Animal Instinct

by Animal Instinct (retail) (epub)

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Isobel. ‘Anything you need to say you can say in front of Mr Cassidy.’

  Messenger drew breath to argue but was pre-empted by Liam.

  ‘What happened with Raoul Jonas? The TV news says you released him without charge.’

  The beer-bellied DI nodded. ‘Any evidence against him is purely circumstantial. All I can say is, he remains a person of interest.’

  A flicker of irritation crossed Isobel’s face. ‘Did the man kill my daughter or didn’t he?’

  Messenger folded his arms over his ample stomach. ‘I wish it were that simple.’

  Isobel stubbed out her cigarette. Her eyes were bright with anger.

  ‘I can’t stand much more of this.’

  Duffy made an effort to soften his voice. ‘Has anyone heard from Mr Pennefeather?’

  ‘No,’ said Saffron. She fiddled with her bracelet.

  ‘How did he seem last night?’ said Messenger.

  ‘Depressed.’ There was an accusatory tone to Liam’s voice. ‘He was upset about being hauled in for questioning, yet again.’

  Joe chose his words with care. ‘I took a look upstairs. Adam seems to have been doing some reading last night, maybe replying to letters.’ He turned to Isobel. ‘There’s a printer but no computer. Did he have one in his bedroom?’

  ‘Yes. A laptop.’

  Messenger looked at Joe askance.

  ‘Good of you to be so helpful,’ he said.

  Leading the way to Adam’s bedroom, Joe stood alongside the police officers, watching as Isobel approached the desk.

  ‘His computer’s usually here.’

  She traced a finger over the empty space then reached towards the pile of letters, pausing as she turned towards the three men,

  ‘Are you planning to stand there while I read my husband’s correspondence?’

  ‘We’ll give you a moment,’ said Messenger.

  He stepped outside, followed by Joe and Hugh.

  The landing was dominated by portraits of the Pennefeather family dating back many generations. A recent oil painting showed Adam and Isobel side by side on a sofa, with young Bella and Saffron cross-legged at their feet. Other pictures depicted wildlife scenes: a flock of birds flying across a Roman sunset; horses grazing in a summer meadow; deer locking antlers in a forest. Joe suspected the paintings weren’t much good but he guessed they were worth a small fortune.

  ‘It’s true what they say,’ said Messenger, taking stock of the stained glass window that flooded the staircase with light. ‘The rich are different.’

  ‘And bloody rude,’ said Duffy.

  Joe caught a whiff of stale cigarette smoke on the DS’s suit.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your lad,’ said Messenger. ‘How was court?’

  Joe managed half a smile. ‘I’ve had better afternoons.’

  ‘My money’s on a suspended sentence,’ said Messenger. ‘I saw the paper and said to Pam, “There but for the grace of God…” Could happen to any of us.’

  ‘Not to me,’ said Duffy. ‘I don’t have kids.’ He paused. ‘At least, none that I know of.’

  Neither Messenger nor Joe cracked a smile. Bryan turned to Joe.

  ‘No hard feelings about me taking over from your missus?’

  Joe shrugged. ‘Katie knows the score,’ he said.

  ‘If she’s pissed off at anyone,’ said Duffy, ‘it’s more likely to be Luke.’

  Joe felt a surge of anger. He fixed the man with a stare. Duffy raised both hands in a gesture of surrender.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘None of my business.’

  Messenger frowned. ‘Is there a problem?’

  Joe shook his head. ‘No problem at all.’

  Messenger made an attempt to change the subject, nodding towards Adam’s bedroom.

  ‘If Pennefeather’s topped himself, that clinches it,’ he whispered. ‘He killed the girl. Couldn’t take the guilt.’

  Joe didn’t share his certainty. He frowned too. ‘What about Raoul Jonas? Is his DNA back from the lab?’

  A nod from Messenger. ‘But it’s no match for what we found on the girl’s body.’

  Duffy shrugged. ‘My money’s still on Jonas, not Pennefeather.’

  ‘A tenner says you’re wrong,’ said Messenger. He ticked off the factors weighing against Adam’s claim to innocence. ‘One: his fingerprints at the ele house. ‘Two: his footprints. Three: Bella’s diary. And now he’s legged it. Or done himself in. Either way, ten quid says he’s our man.’

  He moved away to answer his mobile, leaving Joe with Duffy. Silence descended for a full half-minute. The DS sighed and scratched his chin.

  ‘I reckon Bryan wants to get this sorted before he retires. So he can go out on a high.’

  Before Joe could reply, Messenger was back, voice low, brow furrowed.

  ‘The coastguard found a body at St Margaret’s Bay.’ He paused for effect. ‘Adam Pennefeather’s car is parked on the cliffs.’

  21

  A pale sun ghosted through thin white cloud. The waves lashed the rocks with spray. The beachside pub had run out of hot food but was doing an unexpectedly brisk trade, serving drinks to rubberneckers gathered around the police cordon.

  Hovering on the fringes of the crowd, Joe heard the landlady, a dumpy woman in a tight orange dress, talking to two men he took to be reporters.

  ‘Third jumper in two years,’ she said. ‘But do me a favour, lads. Stop calling it “Suicide Beach”. Bad for business.’ A wink. ‘As you can see.’ She walked off, collecting empty glasses on her way inside.

  Joe hadn’t seen the body – the SOCO tent had been erected before his arrival – nor did he want to. Adam had re-entered his life just days earlier, after a gap of thirty-five years, but his re-emergence had rekindled Joe’s interest in the world and given him something to get out of bed for. He was grateful. Another reason he owed it to Adam to get to the truth.

  The bystanders fell silent, making way for the van that carried the body of the man who had saved Joe from a rampaging elephant. Onlookers brandished mobiles, taking selfies as the van crawled through the car park and began its climb up the hill. Joe felt a surge of anger.

  Ghouls!

  Bryan Messenger emerged from the tent and ambled towards the uniformed PCs stationed by the cordon. As he ducked under the crime scene tape, the DI stopped to talk to Chrissie McBride. Joe narrowed his eyes, watching the journalist nod as Messenger pointed to the cliff-top, where a second SOCO team was at work.

  Something about the duo’s body language, the way the copper and the hack angled their bodies away from the crowd, suggested a determination to avoid being overheard. Joe suspected he’d been right about Chrissie’s police source. Bryan was months away from his pension. Opportunities to make extra money would soon be thin on the ground. He watched as the other reporters crowded around the SIO but were given short shrift.

  ‘There’ll be a press conference in due course,’ he heard Messenger say, while striding towards his car. Joe fell into step.

  ‘Bloody vultures,’ said Bryan.

  ‘You’ll miss them when they’re gone.’

  ‘Like I’ll miss my haemorrhoids.’

  He stopped by his car and turned to face Joe. ‘I’m sorry about your mate.’

  Joe nodded. ‘Is there anything you can tell me?’

  Bryan widened his eyes in mock surprise, adopting a mock-formal tone.

  ‘Are you trying to take advantage of our professional relationship by asking me to breach strict rules of confidentiality?’

  Joe managed half a smile. ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’

  Messenger shot a sideways glance towards the reporters then opened the car door.

  ‘You’d better step into my office.’

  He sank his girth into the driver’s seat and settled behind the wheel. Joe got in beside him, watching as the DI reached for a packet of pear drops.

  ‘We think he’s been here just over twelve hours,’ he said.
/>
  He palmed three sweets into his mouth then peered through the windscreen, looking up to the cliff.

  ‘That’s his Range Rover. Your bosom pal – Gingernuts – is supervising the search but there’s nothing to get excited about. Except what was on Pennefeather’s laptop. It was on the passenger seat.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘The most recent document is a letter to his wife.’

  Joe fell silent, careful not to push his luck. Messenger sucked on the pear drops, transferring the sweets from one side of his mouth to the other.

  ‘You, me and the gatepost?’

  Joe performed a mime with his forefinger and thumb, locking his lips and throwing away the key.

  ‘It’s a farewell letter,’ said Messenger. ‘To Isobel and Saffron. Asking them to forgive him.’ He paused. ‘It’s also a confession.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Murdering Bella. To shut her up.’

  ‘About what? Abusing her when she was little?’

  A nod.

  Joe sighed. ‘Are we seriously expected to believe that this confession was written by Adam himself?’

  Messenger spread his hands across his belly.

  ‘You knew him, I didn’t,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

  Joe didn’t need to consider the question for long. ‘A confession on a computer. Not signed. Not even printed out.’ He helped himself to a pear drop. ‘It stinks.’

  Bryan sighed. ‘I thought you might say that.’

  Joe looked up to the cliff-top.

  ‘Can you keep me in the loop?’ he said.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Any other fingerprints. Either on the laptop or in his car.’

  Messenger nodded. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘What about Raoul Jonas?’ said Joe. ‘Does he have an alibi for the night Bella died?’

  ‘No,’ said Messenger. ‘But he does have stage four liver cancer. There is no stage five.’

  Joe felt a flicker of sympathy until he recalled photos of a dead girl hanging from a hook in a meat store.

  ‘That doesn’t explain why you released him without charge.’

  ‘Anything we’ve got against Jonas is circumstantial. Might be different when the DNA comes back from the lab.’

  ‘They’re taking their time.’

  Messenger nodded. ‘They cocked up the labelling on the sample. We had to start from scratch.’ He cast another glance at the cliff-top then crunched a peardrop between his teeth. ‘Now stop nicking my sweets and bugger off.’

  Joe opened the door and got out of the car.

  ‘Give my best to Pam. God knows how she’ll cope with having you around all day.’

  ‘That’s exactly what she says,’ said Messenger. ‘Luckily the good Lord created golf.’ He started the engine then glanced in his rear-view mirror. ‘Look out. Here comes trouble.’

  As the man drove away, Joe saw Chrissie walking across the car park. She was carrying a black laptop case, its utilitarian design at odds with her stylish appearance: sculpted leather jacket, white linen shirt, skinny-fit jeans. She reached Joe’s side and blew out her cheeks.

  ‘I didn’t see this coming, did you?’

  Joe shook his head. ‘Poor bugger.’

  The reporter pulled a face.

  ‘Sleazy bastard, more like. It’s his family I feel sorry for. First Bella, then this.’

  Joe frowned. ‘So you think he jumped?’

  ‘You don’t?’

  He thought for a moment, looking out to sea.

  ‘Why would he kill himself?’

  ‘Because he was guilty,’ said Chrissie. ‘The police had him in their sights over Bella. They were going to question him again. The rumour mill was going crazy.’

  ‘So I saw in your rag,’ said Joe. ‘Along with the stuff about Jonas. But from where I’m standing the field is wide open.’

  Chrissie put down her laptop and fastened the middle button on her jacket. There was warmth in the sun but the wind carried a September chill.

  ‘We’ll see,’ she said. She nodded towards the tent behind the cordon, marking the spot where Adam had breathed his last.

  ‘Poor Isobel,’ she said. ‘She must be in pieces.’

  Joe nodded, recalling the scene as Messenger had broken the news.

  Isobel’s stricken face.

  Saffron and Liam helping her to her bedroom.

  Felix on the phone, summoning the doctor.

  Joe’s offer to stay and help had been declined.

  ‘Who else is on your hit list?’ said Chrissie.

  ‘Who isn’t?’ said Joe.

  He turned and walked towards the pub. Chrissie picked up her laptop and fell into step.

  ‘Did you see what I wrote about Luke?’

  Joe nodded.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Could have been worse.’

  ‘Damn right,’ said Chrissie. ‘You owe me a drink.’

  ‘You keep saying that.’

  She sighed. ‘You know what I’d really like, Joe? A home-cooked meal. I’m sick of living out of a suitcase, choosing between takeaways or pitying looks from smug couples in restaurants.’

  ‘I’m no Jamie Oliver,’ said Joe.

  He broke off, glancing at the cliff-top. The reporter followed his gaze.

  A lone figure was surveying the activity down on the beach. Silhouetted against the sky, the man’s identity was hard to make out. But even from this distance it was clear that he was thin to the point of emaciation.

  ‘Is that who I think it is?’ said Chrissie.

  Joe raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun.

  ‘Raoul Jonas,’ he said.

  He watched as the man retreated from the edge of the cliff. Moments later he heard a sound in the distance: the faint but distinctive rattle of a Vespa.

  * * *

  Joe turned the MGB into the Dover Holiday Park. He pulled up alongside Raoul’s caravan, followed moments later by Chrissie in her car. Unbuckling his seat belt, Joe glanced down and saw something wedged down the side of the passenger’s seat.

  Luke’s wallet. He would return it later.

  He climbed out of the car. Chrissie was already rapping on the caravan door. Her knock was greeted by silence. But the fact that the Vespa’s engine was still warm told its own story.

  ‘Mr Jonas?’

  She knocked again.

  ‘Chrissie McBride, Kent Today. Can you spare a minute?’

  A moment later, the door creaked open. Jonas emerged from his den, earring glinting in the sun, can of Strongbow in his hand. On his T-shirt was another badge.

  Make changes not excuses.

  His eyes were sunken, his tufts of black hair had thinned since Joe last saw him. He jutted out his Desperate Dan chin.

  ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

  Chrissie’s smile was warm and wide.

  ‘The police seem to have plenty to say about you, Mr Jonas.’

  Raoul remained stony-faced. ‘The police have got nothing on me. I’ve nothing to hide.’

  Joe took a step forward. ‘Remember me? Joe Cassidy. We met at Pennefeather’s.’

  A nod. ‘You work for the guvnor.’

  ‘Sort of,’ said Joe. ‘Did you hear what happened to him?’

  Jonas stepped down from the caravan and closed the door.

  ‘You know I have.’ He hooked a thumb into the belt encircling his bony hips. ‘You saw me on the cliff. So why don’t you just tell me why you’re here?’

  Chrissie mirrored the man’s stance.

  ‘I’m curious to know why someone who works for an animal rights group is also working at a zoo.’

  ‘Who says I work for an animal rights group?’

  The reporter cocked her head to one side. ‘How about Duwayne Speed?’

  Raoul gave a sceptical smile and shook his head. ‘Duwayne never told you that I work for a group because I don’t. I just care about animals.’

  Chrissie looped a stray strand of ha
ir behind her ear.

  ‘Is that why you pulled that stunt? Scaring kids with photos of a dead girl?’

  Jonas took a swig of cider. ‘Kids love being scared,’ he said. ‘That’s why they like hiding behind the sofa during Doctor Who.’

  Bristling with anger, Joe forced himself to remember the man was ill.

  ‘Where did you get the photo?’ he said.

  ‘I found it,’ said Jonas. ‘In a bin at the zoo. The day after she died. I ran off a bunch of copies but the police seem to think the original was taken on a mobile. Which proves it wasn’t me. I lost mine weeks ago. Any more questions?’

  The man was not a convincing liar. Joe struggled to maintain his poker face.

  ‘Why didn’t you hand the photo over to the police?’

  Jonas sniffed. ‘I was going to. But I started to feel sorry for Bella – poor little rich girl, and all that. Thought I’d make sure she didn’t die in vain.’

  Chrissie blinked in disbelief. ‘You used a photo of a dead girl as scare tactics? To put her family out of business?’

  A shrug. ‘You know what they say. “Never waste a good crisis”.’

  ‘And you think that’s a reasonable way to act?’ said Chrissie.

  The man’s jaw tightened. ‘Progress is not made by reasonable people.’

  An unwelcome thought flitted across Joe’s mind.

  ‘Have you heard of a book called Nothing With A Face?’

  The man nodded. ‘A classic. Should be taught in every school.’

  Joe’s stomach gave a lurch.

  ‘Does the name Luke mean anything to you?’

  Raoul shook his head. ‘Only St Luke’s Hospice.’

  ‘I’m talking about my son,’ said Joe. ‘He turned vegetarian. Out of the blue. I’m wondering where he gets his ideas.’

  ‘Maybe you should ask him.’

  Joe met the man’s gaze. ‘To be clear: do you know my son?’

  The man gave a small smile. ‘To be clear – no.’

  A twinge of relief reassured Joe that Raoul was telling the truth – on this score at least. The man was seized by a sudden spasm of coughing. Recovering, he opened the caravan door. He reached inside for a picnic chair, placed it on the grass and sat down. His face was pale and drawn.

  ‘A zoo—’ He broke off. More coughing. Then he began again. ‘A zoo is a sick thing run by sick people. Make no mistake, this is war.’