‘Believe it or not, it’s true.’
‘Nah.’ Claire wasn’t convinced. ‘They said someone shot him.’
‘That’s right.’ Jill nodded. ‘He was found in his house with six bullets inside him.’
‘It won’t have been him.’
‘Of course it was him,’ Jill insisted, wondering why Claire was so difficult to convince. ‘His wife and DCI Trentham found him. Believe me, Claire, he’s as dead as it’s possible to be.’
‘You’ll see.’
Claire was scratching at that scab on her arm again. Soon, it would be bleeding. Her hands, still shaking, refused to be still. If she wasn’t scratching her arm, she was winding a strand of hair round her finger or chewing on her bottom lip.
‘I’ll be talking to Peter later today,’ Jill said casually. ‘Any messages for him?’
‘Peter?’
‘Yes. He was arrested in Rochdale last night—drunk and disorderly. Assuming he’s sobered up enough, I’m going to have a little chat with him.’
Claire was breathing heavily, her emotions all over the place.
‘He’ll be delighted to know his daughter isn’t dead after all,’ Jill said quietly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You didn’t kill Daisy.’
‘I did. Who says I didn’t, eh? McQueen? He’s a liar. Daisy is dead. She’s gone. No one can touch her now. I killed her. That’s why I’m here.’
McQueen again. What the hell did he have to do with anything?
‘I don’t believe you,’ Jill said.
‘She’s dead.’
‘No. She isn’t. Perhaps Peter will know where she is.
He’s sure to come up with a few ideas. He idolized her, didn’t he?’
‘He buggered off and left us!’
‘Yes, but he still idolized Daisy.’
‘She’s dead. Gone.’
‘Nope, I still don’t believe you. Of course,’ Jill added, ‘if you told me what you’d done with her body, I’d have to believe you, wouldn’t I?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Of course you can’t. You can’t tell me because there isn’t a body. Daisy is alive. All we need to do now is find her. And we will.’
‘Go to hell!’ Claire pushed back her chair and staggered to her feet. ‘You can go to hell. And don’t come back. I’ll refuse to speak to you. They can’t make me. I’ll kill myself before I speak to you again!’
It was almost two o’clock that afternoon when Jill arrived at headquarters. Shortly after that, she and Grace went to interview room two to see a sober Peter Lawrence.
He looked nothing like the photographs Jill had been shown, but she supposed that was because he was sporting long, greasy hair and an untidy beard now. He had also put on a lot of weight, not only around his girth but in his face, too.
If she’d had to guess his age, she would have gone for late forties or even early fifties. She knew for a fact that he was thirty-three.
His clothes—black jeans, grey T-shirt and blue anorak—were filthy.
‘Why am I being kept here?’ he demanded sulkily.
‘We want to ask you some questions,’ Grace told him.
Grace was tall and reed-thin, and she stood no nonsense from anyone. Even the most hardened criminals didn’t knock her from her stride.
‘Where have you been for the past six months?’ she asked him.
‘What’s it to you?’
‘I’m curious,’ she told him.
‘Here and there,’ he answered with a cocky smile.
‘Could you be more precise?’ Jill asked him.
‘I had a spell in Liverpool—lorry driving,’ he said, jeans-clad legs stretched out under the table. ‘And I’ve been up north. Scotland.’
‘Why?’
‘Why not?’
‘Have you made any attempts to see your wife since you came back to the area?’ she asked him.
‘That bitch? She can rot in hell for all I care.’
‘What about Daisy?’ she asked quietly.
‘What about her?’
‘Where do you think she might be?’
‘How should I know what that lunatic did with her?’
Jill took a breath and hoped to God she was right. If she was wrong, and Daisy was dead, she was going to cause a lot of heartache.
‘I think she may be alive, Peter.’
The cockiness left him and every emotion flitted across his face. His eyes filled with moisture and his bottom lip trembled.
‘Alive?’ His voice was a hoarse, frightened whisper.
It had crossed Jill’s mind that, maybe, Peter was involved with Daisy’s disappearance. She could see now that he firmly believed his daughter to be dead. The possibility that she might be alive was almost more than he dared to think about.
‘I don’t know for sure,’ Jill told him, ‘but I think it’s possible. I’ve spoken to Claire, but she’s frightened for some reason. Do you know why that might be?’
‘She’s a lunatic. Totally insane.’
‘But why would she be frightened?’ Jill asked again.
‘Dunno. A bad trip or summat, maybe.’
‘She’s clean, Peter. She’s no longer using.’
‘So she says. I’ve heard that before.’
‘She’s been tested in prison and she’s clean.’ Even Claire couldn’t fake that.
A thousand questions hovered on his lips, but he was too frightened to ask a single one. Too frightened to believe that his daughter might be alive.
‘Why did you leave Claire and Daisy?’ Jill asked him.
‘Because I couldn’t stand her,’ he said simply. ‘Claire, that is. She was a lunatic. She used to beat me around. I know how that sounds, her being a woman and all that, but it’s the truth. She had one hell of a temper.’
They knew that.
‘And you used to drink a lot,’ Jill said.
‘You would have, too, if you’d had to put up with her.’
‘But why did you abandon Daisy?’ she asked him.
‘I had no choice, did I? I couldn’t live with Claire. Even Daisy used to stay out of the house as much as she could, poor kid. You want to try living with a lunatic.’
He pulled his fingers through greasy, tangled hair.
‘What makes you think Daisy’s alive?’ he asked at last. ‘Is that what Claire’s told you?’
‘No,’ Jill told him. ‘Claire is adamant that Daisy is dead. I just have a feeling that she’s alive. I believe—and I could be wrong—’ she warned him, ‘that Claire was frightened. Still is frightened. Frightened for herself and for Daisy, I imagine.’
‘What of?’
Jill hadn’t the remotest idea. ‘That’s what I was hoping you would tell me.’
But where did they begin? Claire refused to see Peter and no one could force her. Besides, even if they could, she wouldn’t speak to him. Added to that, Peter had abandoned his family almost a year before Claire walked into that police station claiming she had murdered her own daughter. Anything could have happened to Claire in the interim.
‘When you were together,’ Jill began, ‘how was she?’
‘I’ve told you, she was a lunatic.’
‘That’s not much help,’ she pointed out. ‘How was she with you? With Daisy?’
‘I dunno.’ He thought for a moment. ‘She was OK at first,’ he said at last. ‘She had one hell of a temper and when I went out drinking with me mates, she’d think nothing of belting me. Hit me with a saucepan once.’
Jill could believe that.
‘You said at first,’ she reminded him. ‘What was she like before you left?’
‘Crazy. She was off her head a lot of the time so—’
‘Heroin?’ Grace put in.
‘Yeah. Drink’s one thing. I mean, most people like a drink. Some people, me included, like a lot of drinks. There’s no harm in that, is there? “Have a drink,” I’d tell Claire, “it’s a lot cheaper.” We hadn’t got no money for hero
in. But she wouldn’t.’
‘Where did she get her heroin?’ Jill asked him.
‘Anywhere she could.’
‘Tell me about Thomas McQueen?’ Jill suggested.
‘The Thomas McQueen. Him who was shot?’
‘The very same.’
‘I don’t know anything about him. Why the hell should I?’
‘Claire knows—knew him. She becomes quite agitated when his name is mentioned. She can’t believe he’s dead. She’s convinced herself that it’s just a story put about by someone.’
He pulled a face at that. ‘If she knows him, he’ll be someone who pays for sex. That’s the only people Claire ever knew. That was summat else she told me she’d given up. She never did, though. She’d go with anyone for money.’
‘We’re not sure that Tom McQueen went with prostitutes,’ Jill said.
Only Tessa Bailey had claimed he did. None of the other girls on the street had admitted to going with him.
‘If Claire knows him, he must have.’
‘Flat four, Rose House, Jubilee Avenue,’ she said, refreshing his memory. ‘You lived there for a couple of months, remember? That belonged to McQueen.’
‘I’m not friggin’ stupid,’ he said. ‘I know that.’
‘So Claire could easily have met him?’
Peter laughed at that. ‘Oh, yeah, like he’d come calling. Christ, woman, he owns half of Harrington. Most folk have lived in his flats or houses at some time or other.’
That was a valid point.
‘He didn’t call round to see if we were pinching the silver,’ he added scathingly.
‘But it’s possible Claire could have met him?’
‘No, of course it’s not. Bloody hell. Are you crazy or what? She never knew him.’
‘When I suggested to her that Daisy was still alive,’ Jill told him quietly, ‘she demanded to know who had said such a thing. She thought Thomas McQueen might have told me. Now, why do you think she would have thought that?’
That shook him.
‘I dunno,’ he said, not quite as confident. But then he shrugged it off. ‘I tell you, Claire’s as mad as they come. She’s one crazy woman. You can’t believe a word she says.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
The following evening, as Max was driving into Kelton Bridge, he saw that the whole village was in darkness. A blizzard was blowing and he guessed one of the power lines had been brought down.
Driving was hazardous with visibility so poor.
His headlights picked out a shadowy figure. It was Jack Taylor and his ever-present dog. Jack, his head bent into the wind, was walking quickly, a big bag in his hand.
He was heading towards Black’s Wood.
Why the hell was he going there at this time of night and in such appalling conditions? No one in their right mind would take a dog for a walk in this weather.
Sometimes, Max wished he’d been born with a less inquiring mind. He wished he could simply think that Jack Taylor had gone mad, carry on his way without giving the matter a second thought, walk into the warmth of Jill’s cottage and pour himself a stiff drink. Sadly, he couldn’t. His curiosity was aroused.
He drove on for a few yards, then parked his car.
As luck would have it, his overcoat was on the back seat. He checked the boot and realized that the gods really were smiling on him. He had a torch, a working torch at that.
He pulled on his coat and buttoned it. It was a pity he didn’t have walking boots in the back. Still, no point hoping for miracles.
Not wanting to alert Jack to his presence, he didn’t switch on the torch. The snow provided a light of sorts and that would have to suffice.
All he could see was the shape of a man and an animal. It was enough; it could only be Jack and the dog. The shapes entered Black’s Wood. Still wishing he’d never laid eyes on the bloke, Max followed.
He couldn’t see anyone now, but he could hear footsteps crunching on the snow.
Snow had drifted and it engulfed Max’s shoes. Twice he stumbled over a branch. Fortunately, he managed to keep all expletives to himself. All the same, he’d be black, blue and bleeding at the end of this escapade.
Only a man who knew every square inch of this wood would venture here in these conditions.
Jill had said they were looking for someone who knew the wood well and he’d stake his life on no one knowing it better than Jack Taylor.
But that was madness. No way could Jack be involved in something this big. That, of course, was assuming the deaths of Khalil, McQueen and Bradley were linked.
They had to be.
A branch caught Max in the face, almost taking his right eye with it. The wind had eased a little, although it still howled through the trees, but the snow gave an illusion of light. The trees were huge dark shadows and the path nowhere to be seen.
At last, Max was out of the wood. There was no sign of Jack Taylor or his dog. Max took a moment to get his bearings. He’d never walked this way before. In the past, he’d taken the track through the wood from Ryan Walk until it came out almost opposite the pub.
Now, he was nowhere near the pub. He was—he was right at the side of Archie Weston’s cottage.
Instead of heading north to south in that wood, he’d obviously veered off to the west. No wonder the track hadn’t been visible.
With Jack out of sight, he switched on his torch. His light was the only one to be seen. Kelton Bridge, or at least the row of houses where Archie lived, was in total darkness.
He hesitated briefly, then walked up the path and knocked on the front door.
Archie was quick to answer and looked at Max in complete amazement.
‘You’d better come in, lad.’
‘Thanks.’
He walked into the sitting room, where Jack Taylor stood warming himself in front of the fire. The two dogs were leaping all over each other and ignored Max totally.
‘Well?’ Jack greeted him.
‘I was passing,’ Max said, ‘and thought I’d call and see if Archie was all right—with the power cut, I mean.’
Jack looked Max up and down, from the windswept hair to the sodden shoes and trousers.
‘Just passing?’ he repeated. ‘My, you must think I’m senile. If I’d known you were following me, I’d have kept to the road. You don’t want to be wandering through the wood at this time of night, Sherlock. You never know who might leap out and hit you over the head. Besides,’ he added drily, ‘it’ll be better for your shoes.’
‘What’s that?’ Archie asked, coming into the room, having bolted the front door.
‘I was telling Sherlock here to keep away from the wood at this time of night. Look at the state of his shoes.’
‘Ah.’ Archie laughed at that, a dry, rasping, painful sound. ‘I expect,’ he said to Jack, ‘that he spotted you and thought you were up to no good.’
‘No bloody doubt,’ Jack said with a scowl. ‘I came here,’ he explained to Max, ‘because I didn’t know if Archie had enough candles or enough food in. Now that he can’t get out much, we have to look after him.’
‘Indeed,’ Max agreed. ‘And are you all right for everything, Archie? I can easily nip to the shop.’
‘I’m not a bloody invalid,’ Archie assured them both in a sharp tone. ‘I’m no worse now than before they made their diagnosis. Christ, if I hadn’t been to the blasted doctor ’s, people’d still think I’d just got a bad cough.’
Jack grunted at that and Max kept quiet.
The room was surprisingly well lit given that there were only half a dozen candles and the glow from the coal fire.
‘Well, this is quite a party,’ Archie said, his tone more cheerful. ‘Would anyone like a dram?’
‘May as well, now we’re here,’ Jack agreed.
‘That would be very welcome, Archie. Thanks.’ If Max was going to be humiliated by Jack Taylor, he’d far rather suffer it with a drink in his hand.
‘I’ll get ’em.’ Jack was halfway to t
he kitchen.
‘Sit by the fire,’ Archie told Max. ‘You’ll dry off. Mind you, I expect your shoes will be ruined.’
‘Never mind,’ Max murmured, taking the old, upright armchair next to the fire.
‘I wonder how long the power will be off,’ Archie mused, sitting opposite him. ‘I don’t suppose the workmen will want to go out in this weather. On the other hand, the overtime payments will be nice, especially if they can hang it out till after midnight.’
‘Let’s hope it’s soon fixed, Archie.’
‘Yes. You get used to electricity, don’t you? I’m not so bad, but these people without a coal fire, or without any means of making a hot drink, must find it hard. Then there are those who can’t go five minutes without their televisions.’ He shook his head at such stupidity.
Jack came back carrying a tray on which sat three large glasses of whisky, the whisky bottle and a jug of water. Elderly they might be, but they knew how to live.
‘This is very civilized,’ Max said.
‘Oh, yes. You need something in this weather,’ Archie said.
‘So how’s it going, Sherlock?’ Jack pulled an old wooden chair closer to the fire and sat on that. ‘It seems to me that you’ve got dead bodies turning up left, right and centre. First Johnson, and now that bloke from Harrington.’
‘Thomas McQueen, yes. Did you know him?’
‘No,’ Jack scoffed. ‘What would a bloke like that want with the likes of us?’
‘Another wealthy man,’ Archie pointed out. ‘They say that the love of money is the root of all evil.’
‘They do,’ Max agreed, ‘and they’re right.’
‘You should visit the pub,’ Archie suggested. ‘They’ve all got their theories there, haven’t they, Jack?’
‘They have.’ Jack chuckled at that.
‘And what might those theories be?’ Max asked.
‘Some are a bit colourful,’ Archie warned him. ‘Someone reckoned you were looking for a gang from London.’
‘Really?’
The two collies had worn themselves out with their antics and made their way to the fire, managing, without being noticed, to grab the dark brown rug to themselves.
‘You’re not then, do we take it?’ Archie asked.
‘No. I think it’s more local than that.’
‘Someone else reckoned those lads of Johnson’s might be guilty,’ Jack informed him. ‘Mind you, they reckoned the boys would inherit his money. They won’t, will they? Well, not unless they kill the mother, too.’ He grinned at Max. ‘You’d better keep a close watch on her or you’ll have another corpse on your hands.’
Kennedy 04 - The Broken Circle Page 18