No Escape

by Hilary Norman

‘Oh, Christ,’ Tony said. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ.’

  ‘You’ll want to lock up, I should think, sir, won’t you?’ Reed said. ‘Or is there someone else to look after the place while you’re gone?’

  Tony leaned against the Sierra, visibly shaking. ‘My little girl,’ he said. ‘She’s with her grandmother.’ His eyes filled. ‘Oh, God, Jo’s mum.’

  ‘I really am very sorry, Mr Patston.’ Keenan’s lined face creased even further with sympathy. ‘But in the circumstances, I’m afraid we really do need you to come with us now.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ Tony said again. ‘Oh, Christ.’

  Mike Novak, just cruising past Patston Motors for another look, saw Tony Patston getting into a dark blue Mondeo with two men he was almost certain were CID.

  He pulled up at the corner, held up an A-Z to mask the fact he was watching them, saw the car pull away, waited for another two cars for cover, and then followed.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  At half past one, Mike Novak called Allbeury again.

  ‘Bad news, Robin,’ Novak said. ‘The worst, it looks like.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘The police have picked up Patston, and taken him to Waltham Forest.’

  ‘Hospital?’ Allbeury asked.

  ‘Mortuary,’ Novak said. ‘They went in a few minutes ago. I’m outside.’

  Allbeury was silent.

  ‘I presume you don’t want me to go in?’ Novak asked.

  ‘Definitely not. But stick around if you can.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you when I know something.’

  ‘Right,’ Allbeury said. ‘Be careful, Mike. I’m really not keen for the police to know about my involvement.’

  ‘Goes without saying,’ Novak said.

  Inside the mortuary, Jim Keenan waited patiently while Tony Patston, to all intents and purposes in a state of deep shock, sat with his head down between his legs. The newly-bereaved man’s hands were shaking, and when Patston looked up, his eyes were wet and glassy, staring out of a chalky-white face.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Patston said. ‘I can’t take this in.’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ Keenan told him.

  ‘Do you know . . .?’

  Keenan waited again while the other man controlled himself.

  ‘Do you know who did that to her?’ Tony asked, finally.

  ‘Not yet,’ Keenan said. ‘But we will.’

  DS Reed appeared with a cup of tea, but Tony shook his head.

  ‘Sir?’ Reed offered it to Keenan.

  ‘Mr Patston.’ Keenan ignored the tea. ‘Whenever you’re ready, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘All right.’ Tony looked up at him. ‘But can we do that at home? I want to see my daughter.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ Keenan said. ‘We’ve already sent an officer to your mother-in-law’s house. Probably best you and Irina stay there for now anyway.’

  ‘I don’t want to stay there,’ Tony said.

  ‘We’ll be needing to search your house,’ Keenan told him, ‘as a matter of routine. So it really would be easier for everyone, especially your little girl, if you stay away while that’s happening.’

  ‘Right,’ Tony said, then shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Why do you want to search our house?’

  ‘As I said,’ Keenan replied, ‘it’s routine.’

  ‘Right,’ Tony said again, and stood up.

  He felt numb – not numb enough – about what he’d just been shown.

  Joanne. His wife, but not his wife at all.

  What was shaking him though, almost as much, at this instant, really startling him, was that what he’d just said to the policeman was true. He wanted, quite desperately, more than anything, to see Irina, to feel her in his arms.

  Jo would love that, he thought.

  Again his eyes filled with tears.

  Novak watched them emerge from the mortuary, saw Patston’s ashen face, resisted the impulse to call Allbeury again and followed instead from a safe distance as they drove to Edmonton. To the semi-detached house, outside which a marked police car already stood.

  He parked well away, just close enough to see comings and goings. He saw the door being opened by a female constable for Patston and the two plainclothes officers – who might, he thought, be AMIT or, if something had happened to Joanne further out than Waltham Forest, MIS from either Theydon Bois or Harlow.

  He didn’t see either the grandmother or the little girl.

  They were there though, inside the house. He could almost feel it.

  Almost feel the pain.

  ‘Oh, God,’ Tony Patston said when he saw Sandra and his daughter both sitting on the couch in his mother-in-law’s living room. ‘Oh, God, Sandra, it’s so—’

  He stopped speaking when he saw her right index finger fly to her lips.

  Silencing him.

  Irina doesn’t know.

  He managed it somehow, dragged himself together, put out his arms.

  ‘Hello, my love,’ he said to Irina.

  The little girl didn’t move, neither closer to her grandmother, nor towards him.

  Tony went to her, knelt on the carpet before the sofa, took her small hand in both of his and did his best not to cry.

  ‘All right, Irina,’ he said, gently. ‘All right, my darling. Daddy’s here.’

  ‘Where’s my Mummy?’ Irina asked Sandra.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Tony said again. ‘Daddy’s here.’

  Behind him, in the doorway, DI Jim Keenan looked at Karen Dean, the slim, attractive dark-haired DC who’d been sitting with Sandra Finch since she’d been brought the news, and saw that the child’s lack of response to her father had not escaped her. He was glad to have Dean on the case, knew that she was excellent with little kids.

  He, for the most part, did better with grandmothers.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  At three-thirty, in Marlow, Christopher received a phone call from Jane Meredith telling him of an urgent case coming in to the Beauchamp that evening.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he told her, then noticed Lizzie gesturing. ‘Hold on, could you, Jane? My wife’s telling me something.’

  ‘Just telling you to go, if you’re needed,’ Lizzie said. ‘Jack’s so much better.’

  ‘I’d be happier if the fever were right down,’ Christopher said.

  ‘If Jack hears you turning down a patient,’ Lizzie said, ‘he’ll have a fit.’

  Christopher smiled, lifted the phone back to his ear. ‘On my way, Jane.’

  The next call, just after Christopher had driven away, was from Susan Blake.

  ‘Is it all right to talk shop?’ she asked after they’d chatted about family and Jack’s cold in particular. ‘Only we really need to discuss publicity for Pure Bliss.’

  ‘Goodness,’ Lizzie said. ‘Is it that time already?’

  ‘We definitely want to tour you again,’ Susan said now. ‘The subs are looking excellent, and it’s the right moment to boost the Roadshow people’s appetites.’

  ‘When will you need me?’ Lizzie asked.

  ‘Thursday week. Please say that’s okay.’

  Lizzie panicked silently, then told her it would be. ‘Subject to all the usual things,’ she added quickly.

  ‘I know,’ Susan said. ‘Children first, books last.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ Lizzie said.

  ‘Yes, you would. So, all things being equal, I thought we’d start in Oxford.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Lizzie said.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Novak had just finished talking to Allbeury on his mobile, and was keying the #1 speed-dial to let Clare know what was going on, when he became abruptly aware that the front door of the Patston house had opened and that a man – the younger of the two plainclothes officers who’d earlier gone in with Tony Patston – was now bearing down, rather rapidly, on the Clio.

  ‘Mike?’ Clare’s voice.

  ‘Call you back
,’ Novak said and slid the phone back onto its hands-free kit.

  The policeman tapped on the window, motioned to Novak to wind it down, and then, as the man in the car hesitated, took out his warrant card and slapped it against the glass.

  Novak wound it down.

  The officer bent to look at him, his face and expression sharp. ‘Detective Sergeant Reed, sir,’ he said. ‘Would you mind telling me who you are, and what you’re doing?’

  ‘Stopped to make a phone call,’ Novak said. ‘Name’s Michael Novak.’

  ‘Long call, Mr Novak,’ Reed said.

  Novak said nothing, thinking primarily that Allbeury was going to be less than thrilled. Loss of concentration. Bloody idiot, he castigated himself.

  ‘Would you mind getting out of the car, sir?’

  ‘What for?’ Novak asked, not being bolshy, just asking.

  ‘We’ve had a report of a man fitting your description, driving a car fitting this car’s description, loitering in this area.’

  Novak hesitated, wondering if he wanted to ask permission to phone Clare, or if he’d rather she didn’t have to worry about him ‘helping’ the police out.

  The latter, definitely.

  He got out of the car.

  ‘Mind bringing your phone, sir?’ Reed asked.

  ‘If you like.’ Novak leaned back into the car, took the mobile off its cradle.

  ‘Keys, too,’ Reed said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we’d like a word with you at the station, if you’ve no objection, and I’m sure you’d rather lock your car.’

  Novak looked at the sharp, beady eyes.

  ‘No objection,’ he said, ‘but I’d certainly appreciate a good reason.’

  ‘Murder good enough for you?’ DS Reed said.

  Inside the house, Tony and Sandra had just got Irina – who’d refused any tea, far too upset now by her mother’s continuing absence, the strangers in her grandmother’s home and, not least, the painful atmosphere – to bed for a nap.

  ‘Daddy?’ It was the first time the child had spoken to him since he’d got back. ‘Why isn’t Mummy here?’

  Sandra glanced at Tony, saw that he was barely managing to hold back his tears, swallowed hard to contain her own, and came to his aid.

  ‘She can’t be here, my darling,’ she said, gently, ‘but she wants you to have a nice sleep and dream sweet things.’

  ‘What things?’ Irina asked.

  ‘How about Wibbly Pig?’ Sandra remembered one of the child’s favourite books.

  Irina chuckled softly. ‘Reena likes Wibbly Pig.’

  The awareness that this might be the last moment of pleasure the little girl might know for a long time almost wrecked both adults.

  ‘Love you, darling,’ Sandra managed, and kissed her.

  ‘Daddy loves you too,’ Tony said, throatily.

  Down in the living room, they seemed, Tony thought, to have settled themselves down rather too firmly for his liking.

  ‘DC Dean’s in the kitchen making some tea,’ DI Keenan said, apologetically. ‘I hope that’s all right, Mrs Finch?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sandra sat down heavily in an armchair.

  ‘I know you said you don’t need a doctor, but—’

  ‘No,’ Sandra said, quickly. ‘No doctors. I’m all right.’

  ‘With respect,’ Keenan said, gently, ‘you’re not all right at all.’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘I think you should get someone,’ Tony said, thinking he’d never seen her look so old. ‘You might need something to help you sleep.’ He knew he would, though what he thought he really wanted, needed, now, more than anything, was a bloody massive drink, preferably a whole row of drinks, anything to block out what he’d seen in that place.

  Don’t think about it.

  Karen Dean, in a navy suit and white blouse, her long dark hair fastened in a thick plait, looked in to ask if they wanted their tea brought in. Keenan thanked her, then contrived, with her help, to get Sandra Finch out of the living room and into the kitchen while he remained with Patston.

  ‘All right now, sir, if we get these questions out of the way?’

  ‘Of course,’ Tony said. ‘Anything I can tell you to help.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Keenan glanced down at the tray on the table. ‘Don’t forget your tea. I’m sure you could use a cup.’

  ‘I’m all right.’ Tony didn’t like to ask for a drink.

  ‘If you change your mind, just tell me.’

  ‘If I change my mind,’ Tony couldn’t help saying, ‘I’ll help myself.’

  ‘Of course,’ Keenan said.

  As the questions got underway, however sympathetic his tone, there was no mistaking the thinking behind them. Jim Keenan wanted to know as much about the last time Tony had seen Joanne as he could tell him, and he clearly found it strange that Tony could not remember the name of the friend his wife was going to meet.

  ‘I never heard it,’ Tony explained for the second time. ‘She just said it was a woman she’d met at the library who wanted to meet her for a cup of coffee.’

  ‘And she’d never mentioned her to you before?’

  ‘No.’ Tony shrugged. ‘I’m not the kind of husband who’s got to know every last thing his wife gets up to.’

  ‘Gets up to?’ Keenan echoed.

  ‘I don’t mean like that,’ Tony said.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t do this, not now. It’s too much.’

  ‘All right, sir.’ Keenan was soothing. ‘Just a few more questions and then we’ll let you have some peace.’ He paused. ‘Still sure about that cuppa?’

  ‘Couldn’t face it,’ Tony said. ‘Wouldn’t say no to something stronger though.’ He gave a grimace of a smile. ‘If that’s allowed?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ Keenan said. ‘You’re not the one on duty.’

  ‘I wish I was,’ Tony said.

  There was no whisky in Sandra’s cabinet, but there was a bottle of brandy, and Tony’s first swallow, drunk deliberately rapidly, designed to burn, did just that and released a few tears. He wiped them roughly away, drank the rest of what was in his glass, poured a little more and sat down again.

  ‘Which library did your wife go to?’ Keenan asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tony said. ‘One near here, I suppose.’ He nodded towards the kitchen. ‘Her mum might know which one.’

  The DI paused. ‘Were you still at home yesterday morning when Joanne left to meet her friend?’

  ‘No,’ Tony answered. ‘I’d gone to work.’

  ‘How was she when you left her?’

  ‘Fine. She was fine.’

  ‘Your mother-in-law told DC Dean you said you had to encourage her to go.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Tony nodded. ‘I told her it would do her good.’

  ‘Why did you say that? Wasn’t she well?’

  ‘No, she was fine. I told you.’

  ‘Only “do her good” seems to imply that she might have been under the weather in some way,’ Keenan went on.

  Tony shook his head, then shrugged. ‘PMS. I remember now that’s what she said. I told her she’d been a bit wound up, and she said she had PMS.’

  ‘Get that badly, did she?’

  ‘Not too bad.’

  ‘My wife used to get it,’ the older man said confidentially, and pulled a face. ‘I love her, but she could drive me round the twist.’

  ‘Joanne wasn’t that bad,’ Tony said.

  ‘So she wasn’t exactly upset before you left for work that morning?’

  ‘She wasn’t upset at all. I told you, she was fine.’

  ‘But you said she had PMS.’

  ‘I said she said she had it.’

  ‘Why would she have said it if it wasn’t true?’ Keenan asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tony said exasperatedly. ‘Maybe she did, how should I know? I just said she wasn’t upset, just fussing about not being able to go out because she had
ironing to do. I told her it would do her good to get out. End of story.’

  ‘Unfortunately not.’ Keenan saw Patston’s tears coming again, a few escaping down his cheeks, one into a crack in the corner of his mouth. ‘So you didn’t have a row?’

  ‘A row?’ Tony was startled. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Why of course not? People have rows all the time.’

  ‘We didn’t, not that morning.’

  ‘But you did row, sometimes?’

  ‘Of course. Who doesn’t? Like you said.’

  ‘But not that morning? No harsh words?’ Keenan didn’t wait for another answer. ‘Nothing you know of – not necessarily anything to do with you – that might have led to Joanne going out and not coming back?’

  ‘But that’s not what happened, is it?’ Tony said bitterly.

  ‘Wasn’t it?’

  ‘Obviously not,’ Tony said. ‘Now you’ve found her.’ This time he made no effort to contain the tears, just let them come, put down his drink on the floor beside his chair, covered his face with both hands and sobbed noisily into them. ‘Oh, God,’ he wept. ‘Oh, Jo.’

  ‘All right,’ Keenan said.

  ‘But it’s not bloody all right, is it?’ Tony’s hands left his face, his cheeks red. ‘And what I don’t understand is why you’re sitting here asking me these stupid questions instead of getting out there trying to find the scum who did that to her.’

  ‘There are plenty of people out there,’ Keenan said reassuringly, ‘all doing their very best to do exactly that, Mr Patston. And I’m very sorry for what may seem like stupid questions to you at this minute – and I can understand that they must seem that way, and cruel too, probably.’

  Tony nodded at that, was unable, for a moment, to speak.

  ‘But this is a vital part of our enquiry, sir. Even the tiniest details can make a huge difference. We need to know how Joanne was feeling when you last saw her, the kind of mood she was in, because it might have made a difference to where she went, who she saw, what she did.’ Keenan paused. ‘If, say, she’d had a headache and no pills in the house, she might have gone to a chemist. If she’d been bored and fed up, she might have gone to, say, a hairdresser, or to buy a new dress.’

  ‘She went to meet a friend,’ Tony said, very wearily. ‘The friend who phoned her.’ He sighed, picked up his glass, drank some more brandy.