“Well—”
“And Joe Murray is the, ‘shortarse’ you described to me the other day when I called at your house. The shortarse who was following you with Denise Latham.”
“Well you’re wrong.”
Gemma ignored the denial. “You see, Mr Higginshaw, we believe that Denise was murdered. We believe that the accident was not an accident at all, but a deliberate and calculated collision, designed to run her off the road and take her life. That, coupled to the attacks on Mr Murray, lead us to conclude that you and your wife were the only people with sufficient motive to carry out the attack. Two million motives, Mr Higginshaw.”
“I said you’re wrong.”
A question struck Gemma out of the blue and she posed it. “What was your wife’s maiden name?”
“I, er… what?”
“I think you heard me, Mr Higginshaw. What was your wife’s maiden name?”
There was a brief pause. “Cavanagh. Why?”
This time it was the answer which dropped the spanner in the works, and Gemma was caught out. She hid her surprise. “Did she ever use the name Killington?”
“Nope.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Even before you met her?”
Higginshaw modified his answer. “Well, obviously, I mean, I dunno, do I, but I don’t see why she should.”
Gemma pushed a pad and pen across the table. “Write down her full name and maiden name for me.”
Ten minutes later, taking a break as agreed with Albiston, Gemma came out of the room and asked the local team to track down all that was known about the woman.
“You’re sure you have this right, ma’am?” Lacey asked.
“It has to be here. There’s no one else who fits the profile. This was the only case Denise Latham was working on, and Higginshaw already admitted to me that he’d recognised Joe and Denise. And before you ask, it wouldn’t take long for them to learn Joe’s name. He’s famous all over Sanford.”
***
Thirty minutes later they resumed. Still waiting for the information on Dawn, Gemma pressed ahead and as the morning dragged on, Higginshaw became more and more anxious, especially when questioned about his wife.
“I keep telling you I don’t know where she is. Why do you keep asking? I don’t know.”
“Inspector,” Albiston put in, “Mr Higginshaw has repeatedly answered the question and denied any knowledge of his wife’s whereabouts. Now, I must insist you move the interview on or let him go.”
“He’s going nowhere, Mr Albiston. May I remind you that this is a murder investigation—”
“Dawn did not kill that woman,” Higginshaw interrupted.
Still talking to the solicitor, Gemma insisted, “And that is why I keep going over the same ground.” She switched her focus to the suspect. “How do you know she didn’t, Tom?”
“She… she wouldn’t.”
“You don’t know that because you don’t know where she is.”
“I’m telling you, I know it wasn’t her. It can’t be.”
“She’s in Majorca, isn’t she?”
“No.”
“How do you know? You don’t know where she is.”
“It’s not Dawn.”
Higginshaw’s insistence led Gemma to conclude that she was onto something. She softened her approach. “Mr Higginshaw… Tom, we understand, believe me. Denise and Joe, well they stuffed you, didn’t they? Caught you out and cost you two million quid. Hell, I’d be annoyed with them, too. You want revenge. Or maybe not. Maybe you wanted to stop the report getting to North Shires. It’s understandable. Just tell me what you worked out and how. How did you know that Denise hadn’t sent the report in yet? Did she tell you that? Or do you have a contact at the North Shires office?”
“I didn’t… we didn’t… no… I mean… it’s not her. Not Dawn. She couldn’t, I mean she wouldn’t.”
“Fine. I accept that. Maybe you were not involved. Maybe Dawn decided to do this off her own bat. But help me prove it, Tom. Tell me where I can find her. Because I will find her. I have a team looking for her right now, and sooner or later, we’ll find her, and when we do, she will tell us everything. She’ll tell us because I have witnesses who can identify her.”
“It’s not her.”
“If you’re so sure, it means you know where she is.”
Tears sparked in his eyes. Gemma recognised the symptoms. He was on the verge of cracking, but too hard a push now might send him over the edge.
“Just tell me, Tom. Save yourself all this pain and tell me where I can find her.”
He broke down weeping, head resting on his forearms. And when he looked up, his face was lined with agony.
Gemma felt a twinge of sympathy for him. Left alone by a woman who cared nothing for him, yet trying his utmost to remain loyal to her.
She steeled herself. “Where is she, Tom?”
He sobbed and his answer sent shockwaves through Gemma, Lacey and the solicitor.
“In the outhouse. Under the flagstones. Where I buried her.”
Chapter Nine
Mick Chadwick, landlord of the Miner’s Arms, where the 3rd Age Club held their weekly disco and infrequent, formal meetings, had decked the room with floral tributes, and amongst them he had placed photographs of Joe, sometimes alone, sometimes with other members of the club.
“Not wishing him dead, Sheila,” he said, “But you know…”
Sheila nodded her gratitude. Thank you, Michael. I’m not sure Joe would have appreciated it, but we do.”
“He wouldn’t,” Brenda agreed. “He preferred plastic flowers. They were easier to keep clean.”
A month had passed since their return from Majorca, and they had heard nothing. In the absence of any concrete evidence, the police, both British and Spanish, refused to declare Joe dead, but neither could they say he was still alive. He had simply disappeared without trace.
So, too, had Ms Killington. She had never been properly identified and if she had come (back) to Great Britain, it was quietly and unobtrusively. Although she was officially still the subject of an all ports warning, and there was a European Arrest warrant sworn out for her, she had never been seen.
Gemma had been commended for her work with Higginshaw. In the days following her abrasive interview, the North Yorkshire police had visited his farmhouse and dug up the flags in outhouse and as promised, they had found Dawn Higginshaw’s body, her skull caved in where he had struck her. After a full confession, the builder was on remand awaiting trial for her murder.
And it was to Gemma that the two women, with the agreement of Les Tanner, the club’s new Chair, had turned for the evening.
It was a special meeting, arranged as a tribute to Joe, and Gemma, still many years too young to be allowed membership, had agreed to say a few words in advance of the disco.
The scheduled start time was, as always, eight o’clock. Sheila and Brenda had arrived at seven, and were dressed more formally than usual. It did not surprise either of them as others began to turn out and they too were in more sombre, smarter attire than was customary for the disco. Even George Robson, who had enjoyed his fifteen minutes of fame with a couple of articles in the Sanford Gazette on the manner in which had saved Joe’s life, was dressed in his best suit.
“It’s the one I use for wedding and funerals,” he quipped when Brenda mentioned it.
As Chair, Les Tanner, resplendent in a navy blue blazer complete with regimental badge and matching tie called everyone to order at eight, and invited Sheila and Brenda to take the small dais by the windows.
“We promise not to waffle,” Sheila said. “We all know why we’re here tonight. We’re missing a dear friend.”
“And employer,” Brenda added.
Sheila smiled wanly. “Of all us, we feel we knew Joe the best. Brenda?”
“That’s right. But we want to call on someone who knew him even better than us. His niece, Detective Inspector Gem
ma Craddock.”
The two women led the applause and as Gemma moved to the front of the room, silence fell.
She placed a glass of vodka and her notes on the table before her, tucking them in between the disco turntables. “You’ll forgive me, ladies and gentlemen. I’m not used to making speeches, but Mrs Riley and Mrs Jump asked, and as Joe’s niece I felt it only right that I should pay tribute to him.”
She looked out across the assembled faces; sad, respectful, expectant.
“We all know Joe. And despite what Mrs Jump said, you probably know him better than me. You should do. You’ve known him longer than me. Short in stature, even shorter in temper, never better than grumpy, outspoken, often to the point of rudeness, he had that awful, Yorkshire tendency to call a spade a bloody shovel and be done with it.”
The reminder brought a ripple of chuckles from her audience.
“For the last forty years, he ran his café on Doncaster Road with – we’re led to believe – an iron hand and a loud voice. He insulted staff and customers alike. And yet they were faithful to him. The drivers and the shoppers who made their way from the retail park just to sample Joe’s inhospitable charms and his excellent food, would never dream of eating elsewhere. And don’t forget his crew—” she gestured at Sheila and Brenda, “—who tolerated him until he went too far, and then had the temerity to bring him up short. Not that it worked for long. Joe was like that. You couldn’t keep him down.”
She let them bask in the memories for a moment.
“But there were other sides to Joe; sides which we never saw enough of. Beneath that gruff exterior beat a heart of solid, twenty-four-carat gold. No matter how much you annoyed him, he would never see you stuck. He would cross the road to help you, if he had to. He donated generously to charities involved with the very young, the elderly, the homeless. And even though he always insisted he had been dragooned into the 3rd Age Club by Mrs Riley and Mrs Jump, he nevertheless worked tirelessly on its behalf… your behalf.”
Once more, Gemma paused to let the audience remind itself of this other Joe.
“As a serving detective, I can tell you that Joe is renowned for his low opinion of the police in general. The truth is a long way from that. He had a great deal of respect for the law and the police, but he got irritated when he could see things we could not. He was, you see, a great believer in justice. He loathed crime and criminals. When he set out to crack a crime, no matter how small or large, it was with a determination to see that the culprits never got away with it. He made it his business to see the felons answered for their actions. And that is the Joe I remember. The dogged, determined observer of people and their habits, and the little things that would give them away.”
This time Gemma paused to ensure her own emotions were in check.
“It seems odd that when his life was under threat he managed to bring yet another murderer to justice. I would swear it was quite inadvertent, but I suspect that if Joe were here, he’d claim it was intentional. Whichever way you look at it, if he had not put us onto Denise Latham’s computer, we would not have uncovered the murder of Dawn Higginshaw and brought her husband to answer for it quite so quickly.”
Gemma picked up her glass.
“It’s sad that we don’t know what happened to Joe. We don’t know if he’s alive or dead, whether he’s in heaven, in hell or in hiding, but I believe in optimism. I like to think he’s still out there somewhere, waiting for the chance to come home, and if so, I just hope that he’s found the contentment which always seemed to evade him here in Sanford.” She raised her glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Joe Murray.”
As one, the audience raised their glasses and called out, “Joe.”
THE END
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