by A. J. Cross
‘No.’
‘Come on, Mr Malahide,’ encouraged Watts, his eyes searching his face. ‘You need to be straight with us.’
‘There is somebody, although I don’t see what it has to do with this.’ Hanson saw that the shock of arrest was wearing off. ‘It’s a casual arrangement. No. That sounds wrong. We’re good friends. Occasionally, a little more.’
‘What’s this person’s name?’
Malahide was silent. Hanson watched as the clock in the observation room ticked away the time.
‘Marjorie.’
‘Surname?’
He shook his head. All he would say was that Marjorie was the forty-eight-year-old head of a primary school who sometimes accompanied him to business functions and the occasional concert and had done so for the last ten years. At those times she often stayed overnight at his flat.
‘Is she a single woman?’ demanded Watts.
There was a brief pause. ‘Married.’
Watts regarded him across folded arms. ‘Right. You’re highly stressed, it’s five thirty, possibly a Wednesday, you’re just leaving your office to visit your mother and Elizabeth Williams arrives. Carry on.’
‘I asked her inside.’
Hanson saw her two colleagues exchange a quick glance. Nuttall raised his fist in the air.
‘She only came as far as the hall. She told me she wanted one of those internships you hear about these days. I said our company couldn’t provide it but that I might be able to help and to give me a couple of days, then ring me. She never did. I never heard from her again.’
Watts’s eyes drifted over Malahide’s sweating face. ‘Why didn’t you tell us this when we first came to see you?’
‘I just thought it would cause unnecessary complications. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I didn’t intend to deceive you.’
‘Obviously,’ said Watts, heavy on the irony.
Malahide rallied. ‘Look, I’m here without a solicitor. Surely that shows you I’ve got nothing to do with your investigation?’
Watts gave him a level look. ‘The sorts of people we meet often do the same. They just stick with their story, no matter how unconvincing.’ He sat back on his chair with a glance at Corrigan.
‘Sir, would you confirm that you live on the top floor of the Renfrew building?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Why?’ Hanson watched Malahide get the implication behind the question. His whole body tensed.
‘She never went up to my flat! Never.’
‘We hear you, sir, and we have officers there right now, verifying it or otherwise.’
To Hanson, Malahide looked like a marathon runner who has just realised he cannot go on. His body sagged.
‘I don’t need a solicitor because I haven’t done anything wrong but I want to call mine. Now.’
Hearing this and without a word, Nuttall turned on his heel and headed for the door.
They walked Renfrew’s sweeping staircase to the second floor, Watts was looking jubilant but trying to suppress it.
‘There’s something dodgy about him that’s as obvious to me as a cracked bell,’ he said as they reached the door of Malahide’s flat.
Corrigan knocked and a white-suited SOCO opened the door to them. Within five minutes they were similarly covered and moving around the flat.
Hanson’s first impression was of opulence, an echo of the office on the ground floor. She moved around the large, ultra-neat sitting room, its colours predominantly honey-toned, her feet sinking into soft, camel-coloured carpeting.
The kitchen confirmed her second impression. Despite the presence of several SOCO’s and their equipment, it was immaculate. She opened a wall cupboard to stare at rows of neat tins and packets. Regimented. Facing outwards. Arranged by content and size. She closed it, went on to the refrigerator. Inside it was the same spotless, regimented story. Bottles on one side. Jars on the other. She reached inside to examine the fresh food, all of it shrouded in plastic, neat with handwritten labels showing date of purchase. Nothing out of date.
She heard Corrigan’s soft call of her name. Closing the refrigerator she left the kitchen and found him in what looked to be the main bedroom. Watts was crouched at the open doors of the wardrobe. He looked up as Hanson stared at what was probably twenty-plus white cotton shirts, each on a beige plastic hanger, each facing to the right. The several linen suits were similarly hung, all of the same style, each varying slightly in colour from cream to camel. The footwear below formed a pristine line, each item containing a shoetree, each pair similar to its neighbour: beige, suede, laced.
Watts was still looking at her. ‘No wonder he was stressed doing Downey’s site job. Out in all weathers, mud, dust, you name it. So stressed that when he saw Elizabeth Williams he completely lost it.’
They had to wait over two hours for the forensic results on the rug in Malahide’s office. Comparison of the fibres from the rug in the ground floor was inconclusive. Adam had told them that although the fibres ‘were of similar construction’ they were insufficiently distinctive to be regarded as a match. There was nothing to indicate that Elizabeth Williams had lain on it. Malahide had already admitted that during the last year he’d had the rug professionally cleaned. The forensic sweep of his flat had produced no indication that Elizabeth Williams had ever been inside it. It was the same story for the ground floor office. Malahide was released without charge due to insufficient evidence.
Watts was wearing a determined look. ‘I don’t give a damn what the evidence does or doesn’t say. He’s iffy and he’s staying at the top of my list. He lied through his teeth about never having seen Williams and now we’ve seen another side of him. Nobody has a wardrobe like that, a kitchen like that.’
‘You might do if you needed the comfort of feeling totally in control of your life,’ said Hanson.
‘Why would feeling in control be such a big deal for him?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Hanson evenly. ‘We know hardly anything about him so far.’
Watts frowned at her. ‘No, but we will. He had that office rug cleaned. That’s another strike against him, if you ask me.’ He looked at Corrigan. ‘What do you think about him for the Williams murder?’
‘What we know so far is he’s a guy who has to have cleanliness and order. My jury’s still out. He’s a wait-and-see.’
Watts was thinking, lips pursed. ‘What he said about this woman friend. We’ve only got his word that she was anything more than somebody he took out occasionally. I’m not convinced he’s in a relationship with a woman of any age. If I’m right what does that tell you?’
Hanson gave a slow headshake. ‘On its own it wouldn’t tell me that he’s a stressed-out, sexually repressed killer, which is where you’re heading.’
‘Have it your way. It still says to me that he could be a mass of sexual frustration – and Elizabeth Williams just happened along at the wrong time.’
Hanson gave him a weary look. ‘Chong hasn’t confirmed a sexual element to the murder. Plus, if we suspect Malahide of killing Elizabeth Williams we have to consider that he attacked Amy Bennett. So far there’s nothing in what she told us to link him to that, including the sketch.’
Watts stood before the board. ‘Maybe the two cases are separate after all.’
She stared at him. ‘What about the verbal evidence we’ve got? The words, the phrasing which links them?’
He turned to her. ‘Yes, and look who gave us some of it. Myers!’
Corrigan looked across at her. ‘Amy didn’t provide much physical description of her attacker.’
‘No, she didn’t but the sketch suggests a thin face whereas Malahide’s is plump, soft.’ She cast around the table.
‘Where is it? The sketch.’
Watts pulled it from a pile of papers and passed it to her. ‘The Bennett case is a stumbling block where Malahide’s concerned. He’s the type who’s clueless about what happens under the bonnet of any vehicle.’
Hanson looked up. ‘But we know som
ebody who isn’t. Sean Gill.’
Watts took the sketch from her. ‘We’ll interview him again in the next few hours, this time about the Bennett attack.’ He studied it. ‘Corrigan says this is “powerful”. I see what he’s saying but I’ll tell you right now, for identification it’s a non-starter. Inside Amy Bennett’s head is a bloke in a right state, his face distorted by how he’s feeling and she’s terrified. It’s possible he looks nothing like this.’
Hanson glanced at the sketch again. He had a point. A few hours before, they’d believed they had a breakthrough. Both cases were now in disarray.
At home in her study Hanson listened to her call ringing out. She’d conducted the conversation several times inside her head over the last few days. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders as her call was picked up. A deep voice she recognised came into her ear.
‘Charlie Hanson.’
Every thought, every planned word deserted her. All that was in her head right now was that her mother had always called him Charles.
‘Hello?’
She gripped the phone. ‘It’s Kate.’
The silence on the line lasted an age. She closed her eyes. How long was it since they’d last spoken? Four years? Longer. Maisie hadn’t long started school and Hanson had phoned to tell him about the IQ test results. She recalled his delight and the subtle hints she’d picked up that he wanted to see her and Maisie. She’d chosen not to respond to them. Life was simpler that way. He’d chosen to leave her life. She accepted it. Right now, she didn’t want this conversation. She didn’t want or need him back in her life. But Maisie did.
The deep voice was inside her ear again, warm but tentative. ‘Kate? What a lovely surprise. How are you?’
She got straight to the reason for the call. ‘Maisie is asking to see you.’
She picked up genuine pleasure in his response. ‘Really? That’s great news.’ There was a brief silence. ‘How do you feel about it?’
She gripped the phone. ‘You and I need to discuss it.’
‘I could come to the house—’
‘No. I prefer somewhere neutral.’ There was a short pause.
‘It’s your choice.’
‘Yes, it is. We need to discuss the practicalities of any meeting you have with Maisie.’
‘I understand that.’
His voice had sent Hanson back to the day he’d left. She’d come home from school to find that the first man she’d ever loved was gone and her mother angry and silent, refusing to give any explanation. It was two years before Hanson saw him again and only sporadically after that. She had to ensure that Charlie Hanson understood her concerns about his meeting Maisie. She needed a promise from him, but she wasn’t about to discuss it now. When she did raise it, she had to see his face, look into his eyes.
‘Good. Let’s agree a date, time and place.’
‘You wouldn’t consider coming to my home?’ he said.
My home.
She’d never been there although he’d once shown her a photograph of a wide-fronted house near Worcester. Maybe he’d moved since but wherever he was living she wouldn’t go there. She didn’t want to meet anyone he might be living with. She didn’t need tangible evidence that he’d moved on.
‘I prefer to meet here in the city.’
They agreed a date and time. She ended the call then tidied her desk, ignoring the ache inside her throat. She was doing this for Maisie. She would set the rules. One thing had to be clear between them: if Charlie Hanson wanted to be involved in Maisie’s life he had to assure Hanson he understood that he could not leave it when it suited him.
TWENTY-NINE
It was midday when Hanson came into UCU, stopped momentarily by the casts of the tyre and boot impressions from the garden centre lying on the table. Her colleagues were examining them. She went and ran her fingers over the rough surface of the boot impression. Adam picked it up and pointed out features.
‘It’s a Timberland Pro Pitboss. A work boot with a steel toecap. The print was found near the spot where Amy Bennett says the vehicle was parked. We preserved it with hair spray before we made the cast. Take a close look at the detail.’ He pointed at the grooves in the sole then picked up an enlarged photograph of it.
‘You can see on this and the cast itself how sharp the detail is. See these wood fibres caught in the cast?’
Hanson studied cast and photograph. Such a lot of wood in this case. Including a site hut with a wooden floor.
‘This was the only boot print we found so I can’t tell you anything about the wearer in terms of stature or gait. The boot itself is a size nine so I doubt he’s six feet tall. We examined the boots worn by Sean Gill when he was arrested. He takes a seven-and-a-half and the make and soles were different. We didn’t find any other boots in his possession. Which doesn’t mean he’s never had any. We know that Malahide takes a nine.’ They were silent as he put down the cast and reached for the one of the tyre.
‘The tyre track is from the same area. Here’re the photographs we took of it. It’s a Goodyear Wrangler. The track width indicates a large vehicle. Amy Bennett thought the one she saw at the garden centre was a Jeep, possibly a Shogun?’ They nodded. ‘We’ve compared this track with a database of tyre designs and measurements. It’s consistent with tyres suitable for both vehicles. Gill doesn’t have his own transport. He gets lifts in a van owned by one of his co-workers.’ He gathered the evidence together.
‘None of this helps you right now. Once you have a suspect, let us know and we’ll examine his footwear and vehicle. Assuming he’s still got them.’
Adam had gone. Watts was not happy.
‘All Malahide’s got in his wardrobe is around a dozen pairs of near-identical suede boots and shoes.’ He glanced at Hanson. ‘Which I think is more than odd, even if you don’t.’
‘Do we know what car he drives?’ she asked.
Corrigan nodded. ‘A silver Lexus. We watched him secure it before we brought him in.’
Watts was reluctant to let it go. ‘None of which means he never wore heavy work boots when he was working all hours to fill in for Downey and never got access to a 4x4.’
The phone rang and Watts reached for it. Corrigan stood.
‘Coffee, Red?’
‘No thanks. I’m going. I need to be back at the university in an hour or so.’
She glanced at Watts talking into the phone, saw the look on his face.
‘What?’ she mouthed.
He held up a hand. ‘Yes. OK. Leave it with us, Dee. We’ll check it out. Yes. We’ll let you know.’ He replaced the phone.
‘That was the secretary at Renfrew. She’s in a state. She’s been trying to speak to Nan Downey for most of the morning but getting no reply. She’s worried because Mrs Downey doesn’t go out much.’
‘Where’s Hugh Downey?’
‘At some conference in Edinburgh. When he’s away he gets the secretary to phone his house on a daily basis in case he can’t. I said I’d go over with Corrigan and take a look.’
Hanson checked her watch. ‘She knows me. If she’s ill, it might help if I was there. I’ll come with you.’
They walked the path to the house. Watts rang the bell. Hanson listened to it drift and fade into silence. He raised his hand again.
‘Wait,’ said Hanson. ‘She moves fairly slowly. Give her a chance to reach the door.’
After a pause of several seconds, the sound of Watts’s fist pounding the door reverberated inside the house. It also died. He pounded again. Beyond the door, the house sounded empty, lifeless. Watts peered through the narrow glazed window to one side.
‘Maybe she has gone out,’ he said.
Hanson recalled what she’d learned on her last visit here. ‘I think she’s able to manage a short walk but didn’t the secretary say she’d been trying to make contact for several hours?’
‘Does she drive?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ll take a look around back,’ said Co
rrigan, heading for the side of the house. He was back in less than a minute.
‘There’s a ground-floor window open but no sign of forced entry. It leads into what looks like a storeroom off the hall. Given what we know about her health, I’m going inside.’
As Corrigan disappeared down the side of the house again, Hanson gazed up at the house, all its windows closed. They waited, hearing sounds from inside. A quick movement inside the hall, a shadow on glass and Corrigan swung open the door.
They entered. It felt chill.
‘Hello! Mrs Downey? Nan?’ called Hanson.
Getting nothing but silence they moved along the hall.
She headed for the door directly ahead which she knew led into the kitchen. It wasn’t closed, just pulled to. She raised her hand to it. Watts arrived at her side.
‘Easy, doc. We’re first in.’
The door swung slowly open. The kitchen was cold, empty, orderly.
She followed her colleagues inside, saw them look around it then walk to the back door. She heard a key turn in the lock.
‘She could be outside,’ said Watts. ‘If she is, we’ll give you a shout.’
Hanson nodded, her eyes drifted around the kitchen. It was just as she remembered it except for the warmth. Nan Downey’s warmth. She saw the glass cookie jar, the cafetière half full. She placed her hand against it. Cold. Turning, she saw the door leading to Nan’s studio. It was closed.
She went to it, reached for the handle then pulled back at the faintest of sounds from inside. Heart rate soaring, she looked in the direction of the back door. Neither of her colleagues was visible. If it was Nan inside, she needed help. Grasping the handle, she pushed it down and threw open the door.
A screeching, formless shape rushed her and shot past. Hanson spun, gasping as the large tortoiseshell cat halted and cowered in the corner of the kitchen, puffed-up and hissing. Getting control of her breathing, she slowly approached it, keeping her voice low.
‘Shhh … It’s OK. Don’t be frightened.’ It spat and cowered.
With more shushing noises she went to it, crouched beside it, reaching out a tentative hand to rub the top of its head between its ears. The cat lifted its head to her hand, weaving to one side then the other.