LYING IN BED THAT night, Ian was troubled by the idea that Henry might learn about his neighbour’s allegations. Mrs Jamieson didn’t strike him as a particularly discreet woman. If she mentioned her suspicions to enough people, sooner or later Henry would discover she was going round telling everyone he had killed his wife. And if she was correct, and he was indeed capable of homicide, there was no knowing what provocation would prompt him to kill again. The catalyst for another murder might well be a stupid woman running around blackening his name in the neighbourhood, with perhaps the added fear that she would convince the police to investigate his whereabouts on the night of his wife’s death. ‘There’s no need for you to be alarmed,’ were the last words he had spoken to her.
What if he was wrong?
‘Can’t you sleep either?’ Bev asked as he shifted position yet again. ‘What’s on your mind?’
‘Nothing,’ he lied. ‘Go back to sleep.’
It was late. The problem was too complicated to discuss right then. In any case, he wasn’t sure Bev would understand his concern. There was nothing to suggest Henry had killed his wife. He could be suspecting an innocent man, and it was never helpful to allow his judgement to be clouded by vague impressions. He had to deal with facts. In his mind he ran through his meeting with the widower again. Henry hadn’t appeared upset by the news that his wife was dead. While that could be construed as suspicious, Ian would have expected some show of grief from him if he was actually guilty. At the same time, he had the distinct impression Henry was concealing something. And then there was the next-door neighbour who had quickly jumped to the conclusion that Henry was guilty. Perhaps there was more to her chatter than Ian had realised. He wished he had questioned her in more detail, and decided to speak to her again the following day. Having reached that decision, he turned to his wife.
‘It’s nothing,’ he repeated.
Bev always knew when he was lying.
‘Who is she?’ she asked.
‘Her name’s Patricia Jamieson –’
Too late, he realised Bev had been teasing. With a childish pout, she pulled away from his embrace and sat up. Leaning forward so that her chin rested on her knees, she wrapped her arms around her shins.
‘Who is she?’ she repeated, her voice unnaturally composed.
Ian half sat up, leaning his upper body weight on one elbow, so that he was facing her and stifled a sigh. This was all he needed right now, a tantrum from his beautiful wife at two o’clock in the morning.
‘She’s a witness in the case, at least she might be, and I’m afraid I may have been too quick to dismiss what she was saying, and as a result, there’s a chance her life might be in danger.’
It sounded foolishly melodramatic.
‘Bev?’
She didn’t answer.
‘Bev? Come on, lie down and let’s get some sleep. I’m knackered.’
Bev muttered something ominously under her breath, but she lay down and he closed his eyes gratefully.
He slept badly and woke very early, feeling as though he had a hangover. His throat was dry and slightly sore when he swallowed, and his head felt hot. A strong cup of tea and a fried egg on toast helped and he set off for work relieved that he didn’t seem to be going down with a cold after all. Bev was still asleep when he left, and he didn’t wake her. If she was going to be in a mood with him, he preferred not to let it ruin his day. He would deal with her later on. In the meantime, he had work to do. As the husband of the victim, Henry was automatically under suspicion until they could eliminate him from their list of suspects. As it happened, his name was currently the only one on the list. Polly had been looking in to Henry’s background. He had been employed as a washing machine fitter all his working life, and seemed to have been a hard worker, although he had never earned much. His wife, on the other hand, had been a relatively wealthy woman. An only child, she had inherited a sizeable fortune which had enabled her to move to Herne Bay and buy the large detached house where she had lived until her death. The house and a considerable portfolio of investments now belonged to Henry.
Ian wondered whether Henry might have murdered his wife for her money. If the evidence of their neighbour was reliable, the couple had not been on good terms. He bumped into Polly in the corridor and they went to his office to discuss the case. Leaning back in his chair, Ian couldn’t help thinking how nice it was to have an uncomplicated friendship with an attractive woman. He had been crazy about Bev since his teens, but he now wondered if he had mistaken adolescent infatuation for what was glibly called ‘the real thing’, whatever that was. They were so nearly well-suited, but the truth was that Bev would have been far happier with a dependable husband in a steady nine-to-five job. Henry had been married to Martha for over thirty years. Ian could see how that might wear a man down.
Polly looked surprised when he told her what he was thinking about the Martins.
‘Even if he was unhappy with her, murder’s a bit extreme, isn’t it, to say the least? I mean, if every husband who was fed up with his wife decided to kill her, instead of getting divorced, there wouldn’t be many married women left in the world.’
She was right, of course. Henry could have left his wife.
‘They had a son,’ Ian said. ‘Maybe he was afraid of alienating him if he left his wife.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘and he wouldn’t have got his hands on all her money if he’d divorced her.’
‘Martha was brought up as a Catholic. Perhaps she didn’t believe in divorce.’
‘Do you really think so? In this day and age?’
‘There are still people who think marriage is sacred.’
He wondered what Bev’s view on divorce would be. They had never discussed it. Some topics were best left alone. Bev might be irritatingly possessive, but he couldn’t really complain about having a beautiful wife who loved him so much.
‘What are you grinning about?’ Polly asked.
Ian shrugged.
‘I was just thinking how helpful this is, being able to discuss the case with you. A woman’s perspective being different and all that –’ he faltered awkwardly, afraid she would accuse him of making sexist remarks. But Polly smiled.
14
IT DIDN’T OCCUR TO Henry to be seriously frightened until he passed one of his neighbours in the street. It was a bright Sunday morning, so he decided to stroll down the road to the newsagents for some milk. He would have to stock up on food soon, but he hadn’t gone shopping by himself for a long time. Martha had always accompanied him, ticking items methodically off her list as he pushed a trolley round the store. It would be strange to go shopping without her. Strange, and oddly liberating. He would be free to fill his trolley with cans of beer, frozen chips, pizza, and anything else he fancied. He could imagine her voice, whining at him about fatty foods and looking after his health, and all that claptrap. Martha had watched her diet obsessively, but her preoccupation with health hadn’t saved her. Right now he didn’t feel like making a special trip to the supermarket. He could go on his way home from work one evening. He virtually drove past the door. Meanwhile, he had run out of milk.
Whistling, he closed his gate and almost bumped into the woman from next door who happened to be passing. Catching sight of her expression, he remembered he had just lost his wife in tragic circumstances. Abruptly he stopped whistling and tried to look sad. His neighbour hurried away, but not before he had seen the disgust on her face. He could imagine her describing the encounter to her cronies.
‘There he was, whistling like he didn’t have a care in the world, and his poor murdered wife not yet cold in her grave. It’s not natural. If you ask me, he did her in himself. Why else would he be looking so cheerful about it? That poor woman.’
Henry felt sick, his enjoyment of the morning ruined. As though responding to his mood, a dark cloud drifted in front of the sun and the air grew chilly. He walked faster, thinking. First his son, now his neighbour. Mark had been openly hostile to his f
ather on hearing the news of his mother’s death, as good as accusing Henry of stabbing Martha himself.
‘We both know how you felt. You couldn’t stand the sight of her.’ He had pointedly refused to provide Henry with an alibi. ‘You want me to lie to the police?’
If his son and his next-door neighbour both believed he had killed Martha, what chance did he have of convincing the police he was innocent?
His mood didn’t improve when he reached the corner shop and met an acquaintance he played darts with from time to time.
‘Morning, Bert,’ he called out.
He was careful not to appear too cheerful. He didn’t know who might be watching and judging him. The police might come snooping round the area, questioning the shopkeeper.
‘Mr Martin? Yes, he was here, shopping, as though nothing had happened. I would never have guessed poor Mrs Martin had just been murdered. If anything, he looked happier than usual.’
The shop had CCTV, which the police might watch. If they saw Henry out shopping in good spirits, so soon after his wife had been brutally murdered, they were bound to think the worst of him.
Bert scowled and turned away. Henry shivered, although it wasn’t cold in the shop. He wondered what Bert had heard, but didn’t know him well enough to ask. In any case, he had probably misinterpreted Bert’s apparent hostility. He couldn’t have heard about the stabbing. Henry made an effort to stay calm, reasoning that if Bert had heard about the murder, he would have offered his condolences, not turned his back so rudely – unless he too believed that Henry was guilty. Bert went up to the counter and began talking very rapidly in an undertone to the Asian guy behind the counter. Sanjay kept his eyes fixed on Bert’s face, listening intently. Henry couldn’t hear what Bert was saying. He edged closer to try and listen, but Sanjay gave a warning frown. Bert fell silent, and twisted his head round to look at Henry over his shoulder. For an instant Henry stood perfectly still, while the other two men stared coldly at him.
‘Hello, Bert,’ he repeated loudly.
This time he elicited a curt response before Bert turned back to Sanjay and made his purchase.
Henry wanted to ask Bert what he had been saying, but it would sound odd. He watched Bert leave without speaking to him again.
‘Here all by yourself today,’ Sanjay said pointedly as Henry held up a litre of milk.
The shopkeeper peered over the till, glaring at Henry. He might just as well have come out with it and accused him of having killed his wife. The whole world seemed to be turning against him. Even a relative stranger serving in the corner shop was behaving like some jumped-up self-appointed judge and jury. Sanjay had no idea what had happened to Martha, yet he was ready with his barbed comments. First the police, then Mark, the woman next door, and Bert, whom he hardly knew. Now even the bloody shopkeeper on the corner was at it, needling him with uncalled-for jibes. Henry felt his patience snap. He heard himself shouting, his temper out of control.
The outburst startled Sanjay. His thin black eyebrows disappeared beneath his fringe and his eyes widened stupidly as Henry slammed a bottle of milk down on the counter. He was still yelling.
‘You mind your own fucking business.’
Henry stared past the shopkeeper’s head.
‘That,’ he yelled, pointing a shaking finger at the whisky. ‘Give me that large bottle.’
‘Ah.’
Sanjay gave a knowing smile, reassured to discover the ostensible cause of his customer’s aggression. Henry let it go. It was certainly one explanation for his volatile behaviour, if not the right one. Clutching the bottle of Scotch, he hurried home. Later on he would sort out an alibi, once he had done some serious thinking. But first he was going to get plastered. He could afford the most expensive bottle of Scotch, and there was no one to spoil his enjoyment by nagging him about wasting money.
15
AFTER AN EARLY LUNCH, Ian drove back to Herne Bay and parked in the street alongside Henry Martin’s house. He and Rob would be returning together to speak to the widower again soon. With any luck, they would make an arrest and the investigation would be over. But before that, there was a lot of work to get through. Right now it was vital to gather as much information as possible. They not only had to make an arrest, they had to make sure their case was watertight. A prosecution that failed to get a conviction was a waste of police time and effort, as well as an opportunity for the killer to make good his escape – and possibly kill again.
For the second time in two days, Ian knocked on the Jamiesons’ front door. This time it was opened by a short, stout man with greying hair. His bushy beard and moustache were white.
‘Yes? What is it? What do you want?’
His brisk tone softened after he had put on steel-rimmed spectacles to peer at Ian’s warrant card.
‘Hmm, a detective sergeant? Well, in that case, perhaps you’d better come in.’ He hesitated. ‘What’s this about?’
Briefly Ian explained the purpose of his call and Mr Jamieson nodded, his head turned quizzically to one side.
‘Yes, Patsy told me you’d been here, asking questions.’
‘Your wife?’
‘Yes, yes. Come on in. I expect she’ll want to see you.’
He turned and bawled his wife’s name and a second later she came into the hall, wiping floury hands on a dish cloth.
‘Sorry, I’ve got a cake in the oven.’
She led them into a large square kitchen, neat and clean apart from a floury work surface.
‘You’ll have to excuse the mess,’ she added hurriedly.
Her husband smiled complacently at her and Ian felt a surge of optimism. Baking on a Sunday afternoon, content in her marriage, Mrs Jamieson could appear before any jury as a decent, reliable witness. He accepted the offer of a cup of tea and was disappointed when it wasn’t accompanied by a slice of the cake he could smell. It couldn’t have been ready yet. Bad timing, he thought. He hoped that wasn’t a bad omen. Sipping his tea, he listened to Mrs Jamieson discussing her neighbours as though she had been preparing for his visit. It was hardly necessary for him to prompt her with questions.
‘I always said he’d do her an injury one day,’ Mrs Jamieson began, speaking very loudly.
Her husband remonstrated with her.
‘There’s lots of couples argue.’
‘Not like that,’ she replied, turning to face her husband.
There was a pause.
‘Like what?’ Ian asked and the Jamiesons both turned to him looking slightly surprised, as though they had forgotten he was there.
‘You weren’t here during the day,’ she went on, speaking to her husband. She turned back to Ian. ‘He wasn’t here in the day. He didn’t hear it all.’
‘All what?’
‘Now, Patsy,’ her husband warned her, but she rounded on him.
‘Stop interfering, Donald. I’m only saying what I heard, no more and no less. You don’t know what went on.’ She turned to Ian and lowered her voice. ‘You wouldn’t know it, because he lip-reads, but my husband’s deaf.’
Ian sat down and took out his notebook. Mrs Jamieson’s account of her neighbours was petty and inconsequential, but she was keen to talk about them and Ian was prepared to listen to her again. Somewhere in her ramblings she might inadvertently furnish him with a lead. It was five years since the Jamiesons had moved into their ground floor flat, next door to the Martins.
‘They own the whole house,’ she said, a touch sharply, as though that was something reprehensible. ‘Just the two of them and that boy of theirs.’
Ian guided her gently to talk about the arguments she had overheard.
‘I don’t like to eavesdrop, but in the summer when I sit out on the patio, I can’t help hearing them. It’s not like I go out specially to hear what’s going on in there.’
Ian nodded to indicate he understood.
After a few more minutes talking around the subject, Mrs Jamieson tackled the issue of her neighbours’ rows.
&nb
sp; ‘He screams at her, I mean really yelling. It would make a trooper blush, the way that man talks to his wife – talked to her, I suppose I should say. Well, let’s hope she’s gone to a better place.’
She shook her head sadly, and offered Ian another cup of tea which he declined.
‘What kind of things did he say?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly repeat what he said. Such foul language. It was shameful, really it was, for a man to speak to his wife like that.’
‘Can you remember what they argued about?’
‘Oh, all sorts from the sound of it. Anything and everything. He didn’t like this, and he didn’t like that, this wasn’t right, and that wasn’t right. It was endless. And then there was the divorce.’
‘The divorce?’
‘Yes, he wanted a divorce. He was always on at her about it.’
‘And what did she say about it?’
‘The honest truth is that I never heard a peep out of her. She wasn’t one to raise her voice. But she can’t have agreed to a divorce, because whenever it came up he used to scream and shout at her for being obstinate. Though God only knows why she refused to get divorced. It can’t have been much of a life, living with a foul-mouthed man like him. She’d have done far better to have given him his divorce and got clean away. Still, she didn’t, and now look what’s happened. If he couldn’t be shot of her one way… ’
Ian looked up from his notebook.
‘Are you suggesting Mr Martin killed his wife as a way of ending his marriage?’
‘Well, he couldn’t get away from her any other way, could he? Not with her refusing to get a divorce.’
‘But that doesn’t mean he was responsible for her death.’
‘Oh doesn’t it?’ she asked, with a knowing smile.
Ian was irritated. He wasn’t there to play guessing games.
Cold Sacrifice Page 6
