Dan was in a second-hand bookshop in Melbrook, a village a few miles from Highford. It had once been just a cluster of cottages by a bend in a river, part of a floodplain away from the hills, but new developments had attracted lawyers and accountants and those who wanted country living with all the mod cons.
The shop was at the end of a row, the interior dark, book covers in the window faded by the sun. The only other shop open was a convenience store further along, the sign bright, out of place amongst the grey slate roofs. The others were all in darkness, remnants of small village life from decades gone by and now part of the lifestyle craved for by the newly arrived professionals; a butcher, a bakery, a greengrocer, mostly organic.
He didn’t spot the proprietor until a small cloud of tobacco smoke appeared in the air.
Dan peered around the end of the row of shelves. In the back corner of the shop, a man was sitting in a threadbare old armchair, stuffing leaking from one of the arms, the other worn out to a shine and coffee-stained. His grey beard was stained brown under his nose, his hair unkempt.
‘Bob Marshall? Former Detective Chief Inspector Marshall?’
The man smiled, his eyes warm behind thick lenses, his teeth clenched around the stem of a black pipe.
‘That’s me.’
Dan produced a business card and handed it over. ‘I want to talk to you about the Sean Martin case.’
Bob Marshall’s eyes narrowed. ‘Molloys. That was his defence firm. If this is about compensation, I’m not interested.’
‘It’s not about compensation.’
‘And I don’t call it that, the Sean Martin case, because it makes it about him. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the Rosie Smith case.’ He gestured with his pipe towards a curtain hiding an alcove. ‘There’s a stool through there. Bring it over and sit down.’
‘Not the usual kind of retirement for a senior detective,’ Dan said, as he sat. The kitchen stool was much higher than the armchair, so he found himself looking down at the older man.
‘I like to think that I wasn’t the usual kind of detective.’ He looked around his shop. ‘I ran this place when I was in the job. I’ve always loved books. Back then, it was a fun little sideline, and I sold new books, too, but the supermarkets killed that. My wife helped out when I was on duty, but, well…’ His eyes clouded. ‘She’s gone now.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s all right. She was sleeping with some sales rep. I caught them one day, right behind that curtain. In fact, it might have even been over that stool.’
Dan fought the urge to stand. ‘I thought you meant she was dead.’
He chuckled. ‘No. She’s living in our old house. I live in the flat above the shop now, and spend my days down here, reading, running my own little bookshop, just like I always wanted.’
‘Do you sell much? I can’t imagine there’s much passing trade.’
‘I do it for the company. People call in, and I get some collectors dropping by, looking for first editions and rarities.’ He took a long pull on his pipe and, through the smoke, said, ‘But you’re not here about my marriage or business. Sean Martin is your reason. Why is that?’
‘I’ve got a murder trial starting tomorrow and Sean Martin’s name has cropped up. I’m just checking it out, but it’s hard, because he’s innocent as far as the rest of the world is concerned. Except, you know more than the rest of the world.’
‘Too much, perhaps.’
‘I’m still curious.’
‘That’s not enough. Tell me about your murder case and why it’s connected to Sean Martin.’
‘Peter Box,’ Dan said. ‘Accused of murdering Lizzie Barnsley by the canal in Highford in the early hours of New Year’s Day. His DNA has been found on the heel of her shoe.’
‘And how does he explain that?’
‘He doesn’t. He’s opted for silence, even with me.’
‘Are you all right to tell me this? I thought you lawyers got all protective about what your client tells you.’
‘I don’t think it counts when he hasn’t said anything.’
‘What’s the link with Sean Martin?’
‘I can’t tell you that. I’ve come across some information about Peter in connection with Sean’s case, but I won’t go any further with it if Sean Martin is innocent. I don’t want my client implicated in Rosie’s murder.’
Bob looked surprised. ‘You think Peter Box might have killed Rosie?’
‘Do you?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Bob said. ‘I know who killed Rosie.’
‘Sean Martin?’
‘Bullseye.’
‘You get my point, then. So, what makes you think Sean murdered her?’
He scowled. ‘It’s what I know that’s important, not what I think, and what I know is that Sean Martin killed his stepdaughter.’
‘He was cleared, though.’
‘Since when did an acquittal mean innocence?’ Bob waved Dan’s card. ‘Your firm blew a lot of smoke, but I saw it in his eyes. It’s always in the eyes. When he appeared distressed, it was faked, never any tears. You can always spot them in the press conferences because the relatives who are innocent do their best to get through them. They don’t always manage it, but they try their hardest because it’s all about getting the information out there. It’s a plea for help and they know they have to do it clearly.’
‘And the guilty ones?’
‘They cry and wail and contort, because the whole performance is about convincing everyone they’re innocent. Sean Martin was the same. He clutched a handkerchief and pretended to sob, completely overdid it. He made himself out to be the victim, not Rosie. You watch that press conference again and it was Rosie’s mother who was the strong one, speaking slowly, her voice breaking. Sean was the one who couldn’t cope. He was different afterwards, though, once the cameras had stopped.’
‘At the retrial, there was an expert witness, however, who put a different slant on the evidence about the blood mist.’
‘You know as well as I do that you can get an expert to say what you want if you look hard enough for the right expert. Charlatans, the lot of them. All your guy said was that the blood mist could have been from her final breaths when Sean Martin held her, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t mist caused by the murder itself. They’re all just possibilities, opinions, so it all comes down to what you think about Sean Martin, and I know how I feel.’
‘Any suspicions about the murder weapon? Where it might be?’
Bob shook his head. ‘Whatever he used, it’s long gone. That’s my fault for not keeping him at the scene, but he wasn’t a suspect at first. He was found cradling her, so how were we to know it was all an act? Whatever he had, he disposed of it.’
‘That’s why I’m here.’
Bob sat forward. ‘What’s going on?’
‘What would you do if you could locate the murder weapon?’
‘What?’
‘You heard.’
‘How?’
‘Someone has given me a hint as to its whereabouts.’
‘Who?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
Bob’s eyes were animated, no longer the genial bookshop owner. ‘You’ve got to do something about this.’
‘I’m trying, but my trial starts tomorrow and I can’t spend my days with a spade, looking for whatever Sean Martin hid all those years ago.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Help me out. Do you have any idea where the murder weapon might be?’
Bob shook his head. ‘Nothing. If I’d had one, I’d have looked.’
‘What about a mason’s mark?’
‘I’m sorry, nothing at all. Have you spoken to his wife?’
‘I’ve just been to his house. She didn’t seem pleased to see me.’
‘No, I mean Rosie’s mother, Karen. She left him after he was convicted. She’s still convinced he killed her daughter. She’s never spoken publicly about any of it,
not since the press conference, but she might help you out. They were together at the time.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘Because she hates him for taking her daughter away.’ He reached for a scrap of paper and wrote down an address. ‘She comes to see me sometimes, and we talk over a coffee. A word to the wise though: don’t go yourself. She knows that Sean’s lawyers conned the court to get him free. It doesn’t matter how you dress it up; for her, you’re part of the problem.’
Dan took the paper. ‘And does the name Peter Box mean anything? Did he ever come up in the investigation?’
‘Never heard the name before.’ Bob sat forward in his chair. ‘If you find anything, tell me. I’ve waited too long to see him pay; Karen too. Justice is more than just a verdict.’
Eleven
Jayne was still in her car near to the garden centre when Dan called her.
‘How is it going?’
She looked at the half-full car park. ‘He’s gone for a sail in a bloody narrowboat.’
‘A pleasure cruise?’
‘Looks like he owns one. He keeps it in a marina by a garden centre.’
‘Leave him sailing, then. Can you speak to Rosie’s mother instead? She’s called Karen.’ He reeled off an address. ‘Just keep quiet about where you’re from. She blames Pat, and me indirectly, I suppose, for Sean getting out.’
‘What am I trying to find out?’
‘Follow your instincts. She won’t know where the weapon is hidden, or else she’d have spoken out, but she knows Sean Martin. What he does, where he goes.’
‘Will do. And what about you?’
‘I’ll go back to my trial preparation. We’ll talk later.’ And he rang off.
* * *
It wasn’t a long journey to Karen Smith’s home, a small detached house at the end of a cul-de-sac on the edge of Highford. It was unassuming, shadowed by trees and hemmed in by the buildings and cars around it, almost as if the place had been chosen as a hideaway.
Jayne was nervous; she knew there was grief here and she was about to trample all over it. Sean appeared to have done quite well out of killing Rosie, whereas all Karen Smith had left was a hole in her life.
The door opened before she reached it. A woman stood in the doorway, her hair cut into a grey bob, her arms folded.
‘Karen Smith?’
‘Are you the press? I know Sean has got a book out, but if you’re here about him, and a glory piece, I’m not interested.’
‘No, it’s not that. I’m a private investigator, working for a client who’s trying to prove that Sean murdered your daughter.’
She put her head back in surprise. ‘That’s quite an opening. Who’s the client?’
‘I can’t tell you, I’m sorry. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.’
Jayne felt bad about the slight bend in the truth, but Karen thought for a moment before stepping aside. ‘You’d better come in.’
Jayne went along a hallway lined by wooden flooring and into a living room with sagging sofas, candle jars dotted around the room, their sides blackened and the walls bearing dark streaks from their smoke. Framed photos adorned the walls, all showing a girl growing up, from baby to teenager. They were starting to fade, which made them more poignant somehow, a future snatched away.
As they sat down, Karen said, ‘Why should I trust you? I’m pretty washed out of trust, you see. I trusted Sean and he took away the most precious thing I had. His whole life was a sham: his time with me; how he was with Rosie. One big lie.’
‘Why was it a lie?’
‘He was playing at happy families, except none of it was true. Have you seen who he’s with now? You must have read the press stuff, all about lovely Trudy, the childhood sweetheart who never lost faith in him. Except that she never stopped being there, throughout our marriage. You remember what Princess Diana said about her marriage, that there was always a third person there? That’s how it was with us.’
‘He was seeing Trudy when you were married?’
‘He didn’t have to be running around with Trudy for her to be there, because she was always in here.’ She slapped her chest with her hand. ‘The love he couldn’t walk away from.’ She screwed up her face. ‘Don’t make me laugh. She was never there during his trials, but she popped up as soon as he was freed, thinking there was money to be made. Who cares about me though?’
‘What makes you think he still loved her?’
‘Come on, I know you’re young, but you know how it is with old sweethearts. When you talk about them with your current partner, you slate them, because you want your new man to think that there’s nothing to worry about. And you’re supposed to be able to make little digs about your partner’s ex, because that’s just how it is.’ She snorted a laugh. ‘I couldn’t do that with Trudy. God, no. Not ever. If I ever said anything against her, he’d defend her, couldn’t stop himself. It always felt like he really wanted to be with her but couldn’t, for whatever reason. That he was somehow stuck with me.’
‘Were they having an affair?’
‘I don’t know. Why does it matter now?’
‘Because the whole point of the case was that he murdered Rosie to cover something up. What do you think it was?’
‘All I know is that I’m the one who bears the guilt that I didn’t watch him enough. I should have realised what was going on. I mean, why did he pick me? Look at me compared to Trudy. You don’t have to be polite. I’m frumpy, plump and quiet, a single mother. Was that the reason? That it was never about me but about Rosie? I’ve lost more hours of sleep than I can count going over it all in my head. Were there nights when he wasn’t in my bed because he’d crept into her bedroom? Do you know how it feels to think that and then realise that I could have stopped it, but I was blinded by love?’
‘And you had no suspicions?’
‘I’d have stopped him if I had. He deceived me. I shouldn’t say this to you, because you’ve got so much of your life ahead, but men are just pigs. That’s how it feels. My first husband walked out on me not long after Rosie was born, preferred other beds to mine. Then Sean came along, and look what he did.’
Jayne winced. ‘I wish I could offer some comfort, but my past isn’t so great.’
‘My mum used to say, “Don’t hang around waiting for a good one, because there aren’t enough of them to go round.” She was wrong. Don’t grab the first one that comes along. Look how it ended for me.’
‘Why do you think he killed Rosie?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you think he did? Because that’s why you’re here. You said you’re trying to prove that he did it, so what’s your theory?’
‘I haven’t got one. I’m just digging around for now.’
‘But why?’
Jayne paused as she worked out what to say. ‘I’m working for a defence firm, and we think there might be a link with our case and Rosie’s murder.’
‘What kind of link?’
Jayne knew the answer was that she had no idea, but she wasn’t prepared to admit that to the person most affected by Sean’s case. ‘I’d love to tell you but there’s the client confidentiality thing.’
‘Promise me one thing though: that you’re not working for him. For Sean.’
‘I can promise you that much.’
Karen sat back. ‘That will have to do, then. I know nothing can bring Rosie back, but I’ll help no one who wants to help him. He killed her. I knew it as soon as the police accused him, that it all made sense, just from how he was. I’ve never doubted that.’
‘What stands out the most?’
‘His coldness,’ she said, nodding. ‘He’s dead inside.’
‘Was someone called Lizzie Barnsley one of Rosie’s friends? Perhaps your daughter might have known her from school? She’d have been about twelve when Rosie died, so they wouldn’t have been in the same class, but –’
‘It doesn’t sound familiar, but I can check her stuff. Hang on.’
Karen left the room a
nd returned shortly afterwards, holding a large black photograph album, the sort that you add pages to, a relic from the days before digital cameras.
She put it down on the table at the other end of the room. As Jayne walked over, Karen turned the first page.
‘That’s Rosie as a baby,’ and there was a picture of Karen looking much fresher and younger, beaming from a hospital bed.
Karen clenched her jaw and turned instead to the pages at the back. ‘I’m sorry, you haven’t come here for my nostalgia.’
Jayne reached out to put her hand on Karen’s wrist. ‘I’d love to spend a day with you, I owe you that much at least, but I’m pushed for time today.’
Karen started flicking back through the pages, each shiny with a cellophane cover. ‘These are what I saved after she died. Not the cuttings about her murder but the tributes from her friends.’
The pages were filled with small notes and clippings, some photographs. Karen leaned closer, trying to read what was on the pages. ‘I can’t see the name Lizzie anywhere and I don’t remember hearing it. I’m sorry.’
‘No need to apologise, and I’m sorry for taking up your time.’
‘It’s never a waste of time to think about Rosie. But who is this Lizzie?’
Jayne’s mind raced, not wanting to reveal her link to Molloys. ‘Oh, just a name that was mentioned in relation to Sean. One more thing: was there ever anywhere special that Sean used to like to go?’
‘He spent a lot of time on his boat. Too much time, as if he used it to get away from us. I hardly ever went on it because he said it was his retreat. You know how men like to have their own special place, like a shed. The boat was his and he didn’t like me on it. He used to live on it before he met me, although he spent most of his time at Trudy’s house. I know they’ve got a fancy place in the countryside now but, back then, she lived in a small house near that mosque you can see from just about everywhere.’ She scowled. ‘Yeah, they’ve done all right out of Rosie’s murder.’
The Darkness Around Her Page 6