by Fiona Leitch
‘Mum, you’re not a copper anymore!’ said Daisy. She seemed really upset and I felt a huge pang of guilt. ‘You can’t go around doing stuff like that. You could get hurt!’
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, but there was never any danger,’ I said, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. ‘I had Nana with me. I would never put her or you in harm’s way.’
‘He’d have had me to deal with if he’d tried anything,’ said Mum militantly. ‘I did a self-defence course for older ladies down the community centre. I’d have hit him with my handbag, jabbed him in the particulars with my elbow, and poked him in the eye with my keys.’
Daisy and I looked at her fierce expression and immediately got the giggles. She looked a little bit offended but it served her right for dobbing me in to my daughter.
I stood up to clear the plates, still giggling.
‘I’m sorry, darling. I promised you I would never do anything dangerous again, and I meant it. But I can’t promise not to get involved. I’m worried about Tony,’ I said. That made me stop laughing. ‘It feels like no one else is fighting his corner. Poor Brenda and Malcolm must be so worried. And Mel’s mum… I want to find out what really happened for her, too.’
‘But what if he did do it?’ asked Daisy, and I didn’t really know what to say. Why was I so sure Tony was innocent?
I was saved from having to reply by the sound of a car pulling up outside.
‘Who’s that at this time of day?’ asked Mum, although obviously we were at my house and there was no reason why she should have any idea who it was.
I looked out of the window to see Withers get out of his car and stride up the path.
‘Oh, crap…’
I opened the front door as he was still raising his hand to knock.
‘DCI Wi—’ I began, but I didn’t get any further.
‘What the actual bloody hell are you playing at?’ Withers looked at me in angry exasperation. ‘I put my job on the line today, letting you know what’s going on with the case, and this is how you repay me?’
‘What’s happened?’ I asked innocently, but we both knew that I knew what he was talking about.
‘There’s been a complaint made about you.’
I gritted my teeth. I had naively thought Roger Laity would stop short of reporting me, what with him so obviously hiding something. ‘Son of a…’
‘Oh, what, did you think Laity would let it go?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘You think he was happy about you turning up on his doorstep and accusing him of … well, actually, I’m not even sure what you were accusing him of—’
‘Evening, detective!’ Mum appeared next to me, a big smile on her face. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, I would not like a—’ Withers forced himself to calm down and smile at my mum. ‘Good evening, Mrs Parker. Thank you but no; I just need to talk to Jodie.’
‘Okay then.’ But she didn’t move. I rolled my eyes.
‘He means alone, Mum. Never mind.’ I stood back to let him in, and opened the door into the living room.
He followed me in and sat on the sofa, while I sat in the armchair opposite him.
‘What am I going to do with you, Jodie?’ he said, shaking his head. He’d calmed down but it didn’t take a genius to work out that he was still utterly infuriated with me.
‘Look, I’m sorry, but I found out all about Roger’s dodgy dealings at the council this morning, and I thought—’
‘This morning? You mean before you had lunch with me? And it didn’t cross your mind to mention it to me before you went blundering in and upset him?’ He glared at me in between rhetorical questions. So many rhetorical questions. ‘Does it give him a motive for killing Mel? I mean, a proper one?’ he said, as I opened my mouth. I shut it again. ‘No, I thought not.’
‘It sort of does,’ I said. ‘He definitely had very good reasons for wanting the wedding to go ahead, despite the fact he clearly wasn’t that impressed with Tony.’
‘Wanting the wedding to go ahead and killing someone who, as far as we can tell, he’d never even met before are two very different things,’ Withers said patiently.
‘I know, but…’ I shook my head. ‘There’s something not right there. I found this car hidden away in the garage—’
‘Listen to yourself! “Hidden away in the garage”? What do you normally keep in a garage?’
I looked at him, perplexed. ‘Well, most people I know keep boxes and lawn mowers and stuff in them. I don’t know anyone who actually puts their car in there. But that’s not what I mean. Look, Roger has this expensive Range Rover thing, which he parks outside. I’m assuming Mrs Laity also has a nice car, but of course she’s conveniently’ – Withers rolled his eyes – she’s conveniently in Helston at the moment, despite the fact that her niece, her adopted daughter whom she’s brought up since she was fifteen, has disappeared. So I would expect the Laitys to put one of their fancy top-of-the-range cars in the garage. But no, there’s some old banger in there – not the sort of old banger you might want to restore, not a classic or anything, just an old Peugeot 205. And there was a phone in the footwell, which obviously hasn’t been in there very long because it still had some juice in it and I dunno about you, but my phone needs charging at least every other day.’
Withers held up his hand. ‘Right, stop there. You broke into his garage and had a poke around? For God’s sake, you know you can’t even do that as a police officer, let alone a private citizen!’
‘I didn’t break in; it was unlocked. But it’s weird though, don’t you think?’
‘Not really. So he’s got an old car. So what?’
‘Can you at least run the licence plate? I wrote it down when I got home. Here.’ I reached into my pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper with the number on it. ‘I’ve got a good memory for car registrations, so I’m certain the first bit’s right, but I might have got the last couple of digits round the wrong way.’
Withers took the bit of paper and looked at it, with the air of a man who wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up here.
‘I dunno. I came here to have a go at you and now you think I’m going to run a plate for you?’ he said, shaking his head.
‘You are going to though, aren’t you?’
He sighed. ‘Yes, I am. But only to prove to you that there’s nothing sinister about it.’ He took out his phone and called the station. ‘Good, you’re still there. Can you run a number plate for me?’ He gave them the number and waited. ‘No, a Peugeot. Try the last two digits round the other … you found it? Who’s it registered to?’ He turned to look at me as he spoke. ‘Craig Laity. No, that’s fine…’
‘Are there any other cars registered to Craig?’ I asked.
‘Hang on. Are there any other cars registered to that owner? … None. No, that’s fine. See you in the morning.’ He disconnected the call. ‘Mystery over. It’s Craig’s car.’
I shook my head vehemently. ‘No, it’s not mystery over at all. Craig’s gone home to … where was it? Oxford? How did he get there if his one and only car is in the garage?’
Withers rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard of them, but there are these things called trains. If you can imagine a big iron horse that runs on rails…’
‘Oh, ha ha. You’re so funny. Where’s the nearest train station?’
He shrugged. ‘I dunno. Bude?’
I tutted. ‘Bude? Get outta here. Exeter, more like. Getting anywhere on the train from down here is a nightmare. Why would you use the train if you had a car? It’s not like he can just pop back and pick it up later. And whose phone was that? It wasn’t Cheryl’s. I tried calling her and it didn’t ring.’
‘All right then, Sherlock, you tell me. Why does Roger Laity have his son’s car in the garage?’
‘Hidden in the garage.’
‘It’s not hidden. You found it so it can’t be.’
I thought about it, then … a eureka moment.
‘I know why.
It’s obvious, innit?’ Withers looked like it was anything but obvious. I smiled. ‘We’ve accepted that Cheryl was having an affair, right? But we haven’t tried to work out who she was having it with.’
Withers looked at me, then pulled a face. ‘Craig? Eww. He’s her cousin.’
‘Not really. He’s Roger’s stepson. They’re only related by marriage.’
‘And by the fact that they grew up together after Cheryl’s parents died. Eww. Again.’
I shook my head. ‘She was fifteen. He must have been about the same age as her. Think of all those raging teenage hormones, thrust together under the same roof. Obviously she’s an adult in those photos, so maybe they only gave in to it when they were older. Maybe it’s been going on for years!’ I was getting a bit overexcited now. ‘They’re not really related, but growing up in the same family does make it a bit yucky. No wonder they kept it a secret. Forbidden lust! In Boscastle!’
Withers laughed. ‘Yeah, all right, there’s no need to go all Fifty Shades on me.’ We looked at each other and I was surprised to see him turn slightly crimson. I could feel my own cheeks going the same way. He laughed again and stood up, striding over to the window so he didn’t have to look at me, which was a relief. ‘So if they were having an affair, then what? Are you saying you think they’ve run away together or something?’
I nodded. ‘They left everything behind so they can start all over again in another part of the country, as two completely different people.’ I sighed before I could stop myself. ‘That’s kind of romantic, really.’
‘Er, yeah, if you say so,’ said Withers, pragmatically. ‘Because starting from absolute scratch is really easy, isn’t it? A new name means you need to get hold of fake ID, you need fake references so you can get a job… It takes a lot of money to start over, and neither of them had any as far as I can tell.’
‘Then there’s a less romantic explanation,’ I said. ‘Craig killed Mel for threatening to spill the beans, and he killed Cheryl for … some reason, and now Roger Laity is hiding him somewhere.Or maybe he’s in Helston with his mum, and that’s why he left his car in Boscastle. Roger is up here trying to get him a fake passport or something so he can leave the country. I bet that’s what was in the sports bag yesterday!’
The DCI looked at me almost admiringly. ‘Oh, you noticed that too, did you? Yes, I wondered about the sports bag. I thought maybe he was off to see his mistress and it was full of … toys.’ We looked at each other and shuddered. ‘But it could have been everything Craig needs to start over somewhere else.’ I nodded.
‘Craig Laity killed Cheryl. Maybe Mel came across him moving her body, so he killed her too.’ I looked at Withers. ‘Roger Laity is sheltering a murderer.’
I accompanied Withers to the front door where he stopped and turned to me with a smile.
‘You’re a regular Columbo, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘I thought I was Magnum P.I.?’ I said. He laughed.
‘Yeah, sorry about that. I didn’t quite know what I was dealing with at the time…’ He looked at me with a frank expression on his face. ‘Look, I’m going to be honest here. Tony is still the most obvious suspect. You know that. But I promise you, I am taking your theory seriously. I’ll put some feelers out about Craig Laity and see if the police in Oxfordshire can track him down.’
‘Was he at the hotel on Saturday when Mel was discovered?’ I asked. ‘It would be interesting to see his statement.’
Withers shook his head. ‘I have no idea,’ he said. ‘There were nearly a hundred guests there plus staff.’ He grinned. ‘And caterers. My DS went through all the statements. I’ll have a look.’
We both jumped as a furry white cannonball smacked excitedly into our legs, almost knocking me off my feet. Withers caught and steadied me, then bent down to stroke Germaine, who had got fed up with being cooped up in the kitchen with Mum and Daisy and come to see who our visitor was. She immediately jumped up and put her paws on his leg, smothering his black trousers in her white hair.
‘Sorry,’ I said, as he brushed at his hairy legs. ‘I’m still getting used to finding dog hair everywhere.’
‘Everywhere?’ he said, raising an eyebrow.
‘Cheeky! Not quite everywhere… That reminds me, I worked out why Tony changed his trousers. They had dog hair on them, didn’t they? He changed them because Cheryl had sent him that text asking him to go and see her after the party, and I remember him telling me she was allergic to dogs, so he put clean ones on. And then when you asked him for the clothes he was wearing that night he just gave you the ones he had on when he went to bed without thinking.’ I grinned at his incredulous face. ‘Am I right?’
Chapter Twenty-Two
I woke the next morning feeling restless. It was only 6am but the sun was already shining through the gap in the curtains, and I could tell it was going to be a lovely day. Weather-wise, at least.
I leapt out of bed (not literally) and made some tea. Daisy normally woke early too, but during the holidays she often stayed in bed reading for a while. Mum was in the spare room again, where she’d finally got out of the habit, ingrained over her and Dad’s working lives, of getting up at the crack of dawn. I probably had the house to myself for a couple of hours. Germaine nuzzled my hand. Apart from the dog, of course.
I opened the back door and let her out into the garden. She was very well house-trained but even after taking her out for a walk round the block before bedtime she would still be waiting by the door with her paws crossed, desperate for a pee first thing in the morning. I was forty years old. I knew how she felt.
I took my tea outside and sat on the wall that separated the garden from the field behind it and, beyond that, the cliffs. Even though there were about ten houses on this street, half of them backing onto the same field, it was always quiet and peaceful out here, even later on in the day, save for the occasional baaing noises of the sheep who were our mutual neighbours. The view was beautiful, but I sat facing the other way – into my garden – and imagined what I could do with the currently uninspiring patch of lawn. I love flowers, but I have a tendency to forget about watering, and then I try to make up for weeks of neglect by drowning them in gallons of the stuff. Surprisingly enough, this never works. I needed to find plants that were hard to kill…
Had Mel been hard to kill?
I didn’t know why that popped into my mind, but it wasn’t a very welcome thought on such a sunny morning. I sipped my tea. It had looked (from my cursory examination of the crime scene anyway, which had been less an examination and more of a quick nosey whilst trying to keep people back until the police arrived) as if Mel had fallen and hit the back of her head on the bench, which I thought would be enough to knock you out. So that could’ve been an accident. But the gash on her forehead told us otherwise. Had someone hit her first, which had made her fall, or had they bashed her in the head while she was down to finish her off? I shivered, despite the sunshine; I could only imagine the fury someone would have to feel to kneel down next to an unconscious or at least incapacitated woman and smash her in the head with … with what? There had been no murder weapon at the scene, but it was obviously some kind of heavy, blunt object. Maybe a rock? There were a few arranged decoratively around the nearby pond. The murderer could have grabbed one as the nearest thing to hand, which would point to it being spontaneous and unplanned. And then maybe they’d thrown the rock back in the water?
Germaine meanwhile was having a grand old time, barking at a straggly yellow plant that had had the temerity to grow in the damp shady spot by the side fence. The nerve of it. She tugged at it, but it sprang back and whacked her in the face so she decided to let it go with just a warning. It knew she was watching it now.
I laughed as I brushed yellow petals off her snout.
‘Leave it alone,’ I said. ‘If it’s misguided enough to want to grow in this garden then it needs help, not digging up.’
I went back inside the house and rewarded Germaine for guarding the
house against threatening-looking weeds with a bowl of doggy biscuits. I made myself some toast and listened to her crunching her way through her breakfast, then turned on the TV. But I couldn’t concentrate; I had metaphorical ants in my pants and couldn’t sit still. I finished eating and jumped in the shower (again, not literally; safety first), then as soon as I heard movement from Daisy’s room I stuck my head around the door and told her I was off to the hotel. I still hadn’t picked up the food left over from the Wedding That Never Was, and I didn’t want that surly hotel chef getting his hands on my organic bangers, so I needed to get over there sharpish.
I left Daisy lying in bed, reading one of Mum’s old Agatha Christie novels to Germaine (who seemed to be enjoying it), and headed to Parkview Manor.
There was no one around when I got to the hotel. It was a bit early for guests to be up and about, if there were any still staying there after the discovery of Mel’s body, which hadn’t been in any of their glossy marketing brochures. I smiled at the receptionist – the same receptionist who had been there on my previous visits – and headed into the kitchen. The chef, Serge, a pale-skinned, dark-haired guy in his early sixties with a completely unplaceable but vaguely Eastern European accent, was just starting to prepare the breakfast buffet. As I entered he glared at me and brandished his spatula in an unsettling manner, but didn’t say anything.
‘I’m just getting my sausages,’ I said placatingly. ‘And the desserts. Give me ten minutes and you’ll never know I was here.’
Serge sniffed (I wasn’t sure if that was meant to suggest that it would take a lot longer than ten minutes for him to forget me and would probably involve counselling, or that I was so insignificant he would have already banished me from his thoughts, had he even bothered to spare me any in the first place) and turned back to his streaky bacon.
I loaded everything back into the plastic crates I’d brought it in just four days ago and staggered back to the Gimpmobile, which was parked and lowering the tone right in front of the steps into the hotel. It took two trips to carry everything, and I wasn’t convinced that I had all the desserts – there seemed to be at least one of each missing, and I suspected that Serge had taken it upon himself to check out the competition and taste them – but that was it. Done. I didn’t need to come back to this blasted hotel ever again.