‘Right. I’ll just get on then, shall I?’
‘Yes, sure. Anything I can do? What’s the routine?’
He watched as she picked up a black document bag and tucked it under her arm.
‘Well, usually I help her wash and undress before getting her into bed, but if you’re here I could probably do the first two, and then – I don’t know how you’re placed as a general rule – but I know it bugs her no end that she has to go to bed so early.’
‘Of course,’ Harry jumped in. ‘No problem. I can help her up the stairs last thing at night. I might not be able to do it every night because sometimes I work late, but I can always ring and let her know on those occasions.’
She flashed him a wide smile and it lit her whole face, catching him by surprise.
‘I’m glad you’ve moved in,’ she said simply. ‘She’s such a trooper but she’s quite poorly, as you know, and she was getting fidgety about being here on her own if anything happened. It was worrying her.’
Harry shrugged. ‘Yeah, well … She knew she was going to get her way on that one eventually. I couldn’t go on stalling forever.’
He didn’t mean it to come out quite the way it did, and wasn’t really surprised when she looked at him disapprovingly. ‘Old age and infirmity come to us all,’ she returned mildly. ‘You might want to remember that.’
‘I stand reprimanded,’ he murmured back, and she flashed him a sharp look before turning away and heading for the dining room.
‘Hello, Jean,’ he heard her say, ‘and how are you on this freezing cold night? It’s lovely and warm in here, I must say.’
Harry waited until they’d disappeared upstairs before heading back to his work in the dining room, but he found his mind wasn’t quite as focused as it had been – the image of a pair of disdainful blue eyes somehow managing to come between him and the jumble of words written down on the pad in front of him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
God, that had been a grim night.
Kirsty threw back the bedclothes and padded to the bathroom, trying to shake off the image she’d woken up to – her father’s body lying in the morgue, as she’d seen it yesterday. She’d only viewed it because her mother hadn’t wanted to go alone – and now she wished she hadn’t.
She splashed water on her face and stared at her reflection. She looked a mess but really, who cared? It was hardly surprising, and there were more important things in life than the image you presented to the outside world. It had been a long time coming, that realisation – she’d been brought up in a material world where things like appearances mattered – and when Luke used to say that she could wear a sackcloth for all he cared or noticed, she’d been affronted rather than flattered, not seeing the statement for what it was – an affirmation of his unconditional acceptance of her.
In the bedroom her phone rang and she walked back in to answer it. It was as if thinking about him had conjured him up as she viewed the caller display. Luke Mob. About to hit the Reject button, she hesitated, and on impulse hit the Accept.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Hey.’
A pause.
‘How are you?’
‘Not brilliant.’
‘Sorry to hear about your dad.’
‘Thanks.’
Another pause.
‘Thanks for saying I could come to the funeral. I liked Dom, as you know – even if he did threaten to string me up and hang me out to dry when we broke up.’
‘He did?’
‘Oh, yeah – told me I was lucky there were mitigating circumstances.’
She couldn’t help smiling at that deliberate understatement on her father’s part – not at all in keeping with the way he’d ripped into her about it. The words reckless and foolhardy sprung to mind – not to mention not appreciating what she had. He’d made no bones about the fact he thought she’d been an idiot. As if she needed telling that.
She thought about all the letters – pages of them, still sitting on her computer – telling Luke how sorry she was, desperate ramblings in her darkest moments about how she couldn’t envisage her life without him. But they were letters that would never be sent. Even in that state of mind she’d known that. The truth of it was, she’d betrayed him and there was no coming back from that.
Luke was still talking, saying how he’d met up with Rachael last night and that she’d passed on the message that Kirsty was okay with him going to the funeral. The deep timbre of his voice stirred memories she was better off forgetting. She still remembered the physical piercing pain in her heart when she’d realised they were finished. She’d hoped having nine months away from him might make things easier, help her move on – but it was as if he was here in the room with her, the familiarity of him everywhere. Overwhelming her.
‘I’d better go, Luke,’ she said, frightened she was about to disgrace herself.
‘Oh, right. Sure. I’ll see you Thursday, then ... look after yourself.’
‘You, too.’
She ended the call and grabbed a tissue off the dresser, blowing her nose hard. Her gaze drifted to the picture of her parents on the windowsill – her father beaming out at her as if he didn’t have a care in the world. She moved over to pick it up. Had he been a good man? She felt she didn’t know him anymore – found it difficult reconciling the man who’d always loved her, been there for her – with the one who could swindle his own sister-in-law and niece out of a significant amount of money. It had rocked her faith in him. She couldn’t help wondering what else he might have done.
And it made another anxiety gnaw at her. Could the police be right in wondering if his death might be linked to that tenant’s? Could he have been mixed up in something illegal that had gone wrong?
A year ago she wouldn’t have countenanced the thought, but now that she knew he sometimes walked a fine line in his business dealings…
What if someone had killed him? If there was even the slightest possibility of that, could she bury her head in the sand and not want to see justice done? Even if it meant embarrassment to them as a family?
Let it go, she told herself. Leave it to the police to sort out.
But would they, with their overstretched resources? How could she be sure they’d do a proper job? Guilt plucked at her – at how she’d refused to talk to her father these last few months, punishing him. Now she felt she needed to make it up to him. If she did a little delving herself – going through the office files, for example, to see if there was anything untoward that might have led to someone wanting him out of the way … what harm could it do?
The answer of course was none, as long as she didn’t discover anything bad. But if she did discover something…
Trepidation plucked at her stomach as she realised the possible ramifications of that. After all, if someone had killed once…
She put the photo back down on the windowsill. Yup, she should definitely let it go.
But she knew she wouldn’t.
An hour and a half later, she was walking into Cartwrights office where Robbie was sitting at his desk. Sharon, the secretary, was busy at the photocopier, but she was quick to offer her sympathies as Kirsty walked in.
‘I’m so sorry about your dad. I can’t believe it. It must have been a dreadful weekend for you all. If there’s anything I can do.’
‘Thanks,’ Kirsty said. ‘We’re still reeling from the shock of it, but there’s not much I can do at home, so I thought I’d come in here and give Rob a hand.’
She walked through to her brother’s office and closed the door behind her.
‘You okay?’ she asked, sitting down in the visitors’ chair.
He nodded.
‘I thought you could probably do with some help?’
‘Thanks. I don’t know if I’m coming or going at the moment. I’ll need to think about employing someone to help out, that’s for sure.’
‘I can do it.’
‘You’ve got a job.’
‘No I haven’t,
not really. We both know Dad conjured that job out of nowhere to give me some space. And he was right, I needed space back then – but I don’t need it now. Coming home’s made me realise that this is where I want to be. Jean-Pierre’s been great but he doesn’t really need me. Whereas you, I suspect, do.’
‘I haven’t even given a thought to the business and how it’s going to work.’
‘Well, I have and I’m sure we can work together if you’re prepared to spend a bit of time filling me in.’
She was annoyed to see that her brother didn’t look particularly enthused at that prospect.
‘You know it’s what Dad always intended, Rob. That’s why he asked Jean-Pierre to give me a job. I’ve learnt a lot these last nine months.’
‘You’re not experienced enough.’
‘Yes, I am. I’ve worked at Jordan’s to see how the conveyancing side works, I’ve spent the last nine months working in sales for Jean-Pierre and I’ve done Saturday and holiday jobs here since I was sixteen.’
‘It’s a big responsibility, Kirsty. Mum still needs an income–’
‘Dad will have provided for her, you know that – and the business does well, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t expect to be paid a fortune.’
‘I don’t know…’
‘Well, I do,’ Kirsty said firmly, standing up. ‘I’m going to familiarise myself with Dad’s files and get on with it. Trust me – I won’t let you down.’
She flashed him a quick grin to diffuse the situation, trying to hide her annoyance that he obviously didn’t trust her.
At the door, she turned. ‘By the way, where did Paul Copeland live? What was his address?’
‘Why do you want to know that?’
‘I thought I’d call in on his girlfriend. Offer my condolences.’
‘Dad already did that – there’s no need.’
‘All the same, I’d like to. She was one of the last people to see Dad alive. Aren’t you even curious about that? That there could be a connection between the two deaths?’
‘Kirsty, don’t start meddling. The man was murdered, for God’s sake. You don’t know what you might be getting into if you start poking around.’
‘I’m not going to do anything stupid.’
‘I hope not. Mum couldn’t take it if anything happened to you as well.’
‘So you think there could be a connection?’
‘No … I’m not saying that. I’m just saying we don’t know what Paul Copeland was into and you might be putting yourself at risk if you start interfering.’
The memory of her father’s body lying on that slab surfaced in her head, and she knew she couldn’t let it rest. Not yet … not until she had at least seen the woman to get a sense of the situation if she could.
But she wouldn’t add to Robbie’s stress. She’d get the address from the files.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘Morning! Good weekend?’
DCI Murray breezed up to Harry’s desk and chucked a packet of chocolate biscuits at him before heaving himself into the spare seat. ‘Don’t say I never think of you.’
‘Thanks, sir.’
‘What’s on the agenda for today?’
‘Well, I had planned on calling on the couple where Dominic Cartwright did the house viewing the day he died, but I ended up doing that on Saturday.’
‘Learn anything?’
‘Nothing new, except that Cartwright had apparently arranged to meet up with someone for a bite to eat after the viewing. They didn’t know who of course – that would be asking too much, but they did mention that he seemed quite stressed. Beth’s visiting Copeland’s parents to have a chat with them and then we’re both going to talk to the Lazards again – Ken Lazard lied to us about where he was the night of Copeland’s murder, so I’d like to try to get to the bottom of that.’
‘So he has no alibi?’
‘Not sure. Beth remembered his wife mentioning another pub that he frequented, so we gave that a try and several people confirmed that he’d been there Monday night, but they were all noticeably cagey about timings.’
‘Trying to help their friend?’
‘That’s what it felt like.’
‘I take it you informed them they weren’t helping their own causes by withholding evidence from the police?’
‘For all the good it did us.’
Murray reached for the biscuits he’d bought, helping himself to three, and Harry suppressed a smile. He liked it that his boss was a bit of a maverick who openly stuck two fingers up at the accepted norms of what he should and shouldn’t be doing.
‘Afraid I’m not going to be much use to you on this one,’ Murray said. He frowned irritably. ‘The powers that be, in their wisdom, have got nervous with all the media hype that’s going on at the moment, and want me to look into our historic handling of rape accusations over the last ten years. They want to be seen to be giving it high priority and high seniority, which means I’m going to be tied to my desk for a while.’
That wasn’t good news: Harry suspected that his boss would be like a bear with a sore head within a very short space of time, not being in on the action.
‘Our record’s not bad, is it?’
‘Historically we haven’t done too badly, I don’t think, but I won’t know exact figures until I go through all the case files. There have been a couple of local attacks in more recent months – plus a couple in Barnet I seem to remember that came under the Met.’
‘You saw the report I left on your desk last week? The woman who had the incident with the ‘dodgy’ chap?’
‘Yes, she sounded a bit of a nutcase if you ask me – don’t look at me like that – there wasn’t much to go on, was there? Apart from the fact she didn’t like his tone. Probably some drunken yob trying his luck, rather than anything more sinister.’
As Harry had come to the same conclusion, there wasn’t much he could say to that. The woman had admitted to drinking ‘maybe a bottle of wine’ to herself, and after filing the complaint had gone off on one about how all men were shits and after only one thing.
‘Well, I’ll give you regular updates on the Copeland case, no worries there,’ Harry said.
‘And obviously I’ll still have my finger on the pulse if you need me. How’s DC Macaskill doing?’
‘Keen as mustard and very capable is my impression.’
‘That’s something at least. You don’t need me to tell you that you need to keep pressing on this case, Harry – don’t let the grass grow under your feet, or what few clues you have may rapidly disappear.’
Harry was only too aware of that.
Murray rose to go. ‘Keep me in the loop and if you need any input from me just ask. I’m one of that rare breed of men who can multitask – I just don’t like to broadcast the fact.’
Two hours later, Harry was in the incident room going over what they’d got, when his mobile rang.
‘Hi, Beth, where are you?’
‘Just leaving Paul Copeland’s parents in Whetstone. They’re heartbroken. He was their only child, but even they admit he was a bit wayward.’
‘Anything useful?’
‘No. They hadn’t seen him in three months. Do you want me back at the station now?’
‘I’m heading over to the Lazards. You can join me there if you want. The husband’s not due into work until twelve-thirty today because his wife had a hospital appointment. I thought it might be useful seeing the both of them together.’
‘Cool, I’ll see you there in about half an hour.’
Ken Lazard looked nervous, Harry thought, as he sat down in their lounge – as well he might. He was an average-looking guy – early forties, medium height, brown hair and eyes – and his manner as he sat close to his wife in her wheelchair, clutching her hand tightly, was one of protectiveness.
‘It’s about your alibi,’ Harry said, coming straight to the point.
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘Well, it seems you gave us the wrong pub. I was just wonderin
g why you’d do that?’
‘Did I?’ He made a show of furrowing his brow. ‘Could’ve sworn it was the Black Boar I went to.’
‘No one remembered you there, but several people remembered you in your usual – The Crown.’
Ken shrugged. ‘Must’ve got the days mixed up. Maybe it was the Tuesday I went to the Black Boar. In fact, now I think about it, yeah … I think it was. Sorry about that.’
‘I wouldn’t like to think you’re messing us around, Mr Lazard, and I’m not sure you appreciate the seriousness of this situation. A man was murdered last Monday – a man you had a motive for wanting to harm. Unless you want to find yourself down at the police station for formal questioning, I need some straight answers.’
The front door buzzer went and Ken jumped at the chance of answering it.
‘That’ll probably be my colleague, DC Macaskill.’ Harry said.
As Ken went to answer it, Harry turned to his wife. She was looking anxious, clearly unsettled by what was going on.
‘I don’t know why you’re picking on Ken – there must be a queue of people out there who have got it in for Paul Copeland. He was scum.’
‘I’m not picking on him; I’m trying to establish the truth of where he was so we can eliminate him,’ Harry said. ‘And Paul Copeland may have been scum, but he didn’t deserve to be murdered.’
‘My Ken wouldn’t murder anyone. You tell him, love,’ she said, as he walked back in with Beth.
‘I already have,’ Ken said. ‘Maybe I did get it wrong about the name of the pub, but you caught me on the hop, and I don’t know about you but I don’t keep a diary of which pub I go to every night. How did you find out I’d been at The Crown?’
‘I remembered your wife saying that was your usual haunt,’ Beth said. ‘We thought we’d have a chat with them.’
‘And what did they say?’
‘What do you think they said?’ Harry asked.
A shrug of the shoulders.
‘Well, several people said that you’d been there Monday night – but here’s the strange thing – no one could give any definite information on times.’
THE JAGGED LINE Page 8
