‘Put it like this. She weren’t co-operative.’ He swallowed again. ‘That’s how I knew. The kid weren’t mine. Understand?’
Joanna glanced at Mike. He was glaring at Agnew as though he could throttle him. ‘So if it wasn’t yours, Agnew,’ Mike said, ‘whose was it?’
For the first time Agnew looked angry. ‘You bloody well tell me that,’ he said. ‘You’re the fucking detectives. All I know is that it weren’t my kid.’ He stopped. ‘So I left.’
‘Just like that?’ Even to Joanna’s ears Mike sounded disbelieving.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Just like that. I aren’t like Finnigan. Brutality isn’t my scene. As I said, I got other tastes. I weren’t going to stand by and watch her swell up with a kid I knew weren’t mine. But neither was I going to rough her up. She is a bird,’ he said, then glanced at Joanna. ‘Was. I weren’t happy about the kid. So I left her to it.’
‘Did you harbour a grudge?’
Agnew turned to Joanna. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not really. I sort of felt sorry for her.’
Joanna nodded. ‘Some men,’ she said softly, ‘might have been angry with Sharon for going off with someone else.’
‘Not me,’ he said shortly. ‘I had an idea why she went. In a way I didn’t blame her. Me and her was different.’ He grinned. ‘Sexually. So we parted.’
Mike took a step forward. ‘Where were you Tuesday night, Agnew?’
He blinked. ‘I can’t remember. You’ll ’ave to ask my bird.’ He leered at Joanna. ‘She’ll know. Like a walking bloody diary, Leanne is.’
‘You wouldn’t have been in the Quiet Woman on Tuesday night, would you?’ she asked quietly.
He shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Might have been.’
‘We have witnesses,’ Mike broke in, ‘who say you were in the Quiet Woman. Did you see Sharon there?’
Agnew frowned. ‘Don’t remember.’
‘Had you arranged to meet her there?’
Agnew gave her the full force of his disconcerting stare. ‘I haven’t arranged to meet Sharon since we split,’ he said. ‘And definitely not in the last couple of months. Look ...’ He approached Joanna again. ‘We finished – completely – about a year ago. If someone says she was there and I was there at the same time they might be right. I can’t say.’ The scent of unwashed feet and armpits was strong in the small room. ‘I didn’t see her. And that’s what I’m tellin’ you. All right? Anyway,’ he added, ‘I’ve found myself another bird now – better. I don’t remember seeing her.’ He grinned. ‘I wasn’t in much of a noticing mood.’
‘Too much dope?’ Mike asked.
Agnew looked sulky.
Mike pressed the point home. ‘Sure you didn’t follow her out of the pub on Tuesday night?’
Agnew shifted nervously. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t. I went straight home to me new bird.’
‘And smoked another joint?’ Mike stood over him like a Goliath. ‘I thought you couldn’t remember.’
‘I’m just guessing. Look, I honestly couldn’t give a monkey’s arse for Sharon no more. She’s history, my friend. History.’
He stopped for a minute, swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. ‘If you want to find out about Sharon – who got her that night – you want to find out who the bloke was who saddled her with Ryan. He was married. He would have a much better reason than me for wanting her out of the way.’
‘So who was he?’ Mike was almost shouting.
‘I don’t bloody know,’ Agnew said hopelessly. ‘I don’t. I’ve thought about it. Perhaps it was someone she worked with. I don’t know.’
‘She must have said something?’
‘She didn’t.’ He paused. ‘She couldn’t half keep a secret, Sharon.’
It was the first complimentary comment he had made about her.
Joanna was watching him carefully. ‘Do you care that she’s dead?’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘Yeah – of course ...’
‘OK, Agnew,’ Joanna resigned herself to getting nothing more out of him. ‘That’s all – for now.’
She was glad to leave the shop.
As she had expected, Mike turned to her in the car, a mischievous grin on his face. ‘Quite a description, that.’ He stopped. ‘What did he say now? “A nice bird.” “A decent bird.”’ He gave a quiet chuckle. ‘Describes quite a few women.’
She met his eye in the car mirror, laughed too.
‘It made me wince,’ she said.
‘I could see that. You looked as though you’d sucked a lemon then had a mouthful of chilli pepper.’
She laughed again. ‘Quite a description, Mike. But,’ she warned, ‘no leg pulls back at the station, please. Sharon may well have fitted the description of a “nice bird”. I can tell you. I would not find the description flattering.’
‘No,’ he agreed with a wry smile. ‘I don’t suppose you would.’ His eyes were still on her.
She started the engine. ‘Now for Finnigan,’ she said with a sigh.
But her private thoughts were mulling over what Paul Agnew had said: how had men viewed Sharon Priest? As a nice bird. A decent bird. One who could keep a secret well. Certainly her relationships had consistently broken up because she had met someone else. Finnigan had found her in bed with another man. While living God knows what kind of life with Paul Agnew she had become pregnant. She had had an affair with a married man ... someone rich. Had Sharon been a woman easily bored by comfortable, domestic relationships, always craving excitement? Could that have been the stimulus of the letters, the lure to her last, dangerous assignation?
Joanna frowned and caught sight of herself in the mirror.
And how had women viewed Sharon? Certainly Christine Rattle had been fond of her – admired her – seen her as a loyal friend, a good mother, a young woman who had wanted her youth, to have a good time.
She compared this with the picture she herself had formed of her.
A young woman – quite slim, although her body showed obvious signs of childbearing. Empty breasts with stretch marks silvering pale flesh.
Probably she had been pretty in her cheap, stretch clothes. Diamanté flashing an invitation.
She turned to Mike. ‘Describe Sharon,’ she said.
He started with her observations. ‘Slim, probably pretty in a cheap way. Dyed hair. A lot of make-up.’ But then his view became more definitely masculine. ‘I expect she was full of the old “come on”,’ he said. ‘Probably a bit of a tease. Sexy, a bit tarty.’ He grinned. ‘I bet she was good fun, though. The sort of girl that would make a party move.’
She smiled at him. ‘Thank you, Mike,’ she said, then sighed. ‘And now I suppose we’d better tackle Finnigan.’
Sam Finnigan was to be found on the top floor of a large Victorian house now divided up into flats. The front garden was weed-smothered, the gate missing. Only the hinges were left to rust. The path was slippery with leaves fallen from the roadside tree. The stone steps leading up to the front door were worn and the porch was lined with chipped tiles.
Mike pushed open the front door. The spacious hall was empty and had a cold, unwashed look, cobwebby and dusty. The smell of stale, rancid fat, old fish and chips mingled with recently applied vinegar.
Varying beats of pop music wafted down the stairs, punctuated by the sad cadence of a violin. Someone in the flats liked classical music.
Joanna glanced at Mike and the two of them ascended to the first-floor landing, passing a window of frosted glass behind which they could see the vague shape of a man urinating. They heard the sound of an old-fashioned flush and then the man emerged. Dirty, unwashed, unshaven. Bleary-eyed, he blinked at the two police officers as though they were offerings from outer space.
‘Mr Finnigan?’ Joanna asked tentatively.
The man looked her up and down in an appraising way, then jerked his thumb heavenwards. ‘Top floor, my love,’ he said, zipping up his flies and pushing past them.
She caught the w
aft of stale beer on his breath, rolled her eyes at Mike and they clattered up to the top floor.
Two doors faced them, both wearing chipped, brown paint. Joanna instinctively chose the one with the smashed-in panel, and knocked hard enough to tell Finnigan that this was an official visit.
The door opened to reveal another grubby T-shirt half covering a swollen beer belly, more stale beer breath, unshaven face and bleary eyes.
‘Mr Finnigan?’ she said again and he nodded.
‘The law?’ he asked.
‘That’s right.’ She flashed her ID card at him. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Piercy. This is Detective Sergeant Korpanski. We’re investigating the murder of your ex-wife, Sharon Priest.’
Sam Finnigan scratched his head. ‘I thought you’d get here sooner or later,’ he said. ‘I suppose Rattle’s been rattling.’
His eyes suddenly brightened and he gave a loud guffaw at his own wit.
Neither Joanna nor Mike smiled.
‘She was your wife, Mr Finnigan,’ Joanna said pointedly.
For one short moment Sam Finnigan looked stung. He took a few deep breaths, glared at the two police officers, then stood back. ‘I suppose you’ll have to come in.’
They followed him into a large room strewn with dirty clothes and empty lager cans. A blanket was rumpled on the sofa, which Joanna guessed doubled as a bed. The atmosphere was stale.
Finnigan picked up a couple of token socks, then, finding nowhere to put them, dropped them in the corner. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘bit of a tip. Didn’t expect visitors,’ he added nastily.
Joanna and Mike cleared a space, sat down and faced him.
‘Look,’ Finnigan said. ‘Just because I bloody hit her once it doesn’t mean I killed her.’
‘I believe you hit her more than once,’ Joanna said coolly.
Finnigan glared at her. ‘Once on record, and she fucking well asked for it. Not that I expect either of you two to bother believing me.’
Joanna leaned forward. ‘It’s our job, especially in a murder case, to question everything anyone says to us. Especially ex-husbands. Especially ex-husbands who have a record of violence towards the deceased.’
Finnigan looked as though he was going to hit her. ‘Give a dog a bad name.’
‘Nobody’s accusing you, Finnigan.’ Mike’s tone was sarcastic. ‘Yet.’
Finnigan had obviously met his type before. He stared at Mike, his face twisted with dislike. ‘Don’t get fucking smart with me, copper,’ he snarled. ‘You won’t be able to pin anything on me. I’m clean.’
He gave Joanna a hard, defiant look. ‘Clean as a baby’s bottom,’ he said.
‘I’m sure.’ Joanna spoke calmly and very politely. Keep the heat out of situations. It was Colclough’s war cry. Don’t introduce aggression. There’ll be plenty on the other side.
Joanna cleared her throat. ‘Just start at the beginning, Mr Finnigan.’
His gaze rested on Joanna. ‘What do you want to know?’ He frowned in a fuddled confusion. ‘Do I need my solicitor here?’
‘Not yet,’ Mike said.
‘Just tell me about Sharon.’
‘What?’
‘What was she like?’
‘Sexy.’ Finnigan grinned and Joanna felt herself flush. ‘Bloody good in bed. That was the trouble. You see, men liked her. She was a randy bitch. Hot.’ He gave a lascivious grin. ‘Know what I mean, Detective Inspector?’
‘I might remind you, Finnigan,’ she said, dropping the title, ‘Sharon is dead. Her children – and yours too – are in care.’
‘Yeah, well, I can’t ’ave ’em ’ere, can I?’
‘That isn’t the point,’ Joanna said. ‘She was murdered quite brutally after being raped. Please ...’
Finnigan glowered. ‘Look, she might be dead.’ He sneered. ‘It don’t alter what she was. Bloody anybody’s. Hot and wet with her legs always open and her knickers off. And there was plenty of takers. You asked me, copper. I’m just telling you. That’s all.’
He stopped for a moment, then gave a soft burp, crossed the room to a scratched chest of drawers. From the top he took a can of lager, burped again and snapped back the ringpull.
‘Sorry I can’t offer you one,’ he said, leering. ‘I can’t go so far as to be hospitable. See?’
He took a long, calm drink, then sat down again can in hand. ‘One thing about me,’ he said. ‘I can’t pretend. I’m an honest Joe. I did knock her about a bit.’
Joanna nodded.
‘I found her in bed with a bloke.’
She leaned forward. ‘Who was he, Finnigan?’
He blinked. ‘I thought you’d know,’ he said.
‘Who was he?’
‘A good-looking guy. Sort of muscular.’
‘Built like Mike here?’
Finnigan considered the Detective’s burly frame, then shook his head. ‘Sort of slimmer, but strong.’ He peered into his can of beer. ‘Bloody cow,’ he said.
Joanna was beginning to feel disappointed. ‘Don’t you know any more about the man?’ she asked. ‘Didn’t Sharon tell you who he was?’
Finnigan stood up, his face a picture of fury. ‘It was fucking dark,’ he said. ‘Dark. Didn’t Rattle tell you that? It was the middle of the fucking night. The light was off.’ He stopped. ‘I didn’t want to wake the cow. I got in. Don’t you thick coppers understand? I got into bed. And there was a bloke there.’
Even after years on the force Joanna was shocked. ‘No,’ she said softly. ‘No one told me. I didn’t know it was like that.’
Finnigan sat down heavily and some of the beer slopped out of the can. ‘I wish I’d ’ave killed her,’ he said. ‘She’s deserved every single thing she’s got.’ He came to suddenly and focused on the two police officers. ‘As I said, I’m an honest Joe.’
And for all the aggressive swagger, she felt some sympathy for the man. All villains are like this – another of Colclough’s famous sayings – usually stupid, mostly bad. But there’s almost always something pitiable there.
‘If it’s any help,’ he said, ‘I thought it was probably someone from where she worked. You know, Blyton’s.’
Joanna nodded. ‘Would you recognize him if you saw him again?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ Finnigan pondered the point for a moment. ‘I ain’t never seen him around Leek.’
‘Did he speak? Did he have an accent?’
‘Sort of made a noise,’ Finnigan said. ‘But he didn’t speak. Just gave a shout. That’s all.’ He grinned. ‘I think he shouted “Shit!” then he gave a funny kind of scream.’
Joanna sighed and took a swift glance at Mike. He was looking fed up. She had another thought. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘If you didn’t really notice him, did you see his car?’
‘Nope. If I had I might have guessed something was going on. But I didn’t see a car.’ He thought for a moment. ‘There weren’t no car.’
‘Might it have been parked round the corner?’ Mike asked helpfully.
‘There ain’t a corner near the house,’ he said, | scowling. ‘It’s a long straight road. And there weren’t no bloody cars.’
‘He must have walked, then.’
‘A neighbour?’ Mike suggested.
‘Don’t be bloody daft,’ Finnigan said. ‘I knew everyone in the road. They wouldn’t have gone with her. They’d have known what was coming to them if they had. I’d have bloody killed them. Besides, I’d have recognized a neighbour, wouldn’t I?’
‘Didn’t anyone see the man running off?’
‘It was three o’clock in the bloody morning.’
Mike was watching Finnigan suspiciously. ‘If it was three in the morning, Finnigan, and you were supposed to be working all night,’ he said, ‘why did you come home?’
Finnigan shifted, uncomfortable. ‘I thought something was going on,’ he said.
‘Why?’
Finnigan glared at her. ‘Because she never felt like it,’ he said. ‘She was off sex. And that was like a
pig going off its swill.’
Joanna tried another track. ‘Since you split up,’ she said, ‘have you had much contact with Sharon?’
‘Nah, court order,’ he said. ‘If I’d have seen her likely I’d have knocked her. Anyway, she kept out of my way.’ He tried to take another swig out of the can, found it empty and stared miserably into it.
‘And the children, October and William?’
Finnigan shook his head. ‘Only with a social worker. Couple of hours a week.’ He made a face. ‘I’m no good with kids.’
Joanna crossed her legs, leaned back on the sofa, aware of lumps beneath the cushions. Lager cans?
‘Where were you on Tuesday night, Mr Finnigan?’
He slewed a sideways glance at her. ‘You sure I don’t need my solicitor?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Not yet,’ Joanna said innocently. ‘Now where were you the night she died?’
‘Here,’ Finnigan said. ‘Watching telly. Drinking lager.’ With sudden, shocking violence he crunched the can to an hourglass shape and hurled it across the room. It gave a hollow ping as it hit the side of the room and spat lager on to the yellowing wallpaper to join the random pattern of other dents and drips. ‘Where the fuck do you think I go on a UB40? The fucking Ritz?’
Joanna felt oppressed and nauseated by the stuffy, smelly atmosphere, and was anxious to leave. But Mike’s interest was aroused.
‘Can you prove you were here all evening?’ His voice was hard. Joanna knew his fists would be itching. Finnigan knew it too and eyed the Detective Sergeant uneasily. Slowly he shook his head.
Joanna moved to another area. ‘Who was the married man Sharon had been seeing?’
Finnigan shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘After my time, thank God. I heard she was seeing someone. I heard it was a rich guy, married. I said good luck to her. Of course,’ he added cynically, ‘he dropped her when Ryan was on the way.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Rattle,’ he said. ‘She’s a bugger for the gossip. Besides,’ he added, ‘why would she advertise if she wasn’t short of a bloke?’
‘You knew about the advert?’
He nodded. ‘Cheap, weren’t it? I never thought she’d stoop so low.’
A Wreath for my Sister Page 11