Chapter Nine
Tim Yates was sitting at his desk. As usual, it was tidy, but his in-tray was packed tight with documents that required his sign-off (top shelf) and documents that he ought to read (bottom shelf). He sighed. This morning, City of Peterborough Police and South Lincolnshire Police had joined forces to carry out a fingertip search of the woods that surrounded Claudia McRae’s house. He was impatient to get results and hated being chained to paperwork. He debated whether he should join them, and decided that he would compromise; he would work on the top in-tray until lunchtime and then drive out to Helpston.
He drew out the first set of papers and started work, but he felt restless and after five minutes got up and began walking around his office, at first aimlessly. Eventually he gravitated towards the window and looked out. The police station, a late Victorian building that resembled a mini version of Lincoln Gaol crossed with Tattershall Castle, stood black and minatory at the head of the Sheep Market, so that he had a clear view of the whole of the triangle that had originally been the market. The latter had now been adapted to serve as a shopping area and car park. As a historian, he was curious to know why the nineteenth-century inhabitants of the small, law-abiding, prosperous market town had decided that they needed such a forbidding symbol of law and order as this grim building to be erected at their expense. What was even more curious was that the police station at Boston was identical.
He had often noticed that people were still intimidated by the exterior of the building. Pedestrians tended to hurry past it. Few passers-by felt impelled to look up at its windows. If they did, the windows themselves were set so deep into the walls that it was impossible to tell if someone was staring back out at them, which was unnerving; and, in his opinion rather absurdly, all of the windows, even the ones on the second and third floors, were barred. Nor were ordinary members of the public encouraged to penetrate to the interior of the building. People reporting lost keys, missing dogs and stolen bicycles were required to ring a bell set in a side wall and talk through a hatch to a duty officer.
Today was not a market day and it was still early. A few people could be seen passing, hastening to work; the occasional car made its way slowly around the large car park that now occupied the whole space of what had once been the circular animal auctioning area and disappeared. The car park itself was all but deserted.
A public toilet had been built at the extremity of the car park furthest from the police station. It was a 1950s concrete structure, squat and ugly. As Tim’s eye played idly over the whole scene, he noticed someone lurking at the corner of the toilet block. Whoever it was stood motionless, hands in pockets. Tim squinted to get a better view. It was a thick-set man, dressed unremarkably in jeans, an anorak and trainers. He was wearing a woollen hat with the hood of the anorak pulled over it, so that his face was obscured in shadow. There was nothing in the least unusual in his appearance, but his behaviour was strange. What struck Tim was that the man’s eyes were fixed permanently on the police station. He never changed his line of vision, never dropped his gaze to the ground.
DC Juliet Armstrong knocked and entered the room.
“Good morning, Juliet. Could you just come over here a minute?”
She raised her eyebrows, but did as he asked.
“Do you see that bloke over there – by the toilet block? Have you seen him before?”
Juliet stepped past him to the window and peered out across the market square.
“I can’t see very well without my specs – but I don’t think whoever it was is still there. Do you mean him?” She added, pointing at a figure that was walking rapidly away from the toilet block, and about to disappear from sight. He was holding a mobile phone to one ear.
“I guess I do,” said Tim. “I thought he looked suspicious, but perhaps not. Just my warped mind dreaming up conspiracy theories!”
Juliet smiled. There was no denying that Tim could be over-imaginative.
“I came to tell you that Ms Halliwell is here, sir, and would like to see you if you can spare the time.”
“Do you mean Jane Halliwell? How did you manage to conjure her up? You can’t be serious about if I can ‘spare the time’! She’s probably top of my list of people to talk to in the McRae case, now that we appear to have got all we can from the nephew. But I thought that she was on holiday abroad, and unreachable?”
“Apparently only the first part of her holiday involved cruising up and down the Norwegian fjords, and she reached dry land again yesterday. The second part of it was to have been spent in Oslo, but someone texted her about Claudia McRae’s disappearance and she came home as soon as she could get a flight. She seems very distressed – and she seems nice, too. It would be kind to see her.”
“Yes, of course I’ll see her. Give me five minutes and bring her in, will you?”
“In here, sir, rather than one of the interview rooms?”
“Certainly in here. She isn’t a criminal, is she? And, Juliet, I’m sure she’d like some proper coffee.”
Tim flushed as he said it.
“You should be ashamed of yourself!” said Juliet as she made her exit. But he noted that she was laughing.
Jane Halliwell, when she arrived, was very pretty, in a timeless sort of way, and elegant. Tim could think of no other words to describe her. Immaculate, perhaps. He was surprised. She was of medium height, with brown eyes and a heart-shaped face that wore rather a sweet expression, although at the moment it was quite troubled and her eyes looked pink. She had probably been crying. Her thickish blonde hair was styled in an immaculate shining bob. She wore a well-pressed light wool suit in some neutral shade – taupe, he believed it was called – with black patent leather accessories. Her clothes looked expensive in an understated way.
Tim had learnt from Guy Maichment that Jane kept Claudia’s house and her affairs in good order, so he had not expected the paid companion to be large, untidy and undomesticated, which was how everyone who knew Claudia seemed to describe the archaeologist: rather the opposite. But he certainly didn’t think that Jane would be . . . well, glamorous. A stick-thin, meek little woman with mousy hair turning grey would have fitted his notion of a woman in her line of work exactly. His next thought, one that leapt unbidden into his mind, was that this woman didn’t look like a lesbian. He chided himself mentally for his prejudice, but he did allow himself to wonder why Jane seemed so well-to-do.
“Ms Halliwell, thank you for coming. Please take a seat,” he added, after they had shaken hands. Her hand was small, the bones so delicate that he was afraid of crushing them. He gestured towards one of the four chairs placed at his meeting table and emerged from behind the desk to claim one of the others, pausing on his way to pull out her chair for Jane. She inclined her head slightly. She was clearly accustomed to such minor attentions. “I’m DI Yates. I’m in charge of the enquiry into Dame Claudia’s disappearance.”
Jane Halliwell may not have been meek, but she did present herself as being rather engagingly nervous. She gave a little start at the word ‘disappearance’, and looked up at him with her limpid brown eyes. She clasped both her hands together, then dropped them down on to her lap.
“I really cannot believe that this has happened,” she said. “I feel as if I’m living in a nightmare. Tell me, Detective Inspector,” she said, reaching across the table to place her hand on his arm in a confidential manner, “do you have any idea – any idea at all – of who might have done this?”
“Might have done what, Ms Halliwell? We are not certain yet that a crime has been committed, or indeed that a third party was involved.”
“Oh, but Guy said . . .” She halted suddenly. Her hand flew to her lips. “Oh dear, I’m afraid that that was indiscreet. You probably told him not to discuss it with me, didn’t you? Don’t go blaming him; it was my own fault entirely. He said that he didn’t want to gossip about it, but of course I felt I needed to kno
w as much as possible. Please don’t tell him that I gave him away.”
“Have you already seen Mr Maichment?” Tim asked. “DC Armstrong told me that you had come straight here from the airport.”
“I have, but Guy was kind enough to offer to pick me up. As you can imagine, it was impossible for us to avoid the subject – impossible to concentrate on anything else, actually.”
“I can imagine,” said Tim, “and I have no objection to your knowing details that we aren’t releasing to the Press. But if, as you imply, Mr Maichment is being less discreet than we have very strongly advised him to be, we may have to see him again and convey the message somewhat more forcefully. I hope that this won’t go any further than yourself. I must emphasise that disclosure of all but the bare facts could jeopardise Dame Claudia’s safety and that it is best to say as little as possible to anyone until we have located her. I shall have someone get in touch with Mr Maichment to reinforce this. Is he waiting for you outside?”
“No. He had to go on. I told him that I would take a taxi back to the cottage. I’m sure that you won’t need to tick him off. He is perfectly aware of the gravity of the situation and devoted to Claudia, as I’m sure you have already found out. It would also be a kindness to spare me his wrath,” she added, somewhat imploringly.
“A taxi all the way to Helpston would be expensive, but I’m afraid that it won’t be possible for you to return to the cottage at the moment. It has to be kept intact as a possible crime scene. Of course I shall be asking you to accompany me there at some point – perhaps later today, if you are not too tired – to see whether you think that anything is missing or there is something unusual you can spot. In the meantime, is there somewhere you can stay? If not, we shall have to ask you to check into a hotel.”
“I don’t have many friends of my own living in this area. Of course I know some of Claudia’s acquaintances, but they are mostly quite elderly and I should feel uncomfortable imposing myself on them. I guess it will have to be an hotel, therefore. I’d rather that it were closer to Helpston than Spalding. I don’t want to be too far away in case Claudia comes back. There’s a place quite close to the cottage – by some coincidence, there was an archaeological conference taking place there earlier this week, I believe.”
“I think you’re referring to Welland Manor. I shall be happy to have someone take you there after we’ve finished talking. ”
“Will I be able to take some of my clothes from the cottage when I visit it with you? Most of the things I took with me need laundering and some are quite unsuitable for the present weather.”
“Not today, unfortunately. Once the Scene of Crime Officers have finished their work – and they could take several days – I should be able to allow you to collect some possessions. If Dame Claudia hasn’t returned by then, that is.”
Jane Halliwell made a little moue of discontent; it was apparently intended as an expression of wry humour. Tim had the passing thought that it was odd, but he had more pressing matters to address than Jane Halliwell’s mood or her notions of correct behaviour.
“What exactly has Guy Maichment told you?” he asked.
“Very little – and that’s the truth. Nothing that you haven’t told the media, I’m sure, except for the smear of blood. He did impress upon me that that should be kept secret.” She shuddered. “It sounds quite horrible. Does it mean that Claudia has been injured?”
Tim engaged in a quick internal debate about how much of the truth to reveal.
“Not necessarily,” he said. “In fact, probably not. But it does indicate that someone else was in the house after Oliver Sparham saw her in the late afternoon on Tuesday. Whether the blood is linked directly to her disappearance is impossible for us to say, until we can understand why and how she vanished.”
Jane Halliwell blinked several times, as though confused.
“But surely . . . but it is likely that the two events are connected, is it not?”
“As I say, I don’t know. Weighing the balance of probabilities, I’d say you’re right. Tell me, when did you last speak to her?”
“I think it was yesterday . . . no, no, of course not, I mean Tuesday. The days seem to be running into each other! And I didn’t go to bed last night. Yes, it was on Tuesday – in the early afternoon. I just called her briefly, because it was our last day on the cruise and I was about to go to a lecture on the history of the fjords. She told me she was expecting a visitor.”
“How did she seem?”
“Quite excited at the prospect of seeing Oliver Sparham again. Otherwise, perfectly normal, I’d say.”
“Did she mention Oliver Sparham by name?”
“Yes – I think so. She must have done, otherwise how would I have known?”
“Mr Maichment could have obliged you with this detail as well.”
“No, I don’t think he did. Claudia told me herself that it was Oliver.”
“Did she mention anyone else by name during the course of the conversation?”
“Only Guy. She said that he had been very good about keeping in touch with her during my absence.”
“Did she talk about her health or give you cause for concern about her well-being?”
“Not at all. I should have been in touch with Guy myself if she had.”
“What else did you talk about?”
“Nothing else. As I’ve said, it was a short call – I had only a few minutes before the lecture started. I told her that I would call her properly when I reached Oslo.”
“When was that?”
“In the early hours of yesterday morning. The boat was already moored when we awoke. The passengers had breakfast on board and then disembarked. We had all been booked into a hotel in Oslo by the tour company.”
“Did you try to call her yesterday?”
“No. I learned of her disappearance on the news. She’s well-known in Scandinavia – she’s done a lot of work there. I tried to call Guy, but could not reach him. I decided pretty quickly that I would come home as soon as I could get a flight. The tour operator was actually very helpful in arranging one for me.”
“Did you keep trying to call Mr Maichment?”
“I tried a couple more times, that was all. After that, I was too busy trying to arrange my departure, or, of course, actually flying. I did send him a text message, though. I didn’t receive his reply until I landed at Luton. It simply said that he would be there to meet me. I was very grateful, as you might imagine.”
“Indeed. Can you tell me how Dame Claudia was when you left for your holiday? Did she seem ill or depressed?”
“Not at all. In fact, I rather thought that she was looking forward to being on her own for a while. Claudia is well advanced in years, as you know, and quite infirm; she would be utterly unable to live alone for any length of time. But she is fiercely independent.”
“One final question, Ms Halliwell, before we let you go and get some rest: did you take your holiday alone or were you accompanied?”
Jane Halliwell flushed.
“I – I should prefer not to answer that question, Detective Inspector. I can’t imagine why you are asking it. How can my answer possibly help you to find Claudia?”
“You are more intimate with her than anyone else in her life. In fact, it would probably be true to say that your lives are intertwined, would it not?”
She eyed him suspiciously. She seemed affronted.
“I’m not quite sure what you may be implying. But if you say that because you have heard some rumour that Claudia and I are lovers, you can take my word for it that there is absolutely no truth in it.”
“I was not implying anything, Ms Halliwell. I am just asking you for anything that can help us to find Dame Claudia. You don’t have to answer my question. But I’m sure that you can see that knowledge of the whereabouts of intimates of both yourself and Dame Claudia at th
e time of her disappearance could be helpful.”
“Very well. I can see in that case that my answer might be helpful. I wasn’t on my own, Inspector; I was accompanied by a gentleman friend whom I am not willing to name. All that you need to know is that I met him just before we embarked at Southampton and left him when I departed from Oslo. He has never met Claudia and although she is aware of his existence she does not know his identity. Will that do?”
Tim nodded.
“Thank you,” he said. “I don’t think we can usefully detain you here any longer. It will be more helpful for everyone if you try to get some sleep. Would you like to phone the hotel for a room? Once you’ve made the booking, DC Armstrong will call for a police car to take you there. Perhaps you could leave your mobile number with us. We’ll call you as soon as we can to arrange the visit to the cottage. Could you also let us know if you have any plans to move away from the area? We shall need to know your whereabouts while we are working on this case. We’re bound to need to come back to you for more information about Dame Claudia and her friends and acquaintances.”
Jane Halliwell stood up and smoothed down her immaculate pencil skirt. She held out the birdlike hand again. Tim stood up and grasped it lightly.
“Thank you very much indeed, Detective Inspector,” she said. “I can’t say that you have put my mind at rest, but I am impressed with the thoroughness with which you are dealing with Claudia’s disappearance. Of course I am not intending to leave the area – nothing could be further from my thoughts. As I’ve already explained, my intention is to be as near to the cottage as possible against Claudia’s return. I can only hope that there is a simple explanation for all of this. Though I must say . . .” – her voice rose, and she dabbed at her cheek just below her eye – “I have wracked my brains to think of what it might be and come up with an absolute blank!”
Tim nodded sympathetically. Juliet went to put a tentative arm around Jane. He watched with interest as she shook it off; almost imperceptibly, it was true, but, however slight the action, it was still rejection of an offer of compassion. An interesting woman, he decided. He wondered exactly how much she knew about Claudia’s professional life and her friends. He guessed that not much escaped Jane Halliwell’s notice.
Almost Love Page 9