Tiger Blood (DS Webber Mystery Book 2)

by Penny Grubb

  There hadn’t been time for Robert Morgan after sending the lab woman back to her forensic lair and giving Davis the brief to look for siblings. The major effort was focussed on Tom Jenkinson, but leads into his final hours were thin on the ground and the official verdict on Arthur Trent still inconclusive. The best Davis had come back with by the end of the day was that Morgan had been born in Canada and there were no records of brothers or sisters.

  What Webber wanted from Melinda was an open admission about Joyce Yeatman, to know who she was and where she fitted in; and he wanted her to have found out more about China Kowalski so he could shortcut his own search for the Dr China who might be her daughter. For the moment, he was leaving the Tippet family well alone. He needed a better feel for whether he was dealing with witnesses or suspects before he had them face to face.

  Melinda took her time upstairs, but Sam had a cold and would not be his usual amenable self. Webber looked around the kitchen. Everything looked tidy enough. He returned to the living room and pulled out the two boards to see if Mel had written anything new. Lying them flat on the coffee table, he stood looking down on them. The words final arrangements were crossed off the left hand list. Was that a point for or against suicide?

  The word School had been added in a corner of its own and a new name, Gary, linked to Pamela with a double-headed arrow. Webber wrote China Kowalski underneath it, creating his own link from China to Pamela, but with a broken line. He straightened as he heard Melinda’s footsteps on the stairs.

  ‘How is he?’ he asked as she came in, handing her a cup of coffee.

  ‘Thanks.’ She sank into a chair and blew out a sigh. ‘He’s gone down, but I doubt we’ll get an unbroken night.’

  ‘We’ll cope.’ He smiled at her and thought she almost smiled back, before turning her attention to her drink. Don’t push it, he told himself, and waved his hand at the boards. ‘Who’s Gary?’

  ‘They were friends at school. Gary Yeatman.’

  Webber made a pretence of studying the words. He didn’t want Mel hiding stuff from him. How had she found Pamela Morgan’s old school friends? Presumably Gary and Joyce were related. Husband and wife … brother and sister? Mel had been at his emails. She’d seen the coroner’s report.

  ‘Mel?’ He watched her closely. He was taking a leap based as much on gut reaction as evidence. ‘Have you been on to the coroner’s office about Pamela Morgan?’

  He saw her instinctive move to deny it, and knew he was right. She settled for a shrug and looked part surprised, part irritated.

  ‘Mel, please don’t keep me in the dark.’ He tried to strip his voice of any hint of censure. ‘What if I’d been back to them for the same information? What if John Farrar got to know what you’re doing? He’ll blame me for sure and God knows where it’d end.’

  ‘If you were going to do anything, you’d have done it by now.’

  A part of him wanted to say that things had changed, but he didn’t want to go anywhere near the lab woman’s forensic mixup. He couldn’t talk to Mel about that and if she knew he was keeping secrets, he’d get nothing out of her. He looked again at the words on the board. ‘Why Gary and not Joyce?’

  This time she made no attempt to hide her surprise. ‘Oh, so you know … Joyce wasn’t at school with them. You didn’t tell me you’d found out … So, have you seen Pamela’s note?’

  ‘No. You know I haven’t have time to dig.’ He kept his gaze on the chalk board, tracing his finger around the names as his mind connected the pieces. What had she had from the coroner? It was obvious. The name of the recipient of Pamela Morgan’s suicide note. Joyce Yeatman, who if she hadn’t been at school with them, must be Gary Yeatman’s wife not his sister. ‘So … uh … have you seen it?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You could track Joyce Yeatman and ask her. She might still be in the area.’ He reached for the marker pens, not having anything to write but needing to avoid her eye, to distract himself while she weighed up whether or not to come clean.

  ‘She is. She never read all the note.’

  ‘What? But the inquest said it was long and detailed.’

  ‘And unsigned. Joyce Yeatman found it, read the start and rang the emergency services. It was too late.’

  ‘Didn’t she read it later?’

  ‘The police took it. She got it back eventually, but by then she didn’t want to read it.’

  ‘Does she still have it?’

  Melinda sighed and looked into her cup. ‘Yes, I think she does. It’ll be locked away somewhere and she won’t want to get it out. Too many bad memories. I’m reluctant to push her. She might destroy it. Martyn, would they have kept a copy, whoever dealt with it in the first place?’

  ‘I doubt it. It was never classed as a crime. It shouldn’t have been kept. I can probably check. What about Gary Yeatman? Where’s he in all this?’

  ‘He died twenty years ago.’

  ‘Why did she address the note to Joyce Yeatman? Had she stayed in touch with her husband from school? Is that how she knew them?’

  She looked up at him. Webber read in her face that she’d harboured the same questions. ‘From what I’ve found so far, Gary didn’t have much to do with anyone from school beyond the occasional reunion. It wasn’t until after he died that Joyce and Pamela became close.’ She paused and looked across at the window. ‘I’ve spoken to Joyce Yeatman. I’ve met her. But you already know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I’d guessed,’ he said, hoping she’d take that at face value and not want to dig for detail. ‘Was there … I mean did you get the idea that there could have been animosity between Joyce Yeatman and Pamela Morgan?’

  She shook her head. ‘Quite the opposite. Joyce said it was Pamela who kept her going after Gary’s death; said she knew what it was like to lose someone stupidly.’

  ‘How did he die?’ Webber asked.

  ‘Car accident. He had some sort of seizure at the wheel. She was devastated, but she said Pamela pulled her through.’

  ‘So how did she take it when Pamela died?’

  ‘She didn’t … doesn’t want to believe it’s suicide, said she couldn’t think of any reason why Pamela would do it after all that time. I think that’s why she agreed to talk to me.’

  ‘If she read the note, she might know why. Was it her who told you about China Kowalski? Does she know much about her, where she is, if she has family?’

  She gave him a hard stare. ‘If I pass on what she gave me, will you chase it up?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, I will. I wouldn’t mind getting a word with her.’

  ‘It’s an email address. That’s all she has. She didn’t really know China Kowalski. She said Gary had known her but China had never kept in touch. She was surprised it was China raising doubts.’

  Webber bit back on vocalising his thoughts about Mel passing information to Joyce Yeatman. ‘What did you mean, to lose someone stupidly?’

  ‘It’s the expression she used. Pamela had lost Robert because of his stupidity of going into that warehouse that night.’

  ‘Why did he go in there?’

  ‘No one knew.’

  ‘Why was he even in Dorset? They lived round here.’

  ‘No one knew that either.’

  It fitted with what he’d read of Morgan’s death. Wrong place, wrong time but no one knew why. ‘What stupid thing did Gary Yeatman do?’

  ‘Something with the car so it crashed at speed when he collapsed. He might have survived otherwise.’ Her attention snapped away from him at the sound of a half-cry from upstairs.

  They both froze and listened. After the initial wail, it remained quiet, but Melinda stood up. ‘I’ll just nip up and see. ‘On the day Gary Yeatman died,’ she added, pausing in the doorway, ‘he was using the cruise control. Joyce told me she’d never known him use it at all. The one time he did, it killed him.’

  Webber gaped after her as she left to check on Sam.

  Chapter 13

  It was late mo
rning before Webber got as far as his own desk. He’d hung around the team that was chasing Jenkinson’s connections. Several promising lines had ebbed, but left a hint that Tom’s contacts might have been wider and more sophisticated than anyone had guessed, as though his persona as a petty criminal was just a front. They’d failed to find the mate with the car, and the theory was gaining ground that he had been no more than a mirage designed to mislead. But where did that leave the mystery man or woman? The body encased in concrete was no mirage.

  After sending for the details of Gary Yeatman’s death, he’d relegated the lab and the DNA conundrum to background noise. Davis had had a look at Robert Morgan’s family. It was pretty certain now there were no twins involved, though Webber had asked him to double check Morgan’s history. One glimmer of interest had been a call from Brad Tippet. He’d been on the defensive, Webber was told, and wanted to know why an officer had been sent out to talk to him. The woman who took the call had suggested he drop in later in the day and Tippet had agreed.

  Webber picked up the phone and called Davis into his office. ‘Brad Tippet,’ he said. ‘You spoke to the officer who interviewed him. What were your impressions?’

  ‘Bit of a nonentity, apparently huffy we’d sent a junior out to talk to him. Small man. Self-important.’

  Webber narrowed his eyes. There were things he’d like to know from Tippet that might have no bearing on anything relevant, but he’d like to know them anyway. And if Tippet could be impressed by rank maybe he could use that. ‘Rumour says he might still be holding a grudge against the Chief Super for treating him as a suspect in that post office raid 30 years ago. What do you think?’

  Davis spread his hands in a who-knows gesture. ‘Is that what you want out of him when he comes in? He’ll be wary of going anywhere near anything like that.’

  ‘Let me know when he arrives,’ Webber said. ‘I think I’ll have a chat with him myself. And I want you watching closely. We’ll see what’s still sensitive after all this time.’

  As Davis left, Webber looked at his computer, exasperation rising as dozens of new emails scrolled on to the screen. His glance ran down the list. Where the hell was the information on Gary Yeatman’s death? How long did it take to dig out old records? Early incarnations of cruise control systems such as Yeatman must have been using had had their problems. It would have been nothing like the cruise control that was engaged when the lorry driver, Arthur Trent’s car hit that tree. But coincidence never sat easy. It might not be pertinent to the current cases but he needed to know because Melinda had got herself involved with Gary Yeatman’s widow. And until he could clear away the dead wood, he couldn’t get a handle on what was relevant and what wasn’t. So far, not a hint of a link between Jenkinson and Trent, but Webber was convinced he had a double murder on his hands and wanted the confirmation that would justify the resource to start chasing it.

  Researching Jenkinson was like dealing with two people. They’d been all over his university contacts and provisionally eliminated them all from involvement. As to the rest of his network, it was beginning to look like they’d barely scratched the surface.

  A knock at the open door. Webber looked up. ‘Initial report on Trent, guv. You said to let you know. They’ve just emailed it.’

  The machine pinged a new mail as the words were spoken. Webber clicked open the document and skimmed the words. Trent had had a heart condition for which he was on medication. No sign that it had killed him. Injuries from the crash were consistent with him having died at the wheel before impact. Blood alcohol borderline. Further toxicology to come. Inconclusive.

  He sat back and ran his hand through his hair. Inconclusive wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

  A throat-clearing pulled his attention to the doorway where Davis had reappeared with a file. ‘The extras you wanted on Robert Morgan. No male siblings. I could dig deeper but it’ll take time.’

  Webber held out his hand for the sheaf of papers. ‘Give me the headlines.’

  ‘Born in Ontario. One elder sister. His parents split up when he was ten. His mother remarried and had three more children. He and his sister stayed with the father. He first came to the UK when he was eighteen on some sort of youth scheme visa, married Pamela Quinliven a year later and stayed.’

  ‘Quinliven?’ It was the first time he’d heard her maiden name. Was she Dr China’s poor Quinny? ‘Are you saying his marriage might have been more convenience than love match?’

  Davis shrugged. ‘As far as I can tell, the Morgan family weren’t close. No sign that either of his parents attended when he married Pamela. His father died when Morgan was in his late twenties, then of course Morgan himself had that unfortunate encounter with wild animals when he was thirty. Doesn’t look like his mother came over, if she was still around.’

  Someone called Davis’s name. He gave Webber an interrogative glance.

  Webber nodded him out and looked at the file, opening it and flicking through the pages until he found Robert Morgan’s marriage. Pamela Quinliven … Quinny … It seemed to make sense with the rest of Dr China’s agenda in contacting Farrar senior.

  He looked up. Davis was framed in the doorway again. ‘Brad Tippet’s just arrived. Prickly as a hedgehog. Shall I go and do the cup of tea thing, soften him up?’

  Webber felt surprise. It wasn’t like Davis to volunteer to do anything. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll be along in a minute.’

  After Davis left, Webber sat with his elbows on the desk, chin in his hands wondering what secrets Tippet could have held on to after all this time. He’d like to hear Tippet’s version of the feud with John Farrar. He pushed the Morgan papers to one side and flicked through the old file again. Tippet had reported the car stolen the morning of the raid, the same morning, he now knew, that Robert Morgan’s remains were being found in that warehouse hundreds of miles away. Tippet’s initial report had come with the caveat that his car might have disappeared the previous evening. It was a caveat that hadn’t convinced the officers who took his statement. He skim-read the notes to remind himself of the details of the anomaly. The car appeared to have been driven off fast in a spray of gravel, spattering an otherwise neat border, yet neither Tippet nor his wife had heard it go. It was nebulous, they might have been at the back of the house, though both sitting room and bedroom looked out over the front. It had meant close scrutiny of Tippet and his movements, and that had exonerated him from involvement in the crime.

  What had Davis said? He’d seen Tippet as self-important, impressed by rank. Webber hoped that meant credulous, someone who might be coerced into a confidential chat in the right circumstances. After a moment, he stood up and went to rummage in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, giving a huff of satisfaction as he pulled out an old Dictaphone. He weighed it in his hand wondering if he would find Mr Tippet credulous enough to fall for a very old trick.

  It was as he turned to leave the room that his computer beeped a new email.

  At last, Gary Yeatman’s PM report. He was tempted to open it at once, but that would stretch his new-found confidence in Davis. It could wait.

  * * *

  Tippet was a small man with wiry hair that held traces of ginger. Webber knew from the record that Tippet was 58. It occurred to him the man was five years younger than Joyce Yeatman but going on appearance alone he’d have reversed their ages. Tippet was the sort who had been born middle-aged. Davis seemed to have lulled him into some kind of cosy chat about politics. More mouse than hedgehog Webber thought as he approached, though the moment he made them aware of his presence, a shutter came down. Tippet’s lips pursed and his eyes hardened.

  ‘Mr Tippet? I’m Detective Superintendent Webber.’ As he introduced himself he noted that the rank seemed to mollify Tippet whose handshake went from limp to firm.

  He guided Tippet towards an interview room, nodding Davis to observe.

  ‘I’m grateful to you for agreeing to come in, Mr Tippet. You’re one of the few people left who can iron out s
ome discrepancies in a very old case.’

  ‘Well, it’s an imposition, Superintendent, I won’t say it isn’t.’ Tippet seemed mildly intimidated by the more formal atmosphere. ‘I’ve never been in trouble in my life. The nearest I’ve come to a crime is having my car stolen.’

  Webber gave him a smile and said the things that would be needed on the official record should Tippet jump down the complaints route later on. He reiterated that his presence was voluntary and that he was free to go at any time. Seeing the change in Tippet’s expression, as though he regretted his decision to come here and was trying to summon the courage to act, Webber wondered if the man would walk. He gave him a moment then reached into his pocket and pulled out the Dictaphone. ‘Do you mind? Only I’m hopeless at taking notes when I’m talking.’

  Tippet shot the machine a suspicious glance but nodded his assent. Webber clicked the on switch. It whirred gently, but hadn’t worked in years. He took Tippet through the 30-year-old reporting of the stolen car, mentioning in passing the query over the time of the theft.

  ‘I’ve never been one for gadding about at night, Superintendent. I’m not now and I wasn’t then. I parked the car as usual when I got home from work. In the morning it was gone and I reported it. I’ve no way of knowing when it was taken.’

  Webber thought back to the notes he’d read. ‘You didn’t hear it being driven away?’

  The spike in tension was palpable. He must have been asked at the time, but clearly hadn’t anticipated the question again. It seemed to Webber he’d administered an unexpected shock that Tippet fought to hide. So he had heard the car being driven away. Even after all these years, Tippet could provide the time of the theft if he chose to. What kept him quiet?

  But this wasn’t the time to push him into walking out. ‘It’s all a long time ago,’ Webber said easily. ‘I doubt you can remember much.’

  ‘No, no. I can’t. It’s thirty years.’ There was a hint of gratitude behind the words.