‘I don’t have the energy. You read him the riot act so there’s not much I can add.’ She toyed with her cup, rotating it on the table top.
‘He’s genuinely sorry,’ said Joe. ‘Scared, too. I’m pretty sure he won’t be going near class-A drugs again. He may be stupid but he’s not that stupid.’
‘Let’s hope not.’ Her voice was barely a whisper, she was close to tears. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have taken the promotion.’
Joe shook his head. ‘You earned it,’ he said. ‘It’s your turn. And Luke makes his own decisions. We just have to hope they don’t all suck.’ He tapped the rim of his cup. ‘How long will the vegetarian craze last?’
She gave a shrug and they lapsed into silence. Toying with crumbs on his plate, Joe felt a world apart from his wife; the chasm between them seemed to grow with each encounter. For the first time since moving out, he considered the possibility that their marriage had passed its sell-by date – perhaps years ago. If sex was a barometer for the prevailing wind, he and Kate had been in the doldrums for a long time. He’d read that a couple who put a Smartie in a jar each time they make love during their first year together, then take one out on every subsequent occasion, will never run out of Smarties.
The sound of a distant police siren brought him back to the here and now.
A coffee shop. A murder inquiry. A dead girl.
‘Meanwhile, in another part of the forest,’ he said, ‘if Raoul Jonas is some kind of animal liberationist, that would give him a motive.’
Katie said nothing. Joe pressed the point. ‘I assume he’s on your radar?’
She hesitated then nodded. Things were different now, there was little point in being cagey.
‘He was on my radar,’ she said. ‘Along with everyone else at Pennefeather’s.’
‘What about Bella’s friends?’
‘Mainly girls and young women,’ said Katie. ‘One or two from her old school, a couple of ex-boyfriends, but none of them are ringing alarm bells.’
‘What about Liam O’Mara?’
‘He’s got an alibi,’ said Katie, confirming what Joe knew. ‘He was in London the night Bella died, buying petrol. I’ve seen the CCTV.’
‘Felix Goodchild?’ said Joe. ‘Tom Lycett?’
‘Complicated,’ said Katie. ‘Lycett and Bella were an item, but it turns out he swings both ways and his alibi for the night she died is Felix, who’s gay but deep in the closet and not happy about going public in case it’s bad for business.’ She picked a berry from Joe’s muffin and popped it in her mouth. ‘Felix and Tom maintain they were asleep at Felix’s house on the night Bella was killed. There’s no reason to think they’re lying and no sign of motive.’ She licked her fingers. Joe thought back to his own ruminations on Goodchild and Lycett but kept his thoughts to himself.
‘Then there’s Isobel,’ continued Katie. ‘She’s doolally but I can’t see her stringing up her own daughter in the meat store.’
Joe shook his head. ‘Same goes for Saffron,’ he said. ‘Which brings us back to Raoul Jonas.’
Katie sipped her coffee.
‘We took his DNA, along with the others, but he wasn’t at work on our first day at the zoo. His results will come in the second batch – today, maybe tomorrow. Not that I’ll be allowed anywhere near them.’
She blinked twice in quick succession, quelling a surge of irritation.
‘Does Raoul have an alibi?’ said Joe.
She shook her head. ‘He lives in the caravan park near Dover Castle. Told Hugh he was home alone.’
Hugh.
Plastered of Paris.
Joe fought the urge to ask about Katie’s second in command. His resolve lasted two seconds.
‘How’s Duffy working out?’
Katie held his gaze.
‘Sharp elbows,’ she said. ‘But he’s smart, supportive.’
Joe nodded. ‘Did you hit it off straight away?’
He was trying to sound nonchalant, but her wry smile told him he’d failed.
‘Are you asking if I fancy him?’
Joe chose his words with care. ‘You seem like old mates.’
Katie said nothing.
Joe pressed the point. ‘Are you?’
His wife folded her arms and ignored the question.
‘This separation was your idea, Joe. I’d say it’s going well, wouldn’t you?’
‘Apart from the fact that our son seems to have turned into a drug dealer.’
‘Don’t be facetious,’ said Katie. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’ She fingered her cup then sighed. ‘We agreed: no “big conversations” for three months.’
He gave a tight smile. She was right.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Back to Raoul Jonas.’
But she shook her head. Her mood had soured.
‘I shouldn’t be shooting my mouth off.’
He pretended not to hear, leaning forward, elbows on the table.
‘Here’s one hypothesis. If Raoul is an animal-rights zealot, undercover at Pennefeather’s, maybe he decided that a sacrifice was in order.’
‘You mean, Bella’s murder was some sort of extreme anti-zoo stunt?’
‘It’s possible,’ said Joe. ‘Some activists are as fanatical as any jihadist. Maybe Raoul thought he could kill two birds with one stone by murdering Bella, then framing her dad. Maybe he nicked Adam’s boots, and the whisky bottle, and planted prints at the elephant house, like Adam says, then put the boots back where he found them.’
Katie cocked her head to one side. Half a smile on her lips.
‘I’d forgotten.’
‘Forgotten what?’
‘You’re working for Pennefeather,’ she said. ‘Elephant Boy.’
Joe bristled. ‘I’m not working for anyone. I know there are rumours that Adam abused his daughter but that doesn’t make them true.’
She narrowed her eyes.
‘What do you know about rumours?’
Joe cleared his throat, playing for time. He could hardly admit to snooping in Katie’s laptop.
‘I’ve been digging around. Same as you.’
Katie picked up her cup and got to her feet.
‘This was a mistake. You’re just on a fishing trip and I fell for it.’
Joe shook his head. ‘Raoul Jonas needs checking out. I wanted to give you a heads-up.’
‘Even though I’m no longer SIO?’
‘You’re still my wife.’ He couldn’t resist turning the screw. ‘Or maybe you’d rather I’d gone straight to Bryan Messenger.’ He should have left it at that but kept going, into what his shrink had called ‘marital kamikaze’. ‘Perhaps I should talk to Hugh Duffy,’ he said.
Katie’s look was full of scorn.
‘Grow up, Joe.’
She picked up her latte and walked out.
He sat back and took a moment to finish his tea. The muffin was only half-eaten but his appetite had vanished, along with his wife.
Leaving the coffee shop, he walked through the city centre, passing the entrance to the cathedral, heading for the car park. The wind that had scattered photos of Bella’s body over the wildlife park was still blowing hard. Passing a newsagent he saw a billboard advertising the evening edition of Kent Today.
Murder Woman Zoo Shock.
Joe quickened his pace. Settling behind the wheel of the MGB, he stared into the middle distance, wrestling with his feelings.
Anxiety. Guilt. Jealousy.
He reached into the glove compartment and took out the Jiffy bag. Inside were three small envelopes. They contained the discarded chewing gum from Luke’s bedroom, the stub of Duffy’s roll-up, and a swab of saliva from inside Joe’s cheek.
The Jiffy bag was addressed to a private lab in Cambridge. It weighed no more than a few ounces but felt heavy in Joe’s hand.
He left the car park and headed for the high street. Outside the post office, he hesitated, staring at the package for a full minute.
Then he pushed open the door and went inside.
<
br /> 16
Joe shone the torch on the caravan window. The glass was cracked, held together by ancient brown tape. One shove was all it took.
He stood still, counting to twenty, but there was no movement in the Dover Holiday Park, no sign of life except a few illuminated windows on the westerly corner. Minutes earlier, he had watched Raoul Jonas emerge from his lair, mount a battered Vespa and rattle away into the darkness. Now, he reached inside the window frame and stretched out an arm until his fingers found the door catch. He slid the bolt and slipped inside.
The smell assailed his senses. It brought back memories of a stench that had greeted him and Katie on their return from a week in Menorca. They’d forgotten to empty the kitchen bin. Not long ago, a smear of Vicks on his upper lip would have addressed the problem but he no longer routinely encountered dead bodies so no longer carried menthol. On the plus side, where he would once have required a warrant, all he needed now were steady nerves and the conviction that he was closing in on his prey.
He replaced the glass in the window frame, taping the segments together. Nose buried in the crook of his arm, he swept the beam of his torch over the electrician’s den: a rumpled camp bed, a small table, a chair, an old computer connected to the printer via a spaghetti of cables.
It was the cupboards that drew Joe’s attention. Chipboard doors had been turned into a makeshift noticeboard. Jonas had pinned up his collection of badges – all familiar slogans.
A Chinese proverb: The man who moves mountains begins by carrying away small stones.
Gandhi: You must be the change you want to see.
Dwight D. Eisenhower: What counts is not the size of the dog in the fight – it’s the size of the fight in the dog.
Pinned next to the badges was a display of photos. One image – the picture that had drifted down on the crowd at Pennefeather’s – showed Bella’s body hanging in the meat house. Next to the photo were printouts from websites, all devoted to one subject: the attempted murder of Daniel De Souza, scion of a worldwide fashion empire founded on fur.
The billionaire De Souzas were a high profile family whose younger members flaunted their bling across the world, from the haute couture houses of Paris to Instagram and the seven-star hotels of Dubai, remaining unrepentant about the source of their wealth. The assault on Daniel had made headlines for weeks, spawning theories about who was behind the savage knife attack that nearly ended the 26-year-old trustafarian’s life, and fuelling the controversy about the fur trade. Daniel De Souza had been attacked while parking his Porsche outside his Chelsea Harbour penthouse. Despite the expertise of three plastic surgeons, flown in from centres of excellence all over the world, he would carry the facial scars for the rest of his life. Almost a year later, the police were no closer to finding the attacker. Now, scrutinizing Raoul Jonas’s collection of articles, Joe felt confident he could put them on the right track.
Sitting at the table, his eyes fell on a photo of Saffron Pennefeather. She was in a garden, cross-legged in what looked like a yoga position. The grainy picture looked like a surveillance shot snapped from a distance. Judging by the size of her pregnant belly it had been taken just days ago, weeks at most. Saffron seemed oblivious to the fact she was being photographed.
Also on the table were Raoul’s copy of Humanity Dick, a stack of cheap envelopes, and photocopies of a ‘Manifesto for Animal Rights’, beginning with Dear Animal Lover and ending with Raoul’s signature, scrawled above his printed name.
Pocketing a copy of the manifesto, he took out his mobile to photograph the cache of evidence.
Then he heard a car.
The sound grew closer then stopped. The engine was switched off. Joe heard the quiet clunk of the car door then footsteps on the path. He switched off his torch. The footsteps drew closer then stopped. Whoever was coming to visit Raoul was on the other side of the door.
Three rat-a-tat-tats then silence.
Another knock, more insistent.
Joe held his breath. His eye flickered to the catch. The visitor need only tug the handle and the door would open. He reached for the bolt, about to slide the catch across, but there was no way to secure it without making a noise. His fingers closed around the strip of metal, tightening his grip as he felt pressure from outside; the visitor was trying to turn the handle.
Joe tensed every muscle. He felt equal pressure being exerted on the other side. His fingers were slipping. The handle rattled, the door following suit, but Joe maintained his grip until the pressure eased and the visitor gave up.
Footsteps on the path.
Receding into the distance.
Joe released his grip and sighed with relief.
Darting to the window, he tried to glimpse whoever had tried to pay Raoul a visit but was thwarted by the frosted glass. He heard the car’s ignition. Opening the door, he ran towards the gates but the car had disappeared. The path was gravelled. No tyre tracks.
In the distance, a dog barked, then silence descended. Joe turned and walked back to the caravan. Inside, he closed the door, switched on the light and took out his mobile.
Then he began to photograph the private world of Raoul Jonas.
Had a police officer entered the caravan without a warrant, the lawyers would have ruled the photos inadmissible. But Joe Cassidy was now Joe Public. He no longer needed to mind his professional Ps and Qs. As for alerting Adam Pennefeather, he would wait till tomorrow, biding his time until he knew how the police planned to proceed.
Parking outside the pub, he turned off his engine and composed a text to Katie.
These might earn you some brownie points.
He was about to add an ‘x’ – a reflex action – but thought better of it. He pressed ‘send’, forwarding the photos. Then he got out of his car and turned to see Chrissie McBride approaching from the opposite direction, her high-heeled boots clacking on the pavement, her tapered leather jacket catching the light from the street lamp.
‘Punctual,’ she said. ‘I like that in a man.’
The pub had low beams, good snacks and olde-worlde charm.
‘Get a bottle and tell them to put it on my tab,’ said Chrissie, heading for a corner table. ‘I can walk home.’ She flashed a smile at Joe, holding his gaze a beat too long.
He crossed to the bar, ordered a bottle of Rioja and scanned the Monday night crowd. He thought he heard the name ‘Pennefeather’ but the conversation was too far away for eavesdropping. No doubt this morning’s stunt at the wildlife park was being discussed across the country.
As the barman uncorked the wine, Joe glanced at Chrissie. She was sitting at the table, fishing her mobile from her bag. Despite her manner he knew the score. She was a journalist and he was a source. Under other circumstances he might have flattered himself that there was a frisson between them but he understood the dance and was happy to play his part.
So long as she didn’t step on his toes.
Paying for the wine and a bowl of olives, he crossed to the table. Chrissie was sending a text.
‘What did we do before cell phones?’ she said, hunched over her mobile.
‘We had lives,’ said Joe.
She smiled, placing her phone on the table.
‘They don’t allow grumpy gits in here,’ she said
‘If you think that’s grumpy, wait till I get started on muzak.’ He sat down and poured two glasses of wine. ‘I’m against capital punishment but there should be exceptions.’
Chrissie nodded. ‘Like whoever invented muzak. And double denim.’
He smiled. ‘I was thinking about people who walk while texting. Or people who talk in the cinema.’
Chrissie nodded. ‘Who decided popcorn was ideal cinema food?’ she said. ‘And nachos? Could there be anything noisier?’
Joe raised his glass in a toast.
‘To the death of nachos.’
They clinked glasses and drank. The taste triggered a craving for nicotine but Joe settled for an olive.
‘Tell
me about Adam,’ said Chrissie. Her tone was casual but the question put Joe on his guard. ‘You two go back a long way?’
A nod. ‘Teenagers. We lost touch.’
‘Even though he saved your life?’
Joe’s glass was halfway to his mouth. ‘How do you know about that?’
The journalist smiled and selected an olive. Avoiding the question.
‘I wouldn’t have thought you had much in common.’
She popped the olive into her mouth.
‘We didn’t,’ said Joe. ‘I’ve always loved animals so I was happy to volunteer at Pennefeather’s for a summer or two.’ He sipped of wine. ‘Besides, when someone saves your neck, it’s rude not to say thank you.’
‘Is that why you believe he’s innocent?’ Chrissie’s smile didn’t waver. ‘Because he saved your skin?’
‘How do you know what I believe?’
‘I don’t think you’d work for a man if you thought he’d killed his daughter.’
‘I’m not working for Adam,’ said Joe. ‘I’m trying to find out what happened to Bella.’
‘I thought you’d retired.’
‘So did I.’
Joe sipped his drink.
‘What about her iPhone diary?’ said Chrissie.
‘What about it?’
‘The suggestion that he abused her. That he killed her to stop her blowing the whistle. The scratches on his arm the day she was murdered. The fact that his prints were in the elephant house, even though he hadn’t been there for weeks – or so he said.’
Joe said nothing, rolling an olive between forefinger and thumb.
Chrissie continued. ‘And then there’s his weirdo collection. Lee Harvey Oswald’s coffin? Seriously? Books on that French bastard who raped and killed hundreds of kiddies. Circumstantial evidence? Yes. Normal behaviour? No.’ She sipped her win wine. ‘As for that stuff they found on his computer…’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Porn?’
She nodded. ‘Not paedo but hardcore all the same. “All women are whores”, that kind of thing.’
Her face had darkened. Joe had the feeling she’d set her sights on Adam and was ready to pull the trigger.
‘What do you think?’ she said. ‘What’s your old pal really like?’
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