‘What kind of reputation?’
Jon pulled a face. ‘First Anthony Ferguson, now Daryl Bailey. What’s this all about?’
‘What kind of reputation?’ she repeated.
He smiled, but it quickly faded. ‘There was a scandal, years back: something to do with him and an underage girl.’
‘What happened?’
Jon scratched the stubble round his chin. ‘He was rumoured to have been sexually involved with a teenage fan. Apparently Daryl Bailey likes women who haven’t had too many birthdays. Don’t get me wrong, nothing was ever proved, and the matter was never made official, but it was rumoured that it cost him his job.’ Jon gave a cynical laugh. ‘Whatever the case, Bailey hasn’t worked in professional football since.’
‘I don’t remember reading about this.’ She took another sip of wine. ‘When did it happen?’
He stretched out on the chaise longue, resting his head on its arm. Molly could hear the elderly settee creaking beneath his weight. ‘About ten years ago, or thereabouts. The club paid everyone off: the girl in question, her parents. Even the press.’
‘The press were paid off?’
‘Either paid off or threatened with libel.’
‘Libel? How could it be libellous if it was true?’
He laughed again. ‘Don’t be naïve, Molly. If no one is going to corroborate the story then legally the press were on dodgy ground.’ He knocked back some wine. ‘You’d be surprised how often that happens.’
‘Why didn’t the girl report the matter to the police?’
He gave another throaty chuckle. ‘You’d have to ask her that.’
Molly thought the whole thing stank of something rotten. She wasn’t sure who she blamed more: Bailey for being a pervert; the club for covering it up; the press for going along with it, or the girl herself – either she had deliberately lied to extort money from a gullible fool with more cash than brain cells, or she had betrayed herself and every other female victim of sexual exploitation by selling out. In much the same way, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking, as Melanie Harris had sold out by agreeing to drop her harassment case against Jon: the same Jon who was sitting opposite her now, whose attitude seemed to suggest that the idea of older men harassing young women was a source of amusement.
‘What was the girl’s name?’
Jon’s voice rose an octave. ‘You really expect me to remember? It was years ago and I wasn’t involved with the story.’ He cast her a teasing smile. ‘You could always ask your mate Magda; she worked that particular story at the time. I’m sure she’ll be able to recall the specific details.’
Mags. He’d mentioned the magenta-haired elephant hiding in full view in the middle of their living room. Molly was tired and her head was throbbing because of the heat and the wine and the dozen crazy thoughts currently bouncing round her over-worked brain.
‘Who was Melanie Harris?’ The words were out of her mouth before she’d had a chance to consider their impact.
‘What the fuck…?’ Jon sat up abruptly. The sudden change in weight distribution caused the chaise longue to creak to near breaking point. ‘Why do I suddenly feel like I’m being interrogated, DS Fisher? I thought you left the job at work.’
‘According to Mags, Melanie Harris was a young woman you harassed when you worked at the Echo, around twelve years ago.’
Jon laughed, but it sounded slightly forced. ‘I don’t know what this shit is about. I told you not to believe a word that lying bitch Magda tells you, but clearly you want to believe her. Or, I dunno, maybe you want to impress her. “Yes, Mags: let’s slag off Jon behind his back because he’s a man and men are easy targets.” Especially when we’re not there to defend ourselves.’ He shook his head then looked over at her; his puppy-dog eyes searching her face for an apology. ‘Molly, I don’t know anyone called Melanie Harris. And even if I did, I certainly never “harassed” her, as Mags puts it. Why are you so willing to believe this tosh Mags has been filling your head with? Christ, Molly, if you really want to make it into Homicide and Serious Crime you’re going to have to recognise when someone’s playing you for a mug.’
It was a viscous and fulsome rebuttal; cruel and personal, but Molly wasn’t prepared to walk away from this fight with her tail between her legs. ‘OK, why would she lie?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? She’s jealous. She’s jealous of what we’ve got and wants to split us up.’ He took a deep breath and held his head in his hands. After a moment, he looked up and said, ‘Mags is a bitter woman. All right, I admit, we had a bit of a fling years ago and I binned her off because she was bonkers. She’s obviously never got over it, and this is her pathetic way of trying to get her own back.’
He climbed off the chaise longue and padded through to the kitchen. She could hear him clattering around in there, taking plates out of cupboards and banging them down on the worktop with a heavy thud. She was sure she heard the sound of glass breaking.
She’d been unfair, throwing the accusation at Jon without first getting the full story, or at the very least his version of it. She’d put money on Mags having lied, no doubt pursuing her own nasty agenda, and maybe Jon was right about it being all borne out of spite. But she was thrown by Jon’s reaction: part indignation and part something else… guilt? He had lied about his fling, as he called it, with Mags. What else was there?
There was more banging and crashing from the kitchen, then silence. She heard the back door open and close.
She asked herself what had happened to her relationship. What had happened to the man she’d fallen in love with, who used to make her laugh and make them breakfast in bed on rare days off? Losing his job had changed him, as it did for so many men who suddenly lost their purpose in life and then struggled to find a place in the world that ensured their role in the pack. But perhaps it was more than that? Perhaps this was the real Jon, and it was only now that the rose-tinted spectacles had dropped that reality was glaring back at her.
She briefly considered packing a bag and leaving, but why should she leave her home, and besides, where would she go? The last time she’d heard from her brother, he was living in Clapham, sharing a flat with five others in what had to be insanitary and probably illegal conditions. She had few close friends, apart from Trudi, but even that would be calling in a favour too far.
And anyway, why should she leave? It was her home, even though it was in Jon’s name. Sitting back in the armchair, she finished her wine with a large gulp and thought through her options. With a heavy heart, she felt a sense of doors closing.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sheldon House was a modern office block of soft brick and tinted windows which sat in the shadow of the angular, glass monolith that was the Shard. According to the polished brass nameplate by the front door, Marsden Developments was on the fourth floor.
Denning pressed the intercom and announced himself to the disembodied female voice that answered. A moment later he pushed open the glass door as soon as it buzzed.
He’d done his homework: Marsden Developments had started up just over two years ago. Marsden himself was a former builder who renovated derelict properties as a hobby before realising just how lucrative such a hobby could be. He now specialised in turning unused and derelict buildings into stylish homes for the very rich. The Marsden Developments website gave little away about Marsden himself; with the exception of a couple of photographs of him smiling for the camera, dressed in an expensive suit. There were few details beyond the basic biography. A PNC check had failed to throw up anything of interest, not even a speeding fine.
Denning took the lift to the fourth floor. The building felt new and clean and totally impersonal. A bit like Marsden himself, thought Denning. He chided himself for being unfair. He wanted to keep an open mind when it came to his ex-wife’s new boyfriend, or at least try to.
The lift doors opened on the fourth floor. A frosted glass door directly opposite the lift had the words ‘Marsden Development’ engraved on i
t.
The outer office was a small but tastefully decorated reception area. A couple of Italian leather sofas sat in the corner by the window, and large, abstract pictures adorned two of the walls. There was a decent-sized blond-wood desk opposite the door, behind which an attractive young brunette sat tapping away at a keyboard. She looked up when Denning entered the room and greeted him with a friendly smile. ‘Mr Denning, is it? I’ll just let Mr Marsden know you’re here.’ It was the same voice that had buzzed him into the building a couple of minutes earlier: light and cheery with a hint of estuary. She knocked on a door opposite her desk, announced his name, then, with the same anodyne smile still pinned to her face, asked Denning to go through.
Marsden’s office was smart and well-appointed. It occupied a corner of the fourth floor, with two large windows. The view from one of them was dominated by the Shard; light dancing off its spire. The office was decorated in a similar manner to the reception area though occupying more space, with trendy, Scandinavian furniture and another large Italian leather sofa beside one of the windows. Marsden sat behind a large glass desk, on which there was only a laptop, phone and black angle poise lamp. He stood up and shook Denning’s hand. ‘Can Alison get you anything to drink: tea, coffee?’
Denning declined. He didn’t want this to feel like a social visit.
‘Take a seat.’ Marsden indicated one of the padded chairs on the other side of his desk.
Denning sat down. He tried to appear relaxed, casual, but he could feel his heart thumping more than was comfortable.
Marsden, by contrast, looked unflappably cool. He was dressed similarly to the first time they’d met: a pale grey linen jacket, expensive jeans and a Ralph Lauren black and grey shirt, open at the neck.
‘I take it this is about Claire,’ he guessed. ‘Unless you’re thinking about buying a new flat…’
He smiled, and pointed at a large board on the wall behind the office door, which Denning hadn’t noticed when he’d entered the office. There were shiny photographs of warehouses, pubs and a former hospital, all now transformed into luxury apartments, not too dissimilar to the smart warehouse conversion Denning now called home, courtesy of his second wife’s income. There was even a photograph of an old church, next to which were some computer-generated mock-ups of what Marsden had planned for the building: sleek and trendy flats, with state-of-the-art kitchens, wooden floors and lots of exposed brickwork.
‘It’s about Claire,’ Denning said, ‘but it’s also about Jake. I don’t want him being used as an emotional football between myself and Claire.’
Marsden offered a cheesy grin. ‘You want to know if my intentions are honourable?’ He smiled again; showing even, white teeth that were more than likely capped. ‘Seriously, Matt, you don’t have anything to worry about. I’m very fond of both Claire and Jake, and whatever happens, I’ve got no plans to take your son away from you; that’s just not what I’m about.’
He sounded plausible, but there was still something about him Denning just didn’t feel comfortable with. ‘What exactly are you about, Alan?’ It felt strange calling him by his first name, as though they were old friends, but Marsden clearly felt comfortable calling him Matt.
If Marsden was taken aback by Denning’s abruptness, he didn’t let it show. ‘Look, Matt: I’m very fond of Claire. OK, it’s still early days, but I think we’ve got a future together. And I accept she had a life before we met. Two people don’t get together at our ages without there being some baggage, but I have no problems with that.’
Denning bristled slightly at being referred to as ‘baggage’, but he didn’t let it show. ‘What about yourself, Alan? What “baggage” do you bring with you?’
There was a ping from Marsden’s laptop, suggesting an email had come through. His eyes briefly left Denning to glance at the screen. A slight furrow momentarily wrinkled his forehead, before his steady gaze returned to Denning. ‘I’m an open book, Matt: divorced, childless… hard-working.’
‘Why did your marriage end?’ Denning knew the question probably sounded impertinent, and he expected Marsden to tell him it was none of his business.
Instead, Marsden offered him another smile. ‘It seems my ex-wife Angie preferred youth over experience: she left me for a younger man. After my ego got over the bruising, we agreed to be grown up about things. I let her keep the house, while I decided to focus on building up my business. Meeting Claire was fortuitous but not planned.’ Marsden leant on the glass desktop. ‘She told me very early on that she was divorced with a young son. I’ve always wanted kids, so having Jake in my life is a bonus.’
A bonus, thought Denning; his son was more than that.
‘You know about Jake, don’t you?’ Denning asked.
Marsden nodded. ‘ADHD, right? And mild autism? Yes, Claire told me. He’s a good kid. OK, sometimes he plays up, and it took him a while to fully accept me being a part of his mum’s life, but we’re good now. I love Jakey like he’s my own kid.’
The words bit into Denning. Jake was his kid, and Jakey his pet name for him. He could feel his temple start to throb very slightly. Part of him wanted to reach over the glass desk and punch Marsden’s smug, tanned face, but the man was guilty of nothing more than acting in loco parentis for Denning’s son when he wasn’t around, which was more often than Denning would like.
‘Look, I’m not entirely sure why I came round here today.’ Denning could feel the throbbing in his temple slowly start to recede. ‘I just want to make sure Jake is OK with everything. He doesn’t like change.’ He paused, before adding: ‘And I suppose I want to make sure Claire isn’t going to get hurt.’ He nearly added again but that would have meant acknowledging his own role in his ex-wife’s hurt. But no doubt Claire had already filled Marsden in on the reasons that lay behind their divorce; likely dumping most of the blame on Denning’s doorstep, perhaps not unreasonably…
Marsden’s eyes briefly flicked back to the laptop screen, this time lingering there for a good couple of seconds. ‘I don’t want to be rude, Matt, but I’ve actually got quite a lot on today. And you must have your hands full, with two murders to deal with. But, yeah, we should all go out for dinner sometime. Obviously bring Sandra along too.’
‘Sarah,’ Denning corrected. He had an uncomfortable feeling Sarah would get on well with the uber-smooth, financially successful Alan Marsden: they’d likely spend the evening discussing their investment portfolios.
‘Sure,’ Marsden replied, ‘somewhere expensive. On me.’
Denning smiled and made his way out of the office. He glanced round at Marsden before heading through the door, but he was engrossed in the contents of his last email: the time he’d allocated for Denning was already up.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Molly googled the name Daryl Bailey, but there was no mention of him and any underage girls, just a rather bland Wikipedia page outlining his sporting achievements and how he had missed out on playing for England whilst still in his twenties. There were a couple of tabloid features from years back, and a stream of photos of Bailey in his prime, all designer stubble and white teeth. There was little about his private life beyond a passing mention that he was divorced. According to the Wikipedia article, Bailey now worked with ‘youth football teams in east London’.
She suspected that if the internet had ever contained anything incriminating about Daryl Bailey, he would have had it removed by now. There had been a number of cases where people had requested internet search providers to remove any information they didn’t want in the public domain. Anything controversial, like links to underage sex, would certainly have been damaging to his career, assuming there was any truth in the rumours. And if the rumours were true, then what else could he be guilty of?
The obvious answer was to speak to Mags again.
She dug her phone out her bag and scrolled down the contacts list until she came to Magda’s name. But did she really want to speak to Mags? Did she even trust her?
Her finger
hovered over the call button for a moment before she made the call.
Part of her was relieved when it went straight to voicemail. She left a message asking to meet, but even as she spoke she felt her stomach grip with self-doubt. Magda Kilbride was a hornets’ nest that was best left unpoked. Contacting her again would likely lead to more trouble; more lies about Jon; more arguments.
She was startled when, a moment later, her phone tinkled a giddy tune indicating a text message: Magda Kilbride had agreed to meet her.
* * *
McKenna was doing her desk-drumming thing again. Denning suspected she was unaware she was doing it; a subconscious action that expressed some internalised anxiety she would never dream of expressing openly. It was almost endearing.
‘Can we officially rule Kane out of the Leanne Wyatt murder now?’ she asked.
‘Even if he’s telling the truth about meeting her to sell her some gear, there’s nothing to say that he didn’t meet her again afterwards,’ Denning said. ‘And he’s pretty keen to point the finger at Bailey, almost as though he’s trying to throw us off the scent.’
‘Doesn’t mean he murdered her though. Where’s his motive?’
Denning gave an exasperated shake of the head. ‘OK. I’m beginning to think Kane may be innocent of this. But until we have concrete proof to the contrary, he’s not completely off the hook.’
McKenna shrugged. ‘My honest opinion, Matt: forget Kane. He’s trouble and he’s nasty, but I don’t think he murdered Leanne. I don’t want him becoming a distraction. It’s likely he’s going down anyway: hopefully for manslaughter, certainly for dealing. Either way, let CID clean this particular mess up. We’ve got enough on our plates with two unsolved murders crying out for attention.’
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Denning’s mind kept returning to Marsden; his smooth-tongued confidence and general air of ease. There was something about him he just couldn’t put his finger on.
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