by Jill McGown
McArthur came in as he was filing the witness statements, trying not to think of the work that would be involved in preparing the case for the Crown Prosecution Service, because he didn’t suppose he would escape having to do some of it.
“Thanks, Tom—you were a great help.”
Tom shook his head. “I think she would have told you all that without my flash of inspiration. She was just trying to keep her dad out of trouble—once he was there, there was no point in keeping quiet.”
“Maybe. But it was good work, all the same.”
Perhaps he really had redeemed himself in McArthur’s eyes. He certainly hoped so. He switched off the tape. “What’ll happen to her, sir? She’s had a bit of a raw deal, one way or another.”
“Well, I can’t concern myself with all the other things that are going on in Kayleigh’s life—that’s for the courts to worry about. All I could do was charge her, and release her on bail into Mrs. Spears’s custody. I expect she’ll have to have some sort of therapy in the end.”
“Who?” asked Tom with a grin. “Mrs. Spears?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” said McArthur, laughing. “I know I’d sooner have Kayleigh for a week than a fortnight.”
Tom left Malworth and headed for Stansfield and all the paperwork on the murder that Lloyd wanted him to read. He hoped the reorganization did spread the load a little more evenly; Liz had hardly seen him for the last three days.
Lloyd came into the CID room while Tom was working through the statements, and sat on his desk, impatient for him to finish.
Tom looked up when he got to the end of the transcript of Fletcher’s interview. “Seems to me that Fletcher saw this guy Roddam after he’d seen Waring driving the van back,” he said. “Roddam says he left Lesley Newton alive, and Fletcher says he found her dead. They both had motive—so it’s down to the physical evidence. And that all points to Fletcher.”
Lloyd’s face held the obstinate look that it sometimes did. “I know. But it doesn’t make sense.”
“Ten years of being branded a pedophile to look forward to, and he thought it was all her fault it ever came to court? It makes sense to me, guv.”
But it wasn’t Fletcher’s motive that Lloyd was querying. His argument was that if Fletcher used Kayleigh’s information and came to Stansfield with the sole intention of murdering Lesley Newton, he couldn’t have been intending to do it with the cast-iron doorstop that just happened to be there.
“Well, maybe he’s telling the truth as far as it goes,” Tom said. “He really did think Kayleigh would be alone in the cottage, and he did go there expecting to meet her on the way. But when he got there, he found Lesley Newton, and a blunt instrument. The temptation was too much.”
Lloyd looked thoughtful. “Could be. That would make more sense. But I’d like to get proof one way or the other. I hope to persuade our revered superintendent to detain Fletcher without charge for another twelve hours for further inquiries to be made.”
Tom looked at the statements again. He was probably missing something; he hadn’t been in on it from the beginning. He worked best when things were tangible and he could employ his senses. Words on paper were never quite the same as hearing and seeing people when they talked to you; the description of the murder scene wasn’t the same as being there. But they had all the evidence they needed, and Case would be quick to point that out. They were obliged to charge Fletcher or let him go, and they weren’t about to do that. “What further inquiries, guv?”
“I want confirmation that the murder weapon really did come from the Malworth house, and I’d like you to talk to Roddam’s aunt.”
Tom felt that if Roddam’s aunt had calmly washed her nephew’s blood-spattered clothes, she would be unlikely to break down and admit it now. And there might be an easier way of resolving this. He picked up Roddam’s statement and glanced through it again. “It says here that Lesley was phoning someone when he left.”
“The police,” said Lloyd. “But she wasn’t, was she? So perhaps she wasn’t phoning anyone at all. Perhaps she was too dead to phone anyone.”
But perhaps she wasn’t, thought Tom, and perhaps she really did phone someone. “Have we still got her phone, guv?” If he could find out who, it might cross Roddam off, and he could get home in time for Sunday lunch.
“Yes, and last number redial gets you nine-nine-nine—but that’s from when Waring had to use it. We know it was the phone he used—we just didn’t know then that it was Lesley Newton’s phone.”
Tom nodded. “I just thought I’d see which numbers she’s got short-coded—if Roddam thought she was phoning the police, maybe that was because she only punched a couple of numbers. I can find out if she made a call before the nine-nine-nine was made, and when she made it.”
“There you are.” Lloyd stood up. “Further inquiries. You can be getting on with that while I go and sweet-talk Case.”
Tom retrieved Lesley Newton’s phone from the evidence room and very soon discovered that Phil Roddam had not exaggerated about the number of calls she made and received; there were dozens of numbers in its memory and about thirty short-coded ones. And Roddam was probably right—she had probably just pretended to phone the police so that he would go away.
But then again, it was true that Roddam had just caused a great deal of damage in a house that wasn’t hers. And she didn’t seem too fond of letting the police sort out her domestic problems, but she might have thought there was a case to answer this time. So surely if she had rung anyone, she would have rung Waring, to see if he wanted to take the matter any further, if he wanted her to get the police?
And according to Kayleigh, Lesley had assumed that Waring’s phone was in his car; he had gone to pick his car up, so she might well have tried his mobile. But if she had, he thought, he hadn’t answered, because he obviously still hadn’t found his phone by the time he got back to the cottage. So it was probably not going to be of any help, but—the motto he would have on his coat of arms if they ever made him a peer of the realm—it was worth a try.
He found Ian Waring’s full mobile number and used his own phone to dial it out. It rang four times before Ian Waring’s voice spoke.
“Hello, I’m sorry I can’t speak to you right now, but if . . .”
Tom hung up, his face thoughtful. Then he took his jacket from the back of the chair and went in search of the keys to Ian Waring’s garage.
Ian had had a good night’s sleep and no longer needed to be closely monitored; he had been moved into a private room. He had felt a little shy about saying anything to the doctors, but he had told Theresa that he was in a private patients plan, and she had sorted it all out, getting the appropriate paperwork from the police, ringing the insurance people.
It was like being in a hotel room; TV, radio, phone, power points for a computer, if he wanted, when he felt well enough, because he was going to be here for a while. It was, he supposed, very quiet and restful, and since Lesley, horrified to discover that he had, up until that moment, been happy to rely on the health service, had gone to the trouble of getting him medical insurance, he thought he ought to do what she would have wanted. But he would really have preferred to be on the main ward, with other people to talk to.
He was beginning to accept that Lesley was dead, though Theresa hadn’t been able to tell him much. It seemed inconceivable that someone had murdered her, but the police seemed quite certain of that, and they thought he had witnessed something, had been knocked down by the murderer in an attempt to kill him as well. If he had, he had no memory of it whatsoever. He remembered everything else quite clearly, right up until the moment he had driven up to the cottage.
His first visitor of the day wasn’t Theresa, as he had hoped, but Kayleigh, and he really didn’t know what to say to her. Theresa had told him about the baby they had all thought was Kayleigh’s and about the baby who had gone missing. Four did seem to be the inescapable result of adding two and two, and Ian really didn’t feel capable of dealin
g with that.
“We waited until the supermarkets were open,” she said. “So I could get you something.” She put a small basket of fruit on the cabinet by the bed.
“Who brought you?”
“Mrs. Spears. She runs the children’s home. She’s really nice. But she says I probably won’t stay there. She thinks they’ll try to get me foster parents.”
“Kayleigh, I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
She frowned. “What for?”
He wasn’t sure. He just felt somehow responsible. “I don’t know if I could have stopped it, or if I tried to stop it—I don’t know. They say I rang the police, that I found her like that. That I saw an intruder—but I can’t remember, can’t even give them a description. Maybe if I’d been there . . .” And he knew as he spoke why he felt responsible. Because he had been with Theresa and he hadn’t wanted to go back to Lesley. And someone had come in while he was away and murdered her. It felt like a judgment. “Maybe . . . maybe it wouldn’t have happened.”
“They think it was Dean.”
Dean . . . Dean . . . the chief inspector had said something about someone called Dean.
“Dean?” he repeated.
“Did Mum never tell you about Dean?” And she told him about Dean and Alexandra and about taking this other baby, in an almost matter-of-fact way. “I’ve to appear in court on Wednesday. I’m seeing a solicitor tomorrow.”
Ian could hear Theresa’s voice telling him to watch his step, that he didn’t know anything about the problem daughter. As usual, she was right.
“They think Dean stole Mum’s car, and ran you down with it. So they must think he killed Mum. I just wondered if—well, if you remembered anything, because I don’t understand what he was doing there.”
Ian shook his head. “I’m sorry, Kayleigh. I really don’t.”
“My dad was there as well. He found out about Mum taking me to Australia. I think he had a big row with her, but the police didn’t arrest him or anything, so they can’t think it was him, can they?”
Ian couldn’t believe that so much could have happened in the twenty-five minutes he was away from the cottage, but it had. Theresa must have told Phil where to find Lesley—she really shouldn’t have done that. What if it was Phil who killed Lesley? But this Dean character seemed a lot more likely. “No,” he said, “I’m sure they don’t think it was your dad.”
A nurse came then, to tell him that Chief Inspector Lloyd wanted another word with him, if he was up to it, and Ian agreed that he was, though what he could possibly tell him he didn’t know.
Kayleigh offered to leave when Lloyd came in.
“No, no—I’ll only be a moment. In fact, you might be able to help me. I’d like to know if either of you can tell me anything about a cast-iron doorstop in the shape of a cat.”
“Oh, that was in the Malworth house,” said Ian, by now used to being asked very strange questions by Chief Inspector Lloyd, and not even asking why he wanted to know. “It was used to prop open the kitchen door. We didn’t know why, at first, so we took it away, didn’t we, Kayleigh? Only then we discovered that if someone was in the kitchen trying to get out and someone was in the hallway trying to get in, it was . . .”
He felt tears coming then, the first he’d cried over Lesley. Remembering a silly incident like that. The laughter, when he and Lesley realized they had each been silently, determinedly, pushing a door they believed to be stuck. Lesley had been going to get the door replaced, but they had decided to move to Australia before she had got round to it.
“I’m sorry,” Lloyd said. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No—no, I’m just being . . .” Ian took as deep a breath as he could, which was deeper than he had been able to yesterday, so he must be getting better. “I’m all right.”
“Do you have any idea what happened to it?”
“Isn’t it still there?”
“No—we found it in the cottage.”
“Lesley must have taken it with her.” Ian smiled, but he could feel the tears pricking his eyes again. Lesley was so organized, so aware of using every minute of her time wisely. “She had moved house a lot. She knew all the pitfalls. She and Kayleigh came to the cottage and sorted out exactly what was what. I expect she found some door that wouldn’t behave itself.”
Lloyd looked over at Kayleigh. “Did she mention it to you?” he asked.
“No. But I was outside most of the time. It’s boring going with her to houses. All she does is measure up and things. This time she was seeing what was there already and what we’d have to bring. She probably brought it to keep a door open while she carried stuff in.”
Lloyd nodded and looked back at Ian. “I take it you haven’t remembered any more than you had?”
“No, sorry. I was just explaining to Kayleigh.”
“Well, I’m pleased to see you looking so much better. Sorry to have interrupted your visit, Kayleigh.”
And he was gone, leaving Ian with Kayleigh once more. And he still didn’t know what to say to her.
They were having a late breakfast, having slipped in under the wire just as they were going to stop serving.
“That’s two man-size breakfasts I’ve had in two days,” Phil said. “I’ll never be able to go back to a slice of toast and a cup of tea after a few weeks of this.”
She had woken to the sound of Phil showering and shaving; he had come out of the bathroom, they had found themselves making love again, and still neither of them had actually said anything about what they intended doing.
“It would be silly to stay here,” she said. “Your money will run out very soon if you do that, and you might not get a job straightaway.”
“Especially if I’m a murder suspect.” He spread marmalade on his toast. “I’ll look for somewhere to rent, I suppose.”
Was that what he wanted to do? Or was that what he thought she would want him to do? Or what other people would think he should do? If they carried on like this, they would be old and gray and still wondering about each other. Making love twice in the middle of the biggest crisis of either of their lives didn’t count as a lifelong commitment, but she felt as though they had been sitting across the breakfast table from each other for years, and coyness seemed out of place.
“There’s my flat. I’d like you to stay there. As a lodger, if you’d prefer that—there’s a spare room. Or as a couple. It’s up to you.”
He smiled. “I feel as if we’re a couple.”
“So do I.” She could see one possible cloud on the horizon and thought it best to mention it now rather than later. “Will Kayleigh mind?”
Phil shook his head. “I think she’ll be pleased. But it’s too bad if she’s not, because I’ve got my own life to lead. Don’t think you’ll be playing second fiddle to her, because you won’t—I just think she needs someone that she can rely on, at least until she can stand on her own two feet. And that’s me.”
And now, Theresa thought as they got up from the breakfast table, the waitresses eager to clear away and set the tables for lunch, she would have to tell Ian, and Phil would have to tell Kayleigh, in a complete reversal of how all this had started.
She hoped—no, she was sure—it would have a happier ending.
“So I fetched his phone from his car,” said Tom. “Listen.”
Lloyd took the phone, and listened as it informed him he had a message.
“Ian—I don’t know if you’ll hear this, but just in case you do, I think you should get back here now; you might want to get the police. Phil’s just been here, and he’s smashed the mirror in the living room—just picked up that little table in the corner and threw it at it. I’m not hurt, so don’t worry. But please come back.” There was a pause. “And if I’m right that this ‘mate’ you borrowed the van from is Theresa, please tell her not to interfere again.”
Lloyd gave the phone back to Tom. Lesley Newton had been alive, well, almost heroically polite, and very understandably cross after Phil Roddam’s visi
t, and therefore it hadn’t been Phil Roddam who had murdered her.
“I rang the mobile company,” said Tom. “The call was timed at eleven forty-six.”
And she had been alive and well when Ian Waring was demonstrably somewhere else altogether.
“. . . but it may harm your defense if you do not mention now something which you later rely on in court. Do you understand the charges?”
Dean nodded dumbly, his solicitor having advised him to say nothing more. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. He hadn’t murdered anyone. And what had happened to Waring was an accident. Reckless driving, OK, yes—he had shot out of there backward when he couldn’t see out of the rear window. But he hadn’t murdered anyone, and he hadn’t attempted to murder anyone.
Possibly for the first time in his life, he had told the police the absolute, unvarnished truth, and look where it had got him.
Kayleigh finally rang Andrea; at first she was angry, as Kayleigh had known that she would be, but she explained why it had happened, and Andrea had begun to be a little less hostile, had begun to understand. Then Kayleigh told her about Dean taking her mother’s car, about what had happened to Ian.
“And my dad was there as well.”
By the time she had explained about Phil, Andrea wasn’t angry with her anymore, and Kayleigh felt much happier. “Are you going to get into trouble over Emma?” she asked.
“The police said they might bring charges. But Mrs. Crawford’s been really nice about it, now that she knows I didn’t leave Emma all on her own. She said it was wrong of me not to tell them straightaway what had happened, but she’s letting me stay—I just can’t be on my own with Emma, not until I’m older and wiser, she said.” There was a pause before she spoke again. “And she said that you wouldn’t be welcome in the house anymore.”