Dark Truths

by A. J. Cross

  Judd wrote, thinking that during her brief meeting with Blunt, she hadn’t seen or heard any evidence of devastation. She was also thinking that this woman and Christian Roberts had been colleagues long before Zoe Roberts joined the firm. ‘Did Zoe ever talk to you about herself, her personal life?’

  ‘Not really. Zoe was rather reserved when it came to sharing that kind of information.’

  ‘She never mentioned that she was having problems of any kind, such as difficulties with males?’

  Webb’s eyes widened. ‘No. Never.’

  ‘Did she ever talk to you about problems in her marriage?’

  Webb stared at her. ‘No. She didn’t.’

  Judd nodded. ‘I suppose she might have chosen not to do that, given that you and Mr Roberts were colleagues, perhaps friends, prior to when she started here?’

  Webb gave Judd a cool look. ‘I don’t see the relevance of what you’re saying. I need to get something straight here. We were all aware of Zoe’s and Christian’s decision to separate a long time ago and, more recently, that they were planning to divorce.’

  Judd looked up. ‘Mr Blunt didn’t mention that.’

  ‘We’re lawyers, PC Judd. Circumspection goes with the territory. Maybe he chose not to talk about Christian, given that he is a partner of this firm.’

  ‘How come Mr Roberts doesn’t work here?’

  ‘His specialism is European law. It made sense for him to relocate to Brussels.’ There was a brief silence. ‘Like everyone else in the firm, my contact with Christian is minimal so I don’t see how I can help you.’

  Judd was aware that what had started out as a relatively easy conversation now had a careful feel to it. ‘As a colleague of Mr Roberts, you probably know him well.’

  Webb looked across at her. ‘PC Judd, varying the way you ask certain questions won’t help if I don’t have the kind of information you appear to want. Christian was a pleasant colleague when he worked here but since he’s been working in Brussels, I, we, see very little of him.’

  Judd nodded, wrote. ‘Getting back to Zoe, what can you tell me about her social contacts outside of work, her interests?’

  ‘All I know is that she was into fitness. A keen runner. She said it helped her to manage stress.’

  Judd looked up. ‘Zoe was stressed?’

  Webb sighed, shook her head. ‘Only to the degree any corporate lawyer is these days.’

  ‘Do you know much about her fitness routine?’

  Webb looked doubtful. ‘Not really. I know she was careful with her diet, that she ran regularly, but that’s about it.’

  ‘Are you aware of the area where her body was found?’

  Webb nodded. ‘I know the general area. It’s dreadful that women aren’t safe to pursue their interests wherever they please.’

  Judd nodded agreement. ‘Was she stressed about the situation between herself and her husband?’

  Webb studied her. ‘As I already said, I can’t speak about or for Christian. Zoe didn’t take me into her confidence on that issue, but my impression was that she was living her life, on her own, and no, I don’t know any details, but I doubt she was still upset about the situation.’

  ‘So, she was upset in the past?’

  Webb was looking impatient. ‘It’s a reasonable assumption. Most people would be, wouldn’t they?’

  Judd considered this. ‘I suppose it would depend on what her life was like before and whether she did or didn’t want to live alone, wouldn’t it?’

  Webb glanced at her watch, got up from her chair. ‘I’m due at a meeting. I’m sorry, but I don’t think there’s any more I can tell you.’

  ‘How has Mr Roberts been getting on with his life since the separation?’

  Webb turned to her, looking weary. ‘PC Judd, how many times do I need to say it? I can’t and won’t speak about Christian Roberts. No doubt he’ll be in touch with the police at some point and speak on his own behalf.’

  Webb walked her to the door. Judd wasn’t done. ‘Do you know that he will? Zoe was murdered four days ago. There’s been a televised appeal about her murder. Don’t you think it’s very odd that so far he hasn’t contacted the police or anyone here?’

  Webb gazed at her. ‘You’re very direct, PC Judd.’

  ‘I know. It gets me into trouble.’

  ‘I imagine it does.’ Webb had the door open. ‘All I can tell you is that both Zoe and Christian were moving on with their lives.’

  Judd looked up at her, widened her eyes. ‘Actually, this is my first investigation. I told my DI that I’d do my best to find out where Mr Roberts is right now.’

  Webb sighed. ‘I heard a comment in the office that he was taking a few days’ leave, possibly in Scotland, but that’s all I know.’ With an air of finality, she walked out of the office. Judd followed her to the secure door she had come through earlier.

  Webb opened it. ‘Goodbye, PC Judd.’

  The door firmly closing on her, Judd glanced at the woman behind the reception desk. Not savagely tailored, this one. An older woman who looked approachable. Straightening her shoulders, Judd headed for her. ‘Excuse me.’

  The woman looked up, smiled. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve just been speaking to Fiona about some leave she took in the last ten days or so. She said that you could confirm details of dates and destination.’

  The woman nodded, reached for a file, opened it and studied its contents. ‘Yes, here it is. One three-day period of leave for Ms Webb six days ago.’ She gave the dates. ‘Destination, Edinburgh. Is that it?’

  Judd nodded. ‘Exactly. Thank you very much.’

  Judd came out of the building, her spirits high. Her phone rang. She flinched at her caller’s name: DI Watts. Surely that bastard Josephs hadn’t been on to him already? She answered it, picking up traffic sounds, wavering reception. Watts was on the move.

  ‘Get anything useful?’ he asked.

  She glanced back at the smart, modern office building. ‘The response I got to what’s happened to Roberts was generally, “Oh, how appalling!”, but they weren’t any real help. Blunt, the main partner, didn’t tell me anything useful about her, refused to talk about Christian Roberts at all, then passed me on to a woman named Fiona Webb. She and Zoe Roberts were work colleagues but according to Webb, Zoe didn’t share with her what was going on in her life. Know what I think, Sarge? Roberts probably didn’t like sharing her husband with Fiona Webb.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘They were having it off, Sarge. Fiona Webb and Christian Roberts. Probably for years. They worked together before Roberts joined the firm. I’ve got evidence that they were both in Edinburgh around a week ago.’

  ‘This woman you spoke to admitted it?’

  ‘Sort of.’ She navigated her way across the busy road. ‘I’m not getting good vibes about Christian Roberts and his hotshot job in Brussels, sodding off to Edinburgh with a female colleague, and so what if he and Zoe Roberts were separated and hadn’t had much contact for months? What’s that got to do with him not being arsed to get on the phone to us about his wife’s murder, which he must know about?’

  ‘All right, turn down the heat.’

  ‘It just annoys me when people act like they don’t care in situations where they should!’

  ‘Yeah, I can tell. Did Blunt say anything specific about Zoe Roberts?’

  ‘He described her as a “happy spirit”.’ She glanced back at the gleaming office block. ‘Supercilious bastard. My French is as good as his any day. Probably better.’

  Watts’ voice came again. ‘I’ve arrived at the bookshop so we’ll leave it there, but remind me to have a chat with you about chips on shoulders. As soon as you get back to headquarters, start writing up today’s visit and the one for the wine shop … Judd?’

  ‘Gotta go.’

  THIRTEEN

  Ending his call to Judd, Watts drove along the quiet road, eyeing pricey homes within landscaped and meticulously maintained surroundings. Finding
a parking space, he stopped the engine, looked across at a row of speciality businesses: restaurant, classy-looking dress shop, a pet grooming service, a bespoke men’s tailor and, snug in the middle of the row, the last place Daniel Broughton, property developer, was reportedly seen prior to his disappearance ten or so years ago. Watts had already visited the shop’s extensive website, seen a photograph of the man he was here to talk to: Edward Arnold, proprietor, Member of Rotary. Founder of the area’s Neighbourhood Watch. A regular pillar. Leaving his vehicle, he headed for it, eyeing the suits in the tailor’s window as he passed. An absence of price tags told him all he needed to know. Pushing open the bookshop door, prompting a brief ring, he went inside, recognizing the tall, well-built man behind the counter.

  Watts waited as he served a customer, the sleeves of his formal, striped shirt pulled back from a shiny bracelet watch, his words drifting across to him, ‘I think you’ll enjoy this, Hetty. Let me know what you think when you’re next in.’ He slipped the slim volume inside a paper bag, handed it to the customer, beamed at the next one. Thinking he’d stepped into a time-warp, Watts strolled further into the shop. It was unexpectedly large, well-stocked. He edged his way along a shelf of books on fishing, heard the shop door open, followed by a female voice sharp enough to engrave glass demand some bestseller. Moving along the shelves he came to an open area, two women sitting on a leather chesterfield, reading, coffee cups in hand. His eyes moved to a large, pricey-looking red and chrome coffee machine on a nearby shelf. No time-warp, this. Arnold’s set-up was consumer-savvy. Watts wandered back along the laden shelves, his way obstructed by a youth sitting on the floor, leaning against textbooks on economics, his legs stretched. Stepping over them, Watts recalled a book Chong had mentioned a while ago about somebody’s years in Tibet. Seventeen? Seventy? He looked up at the sound of the bell and the door closing. The two women were still sitting, still reading. The customer with the glasscutter voice had gone. Watts went to Arnold, holding up identification. Arnold looked at it.

  ‘Detective Inspector Watts. We spoke briefly on the phone. Sorry to have kept you waiting. No rest for the wicked, eh? Actually, I was a little surprised when you rang.’

  ‘Is there somewhere we can talk without being overheard?’

  ‘That’s difficult, Detective Inspector. There’s just me here most of the time, so I need to maintain a presence.’ He mouthed the word ‘theft’. ‘I’m considering getting CCTV installed but this is a very local business and I know most of my customers so I’m loathe to do it.’ He indicated a window seat behind him. ‘Is that all right? Unless you prefer to come back after closing time?’

  Watts followed him to the sun-filled window and sat, his temperature zooming. He’d make it snappy. ‘Busy place you’ve got here.’

  Arnold nodded, keeping his voice down. ‘It takes a lot of effort. You’re aware of the parlous state of the retail industry? When people come into a bookshop these days, they don’t want just books. They want a welcoming atmosphere, comfort, a place to sit and read, or just relax.’ He leant sideways, pointed. ‘See those two ladies? They often come in here. Both widows, you know.’

  ‘Do they ever buy anything?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He waited. ‘Is there something specific I can do for you, Detective Inspector?’

  ‘Tell me about Daniel Broughton.’

  ‘Good heavens. That was years ago. I thought it was all done and dusted as far as the police were concerned.’ He saw Watts’ eyes narrow. ‘No criticism intended. It’s the way the world is for all of us: too much to do and not enough time to do it.’

  Watts nodded, thinking it wasn’t often that he met somebody who matched him for height. ‘The police contacted you about Daniel Broughton at the time he disappeared.’

  ‘Actually, they didn’t. It was on the news and the police were appealing for information. I phoned them.’

  Watts reached into his shirt pocket for his notebook. ‘Wish we had more public-spirited people like you, Mr Arnold. What did you tell them?’

  Arnold repositioned himself on the window seat. ‘Well, it was in the January. A couple of days after New Year. I keep holidays to a minimum. You have to in this business. If I’m closed, any customers I might get would soon find their way to the high street chains, or worse …’

  ‘Broughton came in here.’

  ‘Yes. In the afternoon. I can’t be exact on time, I’m afraid, but it was late-ish. The shop was very busy. You know, people exchanging books they’d been given for Christmas, that kind of thing. He came in and went to the back of the shop. I assumed he had a specific book in mind.’

  ‘Did he speak to you?’

  Arnold frowned. ‘I haven’t thought about this in ages.’

  ‘Mr Arnold, you’re a potential witness in the disappearance of Daniel Broughton.’

  He looked shocked. ‘I am? My goodness.’

  ‘Think back to that afternoon, picture it from the time Mr Broughton arrived.’

  Arnold’s eyes moved to the door of the shop. He pointed to the counter. ‘I was right there, sorting out some post I hadn’t had a chance to look at. Broughton came in. He’d never done that before, although I knew him to speak to because he was local. He continued on to the back of the shop.’

  ‘What was he looking for?’

  ‘He didn’t say, but after I’d sorted the post I went and asked if he needed any help. He said he was looking for a particular book on property improvements, that he’d had an inquiry for something really special from a very demanding client. Or, words to that effect. I directed him to where I knew there were several books of the spin-off variety.’ Watts’ brows came together. Arnold smiled. ‘From the TV shows. People buy a barn with no roof and one wall standing and turn it into something unrecognizable, which looks totally out of place for its surroundings.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. What happened then?’

  ‘Well, that’s the funny thing. A couple came in. I recall books more easily than the people who ask for them. She was after a Brontë …’ Seeing Watts’ facial expression, he hurried on. ‘I showed them the biography section and went to see how Mr Broughton was getting on.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He wasn’t there. He’d gone.’

  Seeing Watts’ eyes drift to the door of the shop, Arnold wagged a finger. ‘Why didn’t I notice him leave? Back then, the bell on that door didn’t always ring. I’ve had the whole shop rewired since then. You wouldn’t believe the level of pilfering that—’

  ‘So, you don’t know exactly when Mr Broughton left?’

  Arnold shook his head. ‘No. Which is what I told the police at the time.’

  Watts stood. ‘Show me where you last saw him.’ He followed Arnold to the rear of the shop. ‘Those are the kind of books Broughton was after.’

  Watts went to them, took one down, leafed through photographs of homes he couldn’t afford and wouldn’t want if he could. He replaced it and moved on to more shelves, mostly legal and tax-related books. He pointed to a door set within a wall of shelving. ‘What’s through there?’

  ‘Storage.’

  ‘I’d like to see it.’ He watched Arnold take keys from his pocket, select one and insert it. It turned easily.

  ‘Open, Sesame!’

  Watts followed him inside the hot, stuffy room, his eyes moving over a large trestle table supporting neat stacks of books, more in boxes on the floor. ‘Where’s the rear door to these premises?’

  Arnold headed out of the room. ‘This way.’ Fussing with the keys to the store room, checking several times that it was secure, he led the way through another door into a small kitchen, an external door at its end, a key in its lock. Unlocking and opening it, Arnold stood to one side. Watts stepped out into harsh sun, squinted down at a small gravelled area, bright geraniums in terracotta pots, a narrow road running past. Watts walked to it, saw that it gave rear access to the shops either side and continued on in both directions. He came back to where Broughton was waiting.
After ten years, there was no way of establishing which way Broughton had left, but this rear door looked to be a strong contender. Why, was the question.

  He pointed. ‘Is the key routinely left in the door?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s always locked so that nobody can come in from outside.’

  Watts eyed the small area. Broughton could have parked out here, come into the shop by the street door, then left taking a shortcut through the kitchen back to his car. He said so.

  Arnold shrugged. ‘I don’t recollect seeing his car, but it’s possible. He was the kind of person who pleased himself what he did and never mind anyone else’s … Oh, my Lord.’ He pointed to the geraniums. ‘I said I’d water these, first thing.’ He headed back inside.

  Watts watched him take a large jug, place it under the tap. ‘A job from your wife?’

  Arnold came outside, carrying the jug. ‘My experience of marriage is water under an almost two-decade-old bridge.’

  ‘Did you know Broughton well?’

  ‘Well enough for an occasional exchange of “Good morning” if I saw him out and about. A little brash for my taste.’

  Watts gave an encouraging nod. ‘Sharp suit and fat wallet?’

  Arnold shook his head, letting the last water droplets fall. ‘He wasn’t like that at all. He dressed casually but well.’

  Watts followed him inside, watched as he relocked the rear door. ‘You never had business dealings with him?’

  Arnold gave him a surprised glance. ‘No. Like I said, he was into house make-overs. He bought houses, improved them, at least to his way of thinking, and sold them on at vast profit.’

  ‘He lived near here.’ Watts had brought with him two addresses from a decade before, had driven past Arnold’s modest home where he still lived and followed the road to the sprawling, relatively modern brick construction with numerous elevations behind wrought-iron gates which had once been home to Daniel Broughton.