Korpanski shifted his weight onto the other foot.
“OK by me,” Joanna said, laughing at him. “But if I were you,” she added soberly, “I think I’d make very sure your husband is out of the way. Detective Sergeant Korpanski is a chivalrous soul. I can’t imagine him being very merciful to the person who messed up your face.”
Korpanski’s stared back woodenly at the two women. Only the hint of a smile warmed his dark eyes to indicate that he had heard her. “I’ll follow you in my car, doctor,” he said.
Chapter Twenty
So Joanna was left alone again. Immediately she returned to her office she dialled Pete Angiotti’s mobile number and wasn’t a bit surprised to find it switched off.
She left her message, “Mr Angiotti, this is Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy here of the Leek police. We would like to talk to you about two matters. These are quite important. I suggest you return my call on Leek 01538…and ask to speak to me as soon as possible. It is now 3 p.m. on Tuesday July 14th.” She ended the message with an ultimatum. “If I have heard nothing by tomorrow morning I shall put out a stop and search.”
So – that was that. She rang Korpanski’s phone. “Where are you?”
“Just turning into the drive.”
“Any sign of him?”
“Not so far.”
“We need his car details,” she said. “I want him in here for questioning.”
“OK, Jo. Umm – how long do you want me to stay here for?”
“Enough time to make her comfortable. A couple of hours. Until a replacement arrives. I shall go and talk to Arthur, I think.”
“See you later then.”
It was five o’clock, an awkward time. Would she catch Pennington still at the office or would he already have set out for home? Leek would be gridlocked at this time of evening and she didn’t particularly want to sit in traffic for the next half hour. Neither could she justify putting the siren on which would have reduced her journey time to less than ten minutes to the Pennington home. Equally it was out of the question to use her bike. Even she had to acknowledge that arriving on a bike like Inspector Plod hardly gave out the message of the police force for the new millennium!
She picked up the phone and got straight through to the increasingly inquisitive secretary.
“Is Mr Pennington still there?”
“Yes. Have you got the person?”
“We’re getting there slowly. May I talk to him?”
“I’ll put you through right away.” Said breathily.
“What is it, Inspector?” Spoken wearily. It was obvious that grieving husband or not Pennington was getting tired of this case and of her constant attention. How quickly we adjust to new situations. A couple of weeks ago he had been distraught.
“I need to talk to you again, Mr Pennington,” she said.
“What about? Can’t it be done over the phone?”
No – because I would not be able to read your face – and all that it can tell me.
“Is there any chance that you could call in on the way home from work?”
“I – suppose so.”
“Good.” The exchange was finished.
But Pennington did not put the phone down. He cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you could give me a clue what this is about? Are you likely to be making an arrest before long?”
“Better we talk face to face.”
Joanna wanted to rattle him, enough to make him nervous and talkative. Nervous people make mistakes. They babble out secrets.
And that was just what she wanted.
She sat back and waited.
She leaned back in her chair, rolling a biro between her two hands and thought. Two men were under suspicion. Pennington and Pete Angiotti. Motives? As Corinne had observed, they were both wronged husbands.
Pennington was easy to understand. He was an unimaginative man who would be easily shocked by his wife’s profession of love for another woman. But would it drive him to murder?
Who knows what will drive a man to murder?
But Arthur Pennington couldn’t have done it.
Angiotti, on the other hand, was a different kettle of fish. Instinctively she mistrusted him. There was something inherently weak about him. And he was a bully.
On instinct she searched his name on the PNC. Nothing. So why had they left London? Why had they come here? If he already knew about the letters his wife had been receiving why erupt now? Why had he hit her? Lastly was he capable of murder?
She continued rolling the biro between her hands and answered her own question. Yes. She thought so. Yes.
She heard the commotion outside and had a feeling she knew it who it would be.
Her phone rang in the same moment, as there was a knock on the door.
Hesketh-Brown peered round, excitement flushing his face. “We’ve got Doctor Angiotti’s husband here,” he said. “And he’s kicking up a right old fuss.”
That was when she missed Korpanski. Stolidly taking up position at the door, standing with his arms akimbo, feet planted wide apart, minding the proceedings. But this would not do. He could not always be there. “Are you free?” she asked the constable.
“Yep.”
“Well then, you and I are going to interview him.”
Hesketh-Brown grinned. “Great.”
She smiled to herself and watched Hesketh-Brown out of the corner of her eye, reflecting how long ago it was that she had expressed such enthusiasm for a mere interview. Maybe the young PC fancied his chances as a detective?
In a few years.
The desk sergeant had already put Pete Angiotti in Interview Room 2 and as she peered through the spy window she could see him pacing around, obviously agitated. He must have sensed her presence because he whipped around and glared at her. She felt her pulse quicken as she pushed the door open. By any yardstick this promised to be a significant exchange.
She sat herself down opposite Angiotti and took a good long look at his face. He looked pale and wild, his eyes staring back at her with real fear. He was a typical bully. Cruel to those he felt he had the advantage of and cowering in the presence of one he feared.
But it did not suit her questioning to have him fearful. She wanted him relaxed so she began by smiling and thanking him for responding so swiftly to her appeal.
“Good afternoon, Mr Angiotti,” she said politely. “I think you know me already. Detective Inspector Piercy.”
He nodded. “I know who you are all right.”
“And this is PC Hesketh-Brown.”
Angiotti nodded at the young PC briefly and then turned his attention back to Joanna.
“Do you want a solicitor present?”
He shook his head.
Joanna guessed he was somewhere in his early forties. It is always difficult to decide someone’s age when they are under duress. He looked tired and haggard, his forehead resting on his hand as he spoke. But there was something belligerent too.
“Am I under arrest?”
“No. Not at the moment. We are simply interviewing you about two matters which are almost certainly connected, aren’t they, Mr Angiotti?”
Again he nodded that world-weary gesture before attempting to justify his action, directing his comment at Hesketh-Brown – not at Joanna. “I think most blokes would have flipped if they’d learned what I just did about my wife.”
Joanna played the innocent. “What did you learn?”
Angiotti flushed. “That she…”
She knew he was about to lie.
“That she was having an affair.”
Joanna raised her eyebrows. He was not convincing her.
“With a woman.”
She waited for him to flash his third trump card.
“One of her patients.”
Hesketh-Brown looked down at Angiotti’s right hand spread on the table. It was puffy and swollen. The knuckles were reddened and grazed. A spot of blood had congealed on the middle finger. It had been quite a blow.
<
br /> “It was the woman who was murdered,” he finished then sneaked a direct look at both police officers.
“How long had the affair been going on?”
“Months – I think. They were planning to go away together.”
“When did you find out?”
For the first time Pete Angiotti looked distinctly uneasy.
Because he was about to lie.
“Today. I found the letters in my wife’s bag.” He gave a swift glance at Hesketh-Brown for sympathy. “They gave me quite a shock.”
“You didn’t know before that?”
“I was suspicious.”
“Why?”
“Because she didn’t…” His voice trailed away. No man likes to confess that his wife is reluctant to have sex with him. They all consider it a failing on their part. If they were a better lover their wife would be panting for them.
Joanna watched Angiotti closely.
He met her eyes, flushed and looked away.
“She wasn’t keen on sex,” he said reluctantly.
“Right. Let’s move to the assault earlier on today.”
Angiotti looked ashamed. “I just lost my rag,” he said.
“Well – in cases of alleged domestic violence,” Joanna said, “we almost always press charges. And we will in this case – whatever your wife says. Now where are you going to be?”
Angiotti looked surprised. “Home,” he said.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Joanna said. “My detective sergeant is with your wife at the moment, in your home. I suggest you go elsewhere.”
She paused, trying to mentally suppress any response from Hesketh-Brown. He didn’t know her methods as well as Korpanski. “Can I just clarify a few points?”
“Yes.”
“You allege that your wife and Beatrice Pennington were having an affair?”
“Ye-es.”
“Are you suggesting that your wife killed her?”
She felt Hesketh-Brown’s surprised gaze. He knew as well as she did that Beatrice Pennington had been killed by a man.
But Angiotti didn’t. “I didn’t say that.”
“I know you didn’t say it. What I’m asking is did you think it?”
Angiotti looked even more uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Possibly.”
“But why? If they were planning to go away together I can’t understand what would be her motive.”
Angiotti gaped. He hadn’t worked this one out. “Perhaps they’d fallen out,” he said. “Maybe Mrs Pennington was threatening to expose my wife. The General Medical Council take a very dim view of professional misconduct with patients. If Mrs Pennington had claimed that my wife took advantage of her position my wife would have been struck off.” A nasty smirk crossed his face. “Just think of the publicity. The first ever woman doctor to be struck off for having an affair with another woman. It would really hit the headlines, wouldn’t it?”
“It would,” Joanna agreed. “Can I ask you something else?”
“Sure – anything.”
This was how she liked her suspects. Over confident. Cocky. Off their guard.
“Why did you leave London?”
For a moment the wariness was back. Angiotti looked at her for a minute. She knew he was wondering which lie to feed her.
“We’d had enough of living in a big city,” he said.
This was not the truth.
“Corinne wanted to live up here. We’d been to Buxton for a holiday – years ago.”
Neither was this.
“I’d had a few problems in the school where I taught.”
“What sort of problems?”
“Allegations. No truth in them at all.”
She simply raised her eyebrows and waited for the whole truth.
“A thirteen-year-old. She said I’d assaulted her. Got hold of her too roughly. She claimed I’d lost my temper.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“So what happened in the end?”
“Nothing. The girl dropped charges and I left the area. The whole thing fizzled away. But if I’d stayed I would never have been free of it so we left. Scandal sticks, Inspector. Can I go now?”
“Just one more thing. I take it you admit you did hit your wife?”
Angiotti nodded.
“And lastly,” She wanted to rattle him further. She wanted him to know that he was in the picture for being a murder suspect. “Did you kill Beatrice Pennington?”
“No. No.”
“OK then.” She stood up. “We will want to speak to you again and probably caution you but for now you may go.”
Angiotti nodded, bowed his head and eyed the door.
“Keep your mobile on,” Joanna said.
She watched him file along the corridor, looking somehow smaller than when he had come in. As he passed her he met her eyes. She knew what he was dumbly asking her. Am I a suspect?
She gave an imperceptible nod.
So – she was again alone in her office and found it strange. She and Korpanski always worked together. They were almost like Siamese twins. Joined at the hip. Except for annual leave it was rare for her to be alone in the office they shared, an overcrowded small room with a view over a brick wall, two desks, two computers, a notice board.
On impulse she rang the desk sergeant. “Put me in touch with Bridget Anderton,” she said. But WPC Anderton had already left to play nursemaid to Corinne Angiotti.
Chapter Twenty-One
The two men passed in the corridor, these two rather ordinary men who had a strange, thin thread connecting them, a thread which was knotted with twisted emotions and misunderstandings, their feelings stretched as taut as the “E” string on a violin.
They did not acknowledge each other but Joanna noticed that both shrank back against the wall to leave feet of space between them even though the corridor was only narrow.
She wondered.
A briefing had been arranged for the afternoon. Korpanski arrived back at one, cheerful – with good reason. Apparently after telephoning the surgery to explain that she would not be at work for a few days Corinne Angiotti had cooked him lunch – meat and two veg. and they had sat together, chatting.
He’d obviously enjoyed the morning.
The first thing that caught Joanna’s eye as she entered the briefing room were the blown-up photographs of Beatrice’s body, lying under the hedge, neatly arranged, just as she had been when they had first found her. Joanna crossed the room and stood in front of the board to take a good, long look. Periodically, during a murder investigation, you have to remind yourself what it is that you are investigating. Immersing yourself in the life of your victim can sometimes be too much of a distraction so you lose sight of your goal – to make an arrest and avenge a death.
Joanna paid close attention to every single detail: the aspect of Beatrice’s body, the staring, bulging eyes, the dress pulled up over her torso, her face, knickers tidily arranged, shoes off. One missing, one found near the body. The handbag and missing shoe had been discovered tossed into the verge on the road between Grindon and Leek, probably out of a car window.
She moved on.
The second photograph had been taken after the body had been moved and showed the vegetation flattened where the body had lain.
Joanna sensed a shuffling behind her and turned to see the assembled officers waiting impatiently.
“OK. Let’s continue,” she said, “right where we left off. I think we should consider timing a bit more carefully.
“At 8.50 Arthur Pennington leaves for work.”
“At 9.30 Corinne Angiotti saw Beatrice Pennington locking her bike to the railings outside the library. She tried to speak to her but either Beatrice didn’t see her or if she did she didn’t want to speak. By the time Corinne Angiotti arrived at the bike Beatrice Pennington was nowhere to be seen.”
“And Mr Angiotti?” Mike muttered in her ear.
She half-turned. “We don’t know his move
ments,” she said, “except that he was in Leek that morning and at school later.” But something struck her as cold and heavy as granite. “Speaking of Angiotti,” she said, “who’s with Corinne now?”
“Bridget Anderton.”
She didn’t like it. She had sensed around Pete Angiotti something devious and cruel. That had been quite a blow to his wife’s face. “I think we should detail a male officer,” she said. “There’s something about Angiotti that I don’t trust.”
Korpanski looked sour. “Like giving black eyes to women?”
“Like what’s the true story behind his leaving that school in Wandsworth?” She answered her own question. “Temper. That sudden, flashing temper that we’ve seen in killers before plus conceit. He won’t accept humiliation.”
Call it instinct. Call it years of working with criminals. Call it what you like but Joanna was very uneasy. Perhaps it was the vision of that neglected old house, hidden from view, up a long curving drive, overgrown with rhododendrons. Rich, with plenty of places to hide. Perhaps it was the sight of Corinne Angiotti’s face, evidence of latent fury.
“Danny,” she said urgently to Hesketh-Brown. “Ring Pete Angiotti on his mobile number. Find out where he is and go straight round to his wife. Bridget can take over your duties for the afternoon.” She frowned. “I want you there.”
A house in the middle of a summer’s day appears so much safer than the same house on a winter’s night but in reality this is not so. People are so much more careless in the day and neighbours take less notice of the unusual. Doors are left unlocked, windows too, handbags and purses clearly visible on chairs. Neighbours are less vigilant. They ignore odd noises, which in the middle of the night would mean a 999 call. Friends can wander in and out of the house and garden, from room to room, in the day. No one keeps guard as they do at night. So if someone wants to enter the house in daylight it is much easier as the same building would be a virtual fortress after dusk. Houses are vulnerable in daylight. People too. And felons know this. He watched. The house was perfect for his intent.
Wings over the Watcher Page 24