Gripped by a sense of urgency she scanned the carriage but there weren’t any other papers in sight so she stayed where she was, fretting with impatience. Reaching her station she hurried out onto the street, bought a paper at the nearest newsagent and stood on the street reading, oblivious of the light rain that began to fall, spattering the newspaper in her hands while she skimmed through the report. A smile spread slowly across her thin lips as she read how he had been found, dead, in his car. Justice had been done. She hoped he had suffered.
She reread the article, wondering how much the police knew. They weren’t to be trusted. They were asking if anyone had seen the victim on the night he was killed, but they knew a lot more than they let on. Reading the report once more, she tried to work out what it meant. The police were making out they didn’t know who the killer was. That might be true, but they could be lying. Either way, she had no intention of admitting anything. She had more than seen him, she had felt his sweaty hands on her face and the weight of his body on hers, smelt his foul breath. For a second she was back in his car, struggling helplessly. And now he was dead. It served him right. Death was too good for him.
Someone bumped into her, startling her from her reverie. A middle-aged woman was peering at her and she realised she was standing in the middle of the pavement in the rain. Without answering she turned on her heel and walked off. Passing a litter bin she tossed the paper away, barely pausing in her stride. She wouldn’t help the police hunt down whoever had killed that monster. It was raining more heavily now and she pulled up her collar, cursing herself for coming out without an umbrella.
Hurrying home, she had a hot shower before switching on the television. His face was there on the news, while a round-faced policeman appealed for witnesses to come forward. Like the newspaper reporter, he said a woman had been with the victim on the evening he died. The police were asking her to come forward to help them with their enquiries. She smiled. If the police had any idea who they were looking for, they would have been dragging her down to the cells, not issuing vague appeals for information. They didn’t have a clue.
He had got what he deserved, that night in the car. One thing was for sure, the woman who had been with Patrick Henshaw on the night he died was never going to share what she knew with the police. If they wanted to expose his killer, they would have to do it without her help. She was free of him now, and she intended to stay that way.
CHAPTER 24
Reg Milton was up to speed with all the reports entered on the system and he was now ready to pump Geraldine and her sergeant who had been out asking questions of anyone involved in the case. The public, interested only in results, had no idea of the hours of work that underpinned a murder enquiry, or that the occasional unsuccessful investigation represented months and sometimes years of painstaking and dedicated police work. Even though they usually got a result in the end, everyone on the team lived in fear of being responsible for allowing a killer to walk free, possibly endangering more lives. None more so than Reg who was in charge of the investigation.
It was time to share ideas and impressions. They were all aware that they could throw ideas around endlessly, but in the absence of proof it was ultimately pointless. He sighed as he opened the door to the Incident Room. At least they had several lines of enquiry going. So often in a murder case they struggled to point the finger at anyone, but in this instance there was more than one suspect and Reg listened intently to the members of his team as they endeavoured to fit all the pieces together.
Geraldine had been questioning Henshaw’s business partner. It was understood that George Corless had a lot to gain from Henshaw’s death.
‘He certainly needed the money,’ Geraldine said. ‘His finances were in a hell of a mess, gambling debts up to his ears and a high-maintenance girlfriend. He had a pressing motive, and could easily have found the opportunity. They saw each other every day. It might explain what Henshaw was doing on the Caledonian Road, which was off his route home from the restaurant. George might have arranged to meet him there where no one would see them, and they wouldn’t be recognised even if they were seen.’
It sounded plausible. They were all familiar with George’s bank statements, enough to give anyone nightmares.
‘But he’s got an alibi, hasn’t he?’ Sam pointed out.
‘Or we’d have brought him in by now, put some pressure on him,’ Reg agreed.
‘He’s got an alibi of sorts.’
Briefly Geraldine described George’s companion: young, blonde and empty-headed. His motive was compelling, he had the opportunity, and his alibi was dubious; yet Geraldine was convinced George Corless had nothing to do with his business partner’s death.
‘What makes you so sure he had nothing to do with it?’
‘He said the success of the restaurant depended on Henshaw’s involvement and – I just don’t think he did it. I can’t explain why. It’s just a feeling.’
Sam gave her a quizzical look.
Reg looked at the next name on the list.
‘So you think it was Amy Henshaw? Or is it Guy Barrett we should be pursuing?’
‘Or the two of them together,’ Sam added.
They discussed the possibility that Amy was implicated in her husband’s murder.
‘His solicitor was under the impression she didn’t know the terms of the will before it was read, so presumably she was expecting to inherit her husband’s estate,’ Geraldine said. ‘He told me she seemed to know nothing about her husband’s gambling debts and was shocked to discover the house had been re-mortgaged. So it appears she was expecting to be very wealthy on his death. His money could have been a motive for her.’
‘She could have been motivated by passion,’ Sam interrupted, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. ‘She might have been prepared to get rid of her husband and make herself wealthy at the same time, so she could keep her young lover.’
Reg frowned. Avarice or passion might well have driven Amy Henshaw to kill her husband.
‘It’s possible,’ he murmured to himself.
‘And what about the young lover, Guy Barrett?’ he asked.
Geraldine and Sam exchanged a glance.
‘He’s certainly good-looking,’ Sam admitted.
‘Just what you’d expect from a toy boy,’ Geraldine agreed.
‘He’s not that much younger than her, is he?’ Reg asked.
‘Seventeen years. She’s forty.’
‘Getting on then,’ he mused aloud. ‘In terms of having a twenty-three year old boyfriend, I mean,’ he added quickly, noticing Geraldine’s scowl.
‘The two of them might have been in it together,’ Sam said.
Reg nodded. The business partner, strapped for cash and maintaining an expensive lifestyle; the wife, eager to dispatch her husband and seize his fortune so she could keep her young lover; Guy Barrett himself, keen to save his mistress from an unhappy marriage, and gain himself a luxurious lifestyle to boot – each of them had motive and opportunity, all were suspects with flimsy alibis.
‘And what about Henshaw’s mistress, Stella Hallett?’ Geraldine asked. ‘She had a lot to gain. She was living in a shabby rented apartment. Believe me, she didn’t have two pennies to rub together – and suddenly she’s a millionaire. She claims she had no idea she was mentioned in the will, but surely it’s possible she had kept in touch with Henshaw. They might even have taken up with each other again, for all we know.’
She paused, and Reg wondered if she was thinking about the female DNA sample found on Henshaw’s corpse. The pathologist had confirmed that the deceased had intercourse shortly before his death, making his ex-mistress a likely suspect. He stared out of the window at the branches of a tree, shuddering in a gust of wind.
‘We only have her word for it that they were no longer seeing one another.’
Geraldine flicked through her notebook as she spoke.
‘Here it is. According to Stella, she hadn’t seen the deceased for five years. But she stil
l had his photo on display in her flat, so I’m not sure that rings true.’
Reg turned to look at Geraldine, considering the possibility that Stella had killed Henshaw for his money.
‘Is it likely he would have left so much money to her, after such a long time apart?’ he asked.
The question hung in the air for a moment. They all understood the significance of the DNA found in the back of Henshaw’s car, and on his body. The woman he had been with on the day he died would be able to give key information about his movements on the day he was killed. If she wasn’t culpable herself, she might have been a witness to his murder.
‘It has to be Amy or Stella,’ Sam broke the silence.
‘Let’s hope so,’ Geraldine replied, wishing she shared Sam’s assurance. It was almost impossible to infer anything else, but she had been working on murder investigations for too long to be confident about anything until they had irrefutable evidence.
‘It’s possible the killer isn’t any of these people,’ she said softly. ‘It could be someone we know absolutely nothing about.’
As Sam protested, Reg threw Geraldine a sharp glance and turned away without a word. Like Geraldine, he had been around for too long to be swept away with excitement before they had any proof.
CHAPTER 25
Every time she closed her eyes she heard the words going round and round in her head: “Nine hundred and seventeen thousand pounds to Stella Hallett, nine hundred and seventeen thousand pounds to Stella Hallett.” Patrick must have left his wife well off, but near enough a million pounds was still a lot of money to lose. He had chosen to share his fortune with Stella, and there was nothing anyone could do to change that. No wonder Amy had been furious. Stella could do whatever she wanted with all that money. After all the time she had wasted feeling abandoned, it was staggering to know that Patrick had never stopped caring about her. With her stylish outfits and expensive face, Amy had never succeeded in winning back his affection. Blonde, glamorous and smug, she looked like a rich man’s wife. But he had mentioned Stella in his will. She was the other woman, even after he was dead. She smiled at the thought.
“Nine hundred and seventeen thousand pounds to Stella Hallett,” she muttered to herself, “nine hundred and seventeen thousand pounds to Stella Hallett.” The practical implications of her unexpected fortune hadn’t sunk in yet. The money would be welcome, when it came, but she didn’t care about wealth for its own sake. What pleased her was knowing that Patrick had thought about her. She knew it was evil, but she couldn’t help feeling exultant, as though she had somehow won him back from Amy – a hollow victory, because Patrick was dead. She would have traded every penny of her unexpected fortune to have him back, even if he had come to her penniless. Tears overwhelmed her at the enormity of her loss. She had never wanted things to turn out this way.
Before she met Patrick, Stella’s days had passed comfortably enough, without any emotional disturbance. Her life was transformed when she was appointed Patrick’s personal assistant. For the first time in her life, Stella had fallen in love. Responding to her hints, Patrick had taken her to a hotel for the night. Shortly after that, he had moved her into a flat so they could continue their affair. Patiently she had waited for Patrick to leave his wife, and for a long time he had been full of promises. But instead of walking away from his marriage, he had abandoned Stella after her miscarriage. Stella’s initial shock had turned to despair which, in turn, had given way to a terrible rage. She was still angry when she remembered how badly he had treated her.
Eventually she had calmed down and found another job. Outwardly her life returned to the same dull routine she had followed before she met Patrick. But everything had changed. Claiming she suffered from migraines, she took an occasional day off work to sit in a café opposite Mireille and watch for Patrick to arrive, noticing how his hair was greying, his waistline expanding. She knew she was being ridiculous, spying on him like that, but she derived comfort from this tenuous connection to him. She looked forward to seeing him, although he had no idea she was there, watching and waiting, like a guardian angel. It became a habit, almost an addiction, to sit there once a month, daydreaming that he would walk into the café and see her. She imagined him throwing himself at her feet to implore her forgiveness, and beg her to marry him. But he had never gone into the café to tell her he loved her, and now he never would.
She gazed miserably around her living room, dull and unremarkable, just like her. She watched her forearm rise, fat and white, as her fingers reached for the framed picture of Patrick standing on the shelf. He hadn’t forgotten about her. He had left her nearly a million pounds in his will. She sat down on her one comfortable armchair and looked from the small picture in her hand to his large face beaming down at her from the wall. Several times she had taken his picture down in a burst of anger. Once she had chucked it in the bin so viciously, the glass had shattered. Her fit of weeping over, she had rescued the photograph. A week later he was back on the wall, smiling down at her from a new frame.
She had never had any money to spare. Now he had made her rich. She smiled at the picture in her lap, lifted it to her lips and kissed it. Tracing the familiar contours of his face gently with one finger, she smiled again. It was the best of all worlds, she told herself fiercely, as tears threatened to overwhelm her again. Kissing the photograph one more time, she replaced it carefully on the shelf, exactly where it had stood before. Tomorrow she would have to go to the police station for a DNA test, but in the meantime she was going to enjoy her evening.
Getting a piece of paper and a pen, she sat down to make her plans. In neat columns she wrote down how she might spend all that money. She could buy a flat of her own, travel the world, or invest the money so it gained interest. Patrick would approve of that. In her head she began to discuss the possibilities with him, imagining what he would say in response to each of her proposals.
To begin with, Patrick would suggest that she go to all the local banks and find out what interest rates they could offer if she was to invest her money with them. It was a sensible idea, and would help ensure the money didn’t all disappear. She had never been one for spending, but the temptation might easily prove too great. It would be better to invest Patrick’s gift wisely, so that she would be taken care of for the rest of her life. “Nine hundred and seventeen thousand pounds to Stella Hallett,” she repeated to herself. It was a serious amount of money, hers to spend as she chose. She couldn’t help smiling.
CHAPTER 26
If it hadn’t been for planned engineering work on the underground, Gideon wouldn’t have been stuck in a train outside Rayner’s Lane station. He stared at his fellow passengers: a bespectacled middle-aged man engrossed in a document, a large woman with a clutch of carrier bags at her feet, a young woman in a distractingly short skirt who wriggled uncomfortably on her seat as she tugged at her hem and a teenage boy, the beat from his headphones audible on the opposite side of the carriage.
Gideon had been tempted to give the visit a miss. After a late night on Friday the prospect of dragging himself out of bed to travel all the way back into London from Ickenham on Saturday was off-putting, but he knew he would never hear the end of it if he didn’t turn up for the birthday party his mother was throwing for his step-dad. He had felt a brief flicker of hope on discovering that the Metropolitan line was closed west of Baker Street that weekend, but his mother had pointed out that he could take the Piccadilly line to Kings Cross and change there for the Northern line just the same.
‘It’ll take forever,’ he protested.
‘It’ll take longer, so make sure you leave in plenty of time,’ was the last thing she had said before she hung up.
‘Yes alright, but is it–’
There had been no point protesting. No one was listening.
The train juddered feebly, engine whirring, but it didn’t budge. None of his fellow passengers appeared concerned that the train wasn’t moving. Gideon fretted, isolated in a carriage of
strangers.
After a week of showers the weather had turned sunny. Walking to the station he had enjoyed the unexpected heat but the train was airless, stifling, even though they were no longer underground. The windows on the carriage could only be opened a crack. It was better than nothing, but only just. As he looked over his shoulder to see if the window above him was ajar he glimpsed a bundle in the rough weedy strip of waste ground that ran alongside the track. Distracted by sweat dripping from his brow, he turned back and wiped it on his sleeve. The train gave another jolt and as it did so he swivelled round in his seat, and for the first time registered what he was seeing. He glanced away, blinked, and looked round again in disbelief.
Barely a couple of feet away from him a man’s face was glaring straight at him, from beneath a busy cloud of black flies. The body was all but concealed in tangled undergrowth on an incline in the shrubbery, visible only to someone who happened to glance out of a passing train from just the right position. It could have been there for days. Gideon twisted right round in his seat to study the figure more carefully. There was no mistaking what he was seeing: a man, grey-haired, lying on his side, his ashen face partly obscured by tall grasses, nettles and other weeds. Gideon told himself the man was sleeping, some old tramp with nowhere else to go, but flies were crawling all over the inert face, and by craning his neck he was able to make out a patch of congealed blood on the man’s temple. He was dead alright. Gideon turned back to the train, shocked and nauseous. There were so many flies buzzing around the body.
Just then the train shuddered into motion and Gideon slid away from the hideous sight, still hesitating about what to do. The middle-aged man packed his reading material neatly away in a briefcase, the stout lady gathered up her carrier bags and clambered to her feet, the young woman stood up and shuffled towards the door, and the teenager sprang to his feet his head still nodding in time to the rhythm of his music. Gideon decided to put the hideous spectacle out of his mind and continue with his day as though nothing had happened. After all, nothing had happened. Nothing that concerned him, at any rate. The dead man would be discovered sooner or later by some railway employee, and no one would ever know that Gideon had caught a glimpse of it from a passing train; if he hadn’t turned his head when the train was at a standstill he would never have seen it.
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