Her Final Hour

by Rachel Amphlett

  On either side of the road leading to the Farriers Arms, she cast her eyes at the sleepy properties with closed curtains and an air of blissful ignorance of what had been taking place less than quarter of a mile away.

  She turned her attention back to the road as Turpin braked, and blinked at the sight of a council-owned van and two men in high-visibility jackets in conversation on the verge.

  ‘What are they doing?’ she said.

  In response, her colleague jerked his chin at the ladder one of the men had dragged from the back of the van, before manoeuvring around the vehicle. ‘Fixing the broken streetlight by the look of it. They must’ve heard that forensics had finished.’

  Jan swallowed, battening down the surge of sadness that rose in her chest.

  Less than two weeks since Jessica’s murder, and already the circumstances leading to her death were being erased as if it had never happened.

  Turpin glanced across at her, braking as he followed the patrol car into the Farriers Arms car park and blocked in the old four-by-four owned by Noah Collins. ‘Life goes on, Jan. You know that.’

  ‘I know. It’s just – well, if we hadn’t brought Morgan Drake in for questioning, we might never have known why she died, would we?’

  ‘But here we are.’ He tugged the key from the ignition and opened his door. ‘Let me and the others go in ahead, all right? Just in case.’

  ‘Stab vest?’

  ‘If you’re happier wearing it, put it on.’

  She reached behind his seat, and wrapped her fingers around the bulky armoured material, then stepped out of the car and lifted it over her head.

  The two uniformed constables they’d hand-picked from those available on roster walked across to where she and Turpin stood, and the older one jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the pub.

  ‘Is there a back door to the accommodation?’ he said.

  ‘There’s a side door,’ said Jan. She peered at the upstairs windows, but there was no movement; no twitch of curtains to suggest their early morning arrival had been noticed by the two occupants. ‘It faces the car park along there. The back door leads into the kitchen.’

  ‘All right. Well, we’re ready when you are.’

  ‘I’ll wait by the front door in case anyone tries to come out that way,’ she said. ‘What about the kitchen exit?’

  ‘We’ll have to risk it,’ said Turpin. ‘We’ve blocked in their four-by-four, so they’re not going to get far if they try to make a run for it.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘See you in a minute.’ He waved over his shoulder as he walked away with the two constables.

  Exhaling, Jan watched around the corner of the pub as he hammered on the side door and announced their arrival.

  The sound of movement in the room above her head caught her attention, and she looked up to see Sonia Collins peeking through a gap in the curtains at the vehicles below, her eyes wide.

  ‘Got you,’ Jan said under her breath.

  The curtains fell back into place, and she heard raised voices before footsteps hammered across the centuries-old floorboards.

  Moments later, the side door was jerked open, and Noah Collins’ indignant voice carried to where she stood.

  ‘What the bloody hell’s going on? It’s half past six in the morning.’

  Turpin’s calm voice followed, explaining to the publican that he was required to come to the police station for questioning, and then reciting the formal caution.

  She didn’t catch Noah’s response, but the context was one of bewilderment followed by anger as the two constables led him to the waiting patrol car and drove away.

  A second patrol car slewed into the car park before she could turn her attention back to the pub, the passenger climbing out and hurrying across to her while Sonia’s indignant tones carried from the confines of the bar.

  ‘Sorry for the delay, ma’am,’ said the female police constable, raising an eyebrow as Sonia’s voice reached a crescendo. ‘We were stuck behind a string of racehorses, until Rick remembered a shortcut.’

  Jan shook her head. ‘No problem. You all right to take her in?’

  ‘Will do. Have you already got the husband?’

  ‘He was in the car that just left.’

  They turned as Turpin appeared at the side door, his hand on Sonia Collins’ arm.

  The woman’s expression was one of pure fury as he passed her over to the police constable.

  ‘How did it go?’

  He grinned and watched the second patrol car leave the car park. ‘She was worse than him. Right, I’ve got the keys to the place, so I’ll lock up and then we’ll head back.’

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘If Drake is lying – if Noah and Sonia aren’t our killers – then we don’t want to tip off the real killer, do we?’ she said.

  ‘Right… so––’

  ‘We need the pub to open and trade as normal today,’ she said.

  ‘What have you got in mind?’

  She held up her mobile phone. ‘Let me make a phone call. You head back and do the interviews – I’ll hold the fort here.’

  He frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ She winked. ‘Trust me.’

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Noah Collins’ mouth twisted into a sneer as Mark entered the interview room behind Alex, turned to his solicitor and murmured under his breath.

  William Hawsey, a man in his early fifties with a sanguine complexion, turned to both detectives as they sat opposite. ‘My client demands to know why he’s been brought here. He has a business to run.’

  ‘Hold your horses,’ said Mark. ‘We’re not discussing anything until we’ve started properly.’

  Alex recited the formal caution, and then sat back in his seat, pen poised over his notebook.

  ‘For the purposes of the recording,’ said Mark, ‘we have Detective Sergeant Mark Turpin, Detective Constable Alex McClellan, Mr Noah Collins, and––’

  ‘William Hawsey; Hawsey and Wainwright Solicitors.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He folded his hands. ‘Mr Collins, perhaps you could start by confirming your place of work?’

  Noah rolled his eyes, then sighed. ‘I’m the licensee of the Farriers Arms pub in Harton Wick.’

  ‘How long have you been there?’

  ‘Since 2017.’

  ‘And you run the Farriers Arms on behalf of its owner, Morgan Drake, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How often does Mr Drake visit the pub?’

  Noah shrugged. ‘Once or twice a month. Maybe less sometimes.’

  ‘What do you discuss when he visits?’

  ‘Ideas for marketing, any issues we might have – things like that.’

  ‘Do you need his permission to change anything in the day-to-day running of the business?’

  ‘No. He pays me to do that.’

  ‘So, you’re in charge of everything that goes on under that roof?’

  Eyes narrowing, Noah raised his hands and picked at a ragged thumbnail while he eyed Mark. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Right.’ Mark opened the folder on the table under his elbow and pulled out copies of Jessica’s drawings. ‘Ever seen these before?’

  A vein began to pulse in Noah’s neck. ‘No.’

  ‘Jessica Marley drew these. We found her sketchbook at her mum and dad’s. She was a very gifted artist – lots of landscape drawings, things like Waylands Smithy, Donnington Castle. You get the idea. Mind you, she only started drawing these particular ones four months ago. Look – you’re in this one.’

  Mark spun around the sketch and jabbed his forefinger at the figure behind the bar.

  Noah’s solicitor frowned, his ruddy cheeks darkening as he scrawled a frantic note to himself, and then glanced sideways at his client.

  The publican remained silent, his jaw clenched.

  ‘Now, I recognise you and I reckon this bloke here is Nigel White – but who’s he ta
lking to, Noah?’

  ‘I’ve got no idea.’

  ‘No? All right. What about the man in this sketch? I presume that’s a woman he’s talking to – we can’t see her face, but you can tell from the hair, can’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Noah folded his arms, affecting a bored tone. ‘Is there a point to this, Detective Turpin?’

  ‘Funny you should ask.’ Mark turned all of the pictures around to face Noah and his solicitor, then pointed at each in turn. ‘Notice how every drawing Jessica made included the date and time. Now, I’m no expert, Mr Collins – after all, you’re the licensee – but aren’t you meant to stop serving by eleven o’clock at the Farriers Arms? It seems to me these people are drinking well after midnight. On a Monday, too, which is unusual in itself. Can you provide us with documentary evidence to support successful applications for a Temporary Event Notice for these dates under the Licensing Act 2003?’

  ‘I’d have to check the filing cabinet in the office,’ said Noah.

  ‘Good to know.’ Mark turned to his colleague. ‘Alex, would you mind passing on that message to DC West and the search team at the Farriers Arms?’

  The publican’s face turned white at the sight of Alex shoving his chair back. ‘Wait.’

  Mark cocked an eyebrow at him.

  Noah’s solicitor rested a hand on his client’s arm, then turned to the two detectives. ‘What my client will state is that his wife, Sonia, is responsible for all paperwork for the premises. If there is any indication of oversight in relation to licences, then you’ll need to speak to her.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry – we will.’ Mark waited until Alex retook his seat before focusing on the man in front of him once more. ‘Was it her idea to kill Jessica, or yours?’

  ‘Detective, that is preposterous,’ said Hawsey, his face reddening further. ‘Unless you have evidence to suggest––’

  ‘Did you, Noah?’ Mark leaned forward. ‘Did you make her stay late that night on the pretence of clearing up after you stopped the poker match early? Did you do that because you heard her discussing the matches with Nigel White?’

  ‘No comment.’ Noah glared, rubbing a thumb over clasped hands that bobbed up and down on the table.

  ‘What did you use to kill her with? That big hammer you keep in the cellar to knock taps and spiles into the barrels? Our forensic team are analysing that for traces of her blood, you know. What about one of those meat tenderisers that Sonia keeps in the kitchen? We’ve got those too, by the way.’

  He could hear the publican’s teeth grinding from where he sat, but still the man said nothing.

  ‘She wasn’t dead,’ said Mark.

  ‘What?’

  Mark picked up each of Jessica’s drawings in turn, placing them into the manila folder before slapping it shut. He pushed back his chair, and eyed the man before him.

  ‘She wasn’t dead, Noah. You hit her over the head, but it wasn’t enough to kill her straight away. You could’ve taken her to the hospital, or phoned for help. Instead, you took her to the gallops and left her to die.’

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Mark leaned against the wall of the corridor, exchanged files with Caroline, and read through the interview questions he’d devised with Kennedy’s input that morning.

  ‘How did it go, Sarge?’ she said.

  ‘He’s not admitting to anything,’ said Alex. He shoved his hands in his pockets and assumed a similar posture to Mark’s as he waited for him to finish reading. ‘And he’s trying to blame his wife for the “oversight” with regard to the licensing for the games.’

  Caroline wrinkled her nose. ‘Doesn’t matter who applied for it. They’d have never been granted one for the sort of money that was exchanging hands there. What did he have to say about killing Jessica and Nigel?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Mark. ‘But I think we hit a nerve when I told him Jessica was still breathing when he dumped her body on the gallops.’

  ‘Do you think he meant to kill her?’

  He slapped the folder shut and tapped it against his leg. ‘I don’t know. I’d have said maybe, but then he – or his wife – went on to kill Nigel and tried to make it look like a suicide. That doesn’t convey remorse, does it? Are you ready, Alex?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘Come on then. Let’s see what Mrs Collins has to say for herself.’

  Sonia Collins had chosen a solicitor from a firm in Banbury, a woman who peered over reading glasses as the two detectives sat, and handed over her card, introducing herself as Michelle Yates.

  ‘Thank you, Ms Yates,’ said Mark once the formal caution had been recited. Tucking the card under the folder, he drummed his fingers on the surface while eyeing her client.

  ‘How long have you been married to Noah, Sonia?’

  ‘Six years.’

  ‘Happy?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Business doing well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. So, at what point did you decide you needed some extra income and start up the illegal poker matches?’

  Sonia blinked, green eyes boring into his with a ferocity he hadn’t seen in her husband. ‘I don’t know what you’re––’

  ‘Enough of the bullshit, Sonia.’ Mark pulled out the drawings from the folder, sifting through them until he found one from three months ago. He shoved it across the table so it landed between the two women. ‘That’s you, isn’t it? Standing under the clock, talking to the man with his back to us. Who is he?’

  ‘I don’t know – we’re always busy serving in the evenings. He could be anyone.’

  ‘Look at the time, Sonia. Since when does the Farriers Arms serve food at one in the morning?’

  Another blink.

  ‘What are the names of the players? Who turned up for these events?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Your husband said you’re responsible for the licensing arrangements in the pub. Seems to me you like to take charge. Did you kill Jessica Marley as well?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who did? Who attacked her in the lane between the pub and her parents’ house, and then took her body up to the gallops?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Mark shrugged. ‘We have a forensic team at the Farriers Arms at the moment––’

  ‘Do you have a warrant?’ said the solicitor. ‘I don’t believe my client has granted permission––’

  ‘The last time I looked, your client wasn’t the owner,’ said Mark. ‘Morgan Drake is giving us his full cooperation.’

  Sonia snorted, and crossed her arms over her chest. ‘He would, wouldn’t he? Can’t help sticking his nose in.’

  ‘Care to elaborate?’ said Mark, then smiled as she glared at him. ‘All right – Nigel White. Why did you kill him?’

  A tic began to twitch under her left eye.

  ‘You lured him to his house, where you strangled him, then strung him up to make it look like he killed himself. Or was that Noah’s work?’

  Sonia turned and murmured to her solicitor.

  The woman inclined her head for a moment, then raised her gaze to Mark. ‘My client would like assurances that anything she tells you won’t be repeated to her husband. She’s afraid of him.’

  Ignoring his heart rate ratcheting up, Mark took a deep breath before answering. ‘We’ll do our best, but we reserve the right to use any information you give us in order to form further questions for Noah Collins.’

  ‘I take it from the expression on your face that it’s not going well?’ Kennedy tossed his pen onto the desk, where it bounced off the surface and landed on his computer keyboard. ‘Did you and Alex get anything useful from them?’

  ‘Sonia has indicated she’s scared of her husband.’ Mark ran a hand over his head. ‘I’m still inclined to think she’s the one wearing the trousers in that relationship, though. When we put our questions to her, she looked bored for the most part. If she was innocent, I’d have expected more emotion from her.’

>   ‘Well, the forensics team arrived at the pub half an hour ago.’ Kennedy paused to check his watch. ‘It’s an hour until opening time for the lunch session. What do you want to do?’

  ‘Jan is there at the moment, and Bethany Myers agreed to come in and run the bar so we can keep up appearances with the locals. I’d like to see what the search team finds before we question Noah and Sonia Collins again – neither of them is going to admit to killing Jessica and Nigel if we don’t find something to corroborate Morgan Drake’s information. Jessica’s sketches are nowhere near enough – the CPS won’t touch it.’

  Kennedy retrieved his pen and scrawled a note. ‘I’ll approve the additional time to hold them both today. You’re right, though – we’ll need something more before I can get a magistrate to agree to a further extension for questioning.’

  Mark chewed his lip, then glanced down as his mobile phone vibrated.

  He smiled as he read the text message from Jan and turned his attention back to Kennedy.

  ‘Guv – just a thought, but it’s quite apparent from what we’ve heard so far that the poker tournament went ahead last week. None of the participants appears to have baulked at the fact there have been two murders, which goes to show the sort of people we’re dealing with.’

  ‘Not to mention the sort of money involved.’

  ‘Exactly. So, we might be able to take advantage of that, right?’

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Jan peered through the net curtains at the window of the flat above the Farriers Arms, her figure silhouetted by the pale light from a streetlamp in the lane beyond.

  She turned away from the view and yawned, Turpin following suit before taking a sip from the can of energy drink he’d bought from the bar downstairs half an hour ago.

  Bethany was managing the pub into the late hours after refusing to go home.

  ‘I know this place as well as Noah and Sonia,’ she’d said. ‘You can’t do this without me.’

  Jan smiled at the memory. The teenager had been right, of course.

  Bethany had arranged with Jan that if anyone turned up expecting food, she would tell them that Noah and Sonia had been called away for a family emergency and were expected back later that evening.