by Elena Forbes
‘I heard you became a barrister.’
‘That’s right. I met Melissa, at Oxford and we got married almost straight after we graduated. I got a pupillage in a good chambers and we moved to London. But she steadily became more and more wrapped up in her family’s business. It’s been based just outside Marlborough for donkey’s years, and I found myself spending an increasing amount of time down here. Thanks to a friend of her dad’s, I started to get involved at a local level and I guess one thing led to another.’
He made it all sound so easy, but it was a remarkable change for the postman’s son from next-door, on the busy road on the outskirts of Lymington. ‘Well, I guess I should congratulate you,’ she said. ‘You’ve come a long way.’
‘We both have, at least superficially. Who’d have thought you’d be a police detective? Not me, for one. But I’m sure we’re both still the same people inside. Some things don’t ever change.’
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and looked as though he was about to say something else, when there was a tap at the door. He glanced at his watch and sighed. ‘Unfortunately, I’m afraid that means I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘I’m late for another surgery, but why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? You can meet Melissa, and we can chat about old times and whatever else you like.’
She hesitated. What harm could it do? She might actually learn something useful about the murder, which was why she was there. ‘That would be nice, thank you.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘At a pub on the High Street.’
‘Well, come over about seven thirty, if that’s not too early.’
He wrote down the address and brief directions on a sheet of paper, then stood up.
‘Really good to see you again, Eve,’ he said, looking her steadily in the eye. ‘It’s been way too long.’ He opened the door and ushered her out.
As she walked into the noisy shop and made her way back to the car park, she could still feel the warmth of his gaze. He was the same, kind, generous-hearted Gavin that she remembered, straight as a die as always. What you saw was what you got; there was no side, no secret agenda. Twenty years was a long time, but she felt a gentle, tugging regret that she had let go of him so easily. At least he appeared to be genuinely happy to see her and didn’t seem to want to punish her for what had happened.
FOURTEEN
‘It’s fucking encrypted,’ Dan said, looking around at Zofia. He pulled out Mickey’s little red USB drive from his laptop and tossed it onto the desk. ‘Who’d have thought technophobe old Mickey would know how to do such a thing.’ He gave a deep sigh.
He had hoped the flash drive would provide a nice shortcut to finding out what Mickey had been up to. Instead, he was going to have to do things the hard way, try and follow Mickey’s footsteps as best he could. And it wasn’t as though he had lots of spare time. Two new cases had come in for review and Kristen still wasn’t answering her phone. Did she care about 4Justice anymore? Or was she so wrapped up with the documentary she was shooting – and the fucking French cameraman – that seven years of hard work counted for nothing? Zofia could do an initial analysis and review, but she lacked the experience and he would have to double-check everything himself. How on earth was he going to find the time to play detective? That was the priority. Also, where to start? He had given Mickey the barest of information and had left it up to him. He sighed again with feeling. He’d slept badly, waking up several times worrying about what had happened to Mickey and the police interrogation. Maybe there was an easier way – the right way, his conscience was telling him.
‘I think I should probably hand Mickey’s memory stick over to the police.’
‘You kidding me, Dan?’ Zofia pursed her purple-stained lips.
Her eyes were pale, glassy marbles, her disapproval palpable. It angered him. The fact that they were running fast to barely standstill was not his fault. It was Kristen who had left them all in the lurch without any form of warning. Zofia was young and full of misplaced idealism. She believed that the police were the enemy and, based on her own experience back in Poland, he couldn’t blame her. It was good to be a purist, but there was a time and a place. Sometimes you had to be pragmatic. Sean Farrell’s case was all that mattered and if he couldn’t get access to the information on Mickey’s flash drive, he was sure the police could.
He rocked back in his chair, folded his arms and exhaled loudly. ‘No, I’m not kidding. I shouldn’t have taken it in the first place, or held onto it.’
She shrugged and spread her hands. ‘So what you tell them? How you explain you find it?’
‘I dunno. Maybe that Mickey left it here in the office, or asked me to look after it for him. Something like that. I can’t obviously say I took it from his flat, can I? Not unless I want to be charged with something or other, and thrown in jail. That wouldn’t exactly help Sean, now would it?’
‘Then why you not tell them this morning?’
She had a point there. He wasn’t thinking clearly. The best part of the morning had been spoiled, so far, by his being interviewed by a different pair of brisk-mannered detectives – this time two cropped-haired women, one tall and thin and flat-chested, the other big-breasted and short, both dressed in ill-fitting black trouser suits. They looked like Laurel and Hardy, but without the humour or pathos. They had arrived at the office at nine a.m. and had refused to go away and come back again, insisting, in the intolerant manner of people who got up early and had a lot to do, on waiting right outside his room while he hurriedly dressed. Eve had been right about them. They apparently hailed from Hendon and worked for a murder investigation team. This time he had made of point of putting their cards in a safe place, to give to her later. Maybe she could get more out of them than he could. Like a well-rehearsed double act, they had gone over the same old ground, poking and prodding each detail of his original statement. They had told him bugger all in return. Unlike the previous team, there had been little reaction, either positive or negative, to the idea that Mickey had been helping with the investigation of a cold case. Whatever their view, it would be difficult, after all of that, to explain what he was doing with Mickey’s USB drive.
Zofia folded her arms across her ample chest. ‘You talk to Kristen?’
He sighed. In her eyes, Kristen could do no wrong and he often wondered if she had some sort of schoolgirl crush on her, as he watched her water and feed and nurture the little plant Kristen had left behind on her desk. He had even heard her talk to it, as she wiped the dust off its leaves. She had no concept of Kristen’s failings, but then why should she? All that was good about Kristen, her sharpness, her single-mindedness, her determination, her drive and ambition had made her the success she was. But they were negatives when it came to a romantic relationship, particularly anything long-term. He had played second fiddle for far too long. He supposed it was why he had lost her respect. He wondered why it had taken him so long to see it.
‘I can’t get hold of her,’ he said. ‘She’s not returning my calls.’
Zofia nodded sagely. ‘She’s busy woman. Maybe I know someone who can help.’
‘Who? You mean one of your on-again, off-again Goth boyfriends?’ He pictured a sea of interchangeable, young male faces, of varying nationalities, all with dyed black hair and an attitude. ‘Maybe someone you picked up in a bar, or a club, or on Tinder?’
Zofia smiled. ‘Nothing wrong with Tinder, Dan. You should give it a try.’
‘Maybe.’ At least she had a social life, he thought, which is more than could be said for him. ‘What I mean is, this is someone you know, someone you trust?’
‘Of course. He do favour for me. He owes me. He know what to do.’ She reached for the drive, but Dan shook his head.
‘I can’t let you have it, Zofia. Who knows what’s on it and how important it is. Something may happen to it. Then what do we do? How the hell would I explain that? I’d better hand it over.’
He pushed his hair back off his for
ehead and wiped his brow. Even as he spoke, he felt sick at the thought, imagining the afternoon unfolding at the police station, with yet more suspicion and questions. Another day gone, no further forward and no other work done.
‘You’d better get on with checking the names on that printout I gave you. If any of them tally with anyone to do with the Westerby racing operation, call me straight away.’
She raised her black-painted brows. ‘You’re bonkers. You really want to call police?’
He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. The patch of damp from the floor above was getting bigger. Or was it his imagination?
‘Not really.’
She held out her hand again, nodding her head emphatically. ‘I don’t lose it, I promise. I’m sure I get it unlocked. You gotta trust me, Dan.’
FIFTEEN
Eve could smell Steve Wilby’s aftershave from ten feet away and she kept her distance as he led her into his small glass box of an office at the back of the Mercedes showroom. He had been easy to talk to on the telephone and was now all smiles, keen to demonstrate his desire to help. It was his lunch hour, he had been at pains to let her know, as though he were making a big effort to be helpful, and he had got them each a cup of nice-smelling coffee from an expensive-looking machine in the showroom.
‘Tell me about Jane McNeil,’ Eve asked, as he pulled up a chair for her. ‘You went out with her after Sean Farrell, is that right?’
Wilby nodded, sitting down behind his desk. ‘Just a few times. That’s all.’ He moved a small pile of papers to one side so that the space in front of him was clear and folded his hands on the desk expectantly.
Working back, Eve assumed he must be in his early forties, although he didn’t look it. Smooth, was how she would describe him, with short, well-cut, dark-brown hair, a pleasant, regular-featured face and nice, hazel eyes. His crisp white shirt had the company logo on the chest pocket, which he wore with a plain, navy-blue tie and dark trousers. Like Farrell, he was short, with broad shoulders and a muscular build, but there the resemblance ended. He had also worn a lot better and was generally in much better physical shape, but of course he hadn’t spent ten years in jail. Eve noticed a thick silver wedding band on his finger and a happy-looking picture of a wife and two children on his desk. It was a future – whether or not Jane had wanted it – that had been denied her.
‘How did you two meet?’ she asked, sipping her coffee, which was nice and hot, with not too much milk.
‘One of the women from the racing yard where she worked introduced us. I was at the local Honda dealer in those days and I sold her a car. We got chatting. She found out I was single and we ended up going out for a drink. There was a group of us, some blokes I worked with, and this woman. She brought Jane along, plus another girl from their office. I got talking to Jane and I ended up asking her out. The woman who introduced us was really narked that I fancied Jane, but that’s life. It’s funny, even though we only went out a few times, I still remember her well.’
‘Probably because of all the stuff in the papers,’ Eve prompted.
‘Yeah, I guess. The pictures didn’t do her justice. She had nice colouring and she was a pretty little thing, particularly when she took off her specs, although a bit on the skinny side for my taste. She had nice eyes too, come to think of it. One was blue, the other brown, like that actress … you know …’ He looked up at the ceiling, then shook his head. ‘It’ll come to me in a minute. Jane was a little self-conscious about it, but I thought it was kind of sexy and—’
‘The woman who introduced you, what was her name?’ Eve interrupted, before he got too carried away down memory lane.
‘I dunno, but I can tell you where to find her. She was behind the till at the Blue Cross in Marlborough a couple of Saturdays ago.’
‘You mean the charity shop?’
‘Yes. It’s in the High Street. There was a toy in the window my little boy wanted, so we went in. Took me a minute or so to place her, but I never forget a face and she don’t look that much different.’
‘Can you describe her?’
‘Scrawny, long, dark hair tied back in a ponytail, with a white streak at the front. A bit New Age, if you get my drift. She’s got a tattoo of a bird, or something, on the back of her hand. I noticed it when she took my money. She’s the one who tipped the cops off about me when Jane was killed, the sour old cow. Lucky for me I had a cast-iron alibi.’
He was observant, and precise, she noted, and she liked his direct manner. He would make a good witness in court. Hopefully his memories of Jane would be equally sharp. ‘So what happened with you and Jane?’
He shrugged. ‘As I said, we went out a few times together. I’d just finished with someone, and so had she, so we were both treading a bit careful, like.’
‘The person she’d just finished with, was this Sean Farrell?’
‘I think so. She never mentioned anybody else.’
‘What did you do with her?’
‘I took her out for a drink, then for a meal, and we went to the flics after work one night.’
‘You slept with her?’
He met her gaze. ‘Never got the chance. She started making excuses. Then she didn’t return my calls. Didn’t take me long to get the message.’
‘Were you surprised?’
He shrugged. ‘Yeah. It was all a bit sudden. I mean, I thought things were going real good.’
He spoke as though being rejected wasn’t the sort of thing that happened to him often. When she had interviewed Sean Farrell in jail, he had come across as a bit cocky too, although in a more belligerent sort of way. There was also the weak physical resemblance. Everyone had a type, to a greater or lesser degree. For some it was purely a superficial thing, about a body shape or hair or eye colour. For others it went deeper and was about personality and finding somebody who would fit in a particular way. The fact that Jane seemed to be attracted to someone who was confident and full of himself, possibly reflected a lack of confidence on her part and the need for someone else to be in control. She wondered what had put Jane off Steve Wilby so quickly. As far as she could see, he was better looking and had more obvious charm than Farrell.
‘So, you wouldn’t describe her as easy?’ she asked.
‘Far from it,’ he said emphatically. ‘I barely got to second base. And that was after three dates.’
What he said tallied with Farrell’s own account of his relationship with Jane. It also seemed to rule out the theory of Jane’s having had casual sex with somebody she barely knew, who had then killed her.
‘But you were fine about it?’
‘Sure. My heart wasn’t broken, if that’s what you’re thinking. C’est la vie.’ He drank some coffee, then put the cup noisily down in the saucer and leaned back in his chair. ‘The police made a right song and dance about it, saying I was angry and wanted revenge, and all that, but it was a load of bollocks. I’ve been around the block a few times. Sometimes you get on with a girl and sometimes you don’t. End of. Just move on. No big deal. There’s always more fish in the sea.’
He spoke matter-of-factly, without any trace of rancour. The police had checked his alibi and there was no reason for him not to tell the truth after so much time. ‘Did Jane talk about what was going on in her life, at all?’
He shrugged. ‘This and that. She seemed pretty lonely, far as I could tell. She hadn’t been around here that long and I don’t think she knew many people. She didn’t like the girls she was sharing with, that much I remember. Maybe she was a bit of a prude, but she said they were a right pair.’
‘What else did she talk about?’
‘The yard where she worked, mostly, and all the people there, and the clients. She was full of it, like it was the best thing since sliced bread, meeting rich and famous people. To be honest, she talked about nothing else. I’m not into the whole racing lark, so it went right over my head. I also thought she was way too impressed by it all. To be honest, I found it a bit of a tu
rn-off.’
She remembered Farrell’s description of Jane, how she gave herself airs and graces and how he had called her Miss La-di-da. Jane had had dreams of a career in TV, but she sounded naïve and impressionable, possibly easy for the wrong sort of person to lead astray.
‘Tell me about Sean Farrell. I understand he made a scene one evening when you were out with Jane.’
He laughed. ‘He sure did, the stupid git. I’d arranged to meet her in this wine bar in Marlborough, but she was late and I was already there, waiting. She was all in a fluster, when she came in, something to do with work, she said. Anyway, I got up to buy her a drink and while I was at the bar, I remember looking around and seeing this bloke standing over her, talking to her, waving his arms about, like he’s conducting the traffic, or something. I thought he was a friend of hers come over to say hello, but when I get back with her drink, they’re having a right old set-to.’
‘You think he followed her there?’
‘No doubt about it. The bar’s down a side street, so he couldn’t have just been passing and seen us through the window, like he told the police.’
‘Do you remember anything that was said?’
‘It was a long time ago. But the gist of it was, she told him she was a free woman and could see who the hell she liked. I had to give it to her, she didn’t mince her words. He went apeshit after that. You’d think he was her husband, the way he was carrying on, effing and blinding, but she stood up to him. When she told me afterwards they’d only gone out together for a few months, I was totally gobsmacked. I remember thinking the man had a real problem. Anyway, I told him to shove off, but he wouldn’t listen to me. I thought at one point he was going to hit me. I went and found the manager, but before either of us had a chance to do anything, she turned on him and was ordering him out of the bar. She knew how to handle herself, I’d give her that much. She told him exactly what she thought of him. Said some right strong stuff about what a loser he was. Then she said if he didn’t piss off and leave her alone, she’d call the police.’