by J M Gregson
In the room upstairs, the two methodical searchers were finding some surprising material. Things that did not altogether confirm the mother’s picture of her daughter.
In the room below them, Lucy Blake said quietly, ‘Can you remember exactly what time Debbie went out on that last night, Mrs Minton?’
‘It was about eight o’clock, I believe. I had a job myself in those days, on the check-out at Tesco’s. Friday was our late night, so I was out, but Derek said she went out at about eight. That was about her usual time.’ She had been over all this before in her own mind, many times. The phrases tumbled out ready-made.
‘And she never said whom she was intending to see?’
‘No. The usual crowd, we think. They asked us all about it when she was registered as a missing person.’
‘Yes, I know. But you’ll understand that we don’t want to miss anything. Of course, Debbie might not have died that night. It might have been weeks later. She might have been with someone that you never even knew. Perhaps someone who didn’t even come from round here.’
Shirley Minton’s brown eyes opened wide, even as her forehead wrinkled with this new thought. ‘But she was found near here, wasn’t she? Not much more than a mile away from home.’
She had put her finger on one of the key facts. Lucy agreed that that seemed to indicate a local killer, but that they must be alive to all the possibilities. She heard the two uniformed officers coming down the stairs, moving slowly, with the two boxes they were going to take to the Murder Room held awkwardly before them.
Shirley Minton looked suddenly near to panic, as if she was about to query the removal of these secret things. Lucy moved quickly to the sideboard. ‘This is a lovely picture of Debbie,’ she said, picking up the photograph Shirley had dusted so longingly for two years. ‘May I take it with me to get copies made for our team to carry?’ Then, as she saw consternation surging into the mother’s pale face, she added hastily, ‘It will help to prod people’s memories around the town, you see. And I can have it back to you by the end of the day.’
Shirley Minton took it from her for a moment, looking lovingly down into the wide brown eyes which were like younger versions of her own. Then she thrust it into Lucy’s hands. ‘Take good care of her, won’t you love? She’s all I’ve got left, now.’
So that phrase had come out in the end, after all. Lucy carried the photograph out to the panda car as carefully as if it had been a live thing, trying not to notice the mother’s eyes which followed her movements from the other side of the glass.
***
Percy Peach was tempted to take Derek Minton into an interview room. These were Percy’s natural metier. There was no escape from his dark eyes in those claustrophobic cells, with their basic furniture of small square table and two or three upright chairs. No movement that would not be seen, no word that would not be heard. The bright day outside would be firmly excluded by those windowless walls.
It was tempting, but it was too early yet for that. If, later, Derek Minton proved to be a suspect; if he even seemed to be holding anything back from them…
Percy saw him in his own office, coming forward affably to shake his hand, seating him carefully in the best armchair, thanking him for coming in so readily to help them in these distressing circumstances. Then he began to probe. The cruel step-parent of fairy tales may be an unfair concept to foist upon children, now that so many of them have to contend with one in real life. But policemen see enough evil things in that same real life to make stepfathers in particular interesting figures.
Percy gave his visitor a mug of police tea. There were those with sensitive taste buds who would have said that was an opening gesture of hostility, but he did not intend it to be so. When each of them was cradling a steaming beaker, he said, ‘How many years is it since you married your wife, Mr Minton?’
‘Twelve. Twelve and a half I suppose, now. Shirley was a widow, and I’d divorced my first wife before I met her.’
‘Which was how long before you married?’
‘Two years. Shirley’s first husband had only been dead for eight months when we first met. She came into the old council offices to ask about help with her rates. I was on the counter then.’ He took a sip of his tea, smiling for a moment at the memory. He was not as tall as Peach had thought him at first; about five feet ten, he now decided. He looked taller because he was slim and wiry. He crossed his thin legs and kept his grey, watchful eyes on the inspector’s face.
Peach said, ‘No doubt it wasn’t easy, taking on the children at that age.’
Minton paused for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Charlie was eleven and Debbie was nine. There were a few problems at first, but only what you’d expect. They’d been quite attached to their father, and don’t forget he’d died, not walked out on them. Charlie was a bit difficult, and that carried on through adolescence. I don’t think there was ever a problem with Debbie.’
Peach said, ‘It’s early days, Mr Minton. But so far, you’re the last person we know who saw Debbie alive.’ It wasn’t Percy’s way to wrap these things up. You often got a better reaction if you didn’t.
Minton was not put out. He leaned forward, as if he was glad to be getting down to the business of the investigation after the opening exchanges. ‘I’ve been over it a hundred times, as you can imagine. It was a Friday night. Late in October—Shirley could give you the actual date. Debbie went out at about eight o’clock.’ Peach paused, studying the lean, earnest face opposite him. ‘You got on well with your daughter, Mr Minton?’
‘I got on very well with her. Forgive me, but would it be any of your business if I hadn’t done?’
Peach smiled. He had no wish to upset this man—there was nothing against him, yet. But nor would he give him an easy ride. ‘It would be very much my business, as a matter of fact. This is a murder investigation, sir. Someone brutally killed your stepdaughter—or your daughter, if you prefer to regard her as that.’
‘I do. I’ve been around since she was nine, you know. And she’d taken my name. As far as I’m concerned, she’s my daughter.’
‘Right. Good. That means you’ll be anxious to give us every co-operation in building up the fullest possible picture of your daughter.’ Peach made it sound as if that had not been the man’s intention, as if he had won a victory and would now conduct the interview on his terms.
Derek Minton felt it too; he was not quite sure how the situation had come about. He said defensively, ‘What is it you want to know?’
‘Everything you can remember. The fuller the picture we can build up of the last months of Debbie’s life, the better our chances of determining who killed her.’
‘Isn’t it possible that her killer was someone she didn’t even know? Someone she met for the first time on the night she died? Someone who didn’t even come from this area?’
‘It’s entirely possible.’ Peach gave him a grim little smile. ‘Speaking as a detective, I hope it isn’t. We’ve a much better chance of an early arrest if the person responsible for her death knew her well and is still in the area.’
Minton nodded miserably. ‘I suppose that’s right.’ He looked down at his feet, whilst Percy wondered if this was really the first time that thought had entered his mind. ‘This is going to be a desperate business.’
Peach, controlling an unexpected surge of sympathy, said briskly, ‘It is indeed. But the more co-operation we get, the sooner we’ll have a result and be able to lay your daughter’s memory decently to rest. Let’s start with a list of the people she knew. I’d like the name of anyone with whom she was in regular contact in the months before her death. Every contact, even the one which seems most innocent, is of interest at this stage. You mustn’t think we’re looking for suspects: we’re just getting a picture of the friends and the movements of a young woman whom none of us knows.’
Minton looked troubled, even a little sullen. ‘I can’t remember all of them, at this distance in time.’
‘Of course not. B
ut we shall be talking to a lot of people in the next few days. Spreading the net wider and wider, unless something suggestive turns up quickly. If you forget anyone, we shall collect the name from someone else.’ Might as well let him know that to start with. Best to discourage his memory from any attempt at selection.
Minton was looking thoroughly uncomfortable. Perhaps he had expected a more sympathetic atmosphere, like the one at the house yesterday. Peach, studiously failing to notice his discomfort, was riding on it, even enjoying it. Percy liked murder inquiries; they gave him the excuse to tread upon a few corns. Minton looked down into his half-empty mug of tea, as if he had forgotten it was there, then finished it carefully, though it must have been cold. Perhaps he was stealing a little time to gather his thoughts. Eventually he said, ‘You’ll be talking to Shirley?’
‘We have to, I’m afraid. Detective Sergeant Blake is probably there at this moment, as a matter of fact. Obviously we’ll be as gentle as possible. And as I explained yesterday, we’ll need to have a detailed look at your daughter’s room.’
Minton nodded. ‘Shirley’s been better since Debbie was found, strangely enough. She’s determined we’ll get her killer.’ He looked bleakly into his empty cup, as though the prospect of the hunt depressed him.
Peach was a little puzzled by that. According to what he’d heard in the last twenty-four hours, Shirley Minton had been a handful for her husband in the last two years: the thought of having the whole business cleared up should gladden him. Percy said cheerfully, ‘I’m glad to hear that “we”. If we all work together, with your knowledge and our resources, there’s every chance we’ll get the person responsible quite quickly’
Minton had not looked at him for some time. He was still looking at his toe-caps as he said, ‘You may not get the same picture from Shirley as from other people, you know.’
Peach knew that a mother’s view of her daughter was rarely the same as the rest of the world’s. But he did not volunteer that comforting assurance to the man in the armchair. Let him work out his own solution to the problem he had set himself. What Percy in fact said was, ‘You’d better enlarge on that for me, Mr Minton.’
The man still did not look up. Instead, he muttered, ‘Debbie was nineteen and a half when she left. She was a lively girl. Not the saint her mother will tell you she was.’
Peach said, ‘You won’t shock me, Mr Minton. Whatever she was like, you can be assured that we have seen very much worse.’
It was harsh comfort, but it was the first encouragement Minton had been given, and he was grateful for it. ‘She—she enjoyed herself…’ He stopped and looked up at Peach, opening his palms in a little gesture of supplication.
‘Drugs?’
Minton shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes I thought so, but I could never be certain. I’m sure she never brought them into the house.’
Peach wondered how many parents really knew what their daughters did these days. Very few, in his experience; he was glad that he had been spared children. ‘Drink?’
‘Sometimes. It doesn’t take much to get young girls drunk, does it?’
‘Did she come home drunk?’
‘No. Never. I don’t think she could have faced Shirley in that condition. But she was very late home, sometimes. And I felt she might have behaved stupidly outside the house as a result of drink.’
‘Stupidly. With men?’
Minton actually looked relieved rather than outraged. ‘There were men, yes.’
‘A lot of men?’
‘I—I couldn’t say. I heard people talking, sometimes.’
‘Boys of her own age? Older men?’
This time Minton did look upset. ‘Mostly boys of her own age. But I think there were one or two older men as well. I questioned her about it but she either laughed it off or just clammed up.’
‘She didn’t deny it?’
‘No, just refused to talk about it.’
Peach stopped the questioning, waiting for the man to look up at him, knowing that it would happen if he only waited long enough. When Derek Minton’s troubled blue eyes were eventually drawn up to meet his, he said curtly, ‘Forgive the question: you’re intelligent enough to know why it has to be asked. Would you say that your daughter was promiscuous, Mr Minton?’
The man in the armchair winced at the word. But he did not yell his pain, screaming the agony which was the more acute because he knew it was the truth, as Peach had seen in parents and husbands often enough to be ready to deal with it. Instead, Minton’s shoulders dropped a little at each side of the slim head and he said, ‘I’m not sure I know what the word means, technically. But I suppose she was, yes. I think she had sex with several different men in the year before she died, so I suppose that’s promiscuity.’
He was very calm. His delivery of the phrases was almost clinical. Perhaps he had considered the question in the quiet hours of the night, as the weeks of the girl’s disappearance had stretched into months and the months into years. Peach said quietly, ‘We shall need a list from you of who you think these partners were.’
‘I can’t give you all of them. Some of it would only be surmise. I told you, she didn’t talk to me about—’
‘That’s all right, Mr Minton. Just tell us the names of all the people that you know were in contact with Debbie in the months before she left. We’ll do our own investigations into how close those relationships were.’
The blue eyes were cast steadily upon the carpet again. The mouth set into a sullen line. ‘I doubt whether I’ll be able to help you.’
A bit of resistance. Far more in Percy Peach’s line than treading carefully with bereaved relatives. He licked his lips like an eager terrier. ‘You seem more anxious to protect these people than to find out who killed your daughter, Mr Minton. I find that curious, to say the least.’
He was delighted to see the shock in the blue eyes as they flashed up at him. Derek Minton said, ‘Of course I’m desperate that you should find out who killed Debbie. But I don’t want anyone falsely accused, do I?’
Peach found the usual roles curiously reversed. The bereaved parent who should have been baying emotionally for blood was counselling the caution and fairness which should have come from the CID man, exercising the objective, dispassionate view. He did not trouble to answer the man’s rhetorical question. Instead, he said after a moment’s pause, ‘Did you know that Debbie was pregnant, Mr Minton?’
Shock; anger; a reluctant acceptance. Peach watched the emotions that should be there flashing in rapid, overlapping succession across the man’s face. Minton’s shoulders gave a shrug which was probably unconscious, which would certainly have passed unnoticed by anyone scrutinizing the man less acutely than the inspector. He said in a voice which was only just audible, ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Have you any suggestion as to who the father might have been?’
‘No. I told you. There were quite a lot of young men around her. Any one of them might have… Will I need to tell Shirley about this?’
‘Someone will have to, I’m afraid. It will come out, you see. Quickly; probably when the inquest is opened.’
Minton thought for a moment, then nodded, wretched but resigned. ‘I’ll tell her. It will come better from me than from anyone else.’ He seemed to find a bleak consolation in that.
He gave Peach some names, which would be added to the growing list on the computer in the Murder Room outside, cross-referenced with those coming in from other sources. Percy made him understand that any information he held back would emerge from elsewhere; that any such omissions on his part would then become interesting to the investigating team. As far as he could judge, Minton was cooperative and anxious only to help the hunt.
It was when he had gone that the sergeant who had been sifting the contents of the boxes brought in from Debbie Minton’s room came into Peach’s office. He had the mournful look and heavy jowls of a bloodhound, and a pessimistic temperament which might have been chosen to match them. ‘Very li
ttle that looks significant,’ he said glumly. ‘You wouldn’t expect it, after two years. The parents must have been over that room with a toothcomb.’
‘No pictures of boyfriends? No diaries?’
‘Nothing like that,’ said Sergeant Etherington, with what sounded almost like satisfaction. ‘Forensic may come up with something, but it’s my guess that there isn’t a fibre in there that doesn’t come from the clothes in the girl’s wardrobe.’
‘According to her father, she didn’t entertain her admirers at home, anyway,’ said Peach.
Etherington had one tiny thing to offer. He produced it like a miser releasing treasure. ‘We did find something. It may not mean anything.’ Like all people of his temperament, he tried to anticipate disappointment by dampening expectations.
‘Well? I haven’t got all day.’
Etherington produced a paperback thriller with a lurid cover. He put the book on the desk in front of Peach and turned to the inside of the back cover. Six figures were written close together there, so neatly that they almost seemed part of the brief biography of the author printed above them.
A phone number, perhaps. There was no code, so probably a local one: Peach recognized the first two numbers, which seemed to confirm that idea. ‘Have you checked it out?’
‘Yes.’ Etherington permitted himself a tiny smile at his efficiency. ‘It’s the number of the hospital which does abortions.’ His face resumed its normal dismal cast. ‘They have no record of a contact from the girl or anyone acting on her behalf.’
Peach glared for ten seconds at the neat set of numbers with his characteristic intensity, as if the fierceness of his concentration would make them yield up their secret. ‘Is it the girl’s own writing?’
Etherington was gratified by the question: the corners of his mouth straightened for a moment. ‘We’ll ask forensic to get their graphologist on it in due course. It’s a pity there’s no writing with it. But we do have an exercise book with a few figures from the dead girl in it. I would be confident that she didn’t write that number down herself.’