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A Bad, Bad Thing

Page 13

by Elena Forbes


  ‘She wasn’t scared of him, then?’

  ‘Not one bit. She treated him like he was a piece of dog shit on her shoe.’

  ‘So she clearly didn’t see him as a threat?’

  He shook his head. ‘No way, poor girl.’

  Again, the image Wilby painted of Jane tallied with what Farrell had told her. Although still a shadowy figure, Jane came across as someone who knew her own mind, who certainly wasn’t afraid to stand up to Farrell. Had she misjudged him?

  ‘Remind me, when did the scene in the bar take place?’

  ‘At least a couple of months before she was killed, maybe a bit longer.’

  She thought back to the timeline of Jane’s six months in Marlborough. She had met Farrell quite soon after arriving and gone out with him for nearly three months. She must have dumped him not long before meeting Wilby. In Farrell’s defence, the wound was still very fresh and raw when he saw Jane in the bar with Wilby. The fact that he had followed Jane there, just proved he was jealous. Wilby’s account tied in with other accounts of Farrell’s jealousy and it was good to hear it at first hand. But although jealousy was a strong motive for murder, the gap between the incident and Jane’s killing was a couple of months at least. As far as she knew, there were no other reports of Farrell’s stalking Jane during this time. What had he been doing with himself? Maybe after what had happened in the bar and the things Jane had said to him, he had finally decided to leave her alone and get on with his life. Or was he still brooding over it all that time, the pressure mounting? If so, it seemed odd that there were no other recorded incidents until the one in the gym, the morning of the day Jane had disappeared, and the accounts of what had happened there were not consistent.

  She met Wilby’s gaze. ‘Did you ever get the impression when you were with her that she might have been seeing someone else as well as you?’

  He was silent for a moment, then he clicked his knuckles loudly one by one. ‘I dunno. She was nice-looking, but she wasn’t a knockout, or anything. The quiet ones can sometimes surprise you, but if she had someone else on the go at the same time she was seeing me, she kept it well to herself.’

  Again, her impression was that he was telling the truth. Why would he lie, or hold something back, ten years on? He had nothing to gain. But instinct was telling her there had to have been someone else in Jane’s life. Why else would a lonely, shy girl like Jane suddenly ditch Wilby? He was certainly several notches up on Farrell. Even if Wilby wasn’t Mr Perfect, surely quiet, lonely Jane would have held onto him for bit longer if there was nobody else around?

  ‘Was that the last time you saw her?’

  ‘It was the last time we went out together. But I saw her once after that, in London.’

  ‘When was this?’ There had been no mention of it in the file Peters had sent over to her.

  ‘Just a few weeks before she died. It was late morning. She was standing on a street corner, talking to a man. I thought he was her dad.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I gave the police a description at the time, but it’s pretty basic. All I remember is he was an old boy, with thick white hair.’

  ‘Was he short or tall? Fat or thin?’

  ‘Nothing that stood out. He was in a suit, with a stupid bowtie. He looked like a right dick.’

  ‘You assumed he was her father because of the way he was dressed, or was it the age difference, or their body language?’

  He frowned. ‘I dunno. It was just my impression. Nobody young wears a bowtie, do they? He looked like a businessman. With money.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘The suit was well-cut. Expensive. I used to work in a posh showroom in London in my twenties. I know what I’m talking about. Who else would he be, if he wasn’t her dad?’

  ‘Her father was a country vet,’ she prodded.

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe he was an uncle, or a godfather, or something. They were just chatting. Not close together, or nothing. She was smiling at him, though. Like she was pleased with something. It was all over in a flash. Maybe I missed something.’

  ‘You’re sure it was her?’

  ‘A hundred per cent.’

  ‘Did she often go up to London?’

  ‘I remember her saying something about it one evening. Said she was meeting up with a friend for lunch, I think. I just assumed it was a woman.’

  Perhaps successful vets from Lincoln wore expensive suits when they went to London. Or maybe Jane had been seeing a much older man. Was the cash that Farrell had mentioned related in some way? If so, was Jane moonlighting as an escort on her days off?

  ‘What was Jane wearing?’

  ‘Nothing special. I mean, she just looked like Jane, with her specs and ordinary clothes.’ He smiled. ‘She didn’t look like a hooker, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, pleased that there wasn’t much that escaped him. It added weight to everything else he had said. ‘OK. Just to make sure, there was nothing at all intimate about the way they were together?’

  ‘No. I’m sure I’d have noticed. I told you, I thought the man was her dad. I’m sorry. That’s as much as I can tell you.’

  ‘Understood.’ The last thing she wanted was to push him too hard and make him say something for the sake of it. She drained the remains of her coffee, wishing she had time for another, and stood up. ‘One last thing. Where was this?’

  ‘The corner of Berkeley Square, right outside the Porsche garage. I always slow down and look in the window when I’m passing, which is how I spotted her.’

  He got to his feet and walked her to the door. ‘You know, I feel real bad about what happened to her,’ he said, thoughtfully, holding it open. ‘Not that I could’ve done nothing to stop it. But I never dreamt the bloke I saw in the bar with her would kill her. Now you’re saying he’s got an appeal going, or something?’

  ‘That’s right. He’s always maintained he’s innocent.’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘Well, he looked like a right nutter to me.’ He turned to face her. ‘Do you think he’s innocent?’

  She sighed. He had been straight with her and she didn’t want to lie. ‘To be honest, I really don’t know. That’s what I’m here to find out.’

  SIXTEEN

  Kevin Steven’s widow, Shona, stood in the doorway of her fifth floor flat in Pimlico, an apron covered in pink hearts tied around her ample middle, a limp tea towel in her hand. ‘Look, I’m happy to tell you what I told the police this morning,’ she said wearily to Dan. ‘But they really didn’t seem that interested. I don’t want to waste your time.’

  It was past six in the evening and she had just got home from the school where she worked as a supply teacher. On top of the fact that she spoke softly and quickly, a gale was whistling through the open corridor and stairwell and he had to crane his neck to hear what she was saying.

  He shivered. ‘Tell me anyway, if you don’t mind.’ He was impressed that the police had been to see Shona so quickly. At least it meant they were taking what he had told them seriously.

  A door opened along the corridor and a man came out with a small dog and started walking towards them.

  With a nervous look in his direction, Shona said, ‘Maybe you’d best come in. I don’t want to talk about it all out here.’

  She ushered him inside, past an old bicycle that was blocking the narrow hall, and into a small kitchen at the back, overlooking two identical, charmless, mid-seventies housing blocks. The room was clean and tidy, the walls painted pale blue, with old-fashioned pine units and a little, white Formica table pushed up against one wall.

  ‘Have a seat. Do you want a cup of tea? I was just making myself one when you rang the buzzer.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied, although he could do with something stronger.

  ‘Mickey Fraser came to see me a few weeks ago,’ Shona said, taking out a box of tea bags and a couple of mugs from a wall cupboard.
‘He told me he used to be with the police and that he was a private investigator.’ She looked over at him for corroboration.

  She was in her late-forties, he guessed, with a pleasant, soft-featured face, thick, dark hair, threaded with grey and a worried look in her hazel eyes that he sensed had been there for a while. He decided to go carefully, not push too hard.

  ‘Both are correct,’ he said. ‘What else did he tell you?’

  ‘He said he was looking into an old murder case. That a girl was murdered. Was it ten years ago?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And a man’s in jail for it, who shouldn’t be there.’

  ‘All the evidence points to the fact that he’s innocent.’

  She nodded. ‘He told me about your charity. I’ve seen one of the documentaries you did. Mickey told me that Kevin tried to contact the girl several times in the week before her death.’

  ‘Her name was Jane McNeil,’ he said, wanting to personalize things, in the hope of jogging her memory. ‘She worked for a racing yard near Marlborough.’

  Her expression was blank. ‘Mickey mentioned he wanted to know why Kevin called this girl several times. I couldn’t help him, I’m afraid. I knew nothing about what Kevin was up to on a day-to-day basis.’

  ‘Was your husband contacted by the police at the time of Jane’s murder?’

  ‘If he was, he didn’t tell me. Maybe he wasn’t calling her about anything important.’

  It sounded as though Mickey had hit a dead end. ‘Did Mickey ask anything else?’

  She sighed. ‘Not really. I could see he was very disappointed. He asked about what happened to Kevin’s laptop, which gave up the ghost years ago, and his old files, which I also got rid of. There was nothing at all interesting in them, I can assure you. But I’d kept some of Kevin’s old diaries and notebooks. I told him he could have them if he wanted, if he gave them back to me when he was done.’

  ‘He took them away with him?’

  She nodded.

  He wondered if he had stumbled over them in Mickey’s flat. ‘The notebooks were for work?’

  ‘Yes. He wrote everything up on his laptop, but he liked to take notes longhand, particularly if he was interviewing somebody. He also preferred a diary he could write in, rather than using his phone or laptop.’

  ‘Can you describe the diaries and notebooks?’

  She brushed a fluffy lock of hair off her face. ‘They weren’t anything special, just A5 size, red, with hardcovers. The notebooks had wire binders, so he could rip out a page if he wanted. He always had the same thing, same colour. He was a real creature of habit.’

  ‘How many of them were there?’ he asked. He couldn’t recall anything matching their description in Mickey’s flat, certainly not in the front room. But maybe the police had found them when they searched the place.

  ‘Oh, several years’ worth,’ she said, filling the kettle and switching it on. ‘But Mickey was only interested in the most recent ones. They were all in a box on top of my wardrobe, gathering dust, so it was easy to put my hands on them. Do you have any idea why he was murdered? The police wouldn’t say.’

  ‘No idea. But I was the one who found his body. He was tortured, you know. It was pretty horrific.’

  Her brown eyes opened wide. ‘Goodness. The police didn’t mention that.’

  He was sorry to shock her but he wanted her to realize how serious it was, in case there was anything she might be holding back, or had forgotten to tell the police.

  The kettle pinged and she filled the mugs with water.

  ‘Is there anything else you think I should know?’ he asked.

  She glanced away, looking down momentarily at her hands. ‘Well, before Mickey left, he told me he thought Kevin’s death might not have been an accident.’

  ‘Really?’ He tried to hide his amazement. Had Mickey genuinely believed it, or was it just a line he’d given Shona, to get her to open up? ‘Did you tell the police this?’

  ‘They weren’t interested.’ She stabbed the teabags with a teaspoon, then took them out of the mugs and dumped them in the bin. ‘Milk? Sugar? There’s sweetener, if you want.’

  ‘Just a drop of milk, please.’

  She poured milk into the mugs and handed him his, then leaned heavily back against the counter and took a gulp of tea.

  ‘What exactly happened to Kevin?’

  ‘He was the victim of a hit-and-run. The view at the time was that it was an accident and they’re still sticking to it. The autopsy showed he’d been drinking quite heavily. More than twice the legal drink drive limit, they said. So their assumption was that he just stepped out into the road, not looking where he was going. Maybe it’s better for their statistics that way.’

  ‘Where did this happen?’

  ‘Very near here, on Ebury Street, just after closing time. He was walking home from the pub. He went there most nights for a bit of company, if I had work to do. There weren’t any witnesses or cameras, unfortunately. Some passer-by found him lying in the road. There was blood all over the place and they called an ambulance, but by the time it came he was already dead. I asked the police who came here this morning if they thought Mickey’s murder had anything to do with Kevin, or his death …’ Her voice trailed off uncertainly. ‘They were very polite, of course. But they said it was highly unlikely. I could tell they thought I’d been watching too much TV.’

  He nodded sympathetically. The detectives he had seen had been equally sceptical about his suggestion of a link between Mickey’s death and the Sean Farrell case. It was all history. Ten years was a long time and a man had been found guilty and was in jail. Why would any of it have something to do with the present?

  ‘So you don’t think Kevin’s death was an accident?’ he asked. He saw the answer in her eyes even before she replied and he wondered if Mickey had seen it too and had decided to exploit her vulnerability. He also saw the glint of a tear, which she wiped away quickly with her knuckle.

  ‘No. I don’t.’

  ‘Can you tell me why?’

  She sighed. ‘Before Kevin died, he was working on something important, something hush hush, or at least that’s what he said. He said it was going to be the making of him.’

  ‘Did he tell you what it was about?’

  ‘No. Just that he had to be the first to break the story, but he hadn’t got quite enough evidence to go public.’ She sighed. ‘I have to say, I’d heard it all before. Kevin was a bit of a dreamer. He was always trying to get the big break, so I wasn’t holding my breath. He’d been drinking more than usual and he’d become a bit paranoid, which worried me.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He thought our phone was being tapped, for starters, then he thought someone was following him.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘The week before he died. I’m afraid I didn’t believe him. But when he was killed …’ She shrugged and looked at him meaningfully. ‘There was no proof, of course,’ she continued, wiping away another tear. ‘And when I told the police, I could see they didn’t believe me either. At least they had the decency to check the phone, but they said there was absolutely nothing wrong with it. I didn’t bother telling the lot that came this morning anything about it. They’d just be thinking the same. Stupid woman needs to get a grip and move on with her life.’

  His heart went out to her. Sometimes people didn’t get over things and she’d been living with what had happened for the past ten years. ‘Do you have any idea what was in the notebooks?’

  ‘No, but he had one for each story he was working on, at least if it was anything important. They were all labelled on the front, with the date he started them, and some sort of title or description. All the old ones – the dead ones, as he called them – were stacked together with elastic bands, in date order, in the box. He was very organized that way.’

  ‘What about his most recent notebooks? The ones he was using at the time of his death?’

  ‘There were t
wo of them. They were in his satchel, underneath his desk. I put them in the box with the others.’

  ‘You didn’t look through them?’

  She shook her head. ‘I felt too emotional and what was the point? The police didn’t think it was important. I’d completely forgotten about them until Mickey came to see me.’

  ‘So you don’t remember anything about the notebooks?’

  She sighed. ‘All I remember is that they were on top of the pile when I gave Mickey the box. I took the lid off to show him what was inside. I remember the label on one of them. Kevin had used a thick black felt tip to mark them up. It said “Weston”, I think, and Michael something, and another name. All I know is Mickey seemed very interested in it.’

  ‘Could it be “Westerby” and “Michaels”, as in the surname?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You don’t remember the other name?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘And you really have no idea what Kevin’s big scoop was?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m a history teacher. I know absolutely nothing about the racing world.’

  SEVENTEEN

  The Rising Sun pub occupied an old brick and timber building, overlooking a small churchyard at one end of Marlborough High Street. Eve had booked the last available room, which was at the front, on the first floor, above the main bar. The room was large and pleasantly warm, but as she turned off the lights for a moment and closed the blinds, the light from the streetlamp opposite leaked through. Even at that hour, when the bar was nearly empty, the sound of music and voices drifted up from below. She had packed her prescription sleeping pills and an eye mask, as well as downloaded some new sleep music on her phone, but it still wouldn’t be enough. She would have to see if she could find somewhere else to stay in the morning.

  She had been surprised at how well the meeting with Steve Wilby had gone. After seeing him, she had driven from Swindon back to Marlborough, finding the Blue Cross shop on the high street, a hundred yards down from the Rising Sun, on the same side of the street. She had spoken to an elderly man, who was busy stacking books at the back of the shop, and described the woman Wilby had seen a few Saturdays before. He seemed to know who Eve was talking about, but told Eve to try again in the morning when the manager would be in. Eve had then called Dan. He had no idea who the man with white hair Wilby had seen with Jane could be. But when she suggested he try and speak to Jane’s parents again, he refused. ‘No point’, he said emphatically. ‘I told you, she slammed the door in my face last time.’ She decided that she would have to do it herself. He had at least given her the names of the two detectives from Hendon who had interviewed him that morning and she had left a message for the SIO in charge of Mickey’s murder investigation, DCI Andy Fagan, whom she knew well.

 

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