself filling the tray with dirty glasses, muttering as she shuffled between the tables.
‘We’re looking for Bronxy,’ Geraldine announced. The cleaner ignored her. Geraldine nodded towards the back of the room. Peterson followed her to the office. Geraldine rapped once and turned the handle. The door opened.
Bronxy was sitting at her desk.
‘We’d like to speak to Callum Martin. We’ll speak to him alone.’
Bronxy smiled. ‘I know, Inspector. You people don’t like witnesses.’
‘Just normal procedure.’
‘When it suits you.’
Geraldine had spent the best part of a day researching Bronxy’s past, looking for something to help them persuade Bronxy to retract the alibi she had given Callum Martin. Reluctantly, Geraldine had admitted defeat. It could take years to penetrate the smokescreen of aliases and false leads.
‘Please tell Callum Martin we’d like to speak to him.’
Bronxy rose to her feet and walked to the door, moving like a cat in high heels. Geraldine promptly crossed the room and sat down behind the desk. ‘We’ll speak to him in here. If that’s convenient.’
Bronxy glanced over her shoulder and shrugged. The door closed.
‘You don’t think he’s done a runner, do you, gov?’ Peterson voiced Geraldine’s suspicion under his breath. She didn’t answer. They waited. Finally the door opened. Callum Martin walked in. He was bleary eyed. Three of the scratches on his cheek looked scabby. The fourth glistened wetly.
‘Mr Martin, we’re investigating the fire at your home on Monday night. Can you go over your movements that evening for us?’
‘I’ve told you where I was.’
Geraldine flipped open her notebook. ‘We need to run through those times again.’
‘Why? I already told you. It’s nearly a week ago. I can’t be expected to remember everything that happened a week ago, can I? I know your game. You think I was born yesterday. You’ve got it all written down, everything I told you last time, so if I don’t tell you exactly the same you’ll make out I’m telling lies, making it all up.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not falling for that one. I’m not a bloody idiot. I can’t remember anything except what I told you before. That’s all I remember. So if that’s it, I’ll be off.’
‘Mr Martin, someone set fire to your house. Surely you want to help us find out who did it?’
Martin scowled. ‘Go on then. Ask your questions.’
‘We’re trying to pin down the time the fire started,’ Geraldine lied. Peterson took out his note book. ‘It must’ve been some time after you went out. You were alone, weren’t you? What time was that?’
Callum lit a cigarette and blew the smoke towards Geraldine. ‘She was watching Coronation Street.’ He took another drag of his cigarette. ‘She likes Coronation Street, Brenda does. Load of rubbish. I must’ve fallen asleep. I woke up when it finished. So I went out for a jar. She asked to come with me, but she wasn’t even dressed. At that time of night. Slut.’ He paused to inhale. ‘I wasn’t going to wait for her to sort herself out, and as for Ray, he couldn’t even walk, the sorry bastard. So I went out by myself.’ He paused to inhale again. ‘I went to the pub. I stayed for a while, just drinking, you know. I didn’t talk to anyone. The landlord will tell you I was there. Why don’t you ask him?’
‘Mr Martin, you’re not a suspect,’ Geraldine lied again. ‘We’re merely interested in establishing the time the fire started. Are you sure you went straight to the pub?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see anyone loitering outside your house as you were leaving?’
‘No.’
‘And you were in the bar all the time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Drinking by youself all evening?’
Martin lit another cigarette before he answered. He spoke very slowly. ‘I was in the bar for a while. By myself. Ask the landlord if you don’t believe me.’
‘Did you go straight home when you left?’
Martin considered. ‘No. I took a walk to clear my head. When I went home I saw flashing blue lights as I turned the corner. The fire had already started. It must’ve been about ten o’clock, when I got home.’
‘Did anyone see you, out walking?’
Martin shrugged. ‘How the hell would I know? It was dark.’
They interviewed Brenda next but it was pointless. She didn’t even seem to remember the fire at her home.
‘Fire?’ she repeated, eyes vacant. ‘What? Where’s Cal?’ Her hands trembled at her sides.
‘That was a waste of time,’ Geraldine complained as they left the Blue Lagoon. She took a deep breath, relieved to escape the stale air of the club.
‘Where to now, gov?’
Geraldine hesitated. ‘Let’s take a trip to the seaside,’ she said at last. Peterson gave a boyish whoop and Geraldine grinned.
It was a beautiful afternoon. They bowled along gentle inclines as the motorway led them through open countryside. It felt good to leave the confines of the town behind. Peterson drove at eighty down a wide sweep of tan coloured tarmac, golden in the sunlight. Many trees were still in leaf, russet, flaming orange and yellow with occasional evergreens, dark and dramatic. Although they were on a job, Geraldine felt an uplifting sensation of holiday. There was nothing for her to do but gaze out of the window. Too tired to think, she stared at fields rolling past, yellowing at the approach of winter.
‘I’ve never been much of a one for the countryside,’ Peterson commented after a while. ‘Can’t see what there is to get excited about.’
‘It’s not at its best this time of the year. It looks very different in the summer.’
‘Yes, it must look very different in the summer. And the winter. Imagine all this, covered in snow. Funny when you think about it, how different things can look.’
Geraldine was thinking about the people who had hired cars in Sandmouth on 22nd November. CCTV footage of customers, and of cars driving out of Sandmouth in the direction of Harchester on the evenings of 22nd and 24th, had been scrutinised. Only one woman had made both journeys, Bobbie Geere. Geraldine thought about what the sergeant had said. Things didn’t always look the same.
‘What if?’ she began.
‘What’s that, gov?’
‘I was just thinking about the old woman who hired a car and drove from Sandmouth to Harchester… Could she have been Sophie Cliff?’
‘In disguise, you mean?’ Peterson sounded animated. ‘With a false name?’
Geraldine called the station. ‘We need to check if Sophie Cliff could have printed out a driving licence… a false one… she worked in IT… Yes… and any internet café in the area. Check in Sandmouth and Harchester and anywhere else within reach… And have another search for the woman called Bobbie Geere.’ She hung up. An atmosphere of excitement pervaded the air between them.
Geraldi
ne stared ahead, impatient. ‘Another half hour and we’ll reach the top of a hill and be able to see the sea,’ she said. Peterson shrugged. As though mirroring the sky, the road surface changed to grey. They passed a sign: SANDMOUTH 25.
‘Another half an hour,’ the sergeant agreed. ‘Probably less. We’re making good time. Should be there in twenty minutes – if the road’s clear.’ Geraldine wondered what they were going to discover when they reached Sandmouth. ‘Let’s hope it turns out to be worth the effort,’ Peterson added, expressing Geraldine’s misgivings. ‘What’s the betting they’ll have Sophie Cliff on CCTV all Monday evening, and we’ll be back to square one.’
Geraldine stared out of the window.
56
Excelsior
The Excelsior Hotel stood in its own grounds on the cliff top. It was opulently furnished in the style of a bygone era, with elegant cream and crimson flock wallpaper and dark red carpets and drapes. The modern chrome and black leather of the bar looked out of place beside the grandeur of the foyer and lounge. Geraldine and Peterson took a quick look around. A group of men in the bar were talking in loud voices. Geraldine listened, out of habit, as she walked by.
‘…and then he hooked the ball into the rough.’ Ubiquitous music was playing, a beat without a tune. There was a faint clatter of cutlery in the background. Geraldine moved on, past a vase of tall yellow lilies. She turned away. Since her mother’s funeral she had disliked the heavy scent of lilies.
A couple of women were chatting over coffee. ‘It was perfect, but the only one in my size had a mark on it.’
‘Oh, unlucky.’
Geraldine followed Peterson back to the foyer. The girl behind the desk was on the phone. Geraldine thought that they must look like a couple waiting to check in. She wondered how it would feel, arriving at the hotel with Ian Peterson beside her, not as a colleague but as a companion. A boyfriend. She dismissed the thought with an involuntary shake of her head.
Road Closed Page 24
