A Wreath for my Sister

by Priscilla Masters

  Joanna squirmed.

  ‘Who was the married man, Mrs Priest?’ Mike spoke again.

  An ugly, cunning look passed across the woman’s face. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, watching the tip of her cigarette glow. ‘She never told me.’

  Mike gave Joanna a swift glance.

  ‘We sort of lost contact then,’ Doreen said. ‘I hadn’t seen her since Ryan was born.’

  ‘So you knew nothing about her plea for a Prince Charming?’

  Doreen bit her lip. ‘Not a thing,’ she said. She waved her cigarette at them both. ‘I’ll do right by them kids. I’m telling you. I’ll have October and Little Wills here. They can live with their gran. I love ’em,’ she said defiantly.

  ‘And Ryan?’

  Doreen’s face was stony now. ‘I’m not having that little bleeder here. He’ll have to fend for ’imself.’

  She watched them leave with a face still as hard as granite – unbending as far as Ryan was concerned.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Joanna said to Mike. ‘Ryan’s her grandchild too. Why won’t she take him?’

  Mike shrugged. ‘Leave it to the social workers, Jo,’ he said, but she refused to be sidetracked.

  ‘I’m just wondering whether her dislike of Ryan has any bearing on her daughter’s murder.’

  Mike made a face. ‘How could it?’

  ‘You tell me,’ she said, ‘but I intend keeping it in mind. Ryan’s quite different from the other two. He’s prettier, plumper. His clothes looked just a bit smarter. Even his cot cover. It looked more expensive.’ She glanced at him. ‘Surely you noticed?’

  ‘Can’t say I did,’ he grunted.

  ‘Well, I certainly did. He even sleeps with his mother.’

  ‘He’s the youngest.’

  ‘And comes from a different stable,’ she said decidedly.

  Their car moved away from the small house and Joanna buckled her seat belt with a tinge of irritation.

  ‘I thought we’d at least come away with some answers,’ she grumbled. ‘But we’ve gained nothing, just another question.’

  She drew a lipstick across her mouth. ‘Let’s hope Christine Rattle’s got a few answers. I’m a bit fed up with all these imponderables.’

  She glanced at Mike. ‘Drop me off, will you?’

  ‘You don’t want me to come?’

  ‘I think she’s more likely to talk to me alone than if you’re there.’

  He nodded. ‘OK. I’ll carry on back at the station till you’re done. Read a few statements. Take another look through those letters.’

  ‘We’ll get the psychologist to study them.’

  ‘You pay too much attention to psychology and not enough to traditional police methods.’

  ‘I listen to both, Mike, but I can tell you, this killer has the mind of a killer. So it may well be that that traps him. Therefore we have to understand him.’

  Mike grunted again and pressed the accelerator down hard.

  Doreen Priest was watching as the police car drew away. She watched until it was out of sight and she felt sure they would not return. Then she drew her dressing gown tightly around her and sat with an unlit cigarette dangling from her mouth. She stared at the telephone for a long time before picking it up and dialling a number. She knew exactly what she would say. No need for open threats. She would simply point out that she was due for a very expensive time for the next few years if she was to bring up Sharon’s children. No need to mention to anyone what she intended doing about Ryan. Early days yet. There was plenty of time.

  The long curved stretch of council houses was deserted except for a few stray dogs wandering across the streets. One of them started barking as the car pulled up outside Christine Rattle’s house.

  Christine had made an attempt to make the house comfortable – luxurious, even. The lawn was neatly mown, weeds pulled up, the laburnum bush trimmed against the autumn.

  Joanna pushed open the gate and walked up the path. Christine had been watching for her. She stood in the window, waved a half-smoked cigarette and met her at the door.

  ‘I feel awful,’ she said. ‘Bloody awful.’

  Joanna had no need to ask why.

  ‘The kids.’ Christine sank down on the sofa. ‘What was I going to tell those poor kids? I kept saying, “Mummy’ll come home soon.’” She gave a short laugh. ‘Even bloody William didn’t believe me in the end.’

  Joanna gave an inadequate murmur, sat down on the sofa opposite Christine and accepted a mug of coffee.

  ‘You can help us now,’ she said, when Christine had come back from the kitchen. ‘It’ll help you, too – take away the feeling of guilt.’ She knew she was supposed to offer counselling. But in her experience the guilt could be used to advantage in the investigation. Use vengeance in a constructive way because it was a potent energy source. So she prepared to spend as long as it took listening to Christine, whatever direction her thoughts took.

  Christine gave a wry smile. ‘I wasn’t much bloody use to her, was I?’ She closed her eyes wearily. ‘You know, it was me what suggested she put that stinking advert in the paper?’

  Joanna nodded.

  ‘And it was probably him who killed her.’

  ‘He could have known her anyway,’ Joanna said cautiously.

  ‘You think it’s someone local?’

  ‘At the moment we’re working on that assumption.’

  Christine took a long drag at the cigarette, seemed mesmerized at the bright red glow on the tip.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Joanna. ‘What did Sharon think when one of the letters came back addressed in her name?’

  ‘Bloody bowled over. Then she thought me or Andrea Farr, her pal at work, had let on to someone that it was her ad. You know.’ Christine laughed. ‘Sort of blind date, really.’

  ‘And had you?’

  ‘Well, I can’t speak for Andrea,’ Christine said, ‘but I certainly didn’t. Not a soul.’

  ‘Did Sharon ever say anything about the ... contents of the letters he wrote to her?’ Joanna was watching Christine closely for a reaction.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Joanna took a deep breath. ‘Some of them were a bit suggestive.’

  Christine seemed unmoved. ‘Yeah, she told me sometimes he came over a bit ... strong.’

  ‘A bit strong?’Joanna frowned. ‘It was more than that.’

  Christine flicked the ash from the end of her cigarette and refused to meet Joanna’s eye. ‘I did warn her,’ she said, and Joanna felt the vaguest tinge of disquiet. There was something strange in Christine’s face – as if she were withholding something.

  Joanna decided to change tack. ‘Who was the man Finnigan found her in bed with?’

  ‘Someone from her work, I think.’ She stopped and thought. ‘I never knew. She never told me.’

  ‘Where did she work?’

  ‘She was just a cleaner.’ Christine rubbed her face with her hands.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘She used to do a couple of evenings at Blyton’s Engineering.’

  ‘And the man?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Christine said. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think it was anyone serious. I mean, she’d been out with him once or twice. She took him back to her place.’

  ‘And Finnigan caught them.’

  For the first time in a couple of days, Christine laughed. ‘The bloke – whoever it was – shot out leaving his trousers behind. Kept the street gossiping for days. You ’ave to laugh,’ she said. ‘They was livin’ in the next street then. He threw her out. So she gets Jubilee Road. He loses his place and ends up in a flat.’ She chuckled. ‘Bloody lucky it wasn’t the prison.’

  She gave Joanna a quick look. ‘He broke her jaw, you know. He was very violent ... always threatenin’ her and after that things got worse. Much worse. You know he hung the trousers out of the window.’ She stopped. ‘They were there for days. Poor old Sharon. She was too damned frightened to take them in again. Anyway, after that Finnigan threw
her out. Poor old Sharon,’ she said again. ‘Never had much luck.’

  ‘Had Finnigan been violent before?’

  Christine thought for a moment before answering. ‘Not so much violent,’ she said slowly. ‘More unpredictable.’ She looked candidly at Joanna. ‘Know what I mean? He’d lash out for nothing. Sometimes after he’d hit her she’d come round here and think about it. “What did I do?” she’d ask me. I couldn’t tell her, could I?’ Christine sighed. ‘After that business with Sharon he changed. He’d always had a temper. But after that he got nasty, devious. He stopped going out so much, and when he did he’d get into fights and arguments, as though he had a grudge against ...’

  ‘Women?’

  Christine nodded.

  ‘And what about Agnew?’Joanna asked casually. ‘What was he like?’

  But she knew however carefully she worded these questions Christine was shrewd enough to guess exactly where they led.

  ‘A bloody waster.’ Christine was not going to mince words. ‘You obviously haven’t met Paul, have you? No, there’s no need for me to tell you about him. Go and see him yourself. But I warn you, he’s a very peculiar person.’

  ‘He was at the pub the same night that Sharon was killed,’ Joanna said.

  ‘He was?’ She looked up.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mind you ...’ She bit her lip. ‘There’s one thing about Paul. He’s in a world of his own most of the time. You never know with him what he’s thinking. He dreams and then says such weird things.’ She watched Joanna. ‘It’s possible he was at the pub and so was Sharon and he never saw her. He’s spaced out – when he’s got the money.’

  Unexpectedly tears started into her eyes. ‘You don’t think it was him, do you? I wouldn’t like to think it was Paul.’ She leaned forward and spoke earnestly. ‘You see, he isn’t like Finnigan. I mean, Finnigan’s violent – nasty. I can picture him batterin’ Sharon to death. But she wouldn’t have met him at the pub and gone off with him somewhere. She knew what he was like. And Paul, well, I know to you he’s a lawbreaker, but there’s no harm in him. He just dreams.’ She paused. ‘You know, he used to live across the road, with her. When she was pregnant – showing – you know – about four months he just told her to get out. I found out he was living with this girl and went round for Sharon to ask him why. He just laughed, said the baby made it difficult for him to stay.’

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t his baby,’ Joanna pointed out.

  ‘Sharon had already told me he wasn’t the father.’

  ‘Where is Agnew now?’

  ‘Still with Leanne.’

  Joanna paused for a moment, frowning.

  ‘Leanne Ferry,’ Christine said helpfully.

  That name. She had heard it somewhere before.

  ‘Christine.’ She put her cup down on the flimsy wine table. ‘How did Agnew know Ryan wasn’t his baby?’

  Christine stared for a moment out of the window before answering. ‘You’ll have to ask him that,’ she said.

  ‘Didn’t Sharon ever tell you?’

  Christine shook her head.

  And now Joanna had stopped believing her. She paused for a moment before speaking again. ‘What about the married man?’ she said. ‘The one she had an affair with?’

  ‘I don’t know ...’

  ‘Just tell me what you do know,’ Joanna said. ‘It doesn’t matter if it seems unimportant. Anything.’

  ‘I don’t know who he was.’ Christine looked around the room. ‘I only know bits about him. You know, odd things she told me. I know he was rich. And I know he was married. And I know he gave her money for Ryan.’ She stared at the police woman. ‘Honest, Joanna, that’s all I know about him. Sharon could keep her cards close to her chest when she wanted. She never let out a beep. It was only when I asked her outright who Ryan’s dad was that she told me that much.’

  ‘The money he gave her,’ Joanna said. ‘Was it a cheque or cash?’

  ‘In notes. I saw it. She’d been out with him not long before Ryan was born. And he gave her the money. She showed it to me.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Four hundred pounds,’ Christine said. ‘In fifty-pound notes.’

  ‘And after Ryan was born? Did he give more?’

  ‘I don’t know ... honest.’ Christine flushed. ‘I never asked her. They had a big row when Ryan was a few weeks old.’

  ‘What about?’ Joanna said quickly.

  ‘About Ryan.’

  ‘What about Ryan?’

  Christine’s face collapsed. ‘I think he wanted him.’ Joanna stared at her. ‘What?’

  ‘Well, Sharon just said she felt used.’ She stopped. ‘I took it to mean he wanted Ryan.’

  Chapter Eight

  The shoe had become an object of fascination to him. He would take it out of the box, unbutton his shirt, cradle it against his naked chest, press the long, slim heel hard against him, feeling the prick of the point. Then he would finger the sharp toe. When he closed his eyes he could imagine the long, shapely leg leading up from the shoe to its dark junction. Sometimes he dressed the legs in the current shades of stocking, in Monsoon or Desert Sand, Tornado or Sirocco. Usually he chose Sirocco, a dark, mahogany colour that reminded him of black girls’ legs.

  And the diamanté bow flashed at him, winked at him with a titillating knowledge. But his fetish for the shoe was a dangerous fascination. Because if Lizzie ever found it there would be hell to pay.

  After last time she had sworn there would be no more. No more giggling girls on the end of the telephone. No more ‘staying overnight on business’. No more nights when her husband arrived home stinking of cheap scent. No more disgusting discoveries in the car.

  Never again, she had said. And this time he really believed she meant it.

  So he packed the box away at the back of the garage on the top shelf of a little tin cupboard. But simply knowing it was hidden away, waiting for him, was enough to stir him, knowing it waited – like him – for a safe opportunity.

  Was any opportunity ever safe? Never mind. It waited and winked when he brought it out into the light. And it gave him quiet satisfaction from inside its box. But when Lizzie was visiting her mother. That would be when the fun began.

  Joanna decided it was now time to meet the chief protagonists in this tragedy. She had learned about them from Sharon’s best friend and from her mother. It was time to fix her own opinions. She and Mike decided they should first descend on Paul Agnew.

  The oatcake shop had a grubby, modest and unattractive exterior, flaking sky-blue paint and steamy windows. They sat in the car, watching the two assistants through the window – the scruffy, slim man with straggling hair and the plump blonde girl.

  Joanna glanced at Mike. ‘Ready?’

  He nodded.

  She already felt she knew Paul Agnew. Christine had done a good job describing him. As she and Mike squeezed into the small, stuffy shop with its scent of cheese and warm cooking oil he looked up and met her eyes. For a brief moment he stared at her. Then he broke his stare, wiped his sweating face with the back of his hand and looked away, down at the floor.

  They waited their turn, watching the girl tip the mixture on the griddle, wait for a moment before neatly flipping the pancakes over. Then it was their turn and Agnew was staring at Joanna again.

  ‘Paul Agnew?’ she said steadily.

  He looked up, nodded.

  ‘We want a word with you.’ Mike could never quite keep the aggression out of his voice. Result: already Agnew looked threatened.

  ‘Is it about...?’ For comfort he looked at Joanna. She nodded.

  Agnew turned to the girl at his side. She smiled sympathetically, gave the two police officers a look of dislike, jerked her thumb towards the door beyond.

  They followed Agnew in.

  It was a store room. Flour and milk, two big plastic bottles of oil. There was nowhere to sit and it was dark.

  Agnew stood in the corner, like a b
oxer facing his opponent.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Piercy,’ Joanna began. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Korpanski. We’re investigating the murder of Sharon Priest.’

  Agnew’s eyes flipped from one to the other.

  ‘Tell me about her,’ Joanna said.

  He shrugged. ‘What do you want to know?’ he asked stiffly. ‘There ain’t a lot to tell really. We was livin’ together, but not for long. She was all right. We got on OK. No great problems.’

  ‘You were fond of her?’ Mike’s voice was gruff.

  ‘Yeah,’ Agnew said hesitantly. ‘I was. I was fond of ’er. She was a nice bird. A decent bird.’

  Joanna felt her hackles begin to rise at his words. She took in a deep breath. Mike grinned across at her and she knew he would pull her leg about this when they had left the shop.

  ‘For how long did you live with her?’

  ‘Few months. I don’t know exactly.’

  ‘Did you get on well with the kids?’

  He looked surprised at that. ‘Yeah,’ he said again. ‘They was nice kids. I did like ’em.’ He stopped and thought. ‘They was OK.’

  ‘So you like kids, Paul?’

  He shuffled his feet. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So why did you throw her out when she got pregnant?’

  Agnew looked around the room like a trapped animal.

  ‘She was pregnant, Paul,’ Joanna said. ‘Was the baby yours?’

  Agnew stared at the floor and shook his head.

  ‘It wasn’t?’

  Again he shook his head. ‘Nope.’

  ‘How did you know it wasn’t?’

  Agnew’s face seemed to change. A look of cunning crossed it, then he took a step towards Joanna. And although Mike was there she felt the faintest pricking of fear.

  ‘I got my tastes,’ Agnew said, and she smelt the sweet tang of marijuana on his breath. ‘I likes certain things.’ He stared at Joanna. And this time it was she who broke the gaze. ‘Different things,’ he said and swallowed.