Kennedy 04 - The Broken Circle

by Shirley Wells

  Perhaps she didn’t. After all, Tom McQueen had dinner with the Chief Constable no less.

  Snippets of that long-ago conversation came back to Max. ‘Stuff love,’ a drunken Barbara had said. ‘I’m going for money next time …’ Maybe she had been serious. Perhaps a healthy bank account was Tom McQueen’s only attraction.

  She’d been heartbroken about her break-up with Mark Yates, or had appeared so. Yet only days later she’d met Tom and been swept off her feet. No, he couldn’t believe that. If he were a betting man, he’d stake a lot on her marrying for money.

  They stood around in her kitchen drinking their coffee and spoke of everything from the weather to the new wine bar in Bacup. Yet Max couldn’t shake off thoughts of that train journey. The forced trip down Memory Lane had unsettled him.

  In fact, when Tom McQueen finally arrived, he’d completely forgotten what they had called for.

  ‘The party you attended at Kelton Manor, Mr McQueen?’ Grace asked. ‘Did you see Bradley Johnson after that?’

  Thankfully, Grace was eager to get her questions answered and Max dragged his mind back to the present.

  ‘No. I’ve already told you lot that,’ McQueen answered.

  ‘You didn’t have dinner with him at the Royal in Harrington the following night?’ Max asked him. ‘You want to get your memory checked out, Tom. It could be early onset Alzheimer’s or anything. I’ll have to help you out here. You paid on your Visa card. You ordered—what was it, DS Warne?’

  She consulted her notebook. ‘Grilled asparagus followed by duck breast in orange and cointreau sauce.’

  ‘Ring any bells?’ Max asked.

  ‘You’re right,’ McQueen said. ‘Yes, I remember now. Babs was away, weren’t you, poppet?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Where?’ Max asked, suspecting she was lying.

  ‘Visiting my aunt,’ she replied, smiling sweetly at him. ‘She’ll verify it. Do you want me to phone her now?’

  ‘No need for that.’ Max turned his attention back to Tom McQueen. ‘You were saying?’

  ‘As Babs was away, I planned to eat out. I always do. I was on my way to the Royal when I bumped into Bradley Johnson. I asked if he cared to join me. After all, I’d enjoyed his hospitality the previous night. So we had dinner together.’ He gave Max a sly look. ‘That’s not a crime, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And as you’ve been so thorough, Chief Inspector, you’ll know that, after Johnson called a taxi to take him home, I stayed there for another couple of drinks.’

  ‘So we believe,’ Grace said. ‘What did you talk about during your dinner?’

  ‘This and that. Nothing of any importance.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you can remember that, either,’ she said, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

  ‘Not really, no. Oh, I remember he went on about his sons and how well they’re both doing. He’d helped one of them buy a car, I seem to recall. A typical parent,’ McQueen added. ‘One of those who can’t help boring people to death by raving about their kids. Blimey, and he thought I was missing out. The thought of kids bores me rigid. And you, eh, Babs?’

  ‘We’ve never wanted children,’ Barbara McQueen explained.

  She was lying. On that train journey, she’d told him how lucky he was to have children. I couldn’t bear to die without leaving something behind, my own flesh and blood. It would make life so pointless, wouldn’t it?

  ‘That’s convenient,’ Max murmured. ‘Both of you not wanting children, I mean. If one partner wants children and the other doesn’t, it can cause a lot of problems.’

  ‘We’re very lucky,’ Barbara murmured. ‘There was a time when I thought—well, I suppose most women do, don’t they? But then my cousins had children and I realized it wasn’t for me. I’m far too selfish for that.’

  So she’d changed her mind? It was feasible, Max supposed.

  ‘What did Johnson say about the car he’d bought his son?’ he asked McQueen.

  ‘God knows. I’d lost the will to live by then. It was a top of the range something or other.’

  ‘A Mini?’

  ‘Yes, that was it. He was very proud of the one son, but the other was giving him problems, I gather. And no, he didn’t go into details so I don’t know what sort of problems. He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. I was more interested in my—what was it?—oh yes, duck in orange and cointreau.’

  ‘Tommy likes his food,’ Barbara put in.

  ‘So I see,’ Max murmured. ‘And this meeting with Johnson was pure coincidence, Tom? Are you sure about that?’

  ‘I am. I would have mentioned it earlier, but I’d forgotten all about it. Just a boring meal, Chief Inspector. Nothing more and nothing less.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Max told him. ‘If I find there was more to it, you’ll be up on a charge of obstruction.’

  McQueen seemed to find that amusing. Sod him.

  They left soon afterwards and Grace drove them back to Harrington.

  ‘That sounds like quite a train ride,’ she said drily. ‘You made an impression there, guv.’

  ‘I’d forgotten all about it.’ That was almost true. He hadn’t forgotten the journey, but he had forgotten the woman.

  ‘It was like a mutual admiration society back there.’

  ‘Just leave it, Grace!’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Snow had fallen. It was crisp and crunchy underfoot and the sun, almost set now, had shone all day. Not that Max had seen much of it. He’d spent most of the day at his desk, going over everything again and again.

  He’d called on Jill more out of a sense of duty than anything else. He felt bad because he hadn’t seen much of her since the boys had returned from France. Come to that, he hadn’t seen much of Harry and Ben, either.

  He walked with his hands in his pockets. Jill, beside him, had hers encased in black gloves. He was well aware of the foot of space that separated them.

  ‘You OK?’ she asked.

  ‘Me? Fine?’

  ‘Right,’ she said in a way that made it clear she didn’t believe him but, if he couldn’t be bothered to tell her, she couldn’t be bothered to ask.

  Max wasn’t fine. Hadn’t been fine since his chat with Barbara McQueen, in fact.

  With one look, one reminder, she’d brought back memories that Max had chosen to forget. Painful memories.

  Back then, his marriage, along with several others he’d known about, had been hell. He hadn’t understood the reasons for it, either. Most of the time, he’d accepted that it was his own fault for working long, erratic hours and drinking too much. Linda had hated that. But surely, there had been more to it than that. All he had known was that, given the choice, he would never be part of a relationship again.

  Obviously, he would have given all he had for the doctors to find a miracle cure. Linda had been the mother of his boys and, if strength of will could have saved her, she would still be his wife, and still be loving his sons. As it turned out, strength of will had been as ineffective as medical treatment.

  Since her death, he’d forgotten the hell that was their marriage and only remembered the sense of guilt and loss her death had left him with.

  How effortlessly Barbara McQueen had reminded him of the man he had been then.

  Would he have left Linda if she’d lived? Would she have walked out on him? It was impossible to know. Yet Max had known he couldn’t have taken much more of it.

  What madness, he wondered, was pushing him into a relationship with Jill?

  He was happy with his lot. Why change it?

  People said that kids were a tie. His weren’t. They never complained about the limited time they had with him. Instead, they enjoyed what little there was to the full. Linda, he recalled, had wasted many a free evening complaining about how few there were …

  Thank God he had his work. With so many other things demanding his attention, he didn’t have to think about the future.

  ‘That was a big s
igh for someone who’s fine,’ Jill said drily.

  ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’ Or years away. ‘I was just wondering if you’d had any more thoughts on Bradley Johnson’s killer?’

  ‘I’m not on the case,’ she reminded him, ‘so I only know what you’ve told me. But from the photos …’ She paused. ‘There was no remorse shown. And there was no attempt made to hide the body. It was someone who didn’t care if they were caught or not. His watch was still on his wrist and that would have been a temptation, as would the cash in his wallet. But not to your killer. Your killer held Bradley Johnson in contempt.’ She looked at him and gave him a rueful smile. ‘In a word, no. There’s nothing I haven’t already told you.’

  ‘Someone who held him in contempt?’ Max grimaced. ‘That narrows it down one hell of a lot. Practically everyone in the village falls into that category.’

  Max couldn’t say he had any sympathy for the man. To his way of thinking, people who resorted to blackmail deserved all they got.

  They walked on into Black’s Wood and both stopped at the spot where Bradley Johnson had met his Maker. Before meeting Him, though, he’d met someone else. Who?

  ‘I still think he was planning to meet someone at the pub,’ Max said. ‘Whoever killed him hit him from behind.

  Probably hid behind this tree.’ He ran his hand down the trunk of the sturdy chestnut.

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ Jill looked at the path, well-used by dog walkers, that stretched ahead. ‘If it was blackmail, and I bet he’d planned on filling that money belt he was wearing, the Weaver’s would be too public. This is an ideal spot for doing the dirty deed. I think he was expecting some poor unfortunate—our killer—to meet him here and hand over the cash. Neither would want to be seen. The pub would be too crowded.’

  ‘But would they expect it to be crowded on a Wednesday afternoon?’ Max was doubtful. On that particular Wednesday, the Weaver’s Retreat had been busy, but only because a crowd had turned up unexpectedly after a funeral. ‘It was busy that day, but Johnson would have expected it to be quiet.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘There was nothing found to suggest that anyone had been here waiting,’ Max went on. ‘Impatient feet hadn’t trampled the ground. No cigarettes or chewing gum had been discarded.’

  ‘Of course, we don’t know that it was blackmail,’ she pointed out. ‘Maybe he’d been to the bank and deposited the contents of his money belt.’

  ‘No. We checked.’

  Max realized they weren’t alone in the wood.

  ‘I’ve never been here without bumping into him,’ he muttered beneath his breath as he spotted the other person in Black’s Wood. ‘He spends all his time here.’

  Jack Taylor was heading straight for them with not one but two collies. His back stiffened when he spotted them and Max half expected him to do an about turn. He didn’t.

  ‘Hello, Jill,’ he said pleasantly.

  ‘Is Archie all right?’ she asked, nodding at the two dogs.

  ‘Yes, he’s fine. Well, as fine as he’s likely to be. He has good days and bad days. Some days, you’d never believe there were owt wrong with him. Others, like today, well, I said I’d give Jess a good walk for him.’

  He nodded curtly at Max. ‘How’s it going, Sherlock?’

  ‘Badly,’ Max said truthfully. ‘It would help, of course,’ he added sarcastically, ‘if people could remember where they were on the day in question.’

  Jack seemed to find that amusing. ‘Ah, it’s a bugger when your memory goes.’

  ‘It is,’ Max agreed, knowing Jack’s memory was as sharp as an unused razor blade.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve remembered, have you, Jack?’ Jill asked him. ‘It would be a great help if the police could eliminate a few more people.’

  ‘Me? Oh, yes. I was in Rochdale that day.’

  ‘Then why the hell didn’t you say so?’ Max exploded.

  ‘You didn’t ask, lad.’

  ‘What? I’ve asked you countless times.’

  ‘Ah, but I didn’t remember until last night and you haven’t asked me today.’

  ‘Right,’ Max said, teeth gritted. ‘As you’ve remembered you were in Rochdale, perhaps you’ll be able to give me the names of any witnesses who might be able to corroborate your story.’

  ‘Story?’ He chuckled at that. ‘It’s no story. I’d gone to get a battery for my watch.’ He pulled back the sleeve of his overcoat to reveal a watch that was older than Moses. It had been made long before they ran on batteries. ‘Not for this one,’ Jack added, noting Max’s disbelief, ‘but for my spare. I expect I’ve still got the receipt. The date might be on that.’

  ‘I’ll have a look at it.’

  Jack nodded slowly. ‘I’ll have to see if I can find it.’

  ‘Either you find it, or I’ll have you on a charge of obstruction,’ Max informed him.

  ‘Oh, dear. We wouldn’t want that, would we, Sal?’ he murmured to his dog.

  ‘We wouldn’t.’ Max could cheerfully throttle the bloke. He’d often wondered what drove people to commit murder. The answer was standing in front of him. ‘So when will you be at home?’

  Jack looked at his watch again. ‘I’m taking Jess back to Archie’s, then stopping off at the butcher’s. About sixish, I reckon.’

  Max needed to be in the incident room for a briefing at six. ‘I’ll see you at about seven thirty,’ he told him. He should be finished by then.

  ‘Let’s hope Jess hasn’t eaten it. She’s a devil, this un.’ He nodded at Archie’s dog as she raced around nearby trees at a breakneck pace.

  ‘It takes one to know one,’ Max muttered.

  ‘So it does,’ Jack agreed. ‘Now, is there anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘Not for the moment,’ Max replied.

  ‘Right.’ Jack called the dogs. His own collie raced to his side, but Archie’s dog was still running around the trees in a demented fashion. ‘See what I mean?’ Jack said. ‘Come here, Jess. Jess!’

  Reluctantly, Jess heeded the call and Jack Taylor carried on his way with both dogs trotting beside him.

  Max expelled a frustrated sigh as he watched them. ‘Why does he enjoy pissing me off so much?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Max,’ Jill replied with amusement.

  They walked on and Max tried to picture Jack Taylor as a killer. It simply didn’t seem feasible. It even seemed unlikely that he had anything to hide. So why did he enjoy pissing him off?

  ‘Do you think he does know something?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘I don’t know. Yes, I do. Instinct says yes.’

  ‘If it’s blackmail we’re talking, and I suppose we assume it is, his granddaughter would be an ideal candidate.’

  Max had considered that. So far, though, it looked as if Hannah Brooks had never so much as parked illegally.

  ‘Let’s face it,’ Jill went on, ‘parliamentary candidates can have their futures ruined over nothing. Sleeping with the wrong person. Smoking a joint at uni. Making innocuous remarks about Africans, Asians, the young, the old—’

  ‘True.’

  ‘On the other hand, would her grandfather know about it? She idolizes him. I’m not sure she’d want him knowing something of which he might disapprove.’

  ‘I still think Tom McQueen’s involved somewhere. Just why did he have dinner with Bradley Johnson?’

  ‘You don’t believe McQueen’s story that it was a coincidence then?’

  ‘If that bloke told me my name was Max Trentham I’d have to hunt out my birth certificate to check.’

  It was almost eight o’clock when Max knocked on Jack Taylor’s door. A light was shining in the hall so Max assumed he was in. No dog barked, though, so that wasn’t encouraging.

  He knocked again, harder this time, and was about to give up when he heard a muttering from the other side.

  The door was finally opened.

  ‘Ah, Sherlock, I thought it might be you.’ Jack looked out. ‘Another blustery night.�
� He considered things for a moment. ‘You’d better come inside before you catch your death. What you need, lad, is a good, thick overcoat.’

  ‘It’s at home,’ Max told him, adding a muttered, ‘along with the deerstalker.’

  Jack smiled at that and finally stood aside to let Max enjoy the warmth of his home.

  They went into the kitchen where Jack had been polishing brass fire irons. An old newspaper was spread across the table and a couple of blackened cloths, old pillowcases by the look of it, sat on that.

  Would a man worried about an imminent visit from a copper sit and polish brass? Max didn’t think so.

  He’d never thought of Jack as worried, though. Stubborn, tight-lipped and highly principled, but not worried. All the same, if he did know something, he’d take that knowledge to the grave with him if he so chose.

  ‘Would you like a brew?’ he asked Max.

  ‘I’d love one,’ Max said, surprised by the offer. ‘Thanks, Mr Taylor.’

  ‘The name’s Jack.’

  Awkward, stubborn, determined to waste Max’s time—yet Max couldn’t help liking the old sod.

  Max sat at the kitchen table and gazed at his distorted reflection in a brass coal shovel.

  ‘You’ve done a good job,’ he remarked.

  ‘I like brass.’ Jack’s hand rested on the huge teapot. ‘You need to clean it regularly, and do a thorough job, but it’s worth the effort. It’s a rich, warm metal. Not like silver.’

  Max had never thought of it like that, but he knew exactly what he meant. He was about to say so when he saw Jack reach up into a cupboard and bring out a bottle of Famous Grouse.

  He poured a generous measure into both mugs, then looked to see if Max was watching him.

  ‘I often have something about now,’ he explained. ‘You need it this weather. It keeps out the cold.’

  ‘A medicinal dram?’

  ‘If you’d rather not …’

  ‘No,’ Max said quickly, having visions of his drink going down the old ceramic sink. ‘You’re right, it’ll keep out the cold. Besides, I’m not on duty.’