‘By the way, thank you for your card, Jill. It was kind of you. Everyone’s been so kind.’
‘It was nothing,’ Jill murmured. ‘I’m so sorry about your loss. It’s a shocking thing to happen.’
Phoebe nodded at the understatement. ‘The boys—my sons, Keiran and Tyler—are suffering dreadfully, too. They’ve always thought Kelton Bridge a terribly dull place where nothing ever happens. And now this. Their own father.’ She indicated chairs near the fire. ‘I’m sorry. Please, sit down. Can I get you anything? Tea or coffee?’
They declined the offer.
‘Were Keiran and Tyler close to their father?’ Jill asked.
‘Very close,’ Phoebe replied, ‘and my heart breaks for them. Like all of us, I suppose, they expected him to live for ever. You do, don’t you?’
‘You do,’ Max agreed.
Phoebe was in her late forties, and a very attractive woman. Tall and slender, she wore black trousers with a red blouse that was nipped in at the waist by a wide, black belt. She was graceful. Her hands, long, thin and expertly manicured, moved a lot as she spoke. From what Jill had heard, she’d been born to a fairly affluent family in New York but, perhaps because she’d lived in England for ten years, her American accent was diluted.
What struck Jill as strange was the way that, on moving to the village, Phoebe had been out and about wanting to meet the locals and become involved in things. Yet all that had stopped abruptly. About a month later, she withdrew completely and rarely seemed to leave the manor at all. Perhaps village life wasn’t all she had expected. Perhaps she found it boring after London.
‘You were going to provide us with a list of guests for the party,’ Max reminded her.
‘Yes, I’ve got it here.’ She walked over to a low, modern unit, pulled open a drawer and took out a few pieces of paper. ‘That’s the lot,’ she said, handing them to Max.
They were sitting on opposite sides of the fire so Jill couldn’t see the list. She couldn’t move, either, as Phoebe sat down next to Max and looked at it while he did.
‘Thomas McQueen,’ he remarked. ‘Were you and your husband good friends with him?’
Jill didn’t know how many names were on the list, but she wasn’t surprised that, from what had to be quite a few, Max singled out McQueen.
‘I’d never met him until the party. I’m not sure if Brad had, either. Having said that, they seemed to get along well,’ she answered thoughtfully. ‘I’m not sure you’d describe them as good friends, but they enjoyed a few jokes at the party. I’ve no idea how they met, though.’
‘McQueen’s a local businessman,’ Max told her, ‘mainly dealing in property. Is it likely, do you think, that he and your husband had business dealings?’
‘I can’t think why. If they did, I don’t know anything about it.’
‘Your husband wasn’t planning to buy property in the area?’
‘No.’
One by one, they went through every name on Phoebe’s list. There were thirty-six in total. It was a time-consuming job but it did show them that the guests had been present at Bradley Johnson’s invitation. His wife, apart from organizing the invitations and the catering—outside caterers had been employed—had little to do with it. She had hardly known the guests.
‘If your husband had been on his way to meet someone on Wednesday afternoon,’ Max asked her, ‘is it likely that he would have told you about it? Is it the sort of thing he would have discussed with you?’
Jill noted a flush on her cheeks. What was that about?
‘I think so, yes,’ she said, but Jill wasn’t convinced. ‘Of course, it would depend who he was meeting. If it was business, he’d probably think it would bore me.’ Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘He always assumed that I couldn’t be expected to understand his business deals.’
Was she bitter about that? Did she feel excluded from his life? Had he treated her as if she were the dim blonde?
‘He was a good husband,’ Phoebe broke into her thoughts, ‘and a good father. He worked too hard, that was his only fault. His folks came from Texas and struggled to put food in their children’s mouths. He was always—’ she paused, searching for the right word—‘adamant that his children would have the best. I think he lived in fear of ending up with no money, of having to start all over again.’
‘That’s understandable,’ Jill murmured.
‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking,’ Phoebe rushed on. ‘You think it was my money, my family’s money at least, that attracted him to me.’
Jill shook her head, surprised. ‘I didn’t realize your family was wealthy.’ She’d heard rumours to that effect, but that was all.
‘It had nothing to do with that, you know. We fell in love. Twenty-six years we’d been married and he still loved me. He was a very loyal man. He wouldn’t have left me,’ she whispered.
‘I’m sure he wouldn’t,’ Jill murmured.
What the hell had brought that on? Jill quickly reassessed the situation. Phoebe had loved him. Or hated him. Either way, she’d felt passionately about him. There was such a thin line between love and hate that it was difficult to tell.
Was it possible that, contrary to what Phoebe claimed, Bradley had been on the point of leaving her?
If so, would she have let him go?
There was a huge difference between a loyal husband and a loving one. A loyal husband stayed out of a sense of duty whereas a loving one stayed because he belonged.
Three blows to the head had killed Bradley Johnson. Presumably, anyone could have delivered those blows. Although fairly tall, he’d been a lean man without a spare ounce of flesh. Not a heavy man. It would have been easy enough for Phoebe to follow him, hit him over the head to knock him senseless, hit him again a couple of times to make sure he never drew another breath, drag his body a few yards, walk home, wait a few hours and then report him as missing. That way, he’d never leave her.
‘May I?’ Jill took the guest list from Max and glanced at the names. She knew very few of them, but that wasn’t surprising. ‘None of the guests are from the village,’ she pointed out. ‘Did any stay over?’
‘Only two couples,’ Phoebe said. ‘Ed and Martha Cooper—Ed’s been a friend of Brad’s for years, ever since we moved to England. He owns a hotel chain, and they live in Cheltenham now.’
‘And the other couple?’ Max asked.
‘Peter and Brenda Driver. I can’t say I know much about them, other than the fact they live in Manchester. I don’t know how Brad knew them.’ She pointed to the list, still in Jill’s hand. ‘Do you think the party is relevant? Do you think one of the guests might have—you know?’
‘We’ve no idea,’ Max said frankly. ‘At the moment, we have no leads at all. But if we talk to these people, they may give us something.’
‘I see.’
‘Are your sons here?’ Max asked. ‘We’d like a word with them, if we may. It’s possible that they might be able to tell us something.’
‘They’ve gone to Rawtenstall. Asda,’ Phoebe explained.
‘Life goes on, doesn’t it? They need to eat.’
‘Of course.’
Jill and Max were preparing to leave when a car was heard slowing to a stop outside.
Phoebe went to the window. ‘Here are the boys now,’ she said, and she sounded resigned, as if she didn’t want her sons involved in any of this.
Doors opened and banged shut as the two boys—adults, Jill reminded herself—brought in bags from the car. They were laughing. Their father had been bludgeoned to death five days ago, and they were laughing.
Phoebe left the room to talk to them and, a couple of minutes later, they followed her into the sitting room.
‘Haven’t you arrested anyone yet?’ Tyler demanded of Max.
Tyler was twenty-one, older than Keiran by two years. Both were tall, dark-haired, good-looking boys, but Tyler was a couple of inches taller and he was the one you noticed. Keiran would blend in a crowd; Tyler was too for
ceful, and too handsome to be ignored.
‘We’re doing all we can,’ Max assured him. ‘We think your father may have been meeting someone on Wednesday afternoon. Would you know anything about that?’
‘No.’ Tyler answered for both of them.
‘Keiran?’ Jill prompted, but he shook his head.
‘What would we know?’ Tyler demanded of Jill and Max as if they were idiots. ‘We weren’t even here. We only came home when Mum called us with the news.’
‘When does the term finish for Christmas?’ Jill asked.
‘A fortnight on Friday,’ Keiran told her. ‘But because of—everything that’s happened, we’ll stay here until the new year now.’
Jill nodded her understanding.
‘I believe you were intending to spend Christmas here anyway,’ Max said pleasantly. ‘What were you planning to do with your time? Had you decided? Had your father spoken to you? Were you going anywhere or doing anything special?’
‘We’d nothing planned,’ Keiran said.
‘We wouldn’t have seen anything of Dad,’ Tyler added. ‘He’d have been in London. Working. He was always working.’
‘Over Christmas?’ Jill asked doubtfully.
‘Yes. Over Christmas.’
Tyler was the angry young man. Keiran was quieter, and more difficult to fathom. Yet neither seemed as grief-stricken as Jill had expected.
They were no help whatsoever and, half an hour later, Jill and Max stepped outside and left the residents of Kelton Manor to their grief.
‘You’ll let us know as soon as you have something?’ Phoebe called after them.
‘Of course,’ Max promised.
‘I’m out all day tomorrow, but you have my mobile number, don’t you?’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll keep you informed of any developments,’ Max assured her.
Satisfied, Phoebe closed the door.
‘We’ll call in again tomorrow,’ Max said when they were in his car. ‘I want to speak to those boys alone.’
‘We?’ Jill queried.
‘Yes, it won’t take long.’
Max drove them out of the village and they were almost at headquarters when Jill reached into the back seat for the list of guests that Phoebe had given them.
‘I’m surprised Hannah Brooks wasn’t invited. Over the last two or three months, I’ve seen photos of her with Bradley Johnson. They would have been in the Burnley paper, or maybe the Rossendale Free Press. She was planting trees or opening supermarkets or some such thing and Bradley was there, smiling for the camera and telling everyone how marvellous she was and how everyone should make sure she was our next MP.’
‘Perhaps she had something else on that night,’ Max suggested.
‘Yes, that’s possible. She’s pregnant, too, so perhaps she’s not doing much socializing at the moment.’ Her earlier thoughts came back to her. ‘Could a woman have killed him? I mean, would you have to be particularly strong or anything?’
‘It’s possible. A good blow from behind, so long as it had the element of surprise, wouldn’t have needed all that much weight or force. Then a couple more for good measure. Yes, it could have been a woman, I imagine.’ He took his eyes from the road briefly to look at her. ‘Are you thinking of Phoebe?’
‘It was just a thought.’
‘Yes. I had the same one.’
Chapter Six
Jill grabbed the bouquet of flowers from the back seat of her car, held them close against her chest in an attempt to protect them from the wind, locked the car, and ran up the drive to Hannah and Gordon Brooks’ house.
The doorbell was answered almost immediately by a tired-looking Gordon.
‘Jill, how lovely to see you. Come in.’
‘No, thanks, Gordon, I don’t want to intrude. I just wanted to say how very sorry I am for your loss. I only heard this afternoon. I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you. But come in, please. Hannah would love to see you.’
His hand was on her arm and she had the feeling that, if she resisted, he would pull her inside by force. She guessed they were struggling to come to terms with the tragedy and finding it difficult to be in each other’s company for long stretches.
‘Thank you,’ she said, stepping inside.
Although Jill didn’t know him well, she’d always liked Gordon. Their first meeting had been at a lecture to Kelton Bridge’s local history society. Jill had only gone along because Ella had organized the event and had begged as many people as possible to support it. Gordon was a stalwart member of the society and had welcomed Jill and introduced her to several people.
He worked in Manchester for a firm that specialized in buying foreign properties, mostly in Spain and France, for people wanting to retire to the sun. He was quietly spoken, friendly and unassuming, and Jill had gained the impression that Hannah made all the decisions in their household.
‘Hannah’s in the lounge,’ he told her, ushering her through the hallway.
Hannah had been lying on the sofa, a duvet wrapped around her, but she stood when she saw Jill and went forward to give her a hug.
‘Are these for me?’ she asked. ‘Oh, Jill, you shouldn’t have. They’re gorgeous.’
‘They’re nothing,’ Jill told her. ‘I’m sure you could open a florist’s by now, but I always think flowers cheer a house. I’m so sorry, Hannah.’
‘Thank you.’
Hannah couldn’t quite meet her gaze. She was a strong character and Jill suspected that she could cope admirably until people said a kind word. That was often when people lost the tight control they had on their emotions.
‘I do have a few,’ Hannah went on, nodding at three floral displays in the room, ‘but you’re right, they do cheer the place up. Everyone’s been so kind,’ she added. ‘Let me see to these.’
Jill followed her into the kitchen where Hannah set about arranging the flowers with great care. Perhaps it helped to take her mind off everything.
‘I was speaking to Ella this afternoon,’ Jill explained, ‘and she mentioned that you’d come home from hospital this morning. She was horrified to learn that I didn’t know. News might travel fast in Kelton, but it didn’t reach me.’
Hannah carried on arranging her flowers. In her early thirties, she was conservative in everything, from her dress sense to her politics. Jill suspected she would love to break out of the constraints imposed by being the local Tory candidate and go wild for a few hours or days. She was attractive, and usually took great care with her appearance, but this evening she looked as bad as she must feel. Her hair was unbrushed, her face was devoid of make-up, and her eyes were red from crying and surrounded by dark circles from lack of sleep.
‘I saw Jack yesterday,’ Jill said. ‘I hope he didn’t think I was being rude, but of course, I hadn’t heard. Strange that he didn’t mention it.’
‘Not really,’ Hannah said, standing back to assess her arrangement. ‘It’s hit him hard. He was really excited about the birth of his first great-grandchild.’
‘That’s understandable,’ Jill said.
All the same, she thought Jack would have mentioned it.
‘And people don’t talk about miscarriages,’ Hannah added bitterly.
‘It’s difficult,’ Jill said, taken aback by her tone.
‘Will you stay for a drink?’ Hannah asked. ‘We were just about to open a bottle of wine.’
‘Thanks, but no. I’m sure you don’t want company.’
‘Please stay,’ Hannah implored her. ‘Company is exactly what we need.’
‘Well, if you’re sure. I rarely turn down a glass of wine.’
Hannah smiled at that. ‘White or red?’
‘Whatever you were planning to open.’
Hannah carried the flowers into the lounge and placed them on a table beneath the window.
‘They’re gorgeous,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much, Jill.’
She turned to Gordon. ‘Are you going to open that bottle of wine then?’
&nbs
p; ‘Of course.’
He smiled, somewhat sheepishly Jill thought, and went off to the kitchen. When he returned, he carried three glasses of red wine.
The atmosphere in the room was heavy with tension. Jill wasn’t surprised. People often said that grief brought people together. In her experience, it was more likely to tear them apart.
Hannah knocked back her glass of wine and immediately went to the kitchen for the bottle and a refill.
‘Gordon thinks it’s my fault,” she said as she filled her glass. ‘He says I overdid things.’
‘Hannah!’ Gordon was as appalled as Jill was embarrassed. ‘Of course it wasn’t your fault, sweetheart. Yes, I think you overdid things but—’
He broke off before he said anything more. He blamed her for overdoing things, but not for losing the baby.
‘I went out for a walk on Wednesday afternoon,’ she explained, ‘and yes, I was tired when I got home.’
‘Where did you go?’ Jill asked casually.
Bradley Johnson had been murdered that afternoon but, after an inner debate, Jill decided it showed an appalling lack of taste to ask if she’d seen Bradley Johnson or anyone acting suspiciously.
‘Oh, all over,’ she replied vaguely. ‘Into Bacup, into the park there.’
‘I should have taken her to hospital that night,’ Gordon said, his expression bleak as he stared into the depths of his red wine. ‘Hannah would have none of it, though.’
‘I felt fine,’ she muttered.
‘And on Thursday morning—’ Again, Gordon left the sentence unfinished.
On Thursday morning, Hannah had been rushed into hospital where she had lost her unborn child.
‘As tragic as it is,’ Jill said calmly, ‘it’s no one’s fault.’
‘It’s my fault,’ Hannah retorted. ‘We’re all agreed on that. But hey,’ she added, raising her glass, ‘at least now that I’m no longer pregnant, I can have a drink.’
Moisture glistened in her eyes as she spoke and Jill took a large swallow of her wine. She had to get out and leave these people to their grief.
Kennedy 04 - The Broken Circle Page 5