‘I know, Mr Brookes. But could you tell us what you said to Mrs Evans, please?’
Tom could see a slight stiffening of Robert’s body. He must have guessed they knew more than they did earlier.
‘I wanted to find out why she’d said I’d visited Olivia ten days ago when I knew for a fact that I hadn’t. She confirmed that she’d never seen me before.’
‘But she didn’t see who the visitor was. She was never introduced.’
‘She may not have been introduced, Chief Inspector, but she’s a seaside landlady. She saw exactly who visited – and she knows it wasn’t me.’
‘Really. And what else did she tell you?’
‘What do you mean?’ Robert tried to look confused, but failed.
‘Come on, Mr Brookes. Stop playing games. She told you that whoever was claiming to be Robert Brookes stayed the night in your wife’s room. She told you that, didn’t she? It wasn’t a visitor for some other guest. It was a visitor for your wife.’
Robert’s mouth settled into a hard line, his casual stance replaced with a defiant pose – legs apart, arms folded.
‘And did you expect me to repeat it? Did you expect me to admit that another man had apparently slept with my wife?’
‘If it’s true, then frankly, yes,’ Tom answered. ‘You claim you want your wife and children found, so don’t you think it was quite a vital piece of information?’
Robert didn’t answer.
‘Not only did you avoid telling us this, but you also asked Mrs Evans not to tell us. In fact, from what she’s said to us, you threatened her.’
Robert scoffed. ‘Hardly a threat, Chief Inspector. I asked her to say nothing. I wanted to protect Olivia’s reputation.’
‘You threatened Mrs Evans’ livelihood. Physical violence isn’t the only form of intimidation, Mr Brookes, and saying you would slam her business on every review website, which is where most of her customers find her, and call it a “house of ill-repute”, which I am sure are her words, not yours, was a dirty trick.’
Robert’s eyes darted from Tom to Becky and back. But he didn’t speak.
‘How long have you known your wife was having an affair? And just how mad did it make you?’
‘She wasn’t having an affair. She wouldn’t…’ Robert stopped mid sentence.
‘Were you about to say, “She wouldn’t dare,” Mr Brookes?’ Tom asked.
Robert lifted his hand and scratched his head. Tom knew he was rattled. He opened the file in his hand and took out a photograph, but held it face side down for the moment.
‘You may have got Mrs Evans to tell us that she made a mistake. You may even have managed to convince yourself that she really did get it wrong, and the visitor was to another guest room. But there’s one thing you were right about. She did sneak a look at who was going up her staircase. She told us something she didn’t dare tell you – that the man who slept in your wife’s room was of a non-white ethnic origin. She wasn’t quite sure where he was from – either Middle Eastern or maybe mixed race were her best guesses. Does that mean something to you? Does it suggest to you who it might be?’
Robert shook his head. ‘Of course not. I think she’s making this up as she goes along.’
Tom turned over the photograph that Becky had provided en route.
‘Do you recognise this person, Mr Brookes?’ he asked.
Robert looked at the photo, and his lips narrowed into a thin line.
‘Yes.’
‘Could you please identify who you believe this to be?’
Robert paused, and when he spoke it seemed to be with great difficulty.
‘It’s Danush Jahander.’ He looked at Tom with cold flat eyes. ‘Why are you showing me a picture of him?’
‘How well did you know Danush Jahander,’ Tom asked.
Robert shook his head.
‘Never met the guy. I’ve seen his photo, though. When I first met Olivia, the flat was full of pictures of him. Like a shrine, it was.’
‘You bought that flat from your wife – that’s right, isn’t it?’ Tom asked.
‘Yes, it’s how we met.’
‘But it seems that all three of you went to Manchester University – that’s certainly where your wife met Mr Jahander. Did you not know them there?’
Robert‘s mouth curled up at one side in a sneer.
‘Do you have any idea how many students there are at Manchester University, Chief Inspector? I was a nerd – obsessed by computers. I didn’t really become human until I started work and realised I would actually have to communicate if I wanted to achieve anything in this life. Then I met Olivia, and she turned me into the family man I am now. Why are you asking me about Jahander, anyway? He’s long gone.’
‘Would you be surprised if I told you that Danush Jahander may have been the man visiting your wife in Anglesey?’
The tension in Robert’s face appeared to evaporate and Tom saw something akin to amusement in his eyes.
‘Is that funny, sir?’
Robert looked down.
‘Not funny at all. No. But he disappeared years ago. He’s never been heard of since, as far as I’m aware. He’s hardly likely to have turned up in Anglesey of all places, is he?’
‘He hadn’t disappeared altogether. It seems his brother has had some contact with him.’
Robert’s head shot up. This was clearly news he was not expecting at all. His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
‘There’s something else we’d like to discuss with you. Do you think we could sit down?’ Tom asked.
Robert shook his head. ‘No need. I’m fine standing up. Just tell me.’
‘Okay – tell me about your trips to Anglesey. How many times have you been, and where did you stay?’
Robert blew out a long breath through pursed lips, as if he thought the question irrelevant.
‘We’ve been going for years. We used to stay at a guest house in Moelfre. Sometimes I went, and other times Olivia went alone with the children if I was working. It was a safe place for her. The landlady knew us well.’
‘Tell me again why you changed to the guest house in Cemaes Bay?’
‘I’m sure I’ve told you all this – when Olivia tried to book last October, after our summer holiday, she got an answerphone message to say that the B&B was closed for the foreseeable future due to illness. She passed me the phone so I could hear it for myself. It was a voice we didn’t recognise, so we guessed it was the landlady who was ill. Olivia did some scouting round and found the new place. I checked it out online, and I was due to go with them in the summer.’
‘So Olivia has visited there three times without you – October, Easter and last week – and you had never been there until the early hours of Saturday morning? Is that correct?’
‘Yes. I’ve told you all of this.’
‘Was Oak Cottage the guest house in Moelfre?’ Tom asked.
‘I don’t remember telling you that, but yes, it was.’
‘You didn’t tell us, Mr Brookes. We had the local police check out the various options, and they confirmed it.’
‘So why are you asking me then?’
‘Would it surprise you to hear that the guest house is open for business, and the landlady was disappointed when your wife cancelled the bookings for this year? She hasn’t been ill at all, and appears as hearty as ever.’
Robert’s brows knitted together.
‘Perhaps she changed her mind about taking bookings – it’s a possibility, isn’t it?’
‘Or perhaps your wife needed to change guest houses so she could entertain her lover. If the landlady had met you before, that wouldn’t have been possible.’
‘That’s a ridiculous idea,’ Robert scoffed.
‘Is it? We also understand from Mrs Evans that she had a picture of your wife, and you took it. You are fully aware that we haven’t got any photos of your wife or children, and that we’ve been very keen to find something we can issue to the press. Why did you keep the photo
from us?’
Robert was looking increasingly uncomfortable, and didn’t appear to have an answer. He looked down at the floor.
‘Could you get the photograph for us now, please. We’d like to take it with us and have copies made. We’ll return it to you as soon as possible.’
Tom was shocked by the expression on Robert’s face when he looked up. His eyes were narrowed and his mouth had tightened further. Robert’s voice was quiet, but harsh.
‘I don’t have the photograph. I tore it up.’
21
Robert thought the police would never go. He’d kept them standing in the hall, but it hadn’t made any difference. The Chief Inspector had found it difficult to contain his anger when Robert told him he had destroyed the photo, and that DI Robinson seemed to be studying him as if he were something on a petri dish.
He grabbed the keys from the kitchen table and went into his study, booting the computer up on his way past and making his way over to the bookcase while he waited for the operating system to spring into life. He didn’t think he’d got much time. Shifting a load of books to one side, he prised open the bookcase’s false back and retrieved the leather covered document case from where it had been hidden since the day they had moved into this house. He hammered the plywood back into place with the heel of his hand, then put the books back. He stuck the document case into a bag, and picked up the phone.
‘Taxi, please. Can you pick me up in twenty minutes from outside St Peter’s Church on Broom Road?’ He paused. ‘The name’s Paul Brown. Thank you.’
Looking anxiously at his watch, he clicked on an icon on the lower left side of his screen and a video window opened. He just wanted one more look. There she was: walking around the kitchen, doing normal everyday things, emptying the dishwasher, making a cup of tea. She was so very beautiful. He wasn’t sure he could bear to delete this file – and every similar file on his computer – but he knew he’d have to.
Suddenly there was a crackle and the screen went black.
What the…?
He reached over to the desk lamp and pressed the button. Nothing. A fuse must have gone. Shit.
Robert walked hurriedly through to the kitchen and wrestled with the door into the garage. He pushed past the bonnet of Olivia’s car to get to the fuse box and looked inside. All the switches were up.
‘Christ,’ he muttered. ‘A power cut, in this day and age?’
He’d have to check if the whole street was out, or if it was just their house. This was the last thing he needed, and he could practically feel his blood pressure rising.
Flinging open the front door, he marched down the drive and out into the road. He stood still, arms akimbo, and turned around to see if anybody else was looking bemused. At least next door’s digger was quiet for the first time this weekend.
Seeing his neighbour peering into the hole he had dug, with one hand on his hip and the other scratching his head, Robert called out to him.
‘Have you lost power just now, or is it only me?’
‘Oh, bugger. It’s cut you off too, has it? Sorry, mate. My fault, I’m afraid. How are you, anyway? Any news on Olivia? I bet this is the last thing you need. I’m really sorry.’
Feeling the tension in him explode like an overfilled balloon, Robert stomped up his neighbour’s path.
‘What do you mean it’s your fault? What the fuck have you done, you idiot?’
The neighbour looked at him in surprise.
‘Calm down, Robert. It seems I’ve just accidentally sliced through the electricity cable. Donna’s calling them now. I’m sure they’ll give it priority. Sorry for the inconvenience. Especially now.’
The whole street would inevitably know about Olivia – the policemen going door to door this morning would have seen to that. Shit. He’d never had much time for his jerk of a neighbour, but now he just wanted to grab him round the throat and throttle him.
‘Do you have any idea how important it is that I get my computer online now – this very second?’ he yelled. He couldn’t fail to see the shock in his neighbour's face, immediately replaced by an air of belligerence.
‘Stop shouting the odds at me. It was an accident, that’s all. Yelling’s not going to solve anything.’
‘Fucking imbecile!’ Robert shouted as he turned back towards the house. But his neighbour wanted the last word and took two steps to follow Robert before stopping and shouting.
‘Excuse me. If it wasn’t for your bastard leylandii pushing out roots that have completely destroyed my drive, none of this would have been necessary. But I never said a word. Jesus – I’m not surprised Olivia had issues.’
Robert swivelled back round and was sorely tempted to punch the guy’s teeth in, but Donna was watching from the doorway, her mouth open. She’d surely phone the police immediately if he started a fight and, given that one of their number was sitting up the road, watching the show from his car, it wouldn’t take them long to get here either. He didn’t have time for this. Without another word, he spun on his heel and stomped back into the house.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he dashed up to his bedroom, grabbing another bag from the spare room on the way past and trampling on Olivia’s clothes that were strewn around the room. Pulling open drawers he took the minimum that he would need. He wouldn’t be able to use his credit card after he left town, so he would have to withdraw the maximum on each of his four cards on the way through. That should keep him going for a while. He’d take a taxi to the office and nick one of the pool cars. Nobody would miss it until Monday, if then. He’d sign it out to somebody who was on holiday.
He picked up the photograph he had taken from Mrs Evans’ wall. He didn’t need it any more, but he wasn’t going to leave it here for the police to find.
Now that he had a plan, he suddenly felt calm. There was just the computer. But when he thought about it, nothing on there was really incriminating. The police wouldn’t understand, but that was their problem.
Two minutes later, he was packed and gone – out through the doors to the terrace, down the back garden, over the fence and into the field.
22
Sunday
As far as Tom Douglas was concerned, Sunday was just another day in the week. He’d never really thought about weekends being any different because criminals certainly didn’t decide to give it a rest on Saturday and Sunday, so he was back in the incident room by seven thirty in the morning.
He could have done with making a trip to Cheshire to sort out whatever had been going on at his cottage, but Olivia Brookes and her three children were still missing and there was something about this that he just didn’t like the smell of at all. He’d gone round to Leo’s at the tail end of what had seemed like an interminable day yesterday, and that had left him feeling even more tired and frustrated. On the one hand, she had been sympathy itself with regard to his cottage and had volunteered to go there today and do some sorting out for him. But on the other, all he’d wanted to do was to take her to bed, make love to her and sleep soundly next to her naked body all night. And, for just a moment, he had thought they were making progress.
She’d bought the simple ingredients he needed for chicken in mascarpone and white wine sauce – something he could knock together in minutes, and cooking always relaxed him. He loved Leo’s loft apartment: the openness of it, the warmth of the bare brick that made up one wall, and the sturdy beams holding the whole place together. In one of the many old converted warehouses of Manchester, this renovation had been done with real style, and Leo was gradually stamping her own personality on it.
As he’d cooked, he had talked to Leo where she sat curled up on the sofa, the glass of red wine she was holding almost matching the dark stain of her lipstick. Since the first time he had met her, he didn’t think he had ever seen Leo wear any colour at all. She always wore black and white, but somehow in the most amazing combinations. The only colour came from her lipstick, or the occasional chunky red necklace, or a deep red nail poli
sh on her toes but never her fingers. Tonight she was wearing figure-hugging white trousers with a sleeveless black-and-white striped top that hung loose but somehow managed to simultaneously mould itself to her figure as she moved. Her long ebony hair was wavy tonight, the way he preferred it, and she had been giving him all her attention as he browned the chicken in olive oil and told her about his day.
‘So what’s your gut feel, Tom? Forget the evidence for a moment. You’re usually so good at seeing past the obvious.’ Leo had said.
‘There’s something intrinsically wrong about Robert Brookes. Well, to be honest, it’s not just Robert. It’s the whole set up. I met Olivia – the missing woman – almost nine years ago.’ Tom described his past encounters with Olivia and her family as he added the white wine and a couple of bay leaves to the pan and started to chop the tarragon. ‘The trouble is, I never really bought it that it was an accident that killed her parents. And neither did Olivia.’
‘So what did you do about it?’ Leo had asked, not unreasonably.
‘Nothing.’ He’d seen Leo frown and realised that this didn’t sound like the Tom Douglas she knew. ‘Look, I tried. But nobody had anything to gain from their deaths except Olivia as far as we could tell. And she was devastated. She was the most vocal in saying it couldn’t have been an accident. She kept repeating over and over again that her father was obsessed with alarms. And she was right. The burglar alarm was state of the art and they had more smoke alarms than I’ve ever seen in a house.’
Tom had poured in the chicken stock and given everything a stir.
‘The scene-of-crime boys could find nothing at all. The burglar alarm had been switched off, which according to Olivia wasn’t unusual when they were in the house. But there was no sign of forced entry. We had to let it go.’
‘Was Olivia married by this time?’ Leo had asked.
‘No. She’d only just met Robert, but he was waiting at her old flat and he called to find out what was keeping her. He got me at the other end of the line. When I told him what had happened, he rushed straight over to see what he could do to help.’
Tom Douglas Box Set Page 91