In the car Mike glanced at her. ‘You know – you could do with a holiday too, Jo.’
She kept her eyes on the road. ‘When this is over,’ she said. ‘When we’ve got the person who killed that poor boy, I’ll have myself a holiday.’
‘On your own?’
She was silent.
Rock House was an enormous Victorian mansion with its back to craggy rocks and fine, huge bowed windows that opened out to long green lawns sweeping straight down to the canal.
Joanna glanced at Mike. ‘Money,’ she said. ‘Lots of it. He could afford to be a benefactor.’
‘And die of Aids?’ There was a scornful note in his voice.
She steered the car around a sharp bend.
She had not slept at all the night before but had spread out on the sitting-room floor Matthew’s letters and cards – birthday, Christmas – and the photographs of snatched minutes and the few whole nights they had managed to spend together when she had not slept either – for fear of wasting precious moments. She had recalled all the sayings she connected with him, the books and pieces of music they had shared. There could never be anyone to touch her heart as he had done – or her body either. So she had sighed, opened the curtains and watched the dawn climb over the hills and spill into the small valley with its black snake of a canal flowing along its bottom until it reached the motionless lock gate.
But the deepest, most lasting picture which had stuck in her mind was the haunting image of Jane, Matthew, Eloise ... one happy family. Under blue skies, in sparkling water, on golden beaches – together.
They reached a sharp bend in the road bordered by a high stone wall. ‘I think we’re here,’ Mike said, and swung the car through tall wrought-iron gates, standing open.
‘We don’t know yet how he got it,’ she said.
‘Don’t we?’
‘Don’t jump to conclusions, Mike. Assume nothing. Wait for the truth.’
‘You’re a real Mrs Plod sometimes.’ He grinned. ‘I’m crossing a bridge over a very narrow stream – not leaping to conclusions. And you know as well as I do we’re going to find it very difficult to get to the bottom of how Ashford Leech contracted HIV.’
‘Well, let’s start here, shall we?’
She knocked on the door. It was opened immediately by a hatchet-faced woman with fading golden hair scraped into a wispy pony-tail and secured by an elastic band. She was, Joanna noticed, extremely thin and the stretch trousers and baggy sweater she wore only emphasized her boniness.
She held her ID card up in front of the woman’s eyes. ‘Mrs Leech?’ she asked. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Piercy. I rang to say we were coming.’
Gilly Leech tightened her thin lips until she looked even more severe. ‘I really don’t see how I can help you,’ she said. ‘The child’s death has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with me.’
Joanna nodded. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ she said soothingly before she produced the ring. ‘But this is your husband’s?’
‘Was, Inspector.’ Gilly Leech’s eyes were so pale a light seemed to come from them. Her face was crumpled and unhappy. Embarrassingly her eyes began to water.
‘Look, wouldn’t it be better if we came in,’ Joanna said, ‘instead of standing on the doorstep?’
Gilly Leech’s eyes hardened. She gave a quick expression of extreme distaste. ‘If you must,’ she said ungraciously. Joanna and Mike followed her across a large, square hall, polished dark parquet with a central red circular Chinese rug and a tall grandfather clock in the corner. To the left a large staircase swept upwards to the first floor.
‘You live here alone, Mrs Leech?’
‘No, I do not,’ she snapped. ‘At least – not exactly. Look, Inspector.’ She turned and faced Joanna. ‘Is this all part of your investigation? It looks like my late husband’s ring. It probably is ... was,’ she corrected quickly, ‘his. But obviously it can’t possibly have anything whatsoever to do with myself or my son. You’re wasting your time. You ought to be out there – hunting for the real murderer of the poor child.’
Joanna felt a sudden flame of anger at this grim-faced woman. ‘Plenty of people are,’ she said. ‘We will follow up every single connection – however tenuous. One never knows in this work quite where clues may take you but we can’t afford to ignore anything. A young boy was found murdered, his body ablaze on the moors. He was ten years old, a young, blond child. On his finger, Mrs Leech, was found your husband’s ring, supposedly burgled from this house.’
Her lips tightened. ‘ “Supposedly” Inspector,’ she said sharply. ‘Exactly what do you mean by that?’ Her pale eyes shone with disdain and dislike.
‘We never caught the burglar,’ Joanna said smoothly. And behind her she felt Mike relax.
Gilly Leech gave a staccato mutter of impatience, her hands stuck rigidly against her side, like a doll’s. Then she moved to a door to the left, at the foot of the stairs, and they followed her into the sitting room.
She sank down on to a chintz-covered armchair, facing wide, bowed windows with thick brocade curtains draped across. For a moment she stared out over the sweeping green lawns. Joanna sat too. Mike stood near the door as though on guard, grimly watching.
‘My husband is dead, Inspector ...’ Gilly Leech was struggling to keep control. ‘He died six months ago ...’ she chewed at her lip, ‘very painfully. Inspector, he was not an old man. He owns nothing now – not this great bloody barn of a place. Not even this small ring.’ She held out her hand. ‘May I hold it – please?’ She took the ring from Joanna and held it in the flat of her hand where it looked like a chunk of pig gold. She stared at it for a few minutes without speaking.
Mike shuffled uncomfortably at the door. The silence was painful.
Then Gilly Leech looked up. ‘What was the name of the poor child?’
‘Dean Tunstall.’ Mike spoke from behind in a hard, hostile voice. ‘He was a ten-year-old from the children’s home along the Ashbourne road, The Nest.’
Gilly Leech hardly moved a muscle. ‘I thought it would be,’ she murmured. ‘I did warn Ashford – more than once – that he was taking a chance.’ She hesitated. ‘Which one was he?’ She lifted her eyes very slowly, as though afraid to meet their faces.
‘He was blond,’ Joanna said, ‘quite small.’
‘A pretty little boy,’ Mike said. In his voice there was accusation.
Her eyes flickered and Joanna cursed Mike for his gaucheness. She cleared her throat. ‘Is this your husband’s ring?’ She met Gilly Leech’s pale eyes. ‘We do need a formal identification.’ She paused. ‘I thought you would prefer it if we came here rather than ask you to attend the station.’ It was politely said but the implication was quite obvious. It was a murder inquiry and whoever the person was and whatever their status, if they were needed to answer questions the police had definite powers. Exposing them seemed to soften Mrs Leech’s attitude.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said humbly.
She stared at it in the palm of her hand. ‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘It is my husband’s ring.’
Behind her Joanna could feel Mike shifting his feet.
‘Can you tell us positively that this is the same ring which was stolen during the reported burglary, Mrs Leech?’ She used the word ‘reported’ deliberately, but if Mrs Leech noticed she gave no sign, simply held the ring loosely in the palm of her hand, rolling it one way and then the other. Then she swivelled round and looked up at Mike, her head on one side as though she sensed his hostility but was trying to convince him that she was telling the truth. She hesitated, began to speak but her throat was dry and she coughed instead, a harsh, dry cough. ‘It must be his ring,’ she said. ‘I had it made for him myself when we were married.’
‘And you last saw it?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said impatiently. ‘Around the time of the burglary.’
‘Who did you think was responsible?’
Guy Leech said nothing.
‘Then tell
me about the children,’ Joanna said, ‘the ones from The Nest.’
Gilly Leech blinked. ‘My husband,’ she began, then covered her face with her hands. ‘My husband was a kind man,’ she said defiantly, ‘with a social conscience. He was very fond of children.’ She stopped speaking for a minute. ‘He knew the children from The Nest. He met them one Christmas soon after he was elected to the House.’ She gave a weak smile.
‘You said you don’t live alone, Mrs Leech. Who else lives here?’
Her pale eyes fixed on Joanna. ‘Properties like this are difficult to sell at the moment,’ she said. ‘My son, Robin, has recently left his wife. He lives in the stable block. We had it converted into a flat a few years ago – for friends. I also have a daughter,’ Gilly Leech said tightly. ‘She lives in the States and has not been in England for ten years.’ She dropped her face suddenly into her hands. ‘Oh, God, will all this never end?’
Mike gave Joanna a questioning glance ... What the hell is all this about?
‘Mrs Leech,’ Joanna said softly, ‘who did you think, at the time, had broken into the house?’
‘Some kids,’ she said.
Joanna shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, Mrs Leech. I’ve read the report. You see, young burglars tend to take videos and televisions, money, credit cards. They don’t take a ring, a photograph album. They don’t climb over glass roofs, break windows that are open. And last of all they don’t enter houses where someone is home.’
Gilly Leech narrowed her eyes. ‘What exactly are you suggesting, Inspector?’ she asked in a dangerously quiet voice.
‘Who took the ring?’ Joanna asked.
Gilly Leech closed her eyes for a moment then wearily opened them again. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘We thought it was probably one of the kids who came here from The Nest. Ashford ...’ Her face softened for a moment. The deep lines flattened out. ‘Ashford broke the window himself,’ she continued. ‘We simply forgot about the glass roof. It was rather silly, I know – but it was a valuable ring. We were very upset to lose it. The photographs didn’t matter much but we wanted to claim for the ring under our household insurance cover.’
Joanna felt suddenly curious. ‘What were the photographs of?’ she asked.
The question seemed to cause Gilly Leech some discomfort. ‘Nothing in particular,’ she said, flushing. ‘Family snaps – that’s all.’
‘Family snaps?’
‘My daughter,’ she said haughtily. ‘She can have no bearing on this.’
‘Is this the one who lives in America?’ Mike asked casually.
Gilly Leech turned and glared at him. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Did she get back for her dad’s funeral?’
‘Fleur is a busy woman,’ Gilly Leech said savagely. ‘A businesswoman. She is in banking. She can’t just have time off for funerals.’
‘Really,’ Mike said.
Joanna sneaked a look at him. His face was impassive, features quite wooden. She knew Mike. This was when he was at his most thoughtful. She resolved to speak to him later. What was he thinking?
Gilly Leech paused for a moment then spoke softly. ‘Ashford was so disappointed when we realized one of the children had stolen it. It was horrible. You see, Inspector, we’d opened our house up to these children. For them then to steal things ...’ She stopped speaking. ‘Quite unpleasant ... So ... we decided to pretend the ring had been stolen.’
Joanna felt furious. ‘You understand,’ she said, ‘that you could be charged with wasting police time?’
Gilly Leech nodded. ‘We didn’t think at the time. And you can’t charge Ashford now, Inspector. We simply wanted to protect the children,’ she said again, picking a tiny piece of fluff up between her forefinger and thumb.
Joanna stood up. ‘I shall want to speak to you again,’ she said. ‘In the meantime, perhaps you’ll tell your son we shall want to see him too.’ It was a shot in the dark but Gilly Leech looked anxious.
‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why do you want to speak to Robin? He has nothing to do with this. He didn’t even live here when the ring was stolen. He only moved back less than a year ago. He never even knew the boy. They never met.’ She rubbed her temple in a sudden, anxious gesture. ‘They never met, I tell you.’
‘Just routine, ma’am.’ Again Mike was at his most impassive. Joanna raised her eyebrows and met his glance.
They were glad to leave the house. Its cold, expensive air only emphasized the deep unhappiness of its owner, though whether due to her husband’s death or other factors neither of the two police officers had decided yet. Joanna glanced up at its grey facade as they drove past the front door. ‘If ever I wanted certain proof that money can’t buy happiness,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t find a more suitable place.’
‘Grim, isn’t it?’ Mike said. ‘So what do you think, Jo?’
‘I am very curious about the late Mr Leech,’ she said slowly. ‘Very sorry for the current Mrs Leech who seems to have inherited a legacy of sheer misery.’
‘And Mr Robin Leech?’ he asked.
‘I’ve got a feeling he will be a very hard man to like,’ she said. ‘But then I can’t just mix with nice people.’
‘Joanna,’ he said slowly, ‘why didn’t she come to the funeral?’
‘Who?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘The daughter,’ he said, his voice sounding alert.
Joanna looked at him. ‘Do you think it has any bearing on the case, Mike? Surely pressure of work.’
‘Did you miss your dad’s funeral, Jo?’
She shook her head.
‘I rest my case,’ he said.
Joanna frowned. ‘But Fleur Leech hasn’t been in England for ten years.’
‘All I’m saying is it could have something to do with Dean’s death.’
‘Apart from the fact that he was ten years old, I doubt it.’ Joanna remained unconvinced. ‘Just consider this, Mike. If – and it’s a big if – Ashford Leech was sheltering Dean and at the same time abusing him, where the hell was his wife? She doesn’t exactly strike me as the type of woman who would turn a blind eye to that sort of thing.’
‘But the daughter,’ Mike persisted.
‘It could be coincidence,’ Joanna said. ‘Even a policeman has to acknowledge there is such a thing as coincidence.’
Mike grunted.
By now it was seven o’clock, and the evening was pink and beautiful and very warm with a hint of the gold that illuminates late September. Joanna turned to Mike. ‘Is it your body-building night?’
He shook his head. ‘Not tonight. Why?’
‘I’d like to go up there for myself, get the feel of the moors, check on the SOC team. I’ve a feeling if they try a slightly less obvious route they might pick something up. Come on,’ she said, ‘I’ll buy you a drink in the Winking Man afterwards.’
Up in the sheer huge emptiness of the moors the world seemed a different place. A world of extremes – black and white, containing not all the variations of life in the towns but either pure good or pure evil. With the dark shapes of the hills behind them they drove towards the Winking Man, passing the yellow lights of the police vans. They would soon be going home. It was too dark now to search the moors.
Joanna suddenly spotted a narrow track leading off to the left. ‘That isn’t on the map,’ she said.
‘It’s the road to Flash,’ Mike said, looking at her. ‘Then it goes on to just one farm.’
‘Take it, Mike. It must lead to the area behind the crag.’
Obediently he turned the car and they drove along the narrow one-lane road behind the Winking Man. ‘But why go up there? He would have had to carry the boy’s body over the ridge.’
‘Perhaps he knew the army trucks would be arriving at dawn,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe he didn’t want the car to be noticed by any passing travellers.’
‘Maybe ...’ Mike echoed.
She got out of the car, wrapped her coat around her, changed out of her court shoes into a pair of Wel
lington boots and looked around at the clear air. ‘I never knew anywhere so empty,’ she said as they climbed towards the top of the crag, found a flat stone and sat, staring far down below at the wide valley, the toy-town of Leek where lights were being switched on and car headlights swept along the roads like a Scalextric set.
For a long time Joanna sat and stared until Mike spoke. ‘Do you need inspiration?’
She nodded. ‘Silly, isn’t it?’ She gazed around her at the huge expanse of nothing. ‘I thought I might see things clearer up here.’ She turned to look at him. ‘But I don’t know that I do.’ She frowned. ‘Who did he have, Mike? Where were his parents, grandparents, godparents, aunts and uncles? Where were they all? How is it possible for a child to be so neglected?’ She drew another deep breath in. ‘Even the children’s home. Mark Riversdale and Maree. They weren’t with him, all the time, as a parent would be. He was gone for a long time before anyone even knew.’ She pondered the point for a while. ‘You know – I don’t think Eloise Levin could be missing for more than fifteen minutes without there being a hue and cry. Do you know what I’m saying?’
He nodded.
‘It’s the difference between the pampered middle classes and these young tigers of survival. And for most of the time who are the real survivors? The tough, young tigers,’ she said.
‘Not Dean Tunstall,’ Mike said grimly. ‘If there’s one thing he wasn’t – it’s a survivor.’
‘True.’ She was forced to agree. ‘And yet,’ she said, ‘I have the strangest of feelings that the neglect was the key. It gave him the opportunity and maybe a naivety about people’s motives. I don’t know ...’ She tailed off. ‘I’m not being very clear.’ Then she frowned. ‘That’s because I’m not very clear myself. I just know his murder is bound up with his life. I keep thinking these same thoughts over and over again. Who was really responsible for him?’
Mike said nothing and she looked at him.
‘I’ll tell you who, Mike. No one. No one was really responsible. No one really cared. No one will mourn his passing. And that is why he died ... Oh, God,’ she said, ‘sometimes this job gets me down.’
Catch the Fallen Sparrow Page 10