‘Joey really likes Tom,’ she added, ‘and I know I can trust you. I can’t see any point in changing anything.’
It was bad enough being used as an unpaid child minder, only now Candy was late picking her son up. She was supposed to collect him before six, in time to take him down to her own flat on the first floor and give him supper before she went out. Shelley didn’t know who kept an eye on Joey while his mother was at work, but that wasn’t her business. Right now it was nearly seven and there was no sign of Candy. Shelley tried calling her mobile, but there was no answer. She would have to give the boys supper – she could hardly feed her own son and not Joey. Fuming, she decided to demand Candy paid for his food, at least. It was unreasonable to expect her to shell out for him, and as long as she put up with it, Candy would continue to impose on her.
‘Did your mum say anything about what time she was going to pick you up, Joey?’
He just squealed with laughter at the cartoon on the telly. He didn’t seem bothered that his mother was late.
The cartoon finished and the two boys began to fidget. Shelley glanced at her watch again. It was gone seven o’clock.
‘I’m hungry,’ Tom announced, sitting up.
‘Where’s my mummy?’
Tom flung himself on top of the other boy.
‘Joey can stay here. He can stay here with me. He can stay, can’t he, mum?’
Shelley tried Candy’s phone one last time, although she had given up any hope of her answering. It was nearly half past seven. Candy would be on her way to work by now. It was infuriating, the way she assumed Shelley would take care of Joey. This was the last time she was going to allow Candy to take advantage of her like this.
‘Come on, boys, it’s time for supper,’ she said in a falsely cheerful voice, ‘and then you’re both off to bed.’
‘Where’s mummy? I want to go home,’ Joey wailed.
Joey cheered up once he was tucking into beans on toast. He seemed perfectly content to spend the night at his friend’s flat. Shelley had the impression he was used to being moved around. The two children lay in Tom’s bed together, wriggling and squeaking. Shelley considered taking Tom into her own room with her. It seemed the two children would never get to sleep if they stayed in the same bed, but at last they settled down. Tom lay flat on his back, snoring softly, while Joey curled up beside him. Shelley couldn’t imagine abandoning her own son as Candy had done. Still, at least she knew Joey was safe and well cared for. It didn’t really matter that he would have to wear the same clothes two days in a row. Worse things could happen to an eight-year-old boy.
55
THEY HAD KEPT HENRY in overnight but would have to let him go again at the end of the day. Rob had managed to retain him in custody for a second time on the grounds that new evidence had turned up. The trouble was, they couldn’t prove the murder weapon had ever been in his possession. In the meantime, Henry had shown no signs of weakening. In a deadpan tone of voice he had acknowledged that although deeply shocked at the manner of his wife’s death, he wasn’t distraught at losing her.
‘We’d been together a long time,’ he had said, as though that explained his lack of passion.
Ian wondered whether it was inevitable a husband and wife would take each other for granted after a while.
Whatever questions were thrown at him, Henry had persisted in denying that he had anything to do with his wife’s death. If Henry remained firm, Rob was equally obdurate.
‘There must be something we can do to make him confess,’ he insisted. ‘Keep on it, Ian, break him, break him down. Find a way to crank up the pressure. You know we can’t hold him much longer. Just get him to confess, one way or another. Whatever it takes, just do it.’
They both knew perfectly well there was nothing either of them could say or do to try and force an admission of guilt out of Henry. Any evidence they put forward would be immediately thrown out if there was any suggestion of coercion by the police. Despite the constraints of constantly having to watch what he said, Ian supported the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. Prior to that, there had been no rules and regulations governing the treatment of suspects. But there was no question the restraints on police powers could be frustrating.
After a few hours in a cell and more hours of questioning, Henry was no longer composed. His hair was a mess, his shirt was creased, there were sweat stains under his arms, and he looked thoroughly disgruntled.
‘How am I supposed to get home? It’s chucking it down out there. And just look at my shoes,’ he added, raising one foot in the air.
‘Very nice,’ Ian remarked airily.
‘You’re not looking properly or you’d see how scuffed they are. It’s a bloody disgrace the way you treat innocent people in here. Who is it pays your wages, I’d like to know. Poor bloody mugs like me. And then some careless bugger goes and throws my shoes in a cupboard and scrapes the leather. Look! These are brand new shoes. What am I supposed to do now?’
He ran a hand through his thinning hair, his face contorted with exasperation.
Ian shrugged. ‘It’s a pair of shoes, not the crown jewels. They weren’t going to look new forever. Come on, I’ll drop you home. I’m going that way anyway,’ he lied.
It was possible Henry might let something slip if he thought he was speaking off the record; in reality nothing was off the record in a murder investigation.
The ploy failed. Henry was taciturn on the way back to Beltinge Road, answering only ‘Yes,’ or ‘No,’ or merely grunting in response to every question. Ian persevered, but learned nothing new on the short journey. Although he was reluctant to admit defeat, he was actually quite relieved when Henry got out of the car and he could finally stop trying to worm information out of him. He felt as though he had been questioning the man for days. Images of the hookers at the club slipped into his mind, not that he felt any real interest in them. Apart from the fact that he was a married man, he was too knackered. If he was honest, his decision to drive to Margate was partly influenced by his reluctance to go home. It was gone seven and Bev would be annoyed with him for being late again. He hated upsetting her, but lately he didn’t seem able to avoid it. He guessed she must have been expecting his work pattern to change once they were married. He was too tired to deal with another row and, besides, he was already in Herne Bay, halfway to Margate. It would be an inefficient use of his time not to go and call on Candy, in the hope that she might have something new to tell him.
The bruiser on the door dipped his head between his huge shoulders and stepped aside without comment. Ian didn’t recognise the girl on duty but she knew who he was and asked straight away if he wanted to see the manager.
‘I’m here to speak to Candy,’ he said, when he had been ushered into the small office where the manager was sitting behind his wooden desk, puffing on a cigar.
‘You just can’t keep away, can you?’ the fat man drawled.
He leaned back in his chair, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. Ian felt as though he was trapped in a treadmill, going round and round visiting the same places without making any progress.
‘Tell Candy I want to see her. Now. I’ll wait here.’
‘You could be waiting all night then, mate. She’s not here. Didn’t show up this evening.’
Ian had a sinking feeling. If Henry had paid Della to give him an alibi, Candy might have scarpered with the money. It was equally possible she had done a runner because she was heavily in debt. Or she might have done a bunk because she knew what had happened to her flatmate and the killer was putting the frighteners on her. Whatever the reason for her disappearance, there was no way of getting at the truth unless they found her.
‘I can offer you another girl. Your choice.’ Jimmy winked at him. ‘First one’s on the house. I can’t say fairer than that.’
Ian turned on his heel and strode to the door.
‘Come back any time you need some relaxation,’ the manager called after him. ‘You look like you could do with loosening up.’
With the manager’s mocking words echoing in his ears, Ian hurried away.
There was no answer when he rang Candy’s bell. He knocked, tried her phone, rang and knocked again. Still no response. Glancing round, he pushed the door. Pissed or high, she had forgotten to lock it again. It was an invitation to enter. Without hesitation, he slipped inside and pulled the door shut behind him.
‘Candy?’ he called out softly into the darkness. ‘Hello? Is anyone home?’
No one answered. Shadows in the hallway quivered in the light from his torch. With an effort, he tensed his arm so the beam shone steadily as he moved it around.
The hall was empty. It was silent in the flat. His senses strained for any sound as he gazed around at the walls, grey in the half-light. A soft scuffling startled him as his foot kicked against a shoe, shifting it across the threadbare carpet. Glancing down, he nudged it away to the side of the passageway before making his way forwards. He was careful not to make a sound as he stole towards the nearest door. A distant cacophony of noise started up in one of the flats upstairs. Someone was playing music that beat out a muffled rhythm through the ceiling. It was reassuring to hear sounds of life carrying on as normal, somewhere in the building. He had been irrationally spooked by the darkness and the unnatural silence. Realising that he was crouching, his shoulders hunched, he straightened up and relaxed his grip on the torch.
Taking a deep breath, he decided against turning on the hall light. He wasn’t supposed to be there. The sensible thing would be to turn round and leave. There was nothing to see in the flat. Girls like Candy and Della were paid in cash for their services all the time. No amount of money hidden in the flat could link them with Henry. It would mean nothing, even if the suspect’s prints were all over it. But there was a chance Candy might give him vital information, if he could persuade her to talk.
He paused for a second, aware that he was lurking in a prostitute’s flat while his wife waited for him at home. Then he continued to make his way furtively along the corridor. Mentally and physically alert to the thrill of danger, he couldn’t resist the rush of adrenaline flooding through him. Even in the darkness objects looked sharper than usual. Sounds reached him with astonishing clarity as the allure of a possible lead drew him into the flat, heedless of protocol. Without any clear plan he went into the kitchen and paused. Glistening in the beam of light from his torch, shards of glass shimmered at his feet. He raised the torch and saw that a window above the sink had been smashed, and hung open. Someone had broken the glass so they could reach in to undo the catch and climb through. A forced entry on the first floor. The front door unlocked for an easy exit. The intruder might still be in the flat. Ian held his breath as he silenced his phone. He hoped he hadn’t already put himself in danger by calling out from the hall.
56
IAN HAD BEEN HOME late every night for the past two weeks. He made the excuse that his time wasn’t his own when he was on a case, but when he was going to be late he used to make a point of phoning to let her know. Now she was his wife his attitude had changed. It was barely two months since they had promised to love one another ‘for better or worse’, since when he had been leaving her on her own almost every evening. He claimed that promotion was in the offing, and he didn’t want to blot his record. She had no way of knowing whether that was true. He never discussed his work with her, brushing off her questions by telling her she wouldn’t want to know.
‘Of course I want to know,’ she had protested, more than once. ‘Why else would I ask you about it?’
‘We’re not allowed to talk about the case until the details have been made public,’ he had told her firmly.
It was humiliating. She was his wife, but he made her feel as though he didn’t trust her not to blab about his investigations.
‘Why did you marry me if you don’t trust me?’
‘Trust you? What are you talking about? Of course I trust you.’
It was hopeless.
Ian had never spoken much about his work but throughout the early years of their relationship he used to ask about her job at the recruitment agency, making her feel as though she was the centre of his world. Now he never asked to hear the gossip about her colleagues, or what her shameless boss was up to. It seemed that he wasn’t interested in her life outside of their marriage after all. When he was home, he claimed he was exhausted. Meanwhile, she was well into her thirties. Another ten years and her looks would start to fade. Already her boss overlooked her in favour of younger women, as though her experience counted for nothing. She was beginning to think she had wasted the best years of her life on a horrible mistake.
They had agreed to spend Saturday evening with friends, meeting at a restaurant at eight. Ian had promised to be home in time. Bev glanced at the kitchen clock. It was nearly eight now, and there was still no sign of him. She tried his phone again and left a message.
‘Where the hell are you? You’re late.’
She would have been better off single. Her husband constantly made her look like a fool in front of other people; first her family, now her friends. It was almost eight. Thinking about it, she wasn’t sure which would be more embarrassing, to cancel at such short notice, or to go alone. She had already cancelled several arrangements with these friends because of Ian’s work. If she cancelled again, they might think she was giving them the brush off. After a moment’s hesitation, she decided to go by herself. There was no reason why she should sacrifice her social life to Ian’s work commitments. It was typical of him to behave with utter disregard for her wishes. All he cared about was his work – if that really was what was keeping him busy in the evenings.
Usually Ian drove when they went out. Bev felt a surge of independence as she accelerated along the main road. Ian and she had been together since she was eighteen, on and off. She had never really experienced life as a single woman. They had been through periods of estrangement, but she had always known she could get him back if she wanted. Speeding along the road, she was no longer sure she had been right to pursue him. Increasingly absorbed in his work, he had blatantly lost interest in her. Even their once dynamic sex life had fizzled out. She was often asleep by the time he arrived home. He claimed he didn’t want to disturb her, although she had told him she wouldn’t mind being woken up. It wasn’t the sex she missed – although that was a visceral part of his betrayal – so much as his attention. She had tried to tackle the subject, but Ian always pleaded exhaustion at the end of a day’s work. When she had protested they had only been married for two months, he had retorted irritably that they had been together for years. Predictably enough, the conversation had deteriorated into a row. Thinking about her husband as she drove into town, Bev put her foot down. She would show him she was fine by herself.
The verges at the roadside were looking vibrant, the grass speckled with a few tiny dots of white and yellow early flowering weeds. Most of the trees were covered in tight buds, their leaves waiting to uncurl in warmer weather. A few remained bare. An occasional conifer stood out from the other trees, its rich green foliage almost black in her headlights. She hoped Ian wasn’t thinking of pulling the same stunt at Easter. They had agreed to go away for the weekend with her parents, but he had as good as admitted to her that he hadn’t booked the time off. He maintained he didn’t want to do anything that might jeopardise his promotion prospects.
‘I want you to be there,’ she had told him firmly, but he had merely shrugged.
It was a painful betrayal from a man who had vowed to devote his life to her.
‘It’s nice to be married to someone who worships you,’ her mother had said once, smiling complacently.
Bev and her sister had agreed. All three of them shared the same striking features and elegant figures, lean yet voluptuous. Her mother and sister had both used their looks to attract husbands dedicated to pleasing them. Bev had expected the same commitment from Ian, but her marriage wasn’t turning out like that.
As soon as she
arrived at the restaurant she regretted the decision she had reached in anger. What made it worse was that Ian was probably on his way home. She should have waited for him. All she could do was smile, and pretend to ignore the raised eyebrows.
‘Is Ian all right?’
‘Yes, he’s fine. He had to work late today. They don’t give him much notice or I’d have called to let you know.’
‘He’s working late on a Saturday? You poor thing. Come and sit down and have a glass of wine. Red or white? Or are you driving?’
‘Actually,’ Bev announced rather too loudly, ‘Ian’s working on a very important project right now, keeping the streets safe for everyone.’
‘Is he a traffic cop?’ someone asked.
Bev felt herself blush.
‘He works for the Murder Squad.’
No one spoke for a few seconds, and then the conversation moved on.
In the ladies, one of Bev’s girlfriends met her eyes in the mirror while she was washing her hands.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, are things OK between you and Ian? Only this is the second time he’s cancelled, and we were all wondering –’
Bev gave a short laugh to indicate her friends’ concern was not only misplaced, but ridiculous.
‘Everything’s fine. I told you, he’s doing a very important job. I’m really proud of him.’
‘Yes, I know, but – what I mean is, he’s not thinking about you, is he? Going out like this by yourself on a Saturday night. You are married. You deserve better.’
Bev could hear defiance in her voice as she repeated her assurance that everything was fine. But everything was far from fine. Her friends were right to talk about her behind her back. Her marriage was a failure. It was Saturday night, she was out without her husband and, wherever he was, Ian was certainly not thinking about her.
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