by Bill Kitson
‘I remember when you were transferred here. I told you Helmsdale’s normally a sleepy little market town.’
‘I remember,’ Nash said with a grim smile. ‘Every time we have a serious crime your words come back to haunt me.’
‘I want you to run the media conference today. It’s scheduled for two o’clock this afternoon. That way, we get it on tonight’s local news bulletins, and in tomorrow morning’s papers.’
Nash’s first impression of the suspect was his air of mild protestation. It was an understated expression of innocence and injustice, but it was there nevertheless. ‘What’s this got to do with me?’ Jennings appeared to be saying.
Jack Binns switched on the tape machine. ‘I expect you’re wondering why you’re here? It’s in connection with the murder of Lizzie Barton. I understand you knew her?’
Jennings looked mildly surprised. He cleared his throat. ‘A bit, she used to drink in The Cock and Bottle.’
‘She did, and that’s where her body was found. But I understand your friendship was a little more than just a bar-room acquaintanceship.’
‘Everyone in the pub knew her,’ Jennings stated vaguely.
‘Come on, Jennings, you knew her rather better than most.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Let me put it another way. You were poking Lizzie left, right and centre. Is that blunt enough for you?’
Jennings shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Yes, well, but that was a long time ago. Just a bit of harmless fun. No great romance.’
‘When did this “bit of harmless fun” come to an end?’
‘About a year ago.’
‘Was it your idea to end it, or hers?’
‘Mine, I suppose.’
‘Why was that?’
‘I got bored.’
‘Don’t give me that. A bloody attractive woman, in an affair you’ve admitted you were both enjoying so much you couldn’t keep your hands off her. You were even seen against the wall in the back yard of the pub. Despite that, you expect me to believe you “got bored”. Try again.’
‘Well, maybe it was Lizzie, I don’t remember.’
‘Why would she? She liked sex, she obviously liked you, had no other commitments. Sorry, Jennings, that’s just rubbish. Perhaps the real reason is your girlfriend came back and insisted. Isn’t that it?’
‘I suppose so,’ Jennings muttered.
‘Then why didn’t you tell me that earlier?’
Jennings became more assertive. ‘Look, this has nothing to do with Cindy, nothing at all, right?’
‘I didn’t suggest it had. Can’t have been easy. It must have been tempting, seeing Lizzie in the pub regularly, maybe sharing a drink, a joke. Were you never tempted to rekindle things, you know, just a little fling for old times’ sake?’
Jennings’s face was redder than at any time during the interview. Nash noticed the ring of sweat under each armpit. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Come off it, Jennings. I bet you and she got up to some real antics together. I bet you wanted to do it again. In fact, you did. What if I was to tell you I’ve a witness who saw you together within the last twelve months?’
The bluff worked.
‘Well, maybe I did see her once or twice. That was months ago. Not a crime, is it?’
‘Your girlfriend might argue that point. Did Cindy find out?’
‘No, she didn’t know anything about it.’
‘But she knew you’d been with Lizzie whilst she was away?’
‘Yes, she knew that.’
‘Did Lizzie threaten you? Threaten to tell Cindy everything?’
‘No, she didn’t.’ Jennings sounded almost outraged. ‘Lizzie wouldn’t do anything so mean.’
‘When did you hear she’d been murdered?’
‘I heard it on the radio yesterday.’
Nash switched tack suddenly. ‘Why weren’t you at work on Tuesday?’
‘I wasn’t well.’
‘That’s quite a coincidence. On Tuesday you just happen to be feeling unwell when the police are at Rushton’s making enquiries about Sarah Kelly. On the day Lizzie Barton was murdered. Don’t you think that’s a strange coincidence?’
Jennings shrugged his shoulders.
‘You see, I don’t believe in coincidences. What I do believe is that you deliberately failed to turn up for work, because you knew we’d be there. My problem is trying to decide the reason for you keeping out of our way.’ Nash leant forwards, directing his gaze straight at Jennings. ‘Was it to avoid questions about Sarah Kelly’s disappearance? Or was it Lizzie Barton’s murder? Which was it?’
Jennings was now becoming very fidgety. ‘I told you, I wasn’t well.’
‘Okay, so you weren’t at work and you weren’t at the pub. Where exactly were you, when Lizzie Barton was murdered?’
‘I was at home.’
‘Really; how do you know?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Let me explain. I vetted the media statements and made sure no time was mentioned, either for the murder or the discovery of the body. So how come you know the time?’
Jennings kept his eyes fixed on the table in front of him. ‘I didn’t know … I assumed … I was at home all day,’ he stammered unconvincingly.
‘Anyone confirm that?’
‘Cindy was there.’
‘All the time?’
‘Except for an hour or so, she went shopping.’
‘What time was that?’
‘I don’t know, round lunchtime, about half past twelve.’
‘Now that’s bad news. The only time you’ve no alibi for is the time when the murder was committed. Where were you last Friday night?’
Jennings was completely baffled by the switch in the line of questioning. Eventually he answered. ‘I was at work. Then I went to the pub for the last hour before I went home.’
‘You weren’t tempted to go on to a nightclub? Club Wolfgang, for example?’
Jennings looked up in confusion. ‘No, why should I?’
The answer was lame, unconvincing. ‘Well, you’re obviously a ladies man. We already know you’re capable of running a girlfriend and a mistress. It’s only natural to want another scalp on your belt. A very attractive, bright young girl would be something to brag to your mates about. A girl like Sarah Kelly for instance?’
Jennings stuttered, the words coming out in a rush. ‘Look, I knew Sarah at work. She’s a damned nice girl. That’s all. I never met her outside work. I’m sorry she’s disappeared. I hope she turns up safe and well.’
Again Nash fixed Jennings with a penetrating stare. ‘How well do you know Club Wolfgang?’
‘I’ve been in a couple of times, that’s all.’
‘I realized you didn’t know it well,’ Nash’s tone was conversational. ‘If you had, you’d have known about the CCTV cameras.’ Nash was trying another bluff.
Jennings looked up in alarm. The stammer worsened, ‘CCTV, what cameras? I didn’t—’
‘The CCTV camera that shows you quite clearly, close to the bar last Friday night, talking to Sarah Kelly. And the one that shows you leaving the club only minutes before Sarah. And that image of Sarah leaving is the last before she disappeared.’
Nash didn’t need to check Jennings’s armpits. Sweat had broken out on the man’s forehead. ‘I spoke to Sarah, that’s all. Only a few words. I didn’t see her again after I bumped into her by the bar. I didn’t see her leave, didn’t know anything about her disappearance until I saw it on telly.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘She asked me about Cindy. How she was, if I was looking forward to being a father. That’s all, I swear it.’
‘Okay, that’ll do. I must warn you I’m not satisfied with some of your answers. I’ll probably want to talk to you again. Interview terminated at 09.55 hours.’
When they were alone, Binns asked, ‘Do you think Jennings had something to do with Sarah Kelly’s disappearance?’
‘N
ot sure, Jack, I’m not ruling it out. In fact, I’m not ruling anything out. One thing I am sure of, Alec Jennings knows a hell of a lot more about Lizzie Barton’s murder than he’s told us.’
chapter eight
When Nash escorted Joan Kelly into the Station to face the media, he was shocked by her appearance. During the days her daughter had been missing Joan seemed to have aged twenty years. She looked gaunt and ill, would have had difficulty passing for under sixty. Her face was devoid of colour, her eyes like empty sockets, red-rimmed from constant crying. Her posture and body language spoke volumes for her state of mind.
Nash felt a powerless rage at his inability to bring her any comfort. How much worse would it be if his theory was proved correct? He felt weary and knew it had nothing to do with either lack of sleep or his work load. This was down to the crime he had to solve and the possible outcome.
The conference was a low-key affair. No barrage of questions, no constant camera flashing. In the Helmsdale reception area, Mike, DS Mironova and Pearce faced three local reporters, a couple of correspondents from local radio stations and two TV crews. Their only exhibits were a photograph of the missing girl and the handbag.
Invited to speculate on Sarah’s fate, Mike merely expressed the police’s mounting concern and appealed for anyone with information to come forward. Incident phone numbers were displayed for the cameras and read out for the benefit of radio listeners; then it was Joan Kelly’s turn. Her appeal to anyone who had information about Sarah was spoken in a low, disjointed voice. Her short statement was moving, her obvious distress and her haggard expression guaranteed to tug at the heartstrings of any viewers. There were one or two questions, but from the reporters’ muted tones Nash could tell they too were affected by the trauma of the woman’s situation. Soon, it was all over.
Afterwards, he escorted Mrs Kelly to the car that was to take her home. His final view of Joan Kelly through the car window was of her face, ravaged by grief and with tears coursing copiously down her cheeks. It was a vision that would haunt him for a long time to come.
He entered the CID room, to see Pearce waving from the computer desk. ‘Problem, boss.’
‘What is it?’
‘The intranet link that gives us access to PNC information you asked for is down. I’ve called the IT boys. Their engineers are all tied up with a major installation elsewhere. They didn’t sound hopeful for today.’
‘That’s a bloody nuisance, to put it mildly. I’ll ask Tom to lean on somebody. Just because we’re a rural outfit doesn’t mean we don’t have urgent need of a computer link. While we’re waiting, go to the hospital and see Machin.’
When Viv returned, he stated flatly, ‘Machin’s recovered consciousness. That’s about the only positive news I can give you. He’s dosed up with painkillers, which doesn’t exactly help, but he’s extremely cagy about talking to us. Not unusual for someone from the Westlea, but in this case I reckon there’s more to it than natural aversion to the police.’
‘Any idea what?’
‘I got the impression he knows who attacked him. He seems scared. I’m fairly sure if we press him hard enough, he’ll tell us what’s behind it.’
Nash thought for a few moments. ‘Thanks, Viv. Tomorrow morning Clara and I will visit his partner. She might give us a lever to prise something out of him.’
The phone rang. ‘Mike, I’ve been on to the IT people and I’m afraid we’ve got a major problem. They were under the impression it was just a local fault, because nobody else had reported trouble with the system. Now it seems it’s nationwide, they’ve got to trace the problem. The earliest expectation is two to three days before they get it up and running. The guy I was talking to said they’ve had a fair amount of verbal from other forces.’
‘We could do without this,’ Nash muttered.
‘What exactly were you looking for? I thought you’d pulled the relevant information already?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. It was more to do with a hunch. There may be nothing in it but I don’t believe we should take that chance.’ Nash explained his theory.
‘If you’re right, and I’m not saying I’m buying into it at this stage, then you can’t afford to wait a minute longer than necessary. I’ll chase the IT people again. If needs be, I’ll get the Chief involved. She’ll put a bomb under their backsides.’
‘Thanks, Tom. Tomorrow morning, Clara and I are going to visit the woman whose partner was beaten up. Then we must concentrate on the Barton murder. I’m still waiting for some test results from Mexican Pete. I don’t know why, but I got the impression from what he said that they might be important.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Not for today, Tom. I’m going to finish early tonight.’
‘Anything special on? Hot date perhaps?’
Nash thought of Helen Tate’s reaction at being referred to as a hot date. ‘Don’t you start. I’ve enough with Clara making sarcastic comments.’
Nash’s night’s rest was undisturbed. No bad dreams such as he’d experienced in the past came to haunt him. He’d been worried they would, as pressure from the cases mounted. He wondered if his medication had kept the nightmares at bay. He grinned to himself. More likely, it had been Helen Tate’s demands that had exhausted him.
He and Mironova walked up the cracked concrete strip leading to Lee Machin’s flat. However Karen Thomas spent her days, it was obvious that little of her time was devoted to housework. The lounge she reluctantly ushered them into was worse than untidy. The battered furniture was set at an angle to give the optimum view of the television. On a low circular coffee table with a long irregular crack in the glass top, two large ashtrays stood, the contents overflowing. A trio of empty lager bottles matched those on the mantel. A further pair peeped shyly from behind the curtains.
In sharp contrast, there was a large flat-screen digital TV with Sky box, Blu Ray, Wii, games consoles and an expensive-looking music system. A rich variety of odours assailed the visitors’ nostrils. One glance at Karen was enough to tell Nash that however concerned she might be about her partner’s condition, she’d not allowed her anxiety to interfere with one of her principal pleasures. Her eyes, when they were open at all, were glazed, unfocused, the pupils like pinpricks. Her walk was slightly unsteady, her speech marginally slurred, and she showed her visitors a rich variety of mood swings in the short time they were there. That was about twenty-five minutes, longer than any of the parties to the interview wanted. By the time they left, Nash had a very good idea why Machin had been attacked. Mironova had her suspicions, and Karen was still wondering what the point of the visit had been.
Nash’s line of questioning kept Mironova guessing as to his objective until the very last minute. She felt the obscure nature of the questions would certainly be lost on Karen. ‘You’ve been taking a bit on board, I see, Karen?’ he began.
‘Don’t know what you mean.’
‘You know very well what I mean. We’re not concerned about your drugs habit, but if you want, we could turn the place over whilst we’re here. You’ve been done for possession often enough for us to get a warrant easily.’
‘Oh, isn’t that just fucking brilliant. My Lee gets beaten up and are you lot worried about it? All you lot are interested in is doing me for drugs. Well, you can fuck off.’
Nash smiled. ‘That isn’t true, Karen. We do care about what’s happened. That’s why we’re here. I’m just a bit puzzled. You see, I was told that Lee’s on the dole and you’re on the Social, so I wondered how you managed to afford the habit. It’s not like buying twenty Benson & Hedges, is it? Good gear doesn’t come cheap. So tell me how you do it. You’re not exactly raking it in. I look round and I think, how do they manage? They’ve got all this expensive entertainment equipment, much better than mine.’ Nash glanced at Mironova who suppressed an impulse to laugh, knowing Nash used TV purely to combat insomnia. ‘And on top of that, here’s Karen spaced out. So come on, let me into your secret. Is Lee dealing? Is that wh
y he got worked over, a turf war?’
‘No he fucking well isn’t.’ There was no doubt Karen’s indignation was genuine. ‘Trust you lot to think the worst. If you must know, Lee’s got a part-time job.’ Karen realized she’d said too much and burst into tears.
Nash reassured her. ‘That’s all right, Karen, don’t worry about it. We won’t pass the information along to the Social or the Job Centre. What’s his part-time job? It must be well paid?’ Karen remained mulishly silent, glaring at each of them in turn. ‘Of course, I could always change my mind,’ Nash said quietly when she showed no sign of cooperation. ‘I’m sure they’d be very interested in a little matter of benefit fraud. Or is it something that you’d rather we didn’t know about? Something worse than fiddling the benefit, perhaps?’
‘It’s all above board,’ Karen snivelled. ‘There’s nothing illegal in it.’
‘In that case, where’s the harm in telling us?’ Again she remained silent. ‘Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it. I tried to help,’ Nash turned as if to walk out.
‘Wait, wait,’ Karen wailed.
‘Yes?’
‘I’ll tell you. He’s got a job as a projectionist. God, I swear he’ll kill me when he finds out I’ve told you.’
‘Why on earth should he? It all sounds perfectly legal and above board, just like you said, nothing to be ashamed of. One thing though, Netherdale cinema’s closed for renovation.’
‘He doesn’t work at the cinema.’ Karen’s reluctant, sulky tone told them she was already regretting having said so much.
Nash smiled benignly. ‘Of course not, the cinema would insist on him going on the payroll, paying tax, declaring the income. That would blow his benefit payments. So let me guess. Somewhere he gets paid cash in hand, no questions asked. Would that be the Gaiety Club by any chance?’
‘What of it?’ Karen’s defiance returned. ‘It’s harmless enough. Just a load of dirty old men in brown raincoats, watching mucky films and wanking themselves silly.’
