That left Carlton Savage. But unless they could cast doubt on his alibi they had no way of compelling him to provide samples. They’d spoken with his battered ex-girlfriend, still pissed at the police for swallowing Carlton’s ‘bullshit’ alibi, but with nothing to contradict his current one.
Stark helped Dixon copy photos and printouts and pin them to the board.
He found himself staring at the police report on the Chases’ neighbourly spat. They were even greedy about trees. He remembered those trees. They weren’t that high. They’d been lopped, neatly halved. Perhaps the Chases were more conciliatory than they seemed. He frowned at a photo of the front of the house. ‘Who does the outside?’ he wondered aloud.
‘What?’ Dixon looked over his shoulder.
They’d talked to the cleaner, who had keys to the house, a solid alibi. But who kept the outside so fastidiously neat? Thomas Chase spent his weekends in the office, coaching football or on the golf course, and Mary Chase spent hers in shops and restaurants. ‘Who does the gardening? We haven’t found invoices from gardening companies.’
‘Must’ve been paying someone cash,’ commented Williams. ‘Tax contributors when they couldn’t avoid it, I reckon.’
‘All right, we haven’t got time for you three to stand around chatting,’ Fran cut in. ‘If you think a question needs answering, ask it. Dixon, call Tilly to see if he knows who did the garden, or ask the cleaner. You two go talk to the neighbours.’
Williams drove, glancing at Stark from time to time. Of the other detective constables Williams was the most at ease around Stark. A family man, older, experienced and comfortable in his skin, as happy to pass the time in silence as chat. ‘Cheer up, Joe,’ he chuckled suddenly. ‘It can’t get any worse.’
‘It can always get worse,’ replied Stark automatically. The infantryman’s mantra.
‘Oh, I don’t know. At least if we’re all made redundant next week we might find work at Chase Security. Life in the real world might be nice.’ Williams sighed. ‘Your parents both alive, Joe?’
‘Just my mum,’ replied Stark.
Williams nodded. ‘I was thinking about Hammed. Christ knows what I’d do without my parents.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘Bloody childcare costs would go through the roof!’
Williams never seemed to let any of this get to him. Dixon and Hammed grew quiet in the dark times. Williams found the funny side, went home and kissed his wife and kids. Perhaps that was the difference. Stark envied him. For every reminder of why you did the job there were a dozen reminders of why no one else would. The poverty and greed, the fear and loathing, the banality and spite, the death. Perhaps the worst impact was the way it made you look at the world. Fran let it erode her faith in people. Stark preferred to give people the benefit of the doubt. He’d witnessed the extremes they might endure. Most people made the best of a bad lot. And for the rest, there were people like him.
The octogenarian neighbour was every inch the retired RAF squadron leader, right down to the pencil moustache and prints of aircraft on every wall. His wife waved cheerily from her wheelchair but she was, he told them, ‘a bit doolally’. Looking after her and the garden kept him fit and occupied, and the third great love of his life was his two-seater Cherokee that he flew out of Biggin Hill every week, weather permitting.
He liked to talk and before they knew it they were ensconced in a shady nook in the garden with a pot of tea listening to his stories. Stark could have stayed all day. Eventually the conversation made it to the disputed leylandii. ‘Yes, they had a gardener,’ he said. ‘Quiet chap. Offered him a cuppa when he lopped this lot but he had one of those energy drink thingies; fancy pop with caffeine. Rot your guts, I reckon. Don’t know his name. Works here most Saturdays.’
‘Could you describe him?’ asked Williams.
‘Young.’ The old man shrugged. ‘Everyone looks young when you get to my age. Thirty? Forty? I can’t tell any more. About your height,’ he said, nodding at Williams, who edged over six feet. ‘But then I’m shrinking year on year, so the police get taller as well as younger.’ He chuckled and wheezed as if he was powered by steam. Stark would defy anyone not to like him.
‘Anything else?’ asked Williams.
‘Muscular, but not like one of those pumped-up body builders. Short hair, like one of those skinhead types, but with a beard. Tattoos on both arms.’
‘Of what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘Like a fleur-de-lis,’ announced his wife suddenly, ‘but on a circle.’
Stark frowned and took out his notebook. ‘Like this?’ he asked, producing a hasty sketch.
‘That’s it.’ The wife nodded. ‘He’s nice. Always waves hello.’
‘And the other arm; was that a tornado?’
She smiled, but glazed over slightly.
Her husband patted her hand, with a sad smile. ‘Gone again.’
The chair creaked as Mark White lowered himself into it. His eyes looked back and forth between Stark and Williams but he waited for them to explain why they were here.
Stark cocked his head. ‘Honneur et Fidélité?’
White twitched, his eyes flashed with alarm. Stark pointed to his right upper arm. ‘May I see?’ White used his left hand to slide up his T-shirt sleeve to reveal the tattoo. At first glance it did look like a fleur-de-lis, but was in fact flames rising from a circle representing a grenade. Stark had noticed the base of the circle when they first met but the whole image told the tale. He had seen one like this before, on one of his instructors during special-forces training, the insignia of the Légion Étrangère, the French Foreign Legion. Their motto – Honour and Fidelity. ‘How long were you in?’
White shifted uncomfortably. ‘Two terms.’
Ten years, then. ‘Rank?’
‘Sergeant.’
‘See the sights?’
White nodded. ‘My share. Enough not to want to talk about it.’
Stark knew that sentiment all too well and changed the subject, pointing at White’s other arm. ‘The tornado?’
White shrugged. ‘Nickname.’
Stark paused. ‘You garden for Thomas and Mary Chase.’
White looked cagey; perhaps he had been expecting this. ‘So?’
‘You didn’t think to mention it?’
‘You didn’t ask.’
‘I asked your colleagues one by one if they had any relationship with the victims outside of work, while you stood in that corner and watched. You asked to be eliminated from the investigation. But you didn’t think it relevant?’
White hesitated. ‘I knew it wouldn’t look good.’
‘Not telling me looks worse,’ said Stark. ‘How well did you know them? What were they like at home?’
White shrugged. ‘Didn’t see them much.’
‘How did you get the job?’
‘She asked me. Too cheap to bring in a firm. She read in my CV I’d done some landscaping.’
‘You gardened for them on Saturdays?’
‘Mostly.’
‘Were you there the day they died?’ White nodded and looked down. Not just an omission this time; he’d been asked for his whereabouts and lied. ‘For how long?’
‘I got there at nine, knocked off at four when it started getting dark.’
‘Did you see the Chases?’ asked Stark.
‘He’s always gone by the time I get there. Football.’
‘But Mary was there?’
White’s face flushed. With anger or embarrassment? Stark ducked his head, trying to catch the man’s eyes. ‘If you saw someone or something out of the ordinary, you must tell me.’
The big man looked up. ‘I didn’t see anything “out of the ordinary”. He was there most Saturdays.’
‘Who?’
‘They thought they were being clandestine. The husband’s away and rats will play. Didn’t think I’d notice, or didn’t care.’
‘Notice what?’ demanded Williams. ‘Who did you see?’
19
Carlton Savage.
Stark had summed him up well – instantly unlikable. Some people summoned to police interview went to pieces, some turned to stone, some blabbed like children, others thought they could bluff it out. Savage slid into his chair, oozing. Not oozing confidence or insolence, just oozing.
Harper settled into the seat beside her. Fran would have given an arm to have Groombridge instead. The fact that Harper had proposed the very game plan she’d have expected from Groombridge somehow made it all the more humiliating.
Fran swore silently.
Why had she forced Groombridge’s hand? He’d warned her she wouldn’t like the options. Having any DI brought in over her was the last thing she’d wanted, or so she’d thought; but Harper …
He’d sat behind Groombridge’s desk and been nice as bloody pie. That cat that got the cream. Christ knew what the smug bastard had said to Stark. The irksome DC remained characteristically tight-lipped, stoically taking life’s latest joke on the chin.
This was a disaster.
One of the big ones, only cockroaches survived.
Savage listened as she went through the spiel, confirming his name, address, employment, all with the same ill-masked sneer. He kept glancing at Harper, wondering why he wasn’t talking. They were banking on his being the type that wouldn’t like being questioned by a woman, or a woman of mixed race, or the less senior officer.
Fran smiled. ‘How well did you know Thomas and Mary Chase?’
Savage made a show of frustration. ‘You brought me down here to ask me the same questions as before?’
‘Plus some new ones. How well?’
Savage rolled his eyes. ‘Not well.’
Fran pretended to look at her notes. ‘You’ve worked there … three years.’
He shrugged.
‘You were working on the night of the killings?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you called in on your day off? Clive Tilly said he was short-handed that night.’
Savage shrugged. ‘Don’t know anything about that. It was my shift.’
‘What time did you start and finish?’
‘I’ve already answered all this,’ insisted Savage, losing patience. He looked to Harper but the DI stared back dispassionately.
Fran consulted the file. ‘You clocked in at nine and went straight out in van seven, returned at six a.m. and clocked off.’
‘If you’re answering as well as asking, I’ll be down the pub,’ said Savage.
Fran looked up from the paperwork. ‘And earlier in the day?’
‘What?’
‘Where were you before work on the day of the killings?’ For the first time Savage looked uncertain. ‘It’s been suggested Mary Chase was having an affair with someone at work. Would you know anything about that?’
Savage looked to Harper again, probably trying to assess if they already knew.
‘More than one person has suggested it was you.’ Technically true, if you counted Williams and Stark.
Savage’s face darkened. ‘Who? That freak White? He’s just jealous!’
‘Of what?’
‘I’ve seen the way he watches her. He’s like a ghost, always watching. He wanted her. They all did. Couldn’t hack the fact that she wanted me.’
‘She wanted you?’
Savage shrugged modestly, perhaps trying to cover his slip. But the sneer was there, in his eyes, the girl-beater showing through. ‘Look,’ he sighed. ‘I didn’t want to say anything before. Ain’t right to speak ill of the dead and all that. She weren’t even my type. Stuck up, and well … a bit of a bitch. But she came on strong. Practically begged …’
‘So, what? You threw her a bone?’ He didn’t leap to deny it. ‘And once she’d had a taste she wanted more?’
Savage searched her smile uncertainly. ‘That’s about it. And it was a laugh … to start with. Doing the boss’s wife, listening to the rest yapping about her while I was busy getting what they all wanted. She started off as his secretary, did they tell you that? Shagged her way in, then shagged her way up. She was still married to some other bloke then but she changed horses quickly enough; gold-digging tart. She was happy to flounce around in her bling and convertible, but she never lost her taste for slumming it below stairs, if you know what I mean.’
‘Were you with her in her house that morning?’
Savage nodded. It was out now, but he didn’t seem overly concerned; confident in his alibi. ‘It was getting boring. She’d started calling me all hours. I went round that day to sack her off but she was stressing out about something so I gave her one for the road.’
‘I suppose she was lucky you didn’t knock her teeth out,’ said Harper, speaking for the first time.
Savage’s smile faded.
‘What was she stressing out about?’ asked Fran.
‘I didn’t ask. I was going to bin her next day but …’
‘But she was dead by then,’ Harper finished the sentence.
Savage’s face tightened. ‘You can’t pin that on me.’
‘There’s something off about that one, Guv,’ said Fran.
‘Specifically?’ asked Groombridge, who’d been watching the interview through the mirrored glass with Williams and Stark.
‘He’s an arsehole,’ said Harper.
‘But hardly uncommon in that,’ Groombridge countered. ‘Alibi?’
‘GPS from the security van,’ replied Harper. ‘Doing laps of the Abbey Wood commercial park all night.’
Groombridge looked back at Savage through the glass. Things were looking up on the motive front, but opportunity was still lacking. ‘You didn’t mention the pregnancy. Probably best. Rattle him with that one when we have more. Still refuses to provide samples?’
‘What about a warrant, compelling him?’ asked Harper, but he knew the answer.
‘Not unless his alibi spontaneously implodes.’
‘We could lift prints and sweat off the table in there,’ suggested Williams, half-jokingly. Savage and a hundred others; useless without a comparison set – consented or compelled.
‘Does accidentally bleeding on your cell floor count as consent?’ growled Harper, making a show of his frustration.
‘Afraid not,’ replied Groombridge. ‘Still, good work you two.’ He nodded to Williams and Stark. ‘Have uniform drop him off. Then go grab a pint, you lot; you’ve earned it.’
Harper was certainly on good form, dragging them all to Rosie’s to celebrate his triumphant return, buying the first round with ostentatious largesse. There was no disparaging comment when Stark requested a soft drink, nor when he finished it and made his farewells. Judging by the look of the rest, he wouldn’t be the only one trotting out midweek excuses.
There was just time to get to the gym. Stark had been cycling more since the split with Kelly and felt no shame in turning up for an advanced spinning class. Andy chuckled when he saw him. ‘Sure you’re up for this, mate?’ he asked.
Selena was already perched atop her bike in black cycling shorts and a pink singlet, looking perfectly at home. ‘Still out of your league,’ offered Andy with a smirk.
Stark shrugged. ‘I’m just here for the exercise.’
‘Fair go. But let’s see if we can’t work your muscles while you’re working your eyes.’
Stark had used exercise bikes during post-op rehab and they all worked on similar principles. He copied other people adjusting their seats and bars, while Andy started the music. ‘Everyone, this is Joe, don’t mind his ugly mug, he’s all right underneath. We’ll start off easy and work up. Joe, just follow what I say and go as hard or easy as you feel. Right, let’s go!’
The bikes had the usual adjustable tension to simulate hill climbs or sprints, and Andy called the pace to suit the speeded-up dance music. Ten minutes in and Stark was considering the merits of a beginners’ class. Ten minutes later and his legs and chest were on fire, ten more and he had a stitch. Selena was making it look easy enough, while others whizz
ed along like maniacs. Andy worked them up to a sadistic, endless climb, always promising the summit, always laughing and demanding another minute, and then into a final lunatic sprint, a full minute and a half of tearing pain, leaving the whole class gasping during the cool-down. Stark saw himself in the mirror, dripping, ruddy, limp. Selena was glistening, sweat moulding her singlet to her sports bra, her small bosom heaving and her eyes alive. One of the maniacs said something to Andy about the pace.
Andy laughed. ‘Yeah, sorry about that, everyone. But Joe there ripped the piss about the rugby so I had to pay the Pom back a bit.’
There were groans, and Stark’s classmates all looked at him with good-natured accusation, Selena among them. Bastard, thought Stark, exhausted. He shrugged and smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry, everyone. I guess some countries breed sore losers.’
‘See you next week?’ asked one of the obvious regulars.
‘Work permitting.’ Stark nodded, ignoring Andy’s amused expression.
Selena smiled at him, and Stark decided the evening could be considered a success. Even so, it was a slow, painful ride home.
20
‘Look at these two …’ Fran waved a hand at the board in disgust. ‘A rich businessman who took advantage of his best friend’s divorce to take over the business, and his gold-digging trophy blonde who steals him from his first wife, spends his money like it’s going out of fashion and cheats right under his nose.’
Or a regular couple with problems, who gave to charity, coached kids’ football, provided employment for dozens and didn’t deserve to be gunned down before their time, thought Stark.
‘Seriously,’ she continued, undeterred by his silence. ‘We’ve been at this all week. I can’t be the only one thinking – who cares?’
Stark suppressed a smile. She didn’t mean it for a second, but a night out with Harper might well leave a person doubting the point of it all. And Fran commonly got the hump if an investigation refused to wrap itself up neatly within a week. ‘And yet the flame of righteous justice burns strong in our hearts, Sarge,’ he mused dryly.
Between the Crosses (Joseph Stark) Page 8