by Peter Murphy
‘If you like.’
‘Good. So, Billy, you are the lock keeper at Fenstanton, are you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you live at the lock keeper’s house with your sister. Her name is Eve, is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just the two of you?’
‘My parents are both dead.’
‘Your date of birth is 10th October 1935, which makes you, what? Twenty-eight. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
Arnold leaned back, reached down into his briefcase, which he had placed on the floor beside his chair, and took out the gold chain and cross, reluctantly yielded to him earlier by the sister of the man he now had to question.
‘All right. Now, Billy, I wish to ask you some questions about this gold cross and chain. I got it from Eve when DI Phillips and I were at your house today with PC Willis. Eve told me that you had given it to her on Tuesday. Is that correct?’
‘I found it.’
Arnold nodded encouragingly.
‘That’s what Eve told us.’
‘I thought it would look nice on Eve. It’s pretty.’
‘It is pretty,’ Arnold agreed. ‘Where did you find it, Billy?’
Billy frowned, as if concentrating hard on the question.
‘Where did I find it?’
‘Yes. Where?’
Billy gave an apparently careless shrug.
‘Down by the lock, I expect. That’s where I generally find things.’
Arnold held the cross a little closer to him.
‘Let’s see if we can do a little better. I would expect you to remember exactly where you found this. It was just a few days ago, and I daresay it’s not every day you come across something as pretty as this, is it? Try a bit harder, Billy. Where did you find it?’
Billy looked at the cross, then suddenly away across the room.
‘It was at the lock,’ he replied. ‘On the bank, just up from the lock gate.’
‘How did you notice it? It was just lying there, was it?’
‘I expect so. I remember seeing something shiny…’ Billy’s concentration seemed to desert him for a moment.
Oh, ’tis my delight on a shiny night…
‘Go on, Billy,’ Arnold was saying. ‘You saw something shiny. Then what?’
Billy seemed to come back.
‘I saw it shining in the grass and I picked it up. That was it. I took it home and asked Eve if she liked it. She said she did, so I gave it to her.’
‘So, it was definitely down by the lock, which means you found it on this side of the river?’
‘Yes.’
Arnold nodded. He paused for some time to allow Phillips to catch up with his notes.
‘Did you think of handing it in at the police station at all? I mean, it says it’s 22 carat gold. It’s really heavy, isn’t it? Didn’t you think it might be valuable?’
A shrug again.
‘I didn’t really think about it.’
Arnold waited, silent.
‘Look, I find stuff by the river all the time. If I took everything I find to the police station, I wouldn’t have any time left to work the lock, would I?’
Billy smiled, as if he had scored a point. Arnold returned the smile.
‘Of course, you couldn’t hand everything in, Billy. We all understand that.’ He held the cross up to the light. ‘Still, even leaving aside the value, whoever it belonged to would be upset to lose something like this, wouldn’t she? Did you think about that at all?’
‘Not really.’
Arnold pulled the cross and chain towards him and it disappeared into his briefcase as quickly as it had appeared. He rummaged among the papers he had placed on the table until he found a photograph. He pushed it across the table to Billy.
‘All right. Well. Let me ask you about something else. Do you recognise the boat in this photograph?’
Billy snorted contemptuously.
‘She’s moored up by Holywell Fen, she is,’ he said authoritatively. ‘But she wouldn’t be, not if I had my way.’
‘Oh?’ Arnold asked. ‘And why would that be?’
With another snort, Billy pulled the photograph towards him and looked at it closely.
‘She’s a hazard,’ he replied. ‘Look at her. She’s a big craft to be moored there. She never runs any lights. You can’t see her in the dark, or in the fog. Someone is going to ram her one of these days, you mark my words. She should be removed. I’ve told the River Board, but they never listen to me. Might as well be talking to myself.’
‘Do you know her name?’ Arnold asked.
Billy nodded.
‘Rosemary D’, he replied. ‘That’s what they call her. Bloody nuisance, that’s what I call her.’
‘Have you ever been on board?’
Billy’s focus seemed to slip again.
Success to every gentleman that lives in Lincolnshire…
‘Why would I want to board her?’
Arnold spread his arms out wide.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps to check on her lights, or to see if you could find out who owns her, who you could approach about moving her?’
‘No. Never.’
Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare…
‘Well, there we are, then,’ Arnold said. He paused again, waiting for Phillips to signal that he was ready. ‘You see, Billy, the reason I ask is this. We have reason to believe that the lady who owns the cross and chain I showed you lost it on Saturday night while she was on board the Rosemary D. So I’m wondering, if she lost it on the Rosemary D, what was it doing on the opposite bank, down by your lock on Tuesday? Can you help me about that at all?’
Bad luck to every gamekeeper that will not sell his deer…
‘I don’t know, do I? Perhaps she made a mistake. Perhaps she lost it later, down by the lock.’
Arnold produced another photograph from the stack of papers.
‘Well, the problem with that, Billy, is that she wasn’t in any condition to move from the Rosemary D down to the lock. This is what she looked like on Monday morning.’
Arnold pushed the photograph towards Billy, who pushed it back violently, barely glancing at it.
‘I don’t want to look at that.’
‘I can’t say I blame you. It’s not very nice, is it, Billy?’
‘Take it away.’
‘All right. I’m just trying to show you how important it is that you tell me where you found the cross and chain you gave to Eve.’
‘I already told you.’
‘But you haven’t told me the truth, have you, Billy?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘If necessary,’ Arnold said, ‘I can show you on the photo the mark that was made on her neck when the thief took the chain off her. Would you like to see it again?’
Billy turned almost all the way around in his chair.
‘No. Take it away.’
Oh, ’tis my delight on a shiny night in the season of the year.
Silence. Then suddenly, unprompted…
‘All right, I found it near that craft, the Rosemary D.’
Phillips looked up sharply. A raised finger asked for time. Arnold waited.
‘Well, that wasn’t too difficult, was it? Why didn’t you say so before?’
The focus seemed to return.
‘It wasn’t nothing to do with that,’ Billy protested.
‘To do with what?’
‘That – in that photograph.’
‘I don’t remember suggesting it was,’ Arnold said. ‘So, where exactly did you find it?’
‘It was like I said,’ Billy replied defiantly. ‘It was on the bank, in the grass. I saw it shining. I picked it up and went home.’
&nbs
p; ‘Not on Tuesday, you didn’t,’ Arnold said. ‘Since Monday, the whole area has been cordoned off. It’s a crime scene – police officers swarming all over it.’
‘I never said it was Tuesday.’
Arnold looked at Phillips, who nodded.
‘You did, actually, Billy,’ he said.
‘Well, that was wrong, then.’
‘Well, when was it, then?’
Oh, ’tis my delight…
There was a knock on the door. Without waiting for a response, PC Willis opened the door and stepped smartly into the room. Arnold was momentarily vexed, but he knew that an officer as experienced as Willis would not interrupt a detective superintendent in the middle of an interview in a murder case without good reason. Besides, there was no harm in giving Billy Cottage a few minutes in which to reflect on his position.
‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but there’s something come up that Sergeant Livermore and I thought you should know about without delay. Would it be possible to take a short break?’
‘Certainly, Constable,’ Arnold replied. ‘I’m sure DI Phillips wouldn’t mind a bit of a rest. While we’re at it, why don’t we all have a nice cup of tea? Sit tight, Billy, we will bring you some tea and then we will continue.’
‘Can I use the toilet?’
‘Of course you can. PC Willis will take you in a couple of minutes. Just sit tight for a short while.’
Phillips stood gratefully, massaging his right hand vigorously. Arnold closed the door of the interview room and the three officers stood in a huddle just outside the door. Sergeant Livermore joined them.
‘Good news, sir,’ he announced. ‘Jennifer Doyce has just woken up in Addenbrooke’s, and she is able to talk.’
Arnold’s jaw dropped.
‘You’re joking. When they took her in, they didn’t give her a snowball’s chance in hell. What happened?’
‘The doctors are just as surprised as you are, sir. They can’t really explain it. Under any normal circumstances, her injuries should have been fatal, or at the very least she should have irreversible brain damage. But somehow, she’s survived. Mind you, she’s not out of the woods yet – not by a long way. She’s still listed as critical. She’s got a fractured skull, a couple of broken ribs, and she suffered some injuries around the genital area. There may be internal injuries. But she has regained consciousness, and her vision and hearing are fine. She’s talked to the nurses a bit. They are keeping her sedated and on a morphine drip for the foreseeable future. There’s no way to tell yet how much she remembers, but apparently she did ask something about Frank, and they don’t want to upset her. No promises, but they might let you talk to her for no more than five minutes tomorrow if her condition doesn’t worsen. It will be some time before we know whether she can make a full statement. Her mother is with her, and I’ve asked her just to make a note of anything Jennifer says, not to ask any questions, just to make a note.’
‘Well, I’m damned,’ Arnold said. He stood, lost in thought, for some time, hands on hips. ‘All right, let’s detain Sonny Jim overnight. I want to have a word with Jennifer before we resume the interview, if they will let us. We will drive back to Cambridge later this afternoon, so that we can be there at whatever time the hospital will let us in.’
He turned to face Phillips, who was still rubbing his writing hand, though now more gently.
‘Good news, sir,’ Phillips said, smiling.
‘Yes. Makes a nice change, doesn’t it?’ Arnold replied. ‘Let’s hope her luck holds – and ours.’
12
31 January
Jess Farrar stepped down from the train on to the platform and pulled her overcoat tightly around her body to fend off the chilly wind sweeping through the station. Underneath her coat, her suit and blouse felt rumpled and uncomfortable. The journey had taken more than three hours in an uncomfortable seat; the train’s relentless heating had been oppressive rather than comforting; and the sandwich and coffee she had bought in the dining car had been stale and tasteless. She took a deep breath. Perhaps Bettys Tea Rooms would offer something more appetising. Looking around her, Jess found an exit sign and made her way up the stairs and along the bridge that led to the station’s main entrance hall. Once outside, she paused briefly, recalling the street plan of York city centre she had memorised earlier. She left the shelter of the station awning, turned left on to Station Road and, with her head down against the wind, made her way as quickly as she could along Museum Street into town. Once over the river, she turned right on Lendal Street, passed the lodgings used by the High Court judges at assize time, and from there left into St Helen’s Square, where Bettys occupied a corner of its own.
Jess was not sure that Joan Heppenstall would turn up. She had made the arrangement to meet by phone, after two days of delicate negotiation. At first, she could not get past Joan’s father, who advised Jess in no uncertain terms that his daughter was too upset to talk to her and, in any case, did not see why she should; she had been insulted and humiliated enough and wanted nothing more to do with her former fiancé. But Jess had persisted, and eventually he put Joan on the line to speak for herself. Even then, it had been an uphill task. It had taken two further calls to persuade her that Ignatius Little was in a serious situation, and that she ought at least to give him the benefit of some doubt in the matter. Finally, Jess made it clear that Joan had no obligation to give evidence on his behalf; she just wanted to get some background information that might assist in preparing his defence. After much cajoling, Joan had agreed to meet for afternoon tea at Bettys. Jess would not have been surprised if she had changed her mind but, to her relief, Joan was already in the tea room when she arrived. The waitress escorted her through the elegant room to the far corner table at which Joan was seated. They shook hands formally.
‘Did you have any trouble finding your way?’
Joan was very nervous, Jess saw at once. Tearful, too. There was a small embroidered white handkerchief on the table, which looked damp and creased.
‘No, not at all. It is quite an easy walk from the station – if you don’t get blown away. Is it always this windy in York?’
‘The wind can be quite strong at this time of year.’
A silence. Joan felt the need to fill the vacuum.
‘Is this your first visit to York, Miss Farrar? I’m sure you told me, but I can’t remember. I’m sorry.’
Jess smiled.
‘It’s Jess, please, and there is no reason why you should remember. Yes, it is my first visit. It’s obviously a beautiful city. I thought I might take a walk around when we’ve finished, before I go back to the station. I read a little about it in a guide book on the journey. I know there are all sorts of interesting things to see.’
Joan nodded.
‘Most people make straight for the Minster, of course. It’s just a couple of minutes’ walk along Stonegate.’ She waved a hand vaguely towards the wall to her left. ‘But the whole city is beautiful, so many lovely buildings. The Railway Museum is well known, too, of course – if you like that kind of thing.’
A waitress wearing a pristine white apron over a black dress, and a delicate white cap balanced on the front of her head, approached with menus.
‘What do you recommend, Joan?’ Jess asked. ‘Is it all right if I call you Joan?’
Joan nodded.
‘They do very good sandwiches and scones, and different kinds of cake. They will bring the cakes around on a trolley so that you can choose.’
Trying to put the railway sandwich out of her mind, Jess closed her menu.
‘I’m going to have a ham sandwich and some tea,’ she said decisively. ‘And I will think about the cake later.’
She raised her eyebrows in the direction of the waitress, who was hovering expectantly nearby, and placed her order. The waitress turned to Joan.
‘I’ll just have tea, thank yo
u,’ she said.
The waitress retreated.
‘My mother makes tea for me every day at five,’ Joan said, ‘and she’s very proud of her fruit cake. If I spoil my appetite too much I won’t hear the last of it for the rest of the day.’
Jess laughed.
‘Ah, so you have a mother like that too, do you? I know exactly what you mean. My mother’s speciality is Victoria sponge cake.’
Another silence, but more comfortable this time. Joan was warming to her a little, but she was not yet ready to have the conversation Jess needed to have with her.
‘So, you work in London?’ Joan asked. ‘Is that where you’re from?’
‘No, I’m a Sussex girl,’ Jess replied. ‘My family lives near Hastings. But I’ve always spent a lot of time in London. My father is a stockbroker; he works in the City. So I’m quite used to London, but I don’t think of myself as a Londoner. Perhaps I will after I’ve lived in town longer.’
‘I don’t know any women who are in the law. Isn’t it a bit unusual?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is, a bit’ Jess agreed. ‘But not as much as it used to be. Things are changing. It’s much more open than it used to be.’
‘Did you study law then? Did you go to university?’
The waitress arrived with their tea and Jess’s sandwiches. She artfully contrived to arrange tea pot, hot water jug, milk jug, sugar bowl, sandwiches and plates on the small table with barely a fraction of an inch separating them, but without the table seeming cluttered.
Jess took responsibility for pouring the tea.
‘I did go to university, at Bristol,’ she said. ‘But I studied history, not law. After I came down I had no idea what I wanted to do. For some reason, the idea of the law came into my head. I’m not quite sure why. It may have been through reading about some sensational trial in the papers, or seeing a film. Anyway, my uncle is a solicitor and, to cut a long story short, I made his life a misery until he agreed to ask a few people he knew whether they were interested in taking on a female historian. Barratt Davis is an old friend of my uncle’s and he offered me a job. I’ve only been with him for a month or two. In fact, to be honest, this is my first solo assignment.’