Kennedy 02 - A Darker Side

by Shirley Wells

  It was tempting but, knowing Geoff’s luck, the police would stop the car and find his dick in Alan’s mouth. All the same, it might take his mind off Martin Hayden . . .

  Where was Alan the morning Martin Hayden vanished? He’d said he was at home all morning, but Geoff had set off, got a few minutes down the road, and realized he’d forgotten a letter that needed posting. When he’d let himself in, Alan hadn’t been there. So where had he been? Had he followed him? Had he been checking up on him? More importantly perhaps, why was he too scared to ask?

  ‘OK,’ he agreed. ‘Let’s go . . .’

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was almost seven that evening when Max called at Jill’s cottage.

  ‘You should be at home having quality time with the boys,’ she told him. She was ridiculously pleased to see him, though.

  ‘I’ve phoned them. They’re OK.’

  The TV was on and the local news came on. Martin Hayden’s murder, not surprisingly, was the lead story. A head and shoulders of Max, standing outside Harrington nick and speaking of the progress made, had him looking very calm and in control.

  ‘Is that idiot never off the telly?’ he muttered.

  Jill smiled at his poor attempt at humour. ‘You did a good job there. Sounds like you’re a breath away from catching the killer.’

  ‘Ha.’

  ‘Ah.’

  He spotted her laptop open on her desk. On it were notes she’d made about the Hayden family and anyone else involved in this case. He wandered over and took a closer look, scrolling down the page.

  ‘I had a word with Phil Meredith this morning,’ he murmured, his attention still on the screen, ‘and, surprise, surprise, he doesn’t want you working on this case.’

  ‘I know. He called here at lunchtime. Seems to think people will panic if they know I’m involved.’

  ‘I suppose we should be grateful he didn’t mention his bloody shoestrings.’

  ‘Oh, he did say you have no grasp of basic economics. We had a nice little chat just before I went to Lower Crags Farm.’

  Smiling at that, Max turned his back on the laptop. ‘It sounds to me as if his authority is being undermined?’

  ‘Probably. Mention it to him in the morning and see what he says.’ She headed for the kitchen. ‘Are you driving?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Pity. I was about to open a bottle of wine. Still, I suppose I can manage on my own.’

  ‘One glass of wine won’t hurt me,’ Max said, a pace behind her.

  The sitting room was warm and cosy, but they sat at the table in the kitchen.

  ‘So what do you know?’ Jill asked.

  ‘Not a lot,’ Max admitted. ‘I spoke to Morrison this morning. Apparently, about a year ago, he was having a slash in the park and a pupil and his father happened across him. They thought he was having a wank, he insists he was having a pee. A chat in the headmaster’s office sorted it all out. Funny how he keeps cropping up, though.’

  ‘No, it’s not funny. I spoke to Sarah Hayden and she said Martin thought he was a perv. According to her, Martin used to make sure he had an erection when he had swimming lessons. He used to like winding Morrison up.’

  ‘He was full of his own importance, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He was. Not a likeable boy at all.’ She took a sip of her wine. ‘Oh, and he called David Fielding a little shit. I knew he wasn’t planning a friendly drink with him. According to Sarah, he planned to get him drunk.’

  They both mulled this over. It was always the same; the more questions asked, the more questions needing asking.

  ‘He had money, too,’ Jill went on. ‘He bought his sister an expensive gold necklace and said he’d got the money from someone. He wouldn’t tell her who, said she was best not knowing.’

  ‘Blackmail, I think. And I still have Morrison as chief suspect.’‘

  Brian Taylor’s mine. Have you spoken to him yet?’

  ‘No. He’s been at a sales conference in Italy. It’s all right for some. He’s due back late tonight so I’m seeing him in the morning.’

  ‘Was he in Italy last Wednesday?’

  ‘No, he flew out on Thursday morning.’

  ‘How very convenient. What colour car does he drive?’

  ‘Silver. Oh, and that’s another thing. When asked what colour car he drove, our favourite PE teacher, Geoff Morrison, said red. When we checked, we discovered that he’d changed his car at the weekend. Before then, he drove a blue one. The damn thing’s been valeted to within an inch of its life but we’re having it checked out.’ He looked at her. ‘Other than that, I’ve got diddley squat.’

  She sympathized.

  ‘I’m sure the answer lies at Lower Crags Farm,’ she mused. ‘Nothing fits at the place. Nothing at all.’

  A stranger walking into that house would have no idea that a member of the family had been brutally murdered. George and Andy were continuing to work. Josie was carrying on much as normal. Only Sarah looked as if she’d shed a tear for young Martin.

  ‘I had a chat with Andy,’ Max told her. ‘He’s as bloody private as the rest of them, but he hated that brother of his.’

  ‘Hate’s a strong word. His or yours?’

  ‘Mine,’ Max admitted, ‘but I’m right. He hated him.’

  ‘Because Martin got all the attention?’ And why exactly was that? she wondered. ‘Martin was supposedly the favourite, yet Andy’s the one who looks like his dad, and the one who works alongside him. Odd. Except, of course, that George married Josie because she was pregnant with Andy. Perhaps he blames Andy for tying him to Josie.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t believe in divorce as an easy option, but I think it should be obligatory in their case.’

  ‘They’re an odd family,’ Max muttered. ‘But the more people that disliked Martin, the more I like it. The more convinced I am that someone wanted him out of the way, and the more convinced I am that the kids at Harrington High School are safe.’ He looked at his watch and emptied his glass. ‘I’d better be going. I’ll be in touch if anything happens.’

  She watched him go and wondered if Donna Lord had made her move yet. That she would make a move, Jill had no doubt. She’d made it sickeningly obvious that she was interested in Max.

  Not, Jill reminded herself, that it was any of her business.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Max sat in his car outside Lilac Cottage for a moment. Whenever he drove away, he always thought how wrong it was. They should be together. That Jill lived here in Kelton Bridge was madness. They were made for each other. Even Jill must admit that they’d been great together.

  Yes, he’d been unfaithful to her, but there were valid reasons for that. She called them ‘lame excuses’ and he called them ‘valid reasons’. He’d been working too hard and drinking too hard, and Jill had been having nightmares because Rodney Hill had committed suicide. Between them, they’d been unable to cope with the pressure. Very few couples would have coped.

  As a means of a brief respite, Max had spent a few hours with someone else . . .

  With a sigh, he fired the engine and drove off. It was pointless going over and over the same ground. They should be together. End of story.

  His phone rang and he hit the button.

  ‘Max, I don’t know if this is someone taking the piss or not,’ Dave, currently manning the desk at headquarters, told him, ‘but I’ve spoken to a bloke who calls himself are you ready for this? Accrington Stanley.’

  ‘That’s all I need. What a bloody day! Yes, it’s genuine,’ Max told him. ‘To you, Accrington Stanley is a football team, the pride of Lancashire. To me, he’s a pain in the arse who occasionally, very occasionally, gives us some good info. His name’s Stanley and he originates from Accrington. Hence Accrington Stanley.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ Clearly, Dave was none the wiser. ‘Anyway, he said he had some gen on Martin Hayden. Told you to meet him at the usual place.’

  ‘Thanks, Dave. I’ll find him.’

  There was no
‘usual place’, but Max guessed that Accrington would be at The Red Lion or The Nag’s Head, and Max would have to go through the usual cloak and dagger routine to hear what he had to say. Among Accrington’s many faults was a penchant for old cops and robbers shows like Starsky and Hutch or The Sweeney.

  Max tried The Red Lion first, but there was no sign of him. He struck lucky at The Nag’s Head.

  Accrington was propping up the bar, an almost empty glass of Guinness in his hand. They made eye contact and then Accrington shuffled away from the bar.

  While Max waited for the barmaid to finish talking on her mobile phone, he looked around him and tried to tot up the numbers of years the customers had spent in various prisons. A lot.

  ‘A pint of Black Sheep, please,’ he said, when the young girl finally deigned to serve him.

  He handed over his money and stood at the bar to drink what was an exceptionally good pint. The service was poor, the glasses never looked particularly clean, and the customers were small-time crooks, but at least the landlord kept a decent pint of beer.

  Max was halfway down his pint before Accrington looked around him, put his glass on the bar and made a show of saying goodnight to a few people.

  Max had to wait five minutes not a second less before following him. Yes, it had to be a case of too much Starsky and Hutch. Still, Accrington did provide them with useful information now and again, so Max had to take part in the charade. Accrington refused to speak to him any other way. ‘Walls have ears,’ he’d say.

  Max gave him ten minutes it wouldn’t hurt him to wait and then left the bar and walked to the alley at the back where Accrington was smoking one of his hand-rolled cigarettes.

  ‘How are you doing, Accrington?’

  ‘You weren’t followed, were you?’

  ‘Followed? Me? Don’t talk daft.’ Who he thought might be interested enough to follow him, Max had no idea. ‘So what have you got? Something to do with the Hayden boy, I gather.’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve seen those pictures of him on the telly and I’ll tell you this.’ He broke off to look around and make sure they weren’t being overheard. ‘That George Hayden I know him and that young lad isn’t his son.’

  Max was disappointed. They already knew that.

  ‘That boy looks nothing like his dad,’ Accrington went on, his voice low. ‘Not that that accounts for much,’ he admitted. ‘I look nothing like my dad. He’s a right ugly bugger.’

  Accrington had a large bulbous nose sitting on a red, flabby, unshaven face. His ears made cauliflowers look like exotic orchids, and his many chins wobbled with each word. And his father was the ugly one?

  ‘I saw the lad’s mother’s photo,’ he said, his voice a whisper now, ‘and I’ve seen her’ Again, he stopped to look around him. ‘I’ve seen her with the lad’s real father. And I know he’s the real father because the lad’s the spitting image of him.’

  ‘Wait a minute. You’ve seen Mrs Hayden with Martin’s real father? Recently?’

  ‘Twice I’ve seen ’em together.’

  ‘Where, Accrington? And when?’

  ‘Churchyard,’ he whispered. ‘I mows the lawns at St Saviour’s and keeps the place tidy.’

  Max knew that. Accrington would rob his own grandmother, except of course his own grandmother was probably laid to rest at St Saviour’s, but he’d been mowing lawns there gratis for years.

  ‘And?’‘

  There’s a bench where all the old graves are. It’s a very deserted spot. No one’d see you. I only see ’em because I heard something and went to have a gander. They was sat there as large as life. Heads bent. Talking. I couldn’t hear what they was saying, mind.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘I go every Tuesday afternoon to tidy up a bit. They was there last Tuesday and the one before that.’

  ‘Last Tuesday?’ The day before Martin Hayden was killed? ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. I would’ve told you before, Max, but it only came to me today. As I said, I knows George Hayden, but I’d never seen his wife, or his son. Her picture was in the paper today and I recognized her from St Saviour’s. I knew then why the lad that was murdered looked so familiar. I tell you, Max, he’s the image of his real father.’

  Well, well, well.

  ‘The thing is, Max,’ he whispered, ‘when there are them sort of skeletons in the cupboard, well, it strikes me, your killer’ll be close to home.’

  Good point, Accrington.

  ‘Mm, thanks for that.’ Max took a twenty pound note from his wallet and handed it over. ‘You’d better have a drink on me. Oh, and if you see them again, let me know, will you?’

  ‘You can count on me!’ Accrington tapped the side of his bulbous nose and strode off.

  Max walked back to his car, deep in thought.

  Last Tuesday, Brian Taylor met up with Josie Hayden for at least the second time. On Wednesday Martin was murdered. On Thursday, Taylor very conveniently left for Italy.

  But he was due back in England this evening. In fact, his plane should have touched down by now. Max would be very interested to hear what he had to say . . .

  So deep in thought was he, Max had driven past Asda when he remembered he’d meant to stop and buy some Scotch and wine. His mother-in-law bought all the groceries they needed, but she was hopeless when it came to keeping the alcohol cupboard stocked.

  He drove on to the roundabout, doubled back, and then parked in Asda’s car park.

  It didn’t take long to pick up a couple of bottles of Scotch and half a dozen bottles of wine, and he was standing at the check-out, the one for baskets only, wondering how people could cram so much into one small basket, when an incredibly sexy voice said, ‘Having a party, Max?’

  He turned around to see Ms Lord with a well-filled trolley. Even sex goddesses, it seemed, needed groceries. Looking at the contents of her trolley, Max guessed she was something of a fitness freak. There was no sugar or sodium to be seen. Lots of fruit and vegetables, several bottles of water that would taste no better than tap water, but no chocolate, cakes or biscuits.

  ‘’Fraid not,’ he said, smiling. A party for two didn’t sound like a bad idea, though.

  She was wearing a short black skirt, a white, breast-hugging blouse and ridiculously high heels. No wonder her legs looked so long.

  ‘I saw you at the school today.’

  ‘Really? I didn’t see you.’

  ‘I was stuck in a classroom overlooking the car park.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Do you have time for a coffee?’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Why not?’

  At this rate, he’d never get home. But a coffee wouldn’t take long. Besides, this was business.

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘Great. Give me a couple of minutes there are just a few things I need and I’ll meet you as soon as I’ve paid for it all. Mine’s a latte.’

  He watched her walk back to the deli counter. Her legs looked longer than ever. Phew, it was a tough job being a copper.

  When she breezed into the cafeteria, however, his job was the last thing on his mind.

  She parked her trolley by the side of the table and sat opposite him.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, picking up her cup. ‘After fighting my way round here, I always need a coffee to revive me.’

  Max nodded at his carrier bags. ‘I always need something a little stronger.’

  Her lips were full and covered with a glossy pink lipstick. Other than that, she didn’t wear a lot of make-up. She didn’t need to.

  ‘Are you on your way home?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. To two boys and two dogs.’

  ‘It was good to see you on Sunday. I didn’t know you and the psychiatrist socialized.’

  The psychiatrist? Jill would love her for that gem.

  ‘Only now and again, but we used to be close.’ Until I was daft enough to spend a night with someone far less appealing than you, he added silently. The memory of that night, of how
low he had fallen, still sickened him.

  ‘You must get lonely,’ she murmured, taking a sip of her coffee.

  He laughed at that. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were chatting me up, Ms Lord.’

  ‘You know perfectly well that it’s Donna. And I am chatting you up.’

  ‘Then I’m flattered. Donna.’

  ‘So you should be,’ she said, laughter dancing in her eyes. ‘I’m very fussy about my conquests.’

  With a body like that, she could afford to be.

  ‘What were you doing at the school today?’ she asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Talking to a couple of people. Typing up loose ends.’ He shrugged. ‘Nothing exciting or important.’

  ‘You were talking to Geoff Morrison for one,’ she said. ‘What’s poor Geoff done wrong? He has nothing to do with Martin Hayden’s murder, does he?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’ He considered asking her about Morrison, but thought better of it. ‘Do you enjoy your work?’ he asked instead.

  ‘Love it,’ she assured him happily. ‘I get on better with children than adults. We have fun.’

  ‘It’s the boys I feel sorry for. If I’d had a teacher like you, I would have struggled to concentrate.’

  She laughed. ‘Some of them do struggle,’ she admitted. ‘Didn’t you fantasize about your teachers when you were at school?’

  ‘Hardly! Of the only female teachers I remember, one was built like a tank, another was the envy of the boys because she had a moustache and the third was ninety if she was a day.’

  Donna spluttered with laughter. ‘Ah, poor Max.’

  She gazed at him for long moments, and he wondered what she was thinking. He gazed right back, and he knew exactly what he was thinking. There was nothing remotely professional about it, either.

  ‘Here.’ She reached inside her handbag and scribbled her phone number on the back of a business card. ‘If you get too lonely, give me a call,’ she said, handing it over. ‘We could meet up for a drink or something.’

  The front of the card advertised Harrington’s fitness centre.

  ‘Thanks. I will,’ he promised. ‘But I’d better be going now.’