There were a couple of cars in the car park but no sign of Korpanski’s estate. She locked her bike to the railings and went inside.
She had a swift shower and changed into some black trousers and a white shirt with high-heeled black leather boots. She ran a comb through her thick, unruly hair and grinned at herself in the mirror. Today she felt lucky.
Korpanski turned up at eight thirty and he looked good too. He took in the fact that she was already at her desk and gave her a wide grin and a mock, arm-stretching yawn. “You’re looking smug,” he said, “for so early in the day.”
Joanna swivelled her chair round to face him. “I feel smug,” she said. “I confess. I’m looking forward to interviewing Guy Priestley.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. The thought of making him squirm is positively exhilarating,” she said.
Korpanski’s eyebrows rose. “So how are you going to play it?”
She leaned forward, chin resting on her fingers, giving Korpanski the full benefit of her clear gaze. “By letting him believe we think he’s guilty. I want to scare him into describing his encounters with our dead woman.”
Korpanski looked troubled. “You’re sure there were some?”
“Oh yes. I’m sure.” She jumped to her feet. “Come on. On your feet, Mike. Let’s go and haul him in.”
Fifty-four, Harbinger Grove looked asleep, with its curtains still drawn. Obviously Priestley was still having his beauty sleep. Joanna smiled. That suited.
“Let’s begin this as we mean to continue,” she said.
She banged loudly on the door and shouted through the letterbox. There was no response so they walked around the back, through the neat garden with its sets of furniture, across the decking, still damp and slippery with morning dew, and hammered even louder on the back door. They were rewarded by the sight of Guy Priestley in a knee-length towelling dressing gown, peering bleary-eyed through the patio doors. He slid them open.
“Marilyn isn’t back yet,” he said, squinting at them. “Sometimes she stops off at the shop.”
“It isn’t Marilyn we want to see,” Joanna said calmly. “It’s you.”
Priestley was anything but calm. He was rattled. “Me?” he squeaked. “Why? What for? I don’t know anything. I hardly knew her.”
“I suggest you come with us in our car, down to the station.”
The first tinge of real panic touched Priestley. “I can’t get led away in a police car. What’ll people think? I haven’t done anything. I don’t know anything. I can’t help you.”
Joanna said nothing. Sometimes it is better to allow the imagination to run free.
Priestley tried again. “How long will I be there?”
“I can’t answer that, Mr Priestley.”
Standing, half in and half out of the patio doors Korpanski was enjoying the spectacle. He was tensed up, ready to grab Priestley if he made the slightest movement towards resisting arrest. Joanna knew how much he would love to have an excuse to fell him with a rugby tackle.
Priestley scowled at both of them in turn. “Just let me put some clothes on then. Have a wash. Clean my teeth.”
The police have the perfect right to stay with a person while they change. Either Joanna or Mike could have accompanied him to the bedroom and the bathroom but Joanna resisted the temptation. They would soon be goading Priestley enough to satisfy both of them. So she merely jerked her head towards the hall and staircase. “Get on with it then,” she said. “Don’t take too long.”
As he ran up the stairs she called after him. “And you might want to leave a note for Marilyn.”
For answer Priestley slammed the bedroom door shut.
She watched Priestley in the rear view mirror sitting uncomfortably at Korpanski’s side on the back seat. He met her eyes and quickly looked away.
She smiled to herself. She was rather enjoying this.
An interview room was free so they booked it, switched the sign to In Use and went through the formalities for the tape recorder. The only fact that was a surprise was Priestley’s age. Given as thirty two. She’d thought him younger, particularly with the spiky blonde hair artistically gelled.
It is strange how a person who initially appears handsome can seem to change when you really study their face and watch their confidence evaporate. Never more so than with Guy Priestley. With the light on him and less confidence than a bridegroom on his wedding day his chin seemed to shrink, his mouth harden, his eyes become smaller and less clear and his hands prematurely old, calloused and wrinkled. His accent had slipped without his “tiger” around to impress and as he spoke Joanna began to realise that he had needed the adoration of his lover to boost a fragile ego: an older woman for whom his youth had elevated to the status of super-stud. Oh yes, Joanna reflected. Marilyn Saunders had suited him down to the ground. He was, basically, a very average local boy with dubious looks and a manual job.
What interested her now was what had been in it for her. Sex? A certain spiciness at having a partner who was twenty years younger than herself?
She could have thought about it all day but here was Priestley, waiting for her to begin.
Once she had checked his details for the benefit of the tape recorder she began to direct her attention on his relationship with the dead woman.
“Beatrice was a very close friend of Marilyn’s, wasn’t she?”
“She was. I hardly knew her.”
“But she must have come round your house sometimes – for a drink or a chat?”
“I suppose so.”
“How often?” Mike growled.
Give him his due, Priestley squared up to him admirably. “Dunno,” he said, shrugging slightly. “Once or twice, I suppose.”
“Oh, I think more than that,” Joanna put in quickly.
She was rewarded with a wary look from her interviewee. “It might have been. I don’t know.”
“How long have you and Marilyn been together?”
“Just over a year. A year and a half. Somewhere round there. I don’t know exactly.”
“How did you meet?”
Priestley’s mouth was dry. He tried to produce some saliva and failed, licked his papery lips with a dry, rasping tongue. Working his mouth then finally rubbing his lips with his fingers. “She was up the pub with a couple of mates. We was on the next table. I chatted her up.” He grew suddenly truculent. “What’s this got to do with anything?”
They both ignored the outburst. “Fancy older women, do you?” Korpanski said with as much offence as he could muster and a creditable leer.
“Sometimes,” Priestley said guardedly. “What’s it got to do with you?”
Joanna couldn’t stand the sight of him licking the cracked lips. She crossed the room to the sink and filled a plastic cup with some cold water, was tempted to throw it over Priestley but simply handed it to him. He downed it gratefully and Joanna registered the act on the tape recorder. “The suspect has been given a drink of water.”
With the water Priestley had found a sliver of confidence. He put the cup down deliberately on the desk and dragged in a deep breath, as though drawing in a lungful of smoke from a much-needed cigarette. “Look. What have you brought me here for? I haven’t done anything. You can’t suspect me of doing away with that old bag?”
“That old bag was the same age as the woman you’re shacked up with,” Korpanski said brutally.
Priestley blinked. “She was nothing like Marilyn,” he said, scowling. “They were poles apart. She was a complete bumpkin with not an ounce of sex appeal about her.”
Joanna had waited for this opportunity. “Then why did you make a pass at her?”
“What?”
“You heard. Why did you make her think you fancied her?”
Priestley simply gaped for a full minute before turning a vague shade of puce. It didn’t suit him. “What do you mean,” he asked slowly. “I didn’t…” He looked from one to the other, trying to work out exactly what they knew – and
how. “It was her.”
Joanna simply regarded him steadily, her head on one side.
“It was just a game,” he said grumpily. “Marilyn put me up to it. Old fatty hadn’t had a man after her in years. Not since old-fart-Arthur had proposed.”
Joanna felt a deep distaste for the fact that Beatrice Pennington’s so-called friend had been the one to suggest the malicious trick. “So it was a blood sport to you, Guy?”
Priestley didn’t even attempt to give an answer. Korpanski’s muttered “cruel” gave him the clear message he was outflanked.
Joanna decided it was time to play at being an adorer of Guy Priestley’s.
“Tell me,” she said, opening her eyes very wide and staring at the young man. “Did you find Beatrice attractive?”
Priestley struggled to decide whether she was mocking him or whether it was a serious question. He looked back at her suspiciously.
“I – um.” Then the truth burst out. “You must be joking.”
“So tell us exactly what happened.”
“I told you. Marilyn put me up to it.”
“So?”
“Beattie came round a bit early one evening. Marilyn was tired. She was still in bed. I went and woke her up and she said, ‘Give old Beattie a thrill, lover-boy’.
So I did.”
Joanna simply raised her eyebrows as a prompt. The thing was she could imagine Marilyn Saunders saying the exact words. Even picture her expression as she said them. Half casual, half spiteful.
“So I came back downstairs again, said that Marilyn was still asleep. Beattie was sitting on the settee so I go and sit right next to her, really close. I started fumbling her, said things to her, about always having fancied her like mad, but that Marilyn was always watching. Really I was in stitches inside. I couldn’t believe she’d take it seriously but she did. Poor, dumb Beattie with her podgy moon-face and stupid ways. She couldn’t see that I was just mucking around. I even started snogging her like she was Britney Spears or someone. And she fell for it all. The whole bloody lot.”
The arrogance of youth.
“And then?” Korpanski asked roughly.
“Then nothing. Marilyn came downstairs. She acted sort of suspicious and I kind of acted guilty. But when we were in the kitchen later on together me and Marilyn had a laugh about it. A really good laugh.”
Joanna felt slightly sick.
“And then what?”
“It got embarrassing. She started ringing me up. Sending me letters. The old fool.” The contempt in his voice was cruel. Joanna would remember this if she, in turn, was expected to show Priestley any mercy. Her dislike was deepening by the minute.
“Then she started being a real nuisance. She came round a couple of times when she knew Marilyn’d be at work. I had to fight her off. It was horrible. It got really disgusting.”
“When was this?”
“Round about Christmas-time. She sent me this really stupid card about Santa could come up her chimney any time. I chucked it in the bin. It was getting beyond a joke.”
“And then?”
Give Priestley his due – he did look regretful now. “Some time early in February, it was getting ridiculous. She was writing me letters, really silly ones, all about waiting for someone like me all her life. Complete rubbish.” His disdain was absolute. “She’d come round in the most saucy outfits, red satin stuff and…” Priestley gave a genuine shudder. “I couldn’t hack it. I had to tell her that I’d been having her on, that it was a set-up, that I didn’t fancy her.”
Joanna could picture the scene all too well. “What was her reaction?”
Priestley did look ashamed now. “She started crying, saying I’d been really cruel and that she’d loved me and that she thought I’d loved her. It was awful. I felt…” He shook his head slowly, kept his eyes down. “I felt terrible. I couldn’t believe she’d been so taken in. I ended up putting my arm around her and kissing her, telling her she was a lovely person. And then Marilyn walked in on us.”
“And took it seriously?”
Priestley nodded, shame-faced.
This was interesting – a new angle to the story which neither of them had anticipated.
“What was her reaction?”
Again Priestley shook his head. “She was really silly about it. She thought I really had been up to something. I can tell you, Inspector, she threw a wobbly at me. She bloody hit me, started screaming.”
“Was this witnessed by Beatrice?”
“Yeah. She saw Marilyn weren’t pleased. She bolted.”
“And then afterwards?”
“I couldn’t seem to convince Marilyn.” Priestley suddenly realised what he was saying. “I mean – I don’t think she had anything to do with it. She just… She just didn’t believe me,” he finished lamely.
Joanna glanced at Mike. Here was someone else with a motive for wanting Beatrice Pennington dead. They had seen the way Marilyn Saunders had doted on her young lover. It had given her a status and mystique. But at the same time this aspect made her vulnerable. Her humiliation in such a small town would be public and cruel if he left her – particularly if it was for another woman of her own age who had previously been counted as one of her best friends.
She was silent while both Korpanski and Priestley watched her.
At last she lifted her head. “Tell me, Guy, how much do you love Marilyn?”
He studied her back. “That’s a funny question,” he said. “I don’t know how to answer it.”
“Honestly, I suggest.”
“I’m happy enough with her for the time being.”
“And then?”
“If it didn’t suit I wouldn’t be there.” He swallowed. “Look – if it was a guy with a younger bird no one’d bat an eyelid. Just because it’s the other way round people think it’s weird. It’s no big deal. Understand? It’s no big deal.”
Joanna nodded. She had not read Priestley wrongly but correctly. Moving in with Marilyn Saunders had seemed like a good idea at the time.
She watched him keenly. “Did you kill Beatrice Pennington?”
Priestley looked really scared now. “No, I didn’t. Please believe me. Why would I?”
She kept her eyes trained on him then stood up, terminating the interview into the tape recorder. “You’re free to go,” she said, “for the time being.”
Priestley looked suspicious at his freedom.
He stood up quickly, almost knocking over the chair, gave a swift glance at the door, then at Korpanski who was staring him out.
Then he bolted. Towards the door, threw it open and was gone.
Joanna couldn’t help smiling. He was so like a frightened rabbit. “So what did you think of that, Mike?”
“Interesting.”
“My feelings exactly.”
Chapter Fifteen
So they had learned the answer to one anomaly at least. They knew now why the Ann Summers underwear had been new, left in the drawer and forgotten about. Beatrice had bought it for the benefit of Guy – who in the words of Rhett Butler – couldn’t give a damn.
But for now it meant another trip up the High Street, calling first at the library. They climbed the stone steps with a distinct feeling of déjà vu. Who would have thought that one simple murder would have proved such a tricky nut to crack?
They pushed open the library doors and left them swinging behind them, started climbing the stone stairs. At the top stood a thin, middle-aged man who reminded Joanna vaguely of Arthur Pennington. Same type. He watched them climb with an air of involvement, his eyes stuck on them. Instinctively Joanna knew he must be Adrian Grove.
“Excuse me,” she said as she reached the top, “you’re not Adrian Grove, are you?”
Pale blue eyes focused on her. “That’s right,” he said. “That’s who I am.” He was one of those men who have a prominent Adam’s apple in a skinny neck. His hair was mousy, thin and wispy across a bright pink pate. He must have caught the sun on his holiday.
“Is there somewhere private we can talk, Mr Grove?”
“Yes. Yes. Of course. Let me just go and tell the girls.”
He scuttled off through the double glass doors. They caught a glimpse of Lisa Chorley and Kerry Beardmore staring at them then Grove bustled back out and ushered them through a side door into what was obviously a staff room.
It was barely furnished with drab walls but the furniture was cheery, two pale sofas and an ash coffee table. In the corner was a sink and tea and coffee making equipment. “Would you like a coffee?”
“Yes. Thank you. That would be nice.”
“Tea with two sugars”, Korpanski said shortly before settling on the farther sofa.
They waited until the mugs were in front of them before Joanna opened the questioning. “You’ve just come back from your holiday?”
“Yes. I’ve been walking – in Italy. I rang – just to make sure everything was going all right and they told me about poor Beattie.” His eyes were watering as he spoke and he brushed them with the back of his hand. “I can’t believe it, Inspector. I just can’t. I would have thought her the last person in the world who would be murdered. She didn’t seem…”
Korpanski butted in rudely. “So what sort of person would you expect to see murdered, Mr Grove?”
“Oh I don’t know.” Understandably Grove was rattled by the question. Joanna felt annoyed that Korpanski had confronted the librarian so soon in the interview. She shot him a warning look and he gave her one of his bland, innocent smiles back.
Wings over the Watcher Page 18