‘We simply want to ask you some questions. Whether or not you’re arrested on a murder charge remains to be seen,’ Ian replied.
The duty brief arrived after a couple of hours, a twitchy young woman with mousy hair who sat listening in silence throughout most of the interview.
‘Where were you on Tuesday evening between seven and midnight?’ Ian asked.
Jonathan shrugged. ‘I can’t remember,’ he muttered. ‘Probably at home.’
‘Were you alone?’
Jonathan glanced at the lawyer. ‘Given that I can’t remember where I was, it’s hard to answer that.’
‘My client has stated that he doesn’t remember where he was on the evening in question,’ the lawyer added unhelpfully.
‘Tell us about your relationship with David Armstrong,’ Geraldine said.
‘There was no relationship. I didn’t know the man.’
‘You were witnessed heckling him in public and verbally assaulting him in a car park,’ Ian pointed out.
‘Yes, I know who he is – who he was,’ Jonathan replied. ‘I didn’t meet him in any personal way. I just disagreed with his policies and everything he stood for: middle-class privilege, private wealth, and social injustice. It was nothing personal. We clashed on points of principle.’ He glanced at his lawyer. ‘That’s all. I detested him in an impersonal kind of way, like I detest most of the politicians in government and on the council. But just because I find their policies abhorrent doesn’t mean I intend to go around killing them.’
‘Yet you focused your attacks on David Armstrong alone,’ Ian pointed out. ‘He was the target for your aggression.’
‘Hardly aggression,’ Jonathan said. ‘I might have raised my voice a few times, but that’s what you do when you heckle at a public meeting. There’s no point if other people can’t hear what you’re saying. And surely the whole point of such meetings and so-called consultations is to give members of the public a chance to air their views?’
Ian leaned forward. ‘Did you ever visit Mr Armstrong at home?’
Jonathan shook his head. ‘Absolutely not. I don’t even know where he lives. We weren’t exactly on visiting terms.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Not what you might call friends.’
‘What about the letter you sent to his home?’ Ian asked.
Jonathan looked puzzled. ‘I never wrote him a letter. How could I when I don’t know where he lived.’
‘Do you know his widow?’ Geraldine asked suddenly.
For the first time, Jonathan looked startled. ‘His widow?’ he repeated. ‘What about his widow?’
Geraldine sensed that she had somehow rattled him, although she wasn’t sure why. Before she could continue, Jonathan spoke again.
‘I do know his widow. That is, I know who she is. She used to accompany him to his public meetings, although goodness knows why. It’s not like she was on the council or anything. It seemed as though she just went along because she was his wife.’
Geraldine nodded. She had seen images of David Armstrong arriving at meetings in libraries and church halls, with his wife at his side. She was clearly keen to be seen to support him. Geraldine wondered for whose benefit she was demonstrating her loyalty to her husband.
‘How do you know who she was if you didn’t know them personally?’ Ian enquired.
‘She went to meetings with him,’ Jonathan replied. ‘I saw her there. And anyway, you’ve only got to look him up online to see them together.’
‘So you admit you looked him up online?’
‘What if I did?’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘How else was I going to find out where he was next appearing in public?’
‘You admit you were stalking him?’
‘I wasn’t stalking him, I just needed to find out where he was speaking so I could attend the meetings and express my opposition. It’s what we do in a free society. We do still have free speech in England. And yes, I admit, I tried to get other people who were opposed to his policies to come to the meetings as well and voice their opinions with me. The more people we could get to heckle him, the better. We needed to show people that there is another way.’
‘By throwing eggs at his car?’ Ian asked. ‘Risking causing a serious traffic accident?’
The lawyer shook her head, indicating that her client shouldn’t answer, but Jonathan ignored the silent warning.
‘It wasn’t just me. And yes, that was stupid, but it was done in a fit of anger because he refused to listen to our demands.’
‘A fit of anger,’ Ian repeated thoughtfully, ‘in a man who admits he deliberately set out to orchestrate a hate campaign against David Armstrong?’
Jonathan sighed. ‘You’re not listening, are you? It was nothing personal. I was never attacking Armstrong himself; it was his policies we were protesting about. If he’d backed down and stopped closing public services, I’d have cheerfully clapped him on the back and bought him a pint. But he didn’t.’
‘And now he’s dead,’ Geraldine said.
‘Yes, now he’s dead,’ Jonathan agreed in a flat voice. ‘But that had nothing to do with me. Look, all I did was shout at him a bit. It was harmless enough. He didn’t even take any notice.’
‘Was throwing eggs at his car another harmless gesture?’ Ian asked.
Jonathan shrugged.
‘My client has admitted it was a foolish action which he now regrets,’ the lawyer responded. ‘If Mr Armstrong did drive dangerously as a result of my client’s actions, that was Mr Armstrong’s choice and not my client’s responsibility. At no time did my client seek to coerce Mr Armstrong into driving the car after my client and his associates had thrown eggs at it.’
They warned Jonathan that he could still be charged with harassment and released him, with instructions not to leave York. They had no evidence to implicate him in the murder of David Armstrong, but he remained a potential suspect.
24
Before they released Jonathan, Geraldine and Ian asked him for a list of his political associates. It was plausible that one of them had been more active, and perhaps considerably more dangerous, than a man who vented his feelings in words and egg throwing. Jonathan had gathered together a group of irate left-wing campaigners who traipsed around after him, grumbling about social injustice. David Armstrong appeared to have been the main target of their resentment, but it wasn’t clear whether that was because they were following Jonathan’s lead.
‘There could be someone else driving the campaign from the sidelines, winding up people like Jonathan who had a grudge against the victim,’ Geraldine suggested.
‘You’re saying someone else could be “egging” the others on?’ a constable said, chuckling at his own joke.
‘I’m suggesting that Jonathan might not necessarily be the ring leader,’ Geraldine replied. ‘It might just be that he has the loudest voice and talks the most and so he’s the one who’s attracted the most attention. But perhaps there’s someone with a serious grudge against David who was quietly organising these attacks and staying out of the limelight and allowing Jonathan to draw attention away from him, or her, whoever it is that’s behind all this. After all, if David had an enemy who was planning to kill him, they would hardly want to draw attention to themselves, would they? And orchestrating a hate campaign against their intended victim by winding up disgruntled protesters like Jonathan would provide any investigation with a host of other suspects. And we still don’t have any reason to suppose that his murder was politically motivated. It could have been a personal attack, which we’re missing, concealed behind a smokescreen thrown up by the protests against his policies.’
Eileen nodded. ‘At this stage, we need to consider every possibility. In the meantime, we’ve seen David’s will, and it’s fairly standard. His entire estate goes to his wife, but it’s actually not that much. There’s the ho
use, of course, and his car, but apart from that all of his savings seem to have gone on supporting his daughter and granddaughter, and his political campaign to get himself elected. He’s not exactly a wealthy man. His work pension ceases on death, and there’s still a mortgage on the house, which isn’t paid off when he dies. So no one is financially better off without him. Quite the opposite, in fact. Anne might end up having to get herself a job, or else sell the house and downsize. And David paid Jessica an allowance out of his own work pension, which she won’t be getting any more. So the family certainly don’t have a financial motive to be rid of him.’
A team of constables were tasked with investigating the list of names Jonathan had given them, cross referencing them with reports of politically motivated attacks, especially any that appeared similar to those carried out against David Armstrong. Several of Jonathan’s associates turned out to be middle-aged women, aggrieved former librarians and retired school teachers, but one of the constables came across a potentially interesting name. Rod Browning was in his twenties and he had been involved in several violent protests while he was at university.
‘He looks like someone we ought to question,’ Geraldine agreed.
Although she wasn’t convinced that Rod’s history was necessarily significant, she went to speak to Ian who was co-ordinating the investigation into Jonathan’s associates. Geraldine knocked and opened the door of his office. When he looked up and saw her peering in, a wary expression crossed his face.
‘What is it?’ he asked, without inviting her to enter.
Ignoring his coldness, Geraldine went in. ‘Naomi’s come up with a possible suspect from Jonathan’s list,’ she said.
She was pleased that her voice was completely steady, while her feelings on being alone in a room with Ian were anything but calm.
‘It’s a young man with a history of violence. At university he was involved in a number of aggressive protests, causing damage to property, although no one was ever injured, except accidentally.’
The more she spoke, the more focused she felt on the case, and the easier it was to ignore the fact that she was alone with Ian. In that moment, she told herself, he was simply a colleague, and her senior officer. All the same, she refused to look directly at him for fear she would be distracted. His office was stuffy, and documents were strewn around untidily on his desk. When she glanced at him, she noticed that his hair was unkempt and he was unshaven. She looked away quickly.
‘In any event,’ she continued briskly, ‘he was obviously a bit of a hothead when he was younger, and just the kind of person who might do something stupid.’
‘Something stupid?’ Ian repeated. ‘You call murder “something stupid”?’
Geraldine was taken aback by the bitterness in his voice. Her glance brushed past his face; she caught only a fleeting glimpse of the desolate expression in his eyes. On the instant, her years of training seemed to slide away and she lost her grip on her professional detachment.
‘Ian,’ she blurted out before she could stop herself, ‘you look exhausted. Do you need to take some time off?’
He scowled at her. ‘Don’t you dare suggest anything of the kind to anyone outside this room.’
Geraldine hastened to reassure him that she had no intention of sharing her opinion with anyone else.
‘I can do without busybodies fussing around,’ he added sourly. ‘Look, Geraldine, I’m not going to pretend that I’m not in trouble –’ he shook his head rapidly, like a wet dog. ‘But it’s my problem, and I’ll work this out somehow.’
‘It’s not only your problem,’ she replied, struggling to control her temper. ‘This isn’t just about you. It’s about your wife, and the baby who may or may not be yours, and it’s about me. What happens in your life affects me too, you know.’
Ian held up his hand. ‘Enough, enough. Please, don’t make this harder for me than it already is. I’m sorry, I know I’m being selfish, but I can’t see any way out of this mess right now. I’ll get there, I promise, but I need some time to work this out. I’m just asking you to be patient.’
‘You know I’ll wait,’ she replied, slightly mollified. She hesitated before asking whether he had yet had a paternity test. ‘It might help you to work out what you want to do. It must make a difference, to the real father as well as to you.’
As she spoke, Geraldine realised she was still clinging to the hope that Ian wasn’t the baby’s father after all. Until he took the test, there was no way he could be sure one way or the other. She wondered whether he was reluctant to find out the truth because deep down he really wanted the baby to be his, or because that prospect terrified him.
‘Either way, you don’t have to take her back,’ she added miserably.
But Ian no longer appeared to be listening to her. With a sigh, she returned to her desk.
‘I don’t understand where the baby’s being kept,’ Ariadne said.
Still thinking about Ian and Bev’s baby, Geraldine was startled.
‘What do you mean, where he’s being kept? What do you know about it?’
‘She,’ Ariadne replied, giving Geraldine a curious look. ‘I mean, if Daisy is with her father, then how is he managing to keep her hidden? Surely someone would have seen them?’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a terrible thing to say but, frankly, I don’t see how the baby can still be alive.’
Geraldine nodded grimly.
‘We have no idea what’s happened,’ Ariadne went on.
‘Is it really coincidence that Jessica’s husband has vanished, and her father’s been murdered, both at the same time as her baby disappeared? She has to be the link. But how?’ Geraldine replied.
‘She’s certainly unlucky,’ Ariadne replied. ‘She’s like a character in a Greek tragedy.’
‘I wonder,’ Geraldine said, frowning. ‘You know the saying: you make your own luck.’
‘You mean you think she’s responsible for killing her baby and her husband, and her father?’ Ariadne asked, raising her eyebrows. ‘Is there one word for a woman who murders all her male relations? Patricide combined with infanticide and mariticide?’
Geraldine shook her head. ‘I don’t really know what to make of it all. It’s a mess, isn’t it? But Jessica’s at the centre of it. She has to be.’
25
Ella lay in bed, trembling. She wasn’t sure what had woken her up, but on the instant all her senses were alert, straining to see and hear in the silent darkness. She had an uncanny sensation, a kind of sixth sense, telling her she wasn’t alone. Someone was lurking in her room, creeping closer to the bed, trying to avoid being heard. There was no doubt in her mind who it must be, because she always knew he wasn’t far away. With shaking fingers, she reached for the torch she kept beneath her pillow. As she touched the cold smooth metal, she heard a noise, a regular tapping, nothing like the noise a baby might make. Her hand closed around the torch and she gripped it tightly. Cautiously she raised herself without making a sound, until she was sitting up. Hunched over on the bed she listened again, clutching the torch but not yet daring to switch it on. The tapping resumed, and she heard his footsteps shuffling along the corridor outside her room, coming closer and closer. She held her breath, listening.
At last she could bear it no longer. With a muted cry, she leapt out of bed, tripped on the threadbare mat, and knocked over a beer bottle as she fell, landing on her knees with a painful thud. She swore out loud. The bottle had been nearly empty but all the same the mat felt soggy beneath her bare knees. Too alarmed to worry about whether she had hurt herself, she clambered to her feet as quickly as she could, and stood with her back pressed against the wall, listening. A car roared past outside, but inside the building all was silent.
‘What do you want?’ she whispered. ‘I know you’re there.’
No one answered, but the tapping resumed. It could quite plausibly have been the plumbing, o
r creaking masonry, but Ella knew that this was more sinister than noises common to an old building. Someone was moving around her flat, and she knew who it was. Her whole body trembled as she switched on the torch. The feeble beam of light cast shadows up the walls which seemed to move towards her each time she shifted her position.
‘I know you’re there,’ she repeated, more loudly. ‘And you don’t scare me,’ she added untruthfully. ‘You don’t have that power. Not any more.’
She did her best to sound confident, but she was unable to stop her voice wobbling.
‘You don’t scare me,’ she repeated. ‘Really, you don’t. No one scares me, especially not you. You’re pathetic! So you might as well show yourself or, better still, go back to the hole you crawled out of. I don’t want you here. Go away. Leave me alone. Leave me alone!’
Her voice rose to a shriek but still no one answered. Slowly she shone her torch all around the room. The narrow beam of light quivered up and down the walls and on past the closed door. The bolts were in place, top and bottom and she was alone in the bedroom, apart from the baby who was miraculously sleeping.
‘All right,’ she said, struggling to calm her breathing. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
Very slowly, without taking her eyes off the door, she reached under the bed and scrabbled around in the fluff and crumbs and empty cigarette packets until she found the knife which she kept there for just such an emergency. She could feel her heart thudding rapidly in her chest. Righting the beer bottle that she had knocked over, she grasped the handle of the knife, the blade pointing at the door, and straightened up. Her thoughts were whirling out of control as she tried to decide what to do. She was positive she had locked all the doors before going to bed. Knife in hand, she crept over to the door of her bedroom. The bolts were too small to hold the door against someone determined to smash it open, but they were strong enough to delay an intruder, giving Ella time to find her knife if he tried to break in.
Deadly Revenge Page 13