by M. J. Trow
Cynthia Blakemore reacted to this by turning and thumping her husband on the chest, but in a very ineffectual way, designed to make herself look like the little woman, sore oppressed. Jacquie was not convinced and gestured with her pen for Blakemore to continue.
‘But this time, she reached outside the family circle. To the builder working on the house, no less. A cliché, I know, but one she has avoided thus far.’
The woman dropped her head into her hands.
He looked at her with a sneer. ‘She does that,’ he said to Jacquie, ‘because she knows what’s coming next. One day, back in March, Josie was sent home from school. There was a bug going round and any day girl feeling poorly was sent home by taxi. Josie came in and assumed that her mother was out as the house seemed empty, but it seems as though this was not the case.’
Jacquie spoke to the woman, ‘Do you have anything to add, Mrs Blakemore?’ but she just shook her head.
‘I will keep the details to the point and brief,’ Brian Blakemore said, ‘and you can decide how to interpret them, Detective Inspector. When Josie went up to her room, she heard noises from our bedroom so she poked her head round the door. Who should be in there but my wife and Michael Harrison, Bespoke Builder, No Job Too Small.’
‘She must have found that very upsetting.’ Jacquie found that she was addressing the room in general.
‘Upsetting.’ Brian Blakemore repeated the word without inflexion. ‘Yes, that’s right. Upsetting. They were quite engrossed and they didn’t notice her. Did you, Cynthia?’ he turned to his wife who shook her head. ‘What were you doing, Cynthia?’ he asked. ‘No, we don’t need to know that. What were you wearing, Cynthia?’
The woman mumbled into her hands.
‘Sorry,’ her husband shouted, leaning down so he was yelling into her face. ‘I don’t think the Detective Inspector quite caught that. What were you wearing, Cynthia?’
She stood up, making him jump back to avoid being nutted in the face and then she ran to the door. She wrenched it open and then turned in the doorway. As a histrionic gesture, it was second to none, but for keeping the story just between the three of them, it was not the best plan as the door opened out into the corridor of the Nick and was full of people about their business, who all stopped to listen. ‘I was wearing her school uniform,’ she shouted. ‘Her spare one. Her knickers, her blouse, her tie, her socks. Okay. He liked me to dress like a schoolgirl. Satisfied now?’ and she stormed out. One by one and in stilted movements, the corridor came to life again in a snapshot as the door swung shut behind her, leaving Jacquie and her husband looking at each other across the coffee table that suddenly seemed as big as a continent.
Before the silence could get so long that it was embarrassing, Jacquie spoke. ‘Why did you not tell us this before?’ she said.
Blakemore shrugged. ‘I was ashamed to, if I am to tell the truth, Detective Inspector. I have got used to being laughed at behind my back by everyone who knows what she’s like. If she wasn’t having knee tremblers between courses at formal dinners, she was at it like a weasel on the golf course. I thought it was the thrill of discovery that turned her on. Then this builder came along and she seemed to go into overdrive. This dressing up thing is new for her as far as I know, but in her own daughter’s clothes… it has made me sick just to think of it. But when Josie was found dressed, if anything, like someone years older than her years, I put it aside. But I can’t. I can’t put it aside. As far as I know, Cynthia is still seeing this Harrison person, but obviously, what with… what’s happened, she has lost a lot of her sparkle. He’s still around. Perhaps he loves her.’ He sounded incredulous. ‘Perhaps he is keeping her close, so she doesn’t speak out.’
‘We’ll need his name and address, Mr Blakemore,’ Jacquie said, poising her pen.
He got out his wallet and riffled through some business cards and handed one across.
‘Thank you.’ Jacquie wondered briefly how many men carried the card of their wife’s lover and their daughter’s possible killer in their wallet and thought that it was likely to be very few. ‘Would you like to stay here for a while? A cup of tea?’
The man nodded, sagging back on the sofa, his chin on his chest. As she went out to arrange the drink and to write up her notes, she paused behind him for a second, then patted him on the shoulder. As she closed the door, she heard him sob. Just once, but it had all the sorrow in the world in it. Another Martha’s son, if ever there was one.
CHAPTER EIGHT
After she had seen Brian Blakemore off the premises, Jacquie went along the corridor and up the stairs to Henry Hall’s office. Cynthia Blakemore seemed to have disappeared without trace and she was rather concerned by that because she might be a witness. Other than that, she didn’t care if Cynthia Blakemore was abducted by aliens.
Henry Hall looked up as she stuck her head around his door. ‘Jacquie,’ he said. ‘Come in and tell me all about it. That was some show she put on, wasn’t it? The WI on their yearly look at how their tax penny is spent will dine out on that for ever, if I’m any judge.’
‘Tell me you’re joking,’ Jacquie said, plonking heavily into a chair.
‘Do I ever joke?’ he asked, with a straight face.
‘No… but I hope there’s a first time for everything,’ she said.
‘Yes, as it happens,’ he said. ‘It was only police personnel and if it hadn’t been, she had no one but herself to blame. We’ll need to interview her later.’
‘I don’t know where she went,’ Jacquie started to explain.
‘Don’t worry,’ Hall comforted her. ‘Jason took her home. I gather she wanted to collect some things and then she was going to the boyfriend’s place. I hope he knows what he’s in for.’
‘We’ll need to speak to him, of course.’
‘Yes, indeed. I gather Jason was hoping to kill two birds with one stone. He’s rather stuck for a number one suspect now that Ryan’s alibi has panned out.’
‘Is that confirmed for definite?’ Jacquie heard herself and winced. Maxwell had been known to hang kids up by their earlobes for lesser crimes against grammar than that.
‘Yes. We rang the private number on the card you got from Ryan – good work on that, by the way.’
She gave him a tight-lipped nod and in doing so confirmed his suspicion that the hand of Peter Maxwell was in the mix.
‘Yes, we caught him on his own, so he was able to speak freely. Obviously, we would have kept trying if necessary, but we got it all with one call.’
‘Are we following it up?’ Jacquie asked. It wasn’t like Henry Hall to cut any corners.
‘We have his address now and we’ll check up if we have to, but I never had Ryan in the frame from the beginning. I know you came to this late, but there was just something about his story which rang true. And we had a quick word with Sylvia Matthews up at the school…’
‘Sylvia couldn’t tell a lie to save her life,’ Jacquie said.
‘That’s the impression we got. So, although we had to go through the motions, I never really had any doubts. But now we have at least one more lead.’
‘Harrison?’
Hall nodded. ‘It’s possible that Josie would refer to him as a family friend for lack of another phrase,’ he said. ‘And he clearly has a thing for schoolgirls.’
‘Does that really gel, though?’ Jacquie asked. ‘Cynthia Blakemore is a very skinny woman but she is a woman. Having her dress up as a schoolgirl isn’t the same as an actual girl, surely?’
Hall shrugged. ‘Best he could get, perhaps?’
‘Are we going to pull in his previous partners? Wife? Blakemore didn’t know much about him.’
‘He’s been married twice. Two divorces. One we’ve tracked down, the other seems to have disappeared. She isn’t in Brighton or here, but that leaves a lot of the country unaccounted for.’
Jacquie went quiet and the icy feeling in her diaphragm that meant that two pieces of information were about to come together struck h
er and took her breath away. She went white.
Hall looked across his desk at her, concern etched on his face. ‘Jacquie? Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I’m not sure what it is,’ she said. ‘Just listen and tell me what you think. Mollie Adamson’s half sister’s mother was married to a man named Mike, who she divorced.’
Hall’s glasses flashed as he nodded his head.
‘Mike is the only one of several of Caroline Morton’s stepfathers who keeps in touch. So…’
‘If Michael Harrison is that same Mike…?’
‘He would have known Mollie, yes.’
Hall set his mouth in a grim line. ‘Lots of people called Mike, Jacquie.’
‘Two girls dead,’ she riposted. ‘And we don’t believe in coincidence, do we, guv?’
Hall tapped his pen on the desk. ‘No, we don’t. Can you ring Caroline Morton? Find out a bit more about this stepfather. Let me get this straight, though – he isn’t Mollie’s stepfather?’
‘The family tree has more branches than Sainsburys,’ Jacquie said. ‘I’ll jot it down for you when I confirm about Harrison.’
‘That would be a help. Thanks. Meanwhile, I’ll call Jason. Make sure he doesn’t tip Harrison off that we’re interested. Less he knows about how we’re thinking at this stage, the better.’ Hall looked up at the clock. ‘Once you’ve rung Mrs Morton, get off home. You’re not even supposed to be back until next week and here you are at all hours.’ He paused. ‘Is Max glad to be back?’ The question was delivered blandly as usual, but there were more layers in it than Nolan’s breakfast pancake stack.
‘Well, he’s not really back until next week,’ she hedged.
‘But he’s been in touch, of course.’ Again, the flat delivery, but there was no mistaking the question.
‘Of course. Sylvia and he go back years. And Helen, of course.’
‘And Bernard Ryan.’
‘Um… I’m not sure…’
‘Come on, Jacquie. Max must think he’s died and gone to heaven. Not back in Leighford five minutes and he discovers a colleague is a murder suspect. I assume you haven’t told him any details.’ How often, Hall wondered, had he heard himself saying that?‘It could make it very difficult for him at work. Is Ryan going back, do we know?’
‘I don’t know.’ That was the truth. Alibi or no alibi, Jacquie wasn’t sure whether Bernard Ryan could brazen it out or not. ‘I expect Max will tell me on Monday evening. He’ll know by then, of course.’
‘But that’s all he’ll know, hopefully.’ Hall took off his glasses and polished them carefully before replacing them. ‘Jacquie?’
‘Oh, sorry, guv. I didn’t know that was a question.’
There was a pause, prickling in the silence of the office.
‘So?’
‘Of course, guv. That’s all he’ll know.’ She also glanced at the clock. ‘I’ll see if I can catch Caroline Morton at the office, then I’ll be off if that’s all right with you,’ she said a little stiffly. ‘I’ll drop you an e about Harrison.’
‘Fine.’ Hall could do terse. It was one of his only two emotions. ‘See you Monday.’
‘Yes. See you Monday,’ and Jacquie left, trying hard not to slam the door. She couldn’t work out where the row had come from. One minute they had been pulling together and the next they seemed to be at the opposite ends of the universe. As always, the catalyst was Maxwell and as always, she promised herself she wouldn’t tell him about the latest developments. Ryan was off the hook and that was all he needed to know.
Back in her office, Jacquie took a few deep breaths and picked up the phone. Checking in the file, she dialled the number of Morton and Morton, Solicitors. A secretary answered and for once was both efficient and pleasant. In her current mood, Jacquie needed that. She was put through to Caroline Morton.
‘Detective Inspector,’ the solicitor said. ‘How may I help you?’
‘Something has come up in our investigations and I wonder if you could just confirm something for me. You mentioned when we spoke at the hospital that you were still in touch occasionally with your stepfather. Mike, I think you said his name was.’
‘That’s right.’ Caroline Morton’s voice was guarded and Jacquie was reminded again that the woman was a solicitor.
‘Could you give me a little more detail? Surname. Address, perhaps.’
‘I don’t know where he lives right at the moment,’ she said. ‘He is a builder and tends to live in houses short term while he does them up prior to selling them on.’ Jacquie smiled and put a tick on her notepad. ‘His surname is Harrison but, look, Detective Inspector, what has this to do with anything? Why are you looking into Mike? He hardly ever met Mollie, if that’s where this is going?’
‘We just have to check every avenue, Mrs Morton,’ Jacquie said, adding another lavish tick to her page.
‘Yes,’ the woman persisted. ‘But why is Mike an avenue?’
‘His name cropped up in another investigation,’ Jacquie said, keeping her voice neutral. ‘You of all people must realise, Mrs Morton, that I can’t tell you more. Thank you for your help. If you remember Mr Harrison’s current address, could you let me know? You can leave a voicemail here or my email address is…’
‘Don’t worry, Detective Inspector Carpenter-Maxwell,’ the solicitor said crisply, giving equal weight to every single syllable. ‘I know your email address. And that of your immediate superior. And that of his, if you catch my drift.’ And with that, the phone went down with a loud click.
Jacquie put her phone down more slowly, and wiggled her mouse to bring her computer out of hibernation. She logged on and sent a brief email to Henry Hall. ‘Michael Harrison checks out – he is the stepfather. See you Monday. Jacquie.’ After a pause, she added, ‘Sorry.’ After another pause she erased the last word and clicked send. She logged out, switched the computer off, grabbed her car keys and was gone, before anyone changed her mind.
‘Smells good.’
Peter Maxwell turned round from a basting session and saw his wife lounging in the kitchen doorway. ‘Hello, heart of darkness,’ he said. ‘You’re early. Nole and I were going to eat and run – he rather fancies a session with the scooter.’
‘Oh, has the box arrived?’ Jacquie looked around aimlessly, having forgotten what was in it and whether anything should be in the kitchen.
‘Yup. Nothing broken as far as we could see. All unpacked and stashed.’
‘The box?’ Jacquie knew the answer to this one.
‘In the garage, currently doing duty as Camelot.’
‘And King Arthur?’
‘Merlin, if you please!’ Maxwell said, affronted. ‘Why be just a king when you can be a magician?’
‘He can’t wander off, can he?’ Jacquie said, looking over her shoulder down the stairs to where the garage door was situated. ‘You did lock the door?’
Maxwell bent to put his chicken back in the oven and then crossed to his wife and tucked her into the crook of his arm, where she fitted so well. ‘You’re getting confused, sweetness,’ he muttered. ‘It’s other people’s children who are lost, stolen or strayed. Ours is in the garage, or should I say in Lyonesse, where I believe the potatoes come from or have I got that wrong? Anyway, he’s away with the fairies, locked in the garage.’ He looked round into her face. ‘Don’t let the thought police hear that – I expect locking a kid in the garage is probably a Bad Thing. And there must be a Court of Human Rights issue in there somewhere. Anyway,’ he gave her a squeeze and let her go, ‘I’ve already lost one baby.’ There was a pause while he collected himself. ‘I have no intention of losing another.’ He kissed the top of her head and moved away. ‘Now, piss off, dearest, while I create culinary magic.’
Jacquie stood there, arms by her sides. ‘Max, I…’
‘I know you didn’t,’ he said, not turning round. He gestured with one shoulder to the work surface under the window. ‘See that bath sheet?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Taliesin’s cloak of invisibility. You can have a lot of fun under that.’
She picked it up and went out onto the landing, looking back at her husband over her shoulder. They rarely talked of the time before. Before she and Nolan had come along to patch the hole left by Maxwell’s wife and child, dead on a wet road years before. It was easy for her to forget sometimes that they were only just beneath the topmost layer of his skin and also, simultaneously, tucked beneath his heart. ‘Any special incantations,’ she said lightly, ‘spells, things of that nature?’
‘How about, “Merlin, come out of that castle or I’ll bite your bum”? That should do it.’ He turned round and smiled. ‘I’m all right. Really. Off you go. I’m doing sweetcorn fritters and bacon and spinach salad. If it sounds like a strange combination…’
‘And it does.’
‘. . . take it up with Merlin.’
‘Will do,’ and, swirling the rival magician’s cloak of invisibility around her shoulders, she swept down the stairs. Maxwell went to the door of the kitchen and heard her call out and Nolan’s shriek of delight. He shook his head and went back to the cooker. Everything he loved was under his feet, fighting for Camelot, aka a very tattered cardboard box. Metternich had done grudging service as the Beast Glatisant but was now sulking in the attic. There was only so much a cat could take.
Later that evening, with Merlin safely bedded down for the night, washing up stowed in the dishwasher and Metternich coaxed down with chicken skin and similar subterfuge, Detective Inspector Carpenter-Maxwell and Head of Sixth Form Peter Maxwell sat opposite each other in the sitting room. They may have looked like Mr and Mrs Not Totally Average but in fact the atmosphere was similar to that reported a few minutes before the Earps destroyed the Clantons and McLowerys in a hail of lead down by the Corral. Jacquie had the sofa and therefore the cat – Metternich had gone through his usual evening routine of pressing with his feet on the arm and his head against the leg of whoever was trying to share the furniture with him. The plan was that the person in question would end up on the floor, leaving the cat in sole possession but Jacquie was in no mood to pander tonight and Metternich had given in gracefully. He was now curled up with his nose up his bum; a comfortable position enough, for those who were up to it. Maxwell had a glass of Southern Comfort in one hand and the TV remote in the other. He was flicking through the channels one by one, staying long enough to hear a few words and then moving on.