‘What did you use in the end?’ he asked, perching on the arm of the sofa.
‘Lacey was pretty much cut and dried,’ she said. ‘Forensic accounts had successfully tracked the money used for purchasing Hunter’s Moon and the Land Rover back to Hamilton. Plus we’ve got a DNA match from the scrapings taken from under Steph’s nails . . . and Janice’s ID – hopefully Steph will be able to back that up once she’s out of hospital. They brought her out of the induced coma late yesterday. She’s doing well.’
‘That’s great news,’ he said, flooded with relief. He hadn’t wanted to be responsible for yet another death. He went to take another swig of his beer before realizing the bottle was empty. ‘And the others?’ He stood up and walked back through to the kitchen.
‘For Chloe and Pippa we’ve got the Land Rover, but I’m sure we’ll find more, given time,’ she said.
Hindsight was a wonderful thing, but Lockyer realized now that Pippa had been their biggest and best clue, right from when they found out about the Dead Woman’s Ditch connection. She had never fitted the profile. Andrea, Chloe and Stephanie all had commonalities with Jane Walford. Pippa hadn’t. He heard Hamilton’s voice again. No one sullies my family’s name and gets away with it. Family meant blood. Pippa hadn’t qualified. Which left a question: why Pippa? Why risk killing someone with direct links to him? There was only one answer. Pippa must have found out the truth about her uncle, or at least enough for him to need to silence her. Lockyer ran his hand over his chin and down his neck as he opened the fridge and took out another bottle. ‘And Jenkins?’
‘Not enough to charge yet,’ Jane said. ‘Michaels’ bungled post-mortem isn’t helping.’
‘Michaels was an absolute gift for Hamilton,’ Lockyer said, twisting off the cap and tossing it into the bin. ‘Basil said everyone knew the guy was off his head half the time. Hamilton would’ve known he could call the guy’s findings into question down the line if he needed to.’
‘It won’t be enough to save him,’ Jane said. ‘He’s off down to Exeter to wait on remand until the CPS can get all their ducks in a row. Forensics have been all over his house and cars. They’ve even taken tyre impressions and trace evidence from the Jane Walford memorial in Doddington to see if they can link the sheep’s head to Hamilton.’
‘That’s a bit of a stretch.’
‘Maybe, but Hamilton has made a fool of a lot of people. They’re not gonna rest until he’s pinned for everything . . . anything he’s ever done.’
‘Let’s hope they can,’ Lockyer said. ‘For Andrea’s sake.’
‘They will,’ she said. ‘Besides, Hamilton was a collector. There’ll be something in the house . . . something linking back to Andrea, I’m sure of it.’
‘That’s if it’s still there,’ Lockyer said, holding his beer against his cheek. ‘Hamilton’s been in and out of that place a dozen times. He could easily have cherry-picked his memorabilia for incriminating evidence.’
‘Abbott said there was another officer there, for the most part,’ Jane said.
‘For the most part,’ Lockyer repeated in a monotone. He took a swig of his beer. ‘Anyway, it is what it is . . . Tell me, how did Hamilton take it when he was charged?’
‘As you’d expect,’ she said. ‘He’s lawyered up and gone no comment so far. Mind you, I’m not sure that’ll last. The guy’s a classic narcissist. He’ll be aching to tell us just how clever he is.’
‘Clever or crazy?’
Jane chuckled. ‘Both,’ she said, ‘though I’m leaning towards crazy. Abbott made the mistake of telling Hamilton that we’d spoken to a genealogist who confirmed he was a direct descendant of one of Walford’s kids . . . one of his bastard kids. Honestly, Mike,’ she said with a soft chuckle. ‘Abbott’s lucky to be alive. Hamilton was so close to losing it, but lucky for him his solicitor stepped in and got him out of there before he blew.’
‘What about Townsend?’
‘They’re going for “killed in the line of duty”, with a posthumous commendation.’
‘I guess Atkinson has to salvage something from this mess.’ Lockyer cracked his neck. ‘Anyway, enough of that. How’s it with you? I bet you wish you were home right now.’
‘Actually,’ Jane said, ‘believe it or not, we’re having a pretty good time.’
‘Is your mother there?’
‘Yes,’ she said, stretching out the word. ‘She’s preparing the veg for tomorrow. She’s currently on the potatoes.’
‘Ha, snap,’ he said, returning to his potatoes. ‘You can tell her I’m doing the same thing.’
‘Mum,’ Jane shouted. Lockyer was glad she had taken the phone away from her mouth, otherwise she would have deafened him. ‘Mike says he’s doing the potatoes . . . same as you.’
‘Has he salted the water?’ he heard Celia Bennett shout back.
‘Mum said have you salted the water?’ Jane asked.
‘Yes, I heard her,’ he said, ‘and yes, I have.’
‘Yes, he has,’ Jane yelled. Lockyer pulled his ear away from the phone. She had some lungs on her.
‘Remind him to dry them out thoroughly before he puts them in the duck fat and tell him the fat has to be smoking.’
‘Did you hear that?’ Jane asked, coming back on the phone.
‘I did,’ he said, ‘and I will.’
‘You know she’s going to make me call you tomorrow to check you’ve done it right?’
‘Tell her she’s welcome to call me herself,’ he said, surprising himself.
‘Ahh,’ Jane said. ‘I knew it. She’s reeled you in. It always happens. People start out thinking she’s nuts but she wheedles her way in somehow and once she’s got you, I’m afraid that’s it.’
Lockyer huffed out a laugh. ‘That’s fine with me,’ he said. He didn’t know if it was the Christmas spirit, being home or his third beer, but he was in an amazing mood.
‘So what’s the plan for tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘I’m picking up Bobby at eleven,’ he said, glancing over at the kitchen table. He had gone a bit overboard. There were half a dozen books on birds, and three sets of playing cards with different pictures on the back.
‘And Megan?’
‘She and Aaron are heading up in time for lunch.’
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘I never thought I’d see the day.’
‘Neither did I,’ he said, throwing another finished potato into the water.
‘It’ll be a difficult day for him,’ she said. ‘Cassie flew to New York this morning.’
‘Yeah, Megan told me,’ he said. ‘I’m just not going to mention it and concentrate on the food. And if all else fails . . . charades.’
‘Desperate measures, eh?’
‘I might need them,’ he said. ‘So when are you planning on coming back?’ She didn’t answer. ‘I’m heading into the office Boxing Day, but you don’t need to be back that early. Atkinson pretty much told me he’s planning on taking you hostage.’ He scratched his eyebrow with the back of his hand. ‘I’ve checked the rest of your caseload and there’s not much needed ’til after the New Year, so there’s no rush – but,’ he said, ‘that doesn’t mean you can swan in halfway through January.’
‘I’ve got some leave due,’ she said.
‘Jane,’ he said. ‘You are my protégée. We don’t take leave . . . and besides, how do you expect me to cope without you?’ The oven timer pinged. ‘Right. I have got to go because I now have to do something with giblets and I’ll admit I’m terrified.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ she said.
Jane ended the call, leaned forward and put her mobile on the coffee table in the conservatory. She took a big gulp of wine.
‘Are you planning on helping with dinner, or just drinking it?’ her mother said, coming in with a dishcloth and dusting around her.
‘I can help,’ she said, pushing herself up off the uncomfortable wicker sofa. ‘You know, Mum, you should get new furniture for out here. This wicker stuff is dreadful.’<
br />
‘I know, dear,’ her mother said. ‘Why do you think it’s in here?’
Jane shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Your father already spends as much time hiding in the shed as he can, and it’s the middle of winter. If I put comfortable chairs in here, that will give him two places to hide, and I’ll never see him.’
‘You could sit out here with him?’
‘He wouldn’t want that,’ she said. ‘He likes his quiet time to read the paper, and you know me, I like to chat.’
‘Yes, Mum, I know,’ Jane said with a smile.
‘Don’t be a smart alec, Jane,’ her mother said. ‘Now come in the kitchen and you can help me with the pigs in blankets. You know I hate the feel of bacon.’
Jane followed behind, dragging her feet. The wine felt good as it warmed her from the inside out. She suspected more would be needed to maintain the glow. ‘Where’s Dad and Peter?’
‘Where do you think?’ Celia Bennett said in a high-pitched voice. ‘They’re in that bloody shed of his. My grandson will probably get hypothermia and we’ll spend Christmas in accident and emergency, but you know your father, he won’t listen to me.’
‘Has Peter got a coat on?’ Jane asked, taking up residence at the small kitchen table.
‘Of course,’ her mother said. ‘Now here.’ She approached with an enormous tray of sausages and two packets of bacon. ‘Get wrapping.’
Jane picked up the first packet and opened it. Her mother started singing Christmas carols. She hummed along, realizing as she reached for her first little piggy and its blanket that she didn’t like the feel of bacon either. She held the sausage in one hand and stared at it. She should have told him. She wasn’t as arrogant as to think she would spoil his Christmas or anything, but if there was one thing Lockyer wasn’t keen on, it was change. So she could only imagine what he would think when she told him that Atkinson had offered her a DI role in Bridgwater CID – all she had to do was take the promotion exam and relocate to Somerset. A promotion and a move. Who wouldn’t want that? She suspected Lockyer would be one.
‘Those pigs won’t wrap themselves,’ her mother said, giving her arm a nudge.
Jane had never considered leaving London. Never. Peter loved his school and his teachers. She knew he wouldn’t miss his classmates; he wasn’t much bothered about his peers. She thought about Andy. He had been a welcome absence in the past two weeks. Jane hadn’t really thought about him and, for the most part, she hadn’t heard from him. If she wasn’t in London, if he couldn’t get to her with his petty jibes, would he get bored and give up? Part of her thought he just might. Andy didn’t want a relationship with Peter – or her, for that matter. He just didn’t like being told no.
‘Just think,’ her mother said, floating around the kitchen. ‘In a few months it’ll be spring . . . oh, and you know how much Peter loves the sunshine. I’ll be able to take him to the beach every day. He can play in the water. He is going to love it.’
In hindsight, Jane shouldn’t have told her mother anything until she had made up her own mind, but it was such a big decision – she needed help. As soon as the words ‘leaving London’ had left her lips last night, her mother had moved at a million miles an hour. She had crept into Jane’s room this morning with a cup of tea and a list of properties that were, in her mother’s opinion, in her price range. Your father and I will help where we can, she had said. As well as doing her Phil and Kirsty bit, she had also given Jane a list of schools for Peter. These three are rated excellent with Ofsted. They are set up for helping someone like Peter. He would have a minimum of two teaching assistants and his own private room where he could study and go for quiet time. It’s better than anything he could ever hope to get in London. Jane knew that part wasn’t true, but she didn’t want to argue the point. You can stay with us for as long as you need. I haven’t told your father yet because once I do that’s it, her mother had said. Once he knows you’re coming home there’s no backing out or changing your mind again. It’d kill him. Jane picked up another sausage, looked at her mother and smiled. A mixture of railroading and emotional blackmail was her mother’s killer combination.
She had sat in the office this morning trying to focus on the case, but had failed. In the end she had written out a list, weighing up the pros and cons. The pro list was longer. In actual fact, there was nothing on the con list bar one name: Lockyer. Not one part of her wanted to leave him, and yet in her heart she knew she had to. It was the best thing for her, her career, for Peter and her parents. The only problem was, she didn’t have the first clue how she was going to break it to him that she wasn’t going back.
The phone started to ring.
‘I’ll get it,’ her mother said in a sing-song voice. She picked up the phone with a flourish. ‘Clevedon 452, 397.’ Jane laughed. She loved her mother’s phone voice. ‘Hello, Michael.’ Jane’s smile dropped from her face. ‘Of course, dear, of course,’ her mother was saying. ‘Now you’ll need to have oven mitts on when you do this, OK? . . . Good. So you’ll put the pan directly onto the hob and turn on the back two burners . . . no, Michael, the back two. If you use the front two and accidentally tip boiling goose fat on yourself, you shan’t have a merry anything.’ Her mother looked at her and rolled her eyes in an exaggerated gesture. ‘So you put the pan on and let it get hot, add the fat and leave it until it’s smoking, then you put your spuds in, taking care not to burn yourself. You’ll need a towel as fat is a devil to get out . . .’ Jane tuned out the rest of the instructions. She should just tell him. Get it over and done with. There was no way she would be able to enjoy Christmas with this hanging over her head, and who was she kidding? Lockyer wasn’t going to be losing any sleep over her. All he had to do was promote someone like Penny and bang, he would have his next protégée. ‘Yes, she’s here. Hang on.’ Her mother passed her the phone.
Jane stood up and left the kitchen, her mother mouthing, ‘Tell him,’ as she went. She waved her away and retreated to the conservatory. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe you just called my mother for cooking tips.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m a changed man, it seems, and I want you to know I hold you responsible. You and my daughter. The two of you are forever jabbering on at me about feelings and letting people in, and now here I am cooking up a storm for my brother, my daughter, her boyfriend . . . who she’s moving in with, by the way. Don’t even ask. But the real cherry on my shit-sundae . . . do you want to know?’
‘Go on,’ she said, taking a gulp of her wine, her warm feelings returning with the hit of alcohol.
‘Megan called,’ he said. ‘Her mother . . . my ex-wife, and Brian, her new husband, were meant to be going on a romantic cruise for the festive season. But sadly it’s been cancelled due to bad weather.’
‘And?’ she asked, sensing more from his tone. He sounded amused if a little manic.
‘And she didn’t like to think of them at home with no decorations or fucking festive cheer, given they expected to be away. Soooo . . .’ There was a pregnant pause. ‘They’re coming here for lunch.’
Jane spat her wine back into the glass as she started coughing. ‘You have got to be kidding me.’
‘No,’ he said in a sulky voice. ‘Megs asked, and I was all ready to say no, but then I heard you in my head, chirruping about how important it must be for her – how I should do it for her.’ She heard the hiss of a beer bottle being uncapped. ‘So she has you to thank for what will no doubt be a freak-show afternoon.’
‘I’m flattered,’ she said, trying to find the words in her head to tell him.
‘You should be,’ he said. ‘I don’t listen to many people, Jane, either in person or inter-cranium, but you’re my voice of reason.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me,’ he said. ‘Just hurry up and get back here. You’re the only one who can keep me sane. I rely on you, you know?’ His voice was soft. She could hear a slight slur. He had been drinking, but he didn’t
sound drunk. He sounded sincere – and open. The place she had been trying to get to for seven years, and he had decided now was the time to let her in. Jane couldn’t speak. ‘Now put your mother back on. I have a serious question about Brussels sprouts.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Christmas Day
Jane perched on the edge of the rocking chair by the fire, a mug resting on her knees. It wasn’t the start to Christmas Day that she had planned, but she wouldn’t have felt right making the family wait. ‘As I say, I’m sorry to intrude, but I thought you’d want to know that the coroner has released Pippa’s body. I’ve told him to expect your call.’ No one was looking at her.
Aaron was sitting at one end of the sofa, Megan tucked in to the side of him. Reverend Jones stood at the mantelpiece, to the side of Jane’s chair. His hands were clasped behind his back and he was rocking back and forth on his heels. And then there was Maureen Jones. She was, much like the first time Jane had met her, walking in a slow circle around the lounge offering tea and cake.
‘Thank you, detective,’ she said without expression. ‘It means a great deal to us to be able to bury Pip and we are so grateful to you for coming here, especially today. You must have plans with your own family?’
‘Honestly, it’s the least I can do,’ Jane said. ‘As it happens, I’d promised my son a walk up on the hills anyway, so . . .’ In fact, her mother, father and Peter were next door in the pub waiting for her. To make up for her broken promise to go carolling the other night she had told Peter to think of something, anything, he wanted to do with her and, providing it didn’t involve space travel, she would fulfil his wish, no questions asked. Peter had chosen the Dragon Quest. ‘He wants to go in search of Gurt Wurm.’
‘Rather you than me,’ Claudette said, limping into the lounge from the kitchen on a pair of NHS-issue crutches. ‘It’s bloody freezing out there.’
‘Sit down, dear,’ Maureen said, delighted, it seemed, to have someone to fuss over. Claudette looked frail, her skin almost translucent apart from the bruising.
The Night Stalker (Detective Jane Bennett and Mike Lockyer series Book 4) Page 33