by Lisa Cutts
‘Thanks, Catherine,’ I said, since Wingsy was finding it difficult to form words without closing his mouth. ‘We’ve got Daphne’s financial stuff through. I see that it was sent to you too. That’s got to be worth looking into. Were the others lottery winners?’
‘No, they weren’t. That would have been too easy. Holland never gambled. Like your thinking, though. I’ll be about if you need anything.’ She bounced off in the direction of the DCI, who had just appeared in the doorway looking for her.
‘She seems alright,’ said Wingsy at last.
‘“She seems alright”? Oh, please, mate,’ I said. ‘I was gonna offer you some chocolate but you’ve probably filled up on the flies you’ve been catching.’
‘You jealous, Nin? Lay off the chocolate and you might have a chance of looking like that.’
‘Really? So I can attract baldy wingnuts like you? I’m good, thanks.’
Chapter 24
There was only so much you could glean from paper and computers. Nothing could come close to meeting people and talking to them. Wingsy and I put together a plan and went out to meet Daphne’s family. I braced myself for dealing with people in mourning again. It was inevitable in a murder enquiry. Talking to her family was going to be very draining, but that was police work.
As we drove out of the security gates, Alf, the caretaker, was leaving through the pedestrian gate. Wingsy pressed the window control, rolling the glass down. ‘Alf. Want a lift?’
Alf stopped and leaned in the window. ‘Nin, Wingsy. No, ta. I like the bus – good for listening to other people’s conversations. Thanks all the same.’ He straightened up and strode in the direction of the bus stop.
‘Makes sense,’ said Wingsy when Alf was out of earshot. ‘He’ll have another body part to get rid of on the number 27 by now.’
‘Don’t talk such rubbish. Concentrate on driving,’ I replied.
Wingsy and I had made arrangements to see Daphne’s sister, who lived only a couple of miles from her house, before visiting other members of the family. As he drove, I read out the family tree that had been put together so far. Daphne’s maiden name had been Lloyd. Her father had died during the war and her mother had died of cancer in 1988. Daphne had married George Headingly in 1956, and seven years later they’d had a son, Scott.
‘Where’s the son now?’ asked Wingsy.
‘Died. Oh, sad. He hanged himself in 2004. Got to be pretty desperate to do that. It doesn’t say why and there’s no coroner’s report attached. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find out: he hanged himself at his mum’s house. I recognise a couple of the names here who went to the call.’
‘Is there much written about the sister?’ said Wingsy.
‘She’s Diane Lloyd, seventy-one years old. She married but got divorced and he remarried. Changed her name back to Lloyd from Green. No children. There’s a bit about Donald, the brother, but we’ll see what we can get from Diane first.’
‘What’s the door number again?’ he asked as he slowed the car.
‘It’s 52. Oh, here it is. Looks OK. Garden’s neat, no car in the driveway, looks well maintained. It would suggest to me that it’s not a lonely, childless seventy-one-year-old divorcee living here. Someone cares.’
‘Or she’s loaded.’ We pulled up and made our way along the neat and tidy pathway, not a weed in sight.
I rang the bell and waited for my first view of Diane Lloyd. A smiling, grey-haired woman opened the door and I wondered for a moment if we had the right house. She was dressed in a yellow blouse and cream trousers – hardly mourning colours. Her upright, almost rigid posture did not suggest she was gripped by fear at her sister’s murder, but that she was a woman who carried herself well. She glanced at our warrant cards and welcomed us in, repeating our names back to us as if she was learning them and didn’t want to forget them later on. She stared at me and held out her hand to shake mine. Her hands were cold, unlike her eyes. She unnerved me a little, as she kept hold of my hand for longer than really necessary and barely gave Wingsy a glance.
As I seemed to be more of a success with her than Wingsy, he allowed me to do the talking.
‘Ms Lloyd,’ I said. ‘Thanks – ’
‘Please, Nina, call me Diane. That’s if it’s OK to call you Nina – or Detective Foster if you’d prefer.’
‘No, Diane, Nina is fine. Thank you for seeing us at such a difficult time for you.’
She waved my condolences aside and led us into a compact but tastefully decorated kitchen. ‘I’ll put the kettle on and show you to the conservatory while it boils,’ Diane said. We glanced at one another and Wingsy gave a small shrug. I felt the same: she didn’t appear to be at all bothered. But grief was a very tricky thing, with its own agenda.
Seated a few minutes later in her conservatory, we looked out over a beautiful garden full of jasmine and roses, the scent wafting in through the open door. The chattering of birds pecking at seed on the feeder halfway down the garden completed the peaceful setting.
‘Diane, we explained on the phone why we wanted to see you. We’re very sorry about your sister. We – ’
‘Hated her. She deserved to die. I understand that it was brutal.’
I searched Diane’s face carefully. She looked me straight in the eye, and the previously warm gaze was now as cold as her hands.
Chapter 25
‘My family ran into a few difficulties many years ago and I and my brother, Donald, had problems with Daphne. Donald stayed in contact, but I stopped speaking to her. Our main problem started with George. No one approved of their marriage, least of all my mother, but when Scott was born we thought that things would settle down. They didn’t. They were constantly rowing – even separated a couple of times. She always went back, though.’ She paused and took a sip of her tea and then, still looking solely at me, continued, ‘The day Scott hanged himself, he was doing the world a service. Best thing that bastard ever did.’
Reluctant as I was to utter a word and interrupt her, I crept a question in.
‘What did Scott do that was so bad?’
A loud ticking clock filled the silence. Wingsy and I kept as still as we could, willing her to go on.
‘He’ll be on the police records. He had a thing for children.’ Her lips were barely visible as she said the last sentence. ‘Disgusting creature. Suppose the bleeding hearts would say that it wasn’t really his fault at all; that he was ill and needed help. Me, I think hanging was too good.’ She paused and took another sip of her tea. ‘Oh, I am sorry, I forgot the biscuits. How rude of me.’ She was up and out of her seat. ‘I definitely have some chocolate ones somewhere. Won’t be a sec.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Wingsy, keeping his voice down. ‘Someone might have mentioned this to us before we left.’
I didn’t get the chance to reply; Diane was back in the room. ‘They’re supermarket’s own, I’m afraid. My nephew has a tendency to eat all the good ones when he visits.’ She placed a flower-patterned plate down on the tablecloth. The plate held fifteen biscuits, neatly stacked one on top of the other in three piles. ‘Have one, Nina.’ It felt like an order. Hansel and Gretel came to mind. ‘My nephew, Jake, he’s been great to me. He’s round here once a week helping with various jobs. Upkeep on this house would be impossible for me if it weren’t for him.’
I knew my next question was likely to be entering dangerous territory. If she took offence at this, Wingsy would have to take over with the questions. I chanced it.
‘Had Jake and Scott been close friends?’
The ramrod spine stiffened. ‘No, Nina.’ She might as well have added you stupid child, the way she spoke to me, leaning forward, her voice full of practised patience. ‘Not when it all came to light. It took some time of course, and a lot of what he did was never proven.’
Wingsy and I leant forward in our chairs.
‘Jake and Scott were fairly close when Jake was very young, despite the age gap. I never liked them playing together but Jake wasn�
�t my son and Donald had always been the more trusting. Perhaps it’s something to do with him being the youngest with two older sisters, I don’t know. Anyway, he allowed Jake to associate with Scott, something he regretted in later life and no doubt still does. There was something about Scott’s behaviour as he got older that seemed to get to Jake. He has never told me about it because I refuse to talk about Scott or my sister to him. You’ll have to ask him yourself.’
‘What was proven against Scott?’ I asked. ‘You said that a lot of what he did wasn’t proven. Tell me what was.’
‘He kidnapped two young girls.’
Chapter 26
Over the years I’d learnt to put my past behind me. It often felt as if I’d read about two girls being kidnapped in the paper, as if it had happened to someone else. Just a distant memory. I knew that Scott Headingly wasn’t responsible. He would have been far too young in 1976, only thirteen, and anyway I was fully aware of who and where the perpetrator of my crime was. I needed sleep, a lot of it, and that knowledge kept me tucked up in bed for eight hours every night. He was out of my life.
I mentally drew a line under Diane’s revelation and carried on listening to what she had to tell us. It was for the best. But, if truth be told, I’d been struggling to concentrate since seeing Daphne’s photographs in the Incident Room. They’d brought crashing forward the thoughts I’d been trying to push aside. Why would someone be taking pictures of me? Just as importantly, why would they then post them to me? It was a senseless act. My old friend Rioja would no doubt pour a little clarity on it – but standing between me and a glass of red was the rest of the day working on a murder investigation. I was counting on Wingsy listening to Diane as intently as I purported to. I was battling to stay on track. I won, but then I usually do. My sanity couldn’t afford weakness.
Before the Incident Room churned out the paperwork locating the two girls kidnapped by Scott Headingly, Wingsy and I needed to speak to the rest of the Headingly family. As Daphne’s brother, Donald Lloyd would normally have been our next call after Diane. However, the deceased’s brother seemed less important now that we knew that Scott, her son, had once been friends with Jake, Daphne’s nephew.
We left Diane’s, thanking her for her help and saying we would be back, possibly in the morning. Back in the car, Wingsy said, ‘Jake Lloyd’s next, then?’
‘Yeah, just what I was thinking. Bloody weird family by the sound of it.’
‘Kidnapping children – sick bastard. Bet you never get over a thing like that.’
I didn’t reply. I had never told Wingsy about my sister and me. What was there to tell after all these years? Everyone knew I had a friend called Stan who was a retired policeman and looked out for me, but I guess they all thought I’d got nicked as a kid for shoplifting and he’d taken me home by the ear and watched over me ever since. Didn’t bother me. I didn’t want their pity and I’d never get their understanding.
‘You alright driving, mate?’ I asked, to change the subject.
‘Yeah, it’s only round the corner. This is the street. Diane said his was the last house on the right.’
As we pulled up outside a large detached house with a magnificent front garden, lawn like a bowling green, a man’s head appeared from the other side of the hedge. As he stood up, I saw that he had a pair of hedge clippers in his left hand. He beamed a big smile at us. Well, at me really.
As we got out of the car, he rushed round the hedge, abandoning his gardening tools as he went, and grabbed my hand before I could say anything.
‘Nina,’ he said, speaking very fast. ‘You don’t know how pleased I am to meet you.’
What on earth was going on? I assumed this was Jake Lloyd: he had the same dimple in the chin that Diane had, the same colouring and good posture. He certainly seemed to know who I was.
Wingsy appeared by my side. ‘Alright there, mate? Wanna let go of the officer’s hand?’ I was grateful to my friend for spotting that I had a look of surprise on my face. It was clear to him that I didn’t know this man.
‘So sorry, Nina. I didn’t mean to startle you. My aunt called and said you were coming over and I was looking forward to meeting you at last.’ Jake prattled on, still holding my hand.
I pulled away from him and said, ‘Shall we go inside, Mr Lloyd?’
‘Oh, yes, of course, Detective Foster.’ He looked slightly crestfallen. His massive shoulders dropped forward slightly and he looked down, breaking eye contact with me. ‘Please follow me.’ He led the way past his beautiful garden and the highly polished grey Shogun parked in the driveway. He pushed open the front door and stood aside, welcoming us in.
In the vast hallway, the walls were adorned with large photographs of international landmarks. The vestibule must have been twelve feet wide; it had rooms leading off it on either side, and a central wooden staircase. I had to admit, I was impressed.
‘What do you do for a living?’ asked Wingsy, probably thinking the same thing as me.
‘TV production,’ he replied, glancing over his shoulder as he strode across the polished floor. ‘The financial backing is not quite as it used to be but it allows me to pursue other interests. Please, please, this way. We’ll sit in the kitchen. It’s the heart of the house and the warmest room.’
We followed him to a snug kitchen. It was warm, but not as big as I’d been expecting. The noise of a washing machine spinning came from behind a closed door. Utility room, I thought to myself – that’ll be why the kitchen’s not as large as the house would suggest. I liked the house, though it was a bit sparse. It seemed to be missing a woman’s touch. All that pointless crap we would buy: hilarious signs saying ‘The cook’s on strike’; candles that never got used; old, broken French clocks. I bought them all, silly cow that I was.
‘Is anyone else home?’ Wingsy’s question focused me.
‘No. Just me. I live here alone.’ He looked straight at me as he spoke.
It was true, he wasn’t a bad-looking bloke. At six feet tall he was about the right height for me, with greying dark hair but loads of it. He clearly had money, and his taste wasn’t too bad from the looks of things. I could do a lot worse, and in fact frequently did. He was, however, out of bounds. The man was a witness and, oh yeah, seemed to come from a family of total nutters. Shame, because it was a nice house. I could see myself living in such a place.
‘If you’ve spoken to your aunt, and she said that we were coming to see you, she probably said why.’ Wingsy said.
‘Yes. Please, have a seat.’ Jake was standing beside me and pulled a chair out for me. He might potentially have been nuts, but he had manners. Wingsy pulled his own chair out, scraping the legs on the tiled floor. I got the impression he was a bit annoyed. All three of us sat down at the table.
‘We’re investigating your aunt Daphne’s death. This is a murder investigation. Anything you tell us will be very useful.’ I got my book out to start writing, as Wingsy was doing the talking.
Without warning, Jake stood up. ‘I didn’t get on very well with her. I used to spend a lot of time with my older cousin, Scott, when we were kids. The crazy bastard. Then I realised just how dangerous he was, and I cut myself off from him. Aunt Daphne too. I never really told anyone about it, though Aunt Diane knew more than anyone else.’
‘Dangerous?’ echoed Wingsy. I looked up at Jake, who was standing with his back to the window, knuckles white where he was gripping the edge of the sink behind him. The sun through the window lit him up from behind, making his features very dark and difficult to see. I could make out enough to realise that he was staring at me.
‘Diane told you about the girls he kidnapped?’ It was a casually asked question aimed, once again, at me.
‘Yes, Mr Lloyd, she did. Our colleagues are looking into that aspect of the investigation.’ I gave him my official response, and shivered despite the warm day.
‘It’s part of the reason that my current work project is focused on historic crimes. I take my work very seri
ously. Kidnapping is to be a feature-length episode,’ said Jake.
I tried not to squirm. I’m not sure I managed it.
‘I suppose that you’re also here about Jason Holland?’ he asked. Another casual question – so casual, in fact, that I almost missed its significance. Thankfully Wingsy was more on the ball.
‘Jason Holland?’
Lloyd moved away from the window so I could now see his expression very clearly. ‘Yes. Scott and Jason Holland were very good friends.’
Chapter 27
Hours later, after a lengthy statement completed in Lloyd’s kitchen and several muffled calls to the Incident Room, Wingsy and I were on our way back to the nick. Our mood was euphoric: this seemed to be the biggest breakthrough yet. A link between Jason Holland and Scott Headingly was bound to have a relevance to the death of Daphne Headingly. The entire family seemed odd. Simon Patterson had mentioned, briefly during one of our phone calls, that the suicide of Scott might be looked into again.
To pass the time and stop our minds from racing, we engaged in the tried and tested method of ridiculous banter. ‘Right, Wingsy,’ I said, ‘if you had to be a flavour, what one would you be?’
‘Methane,’ he replied.
‘Is that your way of telling me to open the window? Look – over there. Is that Susan Newman waiting to cross the road?’
‘Who’s Susan Newman?’
‘Sorry, mate, I was with Pierre when I met her. She’s the mum of Josie who was friends with Amanda Bell.’
‘Oh, the sordid stinging nettle thing. Is she wearing a wig? It’s lopsided.’ He started to laugh.