“Sorry, ma’am, it’s nothing you want to hear.” Kevin Bradshaw bends down to pick up the fallen papers. His scalp reddens through his thinning hair. “We interviewed Linda Parry, Brock’s sister. She hasn’t had any contact with her husband, Eddie, since they divorced years ago. She didn’t even know he was in prison. Her boyfriend, Dean Rogers, swears that she and her kids were with him at his place at the time of Brock’s murder.”
My colleagues’ faces are impassive. Is the parallel lost on them? Linda’s boyfriend and her children vouched for her. Estelle Gittens and her son spoke for Samuel McKenzie. Is it the truth or does partner loyalty extend to providing alibis for murder?
“Yet another line of enquiry dead in the water,” Bagley says. “Connors, what illuminating evidence have you got for us?”
Martin Connors sits up, his bulk making his chair look tiny. “Forensics say the pyjamas Gaby Brock was wearing when uniform found her are clean as a whistle. Brand new, in fact. No trace of Brock’s blood. Her DNA was found on the thread of cotton and the piece of tissue by the chair on which she was tied, but they’re not time specific and probably predate the crime.”
“So this in-depth investigation has so far turned up a wife without blood on her pyjamas, a sister who’s not now married to a criminal, a victim who may no longer have been a coke addict and a villain with a cast-iron alibi. Can’t any of you cut through this crap?”
She turns her head towards the door as DS Matthews opens it. “Nice of you to join us,” she says. “I’ll forgive you, if you tell us you’ve got concrete evidence against McKenzie and we can all go home.”
“Sorry I’m late, ma’am. I was writing the DCI’s Annual Report. I’ve got nothing on McKenzie but I’m having doubts about Carl Brock.”
“If you’d been here earlier, you’d have heard me say that we now suspect him of having a cocaine addiction.”
“That makes sense, then,” Matthews says, smiling. “It turns out that his previous car was a Mercedes. He had it for about six months.”
“Unless it’s covered in McKenzie’s DNA, is this relevant?”
“The Merc is a quality car. It’s not the sort of thing you suddenly trade in for a Ford Mondeo.”
“Unless you’re short of money,” Bradshaw says.
“Exactly. But I’ve looked into Brock’s finances over the last five years and there’s nothing out of the ordinary. Mortgage and living expenses out, teacher’s pay in. But what did he do with the money he would have made on the sale of the Mercedes? And where did he get the money for the Mercedes in the first place? Neither transaction appears in his accounts.”
“Drugs money,” Danny says, standing up to address the room. “He bought the Mercedes out of the proceeds of his dealing and then had to sell it to pay off debts or to buy in bulk.”
“Which brings us right back to Samuel McKenzie,” Bagley says, not acknowledging Matthews’s research. “If Brock was dealing, McKenzie was either his wholesaler or his business rival. Whatever way, he’s in it up to his neck. Someone, somewhere knows it. Danny, did you get anything out of Bartholomew Hedges?”
“We couldn’t find him.” Danny shrugs and sits down. “A couple of kids told Matthews and Adams that he’d be in the Church of Clappy Happiness, but they were having them on. There was no sign of him. I can go round and work on the wife if you like. See if she’s still saying he’s in Swansea like she told Matthews. I could try a bit of a charm offensive. It’s worked before.”
Connors and Holtom chuckle but a flash of anger crosses Bagley’s face and she seems lost for words. I’m annoyed too at the way Danny insinuated that Matthews and I were to blame for not finding Hedges. Suddenly I’m immune to Danny’s glittering eyes. For reasons that I can’t explain, I want to defend DS Matthews.
“The kids we saw outside the Hedges’s apartment block seemed sure Mr Hedges would be at church this weekend,” I say. “I don’t know why he wasn’t there this morning. I could go back there tomorrow, meet the worshippers coming out of their morning service. I’d be bound to find him then.”
“Don’t waste your time.” Danny folds his arms. “I doubt he’s ever been a member of the congregation. How many young or middle-aged white blokes did you see in there? It’s not cool to be a God-botherer.”
“Is Bartholomew Hedges white?” I say, surprised. “Is he Saul’s stepfather? In that case you’re probably right. I’ve misunderstood.” I study the crack in the carpet tiles, feeling foolish as I realize the absurdity of the theory that’s been taking shape in my mind.
“What are you on about, Agatha?” DS Matthews asks.
“I’m sorry. I haven’t checked my facts properly. I should have asked. But the boy I saw with Sonia Hedges at Alderley Lodge was mixed race. I assumed that it was her son, Saul. I thought we were looking for a black man.”
“Is Saul Hedges black?” Bagley fires the question at Matthews, as if his own skin colour makes him responsible for knowing. He gives an embarrassed shrug. Bagley demands to know whether anyone has bothered to get a description of Saul’s father. There’s a general, painful shaking of heads.
“Bradshaw!” The older officer jumps as Bagley shouts his name. “Get on to the head at Swan school. We need descriptions of Saul and Bartholomew Hedges immediately.”
“Johnson and Adams, get back in that church. Get a full list of worshippers from the vicar. Confirm that Hedges’s name is on it and then question them all. Someone will know where he is even if he turns out to be in Swansea as his wife says. Don’t any of you make an error like this again. If DC Adams hadn’t caught sight of Saul Hedges at Alderley Lodge, we would have lost even more time.”
I should have seen enough of DI Bagley in my first week to know that a compliment like that would be followed by a searing insult if I let my tongue run away. Haven’t I done that already with babble about Gaby Brock’s pet cockatiel? Some people learn from their mistakes, but not me. What I say next will haunt me for some time to come.
“Ma’am. I know this sounds silly.’ Heat consumes my face and I grip the chair tighter.
“Well? Get on with it,” Bagley says.
Here goes. “I think Hedges was at the church when we went there this morning. I recognized the eyes. They were like Saul’s. I mean the boy I thought was Saul at Alderley Lodge. Everyone else in the church was smartly dressed, even though they were doing the cleaning. But the headscarf and overall were scruffy and I think she – he – had a man’s suit on underneath. It was the trainers that gave him away. He must have swapped out of his best shoes to look less conspicuous. But they were at least size tens. I always notice women’s feet. I’m a bit self-conscious, being an eight myself. I don’t see many women’s feet bigger than mine.”
Bagley looks as if she is going to be sick. The three DCs study their own shoes in confused discomfort. DS Matthews stares at me. Only Danny registers any sense in my ramblings.
“Are you seriously telling us that cleaning woman was a bloke? That would explain why she was do damned ugly.”
My voice is almost inaudible. “Mr Hedges never misses a turn on the church rota, someone told me that. He was determined to do his duty but didn’t want us to find him there. Hence the disguise.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Danny snarls. The usual glint in his eye has turned to fire. “We could have arrested him immediately, and the posh, skinny woman for being in on it. I take it that the other cleaner was a woman or were they all in drag?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t see how he could be involved in Brock’s murder. He’s a devout Christian not a drug dealer. His own son is in rehab.”
I wait for Danny Johnson’s counter-argument but it doesn’t come. He stares intently at DI Bagley. All the men in the room look at the DI. I can almost taste their nervy expectation. They don’t have long to wait.
“What did you say, Adams?” Bagley shrieks, her thick dark curls shaking with fury. “You recognized a suspect in a murder inquiry and you let him get away. Di
dn’t it occur to you that if Brock had been a dealer – and we now have circumstantial evidence that says he was – it would give Bartholomew Hedges a powerful motive for murder? Revenge for the damage Brock did to his son. Have you completely forgotten that Forensics found hair from an unknown black male in Brock’s house? We know it’s not McKenzie’s but it could be Hedges’s.
“Johnson, Bradshaw, take some uniforms to the Hedges’ flat and to the church. Find Hedges and bring him in. See if Gaby Brock can pick him out of a line-up.
“As for you, Adams. Go home. Take the rest of the weekend to have a long hard look at your conduct. You need to think whether you’re cut out for CID. I have serious doubts.”
Chapter 33
The stainless-steel sink is hard against my hip. I lift the posy and pull the plug to release the greenish water. I turn on the tap and splash my face with tepid water. The stifling summer heat streaming into the flat has nothing on the furnace in my head. I should return to uniform. Sergeant Conway would have me back. His bouncy bobby with a smile on her lips, a winner with the public and a match for the drunk and disorderlies.
Although it still isn’t running cold, I rub more water into my eyes and across my forehead. What a mess. DI Bagley thinks I’m utterly incompetent. To DCI Hendersen I’ll forever be the Boogie Babe. DS Danny Johnson looked ready to hit me when I piped up about recognizing Hedges. Dashing Danny shed his skin. I should have seen through him when he played the sick prank in the office.
And Matthews. His look of disappointment hurts the most.
I splash my face again and place my wrists under the running tap. I notice the red and white flowers I’ve put on the draining board. The posy for Gaby Brock from the teachers at Swan Academy. Can’t believe I’ve forgotten to deliver them. I’m losing it. I’ll ring Sergeant Conway on Monday and ask for my old job back. They can draft someone else into CID. Someone who can cope. My eyes water and I do nothing to fight back the tears.
Sudden, excruciating pain burns my wrist. I snatch my arms away from the steaming flow of hot water. I can’t even manage to get the right tap. I plunge my sore skin under the cold.
The shock brings me to my senses. “Blast the lot of them,” I shout. If it wasn’t for me, none of them would have identified Hedges. Just because Bagley had a poor appraisal, she doesn’t have the right to use me as a scapegoat. It was DS Johnson who rushed us through the church before I’d time to register the likeness between Saul Hedges and the cleaner. What’s more, it was before we knew about Carl Brock’s drug history. We went into the church to find a potential witness not a murder suspect.
I’ve as much right to be in CID as anyone else. I don’t need the rest of the weekend to consider my position. I’ll be in work on Monday. At least now I have Sunday free to spend with Jamie and get back in Joanne’s good books. I’ll ring later and tell her that I can take Jamie to Magica after all. Right after I’ve dropped off the posy with Gaby Brock. Because it’s been in the sink, the petals still look fresh despite the heat.
Linda Parry lives in an end-of-terrace house in a new estate on the edge of Grape Fields. Unlike her brother, Carl Brock, she hasn’t made it to the leafy avenues of Southside, but the communal gardens are well cared for and all door and window frames are gleaming uPVC white. A good few rungs up from the Danescott estate inhabited by the Hedges family.
She shows me into the small lounge where Gaby Brock’s curled up on the sofa, leafing through a magazine. When she sees me, she puts the magazine to one side and places her bare feet on the floor, a purple bruise by her ankle. The red weals around her wrists have paled but still conjure up an image of her handcuffed to the kitchen chair in her lounge. The sleeves of her dress are rolled up to below her elbows, revealing fading bruises on her mottled arms. My hand goes to my own bruised cheek. Gaby’s physical scars are healing faster than mine, but as to progress on the mental wounds, a look into the tiny face still discoloured from the pummelling it’s taken, provides the likely answer.
A large television set on top of a DVD cabinet, crammed with Disney classics and American teen movies, dominates the small, homely room. A Welsh dresser displays a dozen or more framed pictures, ranging from baby photos to a school portrait of two blond children in navy sweatshirts. Linda motions me to the armchair nearest Gaby and plonks herself in the other one. My foot nestles against a plastic tub, containing Lego and a collection of Barbie dolls in various stages of undress.
I place the posy on the coffee table beside a small plate of dry cream crackers and two mugs. One full of a rich brown liquid, which smells alcoholic, the other a half-finished herbal tea.
Gaby sniffs the flowers for a few moments and then whispers, “Red and white. Blood and bandages. How apt.” But adds, “It was kind of the teachers.”
“They thought highly of your husband.” My voice sounds bright. Gaby stares back with an impassive gaze. “They thought well of you, too. They told me what a good teaching assistant you were.”
“Really? They said that about me?” For the first time her face opens up and takes on expression.
“Ms Yardley said you had a good rapport with the children, and Mr England was sorry when you left.”
The face closes again. “I had a home to run.”
“Have you thought about what you’ll do now? I bet they’d have you back at school when there’s a vacancy.”
“Give the girl a chance,” Linda interrupts. “We haven’t even had Carl’s funeral yet.”
“It’s OK, Linda. I don’t mind talking about it,” Gaby says. “I’m going to sell the house and look for somewhere new, away from Penbury.”
“I’ve told her she can stay here with us,” Linda says, “but she insists on getting her own place. Perhaps you can talk some sense into her. I don’t think she should be on her own. Don’t you agree, constable?”
“Are you sure you want to sell your house? You must have some happy memories there as well as …” I falter, unsure how to complete the sentence.
Gaby seems to retreat into her thoughts.
“Are you forgetting what happened to her in there?” Linda talks to me as if Gaby isn’t there. “How could she sleep at night? That’s the good thing about her being here with me and Dean, when he stays over. She’s sleeping better than I am. She feels safe here.” She eases herself out of the armchair. “You tell her there’s no rush for her to move out. I’ll get us some orange squash. Are you all right with your camomile, Gaby? Or do you want something else? I wish you’d try my brandy toddy.” She points at the mug of brown liquid. “It’s a great pickmeup.”
“I’m fine with this, thanks.” Gaby reaches for the other mug, the camomile. She takes a sip, flinches at the taste and picks up one of the cream crackers.
“Are you sure? I can soon heat up the toddy again.”
“I’m sure.”
When Linda has left the room, Gaby and I sit in silence. She nibbles painfully at the cracker, seems to have trouble swallowing. Tears threaten my eyes as it dawns on me when Joanne had the same difficulty years ago. If I’m right, Gaby will have to contend not only with her husband’s murder and her own assault, but also with an uncertain future as a single parent. I toy with keeping quiet – maybe I’ve misread the signs. Even if it’s true, it’s no one’s business but Gaby’s. The poor woman has been robbed of so much of her dignity, surely she has the right to keep this to herself. But I’m a police officer who’s vowed to uphold the truth. Secrets, however well meant, fester into lies.
“How many weeks are you?”
The biscuit falls into her lap. “What makes you think—?”
“Dry cream crackers and camomile tea. Remedies for morning sickness? And after your … ordeal you refused a sedative from the police doctor and you haven’t drunk that brandy.”
“You look too young to know about things like that,” Gaby says softly.
“When my stepmother was pregnant, she had a horrendous time. Tried every natural cure and wouldn’t take any kind of medici
ne or alcohol. Lived on crackers and camomile tea.” I stop talking and put the same question to her again. Gaby reluctantly confirms that she’s ten weeks pregnant.
“You should have told the police doctor. You might need a check-up after what happened. Does Linda know?”
“The police doctor was in a hurry. There was something on the radio he wanted to hear. I’ll get Linda to take me to my doctor in a few days. I think she suspects.”
“Did you have a chance to tell Carl?”
Her voice cracks. “I wanted to be sure.”
“I can understand that. I know what happened last year.”
Gaby flinches and peers up through her fringe, blinking back tears.
“Losing a much-wanted child must have been a terrible shock for you both.”
Her shoulders relax. Before I get a chance to make sense of her body language, Linda returns with two glasses.
“For the record, constable, I don’t make drinks for every police officer that comes to call,” she says, handing one drink to me and taking the other to her seat. “Those two who came yesterday certainly didn’t get any. They tried to make out I’d murdered my own brother with the help of my good-for-nothing ex-husband.”
“You didn’t tell me,” Gaby says, sitting up and for the first time showing an interest in something Linda’s saying.
“You were upstairs having a nap. They didn’t stay long once they realized they were barking up the wrong tree. I haven’t seen Eddie for years, thank God. That Sue did me a hell of a favour. I owe her big time.”
“Sue?” I ask.
“The tart he went off with. I worry about her sometimes, but I’m sure she can handle him. She certainly started as she meant to go on.”
The Good Teacher Page 18
