Kennedy 04 - The Broken Circle

by Shirley Wells

  He could sense the relief they felt at his imminent departure.

  Max decided that the team needed to spend more time questioning students at Lancaster and Sheffield Universities. If Keiran had complained to a friend about being ‘summoned’ by his father to Kelton Bridge, he could well have complained about other things.

  It would be useful to find out how Tyler bought that car, too.

  As Max walked back to Jill’s cottage, he thought about his relationship with his own brother. They were close, yet they hadn’t spent every minute together. They’d had their own friends and only got together for special occasions. When Dave had been at university, he’d hung out with his own friends. Max had never been near the place. Yet Keiran and Tyler didn’t seem to move without the other by their side.

  This case, he decided irritably, was one of those that brought more questions than answers.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jill was back at Styal on Monday morning and she was shocked by Claire’s appearance. She looked ill. Her skin was dull and grey, and dark circles surrounded her eyes.

  ‘Have you had trouble sleeping lately?’ she asked her.

  ‘No more than usual.’

  ‘You look tired.’

  Claire grinned at that. ‘I’ve got plenty of time to sleep.’

  That was true enough. If you could stand the noise, you could sleep all day if you chose.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to come again,’ Jill told her.

  Claire looked horrified, just as Jill had suspected—and hoped—she would. She was enjoying these visits. They broke up the monotony of her days, and provided mental stimulation. Claire could tell her what she chose. She could whet her appetite, make her think she was about to reveal the whereabouts of her daughter’s body. In short, she could play games for as long as she chose.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Funding,’ Jill explained. ‘It’s obvious you’re not going to tell me, or anyone else for that matter, what you did with Daisy’s body. It’s a waste of taxpayers’ time and money. A waste of my time and yours, too.’

  ‘Who says I’m not going to?’ Her lips twisted sulkily. ‘I said I might. And I might.’

  ‘Might? That’s no good. The taxpayers don’t like paying for might.’ Jill shrugged. ‘It’s no big deal. No one can make you talk.’

  ‘They can’t.’ Claire looked at Jill. ‘So what will you do instead?’

  ‘Me?’ Jill chuckled at that. ‘I’ve got masses of work to do. I’ll be glad to be sitting in the office able to get on with it.’

  That much at least was true. She had staff assessments to deal with. She was behind with them.

  Added to that, she had a book to finish. Her deadline was the end of January and she knew from experience how Christmas and New Year celebrations interfered with deadlines. She’d finished chapter four which dealt, admirably she thought, with releasing mental trivia to destress, but there was still a long way to go.

  Harry and Ben were due home this afternoon so at least her evenings would be free for writing now. She’d grown used to having Max around, or used to having his clutter around, she supposed. It was difficult to get used to having him about the place because they’d seen so little of each other.

  ‘Will they send someone else to talk to me?’ Claire asked sulkily.

  ‘No. They’ll write it off as a lost cause.’

  ‘So they don’t care?’

  ‘They care,’ Jill answered, ‘but they know you won’t talk. So,’ she went on brightly, ‘what shall we talk about today? Tell you what, let’s talk about Thomas McQueen.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’ Claire began rubbing at her arm. A big red scab was healing, but it would soon be raw again.

  ‘OK. Let me refresh your memory. He’s the man you rented a flat from. Shortly before Peter walked out, when he was working on the farm, you lived in flat number four, Rose House, Jubilee Avenue. Remember? That belongs to McQueen.’

  Claire gave a sulky shrug. ‘Does it?’

  ‘He was the chap on the television the night you hurled a chair at the set.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a short, fat thug of a bloke who wears his hair in a ponytail. An arrogant bastard. A crook through and through.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. If there were any justice in this world, he’d be locked up. Like you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Drug dealing possibly.’

  ‘Is that all?’ she scoffed. ‘Bloody hell, he’s guilty of a lot more than that.’

  ‘Ah, so you do remember him.’

  ‘I remember hearing stories about him,’ Claire admitted.

  Jill leaned back in the flimsy plastic chair. ‘Tell me what you know about him. Everything you can think of.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Anything at all. How did you come to rent the flat?’

  ‘We’d been kicked out of the one on Burnley Road,’ Claire explained, ‘and a punter told me about one that was empty.’

  ‘What was the punter’s name?’

  Claire shrugged. ‘No idea. I never asked their names.’

  ‘Was he a regular?’

  ‘I went with him half a dozen times. Anyway, it was him who gave me a phone number for the flat. Peter phoned and we moved in. We were only there a few weeks.’

  ‘And you didn’t know it belonged to McQueen?’ Jill asked doubtfully.

  ‘No. A bloke called round on Fridays to collect the rent.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘I never asked.’

  Claire had scratched so hard at the patch on her arm that blood was dripping from it. Her hands were shaking, too.

  ‘I think you’re lying, Claire. You know McQueen. I bet you got heroin from him? He sells it, doesn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about him,’ Claire replied. ‘You’d be wise to forget him, too. People around McQueen have a nasty habit of ending up dead.’

  ‘Like who?’

  Claire’s mind seemed to be a lifetime away.

  ‘There were a lad who supposedly worked for McQueen.’ She licked cracked, dry lips. ‘He’s dead now. I saw it on the telly.’

  ‘Oh? Who was that?’

  Clare shrugged.

  ‘Muhammed Khalil?’ Jill ventured, and Claire visibly jumped.

  ‘Just a hunch,’ Jill explained. ‘Do you think McQueen had anything to do with his death?’

  ‘If he did, he’ll get away with it.’ Claire was scratching her arm even more vigorously. ‘All his money, his flash house, his cars, his bodyguards—he’s got the lot, hasn’t he? No one will touch people like him. They’re all too far up his arse.’

  ‘No one’s immune from the law, Claire.’

  ‘McQueen is.’

  She stopped scratching her arm and began nibbling on fingernails that were already down to the quick.

  ‘What do you know about Muhammed Khalil?’ Jill asked. ‘Did you know any of his friends?’

  ‘Course not. It were his girlfriend who reckoned he worked for McQueen. Chammy. She sometimes worked on Dale Street with us.’

  ‘Chammy who?’

  ‘I only ever knew her as Chammy. You can’t miss her, though. Six feet tall, dark hair. Asian. She were always busy.’ Claire flicked a hand through her own, now greying hair. ‘Lovely dark hair she has.’

  Jill wouldn’t get too hopeful. Claire’s memories were a couple of years old and girls like her and Chammy moved around a lot.

  ‘What about McQueen, Claire? What do you know about him?’

  Claire was silent for a long time.

  ‘I’m tired now,’ she said at last.

  ‘Tell me about McQueen,’ Jill urged her.

  ‘I don’t know nothing about him.’ She pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘I don’t want to talk no more.’

  Damn it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Max couldn’t believe the state of his office. At some point during the night, the paper f
airy must have visited and deposited mountains of crap. It was everywhere. His office alone must account for the devastation of half a rain forest.

  Or perhaps his office had been broken into and ransacked during the night. How the hell could you tell?

  He picked up three memos, saw they were related to budgets, and threw them in an already overflowing wastepaper bin.

  He checked the incident log on his computer and, although it had been a busy night, there was nothing that looked as if it had anything to do with his case.

  Harry and Ben had arrived home on Monday full of talk of their trip to France. Now, though, they were getting excited about Christmas. At this rate, unless they had a major breakthrough, Max would be lucky to see them at Christmas.

  And how the hell had that sneaked up on him again? In three weeks, Christmas would have been and gone.

  His own office was free of decorations but he only had to open his door to see that the odd length of tinsel had appeared. That was DS Warne’s fault. As soon as December arrived, she turned into someone with the mental age of a five-year-old.

  Max hated Christmas. It was a complete waste of time and money. All it did was get in the way of life.

  He knew he must sort through that paperwork in case there was anything important lurking there but, before he had a chance, DS Warne herself burst into his office.

  ‘You’re gonna love this, guv.’

  Christmas fervour aside, Grace was a damn good sergeant. Because she still had enthusiasm for the job, and still had ideals, her excitement was infectious.

  ‘I hope so. What have you got?’

  ‘Firstly, I found Claire Lawrence’s Chammy.’ Grace was breathless with excitement. ‘She’d been living with some bloke in Manchester, but she’s back in Harrington now.

  She’s still working the streets. I managed to have a quick chat with her. It was quick, too. According to her, Muhammed Khalil dumped her and then took up with another girl—another prostitute. English girl.’ Grace looked at the notepad in her hand. ‘Tessa Bailey. Tessa hasn’t been seen for a couple of weeks, but I’ve put the word out.’

  Max was impressed. It was only three days since Jill’s chat with Claire Lawrence.

  ‘It’s not much,’ Grace admitted, ‘but Chammy, when pushed, said Muhammed claimed he did work for Tom McQueen.’

  She was right; it wasn’t much.

  ‘But that’s not all. Your friend and mine, Tom McQueen, was having dinner at the Royal in Harrington the night after that party Bradley Johnson gave.’ She grinned at Max. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t have the next table, guv.’

  ‘Me harass a friend of the Chief Constable’s? Perish the thought. And what’s so interesting about that?’

  ‘McQueen paid,’ she said. ‘Which probably means that his guest was there at his invitation, don’t you think?’

  ‘Probably,’ Max agreed. ‘Who was his guest?’

  ‘None other than the late Bradley Johnson.’

  ‘Well, well, well. Strange that McQueen can remember the party—just about—and forget that he had dinner with the bloke the next night.’

  ‘Exactly what I thought, guv.’

  ‘Strange that Phoebe Johnson didn’t remember, too.’

  ‘Do you want me to go and have a word with him?’ Grace asked eagerly.

  Max raised dark eyebrows at that. ‘You can come with me, but McQueen’s mine.’ He stood up and pulled his jacket from the back of his chair. ‘Let’s see if we can find him. God, I’m getting pissed off with this bloke.’

  ‘Be great to nick him, wouldn’t it?’ Grace agreed wistfully.

  ‘It would but, so far, we have nothing more than obstruction …’

  When Grace stopped the car outside the metal gates that kept intruders out of Thomas McQueen’s home, Mrs McQueen was taking shopping bags from the boot of a silver Mercedes. She looked up and must have recognized Max because she walked over to the gates and entered the appropriate code.

  ‘Very gracious of her,’ Grace murmured, as she drove through.

  Barbara McQueen was standing by the front door, shopping bags hanging from both arms, as they got out of the car.

  ‘Are you here to see Tommy again?’ she asked.

  ‘We’d like a word,’ Max told her. ‘Is he here?’

  ‘He was. You’d better come in. Mind,’ she added as she headed for the front door, ‘you won’t be welcome. He’s got his accountant with him today. Mention the amount of income tax he pays, and Tommy always gets stressed. Reckons he’s paying single-handed to keep all these illegal immigrants in luxury.’ She laughed at that.

  Max guessed that Tom’s tax bill was a lot less than it should be. If it wasn’t, his accountant would have been sacked long ago. Or bludgeoned to death.

  ‘Damn it!’ Finding the door locked, she hammered on it, received no response and had to put down her bags to hunt through her handbag for her key. ‘Perhaps you’re out of luck, Chief Inspector. Looks like no one’s in after all.’

  Unfortunately, the dogs were in. Overweight or not, that Rottweiler wasn’t to be trusted. It was looking longingly at Max and slavering, while the Westie leapt around Barbara McQueen’s legs.

  ‘Come in,’ Barbara said, ‘and I’ll give Tommy a shout.’

  A shout was something of an understatement. If McQueen had been within a ten-mile radius of the house, he would have heard his wife yelling for him.

  ‘I’ll phone him for you,’ Barbara said, dropping bags on the carpet in the hall to hunt through her cavernous handbag once again, this time for her mobile phone.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You can’t accuse me of not being helpful to the police,’ she said smoothly.

  Max didn’t comment on that. Like Grace, he was too busy keeping his limbs out of reach of the Rottweiler.

  She hit a number on her mobile, and while she waited for her call to be answered, Max tried to remember any previous meeting with her. He couldn’t, yet every time he saw her, he had a sense of déjà vu.

  ‘Tommy, darling,’ she said at last, ‘the coppers are here to see you again … Well, I don’t know, do I? … How long are you going to be then? … OK … Right … Yes, yes … Bye, darling.’

  She ended the call, opened her mouth to speak and then broke off.

  ‘Can we see Mr McQueen?’ Grace broke in impatiently.

  ‘Yes.’ Barbara’s gaze remained on Max as she answered. ‘He’s on his way home. He’ll be here in about ten minutes.’

  ‘We’ll wait,’ Grace told her.

  And still Barbara continued to stare at Max.

  ‘I knew it!’ She suddenly laughed. ‘I knew I recognized you.’

  ‘I think you have the advantage.’ Damn it, he never forgot a face. He hadn’t forgotten hers, technically, he supposed, but he’d forgotten where and when they had met.

  ‘I can even tell you the date,’ she said like a child with a secret. ‘It was years ago, I wouldn’t care to think how many, but it was the fourteenth of May. You’d been to a funeral in London.’

  Max felt his world shift as the memories raced back to him.

  He’d travelled to London the previous day, spent the night there and then attended the funeral of Bill Darby, his first boss when he joined the force. It had to be eight years ago now.

  ‘That was you?’ he said, and he could have kicked himself. Of course it was.

  He could remember the journey and he could remember their conversation, but he wouldn’t have been able to say if his companion on the London to Manchester train that night had been brunette or blonde, tall or short.

  ‘We got drunk together,’ she explained, more for Grace’s benefit than his.

  ‘It was your birthday,’ Max recalled.

  ‘Yeah, and I’d been dumped by Mark Yates.’ She smiled. ‘I thought it was the end of the world.’

  Max could remember thinking that Mark Yates must have been mad. She’d been attractive, full of life and fun. He supposed she still was. Dim, but fun-lovin
g.

  He’d bought her a drink to console her. And then another.

  Bill’s death, at the age of forty-three, had been a stark reminder both of Max’s own mortality and of his general dissatisfaction with life. He’d been heading home to his wife and kids. Going home to a dull, stale marriage.

  So they’d had another drink.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Barbara asked. ‘Your marriage? Did you work it out?’

  ‘Linda died.’

  ‘God, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said awkwardly. ‘She was ill at the time,’ he explained, ‘but we didn’t know. I thought she was—’

  ‘Depressed,’ Barbara answered for him. ‘That’s what you said. Depressed.’

  She was being kind because Linda was dead. Max might have mentioned the word depressed but, with a few drinks inside him, he’d uttered far more damning words than that. He’d dreaded going home to Linda. Only the thought of his kids had stopped him suggesting that he and Barbara continued to drown their respective sorrows in a bar in Manchester.

  ‘Two boys you had, is that right?’

  ‘Yes. Harry and Ben. They’re fine.’

  He hadn’t forgotten that train journey. For Max, it had been a turning point. Pouring out his troubles to an attractive stranger had shown him exactly how much he hated his marriage and how he longed to be free. Two strangers complaining about the problems in their lives, and he hadn’t even asked her name. Or if he had, he hadn’t bothered to remember it.

  Two weeks after that train journey, he’d met Jill.

  ‘What about you?’ he asked her, ignoring Grace’s impatient sigh.

  ‘If you remember, I was coming to Harrington to visit my aunt,’ she said. ‘It was on that visit that I met my Tommy.’ She gave him a broad smile. ‘Who’d have thought it, eh? We were both as miserable as sin that night, and here we are, as happy as Larry.’ She coloured. ‘Well, I am. I’m sorry about your wife. Really sorry.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Grace sighed again, and Barbara brushed off all thoughts of that train journey. ‘Do you want a coffee or something while you wait for Tommy?’

  ‘Coffee would be good. Thanks,’ Max said.

  ‘Same for me, please,’ Grace said grudgingly.

  How had that young woman with whom he’d shared a three-hour train journey come to marry a man like Tom McQueen? OK, so she wasn’t very bright, but even so, she was a kind, thoughtful person. A fun person. Did she have any idea how her husband filled his spare time?