Stick or Twist

by Diane Janes

  FIFTY-TWO

  ‘Bettsy! Ling wants everyone in the briefing room.’

  Peter glanced up at the office door in order to acknowledge the heads up, but Joel McPartland had already disappeared down the corridor. Blast. He hadn’t even realized that the gaffer was in the building. An eight thirty summons might portend almost anything, but it would certainly mean a delay before he could get the Old Man on his own and have a conversation about the Thackeray case. In the end it had fallen to him to broach the subject, because Hannah was still on compassionate leave. She had initially wanted to come back into work, but he had persuaded her that working voluntarily on the Thackeray case was one thing, whereas coping with whatever the job might throw at you, while still in a pretty emotional state over your sister’s death, was something else again.

  As he made his way to the briefing room, Peter wondered if something big had kicked off, without him noticing. He was usually on top of anything that made the local news, but he and Hannah had been somewhat preoccupied over the last forty-eight hours and although he’d had the radio on as he came in, he hadn’t really been listening. Too busy rehearsing the conversation with Ling, he thought, to say nothing of thinking about his long overdue response to Ginny. (She had told him that he still had time to consider it, but he knew that he ought to have had it settled one way or the other by now.)

  The prospect of heading off to the other side of the world on someone else’s dollar didn’t seem half so appealing as it had five weeks before, when it wouldn’t have created such a big Hannah-shaped hole in his life. He had begun to reassess the importance of music in his wider scheme of things. To be a proper musician didn’t you have to put it first, second and third in everything you did? He loved to play, but had he ever been that serious? Only the other night, he had ducked out of his session at Mel’s Bar, where he had an informal arrangement to play every second Wednesday that he could make, because he thought that Hannah needed him more than the patrons of the bar did. When she’d asked him if it wasn’t his night for Mel’s, he’d told her that there had been a call to say they didn’t need him. (Police service was a great enabler when it came to putting out the straight-faced, plausible lie.)

  Whatever his own feelings for Hannah, he knew that it would be wrong to put her under any kind of extra emotional pressure right now. Even so, he had come very close to telling her how he felt the previous evening. The trouble was that every time their conversation strayed in the direction of the future, she invariably went out of her way to make it plain that theirs was a temporary arrangement between good friends (who just happened to sleep together and have the best sex imaginable). It was hard to tell her how he felt anyway, because he wasn’t entirely sure. He had never been in any kind of serious, long-term relationship. At least two previous girlfriends had attracted him in a full-steam-ahead, bells-and-whistles kind of way. So much so, that at the beginning of those relationships, if some wizened old gipsy soothsayer had approached him to confide in either case that, ‘This is the one’, he would have believed it wholeheartedly, but of course there had not been any wizened old fortune tellers with crystal balls and nor had it taken very long to realize that each of those relationships wasn’t going anywhere that he wanted to be.

  Usually, he thought, you started out optimistically, thinking that a strong mutual attraction might lead to something permanent, whereas with Hannah the circumstances had been turned on their head from the outset by her determination that it would be a strictly temporary arrangement, in which neither party needed to pretend to be in love, or profess themselves willing to make any kind of commitment.

  The thing was that being there for Hannah, holding on to her, caring for her, felt right. He didn’t want it to end, but soon it would be Clare’s funeral and that was the point at which Hannah would expect him to back off and move out of her life. She might actually need him to leave, he thought, so that she could draw a line under this difficult time, which she would always associate with the loss of her sister.

  How did Hannah really feel about him? Did she share his growing conviction that they were now much more than good friends? He had come very close to asking her, but it seemed unfair. She was still grieving for her sister and emotionally vulnerable. Besides which, he didn’t want to make a complete prat of himself because at the end of the day, if he didn’t go off to play rock’n’roll with Ginny (‘running away with the circus’ as Hannah had once put it) he and McMahon would still sometimes have to work together.

  Maybe that was as good a reason as any for going off to join the band. Hannah was an attractive woman, whose body clock was ticking, and that inevitably meant her hooking up with some guy soon. How was he going to feel when he saw Hannah with someone else? Basically, he thought, by comparison with her, I’m a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal, who wants nothing more than some good, old-fashioned commitment.

  He was one of the last to arrive in the briefing room, where a large contingent of CID had already packed into most of the available space, sitting and standing, some chatting in groups, others texting or talking into phones. Peter joined the latecomers, leaning against the wall at the back. The gathering put him vaguely in mind of the beginning of a lesson, before the teacher arrives. A couple of the younger lads were even indulging in some horseplay, shoving one another about.

  The gaffer’s arrival put a stop to all that. He entered accompanied by his own private thunder cloud. Class in session, Peter thought.

  Graham Ling had a newspaper in his hand, folded open at an inner page. Knowing that he had their full attention without even asking for it, he began to read without preamble. ‘Kidnap victim Jude finds happiness. Tragic heiress Jude Thackeray, who suffered a horrific ordeal at the hands of a crazed kidnapper, was secretly married to her new love, business man, Mark Medlicott this week, in a romantic ceremony with just two close relatives as their witnesses. A police source said they are still no closer to apprehending anyone in connection with the case.’ He stopped reading and scanned the room at large. ‘What idiot has been making comments about the Thackeray case to the press? How many times do I have to tell you that we never put out anything as negative as that? It makes us sound utterly clueless.’

  No one spoke. ‘McPartland here, tells me that some girl claiming she was a witness at the wedding has been posting the story all over Facebook and Twitter. Doesn’t McMahon usually keep an eye on that stuff?’

  ‘McMahon’s on compassionate leave, sir.’ Old Lingo didn’t generally stand on ceremony over being called ‘Sir’, but there were occasions when it was expedient to maintain the formalities and Peter decided that this was one of them. ‘And there’s something I need to speak to you about urgently, sir.’

  ‘Is it about McMahon?’ Ling snapped, and Peter was aware of an exchange of knowing looks between a pair of colleagues within his line of sight.

  ‘No, sir. It’s about the Thackeray case.’

  ‘What about it? Don’t tell me it was you who made this half-witted comment to the press?’

  ‘No. It—’

  ‘Come on then, spit it out.’ Ling was in a combative mood, which was never the best time to tackle him over anything and certainly not the moment to break it to him that he had overseen a major cock-up in an investigation.

  ‘It might be better if I talked to you later, sir. On your own.’

  This created a rustle of mild disapproval, with a camp, barely audible, ‘Ooooh, get you, love,’ from some unseen wag at the back of the room, none of which improved the senior officer’s mood.

  ‘If it’s urgent, I want to hear it now. If it isn’t, then you can have an appointment for four o’clock, day after tomorrow.’

  Peter hesitated. He hadn’t prepared himself properly and he knew it wouldn’t come out well. ‘There’s a lot of new information on the Thackeray case. To start with, Robin Thackeray isn’t really Jude Thackeray’s brother. Jude Thackeray did have a brother, but he died, when he was still a baby. We – that’s me and McMahon –
think that the whole thing was a set-up. Robin Thackeray did the kidnap, Jude colluded with him and the idea was to make it appear that she was this incredibly wealthy heiress, so that she could marry some other rich dude and cash in. I think Mark Medlicott might be that rich dude and if so, he could be in a lot of trouble, if we don’t find him, sir.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘Sounds like a load of melodramatic tosh to me,’ said Jerry Wilkins. ‘You and McMahon been curled up watching Midsomer Murders again, Bettsy?’

  The remark was greeted by a minor ripple of amusement, though most of those present remained silent, aware that Ling’s face had become ashen with rage.

  ‘And just how long have you been sitting on this information?’ he roared.

  ‘One day, sir.’

  Ling jerked his head from side to side, as if ridding himself of a troublesome wasp. ‘Betts, McPartland, Wilkins and – yes – Aitken, you come with me. The rest of you get back to whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing. None of this goes any further than these four walls until I’ve got some proper confirmation. Not one word – everybody clear on that?’

  ‘Yes, sirs’ on various notes came in from all over the room.

  It took next to no time to track Katrina Medlicott to the house she was sharing with friends in Belsize Park. The advantages of social media, combined with the fact that vacationing students were unlikely to be out of bed before noon, Peter thought. Unfortunately the journey down took a good deal longer than the trace and when they came face to face with their quarry, the interview itself was not particularly productive.

  ‘Am I in some sort of trouble?’ The girl was wide-eyed with a combination of excitement and nervousness. ‘I know they told me not to say anything, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to put it on my Facebook page. I wasn’t really giving anything away – not really. I thought my friends would think it was romantic.’

  ‘You’re not in any trouble,’ Peter assured her, for at least the third time. ‘But it is important that you tell us everything you know. We have to find your Uncle Mark and his wife. It’s really important.’

  ‘Have they done something wrong?’

  ‘It’s a question of everyone’s safety,’ Joel put in.

  ‘Are they in danger? Mark and Jude? Is it the man who tried to get her before?’

  ‘We’re not at liberty to explain any details,’ Peter said. ‘But it is very important that you tell us where they are, if you know.’

  ‘I never said anything to the papers when they rang me. Some of them have printed stuff that I never said.’

  ‘That’s OK, Katrina. We know that journalists make things up. But if you could just tell us everything you know about Jude’s and Mark’s plans. Where they were going for their honeymoon, that sort of thing.’

  ‘I don’t know very much.’ She spoke with evident disappointment. Both men sensed that this was a state of affairs which she genuinely regretted, since it meant that all the excitement of being interviewed by a couple of visiting police officers, was likely to be short-lived.

  Peter tried again. ‘How long had you known in advance that your uncle was going to get married?’

  ‘No time at all. He just texted me out of the blue, asking me to skip my classes that morning, so that I could be a witness at his wedding. He said it was a secret. They were going on honeymoon first and would tell the rest of the family and everybody when they got back. Of course Uncle Mark couldn’t have been thinking, because I didn’t actually have to skip any lectures, because it isn’t term time at the moment. I just came back down early to hang out and have some fun before—’

  Peter cut across to ask, ‘Did you know that he was seeing Jude Thackeray?’

  She laughed. ‘I only see Uncle Mark once in a blue moon. He doesn’t even do Family Christmas, if he can avoid it. I think he’d chosen me to be a witness because I was the only family member within two hundred miles, so no, I’d never set eyes on her until she showed up at the register office.’

  ‘So it was just the bride and groom, you, and the bride’s brother?’ said Joel.

  ‘That’s right. Not the sort of wedding I’d choose.’

  Peter gave her no opportunity to enlarge on a vision involving clouds of tulle, a large marquee and a lorry load of champagne, cutting in quickly with: ‘So this honeymoon your uncle mentioned … Did he say where they were going?’

  ‘I asked. I was trying to make conversation. You know, before we were called into the room where they did the actual ceremony. Actually it felt a bit awkward. I didn’t know her, or her brother. It was a bit of a weird situation. I didn’t know what to say. I just said any old thing, you know, like “Mum’ll be pretty mad that you didn’t do it properly so she could wear a big hat!” I mean actually, I don’t believe Mum will give two hoots. Uncle Mark is Dad’s brother and Mum has never much liked him to be absolutely honest. You’re not taking this down are you? I mean she wouldn’t want that said in public – major family embarrassment! My Auntie Rachel—’

  ‘Getting back to the honeymoon,’ Peter interrupted firmly. ‘You asked them where they were going, and they said …?’

  ‘Cornwall.’

  ‘Just Cornwall?’

  ‘I know! I mean I was expecting Barbados, or Aruba, or maybe one of those islands in the Indian Ocean. When my cousin Jamie got married, they went to—’

  ‘What I meant,’ Peter attempted to stem the flow again, ‘was did they specify where they were going in Cornwall?’

  ‘No. She just said “Cornwall”.’

  ‘Cornwall’s a big place. Try to think back. Did they give you any idea at all whereabouts in Cornwall they were heading?’

  ‘Nope. Just Cornwall.’

  Peter tried one last time. ‘Can you think of anything else at all that they told you about their plans that might be helpful – anything at all – even the smallest remark?’

  Mark Medlicott’s niece put her head on one side and considered for a moment. ‘Sorry,’ she said at last. ‘I can’t think of a thing.’

  ‘I don’t know what she aims to be when she’s finished university,’ Peter commented, as he relayed the gist of this interview to Hannah, later that evening. ‘But one hopes that her wish list includes transformation into an intelligent human being.’

  ‘Of course, we might be wrong,’ Hannah said.

  She was lying comfortably in the crook of Peter’s arm, nursing a mug of coffee, while he played idly with a tress of her hair.

  ‘Let’s hope we are – for Mark Medlicott’s sake anyway.’

  ‘Nothing more from the States?’

  ‘Not yet. Though we’ve already got quite a lot to support our theory. The fact that the pair of them are evidently not brother and sister, have faked a lifestyle, carried out a sham kidnapping, and appear to have targeted a young bloke from a wealthy family, is pretty suggestive.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Hannah stretched.

  He loved the way she did that – one limb at a time, like a cat unfolding from a good long sleep in the sunshine.

  ‘Credit to old Lingo, he’s throwing everything at it. Descriptions of them and Medlicott’s car out everywhere. The boys in Cornwall are going to start making enquiries with hotels, cottage agencies …’

  ‘Across the whole of Cornwall? That will keep them busy.’

  He decided it was time to turn the talk away from work. ‘Did you manage to get everything done?’

  ‘Flowers ordered. Funeral booked. Number of cars and identities of pall bearers agreed.’ Hannah recited the litany sadly. ‘Basically far too many of us, all trying to help. In the end I think poor John just wanted to be left on his own. We all want to support him, be there for him and for one another, but the bottom line is that Clare has gone and none of us can bring her back.’

  ‘I know I never met your sister,’ Peter said carefully, ‘but I’d like to come with you to the funeral.’ When this was met with silence, he ventured, ‘I’d like to be there to support you. That is …
if you’d like me to.’

  ‘It’s a full Catholic mass.’

  He tried to read her voice. Was she welcoming the offer or not?

  ‘I’d really appreciate it if you came, but …’ she hesitated.

  ‘I was brought up a Catholic,’ he said.

  ‘Brought up?’

  He laughed. ‘I haven’t been to confession in a while.’

  She laughed too. ‘Neither have I.’

  ‘I emailed Ginny this afternoon and told her that I’ve decided not to join the band.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Oh? Is that all you’re going to say?’

  ‘What did you want me to say? What time is it, anyway?’

  ‘Ten to eleven.’

  ‘Presumably that’s the answer to my second question?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’ll have to get to bed in a minute.’

  ‘You’re definitely going back in tomorrow?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s no point staying home, mooning about. I’ve done everything I can towards the arrangements.’

  ‘You’ve been brilliant.’

  ‘So everyone keeps saying. I get ten out of ten and a gold star for being super-efficient in the face of tragedy,’ Hannah said, a shade bitterly.

  ‘What do you mean? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Sometimes I wish I was less … well … maybe more like Clare. I never missed the train, lost the bus fare, or forgot my lunch money. She was always the loveable, ditzy one. In the end everyone likes you better for it. If they’d all had to choose between us, they’d have had to choose Clare: lovely daughter, loving wife, brilliant mother.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

  ‘I’ve missed too many family Christmases, spent too much time loving my job and not enough loving my family. Truth is, Peter, I’m thinking of going in another direction. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I don’t see the police as part of my long-term future.’