‘It’s possible.’
Cherry stood up. ‘So, can I advise you to get on with the job in hand and find Jackie Wood’s murderer before we all look silly.’ He swept out, the floor of the Portakabin creaking under his footsteps.
Kate turned back to her team. She drew a breath. ‘Okay. So Rogers, you’ll go and see Ms Adams – or Ms Jessop – or whoever she may be. Find out why she changed her name, why she took a shitty job in Tesco’s, and why she happened to rent a caravan opposite Jackie Wood.’
‘Not much to go on there, then?’ Rogers grinned.
‘Quite. Number one suspect at the moment, but I suspect that nothing about this case is going to be simple. DS Maitland, you get along to see Jez Clements; find out when he’s next on shift so you can talk to him away from the station. The rest of you,’ she nodded towards the three other detectives in the room, ‘carry on bashing the phones, checking Facebook, Twitter, and all that. I shall go and have a word with Mrs Jessop, and the Clements.’ She gathered up her papers and began to walk out of the room.
‘Kate.’ Glithro caught up with her. ‘I know you don’t want me here.’
‘Oh?’ Kate kept on walking. ‘Not totally insensitive then.’ She could smell his slightly spicy aftershave and sense his strength beside her.
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? You haven’t assigned me a job.’
‘I thought that, as you were a DI, you might have some thoughts in that direction,’ she said smoothly.
‘I have as a matter of fact but first I want you to tell me why it’s significant that Martin Jessop might have had a tart that wasn’t Jackie Wood? After all, it’s a long time ago now—’
‘Fifteen years, that’s all.’
‘Okay, fifteen years isn’t that long in the scheme of things, but two people have been tried and found guilty of the murders of the twins. Cherry’s right. We really should be concentrating on Jackie Wood’s murder. And it is, you have to concede, most likely revenge.’
Kate knew he was right. Knew that it was more of a personal thing for her, this need to find out about this mysterious person. She had an irrational belief that it could be the answer to finding Millie Clements’s grave after all these years. And if she did that, then maybe, just maybe, she might find a little bit of peace inside herself. Though she couldn’t tell Glithro this.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ she said crisply, carrying on back to the box room in the main building that passed for a temporary office for her. ‘Nevertheless, I want to take a look at this claim that was never investigated.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I feel it’s worth looking into.’
Glithro shook his head. ‘No, no, why was it never investigated? You said in there,’ he jerked his head towards the Portakabin, ‘that the line of inquiry was squashed.’
‘That’s right.’
They had reached Kate’s office and she sat down behind her desk. Glithro filled the rest of the space with his bulk and his Italian suit and his fancy scent. She had never seen such a well-dressed copper.
‘Do you know who by?’
She picked up a pen and started doodling on the pad in front of her. ‘By whom. Strictly speaking.’
‘Now you’re sounding like Cherry.’ He grinned, and leaned back on the doorjamb, arms folded. ‘So?’
‘Rumour has it that it was Jez Clements.’
‘Right. Who was in charge of the original case?’ He appeared unfazed.
‘A Detective Inspector Grainger. Now retired.’
‘Live locally?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Then that’s where we go.’ He pushed himself off the doorjamb and jangled his car keys. ‘No time like the present.’
Half an hour ago, Kate would have bristled at the suggestion of Glithro accompanying her, now she thought that maybe it would be a good idea. Alex and Sasha Devlin could wait.
28
If Edward Grainger had known this was to be his last day on earth then maybe he would have tidied up a bit. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t. Ever since Jill had died he couldn’t be bothered with crap. Crap like cooking for one, or cleaning for himself, or going out on his own, talking to people, interacting.
He stroked the stubble on his face, looked down at the slightly stained dressing gown he was still wearing even though it was what? – past ten o’clock. Everything was so much effort. Jill would be so disappointed in him. He could hear her voice in his head now. ‘Come on, Teddy. What do you think you’re doing? Do you think I wouldn’t like to stay in my jim-jams till lunchtime? Get off your arse now!’ If he closed his eyes he could see her, standing in front of him, that slight smile on her face as she berated him.
He sighed. But Jill wasn’t here, was she? The cancer had carried her away so quickly they’d hardly been able to draw breath between diagnosis, prognosis, and death. Came back to Suffolk as soon as they could. Jill wanted to die where she was born and he could hardly deny her that, could he? No excuse that she could know about anyway. The trouble was, now he was rattling around in this perfectly nice chalet bungalow that didn’t feel like home and probably never would, despite Jill having fallen in love with it as soon as they had driven down the bumpy track and seen it squatting among the sand dunes. He’d tried to talk her out of it. After all, it wasn’t near a town or even a proper village and the neighbours were second-homers. But Jill had been adamant. This was where she wanted to spend her last days.
Now he was alone. He picked up the whisky glass. Empty. But the bottle was close to hand, with plenty in it. He unscrewed the top.
He looked out of the window, across the flat sand to the sea beyond. Normally he loved the sea, whatever the weather. He loved that the horizon stretched away as far as the eye could see. It was eternal, changing only with the weather. It usually gave him a sense of well-being when he sat and watched it, but today he was feeling restless and couldn’t get Jill out of his head. He sipped the whisky.
It began to rain in that miserable way only the East Anglian clouds can produce. He watched it as it swept in over the sea like an opaque sheet blowing on a washing line, blotting out the view, coursing in rivulets down the window. It had been a mean February.
Edward ignored the ringing of the front doorbell when it came. He had no time for people these days, no need for them. There’d been enough of that when he was in the force; having to kow-tow to authority, be polite to toerags because of their bloody ‘rights’, which they shouted about every five minutes. He was glad to get out of policing when he did. Things were getting more and more skewed towards the criminal’s interest. Even in quiet old sodding Guernsey.
The bell rang again. Who the fuck was it? He didn’t usually get salespeople this far along the track, and even Jehovah Witnesses wouldn’t come out in this weather, would they?
A third ring. Bugger it.
He heaved himself out of his chair and went to the door. They’d just have to put up with him in his dressing gown and stubble. Designer stubble, maybe.
He slipped the chain on the door before opening. Couldn’t be too careful, not after some low life had tried to rob him a couple of days ago. Woken up in the middle of the night by noises downstairs. Little scrote had buggered off through the back door before he could get to him. Must get the man in to do the window locks.
‘Hello?’
He was talking to someone’s back. For goodness’ sake.
‘Parcel for you,’ said a voice.
Parcel? He sighed and took the chain off the door.
Mistake.
The visitor turned round. The first thing Edward noticed was the balaclava, the second thing was the gun, pointing directly at him. The eyes staring out from the balaclava were cold.
An old grievance, was Edward’s first thought. Someone he’d put away who now had come back to take revenge. Or maybe a robbery. He’d give them the bit of money he had in the house then they’d bugger off.
‘Now, look here,’ he blustered, ‘you’ll just get i
nto more trouble if you use that thing.’ He pointed to the gun, which he could see was being held with a slight wobble and the safety catch off, neither of which inspired confidence.
‘Maybe.’
Edward swept his hand back. ‘I haven’t got much, but you can take what you want. Take it all.’
‘I will.’
‘Look.’ Edward tried again, fear building up inside him at the implacability of his visitor. ‘Why don’t you put that thing away?’ He pointed to the gun. ‘Then we can go inside and talk.’ He could see the mouth behind the balaclava shape into some sort of smile.
‘Good idea. But I’m not putting the gun down. Just let’s go inside quietly otherwise I will shoot you in the kneecap and drag you inside. Is that clear?’
The most frightening thing of all was that the voice that came through the cloth was almost normal, pleasant, if slightly muffled. Edward had to fight the urge to laugh. But the gun was still aimed at him; despite his years in the force and the number of stories he told about fighting crime and arresting scumbags and toerags, he’d never actually had a gun pointed at him at point-blank range. His stomach started to dissolve. He tried to get a grip. Do as they asked and it would all be over soon.
His visitor stepped forward and Edward had no choice but to move backwards, inside the house.
‘That’s it, Detective Inspector Grainger, let’s go in and sit down.’
A jolt of unease, to put it mildly. So this most unwelcome person knew who he was. Had to be something to do with someone he’d arrested, someone he’d put away. A relative perhaps? His mind raced around furiously, examining options, looking for answers.
They went into the front room. Edward looked out of the window, hoping against hope there would be someone walking on the beach. But the rain was still sheeting down, and Edward knew none of his neighbours would come to their holiday cottage in the middle of the week.
Edward sat down in one chair, his visitor in another, still holding that stretched smile, gun held a little steadier now, but still pointing right at his guts.
‘Now then, Detective Inspector Grainger…actually, I think I’ll just call you Teddy. Is that all right?’
No, it wasn’t all right. That’s what Jill called him; she was the only one to call him Teddy. He didn’t want this…this person, this terrorist, to call him Teddy. He clenched his fists. ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
His visitor shrugged. ‘Teddy. You know why I’m here.’
Edward leaned forward on the chair. ‘Actually, I don’t. But perhaps we can work something out. I have a little bit of money, but no real valuables in the house. Why don’t you just take what you came for and leave? Please?’ He hated the pleading note in his voice, and he wanted to wipe his sweaty palms down the sides of his pyjama bottoms.
‘Oh, I will Teddy. How about if I say the name Martin Jessop, hmm?’
Edward rocked back in his chair. That was a name he’d been trying to forget, been told to forget, for fifteen years. He closed his eyes, clenched his fists.
‘I see you know who I’m talking about then, Teddy.’ The voice was amused. ‘And I don’t think you like remembering.’
‘Martin Jessop is dead. He hanged himself. He was a murderer.’
‘Yes, I know that,’ his visitor hissed, voice changing from a tone of quiet amusement to one of menace. ‘Jackie Wood’s dead too.’
‘I know. I read the papers, watch the television,’ said Edward, trying to inject some spirit into his voice. He’d been pleased when he’d learned about her death. Another loose end tied up, after all this time.
‘My, my, clever man. And I expect you’re clever enough to know that Martin Jessop didn’t kill those little children?’
‘He was tried and convicted.’ He tried to appear calm – unclench his fists, breathe normally. The visitor was still wearing the bloody balaclava; that was a good sign. There could be a way out.
His visitor bounced out of the chair, began to walk around the room, gesticulating. ‘This bungalow. Nice. Nice area, too. Can’t have been cheap.’
‘Sold my house on Guernsey.’
‘Even so.’
Edward watched carefully for any sign the gun might waver again. Nothing, it was steady, as though his visitor had gained confidence.
‘So, Teddy, why did you do it?’
‘Do what?’
‘Keep quiet about Jessop’s mistress?’
‘Don’t know what you mean.’ His stomach was knotted; he began to pray.
‘Come on, let’s not tell lies, not at this stage.’ His visitor tore the balaclava off. Edward closed his eyes.
‘Look at me,’ the visitor said.
Edward opened his eyes. ‘I know you,’ he whispered.
His visitor sat down in the chair again. ‘Yes, you do.’
Edward couldn’t say anything. It was a bad, bad sign. No balaclava. There was no saliva left in his mouth. He licked his lips.
‘Dry?’ His visitor leaned forward, face almost eager, smile menacing. ‘Let’s get you a drink.’ The visitor stood, gun still trained on Edward, and picked up the whisky bottle on the table next to him. Not good. The visitor was wearing thin surgical gloves. Poured a glass.
‘Drink up, Teddy.’
‘I don’t—’
‘I said, drink up. Please.’
Edward lifted the glass to his lips, but his hand was shaking so much some of the amber liquid slopped on to the front of his dressing gown.
His visitor tutted. ‘Butterfingers, Teddy. Pour yourself some more. Not too much, though. We don’t want to vomit now, do we?’
Edward poured some more liquid into the glass.
‘Now drink it.’
He downed it in one gulp, grateful for the burning in his throat and the warmth that suffused his body.
‘So, Teddy. You didn’t answer my question. Why did you keep quiet about Jessop’s girlfriend? And why wasn’t Jessop’s alibi looked into more rigorously?’
‘His girlfriend was Jackie Wood, and I didn’t—’
‘Stop it, Teddy. Tell me the truth. You might as well, after all these years.’
His visitor was shouting. Edward downed his whisky before pouring himself more, liquid slopping onto his legs. He didn’t want to think back to that time, how easily he had been persuaded to turn a blind eye to what was going on. Easily persuaded? It had been more than that. Jez Clements had thrown him a lifeline. Said he’d keep quiet about the kickbacks he was getting from some of the scrotes and gave him money to pay off his gambling debt. Don’t know where he got the money. Probably a loan or something; it was worth it for him, gave him leverage. Jill had never known how close they had come to losing it all. So yes, he not only turned a blind eye to any evidence that might throw Jessop’s guilt into doubt, he actually ignored it; ‘found’ the evidence to blow Jessop’s alibi apart and squashed any rumour of a secret mistress. In fact, actually encouraged the thought that Jackie Wood was his other half. All it had needed was a word here, a sentence there. People saw what they wanted to see, believed what they wanted to believe.
‘Was it worth it?’ The visitor’s voice was soft now.
Had it been worth it? Edward drained the glass. His eyes misted over. No. It hadn’t been worth it. Not now; now that Jill was gone. He’d give it all up, confess to anything if he could have his Jill back.
‘Never had children, did you?’
What? Edward jerked his head up. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’ he asked, feeling the familiar twist of hurt when the subject of children came up, even though it was years too late for them.
‘Good job, Teddy. Life’s hard with kids. Especially…well, they wouldn’t have liked you. Liked what you became.’
‘What?’
‘Look at you.’ The visitor gently guided Edward’s hand as he poured the whisky. ‘Sitting there in your pyjamas and dressing gown in the middle of the day. What would Jill think of you?’
He drank, his head beginning to feel pleasantly fuzzy.
Perhaps this was a joke or a hallucination? ‘Jill?’ His tongue was thick and the word filled his mouth.
Laughter came from a long way away. Edward raised the glass to his lips again, wanting to feel the alcohol warming him once more.
‘Yes, Jill. She loved you, and you loved her. But then you lied to everybody. You lied to your colleagues, to the court, got rid of evidence about Alex Devlin. Closed down the investigation. You betrayed her, didn’t you?’ The visitor’s voice was insistent.
Edward nodded, gulping back the tears now. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Betrayed. I’m so sorry. So sorry, Jill.’ If he hadn’t been holding his glass he would have put his head in his hands and sobbed.
‘Why did you do it, Teddy?’ The voice was gentle and kind and made Edward sob even more.
‘I had to,’ he said. ‘Had to. I needed the money. Or we would have lost everything. I’d have lost Jill.’ Tears and snot ran freely down his chin. ‘And I couldn’t go to prison. They hate coppers in prison.’
‘Now, see,’ the visitor’s voice was still kind. ‘You’re upset. Here, take these.’
‘What?’ Edward looked up to see two faces. Two noses. Four eyes. Two smiling mouths. Where had they all come from?
‘Pills, Teddy, they’ll help you relax.’
He felt the tears running into his mouth, the snot on his chin. He wanted to cry.
‘Teddy, come on, swallow them down. Have a bit more whisky.’
More whisky. Yes. But – he struggled, tried to clear his foggy, befuddled mind – there was something, something bothering him. Something that didn’t make sense. He shook his head, trying to clear a space in the fog.
‘More whisky, Teddy.’ The voice was impatient.
The Bad Things Page 23