by Linda Coles
“I'm on my way,” said Jack. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
Chapter Sixty-Six
Jack couldn't believe what Faye was telling him. It was like music to his ears, like “Mr. Blue Sky” on full blast on a Bang & Olufsen sound system bouncing around in his car. It was everything he wanted to hear.
Michael Hardesty had not been responsible for the death of Chesney McAllister.
Now all he had to do was figure out how to get the man out of prison—no easy task. Rather than waiting until he got back to the station, he called ahead to Amanda to tell her the good news. But while he didn't expect her to be as ecstatic as he was, he had hoped for a more upbeat response.
“What’s the matter, Amanda?” Jack asked. “I thought you might sound a bit more enthusiastic.”
“Sorry, Jack,” she said distractedly. “But Gordon is here waiting with his solicitor and Dupin seems to have gone AWOL. I’d have thought he might like to prep since he doesn't know much about the case, and apart from a quick phone conversation with me, he appears to be leaving it to the last minute. I’m not impressed.”
“I'm sure he’ll be back in time.”
“Well, you can't do the interview and I can’t either, not really.” Jack picked up on her low tone, it wasn’t like Amanda to be like this. “Hey, Amanda, don't be so down about it. I know that's easier said than done, but nothing has happened as yet, so the best thing is to try not to worry until something, if anything, happens.” Jack winced at his own words; they sounded hollow even to his ears, but what else could he possibly say?
“It is easy for you to say, Jack, but it's Ruth I'm concerned about, too. She’s going to blame me for this, and that's going to be hard on both of us. I can't believe this is happening. Gordon is a family member and I just can't comprehend that he’d be involved in a murder!” Her voice was a good couple of octaves higher now than when she’d picked up the phone call.
“I know what you mean,” said Jack. “But have you spoken to Ruth yet?”
“She’s still not picking up; she’s obviously avoiding me. And I suspect Gordon has called her this morning anyway, so she's probably keeping her distance. I’ll be enemy number one, the police detective on the case. I'm dreading going home later.”
“You can always come round to mine if you need some space,” said Jack. “There’s always a spare room if it helps.”
“I hope it doesn't come to that. Whatever happens, we've got to work through this together, and separate houses aren’t the answer. But thanks anyway.”
Jack sensed she was ready to talk about something other than her personal life, so he obliged. “Just by way of a change in the subject for a moment, have you spoken to Des Taylor's sister, Rose? Has she been informed now that we have her brother’s remains?”
“Yes, she is aware now. Raj went over earlier on. At least she won’t always be wondering and worrying and trying to figure out where he'd been all these years. It should bring her some peace now, even though he’s dead. It can't be easy when someone goes missing; all sorts of things would remind you of them. But at least she's got closure now. That’s one good thing for this case.”
“Indeed. Well, I've got to make a quick detour before I get back in, so I’ll be back in an hour or two.”
“That's not a quick detour, Jack,” she said.
“Okay, I lied. I've got to pay a visit, and I’m not referring to the gents’ toilets. If Dupin asks after me, keep him amused, eh?”
“I don't think that's an issue, to tell you the truth.” She sounded lower than an oboe; all the fight had drained out of her voice as she resigned herself to the fact that something could happen to Gordon. And that meant to her and Ruth as well. With a shudder, Jack realised just how much crap could fall upon her family. He hoped she had a tough umbrella to shelter under.
It didn't take Jack long to find Eddie Edwards’ current address, which was where he was headed now. He wanted to find out for himself just why he’d been drinking at the Jolly Carter so often, and more importantly, why he’d met up with Mac McAllister in the back room. What Jim had told him over bacon rolls had been playing on his mind, and something had niggled away at him. Now things were becoming a little clearer as time wore on, but he needed to hear it for himself. Add that to the evidence that the pathologist had somehow got it wrong, and it seemed that maybe something bigger was going on. It wouldn’t be the first time corruption had been involved in a trial.
He wasn't surprised, then, when he turned into Eddie Edwards’ road that his address wasn't far from the crash scene—if you were a sparrow. Or on foot.
Nor from Dupin's house.
He pulled up outside Eddie's flat and took in the surroundings. It was a far cry from the days when Edwards had been driving around in a brand-new fire-engine-red Jaguar with a woman on each arm, and Jack wondered what had happened to the man’s luck since he’d left the force. He hadn't invested his ill-gotten gains wisely, that was evident.
Jack pressed the buzzer and waited for the door to open. When it did, he was taken aback by the first words out of Eddie's mouth as he peered from around the cracked door, where the security chain was holding the fort.
“You as well?”
His words weren’t lost on Jack. He let them filter into the back of his brain and linger until later, when he could figure out who else had visited.
“Let me in, Eddie,” he said impatiently. The door closed again and the chain rattled as it was taken out of its socket, and then the door reopened, allowing Jack to walk inside. He’d never been to Eddie’s house, had not kept in contact with him since he’d left the force so suddenly; they hadn’t been best buddies at the time. As Jack surveyed the squalor that the man now lived in, he was saddened at how the man's life had obviously hit rock bottom. It was nothing more than a glorified squat.
“I'm obviously popular station conversation,” Eddie said.
Jack ignored him, but filed it with the other snippet that was rattling around his head. Someone else was interested in the man, but who? What else would Eddie come up with if he let him speak?
“Then you'll know why I’m here,” said Jack. “What can you tell me about the pathologist in Hardesty's case?”
Eddie’s eyebrows raised and furrowed all at the same time. Jack noticed his surprised look; it seemed genuine.
“Not a lot. I'm no expert, am I? Why the interest?”
“He got it wrong, Eddie. Michael Hardesty is in prison and he’s innocent. He wasn’t responsible for McAllister’s death.”
“Well, shit happens,” said Eddie, sounding bored.
“That’s all you can say? ‘Shit happens’?” Jack paced up and down the tiny, filthy kitchen area, rubbing his forehead with his fingers as if stimulating his brain somehow. “How much of a part did you play in it? I know you were in the McAllisters’ pocket.”
Eddie glared at Jack but said nothing. It was obvious he didn't really give a stuff anymore.
“I don’t have to answer your questions, Jack,” shouted Eddie, suddenly angry. “I’m not a copper anymore, I’m a civilian, so I'd like you to leave my house. Now.”
Eddie’s irises were blazing, though the whites stayed a dirty yellow, the colour of diluted mustard. The man’s kidneys were not functioning as they should.
“What are you afraid of, Eddie? What happened back then? Why did this pathologist get it so wrong?”
“I know nothing about the pathologist,” said Eddie, averting his gaze towards the far wall. Wallpaper was peeling from the top corner and had drooped down, giving the impression the tired room had sagged.
“Maybe not, but you know about other stuff. What else happened, Eddie? Because this all stinks—stinks like a pig farm at swill-out time.”
“Can't help you with that, Jack. Now, if that's all you came for, I think you should leave now. I've already said my bit.”
But Jack wasn’t ready to leave just yet, even though he was being edged towards the front door. “I'm assuming that it
was you that set Dupin up. You can almost see the Parker house from the top of the hill outside.”
“Get out! I don't have to answer your questions. Now sod off, will you?”
“No, you don't Eddie,” Jack said, resignation in his voice. “Sometimes it's what you don't say that gives me the answer.”
Jack was back at the front door. He opened it and stepped out, then turned back. He could see Eddie’s outline against the light coming in from the kitchen window. The man was reed thin.
“I hope the money you got was worth it,” Jack shouted. “How much was it, exactly? A new Jag every year? If you've got a conscience, Eddie, you'll do the right thing. I'll leave you with that thought. Help me put it right, then maybe you'll sleep a bit easier at night. You look like you need it.”
He slammed the door closed, and stormed back towards his waiting car.
Eddie slumped down on a ripped vinyl chair and started to cry. In reality, no, it hadn’t been worth it.
But it was too late now.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Doug at the front desk rang through to Amanda to tell her that Gordon Simpson and his solicitor, were still waiting.
“Show them through to the interview room, would you, please?” said Amanda. “DI Dupin is on his way back, so he won't be long. Make him a cup of tea or something.”
“I’ll get the tea boy to do it,” said Doug, “and that ain’t me.”
Amanda rolled her eyes in frustration. She didn’t need the petty grief when there was so much crap already colliding inside her skull. It was about time that man retired. She put the phone down and sat back in her chair, disappointed that Ruth still hadn't called her back. Amanda had stopped trying; there was no point making it more and more obvious what was happening. She’d deal with it later, face to face, when she got home.
Dupin was on the case now, not her, and Amanda resigned herself to hearing what went on second-hand when the DI eventually arrived. And Jack still wasn't back either; his little detour had taken the longest hour in human history. Still, in another few minutes, everything would be well underway and hopefully Gordon Simpson would be back home as if nothing had happened. Deep inside, though, Amanda knew that that was unlikely to happen, and an overnight spell in a police cell could be part of the DI’s plan.
Half an hour later Dupin blustered into the squad room and cocked his head at Amanda for her to follow. She noticed he’d got the folder in his hands, so at least he looked like he knew what was going on.
“Anything else I should be aware of, Amanda?”
“Not to my knowledge. But I’m off the case now.”
“Right, yes, of course.” Dupin carried on towards the interview room, file swinging in his hand. She was about to head back to her own desk, then had second thoughts and slipped into the viewing room so she could watch her father-in-law’s interview take place.
Gordon Simpson looked ill at ease. Who wouldn't be, in his situation? His solicitor sat beside him, and even though Amanda had no prior knowledge of his work, his body language looked competent and his neat, tailored suit gave him an air of authority. The one-way mirror and the computer screens feeding images from the camera told her little else about the man. Maybe after the interview she’d know more.
DI Dupin had his back to her and started off gently by asking some basic questions. Either he was leading Gordon into a false sense of security or he was frantically trying to reorder things in his own mind, having only just blustered into the office. He didn't strike Amanda as fully prepared for what was about to go on in the interview room. But that was how he was at times: Dopey—hence his nickname. And the pressure he'd been under himself of recent probably hadn't helped his focus. Maybe it would work in Gordon Simpson’s favour. Maybe not.
Eventually Dupin reached the time period when Des Thomas had actually disappeared.
“So, Des Thomas came to do some work at your property. Is that correct, Mr Simpson?”
“Yes, correct.”
“And that was on Wednesday, 10 August 2016?”
“I believe so.”
“You believe so?” questioned Dupin.
“I didn't write it in my calendar, since I wasn't involved.”
“Where were you the day that the landscaper started work at your property?”
“I was at work—with plenty of witnesses.”
“What time did you get to and leave work?”
“I arrived just before nine, and I left just after five, like I do every other day, like clockwork. Anybody at work can vouch for me. The only time I left in between times was to get my sandwich at lunchtime, and I slipped out the office for maybe ten or fifteen minutes.”
Gordon was starting to sound and look a little more confident, thought Amanda. At least he had an alibi for the timeline in question.
“What did you do that night when you got home?”
“Same as always. I had my dinner and watched TV.”
“On the following day, Thursday, 11 August 2016, what was your routine?”
Amanda noticed Gordon's head drop a little. She wondered why.
“Mr Simpson?” Dupin pressed on. Where were you on Thursday, 11 August 2016?”
“I was actually on a course that day.”
“You were on a course?”
“Yes, continued education. We have to do so many hours each year. I was on a course.”
“Where was this course, and what time did it start?” asked Dupin.
“It was out over Ealing way, and it was a full day, from memory. It started at nine AM and finished at four PM.”
“And I'm guessing again you have people who can verify that you were there for all that time?”
Gordon took a deep breath while he seemed to figure his words, and Amanda was curious as to what was going on his head. She pressed her tongue up against her top teeth, willing his answer to keep him out of further trouble.
“That morning there was a delay on the tube,” said Gordon resignedly. “Somebody decided to commit suicide, and the trains were all backed up. So we sat in the tunnel for a good hour before things got moving again.”
“Is that right?” Dupin said, smiling. “So, you weren't there on time, is that what you're telling me, Mr Simpson?”
“I was delayed, but I got there later that morning. There's plenty of people who could confirm that, I’m sure. We left at four PM for home as usual, in time for dinner.”
“Was your wife, Madeline Simpson, at home that morning?”
“I would expect so, though she’d be getting ready to go to work herself. I left at the usual time, so I've no idea. It was the tube that was delayed, not me.”
Amanda noticed that Gordon was getting anxious; his voice was rising slightly and getting snappier with each response. His solicitor hadn't said anything yet, but then Dupin hadn't asked any questions that Gordon couldn't answer simply. She watched Gordon wring his hands nervously on the table in front of him; the questioning was starting to bother him.
Amanda was aware of the door into the viewing room opening behind her, and turned to see Jack slipping in.
“Thought I'd just see how it's going,” said Jack.
“That depends which side you're on,” said Amanda. “Gordon seems ever so worked up now, and I don't blame him, but he's just said that he was delayed getting to his course on the Thursday morning. There was a suicide on the line, and the detective in me says that would have been on the news. He could have used that excuse and not been on that tube at all. He could have been at home, disposing of a body.”
“You’re beginning to sound like you don’t believe him either,” said Jack.
“No, I’m not. I’m saying that’s what Dupin will be thinking too. The chance of tracing anybody that could confirm he was on that tube is pretty remote. Yes, the CCTV cameras down there could be scrutinized. But it would be like searching for a vegan in a butcher’s shop— a long shot— and he is hardly someone that stands out in a crowd during rush hour.
�
�Good luck with that one,” Jack grunted in reply, hoping he wasn't going to be the one to have to trawl through the footage to prove otherwise.
“Dupin’s taking it easy at the moment, but I can feel where this is going. It could be a long night,” said Amanda. “And until Dupin is satisfied with his replies, he’ll want to keep working on him. And that means an arrest.”
Jack didn't know what to say, and settled for “It’ll all work out in the end, Amanda.” He hoped it sounded encouraging enough, because right now as he looked at Gordon Simpson, it didn't bode well. Even if Simpson had been on that tube, there had still been plenty of time the previous evening to dig a hole under cover of darkness and bury Des Thomas.
“Do you recognise this?” Dupin asked, pushing a photo across the table. It showed the gold cufflink.
Gordon stared at it before speaking. “Yes, it’s a cufflink.”
“Of yours?”
“I had some like this, yes. Madeline bought them for an anniversary present one year, but I lost one somewhere.”
“We found a single cufflink not far from the remains of Mr Thomas. Can you explain how that could have happened, Mr Simpson?” Dupin sat back in his chair, smug.
“I’m sorry, no, I can’t. Maybe I lost it in the garden and with the digging, it’s turned up.” Gordon’s voice faltered slightly, as he undoubtedly realised where this was heading. An item of his had been found near a dead body in his old garden. Anyone would start to feel frightened at the implications and Gordon couldn’t explain it any further. His solicitor finally spoke.
“Since they are Crystal Palace supporter merchandise, many pairs of these cufflinks would have been sold, so it hardly means my client is responsible for a man’s death, Detective Inspector.” He stood to leave. “Now, if that’s all you’ve got, my client has been more than generous with his time. And we’re leaving.”