by GJ Minett
Owen’s been watching him closely while he talks. He hasn’t noticed it before but he has this curious habit of wiping his mouth with the palm of one hand after every couple of sentences. He wonders where this strange mannerism comes from, whether it’s something he picked up in childhood. Imagining Holloway as a child is beyond him. Some people look as if they’ve been fifty all their lives.
‘Anyway,’ he continues, picking up his biro and doodling on the notepad, ‘once she got back to the cake she found she couldn’t concentrate and at first she thought it was because she felt bad about being a bit brusque on the phone, but now she wonders whether maybe subconsciously she knew there was something funny about the call. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. So she rang them back.’
From where he’s sitting Owen can see quite clearly what Holloway is drawing on the notepad – a 2 first, then a 3 underneath it, followed by a 5. Next will be a 7 . . . and sure enough, here it comes, slightly larger than the others and with a bar across the vertical stroke, the way some people do so you can see it’s not a 1. It’s pathetic.
‘You’ve forgotten eleven,’ he says.
Holloway frowns as if trying to make the connection. Then he realises what he’s referring to and looks down at the notepad where he can see he’s skipped from 7 straight to 13. He smiles and squeezes the number 11 into its rightful place.
‘Well spotted,’ he says. ‘You can see maths never was my strong point.’
‘Is that supposed to make me nervous?’ Owen asks. Kristen’s puzzled by this exchange so Owen explains and she aims a look of disgust in Holloway’s direction before jotting a note inside the impressive-looking folder which she has in front of her.
‘Just doodling,’ says Holloway. He lays the biro carefully alongside the notepad to demonstrate he’s finished with it. Leaves the notepad open. With the numbers still there.
‘Anyway, I was saying. She spoke with the manager at Estelle Roberts and this woman was really embarrassed about it all. She explained the only reason she’d rung was because Callum had bought a necklace a while back and then had to return it because of a faulty clasp. She claimed Head Office was looking at their existing refunds policy and they were phoning recent customers to get the data they needed. Only there was a bit of confusion about the whole thing. Really odd, this.’
Odd is not the word Owen would have chosen. He knows where Holloway’s going with this. Ever since he casually lobbed the word necklace into the conversation, he’s been onto him. And he’s not worried. He’s way ahead.
‘You see, according to their records, Callum returned the necklace on . . .’ He picks up the notepad and flicks through to the previous page. ‘Thursday, eleventh September.’
He puts the pad back on the table with the page of prime numbers still showing.
‘Nothing odd about that, you might think. Apart from the fact that Callum had been dead for over a fortnight by then. I’d say their record keeping needs as much attention as their refunds policy, wouldn’t you?’
This is all news to Owen. He knows nothing of any refunds. He gave the necklace to Abi on her birthday which was two days after this refund was supposed to have taken place. What Holloway is saying doesn’t make any sense at all and he senses a trap of some sort. More lies and tricks.
‘Anyway, that wasn’t the only thing that got Abi Green’s attention. You see, the date Callum was supposed to have bought the necklace was Monday, twenty-fifth August. That ring any bells?’
Owen swallows. Shakes his head without meaning to, then reaches across and turns the notepad over in his irritation with himself.
‘It’s the day he was murdered. How about that, eh? Time of the transaction, according to the manager when we rang her earlier . . .’ He consults the pad again, then puts it down with the numbers hidden. Leaves it like that for a couple of seconds, then slowly turns it over, that maddening smile playing at the corner of his lips.
‘Seventeen-thirteen. And I promise that’s the time they gave us over the phone. I know they’re prime numbers but I can’t help that. So at 17.13 Callum Green was buying a necklace and something like a couple of hours later he was dead. Which sort of got us wondering – what happened to the necklace?’
He pauses for a moment, clasps his hands on the desk in front of him.
‘I mean, Abi’s first reaction – Abi Green,’ he continues, ‘she was really upset when she heard about it because this was some expensive necklace and she’s pretty sure she wasn’t the one he was buying it for. They weren’t on the best of terms at the time, as you probably know, and given that she now knows Callum was planning to spend the week in Bournemouth with Hannah Reid, she feels it’s logical to assume that he’d bought the necklace for her instead. And I have to say I agree with her. In which case, it would have made sense for him to have the necklace with him in the car when he drove over there to pick her up. You with me?’
He is. He’d rather not be but he is. And he’s saying nothing just yet.
‘So that raises a pretty crucial question – what happened to the necklace? It’s not in the car. He didn’t get the chance to give it to Hannah Reid – we’ve checked with her, incidentally. And he didn’t give it to his wife. So where is it?’
Owen knows it has to be now. He can see where this is going and they need an alternative explanation to keep them off balance but he’s already got his exit strategy lined up. He’s still way ahead of them.
‘Maybe the killer took it,’ he says.
Holloway holds up a corroborating finger.
‘That’s what we thought too,’ he says.
‘Have you asked Adam K-Kitchener what he knows about it? Maybe he can help you . . . given that he’s the one who had the b-bat all along.’
‘Ah yes, Mr Kitchener,’ says Holloway. ‘No, we don’t really need to question him about it, do we? You see, we now know where the necklace is.’
‘Where?’
‘She’s had it all along. Abi Green. You see, we asked the manager at Estelle Roberts to email across a photo of the necklace Callum bought back in August and she sent it through. And Abi recognised it at once.’ He pauses and there’s no smile now. ‘It’s the one you gave her for her birthday.’
He’s shaking his head. Kristen reaches across as if to suggest maybe he shouldn’t answer but he pats her hand with his own. It’s OK, his eyes tell her. I’ve got this.
‘I don’t understand,’ he says. ‘Why would she say that?’ He’s pleased to notice that his hands are just fine and there’s no trace of a stammer at the moment. He feels he has this under control. If he starts down the ‘No comment’ road, they’ll find a way to use that against him later. They need to see he has nothing to hide.
‘Are you saying you didn’t?’
‘Of course I didn’t.’
‘So she’s lying?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know? She’s said in a sworn statement that the necklace came from you. Abi . . . Abi Green is lying about something as important as that? Even though she knows what that will mean, the difficult position it will put you in?’
‘She’s under a lot of pressure right now,’ says Owen. ‘She’s been through a lot. And that man has obviously turned her head.’
‘That man being Adam Kitchener?’
‘You don’t know what he’s like,’ says Owen and he has no difficulty whatsoever in summoning a convincing scowl to show how he feels. ‘He has this hold over her – she’d say anything if he asked her to.’
‘And why would he ask her?’
Owen tuts, gives a brief shake of the head to express his irritation. Does he have to spell everything out for them?
‘Because he killed Callum, just like I’ve been telling you all along. He killed him, took the necklace and then gave it to Abi for her birthday. Why can’t you see it? It’s not difficult.’
‘So you’re saying it wasn’t you who gave her the necklace?’
‘I just want to be clear about it.’
‘I didn’t give her the necklace.’
Holloway sits back, then snaps his fingers. Horgan responds immediately, taking a photo from a file on the desk. He passes it to Holloway who slides it across the table until it skids to a halt in front of Owen.
‘This is the photo the manager at Estelle Roberts sent us. Take a good look at it. It’s a very distinctive necklace. You still stand by your story?’
‘Yes. I didn’t give her this or any other necklace.’
‘You were at Abi Green’s house on her birthday, weren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you give her a present?’
‘Of course. I gave her some mints.’
‘Mints?’
‘Chocolate mints – they’re her favourites. She has a sweet tooth,’ he adds with a sly smile.
‘Did you see any of her other presents?’
‘No. Yes,’ he corrects himself. ‘Her father-in-law drove over to see her. He gave her a book and a DVD.’
‘Did you see this necklace at all that day?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘I’ve never seen it.’
‘Never?’
Owen pauses before answering. Thinks it might be better to backtrack a little.
‘Not that I can remember,’ he says. Better. Doesn’t pay to be any more specific than you have to.
‘So what’s this?’ Holloway holds out his hand and Horgan passes him another photo. The moment Owen sees it, he’s surprised at how much it hurts to look back to that evening in the restaurant, Abi reaching across to rest her head on his shoulder, the necklace nestling in the V of her dress. So much has happened in the past few days . . . and he’s so tired. But they’re getting to the bit that really matters now. He needs to concentrate.
‘That is the same necklace, isn’t it?’ asks Holloway. ‘The one you’ve never seen before?’
He shrugs.
‘Obviously I was wrong. I don’t remember it.’
‘Well, I have to say, I find that very surprising, Owen,’ says Holloway, throwing himself back in his chair. ‘I mean, I know it was taken on Abi’s phone but when I checked your mobile a few moments ago I found the attachment she sent you . . . which you’ve saved in a collection labelled ABI. I’ve no idea whether our lab boys have a way of checking how often you’ve gone to that collection and stared at the photo but I’m willing to bet it’s pretty damned often.’
‘I don’t take much interest in jewellery,’ he says with a sigh. ‘She might have been wearing rings and a bracelet that evening as well. I couldn’t tell you what they were.’
We’re nearly there, he tells himself. He knows exactly where they’re going with this. Has known all along. Let them.
‘Now you come to mention it though,’ he says, looking at the photo again, ‘maybe I do remember this one.’
‘You do?’ Holloway can hardly keep the disbelief out of his voice.
‘Yes. At the end of the evening, when we were getting ready to leave. I was helping Abi put her coat on and she’d got her hair caught in the necklace and she asked me to undo the clasp at the back for her. I remember now – I held it while she sorted her hair out.’
‘You held it for her?’
‘Yes. For a few seconds. I mean, I wasn’t paying much attention to what the thing looked like.’
‘So that means if we were to find your fingerprints on the necklace, there would be a perfectly innocent explanation for it, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’ And what he means is Yesssssss! because he can see from the quiet smile of resignation that Holloway flashes at his partner that he wasn’t expecting this. But he keeps it all under wraps for now. Plenty of time to celebrate later, once they’ve let him go and he can get back home. It must be nearly bedtime. He’s so tired.
Holloway must be feeling crushed. He’ll be every bit as tired as Owen. He’s spent not just the past twenty-four hours but weeks and weeks trying to find a way to catch him out and he must have thought he’d got him with this necklace business. He’s sitting there, tapping the table with his biro, a weary smile on his face.
‘That’s very good, Owen,’ he says, and Owen is feeling so elated he doesn’t even bother to pick him up on the inappropriate use of his Christian name. ‘That’s really very good.’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘No . . . it’s not. But it’s very good. I’ll admit it. We really thought we had you there. I mean, everything we’ve thrown at you, you’ve found a way to wriggle off the hook. It was getting to the stage where I thought we’d never catch you out.’
He looks Owen in the eye.
‘But I’m afraid we have.’
And Owen is seized by a sudden urge to get to his feet and give the man a good shake. What is wrong with him, for Heaven’s sake? Doesn’t he know when to quit?
‘What do you mean?’
Holloway picks up the notepad and closes it. Then he takes the pen, clicks it shut and clips it to the spine of the notepad.
‘It’s the fingerprints, Owen,’ he says. ‘We knew all along they were going to be the key to it. The only thing that worried me was that you might come up with some clever reason for having the necklace. DS Horgan here, he was betting you’d say Callum called round on his way home and asked you to look after it for him for some reason. Rubbish, of course, but it might have been difficult to disprove. But the moment you insisted it wasn’t you who gave Abi the present, we knew we had you. Because of the fingerprints.’
‘But I told you . . . she asked me to undo the clasp in the restaurant. I held the necklace for a few minutes.’
Holloway shakes his head.
‘It’s not the necklace, Owen,’ he says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s not the necklace.’ He holds his hand out and Horgan passes yet another photo to him. ‘It’s the box.’
‘The –’
‘The box the necklace came in.’ He slides the photo across the table. ‘The one that the necklace came in, and which has your fingerprints all over it. From when you took it out of her wardrobe to get another look at it. From the time you took it out of Callum’s car and opened it up to see what was inside. Those fingerprints, Owen. They’re the ones. You see, you may well have handled the necklace at the restaurant, but I can’t think of any innocent way you would have handled the box. The only way you could have done that would be if she’d taken it to the restaurant for some reason and then put the necklace on, only we know she didn’t do that –’ Holloway reaches across and taps the photo for emphasis. ‘We know because you met Abi for dinner on Thursday, eleventh December, and we’ve had the box in our possession since she brought it to us on the day of the phone call. And that was six days earlier. So you see, we’ve known for some time. It was just a question of whether we could prove it.’
And his thoughts are whizzing around like firecrackers in a tin can. In his head, he’s running down a hallway and into one room after another, desperately searching for a door or a window that will offer him a way out of the building, only every opening is blocked off and he feels as if he’s been bouncing off the walls for an eternity now. He needs to sit down and rest. Needs it so badly. But there’s nothing there . . . nothing he can think of that will explain this away.
And now . . . now of all times, Willie’s back. Only it’s not the Willie he’s been talking to and frequently rowing with for the past twenty years or so. Instead it’s Owen’s six-year-old twin, clear as daylight, even though it makes no sense. Can’t be happening. And he’s sitting in the corner, taking no notice of what’s going on around him. He’s not remotely interested in what Owen’s going through at the moment, won’t be offering him any help at all. What possible help could a six-year-old give anyway? Instead, he’s playing with Owen’s toy Bugatti. He recognises it instantly, even though it’s years since he last saw it. He knows that if he were to go over and take it from Will
ie, he’d see the tiny figure behind the wheel, complete with goggles and flying scarf, and the chip in the paintwork where he threw it at Willie when they’d fallen out about something. Can’t remember what now. Doesn’t matter.
And then Willie turns and looks at him.
And smiles.
And puts the toy car into his pocket as he walks away.
Don’t miss . . .
THE HIDDEN LEGACY
By G.J. Minett
Available now in paperback and eBook
AUTHOR’S NOTES
Last time I looked there was no huge shopping centre called Arun Valley or anything else resembling it on the A259 between Chichester and Bognor Regis. It is a product of my imagination, although it wouldn’t be a huge surprise to see something of the sort springing up along that stretch of road at some stage in the future.
Hopefully any readers familiar with the Chichester and Bognor area will take pleasure from recognising the various locations used in the novel, all of which are authentic, including Honer Lane in South Mundham. I’d like to make it quite clear though that no one living there is portrayed in the book and even the vaguest resemblance to Hannah Reid should be seen as entirely coincidental.
As for the Bellamy brothers and Ezra Cunningham, if this area has its own real-life equivalent, may I be the first to apologise. Profusely.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am just as indebted as last time around to the usual group of suspects who have done so much to make it possible for me to produce a second novel. I hope they will forgive me for not naming them all here, which is a convenient way of ensuring that, if I’ve forgotten certain individuals, they will never know.
I would, however, like to offer a few specific thanks to:
•Gemma, for coming up with the Estelle Roberts scam – would never have happened on her watch!
•The Ginger Cat Cakery (visit the website!) for expert guidance – never made a cake in my life!