“It’s not Farrington’s fault that Becky is dead. Is not Colin Ranworth’s either, and it’s not mine. You can’t go on raving at the world because of what happened, and you can’t go on blaming yourself. She was unlucky. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you can’t let the actions of one crazy bastard drag you down... drag us down.”
“I—”
He could not stop the flow of furious frustration.
“Do you know how intolerable you’ve become? You behave like the same kind of shit as Farrington. No argument, no debate, Wes Drake is right, and if you don’t like that, then put ’em up. We’ll slug it out on the pavement.”
Tears began to form in her eyes, but she fought back the impulse to cry. Instead, her deepest feelings flooded out.
“Do you know how much I care about you? Do you know how much I’m hurting because of what happened to you? Because I couldn’t be there to help, because you wouldn’t come here to let me help? I didn’t want you here shoving your nose into police business, but I wanted Wes Drake here, the Wes Drake I knew back in the spring, the Wes Drake I wanted to help.”
She could no longer stop the flood of emotion. She burst into tears and turned away, moving slowly towards her car.
She didn’t hear him coming after her. The first she was aware was when his hands pressed lightly on her shoulders, and gently turned her to him. He pulled her close, put his arms all the way round her, let her head rest on his shirt, and allowed her to weep.
The situation took her back to the grounds of Peace Garden, the police convalescent home north of Leeds, where another emotional outburst had prompted the same reaction from him. Then, as now, he said nothing. He simply held her, allowing her febrile emotions to settle. Eventually she pressed her hands against his shirt, and pushed herself gently away.
His face was grim. No smile, but no scowl either. He looked into her eyes, but she knew he was not looking at her. He was still seeing the terrible sight of Rebecca Teale’s head gazing back from the mantelpiece of their moorland home.
Soon, his eyes focused. “I’m sorry. You’re right. Every word you said was on the button.”
“You’ll come back to the station?”
He nodded. “In a little while.” He took her hand. “Come on. Let’s take a walk.”
“I don’t know how long Farrington will wait.”
She could see that it was on the tip of his tongue to say, ‘Fuck Farrington’, but he did not. Instead, he reassured her. “He’ll wait. Right now, he’s too worried about what I said to him.”
They joined the straggle of people making their way towards the castle, walking slowly, no hurry, negotiating the steep climb towards the narrow entrance, and when they passed beneath the arch, into the open greens surrounding the ruined keep, he led her across to the south wall, where he stood looking over the vast spread of Landshaven South Bay.
And at last, he spoke. “I won’t say you don’t know what it’s like. Considering your history and what happened with Don, you probably felt something close to the same torment. All I can see is Becky, her head on that shelf, staring back at me, pleading with me, asking where I was when that lunatic struck. And then I remember that night, when he was on the floor and I was holding the knife, and I remember your words, and I hate you for stopping me.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Hate’s the wrong word. I resent you. You should have let me end it there.”
Sam clung to his hand. She knew everything. She’d known for some time, but finding a way through the morass of conflicting emotions confusing him, was more intractable.
Automatically, it prompted memories of that fateful night when she learned the truth about her errant husband, his criminal activities, the number of people he had murdered, the amount of illegally obtained money he had stashed away. Unlike Drake’s final confrontation with The Anagramist, she did not have a knife in her hand. If she had, Don Vaughan would not be serving a life sentence. She would.
“So let’s turn it on its head, Wes. Suppose I’d let you kill him? You’d have stood trial, gone to prison for years. Let’s imagine I chose to turn a blind eye, and concoct a story, telling the police you had no choice but to kill him. You would have got off scot free, and I’d have to live with my conscience. Maybe I could have. I don’t know. But let me ask you a question. Would it have brought you closure?”
His eyes had assumed that distant look again. He was staring south, as far as Flamborough Head but that was not what he could see.
“I don’t know. Wrong. I do know. You’re right. I would still be haunted by visions of her.”
He turned back to look at her, and tears sparkled in his eyes. Sam’s memory clicked again, like a gymnast hopping from exercise to exercise, automatically recalling the times in the immediate aftermath of Becky’s death, when she had stayed at his father’s farmhouse, and she had heard him weeping softly to himself.
“You need a crutch, Wes. I had no choice but to leave, I’m sorry for that, but you’re here in Landshaven, now. That support is here. Lean on me. Talk to me. Don’t go looking for fights with other people. Fight with me instead, because you won’t win with me.” She gave him a bleak smile. “You’re not intimidated by men like Farrington, and I have news for you; I’m not intimidated by men like Wes Drake. Please. Let me help you.”
He hugged her. “I wish Iris Mullins had never sent me here. But I’m glad she did.”
He bent his lips to hers and kissed her, and Sam responded eagerly.
When they broke apart, a frown crossed her brow. “Why did she send you here?”
Drake took her hand and they began to slow walk back towards the hotel.
“I’m not sure. She didn’t need me looking into Rachel… Or maybe she did. But she’d been talking to my father, and I suspect the old man asked whether she could find anything for me to do. Counselling stressed officers was a nonstarter. I was too stressed myself. And then Rachel’s acquittal came up. The perfect excuse, I think.”
“Well, I’m glad she did. Now don’t you think we better get a move on before Farrington loses the plot altogether?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
On Drake’s insistence Sam rang ahead and arranged to meet Farrington and Trentham in the station’s briefing room, and by the time they got back to Landshaven House, the two men were already waiting there.
Farrington was hardly apologetic, but he held out the slimmest of olive branches. “I hope we can put the earlier unpleasantness behind us. I’m prepared to listen to what you have to say.”
Sitting with his back to the whiteboard, facing all three police officers, Drake agreed. “Chief Inspector Feyer has pointed out that I’m not the easiest person in the world to get on with just lately, but yes, I’ll make the effort.”
Coffee was ordered, and while they waited, Farrington, making no mistake about who was in control, carried on talking. “From your earlier announcement, you obviously believe Rachel Jenner was framed. I’ll listen to you, but first we had other news this morning, and you really need to know about it. I’m not saying it will change your mind, but you will certainly need to take it into account.”
From there he detailed the ballistics report and his theories on the missing pistol. Drake listened without interrupting, and occasionally scribbled notes on a pad. When Farrington had finished, he gave his response.
“I understand your suspicions, but with the best will in the world, assuming that Rachel stole the gun is an arbitrary conclusion, and at the moment you don’t have anything to support it. There must be a couple of hundred officers working from this station. How many of them were on duty that day, how many were close to reception where the dispatch bag was kept?”
Trentham reassured him. “I will be looking into the matter, Wesley.”
They were interrupted by the arrival of a uniformed constable, carrying coffee things, and while the three officers sorted themselves out, Drake turned to the whiteboard, and drew a large triangle in black marker. He then took a red m
arker pen, and labelled each corner: ‘means’ at bottom left, ‘opportunity’ at bottom right, and ‘motive’ at the apex.
Now that he was prepared, he too, collected a beaker of coffee, and returned to his seat. With a nod, Farrington granted him centre stage.
“I can’t prove that Rachel is innocent, but I can demonstrate that Superintendent Oxley’s investigation was skimped and flawed.”
Although the audience was smaller, the situation was quite familiar to him from his teaching days at Howley College, and he paused to see whether his opening remark would generate any reaction. When it did not, he got to his feet and carried on.
“The triangle of crime. Means, motive, opportunity.” Using a marker pen aimed at the whiteboard, he pointed out each word as he delivered them. “I’m concentrating specifically on the murder of Barbara Shawforth, because that was my brief. Means is simple. The murder weapon was left on the floor of the hotel room.” He scrawled in the words ‘baseball bat’ beneath ‘Means’, and faced the police again. “Opportunity is contentious. Rachel insisted that after the argument at The Kettle on the Hob, she went home and never moved again until Sergeants Larne and Czarniak came to bring her in for questioning. Her story remains uncorroborated, other than a statement from her neighbour, Grace Chivers. Mrs Chivers’ evidence was dismissed by the court, after the prosecution claimed that she was elderly and not entirely aware of what was going on around her, and of course, she died in the interim, which meant she was not there to argue. Rachel’s defence made little of that, when, in my opinion, they should have torn the prosecution to pieces. That aside, the question remains how did Rachel get into the Bellevue without being seen? Pearson speculated that she may have had a key. Was one ever found? If so, it’s not mentioned in the case file. And the alternative explanation, that she sneaked in behind Walston is, frankly, nonsense. When Sam and I visited on Monday, I tested the staircase, and at least one of the steps creaked. Walston would have heard her, and given the clandestine nature of his assignation, he would almost certainly turn round to find out who was there.”
Beneath the word ‘Opportunity’ he wrote, ‘Grace Chivers’, ‘access to Bellevue’ and followed each with a question mark, and then put down his marker pen.
“The one area Oxley ignored, the one area which was never tackled in court, and the one area which is my speciality, is motive.”
“Sexual jealousy,” Trentham said. “Rachel admitted as much.”
“She did, and it is garbage.”
Once again, Drake paused to let them absorb the bald announcement. He took a mouthful of coffee before going on.
“When I spoke to Rachel on Monday, she admitted that she had minimised the cause of the argument in The Kettle on the Hob. She claimed it wasn’t just jealousy, but she was feeling, er, horny – if you’ll forgive my Hollywood vernacular. She wanted Walston’s attention that afternoon, but she couldn’t have it for the simple reason he was with Barbara. I tell you once again, that it’s still nonsense. It may very well be true, but it is not the motive for murdering Barbara Shawforth.”
All three police officers frowned in puzzlement. “Men have killed for less, so have women,” Sam pointed out.
“True, but think about the precise circumstances of the three people involved. Walston had a reputation for bedding women where and whenever he could. Everyone in this town knows it. He was meeting a woman who had a similar reputation for horizontal exercise. Rachel may have anger issues, but she’s not stupid. She was having an affair with Walston, but she knew about his predilection for sleeping around, and Barbara’s. It was also odds on that at some time Walston and Barbara would come together. It may very well have annoyed Rachel, but it would not have driven her to a murderous rage, especially when the woman concerned was her best friend of twenty years.”
Trentham interceded once more. “If I may point out, Wesley, Alex Walston always insisted that there was no affair between him and Rachel.”
Drake’s eyes burned into the chief superintendent. “In that case, Rachel has no motive at all for killing Barbara.”
The profound shock of his conclusion rippled through them. Trentham’s mouth fell open, Farrington stared in disbelief at the whiteboard, and Sam shook to the point where she had to clasp her beaker with both hands.
“Mentally unstable?” Farrington asked.
“Not according to the prison psychiatrists, not according to the psychologists and counsellors. They all insist that she is as sane and lucid as you and me. It’s what persuaded them that she was in denial when it came to Barbara’s murder.” A more casual tone came about Drake’s voice. “They could be wrong. Like my particular discipline, theirs is not a precise science, so it’s possible that she could have masked her psychosis, especially if she knew about it. But she has no history of mental instability. Anger issues, as I said, but nothing else. No, gentleman – and lady – Barbara Shawforth’s afternoon with Alex Walston was not the motive for her murder.”
A brief silence fell over the windowless room. It was Farrington who broke it.
“Then what was?”
Drake sighed. “There, Chief Constable, you come to the very reason I wouldn’t speak to Sam and Neville earlier. I don’t know, is the short answer. Rachel gave me some information on Monday, which might point to a different motive, one which is much more logical than the tripe we’ve been led to believe. Marc Shawforth kept his wife short of money. She frequently borrowed from Rachel, and although Rachel insists that at the time of her death, Barbara owed her nothing, it’s possible that she was lying, and the real argument in the café was about the money Barbara owed. You’d need forensic accountants to look at Rachel’s finances, and Barbara’s, but even so, it would be like seeking the proverbial needle.”
Sam gulped down some coffee. “Alternatives?”
“Several. Rachel may very well be guilty. I don’t think so, but I’ve been wrong before. Maybe Walston’s confession, albeit made under duress, was true. Leonard Pearson had ample time, and we have to ask ourselves what about Tom Hacton’s involvement? When all’s said and done, he deliberately buried evidence that might have cleared Rachel, and in such a way that it would not come to light until after his death. There’s also the possibility, as I mentioned earlier, that Barbara was selling sex, and her murder was committed by someone with a pathological hatred of prostitutes. Marc Shawforth… All right, all right, I know he was in London, but he could have paid someone to dispense with her. He insisted that her shenanigans were no problem to him, but thanks to my father, I have an insight into politics and politicians which may be denied most of you.”
He paused once more and then focused directly on Sam. “This is where you and your people come in. Oxley found two pieces of evidence, one of which would have been comparatively easy to fake, the second more difficult. He homed in on them, took it from there, and charged Rachel. I suspect – and I’m not particularly pointing the finger at you, Chief Constable – that there was an element of political urgency about the matter. Government applying pressure to ensure a rapid solution, and a detective confronted with two thin pieces of evidence, and a woman persistently changing her story, and that was enough.”
“I won’t comment on any communication between myself and the Home Office.” Farrington sipped his coffee. “Where do the current murders, four this week, permit me to remind you, fit into your plan?”
“A determined attempt to convict Rachel Jenner once again, despite the paucity of evidence. If Rachel really did murder Barbara, she’s deliberately pointing the finger at herself, knowing that there is no evidence, and creating a situation where, at some point, she will accuse you of harassment. That will get you off her back, and leave your investigation all at sea. It might also help bump up her compensation. If she is innocent, if she was innocent all along, then whoever killed Olivia Bradley did so to prevent her confessing to stealing the murder weapon from Ruth Russell, and that same person used Rachel Jenner’s pistol to kill Alex Walston. Obj
ect: pin the murders on Rachel, get her tried again, sent to prison, and that closes down your investigation.”
Trentham was first to voice his opinion. “I can’t speak about the theft of an antique police truncheon from Ruth Russell, but if you’re speculating that someone other than Rachel is committing these murders, then for them to have the pistol indicates a police officer.”
Drake shrugged. “Don’t Tom Hacton’s activities indicate the involvement of a police officer? I’m sorry, Neville. My late partner was a police sergeant, and I have the greatest respect for the service, but you know as well as I that you have occasional bad eggs.”
“We also know how much pleasure the media take when they’re rubbing it in,” the chief constable said.
Drake agreed. “I have very little patience with the media, but you have to think about their job. It’s not to report the news, but to sell newspapers, or advertising on television, the way they do that is to report the news, and it’s a sad reflection that bad news sells better than good. Look at the rise of populist politics all over the world, and the damage they do to disadvantaged minorities. People home in on bad news by the million. I’m sorry, Farrington, but you don’t need any lectures from me on the activities of the press and TV.”
“So where do we go from here?”
It was Sam who posed the question, and Drake was at a loss for a firm answer.
“The ball’s in your court, Sam. I’m here. As long as the chief constable is happy for me to continue, I will render whatever assistance I can. But it’s up to you, your team of detectives, your forensic people to dig up those tiny scraps of evidence which will point us in the right direction.”
The meeting was winding down, coming to an end, but Farrington had one last question.
“Talking of evidence, you said of the two items of evidence against Rachel Jenner, one was easy to generate, the other less easy. Can you clarify that?”
The Frame - from the author of the Sanford Third Age Club (STAC) series (A Feyer and Drake Mystery Book 2) Page 19
